Desert Walk
Storm waters had scoured the bottom of the dry wash, undercut one of its banks and left a three-foot-deep overhang, a strip of shade in the Arizona sun. Carlos checked for snakes, slid into the cramped space and waited. A helicopter cut a slow arc across the yellow sky, its rotors thumping the air and whipping the desert sands. He turned his face to the cave wall and pulled his T-shirt over his nose. But the dust forced its way into his lungs. He choked and gasped for breath while clutching a knapsack to his chest. Squeezing his eyes shut, he pushed his thoughts to that peaceful place where he used to go as a teenager in Phoenix, beyond the reach of his father’s muscled arms and his mother’s tears. The racket from the chopper faded.
Outside his hiding place, the afternoon baked. Carlos rolled onto his back and opened the knapsack. Greenbacks slid onto his chest and threatened to fly away in the wind. He stuffed them back inside the pack and rummaged for the canteen, unscrewed its cap and pressed it to his lips, being careful not to spill a drop of the tepid water. To the east, semis rumbled along Highway 19, traveling to and from the border crossing at Nogales. I’ll head into the hills…wait until dark to cross over…
He thought about Ramón and their grand scheme to rob Tucson Bank and Trust and flee south to the Yucatán, to live the good life among the tourists. Born to immigrant parents in the U.S., Carlos had listened to their stories about Cancún and the peninsula: turquoise waters, warm sea breezes, good fishing, and plenty of Americans and Europeans spending money. He could almost feel himself lying on the beach in a speedo, holding a drink and watching the señoritas leave their meandering footprints in the wet sand.
But his mind drifted forward to their bank job, how Ramón had pointed his ancient revolver at the tellers while Carlos skimmed their cash drawers. A gray-haired security guard had pulled his pistol and shot Ramón in the neck, but took two rounds in his chest. They’d crumpled to the floor, their blood spattering the white tiles. With all but one of the drawers skimmed, Carlos had fled southward. His truck blew a hose on the far side of Rio Rico, still shy of the Mexican border. He’d parked the steaming heap in a culvert that passed under the highway and ran west toward the hills, trying to avoid leaving tracks and watching out for rattlers and other nasties.
A scorpion edged across the wash and into his hiding place. Carlos squashed it with the butt of his Beretta. I’ve gotta move…get close to the fence before sundown. Poking his head from under the overhang, he held his breath, listened, then crawled from the cave. He headed into the hills at a fast clip, his back and legs still sore from working the apple orchards in Prescott. Jeep trails followed the ridgelines or shallow valleys, angling toward the border. Carlos avoided the well-used ones and hiked the dry arroyos where shrubbery and overhangs gave some cover. At the mouth of a shallow valley, a spot of blue stood out against the dun-colored slopes. Gotta be one of those water stations…the Border Patrol could be close. He took his time working his way down the draw and stopped well short of the blue barrel with “Agua” stenciled on its side. He listened, heard only the wind; scanned the sky, saw nothing but vultures. Vultures?
He crept toward the water barrel, stopping often to listen and watch for movement. Desert training was the only good thing the Army gave me, he thought and grinned. The stench hit him, something he’d also experienced in Afghanistan. Crouching with pistol at the ready, he approached. Someone had shot the hell out of the water barrel. The militias must be at it again. He rocked the empty drum then surveyed his surroundings. A short distance away lay the carcass of a coyote, its gray fur splotched with blood, teeth bared in a death grin. Nothing moved; the only sound, a faint whine from the circling vultures.
The hill country extended south into Mexico. The border fence cut a straight line across it, a rust-colored steel barrier that rose and fell with the terrain, leaving no gaps. About a quarter-mile from his position, it stood maybe twenty feet tall, square pipes topped with a slanted cap that angled toward Mexico. Carlos chuckled. They never figured anyone would cross in my direction. The sun stood an inch above the western hills. He stopped and hid behind a creosote bush. A Border Patrol Hummer bounced along the dirt track next to the fence. It headed east toward the Nogales crossing and that city’s first blaze of neon. The desert turned deep golden, beautiful if not for the heat. Carlos crept southward.
He found the dead man in a shallow wash. The corpse lay face up, its eyes covered with flies, hands chewed off by coyotes or some other critters. The oven temperatures had already shrunk the skin. White teeth gleamed in the dusk. Carlos nudged the body with a boot and the flies buzzed away, exposing black holes. He bent and patted the man’s jacket and pants with his pistol. But the pockets felt empty. He shuddered, remembering the mangled bodies of the Afghan villagers his squad had found near Kamdesh.
Gritting his teeth, Carlos grabbed the corpse’s legs and rolled him over. A rear pocket held a wallet. He hunkered down and went through its contents: an H-2A Guest Worker Card, a badly-worn IFE Card, creased photos of a woman and two tiny girls, and a wad of 100-peso notes. According to the IFE Card, Rodrigo Gutierrez had lived 32 years, with an address in Ciudad Hermosillo. Carlos studied the man’s photo ID and closed his eyes. I…I could be him…he looks a lot like me…I could take his place…give him my driver’s license. His excitement grew as he pondered the possibilities. With a Mexican identity he could travel more freely, attract little attention, and have pesos to spend until reaching the Yucatán.
He slipped the wallet into his back pocket and placed his own into the dead man’s. Carlos died and was reborn as Rodrigo Gutierrez, Mexican national, returning home to his loving family after working the fields and orchards in the United States. He removed the greenbacks from his knapsack and stuffed them in the cloth bag that Rodrigo had carried. But he left his passport behind, to make sure that the authorities thought the dead guy was him. There’s no going back now.
Carlos waited in the wash until the sun’s final glow disappeared. The moon hung full and the night air cooled somewhat. He stripped the corpse of its jacket and slipped it on. It fit perfectly. After pulling the body into the open where it would be spotted more easily, Carlos headed south.
Moving slow and stopping often, he approached the border road next to the fence. A low rumble sounded to the east and he took cover behind some bushes. A tricked-out Hummer with its lights off crawled by, then stopped. The agents in the front seat used night vision scopes to scan both sides of the border. Carlos held his breath and kept low, trying not to blink. The driver climbed out and moved to the fence, then turned to face in his direction. Carlos thought about making a run for it but clamped down hard on his flight urge.
In a few minutes, they drove off and disappeared over a rise. He made a move toward the border but heard the shuffle of feet coming from the Mexican side. Once again, he retreated. A half-dozen shadowy figures approached the barrier. They appeared to be loaded with square backpacks. But they climbed the fence like boys on a jungle gym, dropped onto the American side, and trotted toward him. Carlos crouched in the darkness and fingered his pistol. The smugglers hustled past, coming within a few feet, and disappeared into the night. He slumped onto his side, sucking in deep breaths. They’re probably carrying cocaine and heroin…maybe that’s who killed Rodrigo…gotta get south…away from all this border shit.
Carlos waited until his heart slowed. He moved to the fence and climbed, cramming his arms and legs between the vertical posts and pulling himself upward. At the top he tossed his bag into Mexico then struggled over the slanted barrier and down the other side. He lay on the ground, gasping. When his breathing quieted, he stood and headed into the dark hills. In the distance, the reassuring sound of trucks on the highway that skirted Nogales kept him oriented. He moved slowly, not daring to use his flashlight until he got miles from the border.
A long ravine at the base of a hill crossed his path. He inched downslope, sending loose stones cascading before him. At the bottom everything seemed blacker, and some of the blackness moved.
“Hold it right there.” The man sounded just like Carlos’s father, with the same edge to his Spanish words.
“Who are you? What do you want?” Carlos asked.
“Shut your mouth.”
He felt the sting of sharp steel at his throat. Other black masses moved in the darkness but he couldn’t tell how many. He thought about reaching for his pistol. But one wrong move and he’d be drowning in his own blood.
“What should we do with him?” the knife-man asked.
“Kill him and take his things.”
“Please… I’m just like you… I mean you no harm.”
“Who do you work for?”
“No, I didn’t mean… I’m not a smuggler… I–”
A sun went nova inside Carlos’s head, then darkness. When he regained consciousness, he lay on his back, the stars twinkling above him. Only the wind made any sound. Pushing himself to his knees he touched the side of his head. Blood wet his fingers and he pressed a handkerchief against the wound. He struggled to stand. In a panic, he reached for his pistol and found only an empty pocket. They’d also taken his flashlight. He felt around for his moneybag, knowing he wouldn’t find it. But they’d left his canteen and the wallet with its wad of pesos. Why fuck with a few measly pesos if ya got a bag full of dollars.
Carlos headed south, following ridgeline trails and jeep roads whenever they took him in the right direction. After several hours of walking, the hills became less steep and more rolling. Nogales lay to the north, its orange lights beckoning him to come out of the dark and seek food and shelter. But Carlos pushed on. I can wait until morning to eat.
Sunrise found him resting behind a shrub, less than a hundred yards from the highway. The heat already punished him. His canteen had been empty for hours, but the hot air had dried his throbbing head wound and he used his fingers and pocketknife to pick the crusted blood from his hair. Trucks rolled by on two lanes of blacktop. He pictured himself in the shotgun seat of a Peterbilt, rumbling south toward the Yucatán’s green jungle coastline where brown women in thong bathing suits promised salvation.
Brushing off his jacket, Carlos walked to the highway and headed toward a roadside café surrounded by semis and a few cars. Once inside, he entered the restroom and scrubbed his face and hands. Taking a seat at the counter, he ordered huevos con chorizo and coffee. No one paid him any attention. He studied the faces of the truckers sitting in booths against the front windows and tried to guess who might be willing to give him a ride.
After gulping as much bottled water as he could stomach, Carlos paid his bill and moved outside. He stood in the building’s shade and waited for the truckers to finish their breakfasts. A new Dodge Charger bearing the insignia of the Mexican State Police pulled into the gravel parking lot. Two Federales climbed out. They wore dark blue combat fatigues with pistols clipped to their belts.
The tall cop pushed at the Café’s door then glanced sideways at Carlos and stopped. As if by silent consent, the two turned and approached. The short cop rested his hand on his sidearm.
“Hey, hombre, what are you doing here?”
“I’m trying to get a ride home with one of the truckers.”
“Where are you coming from?”
“I worked the citrus groves in Yuma. I have an H-2A visa.”
“Why aren’t you on the bus?”
Carlos grinned. “I got off at Gila Bend to…to have a few beers. They left me behind.”
“Where are you going?”
“Home to my wife and daughters. We live in Hermosillo.”
“Do you have some identification?”
“Yes.” Carlos took out his wallet, extracted the IFE card, wrapped it in three 100-peso notes, and handed it over.
Tall cop grinned, took Carlos’s offering and walked back to the police car.
Short cop asked, “Do you have any weapons?”
“No officer.”
“I’m going to search you, so remain still.”
“Yes officer.”
Carlos sucked in slow deep breaths to calm himself. I’m glad the bandits took it all…I’d be in big trouble now if they hadn’t. He laced his hands on top of his head and waited.
From across the parking lot, the unsmiling tall cop strode toward him. Something about the way his boots crunched the gravel made Carlos shiver and he scanned his surroundings. But there was no good place to run.
Tall cop stood before him. “Yes, Rodrigo, I’ve confirmed that you live in Hermosillo. But you’re also wanted for murdering your wife and daughters. Turn around and put your hands behind your back.”
Short cop pulled his pistol and pointed it at him. Carlos felt the pinch of cold steel around his wrists as tall cop cuffed him, led him to their cruiser and shoved him into its back seat.
“What an idiot,” short cop said. “If it was me, I’d be across the border and halfway to Canada by now.”
Tall cop grinned. “Yes, we’re lucky most criminals are stupid.”
Carlos watched the desert flow by as they drove south. The car’s air conditioning chilled him. He thought about his hellish options: spend the rest of his life in a Mexican prison, or disclose his American citizenship and spend life in a stateside prison for robbery and murder. Once again, he pushed his mind into that peaceful place, where ocean waves rolled up blindingly white beaches and brown-skinned girls smiled at him, as if they looked upon someone more than a dreamer.
Terry Sanville lives in San Luis Obispo, California with his artist-poet wife (his in-house editor), and two plump cats (his in-house critics). Since 2005, his short stories have been accepted by more than 260 literary and popular journals, magazines, and anthologies. Terry is also an accomplished jazz and blues guitarist.