by Maria Lima
"How you doing?” I asked. “That a new outfit?"
"Yes.” She preened a little, showing off the snazzy silver-gray track suit, the uniform of choice around here for women of a certain age. “Thank you for noticing."
A bit over seventy, Greta and her slightly more senior brother owned and operated the deli/convenience store that made up most of the right-hand side of the L-shaped center. The caf? anchored the far left of the strip. A laundromat, video store and a real estate office made up the rest. Not much town here, but I loved every square rolling foot of it, despite my apathy of the last couple of years.
"Since it is the middle of the afternoon, you must be having breakfast,” Greta asked.
"Nothing like Bea's breakfast tacos and coffee to wake a person up.” I smiled. My stomach made the appropriate accompanying noises.
A glimpse of movement at the corner of my eye caught my attention. Greta's brother was in front of the deli, loading the store van with what looked like cases of wine. He carried them almost effortlessly, with the smooth moves of a much younger man.
I turned back to Greta. “So, how's Boris doing?"
She grimaced a little, but kept her polite tone. “He is better."
I heard the uncertainty behind the words, not completely masked by her matter-of-fact delivery.
"No more problems, then?"
"A few nightmares, but he is better. I will let him know you asked, thank you."
With that, she smiled and walked away.
I watched as she handed him his coffee. They were too far away for me to hear anything, but as he took a sip, he wiped his forehead with a red bandanna and looked over at me, a strange expression on his face.
I waved a “hello” and walked into the caf?.
Poor man. I wasn't the only one having nightmares. Boris had mentioned he had horrible nightmares, sometimes so terrible they affected his health. Were they as bad as mine? Maybe, except his were based on reality; mine only seemed like they were.
Last time I'd talked to Boris, a few days ago, his usual tan was faded and his eyes were sunk into his wrinkled face, making him look much older than his seventy-odd years. Normally he was as fit and as physically able as his sister or more so. Perhaps he was better, as Greta said but, knowing Boris, he probably figured lying to his sister, pretending the drugs helped, was better than continuing to go to doctors who could never really cure what was wrong. Doctors cannot make the past go away.
I'd only seen the numbers tattooed on his forearm once, but I knew what they were. Greta had her own set. Neither of them ever discussed it, but I knew enough to recognize the symptoms of trying to forget. I could relate to having memories that needed to stay hidden.
I crossed the floor of the caf?. Before I could order, Bea's nephew, Noe, handed me a giant mug. Coffee: hot as hell, sweet as love and white with real cream. I took a deep gulp of the hot liquid and silently blessed the boy for anticipating my order.
"Thanks, Noe,” I said. “Can I get my usual?"
He nodded and rang up my order.
I was putting my wallet back into my backpack when a deep voice behind me muttered, “Strange doings at the Wild Moon."
I turned to see Boris standing just inside the door of the restaurant. He wiped his hands on his bandanna, then placed it carefully in his left back pocket as he approached. He walked up to the counter and I watched him pull two packets of sweetener from a small bowl and place them into his shirt pocket, then pat the pocket as if to make sure they were carefully tucked in.
Boris wore a male version of my own outfit: jeans, hiking boots and a plaid cotton flannel shirt, worn open over a T-shirt. His was crew necked with short sleeves; mine was a tank top, but both were standard Hill Country gear. Most local guys wore their shirt sleeves rolled up, even in winter, but Boris's sleeves stayed tightly buttoned over the telltale numbers on his arm.
"Hey, Boris."
He did look a little better, less faded than the last time I'd seen him, but I could still see the strain in his eyes.
He nodded, a grim expression on his face. “I was there this morning,” he said.
"There where?” I asked.
"At the Wild Moon."
Once a local hunting ranch, the Wild Moon had closed about thirty years ago when its absentee Houston owners abandoned it after their oil stocks tanked. The bank that held the note couldn't unload the place, so it had been left to decay, becoming the playground for the county's adventurous teenagers who liked to trespass. Its nearly two thousand acres also provided a great happy hunting ground for members of my family who preferred to hunt the old-fashioned way—chasing down their prey before they killed and ate it.
A couple of years ago, not too long after I'd come back home, all that changed. Some unknown outsider bought the place and started renovations.
I hadn't heard the Wild Moon was open for business, but it was possible. Although the ranch was located only a dozen miles outside of town, none of the locals ever went out there. Residents here had grown used to the fact that guests at exclusive ranches for the rich and shameless rarely left their pampered lives to shop at the Video Hut or lunch at a small town deli. No matter—for the most part, we didn't bother them and they didn't bother us. I figured this incarnation of the Wild Moon was just another way for outsiders to not spend money in town.
Boris took out his bandanna again, his hands restless. “You haven't heard then?"
"Heard what?"
"Two children, young people. They found two dead deer. By the picnic grounds at the lake. Bled. Mutilated."
Oh, that was just freakin’ dandy. Unless Boris had a direct line to my twisted psyche—which he couldn't—evidently what I'd experienced were more than just nightmares; they had some connection with reality. Nightmare Visions Are Us. Welcome to the Clairvoyance Club—another byproduct of my wonderful weird heritage.
But, wait—something didn't quite match my bloody dreams.
"What do you mean, ‘mutilated'?” I asked. “Like the cattle in those horrible UFO stories?” Maybe I was wrong, maybe it was just—no. I wasn't wrong. I knew I wasn't wrong. The memory was too real, too fresh in my mind. This could not be a coincidence. Or could it?
Boris shook his head as if to dislodge the memory. “Someone took the heads.” He sounded tired, raw.
Now that was an interesting twist. When I'd—
Okay, I'm not wanting to remember that part right now, but I do know the deer were intact in my vision. Dead, yes. Bled—well, yeah, as part of the feeding. But they had not been headless.
Boris continued his story. “I was just making morning deliveries to the Inn. Then there was the shouting."
"Deliveries?"
"Yes. They are stocking up, I think. Open for guests now. Been taking supplies out there every day before breakfast. Most afternoons just before dark. I order wine and other things for them. Deliver it. Business is good."
The last word came out as “goot.” Neither he nor Greta had much of an accent but, every once in a while, traces in their speech were reminders they hadn't always been Texans.
Boris glanced past me. I looked over my shoulder to see what he was looking at. No one was near. A few customers sat in booths to our right, nobody I recognized offhand. Probably daytrippers. Boris wiped his face with his bandanna, as if just the telling of his tale upset him. “Those poor children. It was terrible. The blood was gone, the heads ... terrible."
"Did you actually see the deer?"
He nodded, and leaned toward me, whispering faster, as if the faster he spoke, the easier the words would be to say.
"When the manager went to look, I followed. I saw the bodies. The death.” He shuddered a little and stuffed his bandanna back into his pocket. “There is evil. It is not safe, Keira. He doesn't know. Tell him—"
The brass Indian elephant bells attached to the caf? door tinkled behind me, announcing a new arrival.
Boris could see whoever had just entered. His eyes widened and a look of hor
ror spread across his face. He shut his mouth, pressing his lips together.
I whirled at his reaction, nearly dropping to a defensive crouch before I saw it was just Greta coming through the door. She had a peculiar look on her own face. Her mouth smiled, yet something else swam behind her dark eyes, something that could almost be anger. I'd never seen any strong emotion from her—at most a gentle lift of the corners of her mouth as if slightly amused.
"Boris, did you get what you needed?"
Greta's words were flat, juiceless, completely without inflection, as if each word were printed on a piece of paper from which she read.
I tightened my grip on my coffee cup, my adrenaline surging just a little as I sensed her tension. I reinforced my mental shields. I did this naturally, without thinking. My barriers were a part of me; the first thing I learned during my early years—how to hide in plain sight. The emotions of others couldn't get in; mine couldn't get out. Survival training at its finest.
But Greta's silent agitation wasn't directed at me. She approached her brother and took his arm. He grimaced as her fingers dug into the cloth of his shirt, but didn't remove her hand. There was more than tension there. Fear maybe? I couldn't tell by just watching them and I wasn't prepared to do more than look with my eyes.
Maybe that's all this was—fear, worry that Boris was descending back into his own private mental hellhole, triggered by what he'd seen at the ranch. I didn't want to upset him any further, but it did bother me that Boris seemed to be trying to warn me in the same breath he used to speak of the Wild Moon and mutilated animals. Who did he want me to tell—and what?
Before I could say anything, Greta spoke.
"We need to go now, Boris. Let Keira have her breakfast.” Her voice still sounded strange—strained, as though she were forcing out the words, making herself act normally. She turned and practically dragged her brother out the door with her. As they exited, Boris shot me a despairing look.
* * * *
Still a popular hangout after more than fifty years, not much ever changed about Bea's Place, not even after Bea took it over from her parents ten years ago. Still single, like me, Bea and I had been friends since nearly forever.
As a feisty eight-year-old and the only child of aging parents, Bea took me under her wing, determined to befriend the pallid, scared and semi-motherless seven-year-old with bushy black hair, pale gray eyes and a funny accent.
Thirty years later, I'd lost the accent and tamed the hair, but still had the same pale eyes and best friend. Bea was the one person in my life who I could count on to be there for me without an underlying agenda. My family always had ulterior motives for everything. Bea did things out of the goodness of her heart and for friendship. At least some things never changed.
And some things most definitely did not stay the same. The string of brass bells tinkled again; the caf? door swung open and my day got even more complicated.
Beige Stetson poised on his once very familiar head, Carlton Larson, acting county sheriff, stood in the doorway, his handsome face serious as a funeral. Nearly six-five, and with a build to match, he'd always tended to overwhelm a lot of things, not the least of all—some fifteen years ago—me.
I spoke first, hoping my voice would stay steady and friendly. “Hey, there. Welcome back."
I succeeded.
"Well, if it isn't Keira Kelly,” he replied, his deep voice rumbling throughout the restaurant. “Been awhile. Good to see you."
He seemed just as calm as I was pretending to be. Good sign. Last time we'd been in the same room together, sparks flew, and not from passion. We'd both lashed out. Me to wound him, him in anger—cut too deep, not wanting to hear what I was saying. I'd still wanted to be with him then, but not in the way he'd wanted. Not forever, because that was impossible.
Flirtation at twenty-two became an affair at twenty-three. Then one morning, nearly a year after our first date, I woke up and realized he really meant what he said the night before about the whole white-wedding-and-matching-appliances-from-Sears thing, and ended it. No looking back. No other options.
A couple of months after that, just long enough to go through the application and admissions process, Carlton left Rio Seco to join the San Antonio PD. I'd beat his exit by five days and five thousand miles.
I'd beat him back, too—by just under two years. Except ... unlike me, he brought back a hell of a lot more baggage than he'd taken away. He was married and had children.
This was the first time I'd seen him since he'd returned a couple of weeks ago. In fact, it was the first time I'd seen him since I'd left.
We stared at each other, appraising, the silence acknowledging every single one of those thirteen years. He'd trained to become a cop. I'd trained to become ... something else. As far as he knew, I was still the same unemployed trust-fund baby as before. The trust fund still existed, but my job description was totally different—and nothing he would ever find out about.
I took a sip from my cup, taking a moment to taste my feelings as I tasted the rich flavor of the coffee. As I swallowed the hot liquid, I began to relax. His voice once charmed the pants off me—literally—but there was no more charming here. Everything I'd ever felt for him was most definitely in the past tense. Lover: as in former. These worn blue jeans were definitely remaining firmly on my body. Thank goodness. Not that I'd be opposed to some horizontal exercise, but definitely not with him. Not now, not ever again. Especially not now.
"Just getting breakfast.” I smiled the polite smile of I-have-no-clue-what-to-say-right-now. “So, what's new?"
Carlton took off his hat and ran his fingers through his thick, short-cropped brown hair. He still didn't show any gray, even though he was a couple of years older than me.
"Want to sit?” He strode over to the nearest empty booth, put his hat on the tabletop and motioned to the seat across from him.
As I slid across the bench, Noe came over and dropped off my food without a word. He set down a full glass of tea and several packets of sugar in front of Carlton, then returned to his post at the cash register.
I watched Carlton perform a routine I'd seen countless times. Tap the packets together to line them up, tear them all open at once and dump too many teaspoons of sugar into his glass. The long-handled spoon clunked against the plastic as he stirred.
"Still drinking sweet tea?"
Carlton chuckled. “Yeah, still."
I took a bite of my bacon-and-egg taco dripping with salsa. Heavenly. I sighed and settled in to eat, just like it was any other day. I was good at pretending.
"You look good,” I ventured, talking around a mouthful of food.
The years away from Rio Seco had etched Carlton's face. Fine lines defined his deep brown eyes, a few extra lines on his tanned forehead enhanced his good looks. He'd always been a candidate for Marlboro Man ads, even more so now that he was older and more settled into his features. He even made the cheap brown polyester uniform he wore look good. Not a mean feat.
"Thanks,” he said. “Good genes, I guess.” He picked up the spoon again, stirring and staring at me, a puzzled expression on his face.
"You know, it's really amazing, Keira. It's been too many years to count and you haven't changed a bit."
"Good genes,” I repeated and took another big bite of my taco.
"How's your family? I heard they moved to Canada."
Sure did. Lock, stock, and grimoire. Everyone from my great-great-grandmother on down to my brothers and once-local cousins. Everyone but me and Marty.
"Can't keep a secret in this town,” I joked. “They're in British Columbia. Doing great. Dad enjoys the hunting."
I returned his query, lobbing the conversational ball back over to Carlton's side of the court.
"So, speaking of family ... Carol and the kids getting settled?"
"They're fine."
Carlton put down his glass with a small thump, sloshing a bit of the tea over the side. As he mopped up the spill with a paper napkin, he ch
anged the subject. “What have you been up to?"
Score a point for me in the I-don't-care game. It obviously bothered him to talk about his wife with his former girlfriend.
"Just breakfast,” I said, with a shrug. “Still not so much into the cooking."
The smile crinkled the corners of his eyes and he inadvertently echoed my earlier thought.
"Some things don't change, do they, Keira?” He spoke softly.
Well, not exactly.
I knew the Change wasn't obvious since none of the people I'd talked to earlier had noticed. There was no neon sign above my head or anything, but oddly enough, it would've been nice if someone noticed something, anything. Someone could ask me if I was feeling okay or even—
Damn it. I didn't really know just what I wanted. It was kind of like getting your first period. You didn't want to talk about it, but you wanted everyone to know you were a woman. Maybe not the best analogy, but it works for me. This was a major rite of passage for me, but no one other than my clan really understood what it meant, and they were all in Canada or other parts of the world. Which actually is a good thing most days. It means they stay off my back. But today, I wanted to be able to share with someone who understood.
I looked at Carlton. He'd known me so well back then, or so he thought. He never knew me, what I really was. All he ever saw was a girl who'd broken his heart. I hated it, but I did what I had to then. No regrets.
"So what's been happening?” I asked, bringing us back to the present and to safer ground.
His face tensed, the smile was wiped away in an instant.
"I suppose you've heard about what happened out at that ranch. Up to hearing the gory details?"
I put down the remains of my taco, my appetite waning as I slowly wiped my hands on a paper napkin. I couldn't meet his gaze. “There are gory details?"
I should have known that they'd called out the sheriff.
"Pretty nasty details, actually. You sure you're up for this, you look a bit—"
"I'm fine,” I said, cutting him off. The nasty details were what I needed to hear. I wanted to know more.