Betrayal on the Border

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  “Sure.” He pulled the ticket pad from his belt and ripped off a sheet.

  Chris took the paper and raised an eyebrow. “Signing this isn’t going to get me into any trouble, is it?”

  “Naw. Write your name on the back. Best use of one of these things I’ve seen in a long while.”

  Seconds later, the officer strolled away, smiling and tucking the autographed page into the breast pocket of his shirt.

  Chris stuck more than enough cash to cover the bill into the discreet black folder the waitress had supplied, and then he stood up. “Shall we?”

  Nursing reluctant admiration, Maddie followed him toward the exit. Chris Mason possessed a brand of courage she could only dream about. His occupation kept him in the public eye 24/7 and thrust him in front of a camera, speaking to millions of people at a time. She’d rather engage a squadron of enemy forces single-handed than give a speech.

  They climbed into Ginger, and Maddie directed the car out of the parking lot with extra caution not to exhibit the fire under the old gal’s hood. Next to her, Chris pecked and swiped at his smart phone.

  “Evidently, we’re not wanted for anything at the moment,” she said, “or that encounter would have ended with us in handcuffs, not a publicity op. But news of your presence in Laredo will now spread to San Antonio as soon as that officer reports in.”

  “At least he didn’t ask me to introduce you, or it would go viral that we’re hanging out together.”

  Maddie chuckled. “Suits me fine that my chair might as well have been an empty seat for all the attention he paid me. Where to now?”

  “Here’s the location of the nearest library.” He read off the directions.

  Ten minutes later they had cruised a few miles up I-35 and were entering the main library on Carlton Road. Maddie inhaled the warm, woody, slightly sweet smell of books and bookshelves overlaid by air freshener. Chris proceeded at a brisk pace to the main counter, and Maddie trailed him, casing the area for potential threats and escape routes.

  “Excuse me,” Chris said to the man behind the counter. “I’m looking for a book entitled A Grunt’s War in Vietnam. Do you have a copy?”

  “Let me see.” The librarian, whose name tag identified him as Phil, tapped a few keys on the computer keyboard, hummed, and then turned toward them. “Yes, we have a copy, but I’m sorry, it’s checked out.”

  Maddie’s gut tensed. At least Chris had the presence of mind not to show the librarian the half bookmark taken from the crime scene.

  “Too bad.” Chris leaned a forearm on the counter. “Can you tell me anything about the author?”

  Phil poked a little more at his keyboard then his face lit up. “Well, what do you know...”

  What? Maddie bit her lip against barking the question aloud.

  “The author bio in our system says Hector Herrera was a native of Laredo. One of our hometown boys.”

  “Was?” Chris canted his head.

  The smile died on Phil’s face. “Says here his sister Bonita Herrera issued his memoir posthumously. I recognize the publisher. It’s one of those self-publishing outfits, but reputable. Copyright date is just last year.”

  “Is the sister still a resident of Laredo?”

  Phil showed empty hands. “No clue. Doesn’t say. You doing research or something?”

  “Research, definitely.”

  The librarian’s eyes narrowed. “You look familiar. Have we met?”

  “I have one of those faces people seem to recognize.”

  Phil pursed his lips and looked unconvinced, but he turned back toward his computer monitor. “Let me check our event archives for you. Since the author was a local, we may have hosted a book-launch party. In which case, the sister would most likely have been the presenter, and we would have contact information. I couldn’t give out an address or phone number, but I could take yours and let her know a researcher is interested in talking to her.”

  “That would be great.”

  The clicking and scanning went on for some time. Maddie eased from one foot to the other. Were they on the verge of a breakthrough or a dead end? This research business was every bit that combination of tedium and tension that marked the countdown before an assault.

  Phil let out a huff. “Sorry, we have no record of an event hosted by our library for that book release.”

  “Thanks for trying.” Chris backed away from the desk.

  “Welcome.” The librarian’s gaze drifted toward his computer monitor.

  Maddie’s stomach knotted as Chris took her elbow and led her into a maze of bookshelves. “What now?” Her words came out in a breathy whisper.

  “We attack the problem from a different angle. Have a seat.” He motioned toward a wingback chair in a reading alcove.

  Maddie eased into it while Chris sat across from her and tapped and swiped on his cell phone, making little clicking noises with his tongue against his teeth that got on her last nerve. She twiddled her fingers against the faux-leather arm of the chair and then rose and paced. Shadows moved and air currents shifted faintly as patrons soft-footed through the area. She didn’t like being trapped in a corner like this. They needed to move soon.

  “Houston, we have liftoff.” Chris chuckled.

  “You found something?” Her tone was sharper than intended.

  Chris’s eyebrows arched as he rose. “Ms. Herrera has a website for the book, but the contact form goes to a blind mailbox. Not much help there. Plugging Bonita Herrera into a White Pages search for Laredo, Texas, offered similar bupkes. That didn’t worry me too much. I figured she might be using her maiden name in connection with the book release, but then her White Pages listing would be under her married name.”

  “How did you get around that little detail? Sounds pretty hopeless to me.”

  Chris grinned. “I entered Hector Herrera.”

  “But he’s dead.”

  “True enough, but I got a hit with that inquiry, and the family member in the sublisting is a woman by the name of Bonita Bates.”

  “The sister?”

  “I’d be surprised if it wasn’t.”

  “But why—”

  Chris held up a quieting hand, and Maddie contained her impatience—barely.

  “Evidently Hector’s sister uses his name and number as her own telephone number. I surmise that she may have been widowed at some point and wound up living with her brother until his passing. Women living alone often retain their phone listing under the man of the household as a means of protection.”

  Maddie snorted. “Not much protection if you could expose her ploy with a few keystrokes. So much for personal privacy.”

  “It’s largely an illusion in this electronic age.”

  “Not comforting with all the crazies out there.”

  Chris rolled his shoulders. “Makes you look higher than your own resources for a sense of safety.”

  “Tell that to my dead comrades in arms...and my brother, too.” Maddie tasted the bitterness rolling off her tongue, but she couldn’t stop the words.

  Chris’s steady gaze oozed sympathy. Maddie dropped her attention to the low-napped carpet beneath their feet.

  “It’s okay to be angry, Maddie. I’m angry, too.”

  She peered up at him. There was no judgment on his face. She sucked in a long, deep breath. “Let’s keep hunting for justice. Okay? Maybe then I can...”

  Maybe then she could what? Resolve her grief? Find peace? Forgive God? How clichéd was all of that?

  “You shouldn’t feel guilty because you survived. It wasn’t your fault. Any of it.”

  Huh? Maddie blinked and froze.

  Chris strode away between the shelving. She shook off her paralysis and scampered after him. The guy was going to get himself killed if he dropped verbal bomb
s on her and then pranced away from the protection of his unofficial bodyguard. She caught up with Chris, tugged his arm to slow him down, then passed him, gaze roving, assessing, marking potential threats and possible cover. They exited the library, and Maddie thumbed Ginger’s remote start button. The Oldsmobile purred to life, and they walked over and climbed inside.

  She glared toward her passenger. “So, Mr. Therapist, what makes you think I feel guilty for living?”

  “Because I did—for months. My whole perception of reality and what’s truly important shifted that night. Finally, I figured that for my survival to matter, I needed to expose the truth about what happened that night.”

  “The real truth? Not just whatever dirt you can scrounge that will shoot you up the celebrity ladder?”

  Chris’s blue gaze darkened, but he didn’t look away from her charged stare. “The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

  Maddie squelched a reluctant grin that tugged at the corners of her lips. “You’re not on the witness stand, you know.”

  “But I feel like I’m on trial.”

  She looked away from him and headed Ginger out of the parking lot. “Which direction now?”

  A heavy sigh let her know that her nonanswer had stung. Maddie’s heart squeezed in her chest. He had no idea how much she wanted to believe him, and for that very reason, she needed to keep her guard up until the truth he was talking about became crystal clear to her.

  Chris consulted his phone and rattled off directions to a neighborhood on the south side of the city very near the Rio Grande and the lawless bastion of drug runners—Nuevo Laredo, Mexico.

  “Prime location for someone tied in with moving drugs,” Chris said.

  “No argument there. Maybe we’re onto something after all.”

  A sensation like a feather brushing down her spine sent a shiver through her frame. Could she really hope they would find answers and win free of the threat that had dogged her steps for so long that carefree moments were bittersweet memories?

  A half hour later they pulled up in front of a small brick bungalow fronted by a low, open porch. The house looked well kept, though the door and windows wore bars, and the yard was brown and dead.

  “I’m going to introduce myself by name,” Chris said. “It’s a gamble, considering we’re trying to avoid killers on our trail, but knowledge of my identity could produce a telltale reaction of guilt and fear... That is, if this Bonita Bates played a part in the betrayal.”

  Maddie nodded. “And if she didn’t, a little name-dropping from someone who might publicize her book could get her to talk freely. Maybe she’ll say something that will give us a lead. I think it’s worth the risk.”

  Chris’s answering grin shot tingles through her.

  They got out of the car, and Maddie came around to stand on the cracked sidewalk beside Chris. The man stared at the house, then suddenly jerked and rocked back. Maddie gripped his arm. The muscles beneath her hand were rigid. She followed the line of his gaze toward the side of the house where a white-haired woman in a wheelchair rolled slowly down a long ramp toward them.

  Then she looked up at Chris’s drawn face. What did she see there? Guilt? Fear? Sorrow?

  “Serena, I’m so sorry.” The words pulsed from his lips, barely audible.

  Who was Serena? Something nipped Maddie’s insides. Jealousy? No way! But his reaction was guilt. Definitely. The emotion they’d been talking about less than an hour ago. What was it about this woman that raked raw shame to the surface of this man’s iron composure?

  * * *

  The vise squeezing his arm brought Chris back to the present—away from the remembered flash and thunder of a single gunshot and the blood. So much precious blood. He glanced down. That was no vise. It was Maddie’s white-knuckled grip around his biceps.

  “What was that all about?” She took her hand away while he scrubbed his fingertips across his forehead and inhaled a deep breath.

  “Bad memory. Sorry about that,” he said.

  “What—”

  “Let’s just say that the Rio isn’t the only time a bullet has nearly taken me out.”

  Maddie’s brow furrowed and her mouth opened, but Chris walked away from her toward the woman in the wheelchair, who had stopped at the bottom of the ramp to survey them with wary eyes. The dumpling-shaped woman dressed in a T-shirt and lightweight sweatpants really looked nothing like his petite, elegant Serena. It was just the wheelchair and the bone-white hair that had thrown him back in time. This person was old enough to warrant the snowy locks that frizzed around her head, not like the vibrant young woman with her whole life ahead of her who went white in a single day and landed in a wheelchair because he had trusted the wrong person. If he’d needed any reminder that his attraction to Maddie was a recipe for disaster, this was it.

  “Hi, I’m Christopher Mason, a reporter from World News.” He stopped in front of the woman’s chair and extended his hand. “I’m interested in the memoir you published about your brother’s experiences in Vietnam.”

  The sixtysomething woman’s cautious expression melted into a smile, and she offered a weak but steady handshake. “World News! What do you know about that?”

  Her gaze showed no alarm. Either Bonita Bates wasn’t in on the conspiracy, or she was the uncrowned queen of subterfuge. Apparently, she hadn’t seen the news reports of his near demise, either. No dark curiosity marred the delight on her face.

  She slapped the arm of her wheelchair. “I was always after Hector to have that memoir published. He had a way with words, you know, and a big ax to grind about how that war was handled. But he insisted no one should see the baring of his soul until he was gone. Well, I took him seriously, and got the thing into print within a year after he passed. There’s been a decent amount of attention paid. More than I thought might come of a book about events that happened decades ago.”

  “Congratulations.” His peripheral vision caught Maddie easing into a position nearby, her gaze scanning the neighborhood. Chris kept his attention on the woman before him. “I don’t think this country will ever forget those turbulent years. We’d be foolish if we did. I assume you must be Hector’s sister, Bonita.”

  “That I am. And your lady friend?”

  “This is my assistant.”

  If Maddie objected to being dubbed an assistant or if Bonita noticed he’d not supplied a name, neither of them batted an eyelash.

  Hector’s sister gestured with a welcoming hand. “Come on in and ask your questions, as long as you don’t mind a bit of clutter. I’ve got some sweet tea in the fridge and supermarket cookies in the cupboard.”

  “You don’t need to serve us anything, but I’d be interested in sitting down for a chat.”

  A few minutes later, Chris had pushed his hostess’s chair into the house, and they were installed in a rather dim, musty front room surrounded by the promised clutter. Pathways for the wheelchair were about the only open spaces between bags and boxes of who knew what and stacks of newspapers and magazines.

  Chris’s gaze fell upon an 8 x 10 framed photo occupying the center of a dusty coffee table. The photo featured a wildly grinning younger version of Bonita standing upright beside a youthful, smiling man dressed in a military uniform. They were posed in front of the very house they now occupied.

  He gestured toward the picture. “You and your brother?”

  “Yes, that was us right before he shipped out. I found the photo in a box of memorabilia while I was preparing the memoir for publication. It gave me inspiration.” The woman’s gaze went wistful. “Those were better days. I was among the lucky ones that Hector came back from the war, but he was never the cheerful fellow he used to be. He ranted about the way the government played politics

  with G.I.’s lives, and worse, protected the rights of protesters who spat on servicemen.”
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  “Did he do anything about it?” Chris asked.

  A half smirk, half grimace passed over Bonita’s face. “Sure did. He wrote enough letters to newspapers, congressmen and government agencies to fill a book. I included a few samples at the end of the memoirs. Guess he made enough noise, and maybe said the wrong things to the wrong people, that the FBI started harassing him...and us, too—my husband, Dane, and me.”

  She scowled. “I’ve always felt it was upset over the government persecution that made Dane jumpy behind the wheel the night we had the accident that killed him and put me in this.” She patted the left wheel of her chair. “After that, I moved in with Hector in this home where we grew up. He was no picnic to live with, but I understood why.”

  “Tell me about the good days, and then the war.”

  Perched on the edge of a straight-backed chair opposite Chris, Maddie’s lips pressed together. She probably figured he was wasting time. He sent her a quelling look, and her shoulders eased out of their rigid line.

  For the next half hour, Bonita poured out her heart about growing up with her brother, then the war that changed him. Chris countered with gentle, prodding questions. Animation and genuineness flowed from her. If her story glossed over nefarious activities perpetrated by her brother or herself since Nam, Oscar awards should rain from the sky.

  “Here I am telling you these things you already found out in the book,” she said. “I haven’t even asked you. What did you think of it?” Bonita folded her hands in front of her, and gazed at him with the air of an eager puppy.

  Chris regarded her gravely. This was in no way the sort of person he’d expected to meet, and he couldn’t stretch his imagination far enough to picture this disabled, elderly hoarder pulling the trigger that killed Agent Jackson. Judging by her handshake, she hadn’t the strength to so much as raise the gun. But something about the bookmark in the agent’s hand was significant enough to warrant him spending his last second of life ripping it in half.

  He spread his palms. “To be honest with you, Bonita, I haven’t read it yet. I found out about the book under rather stressful circumstances. When I asked for it in the library, it was checked out, so I came looking for you.”