The Territory A Novel

EIGHT



After a shower in an open-air bath off the main dressing area, the Bishop sat for morning breakfast on the veranda. He watched as two light-skinned teenage girls laid out his clothes for the day in his room: white linen slacks and a light linen-blend white shirt, huarache sandals and a Cuban Exo cigar. He had stopped smoking ten years ago but found he missed the roll of the cigar between his fingers and the taste of the tobacco on his lips more than the act of smoking. So he had switched to carrying a fresh cigar with him throughout the day.

He watched the girls through the glass wall that separated his bedroom from the veranda, looking with pride as they snapped a fresh white sheet and tucked it under the mattress. They laughed and slipped quietly out, so unself-conscious, they never realized he had been watching.

He had overseen every detail of the construction of his estate, and he was proud of the outcome. The house was built five years ago to represent his family’s wealth and status, and it had achieved that goal. Reminiscent of an M. C. Escher print, the three-story white stucco home held mysterious passageways, arches, and twisting stairs. Hand-carved teak lintels and moldings had been waxed to an ancient sheen, giving the home a substantial old-world feel that he prized. Outside the home, terraced desert landscaping wrapped all sides of the house and created quiet retreats.

The Bishop reclined slightly in his chair and breathed deeply, forcing a calm exterior that he did not feel. The damp morning air was infused with what he thought of as the smells of earth: mesquite, creosote bush, and juniper. In the midst of family or business crisis—and in fact, they were often both—he retreated outdoors. The smells, the solitude, the heat and space gave him the calm he required to make the life-and-death decisions demanded of him daily. He looked across the sprawling desert and took deep breaths to control the rage that once again was threatening to overcome him. He imagined his father’s dead body, shot up beyond recognition by a man whom he had once loved as family. He wanted to destroy his cousin and every member of La Bestia: personally shove the knife through each beating heart. But he could not afford to react out of emotion or grief. Revenge was justified and expected, but revenge unplanned was inexcusable.

The Bishop’s influences in life were twofold. A mother whose entire being centered on perfection: her children were fastidiously clean, neurotically prepared for life’s little problems, and taught the manners of the upper class. And a father whose devotion to family and obsessive need to control had led to a dynasty feared and respected throughout Mexico. Hector Medrano gave his oldest son the nickname “the Bishop” on his twenty-fourth birthday. As the Bishop, Marco ruled the family business, organizing the leaders of the narcotics, firearms, and money-laundering divisions to carry out the missions that his own father had given him: Control the drug routes through the northern states of Mexico. A simple idea but an incredibly complex task.

The media perpetuated the myth of the Bishop as a ruthless killer with no respect for life, a fact those close to him understood was untrue, pure myth. The killings were just a necessary part of his business, no different from a priest assigning penance, a boss firing dead weight, or the presidente firebombing a cocaine factory: all necessary parts of the bigger picture to be undertaken with integrity and fortitude.

The Bishop smiled at the young woman who had appeared to place a carafe of fresh coffee on the table. She wore her hair in long, oiled cornrows that hung behind her back, and had a perfect chocolate-colored complexion. She stole a look at him, smiled in return, and then left, her head lowered in deference.

The Bishop watched her walk away and thought of the arrogant policewoman who had interrogated his cousin through marriage, Miguel Ángel Gutiérrez, in the American jail. After the interview with the police chief, Gutiérrez talked with an attorney provided by La Bestia. The Bishop paid a large sum of money to the rival attorney to receive the confidential details of the meeting. The attorney claimed the woman called Gutiérrez a pedophile, said he would rot in her filthy jail with the perverts and degenerates until he gave up information about the business. She had taken on a cause bigger than her abilities.

The Medranos had been collecting information on the Artemis law enforcement agencies for years as they planned and set up transportation across the border. Chief Gray had been a target of concern. He opened the manila file folder that sat on the table beside the carafe. He picked up a black-and-white photo of an attractive female dressed in a police uniform. She was in her early thirties with long hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. She was looking off in the distance, her expression proud and brooding, gauging the world through a personal lens of justice; right and wrong were hers to decide, and for that he both despised and admired her.

A second photo showed her leaning into a man bent over a car hood with his hands in cuffs behind his back. She grasped his T-shirt in a bunch with one hand, her other hand planted on the hood, and talked to him with her lips close to his ear as a larger male officer stood behind her, looking away from the scene.

The last photo was a head shot, telephoto from straight on, as she looked just to the right of the shot. She was the rare woman who wore her sexuality unself-consciously. She was stunning. Her complexion was like cream, her cheeks pronounced, almost gaunt, adding to the severity of her expression.

The Americans would use threats and intimidation, torture if necessary, to gain information about the business. He would not allow his own traitorous blood to jeopardize his family. The Bishop looked over the knee-high stone wall that surrounded the veranda, across the lap pool, and into the great Chihuahua Desert. He vowed to do whatever was necessary to bring his cousin home within the week. He would see justice served by himself, not by the Americans. Not by this woman. It was no longer business. It had become personal. I will enjoy every detail of her death, he thought.

* * *

Josie stopped at the bakery on the way to work that morning and bought a dozen chocolate iced doughnuts and a half gallon of milk for her and Lou and Otto. She smiled at Lou and placed three doughnuts on a napkin beside her computer. Lou thanked her, and Josie smiled all the way up the stairs to the office. She had just heard the weatherman on Lou’s radio announce that the monthlong heat wave was about to give way to eighty-five-degree temperatures for a few days. The rain had not materialized, but at least the heat had broken. Josie looked at her watch as she logged on to her computer. She had four hours to enjoy a good day before her mother ruined it.

Her first order of business was to study a packet of photos of missing persons mailed to her every two weeks from a Mexican human rights group supported by the U.S. Consulate in Mexico. Over the past six months, an average of thirty-three kidnappings each month took place along the border, most of them along the migrant routes. A host of cottage industry kidnapping schemes had spread throughout Mexico and into the United States, most recently into Phoenix. Thousands of virtual kidnappings were made every day; an unsuspecting parent receives a phone call demanding money be wired to an account before their family member, heard screaming in the background, is killed. The parent is too terrified to check into the claim and pays the ransom before realizing their family member is fine. The cell phone call, made from Mexico, is not traceable and goes undetected.

Another racket, express kidnappings, were popular in bigger cities. A person hails a taxi, the driver picks them up, drives a block, picks up two additional men who force the passenger to withdraw money from ATM machines all over town. The person is typically then robbed and left on the street with nothing.

But in Josie’s mind, parents were the easiest target of all. She and Sheriff Martínez had led a series of town meetings on Situational Awareness to make parents more aware of their surroundings and dangers their children could be in. Josie was always surprised by how unaware most parents were of their environment, especially in terms of their kids’ safety. She was certain it would be an unhealthy obsession with her when she became a parent. Although she wouldn’t let herself give up on the idea of having kids, there were days when the dangers of raising a child seemed to outweigh the joys.

Josie looked through the stack of black-and-white photos of dozens of Mexican and American children, most smiling into the camera from family and school pictures, unaware of the horror they were about to endure.

She set the pictures aside after one photograph started to blend into another. She read through Marta’s report from the previous night. Marta had interviewed three local drug informants about the continuing violence between La Bestia and the Medrano cartel. The general consensus was that La Bestia had moved into Piedra Labrada, where the Medranos already operated, in order to focus on a transportation route directly through Artemis.

Josie glanced up from the report and saw that Otto had silently settled in. He was sitting at his computer reading e-mail and eating a doughnut. She interrupted him and filled him in on the details from Marta’s conversations.

“The international border crossing between Presidio and Ojinaga is the least used in all of Texas. And Artemis is another thirty minutes beyond the crossing. We’ve got desert all around us. No big cities to blend into. This area doesn’t even make sense as a route,” she said.

Otto shrugged. “Maybe that’s the draw. No one expects it. Maybe the Beast thought the same thing. They could ease in on this little podunk town, and Medrano wouldn’t notice. Didn’t turn out so good, though.”

She nodded. “I could see it if Medrano wasn’t already a presence. But why go to battle with one of the largest crime syndicates in Mexico? There are plenty other border towns to blend into.”

“I don’t think these guys are into blending in. Maybe they want it known they’re making a serious run on Medrano. They see Piedra Labrada and Artemis as the place to do it. We’re controllable in their eyes.”

Josie stood and paced the office. “We need to camp out on the watchtower for a few nights. Watch traffic just outside the city.”

Otto nodded, sitting up in his seat.

“Until we figure out who is coming into Artemis, we can’t know their motivation. We have to figure it out to get the connection to Red.”

“I agree.”

“And we have to know what they want with Artemis. We cannot allow them to win, not one round,” Josie said.

“We’ll get interdiction clued in to Interstate 10. That’s got to be where they head once they get across the border. They’re taking farm roads across the desert and up to the interstate. I’ll make contact with each of the surrounding counties and let them know to involve us on any gun or narcotic stops that may involve Medrano or La Bestia.”

Josie and Otto spent the next hour on the phone with the Marfa Sector Border Patrol and the Department of Public Safety Narcotics Division and Interdiction discussing their suspicions. The interdiction team was trained to look for specific signs that often signaled illegal activity: illegal crossings, drug trafficking, and so forth. BP said they would take the watchtower that night, and Josie agreed to man it the next night, on Saturday. Interdiction said they would have an undercover car watching Interstate 10, the closest interstate to Artemis. After setting up the logistics, Josie called Sheriff Martínez and asked to meet him before lunch. She sent Otto to Red’s house to gather every last piece of paper, label where it came from in the house, and put it in a box for Dillon, who had agreed to sift through it all.

Josie heard the good-natured banter between the sheriff and Lou from downstairs and then the heavy booted footsteps of a large man clumping up the wooden stairs to the office.

Martínez rapped on the open door with his knuckles and entered. Josie was already carrying them both mugs of black coffee from the coffeemaker. She placed the cups on the conference table, and they small-talked the weather and the Astros, a favorite conversation topic of the sheriff’s, before getting down to business.

“Have you talked to Deputy Bloster about Red Goff’s death?” Josie asked.

“I have. He came in the evening after he found out about it. He’d just left Red’s house after running into you and Otto.”

“What was his response?” she asked.

“He was angry. Thought our office should have taken the call even though he knew we didn’t have anyone available to take it. He thought you should have handed it over. I told him it was a conflict of interest, and he finally let it go. I told him to cool his jets and stay away from the investigation. I take it that hasn’t happened.”

She slid the Gunners’ policy manual toward him. “Take a look at the section titled ‘Friends and Foes.’ We’re on the Foes list. Bloster is a member of an organization that lists his own boss as the enemy. I haven’t figured out exactly what that means yet.”

Martínez barely glanced at the manual. “Bloster told me about it. Said it was nothing more than a list of people who might feel hostile toward their organization.”

“That doesn’t bother you? Your name on the short list?”

Martínez snorted. “We got our names on shorter lists than that one.”

All right, she thought, that’s the way we’re going to play this.

“Otto interviewed Bloster yesterday, in this office, and he punched Fallow in the mouth during the interview. Otto encouraged Fallow to file charges, but he wouldn’t. He’s lucky Fallow is terrified of him.” She paused and Martínez remained silent. “You have a time bomb on your staff.”

Martínez’s expression grew still. “I don’t guess my employees are any of your concern.”

“Let me throw one more at you.” Josie handed him the two invoices that Dillon had showed her the night before. She watched Martínez study the paper, but he said nothing.

“Did you sign for those guns?” Josie asked.

“What is this? You accusing me of running a crooked department?”

“I’m just trying to figure out how you can afford guns when I can’t afford soap for the bathrooms.”

He didn’t smile at her attempt at humor. Josie watched as he studied the invoice and the price of the guns. Finally he looked up at her, his shoulders slumped. “Bloster’s been taking care of bills for the department. I don’t have time to get it all done. You know how undermanned we are. I figured with his short fuse, I’d get him off the road some and put him in charge of accounts.”

“How long has he been taking care of finances?”

Martínez frowned. “Since December, when Stephanie left. I can’t hardly operate without a secretary. Moss wouldn’t let us hire a replacement and suggested I get Bloster to help out. He just helped with some of the bills. Helped me keep things organized.” He looked at Josie, his face aged ten years. “I knew nothing about these guns.” He pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “You know what’s even worse? You found out about these guns by accident. What else has he passed through for payment?”

Josie knew what lay behind his question. If this were more than a onetime occurrence, then Martínez’s job was in serious jeopardy. Bottom line, whether Bloster was the one who’d passed off bad bills or not, it was still the sheriff’s signature that went to the commissioners.

* * *

At noon, Josie walked next door to visit Mayor Moss. It was a sunny, blue-sky day with not a cloud overhead. The temperature was in the eighties, no humidity, a slight breeze—the kind of day that made her want to take off in the mountains with Chester and enjoy the outdoors. Instead, her back muscles were in knots up and down her spine as she walked down the hall to Moss’s office. His door was closed, but the secretary rang in to him and Josie was allowed five minutes. It was all she needed.

“I need to know when we’re getting reinforcements for the jail,” she said once she was standing in front of his mammoth mahogany desk. He didn’t gesture for her to sit. “The sheriff and I have other priorities. We can’t take men off the road to guard it. I was serious about the jail coming under attack. We have two Mexican drug cartels with a personal interest in one of our prisoners. They’ll storm it just like they did the Trauma Center.”

Moss’s chin jutted out. His small eyes were dark and focused. He folded his hands on the desk in front of him and stared at Josie as if trying to figure out how to explain something complicated to her. “I’m working with the governor to arrange for help from the National Guard. It takes time. You don’t snap your fingers and get help. You think we’re the only city with troubles?”

“What kind of time frame did they give you?” Josie asked.

“They don’t give time frames, Chief Gray. When I know something, I’ll call you.” He turned back to his computer. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’m preparing for a meeting.”

“And your committee? What kind of progress has your committee made in shutting down these cartels? Do you have a time frame for your committee work?”

Moss leaned back in his desk chair and gripped the leather armrests with both hands. “I would like to think that you have more productive things to occupy your time with than harassing me. This conversation is over.”

Josie walked out of his office furious not just with him but also with herself. She had sounded childish and unprofessional. She had to get a grip on her hatred toward him before it began to cloud her ability to run her office effectively. In the meantime, the safety of the officers at the jail was still a major worry.

* * *

Josie did not go back to her office. With the nauseating thought of her mother lurking around the department for lunch, she opted to ratchet up the morning with a little Hack Bloster. She called the sheriff’s office and talked to the dispatcher, who said Bloster didn’t come on duty until noon, but gave her his home address.

Josie drove south toward the bend in the Rio where the rock walls grew steeper with each mile. She turned onto a switchback road that zigzagged down a thirty-foot canyon. There was barely enough land to build into the rock. The three houses on the switchback looked like fishing shacks, although their inhabitants were permanent residents.

Hack Bloster’s house was a thirty-foot-by-ten-foot wooden structure built into the face of the rock. To the left of the shack was a gravel area big enough for two cars to park. To the right of the house was a similarly sized garage. A twenty-foot swatch of rocky land covered with clumps of cactus and granite boulders separated the house from the road. On the road’s opposite side, a twenty-foot drop led to the river below. Josie parked beside Bloster’s police car and caught him by surprise when she walked into his open garage. Ted Nugent, blasting from a boom box at his feet, had kept him from hearing her car approach. A window fan on the floor blew air toward him.

He sat on a five-gallon bucket with no shirt on, wearing dusty jeans and cowboy boots. He cradled a red and black rooster in his lap with one leather gloved hand, and held a small instrument in his other hand that appeared to be sharpening the long black talons of the rooster. When he saw Josie, he stood and placed the rooster in a metal cage on a workbench behind him, then turned off the music.

“I hear those fighters run about twenty-five hundred dollars. That true?” Josie asked.

“I wouldn’t know,” Bloster said. He pulled a bandanna from his back pocket and wiped the sweat off his face.

“I’ve heard for years there were cockfights out here on Saturday nights, but I’ve never been able to pin one down. There’s supposedly a caliche pit back in here that gets used for cockfights and dog races. You ever hear any rumors like that?” Josie asked.

“Not a one.”

“Word is, it’s by the windmill and water tanks.” Josie gestured behind her where the top of a windmill could be seen over the trees. “Want to take a drive back there and check it out? I’m guessing you have some insider knowledge.” She pointed to three metal cages along the far wall of his garage, each containing a rooster, all sitting idle in the heat of the day.

“You got a warrant to search the land, then go for it. I got no say in the matter. There’s no law against having roosters, so you can take your suspicions elsewhere. You got something else to say to me?”

Josie noted the pocket holster in his front jeans’ pocket and the butt of the pistol in plain view.

“You getting him ready for the fights this weekend?” she asked.

“What do you want with me?” he asked.

“Actually, I came to ask you a few questions about some expenditures you made for the sheriff’s department.”

He said nothing, but he picked up a beer bottle from the floor and took a long drink. He was deeply tanned, with a smooth chest ripped with muscle. Bloster was good looking in an intensely physical, imposing way; he had a dangerous quality that was both appealing and disturbing.

Josie leaned against the doorframe of his garage and took her time continuing. “In looking at Red’s finances, I found some receipts for guns purchased by your department. In fact, two guns totaled almost four thousand dollars. Must be some kind of special guns.”

“Seeing how you work for the city police, and that equipment is for the sheriff’s department, I don’t think it’s any of your concern.”

“Well, Hack, seeing how I’m a taxpayer and those receipts are open for public record, I think they are my concern. I think your little club is selling guns to your department. You’re making a profit all over the place, aren’t you?” she asked.

“You’re out of your jurisdiction. You got no business out here.”

“No? I thought I was doing you a professional courtesy. We can talk at the department. We can even ask the sheriff to join us if that makes you feel better.”

Bloster took two steps toward her and shoved her chest. She fell back against the garage wall, and he drew his fist back as if to throw a punch. She pushed herself off the wall and bent forward, propelling her knee up into his stomach. He stumbled back from her and let his hand slide down to his front pocket toward the gun.

Josie pulled her gun and pointed it toward Bloster’s chest in one swift motion.

His face registered shock. He raised both hands in the air and took a step back, bumping into the workbench.

“What the hell’s wrong with you?” he asked.

“You’re climbing higher on my list of suspects every day.”

“Don’t come on my property spouting shit you can’t back up, lady.” He pointed a finger directly at the barrel of the gun.

She felt the heat in her face and struggled to keep her voice level. “Then don’t play games with me. You’re a dirty cop, and I will expose you before this is over.”

Bloster brought his hands back down to his sides. Josie kept her gun out but pointed now at the ground.

“I had nothing to do with Red’s death. What purpose would it have? We were members of the same group.”

“He was president of a group that you had no chance of leading while he was alive. Looks to me like there’s a hell of a lot of money to be made off selling those guns. More than you’re making as a deputy,” Josie said.

“This is bullshit. Until you have something hard to charge me with, we’re through.” He turned and walked toward his house, slamming the door behind as Josie stood, breathless.

* * *

By the time Josie reached the department, she had calmed down and corralled her anger. As she passed through the lone traffic light and turned left at the courthouse, she called Lou on her cell phone and asked if anyone was waiting for her. Lou said no, her mother hadn’t arrived yet. Josie spotted her mother’s Buick sitting in front of Manny’s Motel, and she pulled her jeep in beside it.

The motel was built like a strip mall with all six rooms opening onto the street. The office sat in the middle of the rooms, its neon light advertising ROOMS FOR RENT. At forty-something, Manny had given up a successful Holiday Inn franchise in Arizona to start his own business in Artemis. Since opening the motel twenty years ago, he had put on fifty pounds, let his hair grow into a flyaway halo about his head, shaved once a week, and claimed to smile more often than he had during all his so-called successful years in Phoenix with a bitter, anorexic wife who had spent more than he could ever make.

“Chief Gray!” Manny stood up from the recliner behind the counter and laid his book on the seat.

The office was the size of a small bedroom and painted a nicotine-stained white. There was a four-foot-long counter with a grocery store cash register on top, and a metal lockbox with the word Keys written in marker across the lid. Behind the counter sat a tattered leather recliner and table with a reading lamp that altogether looked like a set for an old seventies sitcom.

“Manny, those things are going to kill you.” Josie gestured toward the burning cigarette under a small air purifier that sat on the table next to his chair.

Manny smiled warmly. “Chief, I am a lucky man. I have two passions in life: reading and smoking. I have the good fortune to attend to both of my passions all day long, without measure. How many men do you know that are that lucky? I will continue to enjoy my life with abandon as long as the good Lord allows.”

Josie smiled. “You’re doing all right, then?”

“Couldn’t be better. Steady customers and fifty percent capacity for months. Gets food on the table and the electric bill paid.”

“You hire a maid yet?”

He smiled and rubbed his belly. “No maid. I compromised with the doctor. I took up scrubbing toilets and changing bedsheets for exercise. I refused to go to the wretched gym, so Doc refused to see me. Said I was killing myself in my chair. He doesn’t give a whit about a man’s passions. So, I said fine, I’ll clean the rooms every day whether they need it or not. Two hours’ hard exertion. He bought it, and I got to keep my doctor.”

Josie nodded. “You are definitely a lucky man.”

“Now, what can I do for you? I’m sure you didn’t come to rent one of my extra-clean rooms.”

“Actually, I came by to see what room Beverly Gray is staying in.”

Manny’s smile widened. “She’s a character, that mother of yours! You should bring her around more often. Life of the party, she is!” He laughed openly and pointed at the front first door to his left. “Room number one.”

Josie knocked and entered after hearing her mother yell to come in. She sat on the unmade bed for ten minutes and watched her mother in front of the bathroom mirror, teasing her hair and applying makeup, a scene she had witnessed countless times growing up. It was an odd feeling, the familiarity of family combined with the uneasiness of time and distance.

Her mother chattered about neighborhood friends and classmates as if Josie had left only months before. She seemed to have forgotten any sense of bitterness over Josie’s departure nine years ago. Her mother had always had an amazing ability to unconditionally love, hate, and forgive—all in the space of minutes; the problem was that she expected others to behave the same way, regardless of her own behavior.

After her mother finished primping and stopped by Manny’s office to wish him a good morning, they walked half a block to the Hot Tamale for lunch. The Tamale was a popular lunch-hour diner. Small square tables and chairs were scattered everywhere and were rearranged to fit variously sized groups, depending on if they wanted a quiet corner or a hot spot in the middle to socialize. Josie chose a small table at the front window, positioning her chair with her back against the wall.

After a half hour lunch of chicken salad and chips, and more small talk dominated by her mother, Josie asked what her immediate plans were.

“I’m thinking about moving here. Thought I’d come scout it out first.”

Josie was stunned. “Why?”

“All my family’s gone in Indiana. Claudia got married and moved to Maine. Uncle Larry’s dead.”

“Are you sick?”

Her mother laughed—too loudly, Josie thought.

“No, I’m not sick. Don’t you get lonely for family, living out here in the middle of nowhere?”

Josie shrugged. She didn’t give it much thought. She had learned long ago that life was easier if she just let things go. She spent the holidays working overtime, read voraciously, and hiked when the walls started closing in. Dell and Otto were as close to family as she needed.

Her mother pushed her fork through a patch of uneaten chicken salad, and Josie wondered if she was seeing real emotion or yet another con. Had she been evicted, lost a job, lost her latest man?

“You got a spare bedroom I could stay in for a couple weeks? Just somewhere while I scout out the territory? I’ll chip in on food.”

It was Josie’s turn to drag her fork around her plate. It would never work; there was no doubt in her mind. Josie had moved two thousand miles from her mother for good reason; to suddenly share a house, a bathroom in the morning, a kitchen to wash dishes. The thought of it made her sweat.

“I have only one bedroom. The house is really small.” She looked up from her plate. “You better give this some thought first anyway. The only family you have in Texas is me, and it’s not like we communicate very well. The heat is unbearable and you’ll miss the snow and the trees. Jobs are hard to come by, too.”

Her mom flipped her hand out, as if dismissing Josie’s concerns. The conversation turned to banter: Josie detailing why it would not work, her mother responding why it would. Behind each of Josie’s responses lay the real reason that clenched at her chest, but that she refused to speak. Her mother had not been there for her as a child. She had no rights to Josie’s time, attention, or money as an adult. Josie had figured out adulthood on her own, and it was time her mother did the same.

* * *

At nine o’clock that evening, Josie threw her overnight bag over her shoulders, attached her bedroll and foam mat to straps behind her back, and began the fifty-foot climb up the watchtower. At the top, bugs scurried as she shone her flashlight around the interior room before placing her bags on the map table while she lit the two lanterns. She unfolded an army cot that had been left by some other visitor and laid her mat and sleeping bag out for the night.

She took one of the folding camp chairs and her department-issued binoculars outside on the observation deck and breathed deep. The desert had a different smell from that height. The sand and grit that permeated everything below was nonexistent, and the air was clean and dry. The silence was broken by a soft wind that curled around the deck, pushing through the rafters below to create a low whistling like a far-off train. Josie fixed her gaze on the Texas side for several minutes, away from the drama to the south, and raised her arms, allowing the breeze to lift her T-shirt off her skin. Goose bumps, a rarity in July, covered her stomach and arms. She smiled and wished Dillon were standing beside her.

She opened a package of cheese crackers and popped the top on a V8, her concession to good health. She propped her forearms on the wood railing and spilt open a cheese cracker, eating first the plain cracker, saving the best for last, then washing it all down with the vegetable juice. Marta fussed at her continually for her diet of junk food that was balanced, at least in Josie’s own mind, by healthy cans and jars of vegetables and fruits. Fresh was out of the question. It spoiled in her refrigerator and wasted money. Marta gave her fruit baskets for Christmas and made vegetable casseroles for her birthday, all appreciated but largely uneaten. Of the countless ways she had seen and read about people dying, she figured a lack of fresh produce was the least of her worries.

On the back side of the observation deck, Piedra Labrada was heating up. Cars were streaming by strip clubs and bars that were lit up with neon signs flashing NO COVER CHARGE in both Spanish and English. Streetlights were visible only on the downtown streets in the newer area of town. The small industrial edge of the city was now quiet and dark, as was the old section of town, with the businesses that centered around the Central Plaza now dark and locked up for the night. Josie stood at the railing and looked through binoculars at the activity across the river and wondered at the human race, at its propensity to gather and rule, to divide and conquer. The smallness of people always struck her from atop the watchtower. Race, religion, sex, nationality: they all boiled down to the need to control, for the need to prove one man superior to another.

Josie spent several hours ruminating as she watched the traffic down below. It wasn’t until one in the morning that something happened to draw her attention away from the city. Three cars trailed by a pickup truck had left Piedra Labrada and drove parallel to the Rio for about a mile west of the city. At that point, the road veered south, away from the river, but Josie watched the caravan turn right and drive through a half mile of scrub and rock to reach the river. From her distance, she couldn’t identify people or even the size or make of the cars, other than the truck.

Josie thought it might be high school kids partying at first, and then suspected coyotes transporting smugglers across the river, but the scheme was more involved than that. She watched the lights of the pickup turn and face toward land as the truck backed up to the edge of the water. It was a bright night with a sky full of stars and a full moon just beginning to wane, but even through her binoculars, she was too far from the action to tell exactly what they were doing. Then a dim light appeared to travel slowly across the river, and another set of car lights appeared on a vehicle that she hadn’t realized was waiting on the U.S. side of the river. She called the details in to Border Patrol but knew they couldn’t get there fast enough. She had already been told they were undermanned that night.

It took about thirty minutes for the entire operation to take place. It looked to Josie as if the pickup truck unloaded its cargo, either people or contraband, onto a small boat that quickly moved across the water, unloaded, and came back again to be loaded onto the back of the truck, which quickly left the area. She watched the car on the U.S. side travel along River Road and then turn right on Scratchgravel Road, where another pair of headlights came on and followed the car north toward town. It was a smooth transaction, which Josie was certain had happened before and would likely happen again.