Border Son Page 8

  And yet it was. It was a shock to be turned out by his father. The son can commit a thousand sins, but a single sin of the father brings the world crashing down. Tyler didn’t blame him for hanging up on him, for refusing to post bail, but he still hated him for it.

  Tyler was in jail when he turned twenty-two. It dawned on him that he had been the same age his father was when he was born, and he also realized that if he had his own son, perhaps he would have nothing to say to him in turn. What could he say? What knowledge or wisdom did he possess that was worth sharing? And so the silence would be passed down from generation to generation until there were no more sons searching for wisdom.

  “What did he say to you?”

  “He asked where you were, if you were alright.”

  “And you told him?”

  “Yes.”

  “You told him and he just left, went back home?”

  “No. He is waiting for the right time to come here.”

  “I hate to break it to you, padre,” Tyler said, “but my dad is probably long gone by now. You won’t see him again.”

  “And why do you say that?”

  “Just because. He wasn’t much for getting involved before. I can’t imagine that’s changed. I’m shocked he came to Hurtado. I definitely can’t imagine he wants anything to do with me now.”

  “I did suggest that to him,” Felipe said.

  “What?” Tyler said.

  “That he should have no illusion of you. That this is reality now. That if he didn’t want to help you as you are, he should go home.”

  Tyler sat up from the cot. His bandaged shoulder burned with each movement as if he could still feel the bullet. “And who am I, padre?”

  “Only you can answer that.”

  Tyler thought about it. He had been down in this hiding place for only a few days, but the pain of the sutures in his shoulder was subsiding and the cold sweats and nausea that he had felt when his body screamed for heroin were diminishing. His sleep had slowly morphed from a coma state to restorative slumber. He sat now staring across the dark, damp room at Felipe. His head was clearing, his thoughts more precise than they had been for years.

  “I’m nobody.”

  “That is not true.”

  “I’m a junkie who should be dead. Got people who want me dead.”

  “But you’re not. There is at least one person who made sure that you did not end up that way.”

  “Roberto.”

  “Yes.”

  “It’s a good thing he knows how to shoot.”

  “Yes. If you want to get shot without dying, Roberto is the one you want pulling the trigger,” said Felipe with a smirk.

  “Why do you think he did it? You know, spare me, arrange this with you . . .”

  “Roberto believes in an eye for an eye. Or in your case, a save for a save.”

  “Am I worth saving?”

  “All are worth saving.”

  Tyler stood and ran his hand through his hair. The grime coated his fingers. The movement sent a spike of pain through his body. He winced. “This thing ever going to heal?”

  “It will take some time.”

  “So, my dad, assuming that he isn’t halfway back to Kansas already, what’s going to happen?”

  “I’m working on transportation. Once that is lined up, you’ll head out to one of the shelters run by a friend of mine, and from there you’ll cross over to America.”

  “A friend of yours?”

  “It’s the only thing I can think of. Roberto didn’t leave me too many options. You won’t be able to cross at the checkpoint here—the Cartel will stop you before you even get close. Juarez is not an option either. They run that too. The chances of you making it to Tijuana without being noticed are next to impossible. If the police stop you, they’ll just shoot you on the side of the road.”

  “So I have to hoof it, is what you are saying.”

  “It’s the best I can come up with.”

  “So why call my old man?”

  “You will be lucky to make it a mile in your condition. You need help. Any coyote will just leave you behind, and any crosser who you are with is just going to do the same thing. Once across, your father would be able to get help from one of the ranchers or police on that side of the wire. The Cartel won’t be looking for him. That is the idea.”

  “Great idea,” Tyler said sarcastically.

  “No, it’s not, but it was the only one we could think of. Or, you can just walk out and try to cross over from here. The border crossing is only twenty blocks away. It would take you about a half hour. But a gringo stumbling to the checkpoint with a bullet wound in his shoulder might not be so . . . inconspicuous.”

  “I hear you.” Tyler put his hand to his wound to remind himself that it wasn’t only his pale skin that would mark him. “So, when does this get set in motion?”

  “That depends on you.” Felipe walked over and inspected the wound, then put his hand to Tyler’s forehead.

  “I’m ready.”

  “Tomorrow, we’ll see if your father is still around. If he is, I’ll bring him over and arrange transportation.”

  Tyler nodded.

  Tomorrow, he’d wait and see if his old man showed up. To see if he was still in Hurtado. He was betting that the answer would be no.

  31

  Salazar arrived at his house in the southern hills overlooking Nuevo Negaldo. The front gate had a guard shack, and its attendant opened the entry to him, then promptly closed it again. Salazar’s car pulled into the gravel circular drive and parked at the front door. Several armed men walked around from shady spot to shady spot. The white cement mansion with red tile roof mimicked the Andalusian architecture that had always fascinated him. He walked across the tile floor into the open air of the solarium where two men were waiting for him. One of his armed servants handed Salazar a cigar, then produced a light for his boss and retreated into the background.

  Salazar took time to enjoy a couple puffs of his Cuban cigar and then walked over to his seat. The men in waiting did not speak. They waited until Salazar was ready. They knew the plaza boss liked the theatrics of his position. They were prepared to wait all day, standing like supplicants, but eventually Salazar spoke.

  “What did you find?”

  “Nada,” Arturio said. “We searched the house but found nothing. Nobody but the old man living there.”

  “And did he tell you anything?”

  “No. He said that he hadn’t heard from Tyler in years.”

  Salazar reflected on this and compared it to the news he had received from Lomas. It always soothed his nerves when his lackeys’ stories coincided. Trust but verify, an American president once said. It was the only way to run his crew in the plaza.

  “Any news on the other side about that third truck showing up?” Salazar asked nobody in particular. None of the men in the room offered a reply.

  Salazar thought about it.

  Lomas was right, he shouldn’t have killed Tyler and Ignacio so quickly. His overreaction at the least sign of betrayal was both his strength and his Achilles’ heel. When the two pendejos had slithered back from the border saying the load was lost, he couldn’t get them killed fast enough. But then, the load never showed up. It was never reported in the press, by the border agents, by the police. If there was one thing the American authorities loved, it was taking their picture with a seized shipment. They treated it like Christmas.

  But that had never happened. Which meant it was still out there somewhere.

  And Salazar’s boss knew it was still out there.

  Everyone had a boss. And as long as the load was missing, Salazar would be on the hook for it.

  He sat stonelike in contemplation. He knew his men could never see him shaken by any news they presented to him. Any sign of worry was a sign of weakness. Any sign of fear was an opportunity for an underling to consider advancing their position. A tremor in the voice could topple the fiefdom he had carved out in the Cartel. But he w
as beginning to be afraid. It started to seep in around the corners.

  Sending Arturio and Vicente to Kansas to check out Tyler’s old home was a fool’s errand, just as it had been to send a crew down to Durango to question Ignacio’s family. But Salazar was starting to grasp at straws. No, he shouldn’t have killed them before knowing what exactly had happened. Now that he had made his bed, he had no desire to lie in it.

  The room held its breath as if it were waiting for a sign to exhale.

  A door opened and a suited man walked over to Salazar and handed him a message. Once delivered, the man turned on his heels and closed the heavy door behind him, its echo filling the solarium. Salazar read the note and a smile crept over his face.

  “It seems that we have been given a sign,” he said.

  Arturio and Vicente waited to hear.

  “It seems . . . ,” Salazar continued, “that a Mr. Kazmierski crossed the border earlier today.”

  The two thugs looked at each other with puzzled expressions.

  “Into Mexico?” Arturio asked.

  “No. He was crossing back into the US.”

  “Tyler?”

  Salazar shook his head. “Older man.”

  “Tyler’s father?”

  Salazar nodded. “Right here in Nuevo Negaldo. He might be staying in Hurtado. Let’s hope he is still there. I want you two to go check it out.”

  “What do we do if we find him?”

  Salazar thought about it. His impulsiveness had gotten him into this bind. His first impulse was to shower the interloper with bullets, but he was aware of his tendencies enough this time to catch that thought. Agent Lomas was assuredly on his way to Hurtado as well, and most likely already there.

  “If it’s clear, grab him and bring him here. No shooting. Lomas is going to be over there somewhere. I don’t need a dead agent right now if things get out of control. Keep it quiet and report back here what you uncover.”

  Arturio nodded and left on the assignment, Vicente and his giant frame following behind him. Salazar waved over another one of his minions.

  “Who carried out the execution on Tyler and Ignacio?”

  “Los Diablos, sir.”

  “Find out who in particular. I want to know who pulled the trigger and where the bodies are within an hour.”

  “Yes, señor.”

  Salazar stood and walked around the solarium, billows of smoke trailing behind him. A lifeline had been thrown out to him, but he did not know what it meant. It was something, this gringo from Kansas, that hopefully would buy him some more time to get this mess sorted out.

  32

  Evening fell, and the western sky coagulated into darkness and the stars shone down on the streets of Hurtado. Ed spent the afternoon in his room, flipping through the few channels on the television chained to the table. Occasionally he would get off the bed to look out the window. The motel was situated off the main road at a slight angle a mile north of the border checkpoint. It was the last building before a stretch of rock and brush ran its way down to the wall, and its orientation allowed Ed to see south from his room. Headlights kept a slow and steady stream coming up the road, an endless line of cars, as if all of northern Mexico was being emptied.

  Across the road, Ed could see the restaurant where he had met Camilla. He assumed she was there, behind the counter or waiting tables. Trucks were in the lot, their paint dulled by the desert dust, their undercarriages raised by lift kits suited for the terrain. A border patrol vehicle with a trailer of ATVs was parked along the road, its driver inside grabbing a meal before a long overnight shift.

  Hunger eventually overcame Ed, and denying the words of Felipe to stay put, he went outside and crossed to the restaurant.

  The air was still and the heat of the day was slowly evaporating into the stratosphere. The gravel grinding under his shoes was the only noise in Hurtado. Ed arrived and went inside, taking a seat at the same table he had occupied the day before.

  He fancied that he was becoming a regular.

  The border agents were across the room, and several other tables were occupied by random travelers, each going an undisclosed direction, and all content to leave each other in peace. Camilla filled the coffee cups of the agents and then turned, her eyes falling on Ed, and he could see a smile forming in the corners of her mouth. She made her way over to him in a less than obvious way and poured him a cup.

  “It is good to see you,” she said softly.

  “Yeah. Well, you surprised me a bit.”

  “How is that?”

  “A priest?”

  She smiled more fully.

  “I wasn’t expecting that,” Ed went on.

  “What were you expecting?”

  Ed thought about it. To be honest, he was expecting a lot of things when he was walking down to the border crossing earlier that day. He didn’t know if he would be robbed, kidnapped, murdered. He was shocked that his entry into Mexico went unnoticed by anyone, and he was more surprised that he had spent time having a drink with a priest.

  “I was expecting a person more in line with who Tyler would associate with.”

  “Mexicans are not all criminals, you know.”

  Ed took a sip of his coffee. It tasted like road tar.

  Camilla put the coffeepot back into the rack near the counter and returned to stand at his table.

  “I must admit, you surprised me too,” she said. Her words came out with a hint of accent that made even the most mundane words sound like song.

  “How’s that?”

  “I thought that you would be headed home.”

  Ed stared back at her, waiting for her to continue.

  “This isn’t a place where most people stick around.”

  “So why do you?” Ed asked. The question came out quicker than his mind could catch it.

  Camilla thought about the question as if she wanted to give it thorough consideration. “Perhaps the same reason you are staying. My son. I stay here for him.”

  “He lives here?”

  “In Nuevo Negaldo.”

  “And is there a Mister Ibanez?” Ed braved. He was the father of an adult son, but he wasn’t dead yet.

  Camilla’s smile returned again. “Oh no. No no no,” she said. “We are not going to talk about that.” She walked back to the kitchen and disappeared. As Ed thought about the brashness of his questioning, she returned with a plate of food that he did not order but was thankful for regardless.

  “Eat up,” she said and walked away again.

  33

  El Matacerdos arrived in the coastal town of Guaymas as the lights were just coming on, illuminating an orange sky. He drove straight toward the address that he had been given. It was here he would get instructions for the next job. When he got to the neighborhood, he pulled up to the curb and waited. A face looked out of the window of the small house, disappeared, and then a man ran out the front door. The man came up to the car, a packet in his hand. He was shaking. El Matacerdos rolled down the window and took it from him. The man turned tail and by all accounts was now hiding in a closet, praying that the Cartel had not put his name in the envelope.

  El Matacerdos looked at the words on the sheet. He slid it into his pocket, put the car in gear, and drove past the city to the coastal road.

  It had been years since he had seen the ocean, since he had been out this way, so he took the liberty of parking on a bluff overlooking the Pacific and sat on the hood of his car. The water looked dark, the last rays of sunshine reflecting off the waves. He could see people on the beaches below. Kids playing in the sand. Families packing up to head home for the night. They were all living a life so different from his. He sifted through the bag he had bought in town and pulled out the tequila. He opened the bottle and took several very long pulls.

  It was a perfect day, but he had work to do.

  Two politicians were having dinner at a wealthy patron’s home. It had been arranged. The patron’s family was currently in a shed somewhere miles from hom
e, perhaps parts of them already dissolving in an acid bath, perhaps watching TV. El Matacerdos would never know. He waited on the street, looking at the property, waiting for ten o’clock.

  The house was a sandstone-color adobe with a tile roof and a green front lawn all secured behind a giant black iron gate. Well-manicured trees fronted the entrance. It could have been a hotel. It was nicer than anything El Matacerdos would ever have.

  Precisely at ten, as if on cue, the front door opened and a short pudgy man stepped outside, crossed the lawn, and opened the front gate. He then stood in the open space and waited. El Matacerdos stepped out of his car and crossed over. When the patron saw him, he was visibly sweating, his hairline dripping with fear.

  “They are on the back patio.”

  “Vámonos,” El Matacerdos said, more of a grunt than a command.

  “My family . . . what about my—”

  El Matacerdos pulled out his gun and the man turned and ran down the street.

  Crossing the lawn, his shoes sinking into the lush grass, El Matacerdos stepped up to the door and entered the house.

  It was an open floor plan and he could see through the entire space to the back sliding doors. Two men were sitting facing the water, cigar smoke slowly drifting up over their heads. One was talking, the other laughing periodically at the story he was listening to. They seemed to be having a good time. Not a care in the world.

  El Matacerdos walked across the home, his gun up in case one of them turned around at his approach, but the sound of the water masked any noise he might have made. Within seconds he was stepping onto the patio.

  He squeezed off one shot into the temple of the talkative one. The man listening was splattered with blood, his laughs silenced, his mind in bewilderment trying to catch up with what was happening before his eyes. El Matacerdos trained the pistol on him and fired again, a bullet to the forehead.

  Waves crashed on the shoreline.

  His work was done.

  He looked around the patio. It was a good view. More than most could ever expect to have in their lives. He was tempted to sit down and enjoy it but instead made his way back through the house.