“This is Rainy Bisonette. Thanks so much for calling back.” Rainy listened and nodded. “I think he’s wonderful, too. But I’m concerned that he might be in some trouble, and I wondered if I could meet with you to talk about it.” She listened again and glanced at me. “We’re free right now.” She smiled and said, “I can’t thank you enough.” She ended the call and handed my cell phone back. “She’ll meet us at the church in fifteen minutes.”
We walked, following the river, and then across a little footbridge that led right to the church. A few minutes after we arrived, a dusty green pickup rolled up and parked in the lot. A woman with a red bandanna around her head and wearing dusty jeans and a yellow T-shirt got out and came toward us. She was probably well into her sixties, but with a smile that was ageless.
“Hello, folks. I’m Pastor Michelle. But you can drop the pastor part. Just call me Michelle.”
We shook her hand. Her grip was strong, her palm callused.
“Why don’t we talk inside?” she suggested and unlocked the front door. “This is an historic church, built when the mines around here were booming.”
The rafters and altar and pews were all of dark, heavy wood. The stained-glass windows seemed awfully ornate for such a small sanctuary.
“Built with the same money that built the town—silver, gold, copper, and cattle,” she explained. “Now we rely mostly on tourism.”
The church was hot and stuffy. We followed her to her office, which was left of the altar, where she turned on a window air conditioner. She sat at her desk, and Rainy and I took the two empty chairs.
“This isn’t your only congregation,” I said.
“That’s right. I have another charge, a small congregation in Sulfur Springs. The Catholics and the Methodists share the church, St. Esteban’s.”
“Peter lives there,” Rainy said.
“In Sulfur Springs?” It was clearly a revelation to her.
“At least that’s where he receives his mail,” Rainy said. “A box at the Sulfur Springs post office.”
“That’s interesting. He’s always been a member of the congregation here. I’ve never seen him at a service in Sulfur Springs, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t live there. When you attend a particular church regularly, as Peter does here, it becomes a bit like home.”
“We’ve been to Sulfur Springs. No one we talked to would admit to knowing him.”
“That does seem a little odd.” Michelle gave Rainy a piercing look. “You said you were afraid Peter might be in trouble.”
“Does the name Rodriguez mean anything to you?” Rainy asked.
“Rodriguez? No first name?”
“No.”
“Lots of Rodriguezes in Coronado County and south of the border. Why do you ask?”
Rainy glanced at me in a questioning way, and I gave her a nod. Eventually, you have to trust someone. She told the story of Peter’s phone call, and his silence since then.
“He said he killed someone named Rodriguez? That doesn’t sound at all like Peter.”
“It’s not exactly clear that he did,” Rainy said, holding to the best hope we had. “The message is garbled. Maybe if you listened it would help.”
She brought out her cell phone and played Peter’s message on the speakerphone.
“You’re right, Rainy. It’s garbled. However, Peter says something at the end that’s a little scratchy, but it’s important and scary.”
“What is it?” Rainy asked.
“Play it again,” Michelle said. As Peter’s message neared the end, she said, “Here. Listen. Did you catch that word? Lagarto?”
“Was that the word?” Rainy said. “I couldn’t quite tell.”
“The big Rodriguez in these parts is Carlos Rodriguez. He’s the head of Las Calaveras.”
“The Skulls,” Rainy translated.
Michelle nodded. “One of the cartels in northern Mexico. As I understand, he runs it with his two sons. I suppose Peter’s situation could involve some other Rodriguez. Like I said, it’s a common surname around here. But Carlos Rodriguez is often called Lagarto. Lizard. He’s very tall and very slender and absolutely cold-blooded. I think you have good reason to be worried.”
“Why in the world would Peter be involved with a drug cartel?” Rainy said.
Michelle sat for a long moment. “Peter’s a Marine,” she finally said.
“Was a Marine,” Rainy said.
“Once a Marine, always a Marine. I’m a Marine, too. That’s one of the first connections Peter and I made, and it’s been a powerful one. He’s a veteran of Afghanistan. For me it was Desert Storm. My last deployment before I retired from the Corps.”
“A chaplain?” I asked.
She shook her head. “Intel, like Peter. I have this thing, a knack for languages. I’m fluent in both Farsi and Arabic. Also Chinese, German, French, and, of course, Spanish, which comes in handy here. When I retired and felt I had the call, I went to seminary. While I was there, I added Greek and Latin to my repertoire.”
“Peter’s good with languages?” I asked.
“Better even than me. I’ve always figured that was one of the reasons he attended the U of A in Tucson, their Critical Languages Program. Instruction in languages not normally taught in colleges. His facility was also a big reason he was in intel, I’m sure. But what’s more important is that Peter’s good with people. They trust him, and he has a real knack for knowing who to trust.” She looked at Rainy for confirmation.
“He’s always been like that,” Rainy said.
“In the Marines, Peter was in the field, working with the locals, gathering intelligence.”
“So you understood what Peter went through,” Rainy said.
“He was very open with me about it.”
I knew what they were referring to. Rainy had shared Peter’s military experience with me, especially the part that had led to his addiction. What ended his service was a Taliban ambush in the mountains in which a number of his comrades were killed. Peter had been badly wounded and medevaced out. He’d spent a long time in a hospital, recovering. On discharge, he’d enrolled in the University of Arizona in Tucson. Then the real difficulty had begun. During his hospital convalescence, he’d become reliant on painkillers. In civilian life, he found that he couldn’t function without them. That’s when Rainy had intervened and had got him admitted to the Goodman Center.
“It’s clear that Peter hasn’t been so open with me,” Rainy said. “About his life in Coronado County anyway. What could he be involved in that would put him at odds with this cartel?”
“All I could do is speculate, and that wouldn’t get you anywhere,” the minister replied. “But I know someone who might be able to answer all your questions. Nikki Edwards. She manages our local radio station, and is a DJ as well. Five times a week, she hosts a program from ten to midnight called Nikki at Night. She’s also a member of the congregation here. She and Peter are very good friends.”
“Peter never mentioned her to me.”
“Talk to Nikki. I think she can tell you some of the things you need to know.”
“How can we get in touch with her?”
“Let me check the church directory.”
From her desk drawer, the pastor pulled several sheets of paper held together by a staple. She turned to the second page. “I have her cell phone number.” She copied it on a slip of paper and handed it to me.