by G S Fortis
“She is gone. There is no Elizabeth anymore. Only the Holy Death.”
I turn to Melchora. As she smiles, her dried, cracked lips reveal crooked yellow teeth. The cloudy eyes stare through me.
“I know what demon lies inside you.” She holds up the feather. “You’ve been wanting to know its name? You’ll soon find out. In hell.” She raises the feather above me, its sharpened shaft pointed down at my head.
There’s a crash behind her—glass shattering. Thump! Thump! Thump! Feet pound on the hardwood floor. Melchora turns.
Paige charges through the living room at full speed. She launches herself and dives for Melchora with two fists extended. Paige howls at the top of her lungs.
Melchora holds out her hands, but it’s too late. In Paige’s fists are clusters of gray feathers—Melchora’s own magical feathers.
She plunges them deep into the witch’s eyes. Paige’s momentum carries them both to the ground, and Melchora slams down beside me in a heap.
Paige stabs repeatedly as Melchora cries out in agony. “No! No! No!” Blood splashes and sprays everywhere. Despite the witch’s attempt to bat her away, Paige refuses to relent. Her fists hammer away.
A startled gasp turns my attention to Santa Muerte. The specter falls to its knees, the robes pooling around her. Whatever magical power Melchora was wielding over the spirit is diminished as Paige attacks. I see a brief flicker of Elizabeth behind the skull-faced facade. Her simple girlish features look momentarily shocked as she regains control of her body. She’s still there. Still alive. Then fear washes over as her face is swallowed by the image of the skull.
The specter returns, but a sense of panic remains on her face. A force jerks her backward. Santa Muerte tries to grab hold of a cross but fails. She goes flying backward.
But not before I grab the hem of her robe with my free hand. As she flies back, I’m pulled out from beneath the cross. We go flying out through the front door, smashing the wood to bits.
Outside, Santa Muerte is dragged across the front lawn. My hand holds on for dear life as we both slide across the dirt and dried grass. We bulldoze through the armies of Santa Muerte statues, knocking them aside like bowling pins.
Her body breaks through the front gate and across the street. I’m dragged across the asphalt as we’re pulled toward the fire pit under the gazebo. Santa Muerte clutches at empty air, trying to stop the progress. She flashes between the skeletal ghost and Elizabeth, with equal expressions of terror.
We reach the center island, and I use my other hand to grab onto the curb. We jerk to a stop, but Elizabeth sways toward the gazebo. My hand, wound with the veil like a fighter’s wrist wrap, barely clutches the concrete edge with four fingers. Stronger now that I’m away from the crosses, I use all my strength to hold on. I look down, and Elizabeth’s face stares back at me.
“Help me!” she cries.
The spirit returns. Time and strength are running out on me. This is my last chance.
“What’s my name?” I yell.
The spirit sneers.
I have one chance left—one chance to use the veil. I let go. We fly toward the shrine. I loosen my grip on the cloth to untangle it, but it gets caught in the wind. The veil pulls out of my grasp and out of reach.
Elizabeth shoots into the gazebo then spills onto the fire pit. Instead of landing on its surface, she slips over the edge and disappears. I jam my feet against the base to stop myself from following her. My torso and arms dangle over the edge, and I’m shocked by what I see.
Elizabeth dangles inside the fire pit. The cement that once filled the structure is gone, leaving a bottomless void of inky black. Wind whirls inside, threatening to pull Elizabeth and me into its depths. I use one hand to hold onto her arm and my free hand to stop both of us from falling in. Elizabeth’s panicked face disappears, and now Santa Muerte looks up at me. She grins then starts to pull me in.
Shit.
“What’s my name?” I yell out again.
The spirit flashes and disappears, and Elizabeth’s frightened face reappears. “Don’t let me go!” she screams.
My strength is weakening. I need Dudley. I strain against the force and pull Elizabeth up.
Pockets of rock and debris explode out of the wall inside the well. Hundreds of blackened arms emerge from the inner wall and flail about, blindly searching for Elizabeth. Those that find her start to pull her down.
“No!” I cry out.
Flames appear at the bottom of the void. The heat is so intense it burns my face. Elizabeth looks down and screams.
Another flash. Elizabeth turns up to me, her face transformed back into Santa Muerte. She opens her mouth. Jagged teeth snap at my hand.
The disembodied limbs that once reached for her now start grabbing at me. I recoil and let go… another flash. Elizabeth returns in time to watch her fingers slip through mine. She disappears into the black maelstrom, falling toward the fire.
As I stand straight up, the concrete reforms, sealing off the portal. The black void disappears beneath me. “No!” I shout, slamming my hands on the flat surface. It’s solid, as if it were always there.
Elizabeth is gone. Another life has slipped through my fingers.
I collapse in defeat and lean back against the altar. In my peripheral vision, I see flames and black smoke rising from the SWAT vehicle. The veil flutters in the wind and falls next to me in the gazebo. My hand rests on it.
A shadow washes over me. Hugo looks down on me, a gun pointed at my face. An expression of absolute hatred covers his face. He offers me one word before he pulls the trigger. “Puta.”
Bam!
I flinch, knowing this is the end.
But it’s not. His chest blossoms into splattering red as a bullet explodes out of his shirt. Blood sprays from the exit wound and onto my face as Hugo collapses into a heap on the floor beside me.
I look up and see David running toward me, two hands holding his still-smoking handgun. He keeps it trained on Hugo until he reaches me. Then he pulls me up.
Instinctively, I lean into his chest and press my face against his ballistic vest. My legs can barely keep me up, but with one arm wrapped around my waist, he keeps me from falling.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
I don’t answer. I look around the cul-de-sac. Bodies lie everywhere, dead. Both vehicles are burning.
Paige emerges from one of the houses. Her right arm is extended, and from it dangles a dull gray object. It’s not until she’s near that I can see what it is—a large owl, its wings spread out wide. Blood seeps from its eyes, which have been gouged out.
This is all that’s left of Melchora. When Paige is sure I’ve seen the remains, she casts the bird aside and helps David to keep me standing. From down the street, a convoy of police vehicles approaches. Their red and blue lights and flash across the faces of the houses, cutting into warm hues from the sunset.
I’m not focused on them. I look at the shambles of what remains of the shrine. I stare at the sealed-off altar. With Melchora’s death, Santa Muerte has been pulled back into whatever netherworld she came—and with her, Elizabeth. And with Elizabeth, my name.
Chapter 35
____◊____
ONLY FOUR OF US survived tonight. Paramedics load the injured body of the technician into the back of the ambulance. The cargo doors shut, and the vehicle rolls away into the night.
My eyes sweep across the neighborhood of Sterling Terrace. Giant spotlights sit atop cranes and illuminate every inch of the area. What feels like a hundred cops and detectives mill about, examining the aftermath.
Paige and I sit on the hood of a squad car, wrapped in police blankets. It must be three in the morning, and it’s an uncommonly chilly night in Los Angeles. With each breath, clouds of vapor escape my lips.
David comes walking up with a heavy white plastic bag and a cardboard tray with two drinks. “Hungry?”
The only response he gets f
rom Paige and me is our tearing into the bag and pulling out two burgers. I bite into the lukewarm sandwich, grateful for anything to eat at this point.
“You’re welcome,” he says as he joins us on the hood of the car.
He watches in silence as the scene wraps up. Plainclothes detectives are returning to their cars and pulling away. A forensics team transitions from evidence gathering to cleanup.
Finally, David asks, “Do you know whatever happened to Elizabeth?”
I stop eating and tell him the truth. “I don’t know.”
He nods. Paige casts me a sideways glance.
“So who has her?” David asks.
No one does. The witch who had the power to keep Santa Muerte in this plane of existence is dead. Elizabeth is gone.
“Maybe she’ll turn up.” David sighs. “Whoever has her, there’s no point anymore. Maybe they’ll let her go.”
“Maybe,” I lie.
David slides off the hood. He turns to look at me. We’ve been through a lot in the past twenty-four hours. I can tell he wants to say something reassuring—or something wise and profound. Or maybe he wants to proclaim his love for me.
Instead, he walks off without a word. Typical. I should be accustomed to this kind of disappointment by now. I’m not.
* * *
The sun still hasn’t risen when David drives Paige and me to the Cathedral. I wait with David across the street, leaning against his parked blue Charger, while Paige goes onto the grounds to get Carmen. As we stand there in silence, I notice a couple of black-and-white cruisers parked down the street. Then I see an unmarked sedan few yards from us and a few panel vans at each corner.
“What happens to Carmen now?” I ask, nodding toward vehicles.
David turns and looks. “It’s complicated.”
I know that. She’s an undocumented immigrant and the head of a major drug cartel. Or was. I’m sure her hold over the organization has disappeared by now. Whatever leverage she had for making a deal with the DEA is all but gone. Any chance of going straight is dead.
“Are you going to arrest her?”
“She’s not a good woman, Darcy. She’s a drug dealer. Don’t think she hasn’t done terrible things just ’cause she’s a mom.”
I’ll be the first to admit I put blinders on because she was a mom—because there was a missing daughter out there. There are some things in this world I don’t wish upon anyone. Losing a child is one of them. I think about my mom and how Bennet’s death affected her. Then she pushed me away and lost a second child.
“Are you going to arrest her?” I ask again.
He shakes his head. “Not today. They’ll keep an eye on her until the various attorneys can decide who has jurisdiction and who gets to proceed.”
Paige finally emerges from the grounds. Along with Father Ramon, they escort Carmen down the stairs from the church grounds, heading toward David and me. There is no hiding the bad news, and I’m sure whatever neutral tone Paige tried to strike when she woke Carmen and Father Ramon did little to calm the woman’s nerves. Across the street from where I stand with just David—no Elizabeth—Carmen collapses on the steps to the Cathedral and wails in anguish. Father Ramon and Paige do their best to hold her up, but she’s deadweight.
She continues to cry and scream as David and I sprint toward her and Father Ramon. Halfway across the street, I slide to a stop, remembering where I am. David slows down when he realizes I’m not by his side. He looks back at me, bewildered.
I stand in the middle of the deserted street, unwilling to move any closer. I can’t console Carmen in her moment of agony or even try to help—not as long as she stays on the side of the boundary that separates the faithful from the unholy.
David turns away from me and rushes to Carmen’s side. She leans into his chest and sobs uncontrollably. Two weeks ago I told her I would find her daughter. I failed. And now I can’t even comfort her.
Chapter 36
____◊____
IT’S BEEN A WEEK since the incident at Sterling Terrace. Since then, any hope of finding Elizabeth has dried up. Hugo’s dead. Melchora’s dead. Yury Yury might as well be dead for as quiet as he is. Carmen remains confined to the Cathedral with LAPD on surveillance—they even put an ankle monitor on her to make sure she wouldn’t slip away.
With no leads and no more clues, the case of Elizabeth Viramontes is officially closed. Whenever I’m done with a case, I think things will get back to normal. They never do. My life isn’t normal.
* * *
“Can we talk?”
I look up from my laptop to find Paige standing before me. For most of the day, she’s been locked in her room, leaving me to program my new smartwatch on my own. That’s not too difficult, though I was only able to set one heart-rate alert instead of the two she had done.
Now Paige has finally emerged from her rabbit hole, looking very serious. There was no reason for her to retreat, so I can only imagine what she was doing in there all day and what finally brought her out this evening. I close my laptop and push it aside.
“Do you know what I’m going to ask?” she says.
I cringe inside. I’ve been waiting for Paige to ask a favor of me ever since the case ended. I guess tonight is the night. “Yes. When do you want to go?”
“Now?”
“Let me change.”
* * *
Paige and I sit in my Mini Cooper in the driveway of our apartment building. It’s a warm spring night—well, warm for everyone else. Tolerable for me.
I cast a glance at Paige. She nods.
Okay, then.
“Finna…” I hesitate, not sure what to say next. “Paige’s mom?”
The pendulum around my neck begins to sway. Then it rises and points west. I hand the crystal to Paige. It continues to point us west. I press my foot down on the gas, and my Mini Cooper pulls onto the street.
* * *
My car meanders up the winding roads of the Pacific Palisades, high above Sunset Boulevard. The Palisades are an affluent suburb deep in the Santa Monica Mountains, perched above the coastline. This is where many celebrities live, insulated from the noise and crowds of Los Angeles.
It’s dark, with no streetlights anywhere. Large mansions sit behind tall hedges and iron gates. Some loom large and encroach on the edge of the street. I glance sideways at Paige, who looks at the surrounding neighborhood. I can only imagine what’s going on her in mind as she compares these rich surroundings with the areas where she was raised.
The pendulum continues to dangle from her hand, pointing us deeper and deeper into the neighborhood, higher and higher into the mountains. Eventually, we come to a line of cars funneling onto one particularly popular street. We sit in a queue for twenty minutes, watching cars drive back down the street then park in our vicinity. Valet drivers hop out of the parked cars and hustle back up the street.
Instead of waiting for our turn, I park the Mini in the first spot I can find. Once again, I have to move my car a bit when I realize I can’t open the British-side door because of the high curb. Paige and I stand together and look at the crystal. It points due north, to the house at the top of the hill, where the partygoers are headed.
“Stöðva,” I say.
The pendulum falls and dangles from Paige’s fist. I take the crystal from her and stuff it in my pocket while Paige begins the march up the hill. It’s difficult to keep up with her determined pace as we stalk past car after waiting car.
We finally arrive at the entrance of a large Tudor mansion. Marble statues of lions guard the entrance on either side. Dozens of guests in suits and cocktails dresses stroll up a long cobblestone walkway lit by Victoria streetlamps and illuminated fountains. Everything just glows.
We pass through a double-door entryway into the house itself. Everything is grand and opulent. Eighteenth-century paintings hang in the foyer, bordered by ornate gold frames. I half wonder whether I’m walking into someone’s
home or a museum.
Servers in red vests hold silver trays of hors d'oeuvres for the arriving guests—caviar on French blini, lobster toast with avocado, bruschetta on warm sourdough, spinach puffs, and minced-chicken lettuce cups.
Paige marches through the living room, scanning the crowd for some hint of her target. We navigate our way through the many people in fine clothes who chat and sip champagne while talking about the film industry, real estate prices, and the stock market. These are important people discussing important things. Paige and I are ignored as we move through the house, cloaked by our insignificance.
As we finally reach the end of the living room, Paige suddenly stops. My momentum carries me forward, and I bump into her back. I follow her gaze and see a familiar face in sitting in the corner—Judge William Whitaker.
The moment he sees us, he stands up. The immediate shock that registers in his face is quickly followed by sincere sadness. He takes a step toward us.
Worried that he means to stop us, I push Paige forward. “Keep going.”
We emerge into what seems to be a backyard but more closely resembles a private park. In the darkness of the evening, it’s impossible to tell how far the grass extends into the hills. Lights on strings crisscross above our heads, so everyone sitting at the various patio tables sits in perfect lighting.
I’ve been to many beautiful and expensive homes in Los Angeles, but this one is the most impressive. Everything is topnotch, from the architecture to the decor to the service. I feel like I’m in an old Hollywood movie, and I’m half expecting to see Clark Gable and Jean Harlow regaling guests with sordid stories of their recent weekend up at Hearst Castle.
I can’t even imagine what is going through Paige’s mind right now. For fourteen years, she grew up in conditions that would break a lesser woman—poverty, abuse, and things she won’t talk about even to me. And here she stands, in a palace of good fortune and luxury.
Why is her mother here? Who is this woman?
I notice a foam-core poster near the large swimming pool. Paige sees it, too, and we’re drawn slowly toward it. It’s a teenage girl’s high school portrait. Her hair is a chestnut shade with light streaks peeking through the waves that cascade to her shoulders. She’s beautiful and bears a subtle similarity to Paige with her athletic build, high cheekbones, and striking eyes—Paige’s eyes.