"Never attach more feeling to a thing than God does."
   —Origin unknown

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THEN

Her grandmother was the first to die of thirst crossing the Sonoran Desert.

Holding her hand as the old woman passed, little Thalia looked off across the heat-shimmering sand and wondered again why they had left home.

Thalia's family went back seven generations in Veracruz.

Veracruz was lushly tropical and sodden with rain. There the Gómez family lived close by the Gulf Coast beaches—palm trees and fruit to pick and eat; the Atlantic Ocean, full of fish. At least, her mother said, they could never starve there.

Though they were getting along, they had no prospects for more.

After much arguing, the Gómez family set out for the distant border.

The farther north they trekked, the uglier and emptier Mexico became for Thalia.

Her grandfather had been a Zapatista when he was only twelve. Consequently, Alfredo Gómez fancied himself more the vaquero than he had right to claim. Still, Alfredo had a plan. They invested a portion of their meager funds in two old horses and a mule. Alfredo loaded the mounts with jugs of water.

The unsuccessful crossers set out with too little water. That's what everyone always said. Alfredo meant to see his family well supplied for their border crossing. Thalia's grandfather set off a day's ride ahead of his family with the notion of depositing the water jugs at strategic points to see his family safely across the desert.

The money might have been better spent on professional guías. Thalia's father, Francisco, did meet with a couple of guides, what would now be called Coyotes feigning interest in their services, but really only fishing for free tips.

Papa learned from the guías that they fed their clients, or "chickens," cocaine to make them walk longer distances...and to make them walk faster.

After buying the horses, Alfredo and son Francisco bought some white powder.

All of them, Thalia, her mother and father and four siblings, her aunt and uncle and two cousins and her grandparents, took the cocaine and set off on foot a day behind her grandfather, aiming for the distant Arizona border.

For the first two days, Thalia brought up the rear, walking backward, waving a tree branch across their dusty path to erase signs of their passage, anything that might tip the Border Patrol. The cocaine made the little girl approach her task with furious intensity.

Long after, Thalia would wonder if the cocaine hadn't been their undoing, clouding her father's and grandfather's minds from seeing the more sensible plan of her grandfather walking alongside them, keeping the mounts loaded down with water close at hand.

And she would later wonder if the drug-induced exhilaration had spurred her grandfather on to riding greater and greater distances out there alone and euphoric in the desert, the critical water jugs being dropped farther and farther apart by the old, wired Zapatista.

And if Alfredo was less the vaquero than he fancied himself, her father Francisco was even less the guide.

A two-day crossing stretched into four.

They found less than a third of the water jugs left behind by Grandfather.

Sister turned against brother for want of water. Husband and brother-in-law were crazed by the blow and the thirst and out of their heads from the heat.

The two men came to a knife fight over a jug of water.

Their horrified, dizzy and drugged children looked on as they slashed at one another.

Thalia, only seven, sat with her grandmother as the old woman died from dehydration and heat exhaustion, her lips and tongue black. Her eyes were shrunken back into her head. Abuela's voice was a dry whisper. Sonya Gómez told her granddaughter, "You'll see it for me, Thalia. El Norte, it will be paradise. Your life there will be like a dream, darling."

They abandoned her abuela on the desert floor, already a mummy. They left Grandmother Sonya in the desert with Thalia's gutted uncle, then, days deeper into their death march, they left behind a cousin, a younger brother and Thalia's baby sister. The ground was too dry and hard to bury any of them.

When they reached the other side, it took two days to find Grandfather.

Alfredo at once set off with his horses and mule, headed back across the border to find and recover his wife's and grandchildren's bodies.

They never saw Grandfather again.

Chasing work and opportunity, the survivors of the Gómez clan kept drifting north across the decades. They became legalized citizens, picking fruit for stingy pay and cleaning hotel toilets and the houses of rich gringos.

Eventually they reached Ohio.

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1

Tell Lyon let himself in with the keys given him by the mayor of New Austin and flipped on the lights. Tell's first notion was that the place was oppressively tiny. A tight vestibule fronted a bulletproof-glass, teller-style window behind which the receptionist/dispatcher sat.

Between one a.m. and seven in the morning, all local 911 calls defaulted by relay to the Horton County Sheriff's Office.

Tell's first personal priority was to reexamine existing work schedules to see if with some overlapping shift rotations—combined with two additional full-time officers he planned to petition the administration and town council for—he could bring his force up to operational autonomy.

He checked his watch against the clock on the wall. It was early, five thirty a.m.—he wanted to be there when his crew arrived.

His last stint as a Border Patrol night-side sector chief had concluded one week earlier along the California borderlands. Tell was still most comfortable staying up nights—his lonely bed something to be avoided.

The new New Austin chief of police keyed himself through the second security door to the squad room. He had no office of his own, just a corner desk hidden behind two, seventy-two-inch upholstered fiberboard dividers.

Tell tossed his keys on his desk. His predecessor had left a Snap-On Tools calendar thumbtacked to the front fiberboard divider. An oiled, pneumatic blonde in a hardhat and string bikini straddled an enormous chrome lug wrench. Tell took the calendar down and tossed it in the trash can.

***

He was going through the work logs and week's duty reports when the first of his crew came through the door. She was petite. Her fine, mouse-brown hair was scraped back in a limp ponytail. Tell thought, Ditzy, but driven. And she was the first in. She smiled uncertainly and said, "I'm Julie...Julie Dexter."

Tell put out a hand. "Tell Lyon. Glad to meet you, Julie."

She smiled. "Cool, but unusual. 'Tell,' I mean."

"Western novel character," Tell said. "Daddy was a huge Louis L'Amour fan. Tell Sackett was his favorite character."

Julie nodded like she understood. She said, "I was named after that cruise director on The Love Boat. The one who got caught up with cocaine. The actress, I mean, not the character."

"I remember." Tell said, "So, predictions: Four full-time officers here, not counting you and me. Bet you a Starbucks. Who'll be first in?"

Julie smiled uncertainly. "I'm always first in. Until today, anyway."

Tell said, "I'd have guessed that. But our uniforms—who'll be first to arrive?"

"Billy Davis," she said with a shrug and a head tilt. "And he'll bring doughnuts. Krispy Kremes... " Julie faltered.

Tell smiled. "Go on. We're off the record. And you're really helping me find my feet and get my bearings. I won't forget that."

She nodded, pressed a hand to her flat belly. "Billy has weight issues. Chief Sloan, former Police Chief Sloan, he had given Billy an ultimatum about his diet."

Tell thought about that. He asked, "How tall is Billy would you say?"

"Five-ten. Maybe five-ten-and-a-half on a good day."

"How much would you guess our Billy weighs?"

Julie hesitated again. Tell looked at her, smiling, eyebrows raised. "Two-twenty," she said.

Tell had expected worse. He said, "Julie, when was the last time one of ours had to pursue a perp on foot?"

She thought about that, screwing up her face. "Frankly?"

"Always frankly," Tell said. "That's our pact, you and me—the truth always."

"The answer is never."

Tell smiled. "Fine. I'm more interested in brains than wasp waists for my officers. And I'm not one to issue ultimatums. Any prodding I might or might not give Billy about dieting goes to concerns for his health. I'm not going to threaten his job with it." He paused. "Billy, he has good taste in doughnuts, does he?"

"Few too many things with chopped nuts, but mostly, yeah." Julie smiled uncertainly. He sensed she wanted to say more.

Tell said, "You can tell Billy all that I told you."

She was still lingering, on the edge of something. She was toying with her nails. They were blue with yellow smiley faces.

"Something else on your mind, Julie?"

"My work schedule, sir."

"Tell. My name is Tell."

Julie said, "Chief Lyon." She smiled. "The old chief insisted I be in at seven a.m."

"Got a conflict?"

"By minutes," she said. "My daughter has to be at school by seven forty-five, but can't go inside before seven thirty. My mother's just had cataract surgery and her driving...?"

Tell waved a hand. "I get up early. I'm used to working nights and like the quiet in the morning. I'll cover the radios until you get in. Your shift now starts at eight a.m. That going to jam you up on the other end, picking your daughter up?"

"I usually take a late lunch so I can pick her up and drop her off at Mom's before I come back for my final hour." Tell had passed the school complex on his drive in—less than three minutes from the police headquarters.

"Then it sounds like we're all set," he said.

Julie said, "Thank you so much, Chief Lyon."

"What's your daughter's name?"

"Tiffany."

"Pretty."

"Thanks, Chief Lyon." Julie looked at her new boss like she was seeing him for the first time. She was emboldened by their small talk to give him a good once-over. He stood six feet, maybe six-one. Good build. He had hazel eyes and auburn hair that was graying at the temples. She guessed he was cusping forty. She smiled and said, "You have any children, Chief Lyon?" Then she remembered to check his left ring finger: bare.

Tell said, "Not anymore."

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2

Sheriff Able Hawk lifted the dead bird by the neck and shook it in the elderly Mexican's face. "Blood sports in Horton County, Luis? Not gonna fly in my corner of Ohio, amigo."

Luis Lopez raised his hands, searching for words. His supply of English was wicked sparse.

The sheriff's reputation, and his harrowing image on county-line billboards, preceded him. Luis recognized Hawk from those glowering roadside portraits. Luis's legs were shaking, and that hadn't gone unnoticed by Able.

The two men were standing in the shadow of a big, buckling barn at the back of an egg farm complex.

Able cast down the dead fighting cock and spat on it. A dislodged steel gaff bounced across the gravel. The big cop stooped down and scooped up the spur. He held the bloodied spur up close to Luis's right eye.

"I don't want you feeling singled out, amigo," the sheriff said, waving the gaff in front of Luis's face. The old Mexican saw an expanse of grayness in Able: gray hair, at least what Luis could see of it under the sheriff's gray Stetson; gray walrus mustache and penetrating gray eyes. Able wore a dark gray uniform. The sheriff's tunic strained against his swollen gut.

"Few years back," Able continued, "had us some unwanted crackers come up from Georgia. Old boys raised pit bulls and fought 'em. You'd drive by their house and it looked like dogs had been hanged from their trees. Those Georgia boys would tie big knots in the ends of the ropes and have their dogs latch onto them. Then they'd hoist the dogs off the ground and make them hang there to strengthen their jaw muscles. Clever, huh? We cleared 'em out, though it took some time. Then we passed a slew of laws making it impossible to own one of those nasty hounds here in Horton County. Levied us some stiff and crazy penalties for violators. 'Course, before all that, one of those old boy's dogs got loose and mauled little three-year-old Sydney Adler. Pretty little thing the sweetie was." Able shook his head and spat into the dust. "Before the bastard's dog got at her."

The sheriff slapped Luis's arm and smiled. "Good news here is your fighting cocks ain't mauled none of my citizens yet."

Able pulled the arm of his sunglasses from his shirt collar where they dangled, flipped open the remaining closed arm and slipped the glasses on, hiding his strange gray eyes. "But that's about all the good news there's to be had this day, Luis. See, we're sending you back South, pronto, if those papers of yours come back queer."

Able ambled over to his command cruiser. Deputy Troy Marshall, thin, fit and one year back from Iraq, smiled at the sheriff and said, "Surprise. Luis here is illegal."

Deputy Marshall held up the Mexican's hand-tooled leather wallet and pulled out a driver's license and Social Security card. "I've seen better fake IDs on high school kids. Where do you think they're getting these things, boss?"

"Suppose we should just be cow-simple pleased the workmanship's so shitty," Able said, "don't you think?" Able nodded at Luis Lopez. "Book the son of a bitch, Troy. Slap him in county and get the damned paperwork started."

"Usual drill?"

Able nodded. "Sure. Feds still ain't enforcing our immigration laws. So we'll bill the federal government for Luis's room and board, since they let him stray across the border and all the way up here into Ohio to fight his fucking birds. "

Deputy Marshall nodded. "And the birds, Sheriff? Destroy 'em?"

An epiphany seized Able, and he liked the attendant spin. "Nah, don't kill 'em just yet. Call PETA and those tight-ass bastards from the Prevention of Cruelty to Animals or whatnot. Let 'em come out and shoot some footage of those birds for some of their propaganda films. We might could use those bleeding hearts to our ends, eh? We'll stir up those left-leaning animal lovers and maybe get 'em to put backward pressure on those ACLU-types trying to bust my balls for our tough policies on illegals here in Horton County."

The sheriff paused, then said, "Later, after, quiet-like, you kill those damn birds and drive 'em over to the food pantry and let 'em freeze 'em for our legal poor for Thanksgiving. They're wiry, but I 'spect they'll cook like any other bird."

Able swung into his command cruiser and headed out to the south corporation line. He pulled onto the berm across from the newly posted billboard. Able had allocated money for the billboard from a slice of post-9/11 federal grants. In theory, the funds were supposed to be used to buy new radios or to obtain and train bomb-sniffing dogs and similar policing tools that might be useful to thwart or stave off the next terrorist attack.

But Able tended to have a more rabbinical interpretation of the guidelines set forth with the federal grants. A key, stated component of Homeland Security and the federal assistance sent Able's way was border security and enforcement of immigration laws. To Able's mind, he was well within the spirit of the law with his new billboards.

Able sat in his cruiser and appraised the sign:

Three similar billboards had already been posted at the north, east and west county lines.

A middle-aged man on a bicycle coasted to a stop alongside the sheriff's dusty cruiser. "She's a beaut', Sheriff Hawk," the cyclist said, nodding with his helmeted head at the new billboard.

Able nodded. "So you support me, then?"

Balanced on the toe of one sneaker, fists still tight on the handlebars, the man shrugged. "Why not? It's not like Mexico's sending us her best or brightest, right?"

Able gave the cyclist a thumbs-up and got his cruiser in gear.

Radio crackle, then DeeDee said, "Sheriff Hawk? Sheriffs Denton and Pierce wanna know if you're up for a coffee out to Big G's along I-70?"

The sheriff sniffled with allergies—something new was abloom—and clicked the mic. "Headed that way anyways. Tell 'em to give me a bit to get over there, Double D."

Able hooked a U-turn on the two-lane and doubled back north. Two miles from the destination truck stop, the sheriff of Horton County saw a new message posted on the marquee above Jay Richmond's used car lot:

The sheriff smiled crookedly. Well, that wetback-loving cocksucker.

Able shook his head. At least dumbass "Dealin' Jay" lacked the brains to post his message in Spanish so its intended recipients could maybe read the boldface bastard.

©Craig McDonald