Borders of the Heart

by Chris Fabry

  “Is that why you gave up on the music? It reminded you of her?”

  “Every song. Every melody. Everything I wrote had a hole in the ground or a hole in my heart.”

  Win shook his head. “I understand. I don’t mean to minimize your pain. But the truth is she lives in eternity. And what a joy it would be if she knew you would meet her there.”

  “I can’t love my son, Win. I can’t love him because I keep seeing him as the reason for her death. And if God is the one who is in control of all this, pulling the strings, how could I buy into that? What would be next? Jonathan? How could I follow some being who would choose this pain to work out his plan?”

  “God understands,” Win whispered. “This same God you blame was nailed to a tree. His hands and feet were pierced, and he was beaten to a pulp. He was everything good and innocent and holy. He walked through the desert like you, experienced hunger and pain, loss and shame and betrayal. And all that was to show his love.”

  J. D. took off his hat and wiped his brow. “I want to love my son. I swear I don’t know how.”

  “God’ll help you. He can create a new heart that can love again. You are moving toward something here, J. D. Like a caterpillar spinning into a chrysalis.”

  J. D. gave him a look. “What?”

  “You ever heard about the monarch butterfly? The caterpillar can’t reproduce. It has no reproductive organs.”

  “Bummer.”

  “Yeah. But when it becomes a chrysalis, it shuts itself up and most of its body is dissolved. Gets new eyes, new digestive tract, a set of legs, and wings. A creature that was never able to do anything but crawl spreads its wings and flies.”

  “And it gets new plumbing?”

  Win laughed. “Yeah, that too. It can make little butterflies. But the most interesting part is that they hatch in the US or way up in Canada, and late in the summer when the milkweed dries up, millions of ’em head for Mexico and wind up on a volcanic mountain range down there.”

  “Like salmon swimming upstream,” J. D. said.

  “Exactly. They fly to a place they’ve never been on wings they never had.” Win smiled at him. “That’s your life. You’re a chrysalis. Your wife has already flown. But you’re becoming who you were meant to be.”

  J. D. studied the phone number on the page. “And while we’re talking about this, Maria is waiting for her death sentence. I can’t see how any of this will work out.”

  “It’s not by might nor by power, but by God’s Spirit that this will work out. God has a plan and a purpose for Maria. The question for you is, can you trust her?”

  “I want to believe that she cares about the people in her town. And the reason she came here was to face down something her father never could. But I don’t know.”

  A car pulled into the parking lot of the Mustang Bar and a man sauntered inside.

  “Know him?” J. D. said.

  Win nodded and sighed. “He goes to my church. Struggles with alcohol.”

  “Doesn’t look like he’s struggling enough.”

  “Maybe he’s a caterpillar too.”

  “Hand me your phone.”

  Win gave him his cell.

  J. D. dialed the number, then closed the phone. Indecision. Questions. He couldn’t see a future for anyone. He could imagine death and strewn bodies. He could see police cars surrounding the place and Maria in cuffs.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder. “Would you mind if I prayed?”

  J. D. didn’t answer, just nodded and stared at the floor. Win kept his hand on J. D.’s shoulder and squeezed. “Gracious Father, you know our hearts. You know this situation. And I ask for your direction. Keep Maria safe from this man who wants to kill her. We need your insight, Lord. We need your wisdom. Show us what to do, and we will give you the glory and thanks and praise for what you accomplish tonight.”

  “Thanks,” J. D. said. He opened the phone again.

  28

  “SANCHEZ,” THE MAN SAID. His voice was gravelly and distant. A cell phone with wind noise. J. D. pictured him driving on a dirt road through a vineyard in some lonely stretch of Mexican farmland.

  “Mr. Sanchez, I’m calling about your daughter.”

  “Who is this?”

  “I’m a friend of Maria’s.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Arizona.”

  Silence, then, “She knows no one in Arizona.”

  “Maybe that was true a few days ago, but not now.”

  “How do you know her?”

  “I found her in the desert. Dehydrated, almost dead. I tried to help her.”

  “What is your name?”

  “It’s J. D., but my name doesn’t matter. It’s your daughter we need to talk about.”

  “Do you know where she is?”

  “Yes. I’m close to her right now.”

  “Get her on the phone.”

  “Can’t. She’s not in a real safe place, if you know what I mean.”

  “Tell me where she is. I will send a man to get her.”

  He was forceful. Used to getting what he wanted. J. D. had to check himself and not give too much away. “Is your man named Muerte?”

  A pause on the other end and the wind noise died. He either rolled up his window or pulled to the roadside. “Tell me where she is.”

  “Not if you’re sending Muerte. He’s part of the problem, not the solution to this mess. And it’s a real mess.”

  “How do you know Muerte?”

  “I told you, I’ve been trying to help your daughter. But at every turn Muerte and his men have tried to kill her. Ever since she came across the border.”

  “Nonsense. Muerte was with me when she crossed. Did she tell you this?”

  “She didn’t have to tell me; I was there. We were in a hotel when he came for her.”

  “A hotel?”

  “It’s not like it sounds. Muerte was tracking Maria. We barely got out before he sprayed bullets like it was air freshener.”

  The man laughed and the rattle shook J. D. to the core. Callous and uncaring. Derisive. Dismissive.

  “My daughter has a tendency to . . . overreact. To believe something she has created in her mind. You said you found her in the desert. Was she pretending to be an illegal immigrant?”

  “No, she said she had a passport but lost it. There was no pretending about her wounds. She was as close to dead as you get.”

  “She is a master at this. She gets what she wants by manipulation. A chameleon. You are in more danger from her than Muerte.”

  “So you don’t think Muerte was tracking her with the ring from her mother? The black one?”

  Another pause. “Tell me where she is, J. D., and we will take care of her.”

  “Yeah, that’s what I’m afraid of.” He glanced at Win, who shook his head and stared at the bar. “There’s a big reward out for Maria. You wouldn’t have anything to do with that, would you?”

  “Is that what you want? Name your price.”

  “I don’t want anything from you but the truth,” J. D. said. “And maybe some help.”

  “Truth about what?”

  “About her. She gave me this phone number. I figured you might help.”

  “I want her to safely return. That’s why I’m asking you to tell me where she is. I’ll send someone.”

  “You don’t understand. The guy you’re sending is working against you. He wants to take over your business. He’s working with the Zetas. Your daughter discovered that. He’s trying to kill her.”

  “Gabriel Muerte is my most loyal employee. I met him before Maria was born. I trust him with everything.”

  “Well, if Maria’s right, he’s going to get everything.”

  “That’s preposterous.”

  “Maybe some of those Zetas are on their way to use you as target practice.”

  “Is that a threat?”

  J. D. cursed. “I’m not threatening you. I’m trying to get you to see what you’re blind to. What if Muerte is your
enemy and wants to kill your daughter?”

  “Why should I believe J. D. from Arizona over someone I’ve worked with most of my life?”

  “I don’t know, Mr. Sanchez. Maybe because it’s the truth. Maybe because I don’t have any reason to get involved other than I care about your daughter. Maybe more than you do.”

  “How dare you talk to me that way. I have given her everything.”

  “Yeah, I bet you have, except for what she needed.”

  The man said something in Spanish, and J. D. couldn’t tell if he was talking to himself or someone else. “All right, I’ll send someone other than Muerte. Give me the location.”

  Something wasn’t right. Like a bad egg in the chicken coop. J. D. closed his eyes and tried to picture him. Had Maria gotten his eyes and mouth? Or was her beauty from her mother? What had caused him to sell drugs and ruin lives? J. D. punched the End button on the phone and held it there, thinking he had just made a big mistake.

  “I don’t even know why I called him.”

  “Yes, you do. If a father won’t protect his child, who will? You were hoping he’d respond.”

  “He says Maria makes stuff up. That she manipulates. What if he’s right? What if Maria’s the one with the plan?”

  “You question her belief in God? That she has been changed?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Win stretched his legs and wiped sweat from his forehead. “Maybe she manipulates and makes up stories. She doesn’t make up dead bodies and bullet holes.”

  “Yeah.” J. D. nodded. “Maybe I’m bothered by the irony.”

  “Say again?”

  “The fact that this guy is abandoning his daughter makes me look in the mirror.”

  “You mean your son?”

  “Right. I’m not a drug dealer with a hit man, but I’m about as good as Sanchez as far as my boy’s concerned. He didn’t do anything to deserve me leaving.”

  “And why did you leave?”

  “I couldn’t handle the pain.”

  “Leaving isn’t final. You don’t have to stay gone forever. And children are resilient. I have heard they are like wet cement. You can mold them because they are pliable. They forgive.”

  “What about me, Win? My heart feels like thirty-year-old asphalt.”

  The man chuckled. “If the cement can’t be molded, it gets smashed. Torn up and poured out again. Maybe that’s what God is doing to your life. I know it’s painful, but it’s worth it.”

  J. D. turned in the seat and spoke with a grunt. “You people won’t let up on God smacking people around, will you?”

  Win smiled. “There’s blessing in the struggle. The community of brokenness. Nobody wants to belong, but once you’re in the club, there’s freedom.”

  “Freedom?”

  “You don’t try to make everything look nice. You don’t have to clean up your life. You’re accepted as you are. Broken. And when you embrace the broken places, you get strength you didn’t know you had. Because you didn’t have it. That kind of strength comes from somewhere else.”

  “I think I’m in over my head.”

  “No you’re not. There’s a verse that says God chooses things the world thinks are foolish in order to shame the wise. He chooses the powerless to shame the powerful. God chooses things despised by the world, things counted as nothing.”

  “So he can use a country singer,” J. D. said.

  Another laugh.

  J. D. stared at the bar and thought of all the nights he had spent inside places just like it. Ramshackle buildings and people cocooning with pain and alcohol. He had tried to tap the overflow of his heart with each song that bubbled and foamed in the night hours. He struggled with words and chords the tunes left. He sang into beer-soaked microphones and strummed a guitar that was the most expensive thing he owned. People watched him like a cold animal would soak in sunshine.

  He played with a coin in the tray by the steering column. “Christians always have a lot more words to say than the rest of us.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “People I’ve known. They have the answers to questions I haven’t asked. And they won’t slow down to hear the real ones. You’re not like that, Win.”

  “I appreciate that. Your wife sounds like she listened.”

  J. D. nodded. “But none of this answers our problem right now.”

  “You can make a decision that will bring life. That will move you forward. A decision about your heart and your son. You can live again. Not the life you wanted or dreamed, but one with purpose and hope.”

  “What about her?” he said, pointing toward the bar. “What kind of hope does she have?”

  “From what I gather, she’s on a good path. A little misguided here and there, but still a good path.”

  “Do you think Slocum and the others are hurting her?”

  Win shook his head. “I think they’re protecting their investment.”

  J. D. stuck his arm out the window and wondered what it was like in November or December. It couldn’t stay this hot all year-round.

  “So you’re not promising me cotton candy and Disneyland? Come to Jesus and he makes everything better?”

  “Nope. The gospel doesn’t promise comfort and ease and all of your dreams coming true,” Win said, opening the door and stepping into the darkness. He closed the door and stuck his head through the open window. “The good news is redemption. The mending of broken places. God’ll pick up your life and use you. But you have to let him in. It’s up to you.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Check on my friend.”

  “The boys will see you.”

  “Probably.”

  “It’ll spoil our surprise.”

  “Yeah, but I care about my friend. One drink may send him over an edge. Maybe I’ll check the back room, too.”

  “Stay here. Let me go.”

  Win sighed. “I’ve spent a good deal of my life being afraid, J. D. Afraid of my wife. Afraid she might pull her love away. Afraid of the enemy. Afraid of what might happen if I stumble and fall. But you can’t have power when you’re always afraid. That’s part of the good news too. You do things not by your own power and might, but by his.”

  Win walked toward the yellow light of the building. He waved at J. D., then walked through the door, the music enveloping him. As he entered, the cell phone buzzed. J. D.’s stomach seized.

  29

  MUERTE KILLED THE OBESE SECURITY GUARD quickly and stashed the body in a storage closet with the help of the guard replacing the man. The new guard was younger and came from a pool of men supplied by the Zetas. This man would die as well, though he didn’t know it. After hiding the body, the guard went to work behind the circular desk in the marble-walled entryway and erased the surveillance video.

  Muerte rode the elevator to the twenty-third floor and stepped onto thick, dark carpeting that led to medical and dental offices. He used the guard’s key card to enter the chosen office with the perfect view. The office would be closed on Sunday, but Muerte was prepared for a cleaning person or an assistant who might arrive. By the time anyone found the bodies, he would be gone and the media would have his message pointing out who was responsible for the trail of bodies. There would be an outcry for action on both sides of the border. It was the perfect plan for the assumption of his throne.

  The call from Sanchez came just as he began cutting a hole in the outer window. Sanchez sounded more annoyed than concerned. He had received a call from someone in Arizona about his daughter. He wanted her back. He berated Muerte for not communicating about his progress in locating her. Muerte apologized and assured Sanchez he had been working diligently, even offering a reward. This pleased the man.

  “Your daughter has eluded everyone so far,” Muerte said. “You should be proud.”

  “I would be much more proud if I were able to hear the story from her own lips.”

  “Yes. And you shall.”

  The phone call brought relief and
difficulty. It was a relief that someone knew the girl’s location, but a difficulty because Muerte was stuck where he was, unable to leave. He couldn’t ignore her. She had to die. Her survival would present much bigger problems down the road.

  “I’ll take care of it right away, sir,” Muerte said. “Thank you for trusting me.”

  “Why did you say that?”

  “Because I honor your trust. It is the only thing we have that is given freely. The only thing of value between employer and employee.”

  “We have known each other a long time, Gabriel.”

  “Yes. A very long time, sir.”

  “You have never failed me.”

  “And I won’t now.”

  There was a pause on the other end, then the silence of an ended call. Muerte scrolled through his list of contacts in Tucson. There were several who would be able to handle this.

  He dialed the number Sanchez had given and someone picked up without a word. He could hear nothing but a man breathing.

  “Hello, J. D.,” Muerte said.

  Silence.

  “Please, let me hear your voice.”

  “Muerte. Is that your name?”

  “Very good. You deduced correctly. You are a formidable opponent. Many great men have not been able to elude me as you have.”

  “Survival comes naturally. Unlike that police officer you killed. And the others.”

  Did he have the authorities on the line listening? It seemed unlikely. “Let me assure you: many have fallen and there will be many more. But for now, I congratulate you.”

  “Forgive me if I don’t celebrate.”

  Muerte chuckled. The man had a sense of humor. He wouldn’t if Muerte were looking him in the eye, of course.

  “I understand you know the whereabouts of a mutual friend of ours.”

  “She’s no friend of yours.”

  “That is debatable. She has been quite—how should I say it?—cooperative in our business and personal dealings. She is lovely, isn’t she?”

  J. D. didn’t answer.

  “Have you become infatuated by this Mexican beauty?”

  “I’ve become infatuated with drawing another breath. Which is why I don’t want to talk to you.”