One pair of boots, black with silver tips that glinted in the sun, made a move, and several pebbles tumbled down the embankment.
The owner of the boots said, “We have to be certain.”
“You go, man. I’m not going down there. What if the car explodes?”
“I’d rather be in a car explosion than face El Gringo Viejo and tell him we’re not sure she’s dead.”
“I have an idea. You see that gasoline leaking?”
The smell of gasoline now permeated her nose. Why hadn’t she noticed it before? The car could’ve gone up in flames at any time.
“Give me the cigarette, cabron. You’re too chicken to get close enough.”
If she ran now, they’d see her. Better to let them think she’d gone up in flames with the car. She coiled her body, her muscles quivering.
A few more pebbles rolled down as the man with the silver-tipped black boots ventured down the embankment sideways. He stopped, and she held her breath.
The other man laughed from above. “You missed.”
Two seconds later, a fire whipped up on the other side of the car. Fueled by the gasoline, it roared to life.
Using the flames and smoke as cover, she crawled through the sand toward that upside-down tree she’d spied through the cracked windshield, now right-side up. Leaning against its rough bark, she drew her knees to her chest, willing herself to shrink into the bark. Willing the two men to stay away.
When the car exploded, a door sailed past her and black smoke billowed into the blue cloudless sky. She stayed put, folding her arms across her body, fingers digging into her biceps.
A hot breeze carried the two male voices toward her, but she couldn’t make out their words this time over the crackling blaze. She squeezed her eyes shut and mumbled to herself, “Go away. Go away.”
A car started—maybe not. A small explosion sent another flurry of debris skyward, and she covered her nose and mouth with her hands to block out the acrid smoke and ash.
Her head hurt. Her lungs hurt. Her ribs hurt. And still she sat. She sat as the car burned out behind her. She sat as a lizard skittered across her toes. She sat as the sun dipped behind the hills. She sat as feral eyes glowed at her through the darkness.
Finally, her muscles stiff and her throat parched, she peeled herself away from the tree and cranked her head around. Wisps of smoke still rose from the torched husk of the car. It crouched in the desert like some watchful creature.
She patted the pockets of her pants and pulled out a few pesos from the front and a knife with a fancy handle from the back. She hit the button on the side of the knife, and a shiny blade materialized. She just might need that. She retracted the blade and shoved it back into her pocket, stepping away from the tree and scanning the ground.
The light from the half-moon provided scant illumination, but she spotted some debris in the sand. She squatted and picked through some scraps of paper, empty cigarette packages, receipts and bits of paper and plastic bags.
She snatched up one piece of paper stirring in the faint breeze and flattened it out on her knee. Someone had sketched the face of a man with longish hair and glasses—just more trash. She swept it from her leg and scanned the ground for something useful.
The desert floor stared back at her with hooded eyes, giving up nothing.
She glanced up at the ridge where the two men had stood and discussed her demise. They’d probably left hours ago, but fear had kept her attached to that tree. She needed a way out of here, water, food.
But most of all, she needed to find out who she was.
ROB CLIMBED INTO his Border Patrol truck and slumped behind the wheel, leaving his door open. He massaged his temples and whispered, “What a day.”
The hushed voice came from a place of reverence for the desert and its undercover creatures. He could shout at the top of his lungs and no human soul would hear him.
He sat for a moment, his hands resting on the steering wheel, soaking in the peacefulness. As a Border Patrol agent, he knew this stretch of the desert didn’t always host serenity. He’d experienced firsthand the headless bodies, the shoot-outs and the drugs—always the drugs.
His fingers curled around the steering wheel. Drugs had ravaged his life. They didn’t represent some inanimate object to him. He viewed drugs as some great evil that had become his personal enemy.
He’d never expressed it quite like that when he’d applied for a job with the Border Patrol. The agency probably would’ve dismissed him based on his psych eval if he had.
He loosened his death grip on the steering wheel and ran a hand through his hair. He didn’t want to pollute the evening with thoughts of home.
Easing the door of his truck closed, he started the engine. The sound would scatter all the shy creatures and maybe even a drug dealer or two, although his survey of the border today probably already did that.
He buzzed down his window and wheeled the truck around. The truck bumped along the dirt of the access road until it hit the asphalt, which didn’t provide a much smoother ride. He flicked on his brights. He didn’t want to mow down anything out here, and it wouldn’t be likely that he’d be blinding another driver at this time of night.
The warm breeze from the window caressed his face, and he inhaled the scents from the desert, subtle but distinct. His nostrils flared at an alien odor.
Despite the hot and dry conditions of the Sonoran Desert, fires didn’t commonly occur due to the lack of combustible vegetation, but he’d definitely caught a whiff of burning rubber and gasoline. He pulled over and adjusted his rearview mirror, studying the landscape behind him.
The road had crested and the
