Border Crossings

by Michael Lee Weems

  They locked eyes for a moment. Then Ramirez leaned a bit forward as well. “My motivations, Ms. James, are to let you know what kind of people you are picking a fight with.”

  “They’re the ones who started this,” reminded Catherine.

  “And they would gladly finish it if you give them the opportunity.”

  “So would I!” she said, now rising half out of her seat. Who the hell does this guy think he is!? “I’m not leaving until they’re caught! Period! And if your people aren’t going to do your job then you can bet your ass I will!” She slammed her hand hard. “They don’t get to get away with this one, Detective. Do you understand me!? Not this time! I don’t care who they are. And I’m not going to sit here and listen to you try to intimidate me. If these people think I’m just such an easy target then let them come give it a try. Oh, wait, that’s right. They already have, haven’t they?”

  Ramirez leaned back again and softened his tone. “Okay, Ms. James. I understand.” He motioned for her to sit relax back in her seat. “I know how you are feeling right now, Ms. James.”

  “Like hell you do,” she spat, still furious at him. “I’m getting real tired of hearing what the authorities can’t do around here, Detective. I refuse to believe that your entire system is corrupt and that someone can do something like this and just walk away scot-free. “

  “Believe me, I do understand.” He reached into the pocket of his sports jacket and pulled out a photograph, worn and creased. He handed it to Catherine. “Her name was Anna Cruz.” Catherine took the photo. It was a young girl with a bright smile and thick brown hair. “She lived in Chetumel with her mother, Juanita. A few months ago, Juanita asked Anna to go to the store for her, but on her way there three gang members snatched her off the street in front of a dozen witnesses. They gang raped her and then sodomized her with a metal pipe one of them had been using to beat her with.” His voice trailed off.

  “She died?” asked Catherine.

  “Twelve days,” said Ramirez. “Twelve days she survived in the hospital, and Juanita wouldn’t leave her side. I’ve seen many cases, Ms. James, too many cases in Juarez and now even here in Cancun, but I never knew any other mother like that woman Juanita. When her daughter died, she went to the police for help. When she didn’t get it, she called me. I sat with her, as I am sitting with you, now.” He stared at his coffee, a look of shame crossing his face. “I told her much what I just told you, but she didn’t listen. I tried to help her, but we had nothing on the men. We all knew it was them, everyone knew, but nobody would make a formal statement or testify. Whenever I tried to talk to people, they ran from me, as though I were the criminal. They ran in fear of their lives, because they knew if they talked to me the gang would kill them. And so when she asked me if we were going to catch the men that had killed her daughter, I made the worst mistake of all.”

  “What’d you do?” Catherine asked.

  He took back the photograph. “I told her the truth. Not long after, she bought a gun and went after the men that had killed her daughter.”

  Catherine began to suspect where the story was going. “And did she find them?”

  “No.” He locked eyes with her. “They found her.” Ramirez picked up his napkin and began twisting it in his fingers. “They heard she was looking for them and found out where she lived, and then attacked her in her own apartment. They beat her to death with, what else? A metal pipe.” Ramirez watched a moped as it sped down the street through the window. “I imagine they thought it was pretty funny. Neighbors certainly heard the attack, but for twenty minutes they beat the woman to death in that apartment while her neighbors hid behind closed doors, pretending not to hear. Nobody would help her,” he said, “and nobody would talk after.”

  “What did you do after that?” Catherine asked.

  Ramirez sighed, long and sadly. “I did what I was told to do.”

  “You did nothing is what you mean.”

  “I wasn’t permitted to arrest them. Not enough evidence, said my superiors.”

  “I’m sorry,” said Catherine. “I can only imagine what that must have been like for you to know they would never be brought to justice.” Her tone became less aggressive. “Maybe you do understand how I feel, then.”

  “Oh, yes,” he said. “Even more than you might think.” Ramirez eyed her, trying to decide just how intimate he wanted their relationship to be. Given what they were up against, he decided to go for broke. “Those men didn’t exactly get away with what they did to that girl and her mother.” He balled the napkin he’d been playing with up and flicked it to the side. “The men that killed Juanita and her daughter got drunk at a bar one night, and when they got back in their car someone was waiting for them. Someone opened fire on the men, shooting them down while they sat in their car. All three were killed.”

  “Who did it?”

  “Well, that’s a mystery, isn’t it?” said Ramirez. “The police don’t know. The gang doesn’t know. I suppose nobody does.”

  Catherine began to understand. “Do you?”

  Ramirez took the picture back of Anna and returned it to his pocket. “What I do know, Ms. James, is that someone decided if those men couldn’t be brought to justice, then justice should be brought to them. Some crimes can’t go without justice.”

  “I agree,” said Catherine after a pause.

  Ramirez shrugged. “Who’s to say if it was right?” Then he shook his head as though considering it. “Who’s to say it wasn’t revenge, not justice.” He looked at Catherine wondering what she thought of this. “Whoever killed those men broke the law.”

  “But he also took three murdering rapists off the street when nobody else would,” she reminded him. “He probably saved lives.”

  “Perhaps,” he said. “Perhaps.” He looked at his watch. “I should go now. If you do decide to stay in Cancun, I hope you take care and are safe. I would advise that you take special care to avoid men wearing the gold chains with medallions that Mr. Thomas here was wearing,” he tapped the file that held the photo of the gunman Catherine had killed. “It bears a striking resemblance to the one the man in the sketch was wearing, doesn’t it? I read a report that suggested the Barrio Boys have a way of identifying their hierarchy. The report suggested tattoos or clothing, but I did some checking back on old mug shots and crime scenes and noticed something very interesting, Ms. James. It seems the gang has a penchant for jewelry. The low members of the gang often wear silver necklaces. I saw a few pictures of boys wearing thin necklaces, but as they get older and more ruthless, the chains they wear seem to get thicker. And a medallion? My guess would be they get that when they commit their first murder. It’s just a guess, of course. So then I asked myself, if this is true, who gets to wear the gold pieces?”

  “The lieutenants?” she asked.

  Ramirez nodded. “They’re mainly centered in Mexico City and up along the border, but it appears they’ve made their way here to Cancun, which is very troubling. I advise you to return home, Ms. James. But if you stay, then as an officer of the law, I recommend you stay far, far away from these people.”

  “I’ll remember that,” said Catherine. “Thanks for the information.”

  “Goodbye, Ms. James,” said Ramirez as he rose from his seat. “I enjoyed our coffee. I hope we can do it again someday.”

  Catherine returned to the hotel that night and told Matt what she’d learned.

  “This is really something,” said Matt. “I just left one cartel. I didn’t figure to be getting wrapped up with another one.”

  “I know,” responded Catherine. “I didn’t see this coming, either. I’m still trying to figure out how Kelly crossed paths with these people. You think they just singled her out in the bar for some reason? Maybe this whole thing happened because that guy was mad Kelly turned him down.”

  “People get killed for far less logical reasons,” he told her.

  “Starting to look that way.” said Catherine. “I can’t believe they wou
ld do this to her all because she wasn’t interested in the guy.”

  “They’re used to getting what they want and doing what they want without consequence. We’ll get him,” said Matt. “Where do you want to start?”

  “Ramirez said this is the first he’s known of them here in Cancun. They’re mostly concentrated around the capital, but I think the first thing to do is try and find the one that got away, the driver from the market. We can start by trying to find that car.”

  “What about Julio?” asked Matt.

  “I can go with you!” he said excitedly. “My leg’s much better.” And he flopped it around like a bad hokey pokey just to prove it.

  “Sorry, kiddo. We’re going to find a nice place for you to hang out a while,” said Catherine.

  Surprisingly, Matt had a possible solution to the problem of what to do with Julio. “I think I know of a place. I can call an old amigo of mine who retired down in Playa del Carmen. We can probably take him over there.”

  “You think it’d be safe?”

  “Safer than most anywhere else.” Matt made a phone call and thirty minutes later was happy to report his old marine pal was willing to help out. “He got put on government disability two years ago after and IED in Afghanistan. He took a little R and R down in Playa del Carmen and ended up marrying some cute little mamacita down here and never left. He’ll take good care of Julio for a bit.”

  A knock came at the door. Catherine looked at Matt, “You order room service?”

  “No,” he said.

  They both looked at Julio and Matt asked him in Spanish if he had. “No.”

  “Are you sure?” Catherine asked.

  “Of course I’m sure. It wasn’t me,” Julio swore.

  Matt immediately grabbed his gun and Catherine did the same.

  “Yes?” asked Catherine loudly. There came no response. Both he and Catherine stood with their guns raised. She motioned to Julio to get on the other side of the bed and lay down.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Who is it!?” Catherine asked, louder this time. No response. She began silently walking towards the door as though to look out of the peephole, but was stopped by Matt’s arm. He was shaking his head and moved Catherine behind him. Then he picked up a tourist magazine from the little table and waved it in front of the peephole. As the shadow moved across the little circle of glass, a bullet ripped through the glass eye, tearing through the magazine and disappearing into the sheetrock beyond.

  Matt instantly answered by placing his own gun to the hole and firing. They heard bumping noises outside and someone cursed. “Kill the bitch!” someone yelled in Spanish.

  The door reverberated with the sound of someone kicking it. Then gunfire sprayed upon the lock. Catherine and Matt were at the ready, though. As the door flew inward, they open fired. The first person through the door fell dead with two in the head.

  Behind him two others were scrambling. A fourth lay sprawled out in the hallway having received the bullet through the peephole.

  One of the two remaining men yelled in fright and began shooting wildly while making a hasty retreat. The other one, apparently not realizing his companion was fleeing, tried to rush the door. Catherine and Matt had to get out of the line of fire so moved directly behind the door as the man tried to rush in. Catherine waited until he was halfway through and then kicked the door as hard as she could, keeping pressure applied. The shooter was slammed in-between the door and its frame. During the moment he was stuck there Matt darted out from behind the little desk. She pushed the shooter’s hand up just as he fired, and then Matt placed his own gun near the man’s armpit and fired. The bullet ripped between two ribs, exploded a lung, and tore through the heart. The shooter managed a gasp then coughed up blood as he fell over dead, still caught in the door.

  Catherine lowered her leg, releasing the pressure on the door. As the dead man slid to their feet Matt bolted out of the door. “Stay here!” he shouted back. It happened so fast Catherine didn’t have time to respond.

  She turned and dropped to her knees to check on Julio, who had taken refuge beneath the bed. “Are you okay?”

  He looked up and nodded quickly, too frightened to say anything.

  Matt was running down the hall and pushed the door open into the stairway. Below him, he could hear the footfalls of the one shooter who had run away. Matt leaned out over the railing, aiming his gun carefully, but could get no shot.

  The fleeing man was already a floor down and Matt knew he’d never run fast enough to catch him before the man reached the bottom floor and disappeared into the street. He was about to give up the chase when he thought of an alternative. He bolted back down the hallway and through the door of the room. Catherine stared in shock as Matt flew past her with a very determined grimace on his face. “Be right back,” he told her as he passed. He opened the sliding glass door to the balcony in one quick motion, tucked his gun in his pants, slung himself over the railing, and then, like the clavadistas, or cliff divers, of Acapulco, he jumped outward from the balcony with all his strength. “Holy shit!” Catherine cried in surprise, running to the balcony edge and watching Matt fall.

  Down at the pool a woman was trying to convince her husband she’d just heard gunshots. “Honestly, honey, I think I heard gunshots,” she was saying worriedly.

  “Probably just a car, dear,” her husband responded absent-mindedly, his eyes glued to the pages of a novel he was reading.

  “Matt!” Catherine shouted in horror as she watched him crash into the pool below in a cannonball-esque position that became more of an awkward back flop when he landed. It was not the graceful leap he had hoped for, but he luckily didn’t break his neck. “Matt!” She called again. Matt popped up in the water with a grimace of pain. “Are you okay?” She yelled from above. Idiot.

  He’d hit the water harder than he thought and struggled for breath. His buttocks and tailbone had hit bottom and he wondered for a moment if he’d broken bones. Stupid shallow pool, he cursed. But when he kicked his legs they obeyed, all be it not without some protest. He pulled himself up and gave Catherine a wave like a stuntman who’d just missed his mark but wanted the crowd to know he wasn’t dead. Fuck, that hurt, he groaned to himself, holding the small of his back as though worried it might snap in two if he didn’t.

  “Are you okay?” asked the woman who had told her husband she’d heard shots, who had gotten up and was now approaching Matt like an angry school marm. “That was a fool stunt . . . .” she began. But when Matt pulled his gun out of his waistband she turned back the other way in a hurry, “Oh, my!” she cried, her husband finally raising his head from the book to spot Matt and then scurry away with his wife.

  Matt took off around to the front of the hotel in the ugliest, limping run he could manage, ignoring the pain throbbing through his chest and down his lower back. He passed a few shocked tourists heading to the pool on the way, sending them screaming out of his path, and he reached the front door of the hotel just as the fourth shooter came flying out. The man was so concerned with speed and who might be behind him that he gave no notice to what was in front of him and Matt delivered a head-splitting strike to the man’s head with a dull thwack, dropping the man to the floor like a wet burlap bag of sand, out cold. Witnesses disappeared into the closest doorway they could find. It was the Hilton all over again, they thought, screams being heard as people disappeared behind halls and doors. He tucked his gun away and was at a loss what to do. The police would be there any second. How the hell was he going to get Catherine and Julio out of the hotel and manage to haul this guy with them before the cops got there? He didn’t want to hand over the only lead they had to the police. He was about to resign himself that he had no other choice but to do just that when he noticed one of the cars in front of the hotel was still running with no one inside, very unusual indeed. Further inspection revealed it was an old red Pontiac with a fresh set of paint and a new back window. It had some new seats in it but the metal plate b
ehind the driver’s seat was solidified his initial thought. “Is that yours?” he asked the unconscious man. “Yeah, that’s yours,” he smiled, grabbing the man’s arms and dragging him towards the car. “Aren’t you just Santa’s little helper?” He put the man in the car but not before borrowing his cell phone. Then he drove off, still soaking wet, while he called Catherine’s pre-paid cell phone. Memorizing her number was one of the first things he did when got to Cancun. She didn’t answer the first time, but when he hung up and dialed again he heard a brisk, “Yes!?”