Blood Lines

48

›› International Border

›› El Paso, Texas

›› 1942 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Perspiration trickled down Tyrel McHenry’s back as he sat in the back of the cab in the line leading to the border patrol checkpoints. Evening was settling over the area. The eastern skies had turned dark.

Tyrel’s eyes burned from fatigue. He hated wearing a ball cap instead of the Stetson he’d worn for so long. But he’d had to wear a hat. His forehead had a demarcation as clear as the Texas-Mexico border from El Paso to Ciudad Juarez. He’d never been outside the house without his hat, and his forehead would have been unevenly tanned. People would have noticed and remembered him, and he couldn’t afford that.

He’d also dyed his hair black, something his vanity would never have allowed him to do had he not been forced into hiding. With his weathered tan, he figured he could pass as a Mexican in time. That was the plan anyway. After today he didn’t intend to ever step foot on American soil again.

He didn’t deserve to. He hadn’t deserved that honor in over forty years.

“Senor,” the cab driver called.

“Yeah,” Tyrel answered.

“Do you have your papers ready, senor?”

“I do.”

The cabbie was a round-faced man in his forties. The taxi smelled like cheap soap; a figurine of Jesus stood on the dashboard.

“That’s a good thing, senor. These border officials, they are very proud of their paperwork.”

Tyrel had gotten rid of his papers. When he’d first returned to the States after leaving Vietnam, he’d planned to relocate to Mexico if worse came to worst, and back then identification wasn’t required to pass back and forth between Mexico and Texas.

Relocate, Tyrel snorted to himself. Why, listen to you, you old fool. This ain’t no relocation. You’re jackrabbiting to keep your tail together. Like a coward. If you had any pride, you’d have let the Army do what they needed to do forty years ago.

But he hadn’t been able to do that. Back then he’d just been too afraid. Then he’d come home to find Amanda waiting for him and felt like he deserved something good for himself. Then Shelton had been born and Don after that. Once he’d been on that road, he couldn’t turn himself in. By the time he’d gotten strong enough to accept what he would have had to do, he would have been abandoning his family. The military and the government didn’t help out families of a murdering soldier. Tyrel wasn’t sure about a lot of things, but he was pretty sure about that.

After 9/11 and the tight security that went up overnight on people traveling out of and into the United States, Tyrel had known he’d need papers to get over into Juarez if the time ever came. Working with migrant laborers and other men he’d known had given Tyrel the name of a man who could falsify papers. It had cost Tyrel a lot to get a good set.

He didn’t know how good the papers were because he’d never used them before. But he was about to find out.

“So, senor,” the taxi driver said, “your trip to Juarez, is it for business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Tyrel said, hoping the man didn’t keep talking to him. He just wanted to get across the border and be gone.

After riding out, he’d freed his horse. Given time, the mare would wander back to the barn. He knew that Don, and Shel for that matter, would care for the livestock. Three miles of hiking had brought Tyrel to Bobby Foyt’s place. Foyt and his family were out of town on a last-chance vacation before school started back.

Tyrel had hot-wired the old Chevrolet pickup in the garage, left money for it in Bobby’s barbecue grill because Bobby didn’t let many days go by without grilling, and driven down to El Paso secure in the knowledge that no one would know the truck was missing for several days at least.

He’d stopped and eaten once outside of El Paso. The television had carried a baseball game and the local news. That was when he found out about the manhunt the sheriff had unleashed to look for him. Tyrel had gone into the bathroom with the hair color and come out with black hair. Then he’d gotten back on the road.

In El Paso, he bought a few things to carry across the border in a suitcase, courtesy of the bargain bins at the Salvation Army. He’d have been able to buy anything he needed in Juarez, or wherever he finally decided to light, but going across the border empty-handed would have drawn attention.

“What kind of business?” the cabbie asked.

“Construction.” Tyrel knew enough about that line of work that he could pass for a foreman. He’d learned a lot about woodworking and building when he’d built the ranch house and barn. Then there had been various other projects with neighbors over the years.

“Constuction is a fine business,” the cabbie said. “I have done construction work. My father was a cabinetmaker. A very fine cabinetmaker.”

Tyrel wished the man would shut up. Waiting in the long line was making him as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He didn’t need to try to be carrying on a conversation at the same time.

He glanced at the people at the side of the street. The border allowed a lot of walk-through traffic as well. If not for the checkpoint, El Paso and Juarez might as well have been one large city. They were of equal size, but there was a vast difference in the appearance and the economies.

As he watched, a young boy of nine or ten walked beside his mother. The boy was eating a hot dog and holding on to a bright blue balloon. The balloon jerked in the wind and captured the boy’s attention.

The young mother balanced a sleeping child in her arms and chatted amiably on a cell phone. She hardly paid any attention to the older boy.

The boy with the balloon stopped suddenly. His balloon floated away and he grabbed his throat. Panic filled his face. His mouth opened to yell-but nothing came out. He grabbed his mother’s dress.

Angry, the young mother turned around to admonish her son. Then she saw him holding his throat. His sunburned face reddened more.

Somebody help him, Tyrel thought. He’s choking.

“Help me!” the young mother screamed. She dropped the cell phone and grabbed her son’s arm. Wakened, the baby started screaming too. “My son needs help! Please! Someone help me!”

The bystanders backed away as the boy continued to struggle to breathe.

Tyrel couldn’t believe it. Surely someone was going to help.

No one did.

Without thinking, Tyrel threw the cab door open. Images of Don and Shel ran through his mind. He remembered how he’d always been afraid of something happening to them when they were young. It was a parent’s worst nightmare.

Like a broken-field runner, Tyrel made his way through the stalled lines of cars till he reached the boy. The woman still yelled for help.

“I can help him,” Tyrel told the woman. “Give him to me.”

Reluctantly the woman let go of her son. “He’s not breathing. He can’t breathe.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Tyler said. “I know.” He felt a little panicked himself. When Don and Shel were little, he’d worried about them. Especially Shel because he’d been fearless growing up. Don had had more sense. Tyrel had worried even more when Shel enlisted and went off to fight in the Middle East.

The boy fought Tyrel, pushing at his hands.

“Listen to me, son,” Tyrel said calmly. “You’re gonna be all right. We’re gonna get through this.” He forced the boy’s jaws apart and peered into his mouth.

There was no visible obstruction.

Tyrel stepped behind the boy and placed his hands together in a double fist just above the boy’s navel. He pulled in and up, fast and hard, just like he’d learned to do when the boys were small. In all those years, Tyrel had never had to Heimlich anyone, but once he’d been shown something, he never forgot it.

Nothing happened. The boy still couldn’t breathe.

Tyrel knew that a crowd of people had gathered around them. All of them watched. He cursed them all. What he was doing was something anyone could do. The only reason he was there was because no one else would step up.

“C’mon, boy,” Tyrel coaxed. “You’re scaring your mama. I’m right here, and I ain’t gonna give up on you.” He pulled again.

This time the piece of hot dog stuck in the boy’s throat exploded from his mouth. He sucked in a ragged breath, then cried out in pain and fear. He fought against Tyrel’s hold.

“Hold up there, partner,” Tyrel said. “Let’s make sure we got it all.”

The boy trembled as he turned back toward Tyrel. When he tilted the boy’s head back, he looked in his mouth and down his throat.

The child was breathing normally now.

“It’s okay,” Tyrel told him. “It’s okay.” He released the boy, who immediately ran to his mother.

She was crying and shaking, but she held her son tightly. The boy held on to her and cried too.

“Thank you,” she told Tyrel. “Thank you so much.”

Tyrel touched his hat and nodded. “Yes, ma’am. Glad I was here to help.”

The crowd around them suddenly erupted with applause.

Embarrassed, Tyrel ignored them and turned to walk back to the waiting cab. He intended to finish his escape now that the line was moving again. He was only a few minutes away from freedom.

However, when he stepped from the curb, it felt like the top of his head had come unscrewed and someone had dumped spiders inside. A tickling sensation ate at the edges of his thoughts; then black spots appeared in his vision.

He tried to keep walking even though he felt woozy. He didn’t take more than four or five steps before it felt like someone drove a railroad spike straight through the center of his heart. His legs went out from under him and he fell between two cars. On his back, he stared up at the sky and saw the sun dimming in the west.

Tyrel tried to get up, but the viselike pain in his chest grew even tighter. His vision closed to small tunnels. People came over to him and looked down. Tyrel tried to take a breath and couldn’t. Blackness consumed him.