by Ann Aguirre
“It wasn’t on purpose,” I muttered. “And that’s the thing. . . .” In one quick rush, I explained the events leading up to our inclusion in his protective-custody detail. I finished with, “Jesse, I’m so sorry about your ride. The apartment was bad enough, but damn, I wreck everything of yours I touch.”
“Come here.”
A touch reluctant, I resumed my seat on the arm of his chair. “Okay.”
He tilted my chin down with his fingertips so he could look me in the eyes. “The only thing that matters—the only thing—is that you’re safe, sugar. But I wish I could’ve seen some of your fancy driving. You must’ve been magnificent.”
Right then, it caught up with me, and a shiver of reaction set in. “I don’t know about that. I just had to protect Shannon and Butch.”
“You did great. And you did right in going to Glencannon.”
“Well, I didn’t want this.”
“This is probably best,” Jesse said. “The police department will handle Montoya.”
If they did, at the very least, Escobar would refuse to pay me, despite all my time and trouble, and Montoya wouldn’t spend long enough in prison to end this mess. He’d just get out, madder and more determined than ever. Men like him almost never did hard time; they found some sucker to sacrifice and walked away clean. So if Jesse thought I planned to stay here quietly, he didn’t understand me.
Because I knew we’d never agree, I said nothing. Instead I stroked his hair and luxuriated in his heat. He wasn’t a perfect fit; I had too much lawlessness in me. But with anybody, there would be sacrifices and compromises. I was ready to grow up.
When Shannon got out of the bathroom, I took my turn. I made it quick. The bathroom was tiny and full of ugly, crumbling tile; the plumbing groaned throughout my shower. I got out, wrapped myself in a towel, and padded down the hall. Our things had been stacked in the last bedroom. I supposed we were expected to share, and that was fine. We wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.
Unfortunately, we hadn’t been able to hide a cell phone. Glencannon didn’t give us the privacy, and they conducted a thorough search of our bodies and belongings. The spell books comprised my sole asset at this point. I’d passed them off as historical journals, and they left them with me. After curling up on the bed, I immediately went to work paging through my grimoires. There had to be a spell that could get me out of here. I hesitated to use sleep, because that would leave Jesse vulnerable. Likewise, I couldn’t confuse Clemsen and Rudd.
Shannon paused in the doorway. “Are you doing what I think you are?”
“No,” I said automatically. “Do me a favor. Keep Jesse occupied.”
“If he could move without pain, he’d already be in here checking on you. He knows you better than you think.”
“Shit. Go distract him.”
“How am I supposed to do that? Sit on his lap and call him Daddy?”
Now, there was a disturbing image. “No, but feminine distress should work. Can you summon some tears?”
“You owe me,” she muttered, stomping back toward the living room.
“Any advice?” I asked Butch.
The little dog sat perched at the top of the vermilion grimoire, watching me turn the illuminated pages. He yapped once, tail wagging.
“Really?” Intrigued, I got out the Scrabble tiles and laid them on the bed.
He bounced into motion and pawed them like crazy. When he finished, they read: Stay here dont die.
I laughed softly. “One of these days, you’ve got to explain to me how you can do this stuff.”
Butch gazed at me like that should be obvious, but right then I had other concerns. I returned to the grimoire and kept trying. I found spells to bring back a lover, for luck and health, charms to keep milk sweet and to drive away gophers.
I sighed. “Really, Mom? Gophers?”
“What’re you doing?” Rudd stood outside the bedroom door, peering at me.
“Reading.”
“We’re making frozen pizza. Would you like some?” So this was the good cop. I could easily see Clemsen playing the other role.
“No, I’m fine.” I couldn’t remember the last time I’d eaten, but it seemed irrelevant.
“Okay. Let me know if you change your mind.”
Mutely I nodded and moved on to the blue spell book. The ones in here were complex, and required will and power, not special ingredients. At last I located one but it would affect everyone equally, everyone but me.
Is this a good idea? Given how I’d overpowered the trust me spell, there was a good chance I’d screw it up. I had no training, and this was an advanced charm. Yet I didn’t see a better option. If I don’t get out of here, if I don’t end this, then more people will be hurt. So I’ll accept the consequences, however dire.
Making my choice, I closed the bedroom door and spent countless moments memorizing the spell. I drew a circle around myself, infusing it with heat. This felt more natural each time I did it, though no less painful. Considering the way I’d come into my power—my mother’s power—I wasn’t surprised. A lifetime of bearing such penance prepared me for the full-body agony of casting. Once I sealed myself in, I locked the desired outcome in mind. I poured everything into the working. It had to take.
“ ‘Forget me—forget me, my face, and my name. I was never here; we never were. Let this place feel as if I never came.’ ” As I spoke the last word, a white mist rolled outward from the circle, trickling beneath the door.
I needed to give it time to permeate everywhere. A forget fog—it shouldn’t be permanent, but if I’d cast it correctly, none of them would remember I ought to be in the house for a while. They wouldn’t come looking for me. Since Shannon wouldn’t go to her dad’s house, then I’d hide her here with Jesse; that was best. Despite her love and loyalty, she couldn’t be with me when I faced Montoya. I wasn’t that criminally irresponsible.
My new clothes, along with the flowered suitcase, I left behind. They would weigh me down. I put a few crucial items in my purse, including the grimoires. Now that I could use them, I’d never let them out of my sight again. Butch yapped as I unlocked the window. Sure, the locks were securely fastened, but this house had been proofed against intruders, not people inside who wanted to escape.
“It doesn’t work on dogs, huh?”
He barked a negative.
“Of course not. I guess if I don’t take you, you’ll set up such a racket that it’ll bring someone to investigate while I’m making my getaway.”
And that would be bad news, given they wouldn’t know what the hell I was doing here. They’d call Glencannon to have me arrested—and the only way I could explain it to him would be to make him think everyone here had gone crazy. While my lucky penny might lend credence to the tale, I preferred to avoid that scenario.
So I set Butch on top of the stuff in my purse, shouldered it, hunched down, and slid over the windowsill. Pulling it down after me, I hoped Clemsen would make the rounds soon and find the window unlocked. I hated leaving them vulnerable, even so briefly, but I had to get away.
Time to finish this.
I trudged five miles. If not for my time in the jungle, the walk would’ve defeated me. In the car with Glencannon, I’d tracked the way I needed to go, but it didn’t seem as long, riding. After dark, in the middle of nowhere, without food or water, and a small, scared dog in my bag, this trip sucked. To his credit, Butch didn’t complain. He got down and walked part of the way, sniffing ahead of me like a wee safety patrol.
When I saw the lights, I almost wept with relief. It was a gas station in the middle of nowhere, glowing against the dark with halogen brightness. I took note of the number painted on the building. The only car in the lot belonged to the clerk, well and good. Staying to the shadows, I crept around back; I didn’t want the cashier to see me, though I felt near-starved. I made my way to the pay phone and dialed Chuch’s cell. Thank God I know it by heart. But he might not answer if he doesn’t recognize t
his number. He might not be there. If Montoya has him—
On the third ring, he picked up, rewarding my gamble. “Who’s this?”
“Corine.”
“Thank God, prima. Eva has been driving me crazy.”
It wasn’t Chuch. He’s still solid. He couldn’t sound so normal if he’d rolled on me. If Montoya forced him to a terrible choice, he’d warn me; he was that kind of guy.
“Can you come get me?”
He didn’t waste time with questions. “Claro. Tell me where.”
I did. “Pull along the left side of the building. I’ll come to you.”
“Be there in twenty minutes. I trust you got quite a story to tell me.” With that, he disconnected.
Did I ever. Butch and I huddled together in the field behind the Supermart. Each gust of wind made me jump. More than once, I checked the amulet and found it safe and dry around my neck. Good, the pendant should still be proof against detection by supernatural means. I just had to stay out of sight.
Shadows thrown by the occasional passing car wore my nerves raw. A few people stopped at the convenience store to buy gas or smokes or whatever else they needed, milk or ice cream. For the folks who lived out here, this would be the closest store for miles.
At last I recognized the distinctive lines of his Maverick. As requested, he pulled to the left of the store, and I used the Dumpsters as cover to slide into the passenger side. With any luck, the clerk would think Chuch had stopped to check a map or something.
“Good to see you, prima. Saw you on the news, but it’s just not the same.” He flashed me a grin full of good-natured humor. “You talk. I’ll drive.”
I shook my head at the wonder of his unconditional friendship. “How can you not hate me, after all I’ve cost you?”
“You didn’t do that. Montoya did. And he’ll get his.” The ice in his voice sent a chill through me.
It seemed best to let the subject go for now; I’d find a way to make it up to them.
The Maverick cut through the dark while I summed up the situation. I left out the part about my casting the forget spell, but he had to know I was a fugitive from police protective custody. If he wanted to aid me thereafter, it was his choice.
“Anyway, that’s where I am. If you prefer to drop me off somewhere—”
“Forget it,” he said with a frown.
“Okay. If you’re still in, then I need a new cell phone, something cheap.”
“We’ll stop and get you hooked up.”
We passed from the country and into the city; Chuch took me to a warren of low-slung buildings where the streets narrowed and people stood outside drinking. Salsa music thumped from somebody’s speakers. If I hadn’t been with him, I’d have been nervous. Then again, at this point, I felt mostly numb.
He approached a guy sitting on the trunk of a blue Dodge Dart. I wasn’t sure about the year, but I guessed late sixties to early seventies. Unlike Chuch’s cherry vehicles, this one could use some work. It showed primer and a few dings.
The dude jumped down and clasped Chuch’s hand with an appearance of genuine welcome. Chuch had contacts all over the place, and I was grateful. I stood quiet, conscious of Butch’s interest.
“¿Qué pasa, Ramos?”
Ramos opened up a plastic red and white cooler, lofting a Negro Modelo. “Nada. ¿Quieres una cerveza?”
“No, gracias. I’m here on business.”
That actually brightened Ramos’s smile. He cracked the beer open on the fender of his car and then popped the trunk. Inside, he had a wondrous rainbow assortment of electronics. I chose a shiny blue phone, and Ramos dug a charger out of the side netting. Everything was tangled, so it took a while.
“Good solid tech,” he told me, as if I wasn’t already sold. “You can find out your new number by calling Chuch. You, um, may get some hang-ups and wrong numbers for a while.”
I didn’t inquire if it was stolen. I did ask, “This isn’t a contract phone, is it?”
“No,” Ramos said. “These are prepaid. Traded or bought from people who wanted a different model. You can dial this code to check your talk time, and if you get low, just stop at a gas station and get a new card.”
“Yeah, I know how it works. How much?”
“Forty bucks. This is a good deal. Still charged up, and it has plenty of minutes left.” He proved it by calling up the automated line and letting me listen.
“Does it have e-mail?”
“Yeah. You can configure the mailbox when you mess with the settings.”
“I’ll take it.” I paid Ramos and then followed Chuch back to the Maverick.
We left Ramos sitting on the trunk of his car, sipping beer, glazed by the amber of distant streetlights. The dealer looked like he had nothing to do and nowhere else he’d rather be. As we drove away, I envied him.
Chuch broke the silence a few blocks away. “Escobar’s vatos sold you out, huh?”
“Yeah. I don’t know which one.”
“They all need killing,” he said flatly.
I cut him a look; his face was rough and hard in the glare of oncoming headlights. “Not tonight.”
The silence built. We drove a little longer, aimless now. I just needed to stay alive. Jesse was safe; so was Shannon. Eva was with her mother, and Chuch had made his choice. I didn’t deserve his help, but I didn’t know what I’d do without him tonight.
Eventually, he advised me, “Your message is on its way to Montoya . . . and he’s going to lose his shit soon. Wish I could see it. Watching you on the news, shaming his guys . . . That’s gotta sting.”
“I can only hope.”
“So what’s the plan now?”
That was what I liked most about Chuch: Despite having all kinds of expertise and experience—stuff I couldn’t even conceive, most likely—he never flaunted it, or went overt alpha dog. He flowed right into any capacity in which he was needed.
“I call Escobar and tell him he has a traitor in his ranks.”
“And Dios have mercy on them all.”
“Maybe.” That couldn’t be my primary concern. “But it’s time to end this.”
When Montoya broke, when he sent me the e-mail asking for a meet, I had to be ready to move. I got out my phone and dialed.
Once Upon a Time in Mexico
Chuch made a few calls and we wound up at a trailer owned by a friend of his cousin Ramon. We drove past mounds of trash, rusted carburetors and engines up on blocks. Our hideyhole sat at the back of the RV park, where most residents didn’t have a phone and weren’t about to get involved in someone else’s business. The trailer across the way had an impressive array of license plates, and the one catty-cornered appeared to collect hubcaps.
There were few trees, but plenty of dry grass and broken pavement littered with glass and plastic wrappers. Chuch stopped in front of a single-wide, and after he parked, I slid out; in the distance, I heard cars on the highway, barking dogs, and a woman screaming at her kid. Squaring my shoulders, I surveyed the cracked vinyl underpinning as I came up to the front door. The gaps meant that scurrying sounds could be rats nesting underneath. As long as they hadn’t chewed their way in, I could handle it.
The trailer was to let, but since it smelled of old pot and cat piss, so far there hadn’t been any takers. Imagine my surprise. Inside, I encountered stained brown carpet, spilled coffee grounds, an upside-down trash can, and a dilapidated couch in blinding purple plaid. I couldn’t fathom why the prior tenants left it behind.
Chuch staked out bedroom territory. Since it stank even worse in there—of stale sweat, old cigarette smoke, and rancid massage oil—I didn’t dispute his claim. He carried in basic provisions, nothing fancy: bread, peanut butter, crackers, chips, and soda.
I sank down on the sofa and made a call. An unfamiliar male voice answered, one of Escobar’s thugs, most likely. “Tell your boss he’s got a leak,” I said in Spanish. “He might want to plug it.”
“¿Quién es?” Who’s this?
&
nbsp; “Corine Solomon. And if I’d relied on his men to keep my whereabouts a secret, I’d be dead now. Tell him to handle it.”
After I cut the connection, Chuch shook his head at me. “You like living dangerously, don’t you?”
“Not so much, but sometimes it’s necessary.”
Too often for comfort, I found.
We spent the next forty-eight hours sleeping, waiting, and playing cards. It was a great place to lie low; nobody bothered us. Butch, at least, enjoyed the respite from car chases, flying bullets, and unquiet spirits. As time wore on, Chuch called Eva periodically to make sure she was all right.
“Told you I’m fine,” I heard his wife say, ending the conversation. “I swear I’ll let you know if that changes. I’m not going through this alone.”
That night, I had a hard time falling asleep; it wasn’t the lumpy couch or the undesirable location. I’d crashed in worse places. No, it was worry and regret tying me up in knots. I hoped Jesse and Shannon were all right. From there, my thoughts wandered to Kel, and I was still thinking about him—fallen angel, Nephilim, man who held me in the dark—when I drifted off.
But I didn’t dream of him. I wish I had.
Instead I stood in Min’s shop on the boardwalk in John’s Pass Village. I’d spent hours here with Chance. With a twinge of pain, I recollected the photo studio where they’d taken our first picture together, the restaurant where we’d eaten, and afterward, we walked down to the ice-cream parlor to share dessert. We’d passed a jewelry store and, looking in the window, I’d wondered if he would ever buy me a ring.
I don’t want to be here, I thought. I don’t have the mental energy for a stroll down memory lane.
The quaint location attracted a lot of foot traffic from the beach, but Min had loyal local clientele as well. I knew this place like the back of my hand, its shelves stocked with wicker baskets, each containing a unique tincture or poultice. She also sold fresh dry herbs and oil extracts, candles and soaps, all handmade and carefully formulated to promote holistic healing. Even the tourists took home something, which I’d always thought meant she had laid a mild prosperity charm on the place. Not that Min would ever admit it.