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Tuesday, May 31
Near Echo, Texas
As he regained consciousness, Cesar Baez opened one swollen eye. His right eye was pressed closed by the pressure of the side of his head resting against the gravel. He had no idea what time it was or how long he’d been lying in the dirt.
Cesar tried to remember exactly what had happened after the big man entered his office back in Ojinaga, but he could not.
Cesar closed his eye again and tried to concentrate. His mind felt like his son’s kaleidoscope, fractured shapes and colors constantly reforming themselves. A picture of the big man refused to complete itself in his mind’s eye.
Cesar saw only fragments out of order, moving from one to the next.
The man was huge.
And unnaturally calm.
And angry.
And violent.
He’d said his name was Rutherford B. Hayes. Which was a lie, of course.
Hayes said he would come after Cesar’s family. Lots of accidents, one after another, he’d said. “You’ll never know when the next one is coming. It’ll drive you crazy.”
He’d thrown a priceless heirloom, an antique crystal pitcher filled with iced tea, over the balcony. It shattered into a million pieces on the patio stones below.
Hayes threatened to throw Cesar’s children over the balcony, too. He was certainly big enough and strong enough to complete the threat, but Cesar hadn’t totally believed him.
Somehow, he didn’t seem like the kind of man who would kill children for any reason. Not that Cesar would take that bet. Not in a million years.
Hayes was definitely unhinged. Crazy men did crazy things. Nothing was impossible.
Cesar tried to move, testing one limb at a time.
His body felt the bruises caused by a thousand bounces in the back of a pickup truck driving along the desert floor.
The big man had hit Cesar several times, too, leaving bigger, bolder bruises everywhere he’d punched. Cesar had a sharp headache where Hayes had head-butted him like a randy ram during rutting season.
At some point during the beating, Cesar had lost consciousness.
He’d awakened for brief moments here and there, realizing he was lying in the open bed of a pickup truck, bouncing with every bump in the road. He suspected Hayes was driving through ruts and potholes intentionally, simply to torture Cesar into oblivion again.
Cesar closed his eyes and went back to sleep.
The next time he awakened, Cesar pushed himself into a sitting position on the gravel. His throat was parched. His lips dry and swollen.
His eyelids were crusty. He rubbed the crust away with his fingers and pried both eyes open. His eyeballs felt like tennis balls covered in fuzz.
Cesar’s vision was blurry. He tried to focus. After several attempts, he realized Hayes had dumped him along the shoulder of a paved road.
The big man was gone. His pickup truck was gone, too.
Cesar saw nothing but open land in all directions. Slowly, he patted his flat pockets. No cash. No phone. No water.
Hayes had put his massive palms on Cesar’s temples and pushed with great strength as he threatened to crush Cesar’s head. Was that why the relentless pounding between his temples felt like his head might explode now?
Cesar was tempted to lie down again and return to oblivion. If he did, he might never wake up again.
In the moment, he welcomed death.
Death couldn’t possibly feel any worse, surely.
Cesar had read that death from dehydration was relatively painless. It could take ten days or more.
He’d feel thirsty, lightheaded, experience muscle cramps and weakness. Nausea and vomiting, too, but that wouldn’t last long.
Rapid heartbeat and rapid breathing would be uncomfortable, but less so than the other symptoms.
Could he stay out here for ten days, baking in the sun, becoming dryer and dryer until his body resembled nothing remotely human?
Why didn’t Hayes just kill him and get it over with?
Cesar seemed to remember the man’s answer to that question. What was it he’d said?
“I could easily kill you. But unlike what you did to Maria Greer, I’ll give you a chance.”
That’s right.
He’d mentioned Maria Greer.
So he must have some connection to her.
She lived like a hermit. She was a single woman with no children. Cesar couldn’t imagine Maria Greer and Hayes had been lovers.
So what was the connection? Cesar couldn’t think of any.
“If you make it to the Red House Ranch, maybe they’ll take pity on you,” Hayes had said. “Tell them who you are. The rich and powerful Cesar Baez. They’re indebted to you. You’ve been stashing undocumented migrants there for years. Promise them half your fortune if they let you live. See how that goes.”
Cesar tried to breathe. The air was hot and dry and hurt his lungs. But as long as he was still breathing, as Hayes had said, he had a chance.
Briefly, he considered praying for rain. Sometimes storms rolled into this part of Texas. He remembered one particularly bad storm about ten years ago. Lightning and thunder and washouts everywhere from the downpour.
That was when the original red house ranch building had burned to the ground.
Rain could happen.
But Cesar had long ago lost his faith. Prayer wouldn’t help him now.
He pushed himself off the ground and staggered to his feet, pausing and shuffling until he could balance well enough to walk.
Cesar scanned the landscape surrounding him. Hayes could have killed him, but he hadn’t. Instead, Hayes had dropped him here, in this particular spot, for a reason. Cesar had no idea what that reason could be.
Mostly dry, flat land in every direction. A few oil wells and windmills in the distance. Dark clouds far away in the west suggested rain, maybe. Somewhere.
He noticed a mild west wind, maybe a smidgin cooler, but still too hot to provide much relief.
Cesar had no idea where he was, or which direction would lead him to the Red House Ranch. But he simply couldn’t muster the strength to walk west into the wind and toward the blazing sun.
Slowly, painfully, he headed east.
He fell twice before he’d covered half a mile. On the third try, his unsteady gait smoothed a bit, and he remained upright. Momentum carried him away from the blinding glare.
As his limbs continued to function, more or less, Cesar began to wonder if he might hitch a ride.
He’d seen no traffic so far.
But if no one ever drove on this road, there would be no road at all. The road existed. Which had to mean that vehicles used it. At least often enough to justify the construction and maintenance.
The thought buoyed his spirt slightly.
He continued his jerky, uneven trudging eastward to the steady beat of his throbbing head. An observer might think he was drunk. A blood alcohol test would prove otherwise.
Cesar began to consider what excuse he might offer to explain his appearance, should he live to get the chance.
Hayes had pummeled him mercilessly. He had cuts and bruises over most of his body. Sharp pains on both sides of his torso whenever he drew breath suggested at least two cracked ribs. Maybe more.
His face must be terrifying.
He felt like he’d been dumped into the desert from a helicopter. He probably looked even worse.
Avoiding the police was his first concern. But if a cruiser came along, what could he say that would sound more like a stranded traveler and less like a crime victim or worse, a criminal himself?
He’d already rejected Hayes’s suggestion that he identify himself. He’d have about a fifty-fifty chance of getting himself arrested or killed that way. The Baez Cartel had been operating in Texas for more than seventy years, making more enemies than friends.
Cesar was so totally preoccupied with the struggle to move his broken body and tame his pounding head that he didn’t hear the vehicle approaching behind him until it slowed and swerved around.
The big, growling engine pulled up beside Cesar and stopped inches away.
He felt the heat from the vehicle and stopped walking. Carefully, deliberately, he shaded his eyes with his palm and turned his pounding head to look.