Border Dogs : A Novel

by Karen Palmer

• ISBN13: 9781569473153
• ISBN10: 1569473153
• Format: Trade Book
• Copyright: 2002-10-15
• Publisher: Soho Press

Summary

James Reese patrols the California desert a hundred fifty miles southeast of L.A. His job is to pursue illegals attempting to cross the border, to capture them and return them to the other side. James is on horseback and armed. The illegals, on foot, mostly aren't. It's ironic work for a white man with Chicano cheekbones.
Adopted as a child, James is disturbed by memories of his first family. Although married and the devoted son of a retired homicide cop, he feels estranged. When word unexpectedly arrives that his birth mother has died, his murky past comes alive with danger. James has questions. And the answers can only be found in that lost world where he was Jaime Santana, son of a wealthy woman and a convicted murderer.
Who committed the crime that destroyed his family? Why was he exiled from his own past? Is it worth his life to find out?

Author Biography

Karen Palmer is the author of a previous novel, All Saints. She lives in the Southwest with her family.

Excerpts

The patrol rode his quarterhorse over land that looked like the sea, the night-vision goggles turning the 2 a.m. desert green, a dream of liquid hills and shifting sands, tumbleweeds, arroyos, dried riverbeds. He was working a desolate stretch of the southern U.S. border, nearly a hundred miles in from the Pacific Ocean, a place where there were no substations, no check-points, and no twelve-foot-high steel fence, only the hard-won knowledge of where one country stopped and another began.

A shredded cloud drifted clear of the moon and James saw wild mustard blooming in the roots of a stunted scrub oak, lacy flowers the goggles colored a dazzling nuclear lime. The sparse vegetation rustled with creatures: snakes and birds, lizards, rodents. Slowing his horse, he passed the reins from right hand to left, then reached up to fasten the goggles' harness more securely at the back of his head. The whistling March wind stung the tips of his ears. He brought both hands to his mouth and blew into his palms; he'd forgotten his gloves. Beneath him, the horse snorted and tossed its head, its flanks quivering. The shank of the bit glittered in its black mouth.

A quarter-mile ahead his partner broke into a trot as the illegals they'd been tracking charged through the scrub.

The radio at James's hip hummed with static and Leo's excited voice crackled out at him, "Hey, old man ... I've got 'em now! Pinches pollos ... gotcha!" James heard muffled shouting, the snap of branches. Leo's voice came again, "Gotcha!" and three men tumbled free, followed quickly by a fourth. The pollos fell to their knees, hands crossed on top of their heads.

Leo cried, "Where the fuck are you, James!"

But a green blur had caught his attention, a lone figure scurrying east toward the canyon. The figure ran upright and surefooted, as if certain of both course and destination.

Coyote, thought James-the pollos' guide, paid to shepherd illegals over the line. The smuggling of human beings was a federal beef, an automatic ten years. James had to get him. But the only way was to cut the guy off before he reached the canyon.

He slapped the reins and jabbed his boot heels, urging the quarterhorse into a canter. He rode with hips dropped deeply into the saddle, loins and waist kept supple to absorb the horse's movement. The sound of hooves hitting the sand was like a muffled drum roll. Through the goggles, he saw a green bounce of terrain, and the coyote, running hard, arms and legs pumping wildly. But James on the quarterhorse quickly gained ground.

Within twenty yards of his prey, the rocky lip of the canyon became visible, the chasm gaping darkly beyond. The horse thundered forward. "íInmigración!" James shouted. "íPárate, la migra!" Stop! Immigration! But the man ran all the harder. James took up the rope coiled on the saddle horn. He fed the looped end into the palm of his right hand. Closer, closer ... he shook out the loop, raised his arm high and swung counterclockwise. Spiraling his wrist, he accelerated the spin, then leaned from the saddle and threw. But the coyote had inexplicably stopped dead in his tracks. When he turned to run back the way that he'd come, the loop whizzed harmlessly past, dropping onto a clump of thick brush. The branches emptied of angry birds.

As James veered away, the rope, hung up more than he'd realized, buzzed from his left hand, burning him. Cursing, he reined up hard. The quarterhorse skidded into a halt, its hind legs sliding underneath it. James trotted back around. He yanked repeatedly on the rope, attempting to free it. But the brush was captured and fully secured.

Goddamnit! James dismounted.

He raced in front of the horse, where his legs got tangled up in the line; it nearly decked him. Circling the brush, he swiveled his head-the goggles impaired his peripheral vision-searching for a telltale green glow. But he saw nothing. He hurried back to the spot where he'd seen the coyote stop, and there he found a kicked-up pile of sand, tracks zigzagging away. He followed them just far enough to determine that, in spite of the about-face, the coyote was still headed toward the canyon. James jogged to the horse. With some difficulty, he freed the caught rope. He wound it into a coil and mounted again. He sat in the saddle a moment, catching his breath.

He felt an ooze of blood in his palm.

In the distance, a small white object lifted and spun in the air. From the radio, Leo's voice came again: "Where the fuck are you, James?" And then the coyote disappeared over the edge.

James stared into the canyon. Fifteen sheer feet led down to bedrock obscured by dried scrub, an undercurrent of jagged stones and discarded clothing, broken bottles, burned tires. To his right, a small green figure swam through the debris. The coyote was aimed at Mexico.

James knew he'd never catch up on foot. Useless, too, to follow on horseback from up on the ridge. Southward, the canyon deepened impossibly. He'd never have an opportunity to get down.

He should just let the guy go.

But watching the coyote's frantic progress, he thought: No one ran that hard, not without a reason.

And then he remembered a diagonal cut in the rock, a narrow path down. The cut was a short distance north, and initially, would take him in the wrong direction, but once on the canyon floor, he could make up the time.

He rode to the cut and turned the horse in. Leaned back in the saddle, he loosened the reins. Down they went. At bottom, the animal nickered and James bent forward and stroked its hot neck, breathing in a smell of rawhide and sweat. The radio Fuzzed at his hip; rock interfered with the signal. Even with the goggles, the canyon was dark. Rivers of shadow poured from the steep sides. James was acutely conscious of the horse's gait, a blunt clopping against the hard floor.

He squeezed his legs and took the horse up into a trot, high-stepping it around obstacles. Minutes passed, and still he saw nothing. He hated like hell to give up. But he was about to when, rounding a bend, he sighted a white shirt thrashing in the bushes, legs that waded through the tangled undergrowth. Trotting forward, James again readied the rope, feeding the looped end into his palm.

But something diverted his attention, something wriggling, down low. A creature darted out from the brush. Before James could register what he was looking at, the quarterhorse spooked, whinnying and bucking, rearing on its hind legs-and then James was sliding, shooting down from the saddle, the rope still in his hands. He landed on his hip, a bone-jarring thump. The goggles flew. James rolled away from the horse, afraid of being trampled. Pain shot up his side. But a surge of adrenaline brought him instantly to his feet. Blinded, he could still hear the coyote, rustling in the brush, panting, and moaning softly.

The coyote cried out and James hurtled forward. Branches tore at his face and his hands. Now he saw the white shirt; he could almost touch the man's back. His pounding heart felt ready to burst. Diving, he closed the gap between them.

He went down face-first, but on the way, managed to wrap his arms around the coyote's left leg-a padded stick. The coyote dragged him several yards, branches snapping. James's knees and shins bumped over rocks. He couldn't believe the guy's strength! He was losing equipment all over the place: shield, pistol, flashlight, canteen. Worse, his hold was slipping. In desperation, he hauled back hard on the leg. A heel thumped him in the chest as the man staggered and fell. The coyote crawled a few feet, then collapsed.

James scrambled on top of him. He dropped all his weight, panting into the coyote's ear, "Motherfucker!" He waited for the man to squirm or lash out, but the fight seemed to have gone out of him. James rolled off. Up on one knee, he flipped the coyote onto his back.

He blinked the sweat from his eyes.

And now, at last, he realized his mistake.

What he'd taken for a white shirt was the man's naked skin, ivory over his torso and arms, darker at the neck and wrists. A campesino's coloring. The man's chest was slight, and womanish, the ribs sharply defined. His breath came in fluttering gasps. He smelled badly of diesel fuel. James noted three pairs of pants, one on top of the other, and no shoes. The man's bare feet were bloody.

Goddamnit! Caught, coyotes often posed as just another pollo-but no coyote would ever travel barefoot.

An unexpected flash, and the man heaved upward. A blade drew down across James's left shin. His pantleg parted and flapped. He felt a sharp sting, blood dripping, and his stomach plunged-he'd been cut!-and then he was on his feet and kicking. His heel met the side of the man's flailing arm. The pollo grunted, and dropped his arm to the ground, the knife still clutched in his fist. James lifted his boot and stomped once. He heard a sickening crunch.

A gurgling sounded deep in the pollo's throat. He lifted his head, vomited a watery stream down his chest, then lay back.

James swooped down for the knife.

"Shouldn't've done that," he said.

The pollo stared up at him, breath wheezing and whistling. His eyes watered, washing into the lines of his face. He turned his cheek to the ground, muttering.

"Say what?" James peeled the fabric of his pantleg. He inspected the wound to his shin. A long slash, but shallow. He'd live.

"Coco," the pollo said.

Coconut . Brown on the outside, white where it counts.

"Fuck that," James said. He'd heard it before. But he wasn't the first, and he would not be the last. More than half the Patrol was Latino these days.

He examined the knife, an everyday, folding implement, with steel rivets and a plastic handle scored to look like ivory. He closed it and buried it in his pocket.

Clumsily, the pollo rose into a crouch. James tensed, but allowed it, knowing that this was the stance of submission: head down, fingers limp against the groin. The damaged hand was already swollen; the pollo had likely suffered a few broken bones. Stone-faced, he hunched forward, as if ashamed of his nakedness. Or maybe he was only cold.

James stood.

He pulled the pollo to his feet, then seized him by a skinny bicep. The man tucked his wounded hand up against his chest, like a bird with a broken wing.

James walked him back to the quarterhorse, gathering his lost equipment on the way. He slid the pistol into its holster, hung the goggles from a loop on his belt. Two thousand dollars a pop, he thought mournfully. The boss was going to flip.

They found the horse nosing in a pile of rocks. James dragged the pollo over, but when he indicated the stirrups, the man shook his head.

James hunkered down, twining his fingers together. "íAhora!" he commanded. Now . The pollo hesitated, then executed a feeble hop. Skidding a bare heel into James's cupped palms, he lunged for the saddle horn. Suddenly, James appreciated how vulnerable he was. One good kick could snap his neck. He jerked away. But the man sat the horse calmly, seemingly indifferent. Relieved, James instructed him to move forward. No response. He prodded the pollo's hip and the pollo wriggled awkwardly against the saddle horn.

James poked a boot into the stirrup. He hoisted up and slid in behind, groaning at the lightning bolt of pain in his hip. Though the pollo was small, two in the saddle was a tight fit. James unlocked the cuffs from his belt. Circling his arms about the man's waist, he snapped the bracelets onto his wrists. He nudged the quarterhorse into a trot.

The pollo shivered. A bead of sweat rolled down his neck.

James twisted in the saddle. He loosened a bungee cord and pulled at a folded square of brown wool and shook it to one side. He draped the blanket over the pollo's shoulders.

They came to the cut in the rock, and James walked the horse up, the pollo pressed against him. Gradually, the desert opened before them, a vista that never failed to take James's breath. The few trees swayed in the breeze, leaves fluttering. Sand swirled like fog about the horse's ankles.

The radio came crackling to life. James raised it to his lips.

"Leonardo," he said.

"James," his partner replied. "Where the fuck've you been?"

"In the canyon, looking for coyote."

"For glory, I'd say. You see your name in lights." A staticky pause. "You shoot him?"

"I did not." Patrols used their guns only if directly attacked. But what about the knife? Well, James had gotten even for that.

"You let him go?" Leo said.

"No, Goddamnit, I have him right here." James added reluctantly, "But he's no coyote." He could hear Leo laughing.

"Maybe, old man, you ought to retire."

"Fuck you." James hated that old man stuff. He wasn't even forty; soon, yes, but not yet.

Leo snorted. "And where the fuck're you now?"

Without the goggles, the desert seemed a vast bowl tipped to spill its contents against the night sky. A multitude of stars pulsed behind clouds. James felt their hidden weight. He had a sense of portent, of warning-but he pushed it away. There was comfort, after all, in human insignificance. He drank in the hallowed silence in this, the one place in the world he felt most at home.

He said to Leo, "I'm here."

"And what the fuck does that mean?"

James removed the goggles from his belt. He held them to his eyes. Nothing. He gave the casing a gentle shake, and the image came in. Christ, he thought. He was a lucky man. Because there was Leo in hot green miniature, slouched in the saddle, head cocked to one side. The captured illegals were tied together in a scooped-out crater of sand.

Leo raised a gloved hand. He danced his black mare.

James felt the pollo's spine go rigid as steel.

Then and there he decided the broken hand was payback enough. He would say nothing regarding the knife. A medic would set the pollo's hand at the station before sending him home; and if the pollo was smart, he would not fuss about his injury, much less explain.

"Fuck." Leo's drawl floated over the wire. The living voice followed an instant later, an echo carried on the thin desert air. "You mean here ."

Grimly mute, nine men sat with their backs to the van's inside walls. Several were shirtless, shoeless, and empty-handed, relieved in advance of whatever goods they'd tried to bring north.

Leo and James stood out on the highway's blacktop, horses tied to a steel guardrail.

"Looks like Anteater took 'em all for a ride." Leo grinned.

James peered into the rear of the van. "Señores," he addressed the pollos, "who was it led you over the line?" Silence.

"¿Sus cosas," James said, "quién se las robó?" Who stole your things?

More silence.

Continue...

Excerpted from Border Dogs by KAREN PALMER Copyright © 2002 by Karen Palmer
Excerpted by permission. All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.