Borders of the Heart Page 3

  Muerte nodded.

  “And find who did this. Take care of them.”

  Muerte left the man pacing the bedroom and yelling for his housekeeper. He walked toward the stables, dialing a contact on his cell, and heard the whirring noise of an open car window on the other end.

  “Where are you?” Muerte said.

  “Just getting here. There are police and Border Patrol vehicles everywhere. . . .”

  “Get out of there. Find the girl.”

  “You said you wanted me to locate the satchel.”

  “Find the girl. Do you have her location?”

  “She’s been in one place all night.”

  “Check the coordinates—she is moving again. Just outside a little town called La Pena.”

  “All right. I will find her and bring her back—”

  “No. Listen carefully. Are you listening to me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Muerte. Always.”

  “Find her, retrieve the satchel if she has it, and dispose of her.”

  The noise on the other end lessened. A window closing. “Say that again, please?”

  “You heard me correctly. Make it bloody, make it messy. Make it look like revenge. But do not let her get away.”

  “So your plan has not changed?”

  “This is what I’ve been waiting for. You will be rewarded for this.”

  “I’m at your service. But one question.”

  Muerte was silent, so the man asked anyway. “Who was she dealing with? Wasn’t she carrying money to pay for a future shipment?”

  “That you do not need to know. Find her and make this happen. Communicate with no one but me. Do you understand?”

  “Yes.”

  “I will join you this afternoon.”

  4

  EVERY TIME THEY RAN OVER A CATTLE GUARD, the woman jumped at the noise. And they ran over quite a few to get to the main road and then quite a few more as they turned off it. It took J. D.’s truck a few minutes to get cool, but he could tell the air calmed her. Because of the stickers in her legs, she had to sit low in the seat and her skirt rose. He tried not to look.

  They pulled up to a farmhouse, the shocks squeaking from the ruts made by rain the year before. He pointed at the handcuff and said, “I’m going to take that off. Stay here.”

  She stared at him with those big eyes, and he realized this was a girl whose whole life was in his hands.

  He left the truck running with the air on and walked behind the house to the shop. He had seen the door was open from the road.

  Harlan “Win” Winslow was a retired jack-of-all-trades, which meant he had plenty of time to help anybody with anything. Planting, harvesting, castrating cattle, fixing a tractor, and landscaping were all in his repertoire. That’s how J. D. had met him—the man had helped Slocum fix his air conditioner back in April as J. D. arrived.

  Win was a member of a local cowboy church, a loose gathering of people who liked their religion simple and didn’t mind horse apples near their place of worship. Dressing up meant a clean T-shirt and a freshly dusted pair of jeans. J. D. knew the group met at the barn on Win’s farm, and he’d considered going just to frost Slocum, who hated religion. But even the warmth of Win and his friends couldn’t push him toward church people. Win had asked J. D. a few questions when they’d met, but when J. D. gave him silence, it set the tone. It didn’t seem to bother Win or keep him from engaging.

  Win smiled and removed plastic goggles as he shut down his sander. Dust settled from the wood on the workbench. He shook J. D.’s hand and patted his back. “Good to see you, J. D. How’s everything? Slocum’s water pump working?”

  “It’s still down, but he’s actually taking it seriously now that he’s losing money on his produce.”

  “I should head on over there after my siesta; what do you think?”

  “Couldn’t hurt anything as far as the crops are concerned.”

  The man studied him with the moist eyes of the aged, looking deeper than the surface. His hair, what was left, was slicked back. Broad smile. As eager as hungry cattle to a hay wagon. “Well, you must have come here for something other than small talk.”

  J. D. was already scanning the tools. He hemmed and hawed, then gave up trying to hide. “I’m trying to get a handcuff off.”

  “Handcuff?” Win looked at J. D.’s wrists.

  “Not for me. It’s a long story. I figured a guy who worked Border Patrol as long as you did might have squirreled a key away. You wouldn’t have anything like that, would you?”

  “You think I’d retire without a good handcuff key?” He gave a laugh that rattled in his chest and filled the workroom. Over the workbench was a pegboard, where every size tool known to man hung neatly. Wooden tools and rusty metal ones, some ancient. Win opened three drawers in a dust-covered plastic chest before he pulled out the key.

  “What, pray tell, do you need a handcuff key for?”

  “To get a handcuff open.”

  “Makes sense.” He handed the key to J. D. “Slocum’s wife didn’t hook him to his tractor, did she?”

  J. D. laughed. “I’ll be right back.” He stopped at the door to make sure Win didn’t follow him, but the man just tipped his hat, pulled the goggles down, and went back to sanding.

  At first glance the truck was empty, and J. D. scanned the flat terrain. Then he took a breath as he spotted her, slunk down in the seat. He opened the passenger door and slid the key inside the handcuff. When he pulled the teeth through and it released, he felt like he had just climbed the first rung of a ladder he wasn’t sure would reach the roof.

  The woman smiled and rubbed her wrist.

  “Alto aquí,” he said.

  She nodded.

  J. D. returned the key to Win. The man took a look at the lone handcuff and the mangled chain that hung from it. “Somebody beat the stuffing out of that thing.”

  “I imagine they did. Thank you for your help.”

  “J. D., enlighten me. Who’s in your truck?”

  “I got a situation. I’m not sure anybody can help. I don’t want to drag you into it.”

  “You’ve already dragged me.” He handed the cuff back. “If you’re wondering if I can keep a secret, I can.”

  “I better not.”

  Win took a step forward. “It won’t do any good to carry a load alone. Especially if it’s heavy lifting.”

  J. D. pawed at the ground with a boot. “I found somebody on my rounds. Near dead. Cactus sticking out of her legs.”

  “Her?”

  He nodded. “I need to get her looked at before she gets an infection.”

  “An illegal?”

  “I don’t know. She’s not from this side of the border, that’s for sure.”

  “Let me take a look,” Win said.

  J. D. stopped him. “She’s flighty. I think you might scare her.”

  “At least I’ll be able to talk with her.”

  “True. But I don’t want to get anybody in trouble. Slocum would kick me off the ranch if he knew. Might even be illegal to give her a ride to urgent care.”

  “Not illegal to give people water. Perhaps removing a handcuff is a gray area.”

  J. D. hooked his thumbs into his belt and stood his ground.

  Win leaned against the bench. “You know, my great-uncle was killed out there near the Slocum ranch. Back then it wasn’t drugs; it was liquor. During Prohibition there was a steady stream flowing back and forth over those mountains. He got the drop on one, shot him off his horse. Then the one behind him shot him in the back. He turned and put a bullet through the man’s head. Right here.” He pointed above one eye. “But my uncle bled out before he could find help. Me and my little brother found him still sitting in the saddle. He was a tough old bird.”

  “That’s supposed to convince me to let you meet my friend? You must hate Mexicans like everybody else around here.”

  “I don’t hate nobody. Those people coming across the border are just looking for something better tha
n what they’ve known. I don’t begrudge them. The ones I’d like to get ahold of are the drug runners. You’ve heard about what’s going on down in Hermosillo and some other little towns? How our church and others are getting involved? People need to know the love of God no matter what side of the border they’re on. Now let me take a look.”

  They walked out to the truck and J. D. opened the door. Win nodded toward the girl and spoke, checking her leg wounds and wincing. She was skittish at first, then seemed put at ease by the man’s fluent Spanish. She smiled and J. D. thought there couldn’t be a better sight in the world than a pretty woman smiling.

  “I know a doctor down in Benson where you can take Maria,” Win said with a nod. “I’ll call him.”

  “Benson’s a long way,” J. D. said.

  “Yeah, but you take her to the urgent care in La Pena and everybody in town will ask Slocum about his new maid. And why he’s hiring illegals.”

  “What should I do? I mean, after he fixes her up?”

  “What do you want to do?”

  J. D. looked away. “Help her, I guess.”

  “Why you, J. D.? Why don’t you let somebody else take care of her?”

  He took off his hat and wiped his brow. “I don’t know. I kind of feel responsible.”

  “Have you asked her what she wants to do?”

  J. D. shook his head. “My Spanish isn’t that good.”

  Win spoke to the girl, but J. D. could only pick up a few words, they were flying by so fast from both of them.

  Win turned. “She says she doesn’t know many in Tucson. Just needs to heal up a couple of days and she’ll be on her way.”

  J. D. nodded.

  “Can you keep her out of Slocum’s sight that long?”

  “I think so.”

  “She can stay here. Might be a better deal for her. It’s cool in that back bedroom. My son moved out.”

  “Where’d he go?”

  “Basic training. I say good luck to the Marines—they’re going to need it the way that boy eats.”

  J. D. smiled. “I’ll let you know what we decide. You’ll call that doctor?”

  “I’ll dial him now.” Win gave directions to the office, made sure of J. D.’s cell number, and said some final words to the girl before he closed the door. To J. D. he said, “You be careful. There’s a storm coming up from the south and it ain’t bringing rain.”

  J. D. nodded and got in the truck. He made his way to I-19, then headed southeast on I-10.

  “Win’s a good guy,” he said finally. “But he’s religioso.”

  She looked straight ahead.

  “Win said your name’s Maria.” He reached out a hand. “Nice to meet you. I like that name. I’m J. D.”

  She handed him a dead fish and turned back to the landscape, which was lonesome desert. Every now and then came a farm or a subdivision, but mostly it was cactus and dust. A murky haze hung over the mountains in the distance, and heat rose from the roadway.

  He scanned through some FM channels, then hit the local AM talk station that rattled in one speaker. Another record scorcher for Tucson with no end in sight. Preparations being made for a speech by a politician—a governor running for president would make an appearance in Tucson on Sunday to talk tough about the border. And a breaking story reporters were investigating about a shooting overnight near Nogales.

  News was change, but a shooting near Nogales seemed to him as normal as the sunrise.

  There wasn’t a car in the parking lot when they pulled up to the gray building. The sign said Everyman Healthcare of Benson. A doctor, a dentist, and a chiropractor were listed at the front. J. D. checked the hours and Thursday wasn’t listed. Probably a golf day for the doctor.

  He cursed and tried to explain to Maria, but she didn’t seem to understand. While he was searching for any Spanish word from high school, his cell phone rang. It was the doctor saying he was almost there. A few minutes later a guy with a ponytail pulled up in an MG. It looked early sixties and out of place for Benson, except for the noise from the tailpipe. The man waved them inside as he fumbled with his keys.

  Dr. Hodding Mercer introduced himself. Under his name on the door it said Internist. “Win called and said you needed help,” the man said, glancing at Maria’s legs as he worked the keys. “Those look nasty.” He looked up at her. “¿Fueron al desierto sin llevar linterna?”

  She smiled. “Sí.”

  The door opened and he ushered them inside a small waiting room. The carpet was worn down to the pad, particularly at the front desk.

  “This is my day off, so we shouldn’t be bothered.” He looked at J. D. “Does she have a change of clothes?”

  “This is how I found her.”

  “You saw the Walmart coming in. Let me check her and then you can get her some shoes and clothes. There will probably be a prescription.”

  J. D. settled into an uncomfortable plastic chair and put his head against the wall. The office had been haphazardly decorated with Southwest fare—handmade pottery and paintings of cowboys on horses chasing cattle. Manila folders grew on a wall behind the front desk, piled and overflowing on invisible shelves. The wall clock was small and white with a cactus for the hour and minute hands, and the tick-tick of the second hand lulled him.

  The hum of the air conditioner and the cool air on his skin caused him to close his eyes and drift. And in the drifting she came to him, her skin milky white, gliding like some apparition. Perhaps it was the doctor’s office that conjured her, the smell of antiseptic and waiting rooms. Perhaps it was simply the longing of his heart. He could never prepare for these visits and was always left wanting more when he awakened.

  She watched him drifting as his eyelids fluttered. He wanted to reach out to her, but he couldn’t move. And then he felt a hand on his shoulder.

  “Excuse me,” the doctor said.

  J. D. sat up quickly and wiped at his mouth. “You done already?”

  He shook his head and the ponytail wiggled. “She had a nasty graze wound on her shoulder. A little lower and she’d have a broken clavicle or a punctured lung.”

  “She going to be okay?”

  “She’s very lucky; that’s all I can say.” The man handed him a prescription. “Fill this at the pharmacy. Pick up some clothes, too. Shoes, sweats . . . she can’t wear what she has on.”

  J. D. got a Coke and stood in line at the Walmart pharmacy until a lady who spoke with a German accent took the prescription. She said it would be twenty minutes, so he grabbed some sweatpants, a T-shirt, and sandals that looked like they would fit Maria. He sat on a little metal bench near the pharmacy and watched people walk the aisles looking for Depends and Ensure and diabetic supplies. He noticed a blood pressure device around the corner and put his arm in. His pulse rate was 66. Blood pressure 106 over 70. Not too bad considering his family history and all the Big Carl cheeseburgers he had eaten in Tucson.

  His cell rang. It was Dr. Mercer.

  “A car just pulled up. The girl is scared. You’d better get over here.”

  Maria was talking in the background.

  “Is it Border Patrol?”

  “Don’t ask questions. Come to the back of the building. Hurry.”

  J. D. put his Coke and the clothes on the metal bench and ran to his truck. The store was only a couple of minutes from the doctor’s office, and as soon as he came in sight of the building, he saw a maroon Escalade parked sideways in two handicapped spots near the front. Definitely not Border Patrol.

  The driver’s door was open, and as he drove past, he spotted a computer between the front seats. He continued to the back exit and parked. He tried the door—locked—then peeked in a window, but the shades were drawn.

  The pop-pop of automatic gunfire clenched his stomach. He couldn’t move. Then someone screamed. He pounded on the door and Maria ran out and leaped into his truck.

  J. D. called for the doctor.

  “Get in!” Maria yelled.

  Stunned, he jumped in a
nd gunned the engine, spinning loose gravel and sand. The Escalade was still in front, door open.

  “You speak English?”

  She couldn’t stop shaking.

  “Okay, talk to me. Who was that guy?”

  “He’s a bad man. Sent by another bad man.”

  “Why? What have you done?”

  He turned at the Walmart parking lot, but she waved him toward the road. “No, don’t go here. He’ll find us. Keep driving.”

  Instead of heading to the interstate, he went south on Route 80 and floored it. He guessed his blood pressure had risen. She kept looking back. When J. D. pulled out his phone, she grabbed it.

  “Don’t call the police!”

  “That doctor risked his life to help you. The least you could do is send the police.”

  “No police.”

  He shook his head. What in the world had he gotten himself into?

  They passed houses and pecan trees and several farms, then slowed when they hit St. David. They were almost to Tombstone when he took a right along a little country road he knew intersected with Route 90. Slocum had sold cattle to a man near here and showed J. D. a loop back to the interstate. Then J. D. remembered a checkpoint they’d have to pass through and decided against it.

  “What are you doing?” she said when he turned in the middle of the road.

  He told her about the checkpoint. “You have your papers? A passport?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “No way he’s going to find us out here,” J. D. said. “Now tell me about this guy. Who is he?”

  “He is very bad.”

  “Where’s he from?”

  “He lives in Herida. Where I’m from.”

  “And why would a guy from your town want to kill you?”

  Silence.

  He pulled off the road and parked. The sun was high now, blistering the landscape. The air-conditioning barely put a dent in the heat, and the stopped truck just blew hot air.

  “Is the man from your town the one who put a bullet in your shoulder?”

  “I don’t know who did that.”

  He took a deep breath and wiped his forehead. “Look, Maria, I don’t know who you are and I don’t know your town in Mexico, but up here it’s not normal for people to shoot you for no reason. Though that may be changing. I need to know more.”