Dark Passages 2: Pilar & Elias

by Reinke, Sara

  When he crept down the hall, coming to stand in the bedroom doorway, he could see Pilar still asleep in the bed, curled on her side to face the threshold. Her hair pooled around her head in a dark halo of curls; he could see the silhouetted outline of her body through the filmy drape of her dress. She looked innocent and beautiful—stunning, in fact, enough to leave him breathless just to gaze upon her.

  Elías went to the side of the bed and knelt, lowering his face to within inches of hers. Goddammit, Pilar, he thought, frustrated. Why didn’t you just come to me—trust me—instead? I could have helped you.

  “Did your brother kill Miguel Torres?” he asked her softly.

  Her eyes flew open wide as she woke, startled. At first, she jerked in surprise, her breath catching as if with fright, but then she realized who he was. The tension drained from her, and she offered a sleepy smile. “Hola, guapito,” she murmured, reaching out to brush her hand lightly against his mouth. “Are you okay?”

  “No,” he admitted, because it was the truth. He was anything but okay. The last of sleep’s groggy vestiges lifted from her when she realized this, and she sat up, pushing her hair out of her face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, softly, timidly.

  “Did Valien kill Miguel Torres?” he asked again, looking up at her.

  She flinched. It was all the response he needed. “How about Tomás Lovato?” he asked.

  Her eyes cut to the floor. “I…I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Yeah, you do. You helped him do it. I just got back from Boone’s Tavern. I saw you on the security tape from earlier tonight, saw you take Lovato into the bathroom.”

  He watched her tremble slightly, her breath coming in a short, strained gasp.

  “Who else helped Valien do it? Was it Téo Ruiz? Or maybe that big guy at the bike shop, Jackson?”

  “What?” Looking up, her expression stricken, she shook her head. “No.”

  “Then who?” he demanded. “I know why you’ve been dancing at Melaza—Valien needed you to get close to Pepe Cervantes. Torres and Lovato too. They killed your father—now he’s out for revenge.”

  He leaned toward her, brows lifted. “I know what happened to you on the night your father died,” he said softly. “They raped you, didn’t they? But Valien wouldn’t let you report it, wouldn’t let you identify them because it would mess up his plans, this big gang-land macho revenge plot he’s cooked up.”

  A shiver stole through her slight form, a tremor that worked its way steadily from her shoulders down through her torso and arms, snaking toward her hands. “That isn’t true.”

  He couldn’t be sure which part she was denying, that she’d been raped or that Valien had forced her to be silent about it.

  “Why didn’t you trust me?” he pleaded. “Madre de Dios, Pilar, all you had to do was give me their names. I could have gone after them for you—the right way. I could have protected you, had them put away, made sure they never hurt you or your family again.”

  He touched her face, pressing his hand to her cheek to draw her gaze. “For God’s sake, talk to me. Let me help you.”

  Tears welled in her eyes, spilling past her lashes, rolling in glistening streaks down her cheeks.

  “Talk to me,” he whispered again, but instead, she pressed her lips together in a thin, stubborn line and shook her head.

  Oh, God, Pilar, he thought in dismay, reaching behind him for the small of his back. Don’t do this to me. Please don’t.

  He carried a spare set of handcuffs in the glove box of his car and had clipped them to his belt before arriving at the crime scene. Slipping them loose now, he cocked one of the cuffs open; the distinctive snict! drew her attention.

  “Pilar Ramirez Cadana, you’re under arrest for the murders of Miguel Torres and Tomás Lovato,” he said softly, reaching for her hand.

  “What?” As he locked the handcuff onto her wrist, her eyes flew wide; the knife in his heart dug all the deeper.

  “You have the right to remain silent. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be appointed to you at no charge.”

  “What are you doing?” she asked.

  “My job. You haven’t left me any other choice. You won’t tell me the truth. And the only evidence I’ve got points to you.” He couldn’t look at her as he spoke. His voice had grown strained, nearly choked. “Do you…do you understand your rights as I’ve explained them to you?”

  “Oh, God, Elías,” she whispered. “Please don’t.”

  “Do you understand?” he asked again, little more than a hush. Do you understand how much it hurts me to do this? How it’s breaking my heart, because I love you. Oh, God, Pilar, do you understand how much I want to tell you that?

  With a miserable cry, she sprang forward, planting her hands against his shoulders and giving him a sudden, furious shove. Caught off guard, he crashed sideways into the doorframe and she scrambled to her feet before he could fully recover.

  “Pilar, no!” He grabbed vainly for her ankle as she shot past him, darting down the hall. Stumbling to his feet, he tried to give chase. “Pilar, stop!”

  It was too late. She was out the patio door. It was a nearly ten-foot drop from the deck to the beach below, but without hesitation, Pilar vaulted over the railing, dropping swiftly, gracefully from view. Startled by her speed and agility, he rushed outside after her, leaning over the top rail, fully expecting to find her lying in a heap beneath him, with at least a twisted ankle, if not a broken leg, to show for her escape attempt. Instead, to his surprise, she was gone, sprinting down the beach, her feet digging deep furrows in the sand as she raced away. He could see moonlight glinting off the free end of the cuffs as they swung wildly, loosely from her wrist.

  “Pilar!” he shouted. Cutting to the left, he ran down the patio steps, then tore off after her. Arms pumping wildly, his feet slapping and slipping for purchase in the billowy sand, he struggled to catch up to her. Again, he was too late. He hadn’t gone more than a hundred yards from his condo before losing sight of her altogether in the predawn shadows. She was far enough away from the water’s edge for the waves to have not yet washed her prints away, but her tracks blended in with those of the countless others before her who had treaded the beach.

  Elías stumbled to a halt and doubled over, hands on his thighs as he gasped for winded breath. Goddamn it, he thought. How in the hell had she moved so fast? How had she made that leap?

  Ahead of him, less than ten yards, he saw the wink of light on metal—the handcuffs. When he retrieved them, he could see that the cuff that had been cinched around Pilar’s wrist had been broken open—not just jimmied or forced, but snapped in two, the gleaming bracelet torn open like it had been made of flimsy plastic, not steel.

  Goddamn it, how did she do that? he thought, bewildered and stunned, looking around for any sign of her, without finding one. Not for the first time that night, he found himself wondering how in the hell he was going to explain at the office how his handcuffs had been torn apart—and having no earthly idea.

  ****

  Pilar had no idea how far down the beach she ran. Once she’d managed to elude Elías, she’d been able to get her bearings, catching sight of a familiar building or two, a tourist hotel with a karaoke lounge where she and Chita would sometimes go to hang out. By the time the sun came up, a rose-colored glow brightening the edge of the horizon behind her, she was clear down to the public waterfront, where Chita’s parents had their souvenir shop, La Vida Loco. Not to mention trembling with exhaustion.

  What have I done? she thought miserably. It was too early for the store to be open yet, and the heavy wooden shutters still sealed the doorway, but Pilar sank to the ground beneath its narrow overhanging eaves and waited. Drawing her knees to her chest, she huddled in the corner, shivering uncontrollably.

  Do you understand how much it hurts me to do this? She’d read El
ías’s mind, sensed his thoughts, his heartache and confliction. How it’s breaking my heart, because I love you.

  I love you too, Elías, she thought. Oh, God, and you’re so hurt…so angry with me now. What have I done?

  She’d thought of going home but had no desire to face the clusterfuck that surely awaited her there. Her mother would undoubtedly be frantic with worry, and Valien would be ready to strangle her. He probably had the entire corillo out trying to find her with orders to drag her back kicking and screaming if need be. More than any fear of reprisal, however, what kept Pilar from returning home was the realization that, without Enrique, no one there could truly understand or comfort her.

  I miss you, Daddy, she thought, tangling her hands in her hair, uttering another soft, mournful sob. I wish you were here…so badly, Daddy. I need you so much right now. I thought I was doing the right thing, but now everything’s gone wrong and I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I even can.

  “Pilar?”

  She looked up, hiccupping for breath, her hair clinging to her tear-dampened cheeks. She saw Chita standing on the boardwalk, her keys in her hand as she walked toward the store. At first she looked confused to see Pilar there on the stoop; then realizing her tears, she darted forward, eyes wide with alarm.

  “Pilar, qué es? Pasa algo?” she exclaimed, falling to her knees beside Pilar, arms outstretched. What is it? What’s wrong?

  With a heartbroken cry, Pilar fell into her embrace, clutching at her. She couldn’t catch her breath to speak and Chita pressed her hands to Pilar’s cheeks, smoothing back her hair, trying to hold her gaze. “Pilar, pasa algo? Háblame.” Talk to me. “Are you hurt? Did someone hurt you?” When Pilar shook her head, Chita tugged at her. “Come on. Let’s get you inside.”

  Pilar let Chita lead her in stumbling tow to her feet, then into the store. “What happened to your dress?” Chita asked, clasping her by the hand and drawing her toward the storeroom in the back. Her eyes widened. “Is that blood?”

  “It’s not mine,” Pilar whispered.

  “Whose is it, then?” Chita asked, her eyes growing even rounder.

  Pilar didn’t answer. Instead, she sank against a folding chair in the back room while Chita hurried back into the store. Pilar heard the clatter of hangers being forcibly yanked off a rack; then Chita returned, carrying an T-shirt and yoga pants wadded in her arms.

  “Here,” she said. “Put these on. Give me your dress.”

  “It’s not my blood,” Pilar said again numbly, tugging at the shoulder straps, remembering what it had felt like to have Elías’s hands there, easing the dress from her body—the warmth of his hands, the delicious friction of his touch. She began to cry again.

  Chita had ducked into the bathroom and came back with a hand towel she’d rinsed in warm water. Squatting down in front of Pilar, she began dabbing gently at her face. “Tell me what’s wrong,” she pleaded. “You’re scaring me, Pilar.”

  Pilar closed her eyes. “I…I’ve done something horrible,” she breathed. Then, with a deep, steadying sigh, she opened her eyes again, looked evenly at her friend. “I killed Miguel Torres.”

  Chita shrank back, eyes wide. “What?”

  “And last night, after I left the festín, I killed Tomás Lovato too.”

  All the color had drained from Chita’s face. “Pilar,” she whispered. “Oh…oh my God.”

  “I know what you told me, what you said about letting go, but I…I couldn’t,” Pilar said. “I couldn’t stop myself, Chita, not until last night, not until I…I almost hurt someone else…someone I care about…someone I love.”

  “What are you talking about?” Chita asked, stricken.

  Pilar told her everything. Staring down at the ground, arms wrapped fiercely around herself, she spared her friend no detail—not about Miguel’s death or Tomás’s, or about Elías either, the feelings that had been growing inside of her for him, the passion and attraction that had been building from the moment she’d first met him.

  “He’s human,” Chita exclaimed. “You slept with him? You told him what you’ve done? Are you crazy?” She scrambled to her feet. “He’s a cop, for Christ’s sake! How long do you think until he figures out the truth—until he finds out what you are? What we all are?”

  “I’m sorry,” Pilar cried, choked up again. The ramifications of Elías learning the truth about the Nahual hadn’t even occurred to her yet. And now that she had considered it, she also realized what would happen—not just to her, but to Elías too—once Valien and the others found out about him.

  “Humans aren’t supposed to know about us unless they’re feeders,” Chita said.

  “I know that!” Pilar caught her by the hand. “Please don’t say anything. Not to Valien or Téo, not to your father.” When Chita glanced away, uncertain and apprehensive, Pilar begged her. “Please, Chita. They’ll hurt him.” Softly, aghast, she added, “They’ll strip his mind, Chita—you know that.”

  She’d only ever seen this once, a distant memory from her childhood in which her father had been forced to wipe clean the conscious awareness of a non-feeder human who had inadvertently discovered who and what Los Guerreros really were. He and the corillo elders had combined their telepathy into a single, cohesive force, and with it, had eradicated not only the human’s awareness of the Nahual, but of everything else too. They’d erased his mind completely, leaving him in a fugue state, barely conscious. To the best of Pilar’s knowledge, he’d lived out the rest of his days as little more than a vegetable. It’s the only way, Enrique had told her, to keep the corillo safe…the only way to be sure.

  Chita pulled her hand away, then folded her arms crossly. “He really means that much to you?”

  “He means everything to me,” Pilar whispered mournfully. With this heartbroken realization came another, even more powerful. And I don’t want to lose him. “You told me the other day that you couldn’t wait to find your pareja. What if…what if I have, Chita?”

  Because if a pareja was the one person she wanted more than anyone—who she knew in her heart she was meant to be with—then she no longer had any question or doubt in her mind.

  It’s Elías.

  “A human can’t be your pareja,” Chita said, brows narrowing.

  “But what if he is?” Pilar asked softly.

  Do you understand how much it hurts me to do this? Elías had thought as he tried to arrest her. His mind had been vulnerably open, his thoughts—and the devastating pain behind them—apparent to her. How it’s breaking my heart, because I love you too. Oh, God, Pilar, do you understand how much I want to tell you that?

  Chita relented, rolling her eyes. “Okay. All right. I won’t say anything.” Sternly, swiftly, she added, “For now. But we need to figure out what we’re going to do. And how we’re going to do it. Because unless we can convince that chota boyfriend of yours to back off, we’re all going to be screwed. You know his phone number?”

  Pilar shook her head. “But I know where he lives. I could find it again, anyway…I think. It’s a condo on the beach, a few blocks down from the Tropical Oasis.”

  Chita glanced over her shoulder toward the storeroom door. “Look, I need to open the store—otherwise I’m going to be the one getting killed. We’ll figure out something—in the meantime, just stay put, okay?”

  Pilar nodded, shivering again. “What about my dress?” she asked, cradling the ruined garment in her lap. There was blood on it; she knew she couldn’t keep it. “I…I should get rid of it.”

  “Give it to me,” Chita said, snatching it up, wadding it between her hands. “I’ll take care of everything. Prometo.” I promise.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Where’s your sister?” Elías called to Valien as he strode briskly from his car toward the open bay door at Ramirez Moto.

  Just inside the doorway, Valien looked up from what appeared to be a stripped-down bike, his brow raised. He was seated beside it, his blue jeans grease-stained, his fingers smudged wit
h oil. Cradling a wrench in one hand, he drew the side of the other against his brow, wiping away sweat. “Qué pasa?”

  “I said”—Elías grabbed the wrench from him and threw it across the room, sending it clattering against the far cinderblock wall—“where is your sister?”

  Seeming unbothered, if not somewhat curious by his rage, Valien shrugged. “Don’t know. Haven’t seen her since last night.” Arching one eyebrow, he added, “When she apparently took off with you. Or so I’ve been told.”

  “You ever visit a place called Boone’s Tavern?”

  Valien shook his head. “Never heard of it.”

  “Yeah. I bet.”

  Regarding him for a long, cool moment, Valien finally rose to his feet. “You got a problem with me, chota?”

  “Yeah, maybe I do,” Elías replied evenly. “Considering you’re pretty much pimping your sister out to Pepe Cervantes and his crew.”

  Valien’s eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “You know goddamn good and well.” Grabbing Valien by the front of his T-shirt with both fists, Elías shoved him backward into the wall. “I’m not going to let Pilar go down for what you’ve done, pendejo. I don’t know how you did it, but I know you did, and I’m not going to rest—I’m not going to stop—until I prove it. You got that?”

  At the impact as he’d hit the wall, Valien had slapped a tool box on a nearby table, knocking it to the floor and sending wrenches, screwdrivers, pliers and lug nuts scattering noisily. The flurry of sudden movement had attracted Jackson Jones’s attention from the other side of the garage. At the present, he and Valien were the only two working at the shop, by Elías’s perfunctory assessment. When the large black man strode across the room, fists balled, brows furrowed, Elías turned Valien loose with one hand and reached beneath the lapel of his jacket, drawing his nine-millimeter pistol from a hidden shoulder holster.