"Driving him across the river will rip the sutures out."
"No drive," the man said.
"He still has a chest tube in him-it must come out in a day or two."
"Do not worry, Doctor," the smaller man said, "we will bring nurses in for Jesus."
" Gracias, Doctor," Jesus said.
The big man slid his arms under the boy like a forklift and raised him as if he weighed nothing. The doctor surrendered, but grabbed two bottles of medicine.
"Here, give him one pill every twelve hours. It is an antibiotic, to prevent infection. And this pill is for the pain, it is morphine. He is going to hurt. And move his legs, so he does not get a blood clot."
The smaller man took the pills and said, "Okay, we will do that. Muchas gracias, Doctor. We will not forget this."
They followed the men outside; Pancho trailed them. The man with the pills got into a black Hummer. The doctor shook his head.
"I told them, driving him across the river will tear the sutures."
"How do they get through the gate in the border wall?" Lindsay asked.
"They do not. They cross upriver. With the drought, they can drive that Hummer across." The doctor scratched his chin. "I would note in the file that his check-out was against medical advice, but then, I do not have a file for the boy. I do not even know his last name."
The Hummer abruptly drove off-without the boy. The big man carried the boy around to the back of the clinic where the land was open. They followed, and now Lindsay heard a WHUMP WHUMP WHUMP sound overhead. In the blue sky appeared a sleek black helicopter flying in low from across the river, the kind of helicopter often used by corporate executives who came to Austin to lobby her husband; its nose lifted and the helicopter landed in the desert a hundred feet behind the clinic, blowing up a cloud of dust. The big man carried the boy to the helicopter. The pilot opened the back door and helped load the boy. The big man climbed aboard, the pilot shut the door, and the helicopter then rose from the ground in a gush of wind that threatened to blow her over. They stared as it banked south and flew back across the river.
"Well," the doctor said, "you do not see that every day in the colonias."
"See, Mrs. Bonner," the congressman said. "On this side of the wall, it is another world entirely."
NINE
Bode Bonner's body teemed with testosterone and endorphins, hormones and morphine-like brain chemicals that magically washed away the pain and twenty years from his body and guilty thoughts of his wife and budget deficits from his mind.
He felt good.
It was the end of another day in the life of a Republican governor up for reelection in a red state: easy, if not exciting. At least his schedule allowed him plenty of free time to stay in shape. He had just finished pumping iron at the YMCA fronting the lake; now he was running five miles around the lake. Blood still engorged his arms and chest; consequently, he was running without a shirt-not a recommended practice for most middle-aged men and certainly not for a politician up for reelection.
But Bode Bonner wasn't like most middle-aged politicians.
First, for all intents and purposes, he had already won reelection. And second, he didn't look middle-aged. His belly was still tight and his abs still sharply etched. His shoulders were still wide and his arms still thick with muscle. His legs were still strong, even if his right knee burned with each step. So he ran with Ranger Hank but without a shirt.
"Hank, don't fill out your daily logs anymore. Reporters can get hold of them. Damn nosy bastards."
The State Capitol sat on a low rise at the northern boundary of downtown Austin. Eleven blocks down Congress Avenue, the Colorado River marked the southern boundary. In town, the river was called Lady Bird Lake, in honor of President Lyndon Baines Johnson's beloved wife, Claudia Alta Taylor Johnson, known to the world as Lady Bird. A ten-mile-long hike-and-bike trail looped the lake. Bode jogged the lake almost daily. He wasn't alone. The trail was crowded with walkers, joggers, bikers, dogs, and especially "Praise the Lord," Ranger Hank said.
— young, hard-bodied, barely-dressed women.
Bode glanced back at the girl who had just jogged past. She wore Spandex shorts that appeared painted on her tight buns and a tube top that barely constrained her prodigious chest.
"Amen, brother."
Running the lake was the part of living in Austin that Bode enjoyed the most, even if he and Hank were the only Republicans on the trail that day. Or any day. Point of fact, a Republican living in Austin was lonelier than a white guy in the NBA. Texas was Republican, but the capital of Texas was Democrat. Austin was the liberal, leftist, loony blue hole in the bright red donut that was the State of Texas. The newspapers, the UT faculty and students, the residents, even the homeless people-everyone in the the whole damn town was a Democrat. The only Republicans in town lived in the Governor's Mansion or worked at the Capitol.
Which drove the Democrats in town nuts. They couldn't stand the fact that Republicans outside Austin-which is to say, every Texan who didn't live in Austin-kept sending Bode Bonner back to the capital. To their city. To live among them. To govern them. So they vented their anger by writing scathing letters to the editor of the local left-wing rag that masqueraded as a newspaper and scathing messages posted on blogs no one read, so desperate to be heard-the Internet gave everyone a voice, but no one was listening. At least not to Democrats in Texas. So they consoled themselves with their abiding faith that they were morally and intellectually superior to the vast majority of Texans who pulled the Republican lever, assured that they voted Republican only because they weren't smart enough to vote Democrat. That's it! We're not wrong! They're just not smart enough to know that we're right! Satisfied with that explanation to this perplexing human condition, they patted each other on the back and got stoned. But they couldn't deny a simple fact: they lost. They always lost.
Which made jogging among Democrats in Austin considerably more enjoyable for the leader of Republicans in Texas.
"Sweet female," Ranger Hank said.
He pronounced female as if it rhymed with tamale. Ranger Hank wore jogging shorts and the massive leather holster packing his gun, cuffs, Mace, and Taser. He sounded like a car wreck with each stride. He gestured at the firm bottom of the girl jogging just a few strides in front of them. With the buds inserted into her ears and connected to the iPod strapped to her narrow waist, she was oblivious to their conversation.
"What do you figure?" Bode said. "Junior?"
"Sophomore."
Since Democrats constituted your nonviolent offenders for the most part, Ranger Hank served more as Bode's personal driver, caddie, jogging partner, and fellow appraiser of the female anatomy than his bodyguard. Hank likened their jogs around the lake to an episode of American Idol, except the girls weren't singing.
"Damn, she's only a year older than Becca. I kind of feel bad for staring."
"But she's not your daughter."
"Good point."
He stared. She was a brunette with deeply tanned skin. Her tight buns were mesmerizing. Hypnotic. Bode's concentration was so complete that when she abruptly pulled up to tie her shoe, he almost plowed into her. He grabbed her by the shoulders to prevent knocking her down. He lifted her up, and she turned to him, close, almost as if she were in his arms. He inhaled her scent. She smelled of sweat and estrogen and youth and vitality and animal urges that ignited his male body. She looked even better from the front. But she wasn't tanned; she was Hispanic.
"You okay, honey?"
She removed one ear bud and gave him a once-over-the fine March day had turned warm so sweat coated his chest and no doubt made him look younger than his forty-seven years-and he saw the recognition come into her eyes. He expanded his chest and tightened his arm muscles and waited for the expected, "Oh, my God-you're Bode Bonner!" But it didn't come. Instead, she pulled away as if he had a poison ivy rash. Her eyes turned dark.