Dead Men Don't Lie. Jackson Cain

gently.

      Eléna’s close friend Antonio sat in the corner. His clothes were also white mejicano garb, but he wore leather shoes, not rope sandals. He stood six feet three, and even under baggy clothes his muscles seemed massive. His neck was as thick as a telegraph pole. He said nothing. Antonio seldom said anything, but it was common knowledge that he would follow Eléna into the grave.

      “Eléna,” Dr. Pérez said, “the woman has suffered a fracture of the left temple, which happens to be very dangerous. It’s one of the thinnest areas in the skull and quite susceptible to shattering when struck with a blunt instrument. Additionally, it has an artery riding right under the area of the fracture and through the cerebrum. It’s called the midcerebral artery. Indispensably vital to the cerebrum’s blood flow, it has been severely compromised. The temple bones are fragmented, and bleeding between the skull and the dura mater, which covers the brain, can result in a subdural hematoma. In other words, she has an extremely serious, extremely life-threatening concussion.”

      “That hideputa [son-of-a-whore] Mateo did that to her,” Eléna said.

      “And you feel compelled to help?” Dr. Pérez asked Eléna.

      “Sí.”

      “She’s not your responsibility,” the doctor pointed out.

      “She entered my house, and mi casa es su casa. I was responsible. I am responsible.”

      “You can’t protect everyone,” Dr. Pérez said.

      “But she’s so young, has so much to live for, and they did this to her. And then they abducted her brother. ¡En mi casa! ”

      “I can do nothing, Eléna.”

      “You’re a doctor, no? You can operate on her.”

      “I would have to do a craniotomy, then assess both the condition of the brain and its dura—the protective tissue covering it. Afterward I would have to remove the skull fragments and then reassemble them, putting the single piece of patchworked cranium back into place. There’s no way I can do any of that. I don’t have the skill, the equipment, or the trained personnel to assist me.”

      Dr. Pérez rose, picked up his bag, and gave Eléna a polite bow. She walked him out of the room, through the cantina, and to the door. After telling each other “Buenas noches,” he disappeared into the night, bag in hand.

      Eléna returned to Rachel’s room.

      “Antonio,” Eléna said, “this woman and her brother came by themselves to our country, unescorted, unprotected, trying, as she told me, to understand Madre Méjico, what I call this Land of Perdition.”

      “Her brother was something special,” Antonio agreed, nodding. “He understood artillery—modern warfare. You saw how fast those diablos kidnapped him.”

      “Inside her backpack,” Eléna said, “she will have identification papers. Maybe we find out who her relatives are. Maybe we can notify them.”

      “You better just hope she has money to pay you,” Antonio said, “for room and board.”

      “It happened in mi casa. She owes us por nada.” Eléna spat out the last two words angrily.

      Rachel’s bag was on the floor near the foot of the bed. Going through it carefully, Eléna found nothing. “Her papers must be in her clothes.”

      She had removed Rachel’s clothes before putting her to bed. She’d worn a money belt under her pants. Going through it, Eléna found an ID, stating that her name was Rachel Hendricks. She also had enough money to get her and her brother home. Still it wasn’t much to go on.

      Going through Rachel’s pants, Eléna found a second hidden pocket, directly behind the left-rear button-down pocket, sewn into the back of the pants. The outside pocket contained the decoy wallet; the real ID was in the hidden pocket. She pulled out the real identification papers, stared at it in blank astonishment, and read the ID aloud.

      “Rachel Lydia Ryan. Brother: Richard Francis Ryan. Parents: Katherine Jane Paxton and Frank Herbert Ryan.

      “Her mother is Katherine Ryan,” Eléna said, “known down here as Gobernante del Mundo [Governor of the World]. She owns and runs El Rancho del Cielo in Arizona. She is the richest woman in the American Southwest. Rachel’s father is also one of the most gifted surgeons in the Western Hemisphere, and the man who possesses the finest hospital and medical equipment in the Arizona territory. I’ve read all about them. They’re famous. Dr. Pérez might not have the equipment to treat Rachel but her father will—if we can get her there in time.”

      Madre de Dios, Eléna was sick of Mexico.

      “Antonio? How would you like to take a long jornada by train?”

      “To where?”

      “El Rancho del Cielo—Rachel’s parents’ place.”

      “Why not?” Antonio said. “They can’t hurt us any worse than Díaz and the Señorita.”

      Chapter 8

      When Richard came to, he was flat on his back on an iron cot in the Sonoran rurales’ stockade. His head throbbed unbearably, and his pulse was hammering audibly in the high hundreds, as if someone were inside his skull, banging a gong or a bass drum. His cell was small, and the door was open. Security was obviously lax. Outside at a table, three bearded, uniformed guards sat smoking cigars, playing cards, and drinking what looked to be tequila. One of the card-players made eye contact with Richard and shouted:

      “Ey, Mateo, Sleeping Beauty just opened his eyes.”

      Major Mateo Cardozo entered. He paused to take a swig from the neck of a mezcal bottle.

      “Young Ricardo, you took some nap there. You must have been tired.”

      “How long was I out?” Richard asked.

      “A dozen hours.”

      “Feels like you ran my head through a hammer mill.”

      “My fault. I gotta be more careful swinging with cuarta’s buttstock.”

      “Maybe it’s just your nature to break skulls.”

      “Just so!” Mateo roared with laughter. “But here, I got something for your pain, something to put hair on your chest.” He handed Richard the mezcal bottle. “Take a good swig. Muy bueno for the cojones too. Make you mucho hombre [much man] .”

      Richard needed something. He took a swig and almost spit it out. It burned both his throat and his stomach; still he kept it down. Within a few minutes, however, his head felt better.

      “My young amigo,” Major Mateo said, “we got off to a bad start, and I wanna make it up to you. You will see I am not uno hombre malo [a bad man] . I don’t want you to spend your life in this brig, not even in the rurales. I just want you to join us for a little while. Ey, you can move into the officers’ quarters. You teach me how to make gunpowder for his artillery, then show me how to load, aim, and figure the tra-jec-to-ries of them puta guns. When we no need you, you can leave and go back to Gringo Land.”

      “You want help with your howitzers?”

      “Those chingo-tu-madre howitzers.”

      “What makes them so important?”

      “Sonora’s the only state in Mexico left that can stand up to Sinaloa—to Díaz and the Señorita. They stomp all over everyone else.”

      “So those two are as bad as everyone says?”

      “Those two are demonios del infierno [fiends from hell] . They torture and dismember people for laughs, and so far only we can stop them.”

      “It’s not my fight.”

      “It’s everybody’s fight, mi amigo. If they get past us, your home—wherever that is—will be next.”