Paul Levine - Illegal

Tino wanted to picture Jimmy doing the same thing for him. But he wouldn't let himself paint the image. Because if Jimmy never followed through, if he turned out to be the kind of man his mother always seemed to meet, well, it's better not to get your hopes up. But this American seemed different. Sometimes, he showed a warm heart. Sometimes, the courage of a valiente. And other times, when he grew quiet and looked away, just like now, Tino knew he was in pain.

Payne glanced at Tino, wondering just what he was thinking. Was he picturing a reunion with his mother? Or did he fear he'd never see her again?

They drove through the Borrego Badlands, past stands of cottonwoods and jumping cholla cactus with spines like fishhooks. There was little traffic, and Payne pushed the Mustang to 80 on the straightaways.

Just past a rocky wash, three mangy coyotes stood at the side of the road, staring at them, not even twitching, as they roared past. The old Mustang's A/C struggled to keep the car cool, then failed. Payne slowed and put the top down. Speeding up again, a hot dry wind blasted them.

They turned South onto Peg Leg Road, and a white van with darkened windows crossed the center line heading straight at them. Payne swerved and laid on the horn, catching a look at the craggy-faced driver, who shot him the bird.

Asshole.

A sign on the van said Sweet Valley Raisin Co.

They passed through the hamlet of Borrego Springs, where some joker had erected a street sign showing the intersection of Hollywood and Vine. A blinking traffic light, then onto Montezuma Valley Road, which curled up a mountainside dotted with greasewood. A sign warned of mountain lions. Payne was more concerned about a man named Chitwood who was partial to a Ruger carbine.

"There, vato." Tino pointed to an unmarked dirt road, just where Wanda had said it would be. Payne braked and downshifted but still took the turn too fast, the Mustang fishtailing.

"Cool, Himmy."

"Yeah. Way cool."

The dirt road, pocked with holes, continued uphill along the mountain's edge. The air began to cool and carried the hint of moisture. They spotted a bighorn sheep perched on a rocky outcropping as if on guard duty. Water tumbled down a rocky cliff and into a small stream. Along the banks, white flowers with yellow centers looked like fried eggs, gleaming in the sunshine.

They came to another dirt road, this one blocked by a locked gate. Two signs welcomed them: Private Property and Trespassers Will Be Eaten. Just as Wanda had told them. Payne pulled the Mustang as far off the road as possible without putting it into a ditch. From here, they would walk.

They climbed over the gate and headed up a well-maintained private road, just wide enough for a single car. Or maybe a van. Green ferns lined the road, further evidence they'd left the desert behind. Somewhere in the undergrowth, water burbled over rocks. Above them, two golden hawks glided in the afternoon updrafts.

After about a mile, the dirt road opened into a canyon. Boulders the size of ships lined each side. In front of them was a barn, a ranch house made of stones and logs, and an open-air structure of ten-foot-high wooden poles topped by a corrugated metal roof that provided a rectangle of shade. It looked like a giant carport, but its job was to keep migrants from frying in the sun.

No one there.

"What now, Himmy?"

"Now we look around."

They headed toward the shaded area. A dusty, candy-apple red Harley chopper painted with orange flames sat next to one of the wooden poles. Chickens hunted and pecked at the ground, rooting about for whatever it is chickens hunt and peck for. Security cameras sat atop four metal poles, each about fifteen feet high.

The door to the barn was wide open. Inside were three white panel trucks that looked freshly washed. Not a speck of desert dust.

Payne motioned Tino into the barn for a closer look, a few clucking chickens following them. All three vehicles were Ford cargo vans. No windows on the side panels. The rear windows had been tinted so dark as to resemble black mirrors. You could pack a couple dozen people into the cargo area if they were very good friends.

The barn smelled of straw and chickenshit… and fresh paint. A gallon can of black paint sat open on the wooden floor, a set of stencils and a spray gun nearby. Several small brushes soaked in a large glass jar filled with turpentine. The lettering on the panels of each truck appeared fresh.

One truck proudly proclaimed it was owned by Precision Glass Co. of Palm Desert. Another said Valley Plumbing, with an address in Apple Valley. The third was Sand Dunes Electrical, Inc., of Calipatria. Each truck had heavy-duty suspension, useful for throwing off Border Patrol agents looking for low-riding vehicles.

Payne was willing to bet his bowling ball that no glass installers, plumbers, or electricians would ever park their asses in these vehicles. He hurriedly scribbled the company names and license plate numbers.

They headed back into the brilliant sunlight of the yard and neared the poles supporting the sheet metal. A cra-ack echoed, a single gunshot splintering a pole and showering Payne with wood chips. He dived toward Tino, knocking him to the ground, shielding the boy with his body.

A second gunshot kicked up dirt near Payne's ear. His mind flashed with only one thought.

Save the boy.

Marisol lost all sense of time. Inside the van, the air grew stale and unbearably hot. She felt queasy, forced herself to picture trees, swaying in a breeze. Remembered the Mexicans trapped in the trailer truck the summer before. If she died here, what would become of Tino?

Fight off the fear.

Across from her, an Indio woman struggled to her knees, chanted something Marisol did not understand, and keeled over, facedown onto the filthy floor. Her lips frosted with white foam and her body twitched.

Marisol squeezed past two men, lifted the woman's head to help her breathe. Someone banged on the wall separating them from Guillermo, the driver. Someone else shouted in Spanish to stop, a woman is dying, but the van continued on.

A Honduran man tore apart the matting that covered the taillight assembly, then punched through a plastic casing and tore out the light by its cord. The pavement appeared through the hole.

Marisol helped carry the woman to the back. Two men held her face close to the opening, begging her to suck in the fresh air. Her body twitched then stilled, twisted into unnatural angles.

Women screamed. Men prayed. Others averted their faces, as if shamed to see the woman so exposed in death.

Finally, the van lurched to a stop. The driver's door opened and slammed shut. Angry voices outside. The rear doors popped open. The migrants, minus one, stumbled out, soaking up the air, baking with the scent of horses and manure. Marisol blinked against the sunlight. A red barn, a corral, a riding ring. Cornfields in the distance, the stalks taller than any man.

Several men-Chicanos and Anglos-surrounded the group. Jeans and blue T-shirts with the lettering: "Rutledge Ranch and Farms."

Guillermo, the driver, demanded to know who damaged the taillight. The Honduran man stepped forward, said something about the dead Indio woman. Guillermo punched him in the stomach, and the man fell to his knees, gagged, and vomited into the dust, spraying the man's boots.

"Fucking peasant!" Guillermo kicked the man.

Maybe not insane like Chitwood, Marisol thought, but just as mean. Just like Carlos at the meat plant, vicious and cruel to his own people.

"Stop that shit!" another man ordered. Big. Older, with a brushy silver mustache. Cowboy boots and jeans.

"Sorry, Mr. Rutledge, but I'm tired of these fuckers messing up my trucks."