Border Crossings: A Catherine James Thriller (34 page)

A split second later came the rain.  Bullets shred the taxi like it was an aluminum can. It was over in seconds.  Then the police approached the Toyota and hastily removed Catherine, slamming her head against the top of the car as they cuffed her.  They treated Matt with the same affection, but neither cared.  They were alive.  Catherine looked on while the authorities removed Arismendez and his driver.  Arismendez was a bloody mess.  Innumerable bullets had reduced the kingpin to a mangled corpse.  She then looked to Matt, and wasn’t too surprised to find that even with a boot on his back and his head pressed down into the glass-strewn asphalt while they slapped on the cuffs, Matt was smirking.

The day Catherine landed back in Dallas she had passed an attractive young Mexican woman in the airport who was being walked to the gate by a detective.  Catherine had barely glimpsed the badge and gun peeking out from under his jacket as they passed.  It was enough to snap her out of a thought she’d been lost in, something that had been occurring fairly frequently since she had shared an awkward goodbye with Matt in Cancun.  The last few days had stirred up a whirlwind of thoughts.  She and the young woman’s eyes met for the briefest of moments, and then they were past each other, each returning to the home from which they had traveled so far.  Catherine pulled the headphones from her pocket and plugged them into her phone/mp3, letting the music clear her head a bit.

She and Matt had visited Julio again before heading home.  He was thriving at Patrick’s home
, and in an unexpected result she couldn’t have hoped for, Patrick said he and his wife had decided they wanted to take the boy in permanently.  “He’s already just like family,” Pat explained.

“Are you sure?” Catherine had asked
in surprise.  “What about your wife?”

“Hell, whose idea do you think it was in the first place?  She just loves that boy.  She took to him like I took to hers. 
She said she'd be damned if she let him go back to the streets and I can tell you right now that kid ain't going to sit still in no orphanage.  If they try putting him in one he might stay for supper but he'll be long gone by bed time.  He's not having any part of 'em and I can't say I blame him.”

"And you're okay with it?" she asked him, tentatively.

He smiled and shrugged, "He's a good kid.  We'll figure it out."

Catherine could hardly believe it but she
instantly had an idea of something she could do, not only for Patrick's generosity, but also for Julio.  She decided to give them a hell of a going away present . . . the diamonds from Ortiz’s safe as well as the money left over.  She took some out for the damage to the rental cars and a fair bit she insisted Matt take for a rainy day, but the rest she handed over to Patrick along with the diamonds.  “Holy shit on a stick, are these real?” he'd asked, holding up a round diamond twinkling in the sun.

“Oh, yes.  The finest of quality, I’
ve been told.”  Then he looked in the bag she handed him full of money.

"Jesus!" he exclaimed.  "I can't take all this from you two!"

But Catherine wasn't taking no for an answer.  “It belonged to the man that killed Julio’s friend and tried to kill him, so I’d say he's owed.  And if you’re going to be watching after him, then you’d better hold on to it and use it for your family.”

"And go do something about that skin cancer, will you?" Matt added.  "It looks like hell."

After much convincing, he accepted.  “I’ll make sure we put it to good use.  I suppose I will have to go get this looked at now," he said, nodding towards his shoulder.  He smiled at Matt.  "Asshole, now I have to go see a doctor."

Matt smiled back, "Quit being a puss."  The two shook hands and Patrick couldn't help but keep peeking inside the bag and shaking his head in amazement.

It was a hard goodbye with Julio.  She’d grown quite affectionate toward the little man, and promised to call and check in with him now and then.

The goodbye with Matt had been less conclusive.  They’d had to stay a few more days, thanks to an enormous amount of paperwork needed in order to satisfy the authorities.  But given that they’d single-handedly handed Arismendez, albeit dead and riddled with bullet holes, back to law enforcement after he’d already escaped their grasp, the Mexican government turned out to be quite appreciative.  They’d extended many thanks and contrary to the fear of reprisal that had crossed their minds, Catherine and Matt were told in no uncertain terms they were welcome back to Cancun anytime they liked.  Even so, they didn’t book any immediate travel plans to return.

As for Yesenia, she didn’t think twice about the raven-haired woman with the blue eyes when they passed each other in the airport.  She was lost in thoughts of her own.  She’d stayed long enough to put her testimony down on tape for the police and visit Imelda and Catalina in the hospital, but she longed for home.  The other girls who hadn't made it were to be sent home for a proper burial with their families, assuming Zuniga could determine where each one’s home had been.  Yesenia knew Imelda would probably be able to help provide their information once she was well enough.  Zuniga had been nice enough to see her off to the airport and they walked together in silence towards her final departure.

She
was headed back to Mexico City . . . the first time she would ever fly.  She’d always imagined flying in a plane would be exciting but given all she’d been through, it now held little appeal.  Once back, she had plans to stay with Ceci for a bit.  She wasn’t sure if she’d stay in the city or go back to Santa Rosanna, but after the hell she’d found in el Norte, a quiet life back in her small town seemed much more satisfying to her now than it had a few months ago.

A month after things had settled back to normal Catherine sat in her office looking over a new contract.  An oil processing plant was being built in India and she was one of hundreds of attorneys and consultants hired to look over their particular parcel of information.  She let out a long sigh and pushed the contract away.  Then she opened her desk and pulled out a fresh Newsweek magazine which contained an article about the Taylor Woodall murder.

Following the shootout in the street near the airport, a massive investigation had been launched which resulted in the arrest of twenty-seven police officers and officials, all charged with aiding and accepting bribes from the cartel.  It was a start.

She looked at the small picture of Detective Ramirez and her fingers ran over the sub-caption
Detective Assassinated in Revenge Killing
.  He’d been coming out of his front door not two weeks after she left Cancun when a car pulled up and opened fire.  He’d been struck several times.  A banner had been left on his doorstep warning others of interfering with the cartel’s operations. Arismendez or no Arismendez, the cartel was already back at work. 
I’m sorry,
she told him in her thoughts. 
You were one of the good guys.

After Catherine re-read the Newsweek article for at least the tenth time, she put it away in her drawer.  Then she picked up her phone and made a call.

“Hello?”

“Matt?” she asked.

“Catherine . . . hi, how are you doing?”  Matt had since returned to his little house in the Florida Keys where he spent his leisure time fishing, snorkeling, and occasionally treasure hunting for lost Spanish bullion.  He never found much, a silver coin here, a ceramic cup there, but he enjoyed it, and after the war they’d been through in Mexico, he decided it was time to take a nice long break from work.  He’d reimbursed Titansteel and after they’d learned what he’d been up to in Cancun, and what he’d accomplished there, he was more in demand than ever.

“I’m good,” she said.  “I’m doing okay.  Thanks to you.”

“Any time,” he said.  “I hear the tourists are already returning to Cancun.”

“Yeah,” she told him.  “Unbelievable, isn’t it?  The Association of Hotels down there slashes prices and starts advertising the city corruption has been wiped out, and people start showing up in masses.”

“Marketing,” he said with a melancholy laugh.

“I guess.  Hey, Matt?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been thinking about a long overdue vacation.  And since Mexico is definitely not in my travel plans any time soon, I was wondering . . . how’s the weather down there?”

He looked out his window on a perfectly miserable day, gray and pouring rain.  He smiled, “It’s perfect.”

Catherine smile
d on the other end of the phone.  “Good.  I’ll see you soon, then.”

A few days later Catherine was busy going over her schedule, making sure everything was in order for her getaway to Florida to see Matt, when her cell phone rang.  “Hello, Ms. James.”

“Who is this?”

“Did you know, Ms. James, that the translation of the word Cancun in ancient Maya is
nest of snakes?
  It’s a shame, really.  It’s a beautiful land.  I’m quite fond of it.  People forget its history, its culture.  It saddens me to see the
narcos
infecting such purity.”

At first she couldn’t quite understand what was happening, but suddenly it clicked who was on the other end of the phone.  She’d heard
this voice before, that odd mechanical English with no hint of accent or origin.  She wasn’t quite sure what to say.  She had so many questions, but somehow she knew he wouldn’t answer most of the ones she wanted to ask.  But there was one she ventured to try.  “How’d you know?”

“Which part, Ms. James?  How’d I know where Arismendez was?  Or how did I know who you were and how to reach you?”

“Both.”

She could almost hear the bemused smile on the other end of the line.  “Well, we all have our secrets, I suppose.  I think it best if I keep mine.  I must say, though, I was particularly impressed that you and your companion found a way to prevent Arismendez from surrendering to the authorities.  You even managed to get the
m to finish him off.  I still can’t decide if that was brilliant or dumb luck born of complete lunacy.  Either way, I confess I didn’t know as much about you as I thought I did.  Why did your companion do it, if I may ask? Why did he get out of that car unarmed?  I’ve tried to imagine what was going through his mind to inspire such an act of faith.  He very nearly got you both killed.  I hope you realize how close you both came to being shot to pieces out there.”

Catherine thought back to that
moment.  Then she thought about everything else they did and what Matt had done in the jungle so many years ago which had ended their relationship.  Right or wrong, she at least felt like she understood things more now.  “I suppose he just thought it was the right thing to do at the time."

“And
you, Ms. James?  Some would say you have blood on your hands."

"
Some might.  But I did what I thought was right, too.  Sometimes there just has to be a reckoning, not just for Taylor Woodall, but also for a little boy named Juan, for all of it."

There was a long pause before the man on the other end of the phone spoke again.  “You humble me, Ms. James.  You truly do.”

Catherine thought now a good moment to try one more burning question, “Who are . . . “

Click.

Fuentes clicked the End Call icon on his laptop and the phone conversation ended.  He’d made the call over the web through a program which would take the most skilled of computer forensic analysts to track down its origin.  It also allowed him to control the tone and pitch of his voice, slowing it down so it sounded deeper and further eliminating his accent, which he’d already become adept at doing over the years.

He took the piece of paper in his hand, the hand gun permit for one Ms. Catherine James, complete with an old cell phone number that hadn’t changed since the last annual renewal, and put it back into a
folder on his desk marked Woodall, T.

The rest of the governor’s office was empty save for him.  He shut down the laptop and put it into his briefcase, then pulled out an ashtray from  his desk drawer, the pack of cigarettes and lighter therein, and lastly the little bottle of scotch he kept for late evenings such as this when he was alone at his desk thinking about the state of affairs of his station.  He lit up the cigarette, took a long drink, and looked over the file one last time.

A nest of snakes,
he thought to himself.  He was in one of the most beautiful places in the world, connected to it by the blood of his forefathers and by his personal choice to call it home.  He wasn’t going to give up.  He loved his country, loved his people, and loved Cancun.  And like Ramirez, he was going to fight for it.

But he was not so enamored that he couldn’t see the
venomous vipers who called his home their home as well.  Fuentes knew how risky it was to bring attention to himself.  What had happened to Ramirez only solidified that belief.  He was right where he wanted to be, behind the scenes and rarely noticed, but with enough authority to effect action when needed.  It was a delicate balance.

When Arismendez wasn’t found in the compound, he’d given the police dispatchers strict instructions from the governor . . . .
well, him, but they need not know that . . . to inform him immediately if anyone called in a sighting matching Arismendez’s description.  So when two men with no luggage appeared at the Cancun Palace Hotel check-in asking for three rooms as close to one another as possible, the astute check-in clerk knew something was amiss.  Her suspicions were confirmed when she saw four other man escorting a rather rotund man to the elevators, so she made a phone call.

Fuentes had thought about calling in the military, but such an action would have resulted in Arismendez’s location soon being broadcast on scanners and unknown informants to the cartel may have tipped him off before they could get to him.  So Fuentes took a chance.  He watched Catherine and her companion when they left the conference room and saw what room they went to.  He then made the anonymous call tipping them off.  He wasn’t sure what would happen, but he figured the woman had already proven herself remarkably resourceful.  He’d hoped she’d wait for Arismendez to leave and follow him, maybe taking him out well away from the tourist district quietly so they could avoid any further public incident, but that obviously hadn’t happened.  Still, it had turned out to be a good bet.  Catherine James had indeed surpassed his expectations.

When he caught wind of the chase, he'd ordered the officer in charge to tell his people the Americans were not to be harmed if at all possible, which had been lucky for Matt when he stepped out of that car.

The criminal
Arismendez had been brought to a swift end and the media would report it was the Mexican authorities who had accomplished the deed, displaying the state of Quintana Roo’s commitment to safety and security in the area.

Taylor Woodall's murder and the media tsunami which had followed had devastated the tourism industry, but he hoped now things might settle back down.  Fuentes thought about what Marcus Aurelius had once said, that poverty was the mother of all crime.  It that was true, he could think of no better defense against cartel infiltration than a booming economy, and tourism was key.

Fuentes finished his cigarette and his drink.  Then he took the folder marked Woodall, T., and placed it in a file cabinet next to an assortment of other folders with ghosts of their own.  He'd played his part in slandering the poor girl in the media, and for that he wasn't proud.  He tried not to dwell on the decisions he'd made, the constant weighing of pros and cons to each action or inaction.

As he put away the file and prepared to leave for the night, he passed by a functioning scale of justice model on a coffee table in his office, both scales on equal plane symbolizing the fair standing of each one’s side.  He paused and looked at it a moment before reaching into his pocket and pulling out a 10 peso coin which he
then placed on one of the scale’s brass platforms, causing the scale to tip to one side.

“Nicely done, Ms. James,” he said, and closed the door.