Borders of the Heart

by Chris Fabry

  “There are some things you choose. Others that choose you. Do you understand?”

  “You stumbled onto us.”

  “Yes, I stumbled onto the farm. But I think there was a reason. If it had been another farm, I might have died. But you found me. I think there was a purpose in that.”

  He laughed. “When you figure it out, tell me.”

  “Why do you laugh?”

  “Because I’ve been looking for the answer to that one for a while.” He said it leaning back and stretching his arms; then he noticed the stains of his underarms and the mildewed-basement smell of his shirt and quickly lowered them. “I’ve been looking for the purpose of things my whole life and I’ve yet to come up with any.”

  “Maybe it was God’s will that brought you to me. I prayed and asked him to help me, and you came.”

  “Is that so?”

  “When I first saw you, I thought you were an angel.”

  “Well, there’s a first time for everything, I guess. I didn’t know you were religioso like Win. You two ought to get along well, but I’m betting he’s going to be on my side of this.”

  “What side?”

  “The side that says we need to call the police. Explain what happened last night, how you got into the desert, the guy in the Escalade, the whole shooting match. No pun intended. They’ll protect you from this Muerte and get you back home in one piece. Maybe even help you find your passport that’s—”

  “No. If I go to the police, worse things will happen. You have to believe me. These men will not stop. And I’m not the only one they want to kill.”

  J. D.’s cell phone buzzed.

  “There are others,” she said. “Muerte is pure evil. And I believe—”

  She stopped midsentence and J. D. looked at where she had set her eyes. Win had stepped off his porch and was walking toward them, one hand holding a phone to his ear, the other waving like there was a fire.

  J. D. rolled down the window and Win leaned in.

  “You heard about the doc?” J. D. said.

  Win nodded. “The Benson police just called. They wanted to know why I had called his cell phone.”

  “What did you tell them?”

  “That I had a friend who needed help.” Win looked at the bandages on Maria. “What happened down there?”

  “To tell you the truth, I’m not sure,” J. D. said. “But there was a well-armed lunatic after her. The doc got in the middle.”

  Win winced and shook his head. “The police are headed here. I need to tell them what I know. About you. About the girl.” He stole a glance at Maria.

  “What are you going to say?” she said.

  J. D. saw the surprise on Win’s face. “Yeah, she knows more English than the two of us put together.”

  Win’s voice softened. “Maria, we want to help you. I want to help you. But we have to—”

  “You are not helping if you go to the police. You are not helping if you have me arrested. I will be killed.”

  Win shook his head. “Things aren’t that way here. The police will help locate—”

  “No,” she interrupted. “This will only make it worse.”

  “I’m going to answer their questions,” Win said. “I’m obligated to tell the truth and before God I will.”

  “How does talking to the police make it worse?” J. D. said.

  “You don’t understand.”

  There was an awkward silence until Win said, “Iliana is making carne asada. Why don’t you join us? We’ll clear all of this up when the officer gets here.”

  J. D. pulled up to the house, and Maria slowly got out and followed Win inside. Iliana Winslow was a small woman with short black hair. Every time J. D. saw her, he wanted to rename her “Our Lady of Perpetual Smiles.” Chubby cheeks and a broad grin. She hugged Maria and welcomed her.

  “Thank you,” Maria said. “Could I use your restroom?”

  Iliana showed her the bathroom, down a hall toward the back, and the two men sat at the table. The aroma of spices and sizzling meat filled the kitchen. Her cooking was the reason Win had to punch another hole at the tip of his belt.

  J. D. told them about Benson, the chase by the man in the Escalade, how he appeared again at Walmart. “I swear, it’s like he knew exactly where she was.”

  “Do you think it’s drugs?” Iliana whispered, clutching a spatula like it was a rosary.

  J. D. nodded. “I don’t know what else it could be. But she’s not carrying anything. Why would they want to track her down and kill her? Doesn’t make sense.”

  “Perhaps she has drugs inside?” Iliana said, still in a whisper. “The newspapers say people swallow packages and come across the border.”

  J. D. shrugged. “The X-ray machine over at Slocum’s isn’t working, so I couldn’t check that.” Neither of them smiled.

  “She was wearing a handcuff,” Win said.

  “Half of one, you’re right.”

  Win ran a hand through his graying hair. “The world makes no sense. Violence, drugs, bloodshed. Dr. Mercer was a good man trying to help people.” He stared out the window. “Like Bible times. Look at the news. It’s either Sodom and Gomorrah or a flood or hurricane.”

  J. D. leaned back to look down the hall. The bathroom door was still shut. The toilet flushed and he put his elbows back on the table. “What will the cops from Benson do with her?”

  “Question her,” Win said. “If she’s done nothing wrong—and it sounds like she hasn’t—they’ll eventually send her home.”

  “She says she lost her passport in the desert.”

  Win lowered his voice and scratched at his stubbly beard. “I’m not sure you can believe everything you hear. Something’s off with her, J. D. And you can see, the deeper you go into this, the worse it’ll get. For both of you.”

  J. D. glanced down the hall again. “Well, it’s over now. We’ll take what comes.”

  “You’ll be all right with the Benson law.”

  “I helped her, though. Drove her down there. You don’t think they’ll have a problem with that?”

  “She was nearly dead. Dehydrated as far as I could tell. What were you supposed to do, leave her?”

  “From what she says, sending her back across the border is a death sentence too. Not sure why, but she seems confident that’s what’ll happen.”

  “Well, I don’t think I want to know the particulars. Maybe she brought this on herself by carrying something across the border. Maybe she’s a victim. Only thing you can do is make sure she doesn’t make you a victim.”

  “Sounds kind of cruel. Just look out for number one? Aren’t you supposed to be your brother’s keeper, do unto others and all that?”

  Win stared at him. “I’m asking God to give us wisdom about her. About what to do. I’ve been praying since you came here. But if you don’t know what to do, you start by obeying the authorities.”

  J. D. sat with his thoughts and his past swirling like the cumin, cilantro, and jalapeño pepper mixed with the beef juice. Then his ears pricked as the engine of his truck fired. When he made it to the door, there was nothing but dust on the driveway.

  7

  J. D. HURRIED OUTSIDE and Win followed. Maria turned right out of the driveway and a plume of dust billowed behind her on the road. Which way she would turn when she got to the hard road was anybody’s guess.

  “I left the keys in there,” J. D. said. “But she won’t get far. Truck’s almost out of gas. I’ll give her to Main Street in La Pena before it runs out.”

  “I’ll call the police and report the vehicle stolen,” Win said.

  “No, don’t do that. She’s liable to meet them on the way in, anyhow. Can I borrow your car?”

  “Use the Suburban. Keys are in it.”

  The Suburban door creaked open and J. D. stepped in, then looked over his shoulder through the open window. “Tell Iliana to save some meat. I’ll be back as soon as I round up my truck.”

  “Be careful, J. D. Remember, don’t
become a victim.”

  Win stood in front of his farmhouse like a sentinel and J. D. felt a twinge in his gut. That was a picture of an easy friendship in the rearview mirror. Despite J. D.’s silence, the man and his wife had taken him into their lives like he was a lost son come back from a forgotten war. And they still had no idea what he’d done or been through. Or maybe they did. Maybe something inside had drawn them to the rough road he was traveling.

  The Suburban coughed and sputtered to life and a voice came over the stereo. Some preacher on an AM station talking about trials and the love of God. The book of Job. J. D. was halfway down the driveway before he found the Power button.

  The steering was loose, as were the shocks, so the vehicle bounced and shimmied down the driveway like a ride at the county fair. He gunned the engine when he made the turn onto the road and cut it hard but still nearly ran into the ditch on the other side.

  He didn’t pass any cars on the dirt road, and when he got to the blacktop, he worried again if she would’ve headed to town or gone south. The southern route led to a lake and a campground, basically a dead end, but she had no way of knowing that. There would be no dust to track her and once he committed, he was stuck with the decision.

  He turned left and raced toward the lake, knowing that just over the ridge was a wide-open area where you could see for a mile. He came up over the ridge, his heart sinking when all he saw were a few longhorns in the distance and the rolling desert with the wires running beside the road.

  He did a three-point turn and nearly hit a javelina scurrying from the brush to cross the road. Maria was getting farther away every second, but he also knew there was a finite amount of gas in the truck. She had no money, so he would find her eventually. But he didn’t know if he could convince her to talk with the police. If he dragged her back to Win’s place, she might head out on foot. A girl like that might cross the Sahara in flip-flops.

  He punched the gas but swerved as something flew through the air toward the truck. A bird in flight had hit a power line, and it tumbled to the ground, wings spread, toppling end over end until it collided with the hot pavement. Feathers flew. It was like his life. Flying along unaware of hidden dangers, things growing in the dark he couldn’t see. He’d thought of writing a song about God watching sparrows fall but not giving a hoot about humanity. He would probably never put it to paper.

  He passed the dirt road he had turned from and continued down a winding hill, past a farm with a sign that said Fresh Eggs for Sale. Most people here lived on farms, but several developments had begun and were then abandoned when the housing market collapsed. Clumps of two and three homes and then plastic PVC pipe sticking out of the ground with the phone lines already buried but nobody to talk.

  Fences lined the roads and he hit a cattle guard. He passed a winery and a little white church—convenient for the Communion tray, he supposed—then a clearing opened up and the road meandered down and up another hill in a V. At the bottom of the hill, off to the side of the road, was his truck.

  “Bingo,” he said softly. He felt a lightness, something like the relief of finding a wandering puppy just as coyotes began howling.

  He couldn’t tell if Maria was still in the truck, but she wasn’t in the pasture by the road. He barreled down the hill, his front wheels bald and wobbling, and noticed another vehicle topping the ridge ahead and speeding toward the bottom. It only took a second to recognize the maroon Escalade and that the other side of the V was a lot shorter.

  He cursed and mashed the accelerator. The Suburban picked up speed, bobbing and weaving down the undulating roadway, but the Escalade beat him. The driver’s door opened and a dark-skinned man with closely cropped hair got out and moved toward the truck. Now he saw movement inside. Maria was trying frantically to move to the passenger side, as if the distance would protect her.

  The gun came up and the man braced himself as he sprayed bullets. Glass shattered and exploded. Maria had to have been hit.

  In that split second, acting on something from the gut, J. D. made his decision. Whether it was a protective instinct to help the innocent or levels of grief and revenge that rolled like waves, he did not know or care. He simply gritted his teeth, kept his foot on the accelerator, and bore down on the man.

  The gunman looked up, then jumped toward the Escalade. J. D. slammed into the open door of the vehicle. A sickening crunch of the door and then a thud as the man caromed off the hood of the Suburban and went airborne. J. D. slammed on the brakes and screeched to a halt in the middle of the double yellow, but he had already gone fifty yards.

  He ran back, heart pounding, trying to breathe. The man lay a good twenty yards behind the Escalade at the edge of the road, his head twisted to the side, blood gushing from glass wounds to his face. J. D. picked up the gun on the other side of the road and ran to the truck.

  He found Maria hunkered on the passenger-side floor, wedged between the glove compartment and the seat, looking up at him with tears streaming.

  He reached out a hand to help her. “You all right?”

  She nodded. Somehow the bullets had missed. Maybe an angel had protected her. Maybe the guy was a bad shot.

  J. D. put the gun on the passenger seat and ran to the man lying on the road. He hadn’t moved and his eyes were open and staring into the sun. J. D. put a hand to the man’s neck. No pulse.

  Footsteps behind him. Maria holding the gun. She looked down with hatred and lifted the barrel.

  “He’s dead. He’s not going to bother you.”

  She said something in Spanish he didn’t understand, but he didn’t really need a translation.

  “We need to go,” she said.

  He stood. “Maria, this is the guy. The police have their man. You don’t have to worry. They’ll match the bullets from that gun, don’t you see? Wait here and we’ll explain what happened.”

  “Stay if you want.” She slung the gun over her shoulder like it wasn’t the first time she’d done it and headed for the Suburban.

  He glanced back at the Escalade. The tinted window had shattered and the computer lay on the floor, still on.

  “Maria, they’ll protect you.”

  She stopped. “No, they won’t. They can’t. I told you he would be back. And Muerte is coming. Stay here if you like. I don’t need your help now.”

  “You don’t need my help? You’d be dead if it wasn’t for me!”

  “Then I say thank you. From the heart.”

  She tossed the gun in the Suburban and got in. J. D. looked at the dead man, at the glass, the door smashed and barely hanging on the Escalade, the violence that made no earthly sense at all. Two men had died in the space of a couple of hours and he had been part of it. If he went with her, he’d be a desperado. Stealing a friend’s truck to go . . . where? Where did you hide from such things?

  But staying with the body felt like giving up. Waiting for the police to question him was waving a flag he didn’t even know he had. And he knew what he decided next would likely change the course of his life and maybe hers. Or had he changed course that morning when he brought her in from the desert?

  Maybe his course had been set as soon as he came to Arizona.

  Or perhaps this decision had been made for him months ago when he tossed dirt on the casket and walked away from life. Maybe all of this was just fate turning the doorknob.

  Maria closed the door, and the Suburban coughed and sputtered and coughed again, the starter struggling to fire the points and plugs. And it was then that it hit him full force. He wasn’t throwing anything away because there was nothing left. What was Slocum going to do, fire him? He only worked for the food and knowledge of how to farm. He had no real ties here, just acquaintances at the farmers’ market. And the Slocum kids. Though he had been distant and gruff, they were attracted to him and the feeling was mutual. Win and Iliana too.

  He walked slowly up to the vehicle and saw her watching him in the side mirror.

  He opened the door. “Scoot ove
r. I’m driving.”

  8

  AS HE DROVE INTO THE COUNTRYSIDE, Muerte tried to focus on the computer screen, but the road became unpredictable. Full of curves and turns. He tried to zoom in on the signal but hit the wrong button and cursed as it expanded.

  He was trying to get from a view of the entire US back to this area of Arizona when he pulled up behind an older car with a female driver, slow as frozen molasses. She sat so low that all he could see above the seat was her hair. She was a turtle with a Lincoln Town Car. A small dog stood on her backseat, sniffing at the air, its tongue hanging out on the right side. Twin troubles of heat and genetics were working against the dog.

  The road was coursed with solid yellow lines because of the unnerving blind curves. Muerte let off the accelerator and switched to his phone app, looking up to make sure the old woman hadn’t slowed more. The girl was close. She was somewhere ahead on this route.

  He pulled out to pass, and at that moment an SUV barreled up a hill toward him and he swerved back, just missing the vehicle. The computer clattered to the floor and he cursed again. His heart pounded and he caught the old woman shaking her head in front of him, her silver hair matted like a snowy cap. The speed limit here was fifty, but the curve they were coming up on had yellow signs that said thirty-five and her brake lights flashed. He pulled past her in the curve, glancing at her as he went by. She was talking to herself, or maybe to him, and it was all he could do to resist pulling the gun and taking her life. It would have been so easy. Like shooting a crow sitting by carrion.

  He came up over a ridge where it looked like he could see all the way to the Mexican border. The world spread out from here and the view made him wish he had taken care of the girl long ago. She could have had an “accident” on the farm and he wouldn’t be going through this trouble. In the distance he spotted two vehicles—one on the right, one on the left. He recognized the maroon Escalade and pulled up behind a body. Miguel lay dead beside the road.

  He expanded the view of the tracking device on his phone. The girl was traveling behind him now on the same road. She had passed him. Muerte closed his eyes and struggled to remember the make and model of the SUV. It was his gift. An ability to recall fragments of details from flashes. The surprised looks of those who had no idea this was the way they would die. Dead men with gold fillings. He could remember which molar in some instances. There was no license number, just a flash of color—a two-tone tan. The word Suburban and the face of a man driving. Facial hair. A mustache and beard. Or perhaps it was just growth and not a full beard. Caucasian. A cowboy hat. She had gained help on her journey.