A False Dawn

TWENTY-SIX

An old school bus, painted army green, rolled to a stop at the far end of the camp. Dozens of men and women spilled out of the bus. Even from the distance, I could see the dirt and stains from the fields on their clothes. They drifted through the camp like the walking dead, exhausted bodies and worn-out spirits.

A half dozen shuffled past me, avoiding Silas’ eyes. Only one man, Hispanic, early twenties, yellow polo shirt, looked directly at me. He stopped for a moment. I could see him fidgeting.

“How are you?” I asked the man.

He shoved his hands in his dirty jeans, looked at Silas and then at me.

“Go on boy,” said Silas. “He got nothin’ to say. Don’t speak no English no how.”

“I’ll let him tell me that. Now, back away from my door.”

Silas grinned, tossed his wet toothpick at my face and held up both hands in a mock surrender. He looked at an approaching vehicle and grinned wider. A new Ford Excursion, oversized tires, black with darkened windows, eased around the migrant bus at the far end of the camp and started in my direction.

Silas waved the young man away, but he simply stood there for a long moment. He watched the SUV approach, looked at me, and began to walk toward a trailer next to where a small lamb stood. The animal was tied by a short piece of rope to a pine tree. The lamb bawled one time when the man passed by it.

Silas watched the approaching SUV and said, “You shoulda left when I told you.”

“Maybe those folks know if Brennen is working the farm today.”

“Maybe you can bet your ass on it.”

The SUV pulled up on the opposite side of the Jeep. The window slowly lowered, and I could see two Hispanic men inside. Both were large, bull necks, mirrored sunglasses and baseball caps. The man closest to me wore a diamond stud in his left ear. “We help you?” The voice was more of a challenge than a question.

“Maybe,” I said. “I’m trying to find Richard Brennen.”

The man behind the wheel leaned forward. I could see the frosty mist from the air conditioner blowing his feathered, greasy black hair.

“Who are you?”

“Name’s Sean O’Brien. And you?”

The man sitting in the passenger said, “Juan Gomez. This is my cousin Hector Ortega. That’s Silas Davis. Sometimes we call him Silo, ‘cause he’s so big. Now that we all know each other it’s time to go our separate ways, no disrespect, but you’re on private property.”

“That’s what I hear.”

Silas pointed a broomstick-sized finger at my face. “Juan, the dude followed me from the store.”

“I’m investigating the death of a young woman.”

The man got out of the SUV and stood a few feet away from the Jeep’s passenger door. I didn’t like the scene. I had a large African-American man with a bad attitude at my door, and an even larger Mexican goliath standing at the opposite side.

Juan Gomez looked at me like I was a roadside curiosity. “You a cop?”

“Used to be.”

“If you’re no cop, why you investigatin’ some girl’s killin’?” He stepped closer.

“I didn’t say she was killed. I said I was investigating her death.”

He grinned. “I figured you meant somebody killed her. Otherwise a person die, it’s an accident, no?”

Another step closer.

“If I see Mr. Brennen, I will tell him you’re looking for him. Where can he find you, Mr. O’Brien? Got a cell?”

He was close enough for me to see a curly black hair growing from a mole the size of a green pea on his cheek. His bulldog jaw popped as he chewed gum.

“I have a cell.” I slowly lowered my hand to the pistol grip.

Gomez stopped, looked at my right hand and locked eyes with Davis. Neither of the men standing seemed to be armed. I assumed the man in the SUV had a weapon. I said, “You two back away from the Jeep.”

Gomez smiled. “Amigo, you have the wrong idea. We mean you no harm. I understand you have a job to do, yes? You some kinda insurance investigator, right?”

“More like a private investigator. Now back off.”

“You cain’t take all of us,” Davis mumbled.

“You’re right, but I’ll take you first.”

Gomez gestured with both palms up. “Mr. O’Brien, relax. We just don’t get many visitors down here. Sometimes Silo gets a little, how you say…agitated. Came back with somethin’ from the Iraq war.”

He glanced at my right hand and said, “Maybe you could write down your cell. If I see Mr. Brennen, I give it to him?”

“Don’t have paper or pencil. Maybe your associate has some in your vehicle.”

“Vehicle,” he grinned. “You sound like a cop.”

“I saw a bulletin board back at the convenience store. It has business cards on it. I’ll leave my cell number there. I feel almost rude having to turn my back on one of you gentlemen as I talk. So if you don’t mind, maybe you both could stand together.”

Gomez smiled. “No problem. Silo, the man has a point. Come here so we can both speak with Mr. O’Brien.” Silo shuffled around to where Gomez stood.

“Any of your female employees missing?” I asked.

“Missing?” Gomez shook his head. “No.”

“Someone leave and not return? Did a girl walk away? Maybe she was kidnapped? About five-four, young, late teens or very early twenties?”

Gomez said, “You know workers come and go. When season’s over, it’s over.”

“I understand that farm workers follow the seasons, usually with the same contractors, working various farms.”

“Sometimes, that’s so. People are free to go whenever they choose. But we have no missing women, right Silo?”

“Right.”

“We’re very busy. I’ll check for your number at the store in case we hear of anyone missing. Lot of camps through here, you know? If I see Mr. Brennen, I’ll give your number to him. I hope you find your missing girl. Adios.”

“Before you go, maybe you could help me with directions.” I lifted my right hand off the pistol stock, opened the console, and pulled out the photograph of the dead girl. “Do you recognize her?”

Davis tried not to react. The tightening of the neck muscles, touching the tip of his nose, diverted eyes, gave him away.

Gomez’s nostrils flared, like a giraffe that had just scented the presence of a lion. I held up the picture so the man in the SUV could see it. He pursed his lips, shrugged his shoulders, and looked away.

“I don’t know this girl,” Gomez said.

“Me neither,” Davis mumbled.

I said, “Bet she was pretty before this. That’s what happens to the human face when the cheekbone is crushed, the jaw is broken, and teeth are knocked out.”

Gomez folded his thick forearms. Davis buried his hands in his jeans.

I said, “The man who did this left something.”

“What?” Gomez asked.

“He left a trail.”

“Trail?”

“And it led me here.”

“Now you’re fuckin’ with me,” Gomez said, in a voice that sounded like it came from a different man. “Ain’t no trail bring you here. You ain’t a real cop, so get the hell off this land or somebody will find you on the side of the road. They’ll believe you got hit by a truck and crawled in a ditch to die.”

“I guess I wore out my welcome. Hasta luego.”

I saw the man in the SUV remove his sunglasses and reach for something under the seat. He slowly opened the door and slid to the ground. Narrow-toed snakeskin boots easing onto the sand. He stood behind the false security a second too long. His right shoulder moved. I pulled the Glock up and leveled it at his head.

“Drop it!” I yelled. “Drop the gun!”

Both Gomez and Davis held up their hands. Ortega hesitated, looked at Gomez.

“Hector drop the fuckin’ gun,” Gomez said.

The gun bounced a foot away from Ortega’s left boot.

Gomez looked at me and gestured innocently. “A simple misunderstanding. My cousin had no intention of using the gun. He just wanted to make a point. We have a right to bare arms. This is America.”

“I’ll leave my number at the store. I know you have seen her. She had a name. Somebody here is going to tell me what it was.”

I held the gun on them, put the Jeep in gear, and started to drive. I heard the cry of the lamb as I passed it. In the rearview mirror, I saw the young man come out of the trailer. He stood next to the lamb and watched me leave.

I drove slowly. A man sat on the edge of a tractor tire that was lying on its side, weeds growing through the center, rusted paint cans and beer bottles scattered around it. On the ground, between bare feet scarred and filthy with muck like dried cow manure, was a bottle of wine wrapped in a wrinkled brown paper bag.

Another man stood next to a mixed breed yellow dog with the shape of a pit bull’s square head. One ear was gone. Fight scars resembled barbwire tattoos on the dog’s chest and neck. The man’s dark face was the hue of a worn horse saddle. It was an emotionless face, hollow cheeks with pockets of old dirt, unshaven and vacant as a field of weeds after a frost. His jeans were tucked into scuffed cowboy boots, hands shoved deep in his pockets, shoulders hunched. His eyes followed me, unblinking and lifeless as black marbles.

I felt like I was driving though the village of the damned.