Blood Lines (50 page)

“That's a good thing, senor. These border officials, they are very proud of their paperwork.”

Tyrel had gotten rid of his papers. When he'd first returned to the States after leaving Vietnam, he'd planned to relocate to Mexico if worse came to worst, and back then identification wasn't required to pass back and forth between Mexico and Texas.

Relocate,
Tyrel snorted to himself.
Why, listen to you, you old fool. This ain't no relocation. You're jackrabbiting to keep your tail together. Like a coward. If you had any pride, you'd have let the Army do what they needed to do forty years ago.

But he hadn't been able to do that. Back then he'd just been too afraid. Then he'd come home to find Amanda waiting for him and felt like he deserved something good for himself. Then Shelton had been born and Don after that. Once he'd been on that road, he couldn't turn himself in. By the time he'd gotten strong enough to accept what he would have had to do, he would have been abandoning his family. The military and the government didn't help out families of a murdering soldier. Tyrel wasn't sure about a lot of things, but he was pretty sure about that.

After 9/11 and the tight security that went up overnight on people traveling out of and into the United States, Tyrel had known he'd need papers to get over into Juárez if the time ever came. Working with migrant laborers and other men he'd known had given Tyrel the name of a man who could falsify papers. It had cost Tyrel a lot to get a good set.

He didn't know how good the papers were because he'd never used them before. But he was about to find out.

“So, senor,” the taxi driver said, “your trip to Juárez, is it for business or pleasure?”

“Business,” Tyrel said, hoping the man didn't keep talking to him. He just wanted to get across the border and be gone.

After riding out, he'd freed his horse. Given time, the mare would wander back to the barn. He knew that Don, and Shel for that matter, would care for the livestock. Three miles of hiking had brought Tyrel to Bobby Foyt's place. Foyt and his family were out of town on a last-chance vacation before school started back.

Tyrel had hot-wired the old Chevrolet pickup in the garage, left money for it in Bobby's barbecue grill because Bobby didn't let many days go by without grilling, and driven down to El Paso secure in the knowledge that no one would know the truck was missing for several days at least.

He'd stopped and eaten once outside of El Paso. The television had carried a baseball game and the local news. That was when he found out about the manhunt the sheriff had unleashed to look for him. Tyrel had gone into the bathroom with the hair color and come out with black hair. Then he'd gotten back on the road.

In El Paso, he bought a few things to carry across the border in a suitcase, courtesy of the bargain bins at the Salvation Army. He'd have been able to buy anything he needed in Juárez, or wherever he finally decided to light, but going across the border empty-handed would have drawn attention.

“What kind of business?” the cabbie asked.

“Construction.” Tyrel knew enough about that line of work that he could pass for a foreman. He'd learned a lot about woodworking and building when he'd built the ranch house and barn. Then there had been various other projects with neighbors over the years.

“Constuction is a fine business,” the cabbie said. “I have done construction work. My father was a cabinetmaker. A very fine cabinetmaker.”

Tyrel wished the man would shut up. Waiting in the long line was making him as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs. He didn't need to try to be carrying on a conversation at the same time.

He glanced at the people at the side of the street. The border allowed a lot of walk-through traffic as well. If not for the checkpoint, El Paso and Juárez might as well have been one large city. They were of equal size, but there was a vast difference in the appearance and the economies.

As he watched, a young boy of nine or ten walked beside his mother. The boy was eating a hot dog and holding on to a bright blue balloon. The balloon jerked in the wind and captured the boy's attention.

The young mother balanced a sleeping child in her arms and chatted amiably on a cell phone. She hardly paid any attention to the older boy.

The boy with the balloon stopped suddenly. His balloon floated away and he grabbed his throat. Panic filled his face. His mouth opened to yell—but nothing came out. He grabbed his mother's dress.

Angry, the young mother turned around to admonish her son. Then she saw him holding his throat. His sunburned face reddened more.

Somebody help him,
Tyrel thought.
He's choking.

“Help me!” the young mother screamed. She dropped the cell phone and grabbed her son's arm. Wakened, the baby started screaming too. “My son needs help! Please! Someone help me!”

The bystanders backed away as the boy continued to struggle to breathe.

Tyrel couldn't believe it. Surely someone was going to help.

No one did.

Without thinking, Tyrel threw the cab door open. Images of Don and Shel ran through his mind. He remembered how he'd always been afraid of something happening to them when they were young. It was a parent's worst nightmare.

Like a broken-field runner, Tyrel made his way through the stalled lines of cars till he reached the boy. The woman still yelled for help.

“I can help him,” Tyrel told the woman. “Give him to me.”

Reluctantly the woman let go of her son. “He's not breathing. He can't breathe.”

“Yes, ma'am,” Tyler said. “I know.” He felt a little panicked himself. When Don and Shel were little, he'd worried about them. Especially Shel because he'd been fearless growing up. Don had had more sense. Tyrel had worried even more when Shel enlisted and went off to fight in the Middle East.

The boy fought Tyrel, pushing at his hands.

“Listen to me, son,” Tyrel said calmly. “You're gonna be all right. We're gonna get through this.” He forced the boy's jaws apart and peered into his mouth.

There was no visible obstruction.

Tyrel stepped behind the boy and placed his hands together in a double fist just above the boy's navel. He pulled in and up, fast and hard, just like he'd learned to do when the boys were small. In all those years, Tyrel had never had to Heimlich anyone, but once he'd been shown something, he never forgot it.

Nothing happened. The boy still couldn't breathe.

Tyrel knew that a crowd of people had gathered around them. All of them watched. He cursed them all. What he was doing was something anyone could do. The only reason he was there was because no one else would step up.

“C'mon, boy,” Tyrel coaxed. “You're scaring your mama. I'm right here, and I ain't gonna give up on you.” He pulled again.

This time the piece of hot dog stuck in the boy's throat exploded from his mouth. He sucked in a ragged breath, then cried out in pain and fear. He fought against Tyrel's hold.

“Hold up there, partner,” Tyrel said. “Let's make sure we got it all.”

The boy trembled as he turned back toward Tyrel. When he tilted the boy's head back, he looked in his mouth and down his throat.

The child was breathing normally now.

“It's okay,” Tyrel told him. “It's okay.” He released the boy, who immediately ran to his mother.

She was crying and shaking, but she held her son tightly. The boy held on to her and cried too.

“Thank you,” she told Tyrel. “Thank you so much.”

Tyrel touched his hat and nodded. “Yes, ma'am. Glad I was here to help.”

The crowd around them suddenly erupted with applause.

Embarrassed, Tyrel ignored them and turned to walk back to the waiting cab. He intended to finish his escape now that the line was moving again. He was only a few minutes away from freedom.

However, when he stepped from the curb, it felt like the top of his head had come unscrewed and someone had dumped spiders inside. A tickling sensation ate at the edges of his thoughts; then black spots appeared in his vision.

He tried to keep walking even though he felt woozy. He didn't take more than four or five steps before it felt like someone drove a railroad spike straight through the center of his heart. His legs went out from under him and he fell between two cars. On his back, he stared up at the sky and saw the sun dimming in the west.

Tyrel tried to get up, but the viselike pain in his chest grew even tighter. His vision closed to small tunnels. People came over to him and looked down. Tyrel tried to take a breath and couldn't. Blackness consumed him.

49

>> Rafter M Ranch

>> Outside Fort Davis, Texas

>> 0125 Hours (Central Time Zone)

Someone was knocking on the door.

Worn and exhausted though he was, Shel woke immediately. Out of habit, he reached for the SOCOM .45 hidden under the cushion of the couch where he slept. Don had tried to get him to come home with him, but Shel hadn't been ready to do that. He'd needed time alone to think and decompress.

In the end, after much talking—which had only further exhausted him—and because Don didn't have the strength to continue, his brother had left. Shel had also invited Will and the other NCIS agents to stay at the house, but they'd declined, and he'd been glad. He'd dropped his duffel on the bed in the room he'd once shared with Don, then headed out to the couch to sleep.

Max was already up and awaiting orders.

The knocking repeated.

The house was dark. After everyone had left at eight o'clock or so, finally relinquishing the site, satisfied there was nothing more that could be learned about what had happened, Shel had raided the refrigerator. He'd found leftover pinto beans and some cold corn bread. He'd microwaved both and ate at the table. He had never felt lonelier or less certain.

“Shel?” It was Will's voice.

“Yeah?” Shel stood by the door and peered through the window.

Will appeared to be alone. His rental SUV was parked out front next to the one Shel was driving.

“Can I come in?”

Shel tucked the pistol in his waistband at his back and unlocked the door. He could tell by Will's face that something bad had happened.

“What's going on?” Shel asked.

“The El Paso police called,” Will said.

Shel took his cell phone from his pocket and glanced at it. The battery was dead. During all the confusion, he'd forgotten to charge it. The home phone lines had been cut when Victor Gant and his crew had tried to kill Tyrel. Shel looked at Will but couldn't ask what was most on his mind.

“Your father's been located,” Will said. “There was an incident at the border. It appears he stopped to help a boy who was choking, then suffered a heart attack.”

A heart attack?
The words poured ice water through Shel's veins.
People die from heart attacks.

“Is Daddy going to be all right?” Shel asked.

Will's face softened. “They don't know. The doctors say it's too soon to tell. They've got him stabilized.”

Shel nodded and took in a deep breath. He felt dizzy and hurt all at the same time. “Does Don know?”

“Estrella went to tell him. I figured this was news he didn't need to hear over the phone, and since we're staying at a hotel outside of town, we were about equal distance. The sheriff's loaning us a helicopter so we can get to El Paso sooner.”

“All right,” Shel said. “I'll get my kit and meet you in the car.”

Will turned and headed back to the SUV.

Real fear settled in over Shel as he walked to the back bedroom.

He took a moment to get everything organized, but he didn't know what he was supposed to do. His daddy was in a hospital, maybe fighting for his life. The Marines hadn't had a checklist or training for that.

Shel felt helpless. In a situation like this, Don would pray. Shel envied his brother that feeling of being useful. But Shel knew he didn't believe or trust enough to do that. He'd be a hypocrite if he tried to pray, and he didn't wish for that.

Unable to do anything else, Shel grabbed the handles of his duffel and hoisted it to his shoulder. As he headed for the door, he looked around the house and wondered if it would ever feel like home again.