South of Evil

by Brian Dunford

  “You knew him, didn’t you?”

  He thought about that question, and he thought about what she really meant.

  “Yes. I studied him. Too much, maybe.”

  “Are you glad you did?”

  “I don’t know. It changed me,” said Curtis.

  She smiled. She was sad and lovely at the same time. She started to leave.

  “He changed you?” she said whimsically and over her shoulder. “I am really a boy.”

  ***

  At the top of the stairs, Strauss thought of another time when the phone had rang and Guillermo had said that a man wanted to see him. He had been young and stupid and very, very drunk, and Guillermo had known all of these things. He remembered, after it was over, racing to the brothel, and falling asleep in Dulcinea’s arms while an old black and white movie flickered in the background.

  He opened the door and stepped into the night.

  “Buenos noches, Inspector Strauss,” came the wet rumbling from Jefe’s throat. Strauss turned and saw Jefe coming from the corner of the parking lot. His gun was still holstered. His huge belly hung over his belt. Jefe zipped up his pants.

  “Been a long night,” said Jefe.

  “For all of us.”

  “Not much gets past you, Strauss, so I suppose you heard about what happened at the station a little while ago.”

  “I’ve heard only rumors,” said Strauss. “What can I do to help?”

  Jefe laughed. It wasn’t his rueful little chuckle that made Juan Two Saints cringe every time he heard it. It was an honest to God caught off guard laugh.

  “What can you do to help,” he said. “That’s a good question, Strauss. You know I don’t mind a little bloodshed, even if it’s in a police station, but there is a time and a place for everything, and I like to be in control of it.”

  Jefe reached into his shirt pocket and took out a half finished cigar. The end was still wet and discolored, but he put it into his mouth anyway.

  “I wasn’t in control of it today,” he said as he lit it.

  “Are you here to ask if I was?”

  “No, I don’t think you did this. Not intentionally. The funny thing was that we were going to have a talk with the Americans. So we put them into a cell with a guy who we thought might give them a little trouble. We didn’t know him, and he didn’t say much, but when a mean looking bastard covered in scars comes into your life in a Mexican jail, it’s not usually hard to put two and two together.”

  “I wouldn’t know, Jefe.”

  “It isn’t,” he said, and there was a touch of anger to his voice. “Funny thing about this Mexican in my Mexican jail is no one can really remember how he got there. No one remembers talking to him. I’ve known a good deal of drunks in my day. They kind of run off at the mouth. Not this one. Silent as a church mouse, if you know that expression.”

  Jefe chewed on the cigar, watching Strauss. Strauss was impassive.

  “Reminds me of a rumor I heard. Didn’t you once have an employee who didn’t say much?”

  “I don’t have any employees.”

  “But I think you know very well who I mean. So before we sent him off, I made sure we stopped and took his finger prints.”

  “How did that go?” Strauss asked.

  “I think you know how it went, Strauss. I have a finger print card in my truck full of ugly black smudges. I have two Americans on the run and a district captain who has already thrown me under the bus to his superiors. I have people to answer to now. And you do too.”

  “Why am I sharing your problems, Jefe?”

  Jefe smiled his brown smile. There were flecks of tobacco stuck in his teeth.

  “I hear you have an American in there with you? Who is he?”

  “He is nobody.”

  “You don’t work for nobodies.”

  “Times are tough.”

  “I’ll find out who he is.”

  “I’m sure you will, but he will be gone before you do.”

  “No matter. He’ll be back. After all, this is Mexico.”

  Jefe spread his arms out wide as he stood in the center of the empty piss-scented parking lot behind the bar and laughed. It was his deep, dangerous belly laugh for when nothing was really funny. Strauss turned to leave.

  “And Strauss, before you go, answer one last question.”

  Strauss’ hand was on the door. He was tired, but he stayed.

  “I heard a rumor about you once. I always wanted to know if it was true.”

  Strauss felt worn. He hoped Guillermo had more coffee brewing. “What was it?” he asked.

  “I heard that when you moved to Monterrey, you tried to go straight,” Jefe said, the mirth in his tone unmistakable. “Is that true?”

  Strauss wanted to find the Americans. He wanted to send Eduardo Mendes back where he belonged. He wanted to be done with this conversation.

  “Yes, it is true,” he said. Jefe laughed loudly.

  “The Assassin of Juarez comes to Monterrey to clean up the joint. What did you offer them?”

  “I told them that there was a disgrace of a police officer who worked for the cartels or anyone else with money and we should arrest him immediately to send a message.”

  “How did that go?” Jefe asked with delight.

  “You’re still here,” said Strauss.

  Even when the door slammed shut, he could hear Jefe laughing.

  Virgil stepped out of the little shack with the last blue and white cooler in his arms. There was a full moon overhead. It was enough to see Virgil across the field, but not much else.

  The truck was waiting for Curtis. The handles on the door felt old fashioned. He pulled it open, and the hinge creaked loud enough for Virgil to hear. It smelled of use. There was a scent of oil and gas, with a hint of nature on the side. The interior was threadbare. The seats had holes, some of them stitched.

  It was old and rough, but it was clean and well cared for. Curtis felt along the steering column, groping blindly with his hands, until he found a set of metal keys above the visor. The engine came to life.

  He jumped into the driver’s seat and pumped the gas. It roared. This was a healthy truck. He fumbled for the headlights and found them, lit them up, and saw the open road of the driveway before them. All he had to do was back into the field, load up the flat bed, and drive as fast as they could to the border.

  There could be some awkward questions at the border. He was a federal agent, but his credentials were somewhere in Mexico. He had a flat run to the border and a story ready to go when he got there. A phone call announcing that he was coming wouldn’t hurt. He wouldn’t be the first man to lose his passport in Mexico.

  What he needed first was to leave this place. They could sort out the details on the road. They needed rope. They needed a tarp, or, as Virgil suggested, a heavy blanket.

  “And something sharp. A machete,” suggested Virgil.

  Curtis had looked at the bandage on his head and wondered if he were planning to carve up Colon. He imagined a hand in a plastic bag as a souvenir when Virgil seemed to read his mind.

  “To cut the goddamn rope,” he said.

  A rope. A tarp. A blade. He climbed out the truck and walked to the back of the barn and suddenly drew his gun.

  “Virgil!” he screamed.

  He brought his gun up, sights to his eyes, and screamed again for Virgil, no longer caring who might hear him. He heard Virgil’s footsteps come to a halt behind him.

  “Jesus,” he said.

  In the barn by a set of stairs lay the body of a man whose throat had been cut. The body was that of a man about forty. He had a ghastly wound on his neck, and his eyes stared into the ceiling. He was a plain man and not prosperous. His clothes were well used but sturdy. He had a good pair of boots. A long hunter’s knife was on his belt, still in the holster, where it had done him no good. Virgil touched his wrist and examined his hands.

  “A working man,” he said quietly.

  There was an inherent
honesty on this man’s face, thought Curtis.

  Virgil kicked a bag at his feet. It was a dark green backpack, stuffed with belongings. There was a small satchel near that, and further still, by the other side of the truck, he found shotgun in a carrying case with a strap. Curtis opened the bag. Food, neatly wrapped in napkins, some in cans, both full and empty. Socks. He found clothing. It was too small for a man. It was a child’s clothing.

  “What in the name of God went on at this place?” Curtis muttered.

  “We need to leave,” said Virgil. The way he said it made Curtis believe that he would get into the truck and drive whether he was in it or not.

  ***

  Strauss hated to admit it, but he needed the help. He was trying to tell Ordo to head north fast and double back, but Ordo was barely listening. He was busy giving orders to the Russian.

  Strauss felt Guillermo by his side.

  “You’re working with them, aren’t you?”

  “For the moment, I have to.”

  “These kids are no good.”

  Strauss looked at the Russian and his passionless face.

  “No,” he said. “They are not.”

  “Look at this,” said Guillermo.

  He was holding an old green canvas bag with dust clinging to it. It was worn, and its straps hung loose. Guillermo pulled it open. Strauss smiled.

  “Where did you get that?”

  “Juarez. Years ago. I never got rid of it.”

  “Why not?”

  Guillermo shrugged as if he knew and didn’t want to say.

  “May I?” he asked.

  Strauss took an Uzi submachine gun from the bag and examined it carefully. Strauss felt the familiar heft of the weapon.

  “Let me come with you,” Guillermo said.

  “Why?” Strauss asked disdainfully.

  “Look at this place,” he said.

  Strauss slid the gun back into the bag. He walked away from Guillermo without saying yes and without saying no. Guillermo fastened the old green bag shut. Then he followed.

  ***

  They loaded the coolers onto the bed of the pick-up truck. Neither one of them said a word as they did it.

  They had backed up right to the front door. The coolers slid on to the bed. After the first few, it became clear that they would run out of room very quickly. Curtis did the math with his eyes. They were not leaving any coolers behind.

  He had found a big blue tarp, dirty and dusty, and spread easily. There had been plenty of rope. He had also taken the small satchel from the ground. It was full of shotgun shells. There was an old compass too, and a greasy plastic bag stuffed with matches. He grabbed the shotgun as well.

  Virgil was standing beside the truck in the view of the headlights. He watched as Curtis tied off the end of the ropes to the bed.

  “We need water,” he said.

  “I know.”

  “Are we out of time?”

  Curtis heard a gunshot. It was a loud, crisp pop. He watched Virgil’s eyes widen, then his hand slapped his belly. Virgil slapped it.

  “What the fuck?” he said.

  Curtis pushed him, and another shot sounded. They heard glass break over their heads. Virgil stumbled and fell lightly onto his back. He landed and looked to his stomach, then they rolled to cover behind the truck.

  He heard another shot and put his head down. He saw Virgil, on his knees now, crouched behind the tire. Another shot went into the night. They heard the bullet bouncing inside the engine.

  Virgil had positioned himself behind the engine. Curtis found himself at the bed. He had cover from twenty million dollars.

  “Can you see him?” Curtis asked. He was whispering.

  Virgil was looking at his hand. Even in the moonlight, Curtis could see the blood.

  “How bad?” he asked, hearing a shot and then metal being struck.

  He could see blood soaking into Virgil’s shirt. It was the left side of his abdomen. He thought about what organs were on his left side. His mind was blank.

  “We can’t stay here,” said Virgil. He looked again. He started to pull the shirt away and winced. “I can move,” he said. “But I can’t run.”

  Curtis looked at the injury. It wasn’t good, but it wasn’t that bad either. He wasn’t going to bleed out in the field. He could function.

  “I’m going to run to the trees. Shoot as I’m running. Reload when I get there. Keep him busy while I’m gone.”

  He thought for a moment that Virgil would argue, that he would offer a better plan. Instead, Virgil studied the blood on his hand, and then looked painfully at the wound on his belly.

  Virgil nodded. He wiped his hand on his pants and left a red smear. He took his gun out of his holster and nodded again.

  Curtis stood and heard a shot as he did. He ignored it. He thought he felt the sensation of the bullet flying past his face. He brought his gun up and fired. He fired three times and ran.

  He was ten feet from the truck and heard no more shots when the subtle sense of panic emerged. What if Virgil couldn’t shoot? What if Virgil had just been shot? He saw the dark tree line emerge before him, growing bigger and bigger. He felt the acid rise in his chest. All the sniper had to do was land one decent shot to slow him or take him off his feet. He’d never crawl to the trees.

  The night exploded behind him. He heard it and accelerated as if he were in the blast wave. He felt his feet stomp through the uneven ground, with grass nipping at his shins, and with each shot he pushed hard until he was surrounded by brush and felt thin branches scratching his cheeks. He slid to his stomach as the last shot sounded.

  The shots from Virgil were so much louder and more powerful than the shots coming at them. It hadn’t occurred to him before. He had no time to reflect on why, and he began to crawl. He knew where the shots were coming from now.

  The shots had come from the barn. There was a window on the second floor. That was where the shooter was.

  As he ran along the side of the barn with his gun in both hands stretched out before him, it occurred to him with perfect clarity. The sniper was shooting at Virgil specifically. Curtis had fired, just a few rounds to push his head down, and then run into the open. The sniper had hit Virgil. He had almost hit him again. He was skilled. There was no way he hadn’t seen Curtis sprint to the trees. He had to know he was out there. He hadn’t turned toward him. Curtis watched the flashes, and the more he ran, the longer they were. They were pointed toward Virgil.

  He entered the dark barn quickly, hooking into the room, moving away from the door. He remembered being told to do that, to never stand in any entrance. He moved through the open space where the truck had been, could see the dead man’s body, and looked into the staircase at the end.

  He heard another shot. His body constricted. The shot was from upstairs. No one was shooting at him.

  He stared into the open space at the top of the stairs. He told himself not to look at the body. The threat was above. The dead man lay on the floor, his limbs loose, blood no longer pouring out of him, but still all over the ground. His eyes were closed. Curtis thought they had been open.

  The stairs were just a frame and the steps. They were narrow and rose sharply. Curtis put down one foot and pressed. He listened. He was waiting for the telltale creak. When he pressed with his whole foot and stepped up with all his weight, he braced himself for the loudest creak of all time. It didn’t come. The stairs were solid.

  Another shot was fired. By now, his ears and body had become accustomed to the gunshots. He heard it distinctly after the round. Metal on metal, a latch closing. He knew immediately what it was and knew immediately why the shots were timed. The shooter had a bolt action rifle.

  Slowly, Curtis peaked over the rise into the second floor. It was dark. There were shadows and dark forms. He could make out nothing. The window loomed large. He thought it had been dark outside, but now, it seemed to blaze light. He realized how exposed he was. He realized that if the sniper had any idea that he
was coming, then this was the moment he was waiting for, and Curtis had served himself up to be executed. He clenched and waited. It didn’t come.

  The shot came for someone else. It came for Virgil. In the flash of the muzzle, Curtis saw a man lying prone, peering over his rifle, his head barely exposed. He was right there, and his back was to Curtis.

  He should have shot him, Curtis thought, as he bounded over the top of the staircase. He had a gun full of bullets and even with his eyes closed, some of them would have hit. It was too late. He thought it had to do with seeing the sniper’s face, or the sniper seeing his before he died.

  He heard the slide of metal as the sniper worked the bolt. His feet were no longer silent, and the sniper turned just in time to see Curtis in the air, the bolt of the rifle open and useless. Curtis landed on top of him, ready to kill him, planning to do it, and brought his gun right into the sniper’s face.

  The front sight of the gun was right under the sniper’s nose. It touched slightly. Curtis’ finger was on the trigger. If he pulled it, he knew a bullet was going to travel into the sniper’s face, through his brain, and come out the back of his skull.

  He was glad he didn’t.

  The sniper let go of the bolt. He raised his hand, palm up, fingers loose, in the universal sign of surrender. He let go of the rifle with his other hand. It dropped out of sight, through the window and into the darkness below.

  It was a boy. He was a child of twelve or thirteen at most. He was thin and Mexican. His skin was brown, and his eyes were red. Curtis remembered the face of the man on the floor below, and he saw that face in this boy. He knew immediately and without having to ask that the man had been this boy’s father.

  Curtis had no idea what to say. There was no reason to ask why. He knew why. He just didn’t know what to do next. He sat up. He motioned with his gun, and the boy sat up too. He remembered Virgil then, who had been firing in this direction very recently.

  “I got him!” he shouted.

  “Is he dead?”

  “No. I got him alive.”

  Curtis didn’t take his eyes off the boy. This boy had just shot Virgil. Curtis had no idea what condition Virgil was in, or how badly he was wounded. When he heard the truck slowly rumbling through the field, Curtis stood and pointed where he wanted the boy to go. He pointed with the gun. The boy spoke no English as near as he could tell, but he was fluent in this language. He was small and scared. There was no fat on him.