“Kill any of us and you’ll never get Joaquin Rodriguez alive.”
He smiled, broadly enough that I could see his white teeth, and for a moment, that look of satisfaction confused me. Then another piece of the puzzle fell into place. No matter what happened here, Joaquin Rodriguez would never make it back to Mexico alive. I heard from a great distance the continuing rumble of thunder, but the sky above us was clearing rapidly. In the wake of the storm, a kind of peace had settled. Once again, I felt the calm that, in the past, had come to me as I stood at the edge of dead.
“You’ve been the money handler, haven’t you?” I said. “The man behind the laundering, behind diversifying the Rodriguez holdings. An upscale housing division in Cadiz. Major investments in mining interests. A silent partner in what was to become the biggest winery in Arizona. And that’s just in Coronado County. God knows what you’ve arranged in other places.”
He didn’t reply. He seemed, in fact, to be enjoying this recounting of his activities.
“But that wasn’t enough. You wanted it all. So you arranged for the ambush that you hoped would kill Carlos Rodriguez and his son Miguel. You used the people you’d bought in Coronado County to do your dirty work. People like Deputy Crockett there, and Marian Brown.”
Part of the reason I was talking was to lay it all out, finally to put the pieces together in a way that made sense. But another part of the reason was that I was stalling. I had no plan, no idea how, with a single, old Winchester rifle, I was going to save any of our asses.
“Sending Joaquin into Coronado County, now that was genius. You’d hoped, I’m sure, that he would bungle things, just as he did, and get himself killed. That way, once Carlos Rodriguez was out of the picture, you’d be set to head Las Calaveras yourself. You’re not here to negotiate for his return. You’re here to see that he doesn’t go back at all.”
He continued to look pleased with my assessment of his accomplishments. But I was sizing him up in other ways, wondering if he’d ever stood at the edge of dead.
That’s when Frank Harris tried to leave the cover of the Jeep, to go to Jayne. Peter grabbed him and wrestled him back. He shook himself free and stood staring toward his wife, as if not sure who he was seeing. “Cork says you’re involved in all this, Jayne. Is it true? Have you thrown in with these thugs?”
The question was left hanging in the air for a long while, until Rivera broke the spell. He took a knife from his pocket, opened the blade, and cut the duct tape that bound Jayne Harris’s wrists. Once freed, she pulled the tape from across her mouth.
“Frank, you have to understand.”
“Understand what? That you climbed into bed with the worst kind of people?”
“Climbed into bed,” Rivera said with a laugh. “You don’t know the half of it, Frank.”
“How do you think I kept your vineyard alive?” she said. “You were ready to fold up and walk away. I found the money. I bought the land. I was doing it for you.”
“Found the money?” Harris said. “You make it sound like it was just lying there waiting to be picked up.”
“She has made some wonderful investments for us, Frank,” Rivera said. “And made you wealthy in the process.”
“And the drugs in the Jezebel? Are we getting rich off that, too, Jayne?”
“Go ahead,” Rivera said. “Explain to your husband our financial relationship.”
I was beginning to hate his smile.
Jayne opened her hands toward her husband. “Frank, I did what I had to. But it was for you, for us, don’t you see?”
“And killing Marian Brown?” Rivera said at her back. “Was that for him, too?”
She turned. “You bastard.”
Rivera laughed and waved the barrel of his rifle toward Frank. “Tell your husband exactly how easy it is to go from money laundering to murder.”
“Murder, Jayne?” Harris spoke like a man in shock.
She turned, looking desperate. “Frank, please. You have to understand. They knew about her. She would have spilled everything eventually.”
“Joaquin Rodriguez,” Rivera demanded, that irritating smile finally fading. “Where is he?”
It was clear there was no way to negotiate out of this situation. I was sure that from the get-go Rivera had planned to leave us all dead at the Jezebel. No witnesses. Simply another slaughter in the war along the border. My attention had moved to Deputy Crockett. He might have been a man who’d faced death before, and that made him, in many ways, more dangerous than Rivera. I eased the barrel of the Winchester in his direction. But he stood directly behind the hostages, and there was no way I had a clear shot.
“Crockett,” I called. “Have you thought this through?”
He tilted his head, said nothing.
“Do you think Rivera intends to let you leave here alive? You know his plan now, this whole scheme he’s hatched to take over Las Calaveras. Do you think he’s going to trust you with that?”
“I warned you, O’Connor,” Rivera said. “Give me Joaquin Rodriguez. Now.”
“Why did he bring only you, Crockett?” I went on. “Why not a whole bunch of Rodriguez’s men, make certain this thing went down right? While you’re busy getting rid of us, you better believe that M16 Rivera is holding is going to take care of you.”
“Enough,” Rivera said, with a note of what could just as easily have been desperation as anger. “Now someone dies.”
When he pulled the trigger, Jayne Harris jerked, as if she was a rag doll in a child’s tantrum. She dropped to the ground, her blouse a pale white field where what looked like red poppies had suddenly bloomed.
“Jayne!” Frank screamed.
This time Peter could not hold him back. Harris darted from behind the Jeep, and Rivera cut him down with a burst from his automatic rifle. But Frank Harris wasn’t dead. He crawled through the mud toward the body of his wife.
“Who will be next, O’Connor?” Rivera called in a high-pitched voice. It was like an animal howl, as if the killing had triggered something primordial in him.
Crockett must have heard it, too, or maybe what I’d said about Rivera and that M16 had finally sunk in. While Rivera was focused on the Harrises and me, Crockett began to back away, cautiously retreating toward the big black truck they’d come in. Rivera didn’t seem to notice.
“What about Joaquin, O’Connor? Three seconds and the next one dies.” Rivera sounded positively hungry for what was ahead.
I prayed for Jocko and Michelle to drop to the ground, for them to give me a clear shot at Rivera. Because in a few seconds, one of them was going to die and I had no way to stop it. I opened my mouth to scream out that directive, the only chance I thought I had to keep them—maybe all of us—alive.
Before I could speak, the shot came as a surprise. The right side of Rivera’s head exploded in a crimson spray, and like an empty feed sack, he folded to the ground. I looked toward Crockett, thinking the deputy had bought my logic and decided to sever his relationship with Rivera. But Crockett seemed as astonished as everyone else.