by Reinke, Sara
“You back on off me, acho,” Elías snapped, leveling the muzzle at Jackson’s face, bringing him to an abrupt halt. “Right the fuck now or I’ll—”
Detective Velasco. Stop.
Valien’s voice was soft and strangely soothing. Elías swung his gaze back around and as their eyes first met, then locked, he felt a peculiar sort of warmth come over him, as if he’d just been enveloped in a down-filled comforter freshly pulled from a clothes dryer. He blinked at Valien, feeling sleepy and dazed, and had the odd sensation that he’d heard Valien not with his ears, but with his mind somehow.
“Stop,” Valien said again, aloud this time, still in that calm, gentle tone. “Put down the gun.”
“Alright,” Elías murmured, his fingers slackening around the pistol grip. The nine-millimeter tumbled from his hand and hit the floor. He had no conscious awareness of doing this deliberately, yet felt no alarm at the idea that his body had just moved of its own accord—or rather, of Valien’s accord—like he was little more than a marionette, commanded by a puppeteer’s strings. Whatever was happening felt pleasant, not frightening, and when his fingers likewise loosened from Valien’s collar through no direct intention of his own, he watched with a dazed, detached sort of fascination.
This isn’t what I want to do, he thought, because he’d meant to beat the shit out of Valien, pummel him a confession out of him come hell or high water. This isn’t what I want, he thought, but again, he felt no fear or anxiety as Valien stepped toward him, then reached out, spreading his fingers in his hair.
At this light touch, Elías collapsed, as if all the strength had abruptly sapped from his knees. With a groan, he crumpled forward, and Valien caught him against his chest, supporting his limp, dead weight with surprising and unexpected ease. “It’s all right,” Valien murmured. “Show me what you know.”
Elías had no idea what he meant, but for a moment, at least, it felt like his mind winked out right along with his body. His eyes rolled back, his eyelids fluttering closed. He plunged into deep, dreamless sleep—then out again with equal abruptness. When he opened his eyes, he found himself standing, Valien in front of him, his hand slipping lightly away from his face.
“You’re exhausted, Detective,” Valien told him gently. Leaning over, he picked up the fallen pistol and tucked it back into Elías’s shoulder holster. He drew Elías’s lapel back to cover it, then patted his chest. “Go home now and rest.”
Elías nodded once. “All right,” he said again. He turned in a clumsy semicircle, then shuffled back toward his car. He was only dimly aware of seeing Valien and Jackson standing side by side in the garage bay door, watching as he sat down hard behind the wheel of the Charger. He reached for the keys, fired up the ignition, then didn’t remember a damn thing until he pulled into the driveway of his condominium. Only then did the heavy, impenetrable haze that had seemed to cloud his mind begin to dissipate.
“What the hell?” Elías whispered. Pressing his hand to his brow, he winced, feeling a dull, throbbing pain in his head. What just happened to me? What am I doing back home?
You’re exhausted, Detective, he remembered Valien saying. After that, everything was pretty much a blur.
What did he do? Elías closed the car door behind him and stumbled up the stairs to his deck. Struggling to recall more, he unlocked the patio door, pushed it open and walked inside. That son of a bitch…did he hypnotize me or something?
He caught a blur of motion out of his peripheral vision, then someone attacked him, a large hand clamping beneath the shelf of his chin. Elías uttered a breathless cry as he was slammed backward into the living room wall. He heard the drywall behind him crunch with the impact; his teeth fell together hard enough against his tongue to draw blood. Gagging for breath, he found himself face-to-face with a member of Los Pandilleros—unmistakable with part of his crucified Christ tattoo visible past the neckline of his tank shirt. The guy was strong, impossibly so. The hand crushing his windpipe felt like it had the weight of at least ten full-grown men behind it, not one, and Elías pawed helplessly, uselessly at his throat. Behind him stood three other similarly dressed gang members, all of them watching Elías’s sudden, desperate struggle to breathe with thinly veiled interest.
“Let him go,” he heard someone say, a low and timbral voice. A man walked out of the shadows down the corridor from Elías’s bedroom, emerging into view in the living room—Pepe Cervantes, the corner of his thin, wide mouth hooked in a sadistic sort of smile.
“Let him go,” he said again with a pointed nod, and immediately the hand fell away from Elías’s neck.
Elías crumpled to the floor, doubled over and dragging in loud, whooping mouthfuls of air. Immediately, he reached beneath the flap of his coat for his pistol. He jerked it loose of the holster and snapped the safety off. As he staggered to his feet, backpedaling into the corner, he clasped the nine-millimeter between his hands and shoved the business end emphatically, wildly at each of his intruders in turn.
“Get…out of my house,” he said between gasps. “All of you. Right the fuck now.”
What are you going to do, Elías? Shoot me?
He didn’t know which had stunned him more, that Pepe had known him by name or that—equally impossible—he’d spoken inside Elías’s head, just as Valien had done. In that moment, as Pepe spoke, Elías felt hypnotized all over again, just as he had in the garage. The barrel of the pistol wavered between his hands, then drooped toward the floor, the lethal bead he’d only just drawn on Pepe’s forehead abruptly faltering.
Shoot every single one of us? Pepe asked, still smiling at him, and it wasn’t Elías’s imagination—he was talking inside his mind.
As with Valien, Elías felt his fingers relax against his will—No!—and the pistol fell from his hand, hitting the floor.
No! he thought again, stricken. He struggled to move; with all his might, he strained but remained rooted in place, helpless and immobilized. What’s wrong with me? What’s happening? What the hell is he doing?
Elías felt terrified, nearly panic-stricken as Pepe walked slowly toward him, predatory, like a panther, because unlike with Valien, there was no sense of serenity, no peacefulness to be found. There was only paralysis, a helpless and humiliating sort of vulnerability, and to judge by the widening hook of Pepe’s smile, he was enjoying every last minute of it.
“Get down on your knees,” Pepe said, and Elías obeyed, completely powerless to stop himself. His legs folded beneath him, his knees hitting hard against the ground.
No, he thought, shouting this in his mind even though his mouth remained closed, his voice silent. He thought of Enrique Ramirez, how they’d found him faceup on the ground, several bullets through his back and a final—lethal—shot through the back of his skull, execution-style. No, no, goddamn you! No!
Take off your shirt, Pepe murmured, walking behind Elías, coming to stand so closely behind him, Elías felt the sudden press of his legs against his shoulders.
Again, moving trance-like and unresisting, Elías obeyed, shrugging his jacket off and unbuttoning the front of his shirt, letting it fall to the floor, leaving his torso bare and exposed. You son of a bitch, he cried in his mind, struggling to break Pepe’s paralyzing, invisible hold on him. You son of a bitch, what are you doing to me?
He felt Pepe seize hold of his hair, wrenching his head back, forcing him to look up. Only then did he realize that Pepe’s face had changed.
Oh, God!
Pepe’s pupils seemed to have swelled out, turning his eyes dark as they swallowed all the visible portions of his irises and corneas. At the same time, his upper lip wrinkled back in a snarl to reveal hideous fangs, sharp-pointed and wickedly hooked, descending from the sides of his upper gumline.
Elías tried to scream, but he couldn’t, not even as Pepe jerked his hair again, forcing him back, his shoulders nearly to the ground, his spine arched sharply. Pepe moved with him, keeping his hand closed in Elías’s hair as he first crouched down, the
n leaned across, folding himself over Elías’s body.
Ramirez’s bitch is right, chota, he said inside Elías’s mind, drawing the tip of his tongue against Elías’s left nipple, trailing against his skin, obscenely intimate. Your blood smells sweet like los dulces—like candy.
With a sudden, wet pop, Pepe’s fangs elongated enough to force his mouth open, wrenching his bottom jaw gruesomely loose of its hinges.
Let’s see if you taste as good as you smell, he purred, lunging forward.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
“Téo, stop it!”
Chita’s imperative cry, followed within seconds by the loud crash of the door flying wide, plowing into a tower of boxes, startled Pilar abruptly awake.
After Chita had returned to the front of the store, Pilar had moved to a small futon on the far side of the storeroom. Several large boxes of merchandise had been stacked in front of it, hiding it from immediate view of the doorway, and several more had been piled on top. Setting these aside, she’d made enough room to lie down on her side, drawing her knees toward her chest. She hadn’t meant to fall asleep, but she’d felt so confused, exhausted and heartbroken that the moment her eyelids fluttered closed, she had been out like a light.
Sucking in a frightened gasp now, she started to sit up but froze when, over the top of the boxes in front of her, she saw Chita and her brother march through the storeroom doorway.
“Will you get out of here?” Chita exclaimed, locking her hands around Téo’s arm and trying to forcibly haul him out. He had his back to Pilar, and when Chita glanced frantically past him, she caught sight of her friend, shooting Pilar a look that spoke volumes. Get down! Be quiet!
Pilar flattened herself against the futon again, lying on her belly with her eyes wide, breath hitched to a standstill.
“Where is she, Chita?” Téo demanded, shrugging himself loose of her grasp. “Nobody’s seen her since the festín last night when I saw her get in the car with that punk-ass chota, and now Valien says he’s sniffing around the garage again, asking about her.”
“How should I know? I haven’t seen her either,” Chita snapped. “And why would a cop be looking for Pilar?”
“That’s what I want to know too,” Téo fumed, hands balled into fists. “Valien wouldn’t tell me. But she sure as hell will when I find her.”
He swung around, cutting his eyes about the entire room, and Pilar stiffened on the futon, so damn certain she was about to be caught, she trembled.
“If she comes in the store, I want you to text me.” Téo stalked toward the door again, striding briskly into the hall again. “Right away, Chita. En serio.” I mean it.
Chita and Pilar exchanged glances of abject relief; then she hurried after her brother. Whatever else was said between them was muffled by the door as Chita closed it behind her.
Pilar sat up on the couch after a long, uncertain moment. Elías is looking for me, she thought. But why? she wondered. Did he want to try to confront her again? Arrest her?
After a few minutes, the storeroom door opened again, and Pilar shrank back against the futon. She held her breath behind gritted teeth, not releasing it until she head Chita call out, “It’s me.”
Pilar raised her head, peeked out over the boxes. “Is Téo gone?”
“Yeah.” Chita rolled her eyes. “Mangansón.” Dumbass. “I thought he’d never leave.” Weaving her way around the boxes, she came to sit beside Pilar. “Look, that was too close. We need to figure out what we’re going to do.”
“Well, I can’t go home,” Pilar said.
Chita nodded. “Or the garage either. Téo said your galán—your boy, Elías—came by a little while ago. Valien said he was asking about you. Sounds like you’re in pretty deep shit.”
“Maybe I could just hang out here for a while,” Pilar said.
“No way. My folks will be in after lunch,” Chita said. “We’re doing inventory, remember? Why do you think it’s such a mess back here?” After a moment she frowned, thoughtful, her brows raised. “I know. We’ll get you a room at a motel. You’ve got money from working at Melaza, right?”
“Yeah, at home,” Pilar said drily. “I didn’t even grab my purse last night, Chita.”
“Then I’ll pay for it,” Chita said. “Just for a day or two, until we can get this sorted out. I’ve got some cash stashed away in my locker at the club. Let’s run over there now and I’ll get it.”
“You can’t leave the store,” Pilar said.
Chita rolled her eyes again. “Eres bromeando?” Are you kidding? “Téo’s the only person who’s walked in all day. There’s a storm coming in. The beach is empty.” She rose to her feet, motioning for Pilar to follow. “Come on. I want to beat the rain.”
****
Pilar frowned as Chita pulled into the parking lot at Melaza. “Closed?” she asked as they drove slowly past the front entrance, where a large sign hung in the door. “Why are they closed?”
Chita glanced at the digital clock on her car’s center console. “It’s still early.”
“It’s a quarter till,” Pilar said. “They open in fifteen minutes.”
“So maybe everyone’s running late. I don’t know.” As she pulled into a parking slot, Chita pointed. “Look, there are a couple of cars. Someone’s here.” Turning off the Toyota, she pocketed the keys and moved to open her door.
“Wait.” Pilar caught her by the arm. “Do you feel that?”
Chita frowned. “What?”
Glancing around uneasily, Pilar shivered. “There’s a Nahual nearby. I can sense it.”
“You’re sensing me,” Chita said, rolling her eyes, reaching for her door handle again.
“It’s not that.”
“Then it’s one of Pepe’s hombres in for an early lap dance or something. How should I know? Look, it’s fine. I’ll be right back.”
Still feeling uncertain, Pilar watched as Chita got out of the car, then walked toward the employee entrance. After she disappeared inside, Pilar counted as the minutes ticked by on the clock, growing more and more anxious the longer she sat there, primarily because she couldn’t shake the uncanny notion that a Nahual was close at hand.
It’s only Chita, she told herself, turning on the radio to try to distract herself. When nothing happened, she remembered that Chita had taken the keys, and with a huff and a frown, tried to settle back in her seat.
The sky overhead was gunmetal gray and heavy with clouds, the air thick and humid. After a while without the air-conditioning on, the inside of the car began to feel stifling and hot. Her brow glistening with tiny beads of perspiration, Pilar rolled down her window. A steady breeze had kicked up with the encroaching rain, and she closed her eyes, relishing the cool feel of it against her skin.
Even so, she couldn’t shake that uncomfortable, prickling sensation, and squirming, she tapped her fingernails restlessly against the window frame. Maybe Pepe’s inside, she thought. Or some of his corillo. They were in early the other day too.
She glanced in the side mirror in front of her, and her frown deepened as she caught sight of one of the cars parked in the otherwise vacant lot. That looks like Elías’s, she thought, pivoting in her seat to peer at the charcoal Dodge Charger behind her.
Ay, mierda, she thought with a sudden, sickened knot twisting her gut. Oh, shit. Téo said he’d shown up at the garage asking Valien about me. Would he have come here too?
Reaching for the handle, she opened the car door and stepped out. He wouldn’t confront Pepe, she told herself, walking barefoot across the warm concrete, approaching the car. He’s not stupid. He wouldn’t do anything that dangerous.
But there was no mistaking Elías’s scent, which became apparent as she drew within a few feet of the car. Cupping her hands to her face to better peer through the tinted window, she could see the jacket she’d taken from him the night before lying in a heap in the backseat. Hesitantly, she tried the door handle, expecting it to be locked; to her surprise, it lifted easily in her hand, the doo
r swinging open.
As soon as she leaned into the cab, she recoiled again, eyes flying wide. Now she could smell something else—someone else—besides Elías, trapped within the narrow confines of the car.
Pepe, she realized, her eyes flying wide. Oh, my God, what was he doing in Elías’s car?
She heard a sound from the direction of the nightclub building and crouched down in the seat, easing the driver’s side door shut beside her. Peeking cautiously through the top of the steering wheel, she saw Chita walk out the back door and toward her Toyota. Heaving a sigh of relief, Pilar sat up. She was about to slap the Charger’s horn to get her attention, but the employee entrance swung open again—and this time Pepe strode boldly out.
Pilar froze, ducking again, pressing herself onto her stomach, lying sideways against the front seats. She could hear voices outside the car—Chita’s and Pepe’s—but couldn’t understand what they were saying. After a long moment during which everything fell and remained silent, she took a risk and lifted her head, looking out past the dashboard.
The parking lot was empty. Chita and Pepe were gone. Chita’s car remained where she’d left it, but of Pilar’s friend, there was no sign.
“Mierda,” Pilar whispered. Had Chita realized she wasn’t in the Toyota and gone to look for her? She’d never seen Elías’s car before and wouldn’t have recognized it in the lot. Or had Pepe summoned her back inside for some reason?
Shit, Pilar thought. She couldn’t be sure if Chita was in trouble or not, but she felt damn certain that Elías was. Why else would Pepe have been in his car?
Although he’d come into Melaza on plenty of occasions, he’d always done so incognito; to her knowledge, he’d never identified himself as a police officer to anyone except for her. She reached for the glove compartment and popped it open, trying to see if Pepe had been rummaging through the contents. Turning in her seat, she leaned over the console and checked the backseat for any signs of the same. To her surprise, when she moved Elías’s jacket out of the way from the seat bench, the odor of blood struck her headlong and strong, having soaked into the upholstery just beneath the folds of the coat.