"Are you getting us across to interview the guy or what?" Guerrera chimed in.
"No," Rich said. He counted off a few steps along the fence line from the cactus, stopped, and let out a whistle.
A figure sailed over the barbed wire, dark against the sun, screaming. He landed hard, sand sticking to his cheek and neck. The man was hogtied, arms and legs bound behind him with cloth. His gag had come loose.
Tim put his face to the fence, making out the AFI insignia on the transportation-unit van on the other side. The agents on the roof offered Tim casual, two-finger salutes and went back to their game of cards.
Rich cut the prisoner's restraints and hauled him to his feet. "Gustavo Alonso?"
The man remained bent over, sucking wind, fighting to catch his breath. He managed a nod. "Y-yes."
Bear frowned and nodded, impressed. Guerrera's eyes were like coasters.
A Border Patrol jeep slowed, and they all waved except for Gustavo. The driver waved back and kept on.
Gustavo trembled, going at the scabs on his arms with his fingernails. From his urgency it was obvious he'd been waiting a long time to scratch. He looked terrified.
"Now, listen," Rich said. "Closely. I know you don't want to roll on the Sinners. Hell, if I was only up against some shaky aiding-and-abetting bullshit, I wouldn't want to either. But things are different now. You see this?" He toed the sand. "This is American soil. Congratulations. You just reached the promised land. So the problem is…the problem is, you were dicking around in an operation that threatens-as the song goes-this land that I love. Big time. Not just Laughing Sinners on their tricycles but terrorists. Muji motherfuckers, straight off the hijacked plane from Buttfuckistan. Comprende?"
Sweat streaking his face, Gustavo nodded. But he looked baffled.
"Now, on that side of the fence, you're all a bunch of big-family-having, God-fearing Catholics. You know what that means?"
"No."
Guerrera launched into a Spanish clarification, but Rich cut him off.
"It means no death penalty. But on this side of the fence, we're a bunch of pissed-off-cuz-we-got-caught-with-our-pants-down, vengeance-wreaking infidels. Guess what that means."
"Death penalty." Gustavo sounded sure, but he was looking at Guerrera, who nodded gravely.
"Very good, Gustavo. Now, you can play tough guy and prolong your visit to America for, say, the rest of your will-be-shortened life. Or you can talk and go back over the fence. Choice is yours."
Gustavo's eyes darted about. The tip of his tongue inched out and poked at his dehydration-cracked lower lip. "What we talk about. You won't give to them?" He jerked his head at the fence and the AFI agents beyond.
"We can consider this an unofficial powwow." Off Gustavo's blank look, Rich added, "No, we won't."
"What you want?"
"You prepared the bodies?"
Gustavo nodded.
"Stomach balloons full of Allah's Tears?"
Rich's question seemed to catch him completely off guard.
"But only I know my end. I am skilled, prepare well. The bikers mess up the bodies, wreck the estomagos before. They need to learn."
Made of silicone, the intragastric balloons were durable, designed to remain inside patients for months at a time and, by extension, able to withstand embalming chemicals for a few days. Under ordinary circumstances they were filled with saline to make overweight people feel full and promote weight loss. When their utility was exhausted, the balloons were simply popped, the saline was digested, and the balloon passed. There was no proper way to extract a balloon's contents. The Sinners probably weren't going to risk the exposure of getting involved with physicians and endoscopes to finesse out the AT. Trying to improvise was not only difficult but it required skill and a coroner's stomach. Thus Diamond Dog's botched work on the dry-run corpses. And Den's neater job on Marisol Juarez.
"They talk about new guy, better with scalpel," Gustavo said. "I am done with all this. I want no more."
"So the bodies already shipped?" Rich asked impatiently.
"I don't know. They leave in morning for two hour. They talk about airport. I hear phone call when they talk."
Tim's shoulders lowered with his exhalation. At least the AT would be picked up by Jan on the other end.
"American Airlines?" Rich asked.
"I don't know."
"For LAX? Los Angeles International Airport?"
"No LAX," Gustavo said, and Tim felt the sweat on the back of his neck go clammy. "They decide not to risk."
Tim screeched up into the gas station, hopping from the Explorer before the vehicle stopped rocking. The others were at his heels as he ran to the occupied pay phone. His badge tapped the glass enclosure, but the woman inside turned her back. He took her by the elbow, gently steering her out as she screamed at him and even went so scripted as to hit him with her purse. Of course, they'd been out of cell-phone and radio range when Gustavo had blindsided them with the change of plans. There had been an uncharacteristic dearth of Border Patrol jeeps after they'd sent Gustavo flying back over the barbed wire, so Tim had floored it to the nearest gas station.
Bear and Guerrera talked the woman down while Rich crammed into the phone booth with Tim. Jan picked up her cell phone on the second ring.
"Hold all bodies coming into Burbank, Ontario, Long Beach, and San Diego." Tim said. "Right now."
"Okay." No questions asked, Jan put him on hold. He waited, baking in the refracted sun and getting an earful of "The Girl from Ipanema." He worked a hangnail with his teeth. About five minutes later, she came back on.
"You're not gonna like this."
"What?"
"Two caskets came into Burbank Airport on an American Airlines flight from San Jose del Cabo this morning. They were picked up less than an hour ago."
"Damn it." Tim hit the phone booth's siding with the heel of his hand, the plastic cracking. The woman, still arguing with Bear, got quiet and hurried to her car. "Caskets aren't spot-X-rayed at Burbank?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Burbank's not on bin Laden's short list."
"And we all know terrorists strive for predictability."
"Our resources barely cover the high-profile airports."
Rich shoved out of the booth, his palms to his forehead. Tim heard Bear ask him what was wrong.
"Sorry," Tim said.
In a quiet voice, Jan replied, "I'll track down the paperwork, get it over to the command post."
"Thank you, Jan."
Tim racked the phone gently and stared at it a moment before stepping back into the hot desert wind.
Chapter 49
Tim asked Bear to drive; he had to sleep. His body ignored his intention. Every time he drifted off, lulled by the hum of the Explorer's wheels over asphalt, he jerked awake and ran through the string of tasks they had to begin when they returned. They were all weak suggestions; the others at least did their desperate musing silently. Rich sat in the back, watching the freeway roll past. He hadn't spoken since his cell-phone update to Malane.
They arrived in the city shortly after noon. Bear parked in an alley so Tim could get the cuffs on Rich before they cruised into Roybal. No telling where the Sinners had eyes. Though Rich said nothing, Tim kept the cuffs loose so as not to grind his raw wrists. Tim took back the wheel. He pulled into the underground lot.
"You coming back to the post?" Bear asked.
"Nah," Rich said, "can't keep me out much longer. We gotta get me behind bars again, keep things looking normal."
The men all sat as if there were something left to say. Finally Bear headed out. At Tim's nod Guerrera reluctantly followed, leaving Tim and Rich in the Explorer. Tim looked in the rearview. Rich was doing the perpetrator hunch in the backseat, leaning forward to accommodate his cuffed wrists.