She braked for a little boy and a dog who ran across the street in front of her, then sat for a moment, letting the heat of the morning sun coming through the windshield warm her body. She shuddered, wishing it could
also warm away the permanent chill inside her heart. She was sick and tired of being angry, of distrusting the world in general, even though life hadn’t given her much incentive to change.
Then she thought of Wilson. He hadn’t given her any reason to distrust him. He’d come through for her time and time again, even when she hadn’t asked. Yet she kept pushing him away. What the hell was that all about? If Marsha was still alive, she would be all over her for driving away the only good man she’d come across in years.
Suddenly there was a knock on her window. She jerked, then turned to see a man standing by her car, and rolled down the window.
“Habla inglés?” she asked.
He shrugged. “Un poquito, señorita.”
A little was better than nothing at all. Cat tossed out a question. “Does anyone here sell gas?”
He frowned. “Como?”
Cat pointed to the fuel gauge. “Gasoline…fuel.”
He leaned closer to see where she was pointing. “Ah. Sí! Sí! You come. I show.”
He crossed in front of her, then motioned for her to follow, which she did, driving through one winding narrow alley after another until he finally came to a stop in front of a small adobe house with a wide-roofed overhang that ran the length of the building. A spindly post at each end of the makeshift porch provided the roof’s sole support. Cat resisted the urge to give one a shake as she passed and followed her guide inside the open doorway.
She jumped as a cat hissed at her feet, then darted past her. Once inside, she had to stand for a few moments to let her eyesight adjust to the lack of artificial light. The little man who’d guided her here was watching her.
She reached in her jacket pocket, pulled out a five-dollar bill and handed it to him.
“Gracias,” she told her guide.
Beaming with surprise, he stuffed the money in his hat, then put the hat back on his head.
“De nada,” he whispered softly, and slipped away.
She stood for a moment, absorbing the odors and ambiance of what was obviously a small store.
Long strands of red chiles hung from the rafters, while a couple of open crates of onions sat on the floor near a counter. The north wall of the building was stacked eye-high with cartons of Mexican beer, while the opposite wall was the brace for several oversized sacks of dry beans. The
shelves behind the counter in front of her held a colorful assortment of cans, the contents of which she could only guess from the pictures on the labels, since her grasp of the language was sparse. She did, however, recognize cartons of bottled water and moved toward them.
The man behind the counter was staring at her. She took no offense. It was probably rare that a stranger ever made it this far, especially a lone woman.
“Habla inglés?” she asked. He shook his head.
She sighed, but before she fell back on makeshift sign language, a small, stocky woman holding a bag of groceries stepped into Cat’s line of vision and spoke up.
“I speak the English,” she said.
Cat smiled. “Thank you,” she said. “Could you please tell the man I need to buy water for me and gas for my car?”
The little woman nodded, then rattled off a quick sentence to the man behind the counter. He waved in understanding and disappeared into a back room, returning quickly carrying a large five-gallon can and a funnel.
Cat pointed outside.
He sped past her, anxious to make the sale.
Cat glanced around the room, looking for something she could buy that she could eat on the road, but the racks of candy bars and chips that were always available in quick stops in the States were visibly absent.
Once again she turned to the little woman.
“Excuse me, miss.”
“Paloma. My name is Paloma,” the woman said. Cat nodded. “Pretty name,” she said. “It means ‘dove’ in your language.” “They call me Cat.”
Paloma’s eyes narrowed thoughtfully. “El gato.”
“Yeah, that’s me,” Cat said. “Look…I’ve got quite a way to go. What can I buy that I can eat without having to cook it first?”
Paloma frowned. There was nothing in this store like that.
“I am sorry, señorita, but this is a small place. We do not have the hurry foods of which you speak.”
Cat stifled a smile, knowing that Paloma meant to say fast foods. It was a charming mistake.
“So, how far to the next town?” Cat asked.
Paloma frowned. “A long, long way, and nothing as large as Agua Caliente.”
Cat gave herself a mental kick in the butt for not preparing herself better. As usual, she’d gone off half-cocked and was paying for it now. At least she was going to have fuel and water. She would have to go hungry for the time being, but it wouldn’t be the first time.
“Oh well, I’ve been hungry before,” she muttered, more to herself than to Paloma.
Paloma eyed her curiously, wondering how this woman came to be traveling so far and alone.
“You come to my casa. I have the tortillas and beans.”
Cat was surprised by the unexpected courtesy. “That would be great,” she said, then added, “I would pay you.”
“Yes…okay,” Paloma said, then pointed to the door. “I wait for you.” Cat nodded.
The owner of the store came hurrying back inside, grabbed another can of gas and headed back out the door.
Cat followed him out, took her extra fuel cans out of the SUV and set them down beside the car to be filled, as well.
The owner just kept grinning at her, obviously mentally counting the American dollars he was about to receive.
A short while later, her fuel situation had been rectified and she was twenty-four bottles of water to the good. Now all she needed was some fuel for her body. She paid, then came outside to find Paloma waiting patiently beside the car.
“Get in,” Cat said. “I’ll drive you to your house.”
Paloma hesitated only briefly, then got in Cat’s SUV, but not without a bit of effort. The SUV was a four-wheel drive, high off the ground and difficult for a short person to get in. Before Paloma managed to get seated, she’d tried pulling herself up, only to slip and grunt, which had turned her face red with embarrassment. Finally, she was forced into taking the offer of a hand up from Cat.
“Gracias,” Paloma said, then pointed to Cat’s long legs. “I think you do not have this problem.”
Cat grinned. “Where to?” she asked.
Paloma pointed. A couple of minutes later, they pulled up in front of a small adobe house. The little woman got out with no apologies for the way she lived and strode confidently inside, obviously expecting Cat to follow, which she did.
Cat watched Paloma set her small bag of purchases down on a table, then turn and motion toward a chair.
“You sit,” she said. “I fix your food.”
Cat sat, and within minutes found herself relaxing in the quiet of the simple home. The floor was adobe, just like the walls, and there was a window that had no glass, only some kind of plastic fastened over it. You couldn’t see out, but it let light in. The other window was over a small dry sink and was nothing but a hole in the wall that was covered by shutters.
She thought of all the foster houses she’d lived in, all the places she’d been, all the times she’d been hungry. None of them could add up to the poverty in which this small woman lived, yet Paloma seemed at peace with herself and her place in the world.
Cat watched Paloma build a small fire in the dirt hearth, then take cold tortillas from a covered bowl and lay them on a large stone beside the fire.
The smell of wood smoke and the quiet inside the small house were as effective as a sleeping pill. After a few minutes, Cat actually nodded off briefly. The third time it happened, she woke up just before she would have fallen out of the chair to find Paloma watching her.
“You need to rest,” she told Cat.
“I know. I’ll pull off to the side of the road after a while and get a couple hours of sleep.”
Paloma stood there for a moment, judging the wisdom of what she was about to suggest. For some reason, she trusted this woman with the husky voice and the long scar on her throat.
“You sleep here…if you want,” she said.
Cat stilled. The offer, and the woman, were unexpected. She glanced around the house, saw the small, narrow cot against the bedroom wall, and almost said no. She didn’t know this woman. Everything within Cat said not to trust her. But there was something so open about her expression— those dark brown eyes…so like the little baby she’d left behind her.
“I would pay,” Cat said.
Paloma smiled. “Americans…always thinking the money buys everything.” Cat grinned back. “You mean it doesn’t?”
They laughed together, and then Paloma took two fresh tortillas from the warming stone, filled them with beans, rolled them up and laid them on a small plate.
“You eat. You sleep. After that, you can pay.”
Cat took the food, grateful for the hospitality, and ate quickly, washing down the last bites with a mug of coffee so black she was hesitant to taste it. To her surprise, it wasn’t bitter at all.
“Good,” she said, as she sat down the empty plate and cup. “You sleep now,” Paloma said.
“I am grateful,” Cat said, as she began pulling off her jacket. She slipped her handgun out of the shoulder holster and was about to lay it under her pillow, when Paloma pointed to her throat.
“How did this happen?” she asked.
Cat hesitated, then ran her fingertips lightly along the crooked ridge of flesh.
“A devil did it,” she finally said. Paloma frowned. “Truly a devil?”
Cat shrugged. “Not one with a pitchfork and horns, but a devil just the same.”
“Did your devil come to justice?” Paloma asked.
Cat hesitated, then asked herself, what did it matter? This woman would never be a part of her world. Whatever Cat told her would go no further than these walls.
“Not yet,” Cat said, knowing “maybe” wasn’t going to make any sense to Paloma.
Curious about a woman this unusual, Paloma asked, “So…he got away?” “Not for much longer,” Cat said.
Paloma’s eyes widened. She folded her hands across her belly, accentuating the roundness of the flesh beneath her clothes, and eyed Cat cautiously. She’d already had one dangerous person in her home this month. She didn’t want to unwittingly house another.
“You are the law?”
Cat frowned. “Not exactly.” Then she turned and met Paloma’s gaze headon. “Look. If I make you nervous, just say the word and I’m gone.”
Paloma thought about it for a moment, then shook her head. “It is maybe okay. I think you are not like Solomon.”
Cat froze. She heard the name, and for a moment couldn’t find the good sense to speak. When she did, she didn’t even recognize the sound of her own voice.
“You said Solomon. Who is Solomon?” she asked. Paloma shrugged. “A man I know.”
Cat heard her, and still told herself it wasn’t possible that it would be the same man.
“This Solomon…what did he look like?” Paloma frowned. “Why do you ask?”
“The man…the devil who did this to me is named Solomon.”
Paloma gasped, then made the sign of the cross before pointing to the scar on Cat’s neck.
“He did this to you?” “Yes.”
Paloma’s eyes widened in horror. “This man you seek…did he have strange markings on his body?”
Cat’s legs went weak. She feared she was about to get an answer to a question that had been plaguing her, and it wasn’t going to be what she wanted to hear.
“Tattoos…yes…all over his face and arms.” “His name is Tutuola?”
“Jesus Christ,” Cat muttered, and dropped onto the cot, because her legs would no longer hold her. The tortillas and beans she’d just eaten were threatening to come up. She felt hot and cold all at the same time. “You know him?”
“Sí, Sí.”
Paloma pointed to the cot Cat was sitting on.
“He slept there.”
Cat vaulted to her feet, unconsciously brushing at the seat of her jeans as if she’d sat in something foul.
Cat grabbed Paloma by the shoulders, unaware that her fingers were digging too deeply into her soft flesh.
“When did he sleep here?”
“Many years ago. He said he would take care of me, but he left,” Paloma said, and shrugged out of Cat’s grasp, then moved out of her reach. “Then he come back a few days ago like nothing ever happened, wanting things from me I no longer choose to give.”
Cat shoved a shaky hand through her hair and began pacing in a small circle, muttering to herself as she moved.
“He’s not dead…oh, God…he’s not dead. Why am I so shocked? I should have known…you can’t kill the devil. No one can kill the devil…not even God.”
Paloma crossed herself again. This woman was speaking blasphemy. She wanted her gone.