by Don Winslow
“Maybe.”
“Or Jaime Rivera will kill you.”
“Maybe.”
“Good,” she says, “go all cowboy stoic on me. This is crazy, Cal. You’re going to do something crazy.”
“What we’re doing now ain’t crazy?” he asks. “Ripping kids from their mothers ain’t crazy? Putting kids in cages ain’t crazy?”
“Totally,” she says. “But you’re not going to fix it by throwing your life away.”
“Ain’t gonna fix it by throwing that girl’s life away either.”
“She’s one child out of thousands,” Twyla says. “You can’t save all of them.”
“But I can save one.”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe’s gotta be good enough,” he says. “I don’t want you being part of this. They can’t hold what you don’t know against you.”
“I’m not going to let you do this.”
“You’re going to rat me out?”
She looks out the window away from him. “No.”
“Didn’t think so,” he says. “That ain’t you.”
“I’m begging you, don’t do this,” Twyla says. “You do this, I’ll never see you again. That’s not what I want.”
“We’re not people who get what we want,” he says.
“I guess not,” Twyla says.
She opens the door and gets out. Slams it behind her.
He watches her walk to her car and drive away.
Twyla gets back to her apartment and figures she doesn’t need the bottle above the sink, she’s already drunk enough to head it off.
She isn’t.
Cal sits for a while, then drives toward his place thinking about Luz Gonsalvez and Gabriela Gonsalvez and Twyla.
He turns the truck around and drives to her apartment.
Sits in the parking lot and thinks about changing his mind. Sometimes opening your truck door can be the hardest thing you ever do, but he does. Walks up the exterior stairs to the second floor and then stands there trying to make himself ring the bell. Stands there for probably five minutes, and five times in those five minutes he starts to walk away.
Trying to figure out if she wanted him to come or she didn’t.
He rings the bell.
Hears “Go away!”
“Twyla, it’s Cal!”
Thirty seconds of eternity, and the door opens a little and he sees her face. White as oncoming headlights. Tears streak down her cheeks. She’s quivering, her eyes wide with what looks like fear.
No, not fear.
Terror.
“Go away, Cal,” she says. “Please.”
“Are you okay?”
“Please.”
“Can I come in?”
Her face twists into something he’s never seen. She screams, “Go away, Cal! Please! I said go away! Leave me alone!”
What he should do is push his way in.
Push his way in and wrap her in his arms and protect her from whatever is hurting her so bad. Stand between her and her terror.
That’s what he should do.
But he don’t.
She told him to go, and he does.
The door slams in his face, and the last door he remembers slamming like that was when he was eight years old and his mother walked out of the house and the door never opened again, at least not with her coming through it.
So now he walks away.
Twyla staggers back into the bathroom and collapses to the floor.
Everything in her wanted him to hold her. Thought that maybe the feel of his skin on hers might hold her in the moment, pull her out of the burning coffin she lives in. He could lie with her through the long night until the sun came up on another broken day. Maybe together they could limp through in this strange and foreign country.
But she sent him away.
Forced him away.
Threw him away.
Because we’re each in our separate cages.
No one can break in.
We can only break out.
Most often we don’t.
Cal walks the fence line.
It ain’t been cut anywhere.
His daddy used to say that most people will do what’s right when it don’t cost much, but very few will do what’s right when it costs a lot.
“And no one,” Dale said, “will do what’s right when it costs everything.”
“You would,” Cal said.
“Don’t you believe it.”
But Cal did believe it. He was young then. Ain’t young anymore, but truth is, he still believes it.
He visits Riley. Gives him some feed, strokes his muzzle and says, “You’ve always been a good goddamn horse, you know that?”
Riley bobs his head, like, Yeah I know that already.
Cal has the pistol behind his back. He steps back and raises it.
The horse looks at him—what are you doing?
Cal holsters the pistol.
When he goes back in the house, dinner is on the table and he sits down to eat. Beefsteak, roast potatoes, green beans.
“You couldn’t do it, could you?” Bobbi says.
“No.”
“I’ll call the vet.”
“Give it a day or so, okay?”
“Why?”
“Just because,” Cal says. “You heard from Jared lately?”
“He’s back in rehab.”
“What’s that costing?” Cal asks.
“More than I got.”
“Sell off a few more acres.”
“Going to have to,” she says. “They’ll throw up some shitty town houses and call it ‘Something or Other Meadows.’”
“The owners can play cowboy,” Cal says. He stabs a potato and puts it in his mouth. Then he asks, “You remember that record Daddy used to play nonstop?”
“‘Blood on the Saddle,’” Bobbi said. “I hated that damn song. Jesus, what made you think of that?”
“I dunno.” He gets up. “Gotta go. Thanks for dinner.”
“What’s the hurry?”
“Pulling a night shift.” He kisses her on the head. “Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
Cal goes out and drives his truck over to the barn. Inside, he tries to start his daddy’s old Toyota pickup, but the battery is dead. He goes back to his own truck, gets the jumper cables, and the Toyota fires up.
“Them Jap cars,” Cal thinks.
He pulls the Toyota out of the barn, then pulls his Ford F-150 in.
On the drive out, Cal thinks, the right thing is the right thing is the right thing.
Call it what it is.
Not what it ain’t.
He’s in the truck when Twyla calls.
“I’m sorry about last night,” she says.
“You don’t need to apologize,” Cal says. “I know you were pretty mad at me and all.”
“It wasn’t that,” she says. “It was . . . Hey, Cal, last night, what you said you’re going to do, that was just drunk talk, right?”
“Yeah,” he says. “That was the beer talkin’. Me shooting my mouth off, being a big man. In the sober light of day . . . you know . . . I thought it over. I wouldn’t do anything like that.”
“I’m glad,” she says. “I guess I’ll see you later? You on night duty?”
“Yup.”
“Well then, I’ll see you,” she says.
“Twyla. You okay?”
“Yeah, Cal. I’m good,” she says. “I mean, better now.”
Twyla wonders why Cal doesn’t show up for his shift.
She calls him.
Straight to voice mail.
She doesn’t leave a message.
Luz is asleep on the concrete floor. She barely wakes when he picks her up and cradles her in his arms.
“Está bien, no voy a lastimarte,” he says.
It’s all right, I’m not going to hurt you.
Across the room, behind the chain-link fence, most of the people are asleep. But Dolores peers out, watching
him.
He looks back at her.
She nods.
Cal carries Luz down the hallway and out a side door. He puts her in the passenger seat of the truck, fastens the seat belt, gets in and drives away.
Twyla starts her count.
One, two, three . . .
Still hasn’t heard from Cal.
Where the hell is he? What happened?
Twenty-two, twenty-three . . .
Did he just quit, say to hell with it, he’s not doing it anymore?
Forty-four, forty-five . . .
Sixty-six, sixty-seven . . .
Sixty-seven.
Not sixty-eight.
Oh, no, Cal. Oh, no.
She goes running back through the room.
No Luz.
Oh, shit. Oh, no.
She sees Dolores staring at her. “Where is she?”
Dolores shrugs. “Ida.”
Gone.
Twyla feels dizzy, she leans her back against the wall.
Then she slumps down to the floor.
A few seconds later, she gets up and sounds the alarm.
Cal pulls in to a truck stop out on the 10.
Calls Jaime Rivera. “Where and when?”
“You gotta know now?”
“Right now or you won’t hear from me again.”
“Okay.” Jaime thinks for a minute and then says, “You remember that spot outside of town we used to go and drink beer?”
Cal remembers it—a deep gully southeast of El Porvenir—rough, isolated brush and chaparral running down into the desert. “When?”
“Tomorrow morning, first thing.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Looking forward to it, hoss.”
Cal clicks off. Tells Luz, “Ya vuelvo.”
I’ll be right back.
He walks over to where the westbound eighteen-wheelers are parked, finds one with California plates, looks around to see no one is watching, then jams his cell phone behind the rear bumper.
Back in his truck, he pulls out on the highway and drives east.
He has to find a place to hole up for the day.
Twyla is getting grilled.
They have her sat down in the boss’s office, and him, the ORR lady and an ICE agent go at her.
“Where is he?” the ICE agent asks.
“I don’t know.”
Her boss says, “You and Strickland are friends, aren’t you?”
“Not really.”
“Agent Peterson says you are.”
“I mean, Cal and I work together,” Twyla says. “We always got along fine. . . .”
“Did he ever say anything about taking this girl?” the ICE agent asks.
Twyla makes a point of meeting his eyes. Thinking, What have you got for me I didn’t see in Iraq? “No.”
“You sure?”
“I would have remembered something like that.”
Her boss says, “This happened on your watch.”
“I’m aware of that, sir.”
“You’re responsible.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Further disciplinary action might be considered,” he says. “In the meantime you’re suspended. Go home until you hear from me. Not a word to anyone about this.”
“Yes, sir.”
The ICE agent says, “And for God’s sake, don’t say anything to the media.”
She walks away from the office to the locker room. Sees Peterson getting something from his locker, grabs him by the shirt and slams him against the wall. “If my name ever comes out of your mouth again, Roger, I will fuck . . . you . . . up.”
“Okay.”
She lets go of him and walks away.
Goddamn it, Cal, what have you done?
“This is a disaster,” the ICE agent says. “If this gets out . . .”
The media is already all over them for the child-separation policy, he thinks, then for the substandard condition the kids are being held in. First we can’t find the parents, and now we have a kid missing? And a guard took her?
Jesus Christ.
“How is it not going to get out?” the boss asks. “Finding him is going to take ICE, Border Patrol, local law enforcement, state law enforcement, Homeland Security. He could be in New Mexico by now. If he’s crossed state lines, this is an FBI matter. . . .”
“It’s kidnapping,” the ICE agent says. “It’s already an FBI matter.”
“And who takes charge of the investigation?” the boss asks.
“We do,” the ICE agent says.
“Tell the FBI that,” the BP boss says. “In any case we’re going to have to alert Washington.”
“They’re going to blow a gasket,” the ICE agent says.
“You want them hearing it in the media first?” the BP boss says. “Because this is going to get out.”
“Rock, paper, scissors who makes the call?” the ICE agent asks.
“I hate to interrupt here,” the ORR lady says, “but are we giving any thought to the actual child?”
Cal pulls off the highway in Fabens, Texas, and goes into a McDonald’s drivethru.
Orders a sausage-and-egg biscuit, coffee, a Happy Meal and a milk. Then he drives up North Fabens to a motel.
“Espera aquí,” he says to Luz.
The girl just looks at him, like she always does. He knows she’ll stay in the truck—she always seems to do what she’s told.
He goes in and up to the desk. “You have a vacancy for one night?”
“How many people?” the clerk, a middle-aged lady, asks.
“Just me.”
“I only got a room with twin beds ready,” she says.
“That’ll do fine.”
“Eighty-nine dollars,” she says.
Cal pays cash.
She slides a paper at him. “Name here, initial here for the rate, here that says you won’t smoke. License plate, make of vehicle, and sign down here.”
He makes up a license plate and signs. He ain’t used to lying, but he guesses that he’s in the dishonesty business now.
“Thank you, Mr. Woodley.”
He sees the MAKE AMERICA GREAT AGAIN sticker behind the desk.
I’m trying, he thinks.
He carries Luz to the room and sets her on one of the beds.
Hands her the Happy Meal and the milk and says, “Tienes que comer.”
You have to eat.
The room looks like a thousand other motel rooms. Green walls, a print bedspread, striped curtains, one of them noisy air-conditioning units by the window already struggling against the heat and losing.
Cal turns on the TV.
Finds some cartoons.
“Te gustan . . .” He can’t think of the Spanish word for cartoons. “Te gustan cartoons, ¿verdad?”
“SpongeBob.”
First words he’s ever heard her say.
“Yeah, okay, SpongeBob,” Cal says. Whatever the hell that is. “Ahora comes, bien.”
You eat now, okay.
Her eyes on the TV, Luz picks up the little burger and takes a bite.
Cal opens the cardboard carton of milk. He don’t know nothin’ about kids except that he was one once, a long time ago, and remembers he drank milk. “Esta también, ¿sí?”
This, too, okay?
She takes a sip.
“Buena niña,” Cal says, smiling at her.
Good girl.
She doesn’t smile back but alternates sipping the milk and eating the burger while her eyes are glued on the TV.
Cal goes into the bathroom and runs warm water into the tub. When he comes out, the burger is gone.
“Bañera,” he says.
Bath.
“Ven, ahora. Los cartoons seguirán aquí.”
Come on, now, the cartoons will still be here.
Luz gets up and follows him. He hands her a bar of soap and says, “Sabes que hacer, ¿verdad?”
You know what to do, right?
She hesitates.
“No
te preocupes,” Cal says. “No te voy a mirar.”
Don’t worry, I’m not going to look.
He turns his back. “¿Ves?”
See?
A few seconds later, he hears her clothes fall on the floor. Then he hears a swish of water and asks, “¿Hace suficiente calor?”
Is it hot enough?
“Sí.”
“¿Demasiado caliente?”
Too hot?
“No.”
“Hay una de esas pequeñas botellas de . . . uhhh . . . shampoo,” he says.
“Champú.”
“Sí. Champú.”
Luz washes her hair.
Cal reaches behind him to turn on the tap so she can rinse it, and she sticks her head under the tap.
A few seconds later, he reaches behind and hands her a towel. She gets out of the tub, dries herself off and wraps up in the towel. When they go back into the room, he points to the TV and says, “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
She doesn’t seem to care.
She has the television.
He takes her clothes, goes down to the office and asks if they have a laundry room. They do, and he gets quarters to buy detergent and run the machines.
Her clothes—an old red sweatshirt, a yellow T-shirt, some jeans, a pair of white socks—are filthy and stink. He shoves them into the washer, pours in the powder, sticks the quarters into the slot and pushes.
The machine starts with a rumble, and he figures he has twenty minutes so he goes back to the room.
Luz is asleep.
He takes the spread off his bed and covers her with it.
Then he takes the remote and changes the channel to Fox News.
Sees a picture of himself staring back at him.
The suit from Homeland Security took over from McAllen.
Put out a BOLO to all agencies—Border Patrol, ICE, local and state police, DEA—and calls the FBI office in El Paso. Then she calls all the media and asks for cooperation—put out the story and PSAs, please—a rogue Border Patrol agent of questionable mental state has kidnapped a six-year-old girl named Luz Gonzalez.
The public is asked for its assistance.
If you’ve seen this man or the girl, please contact this number immediately.
An 800 hotline number.
The Border Patrol boss, Peterson, and an ICE agent drive out to Fort Hancock and find the Strickland ranch.
What’s left of it anyway.
Bobbi sees the cars pull in and walks out of the kitchen.
Terrified that something’s happened to Cal. That he’s been shot or something. She’s only had NPR on, and they haven’t picked up the story.
