his chin. His head snapped back and Diego hit him again, this time in the nose. The other guard, a pudgy little moon-faced man with a camo boonie hat shading his fat, sweating face, was running toward them, yelling into his radio.
Time seemed to slow down for Ruben. He saw Blondie step back and bring his gun to bear. He saw and heard Diego screaming at him, as if daring him to fire. He saw Boonie Hat yank a black device from his belt and point it at Diego. Diego’s entire body went rigid, and he began to convulse. His eyes rolled back in his head and he fell to the ground shivering like a man in a fever. Blondie turned his gun on the other men, who’d stopped picking and stood up, faces blank with shock. There was blood around his mouth and his eyes were insane with rage. “BACK THE FUCK UP!” he screamed, although no one had made a move toward him. He stood there, breathing heavily, and then spoke to Boonie Hat. “Secure that bastard,” he said. Boonie Hat took something off his belt and bent over. Ruben saw the glint of handcuffs in the hot sunlight. Blondie raised his voice again. “LINE UP!” he shouted. “BY THE ROAD!” He glanced at Ruben, who was standing slack-jawed, goggling at where Diego lay twitching on the ground. “Boy,” he snapped, “tell them to line up. By the road.”
Ruben looked up, unable to speak. He looked at his brother. Edgar was crying.
“DO IT!” Blondie screamed. “Or I swear to Christ, I’ll kill every one of them. You bastards can be replaced. Easily.”
In a shaky voice, Ruben told them what to do. They complied, walking like shell-shocked troops stumbling off a battlefield. Ruben took his place in the line, on the other end from Edgar. He knew if he stood next to him, his brother would expect comfort. But he also knew Blondie’s cruelty firsthand. If the guard realized that Edgar was his little brother, who knew the sick ways he’d find to use that knowledge to torment him?
When they were in line, Blondie turned to Boonie Hat. “Cover them,” he said. He walked over to where Diego lay on the ground, cuffed and helpless. He pulled the sjambok off his belt and lashed it back and forth. It made that familiar chilling whistle as it cut through the air.
“Muchacho,” he said. “You just bought yourself an all-expense paid tour of hell. And I’m gonna enjoy being your tour guide.” He kicked Diego in the stomach. The man doubled up, gagging and retching, robbed even of the air it would take to scream. Blondie raised the sjambok over his head and brought it down against Diego’s side with all his might. The blow split Diego’s shirt and cut into the skin beneath. This time Diego did scream, a raw, terrible sound of animal torment.
“Oh,” Blondie said, with exaggerated concern, “did that hurt?” He raised the whip again. Diego whined like a dog and tried to squirm away. Blood soaked his shirt where the sjambok had sliced open fabric and skin. Blondie followed him relentlessly and brought the whip down. Diego shrieked again, so loudly that some of the men put their hands over their ears. Ruben stole a look at Boonie Hat. The man’s eyes flicked back and forth between the line of trembling men and the torture going on a few feet away. He looked as if he was going to be sick.
“Please,” Ruben whispered to him. “Please. Make him stop.”
Boonie Hat turned back to him. His piggy little eyes narrowed. “Shut up,” he said, “unless you want to take his place.” Another whistle, another wet sound of splitting flesh, another scream. Boonie Hat flinched, but he made no other move. Ruben closed his eyes.
From behind him, he heard the sound of an engine. He turned slightly to see a large black pickup truck speeding down the dirt road toward them. The truck braked to a stop, kicking up a cloud of dust that blew up around the line of standing men. Blondie stopped his beating and turned to watch.
The truck just sat there, the only sounds the rumble of the engine and Diego’s sobs and whimpers. The windows of the truck so heavily tinted there was no way to see inside. Ruben felt a shiver of dread, an atavistic impulse to flee whatever was behind that darkness. The door opened and a man stepped out of the driver’s side. It was the hairless man that had been there when they were taken, the man who had served as the judge at their mock trial. Another man holding a shotgun climbed out of the passenger seat. The bald man walked past the line of men as if he didn’t notice them, over to where Blondie stood over Diego.
“Sergeant,” he said. “Report.”
Blondie gestured with the sjambok. “Son of a bitch attacked me, General.”
“Language, Sergeant Kinney,” the man said.
“Sorry, sir.”
The bald man bent over to look at Diego. He stood up and looked at the blood on Blondie’s mouth. “Corporal Bender,” he said over his shoulder. “Is this true?”
“Yes sir,” Boonie Hat replied. “Guy went crazy. Charged at Caleb—I mean, Sergeant Kinney—and busted him in the mouth.”
“Very well,” the bald man said. “Put him in the back of the truck. We’re taking him to Building Three.”
Blondie bent over and grabbed the back of Diego’s shirt. “On your feet,” he ordered. He was smiling like a child who’d just gotten everything he wanted for Christmas.
“The trial will commence immediately. Sentence will be carried out at sunset. No rations tonight.” From down the line, Ruben heard a man groan. Dinner was no better than breakfast, usually just some sort of stew with a little bit of meat in it and some bread, but it was all they had. Ruben felt his own stomach cramp with disappointed hunger. The General pointed at the man who’d groaned. “And none for that one tomorrow. Now, back to work.” Blondie had pulled Diego to his feet and was dragging him stumbling over to the bed of the truck.
“You heard the General,” Bender shouted. “Back to work!” Slowly, the men shuffled back toward the field, their heads down. Ruben noted how skinny they were getting. He’d begun seeing his own ribs visible beneath the flesh, and his brother’s. They’re working us to death. They mean to kill us all.
THE BIG white wood-frame house was situated on a huge lot, in the countryside of northern Moore County. The long dirt driveway ended at a parking area full of pickup trucks and battered used cars. A huge oak tree shaded half the front yard, under which a group of Latino men in jeans and work shirts were gathered around a large grill constructed from an oil drum cut in half. They were drinking beer and laughing at some joke. There was a basketball goal off to one side where younger men were playing what looked like a hotly contested game. Young women, with babies in their arms and toddlers running and shouting nearby, sat at a picnic table. A radio set on a picnic table was playing a bouncy song with Spanish lyrics that was heavy on guitars and accordion. As Keller and Angela pulled their rented sedan to a stop behind a new-looking Ford pickup, the basketball game and the joking around the grill stopped. Everyone but the young children stopped what they were doing and watched them get out of the car. The only sound was the shrieking of the younger ones as they played on, oblivious. The smell of grilling meat reached Keller as he walked toward the house, Angela beside him with her cane. It was making his mouth water. He glanced over at the basketball players. They were watching him with stony faces. The tallest one, who looked to be the oldest, held the ball under his arm. Keller gave that one a nod. He didn’t respond.
A man with a single streak of gray in his dark hair detached himself from the group at the cooker and intercepted them halfway to the porch. “May I help you folks?” he said, with only a trace of accent and no trace of a smile.
“Yes, sir,” Angela said. “We’re here to see Mrs. Miron.” She held out her hand. “Angela Sanchez.”
The man took it and looked at Keller. “And you are?”
“Jack Keller.” Keller extended his own hand. The man released Angela’s hand and shook Keller’s. His grip was firm. “Frank Flores,” he said. “Does Mrs. Miron now you’re coming?”
“Yes, sir,” Keller said. “We called