“Yes.”
“Where did he spend his military career?”
Estrella checked. “He was assigned to Gant’s unit for seven of his eight years served.”
“Did you background him?”
“I did.” Estrella pulled up another file. “Stateside, McGovern was arrested for selling drugs six times from the age of eighteen to twenty. He entered the military voluntarily to avoid jail time.”
“But then he re-upped.”
“Yes.”
“I don’t think McGovern became an overnight patriot,” Will said.
“I doubt that.”
“Do you have a current address for McGovern?”
“The military sends him a check every month.”
“Get me the address.”
48
›› International Border
›› El Paso, Texas
›› 1942 Hours (Central Time Zone)
Perspiration trickled down Tyrel McHenry’s back as he sat in the back of the cab in the line leading to the border patrol checkpoints. Evening was settling over the area. The eastern skies had turned dark.
Tyrel’s eyes burned from fatigue. He hated wearing a ball cap instead of the Stetson he’d worn for so long. But he’d had to wear a hat. His forehead had a demarcation as clear as the Texas-Mexico border from El Paso to Ciudad Juarez. He’d never been outside the house without his hat, and his forehead would have been unevenly tanned. People would have noticed and remembered him, and he couldn’t afford that.
He’d also dyed his hair black, something his vanity would never have allowed him to do had he not been forced into hiding. With his weathered tan, he figured he could pass as a Mexican in time. That was the plan anyway. After today he didn’t intend to ever step foot on American soil again.
He didn’t deserve to. He hadn’t deserved that honor in over forty years.
“Senor,” the cab driver called.
“Yeah,” Tyrel answered.
“Do you have your papers ready, senor?”
“I do.”
The cabbie was a round-faced man in his forties. The taxi smelled like cheap soap; a figurine of Jesus stood on the dashboard.
“That’s a good thing, senor. These border officials, they are very proud of their paperwork.”
Tyrel had gotten rid of his papers. When he’d first returned to the States after leaving Vietnam, he’d planned to relocate to Mexico if worse came to worst, and back then identification wasn’t required to pass back and forth between Mexico and Texas.
Relocate, Tyrel snorted to himself. Why, listen to you, you old fool. This ain’t no relocation. You’re jackrabbiting to keep your tail together. Like a coward. If you had any pride, you’d have let the Army do what they needed to do forty years ago.
But he hadn’t been able to do that. Back then he’d just been too afraid. Then he’d come home to find Amanda waiting for him and felt like he deserved something good for himself. Then Shelton had been born and Don after that. Once he’d been on that road, he couldn’t turn himself in. By the time he’d gotten strong enough to accept what he would have had to do, he would have been abandoning his family. The military and the government didn’t help out families of a murdering soldier. Tyrel wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but he was pretty sure about that.
After 9/11 and the tight security that went up overnight on people traveling out of and into the United States, Tyrel had known he’d need papers to get over into Juarez if the time ever came. Working with migrant laborers and other men he’d known had given Tyrel the name of a man who could falsify papers. It had cost Tyrel a lot to get a good set.
He didn’t know how good the papers were because he’d never used them before. But he was about to find out.
“So, senor,” the taxi driver said, “your trip to Juarez, is it for business or pleasure?”
“Business,” Tyrel said, hoping the man didn’t keep talking to him. He just wanted to get across the border and be gone.
After riding out, he’d freed his horse. Given time, the mare would wander back to the barn. He knew that Don, and Shel for that matter, would care for the livestock. Three miles of hiking had brought Tyrel to Bobby Foyt’s place. Foyt and his family were out of town on a last-chance vacation before school started back.
Tyrel had hot-wired the old Chevrolet pickup in the garage, left money for it in Bobby’s barbecue grill because Bobby didn’t let many days go by without grilling, and driven down to El Paso secure in the knowledge that no one would know the truck was missing for several days at least.
He’d stopped and eaten once outside of El Paso. The television had carried a baseball game and the local news. That was when he found out about the manhunt the sheriff had unleashed to look for him. Tyrel had gone into the bathroom with the hair color and come out with black hair. Then he’d gotten back on the road.
In El Paso, he bought a few things to carry across the border in a suitcase, courtesy of the bargain bins at the Salvation Army. He’d have been able to buy anything he needed in Juarez, or wherever he finally decided to light, but going across the border empty-handed would have drawn attention.
“What kind of business?” the cabbie asked.
“Construction.” Tyrel knew enough about that line of work that he could pass for a foreman. He’d learned a lot about woodworking and building when he’d built the ranch house and barn. Then there had been various other projects with neighbors over the years.
“Constuction is a fine business,” the cabbie said. “I have done construction work. My father was a cabinetmaker. A very fine cabinetmaker.”
Tyrel wished the man would shut up. Waiting in the long line was making him as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He didn’t need to try to be carrying on a conversation at the same time.
He glanced at the people at the side of the street. The border allowed a lot of walk-through traffic as well. If not for the checkpoint, El Paso and Juarez might as well have been one large city. They were of equal size, but there was a vast difference in the appearance and the economies.
As he watched, a young boy of nine or ten walked beside his mother. The boy was eating a hot dog and holding on to a bright blue balloon. The balloon jerked in the wind and captured the boy’s attention.
The young mother balanced a sleeping child in her arms and chatted amiably on a cell phone. She hardly paid any attention to the older boy.
The boy with the balloon stopped suddenly. His balloon floated away and he grabbed his throat. Panic filled his face. His mouth opened to yell-but nothing came out. He grabbed his mother’s dress.
Angry, the young mother turned around to admonish her son. Then she saw him holding his throat. His sunburned face reddened more.
Somebody help him, Tyrel thought. He’s choking.
“Help me!” the young mother screamed. She dropped the cell phone and grabbed her son’s arm. Wakened, the baby started screaming too. “My son needs help! Please! Someone help me!”
The bystanders backed away as the boy continued to struggle to breathe.
Tyrel couldn’t believe it. Surely someone was going to help.
No one did.
Without thinking, Tyrel threw the cab door open. Images of Don and Shel ran through his mind. He remembered how he’d always been afraid of something happening to them when they were young. It was a parent’s worst nightmare.
