The Baker's Daughter by Sarah McCoy Page A

quarter of a mile down, the new development of adobe homes and green sod abruptly ended with a half acre of horse pasture between it and a scattering of trailers on cinder blocks. Reaching the car, he noticed a second set of thick tire tracks leading up to a trailer with a padlocked front door and plasterboard over the windows. He pulled out his handheld receiver.
    â€œEl Paso, do you copy?”
    There was a crackle and pitchy squeal. “10-4.”
    â€œBert, I’m at the location,” said Riki. He surveyed the trailer once more, then turned to the Dodge before him. Its windows were covered with blankets and dark shirts cinched up by the window glass. The ends stuck out, fluttering in the breeze.
    â€œWhat’s your 10–20?” asked Bert.
    â€œOff Doniphan, on the Rio canal about a mile from the tracks. There’s a horse farm and some trailer homes. Underpass behind me.”
    Riki knelt down to the baked mud and put a finger in the second tire tread. It was deeper than a four door. It had to be a van.
    â€œHey, Bert, are there geophone sensors in the brush out this way?”
    â€œShould be. Why?”
    He followed the tracks up the embankment to the double-wide and scrub brush desert stretching all the way to the horizon. “Just want to make sure we’re watching this location. Looks suspicious. Could be a safe house.”
    â€œCopy. Need backup?”
    â€œ10–23. The trailer appears empty now. If the tip-off says she’s seen kids around for a week, then I got a good feeling they were left behind. Just send a tow for the vehicle and do a 10–29. Maybe it’s tagged to the smuggler.”
    The radio squawked and fuzzed.
    â€œ10-4. Be careful, Rik. Don’t try to be a hero.”
    â€œCopy that. No hero.”
    Riki undid the holster of his gun. Bert was right. He couldn’t take any chances. Last month, a patrol agent received third-degree burns and a stint in the critical care unit after an illegal alien threw a balled T-shirt at him, soaked in kerosene and aflame. The immigrant left the agent to burn in the chaparral and ran. He was probably halfway to New York City by now while the agent was undergoing his second round of skin grafts on his arms, chest, and face. His wife put on a brave face in the hospital room when her five-year-old shied away from a man he didn’t recognize. Alone later, she wept in the hallway.
    Riki knocked on the driver’s window, then stood aside from the glass. “Hello? Anybody there?” He tried the handle. Locked. Near the front tire was a doll wrapped in a colorful
rebozo
. Small footprints matted the dust.
    Linda Calhoun had described a mother and children. He knocked again. “Señora?” There was soft movement of the window blanket. “I’m not here to make trouble. I want to help. Open up,” he said firmly, then again in Spanish.
    Slowly, the lock to the door clicked and opened. A tanned Mexican woman stared hard at him, tears ebbing. “Por favor,” she begged. “Mis niños.” Two small heads peeked out from the backseat.
    â€œDo you have papers? Citizenship or visa?”
    â€œNo—no visa.”
    â€œYou can’t stay here if you aren’t a US citizen. Where are you from?”
    â€œPara mis niños,” she repeated.
    â€œYou’re an illegal alien. I know you understand that. Are you alone or did you come with a group—a leader?”
    She covered her face and sobbed.
    He sighed. The woman had probably given every peso she had for a smuggling organization to transport them over the border. Once across, her paid leader had either abandoned them or brought them to this car and told them to wait inside. In either case, she’d most likely been through hell the past couple weeks, living in desert heat and dirt, hunger and fear. And now she was watching her dreams shatter for herself and her children. She’d rather stay in that car and