Remember The Alamo (8 page)

Amber squeezed Dieter's hand as the minister's longwinded prayer continued. He glanced down at his daughter,
whose head was bowed. Her long, dark hair shone. He felt
ashamed of himself for wishing that the monsters had killed
him, too. Amber needed him. Bad enough that she had lost
one parent.

The prayer was finally over, and the service was concluded.
Dieter's father put a hand on his shoulder and patted it. There
had always been a certain awkwardness and restraint between
father and son, and after all these years, not even tragedy could
bridge it. But Gerald Schmidt was there, and that was what
mattered.

Dieter's mother was there, too, of course. Margaret swooped
in and picked up her granddaughter, holding Amber against
her as the mourners began to come by and exchange solemn
handshakes with Dieter. He forced himself to say hello and
thank them for coming, and he managed a sad smile as he
nodded in response to their low-voiced condolences, but in
truth he barely heard what anybody was saying to him. He was
still too numb for that.

He heard a full-throated roar of engines, though, and turned
his head to see several motorcycles passing by on the blacktop road that led through the vast, sprawling cemetery. Beth's
service wasn't the only one going on today. Two more victims of the atrocity had been buried earlier in the afternoon, in
nearby graves. The men on the big choppers wore military uniforms, and Dieter realized they were members of the group
that provided escorts and protection for veterans' funerals, to
keep them from being disrupted by protesters.

One of the bikers swung his Harley to the side of the path and brought it to a stop. He got off the motorcycle and walked
over to shake hands with several of the men who had attended
Beth's service. The way he shook hands with Mike Belkowicz, gripping Belko's forearm with his left hand while using
his right to shake Belko's hand, told Dieter that the man was
already acquainted with the Vietnam vet.

Belko brought the stranger over and introduced him to
Dieter. "Dave Rodriguez," Belko said. "He was in Desert
Storm"

"Yeah?" Dieter said as he shook hands with Rodriguez. "I
was over there just a few years ago"

Rodriguez nodded. "You guys had it rougher than we did.
Our part was over quick enough, we got home before the civilians could turn on us"

"Yeah," Belko said. "Some people never get tired of saying
they support the troops while doing everything they can to
make it harder for the guys with their boots on the ground."

"Anyway," Rodriguez went on, "I didn't mean to drag politics into this. But I heard about your wife, Mr. Schmidt, and
I wanted to tell you how sorry I am about what happened"

Dieter said, "Sometimes it's still like ... a dream. A nightmare. I think I'll wake up and ... and Beth will still be
there.....

Amber huddled against her grandmother's ample bosom
and began to sob. Dieter could have kicked himself. Amber
had held it together all through the funeral at the church and
the graveside service, and now he had gone and reminded
her of just how much they had both lost.

Dieter's mother gave him a dirty look over Amber's shoulder, then walked away, patting the little girl on the back and
speaking soft words of comfort to her. Dieter's father just
looked vaguely lost, as usual.

"I'm sorry, amigo," Dave said. "I didn't mean to-"

Dieter lifted a hand to stop him. "No, it's all right. I'm the one who did it, not you. Anyway, how the hell can anybody
expect a six-year-old girl to lose her mother and not cry?" His
voice, though trembling, rose in intensity. "How can a beautiful, innocent young woman be murdered by savages and not
make any sane person want to cry?" Hot wetness filled
Dieter's eyes. "How could they do this? How?"

Nobody had an answer for him.

Dieter walked away from the grave, unable to stand being
there any longer. He stalked up a long, gentle hill toward a row
of trees at the top of the rise. Belko and Rodriguez went with
him, hanging back a little to give him some privacy, yet close
enough to be right there if he wanted to talk or needed anything.

Dieter stopped in the sunlight at the top of the hill. He used
the back of his right hand to paw at his eyes. Lifting his right
arm like that pulled at the wound in his side, which was still
only partially healed. The doctors had assured him that he
would be all right, but the pain was still there.

So was the one in his heart. It always would be.

When he had recovered his composure somewhat, he turned
to Dave Rodriguez and said, "You're one of those Freedom
Riders or whatever they're called, aren't you?"

"Freedom's Guard," Dave said.

"Dave and his guys have been at the funerals of a dozen vets
I knew," Belko put in. "We owe them a lot."

Dave shook his head and said, "No, we're the ones who
owe the debt, to the guys who have given their all. We're just
trying to pay back what little we can" He paused, then went
on. "What do you think of this business about the Alamo,
Dieter?"

"The Alamo? What business about the Alamo?" Between
being wounded and in the hospital and grieving over his wife,
Dieter had no idea what was going on in the world these days.

Belko knew, though, and he snorted in disgust. "Craziest damn thing I ever heard. We're gonna give the Alamo back
to Mexico!"

Dieter stared at him. "Why would we do that?"

"Ah, it's some stupid idea Mayor Alvarez and the president
cooked up "

"The president of the United States?"

"Yeah, Madam President her ownself. They figure that if we
make nice with Mexico and give back what we stole, even if
it's just for a few days, maybe the trouble will stop."

"The terrorists who call themselves Reconquistadores, you
mean."

Belko nodded. "Yeah."

"The animals who murdered my wife and almost a hundred
other people."

I told you it was a crazy idea."

"Crazy doesn't begin to cover it. Those men should be
hunted down and shot like the mad dogs they are. They
shouldn't be rewarded for their crimes, even symbolically."

Dave said, "The Mexican government has promised to find
them and deal with them"

"Deal with them is right," Belko said. "No offense to your
people, Dave, but we both know the Mexican government is
in bed with the drug cartels and all the other criminals down
there"

"My people are Texans, Belko," Dave said. "Your first allegiance isn't to Poland, is it?"

Belko frowned. "Damn it, you know what I meant"

"Yeah, I'm afraid I do "

"Listen, what the hell are we doing, arguin' about politics
while Dieter here is going through the worst day of his life?"

"No, it's all right," Dieter said. "I'm glad to know that our
government thinks so little of its citizens that it will belittle
their deaths that way."

"The politicians are just scared," Dave said. "And to tell you the truth, too many immigrants still consider themselves Mexicans first and Americans second. That's the real reason Alvarez and his buddies on the City Council are doing this. They
want to lock up those votes for all time. They'll probably get
away with doing it, too "" An odd look came into Dave's eyes.
"Some people don't like what's going on, though. I'm beginning to think they're right to want to do something about it."

"What can anybody do?" Belko asked. "You know the old
saying. You can't fight City Hall. That goes double or triple for
Washington."

Dieter took a deep breath and then said on impulse, "We can
make our voices heard. Those of us who were there that day,
those of us who survived, can make it clear we don't appreciate our country caving in to those who want to harm us ""

"Yeah," Dave said, "you're right. I realize we just met,
Dieter, and I know this is a terrible time to be intruding on
you, but there's a guy I think you ought to meet and talk to. His
name is Phil Cody..."

Three hundred yards away, behind another line of trees on
another hilltop in the cemetery, a man lowered the tiny but
high-powered pair of binoculars he had been using to watch
the conversation on the other hill. Like most men in his line of
work, he had some lip-reading skills, but he had been able to
pick up only bits and pieces of the discussion.

Still, what he had made out was worrisome. Trouble was
shaping up, and as the man turned to walk away, he thought
that his boss was definitely going to want to hear about this.

Silvio Cruz was just the driver. He didn't know what happened when the men he was driving around Matamoros got out
and went inside the buildings where he stopped, and he didn't
want to know. He just followed the list he had been given, stopping here and then here and then here, and at each place, the
men went inside and Silvio's hands clenched on the steering
wheel as he heard the noises that soon followed.

But he didn't know what was going on. He liked it that way.

He liked being able to sleep at night.

A small man, closing in on fifty with the gray in his hair
and mustache to prove it, Silvio had spent almost his entire
adult life working for the cartel, although his family didn't
know that. They thought he still had the same mechanic's job
he had held for a short time before one of his bosses at the
garage recruited him to handle the driving on a pickup of
goods from Monterrey. Although cars were sometimes actually repaired at the garage and body shop where Silvio
worked, the place's real business consisted of hiding drugs so
skillfully in old cars that they could be smuggled across the
border that way. The junkers were fixed up just well enough to
run, driven across the bridge, and then dismantled in another garage in Brownsville, where the shipment was recovered and
sent on its way up the distribution chain, where most of it
wound up going up the noses of gringo idiots.

Silvio's job at first had been to put those old cars in running
order, but when his bosses sent him on that run to Monterrey,
a rival gang had tried to hijack the shipment while Silvio was
on his way back. He had driven like a madman to escape them,
handling the car with a touch of genius, according to the
gunmen who had been sent along to guard the shipment.
When they reported as much, the bosses had decided that
Silvio was squandering his true talents by spending his days
replacing carburetors and hoses and belts.

From then on, he was a driver. Any time a job possessed an
element of danger and fast, skillful wheel work might be
needed, Silvio was the man to call.

He tried not to think too much about what he was doing. The
money was much better than he had ever earned as a mechanic,
and as the years passed and his family grew, as did his need for
money, he became accustomed to not thinking.

Tonight he had made four stops, with one to go on his list.
The three men who rode in the car with him were all large,
hard-faced hombres. Silvio didn't know their real names. They
were called Paco, Berto, and Caballo, and that was enough for
Silvio. The one called Caballo-Horse-was the largest of the
three, with a long face that had given him the name. There was
something wrong with his eyes, and Silvio had never liked
driving him. Caballo had never done anything except smile
at him and nod from time to time, but Silvio still felt as if the
man might pull out a gun or a knife and kill him at any time,
with no warning. That feeling of impending violence came off
him like the stink of old sweat.

"A good night's work," Berto said.

"It's not over yet," Paco reminded him.

Caballo never said much.

"Are you going to San Antonio?" Berto asked.

"Of course. Senor Garcia-Lopez does not fully trust General Salgado, I believe. He wants some of his own men there
with the soldiers."

"That is probably wise. You can never trust a military man.
They're all crooked, you know."

"No doubt about that"

A smile tugged at the corners of Silvio's mouth under the
little mustache. Paco and Berto were perfectly serious in their
discussion of how corrupt and untrustworthy the Mexican
army was. They were right, of course, but the discussion reminded Silvio of the old American saying about the pot and
the kettle. Here they were going around Matamoros killing
people under the orders of the cartel's leader, Hector GarciaLopez, and yet they managed to sound morally disapproving
of the military that worked hand in glove with the cartel. It was
amusing, in a grim fashion.

Berto chuckled. "Those gringos are going to be surprised
when they find out what the plan really is. They believe they're
getting the Alamo back"

"They'll figure out otherwise when they start dying," Paco
said.

"Texans," Caballo rumbled. "I like to kill damn Texans. Kill
'em all."

Something was wrong in Caballo's head, Silvio thought,
and it wasn't just those scary eyes of his.