The Border Lords

by T. Jefferson Parker

  When he came upstairs Erin was waiting for him in the big sleigh bed. A bedside lamp was on, and that was all. She was propped up on pillows and she had the spread snugged up to her chin. Most of her hair was in a tight ponytail, except for the sides, which were swept up and back. To Bradley, a car guy, they looked like the exhaust pipes on a dragster.

  “What’s with the do?” he asked.

  “What I feel.”

  He smiled and began to undress.

  “Stop,” she said. She growled at him. Bradley hopped to a stop with one boot in his hands and a question on his face.

  She growled again and threw back the bedspread and brandished her fists at him. Three long white claws protruded from each hand where her fingers should have been and Bradley thought of Wolverine, a favorite character of theirs, and he saw as she slashed at him that she was holding the claws firm, and now that he looked closer he saw the funny little windows on them and realized what they were. She growled, then beamed at him.

  “Yes?” he asked.

  “Yes. Six tests. I just couldn’t stop once the good news started.”

  “God and again.”

  “We’re going have a baby, baby.”

  He launched onto the bed and braced his landing and Erin screamed and released the pregnancy testers and they fell back into the sheets.

  28

  Ozburn stood in Mateo’s room at the Solmar Hotel near Ensenada and looked down at the ten Love 32s arranged in two rows of five on the bed. Each lay upon an oil-dotted red shop rag. Mateo had screwed on the noise suppressors and extended the telescoping butts and fitted an empty fifty-shot magazine into each weapon. They had a stainless steel finish that shone dully in the hotel room light. Their presence was dramatic, Ozburn thought: tiny machine pistols, perfect and deadly, born live and ready to bite. A carton of ammunition sat on the floor beside the bed.

  Daisy stood beside him, trim and alert. Mateo, his face weathered and his eyelids heavy, stood over a small desk with the empty ice bucket and an ashtray on it, weighing the money.

  —This is half, he said. Seventy-five thousand.

  —I’m surprised you can count that high. Here’s for the ammunition.

  Ozburn pulled a wad of twenties from the back pocket of his jeans and tossed it onto the bed. The ammo was still in the factory box, .32 ACP, ten cartons of fifty. He pulled open the box and removed one carton and flipped it open. The new loads were packaged bullets up, their copper domes like bald men seated in church pews.

  —Maybe you sell these to the Gulf Cartel, said Mateo, his voice a soft rasp as always. So they can kill us in L.A.

  —Maybe that’s what I’ll do.

  —I told Carlos don’t sell them to you. I told him, where else will Gravas get the money to buy one hundred of the Loves? He needs the money of an organization but he is not part of an organization. Or is he? Is he just one of Benjamin Armenta’s pendejos?

  —Careful, now. I’ve been in a good mood for almost five minutes.

  —You have no weapons but a useless dog. I have three men waiting to kill you if I tell them to. I think you killed our sicarios in Buenavista and San Ysidro. It happened in your houses. El Tigre blames Armenta but I blame you.

  —Kill my own renters? Mateo, my friend, you are free to imagine anything you want.

  Ozburn, angry now, watched Mateo weigh the money again. Ozburn’s desire for violence had become sudden and strong. And like many of the unusual feelings he’d experienced in the last few weeks, this new desire actually felt very old and inbred in him, as if remembered from another age. The Sinaloan was wearing his swanky GPS unit clipped to his belt up near the outlandish buckle. Ozburn realized how easy it would be to strangle the man, load a few rounds into one of the gleaming new weapons and cancel the door guard, then take the GPS unit and scroll his way into the waypoints. Where, of course, he would certainly find El Dorado. Then he could load up a couple of Love 32s and whack the bodyguards waiting for Mateo out at the Denali. Take five minutes, he thought. He’d have the money and the weapons and he could either fly or drive out to Herredia’s compound and blow him into the next world. Perform good acts. Defeat evil.

  —I’d love to do that, he said.

  —Do what?

  But then, as Father Joe had pointed out, a dead Carlos Herredia would only make room for another one of his type to fill the void. That was law enforcement strategy, to cut off the head of the snake and foment bloodshed between possible replacements. But Herredia’s organization was well run and El Tigre was much feared outside of it and much loved within in. No, thought Ozburn, the change of guard would take place practically overnight. So the best way to defeat El Tigre and his organization was to use his own guns against him: Complete the sale to Armenta’s people and sit back and enjoy the fireworks show in L.A. That way, both teams were beating up on each other and the good guys could do better things with their time. Start not with the head of the snake but with the tail. Such a war would go on for months. Ruin his business, said Joe, and the man will follow. The final goal is not to kill him but to make him wish he were dead. Wasn’t that the greatest punishment a human could receive? To be made to regret his own life?

  Ozburn went to the window and looked out at the gray-green Pacific . Even with his sunglasses on the scene was punishingly bright. Surfers rode a small rolling break and two boys sat their horses bare-back and swayed slowly down the beach. Ozburn could see the door guard’s boots dark in the long sunlit sliver between the door and the paver tiles. The guard and Mateo had checked him for guns and knives before allowing him into the room, which Ozburn had found funny, considering he was carrying seventy-five thousand dollars to give to Mateo for his boss. It was half the money for the hundred guns, the other half due upon delivery of the finished product.

  —You smell sick.

  —I’ve been feeling really good, Mateo. Good enough to fight a bull.

  —Gringos don’t have the balls to fight bulls.

  —A man can learn plenty of things in his life. There’s no reason I can’t fight a bull.

  —You should fight your dog. That would be a fair fight.

  Ozburn looked at Daisy, then at Mateo. He growled lightly and saw the sleepiness return to the man’s expression. Mateo pulled a handgun from the rear waistband of his Wranglers, slid it back into the pants right up front where he could get to fast. Ozburn laughed at him.

  —When will the other ninety weapons be finished?

  —Friday. Four days from today. Delivery will be in Los Angeles.

  Strange, thought Ozburn. But a lucky break for me and the Blowdown team. I’ll take luck. I have no problem with luck. The North Baja Cartel’s skill at crossing the border must be highly developed by now. What were ninety guns, considering how many tons of dope they smuggled north?

  —Why Los Angeles?

  Mateo smiled joylessly.

  —Because it is safer. Because there are not thousands of soldiers and federales searching for us in California. I joke to El Tigre. I said you would like it in California because you would be near to Armenta’s Maras in L.A. Easy for you to sell the Loves to our enemies.

  —You have a wild imagination, Mateo.

  —I have no imagination at all. Four days. Friday. You need to be in Buenavista at the Gran Sueño Hotel and we will call you and tell you what is next.

  —I’ll need to see them.

  —I’ll need to see the money. The remaining half.

  —Next time, I deal with Herredia, not you.

  —He will never deal with you.

  Ozburn packed the guns and ammunition in his duffel and whistled up Daisy and they walked down the colonnade through slats of shadow and light to the far side of the parking lot where his car was waiting. It was a loaner from Father Joe, just a humble Crown Victoria, but the registration was up-to-date and the air conditioner blew cold and Daisy could lie down on the bench seat beside him and rest her muzzle on his thigh and there was plenty of room for both of them.

&
nbsp; He drove back toward the Estero Beach Hotel feeling in control of himself and of the things around him. Things were finally lining up. He’d cleaned out the Augean stables—both the Buenavista and San Ysidro safe houses—five fewer murderers living in the United States as guests of the ATF. He’d talked to Hood and brought Blowdown in on the act. He was surprised that Hood had given up on him so quickly, that Charlie just wanted to bring him in and charge him with the safe house killings. Shortsighted. Ye of little faith, thought Oz. Moreover, he’d gotten half the money from Paco and passed it—minus his two hundred fifty per unit—to Mateo. He’d just received his first ten weapons. He had overcome the temptation to whack Mateo and Herredia and some bodyguards, taking a longer view of his mission. He’d been feeling better the last few days, too, likely due to increased vitamins and supplements and plenty of rest. It was nice to be less prone to cramps and spasms and even convulsions. And he loved his otherworldy physical strength.

  Ozburn sped along. Then he spotted some vendors and their wares outside a beachfront hotel, and pulled over. He needed something. Daisy waited in the car while he examined the crafts and curios, asking questions about manufacture and price. There were paintings, ironwood carvings, pottery, silver and turquoise, boot-leg CDs, wristwatches, lacquered-wood posters of Jesus, the Virgin Mary, Elvis, Mick. He settled on a bouquet of large paper flowers and a beautifully glazed and fired vase to hold them. The flowers were purple and orange and red and yellow and the vase was black with molten red runners, like something melting down it, like Arenal, he thought.

  A young woman was selling Chiclets and cigarettes. Her small son had a baby opossum tethered by the neck with a string of old shoelaces to a big iron birdcage containing a red macaw. The opossum looked at Ozburn as he approached, and when he knelt down in front of the animal it hissed at him. There were small bubbles on its chin whiskers and Ozburn could hear it wheezing and see the straining in its flanks.

  —Is hurt, said the boy.

  —Yes. I will hold it.

  —He bite.

  —No, he will not.

  Ozburn gently lifted the animal and cupped it in his big hands and bent his face forward to it, his nose just inches from the pink, dribbling snout.

  —Dogs almost kill.

  —He’s terrified. Does he eat?

  —Rice and churros.

  He got his Flip from the car and showed the woman how to work it. When she began shooting video, Ozburn closed his hands over the tiny opossum and looked at its face staring up at him through the bars of his thumbs. It was swinish and ratlike at once and Ozburn marveled at its strange design, the hybridized oddness that somehow worked in this world. He felt his great strength flowing down into and consolidating in his hands. He let the strength gather and then he tensed his muscles until they trembled and he continued to watch the opossum as it watched him.

  —You hurt him.

  —I cure him.

  Ozburn glanced at the camera. Then his fingers began to shake and the veins on the backs of his hands stood out and it looked like he was being electrocuted and that whatever was in his grip was being electrocuted also. He pressed his hands together more tightly. He could feel the astonishing lightness of the thing and the tactile throb of life that was inside it: ribs flaring, heart tapping away, muscles rippling.

  —I used to pray to God when I healed. Now I don’t pray to anybody or anything. I don’t need them.

  —God is good, said the boy.

  —I make the life inside me flow outside of me and enter the injured being.

  Ozburn looked down at his shivering hands and saw the opossum looking up at him. He summoned a last surge of life all the way from his heart to his hands and he felt it flowing from his fingertips and into the animal. He growled softly and the boy stepped back from him. When he opened his hands the animal was on its side, limp, mouth open, tongue out. The tail spilled deadly over Ozburn’s palm.

  —Good.

  —Dead.

  The boy’s eyes filled with tears.

  —Watch.

  He set the opossum down on the ground, then sat back on his haunches and waited. The boy did likewise. Ozburn looked out at the fine October day, cool and sunny and the air smelling of ocean and sagebrush. He smiled at the woman shooting the video. He couldn’t wait to share this with Seliah. He thought of Seliah and traced an S in the sand with his finger and wondered what he could do for her, the suffering love of his life.

  Then the opossum’s eyes opened and its tongue retracted and it lifted its head. The boy smiled and blushed at his own gullibility. The animal gathered itself and stood up wobbly but found its balance. Its tail rewound into a neat, loose coil. Ozburn brought a tissue from the pocket of his leather biker’s vest and wiped the foam off the animal’s chin. It tried to walk toward Ozburn but its leash ran out. It strained for a moment, then looked up at Ozburn with its weak, small eyes. It was no longer wheezing or laboring to breathe. He pet it a few times, then stood.

  —When it is strong you should let it go. It is a wild animal and won’t do well with you.

  —Many dogs.

  —He fooled you. He can fool them.

  Ozburn bought some gum from the woman and gathered up the bouquet and vase and his camera and drove south.

  He let himself into suite twenty-four to find Seliah sitting at the small dinette, her back to the sliding glass door of the patio. Daisy bounced to her and put her nose on Seliah’s thigh. Ozburn set down the duffel. The curtains were drawn against the afternoon sun but a slant of light caught her shoulder and one side of her face. She wore the cobalt blue satin robe he’d bought her last Christmas and her hair was combed straight and lustrous against it. Her computer was open before her and Ozburn saw the minor play of the monitor light on her beautiful pale face.

  “Seliah. These are for you.”

  Ozburn stepped into the cool room and set the vase of flowers on the kitchen counter. He could see that Seliah’s pupils were constricted against all light. She had not touched Daisy. He was in for another argument.

  Four days ago she had e-mailed him that Charlie Hood had handcuffed her and forced her to go to a hospital in San Clemente. She was vague on why. She had “escaped” the hospital and quickly packed a few things at home, then driven to Las Vegas. From here she had sent him a series of crazy e-mails about Father Joe and a bat and a maid and the rabies virus. Ozburn realized that she was hysterical and it would be perilous to bring her into his mission. But he loved her. And she was plainly terrified by what Hood had done to her. Ozburn saw no choice but to bring her close to him, where he could protect her.

  She arrived distraught, hyperemotional, random. He’d never seen her like that. They had spent much of that time making love. In the quiet moments between, while they devoured room service meals, Seliah had tried to make him believe they were both suffering from advanced rabies infection. She had a Wikipedia entry that described rabies symptoms, and she had the articles about the miracle of the Milwaukee Protocol. She had e-mails from Charlie and Dr. Brennan about the positive antibody test. She had an outlandish story about Father Joe and a bat, told, of course, by Hood. The whole conspiracy theory was interesting on a hypothetical level but Ozburn didn’t believe one word of it. He saw no reason why Father Joe would purposefully infect him. What would he or anyone else gain from such a thing? The idea was illogical and preposterous and it angered him that she couldn’t see this and it maddened him that Hood had handcuffed her and towed her off to a hospital like some violent lunatic.

  But over the last two days Ozburn had also wondered, mostly idly: What if Charlie and Seliah were telling the truth? This idea made him want to bounce Joe Leftwich off the nearest wall and get some answers out of him. What was that in his trash? If it was a bat, why hadn’t he maybe just mentioned that he’d found one in his room the same night Sean had passed out on his bed?

  “Charlie keeps sending me e-mails that the protocol can work,” she said.

  His heart fell and h
is anger rose. How many times had they been through this? “Charlie isn’t a doctor.”

  “Dr. Brennan is a doctor and he’s made arrangements for us up in Orange County. We can beat this virus, Sean. We can be the first adults to survive it. Ever.”

  “There’s no virus, Sel. I’ve told you that.”

  “It was a bat. A vampire bat. Joe was holding it to your foot. I saw it with my own eyes.”

  “Yes, you saw something in the dark. But a fly bit my toe just like one bit the owner’s son. That happens all the time down there. But the bat is hearsay from a superstitious maid. Wasn’t she the one who drank beer all the time?”

  “I told you, Sean. She found it in the trash! It was still alive. Charlie interviewed her and put it all together. It explains everything.”

  “It only explains that Joe found a bat in his room and thought he’d killed it. Most people down there kill vampire bats in their rooms, Seliah. They’re vermin and they carry disease. All we can do is be rational, here, Sel. Reason is the only thing that can get us through this.”

  “But Eduardo had taken Joe to see the bats—Joe wanted to see them. Eduardo took Charlie to the same cave. And that bat in Joe’s trash gave you the rabies and you gave it to me. But we have a chance, honey. We have the protocol. Look, I have all these articles about the girl. Please come look at them. She lived, honey. Look, here’s a picture of her! A bat bit her in church and she lived, and we can, too.”