by Chris Fabry
“All right, J. D. Drive south toward Nogales. I will call you.”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
37
J. D. RAN FULL TILT through the rain, splashing through puddles that seemed to form instantly. The rain had begun slowly with single drops as if testing the concrete. Then something let loose, the drops becoming sheets, falling straight and blinding. Cold drops from the other side of eternity.
He dodged cars and crossed the road through flowing water to Win’s truck, threw the satchel inside, and started the engine. He tossed water from his hat to the side, the spray hitting the passenger window. Breathing heavily, vapor fogging the windshield. He wiped a spot clean and pulled onto the street.
Maybe Muerte had killed Maria. Maybe when he shot the security guard, the bullet had hit her. Why would he keep her alive? His hatred was evident. But now J. D. at least knew she wasn’t manipulating. She had been running away from her chance to assassinate and toward her enemy. That heartened him.
Something else brought him hope that sprang up inside as he drove. Was his need to save someone his Achilles’ heel or his strength? Perhaps it was the spark of life, a seed planted suddenly taking root.
The gas gauge was nearing a quarter of a tank and the balding tires hydroplaned as he took the exit from I-10 to I-19. Several cars were parked on the side because of poor visibility, but J. D. accelerated, pulling to the leftmost lane and finding a groove in the pavement where he could keep the momentum.
The shotgun was still on the passenger-seat floor and he wondered if it was loaded. It had to be. And then the images of the past few days flooded him—the gunman he had hit on the lonely road, the look in the doctor’s eyes, the pastor in Tucson. Win, Iliana, Ernesto. Maria. His son. Faces of people who knew little pieces of his puzzle. Faces that fit into his life like chambered shells.
An 18-wheeler sprayed a line of water from the other side of the median and the world turned blurry. He took his foot off the accelerator, then mashed it down when his windshield cleared, speeding past timid and unsure drivers.
The only face that didn’t flash through his mind was his wife’s, and somehow that felt good. Was he free? He didn’t want to be. Ever. But perhaps he was moving past this lonely mile marker.
The rain didn’t let up—it intensified as if the clouds were following, guiding him on a wave toward destiny, toward the climax, pushing him further to an end he couldn’t anticipate.
He flipped on the radio and found a news report. A reporter on scene spoke with the roar of the storm around him. A recap of the speech. Business as usual when the world had nearly stopped spinning.
When a semi braked in front of him, J. D. swerved, barely missing a road sign. He slowed for debris and came upon an accident—two cars blocking three lanes and emergency vehicles approaching. J. D. skirted the scene and rolled onto the clear roadway. A sign listed the number of kilometers to Nogales and he recalled the push to convert to the metric system.
The forecast called for flash flooding in certain areas and gave reminders not to enter a roadway awash with water. That was impossible now. Water was everywhere. He’d never seen this much come down at once and hoped he never did again, but he couldn’t help thinking there might be an upside to it.
J. D. began to piece the what-ifs together. What if the events of the past few months hadn’t happened? What if Alycia had survived and his little family had stayed in Tennessee? They would have seen this rally on TV, or at least a replay of it, and the horror that would have ensued. Instead, a coyote crossed his path on a Thursday morning and on Sunday he was stopping a trained killer. God, if he really was there and cared, could have struck the gunman with a bolt of lightning, but J. D. had been the instrument. He shuddered thinking about it. Was this happenstance or a razor-thin wire tugged by the Almighty?
Darkness hovered in low-hanging clouds and gave a womb-like feel to the landscape. From the moment he had moved here, the sky had been clear, the sun and moon passing without hindrance. But now the light was gone and his path had never seemed clearer. Maria had talked about overcoming fear with love. Maybe that’s what this was all about. He was being moved by some force, not to “rescue,” but for the simple inclination to participate, to be. With all the uncertainty and questions and conflicting desires, he realized his greatest need was to live.
Traffic slowed and he jockeyed through the downpour for a faster lane. Frustrated, he pulled out the phone. “Where are you?”
“Just keep driving,” Muerte said. “You act as if you have never seen a monsoon.”
“I need to know she’s all right.”
“She’s fine. You have nothing to fear.”
“Where are you taking her?”
“I am going to make sure we’re alone. That you have not brought the authorities.”
“I’m alone. I told you that. I wouldn’t risk endangering her.”
“Of course you wouldn’t. When I’m convinced, we make the exchange. Call me again when you are nearing Nogales.”
The line went dead. It sounded like a song—“Last Exit to Nogales.”
J. D. drove through the pelting rain, passing San Xavier, though he couldn’t see the old mission church. When the red needle hovered at empty, he found an exit and pulled into a Shell station. He prepaid with a hundred-dollar bill from the satchel. Then as the gas pumped, he found a trash bag underneath the full garbage container, emptied the money into it, and placed it inside, underneath the trash. His bill was sixty-five dollars, but he didn’t return to the cashier.
He sat, staring at the rain, shaking his head at the thought that Maria might be an assassin. How could he have missed her heart? There was so much more to know about her life, her hopes and dreams. Did she have a love interest in her little town? Had Muerte killed a boy who had a key to her heart?
More questions brought more anxiety. He drove through the rain-swollen parking lot and waited for a line of cars coming off the interstate.
Then came questions about his son. About their lives. Could Jonathan love him after the abandonment? He was ready to move back into the boy’s life no matter what hurt it stirred inside. Move toward love instead of fear. That was his resolve. But what if J. D. faced jail time? He was innocent, but it wasn’t about innocence; it was about proof and defense. He decided he couldn’t let that hold him back either.
The line of cars passed, and J. D. pulled onto the interstate.
38
MUERTE WAS STUCK behind a semitrailer, but instead of fighting his way through traffic, he remained behind it, enjoying shelter from the driving rain and a chance to assess where he had gone wrong. This was a strength. He could concentrate, slow his heart, and see things others couldn’t. He could see the truth and act rather than claw and clamor. If a plan didn’t work, he would adapt and change. That was a mistake most made: they acted on things the way they wanted them to be rather than the way they were. They kept digging holes that eventually became graves.
He’d had a nagging thought when the girl went missing that her flight signaled something he couldn’t anticipate. He had pushed this feeling down. Now, with clearer vision, he would use her flight to topple the Sanchez empire. Miscalculation would become the avenue of victory.
And the truth was, he had underestimated her. She was much more resourceful than he had imagined. She would have been an asset to his work, but it was clear from her attitude that she had no real interest in him. She had despised him from childhood. Even if she never said it, he could sense it, and this would make her death more satisfying. She needed to die painfully and slowly.
And so did the bumpkin who kept calling. If Muerte killed both before crossing the border, he could hide and lean on the Zetas to clean up his problems. It was clear they were willing.
His breathing in control, the brake lights of the semitrailer directly ahead, he forced patience. He had been spared by his failure. The installation of a hawkish president would be better for his concerns. A fumbling adm
inistration appeasing the Right and Left, one that wanted two terms more than a secure border, would be a positive. Gabriel Muerte was in a fine position.
His foot tiring and the muscles in his leg tensing from covering the brake pedal, Muerte pulled off at an exit and found a Shell station. He drove through standing water to the back and watched the deafening rain. He took in the smell of the fresh ozone and listened to the sound on the roof and the clanging of the water on garbage bins. Water changed everything. Water coursed over fields and made furrows in the concrete if given the chance. It was an impressive show and he wished he could enjoy it, but he was tired and hungry and there was much to do. In a normal monsoon there were pockets of rain, patches of landscape bathed in bright sunlight while others were drenched by an isolated cloud. But this storm seemed to move with him, straight through the southern corridor leading home.
“I’ll be right back, sweetheart,” he said.
More kicking and a muffled scream from the trunk. Exactly what he wanted to hear.
He picked up a hard sausage biscuit still out from breakfast and a bottle of orange juice. Something to give him quick energy.
The kid behind the counter was speaking with a coworker about how a man had prepaid for his gas with a hundred-dollar bill and left.
“Probably phony,” the other kid said.
The cashier held it up to the light and Muerte asked to see it. “I know a counterfeit when I see one.”
The kid handed it to him reluctantly. There had been new bills in the satchel. He handed it back and nodded. “Congratulations. It’s real.”
“He only got sixty-five dollars’ worth of gas. That means a forty-five-dollar tip for me.”
“That’s thirty-five dollars, numskull,” the other kid said.
The cashier put a ten back and laughed.
“What was he driving?” Muerte said.
“What was who driving?”
“The man who gave you the money.”
“Oh, it was a beater, an old brown truck. He was still there a minute ago.”
Muerte nodded, paid for his food, and hurried to the car. Back on the interstate, he maneuvered to the fastest lane and searched for the truck. J. D. had obviously passed him as he was caught in traffic. Would it be better to take care of him before Nogales? Then he could take his time with the girl. No, there was something about watching them die together that interested him. A fitting end to their adventure and the trouble they had caused.
Three miles later he spotted the vehicle with a taillight out, zigzagging through traffic. Muerte pulled in a few cars behind him. He liked the feeling of the hunt. So many opportunities. There were many ways to handle a problem. So many ways.
His cell rang. Through the phone hash he heard a voice but couldn’t make it out. The service was spotty in this area and the continual rain didn’t make it easier.
“Say again,” Muerte said, glancing at the number. It was from Mexico.
“Gabriel, where are you?” the man said.
Panic. The Zetas. One of their top men. Control. Stay in control. Do not give in to fear. “I am still in the US.”
“Things did not go as you had planned. What happened? Or should I say, what didn’t happen?”
A catch in the throat. A skip of a heartbeat. “There were complications. Obstacles I could not foresee.”
“Gabriel . . .” The voice carried derision, disappointment, perhaps menace. “You assured us there would be no complications. We trusted you to complete the task.”
Evenly, with measured breath, he said, “Yes, I understand. It is the way I have always treated my employees.”
“Perhaps it would be better if you remained there.”
“What are you saying?”
The man took a deep breath. “Your failure changes the agreement. The Sanchez operation is no longer our interest.”
“He controls most of the—”
“It is no longer of interest. There is too much attention there. From both sides of the border. It is a no-win. Stay where you are.”
“You will regret this.”
“I regret many things. I regret believing you would deliver. And you will regret returning. I will not warn you again.”
Muerte hung up and stared at the truck that had moved into the next lane. He would make this man pay for his insolence. He could see the plan begin to form. Late at night the man would be asleep. Or perhaps he would come home to find his family dead. The last image in J. D.’s mind before he died would be Gabriel Muerte’s face, reminding him of their conversation. With enough planning and forethought, he would make it happen.
First, he had to retrieve the money. If the Zetas had turned against him, he would have little recourse. He could not go back to his old life. There was enough in the satchel J. D. carried for seed money.
It became clearer—where he would go, how he would cross. Clearer with each mile he drove toward the border.
39
AS HE APPROACHED THE BORDER, J. D. slowed and watched the rain dissipate and clouds hover like spaceships over the hills. He rolled down his window and the wet air blew like a fan. He held his hand out and watched water run from the windshield and he didn’t care about getting wet.
His phone rang.
“Where are you?” Muerte said.
J. D. told him.
Muerte gave him instructions for the next exit and several street names.
J. D. pulled over and wrote down the turns on a scrap of paper. “How do I know this isn’t an ambush?” he said.
“Do you want to see your friend again? Come now or you can come later to her funeral.”
Ten minutes later he parked in front of a nondescript house on a nondescript street. He could see the border fence nearby and the mountains surrounding the neighborhoods. He had heard of the hills of Mexico. Now he was seeing them spill over the horizon.
There was no car in the driveway. The garage door was closed. Window blinds were drawn. Sunflower plants stretched toward the moisture in a little garden at the front.
J. D. reached for the shotgun and checked the side and rear mirrors. A sense of calm washed over him as he got out of the truck holding the gun and satchel. His whole life had come down to this moment, this setting, this front yard.
A car passed and he watched it slow, then continue as the driver glanced at his gun. He pecked on the front door with the gun barrel and the door opened a few inches. The peaceful feeling slipped through his stomach. He caught a smell—something dead or dying.
“Muerte?” J. D. said.
The garage door scrolled up and it felt like his first concert. Heart racing. Sweat beading. Behind him, an expensive engine. The passenger window came down and the muzzle of an automatic weapon appeared.
“Put down your gun, J. D.”
All the man had to do was pull the trigger. But not here in the front yard. That would be too messy even for Muerte.
“I’ll drop mine if you drop yours,” J. D. said.
Muerte smiled. The guy looked exactly like J. D. had pictured him. Shady, dark around the eyes, and with that confident madman look.
Muerte pointed the gun at the backseat. “Keep your gun pointed at me and I’ll finish your friend in the trunk with a quick burst. Is that what you want?”
It wasn’t. J. D. flipped the gun in the air, caught it by the barrel, and placed the stock on the ground. He’d finally gotten the nerve to pick up a gun and now he was surrendering.
“Let it fall,” Muerte said.
J. D. did.
“Kick it into the rocks toward the street.”
J. D. complied and Muerte exited his car. He picked up the shotgun and placed it on his front seat, then motioned for J. D. to come to the garage. Inside, J. D. saw the origin of the smell that permeated the house. A man’s bloated body.
Muerte pulled in and closed the door. “Turn on the light,” he said.
J. D. did and stood by the door leading into the house. He searched for any tool he could use
as a weapon. He felt helpless, impotent.
Muerte released the trunk and it popped open. “Help her out,” he said.
Maria’s wrists were taped and she was bleeding from her nose. Tape was wrapped around her head too. J. D. ripped it from her mouth, tearing it so she could breathe more easily.
Muerte tossed him a pocketknife and he cut the tape that secured her legs. She rubbed her wrists and limped when he pulled her to a standing position.
“You okay?” he said.
Maria nodded, but when she looked at Muerte, her face grew tight. She wiped away the blood and glared.
“He is dead?” she said. “The governor?”
“No,” J. D. said. “His plan didn’t pan out.” He folded the knife and Muerte held out his hand. J. D. tossed it to him.
“What happened?” she said.
“Please,” Muerte said. “Spare me the gloating.”
“His shooter had an accident. A paperweight fell on him as he was taking aim. Strangest thing.”
Maria glanced at the body and covered her mouth and nose.
“Let’s move inside,” Muerte said.
“I got what I need,” J. D. said. “Let us go.”
“No, you must join me for a moment.” He pointed the gun. “I insist.”
“Do you have another gun?” Maria whispered.
Muerte fired the automatic into the ceiling. J. D. took Maria by the shoulders and guided her toward the door, looking for something—anything—to put up a fight.
“You ought to know something,” J. D. said to Muerte.
“And what is that?”
J. D. and Maria passed him and walked into the kitchen. “I don’t have the money.”
Muerte leveled the gun and motioned them farther, toward a table. It was the only furniture in the room. His face had gone red. “What did you do with it?”
“On my way down I got to thinking. The only way I walk out of a meeting with you alive, as much trouble as I’ve caused, is if I don’t have the money on me. Or in my truck. So I hid it.”
