Server Down by J.M. Hayes Page B

accident. But the van had hit hard enough that someone could be hurt in there.
    He opened his door and got ready to begin trying to explain himself. No one wanted to hear. All the doors on the van flew open and people began running every direction.
    â€œWhat the…?” Mad Dog uttered.
    For the longest time, no one answered. He walked into the street where the Chevy’s headlamps illuminated the damage, then went to the van’s sliding door and peered inside. It smelled of people and sweat and fear in there. A small voice addressed him from the darkness.
    â€œAre you
la migra
?”
    He couldn’t see her at first, for all the bags of clothing and jugs of water that had been left behind by the mass exodus.
    â€œ
La migra
?”
    â€œImmigration,” she explained. She stepped forward from the back of the van—very young with long dark hair. “The coyote, our smuggler,” she said, “he saw you drive by, then turn around in the parking lot down the street and come back. He said you were Immigration and we would try to outrun you, only he panicked and lost control.”
    She had her arms wrapped around herself. Though she was tiny and slight, he realized she was also very pregnant.
    â€œAre you all right?”
    â€œWhen we hit, our coyote, he told everyone, ‘Run! Save yourselves!’ But I couldn’t. I hit my head. I’m still…. How do you say it? A little wobbly.”
    She stumbled over something in the dark and fell forward. He caught her and her big dark eyes peered up into his.
    â€œIf you’re not Immigration,” she said, “why wear all that camouflage paint?”
    ***
    Captain Matus wasn’t surprised when Heather ran. He’d been expecting it. In fact, once he got used to the idea that TPD was going to let her go home with Ms. Jardine—under watch—he’d been counting on it. He’d set up an observation post a block from the residence where he could keep an eye on the most likely exits from the building. Then he’d sat and sipped coffee and listened to the scanner, waiting for a report of the girl making a break for it.
    He saw it happen about when he’d expected. Long enough for whoever was on watch to settle in and get comfy. Long enough to believe she might have gone to sleep. But not so long as to let Tucson begin to wake up.
    There was no doubt in his mind that Heather English was covering for her uncle. Maybe she didn’t believe the man was a killer, he’d grant her that, but he was sure she knew where Mad Dog was, or where he was likely to go. And Matus was sure, if she slipped past TPD’s watch at the house, she’d lead him right to the man who’d murdered his officer.
    TPD scrambled units to look for Heather English. But by then she was in her car and on the street. She’d even, cleverly, slipped into another neighborhood to make sure she wasn’t being followed. Matus pulled into the same neighborhood a couple of blocks later. Then he asked his cousin where she was going. His cousin worked for the car rental company Heather English had used when she arrived in Tucson. Over the years, and this close to the border, the firm had discovered it was a good idea to install GPS devices in their cars. His cousin was an assistant manager. Actually, considering how complicated the Sewa godparent relationship system was, Matus was related, one way or another, to nearly every member of the tribe.
    As a favor, and it was always a good idea to be owed a favor by a captain on the tribal police force, his cousin had gone to the office and was monitoring the GPS on the English girl’s car. That way, all Matus had to do was sit and listen to his cousin’s instructions on the cell phone. He followed her out of the second neighborhood a mile north of where she’d entered it. After that, she went west, down Grant Road, back toward Pascua Village.
    She pulled over in a shopping center