by Chris Fabry
He cut over to the interstate and took Kolb Road north. They passed the boneyard of Davis-Monthan Air Force Base, a menagerie of aircraft scuttled in neat rows of ghost squadrons. He pulled into Chuy’s, a chain Mexican restaurant, then thought better of it. No sense risking their lives and a room full of people for a good burrito.
He drove on past a bank sign that showed the temperature as 102. Nine in the evening and still 102. He turned onto Broadway, headed east, and found a Carl’s Jr. They ordered at the drive-through, then sat in the parking lot of a Sunflower Market and ate, watching people walk in and out of the grocery.
“I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?” he said when he had finished his cheeseburger.
Maria shook her head. “This is best. For us both.”
He resisted the urge to argue. “Where will you go when it’s over? Back home?”
A shrug. “I don’t see how. I will figure out something. Can we leave?”
He checked the street as they pulled out. Looking over his shoulder was a full-time job, and it would be a relief not to worry about it anymore.
The better part of him, the part that had willed him to move forward and not wither, didn’t want to abandon her. Something deep was calling to him, a familiar song that felt like home in a barren, foreign land. He could drive for days and not see a single person he knew. But walking beside a broken and poured-out woman, he felt some moisture in the air after a long drought. And she was intent on going her own way. It was his life repeating itself. The familiar ache he had tried to bury and walk away from in order to live, in order to breathe.
At Speedway he turned right and hit construction horses, flashing lights, and a lowered speed limit. There was always construction somewhere in the city. He passed the gas station and went through a light to a dip in the road that said not to enter when water was present. What a joke. There hadn’t been enough water for a gnat to get a good mouthful in months.
“It was back there,” she said.
“I know where it is. I didn’t see your friends in the parking lot.”
“They won’t be in the parking lot—they are too smart for that. I told them about this truck. They will come when everything is all right.”
“I don’t like it. Where are they taking you?”
“It is better you don’t know. You should be glad to get rid of me. I’ve only caused you and your friends trouble.” She asked the time and he told her. Almost exactly two hours since she had been at the pay phone. He pulled into a wide, sandy area at the side of the road where vendors sold honey or homemade burritos and hot dogs. People trying to scrounge a living. When he turned off the engine and lights, they were in darkness with a billion stars peeking through the dirty windshield.
J. D. folded his hands across the steering wheel and looked into the sky. “You asked about my ring.”
“You don’t have to tell me.”
“I was married for six years. To a woman who stole my heart the first time I saw her. Still has it. Taking off the ring is something I haven’t been able to do. It’s like looking in the rearview mirror when you back up. Just instinct.”
“What happened to her?” Maria said.
Deep breath. “She got sick.” Three words brought memories and he rubbed his forehead to stave off the onslaught, speaking before the pressure became too great. “The funny thing was, she was always the health nut. Real careful with everything she ate. Exercised every day. She had this little dog when we got married. Said I had to accept them both—they came as a package. She’d take it for a run, and then it got older and it could only walk. At the end the dog had to be pushed around in a baby stroller. She loved that little thing.”
He looked out at the stars through the mist in his eyes. It felt good to talk about their life together, to admit that she had walked the planet beside him. At the same time it hurt, like a dull knife through a scar.
“I can tell you loved her a lot,” Maria said.
He nodded. “I thought we’d always be together. I didn’t want to keep going after she was gone.”
“But you did.”
“Yeah, so far. Maybe I was too scared to do anything else. But you’re right. I did. And I kept the ring on because I couldn’t get the strength up to take it off.”
She placed a hand on his arm and something surged through him. “You have great strength. I can sense it. If you hadn’t found me, I would be dead.”
He turned to face her. “Maria, I’ve got a feeling about this. If you leave, something bad’s going to happen. I’ll see your picture in the paper. And they’ll ship your body back to Mexico in a pine box. I don’t want that to happen.”
She put her hands together and nodded. “I don’t want to be in a box, but I can’t put you in any more danger.”
“Let me decide that.”
“You and I both must deal with the past.” She took off her ring and gave it to him. “My mother gave me this when I was little. I have kept it to remember her. To not forget the place she has in my heart. I want you to have it.”
“I couldn’t take it.”
“I have kept it on because she is watching over me. You’ve given me the strength to remove it. Please.”
He held out his palm and she dropped it. It had a weight but was tiny, and he wondered if he could even get it on any of his fingers. But that wasn’t the point.
“Thank you,” he said.
He reached for the ignition but she opened her door. “I want to walk. You stay here.”
“No, if they don’t see the truck, they won’t know you’re there.”
“They will know,” she said.
J. D. got out of the truck and slipped the ring into his pocket. Maria came around the back and looked into his eyes, the moon shining off her face and making it glow.
“You need a flashlight,” he said, the ache rising. “You never know what’s crawling around out here this time of year.”
“I’m all right,” she said. “I’m not afraid of what’s on the ground.”
“You should be.”
She smiled and hugged him, then walked toward the gas station. He waited until he could no longer see her in the darkness, then rummaged through the glove box to find Win’s flashlight and followed, driving slowly beside her, pointing the light at her feet. She laughed and shook her head, but he kept pace. Finally he pulled over and shut off his lights at the intersection. There was no one on the street, just the buzz of fluorescents and the crimson glow of a Redbox machine.
Maria crossed the street like a cat prowling for dinner. He watched for movement around the building, holding his breath, hoping Muerte didn’t jump out of the shadows and mow her down.
She stood by an ice machine and looked back. He wanted to gun the engine, grab her, and drive away, but he didn’t. He put his hand over his pocket and felt the ring. His whole body felt the low rumble of the exhaust and the vibration of the rough-running engine. A bullbat flew past him and up toward the streetlight, where the moths were thickest.
Headlights from the bridge appeared, and a car flew through the intersection as the light turned yellow. Maria peeked inside the store, then moved back to the shadows by the ice machine.
J. D. glanced at the night sky and tried to pick out some constellation, but he had never studied the alignment of planets and stars. It looked like a black bowl of soup.
When he looked again, she was gone. No car. No machine gun piercing the night. Gone like a phantom. He rolled up to one of the pumps and sat. He went inside and asked the cashier if he’d seen a woman come into the store and the man shook his head. He plunked one of his twenties on the counter and told him the pump number, then went back out and leaned against the Suburban as he filled up.
Where does a man go who has seen something he wants slip away like sand in an hourglass? He was a fool to think that way, but there it was. He could spend the rest of his life searching for the feeling so strong it nearly drove him to his knees. It was like finding a vein of gold in a
hill he hadn’t mined. He wasn’t looking, wasn’t asking, but it appeared and disappeared in the same day.
A farmer can get beat by the wind or too much or too little rain. His livestock can be felled by disease or by standing in the wrong place during a storm. Fires rage through like tornadoes. A thousand things can sink a farm, but none so deadly as a broken heart.
He had been so dead inside he could hardly say his own name. The move to the farm had been an effort to make something happen, and for two months he had slogged through life. In the span of a single day he had felt a surge toward living and then the release of it.
“Good-bye, Maria,” he whispered.
And with that he got in his truck and drove away.
12
MUERTE PULLED TO THE ROADSIDE and stopped, placing his gun by the door out of the officer’s view. Only if he approached from the passenger side would Muerte be in trouble. But the trouble would be the officer’s. How many times had he eliminated an official or officer in Mexico? It was not as common north of the border, but he would not be taken into custody.
The flashing patrol car lights caused a dull throbbing in his temples and he thought about pulling away as the officer exited, but he didn’t need a high-speed chase. That would only involve more police.
He sat and watched the rearview mirror and willed the man forward. Muerte believed that if he could envision something, if he could conceive it with his mind, he could cause it to happen. Humans used a fraction of their mental abilities. He would harness that power and use it for himself.
Getting pulled over by the police changed many things. It sent his plans about the girl into a tailspin. It jeopardized the bigger plan. This made his next move even more important.
The officer approached cautiously with his hand on the revolver at his side. Muerte switched to view the side mirror, then rolled down the window. Heat invaded the car. He endured the blast and smiled convincingly.
“Good evening, Officer. Is there a problem?”
“I need to see your license and registration, sir.” There was nothing genial about the man. He looked to be in his thirties. Caucasian with perhaps a distrust of anything south of Tubac. A slight build. A shadow’s growth of beard, which told Muerte the man had been on duty for some time. He was tired and ready to go home to his wife and children, if he had them.
“I wasn’t going over the speed limit, was I, Officer?” He said it jovially, his best English, while reaching into his jacket pocket. The officer brought the gun out of the holster and pointed it toward the ground, ready.
Muerte pulled out a fistful of cash and held it in his right hand, high enough to be visible, as he probed his other pocket. It was probably more than the officer made in six months. Muerte continued the search for the registration until he was sure he had the officer’s attention. He caught the man staring at the cash.
Lowering his voice to just above a whisper, he said, “I can make it worth your while to let this infraction slide, whatever it is. Broken taillight. Failure to yield.”
The officer cocked his head slightly to get a better look at the money.
Don’t go moral on me, Muerte thought. You will take this money. I am willing you to take it.
This would not have happened in his homeland. The officer never would have stopped him in the first place. And if he had by mistake, he would have sent Muerte happily on his way. But this was not his homeland.
“All right, step out of the car, sir. And keep your hands where I can see them.” The officer reached for the door and opened it. The TEC-9 clattered to the pavement but Muerte had already grabbed the Glock inside his jacket. As the officer stared dumbfounded, Muerte lifted the pistol and shot him twice, once each in the chest and head, crumpling the man to the ground.
Careful not to let his face be caught on some dashboard camera, Muerte grabbed the gun, closed the door, and pulled back onto the road, scanning for witnesses. He could see none, but as he reached a stoplight, someone ran across an empty parking lot toward the cruiser. He thought of turning around but decided to put distance between himself and the officer. The police would now have his license number and vehicle make. That would be traced back to Sanchez. He could live with that. In fact, this new wrinkle probably aided his overall objective, but it did not get him any closer to eliminating the girl.
He pulled out his phone, which could also track her location. Somewhere east.
He phoned his contact and explained the situation. “Things have changed for me. I need a different car and two of your best men.”
The man told him where to drive and he was there an hour later, waiting for them at an excavation site that looked like an abandoned strip mine. Three cars trailed dust in the moonlight as they drove toward him. They shook hands; then Muerte retrieved his belongings before one of the men poured gasoline throughout the car.
Muerte opened Miguel’s laptop and leaned against the Audi A8. “I have something important for your men. It could mean a great deal of money. In addition to what I am already paying for your help. But you must understand: if you fail, I will kill you.”
The three men smiled. And just as quickly they turned serious when they saw he was not joking.
He explained the tracking device and how to find it. “This is the location of a young lady.” Several clicks of the mouse and her picture appeared. Muerte could tell they were admiring her. One said something vulgar under his breath.
“Do not let her beauty fool you,” Muerte said. “She is as cunning as a wolf. And twice as dangerous. Do you have a knife?”
“Yes,” the older man said. “You want us to kidnap her and bring her to you? Or we could hold her until you—”
“I want her shot on sight,” Muerte said. He handed over the laptop. “Bring her head to me. She is also carrying a satchel with her. The contents are very important to me. Do you understand?”
The men looked at the photograph again and nodded. Muerte took a lighter from the youngest man, flicked it on, and threw it inside his car. The whomp sent black, acrid smoke into the air and lit the night. The heat was intense, even seconds after the fire began.
He got into the Audi and held the door open. “Use the computer to track her. I expect this to be done by morning. Call me, no matter what time of night.” He threw a burlap sack at them.
The youngest picked it up. “What’s this for?”
“Her head, of course.”
13
J. D. DROVE WITH THE WINDOWS DOWN, pavement rushing underneath whining tires, running toward something. He stayed on the main road until he got to a perch where he could see Win’s place. A police car was still there. At Slocum’s farm it was worse because yellow crime tape surrounded the old schoolhouse and lights illuminated the squalor. It was a set trap, and the cheese was the money he had squirreled away. He doubted they would find it.
The longer he thought of Maria, the more it ate at him. He could just give up, toss up his hands and let her go, but he felt like he owed it to himself to investigate. Follow the trail. He drove the back road, a tractor path that took him close to the well, and parked in the moonlight by the wire fence. The engine chugged and rattled even after he turned it off, and he watched the dust dissipate around him and move like a cloud toward the hill. It was about as remote as you could get on the planet. He’d been to Moab, Utah, and that had felt as lonely as he could stand. This was worse because except for some cows and Slocum’s family, few had ever walked the area.
He used Win’s flashlight to find the fence, avoiding the stickers and thick cholla. A low grunt stopped him in his tracks as a family of javelinas passed. The adults were huge, and when he shone the flashlight in their eyes, they scurried away. He located the water line and followed it toward the rocky overhang. Slocum had showed him the well when he first arrived. The man seemed skeptical he could actually hold his own on a horse, but it had come back to J. D. quickly—a lesson from his father that actually stuck, the way to feel one with the horse. Slocum’s blac
k mare had been gentle and forgiving as his memory returned.
The well had been dug by Slocum’s grandfather and provided plenty of water for the livestock until it ran dry. Slocum’s father had run the water line a few years before he died, and it was a constant chore to keep the pipes flowing.
J. D. lost his way once, when his eyes stung with sweat and he couldn’t place the landscape. It was one thing to have the hot air moving through the truck, but out here the stillness and heat drenched him and he wondered how anybody ever stayed in a place like this. He’d heard September was the best month and that you could walk barefoot outside at Christmas, but anybody walking barefoot here in any season had to have their head examined.
He found the well. The boards on top had been tossed aside, along with the rock that held them down to protect some tipsy cow or coyote from falling in. The well was beat up on top, so he figured this was where she had gotten rid of the handcuff. Those chains were thick and it would have taken a good deal of strength and a heavy rock to bust loose. Seeing this made his heart swell for her as he imagined what she’d been through. He glanced west at the way she had come with no flashlight and wearing a skirt and after whatever had happened with the driver who brought her across the border. He shook his head.
J. D. shone the light deep into the well’s belly and saw a satchel hung up on some tree branches. He couldn’t see all the way to the bottom, but he imagined snakes in the mix of glop and rocks. The bottom was probably fifty feet down. There was an old pulley, broken and hanging by a thread at the top of the well. Beside it on the ground was a rope, but until then he hadn’t thought a whit about how he would pull the satchel up. He leaned over the edge and stared, sweat dripping through the LED beams like it was raining. Then he sat by the well and turned off the light, just listening to the quietness and staring at the stars and the lights of the city in the distance and the hazy gray of the sky clutter. In town they couldn’t see what he saw. The vastness of the universe and twinkling galaxies beyond. All you had to do was look and there it was.
