Steven Havill - Prolonged Exposure

Even with the diesel of our truck bellowing for all it was worth, Pasquale had the smaller unit turned around by the time we arrived. He headed downslope without a moment’s hesitation, and I could see the tires of his truck crashing over rocks big enough to high-center a passenger car.

We crested the hill in time to see Holman and Abeyta standing by the side of the road, gesticulating. Their truck, without them in it, had already backed far enough down the two-track that it had reached the fork, and it was now heading south on the other trail.

“Go get the son of a bitch!” I heard Holman shout over the radio. Tom Pasquale needed no more incentive. We had a grandstand view as the two Electric Co-op trucks careened pell-mell down the narrow two-track that would along the foothills of the San Cristobals. The Border Patrol aircraft that had been orbiting farther to the east had swung overhead, a fast Cessna Sky Master that was going to be of little use other than providing eyes in the sky.

Torrez eased down the hill, keeping the pace at a crawl as the heavy truck shifted this way and that on the rocks. Holman sprinted up the hill to meet us, his face purple with rage.

“He’s alone!” Holman shouted as he jumped up on the driver’s side running board of the Kodiak. “He doesn’t have the child or the woman with him!”

“Oh Christ,” I said, “what’s he done with ’em?”

“He must have left them behind, with the camper,” Estelle said.

“Or under any number of humps in the sand along the way,” I said. “He knew exactly what the hell he wanted.”

Tom Pasquale had slowed just enough for Eddie Mitchell to jump back aboard, and Mitchell certainly deserved a medal for bravery. No more than a hundred yards separated the trucks, and Pasquale was gaining.

“I don’t think he hit him,” Holman said. “There was just an instant when Browers was out in the open, and Pasquale got off three shots.”

“He was waiting for you?”

“I don’t know,” Holman said ruefully. “One minute we’re fine, and the next instant he’s standing right where I am now, on the running board of the truck, sticking a pistol in my ear. He wanted us out, and I didn’t argue with him.”

“Wise,” I said. “Bob, if we go any farther, we won’t be able to see them when they get below that swath of oaks.” He stopped the truck and the four of us climbed down.

“He’s got Tony’s gun now, too,” Holman added. With a pair of binoculars, Bob Torrez watched the race.

“It looks like Pasquale is chained to his back bumper,” he said, and below us and to the east we saw the two trucks dive into a copse of elm scrub where a mountainside spring had created a tiny patch of green. “He’s got a quarter of a mile, and he’s at the fence.”

And, at that particular point, that’s all that separated the United States from Mexico, a well-made steel-post six-strand barbed-wire fence. Torrez raised the glasses and swept the view. “No federales , either.”

The Cessna swooped low, entering a hard bank, keeping the two roaring trucks in clear view.

“There will be,” I said.

The two-track swerved out onto a flat, dry section of prairie, and Andrew Browers saw his chance. He skidded right, off the road, roaring through the low brush, hitting hummocks so hard that half the time his truck was airborne.

And less than a hundred feet behind him were Pasquale and Mitchell. I knew that trying for a spectacular tire shot was impossible. All Mitchell could do was hang on with both hands and feet and hope that Pasquale didn’t miscalculate and put them on their roof.

“He’s going to go for it,” Torrez said.

I held up the radio and thumbed the transmit button. “If he goes through that fence, you just go right after him,” I said.

“They can’t go into Mexico,” Holman said.

“Sure they can.” I glanced at him and held out the radio. “Do you want to tell Pasquale to stop?”

“Hell no,” Holman said.

Browers crashed the fence dead center, taking one of the steel posts right on the massive power winch on the front bumper of the truck. We saw a burst of sand and flying metal, and the two trucks had themselves a doorway into Mexico.

“Veracruz by nightfall,” I muttered, but I had spoken too soon. Tom Pasquale had other plans. Even as one vehicle swerved violently to the left to avoid a deep arroyo, the second merged with it. We saw a cloud of dirt fly heavenward, and the two vehicles jarred to a halt.

For a moment, it was impossible to tell what was happening, but then Torrez said, “They’ve got ’em,” and a wide grin split his features. He shifted the glasses a fraction. “And here come the troops.”

I looked in the direction he was pointing and saw two vehicles approaching on the Mexican side of the fence. “This should be interesting,” I said.

“PCS, three oh three is ten-fifteen.”

I laughed with delight. “God, he must have paid Mitchell to get to say that,” I said. “He’s got Browers in custody.”

It took us a half hour to cover the same ground that the two fleeing utility trucks had covered in five or six minutes. Martin Holman and Tony Abeyta balanced on the running boards, clinging to the door and mirror frames. By the time we reached the break in the fence, Capt. Tomas Naranjo’s tan Toyota Land Cruiser was parked beside the two white trucks, with a tan Suburban just arriving.

“You want to go in?” Torrez asked, hesitating.

“Hell yes,” I said. “I’m not going to walk.”

Tomas Naranjo leaned against the fender of his Toyota and grinned as we approached.

“I remember seeing that break in the fence last week,” he said as we approached. “You know, those range cattle sometimes can be a real nuisance.” He shook hands with Holman and then me, and his grip was firm and friendly. “Senora,” he said to Estelle, and touched the brim of his cap.

“We appreciate your cooperation, Captain,” I said, and turned my attention to the others. “Are you guys all right?” Pasquale clearly was. I could count every one of his teeth, his grin was so wide. Mitchell looked as if he was glad to be standing on solid ground. Andy Browers sat on the running board of the truck he’d taken, his hands cuffed behind his back and his ankles locked together with a heavy nylon zip tie.

He didn’t look up, just stared instead at the Mexican sand under his feet.

“Where are Tiffany and Cody Cole?” Estelle snapped.

“I have no idea.”

I bent down and grabbed his shoulder. “You’re cute, you son of a bitch. Now where did you leave ’em last night?”

He looked up at me, his face impassive.

“Perhaps you could leave him with us,” Naranjo said mildly. “We have several experienced interrogators on our staff.”

“They were at the camper,” Browers said, and spat into the sand. “They couldn’t keep up, so I told ’em to go back.” He looked up at me again. He licked his lips. “They were just in the way.”

“Who’s idea was this whole thing?” I asked.

“Cole. Paul Cole.” Browers looked off into space. “He had this whole big deal cooked up.”

“I’m sure,” I said. “And conveniently, he’s dead.” I saw a muscle twitch in Browers’s cheek. “Yes. We found the body, thanks to the little boy who you figured would never show up again-alive, anyway.”

Browers looked up suddenly. “He run off,” he said. “If he’d done what I told him, everything would have turned out all right.” He turned to Naranjo. “I got twenty thousand dollars in there.”

Naranjo tipped his head and regarded Browers with interest. “Twenty thousand? American dollars?”

“That’s right.”