The Best American Mystery Stories 2016

by Elizabeth George

  She stumbled down the last bit of the slope, bruising her ankle on a rock, landing on her buttocks, and sliding down; the sheer black fabric of her skirt rode up and the rocks scraped and cut her long brown legs. She couldn’t think about what she looked like; she had to keep going.

  At the margin of the road she looked again for the sun. South, she wanted to run south, home was south. She kept the sun on her left side and settled into a steady jog. No one was shouting, no one was shooting, she would not look back; she would only look forward.

  The sun had risen higher when she heard a car. She glanced backward, fearful. It wasn’t the van. It wasn’t the white panel van. Suddenly she felt close to tears. She saw a boxy square shape, a large sedan. With sudden hope and desperation she stopped, turned to face the car, and stood in the middle of the driving lane, waving her arms.

  The car slowed and stopped. It was a red Subaru, dusty from off-road driving, with a man driving and a woman passenger. Altagracia ran to the side of the car. The blond woman lowered the window on her side. “What’s the matter? Are you in trouble?”

  The words didn’t mean anything to Altagracia, but she could read the woman’s expression. Intelligent, cautious, maybe helpful.

  “Please,” said Altagracia in English. “Please . . .” Her English deserted her. She switched to Spanish. “Help me. Help me please. I must go south.”

  The man spoke. He had close-cropped dark hair and was wearing a blue polo shirt. “What’s going on? What’s she doing out here dressed like that?”

  “She needs help.” The woman spoke, in English, suddenly decisive. “And we’re going to give it to her.” She spoke to Altagracia in Spanish. “Get in. We will help you.”

  Altagracia pulled the door open and collapsed on the back seat.

  “I don’t know where she’s coming from, Michael,” said the woman. “But we’re getting out of here. Let’s get going.”

  Michael put the car in gear and stepped on the gas. Altagracia burst into sobs.

  “Here, here, it’s all right now.” The woman spoke in English, then in Spanish. “¿Quieres agua?” She handed Altagracia a narrow water bottle. At first all Altagracia could do was hold it next to her face, then she got her breathing under control, opened the bottle, and took a long drink.

  “¿Cómo te llamas? What’s your name?”

  Altagracia looked directly at this surprising woman who spoke to her in her own language. She didn’t answer.

  The woman continued in Spanish. “My name is Elizabeth. I am a translator. I work for the court system in Imperial City. Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  “No trouble,” Altagracia lied. “I want to go home.”

  “And where is your home?”

  “Delicias, near Chihuahua.”

  “What’s going on? What’s her story?”

  “She says she’s not in trouble. She just wants to go home.”

  “Not in trouble? Dressed like that? In the desert at five-thirty in the morning? She’s in trouble.”

  “Just drive, OK?”

  “Is anyone following us?”

  “Us?” Elizabeth turned around, scanned the empty highway behind them. “No, no one’s following us.”

  “Good.” Michael looked in the rearview mirror and then again at the road. He wore glasses with silver rims.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Altagracia managed a small nod.

  Elizabeth reached into a cooler by her feet, found a sandwich in a plastic wrapper, and handed it to Altagracia. The girl took it warily. It was thick, homemade bread, with cheese and some kind of spicy filling. She took a bite and chewed carefully. As she ate she became hungry.

  “How did you get here?” Elizabeth asked.

  Altagracia shook her head. “Some bad men. I just want to go home.” She pictured her mother’s kitchen clearly, the table with the white tablecloth and the blue embroidered lace border that she had made when she was nine. “I live in Delicias,” she repeated, and gave the address. “Is it far? Please?” She said please in English.

  “We will help you,” Elizabeth said.

  “Help her do what?”

  “Help her get home.”

  “Home? To Delicias? South of Chihuahua? That’s far. That’s not in Baja. That’s in mainland Mexico.”

  “You understood a lot for someone who says they don’t speak Spanish,” Elizabeth said.

  “Whoever brought her out to the desert is going to be looking for her,” Michael said. “I’m just looking at the larger picture here.”

  “I don’t think so,” Elizabeth said.

  “You don’t?”

  “I think if they were looking for her she wouldn’t have gotten this far. And if she’s a trafficking victim like I think she is, they won’t be chasing her; they’ll be trying to get the rest of the girls across. The thing to do is to take her to the police.”

  “No!” Altagracia shouted. “No. Not the police. No police.” She remembered the police who had been her customers in La Merced. She grabbed Elizabeth’s arm and began to shake uncontrollably. “No police. I just want to go home.”

  “We’ll get you home, I promise.”

  “And what about our trip?” They were on their way to land they owned in Baja. They had left their home early that morning. It was a vacation they had planned for weeks.

  “Peter has those dental clinics in Mexicali. He can take her back into Mexico.”

  “Smuggle an illegal back into Mexico? Are you kidding me?”

  “Peter has never so much as smuggled a candy bar in all the years he’s been running those clinics. He crosses the border twice a day. They give him a free pass. He’s the perfect person. Then she can get a bus to Juarez and go south from there. It’s possible. It can happen.”

  “And who’s going to buy the bus ticket?”

  “That’s not important now. Just drive, OK? There’s no one following us. I’ll call Peter in an hour or so when he’s up.”

  Altagracia had been listening with wide eyes. Elizabeth explained rapidly in Spanish. Home, Altagracia was thinking. She could get home. She relaxed against the back of the seat and fell instantly into a deep sleep. In a dream she heard a girl’s voice. You’re just going to leave her here like this? It was a voice she knew. Who was the girl talking about? Leave her where? When the car changed speed and slowed down she snapped awake. “What is it? What’s happening?”

  Elizabeth’s voice was soothing. “We’re stopping at a rest stop. It’s OK.” The car slowed more, and stopped.

  “I can give you some different clothes if you want them,” Elizabeth said.

  “Yes, please.” Altagracia spoke in English.

  Elizabeth took clothes out of a small bag in the back of the car. She walked with Altagracia to the rest stop, but Altagracia didn’t feel the same psychological hold from Elizabeth that she had felt from the madam in La Merced. She changed clothes in a stall in the restroom—a pair of jeans, a clean white shirt with long sleeves that she could button as high as she wished. A tan windbreaker that was slightly too large. She looked at herself in the restroom mirror. There was nothing to show where she had been, what she had done, who she had been. She looked as she always had, only older. With luck, she could pass for eighteen.

  “Do you want to discard the old clothes?” Elizabeth asked.

  Altagracia put them in the trash container and they walked back to the Subaru side by side. Altagracia looked around. No one was watching them.

  Michael joined them at the car. He looked at Altagracia. His look was neutral, not charged with possession or calculation. “All set?”

  In the back of the car, Altagracia fell asleep again. She awoke again at dusk. They were in a residential neighborhood. “This is where our friend lives. Peter. He can help you. He can take you back into Mexico.”

  Altagracia nodded. Somehow she knew she could trust these people. “We will leave you here,” Elizabeth said. “Peter is ready. He can take you in his car. You will have to li
e on the floor of the back seat. We will cover you with a blanket and put some boxes next to you. He crosses the border regularly for his businesses in Mexicali. He is a trusted person. No one will question him. He speaks Spanish too, but not as well as I do. Here is money.” Elizabeth put folded money in her hand; it was pesos. “This is for the bus.” Then she gave her different money. “This is dollars. In case you need them.”

  Peter was small and stocky. He looked like an accountant on a TV soap opera she used to watch at home with Edelmera. He was waiting by his car, a Kia sedan. Altagracia lay down on the floor in front of the back seat. She was between two large boxes packed with glass bottles. Elizabeth touched her shoulder. “Peter will take you to the bus station. Good luck.”

  Elizabeth pulled a blanket over Altagracia and shut the door of the car. The car started and drove from the quiet neighborhood into an area of heavy traffic. The sounds of the city were all around her. The car slowed and stopped. She breathed shallowly, through her mouth.

  “Across again?” A male voice. Spanish. It must be the border control.

  “Emergency surgery at the clinic.” Peter’s voice was light. His Spanish was good, but mispronounced: a strong American accent. “Got a panicked call. The technician needed some supplies. You know how it is.”

  “Is that what’s on the floor in the back seat?”

  “Yeah, it’s surgical kits, a new sterilizer, slides for the X-ray machine. Unless I’ve got lucky and it’s a teenage girl.”

  Altagracia stopped breathing.

  The guard laughed. “You, get a girl? With that face?”

  “Come on, it’s not that bad.”

  “Crossing back to the States again tonight?”

  “As soon as I deliver the goods.”

  “All right, then.”

  The car accelerated again, and Altagracia breathed. She was in Mexico, she could go home. Again she pictured her mother’s kitchen table; the white cloth with the blue embroidered edge, the stove, and the kettle; the silver pot for making chocolate, her father’s gift to her mother.

  They drove for several blocks. Peter stopped the car, got out, and opened the back door. “It’s the bus station; you can get out now.”

  Was she still asleep? She could hardly believe this had all gone according to plan. Peter walked next to her and stood aside as she bought the ticket she needed with Elizabeth’s pesos.

  “Are you hungry?”

  Peter bought her a tamale and a Coca-Cola. He sat with her as she ate and waited with her until her bus was called. He stood at the bus station watching as the bus pulled out. She waved to him from the window.

  No one on the bus paid any attention to her. No one took the empty seat beside her. It had all happened with such an easy logic: Elizabeth and Michael slowing to pick her up, driving her to Peter’s place; Peter taking her across the border. Now she was on the bus, going home.

  In Delicias, outside the bus terminal, she held out her hand for a cab. At first she was afraid. She was young and alone. Would he stop? Would he question her? Perhaps it was the American clothes that made her look older. The cabdriver nodded as she gave him the address, the address she had repeated to herself over and over in those rooms in Mexico City.

  As she approached her neighborhood she felt a tightness in her chest, a sensation that she could not breathe deeply enough. She was going home; she could see her mother, her two brothers, her father. Would he be home from the factory?

  The cab turned down the familiar street. The cab stopped; she paid the driver and got out. The house looked the same. But of course it would, she had not been gone all that long. She walked toward the door. The street seemed steep to her suddenly, as if in her absence she had indeed aged, had become an old woman, an old woman with weak legs, weaker lungs.

  The door stood open; it was a warm day. She hesitated at the threshold. “Mama,” she said, “Mama.” Her mother looked up, startled, from her work at the sewing machine. Altagracia seemed to see everything with preternatural clarity. There it was, the table, covered by the white cloth with the blue embroidered edge that she had made when she was nine. Her mother’s sewing machine, the table piled high with shirts to be altered, with trousers to be hemmed. She heard her brothers playing in the other room. Her mother stood up, stepped forward to embrace her, her face open and smiling. But the scene changed, the light on the silver coffeepot suddenly blinding.

  “Mama,” Altagracia said again, and then she stopped, puzzled. An exploding pain was beginning in the back of her head; her vision went away in a searing heat of white light. “Mama,” she cried again, and fell forward.

  IV

  Altagracia lay on her face in the stones of Cottonwood Canyon. The bullet had caught her in midstride and her limbs now lay still in the terrible disarray of death. The rifleman lowered his gun. He had seen her turn just as the other girls had shouted “Culebra! Culebra!” He inspected his work. It was a good clean shot in the back of the head, exiting through the eye. He had spent many hours practicing his marksmanship over long distances and was justly proud of his well-made American rifle. Still, given the difficulty of hitting a moving target, it was an extremely lucky shot. He had hoped to bring her down with a bullet between the shoulder blades. The loss of the girl was regrettable. In the nine weeks at La Merced she had earned the syndicate almost nine thousand pesos, less the costs of her upkeep—food and clothing—since she had been a slave and had earned nothing for herself. And his bosses would have realized two thousand dollars for her from her purchaser in Arizona, but that would now not happen.

  He stood and turned away from the body. “OK. Let’s get going.”

  A girl stepped forward. “You’re just going to leave her here like this?”

  Without a word he lifted the rifle and sighted down the barrel. The girl looked at her shoes and took a step back. He lowered the rifle.

  The girl turned and followed the other girls. The footing was bad and the sun was hot as they made their way north, into Los Estados Unidos.

  The rifleman followed. His boss had told him to expect losses in this part of the journey. Some girls died of exposure, some of snakebite. So far he had prevented that. And now the other girls would be more tractable. He reminded himself of a central fact of his business. More young girls were born and matured every day: this meant an inexhaustible supply of product. And there was an equally inexhaustible demand. He considered himself a fortunate man. He had found a place in the best business opportunity in the world.

  BRIAN TOBIN

  Entwined

  FROM Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine

  ON SEPTEMBER 12, 1994, in my second week of college, I killed Russell Gramercy.

  In the last eighteen years, how often have I gone over it all? Pearl Jam, the orange traffic cones, the young woman in white short shorts, the sound of kids playing, and then . . .

  I had been driving alone back to my dorm from the lake. Despite what people claimed later, I had not been drinking—not one drop. I want to be clear about that. Even though there were coolers full of beer at our blanket, I was not intoxicated. It was about five-thirty on a beautiful balmy afternoon, the last twinge of summer in upstate New York. I wasn’t speeding, nor was I driving in a “careless, reckless, or negligent manner,” which is the criteria for negligent homicide.

  A song I loved, Pearl Jam’s “Alive,” came on the radio, and I took my hand off the two position of the ten-and-two driving stance I had so recently been taught in driver’s ed. I reached down and turned the volume up from loud to really loud. I was barely aware of the pedestrians on the sidewalk; they were indistinct, background. Vaguely I registered the sign ROAD WORK AHEAD. However, my registering Daria Gramercy’s ass was anything but vague. She was wearing white short shorts; seen from behind, she was breathtaking. This figure of lust (I can’t describe it in any nicer way that reflects better on me) was walking with two males. All three had been forced to abandon the sidewalk that paralleled Beach Road because of constru
ction—for fifty yards the sidewalk had been jackhammered and it was cordoned off with orange traffic cones and yellow caution tape. Later, when I went back to the scene, I saw the clearly marked signs that warned pedestrians to cross to the other side of the road, that clearly told them not to walk on the shoulder. Weren’t those signs implicit—no, definite—warnings that to proceed was dangerous?

  At the time, I have to admit, I didn’t notice those signs. Even though the radio was blaring “Alive,” I could also faintly hear children playing: a Pee Wee League soccer match was just beginning.

  If only it could have stopped there. If only I could go back in time and slam the brake pedal, so that nothing more would have happened except Pearl Jam, the orange traffic cones, the young woman in white short shorts, the sound of kids playing. Then it all would have just faded, one of millions of trivial sense memories that disappeared.

  But time didn’t stand still.

  My car—actually, the 1979 Impala my father had handed down to me—was going around forty miles per hour. I know I lied about it later to the police, telling them that I was doing the posted thirty-five, but I can honestly say I was going about forty. At that speed, a car travels fifty-nine feet a second. (In my support group, everyone, every last person regardless of education, has done the calculations, the feet per second, the reaction times.) The three figures on the road outside the cones and caution tape, one with an extremely sexy sashay, were approaching rapidly. (I know they weren’t approaching, that in fact I was overtaking them, but that’s how it seemed to me.) And then the largest of them, a man in khaki shorts, a navy blue T-shirt, and Chuck Taylor Converse sneakers, stumbled beyond the white line into the road. Into the path of my thirty-five-hundred-pound lethal weapon going fifty-nine feet per second.