by Chris Fabry
“Who is Muerte?”
“I told you, he’s an evil—”
“No,” he interrupted. “Who is he to you? Why would he care about one girl from Mexico, unless you’re mixed up with him? And how would you get sent north with a gun that could kill an elephant? If your daddy would put a locator in your ring, surely he wouldn’t want you doing something like that. And don’t tell me it’s a long story. We got lots of time. Were you and Muerte lovers?”
She rolled her eyes. “Muerte does not love anything but himself. He does not have the ability. He and I only had a working relationship.”
“Meaning what?”
She paused, choosing her words carefully. “In the last few months, I was able to get closer. To discover more of what he was planning.”
“Don’t tap-dance.”
“Muerte is the reason my brothers are dead. I think he had a great deal to do with my mother’s death as well. But my story is no different from most in the little town where I am from. There are many grieving women there.”
“And Muerte was the one who pulled the trigger.”
“No. You would have to understand the culture. The setting. The fear. He was the man who ordered my brothers killed, but I discovered this by accident. It’s different there.”
“Doesn’t sound too much different from what’s happened the last couple of days. So you got on the inside? Is that why you were carrying that weapon?”
“I did not know what was in the package, just that it was important. To the cartel. Then I learned Muerte had other plans and I convinced him to allow me to deliver the package.”
J. D. rubbed his forehead and found dirt and sweat and salt mixed in a gritty mess on his fingertips. “You had no idea what was inside?”
“No. When you told me it was a weapon . . .” She leaned forward. “That makes sense. J. D., he’s planning something. It’s part of why he wants me dead. He knows that I know. Or thinks I do.”
“You know what?”
She stared at him with furrowed brow. “I’m not sure. No, listen to me. I overheard him speaking. He didn’t know I was there. He was talking to a man . . . I believe it was one of the Zetas. They are at work here, recruiting young people, those who are illegal and can’t find jobs. I don’t know what he has planned, but it’s happening soon.”
“So he wants you dead because you might know something? Seems like he’s going to an awful lot of trouble and expense.”
“There are other reasons. Revenge is one. You have to understand Muerte, and I’m not sure anyone can. Who can understand evil? The expense doesn’t matter. He will do what he has planned.”
“Which makes it a miracle you’ve survived.”
“Yes. That’s exactly what it is—a miracle.”
“When you first crossed the border . . . the agent who was killed—how did that go down?”
As she spoke, she scratched at a spot on her arm as if she were allergic to the past. “The driver of my car . . . I didn’t trust him. I knew he was loyal to Muerte. And when we stopped after the crossing . . . he made advances.”
“He jumped you?”
“He came to the backseat. We struggled. He tried to subdue me and put one of the cuffs on my wrist, but I secured the other end to the case. He got very angry. He jumped from the car and fumbled for the key. That’s when the other car arrived.”
“The guy picking up the package.”
“Yes. It was a Border Patrol agent. At least that is how he was dressed. I don’t know if he was an agent or just posing.”
“So you struggle with Muerte’s driver and hook yourself to the case out of desperation. Then what happened?”
“The American approached our car and called my name. The driver said something, and before I got out, another car pulled in. Gunfire erupted and the driver and the border agent dove for cover, but I think they both were hit.”
“And you got away?”
She nodded. “We were on the side of a narrow dirt road. The car behind us got close, blocking the view of the other car. I simply opened the back door and slipped into the desert. I heard them cursing behind me, looking for me.”
“That explains the flip-flops and skirt when I found you.”
“And all of the cactus stickers. I had no light, no way of seeing.”
J. D. let the image sweep over him. He cringed when he thought of the bullet wound. How frightened she must have been. So close to death, close to becoming another body on the side of the road.
“If the border agent was after this case, were the other guys after it too?”
She shrugged. “I heard them use my name. They knew I was there.”
“So the whole thing was a setup. Why didn’t they follow you?”
“I don’t know. I was praying that God would protect me. They were firing into the desert even after I escaped. I heard an explosion minutes later—they burned the car. I don’t know what happened after that.”
J. D. heard a noise that didn’t sound like it fit in the pristine wild and finally recognized the helicopter overhead. He cursed and told Maria to get under a burned-out tree. “I have to move the car.”
When he had the Toyota hidden beneath a copse of pine trees above the parking area, he made his way back down the hillside. As far as he could tell, the chopper hadn’t seen them. It was on the other side of the valley, searching near some hills.
The sun was up and the temperature too. He had no idea what the thermometer read, but it felt above ninety before the rays hit his back.
“Let’s get closer to the water.”
Maria followed him down the incline, shuffling through black pinecones, rocks, needles, and the occasional mesquite beans that had blown across the landscape. The ground was a tinderbox, ready for any spark. Lightning fires were common here, a cruel twist of irony. They needed rain to wet the earth but with the storms came lightning that could cause the whole region to smoke and burn.
They sat under a cottonwood tree at the edge of the water. The ground beneath the tree showed children’s and small animals’ footprints to the water’s edge. J. D. had seen paddleboats and children swimming at the tiny pier when he had walked the perimeter of the lake weeks earlier. The gift shop was closed and the lake deserted at this hour, but families would head for this oasis soon.
“Want to go in?” Maria said.
He shook his head and watched her take off her shoes and socks and wade into the water. There could be broken glass at the bottom or snakes or any number of things, but he knew she wouldn’t listen. She rolled up her sweatpants, then tossed caution aside until water was up to her waist, splashing her arms and face.
“It’s really cool,” she said.
She found a rock and sat in the water up to her armpits, and it looked so inviting he couldn’t resist. He kept his boots on but sat, letting the water envelop him. It felt unnatural, water seeping through his clothes and flooding his boots, but as he let the coolness seduce him, he closed his eyes and listened to the birds and the gentle lapping of water. He pulled his hat lower to absorb the sun’s rays and felt his arms go weightless.
“My father would take our family to the beach when I was a little girl,” Maria said. “Bahia Kino. It’s on the Sea of Cortez. We would leave for a week in the summer. The three of us were in the sand at sunup building castles and digging tunnels, searching for seashells and buried treasure. We would laugh and play in the surf until dark. We never stopped. Not even hunger could bring us inside. My mother would bring us sandwiches and Coca-Cola and we would play in the water and get burnt by the sun. Then in the evening we’d smell my mother’s cooking coming from the little house we rented, or my father would be cooking meat on the grill in the back, and we’d race each other for the table.”
“Sounds like a great memory.”
“It was the happiest time of my life.”
He thought of his own family and the handful of times they had taken a vacation when he was little. J. D. had vowed things would chang
e if he ever became a father. But what was learned stuck.
A memory of his brother at the beach flashed through his mind. Tyler laughing at him for thinking he could spend a sand dollar at the store. Their father had spoken with the manager, explaining the innocent childhood perspective, and J. D. triumphantly exchanged the worthless debris for a pack of gum. This infuriated his brother but gave his parents something to laugh about all the way home. Plus, it was fodder for one of the few songs J. D. had written that actually made it onto the charts.
“Tell me more about your father,” J. D. said. “Were you raised on a farm?”
She scooped a handful of water and doused her head. “He inherited it. Many acres of land. He was considered wealthy by local standards.”
“So it was big.”
“Yes. There is a vineyard. We have horses. Gardens and fruit trees and flowers.” Her eyes sparkled as if she were describing the Magic Kingdom. “It was peaceful when I was little, but so was the whole town. Things changed with the coming of the cartel.”
“And your brothers were killed.”
She nodded. “They were caught up in the violence like others. So many have lost their lives. And the ones left are shells, just making it day to day. My greatest hope is to help rid them of this evil.”
“That’s a big job for one person. You’re not getting much help from the authorities down there.”
“Poverty is rampant. Turning to the drug trade makes sense to young people because you can make a lot of money in a short time. You can provide for your family. Sadly, you can also get hooked.”
“Did that happen with your brothers?”
She looked away, toward the west end of the lake. “One of them, yes. The other was innocent and young. A follower. He was my twin.”
He couldn’t think of anything to say.
“The sad part is it doesn’t have to be this way. But this kind of change doesn’t happen with new laws or a bomb or even a fence. There are ways around fences and under them. This change must happen inside.”
“Well, I don’t know if the whole ‘love your enemies’ thing is going to work with the cartel.”
“When God is at work, it doesn’t matter how big the problem is. He can do mighty things. He can move mountains.”
J. D. nodded and held back but finally blurted out, “I asked God to move a mountain for me once and he didn’t seem to be able.”
“Your wife?”
He nodded. “I could write a song: ‘God moves other people’s mountains but not mine.’”
“What happened to her?”
“She passed away.”
“I’m sorry. You should write a song about her. I’m sure it would be wonderful.”
“I don’t write songs anymore.”
“Why not? Some of the best songs—some of the best art—come from pain, don’t you think?”
“Well, if that’s true, I ought to be a country music da Vinci. But I’m not even close.”
“What kind of songs do you sing? What are they about?”
“It doesn’t matter because I don’t sing anymore.”
Maria thought a moment, watching the water drip from her hand above the surface of the lake. “And you came to the Slocum farm to get away? To escape the memories?”
“No, I wasn’t really escaping. I can see that now. I don’t think I’ll ever escape what happened. I think I was trying to keep something alive.” A bass surfaced near them and struck at an insect.
“Before your wife died, were you happy?”
“Yeah. I was the happiest I’d ever been. Doing something I loved, sharing my life with someone. Working toward something together instead of being alone. It wasn’t a perfect relationship because I was part of it, but we were good together. She loved me for who I was and not who she wanted me to be. That’s unusual, from what I can tell.”
“So what now?” she said.
The chopper returned, the rotor beating at the air from a distance, and the two stayed still until it went out of sight.
“I don’t make plans anymore,” J. D. said. “I don’t think about what I want because it doesn’t really matter.”
“Because no matter what you want, if you get it, it will be taken?”
“Something like that. It’ll either be taken or it’ll be an illusion. Not what was advertised on the outside of the box.” He studied the algae in the water and tried to see to the bottom of the lake, but they had stirred it too much. “What about you? What do you want from life?”
She looked toward the cottonwood tree, into the sun, and the light hit her face just right. J. D. thought if he had a camera, he could take a picture that would fit on the wall of the farmhouse in his mind, the place where he’d eventually settle. If he could capture this moment, freeze her beauty for a split second, it would be enough.
“I don’t want to be afraid.”
“Okay, kill Muerte and all the members of the cartel and you won’t have to be afraid.”
She shook her head. “Have you ever thought of what the opposite of fear is? What would you say?”
“Bravery. Courage. Something like that.”
“That’s what I used to think. I would have said that to be courageous and brave meant you put fear away and run ahead into danger. Like a firefighter running into a burning building. The head says to run from, but the heart says you must go toward it.”
“I didn’t know they grew philosophers down there in Herida.”
She laughed. “I am not a philosopher. I am a woman with a heart and a desire to live.”
“So what’s the opposite of fear, in your mind?”
Maria ran her hand in the water back and forth, making ripples on the surface that spread out around her. “There is a verse in the Bible that talks about love that is perfect. It’s the kind of love that helps people do the impossible. That kind of love is not afraid because you cannot love and fear at the same time. They cancel each other. Do you understand?”
“I hear you, but I’m not sure I understand.”
“For love to be real, for it to grow deep inside, it must not give in to fear. It is not afraid to give, to risk, to chance, even if it hurts. Love believes. It is faith moving forward. Fear holds us back. It makes us stop or turn and run. It blocks us from doing what would bring life and health. Fear keeps us overwhelmed. It makes us look at the problem rather than the answers that lie asleep inside.”
He took a deep breath and tried not to let her see what was going on inside him. “Sounds like you heard a sermon or two. You said it well.”
“I have been reading,” she said. “And I’m captured by the man in the book.”
“Which man is that?”
“Jesus. In every situation he is moved by love. He has great reason to fear. Great reason to be moved by anger at injustice and disease and the hatred of those around him. He could have been overwhelmed with everything the world had become. It was so far from the plan. And yet he had love for the woman who came for water who was not holy. For the adulterer, he did not condemn. He beckoned children and showed compassion and kindness and mercy.”
“You should have married some Mexican preacher,” he said. “Maybe changed the mind of a priest down there at some mission.”
She blushed and shook her head.
“Those are good thoughts,” J. D. said, “but you can dump out all the love in the world and it won’t keep people from getting hooked on drugs. It won’t make them stop selling or running it across the border. It’s not going to keep Muerte from killing.”
“You don’t understand love, then. You think it is just some kind of mushy feeling.”
He set his jaw. “Don’t start in on me about what I think about love.”
“Love is not just a feeling couples have. It’s not just a mother cradling her baby. It’s so much more powerful.” Her eyes flashed fire and something came over her he didn’t like.
“I never said it was just a feeling,” he snapped. “And don’t tell me it’s powerfu
l—I know that already.” J. D. watched a long-legged egret fly to an inlet near a dry stream that fed into the lake. It pecked at some insects on the surface of the water, then stuck its head underneath and pulled up a struggling fish and flew away.
Maria stayed silent, taking it in with him.
“I can hear the words, Maria, but I can’t hear the music. You know what I mean?”
She nodded and crossed her arms. “I don’t know if I can do anything to help my people, my town, but I’m not going to let the fear hold me back. Perhaps I will fail. Worse things could happen.”
“Such as . . . ?”
“I could do nothing. I could try to live a safe life.”
“I admire your pluck.”
“Excuse me?”
“Your attitude, your courage. And your faith. I wish I had it.”
“But you can have it.”
“No. I’d only be pretending. Kidding myself that there’s something bigger out there that wants to be involved in this mess.”
She slipped from the rock and stood facing him, planting a foot between his boots and leaning close enough that he could feel her breath on his neck. Close enough to see the part in her hair and his reflection in her eyes.
“There was a reason you found me, J. D. Not Slocum. Not the Border Patrol. Not the cartel. You found me. God is up to something in your life.”
Whether God was working was up for grabs. The stirring inside him wasn’t. That was real. He searched her face and tried to think of something to say but nothing came. All he could do was stare at her eyes and lips and try to dredge up something that might make sense.
She spoke in a whisper now. “What if you were to give love a chance instead of fear?”
“I’m not afraid of love.” His voice cracked.
“Yes, you are.”
“I think my ability to love died with my wife.”
She pulled her hair back over one ear, then gently touched his chest. “It’s not dead. It’s dormant. Waiting. You will know it when it comes because it will not act out of fear of what might happen. It will compel you to do what is right, what is best for the other person no matter what the consequences. That’s real love.”
