Saint Death

“Look, man, if he wanted to take me out, he could’ve done it a long time ago. There’s nothing I could do about it if he has it in his mind to make an example out of me. You get used to the thought of it. That’s just Juárez.”

“And your family?”

Plato looked away. “I’m thinking about that.”

“Where do you think he’s gone?”

“Don’t know for sure — he has a lot of places — but I could hazard a pretty good guess. I reckon, given that you and your friends back there just gave him a bloody nose, he’ll go back to where he feels most secure. The Sierra Madre. That’s where he’s from originally. The whole place out there, it’s all La Frontera: hundreds of cartel men, even the locals are on his side. The mountains, too. Inhospitable. You’d need an army to get him out again if that’s where he’s gone. And I’m not exaggerating.”

There was a gun cabinet on the wall. Milton pointed at it. “What have you got in there?”

Plato took a key from his belt and opened the cabinet. There was a rifle, a revolver and several boxes of ammunition.

“The rifle,” Milton said.

“I’m guessing you know plenty about guns?”

A small smile. “A little.”

“You’ll like this, then.” Plato took it down and handed it across. “That’s the Winchester Model 54. They started making those babies in 1925. Chambered for the .30–06 Springfield. They’ve developed it some over the years, and some people will tell you the Model 70 is the better of the two, but I don’t have any truck with that.”

Milton ran his fingers across the walnut stock and the hand chequering. The gun had good rifling and a strong muzzle. The bolt throw still had a good, crisp action. It had been oiled regularly and kept in pristine condition.

“You ever shot with it?” Plato asked.

“Now and again.”

“Most accurate gun I ever used. Belonged to my father originally — he took it to war with him. I killed my first deer with it. Must’ve been no more than ten years old. Had it ever since.”

“Do you think I could I borrow it?”

“Don’t suppose there’s any point me asking you what for?”

“You don’t need to ask, do you?”

“No. I don’t suppose I do.”

Milton put the rifle next to the tent and the rest of the equipment that Plato had assembled. He added a box of bullets.

“Your car, too, if that’s alright?”

Plato chuckled. “Why not? Lending my rifle and my car to someone I don’t know wouldn’t be the stupidest thing I’ve done this week.”

“Don’t worry, Plato. I won’t be long. And I’ll bring it all back.”

59

Beau had stolen a Pontiac Firebird from the street near to the mansion. Caterina was in the front with him and González was in back. He was cuffed, his arms behind his back. They had cuffed his ankles together, too. Beau had a pistol laid out on the dash in front of him and he had threatened González that he would gag him with the duct tape he had found in the glovebox if he made a nuisance of himself. So far, Caterina thought, he had not. She guessed that he was facing something very unpleasant on the other side of the border and his compliance — up until now, at least — made her nervous. He did not strike her as the kind of man who would just go quietly.

Beau had not explained their route to them but it was easy enough to guess. They were going to head south and then west, probably to Ojinaga, and then cross into Presidio and Texas. They were close enough to the border for the car radio to pick up the cha

They cut through the sava

They reached the edge of Chihuahua, found the 16 and headed back to the north-east.

“Do you really think this is going to work?”

Beau stiffened a little next to her. She glanced into the rear-view mirror and straight into González’ face. He was calm and placid; there was even the begi

“Don’t reckon you need worry yourself on account of that,” Beau said.

“You won’t even get across the border. My father owns the border. What is it? Where will you try? Ojinaga? Ciudad Acuna? Piedras Negras?”

“Thought I’d just take a little drive, see which one caught my fancy.”

“Fifty thousand is very little to be forever watching your back, Beau.”

“It’ll do for now.”

“I could give you five hundred thousand.”

“Haven’t we been here before? Shoe was on the other foot, then, as I recall. Answer’s still the same.”

“The offer stands until the border.”

“You know something, Adolfo? You’re a piece of work. You might be a scary fucker when it’s on your own terms but when it gets to the nut-cutting, like now, the moment of true balls, and all you’ve got is talk.”

The dawn’s first light fell upon them as they turned off the highway and headed directly north. The landscape changed suddenly, the flat scrubland replaced by ridges and plateaus, the mountains filling the distance all the way to the horizon. The rock turned from black to blue and then to green as the sun climbed in the sky. Dust devils skittered across the road. The next twin towns on the line east from Juárez and El Paso, Ojinaga and Presidio clung together against the awesomeness of the mountains. It was the most isolated of the crossings. Here, the Rio Bravo was supplemented by the waters from the Conchos and, rather than the insipid trickle that apologetically ran between Juárez and El Paso, it was a surging, throbbing current that was full of life.

Beau stepped on the gas.

“Caterina,” González said.

Beau turned to her. “Don’t.”

“I’m not frightened of him.”

“Long as he’s trussed up like that, there ain’t no need to be. But, a feller like him, the only thing he wants to do is put things in your head, thoughts you’ll worry about, cause problems down the line.”

Caterina set her face and turned a little. “What do you want?” she said into the back of the car.

“Those girls — you want to know what it was like?”

“Shut your trap,” Beau ordered.

“Come on, Caterina. You’re a writer. You’re curious, I know you are. This is your big story. What about that girl you were with in the restaurant? You want to know how it was for her?”

“No, she don’t.”

“Delores. That was her name. I remember — she told me. I don’t normally remember the names — there’ve been so many — but she stood out. She kept asking for her mother.”

“I won’t tell you again. Any more out of you and you’re getting gagged.”

“She’s the proof, though, isn’t she? Look at what happened to her. You can’t escape from us. It doesn’t matter where you are. It doesn’t matter who is protecting you. Eventually, one way or another, you’ll be found and brought back to me.”

Beau slammed on the brakes. “Alright, you son of a bitch,” he said, reaching for the roll of duct tape. “Have it your way.”

* * *

They found a motel on the outskirts of Presidio. The place was a mongrel town, full of trailer parks and strip malls. They had crossed the border an hour ago. Beau had pulled the Firebird to the side of the road as the steep fence and the squat immigration and customs buildings appeared ahead of them. He had taken out his cellphone and made a quick call. A few shops had collected next to the crossing: Del Puente Boots, a Pemex gas station, an Oxxo convenience store, a dental clinic. An all-night shack with flashing lights advertised ‘Sodas, Aguas, Gatorades.’ It was practically empty and only one of the northbound gates was open. Beau slotted the car into it, wound down the window and reached out to hand over his passport. The customs agent, a nervous-looking forty something man who reminded Caterina of a rabbit, made a show of inspecting the documents as he removed the five hundred dollar bills from within their pages. He handed the passport back. Welcome to America, he had said, opening the gate. Beau had thanked him, put the car into gear and driven them across the bridge and into the United States.