Borders of the Heart (25 page)

“You should find her and prevent her from taking an innocent life.”

He kept walking toward the venue, thinking.

“I’ll be looking for your picture in the news accounts,” Muerte said. “Good luck, J. D. You’re going to need it.”

J. D. KEPT MOVING,
reaching a cordoned-off area and a security checkpoint. If Maria had a gun, she wouldn’t have made it through that. He walked the perimeter, looking for a spot where she might have crawled under. Streets were closed, blocked, and the traffic around the venue snarled as crowds swelled. A stage was set up near the front of the downtown library, an imposing, window-laden building. He had to get higher than street level to find her. And maybe if he got higher, he could find Muerte. But that was a big if.

The phone buzzed and he heard Win’s voice.

“J. D., I just spoke with Detective Ross. Where are you?”

“At the rally.”

“Do you have my truck?” The man sounded groggy.

“I found it a few minutes ago. Maria took it.” He told him where it was parked.

“I’m sorry. I checked on Iliana and I must have fallen asleep.”

“It’s not your fault. Maria put something in our orange juice.”

“What was it?”

“Must’ve been the Percocet. We got it in Benson.” J. D. tried a door to the library. Locked.

“But why would she do that? We’re trying to help her.”

The revolving door at the front of the library circled and J. D. headed for it. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s all an act, Win. Maybe she used us.”

“What makes you think that?”

A security guard stood near the door, watching the plaza, nodding to J. D. as he came through.

“I just talked with Muerte. He says she’s the one who’s going after Chandler.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Unless she’s the one angling for control of the family business.”

Silence on the other end.

“Maybe she led us to believe all that stuff about Muerte and the Zetas.”

“After meeting her, hearing her story, that’s hard for me to believe.”

J. D. agreed, but he didn’t want to say that. “My other theory is she’s protecting us. She went alone to find Muerte and take him out. She’ll take the consequences.”

“I prefer that theory.”

“I hear you. What did the detective say?”

“He told me he spoke with you. He’s very concerned.”

“Good. He should be.”

And then it came together in J. D.’s head. As he hit the stairway to the second, then the third floor, it came to him as clearly as his reflection in the polished tile. Outside were ominous clouds and the crowd below, but inside his head swirled another storm. He hadn’t figured out why she had acted as she did—he might never know that—but why
he
had been vulnerable. She had exploited, whether she meant to or not, his need. She had used his weakness, his desire to save someone. If he had not been so needy, he might have acted differently, might have stood up and involved the police instead of running.

The same thing had happened with Alycia early on in her illness, him pushing her for treatment, conventional instead of organic. He couldn’t lose her. It was about him, not her.

Had Maria sensed this unfettered desire, or had they simply met each other at the right moment? It didn’t matter now, of course. But following her, running toward her as she sought Muerte, meant continuing toward weakness and vulnerability. If he did it for selfish reasons, to get Maria back, to keep her safe, he would follow his life’s pattern. But could there be something more? Something good in the pursuit?

“Maria called Muerte from your phone,” J. D. said. “She made contact. And she has a weapon.”

Win said something J. D. couldn’t hear.

“That detective, did he talk to Chandler’s people? Is he getting this thing canceled?”

“He said he was handling it, but I don’t know how successful he’ll be. J. D., we should pray for her. There is nothing left to do but pray.”

“You pray, Win. Pray hard. I need to go.”

He hung up and scanned the crowd.

Where would Muerte be? He had a high-powered rifle and scope. That meant distance. He was somewhere holed up in one of the buildings that surrounded the rally, but which one? Which angle would he take?

Then he saw it. As clear as the Arizona sun, he saw the building in the distance, blocks away. A perfect sight line to the stage. If Muerte were high enough in that building or especially on top of it, he would have a clear shot. J. D. focused on the roof, then on windows, but it was too far away.

He glanced at his watch. Only fifteen minutes until the rally began.

As he walked outside, the wind picked up and swept dust and grit into his face. He pulled his hat low and set himself on a straight path toward the building, skirting police officers stationed every few yards.

A siren wailed and a column of limos broke through a line in the barrier. The back of the crowd began a cheer that echoed through the throng. Their hero, the one who would lead them to their political promised land, neared the stage.

The hot air had become a swirling cauldron and he was sweating from every pore. Ahead of him, moving away from the rally, he saw a woman with long black hair and sweatpants. J. D. broke into a run.

“Maria!”

He jumped a barrier and pushed through a line going the other way. They had no idea.

She ducked into a coffee shop and he followed, seconds behind.

Every eye in the place looked at him when he burst through the door. He spotted her in the back, going into the women’s room, and called again but she didn’t stop.

He squeezed past the others and made it to the narrow hall leading to the restrooms.

“Maria, you in there?” J. D. said. He pounded on the door. No answer. He pushed the door open and saw the woman duck into a stall just being vacated.

“Maria!”

There were two women at the sink, incredulous that he was inside. “What do you think you’re doing?” one said.

“She has a gun.”

Gasps and the two headed for the door.

He knocked on the last stall. “Maria? It’s me, J. D.”

“Leave me alone.”

The accent was right but the voice was wrong. He stood on the air conditioner and looked over the stall. The woman screamed.

“Sorry, ma’am.”

A staff member was on the phone when he exited, and the two terrified women trembled with friends near the front.

“False alarm,” J. D. said.

“Pervert!” one said.

The crowd noise increased. He kicked himself for following a dead end. He had wanted it to be her and it had cost him.

Straight ahead was the tall building that had looked so promising from the library. The doors were locked and a crudely written sign said there was no access until after the rally. He cupped his hand to the perfectly cleaned glass and noticed a security guard. He banged on the window and the man waved him off. J. D. moved to a side entrance closer to the guard and knocked again.

“I need to speak with you,” he yelled. “Open up.”

The man ignored him and J. D. felt the bile rise. He didn’t need to look at his watch.

He banged again. “I need to talk to you! Open the door.”

The man waved and went back to his screens. J. D. took a step back. The exterior looked like one seamless piece of glass.

The cell buzzed—Win.

“Have you found her?”

“No.”

“Get out of there, J. D. Let the authorities take over.”

“I don’t think they’re stopping it, Win. I saw limos.”

“I see the rally on the television. Chandler is shaking hands behind the scenes and is walking toward the podium.”

“Sir?” someone said behind him. The security guard had come to the door. He was older and stoop-shouldered. “You need to move along.”

“I’ll call you back, Win,” J. D. said. He walked up to the guard. “I think there’s a sniper in one of the offices up there. Somebody who wants to kill Chandler.”

“Building’s been shut down since last night. Nobody in, nobody out. You’re barking up the wrong tree. Besides, nobody could make a shot from this distance.”

“You don’t know the gun he has.”

“Secret Service did the sweep. They were back early this morning. Every one of these buildings up and down the row. And I been here since six.”

J. D. ran a hand over his neck and it came back wet. “You’re sure nobody’s come in?”

Before the man answered, he saw her passing on the street at a dead run, hair flying, legs churning as if she’d trained as a sprinter. She had a look on her face he hadn’t seen before. Determination? Abject fear?

He took off after her but she had a good half-block lead. He called to her several times before she turned slightly.

“Wait!” he yelled.

She shook her head and waved at him.

He saw the gun in her hand. “Maria, no!”

She headed for the sidewalk and hugged the buildings. When J. D. looked up, he saw an office building about the same size as the previous one, but this tower stood on a cross street. He turned to look at the venue and couldn’t see it through the wind and haze, but there had to be an office with a straight shot.

He ran like his life depended on it. Like both of their lives did.

MUERTE HAD WORKED IT OUT
with the Zetas to raid the Sanchez compound immediately following the assassination of Chandler. Muerte would take over the Sanchez operation and dispense with the farm and vineyard.

He had watched the authorities sweep the area buildings the evening prior and again that morning, stopping a block away, as he had been informed. If they had come into his building, he would have dispatched them and their animals and moved to plan B, but fortunately his contact had been correct. He was out of range for a sniper with less ability and less weapon. A weapon provided by the very government he was attacking.

Muerte had seen what this weapon could do to a barrel filled with water on a range in Mexico. The holes it produced entering and exiting were impressive and the thought of such damage to a human invigorated him. There would have been a shot at the motorcade passing, but it was riskier and he wanted this scene to be played and replayed in the 24-7 news cycle. The shock of watching something so heinous again and again would bring the feeling that no one was safe. No candidate was secure.

He checked his watch and cell phone. He knew Rafael had a knack for cutting things close, but this was unnerving. He liked being in control, and having the man play loose with something so precise gave him second thoughts.

Maria had called him earlier and he had been impressed that she had remembered the number. She offered to give herself up, playing the martyr now. The people who were helping her were innocent, she said, and they didn’t deserve to die. She would come to him if he would give her his location. He had hung up on her.

He watched through the scope as the motorcade pulled to the back of the stage area. Then he glanced below and saw Rafael sauntering, as if he were window-shopping on Christmas Eve. Muerte radioed the security guard, alerting him to open the door. They already had two bodies to deal with downstairs—the watchman from the day before and the replacement who arrived early that morning.

Then Muerte spotted something that troubled him. Someone was running full speed up the sidewalk straight toward the building. He moved closer to the glass and pointed the scope down, focusing as quickly as he could.

Maria.

It was too good to be true. She must have spotted Rafael and followed. As soon as he saw her, old feelings crept in, the desire and greed for the boss’s daughter. Now he was the boss. Now he would take what he wanted when he wanted it.

He radioed the guard. “There’s a girl coming. This is the daughter of Sanchez. Subdue her and bring her to me.”

Any other man would have been horrified at being discovered. Muerte was overjoyed. He glanced at the television monitor and saw the cameras focusing on Chandler. He raised the scope and changed the distance setting. The man was sitting; at the dais a Hollywood celebrity whipped the crowd into a frenzy.

The elevator dinged and Muerte moved to the hallway and held the door open for Rafael. He stuffed his sunglasses in his breast pocket and pulled out a pair of thin rubber gloves. Like a surgeon, he snapped them and entered the office.

“So glad you could make it on time.”

“I’m always on time.”

Rafael looked at the window, analyzed the hole Muerte had cut, then, satisfied, picked up the rifle as if it were an instrument that deserved obeisance. He let out a breath of air and ran his hand over the stock.

“I’ve waited my whole life for this,” Rafael said.

“Yes, this is your time.” Muerte nodded at a satchel in the corner. “There is your second payment. If you are successful, the rest will await you in Mexico.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. It was the most emotion he had ever displayed to Muerte. “I will succeed.”

J. D. SPRINTED TO CATCH MARIA
but she was too far ahead. When she reached the front of the building, the door opened and she was yanked inside.

J. D. pulled up to catch his breath. Where were the police when you needed them?

Behind him he heard drums banging and a marching band. The crowd was at fever pitch. J. D. took off again and didn’t stop until he reached the front door. The glass was tinted and he expected someone to open fire, but as he cupped his hands, he saw the elevator door closing on Maria. She had tape over her mouth and her hands were secured. The guard next to her held two guns.

The front door was locked. But behind him was a garden with decorative rocks. He couldn’t budge the biggest one. He chose one half that size and tossed it at the door. Glass shattered but didn’t explode. An alarm sounded. He threw the rock against the glass again and made a hole big enough to unlock the door.

Her elevator had stopped on the twenty-third floor. He hit the Up button and the door of a second elevator opened. He punched 23 and let his heart slow as the car ascended.
Deep breaths. Think. Focus.
It was a fast elevator and his stomach, empty since the night before and still woozy from the medication, spun in the enclosed space.

When the elevator car stopped, he stepped aside and let the door open all the way, bracing himself. No one fired. The alarm sounded faintly through the elevator shaft. He took a deep breath and a quick look into the hallway but saw no one. He stepped out of the car and the door closed, leaving him feeling small and alone. The floor had the smell of an ultraclean doctor’s office. Intricate patterns wound through the carpeting and the walls were tastefully decorated. There was no reception desk, just a list of offices with arrows.

J. D. had no idea where to go. He walked to his right, straining to hear anything. He tried one door, then another, but they were locked.

At the end of the corridor was a stairwell exit and a large window that overlooked the side street and parking garage. The street was dead except for a homeless man who had evaded the sweep.

Then something caught J. D.’s eye. A security guard was pushing Maria in front of him toward a car in the open parking garage. Lights flashed and the trunk opened and the man shoved her inside.

Behind them came another man, stocky and block-like. He held a gun to the guard’s head and fired. The man crumpled and the shooter moved the body slightly, closed the trunk, and stepped into the car.

J. D. hurried to the elevator, fumbling with his phone, dialing Muerte. Anything to slow the man.

The license plate. He could get the number and report it. The police would stop him and find Maria.

He kept his head down, running for the elevator, concentrating, scrolling through the numbers dialed. Then a voice. Faint. Trying desperately to be heard. Was it his imagination? He passed the elevator and the voice became more clear. Pulled by some unseen force, he continued.

“. . . and this is clearly the moment the crowd has waited for. The preliminary speeches are over and here comes the man who may become the next president of the United States. Let’s listen.”

Cheering and music and noise. J. D. stepped into a dentist’s waiting room. The sound came from a room behind the front desk. The outer door was locked, so he scooted over the wraparound counter and spotted the reflection of the rally in a window straight ahead. With a thud his feet landed and he cringed at the noise.

“¿La agarraron?”
a man shouted from the room. Where was he?

“Ahí viene,”
the man said.

J. D. had no weapon or experience, just a beating heart and more adrenaline than he had ever felt. He noticed a glass paperweight in the shape of a heart and grabbed it. On the floor of the exam room lay a man in a prone position with a rifle sticking through a hole in the window.

On the wall to J. D.’s right was the TV screen with the sound blaring. The candidate shook hands in a sea of placards that waved like an angry ocean. Chandler stepped to the podium.

“I guess we’d better get started before the rain comes!” he shouted.

The crowd went into a frenzy and the man on the floor cursed as the signs rose higher.

“We need some rain here. Some relief. And I’ve come to tell the good people of Arizona, and in particular the good people of Tucson, that we are not going to put up with the violence and the killing and the drugs and the illegal immigration anymore.”

“Perfecto,”
the man on the floor whispered. His finger tensed.

J. D. brought the glass heart onto the back of the man’s head and heard a sickening crunch. The man went limp and the rifle pitched forward. A red stain pooled in his hair and ran onto his starched shirt.

J. D. pulled the gun from underneath him and headed for the elevator. How close had he come to the kill shot?

He placed the rifle at the security desk downstairs and ran into the hot wind that blew every scrap of grit not tied down. Walking steadily toward Win’s truck, he dialed Detective Ross’s number.

J. D. gave him the address of the building. “There’s a guy in a dentist’s office on the twenty-third floor with a bad headache. That’s your shooter. The rifle’s at the security guard’s desk.”

“Slow down, J. D. What are you talking about?”

“Muerte had a shooter. He’s not in any shape to shoot now. But Muerte took Maria.”

“What is he traveling in? Where is he headed?”

“It was a grayish color—foreign car. And I don’t know where he’s headed. But unless he has another shooter, Chandler is safe.”

“Where are you? Let me bring you in.”

“No, I got something to do.”

“J. D., we’ll find them. Let us help you. Win said you have Muerte’s phone number.”

“Yeah, I do. What good does that do me?”

“Give it to me. We can track his phone, find out where he is.”

“I know where he is. He’s about five blocks from here. And I know he’s headed south. That’s all I need to know right now.”

“I can have someone to you in two minutes, J. D. Tell me where you are.”

J. D. walked straight up to a black-and-white cruiser but didn’t break stride as he crossed the street. “I’ll be in touch.”