“Bennett,” Miguel said as he spotted his lanky friend crossing the room, and rose to shake his hand.
“Good to see you, amigo,” said Bennett as he firmly shook the offered hand and then eased himself into the leather chair directly across from his friend, who wore a black pinstriped suit and white dress shirt open at the collar.
“We’ve got to get you a proper necktie one of these days, doctor,” Bennett said as he waved to get the attention of the cocktail waitress working the lounge.
“Good evening, doctor,” the waitress said as she placed a napkin down on the table between the two men. “Let me guess. Bourbon, no ice?”
“Thank you, darling,” Bennett replied.
Bennett and Miguel tried to get together at least once a month to catch up on old times. The men were of similar age and had known each other since their days working in the hospital. Bennett had ultimately become the head of the obstetrics and gynecology department, while Miguel had been the head of the urology department. Neither had professional desires to ultimately run the hospital like many of their cutthroat colleagues, and thus had become close friends and stayed that way in their retirement.
“How’s Esmeralda?” asked Bennett.
“She’s fine,” replied Miguel. “Busy with the grandkids these days.”
“All eight of them?”
“And a ninth on the way.”
“Is she still making the best dang frijoles in the state?” asked Bennett.
“She is. The secret is fresh lard and lots of it. I’ll have one of the boys bring some by your house.”
“Only if it isn’t any trouble. Don’t have much of an appetite these days, but I can always put away some of her cooking.”
“How’re you feeling, Bennett?”
“Not too bad,” Bennett said as the waitress returned with his cocktail and placed it in front of him.
“You following your doctor’s instructions?”
“Every one of them.”
“Who’s your doctor?”
“Me.”
“Come on, Bennett. You’ve got to take this seriously. Without you, who would I have to sit around and complain to?”
“Don’t worry—I’ll be around for a good while yet. I’m too ornery to die.”
“Truer words were never spoken, my friend. On the phone, you said Kip is back in town. How’s he doing?”
“He’s good. Grown up to look just like me, although I’m not sure how he feels about that. All things considered, the boy turned out just fine. Can’t say the same about Avery, but batting five hundred will get you in the Hall of Fame on the first ballot.”
“It’s nice of you take care of him, Bennett. What kind of conspiracy theory is he up to this week?”
“Well, he seems to think that we face an imminent invasion by Mexican chupacabras. Thinks they’ll be in Austin anytime now,” Bennett said as he took a sip of his bourbon. “He’s plumb off his rocker. If brains were dynamite, he couldn’t blow his own nose.”
“Ah, the chupacabras,” said Miguel. “My mother used to tell me the tales when I was little. Of course, you know my parents were migrant farmers. They took the stories very seriously.”
“Jesus, Miguel, you’re an educated man of science. Don’t tell me you believe in that hogwash.”
“All I know is that there are things in this world that science sometimes can’t explain. Even in this hotel right here. Have you heard of the suicide brides?”
“Can’t say that I have.”
“There’s a guest room upstairs in this very hotel, where many, many years ago a young woman on her honeymoon killed herself in the bathroom. Exactly twenty years later, in the same room, the same bathroom, another bride on her honeymoon killed herself as well. After this, the hotel had the room closed up and refused to rent it out. It stayed that way for many years. Then, during a hotel renovation in the late nineties, the room was opened up and used again for guests. Since then, many strange apparitions have been spotted in and around the room.” Miguel paused and knocked back the rest of his tequila in one gulp and stared into his empty glass. “My point is that science can only go so far in explaining the mysterious and miraculous. Wouldn’t you agree?”
“Well, now that you mention it, I did see an honest-to-goodness miracle once,” Bennett replied.
“Really? What was it?”
“It was when I was younger. I was out duck hunting by myself one day. Sat there for hours without seeing anything fly over. Then, just when I’m about to give up and call it a day, in comes this big, beautiful mallard sweeping across my stand. I raised my trusty old Greenfield side by side, took aim, had him right in my sights and gave him both barrels dead on. You know what happened then?”
“What?”
“A miracle happened. That stone-cold dead duck, deader than a doornail, just kept right on flying out of sight,” Bennett said as he took another sip of bourbon. “A shot-dead duck that could fly. Damnedest thing I ever saw,” he added with a wry smile and a wink.
“As I said, my friend. There are some things we just can’t explain. Don’t be too quick to judge Avery.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
The Chupacabra
Border Patrol Agents Martin and Diaz had waited below the ridge until their partners arrived by truck and removed the remains of the two men from the desert floor. After collecting the extra supplies and night vision equipment the agents had brought, they loaded up their horses and headed east along the ridgeline, following the vehicle tracks in the dirt left by the men from STRAC-BOM. It didn’t take long to find them. The sound of shotgun fire made locating the bumbling militia relatively easy. Following at a distance to conceal their presence, Agents Martin and Diaz tracked the men’s progress for the rest of the afternoon. Close to sundown, the militia had reached their destination for the evening. The agents secured their horses and took up a vantage point above the campsite and settled in to watch.
“What do you imagine they were shooting at?” asked Agent Diaz.
“Probably their own shadows,” replied Agent Martin. “Better keep our heads down.”
In the campsite below, the men of STRAC-BOM followed General X-Ray’s orders for pitching the camp as he rested in the shade of a rocky outcropping, still feeling the effects of the blow to his head he’d sustained earlier.
“Private Zulu!” the General barked. “I want you to ring our position with punji sticks.”
“I think we got some bungee cords, general,” the confused private replied. “But I don’t think we brought any bungee sticks.”
“Punji sticks, you moron,” the General replied. “Find some sticks about a foot in length, sharpen the ends, drive them into the ground, and conceal their location with brush. If someone approaches our position in the dark, they’ll step on them and their screams will alert us to their position. I won’t have anyone sneaking up on us tonight.”
“Yes, sir, general,” the private replied as he pulled out an ancient Swiss Army knife from his fatigue pocket and wandered into the brush in search of suitable sticks. Private Zulu searched the area around the slowly forming campsite, finding half a dozen promising sticks. From the other side of a pile of rocks, he heard a buzzing sound. Curious, he used one of the sticks he’d gathered and pushed aside the underbrush. Dozens of flies were buzzing and humming as they covered something vaguely dog-shaped in the bushes. The private used the stick to swat away the swarm of flies. Private Zulu’s blood froze as he peered at the hairless animal carcass in the grass. The dead coyote had suffered from a terrible case of mange, causing it to lose all its hair before dying in the desert. Rigor mortis had set in and caused the coyote’s lips to pull back and expose its teeth, making it more menacing in death than in life. The petrified private’s brain screamed at his legs to run, but his limbs wouldn’t respond. Eventually, after puking up his field rations, he was able to regain enough composure to stumble back to the campsite.