Borders of the Heart (21 page)

Win didn’t speak, didn’t acknowledge the emotion in J. D.’s voice. He just stared at the floor and grasped the chair back until the blue-green veins in his hands surfaced. Maria had a frightened look, like she was watching a beheading.

“I could tell you more, but I don’t see what any of that has to do with Maria. I don’t see how our situations are even remotely similar.”

“What about your son?”

Silence in the room. Then Win said, “Iliana, don’t.”

“No, I think he should explain,” the woman said, drying her hands on a dish towel. She spoke something in Spanish J. D. didn’t catch, then lifted her head to him. “How could you leave your son?”

She stood beside Win now, and the man put his arm around her and pulled her close.

“You have a son?” Maria said.

J. D. nodded. Memories flooded like a swollen wash. The child’s cries. The tears and embrace of a dying mother. J. D. tried to stem the tide but couldn’t.

“I can’t go there,” he said.

“What about your music?” Iliana said. “That must still be a part of your heart.”

“My music isn’t anybody’s business.”

“Do you think your wife wanted you to throw that away? To become a farmer? Why would you abandon a gift God has given?”

J. D.’s face flushed as the three studied him. They must have discovered the information online or from the police like Win had said. It didn’t matter how they found out; they knew, and they would never look at him the same again, just like he would never see Maria the same. Drifting like the wind was one thing, but abandoning your son was another. Throw in a few songs and you’ve committed the unpardonable.

“Not everybody thought it was a gift. I wasn’t really popular.”

“But you were becoming who you were meant to be,” Iliana said.

“My music is something I had to put away after Alycia passed. It was too painful to keep going. Every song brought her back. I can’t even stand to listen to music on the radio anymore.”

Iliana wiped her eyes with her apron. She put a hand on his shoulder and he glanced up to see her trembling lips. “Let me get you something to eat,” she said.

“Tell us about your son,” Maria said. “Where is he?”

“I left him with my parents. And Alycia’s mom is still living. She watches him some, I expect.”

“What is his name?”

He shook his head. “You can judge me for what I’ve done, but you don’t know the full story.”

“Tell us,” she said. “How old is he?”

Before J. D. could respond, Ernesto burst through the back door running full tilt. Soda fizzed through the loose cap on the bottle.

“¡Aguas, alguien viene!”

“Someone is coming,” Maria said.

DUSK DESCENDED LIKE A BLANKET
on the landscape, and the mountains turned red in the haze. Four trucks rumbled up the dirt road, headlights dipping and bobbing over the uneven path. J. D.’s first instinct was to run. Win quickly tried to usher Maria toward the shop, but she wouldn’t go.

J. D. and Win walked onto the front porch as Slocum and his friends parked near the house, blocking Win’s truck. If they were going to get out, it would be on foot.

“I figured something was up with you two,” Slocum said. He spit a stream of tobacco at the ground and rolled the chaw in his mouth. “You and that girl are as thick as thieves.”

“Thought you could collect on her all by yourself, didn’t you?” Kristofferson said to J. D. “She in there?”

“Bring her out, Win,” Slocum said. “We got no trouble with you.”

“Gentlemen, don’t do this,” Win said.

Kristofferson pulled a handgun from the back of his jeans. Another took a shotgun from his truck. J. D. couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He looked hard at Slocum. “I’ve never questioned anything you’ve done on the farm. But you know this is not right. You’re going to get her killed.”

“Why do you care so much about one illegal?”

“What did you do, taste the goods?” Kristofferson said. “Maybe that’s what happened. He sampled the Mexican merchandise.”

The men laughed.

Win stepped off the porch, moving toward them. “There’s a verse in Proverbs. ‘Rescue those who are unjustly sentenced to die; save them as they stagger to their death.’ You don’t want this woman’s blood on your hands.”

“No, we don’t. We just want the money in our pockets,” Kristofferson said, laughing. “Save your preaching for Sunday morning.”

“All your do-gooding is not going to change our minds, Win,” Slocum said. “Bring her out here or we’ll go in and get her.”

Win lowered his voice and a look came over the man’s face that J. D. had never seen. “Leave my farm now.”

“Or what?”

“Put your guns away and we’ll forget this happened,” Win said. “Go home.”

Slocum took a step forward. “You’re not listening. I said you either go in and bring her out or we’re going inside. Don’t make me hurt you.”

Win reached for his cell phone, and Slocum’s pistol cocked. “Keep your phone holstered, big boy.”

“Doesn’t surprise me he’d take her side,” Kristofferson said. “His wife’s one of them.”

Win kept his eyes on Slocum. “Larry, you know me. Your family has known me all my life. I’ve helped you at the farm. Who took Cooper to the hospital? Who bought medicine for your oldest? Don’t you see this is wrong?”

“We’re getting nowhere fast,” Kristofferson said. “For all we know she might be hightailing it across the desert. Let’s go in.”

Before the two could move, the screen door opened and Iliana walked onto the porch carrying a shotgun almost as tall as she was. And by the way she held it, it looked like she knew how to use it.

“Leave now, Mr. Slocum.”

Win rushed to the porch and J. D. watched Slocum’s face turn pale.

“Guess she must be inside,” Kristofferson said.

The men spread out, moving away from Slocum. J. D. stepped in front of Slocum and raised his hands toward Iliana. “This is crazy.”

Evidently Win felt the same way. He wrestled the gun out of his wife’s hands and pointed it at the ground. The group stood looking at each other until the screen door opened and Maria appeared.

“Stop,” she said to the men. “I will go with you.”

“Maria, no,” Iliana said.

Maria walked down the stairs, her hair pulled back, each footstep sure and steady. She glanced at the guns and moved toward J. D.

“Thank you for what you have done,” she said. She had a folded piece of paper in her hand and pressed it into his.

“You can’t do this,” he said.

“I knew someday it might come to this. I don’t want you to get hurt. And this may lead me to Muerte.”

“It’ll lead you to your grave.”

“Then I am ready.”

J. D. turned to Slocum. “You don’t want to meet up with Muerte’s friends. Trust me, you’ll die.”

“We’ll take our chances,” Slocum said. He stepped toward Maria.

She kept looking at J. D., staring into his eyes, and the look gave him an ache he couldn’t shake from his mind or heart. He knew it would haunt him, just like the images of Alycia.

“This is the direct line to my father,” she whispered. “If Muerte has not killed him, would you call and tell him what happened?” Her eyes searched as if she was asking something else.

“Maria, don’t do this. You can’t go with them.”

“As long as I’m here, these good people will be in danger. That’s what I can’t do any longer.”

He knew it was good-bye. He knew it was the last time he would see her. And something about the prospect froze his heart, seized his will.

“You can stop him, J. D. I know you have the strength.”

“What about God’s will? What about saving the little town and the people you love?”

“Heaven moves with small steps. The enemy attacks with great force and tries to shift the ground beneath us. But God moves one stony heart. A heart that seems dead.”

She put a hand on his chest and closed her eyes. “Good-bye, John David.”

As she turned to leave, he grabbed her arm so hard it had to cut the circulation.

“I’m not going to let you leave again.” His voice cracked. “I
won’t
let you go with them.”

“It’s not your choice,” she said. “There are some things you can’t control. Some things have never been in your control. And you can choose to fear or let go.”

Maria took his hand from her arm and leaned forward, pulling him to her. They had never been closer but it still felt like she was a million miles away.

“Let’s get this show on the road,” Slocum yelled.

She pulled back, her eyes full, and smiled. Then she walked toward Slocum’s truck. The men followed. They didn’t grab or shove her because they didn’t have to. She scooted to the middle of the seat between Slocum and Kristofferson. The sight turned J. D.’s stomach.

Ernesto came onto the porch as the trucks pulled away.

“¿Por qué no la ayudó? ¿Por qué la dejó ir con ellos?”

“He wants to know why you didn’t rescue her,” Iliana said. “I want to know as well.” She looked hard at them and then guided the boy inside and slammed the door behind her.

As the dust settled on the darkening landscape, J. D. opened the paper and stared at the phone number. Underneath the number was a short message. Her handwriting was flowery and flowing, like a subterranean stream that had found the surface.

You are a good man, J. D. And good is much stronger than evil. I pray your heart will heal. Stop Muerte. You can do this. Tell my father I love him in spite of what he has done. And I long for him to know the truth.

A heart was drawn underneath. The kind of drawing a teenager would make to show love to some boyfriend.

“What do we do now?” Win said.

“We?”

“Nothing worth doing should be done alone.” Win handed the shotgun to J. D. and hurried inside. He returned wearing his hat and carrying a handgun and a box of shells.

He tossed the truck keys to J. D. “You drive.”

J. D. drove fast and finally caught the convoy heading into town. He kept his lights off for a stretch, using the horizon to navigate.

All four trucks parked in front of the Mustang Bar, a local hangout where farmers and ranch hands found respite at the end of a day. Win said there was a back room where card games went well into the night. J. D. had never gone past the front room.

“How do you know that? You have a gambling ministry?”

“I’ve been here to pick up friends who’ve had one too many. They’ll take her to the back and call their contact.”

“Slocum thinks they’ll just drop a million dollars through the mail slot.”

“Slocum would take a personal check.”

J. D. smiled at that. “When whoever they’re calling gets in touch with Muerte, he’ll come down here and take care of the whole bunch.”

“Which means we have to get her now.”

“Either that or call the police,” J. D. said. “She said they couldn’t protect her, but they’re better than these guys.”

Win asked about the note and J. D. held the paper out for him in the light from the street. With the ignition switched off, the truck became unbearably hot. They rolled down their windows but there wasn’t much breeze.

“That wife of yours looks like she knows how to handle a gun,” J. D. said.

“She could have gotten all of us killed.”

“Maybe we should have shot Slocum in the leg.”

Win shook his head. “There’s a reason Maria gave herself up. There is a purpose in this.”

“Why do you Christians see God behind every bad decision? I can understand a quarterback thanking Jesus for the touchdown and a preacher praising God for some lost soul who wants to be baptized, but a pastor gets gunned down or Maria is taken hostage and you have to believe it’s God’s will?”

“God’s behind everything, J. D. You can’t take him out of this world any more than you can take oxygen away. He’s even working in your heart. I can tell.”

“Well, I think there’s somebody else at work here.”

“True. You have an enemy who doesn’t want you to succeed. But think of it this way. A lot of people don’t believe in God because bad things happen. A follower of Jesus can hope in spite of the bad things. Look at the crucifixion. That didn’t look like a good outcome for his followers. But God gained his most glorious victory on that cross.”

“So you’re saying that Maria being held in there, waiting for some madman to get her, is a victory?”

“Not necessarily. I’m saying God can use this situation for her good and his glory. It’s the same with you. And your wife. And your son.”

“Don’t drag my family into this.”

“Think about it, J. D. What if God’s calling you to something more? Something deeper than you’ve ever known?”

The words were familiar. Maria had said something like it, but he heard another echo that went farther back. J. D. paused, taking in some hot air. They had parked next to a trash bin that smelled horrible, hid them, but allowed them to see the entrance and rear of the bar.

“My wife said those same words in the hospital.”

“She was a woman of faith?”

“She believed like you do. God is good and doesn’t give us more than we can handle and all that.”

“I believe God gives us more than we can handle to make us turn to him.” Win unbuckled and turned in his seat. “What’s your son’s name?”

“Alycia wanted to call him Jonathan. She said it means ‘gift of God.’ And she’s the one who made a sacrifice to have him.”

“Sacrifice?”

“We’d been talking about having a baby. She didn’t care that we were scraping by. I guess she believed God would provide. I was just trying to get established. After we found out about the tumor, I convinced her to have radiation. Before they could start, she got a funny feeling. She had a pregnancy test and it came back positive.

“The doctor told her she had to begin the treatment, but the baby would never survive. She had to choose between her life and the baby.”

“And she chose Jonathan.”

“Yeah. You should have seen her face when they put that little thing on her chest. She just glowed. It was like watching the sun rise on the most beautiful spot on the globe. She got to be there for his first birthday, but the tumor grew and grew. It was too late.”

“It doesn’t seem possible that you would leave that boy. How old is he now?”

“He’s two. Turns three next February.”

Win winced.

“Every time I saw him, I saw her. I saw the pain she went through. I saw her choice and the peace she had about the decision to leave us.”

“She didn’t decide to leave you. She chose life. I think that’s a wonderful gift. No wonder she named him Jonathan.”

“You can look at it any way you want. All I know is, she’s in a casket in the ground back in Tennessee and she’s never coming back.”

Win’s voice was full of care and compassion. “Oh, nothing could be further from the truth. She’s more alive now than ever.”

“That’s what the preacher said at her funeral. That and all that ‘she lives in our hearts’ stuff. I don’t want her to live in my heart or my memory. I want her here. I want to grow old with her.”

“Is that why you gave up on the music? It reminded you of her?”

“Every song. Every melody. Everything I wrote had a hole in the ground or a hole in my heart.”

Win shook his head. “I understand. I don’t mean to minimize your pain. But the truth is she lives in eternity. And what a joy it would be if she knew you would meet her there.”

“I can’t love my son, Win. I can’t love him because I keep seeing him as the reason for her death. And if God is the one who is in control of all this, pulling the strings, how could I buy into that? What would be next? Jonathan? How could I follow some being who would choose this pain to work out his plan?”

“God understands,” Win whispered. “This same God you blame was nailed to a tree. His hands and feet were pierced, and he was beaten to a pulp. He was everything good and innocent and holy. He walked through the desert like you, experienced hunger and pain, loss and shame and betrayal. And all that was to show his love.”

J. D. took off his hat and wiped his brow. “I want to love my son. I swear I don’t know how.”

“God’ll help you. He can create a new heart that can love again. You are moving toward something here, J. D. Like a caterpillar spinning into a chrysalis.”

J. D. gave him a look. “What?”

“You ever heard about the monarch butterfly? The caterpillar can’t reproduce. It has no reproductive organs.”

“Bummer.”

“Yeah. But when it becomes a chrysalis, it shuts itself up and most of its body is dissolved. Gets new eyes, new digestive tract, a set of legs, and wings. A creature that was never able to do anything but crawl spreads its wings and flies.”

“And it gets new plumbing?”

Win laughed. “Yeah, that too. It can make little butterflies. But the most interesting part is that they hatch in the US or way up in Canada, and late in the summer when the milkweed dries up, millions of ’em head for Mexico and wind up on a volcanic mountain range down there.”