“Do you know something about Peter Bisonette?”
“I know you keep looking for him, you’re asking for trouble.”
“That’s not news.”
“I suppose not.” He studied the tip of his cigarette. “You know the story of the optimistic kid? Always seeing the bright side of things? One day his old man decides to wise him up to the way the world really is. So for the kid’s birthday the old man gives him a big pile of horseshit. Figures that’ll do the trick. Well, the kid dives into that pile of horseshit with a big smile on his face and sets to digging. His old man says, ‘What the hell are you doing?’ Kid says, ‘With all this horseshit, there’s got to be a pony somewhere.’ ” He laughed. “The kid you’re looking for, he’s like that. Strikes me, you probably are, too. World needs people like you folks. Hope you find your kid, mister.”
“You can’t help with that?”
We both heard the sound of the vehicle coming, the grind of the engine up the hard track I’d followed. I picked up the Winchester, walked away from the old-timer, and stood near my truck, looking down from the flat where the mine had been dug. I could see the dust in the vehicle’s wake, rising up amid the mesquite, and in a moment, I could see the vehicle. Border Patrol. I turned around and found that I was alone again. Sylvester was nowhere to be seen.
I set the Winchester in the bed of the pickup, out of sight but within reach. I still didn’t have a feel for which way the winds blew in these parts. The SUV rolled to a stop behind my pickup and two men got out. One of them I recognized. Agent Jamie Sprangers. The other was a stranger, Hispanic in his features.
Sprangers said, “I’ve been looking for you, Mr. O’Connor.”
“Interesting that you were able to find me way out here.”
“It’s what Border Patrol is good at. I’d like you to meet a colleague of mine. Jesús Vega.” He pronounced the first name Hey-soos.
The man was big, professional wrestler big. He offered his hand and nearly crushed my own when he shook it. I couldn’t help thinking about the Mexican wrestlers who wore masks in the ring. “Folks call me Jessie,” he said.
“You Border Patrol, too?”
“DEA. A lot of jurisdictions involved out here along the border. It’s kind of like a jigsaw puzzle.”
Sprangers picked up the empty cartridge casings from the dirt beside the pickup. “Thought I smelled gunpowder.”
“A friend loaned me his rifle. Just getting used to it. Came up for a little target practice.” I pointed to the baking soda boxes still sitting on the rock. “Something I can do for you gentlemen?”
Sprangers said, “I’m sorry about your wife.”
“Thank you.”
“It was my understanding, when I spoke with Sheriff Carlson, that you would get your wife’s blood type to him so his people could compare it with the blood type of the sample they took from Robert Wieman’s ranch last night.”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t done that.”
“No.”
“You felt it was more important to come way out here for target practice?”
“I contacted my daughter in Aurora, Minnesota. She’s working on getting me what we need. As soon as she gets back to me, I’ll let the sheriff know.”
He digested this, and it seemed to sit all right with him. He glanced toward the mine entrance. “You know about this place, O’Connor?”
I shrugged. “What’s to know?”
“A year ago, we found the bodies of four illegals in that mine. They were Guatemalans. Two men, two women. They’d all been shot.” He waited for that to sink in. “Just a coincidence you’re up here?”
“Just a coincidence,” I said.
“Mr. O’Connor,” Vega said, “we know there’s a significant pipeline of drugs running through Coronado County and we’re pretty certain the Rodriguezes are running it.”
“The Guatemalans who were killed here, were they mules?”
“We think it’s possible. What often happens with the illegal immigrants from Central America is this: They come with their children. They’ve already paid for the passage, but when they get to the border, their children are taken from them, kidnapped. These people are told that they have to work for the Rodriguezes, as mules or in other ways, if they ever want to see their children again. In our investigation, we discovered that the people we found here had, indeed, come with children.”
“What happened to the children?”
“Unfortunately, your guess is as good as ours.”
“Who killed the Guatemalans?”
“We don’t know,” Agent Sprangers said. “It’s still an open case. It could have been the Rodriguezes. It could have been one of the other drug interests. It could have been locals fed up with the drug traffic and the illegals.”
“Why did you come looking for me?”
“I want to know what you’re not telling us.”
“Peter Bisonette,” Vega said. “What’s his connection with the Rodriguezes?”
“I don’t know that there is one.”
“What is it about him that would make the Rodriguezes go after his mother?”
“I’ve been told they’re just those kinds of people. They kill you right down to the last member of your family, cut down the tree to the roots.”
“Even they have reasons. Revenge?” Vega offered. “Leverage? Information?”
“I have nothing to give you,” I said.
Sprangers stepped to the back of the pickup and peered into the bed, where I’d laid the Winchester. “Nice old piece. But Las Calaveras use AK-47s and Uzis and M16s.” He looked up at the sky. “I know it feels hot already, O’Connor. Trust me, if Carlos Rodriguez has his sights set on you, it’s only going to get worse. When you finally decide it’s too hot, let me know. You have my card.”
The two agents returned to their SUV and headed back the way they’d come. I watched until they hit the main road and turned toward Sulfur Springs. Then I went over the pickup very carefully. Under the rear bumper, I found a transmitter, a tracking unit, which I decided to leave in place for the moment.
I picked up the Winchester and, with my next four shots, sent the final boxes of baking soda flying. I climbed back into the truck and headed down the mountainside.
CHAPTER 17
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