by Simon Toyne
The vulture’s wings flapped softly behind him as it moved from the pump shack to a closer perch, drawn by the smell of blood. The bird did not seem at all wary of him, as if he saw him as a kindred creature.
Is this what I am? Solomon wondered. A carrion beast drawn to the smell of death?
He took another step and passed through the gap in the doors, out of the light and into the darkness.
The smell of blood was like a physical presence inside the barn, as solid as the shadows. It was coming from his right where no skylights leaked light and the blackness was total. He stared into it, listening for the soft breath of someone lying in watchful wait or the thrum of a heart charged with adrenaline, pushing blood into muscles that were coiled and ready to spring. He heard nothing.
He reached out, gripped the edge of the door, and started walking forward, dragging it open in a steady rumble and spilling daylight into the darker interior of the barn. The body was lying against the far wall, the hands tied together by a rope that had been thrown over the ceiling beam. He was stripped to the waist, his gray skin streaked with blood.
“Old Man Tucker, I presume,” Solomon whispered.
The door banged to a halt against the end of the runner and Solomon gazed upon the study in death before him, examining his own reaction to it as much as the details of the slaughter. He knew this was a shocking thing he was looking at and yet he was not shocked by it, and it was this that disturbed him more than the slaughter. What kind of man must he have been to feel nothing at the sight of this?
Behind him the turkey vulture hopped closer and he imagined it cocking its head to one side so it could feast its eager eye on the delights Solomon had revealed inside the barn. He envied the bird its pure, uncomplicated existence, refined over thousands of years until it was the perfect embodiment of its purpose. It did not need to analyze its responses or try to work out what they meant. Blood meant food. Blood meant survival. For Solomon, blood complicated things. It slammed a door in his face and meant he could not now question the man who had most probably broken into Holly Coronado’s house and ask him what had been looking for. No doubt whoever had killed him had asked, and most likely gotten answers too. He had been tortured before he died. There were four raw patches on his exposed upper body where the flesh had been neatly sliced off in strips, two on either side of his spine and one on each side of his neck, the precision of the cuts hinting at considerable skill with a knife and a familiarity with the torturer’s craft.
The flesh is thinner in these places, Solomon’s mind whispered to him. The nerve endings are closer to the surface, making the cuts more painful.
There was one final wound in the center of the old man’s chest above his heart, and the dirt all around him was painted with arcs of arterial blood that had come from this deathblow. The blood was wet and fresh and Solomon wondered if the killer was still here. He sensed movement out in the yard, turned, and saw the girl walking toward him, a shotgun in her hand.
50
THE ELEVATOR PLATFORM BUMPED TO A HALT AGAINST SOFT RUBBER BUFFERS and lights flickered on in the first section of the tunnel. The tunnel extended north for almost a mile and had cost two million dollars to build, cheaper than the border fence designed to keep them out. Tío had built ninety tunnels like this along the western side of the border, ranging from Baja California to Texas, every single one paid for with the profits from the very first consignment each had carried. Tío stepped off the loading platform and onto one of the railway carts. Miguel and Cerdo shifted a bag of weapons and the cans of gasoline off the loading platform and onto the carts, then Tío pushed a button to engage the electric motors.
The carts moved smoothly forward and Miguel and Cerdo crouched down as they left the loading area and the ceiling got lower. Tío sat down and settled in for the ride. It would take ten minutes to cover the mile of track and he closed his eyes and let the gentle movement of the cart rock him into a state of calm, thinking again of the day his father and brother died.
He and his brother Ramon had been hiding in the heat of the house, sent there by his father because the middleman was coming to buy their crop. They had heard him drive up in his car, greet his father, then the boom of a gunshot had shaken the walls. His brother had reacted immediately, pulling his work knife from his belt and running out the door. A second shot had boomed. Then there was nothing.
Tío had never forgotten that silence, how total it seemed, like it would swallow him up. He remembered hearing the click of the shotgun being broken and reloaded and realizing that it was just him now, him and the man with the shotgun. His father never liked his mother around when the deals were being done, so always sent her down to the market in El Rey.
He remembered hot tears running down his cheeks, tears of fear and anger. He had bitten his fist to stop himself from sobbing, because he knew the man would be listening, trying to figure out where he was, and the thin wooden walls of the shack would offer no protection against a shotgun blast. For the first time in his life he’d realized there was no one there to protect him, no one but himself. Tío on his own. Tío when he was still Hector Rodriguez Alvarado. Tío when he was only two weeks north of his eighth birthday.
He remembered his hand closing around the handle of the knife he had been given as a gift on his recent birthday to use in the fields, because he was becoming a man now and a man needed his own knife. He didn’t feel like a man right then, tasting the blood from biting his fist and the salt of his tears. The crunch of footsteps drew closer and he wondered if he could be quicker than Ramon, dart outside and stick the knife in the man’s neck before he could shoot. His anger and fear almost drove him to do it, but then something made him stop. He knew he was fast, but he wasn’t faster than a bullet and the man would be aiming right at the door, waiting, because it was the only way in and out of the shack. It was his survival instinct that had made him stop, stronger than fear, stronger than anger even. He heard another soft crunch outside and realized that if he did nothing, if he stayed where he was, the man would come into the shack and shoot him where he stood. He couldn’t leave witnesses and he couldn’t afford to wait it out either. There were two dead bodies lying out there for everyone to see and the sound of the gunshots would have echoed down the valley. People would come to see what had happened and the man needed to be gone by then. Another crunch. Closer now.
Tío had moved away from the wall and crept slowly across the room so as not to make any sound. He had pushed the blankets together on the cot he shared with Ramon, moving them into a pile so it might look like he was hiding there, then he stole back to the door, still wide open after Ramon had run through it, and pressed himself flat to the wall.
The barrel of the shotgun appeared first, sliding into view through the crack between door and wall. The middleman followed, squinting into the dark cabin with his sun-drenched eyes. Tío saw his face and recognized him. He was called Tuco, a sour man his father had a particularly low opinion of.
“He’s nothing but a thug with family connections to the bosses,” he had told them once after one of his visits. “He has no brains and he knows I know it. I can always make him pay more than he wants to because he’s too stupid to outsmart me.”
Tuco stepped through the door and moved toward the bed. Tuco the thug with the family connections. Tuco with the shotgun and the blood of his father and brother on his hands. He leveled the shotgun at the bed. And Tío ran.
He slipped from his hiding place and burst through the door, nearly tripping over the body of his brother as he headed across the ground toward the jagged rocks that marked the start of the mountain path.
There was a bang behind him as Tuco turned and caught the barrel of the gun on the edge of the door. Tío darted right then left, zigzagging across the ground like a rabbit with a dog after it. He reached the entrance to the mountain track just as a boom echoed down the valley and rock exploded around him. He felt a sharp sting on his leg but he kept on running, keeping below th
e level of the uneven ground as he ran up the path and into the mountains. Another crack of gunfire sent shards of rock flying through the air but nothing hit him and Tío was gone before Tuco could reload.
He’d spent three nights in the poppy fields, drinking water from the irrigation tanks and listening to the farmers who came up to work the fields. He learned that Tuco was telling everyone he had found his father and brother already dead and that someone must have robbed them and taken the youngest boy with them. To Tío’s amazement, the farmers didn’t question the story at all. They were only interested in who might have done it and whether they might be in danger themselves.
He cried that first night, furious at the injustice of the world and frightened and hungry and alone. He felt such anger; anger for his mother, grieving for a dead husband and son, and worrying about her missing child. He wanted to go to her, show her that he was okay, only he knew things could never be okay, not now. He was frightened of going back too. If he told everyone what had happened, they would most probably despise him for running away instead of trying to fight like Ramon had.
He had lain there for two days working out what he should do, hiding in the fields of poppies with the petals falling around him like snow. He was feverish and hungry and his leg was starting to swell around the spot where the buckshot had caught him. The opiates in the pollen numbed the pain in his leg a little but not the one in his heart, and they gave him strange dreams where he imagined he was talking to a shining man trapped inside a mirror.
He thought about all the advice his father had given him and how, in the end, none of it had been of any use. He was dead and the man who had killed him was alive. He realized then that it was not enough to have the most information, or the upper hand in a negotiation, or the best product to sell at market, you also had to be the one with the power. And he would never have any power if he ran away. So he went back down, limping all the way on his bruised and swollen leg.
His mother had wailed when he walked back in the door, crying in relief and horror at the sight of the dirt- and blood-streaked, half-starved little boy she thought she had lost. She had cleaned him up, given him food, and summoned his uncles so he could tell them what had really happened. He’d felt a great relief as he spoke, like he was shifting a huge weight off his back and handing it to them. They were the grown-ups, his father’s brothers, Ramon’s uncles too, they would get justice for them.
He remembered lying on his cot, his alone now that Ramon was dead, while his uncles talked on the far side of the room, a rumble of low voices, the sound of serious things being discussed. Finally Uncle Herrardo had walked over, sat down on the bed, and told him he was never to repeat what he had told them because Tuco was Don Gallardo’s cousin and no one would believe the word of an eight-year-old son of a dead gomero over his. He’d said he needed to move away, for his own safety, and that they would arrange for him to go to Tijuana where a cousin had a fishing boat. Tío had been dumbstruck. He didn’t want to move away from his mama and he didn’t want to become a fisherman. What he wanted was for one of his uncles to go down into the town, find Tuco, and put a knife in his heart for what he had done.
The next day he waited for his mother to go and fetch the water, then he slipped out of the house and walked down the road and into El Rey. There was a café in the market square where all the important people ate their meals and he headed straight to it. He saw Tuco sitting at a crowded breakfast table drinking fresh orange juice and shoveling eggs into his fat mouth. He had wanted to run over right then and stick the fork in his neck, but he knew he had to be patient if he wanted to stay here. Tuco was sitting two seats down from Don Gallardo, head of the family who ran everything. Tío watched him stuffing his face and laughing at the boss man’s jokes. He knew he would have to be smart if he wanted to one day sit at that table in the center of the town, and have people laugh at his jokes and make sure that no one would dare try to hurt his family again.
He’d waited until they’d almost finished eating then slipped out of the shadows and walked toward them. Tuco saw him first and went pale. It had made Tío feel good, like he had a little power already. The table fell quiet as he got closer, even Don Gallardo stopped talking and turned to look at the little boy walking over to his table.
Tío came to a halt, bowed, then spoke. “Señor Tuco, I want to thank you,” he said in a voice that surprised him with its steadiness. “If you had not arrived when you did, the banditos would have surely killed me too. Please take this as a symbol of my family’s thanks.” He held out his hand and placed his father’s ring on the white linen tablecloth. He had found it by his mother’s bed. She must have taken it off his father’s hand before they buried him, worried about the future and no money coming in.
Tuco looked at the ring but didn’t touch it.
“The boy is offering you a gift,” a voice said. “Be polite and take it.”
Tuco did as he was told, his soft hand reaching forward and scooping the ring away.
Tío stared into the face of the man who had spoken.
“What’s your name, boy?” Don Gallardo asked him.
“Hector,” Tío had replied. “Hector Rodriguez Alvarado.”
Don Gallardo nodded. “You’re a smart boy, Hector. A boy with manners and respect. I like that. Nobody wants trouble here.” He shot a look at Tuco. “Trouble is bad for business.”
That was when Tío realized that they all knew. Every man at that table knew that Tuco had killed his father and brother, but all they cared about was business. His father, his uncles, all the mountain farmers who worked the poppy fields were no better than animals in their eyes, mules to do the heavy work so they could reap the harvest.
“You come here tomorrow, same time,” Don Gallardo said. “I got a job for you.”
And that was how he had gotten out of the fields and into the organization.
Tío opened his eyes as the carts began to slow and caught Miguel looking at the thin silver chain he was gripping in his hand. “This was my mother’s,” he said, flicking a small silver locket with an image of Nuestra Señora de Guadalupe engraved onto it. “And this was my father’s—” He held up the thin gold wedding ring, the same one he had placed on the white linen tablecloth as tribute to Tuco. “You’ve got to keep your family close, am I right? Nothing more important than family.”
The tunnel started to open up a little and the ceiling became higher, then the carts slowed to a smooth stop by a loading platform identical to the one they had left behind on the Mexican side.
“Welcome to America,” Tío said, rising from his cart and stretching the kinks out of his back. “Land of the free.”
51
THE GIRL WAS ABOUT NINETEEN, HER WHITE-BLOND HAIR FALLING LOOSELY over her shoulders and down the front of a white cotton dress that made her seem ghostly. Her eyes were pale like Solomon’s and seemed to stare right through him.
Blind, his mind told him. Ellie Tucker is blind.
The pump-action shotgun she held in her hands swung back and forth along with her slow, swinging gait and Solomon could feel her scrutiny even though she could not see him.
“I know you’re there,” she said. “I crawled out the window, you son of a bitch, and I can hear to shoot better than most can see to, so don’t try nothing. I called the cops too. They’re on their way right now, so you better not’ve hurt my daddy none.”
Solomon felt the skin tighten on his neck. If the cops were coming, he needed to be gone from here. He looked at the shotgun.
Winchester 12—“The Perfect Repeater”—20 gauge—accurate enough and lethal enough up to fifty feet—six rounds fully loaded, which he had to assume it was.
He glanced at the corral. His horse was drinking from a water trough about twenty feet away, a lot of distance to cover while trying not to make a sound, and still well within range when he got there. His horse would make a noise for sure. Maybe if he was running away she might let him go, leave him for the cops to chase. He st
udied the way she was holding the gun, tight to her body as if it was part of her. She could shoot, he was sure of that. But would she? She stopped, her head tilted over to one side, listening to the tick of the buildings and sniffing the air.
“What did you do?” Her voice was raw, angry. “I smell blood, what did you do?”
The turkey vulture hopped away, disturbed by her voice, and she turned toward the faint flap of wings and fired without hesitation.
The bird exploded in a boom of blood and feathers and cartwheeled away across the dirt. She racked another round in the chamber with a smooth, well-practiced grace and listened again through the dying echo of the gunshot, her head tilted toward the spot where the carcass of the bird now lay bloody and tattered.
Solomon heard the wail of a siren, in the distance but getting closer. Ellie heard it too and tilted her head back toward the barn, the gun swinging around until it was pointing at a spot marginally to the right of where Solomon was standing. He couldn’t tell if she wanted to keep him here until the cops arrived or shoot him before they did. Either way, it was a bad deal for him. He looked over at the parked pickup truck to his right, the only thing close enough to give him any cover but still too far away. He breathed slowly, hyper aware of every sound. The siren grew louder. The gun barrel moved back and forth in a small arc that passed through the spot where Solomon was standing. Then his horse snorted on the far side of the yard and the barrel jerked toward it.
“Ellie,” Solomon shouted, snatching her attention back to him. The barrel swung back and he leaped to his right just as a shot boomed inside the confines of the barn, shaking dust from the roof beams and chewing up the horse stall he had been standing in front of.
