Sulfur Springs

  “With that?” I nodded toward the pistol he still held.

  He shook his head. “A scoped Weatherby.”

  “Had he followed us, the way you did?”

  Mondragón shook his head. “He might have been tracking Rainy’s cell phone.”

  I understood now why it had been left behind in the bloodied grass.

  “What did you do with the body?”

  “I dropped it in the burial ground of the great Arizona desert, where the vultures and coyotes and ants will reduce it very quickly to nothing but bone.”

  “Who was it?”

  “No identification. That’s how it’s done. I’m sure it was one of Rodriguez’s men.”

  Grudgingly I said, “Thanks.”

  “I love her, too, Cork.” Then he smiled and shrugged. “Mother of my children.”

  “What do you know about the Rodriguezes?”

  “Jackals,” he said. “They operate crudely. In the grand scheme, they’re nothing. They like to believe that they control this area of the border and what crosses over it. The larger, more powerful interests allow them to go about their business here, but at a price.”

  “Larger, more powerful interests? Other cartels?”

  “Think of it as a feudal system, Cork. There are those who operate below the cartels but only with their blessing. Like the Rodriguezes. And below that are those who live on the scraps the Rodriguezes throw them.”

  “What about your family?”

  “We need no one’s blessing, and we live on no one’s scraps.”

  The candle was burning low. It was becoming more and more difficult to breathe in the hot, dead air of the sanctuary.

  “You came alone?” I said.

  “This is my business. My family—my family in Mexico—have no interest in my family here. In fact, if they knew what my son was up to, they might add to the bounty the Rodriguezes have already placed on his head. I didn’t know anything about Peter’s involvement in the Desert Angels until Rainy called me last night. Had I known earlier, I would have put an end to it myself.”

  “He’s helping people who need help,” Rainy said.

  “He’s interfering with a number of enterprises.”

  “I remember a time when you would have applauded what he’s doing. Probably you would have helped.”

  “That time is long past, querida.”

  “So what now?” I said.

  “It’s safest that Rainy stay with me. Those buitres will try again if they know she’s still alive.”

  “What about Peter?” Rainy said.

  “Until Peter makes his presence known, there’s nothing we can do.”

  “Where will you go?” I asked.

  “Best you don’t know, don’t you think?” Mondragón said. “They may still come after you to get to her. If nothing is what you know, nothing is what you can tell them.”

  “Why do they want me?” Rainy said.

  “I thought at first it was just pure revenge. That car bomb this morning. But I believe they understand now that you would make a good bargaining chip. They might be able to use you to lure Peter into the open.”

  “What is it about Peter that’s so threatening to them?” Rainy said.

  Mondragón shook his head. “I don’t know. But the fact that they’re still after you is an encouraging sign that he’s alive and probably in hiding. Let’s go, querida.”

  “I’m not leaving Cork,” Rainy said.

  “Think about it,” Mondragón said. “You stay with him, he continues to be a target. Is that what you want? If you remain missing, along with that pendejo I shot, I think it will take them a while to decide what to do next. So we’ve bought some time.”

  “If what everyone says about the Rodriguezes is true, they’ll kill Cork just because he was with me.”

  “They may try.” Mondragón gave me and the Winchester at my side a frank look of appraisal. “But I think Cork is a man who can take care of himself.”

  “I’m not going,” Rainy said. “Not without Cork.”

  I hated the thought of putting her into the keeping of Mondragón, but he was right. It was safest for her. Still, I knew it would be a hard sell.

  “I can’t stay with you and help Peter, too,” I argued gently. “If I’m not worried about you, it will be easier for me to do what I have to do.”

  “And what exactly is that, Cork?” she said, clearly not convinced.

  Mondragón laughed. “Corazón, this man is a detective. He will detect.” His eyes nailed me. “And he will share with us what he discovers in his detection, yes?”

  “What seems appropriate,” I agreed. “Rainy, this really is the best way.”

  She looked at me, then at Mondragón, who said, “For our son, querida.”

  Finally, she gave a grudging nod.

  “A suggestion, Cork,” Mondragón said. “Get rid of your cell phone. They may be tracking you, too.”

  “I’ll disable the location services. That should do it.”

  “I’d prefer to be absolutely certain,” Mondragón said.

  “How do you suggest we communicate?”

  “An antiquated system. Let’s leave notes.”

  “Where?”

  “Why not here?”

  “The door’s always locked. You don’t have a key.”

  He laughed again. “It’s an old lock. It opens with a skeleton key. No problem at all.”

  “Where do we leave the notes?”

  He got up from the rail and went to the small altar. He lifted the cross, which was heavy and looked gold but was probably just brass.

  “How about under here?” he said.

  “All right. And how do we know when a note’s been left?”

  “The angel statue out front. We’ll tie a little ribbon on her uplifted finger. It will be easy enough to see. We remove the ribbon to signal that we’ve received the message.”

  “Might be a little conspicuous, tying that ribbon.”

  “It’ll take all of three seconds. And this isn’t exactly a busy neighborhood.”

  “All right. For now.”

  “We should go, querida.”

  I stood and Rainy with me. She stepped into my arms and laid her head against my chest. “You be safe.”

  I kissed her hair. “You, too.”

  I glanced at Mondragón for assurance. The best he could do was give me a nod.

  CHAPTER 16

  * * *

  I lay in bed in the cool of the parsonage, the weight of history once again pressing down on me. I have often felt deeply alone in my life. After my father died. After my mother died. After Jo died. There are always people around me, family and friends, but I tend to isolate myself, at least for a while. It’s how I deal with hard things. Although Rainy wasn’t gone in the same way, I still felt alone. As if I’d lost something as essential as my heart.

  I finally got up. I was going to disable the location apps on my phone, those I was aware of that might help someone who was interested to know exactly where I was, but I realized that I hadn’t communicated with my children since Rainy and I left Aurora. I called Jenny, explained all that had happened and where we stood, and told her I needed Rainy’s blood type. She promised to get on it first thing in the morning. I asked her to call Annie and to let Stephen know what was up when he was back from driving cattle. I told her I loved her and to pass my love along to the others. Then I spent some time disabling the apps and turned the cell off. I thought I might buy a throwaway when I had an opportunity, just to be on the safe side.

  I checked the old Winchester. It was a 30-30, model 94. Jocko had done a fine job of keeping it clean and oiled and in good working condition. Like a human being, every rifle is a little different from every other. You have to spend time getting to know it. I decided that first thing in the morning, I would head out somewhere away from civilization and acquaint myself with the peculiarities of this particular firearm, in the event that I needed to trust it and to trust my aim with it. r />
  I slept fitfully and rose at first light. There was nothing in the parsonage, food-wise, so I showered and dressed, checked the pickup for any sign of explosives, and went to a convenience store/gas station called Cadiz Corners, where I bought coffee, a breakfast burrito, and the six boxes of Arm & Hammer baking soda stocked on the shelf. I wolfed down the burrito, sipped the coffee as I drove south out of town. I climbed the saddle in the Coronados and passed through Sulfur Springs, which was only just waking up. I spent a little time getting a further feel for the town, driving up and down the streets north of Sulfur Creek, then across the bridge to the south, in the area known as Gallina Town. Although they were separated by a creek no more than ten feet across and physically were not all that dissimilar, they were two very different communities. Except for the name Rosa’s Cantina, there was nothing north of the bridge that even hinted at a heritage that wasn’t white American. There were ceramic deer in some yards, just like in Minnesota. The wagon wheel motif seemed very popular. There was a dull consistency to everything. South of the bridge was almost like another country. The yard decorations were brightly colored—ceramic roosters and chimineas and bathtub Madonnas. Things looked a bit more run-down, maybe, but alive. Almost all the signage was in Spanish.

  I kept driving. Outside Sulfur Springs, the road turned to dirt and gravel and began to climb. I followed it into an area wild with mesquite and prickly pear cacti. I came to a junction where a hard, narrow track cut to the right. The track snaked up into the desolate-looking mountains, where I could see an old structure high against a wall of rock.

  I took the cutoff and climbed the switchbacks until I came to a flat area at the base of the wall. The structure I’d seen from below had probably been part of a transport system for a mine operation—water or maybe the ore itself—but it didn’t look as if it would carry the weight of a fly these days. The flat was strewn with old detritus from the enterprise. I remembered Michelle talking about how mining had been an important part of the heritage of Coronado County. I parked and got out. Looking back, I could see the narrow track I’d followed up from the main road, and not far beyond that the fence along the border. I could also see where that dark fence line ended a few miles to the west. I thought I remembered the minister telling me that along much of the border there was still nothing but barbed wire, which presented almost no barrier at all.

  The mine entrance, a huge hole in the rock wall, looked to me like a dark, open mouth. A few yards in front of it, where tracks must have once run, sat an old ore car. Rusted piping lay tumbled on the ground around me like pickup sticks. A great piece of machinery that I thought might be a pump stood covered in cancerous-looking, orange splotches that, had I been in the Northwoods, I would have figured were lichen. In this alien environment, God alone knew what was feeding on that metal. To my right was a pile of creosoted railroad ties and to my left a mine building of some kind that had fallen in on itself. I walked to the mine entrance, which was framed by old wooden beams. Barbed wire had been loosely strung across the opening. A sign hung from the wire. A big skull and crossbones dominated the middle of the sign. The text, which ran above and below the skull, read: ABANDONED MINE. WARNING! DANGER! STAY OUT! STAY ALIVE! I could feel cool air on my face, a fine respite from the heat of the morning, which was, again, more intense than on the worst summer days in Minnesota.

  I walked back to the truck, loaded half a dozen cartridges into the Winchester, took the six boxes of baking soda I’d purchased at the convenience store, and set them up on a flat rock fifty yards away. I returned to the truck and jacked the first cartridge into the chamber. I’ve been a hunter all my life, and the feel of the rifle stock against my shoulder was old and familiar. I sighted on the box farthest to the right and squeezed off a round. A chip exploded off the rock just to the side of the box. I levered in the next cartridge and adjusted my aim. When I fired, the box spun like a crazy ballerina and fell. I sighted on the next box, adjusting my aim just a hair. This time the box of baking soda flew straight back off the rock.

  I sensed rather than heard someone behind me. I spun around. Sitting on the pile of railroad ties, watching me with great interest, was the old-timer from Rosa’s Cantina. He nodded to me, and the brim of his worn hat put his face in shadow for a moment. I walked to him. He didn’t seem at all inclined to get up to greet me but looked at the Winchester in my hands with great interest.

  “Sylvester, right?” I said.

  “That’ll do.”

  “What are you doing here, Sylvester?”

  “Right back at you, stranger.”

  “Just a little sightseeing.”

  “Kind of far afield from where most tourists go.”

  “I’m a little more than a tourist.”

  “Figured. Still looking for the boy?”

  “Young man,” I said.

  “When you’re my age, mister, they’re all boys.” His eyes shifted to the mine entrance. “Lots of old diggings just like this one in these mountains. Somebody puts something in there, good luck ever finding it.”

  “You know where these old diggings are?”

  “Been prospecting here since long before you were born. I know them all.”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his shirt pocket, drew one out, and lit it with a wooden match that he scratched to flame with his thumbnail. He blew smoke and watched it rise in the dry air above him.

  “Them Mexicans who come across the border, sometimes I find them holed up in the old mines. If I was to say anything about that in town, there’s folks would come up and use those poor souls for target practice.” Like blackflies, his eyes lit on my Winchester.

  I set the rifle down, leaned it against the stack of railroad ties. “Who would do that?”

  “Just folks,” he said.

  “So you don’t say anything. Why not?”

  “Maybe because lots of people in this part of the country got some Mexican blood in them somewhere. Or Indian. It’s far enough back you don’t see it in their faces. Because of how sentiments run way too often out here, you don’t advertise that fact.” He took a drag off his cigarette. “Or maybe I don’t say anything because having a cold, white face don’t mean you have a cold, white heart.”

  “Do you know something about Peter Bisonette?”

  “I know you keep looking for him, you’re asking for trouble.”

  “That’s not news.”

  “I suppose not.” He studied the tip of his cigarette. “You know the story of the optimistic kid? Always seeing the bright side of things? One day his old man decides to wise him up to the way the world really is. So for the kid’s birthday the old man gives him a big pile of horseshit. Figures that’ll do the trick. Well, the kid dives into that pile of horseshit with a big smile on his face and sets to digging. His old man says, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Kid says, ‘With all this horseshit, there’s got to be a pony somewhere.’ ” He laughed. “The kid you’re looking for, he’s like that. Strikes me, you probably are, too. World needs people like you folks. Hope you find your kid, mister.”

  “You can’t help with that?”

  We both heard the sound of the vehicle coming, the grind of the engine up the hard track I’d followed. I picked up the Winchester, walked away from the old-timer, and stood near my truck, looking down from the flat where the mine had been dug. I could see the dust in the vehicle’s wake, rising up amid the mesquite, and in a moment, I could see the vehicle. Border Patrol. I turned around and found that I was alone again. Sylvester was nowhere to be seen.

  I set the Winchester in the bed of the pickup, out of sight but within reach. I still didn’t have a feel for which way the winds blew in these parts. The SUV rolled to a stop behind my pickup and two men got out. One of them I recognized. Agent Jamie Sprangers. The other was a stranger, Hispanic in his features.

  Sprangers said, “I’ve been looking for you, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “Interesting that you were able to find me way out here.
”

  “It’s what Border Patrol is good at. I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine. Jesús Vega.” He pronounced the first name Hey-soos.

  The man was big, professional wrestler big. He offered his hand and nearly crushed my own when he shook it. I couldn’t help thinking about the Mexican wrestlers who wore masks in the ring. “Folks call me Jessie,” he said.

  “You Border Patrol, too?”

  “DEA. A lot of jurisdictions involved out here along the border. It’s kind of like a jigsaw puzzle.”

  Sprangers picked up the empty cartridge casings from the dirt beside the pickup. “Thought I smelled gunpowder.”

  “A friend loaned me his rifle. Just getting used to it. Came up for a little target practice.” I pointed to the baking soda boxes still sitting on the rock. “Something I can do for you gentlemen?”

  Sprangers said, “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  “Thank you.”

  “It was my understanding, when I spoke with Sheriff Carlson, that you would get your wife’s blood type to him so his people could compare it with the blood type of the sample they took from Robert Wieman’s ranch last night.”

  “Yes.”

  “You haven’t done that.”

  “No.”

  “You felt it was more important to come way out here for target practice?”

  “I contacted my daughter in Aurora, Minnesota. She’s working on getting me what we need. As soon as she gets back to me, I’ll let the sheriff know.”

  He digested this, and it seemed to sit all right with him. He glanced toward the mine entrance. “You know about this place, O’Connor?”