Do They Know I'm Running

stared at each other for a moment, long enough for Roque to believe he heard someone say the single word: Here.

To Lupe:-Did you just say something?

She stirred from a daze.-No.

The animal withdrew into the underbrush and Roque puzzled at that, wondering why he’d not seen a way to escape in that direction before. Here, he thought, remembering the voice, unable to place it, following its direction, breaking through the scrub and pointing the beam of the flashlight down into a deep and narrow ravine, terraced with rock, dotted with scrub and spindly trees, opening at the bottom into a densely overgrown blackness.

Only then did he remember the dreams, especially the second, that night at Rafa’s service station before they crossed from El Salvador into Guatemala-the image of his sickly mother beckoning him forward, the tarantula.

– We’re going this way. He gestured with the flashlight for Lupe to follow. They would scoot down the rock ledge into the crevasse, come out somewhere lower on the mountainside, take their chances that way, forge a path of their own through the forest if need be.

– I’ll go first. He got down on his haunches, tucked the pistol away, clutched the flashlight. The drop was long and steep and he could almost feel himself tumbling head over foot but he kept his weight back, plummeting like a sled. He crashed into tree roots and nettled plants, sharp outcroppings of rock, finally hitting bottom with a crunching thud.

He bounced up, fearing he might be bitten by something unseen, then pointed the flashlight up the cluttered rock face. The beam caught her peering fearfully over the ledge.

– It’s all right, he called upward.-Follow the light down.

It took her a moment to get into position and when she rocketed down it seemed for a moment she too might begin to tumble head over heels but she stiffened into a blade, continuing down. At the bottom he broke her fall and the two of them hurtled recklessly into nearby scrub. Dazed, they untangled themselves, rose to their feet, swaying.

Roque pointed the flashlight toward the mouth of the ravine.-This way.

There was no path to follow, no way to tell the right direction, an excellent plan for getting lost, but he focused on one tree and then the one behind it, fashioning as straight a line as he could, taking heart from the downward slope of his footfalls and figuring once they were off the mountain he’d get his bearings. Maybe they’d still be in Mexico when that happened, if so they’d somehow turn themselves north and go. It was the best plan he had now. An idle touch of Lupe’s shoulder revealed the wound was seeping again. Her breath came in coughing gasps more often, her steps fell heavy, she tripped and staggered to keep up, sometimes gripping his belt.

Time dissolved. The minutes dragged like hours and the hours collapsed into minutes. He heard only the rush of blood in his ears and the crunching monotony of his footsteps, hers behind him, the chafing rustle of her breath in her throat, interrupted now and again by the yipping barks of unseen coyotes. He couldn’t pinpoint when it happened, but the oaks and pines gave way to mesquite and paloverde and tormented Joshua trees, the earth turned a coppery red in the flashlight beam, thickets of spindly ocotillos and tall agave spears rose up from the desert floor. For the first time in hours he realized how cold it was, his shivering a kind of irritated happiness, forcing him awake.

In the distance he saw a pinpoint of light-maybe from a house, maybe a church. It remained unchanging and he set his course by it, keeping it always in sight, increasing his pace.

They came to a barbed-wire fence-the border?-struggled through it, shirts snagging, and ten steps beyond she finally collapsed, falling first to her knees then her side. She winced from pain and curled up, teeth clenched, rocking, trying to will herself into numbness he thought as he stood over her, grabbing at her wrist, her arm, telling her to get up, please, try. He barely recognized his own voice. To the east, dawn smeared a cold white line along the hillcrests. A raven soared overhead, black against blue, tilting wing to wing in the tumbling wind. In the distance, a lone mule grazed in the scrub.

– You have to get up. We’re almost there.

She said nothing, struggling to find some purchase, gathering strength, pulling herself to her knees. Hooking her good arm around his shoulder, he hoisted her the rest of the way up but her eyes rolled back, her knees buckled. He nearly fell, dragged to the ground after her, but he redoubled his hold and pulled her upward, leaning her body against his.-Let’s sing, he said, something we both know. The way you sang for the bikers, you were so beautiful, so brave. You’re my hero, know that? You’re so much stronger than me. Come on. We’ll sing.

In a tuneless whisper he flailed at the melody-“Sin Ti,” what else?-butchering the lyrics. By the time he realized a dog was barking he’d been registering the sound in the back of his mind for a minute or longer-like the wind, the cold, and yet a haunting reminder too of his dreams-twilight, the stickiness of blood, the barren plain. Something precious he’d have to fight to keep. He redoubled his focus on the old sad song, on her dragging steps, her sliding weight. He could see it now in the dawn light, a sprawling ranch-style house. The dog was lurching at the end of a chain, frothing as it barked. He opened his shirt in order to get to the gun. The one last thing in his dream not yet revealed: a gun blast. But he didn’t want to shoot the dog, wanted no harm to anyone or anything now. He wanted only to stop, rest, have someone look at Lupe’s shoulder, clean and dress the wound. And after? That was impossible to picture.

“?Alto! Tengo una escopeta. Esta es propiedad privada.”

Roque glanced up. For the first time he saw the tall lean silhouette marching forward. A man. His voice had mileage on it but his Spanish was wooden and nasal. He held a weapon-una escopeta. A shotgun. No, Roque thought, please, trying with all his might to pick up his pace. If the man can just see us up close he’ll understand.

“I said stop! Alto, damn it. Won’t say it again. Next thing I do is shoot.”

Roque remembered the first time he saw her, sitting in the corner of Lonely’s makeshift recording studio, her face bruised, her eyes fierce and untrusting. He remembered hearing her voice that day, the throaty heartbreak in it, the way it awakened something tragic and gentle and wise inside him. We’ve come too far, he thought. Not even God is that cruel.

The tall rangy man with the shotgun charged forward. He shouldered the weapon.

Summoning the words from a place inside him, a place he couldn’t be sure existed even a few hours ago, Roque called out: “Don’t shoot! Help us… please… I’m an American…”

He felt the full force of her weight against him as she lost consciousness. He buckled sideways with her fall, then the shotgun blast.

Part IV

BUNKERED IN HIS KITCHEN, STARING OUT THE SMALL CURTAINED window above the sink, the rancher watched the two figures milling about the drag line just beyond his property. One of the two was suited up in Border Patrol tan, the other wore a blue raid jacket over street clothes, the back emblazoned with large white letters he couldn’t read from this distance. An SUV with that distinctive rack of lights on top stood off by the side.

They were inspecting the ground, looking for tracks. The skills of the local cutters were legend, the number of ants on a candy wrapper like a clock, telling how long since the litterbug blundered through. So the stories went, anyway. The rancher had no reason to doubt them. He dragged a calloused palm across his stubble. The tracks would lead straight this direction, blood trails too, the questions would start. Questions he wanted no part of.

He turned from the window, wondering at the things that trip you up, unraveling the promise of life right before your eyes, testing you. Audrey, he thought, there had always been Audrey or it felt like always and all he’d ever wanted was to make sure she was safe. You can’t make another person happy, that’s their affair to manage, but with luck, yes, their safety you might manage. But, God bless her, she had been happy. He felt humbled by that.