six

PAZ LET THE cows into the pasture late. Push­ing open the rusty gate at the far end of the paddock, he hopped on the bottom rung and swung forward, over the muddy low place the cows wore a little deeper every afternoon as they waited to be fed.

“Vamos!” he said to the spotted brown heifer that was the self-appointed leader of the herd. “I have better things to do than watch you!”

As the beasts ambled into the pasture beyond, he hurried along the fence, back to the barn. When he reached the dim structure, he with­ drew the small cuchillo he kept in his sock, then slipped inside. Working his way slowly down the center passage, he peered into each of the stalls, paying particular attention to the shadowy places underneath the feed troughs. As he reached the last stall, he let go the breath he’d been holding. This morning, praise the Blessed Virgin, the stalls stood empty. Yesterday they hadn’t been.

He’d been standing at the gate, watching the stupid cows, hungrily anticipating the sausages Ruperta would fry for his breakfast, when he felt something whip around his neck. He tried to grab at his throat, but someone jerked him backward as he felt something else snake between his legs. Struggling like a wild horse, he twisted for­ ward, but whoever was behind him pulled both ends of the rope tight, cutting off his air and cutting into his balls.

“Madre!” he choked out, the hot, sick pain in his scrotum making his knees buckle. He knew exactly who and what had him—a Scorpion, making full and abundant use of his trademark weapon, the riata, a thin, double-noosed leather rope greatly feared in certain circles south of the Rio Grande. Innocuous-looking to gringo cops, with his riata a Scorpion could pinch off a man’s huevos like those of a bull calf. Paz sucked air into his mouth through gritted teeth, sweat already pouring into his eyes. The Scorpion had him quite literally by the balls, and there wasn’t a thing he could do about it.

“Buenos dias, carnal.’’ He felt as much as heard a voice at his right ear; the breath warm and moist, the words enunciated with the Vera Cruz accent Paz had grown up with. He hadn’t heard it in so long, it sounded strange. Here, in Tennessee, they spoke the flatter dialects of Chi­huahua and Sonora. “It took us a long time to find you.”

“What do you want?” Paz wheezed, although he already knew what the man wanted, knew all too well what he would never leave without.

“The money you stole.”

“I told you before, I do not have it. Jorge took it.” Sweat began to trickle into Paz’s eyes.

“That is not what Jorge told us. Jorge swore upon his mother’s soul that you had the money.”

“He lied.”

The Scorpion gave the rope a savage tug. “My friend, I was there when they questioned Jorge. For three days, they kept at him. Believe me, Jorge died a truthful and repentant man.”

“Except for one lie.” Paz gasped, fearing that he might vomit. “I do not have your money. I never have. Jorge is a liar and a coward.”

“So you say.”

Paz tensed the muscles of his butt and thighs, waiting for the rope to tighten again, but the pressure on his scrotum unexpectedly eased. He felt the Scorpion shift, then the man reached over his shoulder and held something in front of his face. At first Paz could only see his hand­ dark brown, callused, with a string of death’s head tattoos encircling the wrist. That identified him as a perseguidor, a bounty hunter, one of the Scorpion elite sent out to settle old scores. He had apparently settled a number of them, according to the skulls on his skin.

“Pay attention, carnal!” The Scorpion again pulled the cord tight. “Look at what’s in my hand, not on my wrist.”

Paz felt his heart throbbing in both his neck and his testicles as he tried to focus on what the Scorpion held, a small brown bottle capped with a medicine dropper.

“Remember this?” the Scorpion whispered in his ear.

Paz’s mouth dried up like dust. He’d last seen a bottle like that when the Scorpions caught him on the beach near Vera Cruz. It had taken five of them, but they’d ripped his clothes off, held him down on the sand, and dribbled the contents of that bottle on his stomach. It felt as if they had covered him in glowing coals. When he could stop screaming he’d lifted his head to see the outline of a scorpion sizzling into his puckered flesh.

“Our money in three days, my friend.” The man palmed the little glass bottle, making it disappear like a magician doing tricks with a coin. “Or your wife.” The man licked Paz’s ear with a sloppy, wet tongue. “I hear her almeja’s as tight as a virgin’s. We will stretch it considerably, then we will put out her eyes. Comprende?”

“Clinga tu madre,” Paz snarled, curling his hands into fists.

“Don’t concern yourself with my mother, chilito. Your wife’s the one you need to watch out for.”

The Scorpion gave the riata one final, grand jerk that left him writhing on the ground, then he was gone. When Paz could look up, he saw only the barn behind and the rolling fields of the farm, dotted with grazing cows.

“Paz!” Ruperta’s voice jarred him back into the present. He looked around, dazed. The cows had already wandered halfway across the pasture while he’d been reliving yesterday’s nightmare.

“Señora wants you.”

“Coming!” he called back, pulling the gate shut, closing off the entrance to the barn. Though he had not seen them today, he knew the Scorpions were watching and waiting. Sometime tomorrow they would show them­selves. Sometime tomorrow they would want their money.

All night long he’d tried on different plans as Ruperta might try on shoes. He came up with none. They had no car to get away in, no gun to kill the Scorpions with. He could, of course, steal either of those items from Señora, except she watched them like a hawk and seemed to know what they were doing every minute of the day. He dared not even call his cousin Raoul—they were never to talk on Señora’s telephone. Turn­ing themselves in to the police would keep them safe for a little while, but the police would even­tually send them back to Mexico, and everything would begin again, only worse. The only thing that held any promise of success was giving them what they wanted. But how could he, Paz Car­rera Gonzalez, with no gun, no car, and little English, come up with fifty thousand U.S. dollars by tomorrow afternoon? It was impossible.

You’ve got to think of something, he urged himself as he hurried back to the house. And you’ve got to think of it fast.

“What took you so long?” Ruperta looked up, frowning, from one of her most hated du­ties—polishing Señora Templeton’s silver with a smelly pink paste. Ruperta found dusting all of Señora’s fancy furniture equally tedious, but she said at least the dust rags didn’t stink and the lemony furniture polish wasn’t so hard on her hands. Polishing silver, she said, was the worst.

“Señora has been calling.”

“Sorry.” Paz looked into her eyes and went cold inside, picturing the Scorpions fondling Ruperta’s breasts, pushing themselves between her thighs, then dropping acid into her eyes. “The cows sometimes do not like to leave the barn.”

“She wants to see you in the study,” Ruperta said, rinsing one of the heavy silver trays with warm water. “She and Gordo.”

“Gordo?” The one named Duncan, whom they called Fatso—“Gordo” in Spanish—behind his back. What could that crippled bully want with him? “Why?”

“I don’t know.” Ruperta glanced at him in concern. “Go see. If you don’t understand all their words, try to remember and we can look them up in the book.”

“Okay, okay,” Paz said under his breath as he left Ruperta and hurried down the back hall to Edwina’s study. Trying to understand Señora Templeton made him jumpy enough. Who knew what Gordo would add to the mix? Noth­ing good, Paz decided as he raised his hand to tap on the door. Nothing good at all.

“Come in,” he heard Señora say, her voice brusque. For one who delivered babies, she was terribly impatient. He opened the door. She sat behind the massive carved desk that always re­minded him of a coffin, while Gordo rested his fat carcass on one corner. Both eyed him as if he were important in some way he was unaware of. He felt a chill of apprehension crawl up his spine.

“Sí, Señora?”

“Come in, Paz. And close the door behind you.”

He did as she ordered, sweat already trickling down his armpits. Oh, Jesus, he thought. Perhaps she knew about the Scorpion. Perhaps Gordo had seen him and told her. He stood there for what seemed like forever, then Señora spoke.

“Paz, Mr. Duncan is going to pick up a child in the eastern part of the state. I want you to go with him.”

He’d been thinking so frantically in Spanish that he had difficulty understanding her English words. “Por favor?” he stammered.

“I want you to go to east Tennessee with Mr. Duncan,” Señora repeated, her little pig eyes growing smaller as she increased the volume of her voice. “You’ll be gone overnight.”

Overnight. Pasar la noche. The words exploded in Paz’s brain. The night before the third day. The night before the Scorpions would return for their money. The last night Ruperta would have her beautiful eyes. No, he thought. I cannot go anywhere. I cannot leave my wife.

He took a deep breath before he spoke, knowing his refusal could cost them the small safe haven they currently had. “I’m sorry, Señora,” he said slowly. “But I cannot.”

“You most certainly can,” she snapped. “Ruperta and I can take care of things while you’re gone.”

“No.” He shook his head. “I cannot.”

“What do you mean you can’t?” Gordo scowled at him. “This woman’s your boss, boy. You do what she says.”

Paz lowered his eyes, gathering the courage to refuse again. Then he had an idea. Gordo must need him very badly, otherwise Señora would never let him leave the cows untended. Perhaps he would agree to go with Gordo—but only if Ruperta could come, too. Then, at some point, they could slip away from both Gordo and the Scorpions, and lose themselves in America once again.

“I would be of no use with a baby, Señora. Ruperta, though, is the eldest of six. She knows much about such things.”

“Okay,” said Gordo. “Then I’ll take Ruperta.”

Paz straightened his shoulders. Did this fool not see he was a man? That this was his esposa he intended to travel with? “No, Señor,” he countered firmly. “I could not allow that.”

“Seems to me that you’re laying down a mighty lot of rules there, boy.” Gordo folded his arms.

“Hang on, Duncan,” said Edwina. She scowled at Paz. “You’re saying that you’ll go if Ruperta can come, too?”

“Sí.” Paz held his breath as Ruperta’s eyes, his life, the rest of whatever future they had, seemed to hang in a fragile bubble over Señora’s ugly desk. The right word would allow it to continue floating; the wrong word would burst it to nothing.

Finally, Señora looked at Gordo and shrugged. “I don’t mind. I don’t have any girls here right now, and while you’re gone I can make some calls about this baby.”

“I really only wanted to take one other person,” objected Gordo.

“So you get two. You’ll only be gone overnight—what does it matter?”

Gordo gave a disgusted sigh, then turned his cold gaze on Paz. “You and Ruperta will have to do exactly as I say,” he told Paz. “This ain’t gonna be any vacation.”

Paz nodded, wanting to laugh. Gordo had no idea how not like a vacation this would be.

“Okay,” Gordo said grudgingly. “Can you be ready to go in an hour?”

“Sí,” Paz answered, backing toward the door before they changed their minds. Holy Mother, he thought. They had been given a way out. Now he just had to figure out how to get Ruperta to pack everything without letting her know they were leaving this place forever. She would miss the television in their own room and the shower that always had hot water, but she would have her eyesight, and she would never have to polish Señora’s silver again.