Her nose twitched, her eyelids opened and she smiled at him as she stretched her arms overhead. He hadn’t seen her do that morning move in twelve years, not since they shared a bedroom in this old house.
“You like coffee?” he asked, pointing at it.
“Thanks.” She sat up, wrapped Marta in the blanket, and reached for the cup. “What time is it?”
He sat in the leather chair next to the couch. “Almost ten.”
“Where is everyone?”
“In town.”
“How’s Hawk?”
“He’s okay, everyone’s okay. Jefe texted you a couple of hours ago. I saw it on your phone. He misses you.”
“Now he misses me?” she said, holding the cup with both hands as she sipped. “He always wants what he can’t have.”
“He had a hard time letting you go.”
“He said that? What else did he say?”
“That Dad had been moving people across the border.”
She sighed without confirming or denying what Jefe had said.
“You want to tell me anything?” he asked.
She looked at Marta, still in her deep sleep. “Maybe you and I should talk outside.”
He got up first, and Autumn tucked Marta in tighter and followed Quin out the front door. They walked across the front yard to the old swing set they’d once played on together. She sat in one swing, balancing with her free hand while the other held the coffee mug. Quin sat in the swing next to her and they stared out at the horizon of red rock and clay, and the wavy pattern of heat rising on the horizon.
“What exactly did Jefe tell you?” she asked.
“That Dad teamed up with somebody in Mexico to bring people across.”
She lifted her feet and swung forward and then back again. “Is that so hard to believe?”
“No, he was a trucker.”
“Remember how he’d sometimes park the trailer to shade the house from the afternoon sun?”
“Yeah,” he said, smiling at the memory.
“Most truck drivers live in town,” she said. “Not out here where it’s hotter than hell.”
“But why would he do it?”
“Because he could. He had the means to do so,” she said.
“He was heading north anyway,” he suggested. “Why not bring some illegals along?”
“Don’t say it like that.”
“That’s what you’re telling me, that Dad had a truck and an isolated house in the desert. He could make tax-free money on the side hauling human beings.”
“I never said he did it for money.”
“Then why the hell would he do it?”
“Families were dying out there,” she said, sweeping her hand across the horizon in front of them. “You remember? The clothing we’d find on our walks, dolls that I’d bring home to show Mom?”
He did remember: the junk treasures they’d collected—empty beer cans, hooded sweatshirts, piles of socks.
“Why do you think Mom didn’t want us wandering far from the house? How she’d tell us stories of beasts out there?”
“Chupacabra.”
“Yes! Oh my God, chupacabra will bite you, suck your blood,” Autumn said, imitating their mother’s stern voice.
“Mom was aware of what Dad was doing?”
“She’s the one who begged him to do it. Anybody who was desperate enough to stop here, she gave them food and water. Then, instead of sending them back into the desert, she asked Dad to drive them north. You do that a couple of times and word gets out that this is a safe place. They only have to make it this far, to the other side of Nogales.”
“He’d drive them north to work in the fields?”
“Up through California and even into Canada, depending on the season. And he’d bring them home, too.”
“Mom and Dad didn’t do it for the money?”
“They wouldn’t take it. People offered gifts, wine, handmade blankets, jewelry, whatever they could easily carry. Mom donated all of it. She couldn’t sit by and watch as families carried their children into the desert.”
“How do you know all this?”
“When I was taken to Mexico, I learned of Mom and Dad’s reputation, how the people respected them for protecting poor, struggling families.”
“If they had such a good reputation, who attacked us?”
“Coyotes. When you offer a service for free, you make life difficult for people who could easily profit from it.”
Coyote was a term for those who smuggle people into the States for hefty fees, with no guarantees that their clients will actually make it to their final destination. Smuggling isn’t the same as human trafficking, but it’s close. Coyotes sometimes diverted their clients into the hands of wolves, men who run human trafficking rings. Quin realized his parents weren’t only saving families from the desert heat, but from a life of misery and slavery.
“Do you know the men who did this to us?”
“No,” she said. “They were hired hands. Gangbangers.”
“Why did they take you and leave me for dead?”
She leaned back in her swing, looking up at the sky. “Girls are worth more than boys.”
He felt sickened at the thought of it. “I’m so sorry, Autumn.”
“It’s ironic, how Mom and Dad saved so many other families at the price of their own. I’ve thought about that so many times.”
“Jefe mentioned the name Santana, that you lived with him. What does he know about this?”
“He’s an ex-pat, a coyote who protected me from the traffickers. I wouldn’t be alive if it weren’t for him.”
“Would he know who’s ultimately responsible for our parents’ deaths?”
“Gangs come and go like tumbleweed around here,” she said. “It’s too late. Nobody in the States cared enough to search when they had the chance.”
That was true. Quin had often felt that nobody really cared about the case. The DA and police assumed the family had been smuggling drugs and got attacked by a rival gang entering the territory. Of course, others thought Quin had killed his own family, but no charges were ever brought against him, only vicious rumors that left him alone, drifting through the foster care system like a tumbleweed himself.
“Admit it, Quin. The police, DEA, and FBI turned their backs on us.”
“Not anymore,” he said. “A team within the bureau sent me here.”
“You’re one of them.”
“No, it’s not like that.”
“In the tunnel Hawk told me you’re an informant for the FBI.”
“I’m a bounty hunter, a contractor hired by the bureau.”
“Is this a rescue mission, Quin, or am I under arrest?”
“Rescue. I’m not here to drag you in.”
“This house that was once our home now belongs to the bureau,” she said. “And they hired you to find me after I was missing for twelve years. It all seems so…orchestrated.”
Her mood had shifted from proud memories of their family to suspicion of Quin’s motives. He couldn’t blame her; she’d felt abandoned and forgotten all these years and the circumstances surrounding her rescue, if he could even call it that, were shady indeed.
“How did they track me down after all this time? They use a satellite or one of those drones?”
Skips often asked this question: “How did you find me?” as if the bounty hunter had an obligation to share what the skip did wrong before dragging his or her ass back to jail. Quin never talked about how he did it because he knew it would never make sense to a skip—that he’d see them, feel them out there hiding, and anticipate their next move.
“Remember how we’d play hide and seek out there beyond the rocks?” he asked. “It’s something like that.”
“You close your eyes, count to twenty, and then come find me?” she joked.
“Correct.”
“I knew you were searching for me, Quin. Lately I had this feeling.”
“Describe the feeling.”
/> “That your presence was nearby. I hadn’t felt that until recently.”
“When I came to your back door, did you recognize me?” he asked.
“No, but I knew it was you.”
“If you sensed my return and were afraid that I might arrest you instead of rescue you, why not run?”
“I knew I couldn’t, it was over. The whole nightmare would end if I’d surrender. And I trusted you because you’re my brother.”
It was possible, he thought, that she, too, had the gift, but she hadn’t used it or learned how to control her instincts. His time in the field bounty hunting had helped him hone his skills, and with Kruse’s help, he took it to another level.
Quin’s phone vibrated in his pocket. It was Kruse calling again. “I’d better take this call.”
Autumn stepped off the swing. “I’ll check on Marta.”
He watched her walk back to the house, her light frame reminding him of their mother. Kruse answered on the first ring.
“What happened?”
“We got her.”
“You’re sure this time? Because the other day you acted as if it might not be her.”
“I spoke with her this morning.”
“Who are you with? Agent Lopez said a man was shot,” Kruse said.
“Hawk and Jimmy are friends of mine.”
“You’re on official business, Quin.”
“Working vacation, remember? I couldn’t have done it without them.”
“You have no idea how everyone in the Phoenix office is buzzing about this.”
“Dillan and Rachel were amazing.”
“Of course, it was a team effort,” Kruse said. “How’s Autumn?”
“Better than I expected,” Quin said. “Marta is in good shape, too.”
“How did you cross the border?”
“I’ll explain later. We’re all here catching our breath from a long night of traveling.”
“Bring her home,” Kruse said.
“This is home…or it was.”
“Get Autumn up here as soon as possible. I need to interview her.”
“How about I bring her to the Phoenix office where they can take her statement?”
“No, bring Autumn here, where I can speak with her, get her statement on video. We don’t want the Phoenix office taking credit for this.”
“They can’t fly commercial air, they don’t have passports or ID.”
“I’ll arrange a private jet. You can fly out of Tucson in a few hours.”
Kruse sounded anxious, a little too eager to lay claim to Autumn’s rescue. Quin had questions of his own before he’d hand his sister over; besides, he couldn’t fly out. “Even if they discharge my friend Hawk from the hospital, he won’t fly. I’ll drive him home. We’ll be there in a few days.”
Kruse exhaled into the phone. “Get on the road as soon as possible.”
Quin hung up and realized that as he’d been standing outside on the phone, Autumn had been watching him from the house, the blinds pulled back a couple of inches. She had to be nervous. She’d already expressed her distrust of the bureau, and now she’d have to explain to them how they screwed up, left her for dead, only to have her resurrected by her own brother? He walked back to the house and opened the door, where he found Autumn sitting on the couch with Marta.
“We’re leaving.”
“Where to?”
“Home. Minnesota.”
“That’s not my home,” she said defiantly.
“I’ve seen where you lived, now you can see where I’ve been living,” he said, trying to calm her down.
“Are they going to ask me more questions? I’ve already told you what little I know.”
He reached out and held her trembling hands. “They’ll record your statement, and then you’re free.”
How much longer could Agent Kruse mask his irritation toward Agents Backstrom and Clark, seated across from his desk, their suit coats unbuttoned, playing good cop, bad cop? He knew what this visit was about; his remote viewing demonstration had been a success, but somebody in DC didn’t appreciate his most recent results. Agents from the J. Edgar Hoover building on Pennsylvania Avenue don’t show up unannounced unless there’s a problem.
“Where are they?” Backstrom said, bad-copping him.
“Quin’s driving Autumn back as we speak,” Kruse said.
“Why not stop in Phoenix so we can verify that she is Autumn?” Clark suggested.
“Phoenix isn’t hijacking this case.”
“Let’s not get territorial here,” Clark said.
“You knew I was searching for Quin’s sister. Why didn’t you stop me weeks ago? Because you thought I’d fail, that I’d hit a dead-end. Well, surprise, gentlemen, there really is a pot of gold at the end of this rainbow.”
“Your job is to accept assignments handed to you, uncover intel, and forward it back to the appropriate agency,” Backstrom said.
“You know how few assignments I’ve received over the past year? Five from the NSA, a dozen from the CIA, and only three from Homeland Security. That leaves me with a lot of free time to recruit and train, but eventually I have to give the remote viewers something real to hunt, to chase.”
“You can’t go rogue, creating your own assignments,” Clark said.
“Why, because I might uncover something that should be reported to Internal Affairs?” Kruse threatened.
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but at this point we have no evidence that you’ve found anyone. Where is she?” Backstrom said.
“I don’t know,” he said, which was technically true. He knew Autumn was with Quin but where at this moment, he wasn’t sure.
“Is she hiding on one of the reservations?” Backstrom asked. “The bureau has jurisdiction over all Indian reservations.”
Kruse couldn’t take the posturing from these testosterone-fueled agents. They had no idea of Kruse’s longevity with the bureau. They hadn’t done their homework and were about to get schooled.
“Don’t lecture me about our relationship with indigenous cultures, Mr. Backstrom. For twenty years I worked in the Indian Country Crimes Unit (ICCU), assisting tribal police, but more often than not apologizing to tribal members for our ignorance and arrogance when working with tribes. We only have jurisdiction over 200 of the 565 recognized tribes in the United States. If we want to win the war on terror, I suggest we become better neighbors, especially with those within our borders.”
Agent Clark leaned forward. “Cool it, we’re here to assist you.”
“The Phoenix office knew of Autumn’s disappearance. Why didn’t they solve the case years ago?”
The question hung in the air like a feather floating between them, both men pondering it, but neither of them reaching for it until Backstrom gave a stock answer: “Limited resources,” he said, shaking his balding head, “and Quin’s family chose to live in the borderlands.”
Kruse was well aware that all branches of law enforcement had their backlogs. Some criminals were caught, others got away, some were prosecuted, others plea-bargained, with little to no time served. But cold cases like this one were cold for a reason—poor families living along the border are a low priority, presumed guilty of something, or why else would they live there? The poor didn’t matter, which to Kruse was the biggest crime of all.
In a way, Autumn was more valuable to Kruse and his team than to the FBI. She was living proof that what they did worked, that they were contributing to the greater good. He decided to run a new idea past them, an idea he knew they’d like. “What if it’s not her after all? What if Quin is wrong?”
“No harm. Mistakes happen in the field all the time,” Clark said.
“She might’ve lied to get a free ticket across the border,” Backstrom suggested. “Some people will tell you whatever you want to hear.”
“And if this woman wants to stay and live a quiet private life, that’s fine,” Clark said.
Kruse riffed on their bullshit narrative
. “It’s possible that I front-loaded the task, planting the idea in Quin’s mind that this woman is his sister.”
“Quin’s a psych patient, sees what he wants to see,” Backstrom said.
“Remote Viewing can’t be 100 percent accurate,” Clark said. “You’d document in your report that the target you found is not the target you were searching for.”
“Of course.”
“And upon receiving your report, we’ll see to it that your department gets other assignments,” Backstrom said, “more pressing cases for Homeland Security. Until then, funding for your department is frozen.”
“You can’t do that!” Kruse said.
“Can’t cut off funding to a department that doesn’t officially exist? Of course we can,” Clark said with practiced empathy.
Backstrom leaned forward and lowered his voice. “This nation faces a rising tide of threats, from hostile foreign intelligence looking over our shoulders to homegrown extremists. Not to mention the violent gangs running the streets and corporate fraud built on pyramid schemes that leave our government footing the bill. Despite that, the $120 million Criminal Justice Information Services (CJIS) is about to get cut in order to fund the Intelligence Community Information Technology Enterprise (ICITE) for the FBI. So if you see yourself working with us in the future, helping us track threats or the next lone wolf attack, then you’d best get your house in order.”
Nogales is a rugged border town where the Emergency Department of Holy Cross Hospital was conveniently located on Target Range Road. Quin parked and walked with Autumn and Marta across the hot blacktop parking lot to the main entrance. The doors opened automatically and a blast of cold air enveloped them. Marta smiled and looked up at her mother, as if she’d never felt air-conditioning before. Quin approached the front desk and an elderly woman with sun-dried, leathery skin pointed down the hall to Hawk’s room.
Quin led the way and rounded a corner, finding Agent Lopez seated outside Hawk’s room, checking messages on her phone. When Quin, Autumn, and Marta approached, Lopez stood to attention.
“How is he?” Quin asked.
“Good, the bullet grazed him. He’s got a couple broken ribs and a dozen stitches,” she said. “He’s tough for a guy his age.”
In The Company of Wolves_Follow The Raven Page 21
