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The final chapter of a seven part series that has run all week.

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Marty got the deportees to the airport and made sure they’d all boarded the plane back to Texas before returning to the village of Delicias where he was playing a set at the Maestros del Pasado Club around the corner from where the black step van still sat.  The Buick never looked better than parked out front of the club.  Well, except perhaps for when a president was riding in the back down the streets of New York.

In Danbury’s Escalade, Pastor Peterson expressed concern over the fate of the two officers handcuffed in the van they’d left behind.  “If somehow one of them trips the switch and the step van blows up, we would be directly responsible for the deaths of those two officers and any passers-by that might be too close,” he said.

“You needn’t worry, Pastor,” Danbury reassured him.  “Rusty filled the Corvette with actual fertilizer. Very volatile and flammable.  All the bags he put in and around the step van were fertilizer bags, but filled with nothing but manure.  Nothing in the world could make them ignite.”  Pastor Peterson breathed a sigh of relief.  “You didn’t think we’d actually risk anyone’s life did you?”

“Except our own? Rex shot back.  “My back is killing me!”

In the Crew Cab F-100, Rusty told Earl to reach into the back seat and find the Piggly Wiggly cooler.  “Grab us each a couple of them Lone Star Longnecks.  I got a 12-pack iced down for the trip back.”

“Are you crazy, Rusty?” Earl asked.  “It’s illegal to have open containers in a moving vehicle.”

The two of them looked at each other and both busted out laughing at the same time.  The 12 pack was gone before they hit the border.

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In the armored Sequoia, Delgado and his mother both repeatedly expressed their thanks for the daring effort to rescue them.  Lucinda had to admit that she couldn’t have done it alone and had little to do with the actual planning and implementation of the rescue.  “It was everybody else from Fort Stockton who made it all work,” she said.  “I was too emotional and was just running on adrenaline.”  Delgado’s mother was speaking a string of heart-felt platitudes that no one understood, as they were in Spanish.  Deuce Braxton was grateful he’d had an opportunity to do the right thing before it was too late. Nonetheless, he feared opening the invoice from Franklin Danbury and seeing the billable hours involved in making it all happen.

But perhaps the vehicle heading out of Delicias at a rapid speed containing the most raw emotion was the one with only one occupant.

In the 1951 Mercury woody wagon, Sister Thelma was playing again over and over in her mind what had happened years before at the hand of Heriberto Eduardo Zambada, the man who had arranged for her imprisonment, killed her parents, and held her hostage. She knew he was still alive.  She knew he was still in the same compound outside Chihuahua, Mexico.  And she knew it was her destiny to find him.  To see him one more time.  To do what had to be done.

While her heart was fully committed to doing all she could to secure the safe return of those people who had been snatched and deported illegally, she was as much committed to doing what she had to do, once their safe release had been accomplished.  Rather than taking the quickest route to Chihuahua, the one that would only take an hour, Sister Thelma drove south to San Francisco Javier de Satevó, then northwest to Santa Isabel Municipality, and finally to Chihuahua, adding another hour to reflect while she drove.  She was startled at the memories that came flooding back.

With each mile that passed she relived the abuse and terror she’d felt as a small girl.  She passed the very spot on the highway that the old ’52 Ford F3 Marmon-Herrington she’d used to escape broke down. It was there she was picked up by Russett McCullough and taken to a new life in Fort Stockton.  Tears were streaming down Sister Thelma’s face as she slowed the Mercury down for the last few miles of her journey. She prepared herself for what had to be done.

When she arrived at the walled and guarded plantation where she’d spent those years, she was surprised at the condition of the place.  It looked nearly abandoned.  The places where there had been guards stationed around the walls were now empty.  The sole protection seemed to be provided by one soldadero at the gate to get into the compound.  He looked at her oddly when the Mercury pulled up.  She thought she might have recognized him, but it was from a whole different life.  Seeing her in full habit and assuming the owner of the home had probably requested her to come, he waved her through.

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Off in a field to the left was a Geneva Motor Salon: 1959 Aston Martin DB4.  Sister Thelma remembered it when it was brand new and Zambada had purchased it and shipped it to Mexico.  She sat in it as a young girl.  She still remembered the feel and aroma of the rich leather cabin.  The car was beautiful, one of the first she ever remembered seeing.  And now it was a relic, nearly turning to dust with everything else around it.

Sister Thelma was all the way up the drive when the gate behind her opened again.  She did not see the vehicle that had come through, nor the person driving it, her focus on the home ahead.  Her thoughts were occupied with the condition of the estate.  The area that had housed the exotic animals was empty and overrun with weeds.  The gardens where all the food had been grown and harvested was devoid of anything of value or beauty.  Nature had been slowly reclaiming the plantation for years.  The house itself seemed to be caving in on itself, as though maintenance had not been performed in decades.

Sister Thelma parked the Mercury in front of the house and was inside before the 2021 Dynamax DX3 37BH Motor Home pulled through the gate.  The driver, when confronted by the old guard, said, “Toma esta autocaravana. Es tuya. Vete de aquí mientras puedas. No regreses.”  The door was opened, the driver climbed out, and the old guard crawled up into the driver’s seat and backed out onto the highway as the driver towards the front door of the derelict mansion.  Eventually, he slipped in without being noticed, despite the old wood floors creaking with his every step.

Following the sound of the feminine voice, he made his way to the drawing room.

There, Sister Thelma stood before an old, broken man sitting in a wheelchair.  His face had been disfigured from the impact of a shovel decades earlier.  His nose was flat, one eye permanently blinded.  Spit ran out of one corner of his mouth, making his shirt permanently stained brown and wet.  The nun stood only feet in front of him.  She wasn’t sure if he could see her or not.

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“My name is Sister Thelma,” she said.  There was some type of audible grunt, signifying that he could, indeed, hear her.  “But you know me as Lorena de la Echeverria.”  With that, he looked up, confused as though he was searching as far back into the recesses of his impaired mind hoping to bring back details that had been lost for years. But the feminine voice sounded familiar.

“You had me brought here when I was but a small child.  An innocent girl.”  The voice Sister Thelma spoke with was clear and calm, devoid of any emotion, as though she was simply stating facts.  “You groomed me.  Gave me toys.  Provided teachers.  Made me think you had plans for my future.  But you stole from me, instead.  You stole my youth.  My parents.  My innocence.  My very life.”

The grotesque figure in the wheelchair shifted in his seat.  It was clear  he understood the words, even if he couldn’t form a reaction. The familiar voice stirred distant memories in the old man.

“I came here today for one reason.”  Sister Thelma continued.  Her voice was strong, her back straight, her eyes clear.  “For one reason only,” she repeated. “I needed to see you and what you had become.  But more importantly, I needed you to see me and what I had become.”  

There was a long pause.  “I forgive you,” she said softly.

There was a silence that was only broken by the sound of the man who’d been listening in the background, hidden behind her in the massive old drawing room.  He walked in and stood next to Sister Thelma, startling her.  The figure in the wheelchair looked over in the direction of the new guest.  Sister Thelma didn’t recognize the man.  But she recognized that there was something shiny and cold in his hand.

Slowly, the man raised the Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan 480 Ruger 2.5in Stainless Revolver and fired a single round.  The bullet entered Heriberto Eduardo Zambada’s skull through the eye that had been blinded by a shovel decades earlier.  He returned the pistol to its holster the way anyone else would return a chrome Zippo to their pocket after lighting a cigarette. The old Mexican fell forward, his lap turning crimson from the steady flow of blood from his fatal wound.

“Oh my.”  Sister Thelma was stunned.

“I am guessing we may want to step outside,” the new guest said.

On the porch, Sister Thelma gathered her wits about her and said, “Do I know you?”

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“We may have met,” he replied.  “I lived in Fort Stockton a long time ago.  My name is Colton Caldwell.  I may need a lift.  I gave the RV I was followed you here in to the old guard at the gate in exchange for my passage onto the grounds.  Small price to pay, really. I’d stolen it anyway.”

Looking down the long driveway towards the old wooden gate she’d entered 20 minutes earlier, Sister Thelma saw the 2016 Armored Toyota Sequoia waiting at the end of the driveway.  She attempted to act surprised, but she wasn’t really all that stunned.  Behind her was the past that she’d finally resolved.  In front of her was her present and future, and the people who meant something to her.

“Why did you do what you just did in there?” she asked, nodding her head back towards the big old house.

“I was in telemarketing in Fort Stockton,” Colton answered.  “I’ve spent years seeking redemption for that.  It took me a long time to understand there is no redemption for such a horrible thing as being a telemarketer.  Now I only seek justice. Not for myself. There is none. But for others. I right the wrongs others are not able to. I will never receive redemption, but only add to the list of things I seek forgiveness for.  Today was just added to the list.”  Colton looked like a man who’d accepted his fate long ago and had learned to live with it. Like the 80s hairstyle he still wore.

Sister Thelma tossed him the keys to the Mercury.  “Keep it,” she said.  “The forgiveness you seek is out there.  I know that to be true for a fact, although your list of requiring forgiveness seems to be growing exponentially.”  It wasn’t clear whether she was referring to the telemarketing from decades before, or the cold blooded murder that had just taken place.  “Seek forgiveness and that may lead you to the redemption that has been so elusive.” She was glad she’d been able to give Heriberto Eduardo Zambada her forgiveness before he met his maker. At the same time, she did not regret being a witness to his demise. Such were the conflicts of a strong faith rooted in blind justice.

Colton got behind the wheel of the Mercury wagon. Sister Thelma got in the passenger seat.  He drove the woody down the long, dusty , worn out path to the gate.  Sister Thelma got out of the Mercury and slid into the backseat of the Sequoia.  Inside the cabin of the armored SUV the rich aroma of Folgers filled the air, the Bunn-O-Matic having been hardwired into the auxiliary power system by Delgado on the journey to the compound. The rich Mexican cocoa beans gathered beside the road when his mother had to relieve herself only making the flavor of the Folgers richer.

At the main road Lucinda turned the Toyota left, headed north towards Fort Stockton, knowing things would never be normal, as long as Mayor Goodman held power.  Yet she refused to cave in and accept his absurdity as the only vision of the future. Colton turned the Mercury wagon right, headed south towards the illusive forgiveness he sought, knowing redemption was still outside his grasp.

Injustice, abuse, and vindictiveness on one hand. Community, sacrifice, and hope on the other. Life is messy in Fort Stockton. A lot messier than it used to be.

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