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Christ, Hunter thought as she watched the teenager disappear from sight. She got back in the van, busying herself with paperwork to take her mind off Anda.
When they returned to Marfa, Hunter made it a point to present the PAIC with her reports, pointing out the memorandum to the Chief Patrol Agent where she gave full credit to Sheriff Rockman and his “exceptional effort” in providing the Border Patrol critical intelligence information on this case. Carl read it and looked at her, “Exceptional effort, uh?”
“I thought it might make the Chief happy.”
“It ought to cool things off for a while.”
“I’m not going to worry about it for the next couple of days, anyhow.”
“You off?”
“Yeah.”
“Get out of here, then.”
***
Hunter waited one day before heading to Ojinaga. Relations with Mexican law enforcement weren’t that good lately, so she went to the people on the street. Most were non-committal, giving vague answers, or making up stories in the hopes of getting some money.
Hunter entered the fifth cantina that afternoon when she spotted a man she’d seen two times earlier in the day. He wore a western straw hat with the brim curled just right and the front dipped a little over his eyes. She had to admit it looked good on him. His hair was odd for Mexico or the Big Bend, with a long, dark brown ponytail. The guy wore a black tee shirt with Metallica in red letters across the chest, good fitting Wrangler jeans looking crisp and fresh starched, and ostrich-skin Roper boots. He said something to the bartender and waved Hunter to a seat at the bar beside him.
She sat down as the bartender put a cold Dos Equis in front of her. The guy was smiling with very white teeth showing, friendly, amused.
“All right. What are you doing,” Hunter said.
“I figure you’re looking for something or somebody, and you aren’t having any luck at all. It’s hot work out there, and I expect you could use something cold.”
“Do I know you?”
“Nope, but I know you, Kincaid.” He took a drink from his beer and half-turned toward her on the stool.
Hunter waited a slow beat, looking him over. Maybe five ten, give or take. Rangy build, late twenties, nice looking with those white teeth in that lean face.
Hunter said, “Okay…Why don’t you make it even and tell me who you are?”
“My name’s Bobby Mata.”
“Okay Bob, I asked you once. What do you want?”
“Damn, you’re sure good looking.”
Hunter got off the barstool.
Bobby waited until she was almost at the door. “I can help you find her.”
That stopped her. She waited a moment with her back to him, debating, and then turned and came back. “If you’ve got something to say to me, say it.”
“Hey, we’re all friends here,” Bobby was still playing, enjoying it.
“Get this straight; I’m not your friend. You want to talk, then do it. I don’t have time for bullshit.”
It didn’t seem to bother Mata at all. He kept smiling and said, “I said I can help you find that little girl. You’ve
been flailing around all day like a drowning man in deep water, getting nowhere with your questions. Half the people you talked to know you’re the Patrulla. Since you’re a woman, too, a good-looking woman at that, they figure you’re the one in the ballads. You know, El Lobo y la Tejana, about your shootout with El Lobo on the bluff above Santa Elena? These people may not be educated, but they aren’t stupid. They’re not going to tell you shit.”
Hunter knew the song. She hated it. “But they’ll talk to you, huh?”
He drained his bottle, “Yep.”
