J. Bertrand - Nothing to Hide

I look up and see the passenger emerging through the sliding doors, walking out past a yellow concrete stanchion.

“I’ll call you later, Charlotte. I love you.”

Stopping in front of a garbage basket, the man digs through the plastic shopping bag in his hand, removing the contents. He tosses the bag, then rips the package open and throws that in after it. He slips whatever he’s purchased into his pocket, then starts toward the van. Jeff walks out with a bag of his own.

When he reaches the car, I ask: “What did he buy in there?”

“A GPS unit. Wherever they’re stopping for the night, it’s not here. Pop the trunk for me.”

“What for?”

“Hurry, before they take off.”

I push the trunk release, then go around back to see what he’s doing, glancing at the van to make sure it’s not moving. He takes the AR-15 out of its case, resting the rifle at the bottom of the trunk, then dumps the contents of his own bag out. A pack of plastic zip-ties drops out. He rips it open and stuffs a handful in his pocket. Then he takes the rifle and crawls underneath the car.

“What are you doing? Anyone could see you!”

“Are they leaving?” His voice sounds muffled. His legs protrude from under the bumper.

“The engine’s running. The headlights are on. It looks like they’re talking.”

“Hand me your pistol.”

Down on one knee, I peer under the car. He’s slotted the rifle into a gap in the undercarriage, securing it in place with the plastic ties. As I watch, he gives it a tug to make sure everything’s tight. Then he reaches his hand out.

“What are you doing?”

“We don’t have time to discuss this. They’re gonna pull out any second.”

“What about the spare magazines?”

“Find something to put them in, and I’ll stick them under here, too.”

After scanning side to side and making sure no one’s watching, I slip the Browning out of its holster and quickly drop the safety to lower the hammer. I place the pistol in his hand and it disappears immediately. In the trunk I pull a nylon bag from my crime-scene kit, dump the contents, and jam the three spare mags for the AR-15 inside. There’s enough room left, so I add the spare hi-cap for the Browning from my belt rig, along with the holster and mag carrier, then zip the bag closed and pass it under to Jeff.

“Hurry, they’re leaving!”

The van pulls back, stops, then accelerates down the row. I can see the red running lights over the tops of the parked cars.

“Come on, come on.”

Jeff slides out, brushes his hands on his jeans, and gives the trunk a quick search. “Is there anything else in here we need to dump?”

“It’s gonna look strange, me having an empty gun case bolted into the trunk.”

“Right.” He reaches into the case and starts ripping out the molded gray foam. I lean in and try to help. We toss the foam onto the pavement, then slam down the lid of the now-empty case. “That’s the best we can do. It’s good enough.”

In the car, racing to keep the van in sight, he outlines his plan. “If they do try to cross, I’ll get out and you can follow them alone. The odds of your car being searched are pretty slim. They’ll look inside, but they’re not gonna tear it apart. Don’t flash your badge or anything. Just show them the passport card like you’re any other visitor. If worse comes to worse, tell ’em that van is smuggling guns. That should distract them.”

“What about you?”

“I’ll make my way across on foot. You’ll be sitting in line, so I might even get there ahead of you. I’ll call you and you can pick me up.”

“And what if you can’t get across?”

“Don’t worry about me.” He notices my phone in the cup holder. “Did you break down and make the call?”

The van exits the highway, turning onto International Boulevard. There are signs up ahead for the University of Texas at Brownsville and the Gateway International Bridge.

“I can’t,” I say. “There’s no one I trust. With my own people it would take too much explaining, and with the Feds, I think they might be playing me. I have to see this one through. I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” he says.

“Then I guess I’m making it.”

Brake lights flash in front of us. The traffic ahead rolls to a halt. The white van is four cars ahead, edging its way toward the Mexican border.

“You’d better let me out,” Jeff says.

He crosses to the sidewalk in front of the duty-free shop, walking toward the bridge without waving, without glancing back, giving no sign that we’re together. A group of pedestrians, black-haired kids in shorts and T-shirts, files in front of my car. I scoot forward toward the bridge’s entrance, a line of kiosks that reminds me of a toll plaza or a drive-through bank teller. I have my passport card ready, but on the American side a man in uniform is waving everybody forward.

I can’t see Jeff anywhere. As I move onto the bridge, its sides lined with hurricane fencing topped by rusted barbed wire, I try to center my mind, to think only positive thoughts. My phone starts to buzz, and then the ringer fills the car.

It’s Charlotte.

“Honey, I got your message. Where are you?” she asks.

This makes me laugh. I briefly imagine what would happen if I told her the truth, that I was sitting in line waiting to enter Mexico with my guns zip-tied to the bottom of the car. The absurdity of the situation surges through me and suddenly I can’t stop laughing.

“Sorry,” I say. “I’m gonna be a little late.”

I glance out across the brown ebb of the Rio Grande, gilded by the sinking orange sunset. I’m not sure what side of the line I’m on anymore.

“I’m calling you from the hospital,” she says.

The hospital. Every dark thought flashes through my head. It’s been ten years almost since the car accident that put Charlotte in the hospital and our daughter Jess in the grave, but those words drag me right back, flooding me with the same helplessness.

“Are you all right, baby? Did something happen?” I’m hours away. There’s nothing I can do. My hands begin to shake.

“No, I’m fine ,” she says, the fear she picked up in my voice forcing her into her uppermost, euphoric register. “Honey, it’s time . You need to get down here or you’re gonna miss it. Carter’s pacing so much he’s gonna wear a hole in the floor.”

The cars ahead of me roll forward. The white van disappears under the shade of the roofed checkpoint on the opposite end of the bridge.

“Baby, you got my message, didn’t you? I’m working a lead. I’m not even in Houston. I’m hours away.”

“Roland, they’re having the baby. Gina’s in labor. She was asking for you. Where are you? Can you at least tell me that?”

“I’m about to crawl over the devil’s back,” I say. “No, listen, that’s wonderful. I feel terrible that I’m not there. I would be if there was any way in the world. You tell them I’m thinking about them, and I’ll get there as soon as I can.”

“Are you in trouble, Roland?”

The white van is no longer in sight. The cars move forward again. The phone is hot against the side of my face, hot and silent.

“I’ve got to go, Charlotte. I’m so sorry.”

“Are you all right?”

“Don’t worry about me. Everything’s going to be fine. I love you. Tell Carter and Gina I love them, too. And I want to see that baby when I get there. I want to hold it.”

The car in front of me advances under the soaring red arch that marks the end of the bridge. Half the lanes are blocked by orange pylons. Off to my right a flock of pedestrians passes through, the air around them humming with laughter. I pull my phone away, imagining a sterile hospital hallway, Charlotte standing off to the side, stricken with worry.