Kiss of the Bees

KISS OF THE BEES

J.A. Jance

For Rita Pablo, Pauline Hendricks, and Melissa Juan

Prologue

JUNE 1976

There were three of them—a
viejo
—an older man—and two younger ones—trudging up the sandy arroyo, each lugging two gallon-sized plastic containers of water. Mitch Johnson watched them through the gunsight on his rifle, wondering should he or shouldn’t he? In the end, he did. He shot them for the same reason Edmund Hillary climbed Mount Everest—because they were there.

The older one was still alive and moaning when Johnson stopped his Jeep on the rim of the wash to check his handiwork. It offended him that one shot had been so far off, hitting the man in the lower spine rather than where he’d meant to. The Marines had taught him better than that. He had the expert rifle badge to prove it, along with a Purple Heart and a bum leg as well.

He slid down the crumbling bank of Brawley Wash. The sand was ankle-deep and powdery underfoot, so there was no question of leaving a trail of identifiable footprints. Besides, as soon as the rains came, the bodies would be washed far downstream, into the Santa Rita, eventually, and from there into the Gila. When the bodies showed up, weeks or months from now, Johnson figured no one would be smart enough to trace three dead wetbacks back to the son-in-law of a well-to-do cotton farmer with a prosperous place off Sandario Road.

The three men lay facedown in the sand. The one who was still alive lay with his fist clasped shut around the handle of the water bottle. In the hot mid-June sun, water meant life. Approaching them, Johnson held his rifle at the ready, just in case. He walked up and kicked the bottle, shattering its brittle white plastic. The water sank instantly into the sand, like bathwater disappearing down a drain. Then slowly, systematically, he kicked each of the other five bottles in turn, sending their contents, too, spilling deep into the parched earth of the wash bed.

Only when the water was gone did he return to the injured man. The guy was quiet now, no doubt playing dead and hoping there wouldn’t be another shot. And there wouldn’t be. Why bother? The man was already dead; he just didn’t know it. Why waste another bullet?

“Welcome to the United States of America, greaser,” Mitch Johnson said aloud in English. “Have a nice day.”

With that he turned and walked away—limped away—leaving the hot afternoon sun to finish his deadly work. What he didn’t see as he scrambled back up the side of the wash to his waiting Jeep was that he was not alone. There was one other person there in the wash with him—another wetback—armed with his own two gallons of water and with his own unquenchable belief that somehow life north of the international border would be better than it was back home in Mexico.

For several minutes after the Jeep drove off in a plume of dust the fourth man didn’t move, didn’t venture out of his hiding place. Juan Ruiz Romero had been resting through the hottest part of the day in the sparse shade of a mesquite tree when the other three men passed by. Because groups are always easier to spot and apprehend than a single man traveling alone, Juan had stayed where he was, hidden and safe under his sheltering mesquite, as the trio walked unwittingly to the slaughter. Lying there quietly, Juan alone had heard and seen the Jeep come wheeling up the dirt road on the far side of the wash.

Somehow, a strangled sob escaped his lips. Sure the gunman must have heard it and would turn on him next. Juan shrank back into the mesquite. He stayed there for some time, holding his breath and expecting another gunshot at any moment, one that would spill his own life’s blood deep into the thirsty, waiting sand.

With his heart beating a terrified tattoo in his chest, Juan watched the killer go up to each of the fallen men in turn, looking down at them, as if examining whether they lived or not. Juan saw the ferocity of the kicks that shattered the life-giving water jugs. He witnessed the killer limp back up the bank, climb into his waiting Jeep, and drive away.

For several long minutes after the Jeep had disappeared from view, a shaken Juan stayed where he was. At last, though, he ventured out, moving forward as tentatively as a spooked deer. By the time he reached the three motionless bodies, Juan was convinced that all three men were dead. How could they be anything else?

He was standing less than two feet away when one of them stirred and moaned. Juan started at the sound, leaping backward as if dodging away from the warning rattle of an unseen snake.

It took a moment for Juan to collect himself. Two of the men were dead then, he ascertained finally, when he could think clearly once again. One was still alive. One of the three still had a chance to live, and Juan Ruiz Romero was it.

He straightened up and peered out over the rim of the wash. Far to the north, a dust plume from the fast moving but invisible Jeep still ballooned upward. To the south, although Juan had done his best to avoid them, were other people, including numerous officers from the Border Patrol. A few miles that way as well lay a fairly busy blacktop road that ran east and west. Juan had waited until after dark the night before and had used the protection of a culvert to duck under the highway. And far off to the east was an airfield of some kind. Airplanes had been coming and going from there all morning long.

In those few moments, Juan was torn by indecision. The easiest thing for him—the cowardly thing—would have been to leave the dead and wounded where they were and walk away. All he had to do was turn his back on them and mind his own business. The old man would no doubt die anyway, no matter what someone did for him. He was old. Clearly his life would soon be over one way or the other. Juan’s was just beginning. He had a job waiting for him in Casa Grande—a job arranged by his mother’s second cousin—if only he could get there before the foreman gave it away to someone else.

But standing there, Juan had a flash of insight. He realized that what had happened to these three men was perhaps the very thing that had happened to Juan’s own father. Some fifteen years earlier, Ignacio Romero had left home for the last time. He had planned to walk across the border fence west of Nogales just as he had done countless times before. Other years when Ignacio had gone north to look for work, he had faithfully sent money back home to his wife and seven children. And eventually, after the season was over, Ignacio would return home as well.

On that last trip, though, Ignacio disappeared. There was no money, and no one ever heard from him again. He left behind an impoverished wife, seven starving children and a lifetime’s worth of unanswered questions.

Realizing this man, too, must have a family waiting for him back home in Mexico, Juan knelt beside him. Overhead, the broiling sun beat down on both of them, and Juan knew he had to hurry. He placed one of his own precious jugs of water well within reach of the other man’s hand and closed his fingers around the handle. Then, without a word, Juan stood up and went for help.

As he walked south, he knew full well what that foolhardy action meant and what it could cost him. He would probably be caught and deported, shipped back home without enough money to marry Carmen, the girl who was waiting for him there. He knew she would be disappointed. So was he, but he had to do it. He had no choice.

If nothing else, he owed his father that much. And for that reason, and that reason alone, only two men died that afternoon. The third one—Leon Morales—lived. Unlike Ignacio Romero, Leon returned to his family in Mexico eventually, to the little town of Santa Teresa in Sonora. He went home crippled and unable to walk but with a compelling story to tell.

When called upon to do so, Leon would relate the harrowing tale about how, as he and his grandsons had followed a wash north through the Arizona desert, they had been set upon by a
bandido
who shot them all, killing his grandsons and leaving Leon to die as well. He never tired of telling his enthralled listeners about how he had been saved that day by an angel who appeared out of nowhere, gave him water to drink, and then brought help. Leon always finished the tale by explaining how, in America, a
federale
—a
gringo federale
—had found the
bandido
. After keeping Leon in the States long enough to testify, his would-be killer had been sent off to jail.

Leon’s was a good story, and he told it well. Well enough that, on long evenings in Santa Teresa’s dusty cantina, a command performance of the old man’s shocking adventure up north was always good for a
cerveza
. Or maybe even two.

JULY 1988

It was dark and hot and long after lights-out in the Arizona State Prison at Florence, but Andrew Carlisle was wide awake and working. Since he was blind, the dark didn’t bother him. In fact, that was when he did most of his best work—after everyone else was asleep.

Careful to make no noise that might attract the attention of a passing guard, he pulled out a single sheet of paper, placed it on the clipboard, and then clamped it in place with the template he had devised and that his father’s money had allowed him to have built. The template consisted of a sheet of clear plastic that was large enough to cover an eight-and-a-half-by-eleven-inch piece of paper. It was punched through with lines of small squares. In the far left-hand margin was a column of holes. By moving a peg down the side of the sheet as he worked, it was possible for Carlisle to keep track of which line he was working on. He had to be sure to keep the tip of his pencil in the proper box so as not to use the same one twice.

This process—laborious, slow, and cumbersome as it might have seemed to others—allowed Carlisle to write down his innermost thoughts with a privacy not to be had by users of the communal computers and typewriters available in the library.

One at a time he filled the squares with small capital letters. It bothered him that the system made no allowances for revisions. That reality had forced him to develop a very disciplined style of writing.

JUNE 18, 1988. AFTER YEARS OF DILIGENT SEARCHING, I BELIEVE I HAVE FINALLY FOUND A SUITABLE SUCCESSOR, ONE WHO WILL—WITH A CERTAIN AMOUNT OF GUIDANCE—GROW TO BE A KIND OF EXTENSION OF ME; ONE WHO WILL TAKE ON MY BATTLES AND MAKE THEM HIS OWN. IF I SHOULD SUCCEED IN MY ENDEAVOR TO CREATE A MODERN-DAY PYGMALION, I WILL TAKE A WORTHLESS LUMP OF CLAY AND MOLD IT INTO SOMETHING MAGNIFICENT. WISH ME LUCK, DIANA. IF IT WORKS, YOU AND YOURS WILL BE THE FIRST TO KNOW.

That said, Carlisle removed the paper from the clipboard and stashed it with a growing stack of similar sheets. The guards had long since grown accustomed to the fact that Andrew Carlisle kept a diary. They hardly ever asked to see it anymore. Still he resisted the temptation to be any more specific than that, just in case some nosy guard did decide to read through some of it.

With the diary entry made, Carlisle settled down on his cot and tried to sleep. At first the doctor’s words—his verdict, really—got in the way, but gradually, as he had done for years now, Carlisle used a daydream about Diana Ladd to help him conjure sleep. He saw her again as she had been that night when he forced himself on her in what should have been the sanctuary of her own bedroom. She was one of the last things Andrew Carlisle had seen before his vision was stolen from him, and he reveled at the image of her there on the bed—naked, terrified, and defeated. In those glorious moments, except for her stubborn silence, she had belonged wholly to him, just as all the others had—the ones who had gone before.

The memory of that godlike moment washed over him like a sustaining wave, carrying him along on the crest of it, buoying him up. The only thing that would have made that moment any better would have been if she had cried out when he bit her, if she had whimpered and begged for mercy. She had not done so in real life, but in Andrew Carlisle’s daydream, in these midnight recollections, she always did. Always.

Knowing no one was there to see him do so, he grasped himself and used that powerful remembered image to summon a solitary orgasm. When it was over, as he lay with his breath coming fast and with sticky semen dribbling through his fingers, he thought of how much it felt like blood. He only wished that it was hers. It should have been. That was what he had intended. Why hadn’t it worked?

As usual, in the aftermath of that remembered high came the crushing remembrance of defeat as well. The two experiences were like Siamese twins. One never came without the other.

The exact nature of his defeat—the how of it—was something that was never quite clear in Andrew Carlisle’s mind, but he never allowed himself to dodge it, either. One moment she had been under his control. In those still-golden minutes in the bedroom he could have sworn he owned her very soul and that she would have done anything he said, yet somehow—a few moments later—she had overcome the temporary paralysis of her fear and had fought back. She fought him and won.

Thirteen years had passed since that night. In the intervening time what Diana Ladd had done to him on the kitchen floor of her house in Gates Pass had become the central issue of Andrew Carlisle’s life. More than anything, she was the one who got away. The fact that their battle had left him blind and with a mangled arm wasn’t as important as the simple fact that she had somehow escaped him.