Six Weeks After The Crossing
The woman appeared at Consuelo Vega's door on a Tuesday.
She was young. Too young for the shadows under her eyes. Her left arm moved stiff, favoriting the shoulder. She carried a black duffel bag and nothing else.
Consuelo had lived seventy-two years. She had buried two sons and one husband. She had crossed rivers herself, decades ago, with nothing but a prayer and the clothes on her back.
She recognized survivors.
"How long?" Consuelo asked.
"I don't know." The girl's voice was steady. Her hands were not. "A month. Two months. Until I find somewhere else."
"You have money?"
"Some."
"You have problems?"
The girl hesitated. Her hand moved to her stomach. Barely. A fraction of an inch.
"Everyone has problems," she said.
Consuelo studied her. The hollow cheeks. The careful posture. The way she stood with her weight on her back foot, ready to run.
"Room in the back," Consuelo said. "Two hundred a month. No men. No drugs. No questions I don't ask."
The girl nodded once.
"Catalina," she said.
Consuelo didn't ask if it was her real name.
The room was small. A bed. A dresser. A window that faced the backyard, where Consuelo grew tomatoes and marigolds and peppers so hot they made your eyes water.
Catalina set down the duffel. Sat on the edge of the bed. Pressed her palm to her stomach.
Seven weeks. Maybe eight. She'd stopped counting.
The nausea comes every morning now. She'd learned to keep crackers on the nightstand, to eat before she opened her eyes, to breathe slowly through her nose until the wave passed.
She hadn't told Consuelo.
She hadn't told anyone.
She lay back on the bed and stared at the ceiling.
What are you going to do?
The ceiling didn't answer.
El Paso, Texas.
Cade stood at the end of the bar and waited for the man to arrive.
The bar was called El Sacrificio. The Sacrifice. Appropriate. He'd been here three hours, nursing a Coke he hadn't touched, watching the door in the mirror behind the bottles.
The man's name was Ernesto Fuentes.
Not Hector. Ernesto. Hector's youngest son, twenty-three years old, three months patched, already carrying debt he couldn't pay. Gambling. Cocaine. A girlfriend who cost more than his cut covered.
Elias had given Cade the file that morning.
"Ernesto's three months behind. His father's old guard, so we're being generous. But generosity has limits."
"What's the number?"
"Twelve thousand. Plus interest. Plus the lesson."
"The lesson?"
Elias smiled. "Don't embarrass your father."
Now Cade sat in El Sacrificio, waiting for a boy who didn't know he was already dead.
Ernesto walked in at 11:47 p.m.
He was drunk or high, better still a little bit of both. He stumbled toward the bar, called for a beer, and didn't notice the man in the corner until Cade was already standing beside him.
"Ernesto Fuentes."
The boy turned. Recognition flooded his face. Fear followed immediately.
"Rhodes. I have the money. Most of it. I just need another week.... "
"You've had three months"
"I know, I know, but my father... "
"Your father doesn't know." Cade's voice was flat. Clinical. "If he knew, you'd already be in the desert. The fact that you're still breathing is the last chance that you're getting."
Ernesto's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"How much do I need to pay?"
"Not money."
The boy's face went white.
Cade leaned closer. His voice dropped to barely a whisper.
"Your father was Marcos Salazar's best friend. He voted for Catalina's death. I want to know why."
Ernesto blinked. Confusion replaced fear.
"I don't... that was a few years back. I wasn't even patched... "
"But you heard things. Your father talks when he drinks. I need names. Who pressured him. Who threatened him. Who told him that voting against Elias would cost him more than his vote."
"I don't know anything."
"Then you're useless to me."
Cade stepped back. His hand moved to his waistband.
Ernesto's eyes tracked the movement. His breath quickened.
"Wait... wait, there was someone. A man. Silas. Silas Reyes.
He came to the house, three days before the vote.
My father locked himself in the study with him. When Silas left, my father didn't speak for twenty-four hours."
"What did they discuss?"
"I don't know. I was nineteen. They sent me to my room.*"
"But you heard something."
Ernesto swallowed. His voice dropped to a whisper.
"I heard my father say: 'She's just a girl. She didn't do anything.' And Silas said: 'She's Marcos's daughter. That's enough."
Cade's hand stopped moving.
"Anything else?"
"No. I swear. That's everything."
Cade studied him. The boy was telling the truth. He didn't know enough to be useful.
But his father did.
"Twelve thousand," Cade said. "Plus interest. You have two weeks."
He turned and walked out.
Behind him, Ernesto collapsed against the bar.
Cade drove home with his knuckles white on the wheel.
Silas Reyes.
He'd known Silas was involved. Suspected it, anyway. But hearing it confirmed that she's Marcos's daughter. That's enough... was different.
Silas hadn't framed Catalina because she was a threat.
He'd framed her because she existed.
Because her father was Marcos Salazar, and Marcos Salazar had tried to clean up a club that didn't want to be clean.
Because silencing Marcos hadn't been enough. They needed to erase his bloodline.
Cade pulled into his driveway. Sat in the dark truck with the engine off.
His house waited. Three bedrooms. Empty.
He thought about Catalina. Wherever she was. If she was.
He thought about the bag he'd packed. The map. The passport. The route that led north, away from everything she'd ever known.
He thought about her handprint in the dirt. Small. Fingers splayed. Alive.
She's alive.
He didn't know it. Not for certain.
But he walked into his house anyway. Sat on the edge of his bed. Opened the safe in his closet and placed a new file inside.
Silas Reyes.
He didn't have enough yet. But he would.
San Antonio, Texas.
Catalina woke at 3 a.m. with her hand on her stomach.
The nausea had passed. The exhaustion remained. But beneath it, something else stirred smaller than a heartbeat, smaller than a thought.
She pressed her palm flat against her skin.
I don't know if I can do this.
The silence didn't answer.
But in the morning, she woke before dawn. Dressed in the cleanest of her two shirts. Walked to the diner three blocks from Consuelo's house and asked if they were hiring.
The manager looked at her. Young. Thin. No rings on her fingers.
"Experience?"
"I learn fast."
"You need papers?"
Catalina hesitated. Then she opened her wallet and pulled out the passport.
Not her face. Not her name. But close enough.
"No," she said. "I don't need papers."
The manager studied her. Nodded once.
"Just the dishes. Weekends. Cash will be under the table."
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. Just show up."
Catalina showed up.
Six weeks after the crossing.
She washed dishes in a diner and hid her nausea from the cook.
He collected names in a safe and hid his humanity from everyone.
Neither of them slept through the night.
