“He’d set up a rendezvous that night. The way it always worked was this: He would identify a crossing location along the border, somewhere away from the usual routes, and he would give it to me. I’d broadcast it during my show, work the longitude in with my chatter about the cuts I play.”
I thought about the odd information I’d heard her give the night before when I listened to her program, the number of minutes and seconds in each selection. A longitude would be easy to embed in all that arcana.
“The people on the other side use that information and are there to meet Peter with the group he’s going to lead,” she said.
“He met the group that night?” Rainy asked.
“I don’t know. I haven’t heard from him.”
“Do you have any idea what might have happened?”
“You need to talk to Old Turtle.”
“Who’s that?”
“I have no idea. When we communicate, we only use cover names now. It protects us all. To everyone else, I’m known as Nightingale.”
“Why do we need to talk to Old Turtle?”
“Peter told me that if ever there was any trouble, he’s the one to talk to.”
“How do we get in touch with Old Turtle?” I asked.
“Send your telephone number to this email address.” She wrote it down on a slip of paper and passed it to me.
“Telephone number, that’s all?”
“That’s all. Old Turtle will contact you.”
“When?”
“I don’t know. I’ve never tried it before.”
“Do you know where Peter lives?”
“When he left Cadiz, he didn’t tell anyone where he was going. But whenever we’ve met, I’ve always had the sense that he’s come from somewhere south.”
“Sulfur Springs?”
“I doubt that. The town’s a hotbed for White Horse. But maybe in the area.”
“Are you in any danger?” Rainy asked.
“Only if they grab Peter and he talks. Or,” she said, giving us a dark look, “if they grab you.”
CHAPTER 10
* * *
It was only noon and already so much had happened that day. We drove back to the parsonage in Cadiz and sat at the table in the little kitchen. Rainy pulled out the photograph of Peter with Arweiler Bosch.
“Still atoning?” she asked.
Although she wasn’t really addressing me, I answered, “You believe he’s doing the right thing, don’t you?”
“Of course.”
“Then does it matter why?”
She put the photograph back into her purse.
As soon as Nikki Edwards had left, I’d used my cell phone to send a message to the email address she’d given me. Before we parted ways, she’d also given me the coordinates she’d broadcast the night before Peter went missing, the coordinates of the spot where the border crossing would take place. I’d used my cell phone to locate the place on a map. It was far to the west, as nearly as I could tell, in the middle of nowhere. I wasn’t sure what more there was to do at the moment except wait.
We didn’t have to wait long. Within ten minutes of our arrival, my cell phone rang.
“O’Connor here,” I said.
“Mr. O’Connor, this is Albert Swanson. I’m a claims representative for Southwestern Mutual, the company that insured the automobile you rented. I wonder if we could meet to talk about that rental. The report I got is a little unusual.”
“Someone blew the vehicle up, Mr. Swanson. That’s all there is to it.”
“This isn’t quite like a normal accident report, Mr. O’Connor.”
“I suppose not. But I arranged for full coverage. What’s the problem?”
“There are details I need.”
“Look—Albert, is it? I can’t talk now.”
“Mr. O’Connor—”
“Later,” I said and ended the call.
Rainy gave me a questioning look.
“Insurance,” I said.
The phone rang again immediately. I expected it to be Swanson, but it wasn’t. The display read MUSTANG PROP.
“Mr. O’Connor, you don’t know me, but I’d like very much to talk to you.” It was a woman’s voice, not what I’d expected from someone who’d taken the code name Old Turtle.
“Who is this?”
“My name is Marian Brown. I’m mayor of Sulfur Springs. I heard about what happened this morning. I believe we need to talk.”
“I’m listening.”
“I’d prefer to do this in person. Can I meet you somewhere?”
“How about Sulfur Springs?”
“That would be fine. My office is on Main Street, a block south of Rosa’s Cantina. Mustang Properties. How soon can you be here?”
“Half an hour.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
“Who was that?” Rainy asked.
“The mayor of Sulfur Springs. She wants to see us.”
“Maybe she knows Peter.”
“Let’s find out.”
It was the nicest of the buildings on Main Street in Sulfur Springs, though still ancient. We’d seen it the day before, but hadn’t paid much attention. When we pulled into town and parked, I looked up the street at Rosa’s Cantina. The old-timer named Sylvester, who’d been drinking with the cop Sanchez the day before, sat on a rocker in front, watching us with great interest.
We stepped into the cool air of the office. A woman stood and came from behind her desk to greet us.
“Ms. Brown?”
“Call me Marian. You must be Cork. And that would make you Rainy.”
Marian Brown looked old enough to have been retired many years, but there was nothing retiring about the mayor of Sulfur Springs. Her hair was red, her eyes dark and sharp. Her face was tanned leather, and from the moment I laid eyes on her, I thought she seemed well suited to the desert, where everything protected itself with thorns. She was decked out in jewelry. Not the silver and turquoise I’d always associated with the Southwest. It was all diamonds and gold. We shook hands around and she invited us to sit in the chairs where, I imagined, her clients sat.
“You’re the mayor here?” Rainy said.
“For twenty years. Before that, it was my father. Before him, his father. My family goes way back in the Southwest. We’ve fought Apaches and Pimas and Pancho Villa.”
“Is the fighting over?” I asked.
“Between politics, economics, and the weather, is the fight ever over anywhere? So.” She folded her hands on her desk as a schoolteacher might have. “That car bomb wasn’t about the weather. Maybe a little about politics. But most probably, I think, it was about economics. By now, the name Carlos Rodriguez is familiar to you.”
“We know it.”
“Did you know it before you came to Coronado County?”
“No.”
“Rodriguez. Las Calaveras. Sinaloa. Los Zetas. The Knights Templar. Cartels whose billion-dollar business is to shove drugs and poor people up the ass of this country.” She leveled a long, hard look on Rainy. “What is it about your son that makes Carlos Rodriguez want you dead?”
“You know about my son?”
“I know you’ve been asking about him all over Coronado County. He seems to be missing, yes? No sooner do you arrive to look for him than you almost get yourselves blown to smithereens. So I’m guessing that bomb wasn’t really because of you but because of your son. Around here, the only people who blow up other people are the Rodriguezes. The question becomes, then, why do they want you dead? And now we’re back to your son.”