43

Everybody thinks we’re dead.

Back in his room, sitting in front of the open window, he considers how things stand in the light of this information….

Quino had shown them newspapers from Laredo, San Antonio, Austin. Had shown them recorded TV reports, some of them on-the-spot tapings with Zanco Unit in the rainy background. Their most recent prison pictures were in all the papers, were on TV. The getaway Tri-Cross van had been found in the creek and everybody was sure that they had drowned and been carried out to the river. A helicopter then found the stranded owner of the little boat, and the cops thought it possible that they had been the ones to steal it but didn’t see how they could have made it alive that far down the river. When they found the boat tangled in riverside brush below the rapids and some thirty miles downstream from where it had been taken, they could only conclude that whoever had stolen it had certainly drowned. Search teams were still combing the banks all the way down to the Amistad Reservoir, but a state police spokesman said the bodies might never be found, and until such time as they were recovered the state was offering a reward of ten thousand dollars per fugitive.

All the reports, both print and TV, included mention that Axel Prince Wolfe was the son of Harry McElroy Wolfe, the prominent South Texas attorney. Which had come as news to Cacho.

“You said you were an orphan, same as me,” he’d said.

Axel had shrugged. “Don’t you know better than to believe a convict?”

Quino laughed, and Cacho said, “Jesus Christ, you been keeping secrets even from me. Lying to me. You didn’t trust me for a minute.”

“I do now,” Axel said. “Sometimes for even a minute.”

Cacho grinned back at him. “It’s cool, man. You didn’t know me very good yet.” He held his fist out and Axel bumped it with his own.

“Will you inform your father you’re alive?” Quino asks.

“I don’t think it would be a good idea to inform anybody.”

“I very much agree.”

Quino had then shown them two editions of the Brownsville Herald he’d put aside for last. The front page of one edition blared the news of the prison break and manhunt. It carried a two-year-old prison picture of Axel and one of Harry Mack standing on the sidewalk in front of Wolfe Associates. The report included a recap of Axel’s conviction for armed robbery and assault, and Harry Mack was quoted as saying he was “deeply distressed” by the escape and hoped that Axel would realize the “irrationality” of it and surrender himself.

A sidebar story emphasized the “local boy” angle, highlighting Axel’s once-promising future, his excellent academic record and admirable baseball talent. It contained a yearbook picture of him in his baseball uniform, posing with a bat. It also included the information that he had a daughter, herself a reporter for the Herald, but she had refused to be interviewed or to issue a statement. The other Brownsville edition was this morning’s and related that although the investigators assumed that the escapees had drowned in either Lonely Woman Creek or the Rio Grande, the search for their bodies would continue. Reporters had again called on Harry Mack, who said the family was grieved by the news and he asked the media to respect their privacy.

Scanning the Brownsville papers, Cacho had said, “Damn, man, you’re a real hoot! Some shrink could have a pretty good time poking around in your brain trying to figure why a smart college kid would become an armed robber.”

“Ask your brother with the degree in economics but who’s working as a border guard for the Zetas,” Axel said.

“More whistle in the work,” Quino said.

Everybody thinks we’re dead.

He had not until now attempted to summarize how things stand beyond the fact that he’s free—and now even freer than he’d thought, since the bastards are no longer looking for him.

He’s not badly hurt. He has a comfortable place to stay for as long as he wants. A job if he wants it. One that pays well and keeps the adrenaline flowing.

That’s how things stand.

And everybody thinks he’s dead.

Everybody. The cops. Charlie. Harry Mack.

Jessie. His daughter thinks he’s dead.

Was she grieved by the news too?

He had not yet given thought to how he would go about trying to see her, to talk to her if possible. But now there are new factors to consider. Even though everybody thinks he’s dead, there’s a reward on him, and to the vast majority of border residents ten thousand dollars is a fortune. His picture has appeared everywhere. Everybody knows what he looks like. Countless total strangers can recognize him on sight. Any of them could spot him and call the cops before he even knew he’d been made.

And if he was identified and yet somehow avoided capture, the first thing the cops would think was that somebody in the family was harboring him. They’d go banging on the doors of every Wolfe residence and business, search every foot of them, barge into everybody’s life. They’d for damn sure go snooping in Wolfe Landing and maybe inadvertently stumble onto shade trade evidence of some kind. Which could be big trouble for Charlie.

He cannot risk making trouble for Charlie.

A disguise might work, but you never know. A stranger in a small town can draw close scrutiny, too, just for being a stranger, and he still might get found out someway or other. And there’s the question of how Jessie might react if he shows himself to her and tries to talk to her. What if she freaks and calls the cops? Or the other one does? Rayo Luna? Only one road in and out of that beach where they’re living. They might see him coming toward the house and call the cops without even knowing it was him. Either way, he’d be cut off from all escape routes.

So … better not to go there just now. And that’s okay. He’s waited for so many years, he can wait a little longer. The thing to do is let the hoopla die down. Let the escape fade into old news. Let his face get forgotten in the public mind. It will anyway give him more time to figure the best way to see her and not just go at it catch-as-catch-can. And before he does go there, he should let Charlie know. Give him a chance to wipe down the Landing in case anything goes wrong and the cops came poking around. And if there’s anybody who’d be glad to know he’s alive, it’s Charlie.

That’s how things stand, too.

He takes a short nap, then a walk in the courtyard, wearing a cap against the brute sun. He strides briskly along the perimeter walkway, working up a sweat. Back in his room he takes a shower, careful not to soak the cheek and arm bandages but lingering under the cascade of cool water for the wonderful sensation of it, then puts on fresh clothes and joins Quino and Cacho for lunch. He tells them of his workout walk and Quino says, “I told you you’re not hurt that bad. In no time you’re gonna be agile, mobile, and hostile, like the Zetas were taught at Fort Benning.”

“Hell of a thing to be jealous of an old guy because he can walk without crutches,” Cacho says.

Later in the day Quino presents Axel with a cell phone and acquaints him with its operations. He gives him Cacho’s number and Axel calls him. The kid laughs at his excitement about the little phone’s capacities. “Welcome to the twenty-first century, amigo,” he says.