A flick of the wrist revealed ten inches of blackened steel.
After he settled the knot in his tie, Sevilla looked at himself in the mirror behind the bedroom door. The gun was invisible, the bulge of the impact baton something that could be keys or an oddly shaped wallet.
“I will be back late,” he told the air. “Don’t wait up for me.”
THIRTEEN
ENRIQUE CROSSED THE BORDER early in the morning to avoid the worst of the bridge traffic. On the average day the lanes out of Mexico could be stacked a hundred deep and the Americans were slow to process the cars. There were drug-sniffing dogs and mirrors to look beneath frames and endless questions about where you were coming from and where you intended to go. It was worst for Mexicans, though it was not easy for returning natives.
Even at the hour he chose there was still a wait. When he got to the front of the line he showed his credentials to the uniformed man in the booth. This time there were no dogs, but the American broke out a long metal rod with a mirror on the end and walked around the whole perimeter of the car before asking that the trunk be opened.
Enrique answered the man’s questions. It was just a ritual. Both of them knew he would go through.
Once he was free Enrique passed into El Paso. The city was still half asleep. He drove down streets of still cars and dark windows, following directions he’d printed out from the internet.
Most of the border towns in Mexico served as shadows of their American counterparts. The relationship between El Paso and Juarez was different: Juarez was bigger than El Paso. Enrique almost felt as though he was driving through a small town compared to the complex, interlocking grid of Juarez.
Eventually he found the exit for US-180 and accelerated out of the city. The highway would take him across the narrowest spoke of westernmost Texas and then up into New Mexico. The terrain was rough and flat the way it was for miles around Ciudad Juarez. There was no color except what the rising sun offered in red and orange. Once Enrique saw a jackrabbit break from the cover of a sun-blasted yucca plant. Its fur flashed white in his headlights.
It was not a long drive from Juarez to Hiatt. He could be there in a matter of six hours. To slow his progress he stopped in Las Cruces for an American breakfast of waffles, bacon, eggs and coffee. Enrique took his time over the food, but even with the delay he knew he’d be early to the prison.
Obtaining access to Marco Rojas was easier than Enrique had expected. When he called he introduced himself as a Mexican police officer and had thought he would have to go into great detail about his reasons for wanting to see the prisoner. That hadn’t been the case; in five minutes he was off the telephone with a date and a time to visit. The prison promised to extend Enrique every courtesy.
He reached the town of Hiatt with ninety minutes left before his time with Rojas. There was little to the town: it sat in the middle of a broad desert, a dozen buildings or so and roads leading off to ranches hidden by distance. Everything was closed. Enrique stopped by a large rectangle of fenced-in grass that he supposed was meant to be a park and closed his eyes for a little while, trusting in the alarm on his cell phone to wake him in time.
When he had thirty minutes left he followed signs out of Hiatt proper and to the prison. He reached the first fence before he could see the buildings at all. A guard was stationed in a dusty-colored box with dirty windows, operating an electric gate. Enrique showed his identification again and explained why he was there. He was allowed through.
After a mile Enrique encountered a cluster of houses with trees planted around them and neat but dry yards. A child’s swing set was stationed behind one of them, sentry in the early morning.
Finally he saw the prison itself. It was not very imposing, consisting of long, boxy structures made out of concrete and cinder block, surrounded by triple rows of fencing and barbed wire. The yard and basketball courts were devoid of life.
He found himself a spot in a parking lot with twenty or so other cars and walked the rest of the way to the entrance. This time he showed his ID and was not waved through right away. Using a computer and an old printer, a law-enforcement visitor’s pass was made for him and laminated on the spot. “You can keep it as a souvenir,” the uniformed corrections officer joked. Enrique smiled.
Another corrections officer came to escort Enrique into the main building. They passed through a narrow corridor of hurricane fencing topped with barbed wire and locked securely at both ends. Enrique’s pass was checked before the officer at the far side would even unlock the gate.
“It’ll be a few minutes until they’re ready for you,” said the officer leading him. “Just wait here.”
Enrique was in an area scattered with chairs and couches upholstered in deep red vinyl. There was a coffee table peppered with magazines. Enrique didn’t sit down or read; he paced off the minutes while his officer went away to make some preparation.
After a quarter of an hour the officer returned. “Come on,” he said.
They had to go through two electric lockdown doors before reaching a gray room with a few plastic chairs dotted around. The windows were covered with tight metal grating that cut the morning sun into little pieces.
“He’ll be right in,” the officer said.
Another ten minutes passed until finally a prisoner in a white jumpsuit was escorted into the room.
Enrique wasn’t sure what to expect of Marco Rojas. The man was an American and so the Mexican police had no photographs or any real records concerning him. There was no family resemblance between Rojas and Rafa Madrigal, but then there wouldn’t be; he was from Madrigal’s wife’s side of the family. He was short and blocky and full of muscles. He had a crosshatch scar on his temple, as if he’d been ground into something until the flesh peeled away.
Rojas had a waist chain and his feet were shackled. He shuffled ahead to one of the plastic chairs, led by the elbow and then urged to sit. Enrique watched Rojas watching him.
“If you need anything, just knock on the door,” said the corrections officer, and then he went out of the room. A bolt was shot. They were locked in.
“You are the Marco Rojas who’s cousin to Gabriel Madrigal?”
“I am.”
Rojas was still looking at Enrique. When he spoke again, he spoke in Spanish: “Did they send you to bring me back to Mexico?”
“I don’t have that kind of authority,” Enrique said.
“Good. You’re a Mexican cop, though.”
“How can you tell?”
“They told me before I came in. Don’t worry, I’m not a mind-reader,” Rojas said, and he gave a little smile.
Enrique was still standing. He dragged one of the plastic chairs around and sat with the back facing forward so he could fold his arms in front of himself. It also made him feel a little safer, though there was no way Rojas could rush him with all the chains he wore.
“If you’re not here to bring me back to Mexico, then what do you want?”
“I want to talk to you about the Madrigals,” Enrique said plainly.
“What about them?”
It occurred to Enrique that he didn’t know where to start. When he rehearsed his meeting with Rojas he had never gotten past the first few moments. The questions were all a jumble, each one as important as the next and finding no natural order.
Rojas made a face, as if he was impatient to be somewhere else.
“Let’s start with Gabriel Madrigal.”
“Okay, let’s start with him.”
“You were arrested for drugs and rape, is that right?”
“Yes.”
“Tell me about that.”
Rojas shrugged his shoulders in a slow, rolling way. “Gabriel liked to party. It runs in his family. Cocaine, heroin… girls. He liked all of that.”
