Border Prey

by Jessica Speart

  These days my “office” was an eight-by-ten room in Santa Teresa, New Mexico, in what had been coined a “permanent-temporary” assignment. What was permanent was that there would never be a fax or copy machine at my disposal. The temporary part was that I’d been given a laptop for the moment. For all intents and purposes, I was a hermit in a one-person station. The big boys in Washington must have reasoned that the further they kept me away from any action, the less trouble I was bound to get into. So far, they’d gotten their wish.

  I flipped on my laptop and checked my messages. Surprise, surprise. Once again, my boss in Albuquerque hadn’t liked the way I’d written up my latest case report and demanded that I re-do it. I suspected he considered this part of the indoctrination to mold me into the perfect government servant. Boy, was he ever in for a rude awakening.

  I closed the laptop, slipped the chore onto my mental “to do” list, and stored it away until later. Right now, something more vital was calling for my attention: sitting in the corner of the room were a set of old files just begging to be examined. It was a task I’d dodged since my arrival, damned if I’d waste precious time dredging through someone else’s outdated paperwork. Who knew it would suddenly become so appealing? What I was hoping to dig up was information on the prior Fish and Wildlife agent F.U. Krabbs had told me about—the mysterious Johnny Lambert.

  The previous agent might not have done much in the way of investigative case work, but he’d certainly been diligent when it came to keeping his own J. Edgar Hoover-type file. Slumbering inside was a Xeroxed collection of dirt on just about everyone in the Service. I headed straight for the middle of the alphabet, and pulled out a well-thumbed folder.

  Well, well. Wasn’t this interesting? Johnny Lambert had been a busy man when it came to serving his government. He’d bounced from Border Patrol to the Forest Service before landing a job with U.S. Fish and Wildlife, where he’d maintained a low profile. That is, until the Service stumbled upon blatant evidence which couldn’t be ignored: Lambert had received steady kickbacks from a local exotic boot company. In exchange, he’d turned a blind eye to truckloads of illegal caiman skins surreptitiously hauled in over the border. Not only had Johnny been amply rewarded in greenbacks for his cooperation; he’d obtained free expensive footwear to boot. I thought back to my meeting with Krabbs this morning, and realized that probably wasn’t all Lambert had been paid off to ignore. I was starting to understand why a former Fish and Wildlife agent would be in F.U.’s employ.

  My stomach rumbled. Then it groaned, and kicked and roared—a gentle reminder that it was nearly noon, and all I was running on was one measly Pop-Tart topped off by a Tootsie Roll. It was time to head home for lunch.

  I got onto the Camino Real highway, and followed the Rio Grande as it hooked its way north. The noontime desert air was as hot and pungent as a bowl of green chiles, the light as crisply bright as freshly minted gold coins. Off to my right lay enormous fields of Egyptian cotton, thick with buds the color of buttery popcorn.

  The cotton was replaced by acres of peppers, with an occasional pick-up truck which sat decorated in garlands of red, as if in preparation for an early Christmas. Sometimes the strands of dried chile peppers lay draped across the vehicle’s hood, while others snaked along fenders. Most hung from a procession of tailgates, but all were temptingly offered for sale. Eventually the peppers disappeared, and I landed in the tiny town of Mesilla.

  I’d decided to forsake city living this time around, choosing instead to reside where Pat Garrett had once been sheriff and Billy the Kid spent time rotting away in jail. The town was still filled with an array of outlaws and vagabonds—only these days, they consisted of eccentrics and artists determined to make a killing on the tourist trade.

  I drove past the old San Albino Church and through the heart of the plaza, where a local cop sat in his white Chevy Corsica, snoozing a lazy day away. I turned down Calle de Parian and parked in front of what I’d come to call home—a squat chunk of adobe smaller than most other places I’d lived, but still large enough for all my belongings. The rent was right, even if that was due to a certain amount of disrepair.

  The owner, Sonny Harris, was a retired tracker with the Border Patrol, and one of my neighbors. He’d originally purchased the place with high hopes that his son would move in. The problem was, he’d never bothered to ask his offspring how he felt about it. Harris received his answer when Sonny Jr. promptly skedaddled as far away as he could get. According to my landlord, his son got exactly what he deserved: Sonny Jr. was now freezing his butt off up in the Alaskan tundra. I viewed his son’s departure as my own good fortune. Not only was the place cheap, but it also came fully furnished. I’ll admit I wasn’t all that crazy about the decor, which could best be described as “Wild West extravaganza.”

  A morbid gallery of animal skulls lined the walls, while the lighting fixtures were gaudy plastic antler chandeliers. The Roy Rogers wagon wheel coffee table that had nearly broken up a relationship in the film When Harry Met Sally was now residing in my living room. The remainder of the furnishings were Early Cowboy/ Salvation Army.

  The most challenging part of my day was trying to find anything remotely edible in the house. I confronted the refrigerator—an energy guzzling antique that guaranteed the freon police would knock on my door for helping to accelerate the destruction of the planet. My campaign to prod Sonny into buying a new fridge was a bust. Explaining the hazards of the growing hole in the ozone layer had only made him more ornery. As for the greenhouse effect, Sonny told me it sounded like a damned good idea: it gave God a chance to start over again from scratch.

  I opened the refrigerator in the hope of scavenging something partly digestible, and a muffled scream escaped my lips. Sitting on the top shelf was a large cow’s head, freshly skinned and bloody. A pair of startled eyes stared unblinkingly at me while my gaze was drawn down to the tongue hanging out of its mouth, heavy as a sodden sponge.

  I abruptly slammed the fridge shut, took a few deep breaths, and grabbed a dingy dish towel. After flinging the refrigerator door back open, I quickly threw the cloth over the head like a shroud, and carefully transferred it on to a plate. Then I rocketed out of the house with it.

  The thing about having neighbors is that not only can you rarely choose them, but they also seem to come in odd pairs. I headed toward the adobe house on my left, where I high stepped through a desert garden doubling as a homeopathic medicine cabinet. My neighbor, affectionately known as “Tia Marta,” was waiting in her doorway as if she’d been expecting me.

  “Rachel, my dear! You have perfect timing. Amaya is just about to leave.” Tia Marta gave me a light pinch on the cheek as I squeezed past her with the cow’s head in my hands.

  “Now, remember. You’re to take those herbs only once a day. No more! Or you’ll have that husband of yours dropping dead from too much desire,” she teasingly advised her client.

  Soon after moving in, I’d learned Tia Marta was one of the most renowned curanderas in the entire Southwest. She was part healer and part psychic hot line, with a large dash of Dr. Joyce Brothers thrown in. Over one hundred true believers gathered at her house every day, eagerly clamoring for her services.

  A preconceived notion of what she looked like had taken seed in my mind before I’d even met the woman: plainly dressed, with a mane of silky, white hair meticulously pinned up in a bun. Then of course, there was the walking stick she’d need in order to get around. And definitely, no make-up would sully the skin of my southwestern Mother Teresa. Boy, had I ever been wrong.

  Tia Marta jumped out at the world as if she’d sprung directly from the opera Carmen. Curly jet-black hair flowed down onto outfits that were as flashy as a traveling gypsy’s. And when it came to make-up, Elizabeth Taylor was clearly her model. A heavy layer of kohl was painted around each of her cat-shaped eyes, dramatically flaring out into wings that would have rivaled Cleopatra. As for her lips, they were as red as Dorothy’s ruby slippers. Dangling sil
ver earrings danced as she spoke, complementing the rings which adorned each of her fingers. The final touch was nails which glittered the color of gold, her joy for life exuding straight out through the ends of her Manchu-length fingertips. Just being in her presence energized me more than downing a container of espresso. On top of which, the woman had to be at least eighty years old.

  “You’re just in time for lunch, my darling. Wait till you see what I’ve cooked for us today!” Tia Marta clapped her hands in delight.

  That was the other thing. Tia Marta loved to cook, and lived alone. I lived alone, and loved to eat. It was a match made in heaven.

  I held the guillotined cow’s head towards her. “Forget Amaya’s husband. You’re going to give me a heart attack one of these days. I nearly plotzed when I opened my fridge and caught this thing gawking back at me.”

  Tia Marta burst into a hearty laugh which wiggled its way down my body to tickle my toes. Damn it! The woman’s happiness was contagious. She leaned in and gave me a buss on the cheek.

  “My dear, what can I tell you? So many of my clients brought me food this morning that my refrigerator ran out of space. I stuck some in yours since I always cook for the both of us, and there’s never anything in there, anyway. I plan to smoke the head tonight. That way we’ll have good barbacoa for our dinner tomorrow.”

  In Tia Marta’s backyard sat a refrigerator whose interior had been gutted and fitted with a smoke pipe, specifically for cooking the delicacy to perfection.

  Tia Marta suddenly stiffened and I prepared myself, knowing what was next. I closed my eyes as she proceeded to sniff loudly at my arms, my neck, and my face, like a blood hound latching onto its prey.

  “I’m not sure where you’ve been, but you’re in need of a good cleansing,” she firmly announced.

  My stomach vocally disagreed. “How about some lunch first? I’m starving,” I protested.

  “Don’t be crazy,” Tia Marta scoffed. “By that time the evil spirits will have settled in but good, and it will take me twice as long to get rid of them. No. First we cleanse, then we eat.”

  My stomach responded with an angry growl.

  “You hear that? The evil spirits are upset because they’re afraid of what is coming,” she smugly predicted.

  Silly me—and here I just thought I was hungry.

  Tia Marta led the way to her altar room, the Home Depot of religious tchotchkes. A string of miniature white lights blinked on and off in the doorway, as if announcing a two-for-one sale. Inside, over fifty religious statues were arranged on a cluster of tables and shelves. I seriously doubted the Devil would ever dare set foot in this place.

  We headed over to a table filled with prayer candles. A black velvet reproduction of the Last Supper hung directly above it. The rest of the walls were festooned with the largest collection of Virgin Mary paintings this side of the border. Best of all was the plastic Madonna picture which transformed into Jesus with each of my slightest moves. The only tchotchke in the room that made no sense was a framed portrait of Lucy and Desi from the old I Love Lucy Show. Naturally, it was my favorite.

  A Bible lay beside the candles, along with a stack of lottery tickets waiting to be played. Nearby were dried herbs, a dish of rose petals, a bowl of holy water, and a carton of eggs. Tia Marta picked up one of the eggs and rolled it over my head, across my shoulders, and down my back as she said a prayer. Then she cracked it open and emptied its contents into a dish. A black speck lay motionless in the yolk’s yellow center before it slowly began to spread, like a spider extending its legs.

  “You see!” Tia Marta announced triumphantly. “I told you something was there. Now we can eat.”

  A shiver ran through me faster than feet scurrying across a hot griddle as the black mark continued to disperse. I admit it; there were times when Tia Marta’s rituals totally gave me the creeps.

  We headed back into her kitchen, and I sat down at the rough-hewn wooden table. This was the area of the house which I loved best. There was something about the salmon painted stucco walls that always made me feel warm and cozy, while the turquoise window frames added a light-hearted dash. A stream of light danced on the uneven brick floor as Tia Marta placed a steaming bowl of caldillo before me. I dug into the savory beef stew with such zest it was possible two or three evil spirits were still lurking inside, just as hungry as I was.

  Tia Marta sat down and joined me, placing a cup of hot liquid by my side. I sniffed it and glanced at her.

  “It’s broomweed tea for that hangover you woke up with this morning,” she responded, dipping a warm tortilla into her stew.

  I didn’t bother to ask how she knew. Instead, I quietly drank the liquid, and my small twinge of headache went away. Since meeting Tia Marta, I’d come to accept that if you think it, and believe it, the most amazing things can happen. It was then that I noticed a slight bump on her forehead. She followed my gaze with her fingertips and gently massaged the skin.

  “What caused that?” I inquired.

  Tia Marta shook her head like a war-weary soldier. “I should have known there’d be trouble last night after I spotted that black owl outside my window. But I was so tired, I couldn’t stay awake. The next thing I knew, a spirit grabbed my leg and yanked me out of bed, while a demon tugged at my hair, and third ghost slapped me on the rear end.”

  There were times when I felt certain Tia Marta had to be pulling my leg. This was one of them. But she continued on, deadly serious.

  “I tried to pray out loud, but the spirits wouldn’t let the words leave my mouth. So, I said the Lord’s Prayer in my mind. After that, I told them to get out of my house, first in English and then in Spanish, in case they didn’t understand.” She gave a nonchalant wave of her hand, as if that’s all it took to brush the ghouls and the goblins away.

  “So, what did it all mean?” I asked, wanting a good wrap-up to the story.

  Tia Marta glanced behind me. “It means that someone possessing mal ojo is around,” she whispered hoarsely.

  I understood enough Spanish to know mal ojo meant evil eye. As of this morning, I was in search of someone who gave evil phone. I opted against filling Tia Marta in on that juicy tidbit; she’d probably start rubbing eggs over every piece of communication equipment I owned.

  Lunch was formally declared over as Tia Marta’s afternoon crowd began to appear. I grabbed the cow’s head, promising to keep it entombed in my refrigerator until later, and headed out the front door. As I crossed through a patch of creosote, a woman hiding behind a pair of fashionable DKNY sunglasses appeared. She tottered past decked out in a hot pink satin top, tight black capri pants, and high-heeled platform shoes. I heaved a sigh of resignation, aware that my fashion sense extended no further than scruffy jeans and a pair of dirty hiking boots. Maybe I could strike a deal with Tia Marta’s spirits, and get to play fashionplate next time around. It wasn’t until I was knee deep in a bunch of honey mesquite—terrific for conjunctivitis and peptic ulcers—that I heard the clipclopping of platforms race up behind me.

  “Rach?”

  Great—not only did I feel like Courtney Love on a bad grunge day, but I was stuck with a dead cow’s head in my hands.

  “Don’t you recognize me?” the fashion maven asked. A bittersweet smile tugged at the corners of her mouth, as if I’d disappointed her.

  I moved a step closer and nearly dropped Elsie on Miss Vogue’s hot pink painted toenails. The woman bore a resemblance to someone I’d known. Still, it couldn’t possibly be. The friend I remembered was definitely younger.

  I received my answer as she whipped off her sunglasses with a theatrical gesture. “Rach! It’s me, Lizzie!”

  Both Elsie and I stared at my old pal, Lizzie Burke, in astonishment. Gone was the young girl I’d known in Las Vegas, replaced by a more mature and much altered version. Her unruly dark curls had been teased and sprayed to conform into a Dolly Parton clone. But something more essential about Lizzie was different. The carefree sense about her was gone, ma
king her seem far older than her thirty years. Lizzie had worked as a computer programming whiz for Clark County, with dreams of becoming a dancer. What was missing was the spirited bounce there had been to her walk. I quickly set Elsie on the ground.

  “I thought you were in Miami!” Lizzie exclaimed, giving me a warm hug.

  “Well then, we’re both surprised. As far as I knew, you were still in Vegas.” I returned her embrace. She clung for a second too long, her hug containing the slightest air of desperation. Or maybe it was just my imagination.

  “I was in Miami. That is, until I got hold of a case which made the wrong people angry,” I admitted.

  “That seems to be your specialty.” Lizzie giggled, revealing a hint of her old self. “Don’t tell me: you’ve been stationed here as your penance.”

  “You’ve got it.” I chuckled, pleased to have bumped into her once more. Then I caught sight of the ring on her finger. She sported a diamond large enough to have made Elizabeth Taylor envious.

  “Did you win that playing the slots in Vegas, or is there something else I should know about?” I asked mischievously.

  Lizzie flashed a quicksilver grin and threw her arms around me once more. “I got married, Rach! In fact, there’s heaps of stuff that I have to fill you in on.” She gave me a curious look. “Were you just at Tia Marta’s for a cleansing?”

  The ominous black speck with legs began to crawl into my mind. I quickly shoved it away.

  “No, we’re just neighbors. I live next door.” I pointed to my ramshackle abode.

  Lizzie gave it a passing glance. “I have to run, or I’ll be late for my cleansing. But why don’t you come for dinner this evening and we’ll catch up with each other then?”

  She wrote down her address and then cheerfully waved as she ran inside, her platform shoes pounding out an oddly disturbing beat.

  Five

  I headed toward El Paso for dinner that evening as the sun gave a last gasp. The Franklin Mountains pushed up through the land like a great spine, their ridges sharp as quills perforating the sky so that they bled blood red from the setting sun. I wasn’t sure what to expect as I wound my way up the curving mountain road, but Lizzie had clearly traveled quite a distance since her days of dreaming about fame and fortune in Las Vegas. According to the address, her house lay situated on Crazy Cat Mountain, one of the poshest sections in El Paso.