by Chris Fabry
“But he came around,” J. D. said.
“When he understood I had volunteered, he seemed pleased. He encouraged me.”
“Of course he did,” J. D. said. “He was working it out. He wanted you dead.”
“Exactly.”
“So when you came across the border, he had his squad come to the rendezvous point,” J. D. said.
“Yes. I’m not sure who it was, but I can see now that Muerte wanted revenge for my betrayal. Perhaps it was because I knew too much.”
“Or both.”
“What about the gun?” Win said. “Why go to all this trouble over a high-powered rifle?”
“I didn’t put that together until now,” Maria said. “It’s going to happen at the political rally. There will be an assassination.”
“Assassination?” Win said.
J. D. glanced at the worker who hovered near the front desk.
“That makes no sense,” Win said. “What does Muerte gain? Killing a man running for president proves the point that we need tighter borders. The people of this country hate drug dealers. The authorities will smash the drug trade and Muerte and everyone like him.”
Maria nodded. “That’s what kept me from seeing it. It makes no sense unless you look at it from Muerte’s view. This is what he wants. If he is working with the Zetas, and I’m positive he is, a tighter border means only the more organized operations get through. The smaller ones will have more difficulty. Those who depend on couriers, mules, will be wiped out. But Muerte has developed a tunnel system, with many my father has no idea about.”
Win rubbed his chin. “The politicians and voters will think they’re doing something good by clamping down, and it will just be making Muerte stronger.”
“If he were to take over the area my father controls, he could afford to suspend activity. Wait. Others will not be able. They don’t have the resources.”
“Which means your father is on Muerte’s hit list,” J. D. said.
She looked away. “Yes. I was glad when you said you spoke to him. The only way he survives is if Muerte is caught. Or dies.”
J. D. glanced at a TV in the lobby. The news anchor was setting up a reporter standing in front of an empty stage. People gathered in the background, sitting on blankets and in lawn chairs. Sweat dripped from the man’s forehead. J. D. moved to turn up the volume.
“. . . and already supporters of the presidential hopeful have begun to stake out their territory, as you can see behind me. They’re getting as close as they can to be part of what some are calling a historic gathering.”
The video switched to preparations being made in downtown Tucson. Swirling lights and yellow police tape flashed.
“The speech by Governor Chandler comes at a crisis point. In the past few days there have been multiple shootings and murders that authorities believe may be connected with drug trafficking. These kinds of killings are commonplace across the border, but when a police officer and a Border Patrol agent are killed within a day of each other, as well as a prominent doctor just east of here, residents take notice.”
The screen switched to an older woman wiping away tears. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. He was the most gentle man I’ve ever known. It’s just not right.”
The reporter resumed. “Investigations continue into the shootings, but there’s no question that the heightened violence is the backdrop to this speech. And many feel the current administration has turned away from the reality of the violence.
“The speech later this morning will come from a candidate who says he is the political leader to finally get a handle on a fair and sensible approach to illegal immigration and the problems created by the cartels of Mexico.”
J. D. turned down the sound and returned to the table.
“Do you know where that is?” Maria said to Win.
Win nodded and told her the location. “Maria, we need to tell the authorities what you think will happen. We can’t keep silent.”
“I agree,” J. D. said. “If there’s even a remote chance you’re right, they need to know.”
Maria shook her head. “Muerte does not just have resolve; he has resources. Do you think he would plan this without taking precautions? Without preparing a way to make it happen?”
“Are you suggesting he has people on the inside? In the police force?”
“I know he does. I’ve heard him speak with them.”
“That’s crazy,” J. D. said. “That happens across the border, not here.”
She said something in Spanish he didn’t understand and Win grunted in agreement.
“What?” J. D. said.
Win waved him off and looked at Maria. “I know someone on the force. A man I trust. I’ll call him. You can tell him what you know.”
“I’ve come too far to be arrested,” she said.
“Maria,” Win said as if he were a father pleading for his daughter to come to her senses, to come home. He took her hand. “We have a chance to change the future. Lives have been lost. If we do nothing, we are complicit with this man.”
“I’m not saying we do nothing. We have to stop him.”
“Not alone,” J. D. said. “It’s time to get help.”
She clenched her jaw. “Fine. Talk with your friend. Tell him what I said. You know as much as I do about Muerte’s plan.”
J. D. looked at the clock. His body ached and he wished he could collapse in a hotel bed like Ernesto. Just go to sleep and wake up to have this nightmare gone.
A police cruiser wound its way through the parking lot and J. D. watched it pass the front window. When Maria saw it, she stood and walked to the elevator. They followed her to the third floor. Win scrolled through the contacts on his cell phone and dialed a number. He left a message asking the man to call him about something urgent but didn’t explain more.
“I’m tired,” Maria said. “I want to lie down.”
Win nodded and told J. D. to stay with her while he checked on Iliana. “If my friend doesn’t call within the hour, I’ll need to contact—”
His cell interrupted him like it knew what he was saying. “This must be him.” He answered, paused, then repeated, “Hello?” His eyes darted.
He closed the phone and handed it to J. D. “I think it was him. Muerte.”
J. D. looked at Maria. “He told me he would call again.”
“If he sent those men to the bar, he knows I’m still alive.”
“He didn’t send them. Slocum called them. They were going to bring you to Muerte for the reward. But you’re safe now.”
“You have no idea how many ways he can find us.”
A door opened down the hall and someone stuck their head out and cursed at them. Win put a hand to his head and lowered his voice. “If my contact calls, tell him what you know. Have him meet us here.”
“And if Muerte calls?”
Win shook his head. “God help us.”
J. D. unlocked the room and flipped on the light while Maria slipped into the bathroom. He tossed Win’s keys on the dresser and stared out the window. The view looked north toward the parking lot and I-10. Through the fluorescent lights and guardrails and concrete, cars and trucks passed, going who knew where. It all looked aimless and without purpose, like a beehive would look to someone who had no idea how it all fit together.
The police cruiser wasn’t in sight. J. D. wondered if it was below them. The officers could be talking to the desk worker. That would bring a SWAT team upstairs. Men in dark clothing ready to break down the door. It might be a relief to have his hands cuffed. A bed in jail and a good lawyer. It was probably the fatigue and paranoia cocktail in his brain that made him think the worst.
J. D. closed the curtains and turned the air conditioner to full blast. He held his hand over the vent as if calling forth cool air like an HVAC faith healer.
“Foul demon of sweltering heat, begone,” he whispered and then smiled, remembering a TV preacher he and Alycia had watched. His imitation of the m
an always sent her into a paroxysm of laughter. Even toward the end, when it was hard for her to keep a thought in her brain and she was unable to push away the pain, she could smile.
There were two double beds, and when Maria came out of the bathroom, she collapsed on the one near the door. J. D. sat in the corner chair and put his feet on the other bed, looking at her. She was such a small thing, thin and wiry, with a beauty that felt like some ice sculpture that would melt in the sunshine and remake itself into something else equally beautiful.
They’d come a long way in the past few days and it felt like they were nearing the end. With his legs stretched out, he finally relaxed and the tension in his back began to dissipate. He took a deep breath.
“What will you do about your son?” Maria said, her voice bouncing off the bare wall.
“My plan was to learn everything I needed about running a farm and then go back.”
“Did he understand that?”
“He’s little. I don’t know that he understands anything.”
“Children understand love. They know if they have it or if they don’t.”
“And how do you know that?”
“There are some things you just know.”
“I suppose you’re right about that.”
“Have your plans changed? About going back to him?”
“There might be the little inconvenience of jail time for harboring a fugitive. I suppose if I get the chance to defend myself in court, I could tell them I was put under the spell of a beautiful woman.”
She kicked off her shoes and let them fall to the floor. “You think I am beautiful?”
“There’s no thinking about it.”
Her arms moved inward as if she had been chilled by the air conditioner’s blast.
“Does he look like you?” she said.
“My son? I think he has my nose. The rest of him is all Alycia—her eyes, her mouth, high cheekbones. That’s part of my problem. Something I have to get over.”
“You mean her death or seeing her in his face?”
“Both. But at this point I don’t think it matters whether I’m over it or not. I just need to do what I need to do.”
She turned to face him and pulled a pillow from underneath the covers, doubling it under her head. It was almost painful to look at her. Dark hair, tanned skin against the white pillowcase.
“Will you sing again? Will you start a farm?”
“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. The weight of the days and nights came over him and pushed him further. He saw Slocum’s face and the others. He thought of Cooper.
“Maybe I’ll become a preacher,” he said.
“You would be a good shepherd to the flock,” she said softly, just loud enough to hear.
“I’m a lousy father. Not a very good husband either.” He couldn’t open his eyes. The fatigue had finally worked its way through his muscles and deep into the marrow. His arms felt numb, like they were floating, and his head was the same, just a balloon on a string floating above in the jet stream, above the world but still tethered.
“J. D., you can do this.”
He tried to open his eyes but the lids were heavy. “I can do what?”
“Take care of your son. Connect with him. Know him. Not for who he reminds you of, but for who he is. Who he will become.”
“Yeah. Okay.”
“You are a good man, J. D.”
Why was she telling him this?
His head felt heavier than a lava rock rising out of the ocean. As he put it on the back of the chair, the tether came loose, the rock fell, and he was lifted, soaring, moving among the clouds. He was free, not concentrating on the ground, just floating, buoyant on the wind.
She’s right, Alycia said. You can love him well. Even though it hurts.
I missed my chance.
You didn’t. There’s always time to love well if you have it in your heart.
She was somewhere on a bed, with her legs drawn to herself, arms around them, head bent forward. A force of nature, an ingrown tide. This creature of God.
How can you say that when I don’t have time to love you? That was taken from me. I’ll never get it back.
That’s not true. There’s still time to love me.
How? You can’t love something that’s gone.
Your love for me is shown in a thousand ways. Rising in the morning. Living fully. Turning your heart toward our son. Opening your heart to another.
Like who?
Her.
Maria?
Yes.
I can’t do it. I can’t risk it again.
Why not?
Because it hurts too much. There’s too much pain. It goes too deep.
The pain is to help you. The pain shows you’re alive. If you can feel pain, you can feel love. And if you can love, there is a chance at life. It’s right in front of you.
But you don’t have that chance. You’re not alive.
I am more alive than you can possibly understand.
Alycia moved from the bed and knelt before him. The light in her eyes made her face shine golden, and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed, as if it were the last sunset before the world ended.
You don’t need me now, she said.
Yes, I do. I need you more than ever.
Let go, J. D. You can’t move when you’re looking back, when you’re holding on to the past.
He stared at her face, wanting to embrace her, reaching a hand to feel her hair. Her hair. It had grown back and covered the scar, covered all the questions he’d never known to ask. The answers and questions slipped through the keyhole of his heart and spread.
All right. If you hate it here so much, go on. Leave.
I don’t hate it here. I love it where I am, and if you knew what it was like, you would not ask me to return.
I don’t want you to come back if you’re happy.
I believe you. I want you to live where you are and one day join me.
I’ll never be good enough.
It’s not about being good enough. You know that. This is about grace. It’s about releasing your need to be good enough. Do you understand?
I think so. But I don’t know about . . . this woman.
Yes, you do.
That’s one thing I’m not going to miss.
What’s that?
You always disagreeing with me. And being right.
She smiled. I love you, John David. I will always love you.
He felt a hand on his chest, pushing down and down and then through him, like grains of sand through the hourglass. And then the pressure was gone. Just lifted away and closed like a healed wound that only left a scar. He took a breath and his lungs filled and there was release. Sweet release.
32
GOLDEN, DUSTY SUNLIGHT streamed through a sliver in the curtains. J. D.’s arms were cold and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. He scanned the room. Both beds still made, only Maria’s pillow out of place. It took him a moment to jump to his feet and check the bathroom. The door was open. Empty.
As he stood, the room swayed. His head felt like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. Twice. A throbbing, stabbing pain above his right eye he couldn’t shake. He pressed his palm to it and squeezed his eyes. The rest of him felt like the edge of some burnt parchment, ready to float away with a strong wind.
He flicked on the bathroom light and splashed water on his face, then drank from cupped hands. The mirror showed bloodshot eyes. It had been several days since he had shaved or showered. That would come soon enough. He grabbed a towel and rubbed his face dry and the white cloth came away brown from the grit and grime.
He threw open the curtains and watched waves of heat rise from the asphalt. Above the horizon and the mountains in the distance, he noticed a cloud formation. It wasn’t big, but it was there. Something he hadn’t seen since moving to Tucson.
He checked the clock on the nightstand and cursed. It was almost nine. How long had she been gone? And where was she
? The keys to the truck weren’t where he left them.
Inside he knew, but he didn’t want to believe it. He grabbed Win’s phone and a water bottle next to the TV and hurried downstairs. He told himself he would find her in the breakfast room, that she would be in the corner reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. She would smile and hug him and they would call the police.
She had to be there. He willed her to be there.
Maria wasn’t in the room and Win’s truck was gone.
“This crowd behind me is waiting in anticipation of the appearance, in about an hour, of the man they hope will be the next president of the United States,” the reporter on TV said.
He checked the phone to see if Muerte had called. By mistake he hit the outgoing calls and noticed one he hadn’t dialed. The number wasn’t familiar but the time stamp said 4:45 a.m. Incoming calls included one restricted and several from an Arizona number.
He walked outside past a desk worker who had stepped out to smoke and went across the parking lot while dialing the recurring number. He got a phone message from a detective. He tried again but got the message again. He wanted to throw the phone to I-10. The sun was moving, running from the clouds from the north, and the asphalt sizzled.
“Tucson 911. Do you need police or paramedics?”
“Police. It’s about the Chandler rally today.”
“What’s your emergency, sir?”
“They need to cancel it. There’s going to be a shooting.”
“Did you say there’s been a shooting, sir?”
“No, there’s going to be one. A man is planning to kill Chandler. Today at the rally.”
“You mean Governor Chandler? Who is planning to kill him, sir?”
“Muerte is his name. He’s from Mexico. Involved with the cartel.”
“Are you with him now?”
“No.”
“Do you know where he is?”
“No, but I figure he’s close to the rally. He has a high-powered rifle.”
The woman paused. Someone was saying something to her. “And where are you now, sir?”
“Just have them cancel the rally.”
“What is your name, sir? Tell me your name.”
