The Hand of Mercy (A Porter Brown Journey) (2 page)

“No
,” said Porter, “At least I don’t think so.  That single wide was way back on the property.” 

"Did you clean it up?"

Realizing that in his haste to get Renata to safety, he had left four bodies that would certainly draw the attention of Oklahoma's best investigators.  "Shit!" Porter exclaimed, "I never even looked for my gun.”  He immediately jumped in the car and turned it back towards the grisly site.  “I’ll clean it up and then I’ll get her home.” 

Connie slowly offered her reassurance,
“Porter, you did the right thing.” 

“Thanks
,” he said, his voice emptied of emotion.  “I know I did.”

Chapter 2

Criminal Reunion

October 2001

Porter was in great shape, but moving
the fat pimp’s body, was the hardest workout he had ever done.  While he hated to ask little Renata to help dispose of her abusers' mangled bodies, he had no other choice.  Despite her silence thus far, except to provide her name and home town, Renata quickly answered, "Sí, I help you."  Slowly, but without hesitation, she gingerly exited the car to aid him.  Porter fought back his tears as he watched her painfully will her legs to the rear of the car. 
You bastards
, he thought. 
I should have fed you your balls
.

W
ith more power than he believed could come from her tiny body, Renata helped Porter wrap the bodies in the bed sheets that were her former prison and hastily move the corpses into the trunk.  He found a couple gallons of gas in the barn and doused the interior of the trailer.  Although not the cleanest fix, Porter hoped few, if any, law abiding citizens knew of this place, or would be concerned with its torching.  As he ignited the flames around the trailer, he felt a fire in his soul also spark.  He had just killed in defense of the innocent and he liked the burn.

*****

As dusk engulfed the Lone Star state, the unlikely pair approached the Laredo border.  Few words had been exchanged on the drive as both were reeling from the events of the day and Renata had slept through most of Texas.  The sight of the border guards produced a cold sweat on Porter's brow and caused his mind to grow confused. His hastily drawn plan to dump the bodies deep in the deserted areas of Central Mexico now seemed tragically foolish.

F
ate provided them a border guard with a kind face.  His smile was genuine and welcoming as he asked Porter for his passport.  In the fifteen seconds it took the Mexican national to look at Porter’s ID and then glance disapprovingly at his young companion, Porter knew his trunk was going to be opened.   As the officer motioned for another to assist him with the inspection, Porter’s mind erupted in various escape scenarios.  And then Renata spoke. 

Porter spoke
passable Spanish and understood it even better, but the rapidity and authority with which she spoke to this guard were well past his comprehension level.  Instantly, the guard smiled at her and gushed with praise for someone named Don Mario.  Renata asked for the guard’s name and thanked him for his assistance.  “Dios te bendiga,” were the guard’s last words as he tapped the side of Porter’s car with his palm, indicating they were free to drive on. 

“God bless you, right
?” Porter asked. 

“
Sí,” she said, as a weak smile crossed her face for the first time that day. 

As they passed into the Mexican landscape
that Renata recognized, the trickle of tears which had slowly started down her brown cheeks, exploded into uncontrollable rivers; her sobs of grief taking her breath.  Porter grieved with her as he considered how horrific her captivity must have been, as well as the care-free emotions she had to suppress in order to survive her ordeal.  He hoped the reunion with her family and the familiarity of her homeland would free her to be the little girl she was, or had been.

*****

During the eleven hours it took them to drive the width of the country to her Mazatlan home, Renata detailed her kidnapping, imprisonment, and abuse.  “I was at the escuela and we were playing at the swings.  Mi padre had two guards there to protect me.  Then three big trucks drive by real fast and shoot the guards.  We all scream and run.  That’s when they grab me and put me in the truck.  It is dark and smell bad, like they not take baths.” 

Renata paused and began to weep again before she continued her saga.
  “I cry very much.  I not know what they are doing or what they will do to me.”  Through her tears she continued to detail her imprisonment as her mind exorcised the memories of the last three months. 

“We drive for a very long time.  When we stop, we are at a big river.” 

“The Rio Grande,” interjected Porter. 

“No
sé,” answered Renata.  “But when we get across the river, we are in United States.  Then we drive some more until we get to the place you find me,” her face, now ashen and somewhat catatonic as the thought regurgitated hellish memories.  As her next words escaped her lips, Porter watched Renata clasp her hands together to control their shaking. “And then Saul hurt me.”  Her voice trailed off as Porter felt the stabbing injury in her words. 

“
He tie me to the bed in the room you find me,” Renata said as she resumed the expulsion of her demons. “I no want to, but I remember everything about that room.  It smell like a hot, wet...”

“Humid
,” said Porter to help her. 

“
Sí, it smell like a humido place where they keep horses.” 

“A barn
,” added Porter. 

“Barn,
sí.  And the bed was with lots of bumps and no comfortable.  The walls were no made of wood but it look like wood, like plastico.”  Renata paused again, this time a bit longer than before, as if to steady herself for a brutal memory.  “And then the men come.”  Her words became inaudible as the thought mangled her annunciation.  “Saul have many to his home.  I not how to say what they do to me.  And they are so…,” but she cannot finish.  Porter reached over and squeezed her soft, small hands.  Renata wrapped both arms around his as both were now swimming in a river of tears. 

After a silent ten minutes
, Porter did his best to offer her comfort.  Searching his mind for the truths of a faith he no longer held, he said, “Renata, you go to Mass right?” 

“
Sí,” was her rapid response. 

“T
hen your priest will tell you that Christ makes all things new.  I’m sure it says that somewhere in the New Testament,” said Porter, a bit ashamed at himself for having heard his priest preach on that for so many years but now unable to provide a proper reference.  “So all that awful stuff you had to live through,” he said, as he looked to see if any of this was making sense to her, “All that stuff is gone.  In God’s eyes, you are new like a baby.”  Renata smiled, still tucked under his arm.  “My priest, Father Ryan, told me this same thing when I talked to him about the awful things in my life.  So, I know it’s real.”  Porter hoped the sincerity he had felt when he actually believed this was coming through to Renata, and not the consuming doubt which was now a part of his jaded faith. 

“
Are you close to your family?”

“No, we have much more hours to my house
,” answered Renata. 

Laughing
slightly at what was lost in translation, Porter restated his question.  “No, I mean does your family care for you muchas?  Do they love you muchas?” 

Now understanding, Renata sat up in her seat and with an expression of intense happiness exclaimed
, “Oh sí!  Mis padres love me very much.  I am the baby in mi familia.  Mi brothers and sisters love give me kisses and hugs, and the face of mi padre get bright as the sun when he see me.”

“Ok
ay,” Porter said, satisfied that they now understood each other, “Your family loved you before when they had you with them all the time.  Think how excited they will be to see you now.”  He emphasized, “All of their faces will be brighter than the sun when they realize that what they thought was gone has now returned and will stay with them forever.”

Reassured and displaying a light of hope he had
not yet seen in her eyes, Renata said, “Thank you Mr… I not know your name.” 

“Porter
,” he said, realizing he had failed to provide the most basic information to her. 

“Thank you Mr. Porter.  You save my life.”  Renata smiled and turned her now beaming face to take in
more of the landscape of her home.

*****

Northeast of Durango, the Órganos Mountains offer a multitude of locations to dispose of unwanted items.  As Porter began to turn left onto one of the mountain roads, Renata asked in her elementary English, “What you doing Mr. Porter?” 

Speaking slowly, Porter answered
, “I am going to find a place to dump the bodies.” 

E
mphatically Renata commanded, “No! Mi padre want to see the men.” 

Porter stopped the car and considered her request.  “
What?" he asked doubtfully.  "Are you sure?”

“
Sí," she answered bluntly.  "He is boss of many men and he want to know who hurt me.” 

Recalling
her command of the border guard, Porter reluctantly agreed.  “Okay then.  We’ll take them to your father, but it might be too much for him to handle.”

“No
,” Renata answered quickly.  “He see many dead.” 

Not
sure what to make of her statement, Porter slowly pulled the car back onto the highway and headed southwest.

At the outskirts of Mazatlan, Renata directed Porter to turn right onto a road leading into some low lying hills.  After two miles of dusty travel, Porter noticed a grand stone guard house which belonged on the grounds of an American billionaire’s home instead of
at the end of a dirt road in the impoverished Mexican countryside.  In front of the massive structure were a dozen or so sentries standing guard with machine guns.  Porter looked over at Renata and with sincere curiosity asked, “Who are you?”

Renata smiled, understanding the meaning behind Porter’s question but answering him directly
.  “Renata Pérez Guzmán; daughter of Mario Pérez Vasquez and Ines Guzmán García.”

“Oh, I see
,” chuckled Porter.  “You’re going to play coy now.  Well, I just want to know which of the Mexican mafia families I’m about to be introduced to.”

Renata grinned widely and said
, “The biggest.” 

“Shit
,” mumbled Porter.

When
Porter and Renata were within 100 yards of the stone house, the guards leveled their AK-47s at the car, slowing Porter's approach considerably.  Cautiously, the lead guard motioned Porter forward. 

“Sergio
!” yelled Renata as she stuck her head out of the passenger’s side window.  “Es yo, Renata.”  Immediately, Sergio spoke frantically into his radio while the others kept their weapons trained on the vehicle.

The next ten minutes were filled with black SUVs barreling down the l
ong driveway from the house which Porter presumed to be beyond the mountain’s ridge.  Tears of joy were streaming down the face of the first to exit the vehicle.  A barrel-chested man in his early fifties whose graying temples contrasted sharply with his pitch black mustache swooped up Renata and lifted her high above his head. 
Don Mario
, thought Porter.

As
Renata's feet touched the ground, a woman with light brown hair, a full middle section, and a complexion much fairer than the reddish tones of Mario swallowed Renata to the point that Porter could hardly find her. 
Doña Ines
.

A
s the rest of the entourage hurriedly exited their vehicles and enveloped their little sister, Porter observed them all offer more signs of the Cross and praise to the Virgin than he had witnessed during his decade in the Catholic church. 
The mob is devoutly Catholic even when no one is watching
,
questioned Porter.  The guards placed an exclamation on this reunion with whoops of joy and celebratory gun fire for the miracle they had just witnessed. 

Porter remained in the car
out of respect for the family and because one of the guards was still pointing a weapon at him.  As Renata loosened her grip on her father’s neck, Porter realized she was recounting the rescue to him.  Don Mario’s deep set brown eyes stared through the windshield and fixed on Porter.  “Shit! What did she tell him?” Porter muttered, a bit concerned that El Jefe did not trust the motives of her rescuer.

Mario slowly made his way to Porter’s window. 
His appearance removed any preconceived notion that Porter held of what a Mexican cartel boss would look like.  Instead of the godfather style of crisp dark suits and white shirts popularized in film, Mario looked like a model for Field and Stream magazine.  His boots and designer jeans were covered in packed mud as if he had just fed the herds or been thrown from his horse.  His gait, however, was stereotypical mob boss; confidence in every stride.  His eyes showed the steel that came from years of running a criminal operation but were softened and fully soaked from his tears of joy. 

Amigo
was the first word from Mario’s smiling mouth.  “I am Mario Peréz,” he said as he extended his hand through the window. 

“Porter Brown
,” he offered, accepting Mario’s thick and calloused hand. 

“I
do not have the words to properly thank you for rescuing my daughter,” Mario said in perfectly accented English.  “Renata told me how you freed her from four men by yourself.  You must be well-trained.”  He paused, considering his next question.  “Are you military or police?” 

“Neither
,” said Porter, certain that the godfather was both pleased with his actions and sizing him up as an informant.