"You're a smart person, Miss Nighthawk."
She set the atole down. And scooted her chair back.
Ayala must've read her body language because he quickly followed with, "Whoa, don't run off. I heard you give your name to Munoz back at the station. Bad dude by the way."
She settled. "Nighthawk. Just call me Nighthawk."
The inquisitive Ayala didn't ask for a reason for her naming convention, and Hatch didn't volunteer one. She exchanged the empty atole mug for the one containing her dark roasted coffee, still steaming.
"Your pen name question is a good one. And, yes, I too considered the potential fallout from naming a person. And, yes, it would be a death sentence. Unless that person was already dead."
Sadly, or ironically--Hatch didn't know which--she felt completely understood. It's a strange thing to be listed among the dead but walking among the living. It was the closest thing to being a ghost Hatch could imagine. Sitting here in the lively café with the quirky Ayala reminded her she was alive.
"So," Ayala continued, "years back I decided I would expose the truth no matter the consequence. To do that I had to come up with a way of protecting myself and my family from repercussions. I've crossed paths with many people I consider heroes in my fifty-six years of life. Many have become martyred by their cause. My stories are published using the names of the brave people who get one last chance to champion their cause. I honor them while honoring my code of bringing light to the darkness."
"These stories you write, do they ever go beyond Nogales?"
"All the time. Mexico is my jurisdiction. I go where the story takes me." He scooped the last bits of the atole up with a teaspoon. Setting aside the cup, Ayala focused his undivided attention on Hatch. "I think you have a story worth listening to. And I'd like to see where it takes me."
"Not much of a story. We came to Nogales on our family trip to Copper Mountain—"
Ayala held up a hand. "Not to be rude, but I'm going to stop you there."
Hatch was confused at the interruption and it showed in the expression on her face.
"I understand your need to be aloof with those cops. I get it. You don't trust them. And with good reason. You couldn't have lucked out with a worse person than Eddie Munoz. That's one bad guy. I've been looking into him for a while. He's a hard man to catch. Even in the lobby exchange with the poor man who was unnecessarily beaten, Munoz remained at arm's length, never actually dirtying himself with the act, always there but never directly involved," he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee and continued. "But if we're going to have a conversation, a real one, then honesty is the only way to continue. If you're going to feed me the same story you did those dirty cops, then I would like to pleasantly break company and wish you the very best in whatever it is you're trying to accomplish."
He was curt, but courteous. Hatch appreciated his candor. "I see you're observant."
Ayala patted his fanny pack where he stored his press badge. "All part of the job." Punctuating his statement with a wink.
"And you're right." Hatch drank her coffee, the heat of it warmed the back of her throat as she made her decision. "I'll tell you what I can. Know that anything I hold back is done only to protect you. Because what I'm involved in, no pen name can protect you against."
A quiet intensity stirred between them. Ayala took out his notepad and pen. He cleared space and set them on the table. He clicked the butt of the pen, "I'm ready to listen, if you're ready to talk."
Nine
Hatch spent her second cup of coffee explaining a chance encounter with the teenage stepdaughter of multimillionaire, Kyle Moss, who sold her into slavery. And while trying to find her and bring her back home, Hatch had stumbled across an international sex trafficking ring, moving girls through Arizona into Mexico near the border at Nogales.
Angela Rothman had been one of these girls. She was suffering from a bout of Stockholm Syndrome. And in the brief opportunity to escape with Hatch, Rothman resigned herself to her captors. Hatch summarized a brief connecting of the dots bringing her to the here and now, sitting at a coffee table in downtown Nogales with the newspaper man, Miguel Ayala.
He set his pen down and looked up at Hatch. She eyed the journalist’s shorthand. He used Hatch's fake initials to note any time she was involved. The D and N overlapped in Ayala's hieroglyphic note taking. The curve of the letters made it look as though they were in the crosshairs of a sniper's rifle. Maybe it was symbolic of her life. She hoped it wouldn't always be.
He took out his cell phone. "If you don't mind, I'd like to send some of this information you gave me to some people that I know."
"Can you be more specific?"
"I know people who might be able to help find her or at least give a good idea of where she may be." He tapped his journalist notebook. "You meet a lot of people doing this job, and a lot of those people find they like to share things with me."
"And why is that?"
"Because I'm a great dresser." He belted out a laugh. "Kidding. I guess I'd like to think I'm one of the good guys, Miss Nighthawk. Or at least I try to be. And I'd like to see if I can help you now."
"Mind if I ask why you do it?"
"Help people?" He chuckled softly as if the answer was obvious. Hatch had her reasons for what she did and was interested to know his. He grew serious. "Because it's the right thing to do. It's the human thing to do, something my father used to say. He believed every interaction had meaning. That nothing happens in isolation. How we interact with the world matters. I didn't get it then."
"And now?"
"Lots of things my father said and did make a lot more sense now that I'm older."
"That's why your father did it. But I asked why you chose this. Going against these people is dangerous business."
"Life is a dangerous business. You could get killed walking across the street. Choosing to use the life you’re given to do something positive for others is an easy one to make. But you're right. I didn't answer your question. I'll answer it with a story. If you indulge me while we wait on my friend to get back to me, I'd like to tell you a fable my father used to tell before bed. It's a children's tale but I hope you see the relevance."
"Only if we get another round of coffee." Hatch smiled.
Their mugs were filled a moment later and after taking a sip, Ayala began his tale with a question. "Have you ever heard the one about the boulder and the troll?"
Hatch ran the mental library of her childhood children's books. "Nothing but the Billy Goats."
"Then you're in for a treat."
Hatch stirred in a scoop of sugar and gave Ayala her full attention.
"There was once a land filled with endless acres of fertile soil, but nobody in the neighboring village could access it because it was blocked by a massive boulder. Atop the boulder lived a huge, nasty troll and the brave few villagers that tried to cross never returned.
“Over time, their land no longer took seed and soon they began to starve. The smallest boy in the village, seeing his people's suffering, decided he needed to save them. He went to the medicine woman who gave him a seed. She told the boy that this seed carried a power strong enough to destroy even the biggest of stones. The woman told the boy to find a seam in the boulder and place the seed inside. The boy eyed the medicine woman warily and she whispered, 'The smallest seed can split the biggest rock'.