Devils and Dust

by J. D. Rhoades

  Oscar shook his head again and walked down the hill, into the darkness. Keller knelt by the dead man and went through his pockets, turning him over to try and find a wallet. Nothing. He repeated the process with the other man. He noted the web of tattoos on the dead man’s arms and chest. There were a number of Nazi symbols: a swastika, the paired lightning bolts of the SS, a cross in a circle. The arms of the cross were of equal length. Keller recognized it as the Odin Cross. It was another symbol used by white supremacist groups. He rocked back on his heels and thought for a moment.

  He’d had to bring back a few bail jumpers who’d been affiliated with white supremacist and neo-Nazi groups. One particularly chatty jumper who he’d had to bring back from Georgia had railed for hours about how the “invasion” of what he called “mud people” was going to destroy the United States if someone didn’t stop it. The man had finally annoyed Keller so much that he’d spent the last two hours riding in the trunk of Keller’s old Crown Victoria with a strip of duct tape over his mouth.

  Oscar came trudging out of the darkness, his head down. “Find anything?” Keller asked. Oscar just shook his head. Keller stood up. “Let’s look for a vehicle,” he said. “At least we can find a ride out of here.”

  Oscar nodded. “Okay,” he said in a low voice.

  “Oscar,” Keller said. “I know this is rough on you. But you’ll get used to it.”

  Oscar looked up. “I don’t want to get used to it,” he snapped. “I don’t want to become like—” He stopped.

  “Like me,” Keller said. “I get it.”

  “I’m sorry,” Oscar said. “I shouldn’t have…”

  “No,” Keller said, “you’re right. You don’t want to become like me. Hell, I didn’t want to become like me. But shit happens. Shit happened to me, and it happened to people I cared about, and here I am. Believe me, Oscar, I know just how fucked-up I am. But how I am is what I need to be to get this job done. To find your sons. And to get you home to your wife.”

  Oscar nodded sadly. Keller realized that at least part of the sadness was for him. Oscar felt badly for him. He felt a brief flash of anger at that, then it died. He didn’t have the time for anger. The hunt was on, and there was only one way it led.

  Forward. Just keep moving forward. Do the next thing. Don’t think too much about what you’ve become. If those boys are in the hands of some white supremacist wackos, then they don’t have much of a life expectancy.

  “Come on,” Keller said, “let’s find that vehicle.”

  THE TINY room was not what Angela would have called comfortable, even if she hadn’t been locked into it. There was only a single cot with no blankets or sheets, a rickety wooden table, and a chair so old and flimsy she hesitated to sit down on it. At least everything was clean.

  They hadn’t bothered to blindfold her. That worried her. If they weren’t concerned about her finding the place again, that might mean they intended for her not to be alive to try. But then she recalled the confusing journey through increasingly narrow streets. Maybe they were confident she’d never find her way back, even with her eyes open. There was one narrow window in the room, set high in the wall. The window was dirty to the point of being opaque and there was a metal grate screwed into the wall over it. She could hear city noises filtering dimly through the window: horns, traffic, the occasional shout. At one point, she thought she heard children playing, but she couldn’t be sure. She wished she had a book to read, a newspaper, a radio, anything to pass the time. With the window obscured, she couldn’t even be sure if it was day or night. The old injuries in her legs ached the way they always did at night, but that could have been the result of stress.

  A sound came from overhead, someone walking in the room above her. She heard voices, then there was silence. A few moments later, she heard a rhythmic squeaking of bed springs, followed by a woman’s voice crying out, over and over. It lasted for about a minute, then stopped. Footsteps again, then silence.

  She got up for what felt like the hundredth time and prowled the room, considering what she might use as a weapon. She could possibly break the chair into a club, but the thing seemed about as substantial as balsa wood. The table was too unwieldy, the cot too hard to take apart with no tools. “Come on,” she told herself, “think. You’ve got to get out of here.”

  She heard the jingle of keys outside and the scrape of a key in a lock. She went over and sat on the cot, trying to listen as closely as possible. A lock clicked, then another, then she heard a bolt snap back. The door swung open and Esmeralda, the girl who she’d last seen at Mandujano’s, came in carrying a tray. She glanced sullenly at Angela, then away as she crossed the room, and set the tray down on the table.

  “Thank you,” Angela said softly, then, “Gracias.”

  “De nada,” the girl said automatically, then looked away again.

  “Esmeralda, isn’t it?” Angela asked in Spanish.

  “I’m not supposed to talk to you,” the girl replied in the same language.

  Angela nodded. “Okay. I don’t want you to get hit again. I know what that’s like.” Esmeralda looked at her in surprise, then her face went blank again and she walked to the door. “But could you maybe get me a blanket?” Angela said. “Or a pillow? And I’m going to need to use the bathroom.”

  The girl hesitated. “I’ll see what I can do,” she murmured. As she exited, Angela caught a glimpse of the hallway outside. There was a man there, carrying a machine gun. As the door closed, he said something to Esmeralda in a low, insinuating voice. The closing door and the rattle of the locks being fastened cut off her reply.

  Angela walked over to the table. There was a bologna sandwich on a plate and a plastic tumbler of milk. So they weren’t going to starve her, and they weren’t going to shoot her. Yet. She sat down and started eating, looking at the door. She picked up the plate as she held the sandwich in one hand. It was plastic, like the tumbler. She might be able to break it, but there wouldn’t be any edges sharp enough to use as a weapon. If I’m going to get out of here, I’m going to have to talk my way out. And I’m not sure I can do that.

  On the floor above, she heard the squeak of the bedsprings again, the woman’s voice crying out.

  Great. I’m in the basement of a whorehouse. Well, it wasn’t like I was going to get any sleep tonight anyway.

  THEY FOUND the vehicle at the bottom of the ridge. It was a large, black Dodge crew cab truck. Keller climbed up into the driver’s seat. The keys were still in the ignition. “Oscar,” he called out, “look in the glove box. See if you can figure out who this is registered to.” Oscar climbed into the passenger seat. Keller heard him rummaging among the papers. He turned the key and the engine roared to life. He looked around. A GPS system was secured to the dashboard by a suction cup, and Keller pulled it off. After a few false starts, he figured out how to scan through the preset destinations in the device’s memory.

  Oscar spoke up from the other seat. “I think I have found the registration, but…this makes no sense.”

  “Let me see it,” Keller said. He turned on the overhead light and took the crumpled paper from Oscar’s hand. It was a South Carolina registration, in the name of The Church of Elohim, LLC.

  “What kind of church needs that kind of weapons and employs that kind of men?” Oscar asked.

  “A really scary one,” Keller said. “We may have more trouble here than we thought.”

  “That seems to happen to you a lot,” Oscar observed.

  “Can’t deny it,” Keller said. He checked the address of the Church of Elohim against the stored destinations. One of them, designated as “Farm” appeared to be located in South Carolina, near a town called Hearken.

  “Maybe this is too big for us,” Oscar said. “Maybe we should alert the authorities.”

  “Not sure how we’d explain being armed like we are, driving a truck across the border, a truck that could probably be traced with a little work to a notorious drug dealer, with, no offense, an undocume
nted immigrant on board.”

  Oscar sighed. “You’re right. Of course.”

  “Only one way out of this,” Keller said, “And that’s forward. We need to check these people out.”

  Oscar nodded. “I could see what I can look up on my phone,” he said, “but it was in the truck.”

  “Well, shit,” Keller said. “So was mine. Hang on a sec.” He rummaged through the center console. The only thing he found was what appeared to be a motel key card in a small paper envelope. FREY MOTOR LODGE, the legend on the envelope read, FREY, TEXAS. The room number was written on the envelope in blue pen. Keller pocketed the key card.

  They’d have to use the dead men’s vehicle to get out of there. He didn’t like the idea; one traffic stop could end in questions being asked that would get them locked up. And he couldn’t shake the sense that they were running out of time.

  “So what do we do now?” Oscar said.

  Keller reached into his pocket and pulled out the key card. “Somewhere around here is a town called Frey,” he said. “They were staying there. Let’s see what they left behind.”

  ESMERALDA WAS back the next morning. At least Angela assumed it was morning, because this time there were eggs on the plate, with a little salsa spread across the top, and a single piece of toast. Angela thanked Esmeralda anyway. “Remember what I said about needing to use the bathroom?” she added. “It’s gotten kind of urgent.”

  Esmeralda nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Wait.” She seemed a little friendlier today. She slipped out the door.

  Angela noted that she didn’t lock it behind her. She heard the muffled sounds of conversation outside, low at first, then Esmeralda’s voice rose in anger. Angela took a bite of the toast and waited.

  In a moment, Esmeralda was back. Her eyes were narrowed and her jaw set with anger. “He says you can use the bathroom, but you have to leave the door open. So he can see you.”

  Angela took a deep breath. “Okay. I guess I don’t have any choice.” She stood up. “Is there a sink, too? So I can wash?”

  Esmeralda nodded. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  Angela smiled. “It’s not your fault. Thanks for asking for me.”

  Esmeralda opened the door. The guard in the hall was young, with a wispy attempt at a mustache that looked like a smear of dirt on his upper lip. He leered at Angela as she walked out of the room, with Esmeralda behind. “This way,” he said in accented English, gesturing down the hall with the shotgun he held in his hands. She saw an open door down a short hallway. She held her head up as she walked down the hall, the guard and Esmeralda behind. As they reached the end of the hallway, Angela noticed a door to her left that opened onto a set of rickety wooden steps. She mentally filed that away and turned back to the door ahead.

  It was a half bath, with a toilet and sink, but no shower or tub. Without looking at the guard, she unbuttoned her jeans and took them down. She heard the guard’s quick intake of breath as he saw the scars on her legs—from the old burns and the ones caused by the surgeries to put her broken leg bones back together. She sat down and did what she needed to do, still not looking at the guard. When she was done, she stood up, and pulled up her jeans. She looked at the guard for the first time. His smile was gone. “May I wash?” she asked in Spanish. Esmeralda stepped into the doorway with a washcloth and a bar of soap. “Thanks,” Angela said. She turned to the sink and washed her face. She could see the guard’s face in the mirror over the sink. She stole a look at him as she slowly removed her blouse. He turned away when he saw the burn scars on her back and arms. She could see Esmeralda put her hand over her mouth. She washed her body quickly, and then put the blouse back on. She turned back to the guard. “See everything you came to see?”

  He didn’t look at her, just mumbled something in Spanish and gestured back down the hall to her room. They walked back the same way they’d come, in the same order. The guard stayed outside as she entered the room, sat down, and began to eat.

  Esmeralda stood by the door, her pretty face unreadable. Finally, she spoke. “Is there anything else you need?”

  “Other than a way out of here?” Angela said.

  “That will happen soon,” the girl said.

  “I wish I could believe that. Can you at least tell me why I’m here? Why did Senor Mandujano lie about letting me go? Where are my husband and my friend?”

  The girl just shook her head and walked to the door. “I’ll be back,” she said. “I’ll try to bring you something to read.”

  “Thank you,” Angela said. She turned back to her meal. When she heard the door close and the locks click shut, she bent over and put her arms on the table. With her head cushioned within her arms, Angela began to cry, releasing all of her fear, anger, and humiliation through her muffled sobs. She wasn’t going to let them see how afraid she was. But she didn’t know how much longer she could keep this up. Or how much longer they’d let her live. She let herself cry for a few minutes, then sat up and wiped her eyes on her sleeve. “Okay,” she said aloud to the empty room. “You’re no princess, this whorehouse isn’t a tower, and there’s no knight in shining armor coming. If you’re going to get out of this, girl, you’re going to have to do it yourself.” She thought of adding a “you can do it,” but she’d always hated that pep-talky bullshit. She walked over and lay back on the bed, eyes open, staring at the ceiling…thinking.

  BACK IN the days before NAFTA, Frey had probably been a mirror image of Ciudad de Piedras. But where globalization had created a boomtown south of the border, time had passed Frey by and left it a dried husk of itself. The town’s main street was mostly empty storefronts. Only a lone, sad looking diner and a dusty convenience store showed any signs of life. A couple of men in folding chairs sat outside the convenience store, their gazes tracking the pickup truck as it drove past.

  They found the Frey Motor Lodge on the far side of town, beside the road heading north. It looked as sad and dispirited as the rest of the town, with only a few units extending away from a small office. The whole place was painted a pale yellow that looked washed out in the bright hard sunlight of a Texas late-summer morning.

  Keller pulled the truck into a parking space outside the unit whose number was written on the envelope. As he turned the engine off, a man stepped out of the office at one end of the building. He was an older man, with a full head of gray hair. He was dressed in jeans, a white shirt with a string tie, and cracked leather boots. He eyed them suspiciously as he leaned against a post and crossed his arms against his chest.

  “What are you going to do?” Oscar said.

  “Have you got a business card?” Keller said. “From the bail bonding company?”

  “Yes.”

  “So we’re tracking a jumper,” Keller said. “Just follow my lead.”

  “How will we…” Oscar said, but Keller was already climbing down from the driver’s seat.

  “Howdy,” he said as he approached the gray-haired man.

  “That ain’t your truck,” the man said.

  “Actually,” Keller said, “it is. At least it’s going to be.”

  The man’s eyes narrowed. “You repo men or somethin’?”

  “No,” Keller said. “We’re bail bondsmen.” He stepped forward and presented a business card. The man took it. “The guy we’re looking for put up his vehicle—this one—as security. He didn’t show for his court date. And he took the truck.”

  “We’re here to bring him back,” Oscar said. “And the truck.”

  Keller nodded. “We saw it at the diner, and, well, I guess we did kind of repossess it. Sort of. The guy we’re after took off, though. We lost him. Found the key to his room in the truck and figured he’d come back here for his stuff.”

  The man didn’t look convinced. “Which one you after? They was three people in that room.”

  “The…um…one with all the tattoos,” Keller said lamely.

  “You don’t know his name?” the man said.

  “His name is
Jefferson Hager,” Oscar said. “But he was probably using an alias here, no?”

  The man nodded. “Yeah. Called himself Colton.”

  Oscar nodded. “Colton. Yes. That is one of his aliases.”

  “So can we look around in his room?” Keller said. “Maybe get some idea of where he went?”

  “I think you’re fulla shit,” the old man said.

  “No, really,” Keller said. “We just want to—”

  “Fifty bucks,” the old man said.

  “Pardon?” Oscar said.

  “I don’t know who the hell y’all are, or what you’re really up to. No good, most likely. But I know for damn sure they was. Up to no good, I mean. But gimme fifty bucks an’ you can go on in there an’ do whatever bidness you need to do. I’ll look the other way for fifteen minutes. After that, I want you two out of here. An’ take their shit with ya. Whatever trouble this is, I want it gone from my place.”

  “Yeah. Okay.” Keller reached into his back pocket, pulled out his wallet, counted out the money, and handed it to the old man.

  “Another twenty,” the man said, “an’ I never saw y’all here. In case someone comes askin’.”

  Keller sighed and pulled out another bill. “Whatever.”

  The inside of the room smelled of spilled beer and body odor. The occupants had stacked beer cans in a ragged pyramid on the dresser. Clothes were thrown carelessly over the two double beds. There was an unfolded cot next to one of the beds.

  Keller turned to Oscar. “Jefferson Hager?” he asked. “Wasn’t that the name of Angela’s ex-husband?”

  Oscar shrugged. “First name I could think of at short notice.”

  Keller grunted. A laptop computer was plugged in and closed on the desk next to the TV. “We’ll take that,” he said. “It may tell us something.”

  The only luggage was a pair of army-surplus duffel bags on the floor. Keller bent down and rifled through one of the duffels. He came up with a wallet and opened it. “Belongs to a Rance Colton,” Keller said. “Address is Hearken, South Carolina.” He tossed the wallet back in the duffel. “Same address as on the GPS.”