City of the Sun

FORTY

Paul must have fallen asleep because when he lifted his head the pink of morning was in the sky and Behr ’ s boots filled his eyes. He glanced up to see Behr crouched below the ridgeline, peering down on the compound.

“You get the password?” Paul asked.

“I got it,” Behr answered.

The brief fresh cool of morning burned off minute by minute, and by the time it was ten o ’ clock, the sun was high and striking down on them like molten lava.

“We don ’ t know what to expect during daylight hours,” Behr had said. “The high-percentage play would be to do it late night, when we know the routine. But I sure don ’ t feel good about going in there when it ’ s dark. Do you? We ’ ll keep on with the recon, go around dusk.”

Paul nodded.

“We go in there, there ’ s no guarantee of our safety. If it comes to it, can you shoot?” Behr asked.

“Yes,” Paul answered. They said no more.

They retired back to the car in shifts for shade and water but didn ’ t want to risk the sound of running the engine for air-conditioning, so if anything the car was even hotter than the outside air. The water, too, was warm and oily and tasted of plastic, but they drank it because they knew they needed it. By noon they ’ d eaten the last of the beef jerky and the other snacks they ’ d bought at gas stations on their way. Sweat rolled down their faces and stung their eyes, and even though they covered their heads and arms with extra shirts, they felt their skin burning. Their eyeballs ached and their heads were splitting, and while several men had left early in the day, and for a time only the Bronco was parked below them, they had yet to see any further sign of what went on inside. Later on, well after noon, a pickup with a canvas over a payload entered, but it pulled in behind one of the buildings out of their sight.

Don Ramon Ponceterra took great care in dressing, as he always did, although he was moving more quickly than usual. This day was unusual in the extreme, but he was loath to abandon his habits. He had gotten the phone call from Esteban that Victor Colon had been located and that surely there would be something learned within an hour or two. Don Ramon had said that he would meet them out at the rancho. Then he set about choosing a white linen shirt, cream-colored trousers, fine socks, and light tan suede shoes. Lastly, he tied a short silk scarf around his throat, for though he wore a sturdy twill shooting jacket, he always made allowances, regardless of his dress, for at least one piece of silk against his skin. As Plato taught, “all physical objects are mere shadows of their ideal forms.” Except for silk. Silk was the apotheosis of fabric, in Ponceterra ’ s considered opinion.

A light coating of Bay Rum on his smooth cheeks, the citrus scent pleasantly piquant in his nostrils, and he was ready. He went outside to where his Cadillac Eldorado had been pulled around. He ’ d be driving himself today. It was not something he liked to do, but there was good reason for it, as Esteban was otherwise occupied. He got into the well-kept car, the interior cool enough from being parked inside the carriage house that he needed only to keep the fan turned low. He pulled out of his property and made his way to the ruta.

There had been screams. They began after lunch and seem to go on and on. They belong to a grown man, not a boy, though at times they resemble those of an animal. Something is happening. Something different. There has been a sense of waiting. It has gone on for so long it has given way to deadness. He dreads the visits from the Fancy Man. Though the man never touches him beyond a pat on the leg, the back, a hand on the cheek, there is a feeling that something is coming, and not knowing what is the worst thing he ’ s ever tasted. The Fancy Man wears suits that smell like mothballs underneath the odor of flowery aftershave.

There is a lull in the screaming and he hears the sound of a car arriving. This is strange, it being so early, and also because a small truck has arrived already and has pulled around the far side of the building, where he cannot see it. Now he goes and peers out from behind the vinyl shade that covers the small window, too small for him to slip through. He glances down and sees the cacti they had forced him to plant. “Since we can ’ t make you ‘ work, ’ ” they said, “you will work.” He had dug and planted for endless hot days, the spiny needles tearing at his flesh, as he secured his own prison. Now he sees the car enter the compound — it is the Fancy Man. He stands, looks a last time out the window at the arrival, and then crosses to the cinder block to finish his sharpening…

Paul had been staring through the binoculars for much of the day, the rubber cups on the eyepieces cutting into his face, when he finally saw it. A car, an older Cadillac, was approaching, and he ’ d just looked away from it when he saw a figure flash by a window. The person ’ s coloring stood out from the dark-skinned, dark-haired background that Mexico had come to be in his mind ’ s eye. The familiar rose up through all improbability and grabbed him by the throat. He knew what he ’ d seen. Before he realized it, he had climbed to one knee and was in the process of starting to run straight down the hill. Behr ’ s hand shot out, gripped Paul ’ s calf, and yanked him back down on his belly in the dust.

“You have heat stroke?” Behr asked.

“Frank,” Paul gasped. He felt Behr looking at him, saw with his peripheral vision that Behr ’ s hand was extended for the field glasses.

“What is it?”

“He ’ s there — ”

“What?”

“He’s there. Jamie.”