Fatal Harvest

by Catherine Palmer

  “They say you murdered Jim Banyon.”

  “I didn’t do that, Hernando. Why would I kill Mr. Banyon? I liked him. He was cool.”

  “Hernando?” Josefina stuck her head around the door frame of the bedroom. “Who’s there?”

  “Josefina!” Matt had never been so glad to see anybody in his life. He charged her and threw his arms around her. “Josefina, it’s me!”

  “Niño?” Her hands clamped around his face, and she forced his head backward so she could look into his eyes. “Matthew! Mi niñito! Ay, mi bebe! Where have you been, my baby? Everybody’s looking for you. Your father is worried to death! I’ve been sick to my stomach ever since you ran away.”

  “Yeah, she’s not even hardly cooking nothing,” Hernando put in.

  “Nothing?” Matt couldn’t believe that.

  “Sheriff Holtmeyer told us the police found your car abandoned in El Paso!” Josefina grabbed him and hugged him tightly to her breast. “Ay, mi hijo! I thought you were dead! I thought somebody killed you for sure!”

  “I went to Juarez,” Matt managed over the lump in his throat. He’d had no idea he was going to feel like crying just from seeing Josefina, whom he’d seen nearly every day of his whole life. But somehow her round, smooth face and black hair threaded with silver made her look so great. And the way she was holding on to him and rocking him back and forth caused things to well up inside him that he could hardly hold at bay.

  “You were in Juarez?” Hernando asked. “You drove that piece of junk all the way to Mexico? What happened, Matt?”

  “Somebody towed it. The police, I guess. Maybe they were looking for clues.” He swallowed hard, as Josefina made little cooing noises while she patted him on the back and smoothed his hair. “I took a bus to Alamogordo, and then I caught a ride the rest of the way home.”

  “You hitchhiked!” Josefina exclaimed. “Ai! You could have been murdered! They have killers on the highway these days! You don’t ever get in a car with a stranger. Didn’t I tell you that? They kill you and leave your body in a ditch. Ai, niñito mio!”

  “Stop your wailing, woman,” Hernando told her. “Go fix the boy some tamales or something. Sit down, Matt. I’m not gonna turn the light on, because who knows? Seems like the sheriff’s driving by every hour or two, and other people keep coming over here to ask questions or poke their noses into ranch business.”

  Matt wiped the stray tear that had found its way down under his eye, and then he took a seat on one of Josefina’s saggy couches. The house smelled like red chiles and tortillas and the kind of perfume Josefina always wore. Matt covered the USB key in his pocket with a pillow. Then he picked at the fringe on the pillow while Hernando questioned him.

  “So you went to Juarez? What for?”

  “I needed to see a man there. But I better not tell you why, in case the sheriff asks.”

  “Oh, si. I got you.” Hernando looked confused. “Well, anyway, it’s good you’re home again. Your father is over in Amarillo, and he’s been calling Josefina day and night to see if you came back.”

  “Cole is not in Amarillo anymore, mijo,” his wife said, emerging from the kitchen with a plate of biscochitos and a glass of milk. “He went to El Paso to look for Matthew, remember?”

  “To El Paso?” Matt felt stunned. “Why did he do that?”

  “Because of what we told you—the police found your truck down there,” she said. “He’s crazy to find you, what do you think? He’s your father!”

  “Yeah, but…” Matt didn’t know how to explain the surprise he felt every time someone told him his father was worried about him. Certainly Matt knew his dad cared for him, maybe even loved him in a detached sort of way. But crazy to find him? Calling day and night? That didn’t sound like his dad.

  “Now, you just stay right here with us,” Josefina said, “and we’re gonna call Sheriff Holtmeyer—”

  “No, we’re not!” Hernando cut in. “He’ll throw the boy in jail. You want that? We’ll hide him until Cole gets back.”

  “Hide him? And then what, mijo? Then the sheriff will have to come over and get him—and you and me will go to jail ourselves for harboring a fugitive.”

  “A fugitive? It’s Matthew!”

  “Si, but I saw how they do it on TV. That’s what is going to happen, because if we hide him, that makes us guilty, too. Matthew needs to just call up Sheriff Holtmeyer and tell him that he didn’t kill Mr. Banyon in Hope.”

  “It’s not going to do any good, because that’s not how it works—and I didn’t see this on TV. I know it’s true, because you remember what happened to my cousin José? First they put the person in jail, and then they get him a lawyer and call out the jury, and then—”

  “I have to leave,” Matt said. “I’m sorry to interrupt, Hernando. But I have to go. Tonight.”

  “Go where?” Josefina asked. “You can’t run away again, Matthew. You don’t have no place to go that’s more important than your own family right here. You stay with Hernando and me and Mama. We’ll take care of you.”

  Matt now understood the full meaning of temptation. What wouldn’t he give to bundle down into one of Josefina’s clean beds and sleep for two days straight? To eat platefuls of good food that wouldn’t make him sick? To have Hernando stand at the front door and defend him to Sheriff Holtmeyer? If he just stayed here, everything would work out. And he’d be safe.

  Struggling to resist the lure of security and comfort, he accidentally picked off a whole tuft of the fringe on Josefina’s sofa pillow. “I can’t,” he mumbled, pushing on the fringe as if that would make it stick back on. “I can’t stay here. There’s something I have to do.”

  “What? What you have to do that’s so important?” She clucked. “Matecito, mi bebé—”

  “No, Josefina.” He looked up at her. “I’m not your bebé anymore. I’m sixteen now, and God has given me something to do. Something I have to do. I don’t want to do it, but—”

  “Then don’t do it.” Hernando slapped his large palms on his thighs. “If you don’t want to do it, don’t!”

  “But that’s not how it works with God, Hernando. God called Paul to go on mission trips that ended up getting him shipwrecked and thrown in prison—”

  “But God would never want you to go to prison,” Josefina said.

  “How do you know? Paul went. John the Baptist went. A lot of the disciples wound up in prison. And they died, too, Josefina. They died doing what God told them to do.”

  “But you’re not a disciple.”

  “Yeah, I am. Every Christian is. And if we really listen to God, and if He tells us to do something…then we have to do it, no matter what.”

  “What is this thing you’re so sure God said you gotta do for Him, huh?” Hernando asked.

  “I can’t tell you.” He slipped his hand under the pillow and made sure the USB key was still in his pocket. “It’s just something I know.”

  Josefina looked at her husband. Hernando stared at Matt. Finally he scratched the side of his face and let out a deep sigh. “You’re a little bit loco, you know that, Matthew.”

  Matt grinned. “Yeah, that’s what people tell me.”

  “Well, what can we do for you? I know you didn’t come here just for Josefina’s biscochitos.”

  “I need my passport. Billy’s, too. They’re both at my house. Our youth group was supposed to go on a mission trip to Guatemala. Billy’s dad threatened to confiscate his. And don’t freak out, Josefina,” he added as she threw up her hands in despair. “We’ll be okay. I promise.”

  “But you have to finish the school year,” she said. “Don’t you wanna be a junior in the fall? And what about Billy? His mama needs him. She threw her husband out, you know? You should stay and let us take care of you.”

  “I can’t do that, Josefina.”

  “Where are you going to go, Matthew?”

  “I’d better not tell you. But I need the two passports.”

  “I’ll get ’em,” Hernando sai
d. “I’ve gotta check on some cows that are calving anyhow. If the sheriff passes me driving around, he won’t think nothing about it being two in the morning. Then I’ll stop at the big house and get the passports.”

  “Thanks, Hernando,” Matt said.

  “They’re in the top left-hand drawer of his desk,” Josefina told her husband. “I found them when I was cleaning.”

  “You cleaned my room?”

  “What you think? I’m gonna let the FBI look in there with that mess everywhere? Of course I cleaned it. I found where the ants were getting in, too. You won’t have to worry about them no more.”

  Touched, Matt pictured his old room—his comic books, computer, orange sodas—all the things he had thought he loved so much. They seemed far away now.

  “How’s Billy doing?” Matt asked Josefina as Hernando pulled on his boots.

  “He stayed at Granny Strong’s house in Amarillo while your dad and Miss Pruitt went to El Paso to look for you. They’ve got a real guard standing outside the door to protect them. With a gun, too.”

  “Who sent the guard?”

  “The USDA. They sent two, in fact. One is outside, and another one is in the house looking at your computer.”

  Matt frowned. There was nothing on his computer of interest, but he still didn’t like anyone prying into his personal files.

  “Why does the USDA think they need to protect Granny and Billy?”

  “Something to do with Agrimax,” Hernando told him. Chuckling, he reached for the door handle. “The USDA thinks Agrimax is chasing you. If that ain’t the stupidest idea, I don’t know what is. But that’s the government for you.”

  Cole opened his eyes and stared at the black void surrounding him. Nothing. Nothing but pain. His left arm throbbed. His left leg wouldn’t move. As if it had gone to sleep. He tried to think where he was. What had happened.

  As he blinked, a faint shaft of light filtered into his consciousness, and he began to distinguish objects. A shape loomed overhead. A bridge? Or a building? Near it, a streetlamp…the source of the light. Brush, reeds, tall grass. Around him, a barricade of twisted metal. He reached up with his right hand and felt it. What was that? A steering wheel? But it had been bent into a distorted oval. Was he inside a car?

  A memory shot into his mind. A rental car. A mad race down a narrow road. Mexico. And the woman beside him—

  “Jill?” He stretched his arm out, frantically tracing the outlines of the mangled car around him. “Jill, are you there? Jill, talk to me. Answer me. It’s Cole. Cole Strong.”

  That’s who he was, he realized. He was Cole, and he’d come to Mexico in search of Matthew. His son. Matt, was missing, had fled in fear. Cole had gone looking for him. But someone sideswiped the rental car. Ran them off the road. Then turned around and came at them again, head-on. A pair of silver headlights bearing down. Cole had fought to stay on the road, swerved at the last instant. The rental flew off the bridge and landed in this ravine.

  “Help!” he called out. What was the word in Spanish? “Ayudame! Ayudame!”

  What day was it? He glanced at his watch. Four-thirty on Sunday morning. The accident had happened late Friday night. Had he been unconscious for more than twenty-four hours?

  He had to get out of here! Make sure Jill was okay. Find Matthew. Why didn’t she answer him?

  “Jill? Hey, Jill, are you there?”

  His heart sank. What if she was dead? He thought of Jill Pruitt’s pretty face—bright green eyes filled with enthusiasm, brilliant smile, determined little chin. And that hair. All those bouncy golden curls. “I’m a guardian angel,” she had told him.

  But he hadn’t been able to protect her.

  Who had been inside that car? The crash had been no accident, of that he was sure. Who would stoop to such reckless action? Someone who had wanted to kill him, that’s who. The same person who wanted to kill Matt.

  Cole gritted his teeth. He had to get out of this wrecked car. Grabbing the steering wheel, he tried to pull himself from his cramped position. Nothing. He didn’t gain an inch. His left leg was trapped. So was his left arm. Maybe if he just started shoving stuff out of the way, he could get loose.

  He worked at it for a while, sliding aside everything that would move. A piece of dashboard. Broken glass. The door handle. He found the foam cup from Jill’s supper. How had it survived untouched when everything around it was smashed and shattered?

  “Jill?” he called again, moving his hand around in the darkness. “Please answer me. Please be okay.”

  His fingers brushed something soft and silky. He grabbed it. “Jill! Jill, wake up. It’s me, Cole!”

  Hopeful, he ran his fingertips over the fabric. What had she been wearing? Why didn’t he notice these things? He recalled everything about her face. The arch of her eyebrows, the line of her nose, the pretty outline of her lips. But her clothes?

  “Jill.” He tugged on the silky stuff, pulling it toward him. It was white. White, smooth, billowy…

  The air bag.

  “Great. Just great.”

  Exhausted, aching, disappointed, he lay back. His arm ached and burned. The seat belt was cutting into his chest, and he wasn’t sure why. He tried to find the release button but couldn’t locate it.

  As he lay there, hurting and angry, he tried to pray. This was the perfect time to address God, if ever there was one. Help, he cried out inwardly. Get me out of this!

  The sun was coming up, he realized as he prayed. Now he could see clearly through a gap in the metal. The structure overhead and to the left turned out to be a bridge. The streetlight had gone off. The blackness faded to pale purple, and then to shades of orange, pink and blue.

  Cole wondered if God ever got tired of hearing him calling out for relief. That’s all their communion amounted to. Cole would find himself stuck in a bad situation and then cry for help. Help me, rescue me, get me out of this mess. He thought of Jill and her constant chatter about God. Obviously, the Almighty was a regular presence in her life, someone she turned to hourly, if not more often.

  Matt must have the same kind of relationship with God, Cole realized. Otherwise, why would he be so committed to feeding the hungry? What else could have made him take the Bible to heart in such a real, concrete way? If you only got around to contacting God when trouble arose, then you didn’t think too much about His business—you were too busy worrying about your own.

  That thought led him to recall his ranch, and he worried about whether Hernando was keeping a close eye on the calving, whether José was remembering to log the hoe-hands’ hours correctly, whether Pete had thought to order pesticide. Were the men watching the irrigation pipes? Had the diesel truck arrived to fill the tank so the employees could keep the tractors running? If only he could talk to them…

  The cell phone.

  Cole began to search the car again. In the growing light, he could see a lot better. The car lay upside down in a ditch, he realized, but somehow he had ended up on his back. Water seeped along the flattened roof, soaking his shirt and the seat of his jeans. He found the seat belt button and released the pressure that had been cutting into his chest. It did nothing to ease the pain in his arm.

  Unable to find the cell phone and too exhausted to keep looking, he called for Jill again. “Jill, are you there? Just say something! This is Cole. Please, just—”

  His voice stuck in his throat as he caught sight of two pale fingertips protruding from under a piece of sheared metal right over his head.

  “Jill!”

  Dear God, please don’t let her be dead! Reaching up, he touched the fingers. They were white, bloodless. Nothing. No movement. No life. Her body must be lying directly above him. Sick, spent, he slammed his fist into the car roof. Not this! Not Jill! She was too good, too righteous for something so awful. Why, God? Why Jill and not me?

  And where’s my son?

  And how am I going to get out of this car?

  “Help!” he shouted. “Ayudame!”

&nbs
p; A truck rumbled across the bridge, drowning his words. Before he could call out again, a car sped past. Then another truck. And another. He looked at Jill’s fingers.

  “No!” His scream went unheard as a bus roared by. He grabbed the bent steering wheel and pushed as hard as he could. He had to get out. Had to get out! His good right leg found a toehold, and he pushed hard against it. In a blinding, shearing flash of pain, his left foot tore free. As agony swept over him, the world went black once more.

  Matt got to Amarillo without a bit of trouble, and he had Hernando and Josefina to thank for that. Hernando had given him keys to one of the old ranch pickups that nobody used much—and no one would miss. And Josefina had packed a cooler with bean-and-cheese burritos, roast beef sandwiches, potato chips, plastic Ziploc bags filled with biscochitos and a large supply of Fanta orange sodas. Matt figured he had enough food to last a week. Most of the stuff was frozen when Josefina put it into the cooler, so it would keep awhile.

  He didn’t make it to Amarillo until late Sunday afternoon, because he stopped at a rest area and took about a five-hour nap. Maybe he was more tired than he knew. He felt weird about missing church, because he hardly ever had, and he wondered what the kids in his youth group were doing. Probably watching TV or playing video games. Or doing homework.

  Now, as he took one wrong turn and then another while trying to find his grandmother’s house, Matt thought about the little street children who had been so kind to him in Juarez. They sure didn’t have a TV or a game system. They didn’t have a cooler full of burritos and sandwiches. They didn’t even have houses or families. They had nobody but each other.

  There were seven in the group that had adopted him—two Marias, José, Pedro, Marcos, Hernán, and their leader, Luz. Luz meant “light” in Spanish, and that’s what she had been to Matthew. After they ate, she had invited him to stay with them for as long as he wanted. When he agreed, imagining a little house and a mother like Josefina, Luz had led him to the far end of the alley—a dead end that butted up against a concrete-block building. This was where Luz and the rest of the street kids lived—a collection of cardboard boxes protected against rain by pieces of corrugated tin and sheets of tattered plastic.