Sounds of Silence (7 page)

“I’ll think it over.” Hatcher turned away as the roar of a barrel race thundered inside the fence.

Carefully concealed rage flamed between Pablo’s eyes. He would not be dismissed like a child. “I trust you will,
señor
. I’ll be in touch. Ah, and I almost forget that I am charged by the governor to extend condolences on the recent trouble with your son.”

Stiffening, Hatcher fixed Pablo once again with piercing gray eyes. “My son is deceased.”

Pablo sighed. “Yes, it is very sad when a boy dies so young in such…tawdry circumstances.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

“You have put on a brave front,
señor
. Is it not frustrating that one’s progeny are not so subject to authority as one’s horseflesh?”
Progeny
. Pablo grinned a little, proud of his wide English vocabulary.

“Medieros, what do you want?” Hostility, confusion and distrust radiated from Hatcher’s upthrust chin and lowered brows.

Pablo loved being the puppet master of such strong emotions. He began to feel almost benevolent toward his victim. “I do not
want
anything.” He shrugged. “I am simply offering to avert disaster from your family name.”

Hatcher cast a quick look around. Apparently deciding the conversation was covered by enough noise that it could be continued in the open, he said, “If you don’t want me to throw you out of here on your keister, buster, you’d better tell me exactly what you’re hinting at. My son was murdered. He didn’t do anything illegal.”

“It is a good thing I am not easily offended,
señor
,” Pablo said silkily. “I will extend grace under these tragic circumstances. Your son most certainly
did
do something illegal, even in our liberal country. He was running drugs.”

“You lie!”

Folding his arms against this ridiculous, yes, childish denial, Pablo waited for Hatcher to cede the truth.

After a full, pulsing moment, the gray eyes narrowed in hatred. “Get out of here,” Hatcher said through gritted teeth.

“I will leave,
señor
, when you acknowledge the generosity of my offer. I wish to make certain your important friends in the oil industry do not jump to conclusions about your involvement in your son’s activities.”

Pablo was all admiration. Not one curse word escaped those finely sculpted lips; only a single muscle ticced in the rancher’s lean, weathered jaw.

“What do you want?” Hatcher repeated.

“Ah, well, if we are returning favors, then among friends, yes, I would ask a small thing.” Pablo stepped closer, but not too close. Americans liked their personal space. “The U.S. Border Patrol has become interested in your son’s death. I would like for you to have the investigation called off.”

Suspicion darkened Hatcher’s gaze. “Why? What do you have to do with it?” He leaned down. “If I find out you were involved with my son’s murder—”

“Please.” Pablo laughed gently. “Do I look like a man who would soil my hands with violence? No, it is simply that many complex business arrangements will be disturbed if
la migra
sticks its large nose across the border.” He studied the turkey feathers in his hat, considering his words. “Clearly it would be in your own best interests as well, to keep them out.”

“I’ll—see what I can do,” Hatcher said jerkily.

“Good.” Pablo smiled. “Also there is one other thing if I might continue to beg your indulgence.” He replaced the hat on his head. “There is a little girl of about six or seven years, who lived in a bar your son frequented. She has disappeared, and I need to find her. She has no living relatives and would be all alone.”

“What would I know about some Mexican street kid?”

Pablo reined in his temper. “I believe your Border Patrol friends have brought her across the border. I merely request that you quietly keep an eye out for this little girl and inform me if you see her. Her name is Mercedes Serraño. I can be reached at this number, day or night.” Pablo handed over a business card.

Hatcher reluctantly took the card, stuffed it into his shirt pocket and turned away.

Pablo chuckled and executed a mocking bow to the man’s back.
“Hasta luego, señor,”
he said. “Let me know if you decide to breed the stallion.”

Chapter Six

I
n the safety of the big leather recliner, Mercedes and Cindy Lou Who confronted the monster together. Legs slung across one of the chair’s arms and head propped against the other, Mercedes had a good view of both
How the Grinch Stole Christmas
and Isabel.

Mercedes had been learning to read English with Dr. Seuss. Entranced by the drawings, she let the rhythm and rhyme of the words fill her head. The wicked Grinch’s change of heart opened a world she’d never imagined.

Mercedes glanced over at Isabel. She sat in her rocker, working on her sampler, a pair of tiny, square-lens glasses perched on the end of her nose. Isabel had given her this gift of reading. Showed her in daily, moment-by-moment patience how to connect pictures, thoughts and words.

Mercedes adored Isabel. And not just because she looked exactly like the Madonna that used to hang over Lupe’s bed. Lupe had looked a little like that Madonna, too, but she’d never made chocolate-chip pancakes smeared with peanut butter.

Mercedes had noticed the way Eli looked at Isabel, too, and it made her heart swell to bursting. It was nothing like the hungry, vicious look Pablo had given Lupe.

Mercedes turned a page. She felt safe from Pablo here, especially when Eli was around. Still she often dreamed of Pablo grabbing her heel. Probably his heart was three sizes too small. Maybe four.

If a little girl could fix the Grinch, maybe God could use one to work on Pablo.

Mercedes shuddered.
Please, God, not me.

Isabel looked up when Mercedes slammed her book shut as if the good Dr. Seuss had suddenly taken to writing ghost stories.

Slipping her glasses into their embroidered case, she put them in her workbasket along with the sampler. She scooped Mercedes into her arms and sat down with her in the recliner. “What’s the matter?” she said, making sure Mercedes was watching her lips.

Mercedes shook her head, clutching the book to her chest.

Isabel checked the cover of the book.
How the Grinch Stole Christmas.
She smiled. It was June, barely summer, but children had little concept of seasonal material.

She smoothed a hand over Mercedes’s forehead and down her cheek. No apparent fever.
You feel okay?
she signed.

Mercedes nodded, but her brow wrinkled, and she avoided Isabel’s eyes.

Right about now Isabel would have given anything for insight into Mercedes’s heart and mind.
Lord, You know her thoughts. You know what she’s been through. Please help me to help her
.

She’d left the sign language book on the nightstand in her bedroom. Finally, Isabel tapped her temple and slanted her head questioningly.

Mercedes pointed to herself, drew her right index finger along her cheek, then set it beside the left index finger. She turned one palm up, one down, and then flipped them.

Isabel recognized the sign for
sister
. Something about a sister. She took a sharp breath and signed,
What happened to your sister?

Fat tears began to roll down the dusky-rose cheeks, and Mercedes’s mouth trembled. Hiding her face in Isabel’s neck, she clung, weeping silently.

Helpless with pity, Isabel held her little girl close, drawing her legs up to create a cocoon of safety and love. How could a hairy green creature in a Santa hat precipitate this sort of grief?

“I love you,” she whispered into the top of Mercedes’s head.

Eli pushed open the door to
Las Joyas Bellas
—The Beautiful Jewels—an establishment that looked and smelled pretty much like the last three joints in St. Teresa colony he’d visited tonight. Garbage lay in reeking piles in the parking lot, neon beer signs lit the windows, and on the sides of the building, two-foot red letters advertised a popular brand of liquor.

Taking irritated note of some chickens squawking in a slatted crate behind the bar, Eli sat down and, for appearance’s sake, ordered a beer. He had no trouble picturing Bryan Hatcher hanging out here. An underachieving twenty-year-old druggie, Bryan had been a trial and embarrassment to his wealthy, churchgoing parents. He’d developed a penchant for crossing the border, where he could satisfy his craving for excitement without getting into trouble with American law. Sad, but not so surprising that he’d been knifed and dumped in the Rio Grande.

Suspecting the kid had been involved in running drugs across his father’s property, Eli had been watching him for months. Then Bryan’s body had turned up on the American side of the river. But finding the knife on the Mexican side convinced Eli that if he found the killer, he’d also find the smuggling connection.

The biggest frustration was having to depend on Mexican police to investigate on this side of the border. Eli had let them do their thing, but he was tired of waiting. So here he was tonight, unarmed, in civilian dress, definitely not in an official capacity—but determined to at least narrow the possibilities of where Bryan Hatcher had been during his last night alive.

As Eli looked around for the owner of the bar, an enormous man pushed through a beaded curtain at the back of the room.

“Hola, amigo,”
the man said, docking his immense girth on the stool next to Eli. He gestured toward the barkeeper. “Tequila,
por favor,
Miguel.”

Eli nodded.
“¿Qué pasa?”
He continued in Spanish. “This your place?”

The piggy dark eyes squinted even further. “Who wants to know?”

Eli held out a hand. “Name’s Dave Jones.”

“Señor Jones.”
The big man shook hands. “I am Hector Caslas. What can I do for you?”

“A friend told me to come here for a good time.”

Caslas shook his head, setting rolls of fat jiggling under his chin. “I have very good beer, but that is all.”

“But my friend said—” Eli glanced at the barkeeper, who gave him a curious look before busying himself wiping down a glass. “Can we talk privately?”

Caslas’s gaze swept Eli’s L.L. Bean pullover and Levi’s. “Conversation’s an expensive item around here.”

“I can make it worth your while.”

Caslas hesitated, then nodded. “I will at least listen.”

Leaving his untouched bottle on the bar, Eli followed Caslas’s waddling figure into the other room. The beads clacked and swayed as they passed through. The closetlike little room contained a cot in one corner, a couple of chairs at a cheap plastic table and a bench against the outside wall.

Nothing out of the ordinary.

“Sit down,” said Caslas, indicating one of the chairs and depositing his great weight on the bench. It sagged ominously, a fact which seemed not to disturb his genial demeanor. “I assure you we are private. Now what is on your mind?”

“I was hoping you could…hook me up.” Eli had no trouble looking nervous. Undercover work had never been his forte, and he could get himself killed. Furthermore, if Caslas wasn’t the crook Eli took him to be, he could call the police. Eli’s bacon would truly be fried.

“Ah. And what would you like to be hooked up to?” Caslas looked interested.

Bingo.

“I heard you could get good coke down here.”

Caslas didn’t blink. “Who told you this?”

“My friend. Bryan Hatcher? You know him?”

Caslas pursed his lips and looked at his fat fingers, laced together across his stomach. “I do not have many American customers, and I’m sure I would remember the name. No, I’m sorry. I do not hook up with coke. Only beer.” Caslas heaved himself to his feet. “So goodbye, and good look with your search.” A wide sweep of his arm indicated that Eli should precede him back through the curtain.

Well, Eli supposed, he should be grateful to escape with his skin and reputation intact. “Thank you,
Señor
Caslas,” he said, and reentered the red-lit barroom.

He took another good look around as he left. Something felt unfinished about that conversation, and he was sure Caslas had lied about his ability to supply drugs. That abrupt dismissal at the mention of Bryan’s name was telling.

He should send Artemio Petrarca, a Mexican undercover cop with whom he had worked in the past, back over here.

Hopefully Artemio wasn’t allergic to chickens.

“Owen! What are you doing here?” Isabel stared at Eli’s younger brother, who stood on her porch grinning at her surprise. “And why are you dressed like Jimmy Buffett?” His blond head was covered by a canvas fishing hat, and he had on a pair of wildly flowered swim trunks, a turquoise T-shirt, and flip-flops.

“Eli sent me to rescue the princess.” Owen’s eyes, the same gemstone color of his T-shirt, glinted with mischief.

Isabel had to admit to a bit of disappointment in seeing Owen, rather than Eli, under that goofy hat. Still, she couldn’t help smiling back at him.

“You caught me without my tiara.” She looked down at her shorts and bare feet. She’d been up sewing since 7:00 a.m. Bits of thread clung to her red blouse, and she hadn’t bothered with makeup. “Do you—um, want to come in?”

Owen shook his head and stepped back. “Nope. I’m just here long enough to hijack your kids and take ’em to the river. Benny’s meeting us there with her crew.” He tipped his head toward his big diesel extended-cab truck parked on the street. “Be right back. I gotta check the oil.” Owen turned, whistling.

“Wait! Eli said not to leave the—” She looked around and lowered her voice when Owen glanced over his shoulder, brows elevated. “Besides, I don’t have time to go swimming.”

“Oh, you’re not going with us.” Owen grinned. “Listen, get your two in their swimsuits and pack a couple of towels. Then I’ll explain.”

Feeling like a drop of water caught up in Hurricane Owen, Isabel scrambled to get Danilo and Mercedes ready. Fortunately, because it was past time to bring Danilo’s inflatable pool out of the storage room for the summer, she’d picked up swimsuits for both children the other day at the store. Smiling, she answered Danilo’s excited questions while helping him into his trunks, then helped the children gather towels and beach toys.

“I would have figured you for a sports-car man,” Isabel teased Owen, walking down the driveway with a child holding each hand. Owen came out from under the hood of his truck, blue-green eyes alight. He wiped the dipstick off and flourished it like a sword. “Been there, done that, crashed it. A long time ago,” he added when he saw her face. “I’m a really safe driver now.”

Wincing, Isabel boosted the children into the back seat of the cab. “No wonder you’re into monster trucks.”

“It’s just more practical.” Owen returned the oil stick, then slammed the hood of the truck. “Eli and I had to have something big enough to haul our horse trailer to the shows.”

“I didn’t know you had horses.” Isabel revised her assumptions about how these two bachelor brothers spent their free time. She knew they went to church and did charity work across the border, but she’d thought…well, what
had
she thought? Barhopping wouldn’t suit either of them.

“Technically they belong to our mom. Dad kept a horse for each of us, but now that he’s gone—” Owen tilted his head, as if that finished the thought.

Isabel studied him. Compared to Eli, Owen came off as a daredevil who never seemed to worry about anything. Now she wondered.

“Can I ask you something, Owen?” When he nodded, she continued, “Did you have any indication your father was…going off the deep end?”

“You mean like a twitch or something? Fangs?”

“Owen…”

“Just yankin’ your chain, sweetheart,” he said with a grin.

“How can you be so…so blasé about such a terrible thing?”

“Look, Eli agonizes enough for both of us. I got better things to spend mental energy on.”

Isabel noticed he didn’t say “emotional energy.” She wondered if Owen
had
any emotions. “You didn’t answer my question.”

He shifted his shoulders again. “I don’t think any of us knew Dad that well. He was very contained. Sorta like Eli.” He glanced at her. “Which makes me wonder what Big Brother’s up to today.”

Isabel felt a nervous flutter in her stomach. “What exactly did he say?”

“He just told me to take the kids to the river for the day and he’d be along later to pick you up.”

“Pick me up? What for?”

Owen just grinned. “It’s a surprise.”

“Do you think that’s safe? Leaving the house?”

“Just about as safe as it can be. Nobody’ll think a thing about two more kids mixed in with Benny’s group. She and I’ll be there to watch out for them.”

“I know they’ll have a good time.” Isabel shut the door of the truck and leaned in the open window to kiss Mercedes and Danilo, who were bouncing on the seat in excitement. “You two be good, okay?”

“Okay, Mommy.” Danilo fastened his seat belt. “Owen, can I dive off your shoulders?”

“You bet.” Owen moved around to the driver’s seat. “Isabel, I promise I’ll take good care of them. Oh, and Eli said to wear comfortable shoes. You’re going to be doing some walking.”

This is not a date
. Isabel stood in front of her closet, absently turning her ring as she tried to figure out what to wear with comfortable shoes.

So very strange, being in her house all alone. Presumably, Fonzie was outside guarding the front porch, but nothing broke the midmorning silence except her own breathing and the sound of the air conditioner.

Me and You, God,
she thought.
Now. What do I wear?

Finally she pulled a short-sleeved cotton blouse off a hanger, then found her denim capris. Eli was going to think she didn’t own any other clothes. Which was pretty close to the truth. Oh well.

As she brushed her hair and twisted part of it on top of her head, securing it with an Aztec-style beaded clip, the reflection of her wedding band in the mirror caught her eye. For the first time in six years it looked out of place.

Why? She was a married woman. A Christian widow who had loved her husband. Who
still
loved her husband, she corrected herself with a pang of guilt.

Suddenly it occurred to her that if she walked around with Eli—wherever they were going—with a wedding band on her finger, people would think they were married. To each other. How awkward.