On Wings of Deliverance

by Elizabeth White

  “They don’t have a phone.” Owen walked faster. “Sunflower will be fine.” He stopped at the end of the row of cars. “Madam, your chariot awaits.”

  All she saw were trucks. “I thought you agreed to get a car.”

  “This is a car. Meet Chitty Chitty Bang Bang.” He dropped her hand.

  She followed him to the other side of a maroon king-cab pickup. Squatting there like a powder-blue go-cart was a little Dodge with an unmistakably ’60s-era body. Its left rear bumper had apparently had a close encounter with a light pole.

  She swallowed. “Owen…”

  “It’s got push-button gears, can you believe that?” Owen slid into the driver’s seat. “Come here.”

  Benny leaned in the open window. “This was all you could get for three hundred dollars?”

  Owen pressed his lips together. “Yep.”

  “Owen, this thing’s got to be close to fifty years old!”

  “I told you—it’s a classic! No telling how much I’ll be able to get for it back in the States. Jorge didn’t even know what he had.” He slid his glasses to the top of his head and smiled up at her. “Come on, get in and let’s see what she’ll do.”

  “You mean you didn’t drive it? What if it doesn’t run?”

  “Then I’ll get my…my money back.”

  Benny frowned. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

  “Don’t worry, I’m a great mechanic. Come on, Benny.”

  How could she resist that wheedling tone? Or the dimples?

  Resigned, she released a breath. “Well, if this is all we could afford, it’s all we could afford.” She walked around to the passenger side, brushing her hand across the crushed fender.

  Lord, is this Your idea of the perfect car?

  In the course of this long and frustrating day, Briggs had discovered that Mexico was a highly inconvenient place to lose a target. Chartering an afternoon flight from Nuevo Laredo this late in the day turned out to be a pain. The only element working in his favor was the celebrated Mexican penchant for graft. Good thing money was no object with the judge. This was getting to be an expensive chase.

  It cost him five hundred bucks just to convince some taco pilot to shuttle him across the mountains of central Mexico into the dumpy little oil city of Poza Rica. At just after 4:00 p.m., he was lugging his travel bag across the tarmac at the Tajin airport.

  No telling how far away the cop and the girl had gotten by now. They could be anywhere, and he still had a long drive out to the boonies with no visible transportation. Best to start in the last place they’d been seen.

  He supposed he should be grateful for his small lead.

  “¡Buenas tardes, señor!” A smiling female attendant held the door open as he entered the terminal. “¡Bienvenida a Poza Rica!”

  Briggs responded with an inarticulate growl. His Spanish stunk, which made this enterprise doubly difficult.

  Breathe, Ray, he told himself. Think about the resort you’ll be sitting in when this is over. “Taxi?”

  Fortunately, that seemed to be one of those all-purpose international words. The woman nodded. “Sí, taxi.” She picked up the radio hooked to her belt and jabbered into it. “Espera afuera.” Her hand went out.

  Everybody he bumped into wanted a tip. Grumbling, he opened his wallet and found a couple of pesos. She was just going to have to be happy with what he had.

  It didn’t take him long to navigate the little airport and find the taxi, which proved to be an ancient two-tone sedan with no rear bumper. The moment he got in, he started to wheeze. Oh, brother. He was going to be a dead man if he didn’t get out of this filthy vehicle soon.

  Nerves jangling, he twisted the cap off a twenty-ounce Mountain Dew he’d bought in Laredo. Maybe he should call the judge to say he was giving up.

  Yeah, and end up like Frank Carter.

  Last year, two weeks after failing to make good on a search warrant, Carter arrived on his wife’s doorstep packed in three separate suitcases. Nobody knew for sure whether the judge had anything to do with that, but Ray wasn’t one to take chances.

  Besides, he was good at his job, and the pay was outstanding. He was going to retire young and live in one of those Mexican resorts like Cancún. Or maybe he’d have fun in Acapulco. Yeah, me and Elvis.

  His shoulders tensed. Carmichael was Border Patrol, a close-knit and protective brotherhood. Surely the agency was aware of his disappearance by now. Wouldn’t somebody go looking for him? If he didn’t hurry, he was going to find himself outfoxed.

  Okay, Ray, think. They would have to have transportation north. Bus? Car? Train even? No way of knowing.

  He leaned his head back, sweating in misery. If only he’d hit the girl when he’d had her in his sights. But he hadn’t, so he’d just have to deal with it. If you had money and persistence, information could be bought. Surely somebody would have noticed a big blond border cop and a Polynesian-looking beauty queen on the road.

  Draining the bottle of Mountain Dew, he tried harder to breathe.

  Briggs, you’ve got a job to do.

  SIX

  “Who are you calling?”

  “Eli.” Owen glanced at Bernadette as he plugged a couple of coins into the phone. The lobby of the Poza Rica Inn, where they’d stopped for a meal in the hotel restaurant and a bathroom break, was nothing to write home about. But at least it was clean.

  He and Benny both looked like they’d been “rode hard and put up wet,” as his dad used to say. She would never be less than beautiful, but there were shadows painted under her exotic brown eyes, and she kept nibbling her thumbnail. He knew she was anxious to get on the road again.

  “Somebody in the States needs to know where we are. They’ll be worried about us.”

  “I guess you’re right.” Bernadette rubbed her arms, though a lethargic overhead fan barely stirred the air. “I used to get really mad at Meg when she left her cell uncharged for days on end. But don’t tell Eli too much or he and Isabel will just worry more.”

  “How much is too—” He stopped when the dial tone was interrupted by an operator who told him how much money to put into the phone. He chunked in more coins as Bernadette paced to the poolside door for the third time. She was making him dizzy. He’d never seen her so keyed up. At last he got a ring tone.

  Come on, Eli. Answer your cell phone.

  “Carmichael here.”

  “Eli, it’s Owen.”

  “Hey! Where are you?” Eli’s usually measured voice was clipped, tense. “We expected you back yesterday. Called the airport and they said you never filed a flight plan. Mom’s about to go crazy!”

  “I’m at a hotel in Poza Rica. With Bernadette. Listen, we’re in trouble—”

  “What kind of trouble? Owen, so help me if you ever pull something like this again—”

  “Eli, shut up and listen. I was getting ready to leave yesterday morning, but some thug came after Benny with a submachine gun, so I had to take her up without filing a—”

  “After her with what? Owen, if this is one of your stupid jokes—”

  “It’s no joke.” Benny stood looking out at the pool, both hands spread on the glass. Beyond her the sun glared off water so blue it hurt his eyes. He wished he could do something to comfort her.

  He could almost hear Eli trying to absorb what Owen himself could barely comprehend—even though he’d been right there, seen it with his own eyes.

  “What’s going on down there?” Eli finally said.

  “Okay, quick version—we need to get out of here. The shooter put holes in both gas tanks, so I had to make an emergency landing in a cow pasture. Cracked a wing on a tree. We borrowed the farmer’s mule to make the trip here to Poza Rica, which took most of the day. We just bought a car and we’re headed north.”

  “What can I do to help?”

  He turned away and lowered his voice. “Eli, there’s something weird going on with Benny. She won’t tell me who’s after her or why. Says it’ll get somebo
dy else in trouble. I’m going along with it for now, because I—” He stopped. Why was he going along with it? Because he didn’t want to know what she’d done to get somebody mad enough to kill her?

  “Because what?”

  Owen took a breath. “Because I don’t want her running into something she can’t handle. We’re down here with very little money. Benny’s got no ID, and for some reason she’s in a big hurry to get to Memphis. Here’s what I want you to do. Call Meg Torres and see what you can find out. She knows Bernadette’s background.”

  “Meg and Jack are in D.C. now. You sure you want to involve them?”

  “Why not? Jack’s with Homeland Security, and he’s got connections out the wazoo.”

  “How am I going to get hold of you? Where’s your phone?”

  “I’ve got it, but the battery’s almost dead. I’m saving it for emergencies. Besides, cell reception down here’s unpredictable. I’ll call you when I get to another pay phone. In the meantime, just find out what you can.”

  “I will. Listen—” Eli paused “—I really think I need to come down there and get you guys.”

  Owen hesitated. He depended on his brother a lot, but they weren’t that desperate yet. “No, I can handle it.”

  “All right, then. I’m praying for you, brother.”

  “Thanks. We need it.”

  Owen hung up and walked up behind Bernadette. She’d taken off her hat and held it by the strings, so all he could see was curly hair spiraling halfway down her back. “Eli knows what’s going on. You ready to go?”

  She turned, her back against the door. “I doubt there’s anything Eli can do about it.” Her voice was as stiff as her shoulders.

  He hated feeling helpless. “Bernadette, we’ll get home. We’ll figure this out. I won’t let anybody hurt you.”

  “You’re not God. That’s not always for you to say.” She pressed her fingers into her eyes. He wanted to put his arms around her, so he tucked his hands under his armpits. “I made choices a long time ago that set this whole thing in motion. And God’s allowing it. I don’t know why, but He is.”

  “So this is a martyr thing?” Owen stepped back, hands raised. “You just give up and say ‘Come and get me’?”

  “Of course not.” Bernadette looked away. “I’m just saying you can’t protect me from the consequences of my own actions.”

  “I’m thinking that the woman you are now is a whole lot more important than whatever you did in the past.” He reached out and brushed his thumb across a damp spot on her cheek. “Bernadette, let me…let me…” He didn’t even know what he wanted. There was no way to finish that sentence. He stuffed his hands into his pockets. “Come on, let’s check out the restaurant. Might as well get a decent meal while we have the chance.”

  By the time the taxi pulled up to the Poza Rica Inn, Briggs was steaming. No amount of gesturing, shouting or pointing to the map had served to get the driver to go where he actually wanted to end up. Apparently, every American went straight from airport to hotel without stopping to pass Go or collect two hundred dollars.

  Infuriating.

  So, after some arguing over the fare—a pointless exercise since he had no idea what the guy was saying—he got out and tossed some pesos through the window. Maybe somebody in the hotel could speak English.

  He’d have sold his soul for a shot of whiskey, but that wasn’t gonna happen. Get this over with. Track them down and move on.

  Inside the lobby, a teenage girl dressed in an I Love New York T-shirt sat at the desk. Flipping through a magazine, she bobbed her head in rhythm with whatever was coming through her headphones. He walked up to her and whacked his hand on the desk.

  “¡Señorita!”

  The girl looked up and yanked off the headphones. “¿Sí?”

  “Do you speak English?”

  “Sí. I mean, yes. You like to hook up, señor?”

  “Hook up?” What was this, a brothel? “No, I just want directions.”

  The girl’s face fell. “Directions to where?”

  “Here.” He pulled out his map of Veracruz and stubbed his finger on the area just southeast of Poza Rica. “And I need transportation.”

  “Transportation?” She looked confused.

  “Car,” he enunciated carefully. “Bus. Something with wheels. I have to find this farm.”

  “You need a taxi?” She picked up the phone.

  “No! I just got out of a taxi.” He pulled out his wallet and removed a twenty-dollar bill. “Where can I rent a car?”

  The girl brightened. “My uncle Jorge has cars on the next street over.” She glanced at the twenty. “I could call him for you.”

  “No, thank you, I’ll walk. Which direction?”

  “I draw a map.” She rooted in a drawer and extracted a paper napkin and a pen.

  “All right. And while you’re at it, write down the quickest way to get to that area of the map.”

  While he waited, Ray glanced across the lobby. A tall, dark-haired man wearing a goofy tourist shirt, accompanied by a young boy in a straw hat, had just disappeared into the restaurant. Maybe they were Americans and spoke English. He was just about to go after them and find out when the desk clerk finished her drawing.

  “Here, señor.” She pushed the scrap of paper toward him. “Tell my uncle that Alita sent you.”

  Ray hadn’t eaten since early that morning and he was starved. But the sooner he got this business over with, the better.

  “Thanks, querida.” He slid her the twenty. “I don’t suppose your uncle speaks English, does he?”

  Benny took a bite of her cheese-and-tomato sandwich. Owen had already finished his grilled chicken and black beans and was looking at the dessert menu. He had been very quiet since leaving the hotel lobby, and she hadn’t had much to say, either.

  The look in his eyes when he’d brushed his thumb across her cheek…Okay, she’d seen it before. Or something similar. There was the young doctor in Fort Worth, a friend of her roommate, Meg. She and Elliot had been bowling together a few times. But when he tried to get her to give up on going to Mexico, she’d finally realized he was way more serious than he needed to be. So she’d had to give him a less-than-gentle heave-ho.

  And there was a single pastor in Acuña, a widower with a bevy of children aged six all the way up to sixteen. He’d seemed interested in more than shoptalk when they ran into each other.

  But she didn’t want to get married to a man she didn’t love just for his convenience.

  She watched Owen for a moment, hoping he wouldn’t catch her at it. He whistled through his teeth, eyeing the pictures of the desserts with obvious enjoyment. She would never have imagined dark hair would suit him, but it did. He could even carry off a shirt with lime-green parakeets all over it.

  What was she going to do about him?

  Bernadette, let me…

  Let him what? What did he want? He could have any woman he wanted back in Del Rio. She’d watched them go after him with single-minded determination, and he never seemed to notice. Isabel said he’d occasionally take a woman out, then never call her again. Why? Was he just that flighty?

  People said he was a player, shallow as a roadside ditch, but she didn’t believe it. She’d seen depths in him over the past two days that put him on her short list of dependable people.

  Which was why it shook her to the core, this realization that his emotions might be genuinely engaged where she was concerned. She dreaded hurting him.

  He put down the menu and smiled. “Want to share some fried ice cream?”

  She pushed away her discomfort. “Why not? Better eat while we can. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us tonight.”

  “Are you sure you still want to do that? I could get us a couple of rooms, put it on my credit card—”

  “No! You know how that would look. We’ve got to keep going.”

  He sighed. “All right. I just thought I’d give it one more shot. Under the circumstances, nobody’s going to gi
ve our being together a second thought.”

  In her experience, most people would think the worst. But she wasn’t going to argue with him. She picked up the menu. “Make sure you ask for two spoons. Fried ice cream’s my favorite thing in the world.”

  Hands above his shoulders, Briggs stared into the barrel of the scruffy little farmer’s shotgun. He had no idea how to say “Don’t shoot” in Spanish.

  Wasn’t this just par for the course? First, that oily car dealer in Poza Rica had gouged him for at least twice the worth of a gas-guzzling Crown Victoria—after insisting it was the only vehicle available for lease. Then he missed a turn off the highway because major landmarks had been either moved or destroyed completely.

  Once he realized his mistake, he’d stopped a group of bicyclers headed for the beaches. Using his well-thumbed Spanish phrase book, he’d haltingly asked for directions. With much gesturing and laughter—apparently the American plane’s impromptu landing strip had become quite the community conversation piece—the three youths steered him back in the direction he’d come from. An hour later, he found himself meandering twelve miles down a bumpy one-lane track until he reached the dilapidated farm of Gustavo de Oca.

  And it had gone downhill from there.

  When he drove into the barnyard, the Cessna was in plain sight, wedged nose first into the side of a barn. But nary a soul appeared to greet him. Road-weary, hungry and suffering from allergies that threatened to turn into a migraine, he’d stomped toward the plane.

  He had his cell phone out, trying to get hold of the judge, when he’d felt the gun jam into his lower back.

  “Buenos dias, señor.” Unable to reach the phrase book in his back pocket, he’d slowly turned. “¿Amigo?” Why had he left his own gun in the trunk of the car? He had a permit to carry it.

  The farmer’s fierce mustache turned down a notch. “¿Qué hace usted con mi avión?”

  He might as well have been speaking Chinese. “Sorry. No comprende.” Ray wiggled his fingers. “Just looking for some people. Hombres.” Keeping eye contact, he cautiously lowered one hand and tugged the phrase book out of his pocket. “Un momento.”