Fields of Wrath (Luis Chavez Book 1) (17 page)

Luis fell silent for so long that Maria thought she’d offended him.

“I know the sins of my church,” he began. “They weighed heavily on me as I took steps toward ordination. But it was the men who committed the sins that bothered me almost more than the actions. How could so many across so many centuries corrupt something I saw as so beautiful and binding and human in such grotesque ways? Maybe I’m naïve, but I couldn’t believe all had entered the church with nefarious intentions. Was there something inherently corrupting about holding yourself up as the one anointed to save others? When asked to forgive so much sin, did it make it that much easier to surrender to it? Or worse, propagate it?”

“So what made up your mind?” Maria asked.

“I decided that if that was enough to keep me from my vocation, I wouldn’t be a very good priest,” Luis said. “But I believed and continue to believe in just how much the church’s teachings can help people in their everyday lives. The importance of that outstripped everything else.”

“But you could do that preaching on a street corner,” Maria countered.

“No. I need the fellowship of my brother priests and the structure of the parish to support my soul. If I’m on a corner, it’s easier to forget who is meant to be doing the speaking. If I’m one of many in the same clothes and collar in front of the same altar, waking up in the same rectory every day with the same mission, there’s strength in that communion.”

Maria thought about this for a moment. She took a sip of her margarita, then placed her hand on Luis’s.

“What?” Luis asked.

“I might not have much belief in God, but I’m starting to believe in you.”

XXI

It was dark by the time they arrived in Camarillo. In that time an idea had occurred to Luis. They wouldn’t be able to find the workers, but they might be able to find the overseers. They drove to the grocery and liquor stores nearest the fields and scoured the parking lots. They parked and went into a few but continued to come up dry. They hit convenience stores next, a truck stop, and then simply drove up and down the main drags, checking out the other drivers.

“I think we should head to the farm,” Maria said. “We can pick this up again tomorrow.”

“I don’t know. People know we were at the accounting firm, and they know someone was snooping around Annie Whittaker’s house. The longer this goes on, the more likely they’re going to figure out what we’re up to. We can’t risk waiting another night.”

Maria drove in silence, Luis going over a map on Maria’s iPhone. He opened the window to let in the night breeze, and with it came the familiar scent of the ocean. The air often carried the salty fragrance far inland, and it was something anyone in Los Angeles could pick up from time to time, even if they were well away from the Pacific shore.

But this was different. Underneath the refreshing combination of salt and tide hung fumes that were oily, rotten, and noxious. Something was off.

No, this was not the smell of the wide-open ocean. This was the smell of a seaport and the fume-belching freighters that inhabited it, and it was way out of place.

Luis scanned the area.

“What’s that smell?” Maria asked.

“Pull into the truck stop. Go to a pump.”

Maria did so. The pair climbed out of the car, the odor much stronger now. Luis glanced around for the source and spied a tractor-trailer taking on diesel a few yards away. The man filling the truck looked like any other trucker in jeans and a flannel shirt. Except for the distinct tattoos running up his neck and down his arms. Luis’s eyes traveled to the cargo container on the truck’s bed. There was movement, something passing behind one of what looked like a series of holes cut into the container’s steel wall.

Aren’t shipping containers meant to be airtight and waterproof?

The driver finished pumping and replaced the gas cap. He returned to the cab and opened the door. A second man sat in the passenger seat. Though he only caught a glimpse, Luis recognized him as the man he’d seen in the grocery store the last time he was up here. There was no mistaking his distinctive sharp features and fiery copper eyes.

Holy shit.

Luis exchanged a look with Maria and climbed back into the car.

“They’re bringing them in by sea, not over the border,” Luis said as Maria keyed the ignition. “That’s why Michael couldn’t find anything on them.”

“Are you sure that’s them?” she asked. “Those are the guys who killed my brother?”

“Them or others like them,” Luis said. “I think they’re ex-military, but I’ll bet some of them knew each other even before that.”

The tractor-trailer pulled out of the truck stop ahead of Maria. She waited for a couple of cars to go by, then followed at a careful distance.

“They’re heading into the foothills,” Maria said. “It can’t be much longer.”

She was right. Five minutes later the truck turned on its right blinker, slowed, and turned off the road into what Luis initially mistook for the middle of a field. A gravel road came into view, and Luis craned his neck to watch the truck amble off into the scrub.

“You think they’re coming in through the Port of Long Beach or something?” Maria asked.

Luis’s thoughts shot to Oscar and one of the schemes he’d told him about on their drive out, the one with the stolen high-dollar cars going into cargo containers. He prayed he wasn’t involved in this.

“Kill the lights and pull over,” Luis said.

“Here?”

“Yeah,” Luis replied, grabbing his backpack from the backseat.

“No way,” Maria exclaimed. “You’re just going to follow them?”

“I am,” he admitted.

“If they figure out who you are, they might kill you.”

“I know. I have something much more important to ask you.”

“What’s that?” Maria asked.

“Do you believe me now that sometimes the Lord puts things in front of us?”

“Maybe he does,” Maria said, pulling to a stop. “Good luck all the same.”

“That’s a start. See you back in the city.”

Luis scrambled out of the car, shot Maria a last grin, and disappeared into the darkness.

Luis found the run across open ground exhilarating. He wasn’t stupid. He knew he was running toward certain danger, but that wasn’t foremost on his mind. For the umpteenth time in his life God had stepped in. He’d asked for God’s guidance, and only hours later they’d found what they were looking for.

As he ran, he repeated the same thing in his head over and over:

Thanks be to God . . . Thanks be to God . . . Thanks be to God . . .

The truck had disappeared by the time he’d climbed from Maria’s car, but he’d made good time and quickly caught sight of it. He ran parallel to the gravel road, keeping a good fifty yards between it and himself.

The truck slowed, and Luis saw a couple of men at what looked like a checkpoint. He peered into the darkness ahead and saw a barbed wire fence, this one a foot or two taller than the one he’d scaled near the main road. As his eyes became more accustomed to the dark, he was able to make out the thin green wires along the top of it.

Electrified. Damn.

As the guys in the truck chatted with the men at the checkpoint, Luis reached the electrified fence. He was deliberating on the best way to make it over when he spotted notches on a nearby fence post. They were on the side facing him. Easy access. That’s when he realized the fence was there to keep something in, not out.

Holding his breath in case he was wrong, Luis jabbed his toe into the first foothold. When a fatal electric current didn’t surge through his body, he leapfrogged the rest of the way over.

The truck started up again. Luis had to run to catch up. Less than a minute later he saw that the truck was heading toward what looked like a sprawling, haphazardly constructed apartment complex. The first few cinder-block units on the bottom floor on the west side of the building looked the oldest but also the best constructed. Units had been added on to it all the way to the far end of the concrete foundation that ran along the front. After running out of room, the builders seemed to just pile more of the same-sized units on top of the first level, using building material of lesser and lesser quality. Taken all together they looked like a stack of children’s blocks.

The Blocks,
Luis realized. He tried to count how many units there were based on front doors and windows but gave up after fifty.

The phantom workers. Here they all are. My Lord.

There were a handful of work lights set up out on the slab. Near them about a dozen men were gathered around tables set with food and drinks. The truck parked alongside the tables, and the driver and the sharp-featured man hopped out.

Luis flattened himself on the ground. He had to come up with a plan. He could stay in the field all night and try to join the workers as they were brought out in the morning, but there were too many variables. He could try and shadow them to the fields the next morning and simply appear in the rows, but that didn’t seem like a good idea, either. There had to be a count, and getting onto the Marshak fields couldn’t be so easy.

He had one chance. He had to pray they hadn’t opened the container at the port. They must have been told how many men were put in the container down in Mexico, but there had to be some margin for error.

Doesn’t there?

Two of the men by the tables edged to the rear of the container, followed by the driver. He put his hand on the lever that bolted it shut and gave it a sharp upwards jab. Though the men affected relaxed poses, Luis could see they were all armed, their hands inches from the grips.

“Your journey is over, my friends,” the driver said in Zapotec as he opened the container doors. “I am sorry for the hardships you may have endured along the way. But that’s all over. If you’re here to work, we’ve got plenty of that. Tonight, however, is to refresh and replenish your spirits. Get some food and drink in you. Then get some rest.”

At first there was no response. Luis peered into the dark container and wondered if it had all been an illusion. Then a few men shuffled forward and into the light. They were bleary-eyed and looked sickly. They were joined by a dozen and a half more, all of whom moved awkwardly on legs that probably hadn’t touched solid ground for days.

Once they were out of the truck and all eyes were on the newcomers, Luis made his move. He scrambled to his feet and raced to the concrete slab extending from the buildings. He worried the sound of his feet pounding against the flat terrain would alert the men to his presence, but he had only seconds to make the distance.

The field was no problem, and he crossed that in less than forty long strides. Knowing it would make the loudest sound, he leapt across the gravel road without touching so much as a stone. When he was thirty yards from the truck, he thought he saw someone glance his way and he froze.

They turned and he kept moving.

When there was only ten feet between him and the truck, he felt a twinge of doubt. He shook this off and kept going. He reached the cab’s front wheel and ducked low.

A terrible thought occurred to him. The overseers might recognize him even in the dim light. Not from the market but the church. He took his hat from his pack and pulled it low over his head. He was rising to come around the truck when he heard a shout.

“Hey! What the hell are you doing over here?” a voice yelled out in Spanish.

Luis turned, trying to look more confused than scared. The speaker, a lithe man with angular features and copper eyes, came around the back of the trailer, hand on a gun in his belt.

“You trying to run away?” the man barked, advancing on Luis. “You think you can pull a fast one?”

“No, boss!” Luis replied in Zapotec. “I’m hungry. And . . .”

The man waited, as if willing to give Luis one more second to plead his case before shooting him dead. One of the others punched him in the back of the head. It was hardly at full strength, but Luis’s head shot forward. The gunman took out his pistol.

“What the fuck is all this?”

The men went quiet as the copper-eyed man joined them. He looked from face to face, until he settled on Luis.

“You think you don’t have to do what the others do?” he asked calmly.

“I’m sorry, boss!”

“I think he was trying to run away,” said the gunman.

“I wasn’t!” Luis protested. “I want to work!”

The man pulled his own gun and placed it against Luis’s throat.

“You think I won’t make an example out of you right now? I’d thank you for the chance.”

“I swear! I’m here to work. I don’t want to run away. I just wanted a moment to pray. Thank God for getting us here safely.”

The man sighed and lowered the gun. He then swung his leg around and kicked Luis under his chin with the heel of his cowboy boot. Luis flew backwards, landing on his ass. He gasped as the air was forced from his lungs and he tasted blood.

After the copper-eyed man moved back to the others, two of the overseers lifted Luis to his feet.

“What he meant to say is that security’s a big deal here. We have an understanding with local law enforcement, but you’re still in this country illegally. If one of you gets caught out there, everyone can lose their jobs and get kicked back to Mexico the next day. Make sense?”

“Yes, yes,” Luis said quickly.

“Good. Now grab yourself a beer or two. You can pray when you get in your room.”

There were hot dogs, chips, beer, and burritos. The men devoured the convenience-store fare laid out on the tables in about fifteen minutes and were then escorted to the two apartment units they were to share. The other newcomers eyed Luis with hostility and suspicion. They knew he hadn’t been in the container with them, but they were too intimidated to say anything. If they started pointing fingers at him, there was no knowing the potential blowback on them.