Blurring the Line (8 page)

He cut her off again with a raised hand. “I‘ll take you home now.” He wasn’t listening to her. She doubted if he could even see her through his rage. He was consumed by it. Every action now would be guided by his vendetta.

Beth followed him back to his car. Letting Torres take her home wasn’t appropriate, but nothing about her relationship with Torres was appropriate. That ship had sailed when she recruited him. She gave him her address and settled into her seat. She racked her brain for things to say to dissuade him from going after Martinez, but her mind was blank. She had no argument to offer that he would listen to, so instead of speaking she stared out the window at the fields of blue bonnets. Usually she missed California, but when the blue bonnets were in bloom, there was nowhere she would rather be. All of Texas was covered in the bright wildflowers. Even the side of the freeway was softened by the delicate flowers. They made Texas seem smaller, softer, more like home, less like the consolation prize it was.

Torres pulled up in front Beth’s house. He had not spoken for the entire drive and neither had she. This time the silence was not an invitation to speak, it was a carefully constructed wall designed to keep her out. “I should’ve known you’d have a picket fence. Very American dream.” he commented quietly.

Beth nodded, looking past him to her small bungalow. It was modest, but it was her small slice of the American dream. As a kid growing up in a one-bedroom apartment that overlooked the freeway, her dream was to have her own house with a yard. And now she did. It wasn’t much but it was all hers, or it would be after twenty more years of monthly payments.

Beth cleared her throat. She knew this was the last time she was going to see Torres and she had just started to get to know him. Maybe it was the finality of it, or the situation with her mom, but she wasn’t ready to say goodbye yet. Torres looked like a monster but he wasn’t. He was different to Flores. There was something else to him, not just an unbridled passion for violence. “Do you want to come in and have a cup of coffee? Shouldn’t brag, but I make some of the best instant in Texas.”

“No, I better go.”

Beth nodded. There was more she wanted to say but she wasn’t sure what. She hesitated before she said, “If Martinez was brought back to Texas, he would get the death penalty. He killed two border agents. He won’t be getting a slap on the wrist. The Mexico City office is on his tail.”

Torres nodded but did not say anything. They both knew what she was saying. Torres did not need to go after Martinez. But they both knew he would. He was too far in now to go back. If there was any question about that before, it immediately vanished when she saw the tattoo of Santa Muerte on his chest.

Beth stepped out of the car and took a deep breath. This was it. “Take care, Torres.”

“You too,
Gatita
,” he said before he pulled away.

Chapter Three

Torres stared down at the worn map. His finger circled the red dot, over and over, along the border of Sonora and Sinaloa, the last known address of Javier Martinez. He wouldn’t let himself believe it was almost over. He had spent so much time, given up so much to get to this point. He couldn’t yet imagine what it would feel like to live without the manacles shackling him to his disastrous past. He wouldn’t let himself be fooled into believing the guilt would go. He would live with that forever. But he would be done.

Done.

What did that look like? Shit if he knew, but he couldn’t wait to find out. First thing he would do, he would go and see his mom, explain things to her, make things right. She would understand, maybe even be proud. She would know he hadn’t become a drug lord. Her last surviving child was not running drugs for Los Zetas. It would take time for her to understand. And it would take time for Torres to forget the look of pain and disgust that had contorted his mother’s face that last time he had seen her. He still saw it when he thought of her; two years later and that was still the image he saw.

The doorbell rang.

Torres’ head shot up. He glanced at the clock. It was too late in the day for a delivery, and he wasn’t expecting anything. On reflex, his hand went to his back, touching the cold metal of the gun that was permanently fixed to his body. He slid the weapon out of its holder and clicked the safety off.

“Who’s there?” Torres demanded.

“Its Sal.”

Flores.

The short hairs on Torres’ arms stood taut. He rubbed his thumb over the barrel of the gun. Flores should not be here. He never came to Torres’ home. Ever. They met at Flores’ house or at a truck stop on I35. Torres wasn’t even sure how he knew where he lived. In the nearly two years he had been renting the one-bedroom apartment, he had had two visitors, and both of them had been delivering Chinese food.

Slowly Torres slid his gun into the waist of his jeans, in front where he could reach it.

“
Que pasa?
” Torres asked as he opened the door.

Flores did not say anything, rather he shook his head and handed Torres a large manila envelope.

“What’s this?”

“Your woman. What’s her name?”

A cold sweat broke out along Torres’ brow. His hand moved lower to the gun at his waist. “Why?”

“Look at it. They found her. This was slid under my door. I tried calling you.”

Torres glanced over at his phone sitting on the coffee table. He’d turned off his phone eight hours ago so he could concentrate.

Torres slid a glossy photo free from the envelope. It was a picture of him sitting beside Beth on the curb outside the gas station. Torres ground his teeth together as he studied the picture. Across Beth’s face, someone had drawn a scorpion, the mark of Los Treintas. They had ordered a hit on her.

Torres ran a hand along his jaw. “When did you get this?” Once a hit was ordered, it was carried out within hours. Torres was being taunted, that was what Los Treintas did, it added another layer of terror. They always sent the photo to the family.

“About an hour ago. I tried calling.”

Torres pinched his nose between his thumb and his forefinger. “Shit,” he said to no one in particular. He sat down on the couch and laid the photo on the coffee table beside his phone, scrutinising every detail.

“I’m sorry.”

Torres could hear Flores speaking but he didn’t know what he was saying. He needed to think. And he could not do that with Flores breathing down his neck.

Torres stood up suddenly. “Thanks for telling me.” He put a hand on Flores’ shoulder and guided him to the door. The look on the man’s face indicated he was confused by Torres’ sudden change in demeanour. “I need to think,” Torres said by way of explanation, which was the truth.

Flores nodded.

Torres shut the door behind him and locked it. He turned and slid down to the floor, his back hard against the door. “Shit,” he said again.

What was he going to do? Christ, she could already be dead by now. He shook his head when he realised that that would actually be the easiest solution. It was self-preservation, better her than him. He couldn’t die yet, not with Martinez still breathing. For whatever reason El Escorpion had ordered a hit on Beth but not on Torres. He was sending a message to him. Apparently he thought Beth was the way to hurt him.

Torres almost laughed at the thought. He barely knew her. He had no loyalties to her. He had seen hundreds of people die, in Iraq, and just as many die since he got home. Her death would not even register to him. And that fact made him cold. At what point did he become the dragon instead of the slayer?

He shook his head again. All these thoughts were too deep for him; he didn’t have the luxury of giving a shit any more. He didn’t owe her anything. His only loyalty was to Moses Archila. He would find the man who killed him. Nothing else mattered. Yes there would be casualities, but there always were. He could not mourn for every soldier lost along the way…or every agent.

If he warned Beth, she would be taken into protective custody, as would he, for his own sake. And then Javier Martinez would get away.

There was really only one choice so he would not let himself overthink it or second-guess himself. He would do what needed to be done. He always did.

Chapter Four

Beth entered the eleven digits of her sister’s cell phone number but hung up before the call went through and returned the phone to the cradle. Paige would be in the library studying or at the clinic. Beth shouldn’t bother her, not so close to finals. God knew she would be up to her eyeballs with only a trimester left before graduation. But that wasn’t the real reason Beth couldn’t make the call; she just didn’t want to know. If she could put off making the call forever, she would. If it would keep her mom the same strong vibrant woman, she would never make or receive another phone call for the rest of her life.

Beth chewed on the pad of her thumb as she tried to decide what to do. She couldn’t actually pretend nothing was wrong, as much as she desperately wanted to; it wasn’t fair to her mom and it wasn’t fair to Paige. Her sister had borne the brunt of it, mostly because Paige still lived in Sacramento, but also because Paige seemed to be able to handle it. Paige faced everything head on. There was no hiding or pretending for her. Beth should be more like that. Was April too late for a New Year’s resolution?

Beth picked up the phone and dialled the number before she could talk herself out of it.

“I was wondering when you would call,” her sister said when she picked up the phone. Even across a thousand miles, Beth could see the cheery smile on her sister’s face.

“Are you busy? If you’re busy I can call back later.”

“No, I have a few minutes. A cat just bit me so I could use a break anyway. People think it is dogs you have to worry about, but cats are the real menace. If I could get away with it, I would totally open a no-cat practice,” Beth said.

“A cat bit you? Are you OK?” Beth’s throat tightened as visions of her baby sister being attacked by a feral cat ran through her mind. She would have far preferred her sister to have gone to medical school because at least people don’t bite, but Paige had had her heart set on being a vet since Beth had read her
Black Beauty
when she was six. So in actuality it was Beth’s fault. She would add that to her list of things to feel guilty about.

“I’m fine; nothing that a shot of penicillin won’t fix. Funny enough that is also what I said about my last date.”

Beth laughed. “Don’t tell me these things. You know I worry. How bad is the bite? Text me a picture.”

Paige sighed. “No, I’m not going to send you a picture. I’m fine.”

“Well if you’re fine, send me a picture to prove it.”

“Or what?” Paige asked.

“Or I will get the next flight to Sacramento and see it for myself.” They both knew she would do it.

“For God’s sake, Beth. Give me two seconds.”

A few seconds later her cell phone chirped to let her know a message had arrived.

Beth winced when she opened the attachment. “That isn’t a bite that is a mauling. Honestly Paige…” Her voice trailed off. There was so much she could say, but she had said it all before. If worrying about her sister were a job, Beth would be pulling double shifts every week.

“Animals are far less vicious than humans. I’d be far more worried about the people you work with than the cranky pussycats I see.”

Beth let out a breath. Her sister had a point.

“So,” Paige asked after a long silence. “Are you going to ask about Mom?”

“Yeah, how is she?” Fresh guilt gnawed at Beth. She was the older sister, she was the one who should be taking care of all this, not Paige. For the third time that day, Beth contemplated quitting her job so she could move back to California. She could easily take a pay cut and move back to the Sacramento office. She would happily deal with the meth cookers of the central valley if it meant she could be near her family. But she couldn’t afford to move back to Sacramento. Paige couldn’t afford it. Beth’s promotion was paying for vet school. She tried to think of it in those terms, but every way she looked at it, she still felt like the shithead who abandoned her family.

“Well to tell you the truth, she is pissed off. I would rather deal with a room full of cats than her, most days. She still feels like we’re all in it against her and that there is nothing really wrong.”

“Well some days she is fine,” Beth interjected. There was still the possibility they were overreacting. “When I talked to her Thursday morning, she was totally with it. She could have just been really run down before.”

“Don’t, Beth, I don’t need another Thomson woman in denial. She was fine Thursday morning because she is always fine in the morning. But by dinnertime she is out of it again. It’s worse than we thought. She hasn’t been paying her bills or cashing her cheques. I found a jar of money in her house with at least $2000. She has been stashing all her tips in there, God knows why. I can’t tell if she has stopped trusting banks or has forgotten how the banking system works, I just know that PG&E want their money. It has taken me all day to get her electricity turned back on.”

Pressure built behind Beth’s eyes. This wasn’t her mom; this wasn’t the loving vibrant woman who raised her. Her mom was fearless, in charge of everything. She was their mom and dad and best friend all rolled into one. Beth wiped a tear from her cheek. “Is there any chance she will improve? What did the doctor say?”

“She refused to speak to him for the first forty-five minutes. Then a nurse came in and started speaking with her. She asked Mom to help her with some work and of course Mom helped her, Mom would help anyone. Of course it was actually the test. By the second question it was clear there was a problem. Mom couldn’t even draw a face of a clock. She couldn’t remember all the numbers or which order they went in and she couldn’t manage to write the numbers in the circle. It was a total mess. At that point she twigged what was going on and freaked out.”

Beth’s heart constricted painfully. The thought of her mom in distress made her want to scream. Beth wiped another tear away with the back of her hand. “So they didn’t finish the test?” She could not keep the optimism from her voice. There was no way anyone could give a conclusive diagnosis without finishing the assessment.