Borders of the Heart (16 page)

MUERTE SAT IN A METAL OFFICE CHAIR
with his feet on the windowsill, watching the gathering light pool in the cloudless sky. He had rested fitfully through the day and finally felt a breakthrough with a phone call after midnight.

His contacts were working, as well they should with the amount of money he was offering. The woman he had spoken with had new information about J. D.’s past, but it didn’t help him find the man. As Muerte suspected, the girl had been tracked to the religious group that had been a thorn in his side for many months. They had invaded Herida with their food and games for children and evangelistic events, but because of a directive from on high, he and his men had let them continue. Religion, it had been said, was the opiate of the masses. If talk of faith and Jesus calmed the residents and kept them docile, he would allow it. Their religion made them more sheep-like and
easier to direct. Still, there was something dangerous about the group. He could sense it in his gut. Strength and determination in the face of poverty and ignorance.

With this much time, Maria could have gone anywhere, but something told him she was nearby, waiting. She couldn’t get back into Mexico without her passport, and the Border Patrol had recovered that. She was on their radar, or so his contacts inside the Border Patrol had told him. He did not want her in their hands, revealing what she might know of his plan, if anything. The faster he could eliminate her, the better.

He had seen the strength in her, even as a young girl. But he could never have foreseen this trouble. If he had simply taken care of her in Mexico . . . But he hadn’t wanted to tip his hand.

The best news of the night came from a phone call about a mysterious rifle that was suddenly available. It had been recovered from an abandoned SUV on the city’s west side, and when he heard its description, he knew. Muerte had arranged for the delivery and the payment to be made. He would have the rifle later in the afternoon, and everyone would be happy.

A squad car pulled up to the church and someone got out. Muerte watched the man pause at the car parked in the lot and pull a note from the window. He glanced at the church and came through the office door and stopped abruptly when he saw Muerte. A look of shock covered his face like the tattoos on his arms and neck.

“Hello, Pastor. I assumed that was your car in front.”

The man’s eyes shifted toward the rear door. Muerte revealed his gun and told him to sit.

“I was admiring your library. Very impressive. Quite a variety of theological treatises, though you could use some help with organization.”

“What do you want?” He said it abruptly, without deference or respect.

Muerte pushed the slight aside. “Do you know who I am?”

The pastor nodded.

“Good. Then we can dispense with the introductions and with convincing you I mean what I say. I have watched your group from afar. I’m sure the work you do south of the border is rewarding for you and your congregation.”

“The people need help. They need hope.”

“Yes, but hope can be dangerous, can’t it? It makes people do things they were not meant to do. Hope can cause people to think they’re more powerful than they actually are. To do things contrary to their nature.”

“Hope in God is the only thing that will last.”

Muerte paused a moment and noticed a trickle of sweat running down the pastor’s forehead. “Why do you do this?” He put his hand out to the cluttered desk and bookshelf. “Why do you spend your time here? Studying. Talking. And then you travel across the border to people who cannot repay you. What’s in it for you? Do you have another wife in that town?”

“I don’t do it for money or anything else. It’s a call on my life. A mission.”

“From God.”

“Yes.”

“You believe the Almighty put you here, right in this dusty office in the armpit of America. You are here for a purpose. To help people run back to a sovereign, all-loving, all-knowing God.”

“Yes.”

Muerte cocked his head. “But if he is sovereign, if he controls everything, why would he create evil? Why would there be suffering and death?”

“Why would he allow people like you to flourish? That’s your question.”

“Yes, in a way, I guess you’re right. I’m asking you to justify my existence. Why would he allow me on the planet?”

“This is a game to you, but it won’t be someday. You’ll be called to give an account.”

“Yes, judgment is coming. One group even gives a date. Jesus will come in the clouds.” He chuckled. “Your days of preaching are over, Pastor. You’ve fulfilled your mission. Well done.”

The pastor lifted his shirt and wiped the sweat from his head. “The answer to your question is love.”

“Pardon me?”

“Without a choice, there can’t be love. I get the question a lot. It’s tiring, in a way, to have to explain it again and again. I’ve talked about it in our services, and some of the great minds of the faith have addressed it as well. You should come or read one of my library books.”

“I’m intrigued with your message. Continue.”

“Someone asks why their brother died of an overdose or their child is going blind or why children across the border suffer because they can’t pay for a vaccination or medicine that will heal a cough.”

“And the answer is love?”

“Yes. In a way. If God had created a world without the possibility of choosing evil, there would have been no possibility of choosing love.”

Muerte pondered for a moment. “So in order to have peace and tranquility, you must have hurricanes and mass murders. Is that it? That seems a little too convenient for him, don’t you think?”

“No, sin was not convenient at all. It cost a great deal
to redeem humanity. He did not create us to sin; he created us to enjoy and follow and obey him. But he gave people a chance to choose. Without that freedom, we would not be human. There would be peace and tranquility and obedience, but no love.”

“Love,” Muerte laughed. “It sounds overrated, don’t you think?”

“Real love can’t be forced. You have the choice right now. Pick good or evil in this office.”

Muerte held up a hand and smiled. “I’m afraid it’s too late for me to choose a different path. Besides, let’s not get to the application of the sermon until you’ve given the Scripture reference and a poem. Isn’t that how it works? Perhaps an emotional story from your childhood or something from the news to make things more pertinent and relevant to the congregation?”

“First John, chapter 4. ‘Dear friends, let us continue to love one another, for love comes from God. Anyone who loves is a child of God and knows God. But anyone who does not love does not know God, for God is love.’”

“And the God who loves lets little girls get shot. And big girls, like Maria. Missing daughters of drug lords.”

The pastor paused and searched Muerte’s eyes. Then he continued. “‘God is love, and all who live in love live in God, and God lives in them.’”

“Yes, I heard you. But you have sidestepped the issue, Pastor.”

“God allows us to choose our path, a path of love or hate. The path of self-gratification and sin or the path of sacrifice and giving.” Something came over the man’s face and he sat forward, elbows on knees. “The plan of God, from the beginning, was to have relationship with his creation. We chose to leave him. And the answer to our rebellion was the cross. The crucifixion
was the way God chose to reconcile us to himself. It was not an afterthought. That’s how he chose to love us.”

“Why? Why would God sacrifice himself? It makes no sense.”

“It makes no sense unless he was motivated by love. ‘We love each other because he loved us first.’ Before we were reconciled to him, while we were sinners, God loved us and gave himself for us.” He sat back and stared, unblinking. “You can have that kind of love in your heart, Mr. Muerte.”

Muerte ran his index finger along the Glock’s slide. “Yes, I have heard of this love. I’m sure it is reassuring to you, but I am not compelled to follow your God. I am not convinced of this love.”

Unmoving, the pastor said, “‘Such love has no fear, because perfect love expels all fear.’”

“Well, there are times when you should be afraid, don’t you think? And here is the reason: You have one chance to survive this meeting. One path leads to life. The other leads to destruction. You get to choose.”

“You do not have the power to take my life.”

“Really?”

“He has protected us as we’ve gone across the border. He can protect me now.”

“Or he can allow evil to take your life. Isn’t that what you’ve just explained? And allowing this evil will show his love, will it not?”

“Greater is he who is in me than he who is in the world.”

Muerte stood. “Time for the benediction. Or is it Communion? I can’t remember the sequence. Yes, Communion, I think. ‘This is my body broken for you. This is my blood poured out.’ Something like that?”

The pastor stared at the floor.

“I will ask you a question and I will not ask you twice,” Muerte said. “One question and the freedom to answer in truth. A real choice.”

He stepped behind the pastor and placed the gun against the back of the man’s skull. “Where . . . is . . . she?”

Unflinching, unmoving, the pastor took a breath and let it out. “Father, into your hands I commit my spirit.”

Muerte pulled the trigger. He pushed the body to the floor and shoved the chair in place at the desk and left.

ALYCIA WALKED IN FADING MOONLIGHT,
hair shimmering, her body vaguely visible beneath the nightgown. He studied her contours as she led him farther into the woods. They were behind the house of her youth, ascending a knoll that rose like pregnant earth. She lay on the freshly mowed grass, bathed in crescent shadows, hands behind her head, elbows out, gazing at the stars, soaking in the galaxy.

This is my favorite place in the whole world,
she said.

I know.
J. D. sat beside her, fresh denim creaking and settling in the early morning dew.

She closed her eyes.
This would be a good spot for a tombstone, don’t you think?

He shook his head.
I thought you wanted to be buried at sea. Or have your ashes spread on an amusement park.

Right over the midway from the Ferris wheel.
She smiled.
No,
I wouldn’t want to rain down on someone’s corn dog or funnel cake. I think I want to be buried right here, where you can come and lie like this beside me. Think of the good times. Stare at the sky. Think of what we had. You’ll write a song about this, you know.

I don’t want a song. I want you.

You don’t always get what you want, bucko. And getting what you want is not always what’s best anyway.

How could not having you be good? It’s the worst thing that could happen.

If I left you for another man, would you go on? Let’s say I had a thing for Kenny Chesney or Tim McGraw and I left. Would you survive?

Yeah, but they might not.

She laughed.
You’d hunt us down, wouldn’t you?

It’d be like the first day of squirrel season.

Well, my point is, you’d survive and find a way to thrive. You’d probably write the best song ever about losing me.

I’d write it from jail.

Listen. Losing me is not the worst thing that could happen. Losing yourself is worse.

Why can’t I have regular dreams? Why can’t you just come to me and kiss me?

She laughed again and rose, scampering off into the dew-laden grass, skipping and bouncing away.

Why do you have to do that? Why do you have to run just when we’re getting started?

She turned as she ran and called back,
And why is death so hard for you?

He caught up.
Why is it so easy for you?

She stopped and faced him, the scar on her head visible in the moonlit shadows.
Easy? You think it’s easy?

You talk about it. You make jokes.

You don’t talk about it at all. It’s taboo. The more you talk about it and twist it and turn it, the less afraid you’ll be.

Easy for you to say. You’re not the one who will be staring at a tombstone.

John David.

When she spoke his name, every time, something magical happened. It was a herald of something wonderful or terrible, but he could never tell which.

You’re afraid. You’re a little boy afraid of the dark. Afraid of being alone. Afraid to go back or move forward. Afraid you’re going to make a mistake no matter which way you go.
She touched his hands and brought them close to her chest.
You have to grow up.

What?

Little boys who fear are paralyzed. Men who are afraid don’t let the fear hold them back. They use it to propel them. And it’s your time, J. D. This is your opportunity.

You mean with Maria? With Muerte?

There was a look of sadness in her eyes.
You know what I mean.

She turned and walked toward the grove of trees, the dew collecting on the soles of her feet and dripping, staining the hem of her gown with a thin line of water. Every movement was beauty, every sway of her hair, every chosen footstep perfect in its economy.

Don’t go,
he whispered.

She put out a hand and touched the first tree at the edge of the thicket, then, without looking back, disappeared.

J. D. awoke to a hint of light and a sharp, stabbing pain in his neck from sleeping at an angle against the headrest. He grabbed
his head with one hand and pulled his body forward like he would guide a sick animal toward water. Raising the seat back, he tried to remember where they had stopped. He could smell the old Camry, a mix of mildew and perfumes from the previous owner. Maria wasn’t in the passenger seat.

He found her down the hill from the parking lot. She sat on a stump at the edge of a burned-out area overlooking the lake. Fire had ravaged the hillside and left only charred remains. She looked like the last person left on some desolate planet.

They had passed a checkpoint several miles before winding their way to the lake. Going south wasn’t the problem because they weren’t stopped. It was getting through on their way back that worried him, if they ever went back. He had no driver’s license or wallet. She had no ID. They were vagabonds. But as far as he could tell, they were safe for the moment.

Though the fire had been months earlier, he could still smell it. The charred, smoky remains left a visible reminder of the power of nature, though the initial spark was believed to have come from a group of illegals who had simply been trying to keep warm or heat something over a campfire.

“Did you sleep?” he said, coming up behind her.

Maria had her chin on one knee with both arms wrapped around her leg. “I was okay until you talked in your sleep.”

“What did I say?”

She shrugged. “Just moaning. You sounded upset. What were you dreaming?”

“I don’t know,” he lied. “I can never remember much.”

She looked up at him, then back at the lake. “It’s peaceful here.”

“Yeah. I didn’t think of it until we hit the exit off I-19. Nobody’s going to look for you here. At least not for a while.
But the bad news is we’ve got no way to get back through the checkpoint and we have nothing to eat.”

She stood and wiped soot from the seat of her pants. It didn’t help much and he watched the black stain move back and forth as she climbed through the loose gravel to the car. She held a hand out for balance as she walked and he noticed how each footstep was calculated. Even when she slipped, it looked graceful.

She popped the trunk and pulled out a gallon jug of water and a paper bag marked
Food City
. “Rosana put this in the car before we left.”

“If Rosana had found you in the desert, this whole thing would have gone a lot better.”

Maria pulled out lunch meat and cheese in a ziplock bag and half a loaf of bread. In another bag were vegetables—cooked onions and peppers and lettuce. She opened the bread and made two sandwiches. When she’d put everything away, they sat at a picnic table under the shell of a black pine tree and stared at the rippling water made by a slight breeze from the south. Tucked between two hills and mountains beyond, it had the look of a secluded oasis. It felt like something primal they were doing, like living off the land, only it was out of the back of an aging Toyota.

“How did you know this was here?” she said.

“Curiosity. Found it one Sunday when I had the day off. Just drove around and saw the sign for the lake.”

“It’s beautiful.”

“Yeah, you don’t find water this clear and clean just anywhere. Not bad for fishing.” He told her the elevation and a little about the history of the people and as much as he could remember about the area. “I could catch a fish or two, but the
park service would be on a campfire out here like a duck on a june bug.”

She looked at the sun peeking over the hill behind them and pointed south. “Mexico is that way.”

He nodded and bit into the sandwich.

Seeing her, being with Maria again, felt like catching his breath after having it knocked out. That had happened once in a JV football game when he finally got playing time. The coach put him in to replace an injured linebacker. When the running back came through, J. D. stood his ground and planted his feet for the tackle. Instead of going low, he stood up, and the next thing he knew, he was looking at the lights of the stadium and little stars swirling inside the helmet. His dreams of being a sports star were over and he concentrated on music.

He also had a feeling about Maria akin to a dog chasing a car. If the dog catches up to the thing, what’s he going to do? That was his question. What should he do?

“They’re searching for us,” she said.

“That’s an understatement. But I’m not the main draw. They only want me because I’m connected with you. You’ve got a price on your head.”

“What do you mean?”

“Somebody offered a reward.”

“The police?”

He shook his head and her face showed pain.

“My guess is it’s your friend from south of the border. And it’s dead or alive.”

“How do you know?”

“The pastor at the church that helped you told me. Ron something or other. He’s how I located you.”

“I didn’t think I’d ever see you again,” she said.

“I was worried. I know you trust those people, but a million dollars can turn even ones who believe in Jesus.”

“A million dollars?” She shook her head. “I would have thought $2 million, easy.”

He laughed and opened the jug of water, trying not to touch his lips as he tipped it to drink. He offered her some and she opened her mouth and leaned forward. He poured a little too much and she laughed, the water dripping down her shirt and onto the sweatpants and table. They both went back to their sandwiches and it felt almost like a movie trailer, some rapturous moment of humanity in the midst of the inhumanity. A tender moment before the death knell.

“Why are you doing this for me? Why don’t you want the money?”

“Maybe I do.”

“No. I don’t believe it.”

“You’re right. There’s no amount of money on earth that can make a person happy. Look at the people who win the lottery only to go broke or kill themselves. Millionaires always want more. Same with billionaires. I used to think like that. Used to chase hundred-dollar bills.”

“You made a lot of money?”

“No, I’ve always pretty much scraped by, but I’ve made enough to know that wasn’t going to make me happy.”

“What changed you?”

“Life, I guess. Losing. When what you love the most dies, it resets your iPod.”

She gave him a bit of a smile mixed with sadness as if she understood.

“Money can’t give me anything I don’t already have. Took a long time to figure that out.”

“What do you think will give you happiness?”

“You don’t think I’m happy?”

“I think you are a tortured soul.”

“Well, so much for trying to be the strong, silent type. You read me like a book.”

“It’s not hard to read you, J. D.”

“I guess you could say I’ve been trying to answer that question for a while and the jury is still out. If I come up with something, I’ll let you know.”

She looked over the lake, her hair sweeping across her face in the empty breeze, and he thought it was the most beautiful morning since Eden. Her face was thin and he imagined her in better times with makeup and without the hungry animal look.

“I really didn’t know the ring had a tracking device. That was a gift from my mother when I was a girl. I’ve only taken it off a few times. A couple of years ago we had it cleaned and restored. Perhaps that is when the device was inserted.”

When she looked at him again, it felt like her eyes were boring a hole through his head.

“Who would have done it?”

“Maybe my father. He is very protective. He never let me date the boys from the neighborhood.”

“If I had a daughter, I’d probably do the same thing. I was one of those neighborhood boys once.”

She smiled. “What I mean is, I didn’t try to get you harmed. I would never do that to someone who helped me. I was hurt that you thought I had done it on purpose.”

“Well, I was holding the ring and that fellow came knocking. It seemed strange you’d hand me the very thing that drew him.” He explained what had happened at the farmers’ market. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”

“I understand,” she said.

He moved to the other side of the picnic table and sat facing her. “Maria, I think it’s time you and I had a heart-to-heart. If I’m going to help you survive, I need to know more. I need to know everything.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Who is Muerte?”

“I told you, he’s an evil—”

“No,” he interrupted. “Who is he to
you
? Why would he care about one girl from Mexico, unless you’re mixed up with him? And how would you get sent north with a gun that could kill an elephant? If your daddy would put a locator in your ring, surely he wouldn’t want you doing something like that. And don’t tell me it’s a long story. We got lots of time. Were you and Muerte lovers?”

She rolled her eyes. “Muerte does not love anything but himself. He does not have the ability. He and I only had a working relationship.”

“Meaning what?”

She paused, choosing her words carefully. “In the last few months, I was able to get closer. To discover more of what he was planning.”

“Don’t tap-dance.”

“Muerte is the reason my brothers are dead. I think he had a great deal to do with my mother’s death as well. But my story is no different from most in the little town where I am from. There are many grieving women there.”

“And Muerte was the one who pulled the trigger.”

“No. You would have to understand the culture. The setting. The fear. He was the man who ordered my brothers killed, but I discovered this by accident. It’s different there.”

“Doesn’t sound too much different from what’s happened the last couple of days. So you got on the inside? Is that why you were carrying that weapon?”

“I did not know what was in the package, just that it was important. To the cartel. Then I learned Muerte had other plans and I convinced him to allow me to deliver the package.”

J. D. rubbed his forehead and found dirt and sweat and salt mixed in a gritty mess on his fingertips. “You had no idea what was inside?”

“No. When you told me it was a weapon . . .” She leaned forward. “That makes sense. J. D., he’s planning something. It’s part of why he wants me dead. He knows that I know. Or thinks I do.”