Chapter 7
The rest of the camp got back to sleep, but Felicia couldn't. She felt dirtied. For a while she lay staring up at the darkened ceiling, listening to Ernesto's soft snoring. Then she got up and put on the soiled blue jeans and blouse she had worn that day in the fields. She got a towel, washcloth and a bar of soap, clean panties and jeans and an old white shirt of Merv's that had been sent to the laundry so many times it was about ready to start falling apart. Not bothering with stockings or bra, she slipped her feet into her shoes and tiptoed to the door.
Quietly she unlocked the padlock and let herself out, then eased the door shut and trudged off toward the women's side of the big concrete block latrine which served the entire camp. She generally showered first thing every morning, but she felt so unclean.
Since Felicia was the only one in the latrine, she had her choice of the shower stalls. She chose one of the two which still had doors, stepped inside and stripped. The hot water was usually only tepid. This time it was hot enough that she had to add a little cold before she stepped under the spray and began soaping and rinsing her body again and again.
The first hint of dawn was turning the eastern horizon from black to gray when Felicia emerged from the bathhouse. She'd scrubbed every inch of her body, but still felt soiled. Her long, jet-black hair was still damp from the towel drying, and hung limply straight down her back. She'd put on her clean panties and jeans first, and hadn't bothered to tuck in the tail of her father's old white dress shirt.
Felicia felt a great need for confession, and was frustrated because there was no priest about. Realizing she would have to wait until she got back to Albuquerque and Father Herrera, she decided to do the next best thing. She shuffled toward the cabin, intending to kneel beside her bunk and pray.
There was to be no leisurely praying for the troubled girl that morning, however. The instant she stepped inside the door, the lights flicked on and she was grabbed by two men. As a gag was stuffed into her mouth, the terrified girl noticed that Ernesto was conspicuously absent from the cabin. His bunk was overturned, and there was a pool of fresh blood on the floor beside it.
Her screams of stark horror coming all muffled through the gag, Felicia wrenched herself frantically about and kicked wildly at the shins of Buckner and Scarboro. She got a vicious slap for her efforts, and the tail of her father's white shite was ripped off as they subdued her. Buck held her down on the floor while Scarboro bound her ankles, then her wrists. Just before they slipped a cloth bag over her head, Felicia happened to notice the tail of Merv's white shirt lying nearby, so close that she could read the laundry mark it bore.
Then they tied the bag under her wagging chin, and she felt herself being hoisted up. One of them had her by the ankles, the other had hooked his hands under her armpits. There was a sensation of motion, accompanied by the shuffling and clomping of feet on the squeaky old plank floor. Felicia realized they were carrying her from the cabin, kidnaping her, and she nearly fainted again from the screaming fear that realization brought with it.
The light switch clicked. It was suddenly very dark inside the bag. Felicia gulped. Her heart hammered in her chest. An engine started nearby. The sound drew closer. Tires crunched to a stop in front of the cabin.
Felicia was hoisted up and dumped like a sack of potatoes into the cargo bed of Jake Coons' pickup. She landed with a dull thud, stars bursting before her eyes as she rolled up against another person.
When the other person didn't move or speak, she was afraid she knew who it was. Her hands were tied in front of her, and she began awkwardly feeling over the unconscious form. She felt a bandage on his left side, and knew it was Ernesto. He was barely breathing. She felt a stab of panic in her heart, and scooted up, running her hands over his torso as she went. To her utter horror, she discovered a gruesome, blood-oozing lump on his forehead.
Oh, God! she groaned inwardly. Don't let him die!
"Let's go, Jake. Nice and easy so we don't wake anybody up," came the husky sound of Scarboro's voice as Felicia heard her abductors climbing into the cab of the pickup. "You know where to go."
As the truck began to roll forward, an image of the laundry-marked tail of her father's white shirt lying on the cabin's floor flashed through Felicia's terrified mind. And idea leaped forth. Not much of one, but the best she could come up with. She didn't know where they were taking her, and neither would anyone else unless she did something.
Maybe ... just maybe! she thought hopefully, and tore off a small piece of her father's white shirt as she scooted herself hurriedly toward the back of the cargo bed. Praying that the wind wouldn't come up and blow it away, Felicia tossed the bit of white cloth over the pickup's tailgate and tore off another. By the time the truck bounced from the workers' camp onto the smooth asphalt highway, she had torn off and thrown out five pieces of the shirt.
They picked up speed, with Felicia tearing off and tossing out tiny bits of white cloth, trying desperately to leave a trail, praying that her father or Mr. Martinez would see and follow it. With the bag over her head-which she didn't dare attempt to remove for fear they would glance back and suspect she was up to something-Felicia had no way of knowing that many of the white splotches were whipped by the wake of the pickup over into roadside weeds, where no one would ever see them.
The pickup slowed down, pulled off onto the shoulder of the road and stopped. "I'll stuff Armijo in that culvert," Jake Coons said as he climbed from the cab of the idling vehicle.
"I'll help you," Buck said. "And I'll finish the job on him, while we're at it."
"No!" Scarboro snapped. "He doesn't know what hit him. When he comes around, he'll still have to get out of those ropes. It'll take awhile. Long enough. Don't kill him. Just put him away for safe keeping. If he doesn't work himself loose, or a rattler doesn't get him, we can always have somebody find him and be a hero. After we get things under control. Go on. Help Jake stow him in the culvert, but nothing more. Do you understand, Buck?"
"Yes, sir," Buck muttered as he slid under the steering wheel and got out.
Felicia lay deathly still as Ernesto was removed from the truck. While they were carrying the unconscious youth down to the culvert, she bent her knees and brought her feet as close to her behind as she could. She had to stretch, but she managed to slip off first one shoe then the other. She held them in her bound hands until the truck began moving again. When it was off the shoulder and back onto the highway, she pitched both of her shoes over the tailgate, praying that someone would see them and discover Ernesto before it was too late.
Though it seemed like hours to the frightened girl, they turned off the pavement about five minutes later. Thinking fast, she jerked at her crucifix, broke the fragile gold chain and flung it over the back of the truck.
The pickup moved slower over the bumpy dirt road, and Felicia had to ration the bits of cloth she tossed out. Part of one shirttail had been ripped off in the cabin. Now it was entirely gone, and most of the other one as well. She didn't dare tear off much more. If too much of her shirt was missing, they would notice and realize she'd left a trail. So Felicia had to keep them from suspecting anything. Tearing smaller and fewer pieces of the shirt, she murmured, "Please, God," as she tossed each one over the tailgate.
Elon Martinez was late. It wasn't like him, and Merv Gaucin was beginning to worry.
"It'll be time to go soon," Mr. Sanchez said, coming out onto the porch of the four-room house he and his large family called home. "You are welcome at our table, Senor Gaucin. There is plenty."
"Thank you, but no," Merv replied. "Elon will be along any minute. My daughter is expecting us to have breakfast with her."
"You are most welcome, should you change your mind," Mr. Sanchez said as he reentered his little house.
The Sanchez family were local people. They had a very tiny non-irrigated farm, the income from which was so small they had to hire out as field hands to the large farmers in order to make ends meet. Ironically, Mr. Sanchez' ancestors had once owned most of the county he now lived in on the brink of poverty.
Merv had the story in notes which Elon had given him the previous night. But it had taken longer than either of them had anticipated. Elon had left at eleven. Merv had spent the night. At dawn, Elon was supposed to have returned to pick him up. Dawn had come and gone, but without Elon Martinez making an appearance. The sun was inching over the horizon, and Merv was very worried about his friend.
Finally he got up and went into the house, to have breakfast with the Sanchez family and to bum a ride from them, since they were going to harvest carrots for Scarboro that day. He didn't like not being able to check on Felicia until that evening, but he had a job to do. For the first time, he took real comfort in knowing that Ernesto Armijo was looking after his daughter.