“And we should trust you because . . .” I said.
He gave us a swarthy smile and put a finger to his cap. “Good day, folks.”
Agent Sprangers returned to his vehicle, did a U-turn, and headed south, toward the border.
“Was that a warning?” Rainy asked. “Or was he really offering to help?”
“I’m not sure. Could be he’s just trying to read us.”
“Like we’re trying to read him?”
My cell phone rang.
“Cork O’Connor,” I answered.
“This is Nikki Edwards. I heard about this morning. We need to talk.”
*
We met her in a little park on the San Gabriel River south of Cadiz. It sat among cottonwoods and sycamores that grew along the banks and gave welcome shade, and was rendered almost invisible from the road by a thicket of shrubs I later learned were tamarisk bushes. Nikki was waiting for us at a picnic table, the only person there.
“I’m so sorry,” she said even before the introductions. “They didn’t wait long to target you.”
“Who?” I said.
On the radio, her voice had been velvety, and I’d imagined some young, slinky siren. But Nikki Edwards wasn’t much younger than I. Her hair was pulled back in a ponytail. She wore glasses and a ball cap with NAMI printed across the bill. She ignored my question, and all her attention went immediately to the woman at my side.
“You’re Rainy. Peter’s told me so much about you. I can imagine how worried you are.”
“Who targeted us?” I asked again.
“Here,” Nikki said and indicated the picnic table. “Sit. We’ll talk.”
The riverbed lay a few yards from where we sat. In Minnesota, I might have heard the rush and tumble of clear water over stones, but here there was only the dry rustle of leaves as a small breeze blew through the trees along the bank.
“When did you last hear from Peter?” Nikki asked.
“The day before yesterday,” Rainy said.
“How did he sound?”
“Scared.”
“What did he say?”
Rainy hesitated. Dangerous territory, telling someone your son confessed to murder.
“Did he mention Rodriguez?” Nikki said. “Or White Horse?”
“Only Rodriguez. And the name Lagarto.”
She nodded as if that made sense.
“We know about him and Las Calaveras,” I said.
“A family of reptiles,” Nikki said. “A ball of snakes.”
“Why would Peter mention White Horse?”
Nikki folded her hands on the tabletop and closed her eyes, as if in prayer. “Where to start?”
We heard a car approaching on the road, and Nikki’s eyes shot open. She raised her head and listened intently, in the way deer in the great Northwoods do when they sense danger. The car passed and she relaxed.
“It sometimes feels like a war zone in Coronado County,” she said. “Like in any war zone, those who suffer most are the innocents. The Pima County Medical Examiner’s Office handles the work of identifying human remains found in the desert in the counties along the Mexican border. There are hundreds of sets of remains still unidentified. That’s only a fraction of what probably is out there undiscovered. The most common demographic used to be males between the ages of twenty-five and thirty-five. But that’s changed. We’re seeing more and more women and children, the majority coming from Central America and the states farthest south in Mexico. Border control has tightened, so the flow is not what it used to be, but more people are dying.”
“Why?”
“They’re forced to make the crossing in some of the worst country imaginable. And too often, they cross alone and unprepared, or if they come with a coyote, they’re abandoned or even murdered.”
“What does this have to do with Peter?” Rainy asked.
“Peter works with a group who call themselves Los Angeles del Desierto.”
“Desert Angels,” Rainy translated.
“They do what they can to keep the innocents who are so desperate to come to the United States out of the hands of the predators. They intercept these people in Mexico and arrange safe passage.”
“And Peter?”
“Peter was a soldier. He’s been trained in reconnaissance behind enemy lines. He’s fearless, but not stupid. When it comes to moving through the desert, he knows how to disguise his presence so effectively that the cartels and the sign cutters have no idea where he is.”
“Sign cutters?” Rainy asked.
“That’s what trackers are called,” I said. “When they’re following someone’s trail, it’s called cutting sign.”
“So, Border Patrol?” Rainy said.
Nikki nodded. “Border Patrol.”
Rainy put it together. “Peter leads these people to safety.”
“At great risk,” Nikki said. “Carlos Rodriguez has put a price on the head of anyone who helps Los Angeles del Desierto. And on this side of the border, there’s not only the Border Patrol to contend with, there’s White Horse.”
“Vigilantes,” I said.
“They haunt the routes refugees often take, where water jugs and food and blankets have been set out by a broad range of humanitarian groups. They slash the jugs, steal the food and blankets, intimidate the refugees. And although they’ve never been caught at it, there’s good reason to believe they’re not above killing. They know about Los Angeles del Desierto, and are no more pleased with it than the Rodriguez family is.”
“How often does he lead people across?”
“Several times each month.”
“And you know all this how?” I asked.
Rainy said, “Because there’s a price on your head, too, isn’t there? You’re a Desert Angel.”
Nikki didn’t deny it.
“Did Peter get you involved?”
“Other way around. I drew Peter in.” She gave a weak smile. “Several years ago, a number of us in Cadiz who were concerned about the terrible ordeal of those coming across the border began putting out jugs of water, food, blankets. It wasn’t much of an organization then. We did it quietly, because we didn’t want to draw attention. Two years ago, I convinced Peter to help us. His vision changed everything. With Peter, we became the Desert Angels. There are humanitarians on the other side of the border who’ve been helping those who want to cross. Peter connected with them, established a network. He began taking as many refugees away from the coyotes as he could. These are people so desperate to come here that fences and laws won’t stop them.”
“Peter keeps them from dying,” Rainy said.
“That and more. He keeps them out of the hands of the coyotes, who would take everything from them. He keeps them from being caught by the Border Patrol, who would just send them back. He delivers them into the hands of people here who’ll see to it that they arrive safely wherever it is that they’re going for a new life. He truly is an angel.”
Rainy asked, “What happened to him the day he called me?”