River Walker

by Cate Culpepper

  I guess that is all I wanted to say.

  My Goddess, how would I cope if I couldn’t rest my weary head in Your lap every night, for these few minutes of reflection and solace? How does Grady manage, with No One to inspire or comfort her? Send an angel to her tonight, to lay a gentle hand on her hair and grant her restful sleep. Let Grady accept from Your emissary the sweet nurturing I can never offer her myself.

  Good night, mi Diosa, I hope You sleep well. With love from Your Elena.

  Chapter Ten

  Grady kicked through another long, laborious step, her knees aching fiercely. For some reason she was wearing her damn boots, and they sank deep into the slimy mire of the riverbed every time she tried to lunge forward. The ice-cold water of the Grande came up to her breasts, and her body was locked in a vise of spasmodic shivering.

  She had enough information now to know she was dreaming. This knowledge did nothing to ease her raging fear. This was little-kid panic, the dry-mouthed terror she hadn’t experienced since the nightmares of early childhood. And here again was the most common theme of those nightmares—trying to run away from an unimaginable horror.

  Grady pushed mightily against the heavy flow of the river, the water itself somehow denser and more viscous than any water should be. On either side, the riverbanks were thickly snarled with brambles, and the moon overhead was a red gash in a starless sky.

  She would not look back again. Knowing how close it was getting would only paralyze her, and she had to devote all her exhausted energies to getting away. In the vicious logic of dreams, no sooner had she resolved not to look back than she cast a frightened glance over her shoulder.

  Llorona was a serpent—a sinuous, fluid creature as big around as a tree trunk and endlessly long, gliding effortlessly on top of the thick water. Her black metallic scales glittered balefully in the moonlight as she twisted and slithered closer to Grady, and her red mouth yawned open to reveal row upon row of dagger-like fangs. She was close enough now that Grady could make out the features of her human face, and the horror of it almost drove her under, choking.

  It was the face painted on the grave in the Old Mesilla Cemetery brought to unholy life. No vision of a mother’s features painted by a grieving daughter, this visage was starkly evil and deeply greedy, the forked tongue darting over heavy lips as she slithered closer. Llorona’s hair was a wild streaming blackness behind her, and her wide, dead eyes were pinned on Grady. The hissing that issued from the immense snake was the witch’s wail made reptilian, a sibilant, wet sound that filled Grady with sick despair.

  She threw herself against the heavy current of the river, fighting for another few inches of purchase, and then she heard the running horse. She didn’t see it—the red moon revealed nothing but the wild, overgrown riverbank and the churning snake behind her—but the clapping sound of cantering hooves reached her clearly. The horse seemed to be running alongside her, and Grady forced her head up. She half expected to see Elena flying along the bank on her pack horse, though that elderly animal could never produce the charging tympani that still thundered around her. For just a moment, in the middle of the black sky, Grady did see eyes—Elena’s eyes, kind and sure and unafraid, looking down on her fondly. Then she was gone, and a small island appeared in the middle of the dark river, a bonfire blazing in its center. Grady staggered desperately toward it and managed to clamber up its warm, sandy bank, freeing herself from the sucking waters with great effort.

  The witch-snake was closer and still coming, moving impossibly fast but somehow not reaching her, its hissing human face frozen in a snarling rictus of hatred and rage.

  Grady crawled toward the bonfire and she was instantly warm and dry, embraced by the gold light of the flames. She saw a small bowl resting by the fire, its smooth wood surface etched with intricate carved designs. The bowl was filled to the brim with a steaming, amber liquid.

  The serpent’s hiss rose to an unbearable shriek as Grady snatched up the bowl, and its sinuous length whip-sawed over the river toward the island. Following her instincts and still shaking with terror, Grady drank the tea down in three large swallows. That’s all the bowl held, nothing more powerful or magical than Elena’s mild herbal tea, but it filled Grady with a soothing warmth and a calm assurance that stilled her shivering.

  She looked back over the black river just as the enormous snake began to dwindle in the current, shrinking in on itself, its human features growing diffuse, then melting away into the water. Its last cheated scream echoed into silence.

  The Rio Grande of her dreamscape changed, too, the water lapping gently and naturally against the island, the riverbanks losing their tangled brambles to frame again the familiar, sedate stream wending its way through the Mesilla Valley.

  She stretched out on the warm sand and rested her head on her folded arms. In the long, gradual transition from the small island to the comfort of the cotton sheets on her bed, Grady thought of Elena. The heart-pounding fear inspired by the witch-snake had faded and gone, and what lingered in her mind was that brief glimpse of Elena’s smiling, loving eyes.

  Chapter Eleven

  Three days later, Grady’s small truck trundled down a wide dirt road, one of dozens that branched off the main arterial out of Mesilla. Grady let down her window and enjoyed the sunshine warming her elbow, and the pleasant company of the woman beside her.

  Elena was humming tunelessly as she gazed out the dusty windshield, a smile playing over her full lips.

  They were both smiling, which was odd, as this wasn’t a particularly light occasion. They were on their way to interview a grieving widow. Only two of the wives contacted by San Albino’s pastor had been willing to meet with Grady’s students. Cesar, Sylvia, and Janice were taking one of those interviews. Grady had asked Elena to join her to conduct the other. Her spirits had lifted the moment Elena stepped into her cab.

  “What made you ask me to come along today?” Elena asked finally. “I’m grateful, but I’m curious.”

  “Well.” Grady peered up the road through her sunglasses, looking for the turn-off. “You recognized the name of this family I want to talk to, and you’re in their good graces. So that gave you cool points. And I doubt I could find the damn place without you. We’re on the right road?”

  “Yes, straight ahead. It’s several miles.” Elena leaned her shoulder against the backrest and faced Grady. “This woman we’re seeing knew my grandmother pretty well. I remember her visiting our shop when I was young.”

  “Your grandmother had lots of friends.”

  “She did. She was a very warm person.” Sadness touched Elena’s voice. “I still miss her.”

  “And your dad, Elena?” The question was out before Grady considered the consequences, and she braced herself.

  “Ah, a nice guy.” Elena smiled. “He’s remarried and lives in El Paso now. He left my mother when I was about ten. He’s a plumber. Still sends me money pretty regularly. The two of us have dinner a few times a year.”

  “Oh.”

  Elena’s eyebrow rose. “What? Can’t I have one normal family member? Are you disappointed?”

  “I was terrified. I thought you were going to tell me he was a witchdoctor or a king vampire. Something like that.”

  “A king vampire?” Elena looked stern, but her body shook with suppressed laughter. “Grady, I think you are just too fanciful for me. You need to go to church more.”

  Grady grinned at her. The sun slanted through the truck’s side window and illuminated Elena’s face, the curve of her throat. “I hope you understand, Elena. Every time I learn about one of your relatives, I have to suspend about twenty years of disbelief. You can’t blame me for being a little anxious when your family tree comes up.”

  “No, I don’t blame you at all.” Elena patted Grady’s knee. “I can’t imagine what I’d do if someone I’d known for three weeks asked me to upend my entire belief system.” Her hand lingered on Grady’s knee. “May I ask you about something, Grady? It might be ver
y personal.”

  “Okay.” Grady pretended fascination with the dirt road.

  “The other night, when you slept on my floor. You called a name in your sleep—Leigh.”

  “Oh.” Grady was a little surprised. To her knowledge, she never talked in her sleep.

  “You said that name so quietly, a couple of times. Like you were asking for someone.”

  “Leigh was my partner.” Grady glanced at her ringless finger on the steering wheel. “We were together a few years. We broke up about six months ago, just before I moved down here.”

  “Ah. And this breakup is still very painful for you?”

  “It was a long time coming. And probably overdue.” She and Leigh had tried hard to keep what they had, but they’d been thrown a blowtorch few couples survived. “I’ve accepted it’s best for both of us.”

  “Are you still in touch with him?”

  “Leigh’s a woman. And no, we’re not in touch.” Grady smiled at Elena to break the moment. “I’d think your secret curandera superpowers would include some gaydar, Elena.”

  She laughed. “My gaydar is just fine. But with some secrets, it’s best to wait for people to tell you. Remember, I grew up in Mesilla. You don’t see a lot of rainbow flags in my neighborhood.”

  “No, I guess you don’t. You’re out to your mother, though?”

  “Imagine what a pleasant conversation that was.” Elena sighed, but with more affection than bitterness. “My mother knows. A few of my friends. Well, my very few friends.”

  “Not much time for a social life?”

  “No. Between healing sessions, gathering herbs, paying the bills, scrubbing gravestones, and saving Mesilla from the murderous rampage of this dead witch I may have mentioned…”

  “You don’t have much time,” Grady finished.

  “Not even for a hot quickie.”

  Grady stared at Elena, at the sophisticated tilt of her head, and laughter burst from her. “Oh, Elena. I’m sorry. You just can’t pull that off.”

  “I know.” Elena laughed and pressed her hands to her cheeks, which were filling with color. “I can never do sexual humor without sounding like a prostitute! And also, I just let you drive past our turn-off.”

  “Whoops.” Grady braked smoothly, grateful for the deserted expanse of dirt road. She cranked the truck around. “No gaydar,” she griped. “Gets me lost, can’t pull off sexual humor…”

  “Stop bitching, gringa. I give excellent neck rubs.”

  “Damn, yes, you do.” Grady turned right onto a smaller road and followed its twisting curves through thickening rows of pecan trees. The path terminated in front of a pueblo-style adobe house, solid and round-edged, all soft lines and earth tones. A lot this size would cost a small fortune anywhere near Portland.

  Grady stepped out of the truck and followed Elena up the small gravel walk to the entrance, a tiled patio with red chile ristras strung on either side of the door. Elena knocked lightly.

  “So, this is Antonia Herrera.” Grady dug a small notebook out of her back pocket to check Janice’s questions and other pertinent notes. “She has two adult daughters, both married, who live in town. And one grandson, who lives with her.”

  “Yes, Manny should be in high school by now. I remember him. He’s a nice kid.” The door swung open, and Elena looked up. “Oops. I mean, a nice young man. Hello, Manny.”

  The nice young man was taller than both of them, and he didn’t bother to remove the iPod buds from his ears. He kept the door close to his shoulder and stared at them.

  “It’s good to see you again,” Elena said. “This is my friend, Grady Wrenn. Your abuela is expecting us.”

  The kid said nothing. Something in his slouched posture registered with Grady, and with an unpleasant start, she recognized him. She had last seen Manny Herrera three weeks ago, standing with two other men outside Elena’s shop, watching her with the same hostility she saw in his eyes now.

  Manny bumped the door open with his shoulder, turned, and disappeared into the interior of the house. They heard him call his grandmother, a barking command.

  “I do remember him as a nice kid.” Elena lowered her voice. “I hope he’s not turning out to be more like his grandfather than his grandmother.”

  “Elena, I think Manny is one of the men I saw outside your shop, after your window was shot out.”

  “Ay, no. I’m sorry to hear this.” Elena shook her head. “Maybe we should scratch the part about my being in this family’s good graces.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Bienvenida, Elenita. Please, come in.” The voice was soft and Grady couldn’t see the speaker. She followed Elena into the shadowed entry and closed the door behind them.

  They stepped down into the kind of living room that made Grady wish she wore a hat so she could take it off. High-ceilinged and white-walled with a simple decor, mostly religious icons, the large room was rigorously clean. A portrait of the Virgin, a rather good one, was mounted over the kiva fireplace. The furniture was as tidy and fragile as the lady of the house.

  Antonia Herrera was a lady, in spite of her stooped shoulders and the tremor in her veined hands. Grady placed her somewhere in her seventies. Her sparse hair was pinned into a neat bun, and she wore a summer dress suitable for receiving company. Mrs. Herrera seated them around a low table and served coffee mellowed with cinnamon while she and Elena exchanged pleasantries. Then the older woman sat back in her armchair, and real warmth filtered through her polite tone.

  “You look more like your grandmother every time I see you, Elenita. Consuelo would be very proud to see what a beautiful young lady you’ve become.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Herrera.” Elena’s formality didn’t disguise her genuine pleasure in the compliment. “I was just telling Grady that you knew my abuela.”

  “And your mother? How is Inez?”

  Elena shrugged and sipped her coffee. “My mother is just as she has been for many years. Only more so, these days.”

  Grady nestled comfortably in her chair, content to let Elena ease their way into this dignified woman’s house. She watched a quick shift of emotions pass over Elena’s features when her mother was mentioned. She wasn’t being flip.

  “We should have visited you when your husband died,” Elena said quietly. “I regret to this day that we didn’t have the courage.”

  “Elena, coming here would have been a foolish risk.” The woman spoke like a mother accustomed to gently chiding her daughters. “Rumors about the River Walker were already starting, even then. You had to protect your madre, I knew that.” She smiled at Grady uncertainly. “Should I call you Dr. Wrenn?”

  “Grady, please.”

  “Grady, then. Has Elena told you about my husband?”

  Grady wasn’t sure how to answer that. Elena had implied some pretty terrible things about this widow’s husband. “Well, I know that he passed away four months ago. I’m very sorry for your loss, Mrs. Herrera.”

  “Thank you.” She folded her hands in her lap and seemed to wait for questions.

  “May I?” Grady gestured to the coffeepot, and her hostess nodded. She refilled all of their cups, her movements slow and careful. “Ma’am, it’s important to both Elena and me that we be respectful of your privacy. So if we ask anything that’s too painful or just too private, please say so. Okay?”

  “Yes, sure.” Mrs. Herrera nudged Elena’s elbow. “She’s very polite.”

  “Only at times,” Elena said.

  Grady felt the tips of her ears warm. “Pastor Rodriguez probably told you that my students are looking into the string of deaths that have happened in Mesilla since last April.”

  “Manuel was the first.” Mrs. Herrera spoke her husband’s name without reverence. “Everyone in Mesilla knew she was back when Manuel drowned. We knew more suicides were coming. Manuel died la muerte clásica.”

  “I’m sorry?” Grady looked at Elena.

  “The classic death,” Elena translated. “The one associated with Llo
rona. Always the same method, and always at night.” She glanced at Mrs. Herrera apologetically. “Last April, Manuel Herrera drowned himself in the Rio Grande, just after midnight. The same way the other three men have killed themselves since.”

  “Yes, four gone. Madre de Dios.” Mrs. Herrera crossed herself and kissed her thumb.

  “The same way each of Llorona’s victims died,” Elena added quietly to Grady. “All of them drowned themselves in rivers late at night. Many more than four.”

  “And all died with the same look of miedo, this terrible fear, on their faces.” Mrs. Herrera closed her eyes. “They would not let me look at Manuel after they took him from the river. Manny wanted to see him, he fought to see him, but I would not allow it. I knew he would not see the face of his beloved abuelo, but that of a man chased into death by a demon. I did not want that to be his last image of his grandfather.”

  Grady could imagine the expressions on the corpses of Llorona’s victims. She had no doubt her own features reflected the same terror when she heard the witch’s screams. Her gaze drifted over the religious paintings and small statues that adorned the living room. She thought of the deep stigma against suicide that still gripped the traditional Catholic Church. There was that unworldly shift again, the blending of time and cultures. Antonia Herrera, steeped in the holy icons of the Vatican, apparently accepted the reality of La Llorona with ease. “Was there any warning, Mrs. Herrera? Any sign at all that your husband planned to harm himself?”

  “No, there was no plan.” Mrs. Herrera waved a hand dismissively. “Not by Manuel. He was healthy. He was retired. The pecan crops have sold well. We have savings. He was king of his home, and a good Catholic. He had no reason to suddenly want to die. His only plan was to take Manny up to the Lincoln Forest to hunt elk the next weekend.”

  Yes, nice young Manny, who apparently has a hunting rifle. “Then your husband was very close to his grandson?”