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The horizon blurred into a haze as the heat radiated off the barren earth. Straggles of yucca and creosote dotted the landscape Armando stumbled through. He had been wandering for days, searching for nopal, the prickly pear cactus. He knew he could eat the pads and fruit and it would provide hydration. He crested the next rise and saw them, oval shapes covered in spines, with a red flower fruit on the tip, the mass of them backlit by the low sun. With the last of his strength, he stumbled toward them, lowered his pack, and with some effort, pulled the knife from it.
He swung the knife with a tired grunt, barely able to chop off one of the pads. He fell to his knees at the nearest rock and used it to hold the nopal while he cut the reddish pear-like fruit off the tip of the pad. When the first sweet bite passed his lips, he couldn’t help but roll his eyes back and let out a brief moan at the sweet sensation. The nopal had not been easy to find. It had been many days since he’d run out of rations and nearly two days since he drank the last of his water. He took the other half and rubbed it on his cracked lips before eating it, savoring every juicy drop. Then he set to cleaning the spines off the pad and chopped it into chunks. It was not as sweet as the flower fruit, but he knew it would make a good meal, which he badly needed.
When he ran out of food then water, he feared he might be pushed to starvation and devolve into a feral animal scrounging for bugs, fighting off scorpions and coyotes, killing wild rodents and birds, eating them raw. His vivid imagination ran wild in the heat of the day, making him believe he might find a small oasis of water or perhaps fight with a Saguaro cactus that stabbed at him with sharp spines as he tried to get water from it—a common desert myth.
He rolled from his knees to rest on his haunches and surveyed his surroundings. The exhaustion from walking for days alone in the heat would have overcome him had he not found the nopal. Considering whether or not he should continue into the evening, he checked his orientation with the setting sun. Armando knew that if he generally traveled southwest, he would emerge from the Chihuahuan desert and cross over from Coahuila to his home state of Durango. From there, he would be able to find his village just outside of Lerdo, but he wasn’t sure how far he had left to go. He had also been unsure of his bearing during midday and was concerned that he might have gone off course. Since he had not yet learned how to guide himself at night, he would once again need to find a safe place to rest until morning.
Contemplating his options, Armando leaned back on a rock, allowing his meager meal to settle. As he stared in the direction of the setting sun, he saw a figure moving along the horizon. He did not want to be hasty and call attention to himself until he had some idea of who it was and whether or not there were more. Armando settled himself among the rock, using the spreading cactus as cover. He watched as the person drew near. He saw a man, older, walk a few paces then stop to inspect something on the ground. He would then pick up whatever it was, smell it, then drop it back to the ground with a look of disgust before taking a few more steps to pause and repeat the process.
Armando studied him closely. Dressed in clothing typical to field workers, his only distinguishing adornment was a sombrero with various feathers tucked in the band and a small bird skull tied into the front of the crown. Armando watched closely as the man sampled something again, this time nodding to himself in agreement before reaching down to pick up more of it. Whatever it was, he cupped it in his hands then deposited it in a small satchel hanging from his shoulder. Armando whispered to himself, “Curandero.”
Deciding to take the risk, he rose from behind the mass of cactus and waved a hand. The man paused and looked over, then waved back.
The boy dropped his arm and stumbled around the cactus into the open. “I need help. I am lost.”
The man paused, then walked toward him. They introduced themselves and Armando explained his plight. The Shaman shook his head and motioned with his hand for him to follow. They made it back to the Shaman’s adobe dwelling shortly after nightfall. After a small meal, Armando laid on the floor near the fire and fell into a deep sleep.
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Michael had stopped for takeout at their favorite oriental spot. On the way home, he got a call from Officer Hines. Michael reached down to the console-mounted phone and touched the screen to answer the call. “Officer Street.”
“Hines here, just wanted an update from the hospital. Is the landscaper doin’ okay?”
Michael looked at the phone in doubt, wondering why Hines suddenly cared as he gave clipped answers. “Fine. Staying overnight for observation. Should make a full recovery.”
“And the little girl?”
“No injuries. Everything seems normal.”
“Are you coming back in to finish paperwork? I have a couple things I want to confirm with you,” Hines asked.
“Not tonight, heading home. Hungry and need rest,” Michael replied.
“Okay, I’ll catch up with you tomorrow,” Hines said and ended the call.
Michael relaxed back in his seat. “That was odd,” he mumbled to himself. Hines had never called him, much less shown concern for victims or paperwork. Distracted by the intoxicating smell of the takeout, he dismissed the incongruity and pulled the squad car into his driveway.
He and Sean lived in a small 2/2 with a detached two-car garage set off to the side and to the back of the property. The house, left to them by their parents, was located in an urban neighborhood near the precinct. It had a simple gable roof with a porch across the front populated with a few comfortable chairs and low tables. He parked the squad car in front of the nearest garage door. They got out and headed back around front, up the stairs, and straight for the seats on the porch. Both men leaning forward in their seats, they spread out the food between them in silence and ate in the fading light of dusk, as they did nearly every evening.
Once they tucked into the meal, Michael said to Sean, “There’s something you should know.”
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Back at the warehouse just outside of town, ABCs sat alone in his office in the low-slung director’s chair, elbows on his desk, waiting for an update from Hines. He had been reflecting on John’s last moments alive.
After his fit of rage, ABCs had emerged from John’s holding cell, his hands bloodied, splatters across his shirt and face, with a cruel satisfied smile. He’d left John the driver motionless on the floor in a heap of broken bone and bloody cellulite—his face unrecognizable.
ABCs had taken his time walking up the hallway. He wanted to enjoy the high. He didn’t have to knock when he reached the door. The fading red glow from his eyes announced his presence to the guard. Before going to the bathroom to clean up, he had given a few more instructions. “I need three men ready to go back into town in five minutes. Tell the others to bury the body in the usual spot.”
The guard said nothing, only nodded as he stepped off to make arrangements.
After cleaning up and changing his shirt, The Alphabet King and his men had taken one of the Excursions and headed back to the warehouse to await word from Hines. He had since been hunched over his desk, willing the phone to come to life. When it did, he answered on the first ring. “Give me good news.”
“The black cop and his little bro are home. The woman and girl are at the hospital, alone with the landscaper,” Hines said.
“You know what to do.” ABCs ended the call, stood, and walked out of his upstairs office. He started down the stairs, three pairs of sunglasses staring up at him from below. When he reached the bottom step, he didn’t slow as he headed for the Excursion. “It’s time.”
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Hines hung up the call, tucked the phone in his pocket, and headed straight for Sarge. With Officer Street out of the way, he had just one more chess piece to set in place.
Earlier, Hines made it clear that Sarge should hang around late in case he was needed. Reluctantly, he’d agreed. Hines had sneered at him, “You’ve been takin’ a taste all these months, this is the first time anything has been asked of you.” Sarge looked back at him with a silent blank stare. He couldn’t believe he’d allowed himself to get caught up in this. The night ABCs threatened him in the alley behind the bar, Sarge had believed every word. Over his years, he had come to recognize truly sadistic criminals. After that conversation, he had no doubt The Alphabet King would live up to his reputation if Sarge let him down.
Sarge had been eyeing Officer Hines all night and watched him approach. He looked up before Hines arrived, unable to hide the wary look on his face.
“Don’t look so scared,” Hines said in hushed tones. The precinct was a little busier, and the background noise helped conceal their conversation.
Sarge put his palms out and just shook his head. “What?”
“Our sponsor is out taking care of some business tonight. You need to be in the position to make sure he has time. Make sure the right guys respond if it comes to that.”
“Only the station manager can do that,” Sarge replied.
“You sometimes fill in as station manager.”
“Not tonight.”
