A dead end.
“Why?” Lucy asked. “They only ran us off the road when we spotted them.”
“They want to know what we’re doing,” he said. “Track the investigation. Find out who we’re talking to. That was an experienced tail. Two cars, tinted windows, knew exactly how to maneuver. I should have been sharper.”
“We were in a residential neighborhood near a school,” she said. “They’ll show up again; we’ll be prepared.”
“Next time we come up here, we need a second car—either we split up or we get backup. I’m going to find out who those bastards are, and we’re going to take them down.”
Chapter Twelve
THREE YEARS AGO
Javier Olivera could fix anything, and in the three months Ricky had been living with him Ricky had learned more about cars, plumbing, and electricity than he’d known his entire life. Today, they were working on a truck. If Javier could get it running, he’d get a thousand pesos. Ricky thought that was a lot of money, but Javier laughed and said it was about fifty bucks in America.
“But here, it’ll go far.”
Javier spoke English, but never around other people. Ricky had learned that Mrs. Young was his cousin. They had the same grandfather. They were both born in Texas, but Javier came to Mexico to take care of his grandmother when he left the military—he’d been in the Army for six years out of high school—and never returned to the States.
“It’s a simple life. A good life. I don’t need a lot.”
Ricky thought there was a lot more than that to why Javier never returned to the States, but he never asked. He was just grateful that Javier hadn’t sent him back when he discovered Ricky in his truck.
Javier lived in a small village north of Ciudad Victoria. He often went to the city to work and sometimes took Ricky with him. Once, he told Ricky, “When you want to go home, I’ll take you. Anytime, no questions. Until then, you listen to me. Mexico is not Texas.”
Ricky had learned quickly to keep his head down and do what Javier said. He didn’t want anyone to find him, and he didn’t want to bring trouble to Javier. He’d only been here three months, but he already knew Spanish. Not a lot, but enough to get by. Javier was teaching him more. He called it immersion. Sometimes, he would only speak in Spanish and Ricky had to figure out what he meant by the context.
Javier didn’t volunteer information about Ricky, but when his priest asked—Javier went to church every week—Javier said, “The boy needed a home.” He didn’t ask again.
Ricky helped Javier with the truck, handing him tools and holding bolts and screws. He almost always knew what tool he needed, and Javier was pleased he learned quickly.
Ricky wanted to learn, because if he kept busy he got tired, and if he was tired he could sleep.
But his sleep was always interrupted by nightmares.
He watched Javier, absorbed in what he was doing, but not really thinking about it.
All he could think about was his grandma.
She’d answered the phone yesterday when he called her. Javier didn’t think it was a good idea, but he took Ricky into town after church. A friend of Javier’s had a phone, and Javier gave him twenty American dollars to use it.
Ricky should never have called. His grandma thought he was his mom, called him Denise. Of course, he didn’t say anything. He couldn’t. He just wanted to hear her voice. He just wanted to … he didn’t know. He was homesick, but he couldn’t go home. He was scared that the bad cop would hurt his grandparents. They were old, and they wouldn’t understand why Ricky was scared. His grandpa had been in the hospital last year, and his mom kept saying he couldn’t have any stress or his heart would give out.
His grandparents would tell him everything would be okay, but it wasn’t and it never would be okay. Ever.
His mom and dad and sisters were dead. And a policeman had killed them. He couldn’t let anyone hurt his grandparents.
Ricky didn’t want to die. He didn’t want to be scared, he wanted to be brave, but he feared those men. Here, he was safe. Here, he had a home and no one could hurt him.
When he’d hung up on his grandmother, Javier had asked, “Do you want to go home?”
He’d said no. He cried and went to bed. But today … today he was so sad and he didn’t know what to do.
Suddenly he needed air. He couldn’t breathe. Ricky dropped the tools and ran out. He sprinted to the small garden behind Javier’s house. They grew vegetables and had a chicken pen. It was Ricky’s job to feed the chickens and collect their eggs every morning. They all ran over to the edge of the pen and clucked at him, expecting more food.
Ricky sat on a stone bench and cried.
Javier’s old dog walked up and lay down at his feet with a tired sigh.
“I miss everyone, even Tori,” he said to the dog. “I don’t know if I’m doing the right thing anymore.”
The dog didn’t say anything.
A good thirty minutes later Javier walked down the path, sat next to him, and handed him a bottle of water. Ricky drank it. Bottled water was precious. He’d taken it for granted at home, but here it was more valuable than anything.
“If we leave in the morning, we’ll be in San Antonio by dark.”
“N-no,” he said, his voice cracking.
“The authorities believe your parents left the country.”
“I know. I read the article.”
Javier had brought him a newspaper about how his mom stole a lot of money and disappeared. He knew it wasn’t true. Well, he didn’t know about the money. Listening to the men who took stuff from her den, maybe she did. Maybe that’s why she died. Maybe it was all her fault.
He grew hot, then immediately cold. How could he think that about his mom? She loved them. She would never want them to get hurt. It wasn’t her fault, it couldn’t be. And even if she did a bad thing, did they have to kill her?
“I’m scared,” Ricky whispered, feeling immensely guilty. He was worried about himself and not the men who killed his family.
“I know, son.”
“I don’t know what to do.”
“You don’t have to make a decision now.”
Ricky said, “If I go back, they might hurt my grandparents.”
“You don’t know that.”
“If my mom did what they said she did, why did they kill everyone?”
“I don’t know, Ricky.”
“I want to stay.”
“Okay.”
“You’re not going to get in trouble, are you?”
“No.”
“Okay.”
“Let’s make supper.”
“What about the truck?”
“I’m done. Good as new.” He put his arm around Ricky’s shoulder as they got up and walked toward the house. Javier whistled for the dog, who slowly rose and trotted after them.
Ricky felt safe for the first time in three months.
Chapter Thirteen
Stanley Grant would be released at one thirty that afternoon, after he was fitted with an ankle monitor. Marie was staying at the courthouse with him, then Sean would escort the two of them to a hotel room that Max had reserved for Grant.