this mountain he stopped, told Mr. Gomez a border patrol helicopter had flown over and seen them and they must get out and hide. He would come back and get them.
Here Vasquez took over. “I got a call in Lordsburg yesterday. The son of a bitch told me where he had left them. He said he had to drop them off or everyone would have been arrested. So I came where he told me, and finally I found them.” He shook his head, eyes sad. “If I hadn’t they would have died.”
That was the story Bernie was passing along to the dispatcher.
“Haven’t got time for all this. But you can’t believe it anyway.”
“What he told me sounds logical enough. But I’m new in this business.”
“No sign of coke. So forth?”
“Nothing easily visible. But I didn’t pry into the luggage, or the tires or anything like that. They had hours to hide it. Does that Delos Vasquez name mean anything to you?”
“Vasquez around here is like Kelly in Boston or Jones in Texas or Begay at Window Rock,” he said. “But Delos, that’s unusual. Rings a bell. I think he showed up on a list of underlings of some big dealer at Agua Prieta. Down in Sonora.”
“Do we have a warrant for him?”
“Just some gossip. Collect lots of that. Agua P’s just over the border from Douglas. Good place for eavesdropping.”
The Border Patrol van arrived, manned by two CPOs she’d never met. They introduced themselves as Billy and Lorenzo, and handcuffed Vasquez. Gomez, Catherina, and the children were shoed into the van and the door locked.
“We’re going to search your bus,” one of the backup crew said, “and we want you to stay right here with Officer Manuelito while we’re doing that. If we have any questions we’ll be calling you down.”
Vasquez nodded.
They stood by the van, watching the bus being searched.
“They will be deported back to Mexico now,” Vasquez said. “All their money gone to the damned coyote. Poorer than ever.”
“How about you?”
“I’m a U.S. citizen,” Vasquez said. “Probably I will have to spend some time in jail. But I don’t know what they will charge me with.”
“Maybe conspiring to violate the immigration law?”
“Yes. I guess I did that.” He looked at her, expression sad. “But with family needing help, then you do what you have to do. And it wasn’t anything about drugs. I wouldn’t do that. Those men are evil.”
“If I were you, or if I was your lawyer, I would give you some advice, Mr. Vasquez. When the federal authorities ask you about your part in this, I would start at the point where you get a call from the man who told you he had dropped off the family and they wanted you to pick them up and if you didn’t you were afraid they would die of thirst. I would leave off all that first part. Let Mr. Gomez tell them about that.”
Vasquez considered that. Nodded.
“Do you know those drug dealers in Mexico?”
“Two or three,” he said. “At Agua Prieta, I was a driver for them for a while. But I didn’t want to do that work. I didn’t want to be around them.”
Bernie nodded.
“I think you think I am a drug man,” Vasquez said, shaking his head. “Or Mr. Gomez is one. But no.”
During all this conversation, Vasquez had been studying her, and the little silver and turquoise replica of Big Thunder she was wearing on her collar.
“That is very pretty,” he said, pointing to it. “That little silver stick man.”
“He represents one of the Navajo spirits. My mother’s brother made him for me. For luck. We call him Big Thunder.” But Bernie didn’t want this conversation to be so personal. She said: “Why didn’t you want to be around them?”
“Well,” he began, and stopped. “They kill people.”
“I’ve heard that,” she said.
He was frowning at her, looking hesitant and thoughtful.
“You have been very kind to us,” he said. “Did you know they have your picture in Agua Prieta? Those men, I mean. I think the coyotes down there might be afraid of you.”
“My picture?” Bernie said, startled. “I don’t think so. How could they?”
“It was you,” Vasquez said. “I noticed it the first time I saw you. Just like the picture they were showing around.”
Bernie produced a shaky smile. “A lot of women look like me.”
“This one was wearing that little silver stick man on her shirt. I noticed it in the photograph.”
“But why would they have my picture? I don’t understand that.”
The men searching the bus shouted, motioning for Vasquez.
“Because they seemed to be afraid of you. So when any of them see you they will recognize you as a spy. And these people, when they are afraid of somebody, they want to kill them.”
15
Winsor’s houseman, George, brought the package into his living suite. It was one of those tough document- sized Airborne Express envelopes, originally delivered to his office and then relayed to his town house by messenger. It was marked “personal,” and it came from El Paso, Winsor noticed, with the return address of the office of the lawyer he used there. He zipped it open and removed the contents.
Seven 8-by-12-inch black-and-white photographs and a note folded with them:
Winsor looked at the photo of Bernie long enough to decide the woman, rewarding him with an embarrassed smile, was one of those who would never be called “cute.” Pretty, yes. Probably a very handsome woman. More important for his interests, she looked intelligent. Noticeably intelligent. Smart. Clever. That led him to the photographs she had taken.
He set two aside with a glance, then focused on the Mexican standing beside a tool trailer glowering at the camera. He fished his magnifying glass from a desk drawer for a closer look. The tools he could identify were what one would expect in a mechanic’s truck—assorted wrenches, measuring devices, pressure gauges, two fuel tanks. Probably propane or methane. Some were strange to him. But would they be strange to pipeline workers? Probably not.
Then he focused on a photo, obviously taken from a location above the work scene with a telescopic lens. It showed three big ugly animals walking along a hillside. Oryx, and one with a great curving, trophy-sized horn. Some of old man Tuttle’s exotic game. The other photo looked directly down on the trucks, the men working around the excavation—and into the excavation. He picked up the magnifying glass again. Looked through it at the print, held his breath for a long moment, and then exhaled and produced an angry expletive.
He picked up his telephone, punched his houseman’s number. While he waited he studied the photo of Bernie again. Why had she taken that photograph? Because she’d been sent there specifically to take it? Because something she’d seen had made her suspicious?
George’s voice said: “Yes, sir.”
“Get Budge,” Winsor said. “Tell him to call me. Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him to get the plane set for El Paso and then into Mexico. Then get me packed for four or five days. With walking shoes.”
