Devils And Dust. J.D. Rhoades

Tall fences, topped with wicked-looking spirals of barbed wire, surrounded the area around the buildings. Beyond the wire, Ruben could see fields stretching out before the trees began again.

      “Where is this place?” Edgar whispered. “Are we in prison?”

      “No talking!” a voice barked. It was the blond man, still holding the shotgun trained on them. Other men with guns surrounded the group. “Form a line!” the blond man snapped. No one moved. The man raised the gun.

      “Form a line!” Ruben shouted in Spanish. “Single file. Or he’ll shoot us.” They looked at him in surprise, but slowly shuffled into line.

      The blond man was looking at Ruben appraisingly. “So,” he said, “You speaka de English.”

      “A little,” Ruben said. “I learned in school.”

      “Good. You’re the translator. Tell these assholes to march.” He gestured with his weapon toward a building down the row. The only tree inside the wire, a tall tree of a kind Ruben couldn’t identify, grew in front of it. “Building Three. That’s the Judicial Building.” The blond man grinned nastily. “Pray it’s the last time you have to see the inside of it.”

      “That building.” Ruben pointed to the group. “Over there.”

      Surprise was turning to resentment, but they complied.

      When they got to the building with the large number 3 painted on the front, they were herded through the door into a large room, empty except for a table along the back wall. A pair of flags, one the familiar American flag, the other one a kind Ruben could not identify, flanked the table. The man who sat behind the table was the same bald man they had seen shoot the old man by the side of the road. This time, however, he was dressed in a black robe. As the group shuffled to a stop in front of him, he picked up a large wooden gavel lying on the table before him and banged it twice.

      “All of you stand accused of attempting to violate the sovereign and sacred borders of the United States of America. The court has seen the evidence against you, to wit, that you all were apprehended, without passport or other legal authorization, in a truck just north of the Texas Border. Do any of you wish to offer any defense?”

      They looked at each other in confusion. Ruben’s heart was in his mouth, but he had to speak.

      “They don’t know what you’re saying,” he said. The blond man moved toward him, but the bald man motioned him away.

      “If they don’t speak the language,” he said with a deadly mildness, “they shouldn’t be here.”

      “What court is this?” Ruben said. “I thought in America, you could get a lawyer. And a chance to speak.”

      “The courts,” the man said, “have become too weak and corrupt to deal with the threats we face. It’s up to the people to take justice back. To take their country back. And this…” he gestured with the gavel, “this is a court of the people, by the people, and for the people.”

      Ruben opened his mouth to speak again, but not quick enough. The bald man smacked his gavel against the wood with a sound like a gunshot.

      “Very well then. No valid defense is presented. The sentence is life at hard labor.”

      “This is not right…” Ruben began. Pain exploded in the back of his head, driving him to his knees. He dimly heard someone screaming. A boot caught him in the stomach and doubled him over. Then another sudden shock of pain in his head, and everything went black.

      

      “WHEN WAS the last time you saw him?” Keller said.

      Angela sat up, startled. She had been dozing in the backseat. It was the first time Keller had spoken more than a couple of words since they had pulled out of the hotel parking lot. They had been driving for hours in near silence, Angela staring at the back of Keller’s head, wondering what to say, or when he would speak. Finally weariness had overcome her and she had closed her eyes.

      “What?” she said, trying to collect her thoughts.

      “Oscar,” Keller said. “When was the last time you saw him?”

      “Jack,” Lucas said from the passenger seat. “Maybe we should talk about—”

      “Later,” Keller cut him off. “Right now I need to know just how cold the trail is.”

      Angela looked out the window. It was dark outside. All she could see was the shoulder of the road and the blacktop as far as the headlights reached. She had no idea where they were. This was a mistake. The thing that had made Keller such a successful hunter had always been his relentless focus. Once the hunt was on, there would be nothing else. It had been what defined him. It was also the thing that had nearly destroyed him.

      Finally she spoke. “Three weeks ago.”

      “Where?”

      “He was at home. But he was going to see somebody. Somebody who he thought might be able to help get his sons into the country.”

      “Did he give a name?”

      She shook her head. “He said it was better that I didn’t know.” Keller didn’t speak. “I tried to get it out of him.”

      Keller was drumming his fingers impatiently on the wheel. He took no apparent notice of her defensive tone. “How did he get the name?”

      “We went and talked to an immigration lawyer,” she said. “Some guy in Charlotte.”

      “The guy couldn’t help him?”

      “No. He told us that since Oscar was in the country illegally, and he had no relatives in the U.S., there was no way he could apply for visas for the boys. At least nothing that wouldn’t take years. Then, as we were leaving, he called Oscar back in. Alone. When he came out, he was holding a piece of paper. It looked like there was a name and number on it. He wouldn’t show it to me.”

      “How long was this before Oscar left?”

      “A week. Maybe a week and a half.”

      “He didn’t talk to anyone else?”

      “Not that I know of.”

      “Okay then. That’s where we start. The lawyer. You got a name?”

      “Yeah. Delgado. Perry Delgado.”

      “You got a phone?” Keller asked.

      “Yeah,” Lucas said. He reached into the glove box. “I don’t think he’ll be in this late, though.”

      “I know. See if you can get us tickets to Charlotte. Closest airport to here is Phoenix.”

      “You don’t want to go home first?” Lucas asked.

      Keller’s voice was tight with impatience. “The trail’s three weeks old. It gets colder every second.” He glanced in the rearview. “I’ll need to pick some things up in Charlotte. Probably a car, too. Not a rental. You got the budget for that?”

      “Sure,” Angela said. “But why do you need another car?”

      “If I get any good information from this Delgado character, Charlotte’s where we part ways,” Keller said. “You guys can go home while I follow—”

      “No.” Angela said. “I’m going with you.”

      “It doesn’t work that way, Angela,” Keller said. “I work alone.”

      “He’s my husband. I go with you or the deal’s off.”

      “Okay.” Keller slowed the car down and began pulling to the side of the road.

      “What are you doing?” Lucas asked.

      “The