Encounter

CHAPTER 1

Inez Suela huddled in the small box truck, in the corner nearest the door, stealing every breath of fresh air she could before the driver closed them in. Too many of them in here, too many. Once the door closed, she didn’t know how she’d breathe.

Thirty-nine Mexicans had paid the driver, the coyote, thousands of pesos to transport them across the border to New Mexico. She had starved herself and dressed in rags to save through three lean years of meager wages. But she’d had enough to take a chance, to ‘roll the dice’, as they said in the American Las Vegas. Tonight was the night.

Even the money guaranteed nothing.

Others, who’d tried to make it and failed, said perfect timing might avoid being caught or turned back. Many had lost friends or relatives who’d attempted to cross the Arizona desert border on foot. The summer heat reached to 120 degrees, and you could die from lack of water and heat exhaustion. The winters weren’t much better, as harsh weather in the mountains stole lives away.

March, though. March seemed a time with the best chance of success. Or so Uncle Ramon had promised. He’d sent several brothers north over the years, and the money those norteños returned to their families was three times what they’d earn if they had worked at home.

Most of those who chanced the border were men. It was hard, and they had responsibilities. But more and more women tried, sometimes with their children. Several of Inez’s friends had been caught and deported, returning with their dreams deflated.

Some made it.

In big cities with large immigrant communities, one more Mexican was hard to track. It could be done.

Inez was single, and strong, and very determined. She believed.

She just had to not think about it too hard, leaving behind everything she knew. Including the man she could never have.

The trip would be a day or more, due to the roundabout route off the main roads, avoiding the main roads and the Border Patrol. This coyote had a reputation, though, one that said he placed his people. She trusted him—as much as she trusted anybody.

The coyote said a man named Davi Pilar would be waiting at the halfway mark to take them to St. Louis. She knew him, Davi.

He had wanted to marry her once. She’d denied him because he never bathed and he smelled of nasty unfiltered cigarettes. He’d left town, become a norteño, too. What would he say when he saw her?

Inez’s aunt and a cousin had lived in the northern end of St. Louis more than five years. They sent money home for the rest of her aunt’s children. Her cousin Juan drove a two-year old pickup truck with a new stereo deck. Perhaps she, too, could find a good life.

She didn’t know the other travelers, save one. Rafael Diego sat across from her, hunched against the wall. He was a big man, not fat, with thick black hair and an easy smile that had faded in recent weeks. He’d left his wife and five children back in their village south of Juarez. Rafael could no longer find work at the maquiladoras, the factories that had come from the American side, using cheap Mexican labor to supply American profits. Not knowing what else to do to feed his family, he’d opted for the gamble as well.

They’d traveled together to meet the truck after the Tuesday sunset. Once they’d paid over their money, they climbed into the dark, hearing voices of the others, catching a glimpse of them in the faint light from the front.

Her fingers combed through her shoulder-length hair, thin like Inez herself, an anxious habit since her childhood. But Rafael didn’t look anxious. Rafael was a good man.

She knew him from the neighborhood, how he pitched in to help those in need or stood up for the rights of those oppressed. His wife was a lucky woman. Inez wished for such a man when she was ready for marriage. But now that she was twenty-three, past the age most young women in her town caught the eye of their future marido, she doubted she’d find someone like Rafael. And the man she loved was already taken. She only had herself.

When it seemed like no more could possibly fit in, the driver yanked a Padres baseball cap down low on his forehead. He barked orders to keep quiet. Then he slammed the back shut and they rumbled up the road.

They were on their way to America.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 2

Escaping the catty women in the bar, Teo Haroun stepped into the small airport terminal at Santa Fe. His attention caught in the web of art stretching along the walls in shades of terra cotta, gold and turquoise. The tints matched the hues of the land outside the wide windows, a brilliant blue sky, red-brown desert sands and the grayed purple of mountains in the distance. It was an alien and mysterious landscape, open and drenched in color.

A far cry indeed from the gray and windy scene left behind at Chicago Midway, a bleak repetition of the days through the current winter. Teo drew warmth into his aching bones. As he approached forty-three, his tall, toned frame suffered unwelcome aches and creaks, though his café-au-lait skin was smooth. On a good day, he could pass for a man in his early thirties. But there were fewer and fewer good days.

High-pitched laughter from the bar drove him closer to the window. He worked with these people, competent lawyers in his firm, specializing in patent and computer law. But he would call none of them his friend.

Teo spied senior partner Mitchell Kadeen coming from the gate, cashmere coat draped carelessly over one arm as he walked with a long stride born of fifty-plus winters on the ski slopes of the world. Mitch stopped to lecture some unfortunate on the other end of his cell phone conversation, referring to documents in his Italian calfskin briefcase. Sharp parting words preceded his shoving the phone into his pocket.

Teo admired him, and he wasn’t alone. Women often turned to look as Mitch walked by, hair leaning to more salt than pepper, handsome enough to play a soap opera tycoon. He stood tall, deeply blue eyes crinkled at the corners as he grinned, waving a locker key.

I know, I know. I said no phones for the retreat. I’m leaving it here.

And your files? Teo’s large dark eyes, a genetic gift from his Egyptian mother, studied the thick briefcase. His tone teased, soft silk compared to the edgy attacks of the women waiting inside, armed with their Cosmopolitans and white wine.

Locked away before we leave the building. I swear. Sasha will just have to hold the fort on this one for a week. Mitch’s smile faded, rueful. I know I’ve been a tyrant about this. But Judy insists if the six of us are to make the retreat work, we need to give it our full attention.

Oh, I agree. Actually I’ve been looking forward. Teo nodded his head in the direction of the bar. She’s still trying to sell the experience to the others. They aren’t as…shall we say, adventurous?

Mitch sighed. I can guess the ringleader.

Teo just smirked, returned his gaze to the view outside.

The idea of the retreat intrigued Teo from the beginning. Because of the disparate nature of the firm, two partners each in Arlington, Denver and Chicago, tradition dictated a group meeting at least once a year. This year, one of the Denver partners had suggested something other than their usual lush digs at a luxury hotel in a major city.

She’d come across the Sherman Ranch, five hundred acres of wilderness and a few communal style buildings west of Taos. The in thing for corporate groups, she’d suggested, was a professional course in team-building, to help the group learn about and come to depend on each other and their shared goals. She had rented the ranch for a week and hired Harmonics Inc. to lead them. Two hours from now, the ‘adventure’ would begin.

Laughter came from the bar again, and Mitch’s shoulders squared up. Cattrin here yet?

In there. That was one of the reasons Teo’d left, holding no love for Mitch’s Arlington office mate.

Mitch grumbled. She texted me she spent last evening art-shopping Canyon Road. He checked his phone, then glanced outside where the dark blue van awaited. She’d better have shipped whatever she got back to Tyson’s Corners. There’s no room on the van for any fluffery.

Teo mulled several responses before offering, You’re the boss.

It’s good to be the king. Isn’t that what they say? The twinkle in Mitch’s eye belied the tightening of his jaw. He glanced at the doorway to the bar. "She in there?"

Annie? Teo replied, with a slow nod.

A deep breath signaled Mitch’s reluctance for this particular face-to-face. It should be a rule: Never stay in business with your ex-wife.

Teo let irony sink into his tone. Not likely.

He had a solid work history, he was a rainmaker, and he was very circumspect, but after he’d been outted several years before—by one of the aforementioned catty females—it had become clear there would never be a wife. Or perhaps even companions.

Not anymore.

Mitch, on the other hand, was always seen with attractive young women, or so the society columns said. His latest office protégé was a constant topic of fractious bitchiness in the Chicago office Teo shared with the ex-wife in question.

As if summoned by his thoughts, Annike Lorant appeared in the wide doorway to the bar, her cool Scandinavian gaze hunting a target. Zeroing in on Mitch, she crossed her arms. You finally made it.

Annie. It’s good to see you. Mitch moved close, pecked his former wife’s cheek politely.

Of course it is. Annike smiled more warmly than Teo expected as she squeezed Mitch’s free hand. She winked at Teo over Mitch’s shoulder, then drew Mitch inside the room of sparkling glasses and polished wood. Come on. The others are waiting.

Teo counted his lucky stars that he didn’t have to follow them, not just yet. Much more peaceful out here. And less treacherous.

Mitch and Annike had formed Artotech in the mid-1980s with several law school friends. Twenty years together had slowly choked the life from their jet-set marriage, but they still shared the firm. Annike was a great lawyer, her courtroom presence astounding. From the moment she started to speak, she cradled the judge in the palm of her hand.

Her flamboyance, however, carried over into her personal life. The break-up of the marriage played out like a Shakespearean tragedy on the firm’s stage. Annike fled Arlington for Chicago, where she sulked like an injured dog for several months before she found her way again.

Teo was sympathetic, knowing both strong personalities, approving of her instinct to separate physically as well as legally. They were adults, for heaven’s sake, entitled to their drama, since they surely worked too many hours to stock up on Jerry Springer and Grey’s Anatomy.

But he’d since noted petty little machinations, conspiracies between Annie and Cattrin to keep her informed of Mitch’s every movement, who he dated, who he hired. That, Teo hated. As far as he was concerned, personal lives should be private.

Teo took his carry-on bag to the sleek dark blue extended-bed van that waited, front and rear air conditioning pumping full blast. Polka-beat Mexican music issued from the CD deck.

A wiry man with Spanish features stacked pieces of luggage behind the rear seat, delivering a quiet monologue punctuated with obscenities. Teo didn’t understand much of what he was saying, but between the bad words and the tone, he got the basic gist. Greedy Americans. True, the large pile of suitcases seemed like a grandiose amount of stuff for a week, even for six of them.

Hello, Teo said. Are we going to manage all this? He set his bag on the front seat, marking his territory.

It’s impossible, the driver groused as he capitulated to the inevitable and radioed for a car top luggage carrier. Teo grinned and the man relaxed, reflected the smile. What can you do, eh?

Go with the flow, my friend. Teo walked behind the van into the street, feeling the sun on his face. So long since it had been warm in Chicago. Here, March was nearly sixty degrees. After four months of bitter winter, it felt glorious. He took a deep breath, closed his eyes.

Moments later, tires squealed. A horn blared inches from Teo’s thigh. An irritated male voice yelled, Get out of the street! Are you crazy?

Teo jerked back to reality, found himself looking across the hood of a Hello-Officer Red Trans Am at a polo-shirted man with dark glasses and a jaunty black hat. S-Sorry—

Sorry, my ass! Are you high? Get out of the fucking street!

The Chicago partner squinted, studied the driver. John?

The driver swung out of the vehicle, lowered the shades a moment and looked at him. Hey—Teo? Right? Oh hey, sorry, man. Damn glasses are really dark. The broad-shouldered man walked over, shoved a meaty hand in Teo’s direction. You okay?

Fine, fine. Teo shook his hand, released it when it was polite. He’d barely recognized the newest Denver partner, John Kirk Nicholas, responsible for most of the firm’s West Coast clientele.

I hadn’t realized he was such a jerk.

But Teo’s friendly smile never wavered. He knew many men like John Kirk, confident of their own place in the world, cocky bastards who made sure they belonged to the right social groups and had the right opinions to get ahead, whether those opinions served the moral conscience or not. None of them was gay.

John Kirk turned to the van driver. Hey, Pedro! Where can I park my rental?

Teo stiffened as the driver gritted his teeth and pointed out the parking lot before turning back to his work.

The athletic Trans Am driver grinned at Teo and clapped him on the shoulder. See you inside, pal. Climbing back into the car, he squealed his tires again and headed in the direction of the indicated lot.

In an attempt to offset John Kirk’s bad impression on the driver, Teo helped Pedro unload the large suitcases and set them on the curb as a youngish man showed up with the requested car top carrier. We’re not all like that, Teo said apologetically.

The driver looked at him, cocked a brow. "Gringos?"

Surprised, Teo shook his head. Lawyers.

Ah. Pedro chuckled as he got back to work, and Teo retreated inside, feeling he’d been put in his place.

Interesting how we categorize and assign worth to ourselves by what we are, not who.

* * * * *

CHAPTER 3

Davi Pilar checked his box truck’s oil, filled up with gas as he prepared for his upcoming run to New Mexico. This was the eleventh time he’d made the trip to bring his fellow countrymen to the land of milk and honey, and he got paid at least five thousand American dollars each time. Davi Pilar lived very well in his low-rent neighborhood. It was a good life.

Mocking himself, he snorted and wiped his hands on well-worn denim pants, then stooped down to measure the air in the tires of the truck he’d bought cheap at a used car auction. Once a Ryder truck, easily renowned as a successful trademark, then identified forever with death and destruction, thanks to that crazy gringo in Oklahoma City. Now it was a pretty white truck with a farm logo and the words Two Brothers Trucking painted on the rear door.

Too bad there’s only one brother left.

Davi shoved aside the memory of his brother Tomàs, who hadn’t made it when they’d crossed the border five years before. Some hotshot border vigilante had opened fire on the small group of men running across the desert. Tomàs had gone down hard. Davi, crouching behind a piñon, had called to him without response. It was clear his brother couldn’t go on, whether he was dead or not, so Davi led the rest forward, leaving Tomàs there in the rusty sands. He’d heard later the body had been delivered to his mother. She hadn’t forgiven him.

Davi picked at scabs on his thin, pock-marked face and waved to the local cop making his hourly cruise through the Citgo station parking lot. When the cop blew his horn, one of the girls inside came running with free coffee for the officer. The cop had no problem with him. The cop liked him. Of course the cop had no idea what Davi did for a living—he thought Davi hauled vegetables from the summer farms around the city.

Davi watched as the man took the coffee from the dark-haired girl. The cop’s great big comemierda smile, his hand on her behind before she could walk away politely.  Stupid Americans, they all thought Mexican girls were sluts. Head down in shame, the girl hurried back into the building.

As the cop drove by, he waved back and Davi forced a smile, though his insides twisted like a whirlpool. You take care now! he said in English hardly accented any more.

Back at you, chief! The black and white pulled out of the lot, radio buzzing.

Davi knew Estrella, the girl who worked inside. She was a good girl. Her parents had emigrated legally and owned this business as well as two others. They were legendary to their neighbors back in Zacatecas, where people spoke of them as if they ruled a minor empire.

He’d considered expressing his interest to her father. But he couldn’t imagine that pretty Estrella’s father would approve her marriage to a fifty-year-old man who might flash some cash, but had no obvious source of income.