Free Borders of the Heart by Chris Fabry

and banged on the steering wheel. “All right, let’s talk. You and me. A sit-down, come-to-Jesus meeting.”
    “I don’t understand.”
    “‘Come to Jesus’ means we come clean. You tell the truth about what’s going on. You and I are dancing around it. You’re scared of what’s about to happen with Muerte, and I don’t know who he is and what you’re mixed up in. The only way we’re going to get through this is for you to tell me what’s really going on.”
    “All right,” she said. “If you tell me the truth, I will tell you the truth.”
    “Deal.”
    Her back was straight now as if she was ready for a fight. “Are you married?” she said.
    He took a deep breath. “I was.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It means I was and I don’t have a wife now. I don’t see what that has to do—”
    “You wear a wedding ring.”
    “Right, I do.”
    “If you are not married, why do you wear a ring?”
    “That’s a long story.”
    “Now it’s you who is dancing. Tell me.”
    “All right, I’ll tell you about the ring after you tell me about Muerte and why he wants you dead. Deal?”
    She nodded. “Let’s go somewhere safe. Where we can have this come-to-Jesus discussion.”
    He kept going toward I-10, then took one of the first exits heading toward El Paso. It looked like the Route 66 of his childhood with souvenir stands and Wild West memorabilia.
    They came to a stretch of fast-food restaurants—chains and local taco stands that were the gateway to hotels and motels you wouldn’t find on the Internet. The cheapest was $21.95 a night with no questions asked. The sign outside the one he picked said ESPN and HBO were available and the pool was open year-round, but nobody was staying there for the pool or what might happen to be on TV. In fact, nobody was staying there at all, it looked like.
    He could hear the roar of the interstate leaking through the back window of the office as he paid cash for one night. The desk clerk said they needed to keep a credit card on file for any damages. He was a slight man with a rubber tube under his nose, an oxygen pump seeping fresh air into him while he tapped a Camel on the ashtray. Looked like a dangerous combination to J. D., but who was he to judge?
    “What if I don’t have a credit card?” J. D. said.
    The man got a faraway look and stared at the green computer screen. “Everybody’s got a credit card. Can’t buy anything these days without a credit card.”
    “Well, I’d just as soon pay a cash deposit if you’ll let me.”
    “Can’t do it. Manager would have a fit.”
    “Then I’ll just head on over to your competitor. They said I could pay cash.”
    The man pushed a key across the counter with the number 12 on the plastic fob. “Give me enough for two nights and I’ll refund it if you leave tomorrow. First floor, down the way.” He pointed his cigarette.
    J. D. gave him the cash and then another twenty. “If anybody comes asking about us, or if you see a Mexican fellow hanging around, call the room, okay?”
    The man took the bill and stuffed it in his shirt pocket. He studied the girl in the front seat of the Suburban and J. D. could see the tumblers turning in his brain.
    “Don’t make me regret this,” the man wheezed. “I got a job here and I want to keep it.”
    “I understand.”
    J. D. thought about getting two rooms, the voice of his father talking about integrity again. “Don’t let it appear wrong to anyone. Don’t take a chance.” But J. D. decided against it. If somehow Muerte found them and Maria died, he’d blame himself. He decided to keep her close no matter how it looked.
    Room 12 had two double beds, one with a “Magic Fingers” machine mounted on the headboard. Inside was hotter than his place at the ranch and had a wet-carpet smell, but once he turned the air conditioner on, it cooled. There were orange bedspreads, an ice bucket and plastic bag on a little table with two chairs. He couldn’t get the