At first, while Virgil screamed, he watched her hands and her tools carefully. He watched her wash, dipping her hands into the water, watched her scrub and come to the table prepared. He watched to see what went into her pockets. He watched her roll up her sleeves. Angry as she was, he came to understand that she just wanted them gone. There was no doubt why.
As he had carried Virgil through the house, the stern woman had pointed to the rear and told him to follow. They had passed an open bedroom. In the doorway, a lovely young woman with long dark hair had held two scared children. They were both little girls. They didn’t stop. She had led them into a clean room with a long table. There was old Mexican art on the wall. There was dust on the floor and on the table. Virgil had screamed when they put him down. Virgil had kicked and tried to twist away as the woman cleaned and studied the wound in his side. Eventually, he had stopped kicking, and finally, he had passed out from the pain.
He looked at the young woman and her girls, and he doubted that this woman was their grandmother. In fact, it seemed very clear that she was not.
Soon her hands were soaked in blood past her wrist. The screaming hadn’t affected her. What had affected her was the shotgun, on the counter behind him and unloaded, and the words he had said. They were words he now regretted, and words he was glad he had said. She peered into Virgil’s side.
“There is light bleeding inside of him,” she said.
“Light?”
She wiped a finger on her apron, inspected it, and pushed it into the hole in Virgil’s side. His neck twitched slightly. She pulled it out again. It was red. She held it up for him.
“If it were dark, he would be in trouble.”
“Can you take the bullet out?”
“I cannot even see it.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means I do not know where it is inside of him.”
“If I move him, will it kill him?”
“It could,” she said.
When she spoke, she spoke in a flat voice. There was neither passion nor anger. She spoke of Virgil as if he were butchered meat.
“That bullet needs to come out eventually, doesn’t it?”
“Yes,” she said.
“How soon does it need to come out?”
“That depends,” she said.
He wanted to scream himself, but Virgil had screamed enough for the both of them. That, and he knew it wouldn’t help, and would only scare the girls more. Scared people were unpredictable. Virgil was unconscious. Everyone was calm now. Everyone except him.
“What do you want me to do with him?” she asked impatiently.
“I want your advice,” he said.
“My advice is that you should leave Mexico immediately.”
He could see the young woman in the kitchen. She was sitting in a chair, holding the girls, and watching them closely. He had heard her whispering to the girls. He didn’t understand what she said. It wasn’t Spanish, but she certainly looked Mexican. Curtis wondered who she was and how she came to be here.
“Stitch him up. Get him ready to travel,” Curtis replied. He said it like an order. He looked at the stern, defiant woman. He thought about saying please and decided not to.
***
Senora Uto had stitched up the hole in his side with a thick thread that didn’t look like what they used in emergency rooms back home. She had taken a paste from a small pot and smeared it over his wounds. It was grayish green and earthy looking. It didn’t smell good either, but she touched it with her bare hands and didn’t seem to mind. He asked her what it was.
“It is difficult to say in English,” she replied. She had stitched the wound over his eye, and smeared some of the paste over that as well. On Virgil, it looked like war paint.
They eyed him closely, and it did not matter if he tried to put them at ease. The woman in the other room didn’t seem to understand any of what was happening. She was very Indian looking, he thought, though her daughters were less so. When he turned back, he found the stern woman staring at him with a renewed rage.
Curtis picked up the shotgun and loaded it. He felt the tension rise as he touched the gun. As a veterinarian, there should have been some guns here, but he saw none. He held it by the barrel with his weak hand, hoping to disarm the women. It didn’t.
He roused Virgil, who came to fast, but not all the way. When Curtis realized that full and clear consciousness wasn’t going to come for him, he gave up trying, and pulled Virgil to his feet. He pulled and tugged and shoved him back into his torn and bloodied shirt. He carried him to the car in much the same way that they arrived: slowly, stumbling, and in pain.
Curtis heard Virgil whispering.
“Agua,” Curtis said to Senora Uto. She didn’t budge.
“Could we have water please? For the road.”
It was clear that she didn’t want to give them anything, but she wanted them gone. They stood on the porch for a moment. The sun was coming up in the east. The two Americans watched the pretty woman and her girls. They looked back silently. Senora Uto reappeared with two handled jugs.
“Thank you,” said Curtis.
She said nothing back.
***
Strauss hit the brakes hard. Eduardo was wearing a seatbelt. Guillermo rushed forward in his seat. The boy was in the back was in the tail gunner position, and he turned to see what had happened. There were no cars on the road North. He turned around to see a vehicle on the side of the road. A man was pushing it.
“What?” said Eduardo.
“Did you see that man pushing the car?”
“Another Mexican in a shit box.”
“How many other Mexicans have you seen on the road?”
“Sounds like a stretch,” said Eduardo.
“Guillermo?” Strauss asked.
“Follow all leads, even the small ones,” Guillermo said.
Strauss hopped out of the truck and walked toward the man who was pushing his car. He had a raincoat on, but the hood was pulled down to his shoulders. He hadn’t stopped pushing and only looked up when Strauss approached. He smiled. He had no front teeth.
“Buenos dias, senor,” said Strauss.
“Buenos dias,” said Rodrigo.
***
“What’s wrong with the car?” Virgil asked in a clear voice. He turned to see his friend sitting up and conscious.
“How do you feel?” Curtis asked.
“I feel like the car sounds,” he said.
The clinging and clanging from the engine had grown worse since they left the house of the stern woman. After settling Virgil into the passenger seat, Curtis had peeked under the car. The ground was wet and muddy, but in the morning light, he could see some black fluid puddled below the engine.
“The truck is getting worse. You’re getting better.”
“It didn’t sound this bad when we left Monterrey. Could someone have messed with it?”
“No. The vet who worked on you would have ripped the transmission out with her bare hands, but she was never out of my sight for more than a few seconds.”
“Maybe she put a curse on it?”
Curtis laughed.
Virgil began to unfold the map. “Where are we?”
“We’re close.”
“How long?”
“An hour.” It felt great to say it.
“Nice job,” said Virgil. He meant it.
“Thanks,” said Curtis.
“With me passed out and not yapping in your ear, you’ve had plenty of time to figure it out,” said Virgil. “How are we and the money getting across the border?”
“We’re not,” said Curtis. “We’re driving into Nuevo Laredo, and we’re going to rent a storage facility. We’re going to leave the money right here. Then we are going to walk over the border and declare ourselves Americans who are lucky to be alive.”
“A storage facility?”
“A big building where you rent space by the month to store shit. You lock it up and come ba
ck to it later.”
“Is it safe?”
“It’s safer than driving up to the border with it.”
“So we’ll come back and get it in a week when I’m healthier.”
“No. I’ll do it myself. When I get my credentials back, I can come and go as I please. It might take twenty trips, but I’ll do it.”
Virgil let out a deep breath and pinched his eyes like it hurt.
“There’s another problem with this plan. I don’t know if you can get past the guards. We’ll buy you new clothes. I’ll be just a few bodies in front of you. Once I tell them I’m a federal agent, I should fast track.”
“And me?”
“Just tell them you’re an American. You were robbed. Say nothing more.”
“Is that good enough?”
Virgil’s eyes were pleading with him. They were begging for reassurance. They wanted someone to be in charge. It was a new role for Curtis.
“It’ll have to be,” he said.
***
Strauss looked in the rearview and saw the boy’s head and his rifle. Beyond that, he saw two cars approaching fast, kicking up great plumes of dust from the road. He cracked his window, and he could hear their engines. That meant anyone in the house could hear the engines. He put the truck in drive.
The second car meant that more of Ordo’s promise of men had been fulfilled. He had regretted calling him at all, but it was a necessary evil. The two Americans had fought their way out of two messes. They would fight a third time. He needed Ordo’s men.
A gaudy late model Cadillac with white stencil on the side skidded to a stop in the soft wet ground. The doors opened, and five skinny boys spilled out in the yard. They had gold chains or huge belt buckles and blazing new white sneakers. One of them carried a pistol grip shotgun that looked as if it would knock him over if it ever went off. The Russian walked past calmly, paying them no mind.
“I heard you coming from a half a mile away,” Strauss said. “They already know we are here.”
The Russian shrugged.
“Ordo said drive fast, so I drive fast,” he said. He kept his hands in his pockets.
“What if he told you to go inside and kill everyone in this house?” Strauss asked.
“His dime,” he said in English.
Strauss surveyed the property. He saw no vehicles. The house was small, but there could be a car in the back. He doubted it, but he didn’t chance it.
“Guillermo,” he called. “Watch the back of the house.”
Guillermo nodded. “What if they come out?” he asked.
Strauss looked at the bag with the gun slung around Guillermo’s neck. “If they are the two Americans, kill them. If they are a bunch of girls with their hands up, tell them to get down on the ground.”
“It’s been a while,” said Guillermo, apologetically.
“It comes back,” said Strauss.
Strauss walked toward the house. The ground was still damp, and mud clung to his shoes. By the time he reached the edge of the yard, his shoes were coated. It was impossible not to get dirty.
Strauss stopped and stared at the black puddle in the ground before the steps.
“Boy,” he called out.
The boy ran up faster than any of the men would have.
“Was there anything wrong with your father’s truck?”
“No,” said the boy. “It ran well.”
“Did it leak oil?” he asked. He glanced up at the windows as he said it. He knew the Russian was watching.
“No. He would have fixed it.”
Strauss studied the frame of the house. It was a good run to the slim tree line. Whoever had been inside when they arrived had not left.
“His truck was here,” said the boy.
“How do you know?”
“These tracks,” said the boy, pointing at the mud. “Those are his tires.”
A z-shaped pattern had dug into the wet ground. It had driven smoothly into the yard and then driven smoothly out.
The front door opened just wide enough for a human being to slide through the opening, and Senora Uto came onto the porch. She closed the door with her hand behind her. She wore work pants, boots, and a long-sleeved shirt.
Ordo started right over to her. He started to call out.
“Send them out,” he said loudly. “It will be better for you.”
The woman didn’t budge and didn’t look like she would. Ordo was still walking toward her. He was smiling and clenching his fists.
“Ordo,” Strauss said. “Do you mind if I try first?”
He walked back to his truck and reached inside, bringing out an object and keeping it close to his leg. He could see the woman clearly. She was dressed like a man and cut her hair like a man. She had a face that declared her intelligence and her backbone. Still, he watched her brace herself as he came to the bottom of the stairs. Then, he stopped.
“Good morning, senora,” said Strauss.
He could see she was searching him with her eyes. He held an object in his right hand that she couldn’t see. He showed it to her.
“Good morning,” she said back when she saw Strauss holding a thermos.
“I am out of coffee,” he said.
Senora Uto looked at the men gathered in front of her house, and especially the men who displayed guns.
“You,” she said, meaning all of them, “came here for coffee?”
“No,” said Strauss. “I am the only one who wants coffee. And I would like to have a quiet conversation.”
As she led him into the house, she slipped behind him and locked the door. Strauss made a note to watch this quick little woman very carefully. He saw a much younger woman, dressed to travel, with two little girls clutching her skirt. There were bags behind them.
“Senora,” he said with a nod.
“This way,” came the stern response from the stern woman, who clearly did not want them speaking.
The coffee was brewed quickly and without conversation. Strauss sat at the table and waited patiently. She kept her back to him as much as possible, but he still had the feeling that he was being observed.
“Senora, I don’t mean to pry into your business, but I noticed your luggage in the hall. Are you going away?”
Her reply was short and sharp.
“I knew you were coming.”
“I am sorry for being here, and I am sorry for bringing these men. This is not how I like to do things.”
“How do you like to do things?” she asked. She was mocking him.
“Quietly,” he said.
She turned with the pot in her hand. He could see the steam rising from the lid. He slid forward the thermos and let her pour. She had rough, worn hands. They were not hands for making coffee.
“Thank you,” he said.
“Is that all?” she asked, knowing it wasn’t.
“No, senora. I believe you already know why I am here. I am looking for two men. They are Americans, and one or both of them is injured. I know they were here. I am not angry with you for helping them. If two dangerous men come to your home and make demands, threatening to hurt the people you care about, then you do what they ask so they will leave you in peace.”
He thought of the man whose son had been kidnapped and mutilated. He thought of how much that man had to say. Most people did, he had found. He waited for this woman to find her moment.
“He had no right to speak to me the way he did, not in my home,” said Senora Uto.
“Why do you suppose they came to you?” he asked.
“Because some fool told them I was a doctor.”
Strauss looked at the artwork on the walls. There was an ancient looking bird done with a red clay-like paint and another of the sun with a man’s face blended into the rays of heat. The paintings didn’t look old, but they had an old feel to them.
“Were they both injured, or just one of them?”
“Just one. The other was running his mouth.”
Strauss glanced down th
e hallway toward the young mother and her girls. The mother was terrified, and it was contagious. The girls were crying and hiding. Strauss screwed the lid back onto his thermos.
“What sort of treatment did he receive?”
“I stitched his wounds. He still has a bullet inside of him.”
“Where is it?”
“His abdomen and his groin.”
“That must be very painful.”
“I hope it is.”
“Can he walk? Is he conscious?”
“He needed help.”
“Which way did they go?” he asked.
“North,” she said.
“And how long ago did they leave?”
She looked through the window.
“The sun was just coming up when they left.”
“Thank you, senora,” said Strauss as he stood.
“He had a tattoo,” said Senora Uto.
“Which one? Which man had a tattoo?”
“The man who had been shot. It was on his arm.”
“What was it of? Had you seen it before?”
“Never. But I would know it again. It was a bird standing on the earth.”
Strauss looked at the two pictures on the wall. Then he looked at the young woman in the next room. He had scarcely noticed how lovely she was.
“Thank you, senora,” said Strauss. “I apologize for intruding upon your family. If I meet these men, I will give them your regards.”
“There is no need. He is not going very far,” said the stern woman.
Strauss could feel the heat of the coffee trying to burn through the metal of the thermos. He nodded goodbye and showed himself out.
“How much of a lead do they have?” Eduardo asked. His nervous energy had returned. Strauss noticed that the Russian was now close by and listening.
Strauss looked at the sky. Then he looked at his watch.
“Two hours at most,” he said. He looked to the Russian for a reaction. There was none.
“Do you have more men coming?” he asked the Russian. Ordo answered for him.
“All of my men are coming.”
“Tell them to stay on the main roads. And to just be themselves.”
South of Evil Page 23