The immigrants were still too wary to approach me. I smiled at them, giving it my most ingratiating effort. They smiled back, as you would at a savage dog, or at a tiger you'd just seen slip out of its cage.
I realized the gun was still in my hand and put it under my jacket.
We stood facing each other, the
pollos
and me, but there was nothing to say and little means to say it. I waved and started up the trail toward the high country, toward the United States, where I belonged. They hesitated, unwilling to commit, and finally they followed, unsure of the man who had saved them, unsure if he was a good man or bad, unsure if they should follow him to an uncertain destination.
I didn't blame them. I knew the guy well and I still had those same doubts.
Texaco materialized through the tops of snow-frosted pine trees, the first sign of civilization that assured me I was back on American soil. It told me that my thirty hours of hiding, dodging Mexican police and United States Border Patrol agents, had ended.
I tried to brush some of the filth and snow from my clothes before entering the little redwood-sided café that stood in the clearing next to the gas station. A third building, a private home, was the only other visible structure. After a day and a half of cross-country scrambling through thick brush and forest, the little settlement looked familiar and comforting. Satisfied that I'd cleaned up the best I could, I went inside, sat at the end of the Formica counter and picked up a menu. Three other people sat at the counter. Nobody occupied a table.
The waitress, a plump, worn woman in her mid-fifties, leaned against the counter, talking to a slim, weathered man about her age wearing jeans, cowboy boots, and a plaid duffel coat. A white Stetson lay next to his elbow. Both had stopped their conversation and watched me when I came in the door. The café was warm, and the smell of coffee and hot grease enveloped me like a comfortable old friend.
The waitress picked up a small pad and a pencil and edged over to my place at the counter. “Coffee?” She sniffed. I probably smelled as bad as I looked.
“Please,” I said. “Do you have steak and eggs?”
“Six ninety-five.” Her voice was flat, unfriendly.
“And orange juice?”
“One ninety-five.”
“Biscuits and gravy?”
“Comes with the steak.”
“Can I use your rest room?”
She hesitated. “Over there,” she said, pointing to a narrow corridor near the window that overlooked the gas station. “How do you want your steak?”
“Medium rare. Eggs over medium.”
She stood still as I got up, rooted to her place behind the counter, waiting.
I took a fifty-dollar bill from my wallet and laid it on the counter.
“Been camping?” she asked as I went to the rest room.
“Something like that.”
Inside the bathroom, I took off my jacket and shirt and hung them on the doorknob. The waitress's hesitation was probably justified. The man in the mirror didn't look like he could afford steak and eggs. He had a battered, dirty face, with enough scabs and bruises to have gone six rounds with Mike Tyson. The money changed my image. It established an ability to pay. Suddenly, I was a camper, not a homeless freeloader.
Using paper towels and the astringent liquid soap from the wall-mounted dispenser, I washed my face and hair and beard. The water in the sink ran gray for five minutes. It wasn't a shower, and I wished I had a toothbrush, but I felt better. At least I no longer resembled the Unabomber. Well, I thought, looking at the haggard, bearded stranger in the mirror, still ragged, but clean.
Coffee would work wonders.
Steak would be better.
Breakfast waited on the counter, my fifty beside it. It had been over ten years since I'd tried to pack so much cholesterol into my bloodstream in one morning, but it was my first meal in two days. I guess it tasted good. It went down so fast I didn't notice.
“My, we were hungry,” the waitress said, coffeepot poised above my cup. “More coffee?”
“Please,” I said. “This mountain air works up an appetite.”
“That it does,” she said. “That it does.” She took the pot and went down the row, filling every cup.
Now that I felt almost human again, it was time to call Thomas.
“Excuse me,” I asked her when she wandered back toward my corner. “Do you have a telephone?”
“Over at the Texaco.” She pointed through the window. Across the parking lot an old-style booth stood next to an air pump. “It's snowin' again.” Light flake fell, melting as it hit the pavement. Snow had fallen off and on all night as I'd pushed through the mountains after crossing the border. It had been welcome, covering my tracks. I didn't know if anyone followed. After the trouble at the border, I wasn't certain, one way or the other.
“Is it local?” she asked.
“San Diego.”
“That's local enough. Here.” She pulled a black, dial-type telephone from below the counter. “You look like you've had some trouble, but you don't look like you plan to make any. I can tell. It's warm inside.” She refilled my cup and retreated to the other end of the counter, providing me privacy.
I called Thomas's cellular phone. It rang three times and I nearly hung up before he answered.
“Thomas.”
“This is Caine. I'm back.”
“Caine?”
“Yeah.”
“Where have you been? Are you all right? Where are you?”
“Whoa, Ed. I'm fine. I've been in the wilderness. I made an unauthorized entry into the United States and I don't know where I am.” I put the receiver against my chest and called to the waitress. “Excuse me, ma'am. Where am I?”
She put her hands on ample hips and shook her head. “Mountain Meadows. And that's Highway Ninety-four about a mile down the road. You mean you didn't drive?”
I shook my head. “Mountain Meadows. In the mountains east of San Diego. About a mile from Highway Ninety-four.”
“I know where it is. Are you okay?”
“A little tired, but okay.”
“Had two women riding me. Farrell and I finally went down there to look for you. There were a whole lot of
federales
and locals around, but you'd vanished.”
“What did Esparza say?”
“Said you were clean for the de la Peña shooting, but he still wanted to talk to you. I guess you got them all.” There was disapproval in his voice.
“I let one live.”
“Esparza found a bunch of eyewitnesses that night that cleared you. Two young men dressed in gang clothing did it. But I guess you already know that.”
I hadn't known that. “Tell Esparza I'll talk to him, but nobody else.”
“He'll be happy to hear that. It'll take me about two hours to get there. It's raining again.”
“It's snowing here, so take your time and be safe.”
“Uh-huh. Somebody here wants to talk to you. I'll leave now.”
I heard his voice rumble something away from the mouthpiece, but I couldn't make out the words.
“John! Is everything all right?”
“The money's safe.”
“Well ⦠that's wonderful, but you don't have it?”
“It's safe.”
“When can we get it?”
“Soon. As soon as the dust settles.”
“Soon,” she repeated, as if the word were important, something to ponder. Then she said, “And you. Are you safe?” There wasn't much solicitude in the question; it was merely pro forma.
“No new holes. I'm tired. I walked the last thirty miles, most of it uphill. Walked all night and didn't sleep. But I'm fine. Honest.”
“It's over?”
“Yeah, Claire. It's over. You can have your old life back.
All except your husband. That I can't get back for you. He's in a place where he can't be salvaged.”
“You did it.”
The lack of a response to my comments about old Paul surprised me. I hadn't said anything to get a response, had just blurted it out, but her lack of interest astounded me.
I yawned. Maybe I was too tired to understand much of anything. The food made me sleepy. Even coffee couldn't keep me awake. “No, Claire, you did it. If you hadn't hired me, it would have been somebody else doing the heavy lifting. But it was your pushing that did it, not taking no for an answer, believing in yourself, believing you were right when everybody else told you you were wrong.”
“I wish I could believe thatâ”
“Believe it, Claire. You'll get your money back. You earned it.”
“You said it's safe. It's still in Mexico?”
“Uh-huh. But nobody but me knows exactly where it is. Let me rest today. Maybe tomorrow we'll go get it.”
“Barbara's here. She wants to speak with you.”
“Thank you, Claireâ”
“John. Are you all right? I, uh, we were worried sick about you. We heard so many conflicting stories, we didn't know which ones to believe.”
“I'm fine. Just look a little worse for wear, but nothing that won't grow back or wash off.”
“No jokes. You're sure you're okay?”
“I'm fine. Save me a glass of wine. Or two.”
“You got a bottle if you want it, and it's champagne. The good stuff.”
“Great. In the meantime I'll wait for Ed. Right here at the Mountain Meadows Cafe. The coffee's good. I'll see you in a few hours.”
The next thing I remember was a gentle hand shaking my shoulder. My vision came into focus as I sat at the counter of the Mountain Meadows Cafe, my right forefinger through the handle of a blue mug.
“You want a warm-up for your coffee now?”
The merry face of the waitress, a coffeepot poised over my mug, the warmth of the café, and the hot grease smells coalesced and I came awake. Rush Limbaugh's voice whined over scratchy speakers. Ed Thomas leaned over from the left and said, “He'll take some coffee. I think his got cold.”
The waitress laughed, joined by a couple of others in the café. It had been a great joke. This guy comes in out of the snow, orders breakfast, drops a fifty on the counter, makes a phone call, and then falls asleep, his hand still wrapped around his coffee mug. Man, that's funny! Didn't spill a drop! Didn't fall over. Just sat there for a couple of hours, sound asleep while people came and went. Someone turned on the radio. Commerce continued. Still, this guy slept!
I smiled.
“Guess I was tired.”
“Guess you were. You settled up?”
My fifty still lay on the counter, untouched. I pushed it across to the waitress. “Keep it,” I said. “For everything.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but then just shook her head.
Ed hustled me out of the warm café and into his pickup. A gentle snow was falling, light, delicate flakes drifting down, hanging in the trees. It lay in scant piles on the earth; the snow that fell on the asphalt only made the road wet.
He studied my face. “You look like you've been hit more times than an anvil.”
“Always lead with my best punch.”
“I've got lots of questions, Caine, but my first one is, how in hell did you get way out here?”
“Long story, Ed.”
“We've got two hours. I want to hear this.”
“Drove most of it, a hundred miles east, way beyond Tecate where the terrain is steep and difficult, up into the hills near the border, then walked.”
“Yeah, but we're thirty miles from the border.”
“Couldn't find a place to make a phone call.”
He shook his head, as if he had never heard such lunacy. “You thought the police were still after you?”
“I didn't know and didn't want to take the chance. I hid the money again. Nobody knows where it is but me. If they shot me ⦔
“Esparza cleared you that night. It would have been all right.”
“I didn't know.” I wasn't sure. If it was a mistake, it was one I could live with. I'd abandoned Claire's Range Rover. All it cost me was a day out of my life and a little walk in the woods. Measured against the alternative, I preferred this.
“How did you get across?”
“Joined some illegals.”
“That was you?”
“What?”
“Was there a coyote?”
I nodded. “There was a smuggler.”
“Said you saved their butts.”
“I persuaded him to behave.”
“Persuaded him to take off his clothes in the rain and then ran him down the mountain, from what the paper says.”
“I'm very persuasive.”
“Yeah. With a smile and an Uzi you can get almost anything you want.” Thomas smiled and shook his head. “They called you
El Tigre.
That made the papers.”
“Border patrol caught them, I guess?”
Ed smiled. “Sent them back. Flew them down to Guerrero, I heard. Way down into Mexico where it will be difficult and expensive for them to come back, a humane way to discourage them. Back home they'll tell the tale about the gringo with the submachine gun who saved their lives, stopped the coyote from robbing them and sent him back down the trail without his pants. You'll be legend down there, Caine. I can see them telling that story for years.” Thomas laughed at that. “What the hell else did you do?”
“Left the group just this side of the border and struck out on my own. A couple of the young men tried to follow, but I discouraged them.”
“I'll bet you did.”
I thought of the families trying to get into this country. I couldn't blame them. I'd probably try, too. The people I'd met were not bad people. Still, not all of them come here to work, and not all of them are good people. Neither am I. But I was lucky enough to have been born here. That's a big part of life, I guess.
“Border patrol repeated the story. The
Union
printed it. Radio talk shows are yammering about it. Some member of Congress wants an investigation about safety of the illegals. It almost covered the little miniwar you had down there,
El Tigre.”
“Ed, Iâ”
“Eight people, Caine. Esparza said you killed eight people. Nobody does it that easy. Not even you can do that and not let it get to you.”
“They killed themselves.”
“That's what Esparza said. But he said he knows you helped them on the way.”
“He know that for a fact?”
“He can't prove it. But he knows you did it.”
I nodded. It was cop talk.
“Way the Mexican police put it together, the gang had a disagreement.”
“No evidence of anyone else at the scene?”
“Nope. You're home free.”
“They killed themselves.”
“Nobody disputes that.”
“They killed de la Peña.”
“Weapons turned up in one of the trucks. Two MAC-11's matched the bullets taken from the body. Open-and-shut case. Problem is, nobody can figure out why. They weren't political. They weren't in possession of drugs or money. Only guns.”
“The why will have to remain a mystery,” I said.
“Uh-huh. They won't hear it from me.”
“Just like the whereabouts of Paul Peters.”
“Didn't find him?”
The road descended into a long, broad valley, where the snow turned into rain. When it climbed again, the snow came back. Thomas took it slow and I was glad he did.
“Everybody said he was dead, but I don't know. Two people confessed to killing him, but they're both dead now. If he's alive, let him enjoy it. If he's not, let it rest.”
“You think Claire will go with that?”
I thought about it. “Why not?”
“It'll be neater.”
“And there's already a body. He's officially dead. I don't need to dig up, pardon the expression, another one.”
“There's that,” he said. We'd gone down into another valley, still lower, and the rain had stopped, but now there was an annoying mist that fogged the windshield if he didn't run his wipers and made them jump if he used them too much. Thomas cursed and adjusted the wipers. The road stretched out straight in front of us, a long toboggan ride into the little valley, bordered on both sides by avocado groves.
“I'm going to need you and Farrell for one more job; then you can do what you want.”
“That's pretty choice, considering you work for me, I don't work for you. You going back to get the money?”
“We'll take
Olympia.”
“Money's still on the beach?”
“Close. Weather permitting, let's do it day after tomorrow.” I needed rest, and I wanted to make a couple of telephone
calls to ensure we'd get back in one piece. It was time to claim a favor.
“Your call, Caine. I say let's do it as soon as possible.”
“Day after tomorrow.”
Thomas nodded. “All right. One last job. After that you're heading back to Hawaii?”
“Yeah. Time to go home.”
“Do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Next time you're in San Diego and you've got work, call me. I'll give you a number to call. You'll like this guy. He's young enough to keep up with you.”