Adobe Flats (17 page)

Grant shook his head. “Nowhere to hide.”

Cruz nodded. “And I can't outrun them.”

Grant felt the sweat on his back turn cold. Goose pimples sprang up on his forearm. Sometimes he and Cruz felt almost twinned, their thoughts running so close they could be as one. Grant wished he couldn't read her mind now. He looked her in the eye, then turned away. The stars were bright in the darkening sky, a perfectly framed starfield through the jailhouse window. Cruz broached the subject from the side.

“What was the punchline to that airplane joke again?”

Grant played along.

“The American said ‘remember the Alamo' and threw a Mexican out.”

Cruz stared into Grant's eyes. “I'm the Mexican. Gotta lighten the load.”

“No.”

“Yes.”

She laid a hand on his knee and squeezed. “Did you ever think how things would have been if only Newman had gone out the front door? Drawn their fire while Redford slipped out the back? Whole different ending. Right?”

Grant put his hand on top of hers. “And did you ever think how bad Redford would have felt letting his best friend go out alone?”

“You'd have to be alive to feel bad.”

“No.”

“Yes. You know it makes sense.”

“No.”

“I'm gonna die one way or the other. Might as well go out in a blaze of glory.”

“Like Butch and Sundance.”

“Except only Butch.”

Grant knew she was right. If he thought about it in a totally practical sense, it was the obvious choice. Normally Grant could do that—set aside emotion and do what had to be done. This time he couldn't engage his practical side. Emotion kept getting in the way. He held her hand and didn't speak. Cruz respected his silence and closed her eyes. Now that the decision had been made, she relaxed. Amazingly, she even slept. Grant watched her eyelids flicker as she dreamed. He supposed there was a kind of symmetry at work. The rule of threes. Bond had sacrificed himself for the unit. Mack and Coop had sacrificed themselves for the surviving pair. Now Butch was going to sacrifice herself for Sundance. It all made perfect sense.

He let her sleep and waited for dawn.

Grant leaned over and
kissed Cruz gently on the lips. That was something Newman never did to Redford. Thank goodness. Cruz's eyes flickered open and she smiled. It was still dark but dawn was already turning pitch-black night into shades of blue.

They were out of water. Low on ammunition. One rifle between them, which was just as well because Cruz couldn't shoot for shit. She'd smiled when Grant had told her that. He leaned forward and kissed her dry lips again. She kissed him back, holding his head in both hands as she gave him the last good memories of the love they had shared.

Cruz took the blue velvet case out of her haversack and held it in both hands. They sat in silence as the sky paled in the east. Dawn began to remove the cover that had been hiding the final stretch of ground to the safe zone. Grant should have gone while it was still dark, but darkness would have also hidden the decoy.

She handed Grant the velvet case.

“My father gave me this. Make sure he gets it back.”

At first Grant couldn't take it because that would be accepting what was to come next. She held it out to him. After a few short moments, he reached over and took it. His hand brushed her fingers. Her eyes became serious.

“Can you take the shot?”

“Before they lay a finger on you.”

“It's not their fingers I'm worried about.”

Joking to the end. Cruz sidled up against the half-demolished wall and peered towards the fires that signaled the final battlefield. She took an emergency flare out of her pocket and didn't look back. Dragging her ruined leg behind her, she clambered over the debris and shuffled across the open ground. At first there was no sound from the resting natives. Darkness protected her until she was halfway there.

Grant slipped out of the side door and jogged in a crouch, keeping as low as he could while not sacrificing speed. He covered the distance with an easy loping trot. The rifle hung loosely from one hand. He focused on the rocky ground. This wasn't the time to turn his ankle or trip over the uneven terrain. Cruz was depending on him, and he was depending on Cruz. The ideal partnership.

The sky began to pale. The sun lay hidden below the horizon but was already making its presence felt. Darkness drew back the curtain, and the scope of Grant's vision became wider and longer. He could see rocks and sand farther ahead than just at his feet. He could see the manmade embankment that formed the boundary of the safe zone. He was halfway there. When he glanced over his shoulder he could make out the shambling figure moving across the killing ground, approaching the campfires on the edge of town.

Cruz slowed down. She looked towards Grant, gauging how close he was to his destination. Dull gray light filtered across the landscape. Grant was a darker smudge of gray in the distance.

Grant scrambled behind the only piece of cover, a gentle undulation in the desert floor, and threw himself to the ground. He lay facing the township and the woman he loved. The shadowy figure was growing more distinct by the minute, but she still wasn't clear enough for him to take the shot. She would have to provide more light for him to kill her. A burden of self-discipline Grant wasn't sure he possessed. Cruz had courage in abundance. One day he would have to tell her father that. He shuffled into a prone firing position. Legs apart, one knee cocked. He sighted along the barrel and waited.

Cruz stared across the open ground. Grant had disappeared. For a moment panic fluttered her heart until she caught the glint of light off the rifle barrel. She took the empty canteen from her belt and unscrewed the lid. She raised her arm and dropped the metal container. It echoed and banged on the rocky ground. Voices shouted around the campfires. There was a rush of movement.

Grant took a deep breath and relaxed his aim.

The voices grew louder and more aggressive. The mob smelled blood. Silver blades caught dawn's early light. The crowd surged towards the injured medic. The sight of her bloodstained combat fatigues inflamed them. Machetes flashed in a ritual dance of bloodlust. They closed the distance on the lone soldier in minutes.

Grant eased one finger into the trigger guard.

The surge became a charge.

The shouts became a roar of anger.

Cruz held the flare in front of her and threw one last glance towards her lover.

Grant took a deep breath, then let it out slowly.

Cruz yanked the fuse.

Then everything came together in a blaze of symmetry. The flare went up, a whoosh of brilliant white light. The charging militia were frozen for a split second as if in a photographer's flash. The army medic stood with one hand above her head like the Statue of Liberty. The torch she held spat fire. Her silhouette was sharp and clear and an easy target. The rifle barrel settled as Grant's breath reached empty. Machetes were raised. The crowd reached Cruz.

Grant took the shot.

the present

He controls everything.

—Eduardo Cruz

thirty-one

The room was silent.
Grant's voice had descended into a whisper by the end. He'd drunk three glasses of water. It had only taken half an hour, but daylight had already turned to dusk. The smell of Mexican food was stronger. Doc Cruz brought Grant a fourth refill and then stood beside the cot. Grant took a sip, then held the glass in both hands on his lap. He looked spent, and not just because of what the fever had taken out of him. This was the first time he'd spoken about the shooting since he'd left the army.

“So now you can bring your friends in. Do what you will.”

Doc Cruz swung the chair around and pushed it back under the desk. When he turned to face Grant, the sag in his shoulders had gone and there was a sense of purpose in his stance. He looked taller, his chest full of pride.

“What do you think I want to do?”

Grant looked at the man standing over him. “I killed your daughter.”

“And yet she asked you to return her stethoscope.”

“Yes.”

“Do you think she would have done that if she thought I would do you harm?”

“Probably not.”

“Definitely not. She spoke of you often. Always with affection. What you did was…”

Doc Cruz's voice faltered. He let out a sigh.

“…necessary.”

Grant put the glass on the bedside cabinet. “What I did was run. And she paid the price for it.”

“That was her choice. She was going to die anyway. At least this way one of you survived. Pilar could always make the hard choices.”

Grant knew Cruz was right. He knew that Pilar had been right too. Her father appeared to have forgiven him. One of these days he'd have to forgive himself. In the meantime, he was in a house full of Mexicans who had already shown their dislike of him.

“So. Why are we here?”

Cruz leaned against the desk. “We are here because you did not follow doctor's orders.”

Grant nodded at the door. “And why are they here?”

Cruz pushed off from the desk and went to open the door. He paused with one hand on the doorknob and turned back to Grant.

“Because Tony Sabata has been smuggling illegals across the border for years. Until Macready started using the same route and shut him down.”

Sabata wasn't one for
explaining. What little he confirmed he did between mouthfuls as they all sat around the dining table. The rest Grant learned from Doc Cruz and the old Mexican that Grant had seen before working behind the counter at Sixto's—one of many illegals Sabata had helped find gainful employment in America. The fact that the old Mexican worked for Sabata's rival was either ironic or intentional. The more Grant heard, the less he believed in irony.

The way it went was this.

Sabata was a coyote: a man who facilitated entry into the United States and escorted his immigrants across the border. He brought them through the mountain passes of Big Bend National Park and north past Adobe Flats. He took payment, but only enough to bribe officials on the border and cover transport costs. Families came across in small groups, not always together. Reunions were emotional affairs and prone to exuberant celebrations. Sabata was never short of food or goodwill donated by the people he had helped. If they prospered, Sabata ate well. If they struggled, he helped tide them over until things picked up.

In recent times, things had not picked up. It became harder to place illegals in work, and the few he did find jobs for struggled to make ends meet. Texans were not known for their love of Mexicans. Sabata had to range far and wide to support his imports. The pressure exaggerated his already short temper. Family reunions became few and far between. He took out his frustration on the only person available.

“So you did push her against the cooker.”

Sabata made another tortilla wrap but left it on his plate. The room fell silent. Grant had just breached an unspoken code: interfering with the privacy of marriage. He didn't care. As a cop he'd been to plenty of domestic disputes. There was always a reason for relationships turning sour, but that was never justification for shoving your wife against a hot stove. Sabata stared at the Yorkshireman.

“She fell against the stove. I pulled her away.”

“That's not what the bruises say.”

The old Mexican sucked in his breath. The other two men were suddenly intent on folding minced beef into soft tortillas. Sabata locked eyes with Grant, preparing to escalate the confrontation. To defend his honor. This could get ugly. Neither man was going to back down. Grant flexed his legs under the table, ready to push up if Sabata lunged forward. He'd dealt with angry husbands at domestics too. The coyote didn't blink. The stare brought water to his eyes. Then he lowered his voice and nodded.

“The bruises were an overreaction.”

Grant waited for an explanation. Sabata looked sheepish. Maybe because he was talking in front of his men or maybe because this was something he was embarrassed about.

“I am not proud of my temper. She got burned. I dragged her from the heat. I shook her for being so careless. Too hard. She is the mother of my child. The shock made me forget that. I will never forget it again.”

The tension didn't ease. Grant didn't relax. This could still go either way.

Sabata leaned forward. “I hurt my wife. You stood up for her. That is the only reason I allow you to ask about this matter. I will not speak of it again.”

Grant nodded. “Fair enough.”

He scooped some spicy chicken into a soft wrap and folded it into a parcel.

“What happened with Macready?”

“About what?”

“About your smuggling.”

“I don't smuggle. I help people find a better life.”

Grant chewed and swallowed. The chicken was delicious.

“Until recently. What changed?”

Sabata banged the table. Everybody's plate jumped.

“What happened was Tripp Macready learned about my route and took it for himself. He paid more. I could not outbid him. The border guards grow fat on the smuggler's money.”

Sabata lowered his voice.

“You have upset him more than you upset me. That is the other reason I break bread with you.”

Grant held a tortilla in one hand and raised his eyebrows.

Sabata smiled. “Figuratively speaking.”

He leaned his elbows on the table.

“What I want to know is what you saw in the factory. What is Macready bringing across that means he can pay so much?”

Grant finished his tortilla and wiped his mouth. “Let me show you.”

He reached into his pocket and took out the gold medallion.

The room fell silent
again. Everybody stopped eating. Grant stood the coin on its side and flicked it into a spin. The gold blurred into spinning top. It glided towards the middle of the table until it began to wobble. Before it tumbled to a stop, Sabata slammed his hand down on the coin. He exploded with a string of swearwords in Spanish.

The other Mexicans sat back, startled.

Grant waited for a translation.

Sabata didn't explain. He glared at the medallion with fire in his eyes. Doc Cruz rested a hand on Grant's sleeve and leaned in close.

“Aztec gold. Was it all like this?”

Grant looked at the coin lying flat in the middle of the table. “A lot of it, yes. Some other pieces—ornaments, goblets.”

Cruz seemed reluctant to ask the next question. “What was he doing with it?”

“Melting it down into ingots.”

Sabata slammed the table again. “That bastard. He is not only raping my country, he is destroying its heritage.”

Grant didn't comment.

Sabata was on a roll.

“You should have blown up his entire fucking operation. That would have taught him a lesson.”

Grant shrugged. “The factory's only a waypoint. Smelting works on its way up the chain.”

Doc Cruz turned in his chair. “There is more?”

Grant glanced at Cruz but spoke to Sabata. “He might be bribing border guards to get his stuff across, but he's paying a lot more farther north.”

He rubbed his fingers and thumbs together as if counting money. “Army trucks don't come cheap. That many trucks don't go missing without somebody high up giving the okay. That costs more than a few corrupt crossing guards.”

Sabata allowed a touch of admiration to enter his voice. “You have cost him time and money. He will not like you for that.”

“I don't think he liked me from the start.”

“He will like you even less now. He will be looking harder to find you.”

Grant laid both hands flat on the table. The hairs on his forearms bristled. A cold shiver ran down the back of his neck. He looked at Sabata. “You found me.”

“I found out where you'd gone.”

“How?”

“Like I said, there aren't many people who own a damaged hearse.”

Grant turned to Cruz. “Or who are friends with the man everyone in Absolution knows I came here to find. Damn.”

Grant wished he'd been more tight-lipped about why he was visiting Adobe Flats instead of telling every man and his dog who he was looking for. The doctor who had hung his shingle with Hunter Athey. Even before he asked the question, he knew it was too late.

“Do you have a phone here?”