“There’s nothing to it, March. There’s no heaven or hell, no angels floating on the clouds, no good, no evil, none of it. We’re just animals who like to tell ourselves stories in the dark. Animals making up rules for each other to follow. And when you die, that’s it. End of the line.”
“You don’t think there’s something out there-?”
“There’s nothing. Absolutely nothing. Read the book, March. You told me you did.”
“I’ve been a little busy recently.”
We sit in silence awhile. I can tell Jeff’s angry, the emotion coming out of nowhere like a flash fire. All I’d intended was to rib him a little, to pass the time as we drove, but the turn in the conversation has gotten him riled up.
“You’re a bit of a fundie, you know that?”
“Yeah, yeah,” he says.
“Anyway. We’re coming up on Brownsville. I guess this isn’t looking too good. They’re gonna have to stop somewhere, though. They can’t just drive those guns into Mexico. The odds of the van being searched are too much to risk.”
“Not if they already have a plan. Someone could wave them right through.”
I laugh. “Now you do sound like a conspiracy theorist.”
“Do I?” He doesn’t even smile. “Or maybe I’ve happened to see some things in life that you haven’t. On our side, I doubt they’re searching vehicles that are leaving the country, and I’m guessing the cartels pretty much own the Mexican side.”
“You’re probably right,” I say, trying to sound conciliatory. There’s no point in stoking the tension between us. I need him focused on the situation at hand.
He points up ahead. “The van’s turning off.”
“Here we go.”
We’re just inside Brownsville, flanked by a row of chain hotels on one side and a suburban strip mall on the other. The van turns off the frontage road into a big shopping-center parking lot, cruising down the rows until it slides into an empty space. I drive past them, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, circling the row and doubling back on the other side. The van doors open. The driver climbs out, leaving his door ajar, while the passenger makes a beeline toward the Best Buy electronics store.
“I’ll follow him,” Jeff says. “Any of these guys sees you, they might recognize your face. You keep an eye on the van.”
I head up the row and drop him on the front curb just as the passenger walks up. Jeff pauses, then follows him inside. Then I double back and find a space halfway between the store entrance and the van.
The van’s driver leans against the fender, propping his foot up. He cups his hands in front of his mouth, and then there’s a flame. He drops his hands and exhales a cloud of smoke. In the twilight I can see the cigarette’s cherry, if I’m not imagining it. The man seems relaxed, not bothered about the time or concerned that he has a payload of illegally obtained assault rifles in the back of his van.
I take my phone out and rest it on my lap. This isn’t the end of the line for these guys, and there’s a limit to what I can expect of myself. If I lose sight of them just once, if those guns disappear and end up in the hands of the cartel. .
I dial Charlotte’s number. It rings and then her voicemail picks up.
“You’re not going to believe where I am.” I pause, not certain what to say. “I told you I couldn’t let go of this thing, right? I guess I wasn’t kidding. I’m going to be out of pocket for a while. Something’s come up-a lead-and I’ve got to follow it.”
I look up and see the passenger emerging through the sliding doors, walking out past a yellow concrete stanchion.
“I’ll call you later, Charlotte. I love you.”
Stopping in front of a garbage basket, the man digs through the plastic shopping bag in his hand, removing the contents. He tosses the bag, then rips the package open and throws that in after it. He slips whatever he’s purchased into his pocket, then starts toward the van. Jeff walks out with a bag of his own.
When he reaches the car, I ask: “What did he buy in there?”
“A GPS unit. Wherever they’re stopping for the night, it’s not here. Pop the trunk for me.”
“What for?”
“Hurry, before they take off.”
I push the trunk release, then go around back to see what he’s doing, glancing at the van to make sure it’s not moving. He takes the AR-15 out of its case, resting the rifle at the bottom of the trunk, then dumps the contents of his own bag out. A pack of plastic zip-ties drops out. He rips it open and stuffs a handful in his pocket. Then he takes the rifle and crawls underneath the car.
“What are you doing? Anyone could see you!”
“Are they leaving?” His voice sounds muffled. His legs protrude from under the bumper.
“The engine’s running. The headlights are on. It looks like they’re talking.”
“Hand me your pistol.”
Down on one knee, I peer under the car. He’s slotted the rifle into a gap in the undercarriage, securing it in place with the plastic ties. As I watch, he gives it a tug to make sure everything’s tight. Then he reaches his hand out.
“What are you doing?”
“We don’t have time to discuss this. They’re gonna pull out any second.”
“What about the spare magazines?”
“Find something to put them in, and I’ll stick them under here, too.”
After scanning side to side and making sure no one’s watching, I slip the Browning out of its holster and quickly drop the safety to lower the hammer. I place the pistol in his hand and it disappears immediately. In the trunk I pull a nylon bag from my crime-scene kit, dump the contents, and jam the three spare mags for the AR-15 inside. There’s enough room left, so I add the spare hi-cap for the Browning from my belt rig, along with the holster and mag carrier, then zip the bag closed and pass it under to Jeff.
“Hurry, they’re leaving!”
The van pulls back, stops, then accelerates down the row. I can see the red running lights over the tops of the parked cars.
“Come on, come on.”
Jeff slides out, brushes his hands on his jeans, and gives the trunk a quick search. “Is there anything else in here we need to dump?”
“It’s gonna look strange, me having an empty gun case bolted into the trunk.”
“Right.” He reaches into the case and starts ripping out the molded gray foam. I lean in and try to help. We toss the foam onto the pavement, then slam down the lid of the now-empty case. “That’s the best we can do. It’s good enough.”
In the car, racing to keep the van in sight, he outlines his plan. “If they do try to cross, I’ll get out and you can follow them alone. The odds of your car being searched are pretty slim. They’ll look inside, but they’re not gonna tear it apart. Don’t flash your badge or anything. Just show them the passport card like you’re any other visitor. If worse comes to worse, tell ’em that van is smuggling guns. That should distract them.”
“What about you?”
“I’ll make my way across on foot. You’ll be sitting in line, so I might even get there ahead of you. I’ll call you and you can pick me up.”
“And what if you can’t get across?”
“Don’t worry about me.” He notices my phone in the cup holder. “Did you break down and make the call?”
The van exits the highway, turning onto International Boulevard. There are signs up ahead for the University of Texas at Brownsville and the Gateway International Bridge.
“I can’t,” I say. “There’s no one I trust. With my own people it would take too much explaining, and with the Feds, I think they might be playing me. I have to see this one through. I don’t have a choice.”
“There’s always a choice,” he says.
“Then I guess I’m making it.”
Brake lights flash in front of us. The traffic ahead rolls to a halt. The white van is four cars ahead, edging its way toward the Mexican border.
“You’d better let me out,” Jeff says.
He crosses to the sidewalk in front of the duty-free shop, walking toward the bridge without waving, without glancing back, giving no sign that we’re together. A group of pedestrians, black-haired kids in shorts and T-shirts, files in front of my car. I scoot forward toward the bridge’s entrance, a line of kiosks that reminds me of a toll plaza or a drive-through bank teller. I have my passport card ready, but on the American side a man in uniform is waving everybody forward.