The Death Dealers: The Border Series, #2

By David Griffith

When Lonnie Bowers returns to the Reservation where he grew up, he finds a grandfather he doesn't want, a brother he despises, and a sister addicted to crystal meth. He'd like to walk away. The Indian side of his heritage has never brought anything but pain, so why would he want more?

But it's not that simple, not when it's in his power to strike a blow against La Familia, Mexico's largest producer of methamphetamines. Lonnie's had the best training any agent could have, but he never reckoned on the charismatic, twisted power of Nazario Moreno, and nobody told him that to stay alive--he'd have to pray.

• Language: English
• Publisher: David Griffith
• Release date: Nov 20, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386722380

David Griffith

David Griffith has lived around packers and outfitters, loggers and cowboys—and always with horses. His books showcase an intimate knowledge of cowboy life and the land, from northern British Columbia to the Sierra Madre of Mexico. With his wife Patricia, he still runs a cattle ranch in the big river country of British Columbia.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Lonnie

WHEN THAT BIG INDIAN hit me, I went down like he’d whacked me with the butt-end of a spruce tree. A long time ago, I’d learned that staying on the ground was dangerous, so I shook the exploding stars out of my eyes, got my feet under me, and gave him a proper lesson on respecting his elders. He just happened to be my brother, and until ten minutes earlier, I hadn’t even known I had one of those. Our introduction surely didn’t engender any of that feel-good, fuzzy stuff you’re supposed to have in your heart for kinfolk.

After Gus picked himself out of the dirt for the second time, I stepped forward to see if he needed a few more welts.

He held up his hand and backed away. Enough! I’m finished.

Well, you shouldn’t have ever started. I dropped my hands, my teeth still clenched from my roiling anger and distaste for this place.

We glared at each other, and it was like I was looking over a high fence into a different world—a world I didn’t want to see. Why had I come here? It surely wasn’t to pick a fight with some relative I’d never seen before. While driving north, heading to the Canadian Rodeo Finals, I’d asked myself that question at least a hundred times. My satellite radio had been pounding out an old Bon Jovi number, something about there being no reason you can’t go home. There were lots of reasons for me not to go home, and darn few in favor. Just like the song, I’d spent a good part of my life running as far away as I could get from anything Indian. So why had I decided to go back now? I had no good answer.

At the last possible second, I’d cut off the car behind me, then ducked into the left-hand turn lane. The driver angrily honked at me. In the rearview mirror, I could see his mouth making motions that made me think he wasn’t blessing me with long life and good health. I gave him an apologetic wave. He was right. I shouldn’t have cut him off.

My heritage had bothered me ever since an old cowboy at the Williams Lake Rodeo had told me he’d known my mother up on the Rocky Point Reserve. At the time, I’d brushed him off, but it had always bothered me. Who was my birth mother? Had she been born on the Reserve—and buried there? Even if I had little use for that side of my ancestry, I wanted to find answers to those nagging questions.

An hour later, I jabbed at the radio off-button and cocked an eyebrow at a four-by-eight sheet of bedraggled plywood. According to the sign, I was now on Indian land. Shortly thereafter, the first government-built house filled my windshield. I slowed to a crawl, grimacing at humpy, snow-crusted yards, litter-strewn vacant lots, and rusty, trashed vehicles.

A log cabin stood alone on the far edge of town. An old man labored over a woodpile, his axe sinking into the dry pine blocks scattered around him. I pulled off the road and parked. His house and yard were neat, suspiciously free of clutter and derelict cars. The shake roof covered a full-length front veranda, empty except for a homebuilt willow rocker. The logs had been well cared for, recently sanded and oiled.

The old fellow who wielded the axe wore a plaid scotch cap with the earflaps tied up. Suspenders crossed over a brown-and white-checked jac-shirt. His dark wool pants covered most of a pair of high-top moccasins encased in rubber slip-on overshoes. He looked ancient enough to have known some of my people, perhaps even my mother. The only memory I carried of her was from a blurred photograph I’d had when I was a kid. Somewhere in one of my many social services-orchestrated moves, the picture had disappeared, along with my trust of anything Indian.

The old man straightened, leaned against the axe, and watched me walk up the freshly-shoveled path.

Halfway to the woodpile, I spoke. Good morning.

He nodded sagely. Hello, Lonnie. I knew you would come home someday.

My mouth fell open. Once I’d recovered from the shock, I said, You have the advantage on me, sir. I don’t recall when we met. I kind of expected recognition anywhere rodeos were popular, but I didn’t reckon this backwoods reservation qualified.

You think we’re too far out in the bush to know a good bronc rider when we see one? He had a few missing teeth, but it didn’t take away from his infectious grin.

Yeah, I guess I did.

His face turned serious again. You might be right, but there is another reason I recognized you. I have known you since you were a baby.

Oh-h? My eyebrows rose. Time to be cautious here.

The old man switched the axe to his other hand and shuffled his feet. I am your grandfather.

I stuffed my thumbs into my pockets just to make sure there weren’t any dollar bills hanging over the edges. It went with the gold belt buckle. When you’re on top and you look like you have money, everybody’s your friend, and there’s a long-lost relative behind every stump. Old-timer, I think you have the wrong guy—but it was great visiting with you. You have a good day. I gestured at the snow-covered woodpile. Be careful with that axe.

Halfway to my car, his quiet voice stopped me. Lonnie, would you have a cup of tea before you go?

Tea! The Indians all drank the stuff, especially the older ones. I turned back, undecided. Had I misjudged him? Against my better judgment, I nodded. I had time, and what could it hurt? Perhaps I could find out something about my mother. Even if I couldn’t, it might be more important to make this old guy’s day than for me to just drive down the road a hundred more miles.

I did my best to wipe the grimace off my face as I turned and walked back up the path. With one hand, the old man buried the axe in the chopping block, then shuffled into the log cabin. I fell in step behind him. The front door led into a small, open dining area next to the kitchen. Two chairs hugged each end of a rough plank table. A well-varnished bench ran down each side, obviously constructed when there were more people for dinner than this old man and a missus—if there ever was one of those.

The old fellow unwound a strip of toilet paper, polished his fogged-up glasses, and gestured at a chair. I surveyed the room while he filled a kettle with water from the tap and set it on the gas stove. He rummaged in a Mason jar, then brought the tea-fixings to the table. I ignored his careful scrutiny.

Your mother was my daughter.

Suspiciously, I searched his face, unwilling to believe the words, but the wrinkled visage held no hint of avarice.

His dark eyes found mine and rested there. My eyes slid away and settled on a faded photograph tacked in the center of the west wall. The black-and-white picture had captured a family in the tall grass of summer. A young man stood next to a woman, her head covered with a light scarf. Her long, raggedy dress failed to disguise her exquisite beauty. Three sober-faced urchins were bunched in front of them.

I stood and walked around the end of the table to peer at the photograph.

That little girl in the middle is your mother. The boy on the left is your uncle Robert. Frank is on the right.

So that’s you and—

Yes, my dear wife. She’s been gone for many years . . . His voice trailed into silence.

I’m sorry. And I really was, because now it didn’t matter what I wanted to believe. The old man was telling God’s own truth, whether I liked it or not. Mostly, I didn’t. I was here to learn about dead people, folks with whom I had only a passing connection. I wanted no current ties to this run-down Indian place.

I dragged my black felt hat off my head and laid it upside down beside my chair while I studied the faded photo. Even though my skin was a shade lighter, my hair was the same charcoal as the old man’s. I wished my wife, Clarissa, was with me. She would know what to say. Then again, maybe she would be speechless, too busy thinking, Oh-h, so this is where you come from? How interesting! I’d surely slip down a notch in her eyes. Her family was old stock Irish, some of the first settlers in Lillooet, or at least the first white settlers.

The old man poured hot water into a cup, then switched the tea bag to the second. He set the first in front of me. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that the weaker second cup, or none at all would have been just fine. When his own cup of tea was ready, he sat at the table. I politely sipped the foul brew, trying not to grimace.

I am Pius Lazarre. He held out his hand.

I reached over and shook his hand, mildly surprised at his big-knuckled strength. Pius is a good missionary name.

He shrugged. It is the name I was given. When I was a young man, I thought about changing it to an Indian name. Now, I don’t care. My life would not have changed because of a different name.

I nodded, with a growing respect.

What do you know of your family, Lonnie?

Nothing, other than my mother’s name was Bernadette—and now I guess I know her maiden name was Lazarre. And, I added derisively, she at least slept with some guy whose last name was Bowers.

The old man nodded sadly, and that was when my supposed long-lost brother showed up. The door cannoned violently back and hit the edge of the kitchen counter. A big, belligerent Indian stood outlined in the light of the doorway. He looked from me to Pius.

Who’s this? His voice was slurred. He reeked of alcohol and body odor.

I glanced at the wall clock hanging over the kitchen stove. The hour hand hadn’t even reached ten in the morning, and this coconut was already pie-eyed.

When he spoke, Pius’s voice was low, and carried a touch of fear, which made me angrier. Gus, this is Lonnie, your half-brother.

The momentary silence crackled with high-voltage tension. Gus and I locked eyes, and there was instant acrimony. It might have been different if he’d been sober, but he was a long ways from that. He laughed, the rumble of scorn coming from deep in his oversized belly.

Old Pius stood and tried to gently steer Gus out through the doorway. At first, he gave to the pressure, but when they reached the last step of the porch, he swung a backhand at Pius. It caught the old man off balance and knocked him into the snow. I jumped out of my chair and charged outside, unsure whether to pick up the old man, or to give this boorish jerk what he deserved. That indecision was my undoing.

When I barreled off the step, my attention was fixed on Pius. Gus caught me with a straight right to the jaw that rang my bell good. He should have finished the job, because that was when I got up and gave him what for. My first punch smashed his lips into his teeth, and my left hand followed across to his right eye and knocked him down. He came boiling back, but when I realigned his nose over to the left side of his face, he understood he’d bit off more than he’d reckoned on. I wasn’t a fighter, but I could sure enough handle him.

Pius had picked himself out of the snow and was wiping off his hands with a sad look on his leathery face, like he was wishing he had a better family than what was in his front yard.

I stepped forward to finish what Gus had started.

Enough, I’m finished. He backed up, gave me a dirty look, then turned and shuffled down the snow-packed road, intermittently wiping at the blood that streamed from his broken nose.

I walked over to the old man. He’d shuffled up onto the porch and looked to be okay.

I’m sorry for the trouble I caused. I’ll be going now, I said.

Please, Lonnie, come finish your tea before you leave.

Figuring it was the least I could do for turning his front yard into a family brawl, I nodded, followed him back into the house and sat at the table.

Pius folded his hands around the chipped porcelain cup in front of him. I am sorry about Gus. He carries a huge grudge against anyone who is white.

Well, I guess I’m not really that, am I?

No, but you are not all Indian either. His eyes looked sad, like maybe it was a bad thing not to be a hundred percent Indian.

We sipped our tea in silence. From as far back as I could remember, I’d wished I wa different. It seemed like every bad thing that had happened in my life was because of my Indian side.

I drained the last of my tea and scraped my chair away from the table.

So—I’ll be on my way, which will make us both happy. The words had spilled out with more harshness than I intended to show, but it’s what I felt. I didn’t want or need any relatives here.

Pius nodded silently. Come again when you are ready. There is much for me to tell you, but Lonnie . . . don’t wait too long.

What rose to my lips was better left unsaid. I said no goodbye, which was rude, but everything inside me was so mixed up, I didn’t know what to say. That was it. Coming here had been a mistake. I had no desire to return—ever.

Chapter 2

Lonnie

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WHEN THE LAST HOUSE at Rocky Point faded from my rearview mirror, I breathed a long sigh of relief. Whatever was back there had no relevance now. Did it matter how I’d started life, or whether I had the same blood as some big, ornery Indian? Some time in my foster family childhood, I’d wrestled with all my issues, including having a mother who social services had apparently deemed unfit. I should have left it in the past.

I turned east onto the highway, and this time, I had the sense to keep going.

Darkness had settled over the city of Edmonton when I pulled into the hotel parking lot. After checking in, I called Clarissa, though I said nothing about my side trip to Rocky Point. She wouldn’t care if my folks were from outer space, but I still hesitated to discuss the people I’d long ago written off as having no part of me. 

I put the Do Not Disturb sign on the door, pulled the drapes closed, and crawled into the queen-sized bed. But as tired as I was, sleep evaded me. My horse tomorrow would be the first of six of the toughest broncs in the business, every one of them a professional at dumping cowboys in the dirt. That was okay. I was a professional at staying in the middle of them. Nevertheless, I worried. I needed to win.

The early winter sun was high in the sky before I awoke. I rubbed the tender spot where Gus had belted me. Other than that, I felt great, more than ready for whatever might come tonight in the arena.

Later, as I drove the short distance to the Coliseum, I reviewed each detail about the black mare they called Moody River. I’d seen her buck three or four times in the past year. She wasn’t big and powerful, but she was fast enough to duck out from under the best riders. If she had one of her better days, and everything went right, I could place in the money.

I maneuvered into an empty parking space, grabbed my saddle and riggin’ bag out of the trunk, then trudged the obligatory half a mile to the contestant’s entrance. When I walked through the door, the excitement and tension hit me head-on. For some of us, this rodeo was a run-up to the really big one, the National Finals in Las Vegas. This year, I was out of the running for that honor, but I had a good shot at winning a Canadian championship. It was also my last opportunity to inject some life-support into my anemic bank account.

The stock corrals behind the chute area held the familiar bucking bulls and horses, all of them athletes in their own right. Like the cowboys here, they were only the best. Moody River stood on the far side of the second pen, her black hide now covered with the long hair of winter. The signature white saddle scald on her withers hinted of a harder past, probably as a packhorse. I grinned as I pictured that tough little mare scattering broken eggs, bedrolls, and pancake mix helter-skelter over a mountain trail. I just hoped she didn’t do the same to me.

The stands were nearly full when I walked behind the chutes. I tucked my saddle and riggin’ bag in an empty space along the pipe fence that separated the stock pens from the cowboy’s area, then shook hands with Bart Reynolds and Cody Hill, both bronc riders and good friends. We chatted about the draw while we watched the fanfare of the opening ceremonies.

The Grand Entry thundered into the arena to the throbbing cheers of a full house. Flag girls decked out in satin and sequins led the parade of fancy horseflesh. A stagecoach carried the mayor and a host of other politicians and dignitaries. After watching for a minute, I turned away, now intent on the job ahead.

Carefully, I unwrapped the latigos on my worn, old bronc saddle, then pulled on my special boots with the dull-roweled spurs. None of us ever wanted to hurt or cut a horse with a spur. We liked those horses. Besides, the Rodeo Cowboys Association would fine us heavily if we hurt one. But that wasn’t all. The horse wouldn’t buck as well following an injury, or he might get nasty in the chute, which just increased the danger.

I watched the bareback riding through the chute bars while I readied my gear. After patting a touch of rosin into the swells of my saddle, I buckled my chaps, then threaded the buck rein onto the leather halter with the sheepskin-covered noseband.

Bronc riding is a contest nearly as old as time. Moody River and I would meet in a classic clash of wills, the earliest battle between man and beast. Clarissa said that wasn’t so, that Cain and Abel were battling each other long before anybody tried to tame wild horses. I couldn’t lay claim to having read any of the Book, so though I was skeptical, I didn’t argue with her.

The tie-down roping started at the far end of the arena, as the broncs trotted up the long alley from the holding pens. My horse was the last in line. She stood quietly while I slipped the halter over her nose, and saddled her. Old, familiar butterflies fluttered in my belly as I looped the buck rein over her neck. With several minutes to go before the bronc riding started, I jumped off the catwalk and stretched through my calisthenics routine. Occasionally, I peered through the chute bars to catch a glimpse of the action. More butterflies now.

My turn. I stepped over the top of the chute, never taking my eyes off Moody’s flickering ears, which were the harbinger of trouble. I slid the toes of my boots into the stirrups, scrunched down in my saddle, and nodded for the gate to open. Moody River must have had a bellyache, because after the third jump, she ran out of gas. The mare crow-hopped to the back fence, and I placed well out of the money. However, there were five more rounds, plenty of opportunity to make up for tonight.

I walked back to the chutes, unbuckled my chaps, and idly inspected the jam-packed stands. Even in that huge crowd of strangers, I picked out the one familiar face. Frederick Roseman’s cool eyes followed my progress as I made my way back to the chutes. An invisible hand clutched at my chest. What was he doing here? Despite what happened in the arena, this was going to be a stress-filled week.

Chapter 3

Clarissa

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THE WESTJET TICKET AGENT was pleasant, though the name Clarissa Bowers seemed beyond her heavy Chinese accent. She checked the young lady’s bag, then handed her a boarding pass for the afternoon flight from Vancouver to Edmonton.  

Clarissa thanked her and strode briskly toward gate B-26. Going to the Canadian Finals was always fun. It would have been nice to have driven up with Lonnie, but that wasn’t to be. Two last-minute insurance claims had come in, both from long-time customers for the company. It was only fair to get them paid out as soon as possible, so she’d stayed and walked the paperwork through the first phase.

Dealing efficiently with disaster in people’s lives had catapulted Clarissa up the ladder at Guardian Insurance. Generally, she enjoyed working with clients, but sometimes the pressure of balancing their expectations against company policy could be high stress times ten. She sighed. It would be great to leave it all behind for a week.

The Vancouver airport was familiar territory. At least once a month, she flew to the Toronto head office for meetings. And often, when there were floods or other natural disasters, the company would send her to process claims in those areas.

Gate twenty-six was almost at the end of the concourse, and by the time the waiting line of travelers was in sight, Clarissa wished she’d ditched her vanity and the high-heeled boots. Flats or tennis shoes would have been a better choice. She briefly grimaced. A woman did dumb things to look beautiful for her man.

She flicked a speck of lint off the navy, knee-length coat as she fell into the wake of two impeccably uniformed United flight attendants. If Clarissa walked beside the tall one with the blue eyes and sandy hair, they could have passed for sisters. Nervously, Clarissa glanced down at the outfit she’d chosen. Would it be okay? All of the rodeo wives sat in the same spot in the grandstand, and the Finals could be a real dressing contest. Losing was brutal. She switched her wheeled carry-on to the other hand. A trophy wife seemed to be part of the spoils of being a champion. Once more, she nervously inspected her choice of attire. Even if she wasn’t trophy material, it never hurt to dress your best. She’d known she would have to go straight to the coliseum from the airport; hence, the expensive pantsuit and rapidly forming blister on one of her toes—thanks to the ill-fitting designer boots. She tried not to scowl at the flight attendants in front of her. Neither one walked like they had blisters. Next time, she wouldn’t be so cheap. Twenty bucks more might have solved the sore-feet issue.

When the plane landed in Edmonton, Clarissa hurried outside to catch a taxi to the coliseum. She wondered if she would see Lonnie before the performance. As the doors opened in front of her, she caught sight of him. He stood on the sidewalk, hunched against the cold November air, and arguing with a security cop over his double-parked car. Lonnie was probably hoping Clarissa would show up before his car was towed. She hustled forward and kissed him. He grabbed her bag, threw it in the back seat, and they were gone, making the security guard’s life instantly easier.

Lonnie slid his hand behind her neck and hugged her as they drove away. Wow, you look great. His gaze moved over her pantsuit and down to her boots, and for a moment, the blister on her toe didn’t even hurt.

At the coliseum’s contestant entrance, Lonnie gave Clarissa a quick peck on the cheek. Then he headed for the chutes, already preoccupied with the work ahead. Clarissa went to find her reserved seat with the other rodeo wives and girlfriends. There were only a couple of women who played the points game: ten points if you were pretty, twenty if you’re rich enough to be dressed right, and a hundred if your husband was a multiple Canadian champion. Then you were the queen.

Clarissa made her way into the stands, greeting a few friends, then waving to two other vague acquaintances before finding her seat—right beside Trina Shephard.  

Clarissa! How are you? Trina gushed. She had the leggy build and honey complexion that modeling agencies scrounge the world to find. However, Trina had never found it necessary to stoop to that kind of manual labor.

I’m fine, Clarissa answered guardedly. And you? Trina made her nervous. She’d learned the hard way to steer clear of the woman’s phony friendliness.

Very well. Trina’s chin elevated a notch. So, have you been to any rodeos with Lonnie lately? Or—has he been traveling alone?

Clarissa stared at the catwalks far overhead while she searched for an appropriate comeback. In the rodeo community, everybody instantly knew if there was gossip or scandal, and her and Lonnie’s past marriage troubles had created ample ammunition. Trina, I thought you would know. After all, you’re always on the road, aren’t you?

Trina eyed her, the fake eyelashes fluttering her readiness to do battle.

The verbal sparring ceased while they stood in silence as a sequined singer in the middle of the arena did a unique but credible version of the Canadian National Anthem. Clarissa hoped she could ignore any more questions. However, the moment the music finished, Trina turned to her, clearly unable to miss an opportunity to gather another juicy bit of gossip.

Clarissa cut her off. Actually, Trina, I’ve been busy at work.

The Grand Entry pounded out of the arena. Clarissa searched the surrounding area, hoping for any empty seat far from this catty witch. Of course, there weren’t any. She checked her ticket again. Yes, this was the right seat—for five miserable performances.

The bronc riding started. Lonnie had a good horse tonight, and before the ride was half over, the crowd was on their feet. Clarissa screamed encouragement, though she knew he couldn’t hear her.

As her husband walked back to the chutes and unbuckled his chaps, the announcer’s voice broke through the applause: Folks, the judges have given Lonnie Bowers eighty-three points! We have a new leader in the bronc riding tonight. A win this evening would put him in the number two position to win it all here at the finals.

Clarissa sat back in her seat, feeling flushed with the excitement of Lonnie’s ride. He was going to be the Canadian champion this year. She could feel it. Trina’s brushed-on smile didn’t even bother her.

The