Chapter 13
Shane Tuscadero slapped at a fly on his forehead, missing it but feeling the slime of his sweat. At eight in the morning the
inside of the trailer must have been eighty or eighty-five, but with the stillness of the air it felt like a hundred. He couldn’t
imagine what it was like in the heat of the day. He heard footsteps in the gravel outside and rolled upright, the springs
in the torn, lumpy couch he was using as a bed groaning at the shift in weight.
The cheap metal door opened, letting in the sunlight, the motes of dust in the air swirling at the intrusion. Flynn stood
outside, saying, “Get up. I got us a car.”
Shane began putting on his boots, saying, “How many more nights are we going to stay down here?”
“It depends. The Papago ID is done. Just waiting on Taco to cross back over the border with the other documents. Come on.
We need to torch that van.”
Shane stood up, stretched, then followed Flynn out the door. Next to the van they’d driven down he saw an old Crown Victoria
with bald tires and rusted paint. Flynn opened the door to the Crown Vic and said, “Follow me. I found a place to ditch it.”
Shane said, “Shouldn’t we check on our guy before we go?”
Flynn stopped and said, “Haven’t you?”
“Not since last night, and it’s hot as shit in my trailer. That shed has got to be roasting.”
Flynn slammed the car door closed and said, “Jesus, man. We can’t have him die on us. He’s the payment for everything. What the fuck have you been doing while I was gone?”
He stomped away and Shane followed, saying nothing. They reached a single-story building made of cinderblocks with a double
door wide enough for a vehicle, the floor packed dirt.
Flynn swung open one side, exposing a single room with an exposed bulb. The only furnishings were a cot, chair, and wooden
desk. Next to the bed was a case of water, about half gone, the used plastic bottles strewn on the floor. In the corner was
a rubber bucket with a makeshift toilet lid on the top, a blanket on a rope running above it giving some semblance of privacy.
The man they knew as the Ghost sat on the cot, his hands still in handcuffs, a length of chain leading from the cuffs to an
eyebolt in the ceiling, giving him enough slack to maneuver to the makeshift toilet.
Flynn said, “You doing okay, man?”
The Ghost said, “That depends. What do you want with me?”
“I told you, we’re just helping out some people you know. You’ll be with them soon, so just chill.”
“Then why am I still chained?”
“Just a precaution, man, just a precaution. They’re paying me, but I don’t know you from shit. They’re making your documents
now from the names you gave. One more night, and you’ll be out of here and no longer my problem.”
“Where am I going?”
“Not your concern. You need anything?”
The Ghost exhaled saying nothing. Flynn said, “Look, man, I’m on your side here, but it’s only for money. Sorry if you think
it’s substandard, but it is what it is.”
The Ghost looked at him and said, “Some food besides granola bars.”
“We’ll bring you something. Just stay cool. We’ll be back in a few hours.”
The Ghost said nothing else and they left. Once outside, Shane said, “Why are we keeping him chained?”
Flynn said, “I wasn’t lying to him. I don’t think he’s a threat, but I don’t trust him not to run, and without him, we don’t get paid.”
Flynn went to the Crown Vic and said, “You got the gas?”
Putting on rubber cleaning gloves, Shane said, “Yeah, and I already bleached it.”
“Let’s go. The dump site is about thirty minutes from here.”
They drove away from the small cluster of structures, the Crown Vic throwing up a cloud of dust from the dirt road, forcing
Shane to slow the van down. He could not wait to get out of this desert hellhole.
It had been a fifteen-hour drive from Panguitch to the Arizona–Mexico border, and they’d been hard miles. Apart from a single
stop outside of Flagstaff, the trip had been straight through. They’d reached the outskirts of the Tohono O’odham Indian reservation
and kept heading south, passing grim little settlements of cinderblock houses and ramshackle businesses, until they’d reached
a dead end in the desert scrub.
Two shacks with a porta-potty between them and a weatherbeaten trailer became their base of operations. Flynn had called his
contact on the reservation, someone he simply referred to as “Chief.” A short, stocky man with a black ponytail and a cleft
palate splitting his lip, he was a member of the Tohono O’odham nation.
Flynn and Chief had situated the Ghost in his cinderblock home, the setting sun letting the desert begin to cool. Chief started
asking the Ghost about names and documents, and Shane had left them, going to the trailer and finding his stay was going to
be one step above sleeping out on the ground.
Flynn hadn’t told Shane every step in the process—he didn’t understand the discussions occurring next door—but he instinctively
knew they were planning to get the Ghost across the Mexican border, and that someone with means and money was going to help.
His job was the cleanup, and the final phase was the disposal of the van he’d stolen.
Now, with Flynn’s Crown Vic leading the way, they left the Ghost behind and continued on one dusty road after another until they finally reached one that was paved.
Flynn headed east, and Shane realized they were parallelling the border.
First one, then another white SUV adorned with light bars passed them—the only vehicles that did so—and he recognized them as Customs and Border Protection.
The road curved to the north and they passed a metal sign dinged with bullet holes proclaiming Papago Farms. The desert scrub
faded away to reveal a desolate collection of buildings, this time with a lonely gas station and a brick post office sprinkled
among the decaying structures. Flynn took a left next to an auto shop ringed with razor wire, leaving the pavement for another
dirt road. Shane backed off again, giving space for the dust cloud kicked up by the Crown Vic.
They passed a sheet-metal structure surrounded by a chain-link fence, the front lined with CBP vehicles, with what looked
like a cell phone tower on the north end, the top bristling with cameras. Flynn kept going.
After a couple more turns the road became no better than a rutted track. They reached a washout and Flynn traveled to the
far side, motioning Shane to stop in the middle. He did so and got out, seeing the remains of a flood from months ago, the
sand now littered with water bottles and other trash.
Flynn said, “We burn it here and continue on, going back to the camp.”
Shane said, “What was that station back there?”
“Border patrol. It’s one of their outposts.”
“You think leaving the van here is a good idea? They’ll find it.”
“It’s going to be found no matter where we leave it because of the smoke, and I’d rather it be them. They’ll chalk it up to
drug runners and dispose of it. They’re overwhelmed by the border and don’t do any investigative stuff—especially here on
the reservation.”
Shane nodded, swayed by his words, convinced that Flynn was thinking two steps ahead. He opened the back and pulled out two
five-gallon containers, handing one to Flynn. They liberally doused the interior, then tossed the empty gas cans inside. Flynn
stood back, lit a piece of cloth, and tossed it through the open doors. There was a whump and a sharp mushroom cloud of flame and smoke. The tower of flame subsided, leaving the interior of the van burning furiously.
Flynn looked up at the smoke billowing against the blue sky and said, “Let’s get out of here before they investigate.”
They returned to Flynn’s car and began driving away, taking one dirt track after another until they cut back onto the lonely
asphalt they’d used before, Shane realizing they’d traveled in a circle.
They continued west, getting passed by yet another CBP vehicle, and Shane said, “Aren’t you worried about making a crossing
with that dude? The border patrol is all over this place.”
“That’s why we’re on the reservation. The Papago territory is on both sides of the border, and they freely come and go.”
“Papago?”
“That’s what the folks around here call the Indians. It means ‘bean-eater’ or some shit. Anyway, with the right ID they just
go back and forth like the border doesn’t exist. No worries about being chased down by border patrol on either side. We’re
going to walk right through it.”
“So that’s what all the document stuff was about?”
“Yeah. Once we get that, Taco and our contact will walk him across legally. Should be tomorrow.”
“Good. I can’t wait to get rid of that guy. He creeps me out. I’m ready to get back to Utah.”
“You aren’t going to Utah. We’re hunkering down here until the transfer happens, then picking up the load as payment.”