Head Wounds

by Michael McGarrity

  “Exactly,” Olivas said. “And he was an excellent marksman, to boot. Clean kills of both victims. No shell casings left behind.”

  Fallon turned to Clayton. “Any word on the Jeep?”

  “No, it’s probably somewhere in Mexico or has been chopped for parts.”

  “Any other evidence?” Fallon asked hopefully.

  Olivas shook her head. “That’s it. Are we done here?”

  Fallon nodded. “Thanks for the tour, Sergeant.”

  “You’re welcome. I’ll follow you out.”

  As they bumped and churned their way over the ranch road with Olivas in Clayton’s rearview mirror, Fallon asked if he wanted to go to Mexico with him to find Harjo.

  “Are you married, Fallon?’ Clayton countered. “An ex, maybe? Some kids?”

  Fallon smiled. “No, and I hear you. You got people to take care of, family counting on you. Harjo’s the same as me, not much family to boast of or worry about.”

  “You’re his family,” Clayton proposed.

  “And vice versa. He’s the big brother I never had.”

  “When do you leave for Piedras Negras?”

  “In the morning.”

  “How about if I knock off early and buy you a beer?”

  “I’d like that. Think you can get Sergeant Olivas to join us?”

  “She’s married and gay.”

  Fallon laughed. “Wouldn’t you know it? All the pretty ones are taken.”

  CHAPTER 17

  Harjo arrived at the small village, and Perro took off on his way back to Julio. He rested at a cramped restaurant and bar carved out of an old house and drank a cerveza, his first in months. He ate a big meal, loitered overnight, and bought supplies in the morning before returning to the mountains, where he started a slow trek to Piedras Negras. He kept his bearings with a hand-drawn map Julio had made to guide his way.

  His days in the high country were tranquil and filled with solitude. No talking, no heightened tension, no need to guard against a slip of the tongue that could unmask a false identity. He encountered no one along the way and decided Julio had sent him along an old smuggler’s trail.

  Frequently his thoughts turned to Maria Sedillo. Who could he tell how brave she was? How smart? What a damn fine agent she had been?

  He was still determined to avenge the murder of his nephew. But thanks to Sedillo, he had another target as well, Gilberto Garza, Lorenz’s brother. Would it be easier to get to Lorenz through Garza, the respectable, upstanding, God-fearing citizen? If so, he’d kill them both.

  On the outskirts of Piedras Negras, at a cheap motel with a busted neon sign that flickered on and off, he rented a room and walked along the shoulder of the road to the nearest bar, a working-class establishment sandwiched between a convenience store and a gas station. A couple of miles down the highway the heart of the drug-infested city pulsed along the banks of the Rio Grande, spewing fear into the night. Harjo didn’t want to go near it. Compared to Las Ladrones and the Sierra Madres of eastern Mexico, even the fringes of the narco-controlled city were depressing enough.

  The cantina customers were mostly truckers, construction workers, day laborers, and some recently repatriated detainees from Texas ICE holding facilities looking for work before traveling south or plotting their next crossing.

  Harjo felt right at home in the crowded bar, and after several late afternoon drinking sessions he made acquaintance with some regulars. One of his new drinking buddies was Benito Jimenez, a barrel-shaped man with an infectious smile and an appetite for beer, who owned a yard-maintenance and landscape company.

  Harjo kept his cover story short. Born in Mexico, raised in the States, he worked construction without a green card until a traffic stop got him deported. He used his personal history to flesh out any needed details which would be easy to remember and made mention of his new skills in stonework and woodcutting.

  In a casual, inoffensive way, Jimenez liked to brag about his family and his work. He had six school-age kids—four girls, two boys—a stay-at-home wife, and owned a government-built house in a blue-collar neighborhood. He ran his one-man yard and landscape company by hiring occasional day laborers for the bigger jobs. During his free time, he helped coach his older son’s soccer team, and was in the process of slowly adding another bedroom to his house. Almost completed, the project had been under way for two years.

  His business was growing. He’d picked up several new customers in an exclusive part of town and was in desperate need of a stonemason to fill in for a worker who’d suffered a recent back injury.

  “Dry-stack work?” Harjo asked.

  “Sí, they want stone planting beds built on two sides of a backyard patio with stairs leading down to a new hot tub they just installed. I need someone who I can trust to work alone, so I can take care of my other customers. Can you do it?”

  Harjo jumped at the offer but told Jimenez he didn’t have any transportation.

  “I’ll pick you up,” Jimenez said. He added that the materials and tools needed were already at the job site.

  “Gracias,” Harjo said.

  “I’ll come by three, four times a day to check on you,” he added. He finished his third cerveza and stood. “Bring a lunch. I get an early start. Be ready by seven.”

  Harjo chuckled. “Now you sound like a jefe.”

  “I am your jefe.” He clasped Harjo’s shoulder and smiled. “You work hard for me and we’ll get along muy bueno.” He lumbered out a little tipsy, leaving the tab for his cervezas to Harjo to pick up. Counting out the money from his dwindling reserve, he realized he’d forgotten to ask what the job paid.

  Trevino entered the basement meeting room at Shen’s restaurant, where Lorenz, Sammy Shen, and Juan waited. According to rumor, Gabriela and Catherina had been murdered for the grievous deed of turning Juan into a eunuch. Although false, it had enraged Juan, who’d gleefully raped both women before having them killed.

  Longwei was absent.

  Trevino sat directly across from Lorenz, who’d asked him to come. “Why have we gathered?”

  “We understand you’ve sold your land and hacienda and purchased a hunting ranch,” Sammy said. He’d bought the information from a drunk Kickapoo for a fifth of cheap whiskey.

  “It’s public knowledge.” Trevino glanced at Juan, who stared silently back at him.

  “Did you need an extra million dollars to close the transaction?” Lorenz interjected sharply.

  Trevino leaned forward in his chair. “Are you accusing me of stealing from you?”

  Lorenz’s expression softened. “I’m sorry if I sound harsh. Forgive me. I’m just hoping you’ll find and return to me what is rightfully mine.”

  “I never promised to get back your money, Luis. That wasn’t our agreement. But as an act of goodwill, I sent my son to see if he could find it. He was killed as a result. Let us consider our losses even, although mine were far greater.”

  Juan continued to remain silent. Trevino wondered if his tongue had been removed rather than his private parts. Ludicrous, he decided.

  Sammy intervened with a sympathetic smile. “We understand it is hard to lose someone close. But our predicament is a question of reputation, mine included. Unless we have the money back, it will be seen by our competitors as a weakness in the way we conduct business.”

  “Not my problem,” Trevino replied flatly.

  Lorenz lounged back comfortably and smiled broadly. “All we’re asking is that you make a good-faith effort to find and return my money. If you agree, succeed or fail, we’ll consider the matter closed.”

  “Another effort on your part would demonstrate to our competitors that nothing is forgotten or forgiven,” Sammy explained pleasantly. “Whatever the outcome, it will remain private, just between us.”

  “Unless you have other commitments, we’d like you to start right away,” Lorenz said.

  “I cannot do as you ask.” Trevino stood and looked pointedly at each man. “And I have no desire to d
o so. Our business arrangement ends here and now. I’m retiring, so to speak. Let us part amicably, although I caution you against any notion of retaliation.”

  They took his warning in stony silence.

  “As you wish,” Sammy finally whispered through thin lips.

  “Very well,” Lorenz added.

  Trevino climbed the stairs. Did they really think he was such a patsy? They couldn’t have made their desire to kill him any more transparent if they’d tried. Now it was just a matter of waiting to see how it would play out.

  Regrettably, it wasn’t quite time to put his weapons away.

  Longwei came down from the restaurant where he’d been mentoring an attractive young Chinese waitress recently smuggled into the country from Liaoning Province. Once again, she’d learned one of Longwei’s privileges of ownership while bent over the desk with her skirt up in his small office.

  “Is El Jefe still our friend?” he asked with a contented smile, settling into his chair.

  Lorenz shook his head. “No.”

  Longwei drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. “Then we must deal with him, but not immediately.”

  “Why not?” Juan inquired, unconvinced.

  “Because he’ll be wary and on guard for a time,” Sammy said. “Let him settle into his cottage on the hunting ranch and get comfortable. Then we will strike.”

  Juan shook his head. “I disagree. We can’t wait too long.”

  “Be patient,” Lorenz counseled.

  “He can easily take out anyone we send against him,” Juan noted.

  “We’ll swarm him with men, killers all,” Lorenz proposed. “Fifty of my officers will seal off the hunting ranch so he can’t escape. A coordinated surgical strike will be sufficient. No government official or reporter will blink an eye about a nameless squatter found dead in a cabin on a neglected hunting ranch.”

  Juan’s eyes brightened. “Let me do it.”

  Lorenz looked at Longwei, who nodded and reached for the telephone. “Let us ask Juan’s father for his concurrence.”

  Carmen Garza stepped into her husband’s private study, placed a tray of his favorite appetizers on the coffee table, poured two glasses of wine, and joined him on the couch.

  It was their ritual each afternoon. They relaxed and talked of the small events of the day, surrounded by the impressive assemblage of various civic and religious honors that decorated the bookshelves and walls.

  “Who called?” she asked.

  “Longwei,” Gilberto replied. “Trevino has refused our offer and wishes to retire. We need to make it permanent. Juan wants permission to handle it.”

  “Personally?”

  “If possible, I would imagine. However, Luis has a plan in mind that should keep Juan safe and deflect public attention.”

  “Excellent.” Carmen paused to sip her wine. “Still, Trevino is formidable, and I worry about Juan’s impulsiveness. I don’t want him doing something foolish and getting hurt again.”

  “Nor do I. I will make sure that Luis has two of his best men with Juan at all times to restrain and protect him if need be.” Gilberto patted Carmen’s hand. “It is time for Juan to step forward in the family business. He’s earned the right.”

  Carmen nodded. “I know.”

  “Then we are agreed?”

  Carmen sighed. “Yes.”

  “Good.” Gilberto picked up the phone.

  Danny Fallon crossed into Piedras Negras with a list of local bars he’d researched on the Internet. He took a cab to the airport and rented a car for a week. Only interested in dives and local hangouts, he’d immediately crossed off establishments that catered to American tourists. If Harjo were to be found in the city it would be at a working-class bar where only Mexicans gathered. Such cantinas were gold mines of local knowledge as well as great places to hide if you knew how to fit in.

  While his list was in no way complete, one bar would lead to another and then another. He’d cover them all if necessary before moving on to the next city on his list, Múzquiz, south of Piedras Negras.

  Fallon skipped over the downtown bars close to the river—too obvious to bother with. With a city street map in hand, he spent the majority of the day learning his way around. It was always handy to know the best escape routes.

  He had a little over three weeks of leave time and the thought that Harjo might not want to be found nagged at him. He cruised past the heavily guarded police station, wondering if there was one uncorrupt officer inside the building. Probably not. He pictured Lorenz inside, running the family drug empire, caring nothing about the murder and mayhem he created on the streets of the city.

  Thugs, punks, and gangsters were everywhere downtown, easy to spot on street corners and in their slow-cruising cars. DEA intelligence now ranked Piedras Negras as the fastest-growing narco-trafficking center along the border. It would soon kill the heart and soul of the city, much like what had happened to Juárez and Tijuana. No wonder ordinary people wanted to escape from the chaos that overwhelmed them and find a safe place in the States for their families.

  The first bar on his list was a grubby tavern with gaudy Day of the Dead skeletons—human and animal—painted on the walls. Salsa music blared from overhead speakers. One draft beer and two indecent propositions later, Fallon was out the door. No sense hanging out with the gay guys.

  The stonework job was in a gated hillside community with a guardhouse at the entrance. Large homes on expansive lots were all completely surrounded by a tall steel security fence. Jimenez’s client, the owner of an international trucking company, met them when they arrived to walk them through the work to be done. Wearing a thousand-dollar suit and expensive wing-tips, Senor Miguel Valencia gave Harjo a critical once-over. Deferentially, Jimenez introduced Harjo, who removed his ball cap and acted as subservient as possible.

  The house, starkly modern with thick concrete and stone walls offset by large windows and wide sliding glass doors, was both imposing and inviting. Although it was nicely landscaped, Harjo guessed it had been recently constructed. The planting beds that Valencia’s wife wanted built matched the stone used in the construction of the house and would bracket the covered patio, which contained a complete top-of-the-line outdoor kitchen.

  Senor Valencia went over the design plans. Harjo eyed them speculatively. If he worked very slowly and carefully, he just might be able to pull it off. Psychologically, he felt up to the challenge of building something that couldn’t be messed with by prosecutors, thwarted by bungling agency bureaucrats, sabotaged by uncooperative witnesses, or torpedoed by hung juries. Making something that would last held enormous appeal.

  After the trucking czar and Jimenez left, Harjo carefully measured the dimensions, staked the corners, and ran the string lines, before slicing through the lush green grass and turning over the first spade of earth.

  By noon he’d finished trenching for one planter. Jimenez had been by twice and seemed satisfied with his work. He sat under the shade of a palm tree, ate lunch, and drank from a pitcher of ice water and a large plastic glass the housekeeper had thoughtfully put out for him. He finished his last tortilla still hungry. Tomorrow he’d bring more food.

  Two women stood behind the patio doors watching. The angle of the sun made it impossible to see them clearly, but Harjo figured it was the trucking czar’s wife and her housekeeper.

  He stood, went to the pallets of rectangular and square stone in various sizes, and started sorting through the rocks for the best ones to use as the foundation. Thanks to his stay in Los Ladrones, he wasn’t sore or tired. He decided to do one planter at a time so his progress would be tangible and keep him motivated.

  Using a wheelbarrow, he carted loads of stone to the trench and laid them out in two long rows. When finished, each twenty-foot-long planter would stand three feet tall and be thirty inches wide. Laying the stones was an art of precise placement, requiring a keen eye and close concentration. He cleared his thoughts and began.

  By the time o
f Jimenez’s third supervisory visit Harjo had almost forgotten that he’d returned to Piedras Negras to kill some very bad people.

  Halfway through his second day on the job, the housekeeper brought Harjo a pitcher of iced tea and lingered for a few minutes.

  “I’m Lupita,” she said. Tall and round, she looked to be in her sixties.

  “Bernard,” Harjo replied, raising his glass of iced tea. “Gracias.”

  “Por nada.” Lupita glance at the patio doors. “My senora thinks you are working too slowly.”

  So far, Harjo had a third of one wall up, which he thought was damn good progress. “Is she in a hurry for me to finish?”

  “Sí. Once you are done, she wishes to have a big party and invite the neighbors, muy importante people.”

  “Big shots,” Harjo commented.

  Lupita nodded.

  “I’ll try to work faster,” he promised.

  The patio doors opened, and two women stepped out. One young with every hair in place, the other much older, matronly-looking.

  “Lupita, Senora Garza stopped by to visit,” the younger woman said. “Bring us coffee in the living room.”

  “Right away,” Lupita replied.

  The women retreated inside.

  “A neighbor?” Harjo ventured.

  “Sí,” Lupita answered, hurrying toward the house.

  It had to be Carmen Garza, Gilberto’s wife, Harjo thought. Suddenly he was no longer interested in building dry-stacked walls.

  He forced aside the distraction. He had no weapon, no phone, no vehicle, and no way of knowing which mansion of the two dozen or so inside the compound Carmen and Gilberto Garza inhabited. He needed to find that out first and discover what additional security they had, human or otherwise. Then he’d assemble what he needed to pay the Garzas a visit.

  Over the last decade, the hunting ranch had been neglected and virtually abandoned. Many of the dirt roads that had been cut in the topsoil to accommodate hunters were now overgrown trails. Artificial ponds built to attract waterfowl had failed and wetlands along live streams now flourished, bringing back water turtles and catfish. Grasslands once leased by a rancher and seriously overgrazed had rebounded and spread.