River Runs Red (The Border Trilogy) (33 page)

Wade smiled for the first time that morning. He had been sitting in his chair, arms held close to his sides, tense, but now he relaxed a little. He took a drink from the big mug then set it back down. “Glad to hear that,” he said. “I tried to be terrible. Anyway, I’m not going to bore you with all the details. It was one thing after another. I lost track of time and I was pretty sure I was going to die. Then one day when I expected someone to bring food, it didn’t show up. I waited, and still, no food. Finally I shook the door and called for some dinner, and the door swung open in my hands. Who knows how long it had been unlocked. I went out, expecting to be caught or shot at any second, but the place was empty. Up and up and up, out of the cavern and into a bombed-out mosque full of garbage, and finally out into the streets. Even they were empty. It wasn’t right, wasn’t natural, that there should be no one anywhere.

“The first living thing I saw was a pig, trotting down the street. Eventually a U.S. patrol came around. I waved them down, they picked me up, and drove me into the Green Zone. There I was fed and debriefed at length by intelligence types. I think you know the rest—physicals, more debriefing, the trip to El Paso.”

He stopped, drank deeply, as if the story had parched his throat. Molly hadn’t been taking notes, but she had a good memory and tried to store away every detail. She could pump him for more later, when she started writing. “It sounds horrible, Wade. But what is it you think happened there that’s affecting you now? Besides the bad memories, I mean?”

“I don’t really know. Maybe in that dank cave, wet and cold and naked, I caught some kind of…freaky virus.” His gaze bored into her, intense enough to be frightening. “Do you think that’s possible?”

“There’s a hospital right up the street.”

“I can’t go there. Not yet. I…I feel like I’m losing my mind, Molly. Losing my grip.”

“I guess there are viruses that can affect you that way, right? Mentally.”

“Probably. I think so. But…I know we don’t ever talk about it, but we’ve both seen magic at work, right?”

She gave him a questioning look. “I mean, come on, if there were a rational, scientific explanation for…for what happened to my dad,” he continued, “we’d know it. There isn’t. That wasn’t a naturally occurring pool full of super potent acid or anything. Which only leaves irrational, unnatural—or supernatural—explanations. Magic. Maybe there was some kind of magic working in that prison cave, too, and not necessarily the good kind. There were unexplained lights, strange dreams. Given what’s happening to me now, maybe it was an evil magic, a dark magic, to which I never should have been exposed. And the way I got out, the way everyone vanished—that wasn’t natural either.”

“What about what’s happening to you now? What’s that?” she asked.

His jaw worked, but then he clamped his mouth shut. He was still for a moment, as if listening to something. Molly could only hear the gentle rush of other people’s conversations, the ticking of the ventilation system as it blew warm air into the shop, the hissing of the steam machine. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said finally. “Not yet, anyway.”

“You can trust me, Wade. We’ve always trusted each other, right?”

“I know, Molly. That’s why we’re here. That’s why I called you.”

“Then—”

“I’m sorry, I just can’t. I can’t, Molly. When I can tell you, I will.”

“You’d better, mister.” She knew, of course. She could have pressed him harder, thought about mentioning the convention center, the pregnant woman, or the three migrants in the park. Even Gretchen Fuchs. A thrill coursed through her.

“Kethili-cha,”
she said quietly, not fully understanding why.

Wade stared at her as if she had unexpectedly removed the top of her head and poured her coffee inside.
“Kethili-anh.”

Electricity flowed between them. The fine hairs on her arms and neck stood on end. Every pore in her body tingled with anticipation, with power. A point had been reached, she understood—a turning point from which there would be no going back.

Dump your coffee on the floor.

As she thought the command, she visualized him obeying. Leaning forward in the deep chair to pick up the mug, holding it out past the edge of the table, tipping it slowly, watching the dark liquid splash on the floor.

Dump your coffee on the floor, Wade.

His lips curled in a faint, uncertain smile. He caught her eye and gave the slightest shrug, raising his right eyebrow a fraction of an inch. The body language said
I don’t know why I’m doing this.

Then he leaned forward, took his mug in his right hand, held it out and poured the coffee. It hit the ground, splashed, puddled.

When he put the mug back, Molly rose and flagged down one of the coffee shop’s employees. “Excuse me,” she said. “My friend has spilled some of his coffee.”

“Be right there,” the young man said. “Thanks.”

“God,” Wade said, blushing, as she sat down again. “What a klutz, huh? Sorry. I didn’t get you, did I?”

“Don’t worry about it, Wade,” she said. She kept her voice calm, but inside her emotions were racing.

She had made him do that. Ordered him to, with her mind. And he had done it.

She
controlled
him.

It felt right, somehow. Natural. The way it should be, should always have been.

She had been waiting for this, she realized. Waiting for a very, very, very long time.

Kethili-cha…

THIRTY-SIX

The White Sands Missile Range was less than thirty minutes from Las Cruces, New Mexico, out Highway 70 on the other side of San Agustin Pass. The tiny town of Organ straddled the highway in between, and although much use was made by soldiers from the base of the Organ Mountain Café, for serious drinking, they tended to make the trek into Las Cruces.

One thing a CIA operative had to know for any posting was how to find out where the right people drank and socialized. In some remote places that could be difficult, but in the States, it only took Truly a few minutes and a couple of phone calls to identify some popular spots. He staked out the Conquistador Lounge, a place that had probably been seedy when it was built in the early sixties and the big, overdone monument sign was placed on a pole out front, and it had only gone downhill since. The décor was strictly illuminated signs provided by beer distributors, a pool table, and scarred wood-grain tables between seats that had been torn and repaired with duct tape. No one came for the scenery, but soldiers liked its extended happy hour, cheap pitcher prices, and the easy availability of the working girls who frequented the place.

Truly got there about eight and sat at a corner table, nursing a light beer and watching the crowd. An hour later, he had found his mark. Specialist Owen LaTour came in alone, sat at the bar, and slammed down two beers within the first ten minutes, before switching to tequila. He didn’t talk to anyone, although he nodded to a couple of uniformed soldiers. A slender man, he wore civilian clothes, but the haircut and posture were unmistakably military. Truly gave him a half hour to get oiled up, then he moved in. The place had become more crowded, but the stool next to the young soldier was empty, as if he were sending out a “keep away” vibe.

Truly bumped into the soldier as he approached the stool. “Excuse me,” he said, slurring his words just slightly. “Seat taken?”

The soldier shook his head. Truly sat down heavily. “Is now,” he said. “What are you drinking?”

The soldier shot him a wary glance, like he didn’t really want company and suspected Truly was out to pick him up. “Tequila,” he said, touching the rim of an empty glass.

“Barman!” Truly called out. “Get my friend another tequila. And one for me.”

Another glance, and the soldier stiffened slightly. But a free drink was, after all, a free drink, so he offered a shy grin. “Thanks.”

“No problem. Nothing’s too good for a man in uniform, right? Thank you for your service.”

The soldier shrugged, cheeks reddening. “You do what you can.”

“Exactly,” Truly said. “You do what you can. Perfect attitude. You, sir, are a gentleman.”

The soldier blushed more. “Look,” Truly said, leaning toward him and lowering his voice. “I’m not trying to hit on you or anything like that, so don’t worry. I’m just a patriot, a man who serves in his own way, and appreciates those who wear the uniform.”

“Thanks,” the soldier said again.

“James Truly.” He stuck out his hand. Reflexively, the soldier shook it.

“I’m Owen LaTour.”

“A pleasure,” Truly said. “Listen, you want to get a table? It’s getting a little crowded here at the bar.”

Owen agreed, and they went to Truly’s corner table, which was still unoccupied. After a couple more drinks—for the soldier, Truly barely sipped his—he showed Owen his CIA credentials. The young soldier whistled, still green enough to be impressed by the presence of an intelligence agent.

Truly told war stories of the spy game, mostly ones he’d heard from other people, and he became seemingly more free with information as the evening wore on. Owen followed suit, going from closemouthed about goings-on at White Sands to dishing on the base’s officers and activities.

Around ten, Truly acted like he’d had a sudden brainstorm. “Your girl broke your heart, right?” he asked, picking up on a thread Owen had dropped earlier in their conversation. Owen had explained his determined drinking as an attempt to wash away the memory of her betrayal.

“You better believe it.”

“I know the feeling, man,” Truly said. “Better than you can imagine. It hurts like hell.”

“That it does.”

“You know what would make it feel better?”

“What’s that?”

“Getting laid.”

Owen looked at the tabletop. “I don’t know, Jim. These women in here—”

“Who’s talking about
these
women?” Truly interrupted. In truth, the women in the bar were perfectly acceptable to most men, himself included. But he was trying to make an impression. “We’re only an hour from Juárez, Owen. World-class tail.”

“Juárez? Are you sure about that? I don’t have a lot of scratch on me…”

“My treat, soldier. You know what I say, nothing’s too good for a man in uniform. My car’s just outside, if you’re ready to leave here and have some real fun.”

The soldier remained unconvinced. “Maybe I should be getting back to base…”

“Owen,” Truly said, grabbing the man’s arm. “It’s just a little harmless fun. Take a look at the ladies. If there’s nobody you like, then I’ll drive you back, no harm done. But if someone tickles your fancy, I’m buying.”

Owen tried to refuse again, but by that point he’d had too much to drink to make a strong case. Truly left some cash on the table, showing Owen a big roll as he did so, and he steered the young, drunken soldier out to the parking lot where his rented Crown Vic waited.

Owen dozed off on the drive from Las Cruces to El Paso. He didn’t miss much. Even in the dark, Truly knew when they passed the massive stockyards at Mesquite, by the sudden, rich stench of what must have been millions of pounds of manure. The road was smooth and dark, then they crossed into Texas, and the lights of El Paso and Ciudad Juárez grayed the night sky.

Not wanting to drive across the border, especially since he had alcohol on his breath, if precious little of it in his blood, Truly parked on the American side of the Santa Fe Street bridge. Owen’s nap had sobered him up slightly, and the adventure ahead worked to subdue his mood even more. He went back to his taciturn ways, and his pace was brisk.

Truly paid the bridge fee of thirty-five cents for each of them, and they began the long walk up the high, arching span to Mexico. Even at this hour, with a cold wind whipping across it, the bridge was crowded with cars and pedestrians. Below, lights from the U.S. side washed over the concrete riverbanks, illuminating anti-American graffiti. Young men stood below the bridge with paper funnels and drink cups, calling for the crossers to throw down coins for them to catch. Closer to the Mexican side of the bridge, vendors worked the lined-up cars, washing windshields with filthy rags, selling pirated DVDs, cheap necklaces, yellow bobble-head chicks, and other tawdry goods.

Owen started to laugh. “Chickens?” he said when he saw a man carrying an open box of the bobble-heads. “Why would anyone want to buy a toy chicken from these people?”

Truly couldn’t come up with an answer to that, and Owen chuckled nervously the rest of the way across the bridge.

For Truly, Juárez always seemed to vibrate at a different frequency than anywhere else, especially at night. Darkness drew a curtain over the extreme poverty of the city, where thousands—if not tens of thousands—worked at American-owned
maquiladoras
for five dollars a day, in a place where the cost of living was eighty to ninety percent as high as on the other side of the river. At night the grunge and smog and tears and blood were hidden. In the colored lights, even the whores working the clubs and corners on Ugarte and Mariscal looked fresh and lively. Neon and incandescent displays glowed bright. The music wafting from nightclubs and car windows and apartments had its own special beat. Even the kids carrying baskets of churros for sale on Avenida Benito Juárez and the women clustered outside the offices of discount doctors were more colorful than in other border towns. Truly half expected to see the zoot-suited
pachucos
and movie stars of Juárez’s glory days mingling on the sidewalks or sitting, cradling heads in their hands, along crumbling curbs with drunken gringos and unemployed migrants from Mexico’s interior. He had never been able to determine why it was, but every trip here seemed like a journey to a strange and occasionally wonderful planet.