Synopsis:
Years after a serial killer visited horror and bloodshed on her family, Diana Ladd Walker again faces trauma when her adopted daughter disappears and all clues point to the return of the executed murderer.
KISS OF THE BEES
By
J. A. JANCE
Copyright © 2001 by J. A. Jance.
For Rita Pablo, Pauline Hendricks, and Melissa Juan
Prologue
JUNE 1976
There were three of them—a viejo—an older man—and two younger ones—trudging up the sandy arroyo, each lugging two gallon-sized plastic containers of water. Mitch Johnson watched them through the gunsight on his rifle, wondering should he or shouldn’t he? In the end, he did. He shot them for the same reason Edmund Hillary climbed Mount Everest—because they were there.
The older one was still alive and moaning when Johnson stopped his Jeep on the rim of the wash to check his handiwork. It offended him that one shot had been so far off, hitting the man in the lower spine rather than where he’d meant to. The Marines had taught him better than that. He had the expert rifle badge to prove it, along with a Purple Heart and a bum leg as well.
He slid down the crumbling bank of Brawley Wash. The sand was ankle-deep and powdery underfoot, so there was no question of leaving a trail of identifiable footprints. Besides, as soon as the rains came, the bodies would be washed far downstream, into the Santa Rita, eventually, and from there into the Gila. When the bodies showed up, weeks or months from now, Johnson figured no one would be smart enough to trace three dead wetbacks back to the son-in-law of a well-to-do cotton farmer with a prosperous place off Sandario Road.
The three men lay facedown in the sand. The one who was still alive lay with his fist clasped shut around the handle of the water bottle. In the hot mid-June sun, water meant life. Approaching them, Johnson held his rifle at the ready, just in case. He walked up and kicked the bottle, shattering its brittle white plastic. The water sank instantly into the sand, like bathwater disappearing down a drain. Then slowly, systematically, he kicked each of the other five bottles in turn, sending their contents, too, spilling deep into the parched earth of the wash bed.
Only when the water was gone did he return to the injured man. The guy was quiet now, no doubt playing dead and hoping there wouldn’t be another shot. And there wouldn’t be. Why bother? The man was already dead; he just didn’t know it. Why waste another bullet?
“Welcome to the United States of America, greaser,” Mitch Johnson said aloud in English. “Have a nice day.”
With that he turned and walked away—limped away—leaving the hot afternoon sun to finish his deadly work. What he didn’t see as he scrambled back up the side of the wash to his waiting Jeep was that he was not alone. There was one other person there in the wash with him—another wetback—armed with his own two gallons of water and with his own unquenchable belief that somehow life north of the international border would be better than it was back home in Mexico.
For several minutes after the Jeep drove off in a plume of dust the fourth man didn’t move, didn’t venture out of his hiding place. Juan Ruiz Romero had been resting through the hottest part of the day in the sparse shade of a mesquite tree when the other three men passed by. Because groups are always easier to spot and apprehend than a single man traveling alone, Juan had stayed where he was, hidden and safe under his sheltering mesquite, as the trio walked unwittingly to the slaughter. Lying there quietly, Juan alone had heard and seen the Jeep come wheeling up the dirt road on the far side of the wash.
Somehow, a strangled sob escaped his lips. Sure the gunman must have heard it and would turn on him next. Juan shrank back into the mesquite. He stayed there for some time, holding his breath and expecting another gunshot at any moment, one that would spill his own life’s blood deep into the thirsty, waiting sand.
With his heart beating a terrified tattoo in his chest, Juan watched the killer go up to each of the fallen men in turn, looking down at them, as if examining whether they lived or not. Juan saw the ferocity of the kicks that shattered the life-giving water jugs. He witnessed the killer limp back up the bank, climb into his waiting Jeep, and drive away.
For several long minutes after the Jeep had disappeared from view, a shaken Juan stayed where he was. At last, though, he ventured out, moving forward as tentatively as a spooked deer. By the time he reached the three motionless bodies, Juan was convinced that all three men were dead. How could they be anything else?
He was standing less than two feet away when one of them stirred and moaned. Juan started at the sound, leaping backward as if dodging away from the warning rattle of an unseen snake.
It took a moment for Juan to collect himself. Two of the men were dead then, he ascertained finally, when he could think clearly once again. One was still alive. One of the three still had a chance to live, and Juan Ruiz Romero was it.
He straightened up and peered out over the rim of the wash. Far to the north, a dust plume from the fast moving but invisible Jeep still ballooned upward. To the south, although Juan had done his best to avoid them, were other people, including numerous officers from the Border Patrol. A few miles that way as well lay a fairly busy blacktop road that ran east and west. Juan had waited until after dark the night before and had used the protection of a culvert to duck under the highway. And far off to the east was an airfield of some kind. Airplanes had been coming and going from there all morning long.
In those few moments, Juan was torn by indecision. The easiest thing for him—the cowardly thing—would have been to leave the dead and wounded where they were and walk away. All he had to do was turn his back on them and mind his own business. The old man would no doubt die anyway, no matter what someone did for him. He was old. Clearly his life would soon be over one way or the other. Juan’s was just beginning. He had a job waiting for him in Casa Grande—a job arranged by his mother’s second cousin—if only he could get there before the foreman gave it away to someone else.
But standing there, Juan had a flash of insight. He realized that what had happened to these three men was perhaps the very thing that had happened to Juan’s own father. Some fifteen years earlier, Ignacio Romero had left home for the last time. He had planned to walk across the border fence west of Nogales just as he had done countless times before. Other years when Ignacio had gone north to look for work, he had faithfully sent money back home to his wife and seven children. And eventually, after the season was over, Ignacio would return home as well.
On that last trip, though, Ignacio disappeared. There was no money, and no one ever heard from him again. He left behind an impoverished wife, seven starving children and a lifetime’s worth of unanswered questions.
Realizing this man, too, must have a family waiting for him back home in Mexico, Juan knelt beside him. Overhead, the broiling sun beat down on both of them, and Juan knew he had to hurry. He placed one of his own precious jugs of water well within reach of the other man’s hand and closed his fingers around the handle. Then, without a word, Juan stood up and went for help.
As he walked south, he knew full well what that foolhardy action meant and what it could cost him. He would probably be caught and deported, shipped back home without enough money to marry Carmen, the girl who was waiting for him there. He knew she would be disappointed. So was he, but he had to do it. He had no choice.
If nothing else, he owed his father that much. And for that reason, and that reason alone, only two men died that afternoon. The third one—Leon Morales—lived. Unlike Ignacio Romero, Leon returned to his family in Mexico eventually, to the little town of Santa Teresa in Sonora. He went home crippled and unable to walk but with a compelling story to tell.