4

Late the following afternoon, Pace stopped at a roadside fruit stand to buy oranges and cherries. He stood next to his 4Runner and read the hand-painted sign: NARANJAS, MANZANAS, CEREZAS. Wind, dust, high clouds, beanfields. This felt and looked like what he expected Mexico to feel and look like. A short, portly, young woman wearing a brown dress with a thin, green rebozo around her shoulders, was stacking apples at the counter. A boy, about three years old, wearing only a faded red T-shirt, no pants or shoes, was pedaling a blue and white tricycle back and forth in front of the stand. Where were the flies? Pace expected flies but there were none; probably because the wind was blowing the stench of fertilizer or raw manure in the opposite direction. He was thinking about last night’s dream: the jaguar, or puma, following the woman reminded him of Sailor, his lanky, loping gait; and the female had long, glistening black hair, like Lula’s when she was young.

The little boy fell off his tricycle and started crying. The woman came around from behind the counter in a hurry, brushing against a small pile of apples, causing them to spill onto the ground. She was yelling, “Arriba, mijo! Arriba!” And she was laughing until two black Cadillac Escalades sped by with assault rifles firing from the rear passenger windows. The woman’s face went dark and her shawl flew off as she ran toward the boy, shouting, “Abajo! Abajo!” before countless bullets tore into the fruit stand. Pace froze. He was still standing after the Cadillacs were gone. The boy was wailing, his tiny body covered by his mother’s. She was not moving. Her last two words had been arriba and abajo, up and down.

Pace removed the boy and held him until he calmed down, then placed him in the front passenger seat of the 4Runner and buckled him in. Amazingly, his vehicle had not absorbed a single round. Pace found a few empty burlap sacks on the ground behind the counter of the fruit stand and used them, as well as her green rebozo, to cover the woman’s body. He then drove himself and the boy back to Saltillo and took him into the Hotel Río Salado. Pace told the manager what had happened and he instructed two maids to take care of the boy. He asked Pace if he wanted him to notify the police.

“I’ve been told that in Mexico it’s never a good idea to call the police,” Pace said.

“The men who killed the woman must be narcotraficantes,” said the manager, “drug runners, probably Los Zetas. They were shooting at the fruit stand for their amusement, and she got in the way. The police and los narcos have an accommodation. I will call the local authorities if you request it, but, unfortunately, I do not think the police will do anything other than to cause you delay, and, perhaps, to cost you money.”

“What about the boy?”

“If he has family, we will find them. Do you wish to pass the night here, Señor Ripley? There would be no charges.”

“No, gracias. Thank you for taking care of the boy.”

Pace headed north. He would stay in Monterrey, then re-cross the border at Matamoros into Texas. There was nothing more for him now in Mexico. He turned on the radio and dialed in an American news station. The Vatican was considering the possibility of baptizing extraterrestrials.