Borders of the Heart (8 page)

J. D. DROVE AS FAST
as he dared in the residential area. He had never been in this part of town and was flying blind down narrow streets with sun-faded cars hugging the curbs.

As soon as the phone had rung in the hotel room, he knew. Something in his gut, some inner intuition, had told him they shouldn’t stop, but he’d pushed that down and let his desire to rest win. The allure of a shower and someplace cool had been too enticing and now he kicked himself for the indulgence.

The desk worker on the other end of the line had mentioned a car across the street and a man wearing sunglasses watching the hotel.

“What’s he look like?” J. D. said.

“Can’t see too good,” the man wheezed. “Looks Mexican.”

J. D. almost dropped the phone. He wanted to run, but the fellow was chatty.

“Hang on, looks like he’s pulling out. Yeah, he’s leaving—no, he’s turning around and coming back.” The man cursed. “He’s pulling in the turnaround. He’s right out front.” The man had moved and his breathing was shorter now. “Definitely Mexican.”

J. D. had enough of the play-by-play. He hung up and grabbed the Uzi from the bed and rustled the handgun from the nightstand. “Your friend’s outside,” he said to Maria. Her eyes flashed with deep fear.

He shoved open the bathroom window and Maria climbed up on the sill. He pushed on her backside to help her through. Such a light woman. Nothing to her, really. Her T-shirt caught on the metal windowsill, ripping as she quickly turned and dropped to the asphalt. He was right behind her, and then they ran through the alley toward the Suburban.

Like a fighter would pull his arm toward a wound, they’d stayed close to the buildings. When he heard the muted spit of gunfire, he stopped and turned. She grabbed his arm and pulled him across the street in a dead run. She was thin, but there was strength to her. And not just muscles. Inner strength. He could sense it, and it both encouraged and frightened him. What had it taken for her to get to this place? And what would it take for her to overcome what was following her? What would it take for both of them?

He reached Twelfth Avenue, and instead of heading back toward the interstate, he drove south past liquor stores, bars, taco stands, and locked businesses with bars on windows. Shuttered real estate offices and seedy gentlemen’s clubs lined the street. Even the gas stations looked scared.

“What does this guy want?” he said.

“He wants me dead.”

“There’s got to be more to it than that.” He let the statement hang, searching for some reasoning. “That satchel you were handcuffed to—what happened to it?”

“I don’t have it.”

“I know you don’t have it. I can see that. What did you do with it?”

“I threw it away.”

“Where?”

“Somewhere in the desert. Near where you found me, I think. I put the chain on a rock and used another to break it and then I threw it away.”

“Down a ravine? Behind a cactus? Where?”

“There was a hole. It had a wall around it.”

“You mean the well? Did it have brick edging?”

“I think so. It was dark, so I couldn’t see well.”

“You ever stop to think that might be what he’s after? Maybe he doesn’t want you dead—maybe he just wants what’s his.”

She kept turning to scan the street. “He is after
me
. What do I have to say to get you to believe me?”

“Might help if you start with the truth.”

She glanced at him, then back to the roadway. “I’m telling the truth.”

“This guy evidently knows you pretty well because he can pick out a needle in a haystack just as easily as that guy at the doctor’s office. No matter where you are, they show up.”

He kept driving and glancing in the rearview mirror that hung at an odd angle. That sent his mind scurrying back to Win. The police were probably at his house, questioning him and Iliana. What did they know about Maria? What was her connection with the doctor in Benson? What did they really know about J. D. Jessup?

As he’d gotten to know them in the past months, he’d told them his hometown and bits of information, but they didn’t know much. He hadn’t told anyone the real reason he had retreated to the Slocum farm. They weren’t the best organic farmers in the area, and if he had known more coming into the situation, he wouldn’t have picked them, but once he was there, he figured he could learn all he needed.

He hadn’t expected to meet people like Win and Iliana. Sweet people who just accepted him, no questions asked. Look where that had gotten them. When they tried to come up with answers for the authorities, they would have little to go on. J. D. had dragged them into this mess without knowing the ramifications, all the problems that accompanied kindness. But what was he supposed to do? Just keep riding? Let her die in the heat?

He wished he could call Win and talk. Explain a little more. The police would probably get bits and pieces of information from his truck and head to Slocum’s farm to try to tie him and the girl together. But there wasn’t any tying together. It was random, all happenstance, like the rest of his life. There was no focus or purpose; it just happened. Living and dying without reason.

“What if we take off and head east?” J. D. said. “I got some cash saved up we could use.”

Maria shook her head. “He will find us. And if not him, someone else he hires. He will not stop until he kills me.”

“Why? What have you done?”

“It is not what I have done; it is what I know.”

Now they were getting somewhere. “Okay, what do you know?”

“If I tell you, then you will know. And he will kill you.”

“Listen, I don’t think his bullets discriminate.”

She scrunched her face like she didn’t understand the word.
He drove on as the scene turned from blight to plight, descending into a world of both cactus and barrios. They passed a vacant lot that looked like a place where serial killers came to bury their victims. Scrub oak and mesquite and cactus, the landscape of Pima County.

“I’m not religious, but I believe the truth will set you free. I’m giving you permission to tell me, even if it scares you. I want to help you, but I can’t do it if you’re going to string me along. What do you know about this man that makes him want to shoot you like a dog on the highway?”

The sun was still high in the sky, a red ball of fire in the cloudless blue. This time in June it hung there a little longer before it made its quick descent over the mountains to the west. There were mountains all around this valley, so you couldn’t direct people by telling them to drive toward or away from them—they were everywhere.

“He is with the cartel,” Maria said, breaking the silence. “I believe he is working with another group to take over the cartel that operates in our town. Perhaps the Zetas. I don’t know how he plans to do it, but that is his objective.”

“I’ve heard about the Zetas. Not a nice bunch.”

“They are ruthless.”

“And how are you mixed up in all of this? You run drugs for them across the border?”

“No. A family member knows Muerte. That’s how I was introduced.”

“An uncle? A brother? Somebody in your family is mixed up with the drug trade?”

“The town is paralyzed by the drug wars. If you’re not with them, if you don’t help them, you are against them. If you want to live, you stay hidden or you look the other way.”

“So you joined them?”

“No, I am against what they do, which is why I agreed to come across the border.” She saw the look on his face and moved closer, with more passion in her voice. “I chose to come here because I thought I could stop them.”

“Stop them from what?”

“I’m not sure. They’re planning something. I overheard Muerte.”

He shook his head at his luck. This girl was a jigsaw puzzle, and the more edge pieces he found, the more he felt like he shouldn’t empty the box. Just put it back on the shelf and walk away.

The best thing he could do was drive straight to the nearest police station and turn himself and Maria in and be done with it. Let the chips fall. Explain what had happened and head back to the farm. Win would get his truck back and the Border Patrol would send one more Mexican over the fence.

But if she was right about Muerte, that would just make her a fish in a bowl. And it would probably put the police and Border Patrol agents in danger. The law wouldn’t believe her or protect her until they saw she was right, and then it would be too late. And when it was too late, most people would chalk it up like Slocum: another dead Mexican and one less mouth to feed in a holding cell.

“What about your family? Your mother and father? Brothers or sisters? They’ll help you.”

She hung her head and shook it as if something deep inside had pained her.

“It’d be worth a try to call somebody up and explain what’s going on,” he said. “You can talk with your mother, right?”

“My mother is dead.”

He wanted to ask what happened but decided to keep going. “What about your dad? He’s probably worried sick.”

She sat, taking in what he was saying like some silent reservoir after the monsoon. A dry wash soaking up water. She seemed troubled but content with the inconsistency, content with the trajectory they were on, away from danger. “My father cannot help me.”

He sighed and stared at the Check Engine light that had been on since the hotel. He wasn’t made for this. He had no experience. He was an artist turned nomad farmer, not a protector or vigilante.

“What’s that smell?” Maria said.

J. D. noticed it too—an acrid, sulfurous tinge to the air. He slowed and shut off the air conditioner but the smell remained. The water gauge was fine. He rolled down his window, thinking the odor might be from some nearby industrial plant, but the hot air outside wasn’t to blame.

“I don’t know much about engines, but I’ll bet something’s getting hot under the hood.”

He pulled into a Circle K and parked near the air hose to look for the hood release, but it wasn’t there. He found a frayed metal cord hanging down underneath the steering column and pulled at it, but he couldn’t get a good grip. In the side of the door was a pair of pliers and he used them to give the cord a jerk. The hood moved slightly. He hopped out and got his fingers underneath the hot metal, feeling for the latch. He wished he had a pair of gloves.

As soon as he lifted the hood, a wave of rotten-egg smoke rose. Win or Slocum could sniff at the dipstick or run a finger through some pooled liquid under the chassis and tell what was wrong. He, on the other hand, knew next to nothing. He could
get the hood open most of the time, but that was the extent of it. When the smoke dissipated, he saw the battery leaking. That wasn’t good. It was filled with acid. Would it explode?

A voice from behind startled him. “Got a problem?” The man wore dirty coveralls and his hands were black with grease and dirt. His El Camino sat nearby, and J. D. marveled at how many older cars and trucks were still running in the dry desert air. VW Beetles. He’d even seen Gremlins and a Pinto in near-perfect condition. On the bumper of the El Camino was a faded Impeach Obama sticker. J. D. guessed the guy had altered the size of the fuel tank because the numbers on the pump were whizzing by like a fat man’s on an amusement park’s guess-your-weight scale. A black dog wagged its tail inside the car and panted, turning its head at any movement on the street.

“It’s not my truck,” J. D. said. “Belongs to a friend of mine.”

The man stuck his head over the battery, dirty hair hanging down. His skin was sunburnt and leathery like he worked outside all day. “Terminal cap’s leaking. Desert does a number on batteries. You don’t have to worry about your tailpipe rusting out, but every two or three years you got to replace the battery. Most of the new ones are sealed nowadays. That looks like the old type. How long’s it been in there?”

J. D. found a sticker on the side that showed it was three and a half years old.

“Well, you’ve gotten your money’s worth.”

“Will it explode?”

“Not unless you arc it. I don’t think so. But it’ll keep leaking and cause you some problems with the acid dripping. Plus the smell of it. I’d get it changed out fast. They’ll do it for you at just about any auto shop.”

J. D. thanked the man and closed the hood, seeing that
Maria wasn’t in the truck. He checked the street, then the little store. He didn’t see her. He walked in and noticed restrooms at the rear, then caught something black to the right, outside the big window by the potato chip display. She was feeding coins into a pay phone.

“Where’d you get the money?” he said when he reached her.

“In the ashtray.”

“Who are you calling?”

“You told me to call my family.”

He thought that was a good sign. He went back inside the store and let the cool air wash over him again as he grabbed a bag of corn chips and a box of donuts, then two bottles of soda. Just something to tide them over if they drove into the desert. Insurance, really. He didn’t have a plan. He didn’t have any idea what he was going to do except take one step at a time. Keep moving. Stay as far away from the guy with the vendetta as he could.

“I’m looking for a car parts place,” he said to the girl behind the counter as she scanned his purchases. There were wrinkled hot dogs rolling in a glass case by the cash register and an open tub of orange liquid that people put on their nachos. It was supposed to be cheese, but there were so many chemicals in food these days. “Any place around here where I can get a battery?”

She thought a minute as if she had a hard time connecting the words. “There’s one of those car places out that way, I think. Auto or Pep something or other.”

“How far?”

“I don’t know—maybe a mile?”

He thanked her and walked out to hear Maria speaking Spanish in an animated voice. He could pick out a few words
but couldn’t follow most of it because of the speed. Might just as well have been Swahili. He kept his eye on the street and pulled the truck next to her in case the guy drove by, guns blazing.

She hung up and put the change in a cup holder. He drove south. She didn’t speak, and he didn’t tell her what he was looking for as the shadows of evening stretched out toward the distant brown hills. He spotted the Pep Boys a few minutes later. There were five bay doors in use and four guys who had stripped down to their T-shirts and hung up their uniform shirts. Fans were running full blast, but it was like waving a hat at the mouth of hell.