Wink of an Eye

by Lynn Chandler Willis

  She raised her perfect brows. “Really? Is this like an extended vacation?”

  “Who vacations in Wink?”

  She twisted her mouth into a tight knot. “Good point.”

  Before she could delve further, I seized the moment. “So, tell me what you’ve been up to.”

  She bobbed her head back and forth. “Just minding the ranch. The Herefords and Longhorns keeps me pretty busy.”

  “Longhorns? I thought they were almost extinct.” I was, after all, from Texas.

  “They’ve made a pretty good comeback in recent years. Nothing like a Longhorn.” The mere thought brought a twinkle to her eyes.

  “No horses?”

  She laughed again. “Gypsy … you know me better than that. We’re still breeding and training quarters, mostly for show and rodeos.”

  I thought of Rogelio Esconderia. Malita had said he was a wrangler. Just as I was about to broach the subject, the waitress came back with our beers and fries.

  “Ready to order dinner?” she asked as she placed the fries between us. Then she set out two small plates.

  “Oh … we haven’t even looked at the menu,” Claire said, giggling like a schoolgirl. “Do you know what you want?”

  I knew what I wanted but everything about it was wrong. A pale, tan line encircled her finger where a wedding band had obviously been. “I’m fine for now.” I smiled at the waitress.

  Claire looked at me then shrugged. “Me too.”

  The waitress sighed. “I’ll check back in a little bit.”

  I took a long swig of the beer and damned if it wasn’t good. So there were two things in Texas I missed. And I had the pleasure of both their company tonight.

  “Tell me about Vegas.”

  I took another long drink, thinking of what to say. Less was probably better. “It’s … interesting.”

  “How can you stand all the … people? I get claustrophobic in Dallas.”

  I laughed. That was my Claire. More comfortable around a herd of cows than in a crowd of people. “It’s different than anything around here, that’s for sure.”

  “Have you ever won big in the casinos?”

  “Depends on what you call big. I won ten grand once in a poker tournament.”

  She squealed to stroke my ego. “Ten thousand dollars? I’m impressed.” Ten thousand dollars to Claire Kinley was a week’s pay. “God … remember the games of poker we used to play? I used to lose on purpose—just so you could undress me.”

  “You never lost on purpose. You just never could beat me.”

  “Bull! I can’t count the times I let you win.”

  We laughed until we were both nearly in tears. We spent the next two hours like that, laughing until we cried, reliving memories with such clarity they could have happened only moments ago. We were once again picnicking by the Rio Grande, hiking the Big Bend, sneaking down to Juárez, where teenagers could buy beer.

  We never did eat a meal, just sat there picking at the fries and downing beer after beer until we were both buzzed. I never did ask about her husband. Maybe I didn’t really want to know.

  Garth Brooks’s “More than a Memory” hit the jukebox, and this time I led her to the dance floor. I pulled her so close we could feel each other breathe. It had taken me years to get her out of my head; I could honestly say I had never really gotten her out of my heart. “Claire,” I whispered, “what are we doing?”

  She hesitated, then, with the gentleness of a fairy, brushed her lips across mine. “I don’t know,” she whispered. “But I don’t want it to stop.”

  * * *

  Sometime after midnight, I dozed off, lulled to sleep by the constant hum of the rickety air conditioner propped in the dust-covered window. Each wobbly rotation of the ancient ceiling fan hanging above the bed brought a faint but welcome push of air. The red neon sign outside the window flashed VACANCY.

  Claire stirred beside me, then settled back into a sound sleep. The air conditioner cycled off; the sudden quietness interrupted my dozing, slapping me fully awake. I lay there for I don’t know how long, watching the silhouette of the ceiling fan circle above the bed, wondering what in the hell I’d done.

  We had moved together so effortlessly, so naturally, it couldn’t be wrong. Although nearly twenty years had passed since we had last made love, we were still so in tune with one another, we were driven by instinct. We knew where to touch each other, where to kiss one another, when tenderness was needed and when a heated frenzy was more to the liking. I wondered if her still unnamed husband could take her to the body-spasm heights I could? I wondered if he teetered on the verge of a blackout when she took him in her velvet mouth?

  I eased out of the bed, careful not to wake her, slipped my shorts on, then stepped outside. The air was still stifling hot, forcing my lungs to work overtime just to catch a breath. The crowd at the roadhouse had long gone, drawing unwanted attention to the lone van and Dually still parked where they had been hours ago, the occupants’ whereabouts obvious given the close proximity to the pay-by-the-hour motel next door. I walked down to the vending machine near the motel’s office and dropped a dollar for a bottled water, then walked back to the room. I sat in the cheap motel room chair across from the bed and watched her sleep.

  My head and my heart weren’t in agreement. Damn Claire Kinley. Or whatever her married name was. Did he hate her as much as I did? Did he love her as much as I did? Did she love him, like she used to love me? There had been many women in my life, but only one Claire. Once, when we were teenagers, she came damn close to killing her own father to protect me. There were times after that I often wondered if pure love and hate really could spark the fire of insanity. Rhonda had been right. Claire Kinley was the only woman who had ever taken me to my knees.

  “What are you doing?” Claire asked in a sleepy voice. She sat up, covering herself with the damp sheet. She brushed tangled hair from her eyes.

  I didn’t answer her. There were so many things I wanted to say, but kept coming back to the one thing I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

  “Gypsy?”

  “Tell me about your husband.”

  She stared at me for what seemed like an eternity. Even in the shadowy darkness, I could see the fury in her eyes. Finally, she sighed heavily, then fell back on the bed. “His name’s Steven,” she said matter-of-factly.

  “How long have you been married?”

  “Twelve years. Twelve long years.”

  Cue the excuses. I was sure there were dozens of reasons she was in a fleabag motel with a man other than her husband, and I had heard them all. He doesn’t pay any attention to me … he works all the time … he’s a lousy lover … I’m lonely … I’m horny … I like the excitement, and, my personal favorite, he’s screwing around, too. Nothing like a good revenge fuck to screw with everybody’s heart.

  “Does Steven work on the ranch, too?”

  She sighed heavily again, then propped herself on her elbow and stared at me. “He’s a state senator. He spends ten months out of the year in Austin.”

  Ahh … so it was going to be the combo special: “he works all the time, I’m so lonely” excuse. And judging by the way she was in bed a few hours ago, you could probably safely add the “I’m horny” excuse, too.

  “Gypsy,” she said softly.

  I pulled myself up from the chair, then slowly walked over to the window and stared out at the blinking sign, a flashing reminder of my indiscretion. “I’m not in the habit of sleeping with married women, Claire. I’ve seen too often the trouble it brings.”

  I felt a pillow whap me on the back. “You pompous ass!”

  I spun around and came face-to-face with her fury.

  “How dare you judge me! Unless you made some earth-shattering discovery within the last few hours, you knew I was married when you met me here.” She leapt out of the bed, dragging the sheet with her. She wrapped it around herself then flung another pillow at me. I batted it down, which infuriated her even more. She headed
toward me, trapping me in the corner. “Don’t get righteous with me, Gypsy Moran. You were pretty quick to drop your pants, too.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me when I ran into you at the diner?”

  “We spoke … what? Maybe five minutes?”

  “You had plenty of time tonight at the restaurant to tell me.”

  Her eyes cut right through to my soul. “Would you have left?”

  Neither of us said anything for a long while. We just stood there staring at each other, hating each other more than humanly possible. Loving each other more than either of us ever imagined. No matter the years and distance, some things will never change.

  “I used to wish I could stop loving you,” she said in a tiny voice. “I wished every night you’d come back and love me the way I loved you. But you never came back. You never came back, Gypsy.”

  I took a step toward her. “I begged you to come with me.”

  “And I begged you to stay.”

  I reached out, grabbed her, and pulled her to me. Her warm tears rolled down my bare chest. I lifted her chin and gently kissed away each tear, wishing to God I could stop loving her.

  CHAPTER 10

  It was approaching 5:00 A.M. when I pulled into Rhonda’s driveway. All I wanted to do was crawl into a decent bed and catch a couple hours’ sleep. Claire and I had made love the rest of the night, never mentioning what’s his name or how wrong it was for us to be there, or how right it was.

  I climbed out of the van and stumbled up the walk, then quietly opened the door. Or tried to. I tried it again as quietly as I could, not wanting to wake Rhonda or Gram. I finally jiggled the knob—it was locked. She had locked me out!

  I thought of going around to her bedroom and banging on the window but I wasn’t in the mood for a lecture so I stumbled back to the van, laid the seat back as far as it would go, and tried to get an hour in before the dawn broke. Damn her. Damn Claire. And damn Gina Gilleni. Damn women in general. If Gina hadn’t gone and gotten herself killed I wouldn’t have had to leave Vegas, I wouldn’t have run into Claire and slept with a married woman, and I wouldn’t be sleeping in a van in my sister’s driveway because she was pissed and locked the door.

  It was miserable hot even with the windows down and I was hungry to boot. We never did eat dinner and my stomach was protesting. I didn’t want to crank the engine and run the air out of fear of some freak leak somewhere that would pump the van full of carbon monoxide.

  I was totally drained physically, mentally, and emotionally. Either I dozed off or passed out from hunger and heat exhaustion because the last thing I remembered before my eyes closed was cussing Rhonda for everything she was worth. And now here she was in a tank top and pajama shorts standing beside the van, arms folded across her chest, jaw set firm. I batted my eyes against the painful sunshine and struggled to sit up, reminding myself of an old man trying to get out of a recliner.

  “What time is it?” I asked, my throat as parched as the Texas landscape.

  “Seven-thirty. I’ve got the coffee on.” She turned on her heel and stomped back to the house.

  I didn’t want coffee. I wanted a real bed with a real pillow in a cold room. I forced my legs to carry me inside. Rhonda was stationed at the arch between the kitchen and living room, sipping a cup of coffee through the scowl on her face.

  “I’ll grab a cup later,” I mumbled. “Right now I’m goin’ grab a few hours of sleep. How about waking me up around ten?” I did need to drive back up to Odessa and visit with Sophia Ortez again.

  She pursed her lips and nodded, then asked coldly, “How was your dinner?”

  I took a deep breath and steeled myself for the coming lecture. “It was nice.”

  She nodded again. “I bet. Next time check yourself in the mirror before heading out. Your shirt’s on inside out.”

  I was so busted.

  * * *

  At 10:15, Rhonda flipped open the blinds and smacked my bare feet. “Up and at ’em.”

  I squeezed my eyes closed against the light.

  “Tatum called and wanted to know if you needed him today.” She sat a fresh cup of steaming coffee on the nightstand, then sat down on the edge of the bed.

  Tatum. My sidekick. I grumbled, then sat up and swung my legs over the side of the bed. I pushed my fingers through my mussed-up hair. It was damp with sweat and sticky with fluids I was too much of a gentleman to identify. “Tell Tatum he has the day off. Tell him I said to take Alvedia swimming, cool off those pubescent hormones.”

  Rhonda laughed. “He’d probably like that except he can’t swim.”

  I glanced at her then took a long drink of coffee. “Seriously?”

  She shrugged. “Seriously. He’s terrified of water. One of the kids had an end-of-school pool party and I thought the poor kid was goin’ to have a heart attack.”

  I thought all kids these days could swim. What’d I know?

  “Rodney’ll be home this afternoon,” Rhonda said. She was gnawing on her bottom lip, a sure indication there was more to the statement than what was said.

  I sighed. “You want me to get a motel room?”

  Her eyes flew wide and she quickly shook her head. “No—that’s not what I meant.”

  Thank God. I didn’t know if I could stand another night on a motel bed.

  She tugged on her right ear, a habit she’d had since she was a kid when something was weighing on her mind.

  “Okay … so Rodney will be home this afternoon. And that means…?”

  “Remember I told you he didn’t want me to get involved with Ryce’s death,” she said in a small voice, still gnawing on her lip.

  I recalled the conversation and nodded. “He told you to leave it alone.”

  She gazed at me with pitiful eyes. I took another long drink of coffee, considering our options. Did I help her keep a secret from her husband? Between her, Claire, and the recently deceased Gina Gilleni, I wondered if I was wearing a sign on my back saying TRUST ME, I WON’T TELL YOUR HUSBAND.

  I let out a long breath. “He told you to leave it alone. He didn’t tell me to.”

  Her eyes lit up and matched her tentative smile. “You’ll cover for me?”

  I draped my arm around her shoulder and gave it a gentle squeeze. “I won’t tell your husband your little secret if you won’t lecture me about Claire.”

  “Uh—Gypsy! That’s not fair.” She punched my shoulder. “Someone has to talk some sense into that head of yours about that woman.”

  It wasn’t my head that needing talking to. “That’s the deal, baby. Take it or I spill my guts as soon as he walks through the door.”

  She sprung up from the bed and stomped out of the room, mumbling something about me being evil.

  I grabbed a quick shower, then powered up the laptop at the kitchen table. Gram was at the table eating some graham crackers with peanut butter. She looked like a dog trying to lick peanut butter from the roof of its mouth. Must be a bitch getting old.

  I Googled the phone number for the Odessa Record, then punched the number in my cell. I listened to the dial-by-name directory, then pressed Sophia Ortez’s extension.

  “This is Sophia Ortez,” she said on the second ring.

  “Miss Ortez—Gypsy Moran. We met earlier in the week.”

  “Ah, Mr. Moran. The private investigator. What can I do for you?”

  “Have lunch with me. I have a story you might be interested in.”

  She hesitated before saying anything. “Does it involve Sergeant McCallen?”

  “Not directly. Remember that Pulitzer you were chasing? This story might get you noticed.”

  “You’re goin’ to have to tell me more than that.”

  “Trust me—it’ll go national.”

  “Trust you? I don’t even know you. You’re goin’ to have to give me a reason to cancel my lunchtime hair appointment.”

  I grinned. Miss Ortez was pretty sharp. “Eight missing girls and a human trafficking ring. That enough to pique your intere
st?”

  “Missing from this area? Why haven’t we heard anything about it before now?”

  “My point exactly.”

  She didn’t say anything for a moment, then said, “The Rojo Grande, one o’clock.”

  “I’ll see you there.”

  We hung up and I map-searched the address, then keyed it into my phone’s GPS. I then searched for Reeves County Detention Center and clicked on the Web site. I did an inmate search for Hector Martinez. There were twelve inmates named Hector Martinez so I narrowed the search by age. There were five between the ages of seventeen and twenty-three, but only one pulling time for attempted murder and assault on a law-enforcement officer. Hector Martinez was in gen-pop with no altercations so paying him a visit tomorrow shouldn’t be an issue.

  I gathered up Ryce’s files and the copies I had made of Peterson’s and McCoy’s finances and personal information, and gave Rhonda a peck on the cheek. “I’m off to Odessa. I’ll check in later.”

  She glared at me with narrowed eyes. “Are you going to be here for dinner … or do you have other plans? I’m not lecturing. Just asking.”

  “Lecturing about what?” Gram asked. “Did he get laid?”

  “I’ll be here.” I grinned. Although, truthfully, I wasn’t looking forward to the Crock-Pot mystery meat that never made it past simmer. Besides, I needed a night to recover. Last night proved I wasn’t seventeen anymore.

  * * *

  The Rojo Grande was, as expected, a barn-shaped building the color of ripe tomatoes. The sign out front guaranteed the BEST TEX-MEX IN TOWN! Sophia was seated on the leather bench beside the hostess stand and smiled slightly when I entered. She was wearing white capris and a sleeveless black top, the top button strategically unbuttoned. I liked Sophia Ortez. She knew how to play the game. Any other time, I would have considered playing along, but at the moment, I didn’t have the energy to even flirt.

  The hostess seated us at a back booth, handed us the menus, and said the waitress Tammy would be with us in a minute.

  “So, tell me about these eight missing girls,” she said, direct and to the point. No fooling around with this gal. Maybe that top button was unbuttoned because it was 112 freaking degrees outside.