A Border Story
978-1-58124-418-2
Adventure by Ron Hess
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Published by The Fiction Works
http://www.fictionworks.com
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Smashwords Edition
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Copyright 2011 by Ron Hess
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Cover photo by Mark Coffee
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Chapter 1
I knew something was up when old Duke started barking, which was nothing unusual; he was always barking at a rabbit, and sometimes a coyote. That’s what it usually was, but he kept it up and I could tell by his barking that he wasn’t moving. I looked up at the Arizona sun. It was getting hot and I wanted to get back in the house.
I called out to him, which should have brought him back to the trail. Breakfast was waiting and, morning or not, I was starting to sweat. But now the bark had gone to a whine. He wasn’t far off the trail, which made me curious. I started walking up a slight incline through the brush. After a minute, I saw a patch of yellow through a mesquite tree.
“What’d you find, Duke?” I asked, as I rounded the tree.
“Stop!”
I have to say I kept my cool even though my mouth probably dropped open. To show I wasn’t dangerous I raised my arms. It was not the automatic pistol pointed in my general direction that drew my attention, it was how the hand that held it, shook. This from a woman, dressed in Levis and a yellow sweatshirt, flat on her back. As I held my hands above my head I became conscious of a near-by mourning dove cooing its song. A humming bird flitted nearby. It was a hell of a time to be thinking about birds, but then my thoughts weren’t about birds. It was about the end of my life. So I did the only thing I could do, which was to close my mouth, and try to find some way out of this gun-pointing situation. I finally found my voice.
“Ma’am please . . . please . . .”
“Call . . . your . . . dog off.”
I nodded, to show her I understood. Old Duke had been licking her face because one cheek was sloppy wet. The rest of her face was smeared with dirt and her lips were swollen and cracked.
“Duke, heel.”
Duke looked back over his shoulder at me, then back to the woman’s cheek only inches away. I could almost sense what he was thinking, and that was that the other half of her face obviously needed licking. I could only imagine what she might be thinking with a brown floppy-eared mutt large as a German Shepherd standing over her.
“Duke.”
He slowly backed away, turned and trotted over to me. I turned my head to look at the black-haired woman who was by now holding the pistol in both trembling hands.
“Please ma’am. Point that gun away from me and put the safety on.”
She lowered the gun but did not put on the safety. She raised herself up to a seating position, leaned back against a bush and with a free hand wiped at the Duke’s drool on her cheek. And again, I wondered what she might be thinking with this wrinkled white guy with knobby knees dressed in tan shorts and T-shirt not six feet away.
“Who are you?” she croaked and then fainted, pulling the trigger as she did so.
Her pistol’s discharge made old calm, cool me jump a near foot off the ground.
“God almighty, lady!”
I sat down, trembling with relief. That she hadn’t been hit was a miracle in itself. The bullet had lodged in the dirt between her pulled up legs. When she fainted her finger must have tightened just enough around the trigger to make the gun go off. I took an old red handkerchief out of my pocket and wiped the sweat off my forehead. Duke gave an anxious whine; I was not the only one under stress. I gave him a few strokes while I studied the woman.
What the hell am I going to do with her? She has to be an illegal—has to be. Do I turn her in, or let her go?
I took another look at the mid-morning sun. I couldn’t let her stay there to die, now could I? Knowing what the answer was, didn’t make me feel any better. So with a sigh, I struggled to stand, walked over to the woman, knelt down and gently disengaged the .45 caliber pistol from her hand. I was surprised to see that despite the noise from the gun she was still out, and this set me to wondering what had caused her to come over the border. Was she running from somebody or something? Well, right or wrong, I had to get her out of the sun. As I stood up, I pulled the clip out of the gun and put it in my belt after making sure the chamber was empty.
“Duke, guard.”
There was another anxious whine.
“Don’t worry, I’ll be right back with the four-wheeler,” I answered and walked down the hill to the main trail.
~
I leaned back in my favorite rocker and regarded the woman curled up on the living-room sofa. It was a good thing she had came to enough to help me get her onto the trailer. But after we reached my place, I practically had to drag her into the house. To my way of thinking she must weigh 140 pounds, She stood a good two inches above me, which meant she must be in the neighbor hood of five feet-ten inches tall. My knees and one shoulder were already complaining about hefting her indoors. Even the water I gave her while she was under the bush didn’t do much good as far as her strength was concerned. But I had the feeling she was going to be okay. She kept saying, “Mas, mas.”
And so there she lay, dead to the world, while I tried to decide what to do with her. The thought occurred to me I probably should call the border patrol and let them handle her. Maybe the reason I didn’t was because even in her sweatshirt and Levis, she didn’t look like most of the illegals I had seen. She didn’t look thin enough. Her long black hair with its streaks of white tied back in a ponytail intrigued me. She looked liked she belonged in an upscale mall. For sure she was not young. Nope, something awful, at least awful to her, must have happened. Most people with grey in their hair have their ruts in the road of life laid out for them. I sighed and reflected how almost every morning I would see fresh tracks on a trail that went by my place, made by people who had chosen to take a different fork in their road of life. Matter of fact I had seen so many that I took a Desert Eagle handgun every time I went on my morning walk.
I leaned my head back, closed my eyes, and eventually my thoughts turned to the past. A past that went back five years to the time my wife Maggie and I had bought the ten acres of land here in a nice little valley in the Patagonia Mountains. At first, we had moved a small trailer onto the place, but after six months Maggie fumed it was just too small. Knowing it was useless to argue with her, I gave in, because I knew if I hadn’t I would be in the doghouse.
“Okay, dear, what shall we build?” I said this with a long drawn out sigh married men use when faced with hopeless odds from their spouse.
After some study, we built a straw-bale, stucco tan-colored house with two bedrooms and a big living area, which was a combination of a living room and dining room with a kitchen at one end. There was a utility room and a small computer room, which was so important to our life style. A life style, which meant you depended as little as possible on outside infrastructure, such as electricity from a commercial source. To accomplish this we installed a solar panel with a bank of batteries plus two windmills, one to pump water and one to generate electricity.
Maggie was a birder. To define her further, she was a lover of hummingbirds. And in this area of Arizona there were all kinds of them. She talked about them to whom ever would listen, watched them with their quick fluttering wings and lovingly trapped them in a net so she could band their tiny legs. This banding was recorded and sent off to a regional organization. I willingly assisted her. If for nothing else it gave me something to do. Until a year ago everything had gone well. Our lives had a certain order. Then breast cancer, which turned into a brain cancer, struck her down, making me wishing I could have joined her.
While I had tried to keep my interest in banding hummingbirds, it wasn’t the same without Maggie. So I took up flying and maintaining my ultralight aircraft. I had learned how to fly the standard light aircraft in my late twenties on the G.I. Bill. Flying, I felt, was one of those occupations or hobbies that you were either in or out of. A person must fly to maintain proficiency—period.
The woman on the sofa stirred, which brought me back to the problem at hand. I knew I should have called Jim Overby at the Border patrol office, but she wasn’t in shape to travel. So I would wait and see. After all, didn’t I have all the time in the world? Apparently, she didn’t come from a bad situation. True, there were wrinkles around her eyes, but she looked pretty well preserved even with a streak of grey in her shoulder length hair. She looked to be in better shape than me. The Arizona sun had taken its toll on me, making for a good tan and more than a few wrinkles. Outdoors I wore a straw hat to protect my bald top to ward off the dreaded skin cancer, which I’d already had a bout with just a few months ago.
She stirred again and I saw her eyes wink open, then close, then open again. At first she appeared to stare at nothing, then I guessed that reality was starting to work its way into her brain. I had the idea she was thinking she was in a strange place and maybe in a place she shouldn’t be. She struggled to sit up on the sofa, so I got out of my rocker to help her, but when I laid my hands on her shoulders, she brushed them away. I squatted down in front of her, and watched her eyes dart around the room.
“Hey, take it easy, you’ve been without water out there in the desert, besides you’re not as young as you used to be. Your right ankle looks swollen.”
She turned her head to look me full on as she leaned over to feel it. Her face grimaced.
“Adonde . . . where . . . ?”
“If you’re saying what I think you’re saying, you’re in the Patagonia Mountains northeast of Nogales. You speak English, right?”
She nodded and tried to smile with her chapped lips.
“Yes . . . ” she said and looked directly into my eyes.
“You have green eyes!”
This surprised me so much that I had to put out a hand to keep from falling backward. Well, hell, this was a fine start. But after a few wobbles I recovered my balance and stood, scratching at an imaginary spot on my head.
“Uh . . . ready for a breakfast meal in mid-afternoon?”
She nodded and tried to stand up. She fell back onto the sofa with what I guessed must be a Spanish word for “crap,” or some such word. To help I reached out my hand and this time she didn’t brush it away. She took a deep breath and she lunged forward to stand beside me.
“Can you walk?” I asked.
“Yes.” She answered. This time more positive. She looked around the room.
“Umm . . . bano?”
“Yeah. Through that door over there,” and I motioned to a door in the living room area. She let go of my hand and I watched as she stumbled toward the bathroom, using her hands on various pieces of furniture to keep from falling. Eventually, she made it through the door and locked it behind her.
“Ohhhh . . . ”
In about three seconds I was at the door.
“Are you all right?”
From behind the door came a muffled response.
“Yes, your bathtub . . . it’s so . . . so nice.”
I smiled. Maggie and I had enjoyed the Jacuzzi. We had a lot of fun in that old tub, like a couple of kids, but then that cancer came and put an end to that kind of play. Another one of those endearing things I missed, even at age 63.
“I’ll be in the kitchen if you need anything, okay?”
“Yes,” came the reply.
A few moments later, just as I was ready to crack an egg, she poked her head out the bathroom door.
“May I take a shower?”
“Sure. Towels are there in the closet. By the way, there’s Chapstix in the medicine chest.”
I put the egg down, wandered back to the living room, and sat down. Presently, I heard running water and I reflected on why I was helping her. For sure I should be running off to see Jim at the Border Patrol. But a woman like her must have a story and I wanted to hear it before I turned her in. Maggie had always gotten after me for taking in stray dogs and this lady was certainly further up the ladder than an animal. The longer she stayed, the more I would become attached. That’s just me. And how would I explain her to the community, although sometimes I could do with out the nosiness of some well-meaning people.
The sound of a hair dryer came filtering through the bathroom door. Funny, I’d almost forgotten about it, lying there in the rear of the sink cabinet. I didn’t need it, of course, but my Maggie had.
She came out the door in Maggie’s old bathrobe, the one I hadn’t thrown away.
“Hey! What . . . ?”
She hobbled to a stop.
“Yes?”
“Uh . . . nothing. It’s okay.”
Why did she have to put that robe on? Couldn’t she have put her own clothes back on? She was certainly making herself at home.
She leaned on the back of the sofa and nodded.
“Your wife’s?”
All I could do was nod.
“She’s dead?”
I spent a few seconds rocking back and forth.
“Yes, she’s dead!”
“I’m sorry. I’ll take it off.”
I stopped rocking and took a deep breath.
“No, it’s okay. You’ll want to wash your clothes?”
She stood to full height and smiled a mouth full of beautiful teeth.
“Yes, it would be wonderful to have clean clothes.”
I pointed at another door off the kitchen.
“Can you run a washing machine?”
And I guess I knew the answer before she replied. Of course, she could. This woman obviously did not come out of a slum. No, that cultured voice definitely made her of a higher class. I watched her hobble off and wondered again what I should do. I got up and moved in the direction of the kitchen. Well, we would eat first. Come to think of it, I didn’t know her name!
She came out of the utility room, walking slowly. I could tell by the way she walked that she was trying not to show the pain coming from her ankle. She leaned on the end of the counter, and watched me crack the eggs into one fry pan and sausages into another. I smiled in her direction.
“You know, you could sit down. The more you move around, the more you’ll hurt that ankle.”
Using the counter for support she made her way to the dining room table and sat down. She gave me a small smile in return.
“Thank you. You have been very kind. I do not know how to thank you.”
I popped some bread into the toaster, turned the eggs over and regarded her.
Did I even want to know her name? It might make it harder to turn her in. I shook my head and turned off the stove. Well, the eggs were hard, the way I liked them, the sausages were done enough and the warmed over coffee would have to do. I sat the dishes on the table and sat down.
“I hope you like your eggs hard.”
The words were hardly out of my mouth when she grabbed a fork. I grabbed her arm and seeing the look in her eyes released it.
“Hey, wait a minute. Around here we say our prayer first.”
Her eyes closed and she put the fork down. What she was thinking I had no idea. But Maggie always insisted on a prayer before we ate. I don’t know, maybe doing so made me feel like she was still with me and I wasn’t about to change that ritual and the feeling it gave me. I bowed my head, not waiting to see if the woman did or not. I repeated a simple table prayer Maggie had taught me long ago. When I looked up, I saw her looking at me.
“Sorry,” I said. “You must be starving.”
She nodded, “I am hungry.”
I chewed on a piece of toast and watched her eat. I really wasn’t hungry, but eating on the piece of toast made it easier to talk. By the way she was going through the eggs and sausage I guessed I should have made a double portion for her.
“You can have my sausages, I really don’t need them.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Are you sure, Senor?”
I nodded. “Sure, supper time is just a few hours away and I was planning a small steak tonight. Maybe some ice cream afterward.”
Her eyes grew large as cup saucers as she started in on my sausages.
“Ice cream?” she asked, mouth still full of food.
“Sure, it . . . it is an anniversary date. When my wife and I got married. I don’t want her to think I’ve forgotten her.”
She smiled and set her fork down, Her hand pausing over the second piece of toast.
Her other hand touched my arm. “Do not worry, Senor, I have a feeling she knows.”
This made me cough and clear my throat. Then my eyes watered; there was no help for it. Maggie was still with me. I had to change the subject and said in a shaky voice,
“My name is Bill Walker, and yours?”
She hesitated for an instant. Then decision made, she said, “Lara Hernandez.”
I nodded and shook her proffered hand.
“Well, Lara Hernandez, finish your meal and then we’ll talk about what we’re going to do with you.”
Chapter 2
I watched from my rocking chair in the living room as Lara slowly limped over to the sofa. The look that I saw on her face when I said I wanted to hear her story was not encouraging. First her eyebrows had raised and then after a sigh her eyebrows raised again as if she realized the temporary respite she was in was not necessarily going to last. That a time of reckoning was coming. I hoped she would be truthful and not take me down some rose-petaled path.
As she plumped down I heard Duke yapping out by the stock tank. Trying to be nonchalant I rose and stretched my muscles.
“Just a minute while I take a look at the stock tank.”
I took a pair of binoculars off a living room shelf and peered out the front window. A flash of brown disappeared in the brush. That dog, always barking at the wrong thing. I walked over to the front door, opened it and yelled at Duke to leave the deer alone. He finally did after the second yell. I think he is going deaf, but it could be he pretends like he is. We have what would be called a good relationship, but sometimes he certainly tries my patience.
I closed the door and noted my guest had half raised out of her seat.
“It’s okay. I have a stock tank over by the well fed by a windmill pump. I keep it going for the deer and the birds. Maggie was a birder, you see.”
I decided against telling her that it wasn’t only animals that used the water. About every day there were also shoe tracks around the tank. Maybe that was why I hadn’t been bothered that much by desperate people who would steal to survive. I paid my price with the supply of water. She eased back on the sofa, her mouth a straight line. Her eyes closed and then opened. I wondered if the look I saw on her face was from relief that it was only a deer and not some bad guy, or was it simply from a painful ankle?
“You know, a doctor probably ought to look at your ankle,” I said.
Her eyebrows arched in alarm.
“No! No, I’m sure it is just sprained.” She said, softening her voice. She reached down to feel it. Satisfied for the moment she leaned back in her chair, and asked again, “Maggie was your wife?”
“Yes.” I said, as I moved back to my chair, thinking she was trying to change the subject. Maybe the lady had more problems than just a desire to get to a more prosperous country. I sat down, looked into her brown eyes and smiled to make her feel more relaxed. I wanted her story and hoped again it would be truthful.
“Okay, Lara, lets hear your story.”
She first looked out the window for a few seconds and then down at her hands on her lap. I knew then this was a woman in trouble, or at least she felt she was. She was telegraphing too many negative signals. Finally, as if in prayer, she clasped her hands under her chin took a deep breath and began.
“I was born in Mexico City. My father was a university professor there. Unfortunately, my mother died soon after I was born and so I was his only child. He had hoped, of course, for a son, but there I was and he had to put up with me. Because of me he had to hire a housekeeper. He saw to my needs, but I might as well as been a piece of furniture for I received none of the affection I wanted. I did well in high school so he decided to continue my education by sending me to university. After all, my education there was almost free for him. I think he secretly hoped I would find someone to marry.
“While I was in my second year I did fall in love with a man who was about to graduate. I knew he drank a little, but what student doesn’t from time to time. Because his father was in government he was also able to get a position as a clerk and it paid well enough so he took few bribes. After we were married he did insist that I go on with my education and for that I am grateful. Our marriage was a roller coaster with him being nice and then after a few drinks he would threaten me with his jealous rages. Thank God there were no children. He just knew I had a lover on campus. When I tried to reassure him that I did not, he would shout me down. To his credit he did not beat me. Usually, by the next day, all would be forgiven. I was determined though, to complete school; to get a teaching degree.”
She paused here and I guessed she was remembering old hurts. Again there was that side look before looking back to me. Did that side look mean she was fibbing a little? I hoped not.
“Then came the night, many years later, when he returned from a drinking bout with his friends. He said one of them told him he had slept with me. The fact I was over 50 years old mattered little. I had no desire for an affair. I told him I had only met the man at an office party and he also had been there, but he did not believe me and slapped me with tears streaming down his face. He then dashed outside to his car. There was a screech of tires as he left and I knew there was trouble coming. He hit a bridge and was killed. I had the satisfaction later of slapping the man who said he had slept with me and who had played my husband for a fool. But little good that did, my husband was dead.”
I shifted in my rocker to ease a shoulder pain. I could certainly see by her looks why a husband could be on the jealous side.
And it wasn’t hard to imagine what she looked like in her younger days. And she had that cute Spanish accent when she spoke English.
“And then what happened?” I asked.
“I continued to teach for a year. To . . . to keep everything normal as possible. Unfortunately, I came to learn my husband had debts. My father-in-law believed the rumor that I had not been faithful, or maybe that is what he said to keep from helping me. I am not sure. I had to sell the house. It was then I decided to make a clean break and leave Mexico City. In the newspaper was an advertisement for a governess position at a remote ranch southeast of Nogales. I took the position. I was tired of the smiling social life I had. Of the deceivers and the deceived. Now I wish I had stayed in Mexico City.”
I got up out of the rocker and stretched and smiled down at her.
“Excuse me. I get all cramped up if I sit too long.”
Her mouth crinkled in a small quick smile and I wondered if it was a smile of understanding or pity for the old folks. I hoped it was understanding and sat down again.
“Why do you wish you had stayed in Mexico City?”
She paused, looking down at her hands. I saw her knuckles get white. Ah, now we get to the heart of her, I thought.
“The rancher turned out to be a smuggler of human beings. Because I liked the quiet and peace and his two wonderful children I tried to look the other way. But when I saw him kill one of those human beings I resolved to leave. I loved those two children but I could not stay.”
A tear fell down her face and she used a pro-offered tissue from the tissue box. I had never heard such a foghorn. If the situation hadn’t been so serious I would have laughed out loud, but I did allow a small smile to crinkle my face. She gave me a glare over the top of her tissue.
“I cannot help it. It is my nose. My husband used to make fun of it. I suppose when I get old I will look like a hawk-eyed old . . . old crone.”
I could only shake my head at this revelation and thought, not in a zillion years will you look like an old crone. I gave her a nod to go on with her story.
“I began to look for a way off the ranch. It was not easy. My employer was very suspicious since he knew I had seen him kill an old man. When I talked about going to Nogales to shop, he laughed, and said I could order by catalog. I had become a piece of furniture again and I despised him. My chance came when he became short of drivers. When he told me I was to drive a van full of people, I begged off. It did no good. He simply laughed and said how would I like to become a so-called “wife,” of one of his men. So I drove a van to the border where I was met by a “coyote” who would take the people into the United States.”
Bill interrupted her.
“How far was this guide to take the people?”
Lara wrinkled her brow and looked down again at her clasped hands.
“Tucson,” she answered. “That was the nearest big city. He had a van waiting, he said . . . in the Patagonia Mountains.
When I told him I wanted to go across, he laughed and said, ‘no,’ that my owner would be very angry with him. When he said my “owner” I became very angry and told him I was going. Then . . . I pulled out a gun I had stolen from “my owner” and pointed it at him and said I would shoot his foot if he didn’t take me. The other men and women became angry with him and told him I was to go and to stop fooling around. He could see he had no real choice. And we left with me following in the rear.”
“And things went well after that?” I asked.
She looked back up from studying her hands and stared off into the distance.
“Si . . . yes, that is, until I twisted my ankle. That was bad, because he said he would not slow the rest of the ten people for me. I think he thought it was a good excuse to get rid of unwanted baggage. When I looked at the others, they would not look me in the eye and I was left to fend for myself. There was a trail and I tried to keep up, but after a while they moved on ahead. My ankle became very painful. I had to stop and rest.”
I interrupted again.
“How much water did you have?”
“One liter.”
I snorted. That was way too little.
“One liter? Is that all?”
“Yes,” She said.
I frowned and said, “It’s a wonder you made it.”
“Yes, it is. I am very grateful you came to help me.”
I sighed and wondered what would have happened if I hadn’t been there at that particular time to find her under the tree. Moreover, how does God get the timing just right? But such thoughts got me nowhere.
“Senor?”
I looked up from my reverie with a sad face I’m sure.
“Yes, well, go on,” I said.
“There’s not much left to tell. I walked slowly the next day. Then I ran out of water and that’s when you found me this morning under the tree.”
I nodded, got up and went into the computer room and rummaged through my stuff. When I came back to the living room I had what I needed, an aeronautical chart. I sat down beside her and spread out the chart. “Here is where we are. Can you show me where the ranch is?” She studied the chart for a moment and then pointed, “Yes, it is this ranch next to the high voltage electric line southwest of the Patagonia Mountains.”
I’m sure my eyebrows raised a notch.
“Hmn . . . not all that far away, is it? I see why it is a great place for a smuggler operation. It’s isolated and it’s close to the mountains.”
I folded the chart and sat back, fingers tapping a rhythm on my knee. Then I stood up, walked over to the living room window and stared at nothing in particular and thinking less.
“Bill, what are you thinking?”
I turned and smiled down at her.
“Huh? Oh nothing, really. Just thinking how things change. Nothing ever stays the same forever, does it? Say, why don’t you lay down and rest, I have to look around the place.”
I didn’t really need to go out side to look around, but it was a good excuse to do some thinking. After putting the chart away, I assisted her to her bedroom, and grabbed my hat as I went out the front door. It was time to start my usual inspection of the property. The garden, the short five hundred foot runway, the ultralight two-seater plane sitting in its small hanger back in the grove of cottonwoods . . . I loved it all. I wished Maggie and I had had more time to enjoy this life. She enjoyed those early morning flights, when the air was still cool with no thermals to cause butterflies in her stomach. I walked on out into the pasture that doubled as a runway and smiled when I saw the horse apples right in the track I used for takeoffs and landings. Good old Harm. Another source of memories. Harm was Maggie’s horse. She adored the animal, which, I confess caused me to be just a wee bit jealous. There was no doubt in my eyes that the animal sensed this and took great pleasure in pooping right on the runway’s path. A time or two I had threatened to send the horse off to an auction, but Maggie had said, “The horse goes, I go.” That she said this with a smile didn’t fool me. I knew there would be hell to pay if something happened to Harm.
There was a nearby whinny and a quickening of hoof beats as old Harm came up and nuzzled me on the shoulder, looking for a sweet. I gave him a sugar cube from the palm of my hand and patted him on the neck.
“Gonna be hot today, huh, old timer. Better stay in those trees.”
I gave him a final pat and the he moved off, going back to his favorite shady spot.
Well, back to the problem at hand. I would let the woman stay that night and then tomorrow I would go into town to see Jim. I wished I could simply do nothing, but if I let her stay until she was well, she would eventually be found out. Murphy’s law dictated that. No, it was better this way, whether I wanted it to be or not. And to be truthful, maybe I wanted the companionship. I had heard her story, but was her story complete? I doubted it; most people have their secrets. Secrets they’d rather keep to themselves.
I heard a whirring sound of wind and looked up to see a dust devil making its way across the runway. Its passage marked by dead grass and a few leaves as it zigzagged toward the trees where it disappeared. A sign of dry weather some said, but here in Southern Arizona it was normal and I fervently hoped the woman was nothing but a normal happening. Sort of the old, “here today—gone tomorrow” scenario. I looked back toward the house, to see and hear the windmill squeak as it pumped water into the tank and cistern. All was well, wasn’t it? But at the same time I felt this esper worming its way around in my subconscious. So with a sigh, I turned and meandered toward the house and walked quietly through the doorway, not wanting to disturb my guest. But she was awake and sitting on the sofa, sipping from a glass of water. She waved the glass at me.
“I tell you, Senor. Water is the essence of life. I have never known water to taste so . . . so good. Where does your water come from?”
I gave her a smile, glad to see her up and about. Her lips were looking much better. She was definitely on the mend.
“To tell the truth, I don’t know, except it’s from an underground source.”
I moved on to the refrigerator, pulled a beer off a shelf and twisted the cap off. I held it up.
“Water is fine, but beer is better.” Whereupon I took a big pull and sighed. “Yep, no doubt about it.”
I took a quick look in her direction. Was that a frown I saw? Well, no matter, in a day or two she would be gone. She interrupted my thoughts by setting her glass down on the table perhaps a little harder than necessary. She then got up and hobbled toward the window that looked out on the runway where Harm was doing his business.
“That is a beautiful horse.”
I took another pull and belched.
“You should have seen him when he was a mere five-year old. After Maggie curried him, his coat looked like black satin. His mane got awful long, but she wouldn’t let me trim it.” Another belch escaped my lips.
She gave me a sharp look.
“Senor, please . . that is so . . so vulgar.” She said this and then hobbled back to the sofa.
I cocked my head to one side, and thought, oh, little Miss Prissy are we? Well, darlin’ this is my house and I’ll well do what I want. Okay, so I was overdoing it a little bit. Don’t ask me why I acted as I did, maybe it was to show her who’s boss.
“Sorry, ma’am,” I said, and wished I hadn’t acted like some dumb kid.
To stifle the silence, I took the beer over to the kitchen and drained the rest of it into the sink. Somehow it had turned flat.
From the sofa, came, “ I am sorry, Senor, this is your house. I have no right, especially under these circumstances, to tell you how to act. You do not seem the type though, who would belch.”
I put the bottle in the trash; the woman had practically read my mind. I then turned to face her and quietly coughed. “My name is Bill, not Senor.”
She dipped her head at me with a smile filled with white teeth. “Very well—Bill—and my name is not ma’am.”
I moved toward the sofa and plopped down on the other end. I looked over at her.
“You got a nick-name?” I asked, more for conversation’s sake than anything.
She shook her head. “No, just Lara,” she said, in that low contralto voice of hers.
“You have a beautiful voice and an accent to go with it,” I said, and thought, no wonder the husband was jealous. With a voice like that, I’d have locked her up. I could feel my face start to turn red as she turned her head to look my way. I squirmed in my seat. Crap! Pretty soon I would be eighteen again.
“Uh . . . would you like to watch the news?”
Chapter 3
I turned over and was immediately met by the sun’s glare coming through the window. I took squint at the clock. ! Six o’clock! I had overslept by a good hour. For sure it was time to get up. I rolled back over again so my eyes were out of the sun and decided to lay there a little longer. My thought being that since I had overslept, I might as well be a true slug-a-bed. A snore followed by a snort next room over brought a smile to my face. Thank goodness I was usually a sound sleeper but did her snoring wake her from time to time? Well, enough of this laying around-thinking-business and I swung my feet onto the floor. Was she awake? Nope, she had started snoring started again. No wonder her husband went crazy, probably wasn’t getting enough sleep. I stood up; it was time to attend to the business of everyday life.
I had shuffled into the hallway on the way to the bathroom when I realized I didn’t have a stitch of clothes on. That was a holdover from my marriage to Maggie. We both had slept in the raw. Skin to skin contact sure beat trying to feel something through pajamas. I stopped and listened, she was still snoring, so no need to worry about clothes being on. I meandered on into the bathroom where I attended to business and finished with an electric shave of my two day old bristles. In my opinion electric shavers were the only way to go. Having to wet my face with hot water, then apply shaving cream, then move a razor over rough stubble made me cringe and not to mention the time it took. Normally I went three days but with a guest in the house and a female at that, I reckoned a shave after two days was all right. Maggie, of course, made me shave every day.
I left the bathroom, humming some old Vietnam era song and started down the hallway to my room. I knew that all was not normal when I heard a gasp, then a “Senor!” and a door slam. Crap, I should have remembered.
“Sorry, Lara.”
But there was no answer from behind her bedroom door. I signed, well hell, next time I ‘d wear clothes.
Breakfast was, in a word, quiet. There was little conversation between us, beyond such necessities as pass the salt and pepper. Their eggs had turned cold by the time she had exited her bedroom—fully clothed. My attempt at conversation was met by only by shakes of the head and a quiet, “yes or no,” I thought this was rather funny, but if for nothing else, I kept the smiles off my face for the sake of politeness.
I took a bite of sausage and gazed out the living room picture window that looked out on the front yard of the house. Well, hell, what did she think I was going to do? Jump her bones? Not that I couldn’t, but that wasn’t the way a gentleman handled himself— at least not me. Finally, I said, “How’s your ankle?”
Without looking up, she gave me a polite, “Much better, thank you.”
I nodded and finished my toast. Well, four words. That was an improvement. Since she had finished, I started to reach for the breakfast dishes.
“I can help, Senor.”
I laid my hand on hers.
“I’m sorry about this morning, Lara, I just forgot anyone else was in the house.”
She gave me a small smile.
“It will be okay. I overreacted. It was something my former employer might have done. After a few minutes, I convinced myself you are not a bad person and that you mean well. I have, what you say . . . some baggage.”
I withdrew my hand and bowed my head, thinking about Maggie. “Don’t we all.” I murmured and looked up. “Say, I need to go to Silver Town to get some groceries. Is there anything you like to eat?”
She shook her head. “I eat what you eat. I am tired of beans and rice. I will do the dishes while you are gone.”
~
As I finished loading the bags of groceries in my Ford pickup I glanced over to the old grey colored building with a rust covered metal roof called the Hummingbird Café. So named because of the occasional birder who might stop by to inquire where the little birds might be found. Grace, the owner, said it was the name that enabled her to stay in business. Maybe it was the three-feet high sign painting of a hummingbird on the front of the building that drew them in, but whatever it was, it was the place for a true-blue birder to stop in and get the latest scuttlebutt on sightings.
But my mind was not on hummingbirds that morning. Nope, it was on the white SUV with green stripes that drew my attention. And it was not just any Border Patrol vehicle, it was Jim Overby’s SUV. I closed the pickup’s door and stared in the Hummingbird’s direction. Well, my mind was made up and I started for the café, thinking how I would broach the subject of illegals with Jim without raising suspicion. He and I went back a few years and Jim had always made known to me that if I saw anything out of the way regarding illegals, then I was to let him know. I sighed under the weight of guilty pangs regarding my new live-in. I hoped that Jim would bring up a subject that would let me skirt around Lara without actually telling Jim that I had a problem.
I opened the screen door to see Jim, still with his no-see-through sunglasses on, sitting by himself at a booth. The other five or six people were just nodding acquaintances. Good, less complications.
“Good morning, Jim.” I said, and sat down opposite him in the booth. He smiled and took another bite out of a donut.
I shook my head and waved my finger. “I know you’re slim now, being you’re only forty, but someday . . . someday you’re gonna get fat.”
It was an old joke between us. He could apparently eat donuts all day long and still stay slim. He had no comeback for my prediction and I didn’t expect any. I waved at Grace, the owner, who brought a cup of coffee over and slammed it down in front of me.
“Anything else?” she asked.
I eyed the donut that Jim was now eating ever so daintily. Was that ecstasy on his face? Well, hell, I was due one. Maybe somehow, it would help in getting an answer or two.
“Yeah, bring me one of those. Only with the lemon filling.”
Grace moved off and I turned to Jim, “Does it taste that good?”
He wiped his hands on a napkin and nodded, mouth still full.
My donut arrived and I tried not to appear greedy as I lifted the moment of ecstasy to my mouth. I took a bite, chewed, and thought, now if I can only ask the right question.
“So how’s life,” Jim asked.
“Oh . . . about the same,” I answered and took a swig of coffee. That’s how eating a donut worked. You took a bite and then you washed it down with coffee.
“How’s it with you?” I asked.
He looked around as if making sure the people in the room were known to him and therefore trustworthy.
“Well, we’ve had some excitement the last couple of days. We found a dead illegal about five miles east of your place. Besides the hole in his chest, we found a wad of cash in his pocket. The Border Patrol thinks he was a smuggler. Apparently he was in a duel of some sort because his gun was in his hand with a spent shell casing lying nearby. What we can’t understand is, why leave the wad of cash?”
I started coughing and took a drink of coffee to clear out my throat. I managed to choke out the words, “That does sound kind of strange.”
Jim took off his sunglasses, laid them down and started drumming his fingers on the table. Noting that I had recovered he went on.
“How much do you know about your neighbor, George Porter?”
I took another bite of my donut and the sip of coffee that went with it. I shook my head.
“Not much. I think I waved at him once in the six months since he’s been on the old Thompson place. Why?”
Jim leaned back in his seat and put on his sunglasses.
“We are beginning to wonder about his background. An awful lot of people seem to be coming through his part of the valley you live in. You notice anything?”
I thought a moment and decided a little bit of truth wouldn’t hurt. “Well, there are strange tracks around my water tank from time to time.”
“Ever been bothered by anybody?”
I reluctantly took a last bite. How was I going to ask the question I wanted to ask? I shook my head.
“Uh . . . no. Maybe it’s because of the water? Maybe the smugglers figure the water is payment enough, you reckon?”
“Maybe,” was Jim’s answer. He leaned forward, “Anything else?” he asked softly.
I hoped I put on a look of a casual neutral indifference.
“Umm . . . no . . . but tell me, has any of the illegals ever asked for asylum?”
He scooted to the edge of the booth’s seat and stood up.
“Very seldom. What are they going to say? That life is tough for them? Hell, life is tough all over. Gotta go, Bill. Behave yourself and be careful in that flying machine of yours.” He paused, “And be sure to tell me if you see something that doesn’t look right. With that man being shot it may mean we’re about to see a new more dangerous phase to this smuggling game.”
I finished the dregs of my coffee, nodded, and thought, what have I gotten into?
~
I shut the screen door of the Hummingbird and watched another whirlwind march its way down the center of the street. Ordinarily, whirlwinds were a dime-a-dozen and meant nothing, just nature doing her duty. But now I saw something ominous. Was I like that whirlwind, being carried along to Lord knows where? And was the whirlwind that carried me wrapped up in the skirts of a woman named Lara?
I shuddered. Dammit man, you’re thinking too much.
Chapter 4
On my way home, I drove slowly past George Porter’s place hoping he might be at home. Sure enough, George was standing in his yard in front of his one-story white frame house whacking away at a mesquite tree. Well, no time like the present.
I pulled into the driveway and eased to a stop a few feet away from George, who by now had stopped cutting on the tree with an ax. I climbed down out of the pickup, walked over to him, held out my hand and introduced myself.
“I saw you working out here and since we hadn’t met I thought I’d stop by and say hello.”
He dropped his ax to his side and returned a handshake that felt genuine—man-to-man. His face crinkled into a smile. “I glad you did, “ He said, and took off his straw hat to rub the sweat away from his eyes with a handkerchief. I noted with a twinge of envy that he still had a head full of mostly brown hair with just enough grey to be dignified. After placing his hat back on his head he continued. “I was thinking we ought to get together sometime, but it seems there’s always something coming along that needs to be taken care of.”
I nodded in sympathy. “I can understand. I hear you’re a part-time janitor at the grade school?”
He nodded and the conversation went on from there about yard work and what it takes to keep a place looking presentable. After the good-by pleasantries, I climbed back in the pick-up and drove toward my place. I thought the conversation went well and I saw nothing out of the ordinary about George Porter. If he was up to something sneaky, then he played his role well.
~
I got a big surprise as I pulled into the driveway. “She” had gone outside and was making friends with Maggie’s horse. I didn’t know what to make of that. Should I be upset at her assertiveness? It seemed she did what she wanted. I pulled into the yard and sat for a moment. Sensing the problems to come, I sighed, mostly to keep what anger might be sitting in my gut contained as I got out of the pick-up and started taking the groceries into the kitchen. That was another good thing Maggie and I had done when we built the house, which was to keep openings to a minimum. The only other exit was off the main bedroom door.
As I sat the foodstuffs on kitchen counter there was a cough behind me.
“May I help you, Senor?”
I did not turn around. “No, I’ll handle it, and my name is Bill.”
“Sorry, Bill, I feel much better today.”
“Yeah, so I noticed,” I answered as I put a box of crackers away.
“You have a nice horse. What did you say his name was?”
“His name is Harm.”
I turned to face her, and I’m sure my brow was at least wrinkling. The anger in my gut started to surface.
“Did you consider you might have been seen while you were out there petting Maggie’s horse?”
She dropped her head and sat down in a chair.
“No, sen . . . or . . . Bill.”
“And do you know a smuggler was killed five miles east of here? Do you know what might be happening because of that? A shooting war between smugglers, that’s what!”
I watched her face turn pale at the news.
“Lara,” I said as quiet as my mad would let me, “Did you shoot the smuggler?”
She put her hand to her chest and looked up at me, tears formed in her eyes.
“Yes, me, who had never shot a gun in my life. Me, who just wanted a new life away from the life I was leading. Yes, me!”
I nodded and finished putting the food away. This situation called for some thought. To help me think, I retrieved a beer from the frig, sat down at the table across from Lara and let the cool liquid gurgle down my throat. Reluctantly, I sat the beer down and regarded her.
“Want to tell me how it happened?”
She sat back in her chair with an anguished look and began wringing her hands.
“You’re going to have to see the end of this, you know that don’t you?” I hated to make her relive the shooting, but this wasn’t going to be the first time for her. She might as well get used to it and I wondered again why I was getting involved with her problems. Why wasn’t I taking the easy way by calling Jim and telling him to come and get her? I felt a belch coming on and tried to stifle it as best as I could. Normally I would have smiled about this, but Lara and I were in unknown territory. Territory I would have just as soon not known about.
“It happened after I twisted my ankle. I pleaded with the coyote to go slower. Instead, he came back down the line of people, back to where I was and pulled out his gun. He said he would shoot me if I didn’t shut up. How I wished I had.”
She looked up from her clasped hands.
“Go on, Lara, you’re safe here.” Or least for today, I thought.
“As we went on I could not stop groaning from pain. Some of the people actually asked him to make me be quiet. I saw him pull the gun out of his coat as he walked toward me. Without thinking I pulled the gun out of my pants and held it up, hoping it would make him stop and think what he was about to do. I think me doing that startled him and he fired before aiming. And then my gun went off, hitting him in the chest. I did not know the safety was off.”
“Lucky for you,” I murmured.
Lara put her head in her hands and sobbed. I hate to hear women cry and I’ve heard more than one man say that. I had no idea why we do; Love? Who knows? I waited a few minutes until her sobs subsided. I sensed her story was almost over.
“What did the others do?” I asked.
She shook her head.
“Nothing at first. Then one man reached down and felt for a pulse at the coyote’s neck. ‘He is dead,’ he said. I could only stand there and shake as they began backing away from me, then they turned and walked away fast. I put the gun back into my pants and followed as fast as I could. But I never saw any of them again. I wandered for a day until I ran out of water and then you found me, thanks to God.”
Lara leaned forward and put her hand on mine.
“Please, you must believe me, Bill. That is the way it happened.”
“I’m not sure why, Lara, but I believe you, but please don’t ever lie to me. Lies are losing touch with what is real. We are in real trouble here. We have the immigration people to be concerned about and we also have the smugglers to worry about. Questions are already being raised as to who killed the coyote. Those people you were with owe you nothing. They are desperate and will do most anything for money. You can’t hide here forever. We would be lying to ourselves and denying reality if we thought we could.”
I removed my hand from hers. “Tomorrow we will see if we can’t come to a decision about what to do.”
Chapter 5
I sat up with a start. Son-of-a-gun. It was bad enough trying to get to sleep after having a long evening on the computer trying to find a way for Lara to be a legal, but having the moon shine in through the bedroom window, a window whose blinds needed fixing, was indeed aggravating. I got out of bed determined to find something to put up on the valance above the window.