Illegal (37 page)

The bed of a farmer's pickup truck could be filled with a pile of fragrant manure, or sacks of lung-searing pesticides, or a basket of rusty rakes and dirt-clodden hoes. Simeon Rutledge's green Ford, built during the Korean War, smelled of polish and gleamed with wax. Had a moon been peeking through the rain clouds, the truck would have shined in the dark.

Payne lay on his back in the short, stubby cargo bed, Adam's Louisville Slugger at his side. The truck was parked in the circular driveway in front of the farmhouse. If someone drove up—say, Enrique Zaga, hauling Marisol along—Payne would leap over the low side panel and flail away at the man's skull, like Juan Marichal on Johnny Roseboro in Candlestick Park.

The other option was Rutledge driving to wherever Marisol was being held.

Payne heard the front door of the farmhouse bang closed. He fought the urge to peek over the side panel. Rutledge's cowboy boots crunched the gravel, his steps quick. The driver's door opened, and Rutledge's weight settled into the front seat.

The old Ford coughed and cleared its throat. Rutledge put it in gear and spun out of the driveway, spraying gravel.

Payne stayed down, bracing his feet against the back of the cab. He lost his sense of direction after several turns. Asphalt. Unpaved road. Potholes the size of canoes. The painkillers must be wearing off. His temples throbbed. His head was filled with billiard balls, clacking into one another. At the same time, some gremlin with a hammer was engaged in carpentry on his hip bone.

Lightning flashed from the southeast, a summer storm born in Mexico, crashing toward the valley. The heat of the day gave way, the air cool and moist, the smell of rain even stronger now.

The truck bounced along, branches of sycamore and birch trees forming a canopy over the bed. The dirt road gave way to another stretch of pavement.

Thunder rumbled across the sky. Zeus hurling thunderbolts. Angels bowling. God farting. Whatever.

Payne crept onto his knees and peered cautiously through the window into the cab. Rutledge's right hand rested on the spindly gearshift shaped like a question mark. His left elbow stuck out the open window.

A jagged lightning bolt creased the sky and exploded somewhere close by. Payne pictured a mighty oak tree splintered and smoking. Raindrops, fat and cold, pelted him, pinging off the truck bed.

Rutledge's cell phone rang, and Payne strained to hear. Over the noise of the wind and the engine, he couldn't make out what the old man was saying. But a second later, the brakes whinnied like a tired horse, and the truck skidded to a stop.

Rutledge jumped out of the cab, cell pressed to his ear. "That bitch! I don't fucking believe it! Jesus, Mary, and Joseph."

He paced in front of the truck, rain soaking him. The thunder sounded like a mallet banging a kettle drum.

Payne edged to the side panel. Saw Rutledge framed in the headlights. Jeans, boots, a black felt
Tejano
hat with a silver buckle. A Western holster was tied to his right leg. It housed a big-ass revolver, an old Colt .45. The gun called the "Peacemaker." As if Rutledge had just arrived by stagecoach from Deadwood. On his left leg, a scabbard held a foot-long Marine fighting knife.

Raindrops shined in the headlights, silver daggers from the sky.

"Dammit!" Rutledge yelled into the phone. "The little gook was supposed to be watching her."

"Payne must know where she is," Rutledge ventured. "That's why he cut down the trees. A diversion so she can run. It's all planned."

News to me, Payne thought, wishing he'd been that smart. Playing those words over in his mind.

"I can't believe Z's dead," Rutledge said. "Goddammit, I can't believe it."

"Me and Z grew up together. Little fucker was like my brother."

Payne ducked as Rutledge strode back to the truck, hoisted one boot onto the running board, and stared straight across the cargo bed. Water dripped from his hat brim, splashing Payne's face. If Rutledge looked down, he'd spot Payne, flipped on his back like a tortoise.

"Javie, you find her, and quick."

"Bring her to the old pump station. I'm gonna clean up this mess once and for all."

Another lightning bolt hit, close enough to shimmy the truck. The air smelled of ozone.

"Don't get on your high horse with me, Javie. Where's the fire in your guts? Your old man wasn't like that. Hector would have begged me to let him kill them himself."

Rutledge listened a few seconds, then barked, "Don't give me that 'Calm down, Sim' crap. You know what your problem is? You're pussified. Your mother babied you. And I gave you too much. Just do what the fuck I say!"

Rutledge clicked off and sank his butt onto the running board.

Payne curled his fingers around the handle of the aluminum bat, gripping it so tightly the muscles of his forearm knotted. He could do it now. Beat the tar out of Rutledge. Split his skull wide open. But then, how would he find Marisol?

For a moment, there was only the rain exploding like glass beads off metal. Then a wailing like brass horns, as startling as an orchestra in a desert. Simeon Rutledge was sobbing. Great, wracking sobs that sent tremors through his body and shook the bed of the truck.

The smell of dust and creosote and rotting wood filled the tunnel, the air dank and rancid. Marisol's ribs ached and her skull throbbed. Springy cobwebs stuck to her face, feeling like desiccated fingers of corpses. Fractured beams—ancient railroad ties—sagged under the weight of the earth above her. The splintered plywood roof leaked funnels of dirt.

She scrambled barefoot through the tunnel, hunched over to keep from hitting her head on the drooping beams. Fearing the worst. The tunnel a dead end or an endless maze.

She followed the beam of the flashlight, one hand running along the side of the tunnel, rough and jagged to the touch. From somewhere, water dripped.

She stumbled into a puddle, the
splash
as loud as a whale breaching. The cold water startled her.

Another frightening thought. The guard, knife drawn, could be following her.

She clicked off the flashlight, blinked against the darkness, and listened for footsteps. Only the
drip
she had heard before, but in the confined space, magnified into watery explosions. She turned the beam back on and continued deeper into the tunnel. Without warning, her right knee buckled, and she toppled into a hole, bracing herself with one arm. Pain shot through her wrist, and something sharp pierced her hand, which immediately started to bleed. It felt as if she'd fallen on a railroad spike or a piece of sharpened bamboo.

She scrambled to her feet, tore off a piece of her dress, and made a bandage, stopping the blood flow. Aimed the flashlight into the hole. What was that? A white, bony . . . oh, God . . . rib cage! A human skeleton lodged into the dirt. She had stumbled into a human grave and slashed her hand on a human bone. A woman from the brothel? A customer? Some personal enemy, a long forgotten victim of violence? The horror of a lonely death without prayers.

Who would bless her, Marisol wondered, if she was entombed in this passage to hell?

She played the flashlight across the floor of the tunnel. No other skeletons. No other holes. She picked up the pruning shears, which had fallen from her apron. Then hurried along, bent over, faster now, until she came to an obstruction.

A door! The end of the tunnel.

Old and ornate, with carvings of cherubs. A doorknob of green glass, an antique look.

The door was locked.

Marisol played the flashlight beam around the door frame. Dry-rotted wood. She dug at the frame with the pruning shears. Sawdust dribbled out; the wood crumbled. She freed the lock from its latch and pushed the door open.

A dark room. Cool. A basement. Crates covered by decades of dust. She wiped off a box, checked the stenciled name:
Valley Improvement Society
. She was in the right place. The building next to the brothel, the place the rich politicians gathered before traveling underground for their pleasure.

A set of stairs. A door open at the top.

She moved cautiously up the stairs, flinching when they groaned under her weight. On the ground floor, an ancient pool table, a long wooden bar with a cracked mirror. More cobwebs, overstuffed furniture draped in dust covers.

A haunted house.

She raced to the front door. The knob turned but the door wouldn't open. She put her shoulder to it. It didn't budge. Shined the light along the door frame.

The door was boarded with wooden planks, nailed from the outside. Pushed again, but the wood held tight. Thick, sturdy nails. No way to force her way out. She fought back tears.

She checked the windows. The glass broken, but two-by-fours crosshatched the openings here, too.

Intended to keep people out, the fortifications trapped her inside.

A noise.

She stood frozen in place.

A car engine.

She moved to one of the windows, peeked out between the boards. A car approached slowly, turning sideways in the driveway. A rack of lights on its roof, a star painted on its side.

But she had seen policemen at the brothel. Everyone, it seemed, worked for Rutledge.

The driver's door opened. A man in uniform got out and took several steps toward the building. Backlit by the car's headlight beams, he threw off a shadow ten feet tall. "Marisol! Marisol Perez. You in there?"

She stayed quiet.

"You're safe now, señorita," the man called. "I'm the chief of police."

Why should she trust this man? Except for her father, what man could she trust?

"I'm here to help you."

The policeman stepped back to the car, opened the rear door, and pulled a boy from the backseat. Her breath caught in her throat.

He was the size of her Agustino, but she could not make out the boy's face.

"Lemme make it easy for you." The policeman's tone had gone hard. "We've got your kid. Give a signal you're in there."

"No!
Mami,
hide! Run!"

The policeman grabbed Tino's neck. "I don't want to hurt anybody."

Tino flailed, tried to twist free. "I'll kill you,
cabrón
." Sounding as if he was choking.

"Let him go!" Marisol screamed, pounding a fist against a window plank. "Let him go! And take me!"

The old truck wheezed to a stop alongside an earthen levee. Payne heard a
chuga-chuga
. The pump station. Peering up from the cargo bed, he saw the grille of an old Chevy poking out of the dirt, where it had been left after a flood thirty years ago. He had passed this place on his horseback ride.

Rutledge leapt out of the truck cab and trudged up the slope, his boots sinking into the wet clay, the color of cinnamon. The rain had slowed. Lightning blinked to the northwest, the storm past them now.

Payne waited until Rutledge had crested the levee, which stood twenty-five feet above the surrounding fields. Louisville Slugger in hand, Payne climbed out of the cargo bed and scampered on all fours up the levee. He lay on the ground at the top, peering at the pump station straddling the stream. A concrete-and-steel structure resembling a dam, the station channeled water into three separate culverts. Utility poles topped by sodium vapor lights gave the streams an orange, toxic tint.

Payne watched Rutledge at the foot of the levee, yelling into his cell phone.

"Where the fuck are you! Do you have her?" He whisked the
Tejano
from his head and slapped it against his thigh, shaking water from the brim. "Okay, good work, Javie. Now get her the hell over here."

Payne sized up the situation. One man with a kid's baseball bat against one man with a gun and knife. That was bad enough. But two men with guns? He had to take out Rutledge before Cardenas got here.

Rutledge walked along the shoreline, crouched on his haunches, and peered toward the sluice pipe, the artery that carried the lifeblood of his empire. Payne calculated the distance between them. Down the side of the levee and across a flat space to the culvert. Ninety feet. Maybe a hundred.

Rutledge's back was turned. Payne figured that the noise of the pumps and the angry flow of the water would mask his footfalls. It better. The fear rose in his chest, and for one paralyzing moment he questioned whether he could do it. Then he thought of Tino and Adam, and all that had been lost, and all that could still be saved.

Payne got to his feet and crab-walked down the muddy slope, cutting a diagonal path across the levee.

Rutledge stared into the water. Was he looking into his past? Three generations of men who lusted for land and water. Men who built wealth and power on the backs of the poor, all the while telling themselves they were pioneers and visionaries and men of the soil.

Payne's Nikes squished in the mud, the suction slowing him down.

Rutledge rose from his haunches and stretched his neck, working out a kink with the palm of a hand.

Payne raised the bat to shoulder height. Tripped on a rock embedded in the muck. Caught himself but lost a step.