This Side of Night

by J. Todd Scott

  To wherever Fox Uno was hiding.

  If there was any advantage to Martino not having been at Manuel Benavides, it was that his father did not yet know the extent of his betrayal. There was still the very real chance his father might reach out to him, seek his help, so Martino had to do everything in his power to keep that possibility alive. It was his best chance of finding him, maybe his only chance now, much better than turning over every rock. If he tried to talk to his father directly—too soon—after everything that had happened, El Patrón would get rightfully suspicious, but if Martino could just stay patient, hold on until every other avenue of escape was closed off, Fox Uno might run right into his waiting arms.

  If Martino was patient enough . . . if he had enough time.

  Of course, it was his impatience that had put him in this predicament. He’d grown frustrated at his father’s slights and thousand small insults, tired of waiting for the old man to either die or hand over Nemesio. And he’d worried, too, that he might choose Gualterio over him—another loose end he’d eventually have to tie off. Fortunately, Martino had listened to enough of his father’s old narco stories to know that violent succession was commonplace, almost encouraged. It was a rite of passage, and Martino had decided his time had come.

  If anything, it was past due.

  Now he just needed a little more time.

  Martino was done with Abrahán Sierra’s video. He deleted the file, although the laptop itself would be destroyed in under an hour, only to be replaced by another. When that one arrived, he was going to take a few moments to review some lengthy e-mails from some new associates in Spain and Romania.

  Martino only wanted to be a businessman, but it was a damn bloody business.

  TWENTY-NINE

  CHAYO & NEVA

  Amador drove them away from Ojinaga hidden in the trunk of his car.

  The federales were still manning checkpoints all around the city and the surrounding roads. The news said they were there to maintain the peace, to keep the narcos from shooting one another and to protect the citizens. But Amador told Chayo that people were whispering how they were really there looking for any last survivors . . . eyewitnesses.

  Amador had a friend who had seen black-clad men calling themselves federales at the Hospital Integral de Ojinaga. They had searched every room, grim-faced, and had refused to answer questions.

  They had shown badges that had meant nothing.

  Similar stories came in from Unidad Médica Familiar No. 54 and Hospital General de Guadalupe y Calvo. As the days went by, although few expected anyone to find the nineteen missing students alive, some hoped there were no survivors at all.

  Before they left, Carmelita had hugged Chayo tight, and then turned her attention to Neva. She brushed the girl’s hair and kissed her and held her hands, said something to her that Chayo could not hear. Neva had smiled, as best she could, and kissed the old woman back.

  After that, they’d crawled together into the trunk lined with old blankets, and it was Carmelita who shut it over them.

  * * *

  —

  THERE WAS A MOMENT WHEN, trapped in that lightless, almost airless space, Chayo thought they were caught. He was holding Neva close, their nest of blankets protecting them from the worst of the bounces and turns, when the car shuddered to a stop. There were voices—rough, commanding—but he couldn’t pick out one from another or the words they were saying. He and Neva were slicked with sweat, sliding against each other, close enough he could taste the salt on her skin and hair.

  She trembled in his arms as a bright light played against the car. That cool, pale light crept through the cracks and the open spaces as if it was searching for them, too.

  A hand, maybe a hand, or the heavier butt of a gun, struck the trunk. It was as loud as thunder. It rolled and echoed over them, and they were trapped in a storm that would never end.

  More words were said.

  Someone laughed.

  That light swung back and forth, back and forth, and then it winked out. A great eye closing.

  Then the car was moving again. Slowly, but moving all the same. It wheezed and shrugged its way over gravel and dust, and Chayo realized the salt he was tasting was not just Neva’s sweat, but her tears as well.

  * * *

  —

  LATER, AMADOR WOULD TELL THEM that he’d explained to the men with the guns blocking the road that he was going to see his sister in Atascaderos. That she was ill and he was the last family she had left.

  He’d given them a huge bag of candy and they’d been happy and let him go.

  Calaveras de azúcar.

  Sugar skulls.

  * * *

  —

  THE SKY WAS FULL OF STARS when they finally crawled from Amador’s trunk—hot, feverish, ready for air. Chayo helped Neva stand, and she stared above them as if she’d never seen all that faraway brilliance before.

  They were wrapped in darkness, their eyes adjusting to the night around them.

  There was barely a slice of the moon high above the trees. All the light, what there was of it, came from the stars.

  Chayo thanked the old man, although there was no true way to thank him. There were no words, not enough of them, for what Amador had risked for the two of them: a boy with dirt underneath his fingernails and a girl with a broken smile. Amador was at a loss for words, too.

  He might have wanted to tell them to get back in the trunk so he could drive them back to the city, but after clutching his veined and gnarled hands together—embarrassed—he settled for hugging them both and then getting inside his car alone.

  He waited for a few minutes to see if they changed their minds, and Chayo stood aside, letting Neva decide for them both.

  When she didn’t move, Chayo waved at Amador to go on, as Neva continued to watch the stars.

  * * *

  —

  AMADOR HAD DRIVEN SOUTH away from Ojinaga, dropping Chayo and Neva off in the Parque Nacional Cañón de Santa Elena. From there, Chayo planned on hiking them back north again, through the wilds of the park, crossing the river somewhere east near the U.S. border at Lajitas, before finally curving west toward Murfee. This kept them moving through state and national parks, away from towns and ranches, and hopefully, clear of the most heavily used smuggling areas.

  But it would be rugged, and in truth, he just didn’t know.

  Watching the trees and the darkness circling them, he had to admit he had no idea what they would find.

  He adjusted Neva’s pack for her—he’d secured it with some extra rope so it would ride high on her shoulders and not put so much pressure on her back. Then he checked his own heavy bag, and the water he was carrying. The two jugs were cool to the touch and heavy now, but as they gulped each precious mouthful they’d need to stay alive, those jugs would lighten and lighten until they weighed next to nothing at all.

  Lighter than air.

  Chayo could only pray that by the time they’d run out of water, they’d be near this place: Murfee.

  Something flapped in a nearby tree, taking flight into the night. It made no sound, uttered no call, and other than the whispered movement of feathers beating against the wind, it might not have existed.

  They needed to go.

  He took Neva’s hand for what seemed to be the thousandth time since that night on the bus, and followed that graceful sound of wings . . .

  THIRTY

  Johnnie Macho was willing to bet that Roman was fucking Rae.

  He’d known Roman since high school, when Roman had weighed about a buck ten soaking wet, with scraggly hair way too long, always in his eyes. He’d looked like a goddamn scarecrow. A nerdy scarecrow. Other than an old hooker they’d fucked together in Dryden (at least Roman had paid for her), Johnnie knew for a fact that Roman hadn’t gotten laid as a teenager. He’d spent most of his time jerking of
f to his daddy’s titty magazines. He’d been a stutterer, too, getting all tongue-tied when he was nervous. He couldn’t look a girl in the eye back then, and barely could now. But lifting a few weights (popping a few ’roids), having that rat’s-nest hair shaved down to a fine, sleek stubble, and carrying a silver shield and gun on your hip did wonders for your social standing.

  Johnnie figured Roman owed him, owed him big, since he was the one who’d brought him on to the sheriff’s department and gotten him into the Tejas unit. Come to think of it, he’d turned him into a man, and frankly, fucking Johnnie’s girlfriend behind his back was a shitty way to pay him back for all that kindness.

  That was all about to change.

  Roman was about to get another chance to settle up with his old friend Johnnie.

  * * *

  —

  THE CLUB WAS PAINTED bright blue and red, all the harsh lights making Johnnie’s head hurt, and the music was too goddamn loud.

  The music was bright, too, if there was such a thing.

  But tonight, loud was good, since if any of these fuckers were wearing a wire, that jungle bunny music drowned out most of what Johnnie was saying.

  They were sitting at their usual table in the back of El Diablo Norte. Johnnie, as well as Roman, Chavez, Ortiz, and Ringo—the bloody heart of the Tejas unit. Johnnie had bought all the drinks, so the others knew they were there to talk real, not police, business. But their guns and badges were visible here (like they always were), shining just as bright in the lights that were sharp enough to cut glass. Everyone knew who they were and how they “owned” this place, like they owned most of Terrell County, so no one would ever say a word to them no matter how drunk they got, or if they waved their guns at some piece of shit who pissed them off. It bothered Johnnie, though, that Roman kept stealing glances up at the stage, where Rae was again defying gravity with that ass of hers. Johnnie could swear he even saw her smile at that cocksucker, which meant he was going to have to slap it right off that bitch’s face later.

  All he could do now was chew his matchstick harder and take a long drink of the warm Pacífico he didn’t want.

  If he didn’t drink with them, the others would notice. They’d know he was nervous, as sure as they could smell it on him, and when you’re surrounded by wild fucking dogs—and Johnnie was, all the time now, on all fucking sides—the last thing you wanted to do was show any damn fear.

  So he drank his Pacífico and tried not to choke on it, as the others debated the thing he’d said. The thing he’d told them they were going to have to do.

  While Rae up there on her pole turned and turned, like she was about to spin away into all those lights above them and disappear. And to Johnnie, who hadn’t slept much the past three days, that didn’t seem like a bad idea at all.

  * * *

  —

  IT WAS CHAVEZ who said no first. He was the oldest, older than Johnnie. He was a big man, always had been, and had worked for Johnnie’s father as a deputy for more than twenty years. He was one of the first Johnnie brought on to the unit, known all around the area for the catch dogs he bred for bull and boar baiting and for the dogfighting rings he ran on the side, and sometimes Johnnie could look at Chavez’s weathered face, into his deep-set black eyes, and see more dog than man there. Like he’d slowly changed into one of those bully breeds he kept caged and chained in his barn.

  Surrounded by wild fucking dogs . . .

  If Chavez said no, the others would follow his lead. Johnnie needed to straighten this out fast.

  Johnnie set his beer aside, leaning forward. “See, I’m not really asking, okay? This isn’t a goddamn negotiation.”

  Chavez crossed his thick arms, revealing a faded blue tattoo of a pit bull running up his forearm. “And this isn’t like the other things, Juanito.” Chavez was the only one who could get away with calling him that. Sometimes he used it as a term of affection, like a kindly uncle. This wasn’t one of those times.

  Ortiz spoke up. “Yeah, I agree with Chavez. I really don’t like the sound of this thing at all.” Ortiz was the newest member, his hair still a high and tight crew cut like a goddamn road trooper. He’d just gotten married, too, and was always checking his phone and texting his wife, who was waiting up for him.

  Johnnie pointed to the phone in Ortiz’s hand. “When you walk the fuck out of here and get into that nice department ride you’re driving, where the fuck you gonna go?”

  Ortiz glanced at the others, still unsure of himself. He’d always be unsure of himself. “Home, Johnnie. Just home, you know that.”

  “Right . . . home. Not to that fucking shitty double-wide you grew up in, but a nice two-story. Garage. Pool. That muy bonito house you bought that new wife of yours. How the fuck do you think you bought that home?”

  Ringo raised his hand for another beer (that motherfucker would drink up a storm on someone else’s tab). “You know, I fucked that new wife of yours a couple of times last year, before you all got together. Trust me, she ain’t worth that house you bought her.” Everyone laughed—everyone always laughed when Ringo told a joke or a story—even when it was a story they’d heard a thousand times and that Ringo never, ever got tired of bringing up. He enjoyed rubbing salt into Ortiz. If there was any man on the unit Johnnie thought he could trust, it was Ringo. He was slim, good-looking—dark hair and dark eyes and dark skin—and there probably wasn’t a girl in the county he hadn’t fucked one time or another. He was also a stone-cold killer in expensive snakeskin boots (he loved those damn boots), and so far, he was the only one of the unit who hadn’t blinked at what Johnnie had told them they were going to do.

  “It doesn’t matter whether she was worth it or not,” Johnnie said, trying to steer them back to the thing that mattered, the only thing that mattered right now. “You couldn’t have afforded that place without my help, without me bringing you into this.” He sat back in his chair, taking them all in with a glance. “All of you. Every fucking thing you have is ’cause of me.”

  Chavez finished his beer and set it carefully on the table. The dog jumped on his forearm. “Watch it, Juanito. We’ve all earned what’s come to us . . .”

  “No.” Johnnie stopped him. “This thing here, now, is how you earn it. This is the final bill for the house and the trips and the fucking cars and the money you all have hidden beneath your mattresses.”

  Roman finally spoke up, sliding his eyes away from Rae’s tits, but still not quite looking at Johnnie. “It somehow doesn’t seem right, Johnnie. Not fair . . .”

  Not right, not fair, like fucking my girlfriend behind my back? That’s what Johnnie wanted to say, but he choked it back.

  “There is no ‘right.’ No one cares what you think is fair. I don’t, and trust me, they don’t. We’re going to do this thing. If we say no, these fuckin’ Indians will scalp us. We all might as well go ahead and set fire to the lives we have. The expensive lives we bought with their money, like Ortiz’s goddamn house.” He could have added because if you don’t, they will, but there was no need. They understood, even if they didn’t want to. They might be wishing right now they’d never met Johnnie Macho or joined the Tejas unit—hell, they might be wishing they’d never become deputies—but they had to see the sense of what he was saying.

  They’d escorted drug loads and protected murderers.

  They’d stolen drugs from rival cartels.

  They’d ripped off other drug crews and submitted sham dope as evidence—taped packages Ringo had made in his kitchen with cement mix—and then resold the real dope on their own.

  They’d sent messages in blood.

  They’d killed and buried out in the desert.

  And they couldn’t just take all that back now, like they couldn’t just give back all the shit they’d bought and hoarded, either. If they even thought it, Ortiz’s ugly new house might suddenly burn down with his wife inside, taped to a d
ining room chair.

  Chavez wanted to argue anyway.

  “Let me talk to them, Juanito. I can explain things. We’re untouchable here, but outside Terrell . . .”

  “Now you want to explain things, like I didn’t already?” Johnnie pulled out the special red phone from his pocket, the one they had given him. He never did this, never showed it around in public, but he was desperate and this was his last play. He put it on the table between them, and the red and blue club lights spun on it, reminding Johnnie of the police lights hidden in the grille of his Charger. “Then you go right ahead and call them. You tell them whatever the fuck you want to . . . tell ’em how we’re not doing this thing or that thing. But you be sure to tell ’em your name, so they know exactly who the fuck they’re talking to.”

  The phone sat on the table like a live snake, no one eager to grab it.

  Ringo only smiled and turned his attention to a dancer on a far stage.

  Ortiz’s face went pale, which was almost impossible to do under the lights, but he wouldn’t look at the phone, pretending it didn’t exist.

  Roman never looked away from Rae’s sweat-slicked body, just nodded.

  Finally, Chavez moved his empty beer bottle aside, and for a moment, it looked like he was going to reach for the phone. But then he, too, pulled back.

  Johnnie let it sit there a few beats longer, before sliding it off the beer-slicked table.

  “You guys shouldn’t feel so bad about this. We’re still going to get paid. Hell, Ortiz, you’ll even be able to buy that wife a new car to put into your new garage.”