“I see. Well, I don’t think he’s here.”
“He might have a manacle on one wrist, but we can’t be sure of that. I suspect he’s terrified and desperate,” Hackberry said. “The man he may have been manacled to was tortured to death by six men carrying rifles. They probably came out of Mexico.”
“If this man is desperate, why wouldn’t he come to you?” the Asian woman said.
“My guess is he doesn’t trust the authorities.”
“But he would trust me?”
“We’re not with ICE or the Border Patrol, ma’am,” Pam said.
“I gathered that from your uniform and your badge.”
“The point is, we’re not worried about somebody feeding or sheltering wets,” Pam said. “They’ve been with us a long time.”
“Yes, they have, haven’t they?”
Pam seemed to think about the implication of the statement, plainly wondering if the barb was intentional or imaginary. “I was admiring your side room there. Is that a statue of the Virgin Mary in front of all those burning candles?”
“Yes, it is.”
“It doesn’t weep blood, does it?” Pam asked.
“Ms. Ling, if you don’t feel you can confide in us, talk with the FBI. The man we’re looking for barely escaped a terrible fate,” Hackberry said.
If his suggestion had any viability at all, it did not show in the Asian woman’s face. “I’ll keep in mind what you’ve said,” she replied.
Pam Tibbs’s arms were folded on her chest. She gave Hackberry a look, waiting for him to speak, the fingers of her right hand opening and closing, her breath audible.
Hackberry took the manila folder from his side pocket and removed the sheaf of eight-by-ten photos. “These were taken today at a crime scene no more than a half hour from your house. What you see here was done by men who have no parameters, Miss Anton. We have a witness who indicates the victim gave up the name La Magdalena before he died. We think the torture death of the victim was conducted by a man called Krill. That’s why we’re here now. We don’t want these men to hurt you or anyone to whom you may have given shelter. Have you heard of a man named Krill?”
Her eyes held on his. They were dark, unblinking, perhaps containing memories or knowledge she seldom shared with others.
“Yes,” she replied. “Three or four years ago, there was a coyote by that name. He robbed the people who paid him to take them across. Some say he raped the women.”
“Where is he now?”
“He disappeared.”
“Do you know how he came by his name?”
“He was a machine-gunner somewhere in Central America. His nickname came from the food of the whale. He ate the ‘krill’ in large numbers.”
It was silent in the room. Hackberry glanced through the door of the side room, which must have served as a chapel of some kind. Perhaps thirty or forty candles were burning in red and blue and purple vessels, the light of the flames flickering on the base of the statue. “You Catholic, Miss Anton?” he said.
“That depends on whom you talk to.”
“Expecting some visitors tonight?” When she didn’t reply, he said, “Can we look out back?”
“Why do you ask me? You’ll do it whether I like it or not.”
“No, that’s not correct,” Pam replied. “We don’t have a search warrant. We’ll do it with your permission, or we can get a warrant and come back.”
“Do whatever you wish.”
“Excuse me, ma’am, but what if we just leave you alone here?” Pam said. “Would you prefer that? Then you can deal with Mr. Krill and his friends on your own.”
“We’ll wander out back, if you don’t mind,” Hackberry said, placing a business card on the coffee table. Then he smiled. “Is it true you worked for Civil Air Transport, Claire Chennault’s old airline?”