Mexico Fever (The Bill Travis Mysteries Book 12) Read online

  I have lived long past what should have been my allotted time. And if I am to die here, then at least it’s while doing my duty.

  Please take a message back to my friend, Richard Sawyer. Tell him that I never had a brother in this life, but that he has been a good and right substitute. Tell him that I love him.

  I’ll close now. Tomorrow morning I go into the woods seeking Sunlight. I won’t say where, because I don’t want you—whoever is reading this—to follow. If I get the chance, I’ll kill Sunlight. That’s what I do. I’m an avenging angel, and he must pay for murdering a family of innocents in Texas.

  I leave no family behind me, so there is no one else to inform.

  You might lay a wreath for me at one of the Rangers’ graves near Center Point. I thought I might be buried there someday. I’m beginning to doubt that.

  Vaya con Dios, whoever you are. Go with God.

  Walter M. Cannon,

  Texas Ranger, Retired

  I refolded it and placed it back in the envelope.

  And then, to my great embarrassment, there in front of a little girl I had only just met, the tears came.

  *****

  I got up and showered. When I came out with a towel wrapped around me, Herlinda was still there, or rather, had returned. A platter of fruit, bread and cheese was on the table beside her.

  I fished out my wallet from my jeans from the day before, found a twenty dollar bill and held it out to her. She frowned at it, and looked a question at me, but then must have seen the twenty on the face of it, because she took it.

  “You may go,” I said.

  She stared at me.

  I motioned to the door. “Go.”

  She shook her head, no.

  “All right then. Give me a few minutes.”

  I took my back pack into the bathroom with me and got myself dressed. When I returned she was waiting for me where she had been when I came to—in an old, straight-backed chair.

  Herlinda pointed to the plate, pantomimed eating, and then pointed at me.

  “I’ll eat,” I said. “Hold your horses.”

  She watched as I ate. As I did, the headache slowly abated, and as this occurred, a few things began to fall into place. I turned to her.

  “Herlinda,” I said. “Señor Cannon. Su amigo?” Your friend?

  She pursed her lips and her face reddened, as if she were going to begin bawling. She nodded slowly.

  “Mi amigo, también,” I said. My friend also. “Usted...y yo...” You and me. She waited. I grasped for the word in Spanish, but it simply wasn’t there. Fortunately, she knew where I was going.

  “Salvar?” Save him?

  “Si,” I said. “Salvar.”

  She leapt from the chair and threw her arms around me.

  I let her hold me for a minute. I rocked her back and forth gently and patted her back, and finally she released me.

  I took a piece of roughly sliced bread from the platter, folded it around a hunk of cheese and handed it to her. She took it with a smile and bit into it.

  *****

  When we got to the lobby, Herlinda holding my hand all the way down the stairs—as if something might happen to me; maybe I would fall or something—I tried to turn toward the front of the hotel and the entry to the street, but she shook her head and pulled me the opposite direction.

  I followed, her hand around my wrist as if I might drop her, say, from a blimp.

  Herlinda led me through the kitchen and out the back door. All the while I got the feeling that she knew far more about what was going on than I would know if I spent the remainder of my lifetime there.

  Back of the kitchen, an open doorway led to an alley. She pulled me that direction.

  Outside there was a shed against the side of the building. A light rain was falling. I’d heard somewhere that it rained daily in Yucatan, even if for no more than a few minutes.

  There, underneath the shed, was Señor Burro.

  “Hello, old friend,” I said.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Herlinda had placed a rather large sombrero on my head and showed me how I should walk—a slow pace and hunched over, as if I were an old Mexican man. She rode Señor Burro, who seemed to take it all in stride.

  We moved slowly down back alleys away from downtown, only crossing major roadways when it was clear that no one was coming. At one point she stopped, got off Señor Burro, and had me climb up on him. She took the reins and walked in front of us, leading us from the roadway onto a beaten path through a large, vacant lot. The sun was still high in the sky—it couldn’t have been later than one or two in the afternoon. The sun may have been hot, but the straw sombrero cast a wide shade and keep me cool enough, even despite the humidity, which was as bad as, say, Houston.

  After the vacant lot was a neighborhood. The houses were more run-down, dirtier, less well-cared for. She led me across the roadway and toward the back of a house. When we were exactly between the two homes, she motioned for me to get off. We left Señor Burro standing there in the shade of a tree I couldn’t for the life of me identify, and I followed her around to the back door of the small home. She opened the rear door, looked up at my sombrero and pantomimed doffing it, which I did.

  I went inside.

  “Herlinda!” a voice called.

  “Si, mama!”

  We were in the kitchen. A woman entered. She looked me up and down, and I saw fear etched into her features.

  “I’m harmless, ma’am,” I said. “I assure you.”

  “You are the one,” she said. “Bill Travis. The name is all over town. You fired a gun upon Señor Sunlight.”

  “I fired and I hit.”

  “Her hand covered her mouth.”

  “You did not kill him.”

  “No,” I said. “I did not.”

  She accepted this news and sat down hard in one of the kitchen chairs.

  “Your daughter led me here. Why did she do that?”

  “Because,” she said. “I am the best-kept secret in Mexico.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, and without being asked, I pulled back one of the chairs and sat at her elbow. The table was meager by anyone’s standards, but it seemed sturdy.

  “The man who was with you,” she said. “The policeman.”

  “Yes?”

  “He is my husband.”

  “Then you’re Señora Monsiváis.”

  “Yes. The man you shot—the man called La Luz del Sol...”

  “Yes?”

  “He is my brother.”

  I felt as though I had been punched in the stomach. “Oh my,” I said.

  “There is more, but that is enough for now.”

  “I don’t know,” I said. “I find that it’s usually best to know everything.”

  “I do not care,” she said. “My husband is being held.”

  “By your brother.”

  “Yes, by my brother.”

  “Why?”

  “Perhaps to keep him safe until...after.”

  “After what?”

  She looked at me. A thousand things flitted through my mind at once. I recalled a flash of light and the shattering of glass when the insurgents hit the temporary military compound. Of Phil at the airport, and then Sunlight atop the Grand Pyramid in the early morning hours. Of the feel of the trigger on the gun given to me by the Generalisímo as I pulled it, and felt the recoil. Of Mexico and wind-swept streets and the smiles of children. And then suddenly, an image of blood running down stone, a long, long time ago. This image shook me to the core.

  “No one knows why the Maya disappeared,” I said. “But I know.”

  “What do you know?” she asked.

  “It’s happening. It’s happening now. Brother against brother. Father against son. Civil war.”

  “Yes.”

  “Civil war,” I said, “by definition, is the end of civilization.”

  “Yes.”

  “It is happening here. Again. At the heart of the Maya.”

&
nbsp; “It is happening to the heart of the Maya.” She thumped her chest overly hard. “It is happening to this heart. You may as well cut if from my chest!”

  Herlinda, startled, threw her arms around her mother.

  “You’re frightening the child,” I said. “Why didn’t you teach her English?”

  “Because I wanted her to live in this world. Not that one. Not his world.”

  “And who is he?” I asked.

  “No, I cannot tell you.”

  “You don’t have to,” I said. “Because I already know. I can see it in your face. I see it in your fair skin. My God, he’s a terrible liar.”

  “Who?” she asked. “Who has lied?”

  “Your father. Walter Cannon.”

  She covered her face and broke down into sobs.

  “Phil wouldn’t do it,” I said. “He couldn’t kill his own father.”

  “It is not his father,” she managed to say through her fit of crying.

  I nodded. “Phil’s father is someone else.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Tell me,” I said. “What is your name?”

  “It is an English name.”

  “Were you named for your mother?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then,” I said, “your name is Candace.”

  “Yes.”

  “You said ‘after.’ Can I assume you’re referring to an attack on the city? On the City Government and State Offices here? And the military, all at once?”

  “Yes.”

  *****

  I had it all in a flash. I knew what had to be done. There was no going to the local powers-that-be and explaining the situation. There is, forever and always, the propensity for organizations to meet and talk about things. To discuss and debate and hash it all out. But that wasn’t what was required. Such a move would be a complete waste of time. Words, mere words, typically fall on deaf ears, and there is no communication that can get groups to move. For individuals, however, the story is completely different.

  My blood was up, and I knew what to do.

  “Listen,” I said to Candace Monsiváis. “Do you want to end this Civil War?”

  “I do.”

  “Then listen closely. Because we’re about to do the impossible.”

  *****

  Herlinda took Señor Burro with her and left. I sat on the couch in the living room and had myself a beer from the Monsiváis refrigerator. I understood one thing, clearly. Captain Monsiváis was an honest man. No man could spend the years required to work his way up the chain of command to police captain, have his family live at near poverty level, and not be completely aboveboard. Once a person accepts a bribe, it’s far easier to take the next one, and the next. The beginning of the end of a being is the first slip. Forever, always and only. Therefore, Monsiváis had never slipped. Hence, he’d really had my back the night before.

  Another thing that I understood was that I was in Mexico. I had exactly zero rights. Whatever move I made—or for that matter, didn’t make—I was likely to wind up in jail for a very long time. Therefore, I had to tread carefully. I had to split every hair exactly. There was no room for mistake.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  We waited three hours before Herlinda returned.

  She came in through the back door and there was a hurried exchange between mother and daughter.

  The girl came to me, put her arms around my neck, kissed my cheek and then disappeared into the other room, what I took to be the bedroom for the entire family.

  Candace Monsiváis stood over my chair and looked down at me.

  “I, too, think you are the Señor Travis.”

  “What makes you say that?” I asked.

  “Did not the Texas people follow Travis without question?”

  “I don’t know. There may have been questions. That was a long time ago, and nobody really knows.”

  “These people, the people of Pisté, Yucatan, are preparing as you have said. They will be there when the sun goes down.”

  “Thank you,” I said, and sipped my beer.

  She took a seat beside me on the meager furniture. I could hear Herlinda pouring herself a glass of water. No doubt the little girl was tired. She’d just done the job of a full-grown woman or man.

  “Tell me about Phil,” I said.

  “Phillippe. He is my...”

  “Half brother.”

  “Yes. Brother of the half, and older than me. His father died long ago. He was born in this house—I am told he was born right there,” she pointed to the well-worn divan. “He was raised for the church, and one day became a priest. He was well-loved here. But he was always...angry. This is something not suitable for a man of God. Over time, he became very popular. Always speaking on behalf of the poor, always demanding more from the government.”

  “Social programs.”

  “Yes,” she said. “We have such things in Mexico, but like all such things, they are small and always come to the hands of those related to the ones who run the programs.”

  I nodded.

  “This outraged Phillippe. His voice grew loud and angry. Once, a child died in his arms from hunger and neglect. I wondered at the time, how can he become so angry when there are so many, not just the one.”

  “Sometimes one is too many,” I said. “And one more is far too much.”

  Candace nodded.

  “Your mother,” I said, “did you love her?”

  “She was a strange woman. She loved Phillippe, but I do not think she loved me. I took care of myself. Then, one day, she disappeared. Some say she returned to the United States.”

  “Returned,” I said. “You were born there, weren’t you?”

  “Yes. I am told I was. I am an American citizen.”

  “How old are you?”

  “I am younger than I appear.”

  It all fell into place for me. I knew too much of Walt Cannon’s background for it not to. Her mother, Candace Bingham, was married to the U.S. Consul to Mexico. They lived in Houston. One night there was a fire at their home that killed her two children and her husband. It was believed, at the time, that the fire had taken her life as well, but she showed up again years later, and Walt Cannon had recognized her. If he didn’t know about the existence of his daughter back then, around the time of the fire, then somehow, during the intervening years, he had traced Candace back to her original home in Pisté, and had found his daughter. And finding her, he kept damned quiet about it to those closest to him. Meaning, of course, to me. He had, in fact, lied about not having a family in his final letter, which, depending upon the future, could be construed as a dying declaration.

  I wanted to know why.

  Phil, I thought. The key to this is Phil.

  “I take it,” I said, “that Phillippe and Señor Cannon do not get along.”

  “You are correct,” Candace said.

  “Has there been violence between them?”

  “Yes. There was a fight. The first one was several years ago. A very bad one. At first I thought that my father would kill Phillippe. He beat him. He beat him until he was bloody. This was when he discovered Phillippe was running a drug cartel. Phillippe came to the house with a new car. The timing was bad, because my father was here. My father wanted to know how a former priest could afford such a long car. Phillippe laughed at him and threw him a bag of white powder. Later, the second time—”

  “A few months ago?”

  “Yes. My father accused him of killing some people from the United States.”

  “And there was another fight.”

  “A bad one. And this one, my father lost.”

  “I’m sorry you’ve had so much trouble,” I said. I knew enough. Enough to go on. Enough, as they say, with which to hit the ground running. “Phil said something about his camp. He even told me its location—off the south end of the airport runway there’s supposed to be a trail.”

  “I don’t know where he is. This I swear before God.”

  “All righ
t. No need to swear. I believe you.”

  “I am glad someone does,” she said.

  “You are worried about your husband,” I said. “About Samuel.”

  “I am.”

  “Is there a chance your half-brother will hurt him?”

  She shook her head slowly. “I do not think so.”

  I nodded. Hope, as they say, springs eternal.

  We lapsed into silence. All I could hear was the rattle of the old refrigerator, five feet away in the kitchen. Herlinda had disappeared. Possibly she was outside, seeing to Señor Burro.

  Candace interrupted our reverie. “What do you need in order to prepare for this...your next move?”

  “I need to make a few phone calls to the United States,” I replied, and fished my fully recharged cell phone from my pocket. “And then I need a few hours of sleep.”

  *****

  I stepped out into the back yard, checked to see if I had cellular service—one bar showed. Maybe it would be enough —and called Julie. As we talked, I peered across the lush landscape to see the crops of several farms cut into the distant hillside in swatches of green and gold.

  The kids were fine. She was fine. When was I heading home? I told her sometime in the next twenty-four hours. She suggested that maybe I would have a promising career as an author of fantasy fiction. When the signal began to break up, I quickly ended the conversation in the usual way. The habit of saying “I love you,” and yet meaning it each time, is the best habit I have ever developed.

  I called Dick Sawyer’s granddaughter, Elizabeth.

  Her communication was somewhat more explosive than Julie’s had been; the anxiety of the last twenty-four hours of silence came out in a rush, and I had to speak in soothing tones. Once I had her calmed down, I gave her a few instructions. If she didn’t hear from me, she was not to pay the ransom. She was only to honor the deadline if she got the word from me to do so. I could hear the relief in her voice. I’d successfully taken the pressure off of her. I backed this up by explaining somewhat of what was going on, and that it would all be decided tonight, one way or the other. She hadn’t had any sleep in the last two days. I ordered her to get some, but remain close to the phone. Her grandfather was better, and should be coming home tomorrow. And that was it.