The trip down to Mexico was quiet. The night was quiet, the road was quiet, Bernie was quiet. Even the uniformed dude at the border was quiet, speaking softly like he was afraid of waking a baby.
We drove along the main drag of the little border town. Potholes appeared in the road, first one or two, then many, and by the time we hit open country there was no pavement left, the potholes winning out completely. Bernie’s pedal foot usually gets heavy in open country, but not on this night. Even the Porsche, usually so loud in the best way, was quiet. The road curved up a long slope, no other traffic coming or going. At the top, Bernie pulled to the side, shut off the engine. Then came pocket patting, glove box checking, under the seat fishing, and finally he found a cigarette, somewhat bent. Bernie tried to straighten it, ended up breaking it in two. He lit up the longer end, breathed out a long smoky cloud that turned silver in the moonlight.
“God help me,” he said.
God came up in many human conversations, but he remained a shadowy figure to me. What was his deal, anyway? Where was he? Could he help Bernie? And why would Bernie need help? Weren’t we having a pretty good life, except for the finances part? Aha! I started to get where god might be useful.
The cigarette end glowed bright. Bernie blew out more smoke, shook his head. “Saved my bacon, Chet,” he said.
He turned to me, his eyes sort of watery, but he wasn’t crying. Bernie was not a crier, except for the day we packed up Charlie’s room for his move to High Chaparral Estates. What we had going here had to be a trick of the moonlight.
“You know those movies where a house takes off from its foundation? That’s me right now.”
I was lost. The house thing made no sense to me at all. As for saving bacon, there was none around to be saved or for any other purpose, such as frying up a panful and chowing down. I know when bacon’s on the scene, my friends. Trust me.
Bernie put his hand on my head, rested it there in a way that felt perfect. “If she said something like that, or even close, then…”
Who? Saying what? And then? I had no answers, and before they could come, Bernie cranked ’er up and we got back on the road, much faster now. “Let’s do some damage, big guy—like a wrecking ball.”
What a great idea! Why hadn’t we thought of it before? A wrecking ball, doing damage—who could ask for more? You have to be grateful in this life. I knew one thing for sure. We were going to be rich.
I caught a glimpse of a few dim lights at the base of a butte that blacked out a section of the starry sky. “That’s where we’re headed,” Bernie said. “Los Pozos—can’t remember what that means.”
The road dipped down and the dim lights vanished. Cliffs, steep but not very high, rose on both sides. I heard the crunch of a boot heel somewhere up there and smelled a bit of weed. We came through the opening between the cliffs at the far end. A roofless pickup with a roll bar and two dudes in the front was parked across the road. Bernie stopped the car, took the .38 Special from the glove box, and placed it in the space between his seat and the door.
We sat where we were. The pickup dudes sat where they were. I felt Bernie starting to relax inside. Most folks would be going in the other direction. Bernie’s not most folks, which should be pretty clear by now.
Nothing happened for a while. Then the moon slipped behind a cloud. The dudes got out of the pickup and came toward us. One had a rifle over his shoulder, the other had a handgun in his belt. They were in no hurry. In our business when dudes like these two are in no hurry, it’s up to you also to be in no hurry. I sat like I had all the time in the world. Which I did, so it was easy-peasy.
They stood on either side of the car and gave us tough-guy looks. Bernie gave them one of his no particular look of any kind looks, just one of his many techniques. The dude on his side said something in Spanish. I know the sound of Spanish, but hardly any words, just tocino, cerveza, amigo, perro—things like that.
“I do better in English,” Bernie said.
“Yeah?” said the dude. “What if we don’t?”
Bernie shrugged.
The dude on my side kicked one of our tires. “Why you ride a shitbox?” he said.
Bernie turned to him. “There’s a law against shitboxes in Mexico?”
Silence. Their faces got all stony. Then the dude on Bernie’s side started laughing. My dude got into it, too. They laughed and laughed. Bernie’s dude had lots of gold teeth. My dude had pretty much no teeth of any kind. Their laughter died down.
“What are you doing here, man?” said Bernie’s dude.
“Just visiting,” said Bernie.
“Visiting who?”
“A friend of a friend.”
“This friend of a friend have a name?”
“Sure,” said Bernie. “But I don’t broadcast things like that. I try to keep people safe, especially the harmless ones.”
“Harmless?” said my dude.
“Los inocuos,” said the other.
The dudes glanced at each other over our heads.
“Fifty dollars,” said Bernie’s dude.
“Each,” said my dude.
“Huh?” said Bernie. “Take another look at the car and think again.”
The dudes laughed some more, ended up pocketing thirty each. Less than fifty apiece? More? I leave that to you. They moved the pickup off the road and we drove on.
The lights started blinking off in Los Pozos, the little town at the base of the butte. Bernie took a scrap of paper from his pocket, read the writing on it in the dashboard’s green glow. We passed a few houses, all dark, and stopped before one that seemed a bit bigger than the others and had blue TV light shimmering behind the curtains. We got out of the car and knocked.
“Sí?” came a woman’s voice from inside.
“Pepita?” Bernie said. “Juana gave us your address.”
“You’re the one with the dog?”
“Yes.”
The door opened. A thin woman with dark circles under her eyes gave us a look and motioned us inside. She glanced up and down the street and shut the door.
We were in a small room, neat and tidy, with not much furniture. There were a few card table chairs, a floor lamp, a table, and a bed, where a man, also thin, lay sleeping. His chest went up and down. I smelled his breath, the breath of a human with something wrong inside. A girl sat beside the bed on one of the card table chairs. She’d been watching TV, the sound turned down, but now her eyes were on us: big dark eyes shiny with health. That was a nice sight. This was Tildy. I recognized her from the photo we’d found in Wendell’s RV. Only a photo at first, and now here she was in real life. We were cooking, me and Bernie.
“Sit, please,” Pepita said.
Bernie sat on the one remaining card table chair. Pepita sat on the end of the bed.
“Explain, please,” Pepita said.
“I don’t know what Juana told you.”
“Just you can be trusted.”
Bernie nodded. “I’m Bernie Little and this is Chet.” He handed her our card. “Wendell Nero wanted to meet with us. He didn’t say why.”
“You don’t have to speak so soft,” Pepita said. “When my husband sleeps like this—and thank god for it—he hears nothing.”
Bernie raised his voice a little. “We brought in the suspect but I don’t think he’s guilty, not of the murder. Something complicated is going on and I think maybe Tildy can help.”
“Me?” Tildy said. She sounded very scared. Poor kid. I went over and sat beside her.
“I understand you were helping Wendell with his work,” Bernie said.
The kid nodded. She was trembling. I sat on her feet, the only move I could think of. The trembling eased up a bit. Did the fact that I’m a hundred-plus pounder have something to do with it? The thought crossed my mind.
“He was such a nice man,” Tildy said. Tears rose in those deep dark eyes and overflowed. She wiped them away with the back of her hand and didn’t make a sound.
“He was teaching you?” Bernie said.
“Yes,” said Tildy. “About hydrology.”
“The hydrology of Dollhouse Canyon?”
“Not just that. The whole Southwest.”
Bernie smiled a quick smile, there and gone. “Tell me something he taught you.”
Tildy spread her hands, beautifully shaped hands, hard not to stare at. “There were so many things.”
“Just one,” Bernie said. “Maybe a fact that would surprise an ordinary person.”
Tildy thought for a moment. “Earthquakes, even far away, can change the aquifer.”
“That’s news to me,” Bernie said.
“You know about aquifers?” said Tildy.
“Not nearly enough.” Bernie rose, took a photo from his pocket, held it so Tildy could see. I saw, too: the picture of Wendell and Tildy standing together, the rolled-up papers under her arm. Tildy gazed at the photo. Her eyes got misty again. I gave her knee a quick lick. This time there was no teary overflow.
Bernie pointed to the picture. “What are those papers?” he said, his voice gentle.
“Diagrams,” said Tildy.
At that point I saw how closely Pepita was watching Tildy. There was love in that look, plus a kind of amazement. Her husband’s eyes remained closed. He went on sleeping, filling the little room with his sick breath.
“Diagrams of what?” Bernie said.
“Not accurate diagrams based on tests,” Tildy said. “They were really just Dr. Wendy’s thoughts about the rain clouds below.”
“The rain clouds below?”
“That was what he called the aquifers.”
“Where are the papers now?” Bernie said.
“I don’t know,” said Tildy. “He kept them in the RV.”
Bernie sat back down. He was quiet for a bit, his gaze on the sleeping man. “All right, Tildy,” he said at last. “You be Dr. Wendy and I’ll be you. Teach me about the rain cloud under Dollhouse Canyon.”
“Rain clouds,” said Tildy. “Little C and Big C.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Neither did he at first! That was the whole problem. How come the grapes were still good when the aquifer was almost dried up? Dr. Wendy cudgeled his brain.”
“Cudgeled his brain?”
“That’s what he said. It means he thought and thought until he wore out his poor brain. But finally it came to him. The earthquake shifted the aquitard! Eureka!”
“Whoa,” said Bernie. “What earthquake?”
“The big California one—from Fullerton.”
“But that was years ago.”
“Slow and huge,” Tildy said. “The forces are slow and huge.”
Bernie gave her a long look. She rested a hand on my neck. I felt her pulse, surprisingly strong for such a skinny little person.
“What’s an aquitard?” Bernie said.
“Any formation that blocks an aquifer,” said Tildy.
“Keeping the water from getting to the surface?”
“You’re a good student,” Tildy said.
“Tildy!” said Pepita.
Bernie just laughed. Then he dug a pencil from his pocket and said, “Can you draw me those rain clouds?”
“Do we have any paper, Momma?” Tildy said.
Pepita turned to Bernie. “Is cardboard okay?”
“Sure,” said Bernie.
Pepita went into a back room. I heard a ripping sound. She returned with a big piece of cardboard with one rough edge.
“Perfect,” Bernie said.
They pulled their chairs up to the table. Tildy took the pencil. “Here is the surface. Down below—this is not to scale—we have…” She stuck her tongue between her teeth, did some drawing.
“That’s the aquifer?” Bernie said.
“Little C,” said Tildy. “A perched aquifer at four hundred and eighty feet. Perched means it’s resting on a bed of hard rock, and don’t think of it as a pool of water—it’s more like a damp sponge. Or in the case of Little C, an almost dry sponge. And now comes the big surprise.” Tildy did some more drawing, the pencil moving all the way to the edge of the cardboard and even off it.
“What’s that?” Bernie said.
One interesting human expression is the look of triumph. It’s not always a pleasant sight, but now on Tildy’s face it was one of the nicest I’d ever seen. “Big C!” she said.
“Another aquifer?” said Bernie. “I don’t get it.”
“Right! And we didn’t either until—” Tildy blushed, glanced at her mom, started over. “Dr. Wendy didn’t either, not at first, not even after he studied the bore hole maps all the way to the Arkansas River. But it’s true! And do you see this shape here?”
Bernie leaned closer. “Kind of like a spout?”
“Yes! A spout! That’s exactly what Dr. Wendy said. A spout squeezing up between these two granite aquitards. You see them?”
“Kind of,” said Bernie.
Tildy made some rapid movements with the pencil. “Is this better? See the granite formations, blocking off almost the whole of Big C? Except for the spout?”
Bernie pulled his chair in closer, bent over the drawing. Their heads, his and Tildy’s, were almost touching. In the dim glow of the floor lamp, he suddenly looked much younger to me, and I also thought I saw how Tildy would look as a woman.
“Is the spout pouring into the bottom of Little C?” Bernie said.
“Not pouring,” said Tildy. “We can’t say pouring. But there is contact.”
“And before there wasn’t?”
Tildy nodded, a lock of glossy black hair falling over her face. “The earthquake shifted things around. There may not even have been a spout before, and Dr. Wendy thinks—he thought—that the whole formation with Big C inside got carried west for miles and up for hundreds of feet.”
“Does that mean nobody knew about Big C before this?”
“It was all blocked off.”
Bernie sat up, turned to her. There was a real intense look on his face, but he smoothed it out, made it gentle. “So who knows about this?”
“Me and now you,” said Tildy. “And my mom.”
“I don’t know,” said Pepita.
“But I told you.”
“And I still don’t know.”
“Oh, Momma.”
Bernie took another look at the drawing and pointed. “The vineyard is here?”
“Yes,” said Tildy.
“Wendell didn’t tell Diego about all this?”
“Diego?” Tildy said.
“Señor Diego,” said Pepita.
Tildy shook her head. “First he wanted to do more research, map out the size and shape of Big C. But then…” She looked down.
The lamplight flickered, went brownish, then brightened. Over on the bed, Pepita’s husband made a quiet little groan. Pepita walked over and laid her hand on his.
Tildy turned to Bernie. “This man, the one you arrested, is he a pilot?”
Bernie got that intense look again. This time it didn’t go away. “A pilot?”
“A helicopter pilot.”
“Why do you ask?”
“A helicopter landed near the trailer,” Tildy said. “The pilot talked to Dr. Wendy. He sounded mean.”
“What did he say?”
“I don’t know. Dr. Wendy sent me back over the hill. But I watched from up on top. The pilot had a loud voice. I could hear the sound.”
“Did Wendell talk about it after?”
“There was no after,” Tildy said. “The next day I was with the goats and the day after that was when he … got killed. The day after that I was back here.”
Bernie went to the window, parted the curtain, gazed out. “What kind of markings were on the helicopter?”
“I don’t know,” Tildy said. “It was dark gray.”
“And what about the pilot?”
“He had a beard. And he was big. A real big guy, bigger than you.”
“Anything else?” Bernie said.
Tildy squeezed her eyes shut. “He had one of those damaged ears—like they get in MMA.”
“A cauliflower ear?” Bernie said.
Tildy opened her eyes and nodded. “Does that help?”
“Very much,” said Bernie. Good news! I hadn’t been sure where we were going with this. “Can we take the drawing?”
“Sure,” said Tildy. “But it’s not very good.”
We went outside, Bernie motioning Pepita to follow. Out on the street he said, “What’s wrong with your husband?”
“They don’t know.”
Bernie took out his wallet, gave her all the money inside. Pepita’s face seemed to be saying no but her hands had other ideas.