I’d keyed in the coordinates of the Lulabelle, and when I came to the place where Mondragón had parked his SUV, I got out. I filled the hydration pack with water and loaded it with the supplies I’d bought, locked the pickup, and started quickly into the mountains.
The Santa Margaritas blocked my view of the eastern horizon, and although the sky above me was perfectly blue, I knew those black clouds I’d seen earlier were on the march. I climbed as fast as I could, as fast as my beat-up body would allow me. My ribs were still sore and there was a little fire burning along my cheek, but I pushed myself. I’d left Cadiz without communicating to Rainy or Mondragón what I was up to. I didn’t have time to leave a ribbon tied to the angel’s finger, and I probably wouldn’t have anyway. I still didn’t know where the leak was, and I thought it was best to go on this particular expedition alone.
I made it to the Lulabelle much faster than I had that morning, not only because I knew the way now, but also because I knew that I had to stay ahead of both those storm clouds and whoever might be tracking me. Although we’d found blood in the mine, there was no telling if it was Peter’s or that of someone who was with him. There was no guarantee I wasn’t on a wild-goose chase. But it was the only lead I had, so I followed it. I began, as I often did when hunting deer, moving in a careful spiral outward from the mine entrance, looking for sign. The firefight that morning had disturbed the area a great deal, and it took me longer than I’d hoped to find what I was looking for. Fifty yards north of the mine entrance, I spotted a partial print left in soft dirt. It looked as if it had been made by the sole of a cheap athletic shoe. A child’s shoe. I had my sign.
Nikki Edwards had told me that Peter was good at covering his tracks, making it difficult for the Border Patrol to follow him. If that was true, something was terribly wrong. The trail Peter, or the people Peter was leading, left when they fled the Lulabelle was not hard to follow. Even in the rockiest of terrain there’s loose dirt, and I found multiple prints leading north. Some were small, some larger, but none as large as a man might leave. Although I couldn’t tell how many were with him, Peter was leading a group of women and children. Either they were moving too fast for him to cover their tracks or he was not able to. I tried not to think about the large bloodstain on the floor of the mine.
I’d gone maybe three miles, most of the way listening to the growing rumble of thunder, when a raindrop finally hit my face. I’d been focused on the ground, and when I looked up, I was startled to see that the great black chest of the storm had appeared over the Santa Margaritas. The temperature, I realized, was dropping rapidly. Something big was coming, and it was coming fast. I took the field glasses and scanned the rugged landscape in front of me.
Henry Meloux was a man surprised by almost nothing. The old Mide had once told me, “When you open yourself to spirit—of the land, of the creatures, of other human beings—what comes to you is always what’s to be expected.” When I’d asked him what that was, he’d smiled, had spread his arms wide, and said simply, “Bounty.”
Standing with the field glasses to my eyes, I understood the truth of my old friend’s words. Because what I saw, maybe half a mile ahead, glowing in the sunlight not yet eaten by the storm clouds, was a singular rock that stood tall above all the others and that, to those who were spiritually inclined, might resemble the blazing figure of a robed Jesus.
“Find what you’re looking for?”
The voice at my back was as startling as a clap of thunder, and I jerked in response. I’d been so intent on the ground and then on the scene in front of me that I’d paid no attention to what might be coming at me from behind. I turned and faced the four men who’d trailed me.
“Agent Sprangers. And it’s Vega, right?” I said to the hulking man beside him. I glanced at the other two and waited for them to identify themselves, but they were mute.
“Just out for a stroll?” I asked.
Sprangers looked up at the sky. “All hell’s about to break loose, O’Connor.”
“In the middle of summer. Go figure,” I said.
“You don’t know about the monsoons?” Vega said. He was sweating bullets, the underarms of the khaki shirt he wore dark and wet.
A crooked finger of lightning hit the mountains uncomfortably close to us and the thunder that followed was deafening.
“They always come this time of year,” Sprangers said when the din had died away. “We should find some shelter and have a talk.”
The shelter we settled on was a narrow overhang of rock facing west. From our precarious little perch, I could see the desert below stretching toward the next range of mountains miles and miles distant. The land turned dark as the clouds gobbled up the last blue of the late afternoon sky. No sooner had we pressed ourselves beneath the little eave of rock than, as Sprangers had predicted, all hell broke loose.
I’ve been in my share of storms, but what rushed at us down the western slope of the Santa Margarita Mountains was truly amazing. The lightning became almost constant. Like a violent hand, thunder shook the rock at our backs and the ground beneath our feet. In the sky, a battle between gods seemed to rage, the charcoal-colored clouds lit from within by great explosions of white light. The rain came in sheets, and the sheets were pushed nearly horizontal by the wind. A waterfall gushed over the eave just above our heads, and we pressed ourselves against the rock. Below us, a thousand liquid snakes invaded the desert. If Sprangers and his cohorts had hoped to question me, the storm put their intentions on hold for nearly an hour.
The battle of the gods moved southwest and the rain let up gradually. The waterfall eased to a trickle, and we stepped into the open.
“Quite a coincidence, running into you guys out here,” I said.
“Where were you headed?” Sprangers asked.
“Headed? Nowhere. I heard the Santa Margaritas were a lovely area to hike. Gotta tell you, I haven’t been disappointed.”
“I’ve been doing a good deal of digging in the last day or so, O’Connor,” Sprangers said. “I’ve found some interesting things. Your son, Peter Bisonette, for example.”
“Not my son,” I said. It came out harsher than I’d meant. “My wife’s son.”
“Exactly,” Sprangers said. “His birth certificate lists his last name as Mondragón, not Bisonette. His father’s name on the certificate is Gilbert Mondragón.”
“His birth father,” I said. “Mondragón and my wife divorced after Peter was born. My wife legally returned to her maiden name, Bisonette, and changed her children’s names as well.”
“Gilbert Mondragón is the son of Santiago Mondragón. Does that name mean anything to you?”