Bones of the Lost

receipts, the usual.”
    “Does Rockett drive?”
    “Sometimes. But get this. Sometimes he flies there, but not back.”
    “Where?”
    “Houston. Or Phoenix, then on to El Paso.”
    “Where does he stay?”
    “That ain’t clear.”
    “Does he ever cross into Mexico?”
    “Border patrol has records of Rockett flying to Guatemala, Ecuador, and Peru. Dew is guessing those are legitimate buying trips. There’s no record of him driving from Texas into Mexico.”
    I started to ask a question. Slidell beat me to it.
    “Or from Arizona, New Mexico, or California.”
    “Do his visits coincide with sales to accounts here?”
    “That’s just it. They don’t. ICE cross-checked dates against invoices.”
    “Maybe the round-trip drives are to pick up legal shipments. Maybe the one-way flights are for something else.”
    I didn’t need to spell it out. Every American has read about the porosity of our southern border. Two thousand miles, much of it unpatrolled. Most know about undocumented workers trudging through the desert or trying to swim the Rio Grande. We’ve all heard of coyotes, entrepreneurs who take money to smuggle illegals overland into the country, sometimes abandoning them to die rather than face arrest.
    “I doubt it’s that simple,” Slidell said. “Remember, Rockett got nailed at Charlotte-Douglas flying shit in.”
    “Cargo’s simple. You pack it, you ship it. People present a much thornier problem. They have to eat, drink, breathe.”
    For a few beats we both thought about that.
    “How’s this play? Somehow, Rockett gets girls into Mexico. From South America, Eastern Europe, wherever. Either they got their own passports or he fixes them up with fakes. Maybe he don’t even bother. Papers, no papers, he either marches them or trucks them over the border, then drives them east.”
    “That plays,” I said.
    “One thing’s for sure. Rockett’s not traveling to Texas to catch Cowboy games.”
    “No,” I agreed.
    More dead air. In the background I could hear phones, figured Slidell was at his desk in the squad room.
    “Any luck with Ray Majerick?” I asked.
    “Still in the wind. But we’ll get him.”
    “What about citizenjustice? Any leads on that?”
    “Shot it to the cyber boys, but they’re swamped.”
    The doorbell rang. My fingers tightened on the handset. I was expecting no one.
    The bell rang again.
    Again.
    “What’s that?”
    “Someone’s here,” I told Slidell. “You’ve a got cruiser outside, right?”
    “Once every hour. Best I could do. The department’s hamstrung for manpower.”
    “Stay on the line?”
    “Yeah.”
    The doorbell rang again.
    Again, too quickly.
    Still clutching the portable, I climbed the stairs and tried to peek through the window overlooking the front steps. The porch light was off. Below the eaves I could make out part of a man’s shoulder and leg, scuffed loafers.
    “You want I should dispatch a car?” Slidell asked.
    I put the phone to my ear.
    “Wait.”
    I ran downstairs, crept to the door, and pressed my eye to the peephole.
    “Oh, my God …”
    “Yo, doc? You okay?”
    Shocked, I slid back the deadbolt and opened the door.

HIS FACE WAS a halloween mask, eyes shadowy recesses, cheeks hollow, jaws stubble-dark.
    “Talk to me.” Slidell’s barked demand spit from the phone.
    I raised the device to my ear, gaze locked with that of the man on my doorstep.
    “I’m fine.”
    “What the—”
    “It’s a friend.” Level, camouflaging the emotion roiling inside me. “I’m good. Thank you.”
    I disconnected. Stood frozen, unsure how to play it. Joyful? Angry? Indifferent?
    I flipped on the porch light. In the soft yellow glow I could see red spiderwebbing the whites of his eyes.
    “You look like hell.” Opting for humor.
    “Thanks.” Ryan’s voice sounded gravelly and hoarse.
    “Shall I to try to reboot you?”
    “Doesn’t work.”
    “Come in.”
    He didn’t move.
    “If I leave you out there, you’ll run down and terrify the villagers.”
    Normally, Ryan would have hit me with a snappy retort.
    “This a bad time?” No snap.
    “I was about to clean lint from the dryer.” Keeping it light.
    “Fire hazard if you let that go.”
    I smiled.
    Ryan smiled. Sort of.
    I stood back.
    Ryan reached down and grasped the handle of a draped cube at his feet. As he brushed past me I heard a bell jingle. Scratching. His clothes stank of sweat and cigarette smoke.
    I closed the door and turned.
    Ryan stood in the center