Under Cover Of Darkness

by Elizabeth White

  Miraculously, she’d taken an interest in Jack that lasted all the way through high school, and because of her he wound up in college on a military scholarship. She’d even talked her husband into giving Jack a reference for his application to border patrol academy. Though they’d never been stationed in the same city, he’d managed to stay in touch up until about two years ago. It was about time to give them another call.

  Jack turned to the right, glancing into empty classrooms as he followed the muted sound of voices coming from the end of the hall. He understood the rarity of a life like Dottie Rook’s, a life where spirituality had permeated everything she did. It was the same kind of spirituality he saw in Meg St. John.

  Jack supposed he was in a precarious position, exploiting her goodness for his own purposes. It was doubtful she’d forgive him when she inevitably found out what was going on. But if he’d tried for a year he couldn’t have picked a better liaison between administration and labor in this dirty company. In spite of Warner’s jealousy, Meg was in favor with the big boss, Crowley. And the Mexicans treated her like the Queen of Sheba.

  A burst of childish laughter drew him to the end of the hall. Stopping in the open classroom door, he found a bunch of dark-haired, brown-skinned children, all shapes and sizes, lined up across the front of the room.

  And one nut in a six-foot cucumber costume, singing at the top of her lungs: “Oh, whe-e-e-ere is my hairbrush?” The song continued, the children giggling at the cucumber’s operatic twang and comical gestures.

  Jack leaned in the doorway, watching the children mimic the words and actions—having a blast learning English. When the song ended in a strident screech, the children rushed to hug the big, fuzzy costume. The cucumber staggered under the onslaught of squirming little bodies.

  Grinning, Jack sauntered in. “St. John, your talents never cease to amaze me.”

  The cucumber gave a startled squeak and toppled under a pile of children.

  “I told you you’d have a good time,” Meg said, spooning a blob of root beer and ice cream into her mouth.

  Jack saluted Meg with his loaded waffle cone and winked at Benny, who was daintily sipping a milk shake. “I confess I had to see who was inside the cucumber. Your cheeks look like traffic lights, St. John.”

  Fanning her still-hot face with a paper napkin, Meg smiled at the sight of Tomás using his tongue to chase a dribble of chocolate syrup down the side of his cone. “Dad rented the costume for a Bible School gig at church and let me borrow it tonight. He forgot to warn me old Larry-Boy might give me heat stroke.”

  Meg had expected Jack to pick up Tomás and head the motorcycle straight back to the barrio. Instead he’d sauntered into her classroom, picked her up off the floor and asked for an encore. When she’d towed him across the hall and introduced him to Ramón and Connie Santos, the pastor had set Jack to pouring punch with Benny.

  And Jack had kept his promise of joining the trip to Braum’s after class.

  “We appreciate you pitching in to help, brother,” said Ramón, a swarthy, goateed young man whose smile seemed to swallow his dark eyes. He gave Jack a bone-bruising whack on the arm. “You’re a natural-born teacher, man.”

  Meg watched Jack shrug off the compliment. Because of her friendship with Benny, she knew there could be multiple reasons a person would be uncomfortable with attention. She couldn’t help wondering what fed Jack’s reserve.

  “We need all the help we can get,” said Benny, giving Jack one of her measuring looks. “Immigrants stand a better chance at good jobs if they can speak English.” Meg knew her roommate was trying to be fair, even while reserving judgment. Benny threw the remains of her milk shake into a nearby garbage can. “Meg, we’d better head toward home. I’ve got an early class in the morning.”

  “Me, too. But let’s pray before we go.” Ramón leaned forward on the table. “Got any pressing needs?”

  “My dissertation’s in disarray at the moment,” said Benny, grimacing. “My professor says I need more research.”

  “Okay, we’ll cover you. Meg?”

  “Oh, work, I guess,” she said on a sigh. “I’m still picking up weird vibes from Mr. Warner every time I’m around him.”

  Jack frowned. “What do you mean?”

  Meg immediately wished she’d kept her mouth shut. What if he decided to make trouble with her boss? Who’d have thought he’d be so protective? “It’s nothing major,” she assured him, glancing at Tomás, who was enjoying his ice cream, oblivious to the adult conversation. “Anyway, we need to pray for the guys on my crew.” She was pretty sure Tomás was close to accepting the Lord.

  “Okay.” Ramón nodded. “And Connie and I need you guys to pray for Valentina’s eyes. We have a doctor’s appointment next week.” He smiled at Jack. “What about you, Torres? Now’s your chance.”

  Jack looked taken aback. “I don’t pray out loud.”

  Ramón’s eyes twinkled. “You don’t have to. Just tell us how we can lift you up.”

  Jack’s gaze homed in on Meg’s. “Work issues for me, too.”

  Ramón nodded and took his wife by the hand. “Let’s pray.”

  Meg bowed her head, wishing she knew exactly what was bothering Jack.

  Jack hustled Tomás out of the ice-cream shop, shaken by the experience of being prayed for. As far as he knew, it was the first time since Rico’s death. Jack prayed often, alone in his room or on Sunday mornings when he knew he should be in church, with a notable lack of response from on high. But this corporate besieging of heaven almost made him believe God hadn’t abandoned him after all.

  He’d opened his eyes once to look at Meg, watching her pray with her eyelashes damp and fingers curled upward as if to receive a blessing. His heart had cracked a little. Rico used to pray like that, bold and unembarrassed, whether they were with his family, alone together in their border patrol truck, or in a wide-open public place like a restaurant.

  He wondered what Tomás thought about the whole thing. The boy had listened wide-eyed to the conversation, apparently too shy to try out the English he’d learned at the ESL class.

  Jack mounted the Harley and waited as Tomás strapped on the extra helmet. They both watched Meg and Benny get in Benny’s little Toyota and back out into the street.

  “That is two good-looking ladies,” Tomás commented on a gusty sigh. “Which one you gonna ask out?”

  Jack cocked an eyebrow. “Down, boy. Neither one of ’em’s exactly in my league.”

  Tomás’s look was incredulous. “You gotta be kidding. The señorita…Meg, she looks at you all the time.”

  Despite a strong urge to pursue the nature of Meg’s “looking” at him, Jack knew he’d better squelch this conversation. “Look, can you see me doing the religious thing for more than five minutes?” Jack shook his head. “I don’t think so.”

  “All women are religious. You just gotta learn to deal with it. Play the game.” Tomás gave him an exaggerated leer.

  “Since you’re the expert, why don’t you ask her out?”

  Tomás puffed out his chest, all teenage hubris. “Maybe I will.” Ignoring Jack’s snort of friendly derision, he jerked a thumb over Jack’s shoulder. “Hey, do you know that guy over there in the red truck?”

  “Where?” Jack followed the direction of Tomás’s pointing finger. “I don’t recognize it. Why?”

  “He’s been watching us in his mirror ever since we came out of the store.”

  “Are you sure?” Peering into the darkness, Jack removed his helmet. He could just make out the shadowy silhouette of the driver of the truck, which was parked under a light about ten yards down the street.

  “Yeah,” said Tomás. “He’s adjusted the side mirror a couple of times when you moved.”

  As Jack hesitated, deciding whether to confront the man or make a run for it, the driver’s side door of the truck opened and the man got out. He was about six feet tall with a burly build—despite the heat, he wore a dark jacket and cream-colored S
tetson.

  “Keep your mouth shut, Tomás,” Jack muttered and waited for the man to approach.

  Tomás gulped. “Okay.” He shrank into the shadows.

  As soon as the storefront light hit the man’s face, Jack was glad he’d sent Tomás out of earshot. He blinked to make sure he wasn’t hallucinating. “Of all people to run into right now,” he muttered. Swallowing his dismay, Jack got off the bike and slouched forward. “Vernon Rook! Long time no see.”

  His former mentor stared at Jack with a strained smile that incorporated a peculiar mix of gladness and challenge. “Well, if it ain’t the scourge of the West. How are you, boy?”

  Jack shook Rook’s hand and found it just as hard and callused as it used to be. That was a relief. There was a certain slackness in the man’s face—a weight of skin around the eyes, jowls at the chin, thinness of the lips. Older, of course. Five years was a long time. “I thought you’d retired.”

  “They’ll have to peel my gun out of my cold dead hand,” Rook deadpanned. His craggy features creased as he surveyed Jack’s long hair and scruffy attire. “You’re off duty, I see.”

  Jack shrugged and glanced at the shadows where Tomás had disappeared. “I’m out completely.”

  Rook nodded. “I heard about that fracas with your partner down in Eagle Pass.”

  Fracas? Rico’s murder was a fracas?

  “It’s been a rough year,” Jack said.

  “Dottie wanted to come down and see to you, but I wouldn’t let her—her health ain’t so good anymore.” Rook’s look was accusing. “You could have called her.”

  Jack looked at this man who had sponsored his border patrol career. And who hadn’t returned a phone call, letter or e-mail in more than three years.

  “I’m sorry, Vernon. Now that I know you guys are in Fort Worth I’ll give Miss Dottie a call.” It would be tricky, but Jack owed a lot to Dottie. Vernon, too, for that matter.

  “You do that.” Rook slapped Jack on the shoulder. For an old guy, he’d always had more strength than he realized. “Where you staying?” Rook smiled. “You know Dottie’s gonna ask.”

  “Other side of town,” Jack said. He slid his helmet over his head and backed toward the motorcycle. “Listen, I’ve gotta go. Tell Dottie I’ll be in touch.”

  “Will do.” Vernon walked off, then turned. “It’s good to see you again, son.”

  “Yeah, same here.” Jack half saluted and cranked the bike. He beckoned Tomás, who’d been leaning against the wall at the corner of the building. As they roared off down the street, Jack wondered how much of the English conversation Tomás had heard.

  Most of all he wondered what Vernon Rook was doing staking out an ice-cream store in midtown Fort Worth.

  Chapter Seven

  Meg looked up as the cantina-on-wheels affectionately known as the “Roach Coach” rattled up to Silver Hill’s front sidewalk, stopping with a squeal of brakes and a jaunty horn-honk. Relieved that Friday afternoon had finally arrived, she radioed Jack to call the crew to lunch. Manny had taken a week off to go back to Mexico, leaving the crew shorthanded.

  “¡Hola, amigos!” caroled Raffi Garcia, entrepreneur and chef extraordinaire. He hopped out of the brightly painted vehicle accompanied by a burst of music from a salsa radio station. “¡Espero que todos tengan hambre!” He flipped open a row of locks to reveal his wares with the élan of a television magician.

  Diego Herrera, plucking a plastic-wrapped mystery-meat sandwich from the stack, said something to Raffi in Spanish, making the other men laugh. Meg tried to work out the unfamiliar words, but her Spanish wasn’t quite up to the translation.

  She felt a tug on her braid and looked up to find Jack smiling down at her. “Raffi said he hoped we’re hungry, and Diego wanted to know if Raffi does his shopping at the goat farm.”

  “Oh, gross.” But she laughed, absurdly pleased that Jack had bothered to explain the joke.

  With a slight smile he stepped away to take a sandwich from the cooler. She noticed he put his mirrored shades back on and stood jabbering in Spanish with Raffi.

  When the cantina had scuttled off to the next site, the whole crew moved to the shade of the carriage way, where Meg’s pickup and the equipment truck and trailer were parked. She sat down on the tailgate of her truck and opened her sandwich, praying it wasn’t somebody’s pet goat.

  After distributing a stack of five-gallon buckets for the men to sit on, Jack plunked down beside Tomás. They were soon engaged in conversation, while the other men finished eating and sprawled in the grass for a short siesta.

  Meg opened her copy of Spanish for Gringos to review as she ate. After a moment she realized she’d read the same page twice; she kept glancing at Jack and Tomás. Tomás had taken to wearing his long hair tied back, a bandanna twisted around his head. An earring had appeared in one earlobe, too.

  Just like Jack. Meg smiled. Tomás seemed to be growing taller every day.

  Jack caught her staring. “I was just asking Tomás if he’d heard from Manny,” he said without any noticeable discomfort.

  Meg brightened. “Has he?”

  Tomás smiled and tried out his English. “My brother is now home.”

  “Mi hermano ha llegado a casa,” Meg echoed. “Right?”

  Jack applauded. “Tú eres una joven muy brillante.” When Meg wrinkled her forehead, trying to decode the unfamiliar word joven, Jack translated with a laugh. “Such a brilliant young lady. Tomás said Manny called last night.”

  “That’s good.” Meg pulled her legs up to sit cross-legged. “Is everything okay?”

  Tomás understood her simple words and answered in English, “Okay. Mother is good. Baby is good.” He held his hands in front of his stomach, pantomiming pregnancy. “I am another uncle soon.”

  “No wonder Manny wanted to go home!” Meg exclaimed.

  Jack looked thoughtful. “¿Tienes otros niños?”

  “Sí, tres.”

  So Manny had three other children besides the baby on the way. This was the most Meg had discovered about the family of her lead man since she’d met him two years ago. Jack lounged on his bucket as if the last thing on his mind was interrogating a sixteen-year-old Mexican youth, but something of the Terminator look gave Meg a shiver of awareness. There was something going on here below the surface.

  Jack rattled off something else in Spanish, and Tomás shook his head. “Tengo catorce años.” Then the boy’s eyes went wide with dismay.

  Meg knew her Spanish numbers. Her young friend was out of school doing backbreaking labor at the age of fourteen. She opened her mouth, then shut it when Jack shook his head warningly.

  Tomás jumped to his feet and mumbled something about getting back to work.

  Meg stared after him. “There’s no way he’s legally in the United States working at that age.”

  “St. John, it would be best if you kept your mouth shut.”

  She looked around. Diego Herrera opened one eye sleepily, then closed it again. Meg lowered her voice. “I thought he was at least sixteen.”

  “Come here.” Jack pulled Tomás’s abandoned bucket closer and waited until she moved to sit on it. He leaned his elbows on his knees. “You know you can’t report him,” he said quietly.

  Clearly Jack considered himself one of them. Caught by the palpable air of mystery that surrounded him, Meg tried not to notice the close proximity of that hard muscled arm.

  “Why not?” she whispered. “It would be for his own good. He’s too young—”

  “Have you ever seen the villages along the Mexican border?” Jack held her gaze. “Manny’s baby is probably going to be born in a cardboard house.”

  Meg shut her eyes, but the image wouldn’t disappear.

  Jack leaned his shoulder into hers. “You can’t report him,” he repeated.

  Meg bit her lip. “I’ll pray about it.” She glanced at Jack and stood up. “Mr. Warner’s rounded up some guys to help us throw sod tomorrow. We won’t be ready if we don’t get back
to work.”

  Looking unhappy, Jack stood up and moved around, nudging the crew back to life.

  Meg knew she had just waded into deep water, following right behind Jack. She couldn’t decide if she felt scared or exhilarated.

  “I’ll think about it tomorrow,” she muttered as she yanked her gloves out of her back pocket.

  Saturday morning, Jack stood in the back of a flatbed truck loaded with grass pallets, surveying a clutch of nervous and ill-dressed Hispanic men. They had been processed for employment that morning, and he and Meg were to orient them to the basic tasks of a landscaping crew. Kenneth Warner, though generally stingy about approving overtime, obviously wanted to take full advantage of these poor fellows while they waited for transportation north.

  Jack took in the colorful array of polyester pants, plaid dress shirts and rubber sandals. He doubted any one of these pollos had been in the United States longer than forty-eight hours. The odor of travel, privation and fear was enough to shout their illegal status. Jack could take them to a detention facility any time he chose, of course. But he wanted the boss who’d brought them here, the man called El Lobo. He wasn’t about to blow his cover for such small game.

  “’Dias, amigos,” he said, continuing in Spanish, “today you’re going to learn to throw sod. Bonuses if we get done by noon.”

  A murmur of appreciation passed through the men, hunger and relief in their faces. They would earn more today than they could earn in a month down in Mexico; at the same time Jack would shore up the foundation of trust in his cover. A win-win situation.

  Jack jumped to the ground and began to explain the finer points of the most menial of landscaping tasks.

  A couple of hours later, taking a breather in the shade of a gigantic oak tree, Jack watched Meg haul an armload of grass across the driveway.

  She seemed unaware of the crew’s surreptitious gazes following every step she took. She wasn’t dressed for seduction in overalls and a sleeveless top, but her dewy, slightly sunburned skin still drew the eye. A Texas Rangers baseball cap protected her face, but her shoulders were getting pink. If he were the boss, he’d make her sit down and take a break.