11
“Val!” A voice from across the street, from the parking lot of Woodstone’s saloon.
Val’s face lit up when he saw the man who’d called his name. He was tall and slender, almost pretty, with dark features that weren’t quite Latino. Maybe they’d wave, and then they could head home, she thought.
Nope. She followed Val across the street. Kate racked her brain to try and remember who this guy was, no one she knew from school. Val let her catch up to him, then he took her by the shoulders and thrust her at the pretty-looking man.
“Kate, this is Felix. Felix, this is Kate.”
Oh!
She should have known, and as Felix kissed her cheek, she blushed with embarrassment. Of course. Who else would have gotten Val to perk up like that? Maybe it was what he needed. They’d go out, have a few drinks, she could drive his drunk ass home if need be. It would be fun.
“You’re as beautiful as he said you were.”
She smiled as she met his chocolate brown eyes, but the smile died on her lips. Meeting his gaze, there was something about him she didn’t quite like, something that made her wary. She didn’t think she liked Felix very much.
He and Val embraced in a quick man-hug.
She was being stupid.
“How’s life on the outside treating you?” Felix asked.
“It’s been interesting,” Val said, choosing his words.
“And your mother?”
Val let out a long breath. “Let’s get some brews and head out on the patio.”
They stepped through the wooden saloon doors with carved-antler handles into air conditioned air, darkness, and twangy pop country.
“Is this that fucking song,” he shouted to be heard over the music and the din, “about checking for ticks being sexy?”
She shoved him playfully, and he slung a long arm across her shoulders. For the first time, he looked so happy. He and Felix ordered PBRs in cans, and she got a red microbrew they had on tap. As Felix and Val babbled about beer, Kate scanned the place for familiar faces. She didn’t want to see any of them. The bartender was in a class a few years ahead of Val—she couldn’t remember his name—and they chatted for a few minutes.
The beers came and they went outside to the fenced-in patio. Four of the ten picnic tables were taken, no one of any interest. She let out her breath in relief. Out here the Eagles were playing, which were slightly more up Val’s alley. Kate sat facing the entrance to the bar.
“I’m sorry to be a jackass,” said Felix. “But I have a thing. I really can’t sit with my back to the door. It freaks me out.”
“He’s been that way ever since I met him,” Val echoed.
“Not that I would mind sitting over there with you. But I think your man here would punch me in the mouth if I did.”
“I would,” Val said agreeably, sitting with his back to the door. He held up his beer. “A couple more of these, and I’ll punch anyone!”
Kate got up and moved around to Val’s side of the table, and Felix took her spot.
“Shit’s been crazy,” Val said.
“It’s only been a day. What happened?”
Kate knew Felix could see the look she gave Val, the eye daggers telling him to shut the hell up. But he told. He told everything. She kept watch while Val talked, making sure no one could hear them. What was he thinking? Felix looked sympathetic, appropriately surprised in the right places. She wanted to go home.
“Another beer?” Val asked her.
“No, thanks. I’ll drive you home.”
“Wonderful.” He kissed her on the forehead, a wet, beer-smelling kiss, and made his way inside.
“How are you?” Felix asked Kate.
“Me?”
“Yeah, this has all got to be really tough on you.”
“I’m fine. I want to get out of here. I don’t like Lott.”
“I’m renting a place outside of town,” Felix said. “I think it’s a cute little town.”
“You didn’t grow up here.” She scanned the patio. “I can name all but three of the people out here.”
Felix laughed. It seemed forced. “I get your point.”
“I like Santa Fe. I like feeling lost there.”
“But you’re not leaving until Val’s got some closure with his mother, right?”
“Right,” she said, taking careful measure to keep the resentment out of her voice. Felix looked at her like he could tell she didn’t care one whit whether Caroline Slade lived or died. Well why should she? The woman had always been a bitch to her.
“Be strong,” Felix said. “Val needs you.”
“I know. That’s why I’m here.”
* * *
About an hour later, they left Woodstone’s. Felix said goodnight and headed off in the opposite direction. Val insisted he was fine to drive, and he sounded fine, so she let him. He blasted the music, as usual, until she turned it down.
Headlights flashed behind them in the dusk.
“What did you think of Felix?”
She didn’t tell him she thought there was something off about him. Something about the protective way he watched Val.
“Seems nice,” she said.
“He was my other half for five years.”
“That sounds kind of gay.”
“Eh, only once or twice.”
She looked at him.
“I’m kidding. Ha ha, funny, joke?”
Sometimes she couldn’t tell. They rode along for a while, turning off the pavement and onto dirt roads.
“Who do you think killed TJ?” she asked.
“I am trying my damndest not to think about it. We shouldn’t have touched him, but now that we did, all we can hope is no one finds him.”
“I should do something to make it look like he’s out of town. Call Rich, or something.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. It’s a sure-fire way to get it tracked back to us.”
“I can do it so he won’t catch me.” One of those call scramblers, maybe?
“He’s stupid, but he’s got police training, some of which must have stuck.” Val was right, of course. Rich had a terrifying clever streak. You couldn’t call it smart, it was more like whatever force allows a terrier to relentlessly ferret rats from their holes. Tenacity, perhaps? Deep instinct?
“I think we need to leave it. The less we do the better. Rich will be looking for any reason to connect this to me,” Val said, gazing out into the darkening evening. With each day, TJ’s trail would grow colder, and they would be safer. Once they left Lott and melted into Santa Fe, it would all be better.
She thought of TJ as Val drove. Stupid, soft TJ, who in his awkward way, wanted to be loved.
A bump in the road brought her back to the present. The sky was a rich indigo, delicious and purple. Val turned down his driveway; the yellow headlights of the truck splashed the front of the trailer. Out on the road, a car passed the trailer. They didn’t get a lot of traffic out here, particularly not at night. Probably some kids, looking for a place to park, or drink. Unless it was the frat-boy. The thought chilled her. He didn’t look well enough to drive.
Kate stretched her legs as she got out; Val came around and took her hand. They paused a moment, and looked up at the sky. They let their eyes adjust to the dark. Black shadows became things: bushes, Val’s mom’s old Oldsmobile, gray and silent off to the side.
Something moved over by the Oldsmobile, a rustling, scraping sound of feet on loose stone.
TJ’s killer? The rabid puma? Something else?
“We should go inside,” Kate said, feeling very small and very quiet.
“It’s nothing. Coyote or something.”
“It’s too loud for coyotes. And they would never come this close to us. Let’s go in.” She thought of the pistol in Val’s drawer. Of Rich’s shotgun, what had Val done with that?
“Okay,” he said, turning his face to the sky. He never bothered to lock the door, his mother never had, so Kate went in and found herself alone in the dark living room, waiting for him.
Come on, come on, come on
...she willed him in. There was another sound from out there, and she opened the door again, peering out into the yard. She wanted to call his name, but didn’t want to call attention to herself. Feet on loose stone again—not feet but shoes. Why had he left the steps? She slipped back into the living room, and without turning on the lights, she went to his bedroom, went to the top drawer, rooted through folded boxers and paired socks—his mother’s neatness, not his own—until she found the hard, cloth-wrapped lump. It was heavier in her hand than she remembered, the entire time she’d been in Santa Fe she hadn’t seen a gun, hadn’t seen anyone beat up, or threatened, or anything like that. Once she’d seen a drunk motorist shouting at a cop as she drove by.
This place was violence, the real Wild West.
She unwrapped the gun and its matte surface reflected no light. She ejected the clip and saw it was fully loaded. Leave it to Val to leave his gun loaded for six years in his underwear drawer.
It felt strange and alien in her hand; she hadn’t used one for years. Like she’d seen in movies, she kept it pointed at the floor.
If there was something out there, it probably was gone by now. She hadn’t been quick about getting the pistol.
She moved through the dark hallway, through the living room, and stepped out onto the wooden steps. They creaked under her weight. A slight breeze rustled the leaves on some of the scrub nearby, sang through the tall grass.
“Val.” It was barely a whisper, lost in the breeze. The saliva was gone from her mouth, replaced with the sour, Chinese-soup taste of adrenaline. She said it again, louder. “Val.” This one came out as a croak. Nothing. She stepped to the next step, feeling the wood flex beneath her. It would break and she would shoot herself in the foot, and then the killer would know where she was and finish her off.
She stepped down to the gravel of the driveway, scanning left and then right. She willed spit to her dry mouth, and called his name. Nothing happened, but there was a sound of rattling stones from somewhere. Was he (it?) killing Val right now?
Very aware that her back was exposed, she moved around the dark bulk of the truck. She raised the gun, repeating in her head the mantra,
don’t shoot Val, don’t shoot Val.
Something tan moved in her peripheral vision. Without thinking, completely adverse to her mantra, she raised the gun and squeezed the trigger, the flash from the muzzle blinded her, and the recoil sent her arm wild, snapping at her wrist. The brass cartridge landed hot on her shoulder, and she brushed it off, afraid of getting burned. The sound was impossible, consuming everything, and leaving a ringing in her ears. Her heart pounded as she got her bearings in the darkness.
“What the fuck are you doing?” Val shouted from the direction of the Oldsmobile. It sounded like he was calling from the end of a tunnel.
He came out of the darkness towards her, a floating face and arms, his black shirt melting into the darkness behind him.
“I thought...” her own voice felt padded and far away, the ringing making conversation almost impossible.
Reaching over, he plucked the gun from her hand, fingered the safety, and popped the clip out.
“There’s someone out here,” Val said.
The relief she’d felt at finding Val, and the shame from firing blindly into nothing were replaced by the same sick fear that there was someone here.
“I think I scared him off, I made it around behind him, when he saw me he headed for the hills. It was that schizoid frat kid from the restaurant. Since you decided to shoot up the place, I bet he won’t be back.”
“That doesn’t make sense. Why would he follow us?”
“I don’t know. He’s gone now, I guess.”
“Do you think he killed TJ?” An even worse thought overtook her. “Do you think he saw what we did to TJ? Is he trying to blackmail us?”
Val hissed at her to be quiet. “Stop talking about it. If he is still here, we don’t want him hearing anything. Let’s go in the house.”
Kate rubbed at her wrist, jarred from the pistol’s recoil.
“Maybe tomorrow we can do some target practice. You’re going to kill someone with this thing.”
Maybe tomorrow we should pack up and go to Santa Fe
, Kate thought,
where I won’t have to kill anyone with this thing.
12
Maria walked across the parking lot, holding the small bag of groceries. They made the parking lot too big, back from when they thought the town would boom, and she hated crossing it. She didn’t drive, and didn’t want to ask Rich to take her out for more rice. She should have thought of it on her own.
Her heels clacked the pavement, and she looked forward to taking her shoes off at home, maybe having a quick drink, and then cooking dinner. Rich wasn’t home yet, who knew when he’d be around. He’d been deep and moody since Slade got out of prison, and Maria was ready for some kind of resolution, kill him, run him off, get over him...she didn’t care which, stop mooning over it. She never said that, of course. Maria also had some suspicions about Rich’s absences lately, but even if it was an affair, it came with a little relief. Let him bother someone else.
Shoes scraped asphalt behind her, and she glanced over her shoulder. A man walking a few paces back. Clean cut, dark, and very pretty. Not a threat. She was from the barrio; she knew a threat when she saw one. She could break that guy in half. In the dusk, the streetlights cast strange orange light, and the shadows overlapped on the tar, stretching one way, then another, disappearing all together in the dark holes between the lights.
The street was well lit, and it wasn’t far to the house.
Drink then food.
While she knew a threat and this man didn’t look like one, she also couldn’t shake her sense of unease. Something here was wrong; it tickled the back of her neck, making her hair stand up there, making her feel primitive and animal. She looked around again, keeping her head up and her shoulders back. Nothing but the pretty boy.
It reminded her of the afternoon when her brother died—was murdered—back home. There’d been something going down all day, and while she didn’t know what it was, she couldn’t relax, could feel something coming. She wondered if Rich was all right. She was grateful to him; she had a nice house and nice things, but always a feeling of unease, of not wanting to tip the boat. If she left him, where would she go? Better to stay and to keep her head down.
She didn’t want to look around again, didn’t want to look uneasy, or give whoever might be watching a clue she was nervous. She kept her eyes straight ahead, slid a manicured hand into her purse and closed her fingers around the handle of her knife.
Rich told her not to carry it, that she should bring a gun instead, someone would take the knife from her and use it on her. He forgot, sometimes, who she had been before he took her over. She could handle the knife.
Feeling it in her hand let her walk taller, with more confidence.
Out of the parking lot and onto the street.
There were people here, and though she knew they had a habit of looking the other way, she felt better with them around.
A dry breeze began to blow, brushing her long hair back, making her large hoop earrings sway.
She turned down her street; it wasn’t far to the grocery store, past house after house, all of them identical. America might be the Promised Land, but you gave up a lot when you came here, compromised big pieces of yourself. Better to be a little bit unhappy here than dead in Cuaron. She let go of the knife to pick up her keys, and the man behind her seemed to realize that. He was up behind her, close, on the doorstep with something hard—a gun? But it didn’t feel quite like a gun—in her back.
“Let’s go inside,” he said in her ear, his breath pleasant.
From the corner of her eye she could see it was the pretty boy. She’d let her guard down, and here she was.
She admitted him into her home, turned to face him as he let the door click behind him.
“Rich isn’t here,” she said. What was he holding? No gun she’d ever seen, something new? Plastic? Was it some kind of dart gun?
“Not interested in Rich.”
This was surprising.
“What do you want?” Maria asked, still fairly certain she could give this man a run for his money. She stepped out of her heels, feeling the cool clay tiles under her stocking feet. She kept her purse over her shoulder. She wanted the knife close. You weren’t supposed to keep weapons in your purse; they were too hard to get to when you needed them. Back home she’d kept them in her tall boots, strapped to her leg under a skirt, on her wrists. But suburbia softened her. She accepted she might be paying the price today.
They stood in the hallway. If she could get him to the kitchen, she’d have a shot at the cooking knives.
“Would you like a beer?” she asked.
He laughed. “I hold you at gunpoint and you offer me a beer?”
“That’s not like any gun I’ve seen,” she said.
“Nope, it’s not.”
She moved towards the kitchen, moving like a dancer, making no sound with her feet.
He took a few steps after her, keeping the weapon trained on her. She was afraid of it because he treated it like she should be. He respected it, chances are it was dangerous. It looked like a toy, but something told her it wasn’t.
She would carve great lines down this pretty asshole’s face.
“Where are you headed?” he asked, putting a hand on her arm.
“The kitchen. If you don’t want a drink, I do.”
“Easy there,” said the man. “Why don’t you stay right where you are? Or better yet, let’s get out of here.” He gestured towards the back door, the opposite direction from the kitchen.
“I was offering you a drink.”
He smiled at her, a wide, teeth-whitening commercial smile. She carried her purse towards the sliding patio door and he followed. She put a hand on it to slide it open, but the smile dropped from his face.
“Wait,” he said. “Don’t open it.”
She took advantage of his momentary confusion and plunged her hand into the bag. She could find her checkbook, lipstick in three shades—there it was. The switchblade her brother had given her when she turned twelve and some of the older guys in the neighborhood started giving her trouble.
She pulled it free and popped the blade in a single fluid motion, whirling on him. He stepped back—how could he be so fast?—but she got him with the tip, from chin to cheekbone. One hand went to his face and the other hand went to her wrist, which he slammed against the door jamb, knocking the knife to the floor with a harmless clatter. Pain shot up her arm, amplified when he squeezed, and she felt all those little bones grinding together. She didn’t cry out.
“Drop the purse.” Red oozed down his face.
She didn’t, and he squeezed again. She opened her hand and it thumped down beside the knife.
Only then did he take his eyes off her and glance out the sliding glass door. He pulled her away, deeper in the house.
“When’s your husband getting home?”
“I don’t know.”
This time when he squeezed, something broke. She let a hiss of air out between her lips, but nothing else. Everything went white for a moment, but she breathed through it
. I’ve been through worse, I’ve been through worse, I’ve been through worse
. The colors settled back into place and she felt much more grounded.
“When is he getting home?”
“I don’t know! I think he’s fucking his mistress.”
“I’m going to let go of your arm. If you try anything else, you’re dead.”
The man’s eyes slipped to the door again, to the outside where full dark had fallen. He was afraid of something out there. Absently, he wiped at the blood on his face. Even if he got stitches right now, that was going to leave a scar.
“What do you want?”
“I want you, sweetheart.” He smiled at her.
“At least tell me your name.”
“Felix. Nice to meet you.”
Where had she heard the name before? Slade had a friend Felix. This must be Slade’s doing.
“Rich will kill you when he finds out what you’re doing.”
“Yeah?” Felix said. “What am I doing?”
That was a question she couldn’t answer.
He smiled, stretching the cut on his face, making it bleed a bit more. She looked down at the knife but he followed her gaze and kicked it away.
“I’ll tell you what I’m doing. I’m going to give you a little present, and then I’m going to send you to keep an eye on Valentine Slade for me.”
What?
That made no sense. “Aren’t you his friend?”
“In more ways than he realizes. The only hiccup to my little plan is that Val’s protector is out there, waiting for us. And we don’t have a prayer against it. I’d much rather it guts you than me.”
What?
“Is this a joke?”
A joke resulting in a broken wrist and a sliced-open face?
“Yeah, think of it as a joke. Go sit on the couch.”
She stayed where she was. None of this made sense. If this was true why was he telling her? And did he really think that she would go along with his plan?
“Go. I need you to watch him. You need eyes, ears and legs for that, not much else. I can break your other wrist. Maybe an elbow? You certainly don’t need your nose, and it hurts like a bitch when it’s broken.”
“I know.”
“Your husband break your nose?” Felix asked. She went to the couch and sat down.
“Among other people.”
Felix peered at her. “It still looks pretty good. Your husband is a sack of shit.” He pulled a jar from his pocket. Something dark was in there, clouded by the shadows in the room. But it was moving, throbbing. It wanted to get out of the jar; it was like a leech, black and probing.
“What are you doing?”
“This won’t hurt a bit. Uncomfortable, yes. Pain, no.”
“No way.”
Pushing him away, she punched him, as hard as she could, in the ear with her left hand. Fast as a cat, he took her left wrist and brought his forehead down on her nose. Crack. The white came back. She reminded herself, over and over, as her eyes filled up with tears, that she’d been through worse. People had done crueler things to her, and she was still here. Tears slid down her cheeks, cooled by the air conditioning. She willed the white away, and opened her eyes. The jar landed on the carpet with a thud. The organism inside looked irritated and began thrashing. Had she killed it? She blinked to clear the tears out of her eyes so she could see. What was going on?
Felix straddled her, pinning her arms against the couch. “Move and I’ll break your other wrist. I have plenty of time. I can play all night if I need to.” He twisted on top of her, and picked up the jar. He opened it, and the turgid little thing plopped out onto his palm.
Then she cried out. She was ashamed, but it had surprised her.
“What is that?”
“Relax. You won’t remember a thing.”
Won’t remember a thing?
What was happening to her?
He set the thing on her face, rested it on her upper lip. She started struggling, but Felix let her go and stepped back, way back. That was a mistake. For a split second Maria cataloged all the ways she could get in the kitchen and get the knives, then the fucking thing pressed its way into her nose! All thoughts of Felix vanished. She couldn’t breathe and the panic lambasted her, pressing on her ears and her face. Then her nose was clear again, but it was in her sinuses. She could feel it moving! She drew blood with her fingernails clawing at it. No, think of Felix, think of the knives. She was going to die, but she wasn’t going to die alone. One hand pressed over her nose, she shambled to the kitchen, falling and breaking a vase filled with silk flowers. Felix didn’t follow her; waited in the dark of the living room. She closed her hand over the handle of the butcher knife as a wave of…something…washed over her. Dread and adrenaline flooded her, electrifying every follicle on her body. Time was running out. If she couldn’t kill Felix, she’d have to do herself. The big knife seemed to weigh a thousand pounds, and as she lifted it from the block, it caught the hall light on its blade. Then everything went black.