by Louise Ure
“We heard you singing,” I said in greeting.
The young woman smiled and pushed her hair back off her forehead. “I pretend that it makes it cooler out here.”
“That would be a good trick. My name’s Jessie.”
“Eldon Dallas,” the young man said, offering his hand. “This is my wife, Polly.”
“And your friends?” Guillermo asked, nodding at the Mexican family that stood ten feet away. The wife’s eyes were wide with fright, the two little girls’ with fatigue.
The white couple glanced at each other before replying. “Our church is part of a group called Save A Life,” the man said. “We’re not doing anything illegal here. Just making sure that people don’t die in the desert for no reason.”
Guillermo looked at the bundles and boxes they’d unloaded from the truck. “You give them supplies?”
“We leave water, clean socks, bandages—some nonperishable food,” Polly said. “We’re not helping them cross. Just helping them stay alive.”
“Are you going to give these people a ride?” I asked. The supplies would have helped them, but a forty-mile ride to civilization would have helped even more.
Eldon shook his head. “It’s illegal to transport anyone we find. Or to help them cross.”
“But you’re here right now, and these two little girls are tired.” The girls peered up at me as if they knew I was talking about them.
“You don’t understand,” Dallas said. “We’re supposed to tell the Border Patrol when we find someone. We could go to jail just for stopping to help these people.”
“Have you heard any stories out here about kidnapping? About coyotes taking the children of illegals as payment for crossing?” Guillermo asked.
“There was a woman last month,” Polly said. “Her son had been taken from her.”
“Do you know who’s doing it?”
“Does it matter?” Polly said. “There’s always some animal ready to prey on a weaker animal.”
“We’ve got a lot more drops to make before nightfall,” Dallas said quietly.
Guillermo had moved off for a private conversation with the family that hovered at the edge of our debate. He turned back to us. “We’ll walk north with the Delgados for a while.”
We gave the little girls our PowerBars and the parents our remaining beef jerky. Guillermo and the father hoisted two water jugs and the family’s bed sheet-wrapped belongings. The mother and I lifted the little girls to our hips as the blue pickup drove away.
“Como te llamas?” I asked the little three-year-old clinging to me.
“Magdalena.”
“Me llamo Jessie.” Satisfied with the ride and my response, she poked me in the cheek then tucked her head under my chin.
We moved north across the desert. It was forty more miles to Tucson, with only desert, shadeless sun, coyotes, and Border Patrol agents in between.
A mile farther on, we stopped so that Mrs. Delgado could rewrap the rags around her thin sandals. At first I’d thought it was to smudge out her footprints, but soon realized that it was protection, however minimal, from the thorns, sharp rocks, and volcanic heat of the trek.
They were headed to southern California, the man said, to work in the strawberry fields in the central valley. It would have been shorter to cross farther west of Nogales, but that would have taken them through Altar Valley and that route was even more dangerous.
“They call it Cocaine Alley,” he said.
And OTM Alley: Other Than Mexican. The valley was a primary route for drug smugglers coming across the border from a dozen different nations.
“You’d be safer traveling at night,” Guillermo said. “Maybe it wouldn’t be so hard on the children.”
“We have many miles to go. We have to sleep a little and walk a lot.”
I saw a scorpion tail of dust off to the right, a single dark vehicle, moving fast.
“Border Patrol?” I asked Guillermo.
“I can’t tell yet.” He put down the water jugs, the bundled bed sheet, and his backpack, and turned to face the oncoming truck. I set down my load and bent to get the knife from my boot.
“Ricky Lamas,” he said, when the truck slid to a stop in front of us and three young Latinos got out. “Just the man I wanted to see.”
Carlos’s supposed friend. The guy who, with Chaco, may have lured us to the place where we’d found Carlos’s dead body.
“Hey, jefe. What are you doing out here? I never thought of the Ochoas as wetbacks.” Lamas strutted toward us, his pointy-toed cowboy boots kicking up dust with every step.
“We’re just taking a little stroll with our friends here.”
“Let us help you. We’ll give these folks a lift. Help them get on their way.” The other two Braceros circled around behind us.
“No thanks. It’s a nice day for a walk.” Guillermo held his knife behind his leg and turned to keep the biggest of the thugs in view.
“At least the little ones,” Lamas said. “They’d probably like a ride.” He made a swipe at Magdalena’s arm. She let out a screech and pulled back to her mother’s side.
“Drive away now, Ricky. Write this one off as too much trouble and go get somebody else.”
Lamas continued to circle him.
The mustachioed Bracero tackled the Mexican father, sending them both sprawling to the dirt. Mr. Delgado had no weapons but his hands and he used them, gouging and flailing.
Lamas and his partner went for Guillermo. The big one pinned Guillermo’s arms behind him, and Lamas concentrated his fists on Guillermo’s face and stomach. I gripped the knife and slashed once across Lamas’s bicep to get his attention.
“Over here,” I whispered, the death wish clear in my voice.
“You want some of this, chiquita?” He didn’t seem weakened by the gash in his arm. Unbuckling his belt, he drew it from its loops, held the tongue in his hand, and circled the buckle end overhead. “I can teach you a few things.”
The belt struck like a snake and the buckle connected with my cheekbone. It hurt like a son of a bitch and I blinked away tears. I shuffled to the left, looking to draw Lamas away from the mother and little girls who were frozen in place beside me.
He swung again, and this time I ducked under his arm and swiped the blade across his stomach. He jumped back to assess the damage and I turned to check on Guillermo. He must have done something to the big guy’s eyes; the Bracero was rolling on the ground with his hands over his face. Guillermo yanked the pistol from the man’s waistband and turned to Lamas, spinning him around and shoving the gun between his lips.
“Tell the others to give it up.”
Ricky Lamas wasn’t brave with a gun barrel in his mouth. “Bastante,” he said around the hot metal. The Bracero fighting with Mr. Delgado took three steps back and held his hands up. The big guy was still curled in a ball and didn’t have to stop anything.
“What do you do with the kids?”
“I was just joking,” Lamas tried.
Guillermo shoved the barrel back in his mouth, the trigger guard up against his lips. “I wasn’t.”
Lamas put his hands up and Guillermo withdrew the gun.
“Okay, Okay. It’s something that Chaco’s got going with some big shots in Tucson. I don’t know what they do with them.”
“What big shots? Darren Markson? Paul Willard?”
“I don’t know. I swear.”
“What did Carlos have to do with it?”
“He wanted to stop it.”
“And that’s why he was killed?” That was venom, not curiosity, in the question.
Lamas shook his head. “Not just that. He took one of the kids. A girl.”
Chapter Twenty-Six
We put the Delgados’ belongings in the Braceros’ truck and used the bed sheet they’d been wrapped in to hog-tie the three thugs. Guillermo propped the Braceros up in the shade of a big creosote bush, and taped a cowboy hat he’d found in the truck onto the head of the guy in the most wes
terly position.
“I’m sure someone will find you by tomorrow.”
“You’re going to pay for this, cabrón,” Lamas warned.
“I know.”
The Delgado family insisted upon leaving the water with them, too.
The keys were still in the ignition. The family piled into the bed of the Braceros’ black truck and Guillermo and I took the cab.
“Are you sure you don’t want the girls up front here?” I asked. The mother smiled shyly and waved away my offer. She pulled a heavy tarp over their heads so passing patrol cars couldn’t see them easily.
“What should we do with them?” I asked Guillermo when we reached the highway.
“Make sure they’re safe tonight. After that…” He shrugged and turned south toward Nogales and his parked Camaro. Guillermo planned to stay with the Delgados and I would drive his car back to Tucson. Now that we were back in an area with a strong wireless signal, I retrieved my cell phone from the backpack and turned it on. Six messages.
“They could stay with me at Bonita’s house until they’re ready to move on,” I said, waiting for the first message to play. I’d have to tell Deke about the Braceros trying to take the Delgados’ little girl. It may tie in with the killings and with that child’s seat in Carlos’s car. But I wasn’t going to call him until the Delgados were well away and couldn’t be threatened with deportation.
Guillermo stayed quiet while I listened to the recordings. Four were from Raisa, each asking me to contact her. Another was from Detective Treadwell that was more formal in speech pattern than I’d ever heard him before. He wanted me to call, too.
The sixth message was from Raisa again. I listened to it twice and then held the phone to Guillermo’s ear. “Jessie? Where are you? Call me immediately.” There was a pause before she continued. “Detective Sabin got the search warrant amended to include Bonita’s car. They say they found a map. A map where you marked the crime scene. That was enough to get them a subpoena for a DNA sample.”
There was another pause in the message.
“Jessie, they’re talking about an arrest warrant.”
“Looks like we’ll be taking our new friends to my house instead,” Guillermo said.
We got the Delgado family settled in at Guillermo’s apartment. It was the first time I’d been there and the permanency of the place surprised me. There were shelves of hardbound books in hand-crafted wooden cases, framed posters on the walls, and a set of plates and glasses for eight in the cupboard.
“How long have you lived here?”
“A year or so.” He saw me eyeing the matched set of silverware. Not expensive stuff, but modern and sleek. “I brought most of the stuff up from Nogales. I was…with somebody down there.”
“She didn’t want it?”
He started a sentence but didn’t get more than “she” out when he changed his mind.
“No.”
We made chorizo and scrambled eggs for the exhausted travelers. Little Magdalena helped me spoon sliced peaches into bowls for dessert. After dinner, while the family bathed and Guillermo cleaned up the kitchen, I made a run to Target. Lightweight cotton pants for Mrs. Delgado and the girls, canvas sneakers for all four, plus long-sleeved shirts and hats to protect them from the sun. I added two sturdy backpacks to replace the wrapped bed sheets, and a professional-looking first-aid kit.
The girls were already asleep when I got back. Guillermo and Mr. Delgado were making plans.
“I can take them over to the central valley,” I offered.
“Not smart. The police are probably already looking for you.”
He was right. We agreed that he would give the Delgado family a lift in the morning. The parents yawned and joined their daughters in the second bedroom’s double bed.
Guillermo and I headed out for the last errand of the day: getting rid of the Braceros’ truck.
“Where shall we leave it?” I asked.
“How about South Fourth? If we leave the keys in it, it should be gone in no time.”
I agreed and followed his car. We took side streets and I obeyed the speed limit. This was not a night to give a policeman a reason to ask for my ID. I parked the truck on a quiet block, wiped the areas I had touched, and returned to his car.
“It should be gone within the hour.”
Traffic was light on the way back to his house. We made as little noise as possible coming in, but Mr. Delgado still stuck his head out of the bedroom door to make sure everything was okay.
“Can I spend the night, too?” I asked. “I don’t think my place would be a good idea right now.”
Guillermo took my hand and led me into the bedroom. The sheets were cool and smelled like him. I rolled against his back and draped an arm across his chest.
“I have friends in Phoenix, so I’m going to start there with the Delgados,” he said, changing the subject. “But if I take them all the way to California’s central valley, I won’t be home until late.”
“Carlos took one of the children,” I said to his back. “We’ve got to find out what happened to her.” My heart broke thinking about her terror.
“We’ll find out. Carlos would have made sure she was safe.”
Unless the Braceros got to him first, I thought.
Guillermo and the Delgado family were gone by sunrise. I waited until eight o’clock to call Raisa on her cell phone. She’d either be on her way in to work, or already there and desperate for a cigarette on the sidewalk.
“Where are you?” she said. “No, wait, don’t tell me. If I don’t know, I can’t tell the police.”
“I got your messages. What did Detective Sabin say?”
“He’s got you in his sights. You were with Carlos’s girlfriend when she got blown up. Your fingerprints were found on the post next to his dead body. You had the place marked on a map.”
“I didn’t kill him, Raisa.”
“I don’t care,” she exhaled deeply. I was right about the smoke break. “Just tell me, is the DNA test something I have to worry about?”
“Maybe.” I paced from the front door to the kitchen.
“Good Kind Christ, Jessie. We can explain away the map. They don’t know who made that marking, it was found in your sister’s car, yada yada. But the fingerprints? And DNA? You’re in deep shit this time.”
“Hypothetically, if my DNA matches something in the garage—like the blood on the floor, for example—can’t they tell how long it had been there? We can prove that Carlos was dead days before that blood got there.” I retraced my steps to the living room, and grabbed a loose cushion from the couch.
“Maybe. But all that’s for after they test the DNA and match it. You’re going to have to give them a sample.”
I wadded up the pillow and threw it back on the couch. “I will.” Just not quite yet. I needed time to show the cops that there was another way of looking at this.
“Is there a warrant out for my arrest?”
“Not yet. But as your attorney, I’m telling you to turn yourself in for this test.”
“And as my friend?”
She paused. “I’ll buy you as much time as I can.”
I needed a car that wasn’t associated with me, so I called my brother at the fire station. “Can I use your car while you’re on duty today? Mine’s in the shop.”
“Why don’t you use Bonita’s?”
“Battery’s dead.”
“Do you want a jump?”
Martin wasn’t making this easy. “No, it won’t hold a charge. I’ll stop and pick up a new battery while I’m out.”
He agreed.
I smoothed out the pillow I’d crushed during my conversation with Raisa and locked the front door behind me, then hoofed it a half mile to the nearest bus stop. When I arrived at the fire station, Martin was just sitting down to breakfast.
“Don’t get up! I’ve got some errands to run. I’ll get the car back as soon as I can.”
“I don’t get off till tomorrow night. Do y
ou need it that long?”
“I don’t think so, but thanks for the offer.”
I turned the key and the old Subaru bucked and shimmied to life. It was nice to know it was available for the next two days. I might need it. I headed to Guillermo’s cousin’s house.
The university neighborhood was coming alive with both pedestrian and car traffic. Miguel’s tiny stucco house didn’t have a driveway or a carport and I had to drive around the block twice before I found a place to park.
There were two steps up from the sidewalk and then another two to the front porch. I knocked on the screen door and it rattled in response. Miguel opened the wooden door behind it a crack, letting just one eye check out his visitor. His shoulder and chest were bare. Without a word, he opened the door and allowed me in.
“I’ve come to trade,” I said, offering him the knife I’d bought in Quartzsite.
“That thing’s a piece of shit.” He reached for a wrinkled blue T-shirt on the floor and pulled it over his head.
“Yeah, but it can’t be traced.” And as far as I knew, the only blood it had on it was from my fight with Ricky Lamas in the desert.
“I can take care of myself.” He fingered the handle of the blade in the hard leather pouch on his belt.
“I need your knife.”
“What for?”
“I can’t tell you.”
“Then I can’t give it to you.” He turned away. I noticed a stack of thick textbooks on the linoleum table. Locke. Bacon. Descartes.
“You’re studying philosophy?” It was the last thing I would have expected from a man who had so implacably slit the throat of another. But then again, it was pretty unlikely training for the killer I’d become, too.
He managed to blush through brown skin. “Yeah.”
“You want to be a teacher someday? A professor at some fancy college? That’s not going to happen if you get picked up with that knife.”
“It’s over, Jessie. They killed one of ours. We killed one of theirs. We’re even now.”
“You think Chaco’s going to take it that way? You think Guillermo’s satisfied now?”
