Scratchgravel Road (Josie Gray Mysteries #2)(46)

ELEVEN


“Well done, my friend. Well done!” Sergio hugged Josie and patted her back, laughing into her ear. Josie stood about six inches taller, but Sergio was powerfully built. He had the kind eyes and smile of an old-world gentleman, and a demeanor that put everyone around him at ease.

Marta had grown up with Sergio in Mexico and had been gently pushing away his advances for many years. Josie thought the two loved each other, or at least deeply cared for one another, and couldn’t understand why Marta accepted only his friendship.

The landscape was rocky, with mountainous desert sprawling south into Mexico. The hour-and-a-half-long drive back to Ojinaga took them along a canyon road high enough to avoid most of the flooding. One small detour took them around a tributary that flowed into the flooded Conchos River. Sergio said that at least twenty residents had drowned in the Conchos after they refused to evacuate their homes along the river. Sergio said the International Bridge wasn’t flooded, it was the street in Ojinaga that the bridge fed into that was currently underwater. He expected the water to recede within the next several hours, and for the bridge to reopen by daybreak.

Sergio spoke fluent English, occasionally mixing the two languages, but Josie had no trouble understanding him as he filled her in on the local feuds and battles that sounded identical to stories she heard about Presidio, the city across the border from Ojinaga and just to the south of Artemis. Mostly though, Sergio talked about Marta, and their childhood growing up together.

“As small children we lived in Barrio Montoyam, along the canyon. We spent our childhood in the river, scrabbling up and down the rocks and valleys. Thirteen kids between our two families. It was a good life. Then both our fathers took jobs in Ojinaga at the new maquiladora. That’s when Marta met Javier.” Sergio looked at Josie and smiled, shrugged, giving a look that said, What can you do?

“Was Javier always trouble?”

Sergio hesitated. “Marta was always spiritual, even as a child. She looked to the angels and the saints in place of her mother. I used to tell her, ‘Marta, your home is here. Make better use of your time here, instead of wishing away for something you can’t know.’ When we settled in Ojinaga we were both sixteen. I was in love with her, but too proud to risk the truth of her knowing. Then, she met the Lazoyas and I lost her to Javier. His father was a curandero, a spiritual healer. Very respected in the region. Javier has the gift as well, but he never grew comfortable with his sight.”

“Why is that?”

“He was afraid of the responsibility. He was a coward, and I told Marta. It just made her angry with me. She thought she could fix him. That’s always been Marta’s goal in life, fixing up people. She says that’s why she could never love me. Nothing to fix.”

Sergio glanced at Josie and smiled sadly. “Marta was too kind to give me the truth, but I knew. Her heart was with Javier.”

Josie sat quietly a moment, watching the waterlogged desert pass by them, thinking about Marta’s life growing up along the river. “Would Javier have been considered a priest?” Josie asked, not entirely certain she understood Sergio’s explanation.

Sergio laughed. “No, no. The curanderos learn their art from the Indian shamans of hundreds of years ago. A gift passed down, an understanding of the spirit world. Javier’s father was consulted when the brujas, or the witches, brought harm or mischief to families. He heals with herbs and potions. People still seek out his remedies, but he’s old and tired. Javier is a great disappointment to the family.”

“What kind of healing?”

Sergio lit a cigarillo as he drove and rolled his window down to the warm evening outside. “Curanderos say prayers to bring you luck in bingo, to help you find your lost husband, to get rid of warts and cancer and diarrhea. You think of it, they have a saint and a prayer to help you through the problem.”

As they approached the city the sun had fallen enough to cut the harsh glare from above, and the city’s edges were not so rough. It was 6 P.M. and Josie hoped there were enough daylight hours left to find Teresa and get her in a safe place for the night. However, the daylight also left Josie more exposed. As an American police officer in the country illegally, she was very cognizant of her situation.

Josie had only visited Ojinaga a few times, and was always struck by the angular shapes: the buildings were cubes with square windows and rectangular doorways stacked atop each other like kids’ building blocks. The stucco and arches she associated with Mexico were not found in these neighborhoods, but the brightly painted blues, reds, and oranges turned the streets into a kaleidoscope.

Sergio pointed out a small Catholic church with rooms to rent and said a room had been prepared with two twin beds. A tall stone wall encircled the church for protection. Josie thanked him for the arrangements and hoped she and Teresa were inside their room by sundown.

Javier’s house was in a tumbled row of flats with power lines draped precariously along the rooftops, dangling almost to street level in between. The street had a dusty, slapdash feel to it, but Josie noted how clean of debris the area was. Sergio pointed to a small brown apartment, no more than a box perched atop a bright blue building with a large advertisement painted in yellow and red across the storefront: AGUA CHILI!

“You’re sure this is Javier’s place?” she asked.

Sergio frowned. “No doubt. His father has begged him to move home, but what can you do?” He turned the engine off and removed the key. “I’ll walk up with you, make sure he doesn’t give you trouble. If Teresa is here you can get her, and I’ll take you to your room for the night.”