Chapter 1

"This is where you have come to die!" barked the man with the balding head. "Unless you listen to me. What I'm about to tell you will save your life every blessed day."
The brochure had said adventure and excitement awaited him if he joined the U.S. Border Patrol. And though he was a romantic dreamer, Landon never imagined his reveries would bring him here.
"This is your new home, the El Paso Border Patrol station." The chrome-domed captain paused and cleared his throat. "Um, excuse me. I guess we're now known as ICE—Immigration and Customs Enforcement."
Landon's first day on the job as a fully sworn border patrol agent reminded him of boot camp. But this place was different. It was more like being at home with a strict father.
Landon wasn't sure he liked this guy, but as a seasoned veteran of the border patrol at fifty-nine years of age, Captain Skip Jackson probably offered real wisdom and not mere hype on how to survive in the stress-filled world of a border patrol agent. Jackson paced slowly in the air-conditioned conference room before the two rows of new agents, eight men and two women, their new Homeland Security uniforms clean and pressed. One of the women was Ricki, Landon's friend from boot camp.
Landon's forest-green uniform was stiff and uncomfortable. He felt much better in the sweat pants and T-shirt he'd worn during training days at the academy. He rolled his shoulders, trying not to draw attention to himself.
A tall Indian in uniform stood listening near the exit door with his arms behind his back, his face expressionless. Landon had read in their online bios that the captain and an Indian named Bingo had served together in Vietnam. This was likely that Indian. They no doubt knew each other well. Jackson stopped momentarily, as if to gather his thoughts, and then spoke again.
"To start with, you need to get comfortable with the desert heat of this area."
Several of the new agents snickered at the captain's comment, realizing the temperature outside would likely climb to 115 degrees. Jackson restarted his pacing, the heels of his boots thumping hard on the tile floor.
"I know a couple of you are former military from 'round here. That's a good thing. The rest of you will just have to learn to adapt. I'm not talkin' bout adapting to the illegals. I'm talkin' proper hydration and avoiding overexposure to the sun, not to mention the scorpions and rattlers out here."
He looked at Landon's friend, Ricki, and then at Landon. He had likely read their files. Both of them had graduated at the top of their class from the basic academy in Quantico, Virginia, the new training site since the creation of the Department of Homeland Security.
Ricki had demonstrated a fluent proficiency in Spanish, though she was of Italian descent, scoring perfect scores on her written and oral exams. Her instructors were impressed that she had a working knowledge of Arabic, French, and Italian as well.
Landon was the expert on weapons, not only in identifying them but in understanding how they worked, as he'd proven on the firing range. He was an expert marksman with a rifle. However, his specialty was explosives—building, detonating, and disarming them.
Skip's gravelly voice continued, "I know y'all got training on proper attire for this job and how we present to the public, and so on and so forth. Now that you're here, you'll notice we make exceptions to those rules."
He paused again and glanced at his Vietnam buddy. The Indian was still near the exit door. Landon glanced at him and noticed a frown at Skip's reference to rule-breaking. The Native American then made a sudden pivot on his left heel and disappeared quickly down the hallway.
"All right, let's get down to brass tacks. For all you newbies, rule number one is when you're out in the field, you always travel in groups of no less than two. I don't care if you're just using the john; you go in twos. Second rule: wear what you want as long as you display the badge and protect yourself from the elements and carry plenty of water. Rule number three: communicate, communicate, communicate with each other."
The captain positioned himself squarely in front of the group. He straightened his back and studied the rookies. "On occasion, you might find yourself in some nasty situations, and by that, I don't mean in some whorehouse. God knows we got plenty of 'em 'round here."
This time, all the rookies laughed. Landon glanced at Ricki and saw that she, too, had a grin on her face. They'd heard of the prostitutes from Juarez across the Rio Grande, who enjoyed misdirecting the attention of the agents by having sex with them in their pickups as scores of Mexicans scurried into the United States. Coyotes, the people traffickers, paid the prostitutes $500 for each crossing event, a big step up from their usual pay.
"I'm talkin' damn dangerous, where your life is in the balance. You have to learn to travel, work, and rest with the rhythm of the desert. Do not waste time and energy struggling against things you cannot change. Your survival will depend on your brains, your water, and God's mercy, so keep your cool; remember your training, and you'll come out fine. Any questions?"
When it was clear no one was going to speak, he added, "All right then. We've assigned two rookies to one experienced agent. The assignments are listed on the corkboard behind me. Men, Women, welcome to paradise."

* * * * *

On the wall was a big call-chart. Landon found his and Ricki's names under the name Bingo. "Desert Vector E-100" was inked below the names on a neat grid corresponding to their patrol areas.
Ricki and Landon were ecstatic when they discovered their assigned agent was Bingo Sohappy, a legendary American Indian, who, almost single-handedly, had nabbed several major drug dealers and high-profile criminals trying to enter the United States illegally. At boot camp, Bingo's heroics were often cited as examples to which rookies ought to aspire.
Landon saw him first as they walked down the corridor to the garage. "Yo, Ricki, there he is, man."
The man pulled something from his locker and stuffed it into a government-issued backpack. It was small bundle wrapped in a white terry towel. Landon knew that border patrol agents were often military men, spit and polish. Their Ford trucks were probably clean and new; their uniforms were sharp, and from the looks of this one, their lockers were squared away.
The two rookies approached him and extended their hands.
"Mr. Sohappy. We're Landon and Ricki,” said Landon. “We're so happy to meet you."
The man straightened his six-foot-four-inch frame, pushed out his barrel chest, and glowered at them—first at Landon, then at Ricki, and then at Landon again. He was an impressive figure with wide shoulders and the profile of a powerful warrior. He crossed his arms over his chest like an angry Indian chief.
After a few seconds of silence, Ricki felt compelled to say something. "What we mean, sir, is that we're honored to be assigned to work with you. We weren't trying to be funny." She turned to Landon as if asking for some backup.
"That's right, sir. I mean, that's what I meant to say."
When their smiles faded, a look of seriousness and concern replaced them.
Bingo Sohappy apparently had done this to a lot of rookies. He curled up the ends of his mouth and broke into a wide grin, revealing a healthy set of perfect teeth. Landon and Ricki hadn't noticed that at least a dozen other agents had meandered toward them and had joined Bingo. They all broke into raucous laughter.
"Just messin' with y'all," he said, extending his hand in return. "Nice to meet you, too."
Landon and Ricki felt like fools but at the same time were relieved this giant man had a sense of humor. They secured their rifles on the gun racks and their packs on the floorboard of the double-cab truck that Bingo pointed out and then hopped inside.
Landon's suspicions had been correct: the man's truck was spotless. Bingo pointed out the functions of the radio display buttons and how to engage the four-wheel drive. "Keep the air on maximum cold," he said. "Just turn the fan, fast or slow."
Bingo took his time driving through the downtown El Paso traffic and then headed east on Interstate 10. It was only 9:00 a.m., and the mercury was already in the triple digits.
"It's gonna be a doozie," said Bingo, looking at the cloudless blue sky and then out Landon's window to Juarez, the lower part of the Rio Bravo Valley. "There's sixty-five to seventy thousand people cross that border every day. Most of them go home after work."
Ricki looked at Bingo's face in the rearview mirror. "You mean from Mexico or to Mexico?"
"Both," he said, nodding his head. "Some come to work in the restaurants and hotels and then walk back to Juarez after their shift is over. A few actually go in the other direction, especially the higher-ups in the maquiladoras."
Landon's face took on a puzzled look. "Help me out, Ricki," he said, turning to her.
"Maquiladora, it's an assembly plant," said Ricki. "It can be anything from computers to auto parts."
"Well, there's no assembly plants where we're going today," said Bingo. "Our assignment is a stakeout at a location between El Paso and Fabens."
"I've never heard of Fabens," said Ricki. "Where is it at, and what's at this location?"
"Honestly?" he asked rhetorically. "There's nothing out there. That's why we were assigned there."
"Sir, if there's nothing out there, then why are we staking it out?" asked Landon.
"Okay, this is as good a time as any to tell you what really goes on out here." He took a deep breath, as if preparing to jump off a high cliff. "First, don't call me 'sir.' Bingo's fine with me. Second, we get orders from every agency in the U. S. government and sometimes from the Mexican government too. Most of the time, we patrol only a very small portion of the Mexican-American border. Truth be told, Mexicans can walk freely across the border almost anytime they want. We don't have the manpower to catch and process them all."
Landon had read about the thousands of illegal immigrants who risked life and limb to come to America. "Where do they all go after they cross the border? I mean, if we catch them, they go to jail and we deport them. I know that much, but if we don't catch them, they'll get roasted in the desert heat."
As if on cue, heat waves began to dance in front of them and for endless miles on the flat Texas highway.
"Safe houses," said Bingo. "That's where they go."
Just then, the radio crackled. "Bingo, this is Skip at Alpha-1. Do you copy? Over."
"Go ahead, Skip. I read ya."
"Looks like we got a double homicide at Casita Blanca near Fabens. Can you check that out for us? We heard on the radio Sheriff Aguila is already headed in that direction, and by the way, be careful. Sounds like it may be gang related."
"I'm on it, boss."
Landon couldn't restrain his curiosity. "What's Casita Blanca?"
Bingo shook his head. "It's a not-so-safe house."

Chapter 2

The road sign read, "Fabens 10 miles." Bingo pulled onto the right shoulder and stopped the truck immediately after passing the metal marker. He studied the landscape as if searching for something.
"What is it?" asked Ricki. She followed his line of sight and saw nothing but dry dirt and rocks.

"I kinda remember a trail here somewhere. It'll save us a few minutes. There!" He cranked the steering wheel to the right and stepped on the accelerator. The pickup bounced across a shallow ditch and shot into the desert, kicking up a swirling cloud of dust behind it.
After about three miles, the path led around a gentle bend, revealing signs of vegetation in the form of mesquites and cactus. The first thing Landon saw was a short Mexican man with graying hair. He was wearing jeans and a guayabera. Standing very close to him was a nervous-looking, stocky woman. They occupied a shady spot next to the door of a two-story, whitewashed adobe home. A hundred-foot-long barn extended from the back of the house into an area covered by honey mesquite brush and sycamore trees.
Bingo pointed with his chin as he eased the truck within a few feet of the fence gate. "That's Doña Maria and Don Emilio. They're good people, but it's an open secret that they harbor illegal aliens. The guy standing next to them with a water bottle in his hand, that's Don Emilio's twenty-year-old brother, Chato. Not sure about the two little ones, probably grandkids."
Two petite, young girls with swollen eyes hung tightly to Doña Maria's faded red skirt. A light cloud of dust followed the truck as Ricki and the men prepared to climb out.
Bingo tilted his head away from Landon and Ricki as he set the gearshift into the park position. He spoke with a serious tone. "Check your weapons, and stay in my sight line."
Both rookies nodded. Landon touched the sidearm on his belt. He'd never shot at another human being and wondered if today would be his first time.
"Okay, let's go," said Bingo as he opened the truck door and let in the searing heat. He started toward the Mexican family. "Hola, Don Emilio, Doña Maria. Are you folks all right?"
"Si, señor. We are okay. But the two muchachos inside, not so much," answered Don Emilio.
"Is there anyone else inside?"
"No, señor." answered Don Emilio. "The other men, they have five of them in two cars. They do their business and disappear, real fast. But first, they take their backpacks."
"Why would they want their backpacks?" asked Landon.
"Are you serious?" asked Ricki with a tone that reminded him of his mother when she'd say, "You silly willy." "They were bringing in drugs. The real question is, why would they kill their own couriers?"
Chato had avoided eye contact, but now he raised his head and looked at Ricki. "It was Slaves that did this, and you'll never find them."
"Slaves? What are you talking about? Whose slaves?" asked Ricki. She crossed her arms under her breasts.
Chato appeared to be formulating his response and scrutinizing Ricki's figure at the same time. For reasons not fully crystallized in his mind, Landon felt a mild pang of jealousy.
Bingo studied Chato but directed his answer toward Ricki and Landon. "Slave is an acronym for South Los Angeles Vatos, S-L-A-V, drug runners and gangbangers out of south LA"
Ricki broke into a hearty laugh.
"What the heck is so funny?" asked Landon, with Bingo looking on.
"Bato is not spelled with a V. It's spelled with a B," she answered.
"Well, no one said you need a brain to be a gangster," said Bingo. He looked at Chato. "How do you know they were Slaves? Did they have tattoos or wear some kind of gang colors?"
"No. It's what they did to these guys. Do you want to see them?" Without waiting for an answer, he waved them in. "Come in, I'll show you."
Bingo looked at the older couple. Because their house faced south, with the angle of the sun's rays, it afforded them a modicum of shade. "You can wait out here, if you prefer."
Don Emilio let out a sigh. "Thank you, señor. We'll stay aqui afuera."
Landon and Ricki saw Bingo undo the Velcro fastener that held his pistol in its holster. They did the same and drew their weapons.
"I'll go left. Ricki, right side," ordered Bingo. "Landon, you follow Chato."
Landon waited until each of his colleagues had disappeared around the outside walls of Casita Blanca and then said to Chato, "I'll go first."
"Whatever," said Chato lazily.
The front room was a large, square-shaped enclosure with high ceilings. Landon noticed one window on each of the left and right walls, but they were located at the second-story level. As soon as he crossed the threshold, he felt a large drop in temperature, a welcome respite from the increasing heat outside. Most of the light filtered in from the front door and another doorway opposite the entrance. The smell of burnt food hung heavy in the air.
"What's that smell?" asked Landon.
"Oh, that," said Chato. "That's corn tortillas. Well, it was corn tortillas. It's just charcoal now. Follow me." He led Landon in a straight line through the room to a hallway that split to the left and right.
Landon was right behind him as Chato pivoted and turned to the room on the right. Landon stole a glance to the left. He had both hands on his weapon but kept it pointed toward the ceiling. He saw a rectangular wooden table with matching chairs around it. Four plates were set neatly as if ready for brunch or a late breakfast. The smoky haze was thicker in that room.
The bedroom on the right was decorated modestly with a picture of the Virgin of Guadalupe and a miniature shrine to Jesus on the dresser. Landon swept his gun left and then right. He crouched and glanced underneath the beds and then checked around the furniture, not sure what he was looking for.
"All clear!" he yelled, startling Chato.
The room was as neat and quiet as a funeral parlor. There was a trace of gunpowder in the air. The scents from Don Emilio's chicken coop and pigpen wafted in through the open door that led to the back of the house.
In between the double bed and the bunk bed lay the forms of two bodies, each covered with a bloodstained bedsheet.
"You sure you wanna see this?" asked Chato.
Landon was about to speak when Bingo appeared and interjected, "No, not really, but I think we have to."
Ricki appeared from behind Bingo. She stepped around him and caught sight of the covered bodies. "Oh, dear God." She cupped her left hand and covered her mouth as if she had just blasphemed the deceased.
Landon remembered the last dead body he had seen at home and how much the sight had taken out of him. The victim had been a twelve-year-old boy caught in the crossfire of rival gangs in his hometown. He didn't know whether he could face another dead body without vomiting.
Chato went to the bodies on the floor and peeled back the bloodied sheet without hesitation. He seemed to do it with no regard for the dead and as if he had done this before. "Emilio covered them up. He said it was out of respect for the dead."
Landon felt a tightness in his stomach. He noticed Ricki had turned her head away.
A light breeze stirred around the bodies as Bingo edged nearer to the face of the uncovered body. He leaned closer. The ashen, lifeless color of the corpse's face and the burns on its arms seemed to shock him. Landon saw a barely noticeable twitch on Bingo's forehead. He was mildly surprised because a legendary man like Bingo surely would have seen corpses before in other shootings. Maybe, thought Landon, death is horrible no matter how many times you see it. This was just a young boy, and Chato's assessment proved to be accurate.
"They were Slaves," said Bingo. "You see the letter S carved into his forehead?"
Both Ricki and Landon nodded. Landon felt the hair rise along the back of his neck.
"There's a bullet hole right in the middle of it," said Bingo. "This was not a gunfight. This was an execution."
"Yeah, I coulda told you that," said Chato. "First, they snort cocaine; then they go loco. Then they torture these guys and kill them. Just like that."
Bingo shook his head. "You were right, Ricki. Who would kill their own mules? But then again, big shots usually don't value or take care of the young men who bring drugs into the U. S. It's rare that they use them over and over again." He scanned the dead bodies, not like a law enforcement officer but more like a doctor or shaman. "There's something strange in this room, an evil presence. I can feel it."
Sweat broke out on his forehead as he squatted down and reached for the small eagle claw that hung around his neck. He whispered something close to the ear of the deceased, as if directing his words to him.
Landon assumed it was an Indian prayer, especially when Bingo kissed the pendant. He looked briefly at Ricki as if to ask, "What did he say?"
Ricki merely shrugged.
"Wanna see the other one?" asked Chato eagerly, as he let the sheet fall back on the boy's face.
Bingo straightened up tall. He glanced again at the second covered body and then at his rookie agents. They both raised their eyebrows, surprised by Chato's enthusiasm.
"Same thing, right?" asked Ricki. She seemed anxious to move on.
"Yeah, except this guy tried to move when they shot him, so he took it in the eye. But you're right. Same result."
"It's okay," said Bingo, waving off the suggestion to view more carnage. "We don't have to see him."
Landon studied Chato as he spoke to Ricki. He noticed what appeared to be needle marks on the inside of Chato's left arm. "Were you in the room when all this went down?"
"No way, ese, but I heard one of them yell, 'Don't move, pendejo! I don't want to shoot you twice.'"
Just then, the sound of wailing sirens caught everyone's attention.
"That's probably Sheriff Aguila's boys," said Bingo.
"Is this within our jurisdiction or theirs?" asked Ricki.
"We're going to make it ours," asserted Bingo. "These boys clearly are illegals and the import of drugs brings it within our purview." He looked at Chato. "How long had these boys been here before the Slaves got here?"
Chato shrugged. "I don't know. A half hour, maybe less."
"Did you get their names or where they were from?" asked Landon.
Chato raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, right. Don't pull that investigator crap on me, man. I just live here. Besides, they all use fake names anyway."
Bingo tilted his head and stared at Chato. "Sheriff Aguila won't be as kind to you as we are."
The sound of the sirens got louder as someone pulled up to the Casita Blanca. A second engine shut off, clunking distinctly, indicating a diesel.
"How come nobody trusts me?" whined Chato. Something caused him to shake, as if a cold wind had just enveloped him.
"I trust you, Chato," said Bingo. "But there are stories about you. You know, the ones about you sleeping with women in exchange for food and the ones about your illegal drug use."
"I don't do that crap," he said, quickly moving his arms behind his back. "And that thing with the girl, it's not what you think. We were kinda dating, you know?"
Don Emilio's voice could be heard engaged in a heated conversation with a powerful female voice.
"That bitch hates me," said Chato, looking askance toward the front door.
"Don't worry, we'll cover you," said Bingo.
"Okay." Chato took a deep breath. "One called himself Pepe, and the other was Elvis."
"What?" asked Landon. "Are you kiddin' me?"
"No, really," said Chato, putting up his hands. "He said he wanted to fit in with Americans, so that's the name he picked. They were Capitalinos. I could tell from their accent."
Landon looked to his buddy for an explanation.
"The boys were from Mexico City. The people there speak with a unique sing-song voice. You can always tell a Capitalino accent when you hear one."
The sound of a screen door squeaking was followed by footsteps approaching.
"Look, I gotta go now," said Chato, heading back to the front door.
"Chato, wait. I gotta couple more questions," called Bingo.
"Just keep me out of it," answered Chato over his shoulder as he brushed past Sheriff Aguila. He slammed the screen door as he hurried outside.
Sheriff Aguila was a large but attractive woman, built solid and tough, perfect for being a sheriff. She looked at the three border agents and with a slight frown asked, "What the hell's wrong with Chato?"
Bingo smiled and said, "Oh, he's fine." He pointed at the bodies on the floor. "He's just pissed off, 'cause these guys ruined his day."

Chapter 3

In their border patrol training, Landon and Ricki had been briefed about concurrent jurisdiction matters. The usual classroom scenario involved undocumented aliens and contemporaneous criminal conduct, such as transporting drugs or theft of property or food. The instructors called this situation a conflict-of-laws case, where the United States, Mexico, the city of El Paso, and maybe even the border county would vie for control of a particular matter. Landon now realized their book learning was about to be put into practice.
Landon, Ricki, and Bingo all tipped their caps as Sheriff Aguila acknowledged them with a return tip of her cowboy hat. Her turquoise earrings complemented her prominent silver badge. Landon detected a faint scent of lilacs as they stepped aside and let her examine the bodies on the floor.
She bent at the waist and studied the corpses. "They're peasants," she stated with authority. She kicked the sole of the deceased's sandal. "These huaraches are worn by mountain people. Poor guys. Besides money, they probably had no clue what they were getting into." She lifted the sheet off the corpse with the missing eye and almost immediately dropped it. She turned her gaze toward Bingo. "Well, you were here first, but this is a homicide situation. Felonies belong to us. We're gonna take the lead on this."
"I can appreciate that, Sheriff, but just the same, I think we need to work together on this one. We got evidence of illegal border crossing." Bingo looked at Landon and Ricki. "Ain't that right, folks?"
"Yes, sir," answered Landon and Ricki in unison.
"What kinda evidence?" she asked, placing her hands on her hips.
Bingo avoided her gaze as he sidestepped the question. "If it turns out to be just a drug deal gone sideways, you can have it." He paused and pushed up the brim of his cap. "But I got a feelin' this might be more than that."
"Suit yourself, but I do want to hear your theories. Don't get me wrong. It's not like I don't have enough to do," she said. "We got the coroner outside so we can get these bodies removed and let these people back into their home."
"That's a good idea," said Bingo. "It doesn't look like they had anything to do with this." He looked at the sheriff with a humble grin. "Can you do us a favor, Sheriff?"
"Only if it doesn't involve more paperwork," she answered in a brassy voice.
"It doesn't, not really." Bingo pointed at the corpses with his chin. "When your coroner checks these boys out, I want to know what caused the burns or blisters on their arms. We need to know whether they were infected with some kind of virus."
Her expression turned to one of panic. She took a step back from the bodies. She glanced at her hands and then back at the corpses. "You think we've been exposed to something?"
"Dios mio!" gasped Don Emilio as he stood in the hallway.
Bingo frowned. "I don't know. That's why I'm asking for the exam."
She nodded. "You got it." She turned to go and then paused. She turned back to them and wagged her index finger at the three agents. "I do need a copy of y'all's report."
"You got it," answered the three agents in chorus.
For the next two hours, Don Emilio and his family gave their statements, walked the agents around the premises, and showed them footprints leading from the pigpen to the back door of the house. Bingo spent at least half an hour talking privately with Chato as Landon photographed everything inside and outside the house with the department's digital camera. The two little girls, Flora and Irina, asked him in Spanish whether they could reenter the house. He looked at Ricki. She explained to them as they stood with Doña Maria that they could wait until the gory scene was cleaned up or they could go stay with relatives and come back the next day.
Doña Maria shook her head. "No, señorita. This is our home. We wait for you finish."
By mid-afternoon, the coroner and the bodies were gone. Two men wearing orange jumpsuits and goggles had wiped up the blood from the smooth concrete floor and the splatter on the walls. They removed the bloodied sheets as well as the top blanket from each of the beds. Landon wondered whether anyone would ever miss the two dead boys. Who would tell their families? And what would the orange men do with their bodies? As they left in their white van, Bingo approached Don Emilio.
"Sorry for the long wait. It might smell like disinfectant, but you can go back in now."
Don Emilio and his family hung their heads and reluctantly trudged back into their home, as if fearing the ghosts of the recently departed and maybe viruses too.

* * * * *

The thermometer in the truck read 110 degrees as Bingo drove them back to the station. All three removed their hats and let the cold air evaporate the sweat from their foreheads, leaving a salty residue on their skin. Landon was in the center of the rear seat, and Ricki rode "shotgun," as she put it. Landon leaned forward and tilted his head. He saw the consternation on Bingo's face. "Everything okay? Something we forgot?"
Bingo kept his frozen gaze as he straightened his back. "You know those burn marks on the boys?"
Ricki answered, "Yeah, we saw them. Why?"
"Those weren't your garden-variety burns," he said. "They were from acute radiation poisoning." Then his voice dropped to a lower, more solemn register. "I've seen it before."
"Yeah, right, Bingo. You're just pulling our leg, aren't you?"
The dead air that followed was sobering.
Bingo finally broke the silence. "No, I'm afraid not."
Ricki turned and gave Landon a wide-eyed look. "You think we were contaminated by those dead guys?"
"Oh, no," said Bingo reassuringly. "Whatever gave them the radiation was long gone by the time we got there."
Landon stared at the stripes on the highway as they shot toward him like lethal rays of unknown origin. "It was those backpacks, wasn't it?"
Bingo grinned.
"And you didn't want Sheriff Aguila to know, did you?"
Bingo glanced at each of the rookie agents and then refocused on the road ahead. "I didn't want to say anything until I was sure."
"So now you're sure?" asked Ricki.
"I'd bet my next month's salary on it," he said. "But that's why I asked to have the coroner examine the burns. I wish I was wrong, but I'm not."
"Are you some kind of specialist in radiation or what?" asked Landon.
"Well, you might say that. I'm one of the few people you'll know who's seen the walking ghosts of Trinity Site," said Bingo.
"That's the old missile range, isn't it? The one where the first atomic bomb was detonated." Ricki tapped her temple, as if to aid her memory. "That's a few hundred miles north of here on this side of the Sandia Mountains."
"You have a good memory, Ricki," said Bingo. "Do you know what's on the other side of the mountains?" He looked at one and then the other but only got blank stares. "Indians," he said. "Thousands of them, about twelve to fifteen major tribes and a bunch of smaller ones."
"Is that where you saw the walking ghosts?" asked Landon.
"Yeah, sort of." He glanced at their confused faces and smiled. "Let me explain."
"I come from the Manso tribe in central New Mexico. About five hundred years ago, we were part of the Kiowa tribe. As the Kiowas moved to the west side of the Sandia Mountains, the Manso tribe remained on the eastern side where the salt flats lie. As eastern New Mexico became more populated, the federal government set aside thousands of acres for military purposes, calling it the White Sands Missile Range. My grandfather's small tribe of Mansos was located at the base of the Sandias on the far edge of the missile reservation.
"As my father recalled, the federal government offered my grandparents and the tribe a healthy sum of money to relocate. They refused, citing ancestral ties to the land. High-level officials tried unsuccessfully to scare them, too. They said the detonation of some powerful bombs was certain death for anyone caught in their wake. But still the Mansos remained."
Bingo pulled the truck into the border patrol parking lot and left the engine running with the air conditioner on. "Should I stop and tell you the rest tomorrow?" he teased.
"Are you kidding? Tell the whole story," said Ricki.
"Well, it happened that on August 13, 1945, my mother and father were married in a group ceremony as one of four couples. Custom dictated that the newlyweds spend their first night as husband and wife in complete privacy away from the tribe."
"Kinda like a honeymoon?" asked Landon.
"You might say that. Anyway, our tribe had carved caves in the side of the Sandia Mountains, especially for these types of events. The four couples set off on their evening of consummation, and all seemed well. However, at about 5:30 the next morning, they were awakened suddenly by a huge explosion that seemed to be right at the cave opening. The entrance lit up brightly as if the sun had magically popped up. My mother tells of a loud whooshing sound as she clung tightly to my father. They waited a full hour after the initial blast before daring to walk outside.
"The four couples shared their similar experiences as they returned to their village. What they found was devastating.
"Most of the Manso homes, built of strong adobe, were flattened. Many of the elderly were dead or dying. My grandfather was vomiting blood, and my grandmother had diarrhea. The place was a disaster.
"Within two days, the four couples approached the base commander asking for help. The tribe needed food, water, and medical care for the sick. They weren't their forefathers. Pride was not an issue.
"The base commander flatly refused, saying, 'You made your decision; now die with it.' As the Mansos left the base, a young captain stopped the four-car caravan. He stuck his head partially into the cabin of my father's car. 'I'll probably get fired for this, but I'll send some supplies out to you after it gets dark tonight.'
"My father tells me that in the next two days, they moved to the west side of the Sandias. Nine months later, my oldest brother was born, then two sisters, then me."
Bingo stopped and looked around at the nearly empty parking lot. The shadows were growing longer and the temperature had dropped a few degrees. He shut off the air and reached for the keys.
"Wait," said Landon. "Where do the walking ghosts come in?"
"The ghosts?" asked Bingo rhetorically. "That was my grandfather and grandmother and all the other poor souls who didn't die in the initial blast. They were condemned to eke out the rest of their lives with radiation burns, cancer, tumors, and countless other ailments. Some said they were more dead than alive. I got to know my grandparents for a short while. But all I remember is the wailing and the prayers for the constant pain to end.
"The Mexican boys we saw today. They had the same kind of burns. That bullet in their head was a blessing in disguise."
Landon slumped back into his seat. He felt the exhaustion of the day catch up to him as he whispered, "Good God, have mercy on us."

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Texte: © Michael M. Pacheco 2011 ISBN-10: 1460998472 ISBN-13: 978-1460998472
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 04.07.2011

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