The woman nodded and, as she turned to walk away, said quietly over her shoulder, “I’m sorry.”
It was midmorning by then. We’d missed our appointment to talk with Nikki Edwards. I was hungry, and Rainy and I needed to sit for a while and consider our options. We went back to the Wagon Wheel. A lot of heads turned our way as we walked in, but no one said a word to us. We sat down at a table by a front window where the morning sun came through in a bright splash of light. Immediately, a young waitress was at our table.
“You’re them,” she said, handing us two menus. “The folks with the bombed car.”
“Guess our cover’s blown,” I said to Rainy. I scanned my menu. “Could we get a couple of coffees, black?”
“Sure. If it’s any consolation, you’re not the first.”
I looked up. “Oh?”
“Same thing happened down in Sulfur Springs a couple of months ago. That guy wasn’t so lucky.”
“What do you mean?” Rainy asked.
“Killed him, the bomb. But he was local, not tourists like you.”
“Did the sheriff solve that one?”
“Nope.” She shrugged. “Nothing new. You live along the border, things like that happen way too often these days. That fence?” She shook her head. “Doesn’t do a thing. Be right back with those coffees.”
Rainy leaned across the table. “Modus operandi.”
“If they’re related.”
“Why didn’t the sheriff mention it?”
“Maybe he didn’t want to jump to conclusions. Officially.”
“He was sure ready to jump to a lot of conclusions about Peter.” She tapped the tabletop with her fingers. “I want to ask him about that bombing.”
“Maybe better to ask someone more willing to talk off the record.”
“Like who?”
“Her,” I said and nodded toward the street outside the restaurant window.
I’d watched as Michelle had parked her truck in the lot of the Desert Breeze Inn, gone into the office, come out, and walked toward the restaurant. She spotted us as soon as she entered.
“Heard the explosion?” I asked.
“Hardly. I live on a ranch ten miles from here. But heard about it pretty quick.” She pulled up a chair and joined us. “Mind?”
“I was just thinking of you,” I said. “Can we buy you breakfast?”
“I ate a couple of hours ago. But coffee would be fine.”
The waitress brought our coffee and an extra cup. “How you doing, Michelle?”
“Real good, Georgia.”
“You folks ready to order?”
When the waitress had gone, the pastor said quietly, “Are you both okay?”
“A little shook up,” I said. “But all things considered, we’re doing okay.”
Rainy didn’t say anything.
“This is way worse than I thought,” the minister said.
“What did you think?” I said.
“Not here.”
“We’re kind of limited now in our choices of where else to talk.” I nodded toward the black spot on the asphalt next to her truck.
“I’ll take care of that,” she said.
Our breakfast came and we ate, a little on the fast side, because we were both eager to hear what the Marine turned minister had to say. We paid, and as we left, Georgia called, “You folks take care. And I mean that.”
We crossed the street to Michelle’s truck.
“We’ve been asked to leave the Desert Breeze,” I said. “Not without good reason.”
“Where will you stay?”
“Not sure. My guess is that the other places in town won’t be smiling a big greeting when we show up.”
“I’ve got a place for you. Throw your bags in the back of my truck.”
We did and got into the cab beside her. She pulled out of the lot and, a couple of minutes later, parked on the street across from the little church where we’d met her the night before.
“The church?” Rainy said. “That’s the place you’re thinking of?”
“Not the church,” Michelle said. “The parsonage.” She nodded toward a small stone house on our side of the street, shadowed by tall cottonwoods. “Like I said, I have a ranch ten miles out of town, so I use the parsonage for guests of the congregation. It’s made of the same stone as the church. Somebody wants to blow you up, it’ll take a small nuclear device. Not fancy, but it might do until you figure your next move.”
We carried our things inside, where the air was blessedly cool.
“I kicked on the AC before I met you this morning, just in case,” Michelle said.
The parsonage was small and sunny. We dropped our bags in the tiny bedroom, then sat in the living room with Michelle.
“Georgia told us about the car bombing in Sulfur Springs,” Rainy said.
The minister nodded. “Happened a couple of months ago.”
“One man killed,” I said. “Who?”
“Word is that he was a member of White Horse.”
“White Horse?”
“There’s a war going on in Coronado County and the other counties along the border,” Michelle said.
“A drug war?”
“It’s a great deal more complicated.”
“Who is White Horse?” Rainy asked.
“A vigilante group, trying to go head-to-head with the cartels. They’ve taken their name from a passage in Revelation. ‘And I saw heaven opened, and behold a white horse; and he that sat upon him was called Faithful and True, and in righteousness he doth judge and make war.’ ”
“So White Horse against the cartels. Not so complicated,” I said.
“Not until you consider the Border Patrol, and the federal governments on both sides of that wall, and local law enforcement, and vigilantes like White Horse, and the wave of refugees trying to make it to the U.S., and the humanitarian groups trying to help them, and on and on and on. In what crosses that border, nothing is simple.”
“Do you think Peter is involved in what crosses that border?” Rainy asked.
“I do. But not the drugs. Peter’s stayed clean, I’m sure of that.”
“If not the drugs, then what?” I said.
“Peter has a big heart and a strong conscience,” Michelle said. “Where refugees are involved, the situation is frightening. So many of those coming across from Mexico are women and children. They’re preyed on by the coyotes who take their money to lead them here. They’re sometimes robbed and raped by these men and abandoned in the desert. If they don’t have money for their passage, they become mules for the cartels. Imagine the kind of desperation that drives people to take those risks.”
“So how does Peter fit in?”
“I think he’s helping these desperate people. That’s not something we talk about openly here in Coronado County. Feelings run high on both sides of the issue, and honestly, it can be dangerous. I can’t say for certain that’s what Peter is doing, but I’ve strongly suspected it for a while.”
“And this would bring him into conflict with the cartel run by the Rodriguez family?”
“The cartels don’t just traffic drugs. They traffic people. Anything that might bring you into contact with one of the cartels is risky business.”
“You told us to talk to Nikki Edwards,” I said. “Is that because she’s close enough to Peter to be in his confidence? Or do you believe she’s involved in helping the undocumented immigrants?”