Sulfur Springs

  “Vigilantes,” I said.

  “They haunt the routes refugees often take, where water jugs and food and blankets have been set out by a broad range of humanitarian groups. They slash the jugs, steal the food and blankets, intimidate the refugees. And although they’ve never been caught at it, there’s good reason to believe they’re not above killing. They know about Los Angeles del Desierto, and are no more pleased with it than the Rodriguez family is.”

  “How often does he lead people across?”

  “Several times each month.”

  “And you know all this how?” I asked.

  Rainy said, “Because there’s a price on your head, too, isn’t there? You’re a Desert Angel.”

  Nikki didn’t deny it.

  “Did Peter get you involved?”

  “Other way around. I drew Peter in.” She gave a weak smile. “Several years ago, a number of us in Cadiz who were concerned about the terrible ordeal of those coming across the border began putting out jugs of water, food, blankets. It wasn’t much of an organization then. We did it quietly, because we didn’t want to draw attention. Two years ago, I convinced Peter to help us. His vision changed everything. With Peter, we became the Desert Angels. There are humanitarians on the other side of the border who’ve been helping those who want to cross. Peter connected with them, established a network. He began taking as many refugees away from the coyotes as he could. These are people so desperate to come here that fences and laws won’t stop them.”

  “Peter keeps them from dying,” Rainy said.

  “That and more. He keeps them out of the hands of the coyotes, who would take everything from them. He keeps them from being caught by the Border Patrol, who would just send them back. He delivers them into the hands of people here who’ll see to it that they arrive safely wherever it is that they’re going for a new life. He truly is an angel.”

  Rainy asked, “What happened to him the day he called me?”

  “He’d set up a rendezvous that night. The way it always worked was this: He would identify a crossing location along the border, somewhere away from the usual routes, and he would give it to me. I’d broadcast it during my show, work the longitude in with my chatter about the cuts I play.”

  I thought about the odd information I’d heard her give the night before when I listened to her program, the number of minutes and seconds in each selection. A longitude would be easy to embed in all that arcana.

  “The people on the other side use that information and are there to meet Peter with the group he’s going to lead,” she said.

  “He met the group that night?” Rainy asked.

  “I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him.”

  “Do you have any idea what might have happened?”

  “You need to talk to Old Turtle.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “I have no idea. When we communicate, we only use cover names now. It protects us all. To everyone else, I’m known as Nightingale.”

  “Why do we need to talk to Old Turtle?”

  “Peter told me that if ever there was any trouble, he’s the one to talk to.”

  “How do we get in touch with Old Turtle?” I asked.

  “Send your telephone number to this email address.” She wrote it down on a slip of paper and passed it to me.

  “Telephone number, that’s all?”

  “That’s all. Old Turtle will contact you.”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know. I’ve never tried it before.”

  “Do you know where Peter lives?”

  “When he left Cadiz, he didn’t tell anyone where he was going. But whenever we’ve met, I’ve always had the sense that he’s come from somewhere south.”

  “Sulfur Springs?”

  “I doubt that. The town’s a hotbed for White Horse. But maybe in the area.”

  “Are you in any danger?” Rainy asked.

  “Only if they grab Peter and he talks. Or,” she said, giving us a dark look, “if they grab you.”

  CHAPTER 10

  * * *

  It was only noon and already so much had happened that day. We drove back to the parsonage in Cadiz and sat at the table in the little kitchen. Rainy pulled out the photograph of Peter with Arweiler Bosch.

  “Still atoning?” she asked.

  Although she wasn’t really addressing me, I answered, “You believe he’s doing the right thing, don’t you?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then does it matter why?”

  She put the photograph back into her purse.

  As soon as Nikki Edwards had left, I’d used my cell phone to send a message to the email address she’d given me. Before we parted ways, she’d also given me the coordinates she’d broadcast the night before Peter went missing, the coordinates of the spot where the border crossing would take place. I’d used my cell phone to locate the place on a map. It was far to the west, as nearly as I could tell, in the middle of nowhere. I wasn’t sure what more there was to do at the moment except wait.

  We didn’t have to wait long. Within ten minutes of our arrival, my cell phone rang.

  “O’Connor here,” I said.

  “Mr. O’Connor, this is Albert Swanson. I’m a claims representative for Southwestern Mutual, the company that insured the automobile you rented. I wonder if we could meet to talk about that rental. The report I got is a little unusual.”

  “Someone blew the vehicle up, Mr. Swanson. That’s all there is to it.”

  “This isn’t quite like a normal accident report, Mr. O’Connor.”

  “I suppose not. But I arranged for full coverage. What’s the problem?”

  “There are details I need.”

  “Look—Albert, is it? I can’t talk now.”

  “Mr. O’Connor—”

  “Later,” I said and ended the call.

  Rainy gave me a questioning look.

  “Insurance,” I said.

  The phone rang again immediately. I expected it to be Swanson, but it wasn’t. The display read MUSTANG PROP.

  “Mr. O’Connor, you don’t know me, but I’d like very much to talk to you.” It was a woman’s voice, not what I’d expected from someone who’d taken the code name Old Turtle.

  “Who is this?”

  “My name is Marian Brown. I’m mayor of Sulfur Springs. I heard about what happened this morning. I believe we need to talk.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I’d prefer to do this in person. Can I meet you somewhere?”

  “How about Sulfur Springs?”

  “That would be fine. My office is on Main Street, a block south of Rosa’s Cantina. Mustang Properties. How soon can you be here?”

  “Half an hour.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “Who was that?” Rainy asked.

  “The mayor of Sulfur Springs. She wants to see us.”

  “Maybe she knows Peter.”

  “Let’s find out.”

  It was the nicest of the buildings on Main Street in Sulfur Springs, though still ancient. We’d seen it the day before, but hadn’t paid much attention. When we pulled into town and parked, I looked up the street at Rosa’s Cantina. The old-timer named Sylvester, who’d been drinking with the cop Sanchez the day before, sat on a rocker in front, watching us with great interest.

  We stepped into the cool air of the office. A woman stood and came from behind her desk to greet us.

  “Ms. Brown?”

  “Call me Marian. You must be Cork. And that would make you Rainy.”

  Marian Brown looked old enough to have been retired many years, but there was nothing retiring about the mayor of Sulfur Springs. Her hair was red, her eyes dark and sharp. Her face was tanned leather, and from the moment I laid eyes on her, I thought she seemed well suited to the desert, where everything protected itself with thorns. She was decked out in jewelry. Not the silver and turquoise I’d always associated with the Southwest. It was all diamonds and gold. We shook hands a
round and she invited us to sit in the chairs where, I imagined, her clients sat.

  “You’re the mayor here?” Rainy said.

  “For twenty years. Before that, it was my father. Before him, his father. My family goes way back in the Southwest. We’ve fought Apaches and Pimas and Pancho Villa.”

  “Is the fighting over?” I asked.

  “Between politics, economics, and the weather, is the fight ever over anywhere? So.” She folded her hands on her desk as a schoolteacher might have. “That car bomb wasn’t about the weather. Maybe a little about politics. But most probably, I think, it was about economics. By now, the name Carlos Rodriguez is familiar to you.”

  “We know it.”

  “Did you know it before you came to Coronado County?”

  “No.”

  “Rodriguez. Las Calaveras. Sinaloa. Los Zetas. The Knights Templar. Cartels whose billion-dollar business is to shove drugs and poor people up the ass of this country.” She leveled a long, hard look on Rainy. “What is it about your son that makes Carlos Rodriguez want you dead?”

  “You know about my son?”

  “I know you’ve been asking about him all over Coronado County. He seems to be missing, yes? No sooner do you arrive to look for him than you almost get yourselves blown to smithereens. So I’m guessing that bomb wasn’t really because of you but because of your son. Around here, the only people who blow up other people are the Rodriguezes. The question becomes, then, why do they want you dead? And now we’re back to your son.”

  “If it was Carlos Rodriguez or one of his family, I have no idea why they tried to kill us,” Rainy replied. “I don’t know what my son might have to do with that. I only want to find him and make sure he’s all right.”

  The mayor of Sulfur Springs studied my wife, and I was pretty sure she wasn’t convinced. “What brought you here?”

  “Peter called me. He said he was in trouble.”

  “What kind of trouble?”

  “He didn’t say.”

  “I’ve heard that your son has struggled with drug addiction.”

  “He’s clean now.”

  “But he probably knows the people around here who deal.”

  “He came for treatment at the Goodman Center. Before that, he was in Tucson. A student there. And before that, he was a Marine. I don’t know why he’d have any information about drug dealers here.”

  “The people who get treatment at Goodman are usually wealthy, or their families are. Are you wealthy?”

  “What’s your point?” I asked.

  “Just trying to get the lay of the land, Cork. I’d like to understand all the elements at work here.”

  “What’s your interest in Rainy’s son?”

  “I’d like to help you find him.”

  “Out of the goodness of your heart?”

  “We lost one of our citizens to a car bomb a few months back. I’m sure he was killed by the same people who targeted you. The Rodriguezes.”

  “We heard that citizen of yours was involved in White Horse,” I said.

  “I can’t say one way or the other about that.”

  “Why did the Rodriguezes want him dead?”

  “Maybe for the same reason they seem to want you dead. And that’s what I’d like to know. The why of it.”

  “Because you’re mayor of Sulfur Springs and you worry about your constituents?”

  “What happens in Sulfur Springs, in all of Coronado County, is my business. When I spit, I hit Mexico. If the cartel wanted to decimate this town, they could do it in a heartbeat. What’s to stop them? That fence?”

  “So it’s up to you? And maybe White Horse?”

  “I’ve got nothing to do with White Horse. I don’t know anyone who does. But I do hear things, so I might be able to help you find your son.”

  “How?” Rainy asked.

  “I’ll put the word out to watch for him, or for any sign of him.”

  “Sheriff Carlson said he’d do the same thing,” I told her. “And your Officer Sanchez.”

  “Nobody who knows anything talks to anyone associated with legal authority here. God alone knows who’s in the pockets of the cartels.”

  “So you’re the one we should trust?” I said.

  “Best to trust no one. But if you want to be sure you’re not whispering into the ear of the cartel, I’m the one to talk to. You have my number. And you know how to find me now.”

  We stood to leave.

  “Tell me something, Marian,” I said. “Do you sell a lot of real estate in Coronado County?”

  “It’s not a bad place if you want to get away from the rat race.”

  “And if you don’t mind getting poor people shoved up your ass?”

  Which didn’t seem to faze her at all. She smiled and said, “Good day.”

  On the street outside, Rainy said, “Another someone who says trust no one but me.”

  “A familiar refrain in this county. Hungry?”

  “Breakfast was a long time ago. I suppose we should eat.”

  We walked up the street to Rosa’s Cantina. The rocking chair in front was empty now. When we stepped inside, the place seemed empty, too.

  “Anybody home?” I called.

  The young woman who’d served us the day before came from the kitchen, and her surprise at seeing us was obvious.

  “Can we get a bite to eat?” I asked.

  “No problem. Have a seat. Something to drink?”

  “I’ll have a Tecate.”

  “Iced tea,” Rainy said. “If you have some.”

  “Be right back.”

  We sat and she brought our drinks.

  “Kind of surprised to see you folks. Most people who aren’t local stumble in here once and I never see them again.”

  “We didn’t exactly stumble,” I said.

  “Menus?”

  “I’ll have the same thing I had yesterday.”

  “That’d be the enchilada stack.” She glanced at Rainy. “Smothered burrito again?”

  “Why not?” Rainy said. “You have a good memory.”

  “About food and drink anyway.” She vanished into the kitchen.

  When we were alone, Rainy said, “This town gives me the creeps.”

  “This whole county gives me the creeps. It’s just like everyone keeps saying, a war zone. But the casualties are kept out of sight.”

  Rainy stared out the window at the empty street. “Maybe like Agent Sprangers said, they’re dead in the desert and good luck finding them.”

  “That’s not Peter,” I said.

  She took my hand. “That’s not Peter.”

  When the food came, our waitress said, “What brings you folks back to our lovely little burg?”

  “We just met with your mayor,” I said.

  “Marian? Real piece of work, that one. Notice her jewelry? When she dies, I’m betting she’ll be buried with all of it. That and her Lexus. Pretty much owns Sulfur Springs. A lot of ranch country around here, too. And some old mine holdings. Her family goes way back.”

  “So she told us. What about you?” I asked.

  “When I’m not minding the bar, I take photographs. I like to think of myself as an artist. I’ve got some pieces showing in a gallery up in Tucson.”

  Rainy said, “Do you mind if I ask you something?”

  “Nothing to hide. Go right ahead.”

  “You’re Hispanic?”

  “Mexican on my mother’s side. From Chihuahua. My father’s Italian.”

  “How is it in Coronado County for someone with Mexican blood?”

  “The more Mexican you look, or Indian for that matter, the harder it is.” She gave Rainy a frank look. “Native?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you been stopped yet? By Border Patrol or cops?”

  “Yes,” Rainy said.

  “But you were with him, right?” She nodded at me. “So I’m guessing it wasn’t so bad.”

  “They can’t stop everyone who looks Hispanic.”
r />   “They can try. There are things you do and don’t do in Coronado County if you look like us. Learn what they are and you’re fine. You just blend in then.”

  “How is it here in Sulfur Springs?” I asked.

  “Sulfur Creek divides this town. Have you been south of the creek yet?”

  “No.”

  “Go south of the creek. You’ll see.”

  “What will we find?”

  “The maids, the cooks, the service people for Cadiz, the hired hands for the ranches and the vineyards. People doing the jobs white folks don’t want to do for the pay that’s being offered. It’s a nice little community south of the creek. The housing’s not so great maybe, but it’s affordable. You’ll hear Spanish more than English. And good luck ever catching Britney Spears coming out of a boom box. Folks north of Sulfur Creek call it Gallina Town.”

  “Gallina? Chicken Town?” Rainy said.

  “If you go, you’ll see why.” She smiled at me. “Don’t worry that you’re the only white faces there. Being white south of Sulfur Creek is a whole lot safer than being Mexican north of the border.”

  “What about White Horse?” I asked. “Do they cause any trouble here?”

  The change in her demeanor was almost imperceptible. “I don’t know anything about them.”

  “How about the Rodriguezes?”

  “Lots of Rodriguezes in southern Arizona. You folks enjoy your food.”

  * * *

  It was midafternoon when we finished our meal and walked out of Rosa’s Cantina. The thermometer hanging on the wall of the post office read ninety-nine degrees. We strolled the street, sweat trickling down my temples like the crawl of flies. I thought about home, about how, when a summer day got too warm, you could just dive into a clear, clean, cool lake, and it was all better. We crossed a narrow bridge in the shade of cottonwoods, and were south of Sulfur Creek. Gallina Town. The main street was paved, but those that cut off from it right and left were all gravel or dirt. The houses along them were small and shabby looking, some built of adobe but more prefabs. A number of mobile homes were set among them, mounted on cinder blocks, and dogs peered out at us from the shadows under them, too tired or hot or disinterested to move as we passed. The reason for the name was clear. The only signs of life were the chickens and the colorful roosters that strutted and scratched in the yards and roamed freely in the dirt streets.