Under Cover Of Darkness

by Elizabeth White

  Jack shoved his hands in his pockets and looked around, avoiding Benny’s measuring gaze. The house was built in 1930s shotgun style and, judging by the cracks in the corners, had serious foundation problems. The hardwood floors were old and scuffed, but swept clean. Inexpensive bamboo furniture with flowered cushions gave the room a homey feel.

  There were potted plants everywhere; he recognized a peace lily, ivy spilling out of a black ceramic pot on a brassbound trunk, and a schefflera on a wooden plant stand near the front window. Like Meg herself, nothing exotic, but healthy, vibrant and alive.

  “Why don’t you sit down,” said Benny. “I’ll go fix us a Coke.”

  Jack could tell the roommate didn’t like his looks. Well, tough. “No, thanks, I’m not—”

  But she’d already slipped out of the room. Left alone, he walked over to look at a pen-and-ink drawing hung above the scroll-top desk. When he got too close to the Papasan, Gilligan let him know it.

  Jack frowned at the dachshund. “Look, squirt, you and I gotta come to terms here. You no touchy me, I no touchy you. Got that?”

  Gilligan’s upper lip lifted to reveal a set of needle-sharp canines. He laid his head back down, rolling one eye as if to say, Okay, buster, but I’m watching you.

  Jack turned his back on the dog to examine the drawing. Framed in black lacquer, it was a portrait done in finely executed stippling: a skinny young fellow with glasses and a bulbous nose, wearing a fishing hat with a lizard dangling from the brim. Just looking at it made Jack grin. It was signed with a blocky MSJ in one corner.

  So Meg was an artist. Well, maybe a cartoonist. He was looking around to see if there were other pictures, when Meg returned. She’d ditched the afghan in favor of the outfit she’d worn that morning, but her hair still rippled like creek water around her shoulders. She was barefoot.

  He jerked his eyes off those slender, high-arched feet.

  “That your boyfriend?” he asked, nodding at the drawing.

  She grinned. “I had to take commercial art in college. It’s just a magazine ad I thought was funny, so I copied it.” She glanced at the picture. “Benny likes it, so she had it framed.”

  “Benny has good taste,” said Benny, returning from the kitchen with three jelly jars balanced on a metal tray. “It’ll be worth something one day, you watch.” She set the tray on top of the Scrabble board. “Here ya go. The real thing.”

  She hooked one bare foot around the leg of a small rocking chair to pull it forward, while Meg curled up in the Papasan with the dog in her lap.

  Jack took a glass and sat down on the love seat. “Sorry I interrupted your game. Who was winning?”

  “Benny always wins,” Meg said. “Her vocabulary’s bigger than Noah Webster’s.”

  Which meant that she was one of those intellectual women who enjoyed feasting on the unsuspecting male ego. Jack flicked a glance at Benny, expecting her to demur with false modesty.

  Instead she gave him an eager thousand-watt smile. “¿Quiere usted jugar, Señor Torres?”

  Jack laughed. “No way, lady. You’ll have to find another victim.” He looked at Meg, suddenly comfortable with these two sweet-faced young women. “Do you want me to install that pulley for you?”

  Meg’s mouth fell open. “You mean you can do that, too?”

  “Sure. I’m a Jack of—”

  “All trades,” Meg finished with a groan. “That’s terrible.”

  Jack grinned. “Yeah, puns are us.”

  “Have you ever lived in Connecticut?” Benny asked out of nowhere.

  Jack could feel the back of his neck heat. “Why do you ask that?”

  “The way you said ‘are’ just now. Flat like a New Englander.” Benny rocked placidly, but her eyes measured Jack. “Or if not Connecticut, maybe New Hampshire.”

  Meg shook her head. “Benny analyzes everybody’s accent. She’s a language expert.”

  Jack suddenly realized that Meg St. John, guarded as she was on every side by the people in her life—from her coworkers to her family to her roommate—was about as accessible as Rapunzel in her tower.

  Alarm bells clanged at the direction of his thoughts. He turned to Meg. “So is tomorrow a good day?”

  “For what?”

  “The idler pulley.”

  “Well, there’s church…”

  “Do you go to church somewhere, Jack?” Benny seemed determined to interview him.

  Jack began to get irritated. “I just moved to town. I haven’t had time to look for a church.”

  He should have seen it coming. Meg beamed. “Good! Then you can come with us.”

  “I don’t have the right clothes,” he said, looking down at his only pair of jeans. The right knee was almost out, and he owned nothing else but uniforms and T-shirts.

  “Oh, we’re not a dress-up kind of church,” Benny assured him.

  Jack hesitated, rattling the ice in his glass. He felt as touchy as that snarky little dachshund, wanting Meg to think well of him, but reluctant to back down from her needle-eyed roommate.

  “Benny—” Meg began, evidently aware of Jack’s discomfort.

  “Don’t worry,” Benny said, looking thoughtful, “I won’t carve him up on the spot. I just can’t help wondering—”

  Jack set his glass on the tray and got up. “I’ll pass on church for now. Just let me know when I can come work on your car.”

  Benny continued to rock, while Meg jumped to her feet to let Jack out. “I’m sorry,” she whispered.

  He had an insane urge to lean down and kiss the worried look off her face. “Good night, St. John,” he said instead and stalked toward the motorcycle parked beside her Mustang.

  Bad idea to come here. Bad idea.

  “Benny!” Meg leaned back against the door, frowning at her roommate. “You just embarrassed him.”

  “He seemed to be man enough to take it.” Benny picked up the tray of drinks and carried it into the kitchen.

  Meg followed. “But what got into you? Couldn’t you tell—”

  “Meg, he never answered any of my questions.”

  “So?”

  “He’s hiding something.” Benny’s brows drew together, her eyes piercing with skepticism. “What do you know about him, besides the fact that he’s built like a Greek statue?”

  “Benny!” Meg seemed destined to spend the evening gasping out her roommate’s name. “You never notice stuff like that.”

  “I’ve got eyes in my head. And you better answer my question, my friend. Who is this guy?”

  Meg thought about the expression on Jack’s face as he’d left her, and her knees buckled. “I don’t know,” she mumbled. “I think he may be an ex-convict. Or something.”

  Benny’s eyes widened. “You’re kidding, right?”

  Meg felt like crying. It had been a very long day. “I didn’t ask him to bring me that car part, but I thought it was a nice thing for him to do.”

  Benny looked grim. “Unless he’s got some ulterior motive. Don’t you dare let yourself get caught alone with him. You hear me?”

  Meg sighed. “Yes, mother.”

  Kenneth Warner picked up Manny Herrera Saturday night at the bus station in downtown Fort Worth.

  “Let’s get out of here before we get knifed,” Warner muttered, gunning the Beemer before Herrera had even shut the door. “Are your shoes clean?”

  The Mexican smiled faintly. “What is the problem, Mr. Warner?”

  Herrera’s politeness and meticulous English got on Warner’s nerves.

  “It’s more in the nature of an avalanche than a problem,” Warner snapped. “The Wolf is pumping me for money on one side, customers in Illinois screaming for workers, and the overhead on this operation is killing me. I thought you said you had a load of illegals lined up to come north last week.”

  Herrera looked out the darkened window for a moment without answering. Neon signs in the windows of bars and clubs along the street lit his scarred face in flashes of red and blue.

/>   “Well? What happened?” prompted Warner.

  Herrera stroked his heavy mustache. “I don’t know. My cousin Efrin has been organizing the coyotes. He’ll be here tomorrow.”

  “If he can’t do the job, then get somebody else.” Warner paused. “And if you can’t do the job, I get somebody else. Comprende?”

  Herrera was silent.

  Annoyed, Warner ran a yellow light. “I’ve heard rumors that Torres has connections on the border.”

  “Rumors…sometimes there’s truth in them, sometimes not.”

  “What do you know about him?”

  “My little brother likes him.”

  “Oh, well, there’s a fine recommendation.” Warner snorted. “See what you can find out. Maybe he’s interested in a little extra income.” He turned to make the block back to the bus station. “Because if we don’t get rolling again, the whole thing’s going to blow up. And we can’t have that, can we?”

  “No,” Herrera sighed, “we can’t have that.”

  Chapter Six

  Mowing a lawn the size of Silver Hill gave a man plenty of time to think—almost as much time as sitting in a truck waiting for illegal aliens to slip out of a dark river.

  A month ago Jack would have spent the time meditating on how much he missed his partner. And devising plans for bringing the killer to justice. Now, as he drove the bush hog round and round in the sweltering afternoon sun, his thoughts kept sliding into images of chestnut hair and green eyes. And a warm laugh. Music and funny pictures. Meg.

  Lulled by fantasies of kissing that teasing smile, Jack suddenly felt the tractor jar. He killed the motor and got off to investigate.

  Crouching, he pulled the weeds aside and let out a low whistle of surprise. A black marble sundial on a concrete base lay half-buried under a clump of crabgrass, the Roman numerals etched in its square face almost obliterated by dirt. If he’d driven another inch, the mower would have flattened the upstanding bronze triangle in the center.

  Meg would go berserk over this thing.

  He headed toward the carriage house, where Meg had been all morning, sorting through multiple generations of junk.

  The carriage house windows had been cranked outward, the broad double doors propped open to catch the breeze. As he crossed the drive, he listened for Meg’s rather unsteady alto; she loved to sing as she worked. He wondered if she ever got depressed about anything.

  As he got closer, he heard male voices from inside, conversing in Spanish. He stopped short when he heard the word “coyote”—the Mexican term for a border-crossing guide—and hurried to flatten himself against the building.

  “You should handle this on your own, cousin,” said a quiet, measured voice Jack recognized as Manny Herrera’s. “I don’t have time to worry about your mistakes.”

  The answering rapid-fire whine belonged to Efrin, yet another member of the Herrera clan who had signed on to the crew Monday. Efrin was walleyed, whippet-thin and greasy of hair. To his credit, though, he seemed to be a hard worker.

  “My mistakes?” Efrin echoed. “No, no, this rotten cheat takes the money and disappears, leaving the pollos in plain sight. They’re picked up and sent back, and there I am without a cent to show for my trouble.”

  Jack froze. Pay dirt.

  Efrin’s excuses seemed to test Manny’s legendary patience. “You think you got more troubles than anybody else? Huh? The chickens don’t get delivered, nobody gets paid. Not you, not me, not El Lobo.”

  “I’m sorry, Manuelo—”

  “So this coyote is bad,” Manny interrupted. “Don’t you know any more?”

  “I know them, yes,” Efrin admitted, “but trustworthy is another matter. A useful coyote must be strong, wily as a fox and able to think on his feet without running scared at the first bark of the dog.”

  Still crouched under the window, Jack smiled. He knew what he was going to do.

  Suddenly he heard off-key singing.

  “It’s a beautiful day in the neighborhood, a beautiful day—Torres! What are you doing?”

  Jack jerked around to find Meg standing at the corner of the building. In her hand was a plaster statue that looked like a naked troll. He’d forgotten all about her. The conversation inside the building had, of course, abruptly ceased.

  He scrambled for a logical reason for skulking beneath a window in broad daylight. “I was looking for you,” he said. “You’ll never believe what I found in the front yard.”

  Curiosity chased away Meg’s suspicious expression. “What?”

  “I’ll have to show you. Come on.” He set off the way he’d come, relieved when she fell into step without arguing.

  “Did you finish the mowing?” she asked, tucking the statue under her arm. “I can’t wait to see what it looks like without all the weeds.”

  “Just about,” he said, peering at her ugly artifact. “What is that? It looks like an extra from Lord of the Rings.”

  She laughed. “Vintage garden art. He may not be pretty, but he’d be worth a few hundred dollars on eBay. I’m gonna put him in charge of the rose garden.”

  “Oh yeah?” Jack grinned at the idea. “Well, see what you think of this.” He stooped to pull the weeds away from the sundial.

  Meg’s eyes widened with delight. “My sundial! You found my sundial!” She thrust the troll at Jack, cast herself on her knees and eagerly began brushing dirt off the face of the clock with her hands.

  “Just call me Indiana Jones.” Jack grinned at her excitement. “I wish I’d known you were looking for it. I nearly ran over it.”

  She beamed at him. “Mrs. Grover-Niles is going to be thrilled when I tell her we found it. She showed me a newspaper article about it last week. It’s purbeck marble, brought all the way from Cyprus in 1927. See the design cut in the gnomon? Hand-forged bronze.”

  “No-min?” Jack repeated the unfamiliar word. “What’s that?”

  “G-n-o-m-o-n. The metal part that casts a shadow so you can tell the time.”

  “You learn something new every day,” Jack said, impressed with Meg’s attention to detail. “You want me to move it to the shop, get one of the guys to clean it up for you?”

  “No!” Meg looked alarmed. “A sundial is specially designed for the exact spot it’s located in, so the time will be accurate. We’d never get it back in the right place if we move it. I’ll get Manny to flag it so we won’t risk running over it again.” Meg wrinkled her nose. “You know, I never would have pictured him as a chicken farmer.”

  Jack was startled into laughter. “A what?”

  She looked at him uncertainly. “Doesn’t pollo mean chicken?”

  “Well, yeah,” he said. “What makes you think—” Oh. The conversation between Manny and Efrin in the carriage house. Meg had evidently understood at least part of it.

  “I probably shouldn’t eavesdrop,” she said, “but Manny’s been worrying me lately. He always looks serious, but lately he’s been cutting out of here the second work is over. I can’t help wondering what’s wrong.”

  Trying not to show how deeply her tenderheartedness affected him, Jack put out a hand to help Meg to her feet. “Manny and Efrin were probably just making plans for supper.” He handed her the statue. “Will you be home tonight? I thought I’d come install your idler pulley.”

  “No, we have our ESL classes on Wednesdays. I’m sorry.”

  Jack swallowed disappointment. “No problem, just leave the keys under the seat, and I’ll take care of it while you’re gone.” He climbed back on the tractor.

  Meg’s eyes lit. “I’ve got an even better idea. Tomás wanted to come to the class, so why don’t you bring him to my house, and work on the car while we’re gone? When you get done, you can come pick him up. We’ll be at Wedgwood Elementary School.”

  “And…?”

  “And what?” Meg pulled her sunglasses off the top of her head where they’d been resting, and slid them onto her nose.

  “You think I just fell off the turnip truck?
You’re trying to rope me into helping with that class.”

  Meg smiled. She lifted the statue in front of her face. “Master is too smart for us,” she said in a familiar exaggerated whine. “Gollum hopeses Master will go out for ice cream with us after class. We has somebody we wants you to meet.”

  “Ice cream, huh?” He gave her a suspicious look. “You’re not trying to set me up with somebody, are you?”

  “As if!” Chuckling, Meg lowered the statue. “Ramón’s a seminary student who pastors our bilingual church. He’s the one who started the ESL class.”

  Jack studied the hopeful wrinkle between Meg’s perfect brows. She was going to dog him to the ends of the earth until he agreed to show up at one of her classes. On the other hand, there was no telling what kind of information he could pick up from the Mexicans in the class tonight—if he played it right.

  “All right,” he said on a long-suffering sigh, “you win. I’ll bring Tomás to your house at six, then after I fix your car I’ll come by the school. But you’ll owe me a double-dip butter pecan waffle cone with chocolate jimmies.”

  Meg’s smile shone brighter than the afternoon sun. “Yesss, Master, we hears you. We is good Gollum!” She saluted and turned toward the carriage house, swinging the statue by its bare feet. Just before Jack replaced his earplugs, Meg called over her shoulder, “Make sure Tomás eats supper before he comes, okay?”

  Shaking his head, Jack waved and cranked the tractor. Might as well bow to the inevitable.

  The inevitable turned out to be not quite what Jack had expected. Elementary school apparently wasn’t the safe place it had been in his day. The chain on the handle rattled as he opened the front door, and iron bars guarded every window.

  Still, waves of pleasant memories washed through him as he encountered the old-fashioned smells of chalk, wax crayons and pine cleaner. Made him think of Dottie Rook—sweet-faced, smiling Mrs. Rook, who comfortably squished when you hugged her. She wasn’t afraid to get hugged by little boys who didn’t take a bath often enough. She’d made him love reading and corrected his grammar. No Ebonics or Spanglish allowed in her classroom.