South of Evil

by Brian Dunford

  As the boy took the stairs, Curtis finally examined where he was. It was a loft above the barn. The walls were the roof, with its bolts and nails exposed. There were two bedrolls and no furniture. A few items of clothing were stacked neatly on the deck. A camping bag hung from the ceiling. Hunting gear was arranged on the floor by an empty pack. He took to the stairs, and as he did, he noticed a few books. It was clear, even in the dark, that the boy and his father lived here.

  Virgil didn’t look good. He was standing straight, but had his hand to his side. The bleeding appeared to have subsided, but there was a large red stain across his shirt. He was pale. Curtis sat the boy down before him.

  Curtis could see Virgil’s face. Virgil understood what had happened.

  “Jesus Christ,” said Virgil, seeing it too. “Look at his eyes. He thinks we did it!”

  There was a growing visible rage in the boy. Tears were flowing, but not just of sadness. Anger was flowing out of him.

  “Tell him it wasn’t us,” Virgil pleaded.

  Curtis hadn’t slept in days. “I don’t know how,” he said, searching for the words. He couldn’t find them. He couldn’t locate the denials. Even a simple phrase, such as we did not do this, escaped him.

  They didn’t have time to wait.

  “What do you want to do with him?” Virgil asked.

  “We’re not going to kill him,” he said.

  “I wasn’t suggesting it.”

  “Some things need to be said aloud.”

  “Should we take him with us? Drop him off on the road?”

  “Like in the desert?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I’m not leaving him in the desert.”

  “We can’t leave him here.”

  “I need you to tell him something for me.”

  Curtis looked at the boy. He had no idea what they were saying, but it was clear the two strangers were discussing his fate. That alone should have scared him.

  “Tell him I didn’t kill his father.”

  “I don’t know if I can.”

  “Try.”

  Curtis’ mind had been erased at some point of all the Spanish he ever thought he knew. Still, he tried to piece it together.

  “El hombre,” he said, pointing at Virgil. “No muerte tu padre.”

  The boy’s eyes raged. There was a fire in him. It did no good, and they could both see it. Virgil grabbed him by the collar and lifted him to his feet, dragging him from the barn. The boy swung and hit Virgil right in the place where he’d been shot. Virgil cried out but didn’t let go. When they were out of the barn and under the moon, Virgil spun him around and looked at the boy face to face.

  “Listen to me. I don’t know if you can understand me, but remember these words. I did not kill your father. I am sorry he is dead.”

  “Sorry,” said the boy.

  Virgil took his gun out. He didn’t point it, but held it in his hand. Then he pointed to the field.

  Curtis knew what he meant. “Vamanos,” said Curtis, but he said it flatly. There was no threat in his words. The boy turned and looked and then looked back at Virgil. Then he walked, slowly, sulking, looking over his shoulder, until Virgil shouted, “Run!” and fired into the ground. The boy’s walk exploded into a sprint. Within seconds, he was lost in the night.

  Virgil looked tired. He was starting to look sick as well.

  “How far to the border?” he asked.

  Chapter Eleven

  Curtis – Nuevo Leon, MX

  The clouds were moving in heavy, and there was just a piece of the moon left. Tiny wet dots glistened on the road. Curtis tied the rope where it had come loose. He looked at the wet spots and remembered that he was in Mexico.

  He ran his hand under the car and brought it back. It was dark and wet. Not soaked, but there was fluid down there. The truck was leaking. He thought of the bullet he had heard bouncing aimlessly around the engine.

  He opened the door to the truck and saw Virgil. He was leaking fluid too. He’d been examining himself in the dark, and now that the interior light was on, he looked guilty.

  “I think I’m okay,” he said.

  His face was soaked with sweat, and his skin was shades lighter than healthy. He thought the bleeding had slowed, but now there was blood in the truck and on the seat.

  The police radio chirped. It came in waves. When they got on the road, there was a flurry of conversation, tense, demanding, and too quick to follow. Then it was more or less quiet. Curtis hit the gas and rejoined the highway heading north just as the rain drops began to fall.

  “One of the driest places on the continent, and it has to start raining while we’re here,” said Curtis. Virgil didn’t reply, and that made it worse. That was when Curtis knew how much pain he was really in.

  They were on Highway 85, the big road that had taken them here. It was the big road taking them home. It should have been the busiest, though at this hour, there were few other cars on the road. They had hoped to blend into the traffic. They hadn’t planned for this.

  “Who do you think killed that man?” Virgil asked.

  Curtis remembered the machete on the bureau.

  “Colon killed him,” replied Curtis.

  “Did he know who Colon was?”

  Curtis thought it was a good question. He thought about it. The rain began to strike harder.

  “No,” he finally decided. “He was just some poor guy. Colon figured he had seen or might have seen what had happened that night, and figured there was no reason to risk him telling someone. I think that’s all there was to it.”

  “Why didn’t he kill the boy?”

  Curtis pictured himself with his gun to the boy’s head. He pictured Virgil being shot.

  “Maybe he just hadn’t had the chance,” said Curtis. “Or the boy might not have been that easy to kill.”

  “I imagined someone else,” said Virgil.

  “Who?”

  “I imagined a fancy pants drug dealer living in the lap of luxury.”

  “He was once.”

  “But he was a vicious bastard.”

  “He was that too,” Curtis agreed.

  “What did you see in that guy?” Virgil asked with a laugh. It was a laugh that tried to make light. It didn’t succeed. But Curtis didn’t even have to think about his answer.

  “He was the best at what he did,” he answered. “He was the best, and he went to great lengths to make sure no one knew it. Can you imagine the discipline?”

  When Virgil didn’t answer, Curtis looked over at him. Virgil was looking at the bullet hole in his side.

  ***

  Eduardo looked into the shack. He felt rage building as he saw the trap door thrown open and the cellar exposed.

  It was gone.

  “Here,” said Strauss without excitement.

  Eduardo burst into the field where he found Strauss in a squat. He expected another hole, different, deeper than the first, which had been meant to mislead. Strauss pointed to something that glimmered. It was yellow metal. He thought of gold.

  “Brass,” said Strauss.

  It was a tiny cylinder. It looked altogether worthless.

  “It’s the cartridge from a bullet. There are more of them. There are more in the loft above the barn.”

  “What does that tell us?” Eduardo asked.

  “They didn’t leave without a fight.”

  “Does it tell us where they are now?”

  Strauss kept looking.

  “It might,” he said.

  Eduardo walked away. Strauss looked to Guillermo. Guillermo shrugged.

  “What do you see?” he asked.

  Strauss pointed into the grass. Guillermo squatted with him. Eduardo watched silently.

  “Blood,” said Guillermo.

  “Someone was hurt. My guess, it is one of the Americans.”

  “Why?”

  “They came here for something,” he said, pointing to the tracks. “They got it. Then someone tried to stop the
m.”

  “Should we see the dead man in the house?”

  “Eventually.”

  “Who is he?” asked Guillermo.

  Strauss looked at the bloody grass at his feet, then at the shack behind him.

  “A man whose luck ran out,” said Strauss.

  ***

  When Virgil awoke, a man was speaking Spanish in the truck with them. Virgil looked in the small cabin and saw only the two of them. When the man spoke again, his voice was harsh and broken. He realized it was the police radio.

  Curtis had it in the center console and had cranked the volume all the way. The signal was touch and go, but at the moment, it was clear.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “They have a road block on highway thirty five. Another highway too.”

  “Are we going to run into it?” Virgil asked.

  “No. The roadblocks are way to the east. They’re on the shortest routes out of the country. Just like we said.”

  “So we’re okay?”

  Curtis looked at the dark mass that spread over Virgil’s shirt. It was no longer moving.

  “We’re going to be fine.”

  But when he looked up, his eyes met Virgil’s, who knew he had been examined.

  “I should get a new shirt before we get to the border.”

  “You think a new shirt will do it?”

  “I can make it. We’ll get a doctor when we’re home.”

  “What will we say?”

  “Anything. We’ll say anything. Just not the truth.”

  “I’ve been thinking about the border,” said Curtis.

  “What have you been thinking?”

  “That we have enough to worry about just getting you over it.”

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t know anymore.”

  “We’re not leaving the money.”

  “No one said we were.”

  Virgil started pressing at his stomach. He made a sound like it hurt.

  “What were we going to do with the money in the first plan?” Virgil asked. His breath was short. A cargo truck passed in the opposite lane. In the light, his face was wet.

  “Originally? We had three million dollars. You can hide three million dollars. Look in the back. We have ten cases with two million each. I’m an IRS agent with no credentials, and I’m going to try to cross the border with a cop from Boston who has a bullet in him. Telling me you’ll be fine is one thing. Being capable of being fine is another.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Virgil.

  “It’s not your fault.”

  “The kid picked me.”

  “What’s that?”

  “He knew his father was dead. He saw the two of us. But he decided I was the one who killed him. He had a chance to kill you, and instead, he kept shooting at me.”

  Curtis knew that Virgil was right.

  “Why?” Virgil asked.

  “I guess you just look like a killer,” Curtis said.

  Virgil laughed, and then he cried out in pain.

  ***

  Strauss was behind the wheel with his phone in his hand when he glimpsed movement to his right. Eduardo was closer, but hadn’t seen it. Guillermo was in the back and looked like a tourist.

  Strauss strode off toward the barn. As he walked, he remembered what he had seen at the top of the stairs. He stopped at the edge of the barn door.

  “Come out,” called Strauss. “I saw you run inside.”

  “Who is it?” Guillermo asked. Strauss could see that Guillermo had reached into his sack. Strauss leveled his hand to calm him. He did not want any guns.

  “You can come out,” Strauss said again. He listened. He listened for creaking in the ceiling above him. He listened for the sound of a body dropping from the second floor. He listened for the sound of a metal bolt sliding a bullet into the barrel.

  “If I wanted to hurt you, I would burn down the barn. Come out now. I only want to know what happened here.”

  Slowly, a foot emerged from the top of the staircase, moving with unimaginable caution. Finally, the boy was in sight. He held a small rifle. The body on the ground lay between them.

  The boy was a mixture of terror and anger. At once, he was a boy with a weapon who wanted to kill every one of them, while at the same time, he was a boy who desperately needed help. His eyes kept falling to the man on the ground.

  “Is that your father?” Strauss asked.

  “He’s dead,” said the boy. That was his way of saying yes.

  Strauss noticed the rifle was inching its way into the air.

  “I need you to lower that,” he said.

  “I am not putting it down,” said the boy.

  “I am not asking you to,” said Strauss.

  It was lowered, and Strauss stepped into the barn. When he saw the boy in focus, he could see his face was streaked with tears, though his lips didn’t tremble, and his hands were steady. He thought of the men behind him.

  Strauss heard a car traveling down the driveway. It was traveling fast and coming for them. He hoped it was Ordo and the Russian. He hoped Guillermo looked. Strauss didn’t take his eyes off of the boy.

  “Who killed your father?” he asked.

  “A white man,” he said.

  “Tell me about him.”

  The boy shrugged.

  “Was he alone?”

  “No. There were two men.”

  “What were they wearing?”

  “The one who killed my father had a dark shirt and blue jeans.”

  “And the other?”

  “A crazy yellow shirt. And he wore glasses.”

  “Were they hurt?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “What the fuck is this?” he heard Ordo shout from behind them.

  “I shot him,” said the boy.

  Strauss felt his attention being drawn in two directions. Ordo was demanding to know who the boy was. The Russian carefully stayed by the door of the car. Strauss thought that the Russian was no fool.

  “Which one did you shoot?”

  “Shoot who?” Ordo asked.

  “I shot the one who killed my father.”

  “Was he wearing glasses, or was he the other?”

  “The other.”

  “Is he dead?”

  “No.”

  “Where was he hurt?”

  The boy pointed to his side, just above his hip.

  “You did this?”

  The boy nodded.

  “With that rifle?”

  He nodded again.

  “Was he able to walk away?”

  “Yes.”

  “Who is this kid?” Ordo demanded.

  “This boy did what you have not. He shot one of our Americans.”

  “I would have shot him dead. Where are they now?”

  The boy did not know.

  “So what good is he?”

  Strauss shrugged, and Ordo walked to the BMW.

  “What were they driving?” Strauss asked.

  “My father’s truck.”

  Strauss looked around himself. He could feel the impatience burning off the other men. He looked back at the boy.

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked.

  “I am going to bury him.”

  Strauss was afraid that the boy would ask him for help. He was afraid because he would have to say no. At first glance, the boy appeared frail and small. He wasn’t though. Strauss could see that too. He could see that this boy would never ask for help.

  “Get in the back of my truck,” said Strauss.

  The boy refused to move.

  “We are going to find the men who killed your father.”

  The boy ran into the Navigator. He sat with his rifle butt down and with the barrel to the sky.

  “What are you doing?” Eduardo demanded. As they began to speak in private, Ordo joined them.

  “I’m bringing the boy.”

  “What for?”

  “Because I want to.”

  �
�Are you a fag?” Ordo asked.

  Strauss sighed.

  “That boy has seen us,” said Eduardo. “He has seen me.”

  “So he has,” agreed Strauss.

  “Call that boy over here,” Ordo said.

  “No.”

  “Call him.”

  “He stays where he is.”

  “He’s seen all of us. We’re not letting him go.”

  “I’ll take responsibility for him.”

  “It will be like this,” said Ordo. “Call him over here. Smile at him. Tell him you have a special job for him. I’ll have my Russian shoot him in the back of the head. He won’t even know it happened.”

  “How many men are you bringing here?” Strauss asked.

  “I forget.”

  “However many there are, not one of them knows what the Americans look like. Not one of them can identify them. This boy has seen them. This boy has proven that he can put a bullet in a man. He survived a gunfight with two trained American law men. All I’ve seen from you is scary tattoos and a lot of talk.”

  There was no more greasy smile. It was replaced with greasy anger. Part of Strauss enjoyed embarrassing the proud young fool, but memories flooded his head, and he immediately turned course.

  “After you kill the Americans, I’ll let the boy shoot their remains. That way, he is as guilty as the rest of us.” He looked at the boy, sitting in the back of his truck. There was nothing childlike about this boy.

  “When this is done,” said Strauss, “I will deal with him myself.”

  ***

  “You look awful,” said Curtis.

  He was sweating, and his color had changed to gray. Virgil had crossed a line.

  “Tell them I’m drunk.”

  “Drunk people don’t bleed.”

  “They do if they got in a fight. We’ll make up a story when we get there. Tell them we were mountain climbing.”

  “I can’t climb a mountain,” said Curtis.

  “We were climbing a mountain and we were jumped by a gang that said they were federales. They said to give them our guns and our money. When we didn’t, they shot us. We fought back, and we got away. We got to our car and we drove all goddamn night because we were afraid they really were corrupt federales and we’d be framed for murder. We drove straight to the border to plead our case to honest lawmen. How’s that?”