Borders of the Heart (23 page)

HIS HEART BEATING WILDLY,
J. D. checked the phone but Muerte’s number was blocked. Hearing the man’s voice unnerved him, but he tried to push down the emotion. Sanchez had probably called him. Or Slocum could have contacted him. It was only a matter of time before Muerte received the message. Were others competing for Maria? Her life had so many tentacles.

If Muerte could locate Maria by her ring, he could find J. D. through the cell. But running down that track made him feel foolish for calling Sanchez. Muerte could get Win’s information, and if that was true, Iliana and Ernesto were in danger. The tentacles increased. The stakes had just been raised for all of them.

One of Slocum’s men walked out the front door for a smoke. He stayed as if on duty. A van passed the bar and slowed, its muffler rumbling. It was a nondescript, off-white color, and through the flickering streetlight, J. D. saw the outline of several men inside. Perhaps six? He struggled to breathe as the van pulled forward. J. D. opened the door and turned back for the shotgun. No, that would only complicate things. He had never done well with guns. To please his father, he had tried, but even shooting at circular targets on hay bales felt violent.

“Where you think you’re going?” the man at the door yelled.

J. D. ignored him and hurried inside. Music screamed. Smoke so thick he had to part it like a veil. There was more light outside than in but it was cooler. He counted three window air conditioners recycling the stale air.

“Win!” J. D. called out. His voice was lost in the noise, a crying in the wilderness. A few people nearby looked up and went back to their drinks. He noticed a couple of Slocum’s men at the bar.

J. D. ripped the jukebox’s power cord out of the wall and the room fell silent.

A drunk in the corner stood. “What are you doing? That was my song!”

The bartender was large with curly blonde hair and looked like she could handle any disturbance that didn’t include bullets, but she might have been able to handle those, too. She leaned on the bar with one hand and braced her hip with the other. Was she former military? Former cop?

“I’m looking for Win,” J. D. said. “You seen him?” He looked at Slocum’s men but they kept quiet.

Without blinking, she said, “Doesn’t matter who you’re looking for. Plug the music back in.”

When J. D. didn’t budge, someone in the corner lifted a hand. It was the man Win had pointed out slipping into the bar. The one from his church. “I seen him a few minutes ago. He went to the back room.” He was pointing to a hallway that had
Restrooms
over it.

The bartender picked up a phone.

“Turn the music on!” the drunk yelled. “I paid for four more after that one!” He was standing again, but he had to brace himself against the wall.

The bartender hung up and came out from behind the bar, headed straight for J. D. Behind him, from the direction of the street, came a rumble that grew in intensity. Like a volcano ready to spew lava.

J. D. held up his hands and stepped toward the woman. “You need to know, there are dangerous people heading this way. They’re after the girl in the back room.”

“Take it up with Slocum and the boys,” the bartender said, plugging the jukebox back into the wall socket. The lights came on but no music. The drunk yelled again.

“Pay him for the songs,” she said.

“You don’t understand. These people aren’t going to mess around.”

The rumbling grew louder and brakes squeaked.

“Everybody needs to get out, now!” J. D. yelled.

“You’re the one who needs to get out,” the bartender said, jabbing a fat finger into his chest. The whole room clapped.

Two of Slocum’s men walked past him and positioned themselves between him and the front door.

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you,” J. D. muttered as he walked toward the hall. He heard a car door slam as he reached the door to the back room and jiggled the ancient knob. It was locked.

“Win? Maria? You in there?”

“J. D.!” Maria shouted.

Hearing her voice surfaced some inner strength. With all the force he could muster, he put his shoulder against the door and the frame splintered. The door opened a few inches, still held by a flimsy chain. Through the opening he saw Slocum and Kristofferson with their guns aimed.

“It’s me!” J. D. said. “Don’t shoot.”

Maria sat in a chair near a card table, her hands duct taped to the armrests. Win stood in front of Slocum, his face drawn and worried. J. D. planted a boot in the middle of the door and the chain clattered to the floor.

“You’re gonna be sorry you did that,” Kristofferson said.

J. D. glared at Slocum. “Trouble’s on the way. Get out!”

“Muerte?” Maria said.

J. D. shook his head. “Somebody else.” He glared at Slocum. “Who did you call?”

Kristofferson raised his gun toward J. D. and smiled with yellowing teeth. “We’re close to the biggest payday we’ve ever had.”

“You’re closer to losing your life than—”

Something crashed in the other room and a semiautomatic fired several rounds. Screaming and yelling and glass breaking. A husky voice yelled,
“¡Todos al suelo!”

Shouts and cries and tables and chairs crashing. Then more gunfire.

Kristofferson’s face turned white and he scampered to the back door. Win pulled a knife from his pocket and moved toward Maria. He sliced the duct tape that secured her and tore it off, ripping the hair from her arms in the process. Another man pushed the door closed as far as he could and turned off the light.

Kristofferson opened the back door and was met by a wall of bullets from the parking lot. The man crumpled in the doorway, dropping his weapon. Blood pooled under him and someone ran past the open door, firing a shotgun in the general direction of the parking lot.

“Get down!” Win yelled.

A second later, bullets splintered the wall above their heads and sent plaster and wood raining. J. D. fell on top of Maria and stayed there, her body shaking underneath. Someone screamed in pain. It sounded like Slocum. The noise was deafening and light from the vehicle outside shone through holes in the wall.

More yelling from the bar and the sound of a siren in the distance. The door to the hall flew open. No one fired or dared to breathe. A man flicked on the light. Short, stocky. Fat face. Just a kid, really. He glanced around the room with his finger on the trigger like he was in a video game. His eyes landed on J. D.

J. D.’s life did not flash before his eyes. He didn’t lose bowel control. He simply braced for the entry of the bullets that would take his life and surely the life of Maria, who lay motionless, her hair fanned out underneath him.

Instead of a burst of gunfire, one shot rang out. J. D. closed his eyes. Had he been hit? He felt nothing. And then a weight fell on him. It was the gunman, a single hole in the man’s forehead.

Slocum still held the pistol in his hand, gritting his teeth at the pain, his shirt stained with blood and a trail of smoke swirling. He slumped forward to the floor.

“¡Policía! Lárguense,”
someone yelled in the bar.

Headlights flashed through the window and the holes in the wall, and gravel flew.

“Get up, J. D.,” Win said.

Win helped roll the man off him. J. D. pulled Maria up. She was covered in dust and dirt but there was no blood.

Win felt for a pulse on Slocum and the other man but found none. They rushed for the truck as sirens pierced the night and red and blue lights lit the scene. Win started the truck and smacked into the trash bins as he threw it in reverse and retreated down an alley. He waited until he fully turned around before he switched on the headlights.

They passed an ambulance heading toward the bar and J. D. shook his head. “I tried to warn those people.”

“How did you know they were coming?” Win said.

“Saw them drive past after I hung up with Muerte.”

“You spoke to him?” Maria said.

“Yeah, and your dad, too.”

J. D. filled them in and told them he thought it best to get Iliana and Ernesto to a safe place. Win agreed and when they reached the house, he rushed inside to retrieve them.

“You okay?” J. D. said to Maria.

She shook her head. “How can I be okay after that? When I’ve made you a fugitive for simply helping me?”

“I guess these guys get used to killing,” J. D. said. “It’s as normal as morning coffee.”

Her face in silhouette was lovely, a profile of beauty. He wanted to gather her in, protect her, show his strength, and make her feel safe. But how could he give her something he didn’t have?

“This will not end by taking Win and the others to safety,” she said.

“This isn’t going to end, period. If they find you and kill you, that won’t stop it. The only way to stop a snake is to cut its head off. And even then it’ll bite you.”

“Another will take its place.”

“Then we have to make it less comfortable for the snakes. Make them want to nest someplace else instead of our backyard.”

“There is a more pressing question than that.”

“What?”

“How do we keep from becoming the snake? If we kill them and the others who come behind, we become like them. Nothing changes except our hearts.”

“I don’t get your point. Are we supposed to sit back and do nothing? Let the snakes take over?”

“No. There has to be another way. True change only comes through the heart. You can polish the outside, but it’s only clean when you reach the inside.”

“Face it, Maria. Some people can’t be polished. Inside or out.”

She looked at him as if he had revealed something about himself. “That is not up to us to decide. If it weren’t for God reaching out to me, I would be Muerte and my father.”

“You’re not like them.”

“But I could be. Don’t you see? If not for God, I would be. If he had not broken through and shown me true life and freedom, I would be exactly like them.”

There was something about her words that made sense, that felt like he was being led closer to the truth. But he shoved it away. “Why not just build a fence? More border patrols? That would solve part of the problem.”

She shook her head. “A fence is not the answer. It’s not a political problem where you have an election and the trouble is over.”

“Don’t say that to the Republicans.”

“Why not?”

“Their main guy is headed here. Going to come to ground zero and give people a pep talk about controlling the border.”

“When?”

“Tomorrow.” He looked at his watch. “No, later today.”

“What is his name?”

“Chandler. He’s a governor.”

Maria grew agitated. “Where will he speak?”

“I don’t know. Somewhere in town. It’s all over the news.”

Maria stared at him. “J. D., this is it.”

“This is what?”

“This is what Muerte is planning. It’s what he’s been after all along.”

“What are you talking about?”

Win hurried out of the house carrying a sleeping Ernesto. Iliana followed him with a suitcase. Maria got in the back and held Ernesto close. When J. D. tried to question her further, she put a finger to her lips.

THEY FOUND TWO ROOMS
at a Country Inn & Suites off I-10. J. D. followed Iliana to her room, carrying Ernesto and hoping he’d stay asleep. He tucked the boy into one of the double beds and touched his head gently.

Iliana tried to smile at him, but her face was a sea of sagging lines. “We should call the police,” she whispered. The two of them stood in the dark with a sliver of light coming through the slightly parted curtains.

J. D. turned on a light at the desk. “They’re probably not far away.”

“My husband could have been killed tonight.”

“But he wasn’t. He was protected. And you and the boy are safe.”

She looked at Ernesto. “So peaceful. With so much going on, he can sleep through all of this.”

J. D. smiled. “That’s not peace; that’s exhaustion.”

“Perhaps. But it looks like trust, too. He trusts us to care for him.”

“Can’t imagine what his parents are going through, thinking he’s out in the desert.”

She put a hand on his shoulder. “Take care of Maria, J. D. Don’t let anything happen to her.”

“That’s a full-time job. I don’t know that I’m up to it.” He hugged Iliana and went back downstairs to join Maria and Win at a table in the breakfast area.

“I’ve found us something to drink,” she said, pushing a glass of orange juice in front of J. D. Win had already finished his.

J. D. took a sip and looked at Maria. “Tell us your theory. What’s Muerte’s plan?”

She leaned forward, elbows propped on the table. “Let’s start at the beginning. Muerte was setting up the transport of a package into the country.”

“The rifle in the case,” J. D. said.

“Yes. But there was something different about this. Phone calls where he would leave the room. I became curious and went to his office. He worked from a casita near our home. He guarded it well, but I had access.”

“So you spied on him,” Win said.

“Yes. I was in his office looking for information when I saw him coming, talking on his phone. I hid in his bathroom and prayed I wouldn’t be discovered.

“He was talking about my father and an important shipment he needed to make across the border. I couldn’t hear the other side, but it was strange. He mentioned my father and the name of a high official of the Zetas. Then his voice became lower and I thought I heard him say, ‘Handler.’”

“Chandler,” Win said.

She nodded.

“So you asked him to let you make the delivery?” J. D. said.

“No, I did not want Muerte making that decision. I went to my father and told him I had changed my mind. I wanted to become involved again.”

“You stopped working for him?”

“Yes.”

“Because of your newfound faith,” Win said.

She nodded. “And my father saw my decision to return as a good thing. He thought I was coming around. It would be like old times.”

“If you thought being involved was wrong, why didn’t you just leave?” J. D. said.

“I considered that. At first I thought I should work with the ministry in town. I would lay aside my privilege and become a ‘normal’ person. But I couldn’t shake an impression. God seemed to be telling me to stay. My hope was that my father would see his need for God.”

She looked at Win for validation. The man raised his eyebrows and dipped his head.

“Did you and Muerte have a relationship?” J. D. said.

Maria glared. “What does that have to do with this?”

“He said something about it when he called me. That you two had something romantic going.”

“J. D., let’s stay with the conversation,” Win said.

“It’s all right,” Maria said. “You have a right to know. Muerte wanted a relationship. I tried not to encourage it, but when I wanted more information . . .”

“You didn’t say no all the time.”

“There were times when I did not discourage him.” Her face showed pain and regret.

“When you were hiding in the casita, did he find you?”

More pain on her face. “Yes. And I pretended that I was there for . . . romance. But it was only to protect myself.”

Her father had spoken of manipulation. Was she telling the truth? If she could lie to Muerte, she could lie to them. But her spiritual awakening seemed genuine. J. D. pushed the thoughts away. “So you convinced your dad to let you make this delivery. How did Muerte react?”

“He was livid that anyone even knew. He wanted to keep it secret. When confronted, he said it was nothing. He was upset that my father didn’t trust him.”

“But he came around,” J. D. said.

“When he understood I had volunteered, he seemed pleased. He encouraged me.”

“Of course he did,” J. D. said. “He was working it out. He wanted you dead.”

“Exactly.”

“So when you came across the border, he had his squad come to the rendezvous point,” J. D. said.

“Yes. I’m not sure who it was, but I can see now that Muerte wanted revenge for my betrayal. Perhaps it was because I knew too much.”

“Or both.”

“What about the gun?” Win said. “Why go to all this trouble over a high-powered rifle?”

“I didn’t put that together until now,” Maria said. “It’s going to happen at the political rally. There will be an assassination.”

“Assassination?” Win said.

J. D. glanced at the worker who hovered near the front desk.

“That makes no sense,” Win said. “What does Muerte gain? Killing a man running for president proves the point that we need tighter borders. The people of this country hate drug dealers. The authorities will smash the drug trade and Muerte and everyone like him.”

Maria nodded. “That’s what kept me from seeing it. It makes no sense unless you look at it from Muerte’s view. This is what he wants. If he is working with the Zetas, and I’m positive he is, a tighter border means only the more organized operations get through. The smaller ones will have more difficulty. Those who depend on couriers, mules, will be wiped out. But Muerte has developed a tunnel system, with many my father has no idea about.”

Win rubbed his chin. “The politicians and voters will think they’re doing something good by clamping down, and it will just be making Muerte stronger.”

“If he were to take over the area my father controls, he could afford to suspend activity. Wait. Others will not be able. They don’t have the resources.”

“Which means your father is on Muerte’s hit list,” J. D. said.

She looked away. “Yes. I was glad when you said you spoke to him. The only way he survives is if Muerte is caught. Or dies.”

J. D. glanced at a TV in the lobby. The news anchor was setting up a reporter standing in front of an empty stage. People gathered in the background, sitting on blankets and in lawn chairs. Sweat dripped from the man’s forehead. J. D. moved to turn up the volume.

“. . . and already supporters of the presidential hopeful have begun to stake out their territory, as you can see behind me. They’re getting as close as they can to be part of what some are calling a historic gathering.”

The video switched to preparations being made in downtown Tucson. Swirling lights and yellow police tape flashed.

“The speech by Governor Chandler comes at a crisis point. In the past few days there have been multiple shootings and murders that authorities believe may be connected with drug trafficking. These kinds of killings are commonplace across the border, but when a police officer and a Border Patrol agent are killed within a day of each other, as well as a prominent doctor just east of here, residents take notice.”

The screen switched to an older woman wiping away tears. “I don’t know what the world is coming to. He was the most gentle man I’ve ever known. It’s just not right.”

The reporter resumed. “Investigations continue into the shootings, but there’s no question that the heightened violence is the backdrop to this speech. And many feel the current administration has turned away from the reality of the violence.

“The speech later this morning will come from a candidate who says he is the political leader to finally get a handle on a fair and sensible approach to illegal immigration and the problems created by the cartels of Mexico.”

J. D. turned down the sound and returned to the table.

“Do you know where that is?” Maria said to Win.

Win nodded and told her the location. “Maria, we need to tell the authorities what you think will happen. We can’t keep silent.”

“I agree,” J. D. said. “If there’s even a remote chance you’re right, they need to know.”

Maria shook her head. “Muerte does not just have resolve; he has resources. Do you think he would plan this without taking precautions? Without preparing a way to make it happen?”

“Are you suggesting he has people on the inside? In the police force?”

“I know he does. I’ve heard him speak with them.”

“That’s crazy,” J. D. said. “That happens across the border, not here.”

She said something in Spanish he didn’t understand and Win grunted in agreement.

“What?” J. D. said.

Win waved him off and looked at Maria. “I know someone on the force. A man I trust. I’ll call him. You can tell him what you know.”

“I’ve come too far to be arrested,” she said.

“Maria,” Win said as if he were a father pleading for his daughter to come to her senses, to come home. He took her hand. “We have a chance to change the future. Lives have been lost. If we do nothing, we are complicit with this man.”

“I’m not saying we do nothing. We have to stop him.”

“Not alone,” J. D. said. “It’s time to get help.”

She clenched her jaw. “Fine. Talk with your friend. Tell him what I said. You know as much as I do about Muerte’s plan.”

J. D. looked at the clock. His body ached and he wished he could collapse in a hotel bed like Ernesto. Just go to sleep and wake up to have this nightmare gone.

A police cruiser wound its way through the parking lot and J. D. watched it pass the front window. When Maria saw it, she stood and walked to the elevator. They followed her to the third floor. Win scrolled through the contacts on his cell phone and dialed a number. He left a message asking the man to call him about something urgent but didn’t explain more.

“I’m tired,” Maria said. “I want to lie down.”

Win nodded and told J. D. to stay with her while he checked on Iliana. “If my friend doesn’t call within the hour, I’ll need to contact—”

His cell interrupted him like it knew what he was saying. “This must be him.” He answered, paused, then repeated, “Hello?” His eyes darted.

He closed the phone and handed it to J. D. “I think it was him. Muerte.”

J. D. looked at Maria. “He told me he would call again.”

“If he sent those men to the bar, he knows I’m still alive.”

“He didn’t send them. Slocum called them. They were going to bring you to Muerte for the reward. But you’re safe now.”

“You have no idea how many ways he can find us.”

A door opened down the hall and someone stuck their head out and cursed at them. Win put a hand to his head and lowered his voice. “If my contact calls, tell him what you know. Have him meet us here.”

“And if Muerte calls?”

Win shook his head. “God help us.”

J. D. unlocked the room and flipped on the light while Maria slipped into the bathroom. He tossed Win’s keys on the dresser and stared out the window. The view looked north toward the parking lot and I-10. Through the fluorescent lights and guardrails and concrete, cars and trucks passed, going who knew where. It all looked aimless and without purpose, like a beehive would look to someone who had no idea how it all fit together.

The police cruiser wasn’t in sight. J. D. wondered if it was below them. The officers could be talking to the desk worker. That would bring a SWAT team upstairs. Men in dark clothing ready to break down the door. It might be a relief to have his hands cuffed. A bed in jail and a good lawyer. It was probably the fatigue and paranoia cocktail in his brain that made him think the worst.

J. D. closed the curtains and turned the air conditioner to full blast. He held his hand over the vent as if calling forth cool air like an HVAC faith healer.

“Foul demon of sweltering heat, begone,” he whispered and then smiled, remembering a TV preacher he and Alycia had watched. His imitation of the man always sent her into a paroxysm of laughter. Even toward the end, when it was hard for her to keep a thought in her brain and she was unable to push away the pain, she could smile.

There were two double beds, and when Maria came out of the bathroom, she collapsed on the one near the door. J. D. sat in the corner chair and put his feet on the other bed, looking at her. She was such a small thing, thin and wiry, with a beauty that felt like some ice sculpture that would melt in the sunshine and remake itself into something else equally beautiful.

They’d come a long way in the past few days and it felt like they were nearing the end. With his legs stretched out, he finally relaxed and the tension in his back began to dissipate. He took a deep breath.

“What will you do about your son?” Maria said, her voice bouncing off the bare wall.

“My plan was to learn everything I needed about running a farm and then go back.”

“Did he understand that?”

“He’s little. I don’t know that he understands anything.”

“Children understand love. They know if they have it or if they don’t.”

“And how do you know that?”

“There are some things you just know.”

“I suppose you’re right about that.”

“Have your plans changed? About going back to him?”

“There might be the little inconvenience of jail time for harboring a fugitive. I suppose if I get the chance to defend myself in court, I could tell them I was put under the spell of a beautiful woman.”

She kicked off her shoes and let them fall to the floor. “You think I am beautiful?”

“There’s no thinking about it.”

Her arms moved inward as if she had been chilled by the air conditioner’s blast.

“Does he look like you?” she said.

“My son? I think he has my nose. The rest of him is all Alycia—her eyes, her mouth, high cheekbones. That’s part of my problem. Something I have to get over.”