Borders of the Heart (24 page)

“You mean her death or seeing her in his face?”

“Both. But at this point I don’t think it matters whether I’m over it or not. I just need to do what I need to do.”

She turned to face him and pulled a pillow from underneath the covers, doubling it under her head. It was almost painful to look at her. Dark hair, tanned skin against the white pillowcase.

“Will you sing again? Will you start a farm?”

“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes. The weight of the days and nights came over him and pushed him further. He saw Slocum’s face and the others. He thought of Cooper.

“Maybe I’ll become a preacher,” he said.

“You would be a good shepherd to the flock,” she said softly, just loud enough to hear.

“I’m a lousy father. Not a very good husband either.” He couldn’t open his eyes. The fatigue had finally worked its way through his muscles and deep into the marrow. His arms felt numb, like they were floating, and his head was the same, just a balloon on a string floating above in the jet stream, above the world but still tethered.

“J. D., you can do this.”

He tried to open his eyes but the lids were heavy. “I can do what?”

“Take care of your son. Connect with him. Know him. Not for who he reminds you of, but for who he is. Who he will become.”

“Yeah. Okay.”

“You are a good man, J. D.”

Why was she telling him this?

His head felt heavier than a lava rock rising out of the ocean. As he put it on the back of the chair, the tether came loose, the rock fell, and he was lifted, soaring, moving among the clouds. He was free, not concentrating on the ground, just floating, buoyant on the wind.

She’s right,
Alycia said.
You can love him well. Even though it hurts.

I missed my chance.

You didn’t. There’s always time to love well if you have it in your heart.

She was somewhere on a bed, with her legs drawn to herself, arms around them, head bent forward. A force of nature, an ingrown tide. This creature of God.

How can you say that when I don’t have time to love you? That was taken from me. I’ll never get it back.

That’s not true. There’s still time to love me.

How? You can’t love something that’s gone.

Your love for me is shown in a thousand ways. Rising in the morning. Living fully. Turning your heart toward our son. Opening your heart to another.

Like who?

Her.

Maria?

Yes.

I can’t do it. I can’t risk it again.

Why not?

Because it hurts too much. There’s too much pain. It goes too deep.

The pain is to help you. The pain shows you’re alive. If you can feel pain, you can feel love. And if you can love, there is a chance at life. It’s right in front of you.

But you don’t have that chance. You’re not alive.

I am more alive than you can possibly understand.

Alycia moved from the bed and knelt before him. The light in her eyes made her face shine golden, and he closed his eyes, overwhelmed, as if it were the last sunset before the world ended.

You don’t need me now,
she said.

Yes, I do. I need you more than ever.

Let go, J. D. You can’t move when you’re looking back, when you’re holding on to the past.

He stared at her face, wanting to embrace her, reaching a hand to feel her hair.
Her hair.
It had grown back and covered the scar, covered all the questions he’d never known to ask. The answers and questions slipped through the keyhole of his heart and spread.

All right. If you hate it here so much, go on. Leave.

I don’t hate it here. I love it where I am, and if you knew what it was like, you would not ask me to return.

I don’t want you to come back if you’re happy.

I believe you. I want you to live where you are and one day join me.

I’ll never be good enough.

It’s not about being good enough. You know that. This is about grace. It’s about releasing your need to be good enough. Do you understand?

I think so. But I don’t know about . . . this woman.

Yes, you do.

That’s one thing I’m not going to miss.

What’s that?

You always disagreeing with me. And being right.

She smiled.
I love you, John David. I will always love you.

He felt a hand on his chest, pushing down and down and then through him, like grains of sand through the hourglass. And then the pressure was gone. Just lifted away and closed like a healed wound that only left a scar. He took a breath and his lungs filled and there was release. Sweet release.

GOLDEN, DUSTY SUNLIGHT
streamed through a sliver in the curtains. J. D.’s arms were cold and there was a metallic taste in his mouth. He scanned the room. Both beds still made, only Maria’s pillow out of place. It took him a moment to jump to his feet and check the bathroom. The door was open. Empty.

As he stood, the room swayed. His head felt like someone had hit him with a sledgehammer. Twice. A throbbing, stabbing pain above his right eye he couldn’t shake. He pressed his palm to it and squeezed his eyes. The rest of him felt like the edge of some burnt parchment, ready to float away with a strong wind.

He flicked on the bathroom light and splashed water on his face, then drank from cupped hands. The mirror showed bloodshot eyes. It had been several days since he had shaved or showered. That would come soon enough. He grabbed a towel and rubbed his face dry and the white cloth came away brown from the grit and grime.

He threw open the curtains and watched waves of heat rise from the asphalt. Above the horizon and the mountains in the distance, he noticed a cloud formation. It wasn’t big, but it was there. Something he hadn’t seen since moving to Tucson.

He checked the clock on the nightstand and cursed. It was almost nine. How long had she been gone? And where was she? The keys to the truck weren’t where he left them.

Inside he knew, but he didn’t want to believe it. He grabbed Win’s phone and a water bottle next to the TV and hurried downstairs. He told himself he would find her in the breakfast room, that she would be in the corner reading a newspaper and drinking coffee. She would smile and hug him and they would call the police.

She
had
to be there. He willed her to be there.

Maria wasn’t in the room and Win’s truck was gone.

“This crowd behind me is waiting in anticipation of the appearance, in about an hour, of the man they hope will be the next president of the United States,” the reporter on TV said.

He checked the phone to see if Muerte had called. By mistake he hit the outgoing calls and noticed one he hadn’t dialed. The number wasn’t familiar but the time stamp said 4:45 a.m. Incoming calls included one restricted and several from an Arizona number.

He walked outside past a desk worker who had stepped out to smoke and went across the parking lot while dialing the recurring number. He got a phone message from a detective. He tried again but got the message again. He wanted to throw the phone to I-10. The sun was moving, running from the clouds from the north, and the asphalt sizzled.

“Tucson 911. Do you need police or paramedics?”

“Police. It’s about the Chandler rally today.”

“What’s your emergency, sir?”

“They need to cancel it. There’s going to be a shooting.”

“Did you say there’s been a shooting, sir?”

“No, there’s going to be one. A man is planning to kill Chandler. Today at the rally.”

“You mean Governor Chandler? Who is planning to kill him, sir?”

“Muerte is his name. He’s from Mexico. Involved with the cartel.”

“Are you with him now?”

“No.”

“Do you know where he is?”

“No, but I figure he’s close to the rally. He has a high-powered rifle.”

The woman paused. Someone was saying something to her. “And where are you now, sir?”

“Just have them cancel the rally.”

“What is your name, sir? Tell me your name.”

“If you don’t get those people out of there and the governor is killed, this will be on the police because you didn’t listen.” J. D. hung up.

There weren’t any cabs and who knew how long he’d have to wait for one. He went inside and grabbed a business card with the hotel phone number from the front desk. As he walked out, he spotted several people wearing red, white, and blue with Chandler stickers on a rolled-up piece of cardboard. He followed them to a minivan.

“You guys aren’t heading over to the rally, are you?” he said.

The people turned. A man with graying hair had his keys out.

J. D. stepped closer. “Didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You a Chandler supporter?” the man said. He opened the side door with his key fob but kept his eye on J. D.

“I’ll probably vote for him. But to be honest with you, I just need to get to the rally.”

The man pursed his lips and glanced at the van. “I’m all for an informed electorate, but it’s pretty tight. Sorry.”

“I understand. I don’t usually look this scruffy, if it means anything. But if you’d give me a ride, I’d appreciate it.”

“I wish I could, friend.”

The man got in his van and J. D. heard the doors lock. He walked across the parking lot and through the bushes toward the interstate.

The van pulled over a few yards ahead on the street and the front passenger door swung open. “Your lucky day,” the driver yelled. “I got outvoted. Democracy in action. Hop in.”

J. D. shook his hand and thanked him. As the man introduced the others in the van, J. D. wondered if, in the coming days, they would fight over whether he’d been the man in the news reports.

“You in town for the rally?” the driver said.

“No, I work on a farm south of here. Where are you all from?”

“Prescott. We hate the direction this country’s going and I think Chandler is the man to get us out of the ditch, if you know what I mean.”

There were a couple of
amen
s from the backseat and J. D. nodded. They seemed sincere, but they were also walking into a buzz saw, and he wasn’t sure if or when he should break the news.

Win’s cell vibrated and he pulled it out.

“Is this Win?” a man said.

“No, sir, it’s not.”

“I’m Detective Ross. Who is this?”

“My name’s J. D. I’m a friend of Win’s.”

“He left a message. It sounded urgent.”

“Yeah, you could say that.” He looked at the driver and figured this was as good a time as any. “It’s about the rally. In less than an hour a guy from Mexico is going to try and kill Chandler. And I doubt he’ll stop with the governor.”

The driver nearly hit a fire hydrant.

“What man?” the detective said. “How do you know this?”

“Maria put it together early this morning.”

“Who is Maria?”

“Maria Sanchez. Daughter of the cartel leader. You’ve been looking for her. I’m the one who found her.”

“And Maria is the shooter?”

“No, she’s trying to warn people.”

“Where is she now?”

“I don’t know. My guess is she’s trying to stop Muerte too.”

“Is he the shooter?”

“He might be. He’s got the gun.”

“How does Maria know Muerte?”

All J. D. could see were brake lights in front of them. When he looked to the sky, he was surprised to see clouds billowing, growing fuller and white, like cotton candy.

“Detective, I can explain this after you’ve cleared that area. You need to stop the rally.”

“Are you serious?” someone in the back of the van said. There were gasps from the others.

“Where are you now?” the detective said.

“Headed toward the rally.”

“And Muerte, you said he—”

“You’re wasting time!”

“I have to convince a lot of people more powerful than I am about this, J. D. Tell me about Muerte.”

“He brought a high-powered rifle across the border.”

“And he’s involved in the drug trade?”

“Come on, Detective, surely you know his name.”

“I do, and I’m familiar with Sanchez.”

“Maria thinks he’s double-crossing her father, that Muerte’s really involved with the Zetas.”

“Why would he want to kill Chandler?”

He couldn’t fault the man for the questions. He’d had them too. But he also couldn’t keep the frustration down. “We could go back and forth a long time until I get you to believe me. But if you’re taking this seriously, you’ll get on the horn now with the Secret Service or whoever’s in charge.”

“I’m doing that, but I have to prove to them this is a credible threat.”

“Tick off a list to them of the people killed the past three days. The Border Patrol agent, the doctor in Benson, the officer on the south side—all of those are directly connected to Muerte. Plus the shootout at the Mustang Bar last night. Body count’s pretty high at this point, so I think it’s credible. And if the media gets hold of the fact that the police knew ahead of time this was going down, you can kiss your jobs good-bye.”

“Why’d you wait so long to make the call?”

Another good question. “Maybe I should have called you a long time ago. There’ll be time to score me on all of this, but that’s not now.”

“What are you hiding, J. D.?”

“What do you mean?”

“What are you not telling me? About you, about the girl?”

There were many things he wasn’t telling. He picked one. “She didn’t want to go to the police because that would make it easier for Muerte to find her. She thinks the police are working with him. At least some of them.”

“That’s crazy.”

“Muerte is powerful. He has contacts and lots of resources. He pays well.”

“And you trust this woman?”

“I trust her a lot more than I trust Muerte or you.”

The man remained calm, in control. “How do you know this man?”

“I don’t know him. But every time we turned around, he was there, or some of his men, trying to kill her. Now I suggest you tell the governor and everybody who’ll be on that platform to cancel the rally. Get those spectators out of there.”

“We’ve been following your credit card transactions. We know about—”

He had been connected too long. J. D. hung up and the phone immediately buzzed. They were in thick traffic and he glanced at his watch. He was running out of time.

“How far away are we?” J. D. said.

“A few minutes if we can get around the traffic,” the driver said, his face ashen. “Did you really mean what you said?”

J. D. nodded. “That was the police. I don’t want to bust your balloon about this meeting, but if I were you, I wouldn’t go anywhere near the rally.”

“If it’s so dangerous, why are you going?” someone from the back said.

“I’m looking for somebody.”

Something familiar caught his eye and to his left, across four lanes, he saw Win’s truck parked at the end of a Safeway lot. When the driver braked again, J. D. opened the door and stepped out.

“Much obliged for the ride. You folks take care.”

The people looked dumbstruck as he closed the door and ran straight through stalled traffic. He found the truck unlocked, keys still in the ignition, but the handgun was gone. In the distance he could hear the thump of music from the band shell and the faint noise of a crowd.

He climbed into the truck and sat, staring at the phone.
Narrow your focus. Take the next step. Keep moving. You’re not the hunted now.

He dialed the mystery number in the recent calls list. The number he assumed Maria had dialed. It rang once.

“Yes?”

It was Muerte. No question. Nothing in the background, no thumping bass or clapping. Just a clean line.

“Is this you, J. D.?” Muerte said. His voice had a boxy sound to it. Like he was speaking from an empty room.

“I called to let you know the police are on their way.”

“Really? You’re such a good friend. And where might they be looking?”

“Maybe they’re using your phone. Maybe they’ve got a bead on you right now. I’d take a look around.”

“Oh, I have taken several precautions, my friend.”

“Well, don’t be surprised if they pull the trigger before you can. Unless one of the Zetas is firing the rifle.”

“Is that what she told you I was doing?”

“We figured it out together.”

“Why aren’t you with her?”

“How do you know I’m not?”

The man smiled on the other end—J. D. could hear it in his voice. “J. D., have you considered that the things she told you may not be the truth?”

“What do you mean?”

“How did she portray herself? Was she the pouting kitten, luring you with her beauty? The virginal damsel in distress, vulnerable? Or perhaps the religious zealot? She was trained in all these ways and more. Is this how she reeled you in?”

“You’re an evil man.”

He chuckled. “So quick to judge others, aren’t you? You probably even gave her access to a firearm. Am I right?”

J. D. hesitated.

“So she does have a firearm. And it will be your gun that is used in this heinous crime.”

J. D. couldn’t speak. Couldn’t breathe.

“She used you, J. D. She seduced you to believe what you wanted to believe. And now you are an accessory.”

His heart rate accelerated. “What’s it feel like, Muerte?”

“What does what feel like?”

“To have the tables turned. To be the hunted instead of the hunter.”

The cell buzzed and J. D. held it away from his ear. It was the hotel’s number. Win. J. D. ignored it.

“By the time the authorities figure out what happened, if they ever do, I will be a long way from here. And you or whoever’s weapon is used will be arrested, not me.”

“And Maria will be dead.”

“Maria will survive. We have an agreement.”

“What agreement?”

“You’ll see, J. D.” Another smile.

J. D. got out of the truck and glanced at his watch. Thirty minutes until the event began unless the police intervened.
Keep him talking. Focus on anything in the background.

“You know what, Muerte? You’d make a good song.”

“What was that?”

“I said you’d make a good country-and-western song. It’s what I do. Write songs. Sing. Most of them have a lot to do with losing something, having a cold, dead heart, or just wanting to get revenge. I think you’d be a good fit.”

“Your homespun humor intrigues me, but I prefer the music of my native land.”

“Well, you’ll have plenty of time to listen to whatever they’re playing at the federal pen.”

The man chuckled. “If they did catch me, I would never stay locked away. Poor J. D. Taken in by a woman. Beautiful, yes, but so cunning and deceptive. And now she is going to use you to kill the candidate.”

“You’re a liar.”

“Did you pledge your undying love? Is that why you’re still chasing her?”

J. D. didn’t answer.