The Governor's Wife (42 page)

Hector's thoughts returned to
el jefe
. He had always viewed killing as part of the business. He did not take it personally. Not even when the
gringos
killed his wife. But his son's death—that he had taken personally. Jesús de la Garza had been a mean, cruel, undisciplined boy. Of course, his father could not see the true boy. He saw only the boy he wanted his son to be. Hector had not been disappointed when the governor of Texas had killed him. But
el jefe
had become obsessed with
venganza
.

So Hector Garcia would seek
el jefe
's revenge.

They rejoined the
Río Bravo
at the big bend. They dropped down to just above the river surface and followed its course, veering right and left, through the steep rock canyons the water had carved into the rugged land over millions of years. The rock walls rose five hundred meters on both sides; brown water lay below and blue sky above. They flew so low that when they came upon two rafts of
gringos
floating down the river, the rafters bailed out for fear the helicopters would hit them. Hector and the pilot shared a laugh. It was a magnificent journey, but a short one. They soon emerged from the big bend and turned north into
Tejas
.

"Ten minutes," the pilot said over the radio.

Hector checked his AK-47. They followed a narrow highway that cut through the lower portions of the Davis Mountains and passed through the little town of Marfa. They flew over cattle grazing and land that once belonged to
México
.

"Two minutes."

His
soldados
got ready. Hector had brought a dozen men, even though he expected no resistance.

"In and out," he said over the radio. "No shooting except on my order. A Team makes entry, B Team secures the perimeter."

Six men would go in; six men would stay out.

"Thirty seconds," the pilot said.

A small town came into view. The streets remained vacant. They flew in low and fast searching for the red roof with the clock tower. Hector pointed.

"There!"

The courthouse. The sheriff's office, jail, and morgue occupied the basement of the two-story courthouse that sat on a grassy block surrounded by trees, apparently the only trees in town. The pilot pulled the nose up, and Hector and his men were out the doors—"
¡Vaya, vaya, vaya!
"—before the wheels touched State Street.

Fort Davis served as the county seat of Jeff Davis County. Both city and county were named in honor of Jefferson Davis, president of the Confederate States of America. But the Civil War was not on Deputy Sheriff Boone Huggins' mind at 5:45
A.M.
that Tuesday morning. In fact, nothing was on his mind.

He was sleeping.

On duty. Sheriff Roscoe Lee worked the day shift; his deputy worked the night shift. The total population in the entire county was just over one thousand, so it wasn't as if they needed a SWAT team on stand-by. The biggest crime in the county was underage kids drinking beer at the fairgrounds on Saturday nights. So Boone made up a cell bed and caught six or seven hours of shut-eye every night.

What they call "easy money."

Consequently, Boone damn near shit his uniform pants when he opened his eyes to the business end of an AK-47 and six men dressed in black paramilitary uniforms.

"Jesús de la Garza," the bald man pointing the gun said in a Mexican accent.

"No. I'm Boone Huggins."

"Where is Jesús de la Garza's body?"

Boone pointed to the back.

"Show me."

Boone led them to the morgue. Course, it wasn't really a morgue. It was just a walk-in freezer where the sheriff stored his deer during hunting season. But for the last month, it had stored three Mexican bodies wrapped in plastic, which creeped Boone out so he never went into the freezer. He unlocked the freezer door and stepped aside. The bald man went inside and checked the stiff bodies standing in the corner. He tapped one.

"This is Jesús."

Two other men went inside and carried the body out. The bald man came out and said to Boone, "Inside."

Boone stepped into the freezer. The bald man shut the door. Boone was already cold.

Two hours later, Hector Garcia walked into Enrique de la Garza's office.

"I have brought your son home."

"
Gracias
, Hector. Now, go to Austin and kill the governor."

Lindsay Bonner knocked on the closed door to the Governor's Office then entered. Ranger Roy stood guard outside. She found her husband at his desk.

"Bode, East Austin Elementary, that's my school. That's Graciela Rodriguez's school. You can't close her school."

"I'm not closing her school. Austin ISD is. Or they might."

"Because you're cutting K through twelve funding."

"Lindsay, the state is broke."

She exhaled. It was time to tell him.

"I voted Democrat."

"When?"

"Always."

"I thought you switched to Republican when I did?"

"I didn't."

"Don't mention that in public, okay?"

She gave him a look.

"Did you vote for me?"

"Yes."

"Appreciate the vote of confidence."

"You used to make me proud. Now I vote for you only because you're my husband."

"Well, it's a vote."

"It might not be this election."

"Are you ready to go back to school?"

"I think so."

Becca Bonner lied to her mother. She was not ready to go back to classes or volleyball practice. She might never be ready. But she knew her mother was ready to leave. She needed to leave. Her mother hated life in the Governor's Mansion. She hated being the governor's wife. Becca only hoped that her mother didn't hate the governor.

Jesse Rincón had gone into town to speak at a rotary luncheon. He arrived back at the clinic to find a network news truck with a satellite dish on top parked outside—no doubt another of Mayor Gutiérrez's Mexican Mafia—and inside Inez dressed as if she were auditioning for
American Idol
. Perhaps she was.

"They are going to tape the interview," she said. "It will run tonight on the evening news. Their 'Difference Maker' segment. Do I look okay?"

Just before six, Lindsay sat alone in the master suite. She had a choice to make: the Governor's Mansion or
Colonia Ángeles.
The governor's wife or the doctor's nurse. Bode Bonner or …

She picked up the remote and clicked on the television. She switched channels without conscious thought but stopped when she saw a byline: "From outside Laredo, Texas." The video showed a
colonia.
Her
colonia
.

She increased the volume.

"There are over two thousand
colonias
along the border in Texas," the reporter said over a byline that read NORA RAMOS. "What makes this
colonia
so unusual is that it is situated between the border wall and the border, a no man's land north of the Rio Grande but south of the wall that separates America from Mexico. Ninety-eight percent of the residents are Mexican nationals who …"

The segment continued with a voice-over video showing the wall and the river from the air above—she could almost smell the foul stench from the river—and the
colonia
situated between and then a ground-level view of the women and children living in conditions that seemed more desperate from afar, women and children Lindsay recognized. Little Lucia. And Teresa. And their
madre
, Sonia. The video ended with the reporter standing on the front steps of the clinic. She was young, she was Latina, and she was pretty. Jesse stood next to her.

"But while these people don't even have running water, sewer, or electricity, they do have one thing forty million Americans still dream of—a highly skilled doctor giving them medical care every day—for free.
Colonia Ángeles
means community of angels, but the angel in this community is named Jesse Rincón, a young doctor who was born in this very
colonia
and who returned home after Harvard Medical School to care for his people. He built clinics from Laredo to Brownsville, he trained midwives to staff each clinic, and he travels down the border when he is needed. But most days you will find him here, in the clinic in
Colonia Ángeles
."

She turned to Jesse.

"Dr. Rincón, you care for six thousand patients in this one
colonia?
Alone, without a nurse?"

"I had a nurse, but she left."

"Why?"

"A life on the border is a harsh life."

"Will she return?"

Jesse stared into the camera a moment—almost as if he were staring at Lindsay—then shook his head slowly.

"I do not think so."

"Uh, Governor," Ranger Roy said. "I don't know how, but Mrs. Bonner, she, uh … she did it again."

Ten days later, Bode Bonner sat at his desk staring out the window at the State Capitol dome glowing yellow in the setting sun.

"I know."

"I'm sorry, Governor. You want me to track her with GPS again?"

Bode shook his head.

"I know where to find her."

It had been two weeks since she had left and taken all the color in the
colonia
with her. Her yellow and blue and green peasant dresses and scarves and those pink Crocs. And her red hair. The
colonia
was again gray. Gray lives, gray homes, gray dirt. Each day seemed grayer than the day before. Jesse had tried to focus on his work, but his thoughts always returned to her. To the governor's wife.

Where his thoughts now resided.

He cut the engine and got out of the truck at the post office in Laredo. He went inside and collected his mail. A few more checks. They arrived after each interview, then dwindled after a week or so. Perhaps the network interview the day before would generate more checks. The clinic needed an incubator.

He drove through downtown Laredo—it, too, seemed gray that day—and out of town. He turned south on the farm-to-market and onto his land. He parked next to the house and went inside.

He froze.

He sniffed. He followed the smell into the kitchen. She stood there at the stove. The governor's wife. In full. She turned and smiled.

"Hi, Jesse."

Before he knew what he was doing, he walked to her and took her shoulders and kissed her.

"I love you," he said.

"I know. I just don't know what to do about it."

The next morning, the governor's wife was gone, and the governor woke next to Mandy Morgan in bed. Her bare backside was to him. He slid his hand down her side and over her hips and bottom and down between her legs. She stirred.

"Bode, I'm not feeling so good."

"I hope it's not contagious."

"Don't worry. It's not."

He removed his hand. There would be no sex that morning. But it didn't matter. Even with the Viagra, his body wasn't working these days. Knowing that the most notorious drug lord in Mexico was gunning for you had a way of killing a man's sex drive.

Hank was dead. Darcy was dead. Becca could be dead. She was taking Darcy's death hard; she had moved out of her dorm and into the Mansion. She refused to return to classes or volleyball practice. She was afraid. Bode was worried. The assassination attempt had pushed his political fortunes into uncharted territory. He now transcended politics. He was an icon. A legend. An American action-hero. This was just the sort of thing that could propel a man into the White House. Into the history books. One day his portrait might be on a White House wall with Washington and Lincoln and Roosevelt and Reagan. It was a heady thought. But his head was filled with other thoughts. With worries. Because he felt things … changing. Just like in a football game when something almost imperceptible occurred, just a feeling, when you knew the momentum had shifted to the other team.

When the game had turned against you.

Jesse Rincón ran the river at dawn on the third day of June. Pancho vaulted down to the riverbank to chase a jackrabbit, so he followed the dog down. He ran east along the hardened and cracked dirt bank toward the rising sun. He could not restrain a smile. She had come back. To the border. To the
colonia
.

To him.

He wanted desperately to go to her now, while she lay in bed, and to feel her body next to his, to wrap his arms around her and to be one with her. But now was not the time. She was still a married woman.

That day would come, but he would not dwell on it now. He would enjoy this day he would have with her as if it would be his last. And what a glorious day it would be. The sun now rose over the Rio Grande in the east where the sky was clear and held the promise of a—

He stopped.

He looked down. His shoes no longer tread on dry ground. Water lapped at his feet. He smelled a strange scent—the scent of rain. He turned back to face west. The distant sky was a dark black over the Chihuahuan Desert. There was rain in the desert. It seldom rained on the border, but when it did, a flood often ensued. Drought and flood, that was the weather cycle of the border. Rain in the desert ran fast and hard across the sunbaked dirt as if it were concrete, fast and hard to the
arroyos
that emptied into the river. He now studied the river. The water moved rapidly that morning.