Body Heat. Brenda Novak

He’d always had a soft heart. Jorge was part of the reason Rod’s mother had never left the ranch despite her difficulties. She knew he couldn’t go anywhere else and make the money he made working for Bruce. And she, no doubt, hoped Bruce would eventually “come to his senses” and accept Rod. Mostly, she’d stayed to see her son eventually have more and be more than she could hope to give if she left. “Since when did the two of you become friends?”

      “Time has a way of changing things, Rod.”

      “And some things will never change. So are you going to tell me what you want?”

      “To hear me out. That’s all I ask.”

      Hoping his father was about to lose the ranch and needed a loan or something, Roderick decided to indulge him. To a point. “You’ve got three minutes. Make it fast.”

      “I’d like you to come to Bordertown.”

      This made Roderick laugh. “You’re joking, right? I’d sooner go to hell.”

      “Rod, I think you might be able to help with a situation down here. If half of what Jorge tells me is true, I know you can.”

      The gravity of “a situation” should’ve piqued his interest. It didn’t. “I have no intention of helping you with anything. Ask one of your lazy-ass white sons.”

      Dropping several F-bombs and claiming Rod’s “ass was grass,” Milt stormed out of the conference room, marched to his office and slammed the door. But Rod wasn’t worried about his boss’s reaction. It wasn’t as if he’d be fired. He’d just busted a large child-porn ring in L.A., which was a major coup. Local law enforcement hadn’t been able to accomplish that in more than a year, and he’d done it inside of three months. His stock at Department 6 had never been higher.

      “This isn’t for me,” Bruce said. “This is for her, okay?”

      Roderick gripped the phone tighter. “Who’s her?”

      “Your mother.”

      Now his father had his full attention. “My mother is dead. Partly because she wore herself out before she could reach forty. Partly because you ripped her heart out and stomped on it every chance you could get. You’re the reason she’s dead. You and Edna.” He pronounced Bruce’s wife’s name with the disdain he believed it deserved.

      “I’m not the one who encouraged your mother to come to America. That was her decision. And I never promised her more than I gave her. I provided work, that’s all. It was as good a job as she could get anywhere.”

      “You gave her a baby, that’s what you gave her,” Roderick growled. “A baby she struggled to take care of, along with her little brother.” That brother had returned to Mexico not long before Carolina’s death. Roderick had lost touch with him, but he thought about Arturo often. From time to time, he considered looking him up. He would have done it, except he was afraid Arturo was dead from some drug deal gone awry. He’d caused a lot of trouble before he left. Chances were that if he’d survived, he wasn’t on the right side of the law. He was one of those restless spirits who could never find peace. At least, that was what his mother had always said.

      “I gave her some money…now and then,” his father said.

      Rod was surprised he didn’t mention how hard he’d tried to persuade her to get an abortion. Or the money he’d offered her in those early years to leave the ranch, leave Bordertown. “So…what? You paid her medical expenses and gave her a few bucks to help feed the kid you fathered? That means you deserve a medal?”

      “No, no, you’re right. I—I didn’t do enough. I’m sorry about that.”

      “Life’s a bitch, Mr. Dunlap. Babies don’t go away just because you regret making them.” Especially if the mother refused to get an abortion and refused to give up hope that her child would someday be accepted.

      “I don’t regret you. I regret how selfishly I acted. I was…scared. I didn’t want what I’d done to cost me my wife and family.”

      Roderick rolled his eyes. “Or your inheritance.”

      “My father wouldn’t have been sympathetic. Times were different back then. I know it’s hard for you to understand, but it’s true.”

      Bruce, Sr., had never once acknowledged Rod, even when his mother made it a point to cross his path and say, “That’s your grandpa.” She was so proud of her son she couldn’t understand why the male Dunlaps, at least, couldn’t see things her way. It was the male Dunlaps who, in her mind, held the power and controlled the money.

      “I wish I could go back and do things differently,” his father said. “But it’s too late for that. I don’t expect you to forgive me.”

      Roderick glanced at his watch. “Then why are you calling?”

      Bruce sighed. “Some racist son of bitch is killing illegal immigrants as they come over the border. Shooting them at point-blank range and leaving their bodies to rot.”

      “The only racist son of a bitch I know is you. Besides your father. But he’s not around anymore.”

      There was a moment of silence. One that told Rod he’d hit his target. Then his father said, “I deserve that. So would he, if he was alive. But this isn’t about me. Or him. I think this case is more than the local police can handle. They don’t have the funding, the manpower or the experience to deal with it. I’m afraid a lot of people will wind up dead if we don’t get some help.”

      Noise, coming from the reception area, indicated the other operatives were returning from lunch, so Rod stepped into the conference room Milt had just vacated and shut the door. He was acting tough, but speaking to his father shook him, made him feel like a little boy again. A hurt little boy. And the hurt resurrected the anger he’d shoved down deep inside. News of the killings brought that anger back, too. He kept imagining women like his mother creeping across the border with the hope of being able to make enough to feed themselves and their families, and being murdered by some vigilante who felt he had the right to take the law into his own hands. It was so easy to feel self-righteous and superior when you had a comfortable home, a safe place to live and a full stomach. “What, exactly, do you expect me to do?”

      “According to Jorge, you’ve got the skills to help. If you want to.”

      “I’ll have to thank Jorge next time we talk.”

      His father ignored the sarcasm. “You won’t believe this, but I’m proud of you.”

      “Like you were proud of me when I was cutting lettuce in your fields and you’d come by and completely ignore me?”

      Bruce didn’t respond to the jab, but the tenor of his voice changed, grew softer. “You could make a difference to what’s happening here. I know it.”

      “Since when did you start caring about Mexicans?”

      “I’ve been a member of this community all my life. Do you think I want to see senseless hate crimes tear it apart? I’m not a monster, Rod. I may not be happy about droves of people entering this country illegally, but that doesn’t mean I want to see them murdered.”

      “Yeah, where would you be if you had to pay for white labor?”

      “I’m good to my workers.”

      It was true that he’d been more generous than some farmers. That was another reason his mother had stayed. She interpreted this generosity to mean more than it really did. But Rod didn’t want to give him even that much. Besides, what was happening in Bordertown wasn’t Rod’s problem. He’d finally escaped. No way was he willing to let this draw him back. “I live in California now, Mr. Dunlap. Since my mother died, there’s nothing left for me in Arizona.” Except Jorge. But speaking to him on the phone and sending the occasional package was enough.

      “I’ll pay you,” Bruce offered.

      “Absolutely not.”