by Billy Kring
Hunter let a few seconds of silence go by before answering, “Where?”
“Abbey Road Cafe, it’s quiet there.”
“Abbey Road, like the Beatles Song?”
“Yeah, there’s a small museum at the café with Beatle memorabilia in it. It’s pretty good, actually.”
“Huh.”
“Not what you’d expect in Mexico.”
“Long as the food’s okay.”
“It is.”
“Okay, what day and time?”
Ike told her.
“I’ll bring Norma with me.”
“Bueno.”
~**~
Norma told Hunter a bit about the location as they arrived at the brightly painted exterior that showed pastels of orange, red, yellow, and blue in a homage to the 60’s. Ike waited at the door and led them to a table where Ramona and Anita sat near a five-foot high black and white framed photo of the Beatles in their heyday.
Anita’s face lit up and she ran to Hunter, who picked her up and hugged her. She said to Ramona, “It is all right if I hold her a while?”
Ramona nodded, then pointed to the chairs across from her, “Please, sit.”
Hunter sat so she faced Ramona and the Beatles poster as she put Anita on her knee. Hunter noticed the bruise on Ramona’s cheek that ghosted through extra makeup like the bottom of a building thunderhead. Norma sat beside her, and Ike remained standing.
The waiter arrived and both Hunter and Norma ordered Modelo. The man nodded and slipped away, returning with two dark bottles of cold beer a moment later.
Hunter took a sip, gave Anita another quick hug and said to Ramona, “I’m listening.”
Ramona smiled a little at Hunter for addressing her that way, like, who does she think she is? Ramona said, “I have names of two of the women who took Anita.”
Hunter put her phone on the table and was ready to one-handed type so she could still hold the child. “Go ahead.”
“Sandra Avila and Sofia Cardenas. There was a third woman, huge, maybe three-hundred pounds, that I believe was with her, and a fourth that is muscular.”
“Are they from Acuña?”
“No, from Juarez, at least originally.”
“Who do they work for?”
“I think for Juarez, but I’m not certain.” She looked at Hunter as if the woman was dense.
“So, the Juarez Cartel has people here.”
“Yes. Either them or the Zetas, who are after everything from Laredo to Arizona. They have a foothold in Juarez.”
“But not here?”
“Not yet. Solomon keeps a close watch on their activities.”
Hunter thought about this new information. “When they took Anita, where were you?”
She said, “They abducted her here off the main street in Acuña. We were shopping.”
“So, not in a store or building.”
Ramona said, “This is what happened,” and she told them.
Hunter waited until Ramona finished before saying, “Do you know where the kidnappers crossed the river? Did they drive across the bridge, or cross illegally?”
“They crossed as mojados, as wets,” Ramona answered.
Norma said, “You can say that, but we can’t. Not politically correct, if you know what I mean.”
A corner of Ramona’s mouth lifted, “All of Mexico, especially the crossers, call themselves that. Only in America are people so afraid to offend that they don’t.”
Hunter said, “Who all did you tell this to?”
“A policeman from the Acuña police, and on the US side, a sergeant at the PD.”
“What was his name?”
“He’s a friend. Ramon Barajas.”
Hunter typed the information on her phone before saying, “And the Acuña officer?”
“I don’t remember. He was the first one who showed at the scene.”
Hunter asked several additional questions before Ike turned and looked toward the door as a tall, slender man dressed all in black led two other black-coated men into the café.
“Solomon Chapa,” Ike whispered to Hunter and Norma.
Hunter heard Norma say under her breath, “Oh, shit.”
Turning to look, Hunter caught his eyes on her, and she felt the shock of their impact. The hairs on her forearms prickled. His eyes shone black, like two dime-sized holes filled with burned oil. His features were sharp, with pronounced cheekbones, full lips, and light skin. He was handsome in the way a dangerous animal is, and she recognized that he was no one to mess with.
Solomon walked to Hunter and took Anita. “You can leave. Now.”
Hunter said, “Nah, I’ve got food coming. You can join us if you want, I ordered plenty.” It wasn’t true, but she wasn’t going to let him push her. She felt her face flushing, like it always did before a heated argument or confrontation, her single “tell” that others could spot if they were looking.
Solomon played with Anita and smiled at Hunter.
Rattlesnake quick, he slapped Hunter in the face so hard and fast that she fell backwards, toppling the chair and dragging the silverware and plate off the table to clatter on the floor.
As she lay there coming to her senses, she realized he moved so fast she hadn’t seen his hand. The blow came strong and hard, like a fireplace log swung into her face. Rolling over to get up, she saw the sharp-pointed steak knife and palmed it so that when she stood, the blade ran up by her wrist, hidden
from everyone.
Ike stepped by her and helped her stand as Solomon said, “Leave.”
Ramona stepped between them and before anyone could react, Solomon slapped his wife so hard she staggered across the room and slammed into the wall. Anita cried loudly, and Ike stepped to Ramona.
“Leave her.”
Ike stared at Solomon. “She’s your wife.”
“She does what I say, and she doesn’t interfere. Neither do you.”
Hunter was hot. She wished she had her pistol, or a PR-24 baton, or even a sturdy stick.
Ike studied the two men with Solomon. They were new. Both men flanking Solomon had hands on the pistols under their jackets.
Ike said, “You want me to take Anita home?”
Solomon held the infant towards Ike, who took the sniffling child and held her close. She quieted in a few seconds.
Ramona rose to her feet, still unsteady, as a trickle of blood leaked from the corner of her mouth. Ike handed her his unused handkerchief and she used it to wipe away the blood. Ramona picked up her purse and motioned for Ike to follow her out the door.
Ike hesitated as he looked at Hunter, and then followed Ramona.
Everyone else in the café left at the same time. Solomon said to Hunter, “Don’t think that because you are la Patrulla, the Patrol, that you have special privileges, that you are looked at as being held to a different standard. You don’t. Remember this and let it burn into your memory: Never. Cross. Me. Follow that rule and you might live.”
Hunter said, “Who took your child? That’s what I’m trying to find out so they never do that again.”
Solomon said. “When I find them, you won’t have to worry.”
He led the others out of the Abbey Road Café, and Norma sat down in a chair. “Sweet Jesus, Hunter, I’m shaking all over.”
Hunter sat down, too, and Norma scrooched her chair closer to examine her friend’s face. “Looks like you’ll have a moose lip out of it, but nothing else.” Hunter raised her hand and put the steak knife on the table. “You were gonna stab him?”
“If he tried to hit me again, I was ready to whittle on him a little.”
“I’m glad he didn’t.”
“So am I. These steak knives are dull.” She winked at Norma. “Let’s boogie on out of here.”
Both women rose as Norma said, “Hell, yes.”
Chapter 3
Hunter asked Norma to go thru the drive-thru at Whataburger so she could get a large cup of crushed ice, and when they reached Norma’s house, Hunter dumped half of it in
a baggie and wrapped a thin dish towel around it before putting the cold against her swollen upper lip.
She hissed, “Hoo-wee,” and her eyes watered because the lip felt some kind of tender. Solomon struck her open handed, but his hands felt hard, calloused, and not what one would assume after looking at the man’s mode of dress and his model’s face. Solomon had the hands of a cowboy, maybe a miner or bricklayer, but for sure, someone who did years of hard manual labor.
Norma watched her as they sat on the couch and said, “Want a shot of tequila? Might burn the hurt out of it where the inside of your lip is raw.”
“Good gosh, no.” Hunter laughed, which made her lip hurt more. “Now watch TV and be quiet. I’m healing here.”
Norma put the bottle of Fortaleza on the kitchen counter where Hunter could see her favorite tequila, and poured a shot for herself, which she carried to the couch and sat close enough for Hunter to smell. Norma sipped it and sighed. Hunter laughed again and said, “You huzz!”
They watched Netflix the remainder of the evening and decided to go a different route tomorrow, up the Devil’s River arm of the lake to the hills at Indian Springs where water gushed out twenty feet above the river. Norma told her friend it would be a perfect place to get in the water and chill a while.
“Is the water cold?”
“It is if you’re right in the springs. There’s a handmade place, like a large hot tub a couple feet below the springs that fills with the water. Somebody built it by stacking rocks, and that water’s cold. Feels nice on a real hot day, but the river where the springs run into it is nice. Usually not too many people there, either.”
They slept late the next morning and boated up the Devil’s River arm of the lake at ten AM. Hunter spotted a number of pictographs on the high bluffs rising above the river, most of them pinks and reds, but a few were black. She wondered about those artists who scrambled up and down the steep stone to leave their messages for hundreds, maybe even thousands of years. What were they like; did they have families, were they holy men, or ordinary natives with artistic talent?
Norma nudged Hunter’s forearm, then handed her a glass of ice and filled it from a plastic jug filled with micheladas they made that morning. The two friends sipped the cold, spicy, tomato juice, lime and beer mixture and enjoyed the building warmth of the day.
Norma said, “Your lip is almost back to normal. Hurt?”
“Sore.”
“For a while there your upper lip looked bigger than Angelina Jolie’s.”
“It felt the size of a tire.” Hunter took off her thigh-length tee shirt cover to enjoy the feel of the sun and breeze on her skin.
Norma did the same and said, “Where’d you get that bikini? I love the fluorescent orange, makes your tan pop.”
“I got it in Florida the last time I was there.”
“So that’s why there’s not much fabric. Looks like there’s almost enough there for a napkin.” She grinned.
“You get used to it. That’s the way everybody dresses down there.”
Norma steered the boat through the long curve, and within five minutes they saw the white splash of the springs high on the hill in front of them. One pontoon boat had tied up at the shore, and two people milled around on the deck, while four others waved at them from the springs.
Norma put her boat apart from the pontoon boat to give them privacy, but still close enough to be friendly. They visited for several minutes before going their own way. The pontoon group was from Midland, Texas, down to the lake for a week of vacation. A little noisy for Hunter’s taste, with their loud rap music and laughter, but she kept her thoughts to herself, choosing instead to go a slight distance upstream in the Devil’s River to where it shallowed to a point that boats couldn’t follow. She waded, enjoying the feel of cool water up to her knees, and when it grew warmer, she lay in the water, submerging everything but her head.
The spot she chose was near the east bank where the rock bottom was scooped out like a large bathtub, and she sat in it, watching the others by the springs. A spindly bush grew from the bank and formed a leafy parasol to shade her head.
Minnows nibbled at her toes and the river smelled cleanly of river moss and plants, while the flowing water soothed her body, but not her mind.
Norma waded over and eased down in the deeper part beside her. “I know what you’re thinking.”
“You’re psychic now.”
“Because it’s on my mind, too. The kid, Kelly.”
Hunter nodded, “Yeah.” She ran her hand through the clear water like a child would do, “This place is great and all, but I’m ready to go back, if you are.”
“Sure. We’ll go by Don Marcelino’s and get some Mexican food, take it back to the house and talk about things we can do.” Norma rose from the river, making water cascade down her body and thighs, and Hunter did the same. As they waded downstream toward their boat, the flowing stream gurgled and swirled around their legs while minnows and small fish swam just ahead of their steps. Norma said, “I’ll call the S.O. when we get to the house, see if they located that car anywhere.”
One of the Deputy Sheriffs returned Norma’s call later that evening, and Norma put the conversation on speaker, “We found that car, but those women knew what they were doing. They emptied a full canister from a fire extinguisher into the interior, covered every square inch.”
Norma said, “Crap. How about the outside, any prints?”
“Nada.”
“Where’d you find it?”
“Out in Castle Canyon on one of the side roads, the caliche ones. We figure they had a phone and somebody picked them up after they ditched the car.”
Hunter had her bare feet curled up in the oversized chair, eating the last Julio’s chip from her plate as she listened. She said, “Who was the car registered to?”
The Deputy heard her question, “It was stolen from a house in San Felipe. An old man who lived alone there.”
“No criminal background on him? No possible association to the kidnappers?”
“Nope. He’s a retired teacher, did his entire career there in San Felipe. Not even a parking ticket on his record.”
Norma thanked him and hung up. “There goes that lead.”
Hunter said, “Do you remember the road that their car came out of?”
“When they almost hit us? Yeah, I do.”
“How about we go down it and look around, see if there’s a clue somewhere.”
“A clue.” Norma narrowed her eyes at Hunter, “Well, Mr. Holmes, I guess this means the game is afoot.”
Hunter winked, “You never know. Besides, I’m ready to get out of the house for a while.”
They drove out to the caliche road and turned down it. They travelled slowly, with both side windows down so the two Agents could observe better, hoping to find something in the roadbed or bar ditch that might help. Norma said, ‘Too much traffic.”
“Maybe when we get closer to the river and the cane, we’ll spot something.”
The closer they got to the river vega area, the less traffic there was, and far fewer tracks, and when they left the main road that curved west, their road narrowed to a two-lane trail that entered the desert brush first, then gradually gave way to the much taller green area of river cane.
The white tufted tops hissed like a whisper in the slight breeze as the slender carrizo stalks bent in the wind. The cane grew dense, with it forming an almost solid green wall along both sides of the narrow road. Hunter said, “One set of tracks besides ours.”
“We’ll see where it goes.” Norma drove easily along the loose, sandy loam soil, making sure not to become stuck in it. Five minutes later, they found where the car had been parked. Both women exited Norma’s vehicle and took a slow, methodical search of the area. Two sets of tracks showed that people approached where the car had been. Hunter said, “I think these two are our women from the bridge.”
They remained on the women’s footprints, backtracking their meandering path
across sand and a carpet of dead yellowed cane leaves that littered the open places in the cane.
Hunter said, “You see this? The one’s carrying something, and switching it from side to side, the tracks on the weighted side are deeper, and they change every so often.”
Norma said, “It’s the baby, switching it from hip to hip.” Hunter nodded. No other tracks were evident, just the two pairs of footprints. It took them ten minutes to get close enough to hear the Rio Grande gurgling ahead of them. Several other narrow paths joined the one they were on, and they showed older footprints, almost erased by insects and time, but Hunter and Norma remained on the one with the newest tracks. Hunter saw bobcat tracks on one of the others, but not much else. Here and there were piles of abandoned clothes and discarded trash where the ones who swam the river changed clothing and discarded the wet ones in an ever-growing pile left by those who crossed before.
Hunter cocked her head so her left ear was toward the hidden river, “You hear that? A boat’s coming.” The steady sound of oars in the water grew louder, and they crept through the cane, with Hunter pushing her body between the thick, tight-growing poles of pale green until she could see the river through the branches.
It was a boat made of two different colored car hoods welded together. Two young men sat in the bow and a lone older man worked the oars from the center of the craft. He sat on a handmade seat constructed of a board that ran from side to side and rested on wooden blocks cut from four-by-four posts. His oars were mismatched, and held in place by loops of baling wire at the sides of the boat. It made for noisy rowing, but the odd-looking craft made steady progress.
When the boat was less than ten feet from the shore, Norma stepped into a hole hidden under the leaves and grass, falling forward with a noisy, cane-breaking crack of carrizo and brush. “Crap!” Norma hissed.
The boatman stopped dead in the water, peering into the cane where the noise emanated, then he reversed direction and rowed toward the Mexico side of the river. The two passengers appeared nervous, as if they expected to be shot.
The boatman put the prow of the boat onto a flattened area of sandy loam and grass near a small trail that disappeared into the river brush and cane. The two men left the boat and hurried up the trail as the old man tied off his boat and, with one casual look across the river, started up the trail, disappearing into the green darkness of the cane and brush.
