“The battering ram. Clever, yes?” Sergio asked.
Marta moaned in the backseat. “So sad. This used to be such a nice, quiet area. My mother lived only a block over.”
“The park, just behind your mother’s old place? Gone. Nothing left but bare ground. It’s so horrible, weeds even refuse to grow there.”
Sergio drove them through streets that once held ramshackle shops behind sidewalks filled with people walking all hours of the day and night. Now, about half the businesses were boarded up, windows broken, filth spray-painted on the sides of buildings. He slowed his car and they watched three young boys standing on the street corner stare suspiciously at the car.
“For three centuries, we have shared trade across the river. Raised our families as one community. Since La Bestia arrived two years ago, trade has practically stopped. People like you”—he gestured to Josie in the seat next to him—“are afraid to cross. And who can blame you? A third of the officers in Piedra Labrada have already quit. Every kind of brutal crime has taken place here: beheadings, acid baths, assassinations. They are overtaking the government, the police force, businesses.”
“I understand it’s about the drug routes, but why terrorize the city? How does that help their cause?” Marta said in disgust.
“It’s about control. La Bestia moved into Medrano’s territory and had to show dominance. This is their route now, not Medrano’s. It is their town and they run it. The police don’t arrest them, for fear of their families’ lives.” He looked at Marta in his rearview mirror. “You heard Ramón Díaz, his wife, and two children—all four of them gunned down. All he did was support the chief of police publicly at a town forum, and look what they did. They made their message clear. Since then, over two months ago, you hear no one say anything against La Bestia. The businesses pay protection. Some pay to La Bestia now, and still pay to Medrano. The cartels own us.”
Josie wondered how long Artemis could hold off that kind of power. People outside the strip joining the border states of Mexico and the United States failed to realize how dangerous the situation had become. United States citizens were living next to a country facing anarchy.
The next block over was a street of small homes behind two stone pillars and a wrought iron gate with a sentry posted, dressed in a police-style uniform with an automatic weapon slung over his shoulder. Run-down brick and stucco homes lined both sides of the street, many sitting empty, none of them cared for as they were just a year ago. Sergio pointed to a home just beyond the front gate with a shrine to the Virgin Mary in a front yard that was roughly a fifty-foot-square patch of dirt. Dozens of candles burned in windows that faced the road.
“A
bajador.
He stops the runners in the desert and steals their money.” He looked to Josie. “Pirates, you call them?”
She nodded.
“The good news is the routes change. Once a new route is discovered, the
bajadores
camp out. They steal guns, drugs, money. They extort money from Mexicans trying to cross the border. Life means nothing to these men. Most of those killings are never reported. Crime on crime we don’t even attempt to—” He gripped the steering wheel angrily with both hands. “We put out fires.”
* * *
Josie and Marta drove back to Artemis in silence that night. It had been a depressing evening: one that confirmed fears rather than relieved them. Josie knew prosecuting crimes over international borders was mired in paperwork, frustration, and pools of money her own department didn’t have. Over the past year, as the border violence increased, the trust among the two cities’ law enforcement agencies had deteriorated. Both countries found the other’s legal system lacking. Mexico blamed the American lust for drugs and lack of gun laws, and the U.S. blamed Mexico’s corrupt government and loss of control on the drug cartels. The blame was somewhere in the middle, so in a strange way, it made sense that the problems had collected and festered like an open wound in the hundred-mile strip of middle ground the locals called the Territory.
* * *
When Josie and Marta left for Mexico, Otto called Hack Bloster and Paul Fallow and asked them to meet him at the station. He’d decided to interview them together to get a feel for the dynamics of the Gunners before calling in its other members.
Fallow arrived first, still wearing his white doctor’s coat over a pink polo shirt and khaki pants. His expression was grim but composed, less frantic than he had appeared at Red’s place the day before. Waiting by the front desk, they discussed the slight chance of much-needed rain for the following day.
When Bloster walked in, in his brown sheriff’s department uniform, the still air changed perceptibly, as if an electric current emanated from his body. Fallow made eye contact, and Bloster’s back hunched up like a snarling dog’s. Otto wondered if he had made a mistake calling them in together.
Gesturing toward the office upstairs, Otto walked beside Fallow, and they followed two steps behind Bloster up the dimly lit stairs. Otto glanced over and saw Fallow’s eyes trained on the holstered gun hanging down Bloster’s side, tapping his thigh with each step.
They took seats around the oak conference table located at the front of the office. Fallow slipped into a seat across the table from Bloster and drew himself up like a rabbit trying to avoid notice. Bloster pulled a chair out, took his time adjusting his gun belt, and sat back in his chair with his legs apart. He took up a space that two average-sized men could have fit in. Otto thought he had the look of a man ready to explode at the slightest provocation. He had worked accidents and crime scenes with Bloster through the years and disapproved of his braggadocio. He was the kind of officer who liked to appear in charge of an investigation in front of victims, but who tried to slough off the actual paperwork and questioning to another officer.
Otto got started: “Here’s the situation. We’ve got a body, stolen guns, and a boatload of motives. Problem is, almost no leads. Since you fellas knew him better than anyone, I need you to help me fill in some gaps.”
Fallow nodded. Bloster didn’t move.
“What kind of fights go on between members?”
Fallow shrugged.
“Come on. A bunch of men talking guns and politics? I know there’re disagreements.”
Fallow shrugged again. Bloster’s nostrils flared, and Otto thought he might be getting somewhere.
“All right. Hack, we’ll start with you. You’re the vice president of the Gunners?”
Bloster tipped his head back slightly to acknowledge the question.
“Why don’t you start with your relationship with Red,” Otto said.
“My relationship?” he responded, as if the question were perverse.
“Did you think Red made a good president? Did you get along with him? That kind of thing.”
“When you sign the book as a Gunner, you sign it for life. You commit to a way of life. To upholding our Second Amendment rights. We’re not about getting along with each other. We’re about taking care of this country, our women and children.” Bloster glared at Fallow, who refused to look back and instead sipped at his coffee.
“Did you like Red as a person?” Otto asked.
“What’s that got to do with anything?”
Otto sighed, already tired of Bloster’s tactics. He was a cop and knew exactly what the question had to do with the investigation. “Red’s dead. I need to find out who wanted him that way. I do that by asking a lot of questions to a lot of people. So, tell me. Did you like Red?”
“I loved him like a brother.” Bloster sneered at Otto with the look of a defiant high school punk.
“Did you agree with the way he led the organization?” Otto said.
“Look. Red had the guns. You can’t be the Gunners without guns. Get my drift? So whether I liked him or not was never the point. His sandbox. His rules.”
“Who takes over the club now that Red’s dead?”
Fallow cleared his throat but said nothing.
Bloster said, “I do.”
“I read all through the Gunners’ policy manual. I couldn’t find a provision for what would happen if the president died,” Otto said.
“Or was killed,” Fallow said.
Otto nodded. “Correct. That wasn’t in the policy manual either. So, did the members decide you would lead the group?” Otto asked.
Bloster’s face turned an angry red. “What happens when the president of the United States is killed? Pretty obvious, isn’t it? Why else have a vice president?”
“Who gets the guns?” Otto asked.
“It looks like you do, since we haven’t seen them since you showed up,” Bloster said.
“When we arrived at Red’s place, about an hour after we found Red’s body, the guns were gone. We searched the house and found none. You don’t have them? Don’t know where they are?” Otto asked, looking at him.
Bloster frowned and shook his head no.
“Dr. Fallow?” Otto asked.
“No, sir.”
Otto watched Fallow for a moment and wondered if the man was going to start crying. His forehead wrinkled, and he looked as if he were holding his breath.
“Dr. Fallow, if you have any idea where those guns are, you need to tell me. This could be crucial to finding Red’s killer.”
Fallow slapped his hand on the table and looked at Bloster. “Why don’t you ask him? He and Red were the ones who did things behind our backs.”
Bloster pointed a finger like a pistol toward Fallow. “You better shut the hell up.”
Fallow looked wild-eyed. “I’m tired of listening to you! You aren’t the president. You aren’t anyone’s boss. You’re just a bully. And you and Red have jeopardized everything!”
Bloster stood suddenly, knocking his chair backwards, leaned across the table, and punched Fallow in the mouth.
Otto leaped up from his chair. He pulled his gun and pointed it directly at Bloster’s chest. “Back away from the table!”
Bloster took a step back, surprise registered on his face as if he couldn’t believe he had just punched a man.
“Hand me your gun!” Otto yelled.
Bloster started to protest, but the fierce look Otto gave him worked. He pulled his sidearm from his holster.
Otto used his own gun to point at a folding metal chair several feet to the side of the conference table. “Sit down there and don’t say another word.”
Otto glared at Fallow, who was still sitting in his chair, looking like a whipped pup. Otto pointed toward the back of the room. “There’s a bathroom back there. Why don’t you go clean up.”
Fallow walked back to the bathroom, his head hung low. Otto turned to stand in front of Bloster, one hand on his hip, the other still holding the gun, pointed at the floor. “This the way you deal with your problems? You want to shut somebody up, so you punch them? Maybe you shoot a bullet through their forehead?”
Bloster turned his head away. “I can’t stand that sissy. He had no business joining the Gunners. Only reason Red let him was money. He dropped a wad of money toward the cause so he could feel like a man.” Bloster looked as if he were going to spit on the floor. “He’s a joke.”
Otto split the men up and interviewed them separately after Fallow refused to press charges. Bloster would not talk and said if Otto had anything more to ask, he would have to do it through a lawyer. When Bloster left, Fallow sat with Otto at the conference table again. Fallow closed his eyes and held a fist to his mouth, obviously too terrified of Hack Bloster or some other demon to come clean with Otto about what he knew.
“Talk to me about some of the other members in the Gunners,” Otto said. “Who was Red closest to? Who did he have the most problems with?”
Fallow sniffed. “Hack Bloster. On both counts.”
Otto was losing patience. “I got that. Who else?”
Fallow shrugged a shoulder. Otto noticed his red-rimmed eyes were a lavender color, and he wondered if the man wore tinted contacts. Otto figured he probably dyed his thin head of hair blond as well.
Fallow said, “Jimmy Johnson and Fred Grant. They’re two buddies of Red’s. Never missed meetings. Jimmy used to help Red with his cows. He transported them for slaughter. He and Red were pretty close.” He listed several other members who attended regularly and were “true to the cause.” Otto took down the names of two other men who Fallow claimed were sometimes argumentative in meetings.
“How often did the group meet?”
“Once a month. We also got together to shoot out at Red’s place a few times a year. The big event was Fourth of July weekend. Red used to have a cookout and the families were invited. He’d have shooting contests for the adults and the kids. Even the wives. My wife never came, of course, but some did.”
“Why didn’t your wife go?’
Fallow picked up a pencil off the table and rolled it between his fingers. “Not her thing. She’s not much into guns. Or socializing.”
“You said he used to have a Fourth of July party. When did he quit?”
“A few years ago.” Fallow stared off into space for a minute. “I don’t really know why he quit. Red got a little strange the last couple of years. He quit going out. Hung out with the Gunners and that was about it. We’d even bring him supplies from town.”
“Any theories on why he quit going out?”
“Not really. Just didn’t like people very much.”
“Red have trouble with anyone? Anyone dislike him?”
“I think a lot of people disliked him, if you want the truth. He was a blowhard. He could be mean, you know? He tried to make you look weak so he looked strong.”
“Give me an example.”
Fallow pursed his lips a moment in thought. He finally pointed the pencil at Otto and said, “Okay. At our last meeting, I asked a question about the guns. About storing them somewhere a little safer than Red’s living room. Makes sense, right? Hack gave me grief, then Red egged him on. Wanted to know what I was afraid of. I said, ‘Hey, you want someone knocking down your door to get at your guns, then fine.’ Red told me I was stupid. A pansy. Didn’t have the balls to be a true Gunner.”
“Where do you think the guns are?”
“I have no idea. I just know they were worth a lot of money. And if they had listened to me, Red might still be living.”
* * *