“I really hope you have the most wonderful trip,” she told the teenager, who looked at her as if she’d just sprouted another eye.
She couldn’t help it, though. Surviving bumpy flights always brought out the George Bailey in her, and today, after quitting her job and hopping on a plane bound for a place she’d never been to stay with a man who had just told her I love you (in so many initials, anyway), the feeling was particularly strong. It’s a wonderful life, and today is the first day of the rest of it. As they all stood up, the woman in front of Zoe asked her where in Mexico she was going. “San Esteban,” Zoe replied.
“Oh, I hear it’s beautiful there,” said the woman. That was it. No mention of Jordan Brink. Zoe wanted to hug her for that. She turned on her cell phone as everybody started to file out of the plane, and immediately, she heard “Goodbye, Eddie, Goodbye.” Steve’s number was on the screen. “You’ve got some timing,” said Zoe.
“I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” Steve said. “Where have you been?”
“On a plane, going to Mexico.”
“What?!”
“Changed my ticket for tonight,” she said. “I didn’t feel like sticking around. I quit my job today.”
“What?”
“You sound like a broken record. Wait—does anybody really use that expression anymore? Would it be cooler if I said you sound like a bad download?”
“You’re serious. You’re really in Mexico right now.”
“Yep.”
“Is he with you?”
“Warren? No, I’m just getting off the plane.” Zoe took a breath. “Listen, Steve. I know this must sound crazy to you, and it probably is, but I survived the flight, and there’s no turning back. So spare me the warnings and just let me enjoy my vacation. Okay?”
Steve sighed heavily.
“Thank you.” They were disembarking now. Zoe noticed the stubby potted palm trees and deep green aloe plants lining the gate area, the mariachi music playing over the loudspeakers and how, even at night in an airport, everyone seemed to be moving slower, smiling more. She felt a million miles away from New York City, and she liked that feeling a lot.
Steve said, “Can I just tell you one thing?”
“Sure.”
“Vanessa St. James was questioned in the Jordan Brink murder.”
“What?” Zoe’s smile dropped away and she froze, causing the tall man behind her to walk straight into her back. She threw an apology at him and moved against the wall. “She was? Why?”
“I don’t know. I got the info from Glen Campbell and—”
“Glen Campbell?”
“One of our younger reporters. He swears his source is good, but apparently the cops down there won’t confirm or deny. They’re really close to a break in the case.”
Zoe breathed, in and out. She’s been having some family troubles. . . .
“Warren didn’t mention it, huh?”
“Not in so many words.”
“Don’t you think that’s weird? Huge murder, his friend is questioned. He invites you down, without even a ‘by the way’?”
Zoe cleared her throat. “I guess he figured it was none of my business.”
“Let me tell you something. If he is planning on introducing you to Vanessa St. James while you’re there, it is absolutely your business. You don’t just let your girlfriend hang out with a murder suspect without—”
“Okay, hold up. You know as well as I do that being questioned and being a suspect are two entirely different things.”
He sighed. “You’re right,” he said. “I guess I got a little carried away.”
“A little?”
“Just ask him about it, okay?”
“I will,” Zoe said, though she wasn’t sure she wanted to. She recalled the flatness in Warren’s eyes, the way he had glared at her when she’d mentioned the cross in his closet— something he hadn’t planned on telling her about, and come to think of it . . . never had.
Steve said, “Zoe?”
“Yeah?”
“Be careful.”
“I always am.”
“No,” he said. “No, you’re really not.”
After they said goodbye, Zoe made her way through customs and thought it all through. Her mood lifted a little. Steve was being overprotective, as usual, and overcritical of Warren for some reason. When all was said and done, Warren really hadn’t had time to tell Zoe about Vanessa and the Brink murder. They’d been together less that twenty-four hours before he’d taken off again—and they’d had other, more pressing concerns. . . .
He was probably planning on letting her know once he showed her around town and she settled in a little. What was the hurry? She had three weeks to meet Vanessa St. James.
By the time she got to baggage claim, Zoe felt a lot better. She scanned the dozens of faces waiting to greet arrivals. She searched for Warren, hoping he’d gotten her voice mail message because she really didn’t feel like negotiating a cab right now. Most everyone was Mexican, though—except a tall, blond couple who stood at the back of the group, embracing as if he’d just come home from the war. Get a room, Zoe thought . . . until the couple separated, and she saw the man’s profile and her heart dropped. Warren.
He spoke animatedly to the blond woman for quite a while before he finally caught sight of Zoe gaping at him. Warren rushed over to her and threw his arms around her and lifted her off the ground. “I’m so glad to see you,” he said, into her neck.
A frisson went through her, but that just made her mad— his ability to turn her on, even when she had just seconds ago seen him . . . Doing what, exactly?
Warren put her back down and asked her how her flight had been, but Zoe said nothing. The woman he’d been holding so tightly was about ten feet behind him, her back turned, talking on a cell phone. Zoe heard her say, “Está Señor Rafael allí? No? Qué lástima . . .”
Zoe tapped her on the shoulder. “Hi.”
“Mas tarde,” the woman said into her phone, then closed it and turned. “Zoe, right? Look at you! You’re just as lovely as Warren said you would be.”
Zoe took a few steps back, her knees weakening. She recognized the smile, recognized the face and the body and the cross around the neck, and before she could stop it, the woman’s name came flying out of her mouth. “Vanessa St. James.”
“Hope you don’t mind my tagging along,” Vanessa said. “Like I told Warren, I just couldn’t wait to meet you.”
FIVE
Warren drove a Jeep Cherokee. Although Zoe was no fan of SUVs, she could forgive him for it in this mountainous desert region, where the roads were winding and steep enough to merit four-wheel drive. Of course, she didn’t have much choice but to forgive him—for the gas guzzler and for Vanessa St. James. For the duration of the bumpy ride from León to San Esteban, Zoe was stuck with both.
Right now, they were rounding the curve of a mountain path. The moon was nearly full and very bright. It gave the dry terrain a grayish cast, turned the dead-looking patches of vegetation velvety black and made the mountain rocks glow silver. It reminded Zoe of how she used to imagine other planets might look—hostile and beautiful at the same time. There wasn’t a sign of human life, either; it had been miles since they’d seen a streetlight. Zoe would have found it all very romantic were it not for the chattering supergroupie in the backseat. Whether the purpose was to calm Zoe or herself—or if Vanessa just loved the sound of her own voice— Zoe wasn’t sure, but since the ride began, Vanessa had been nonstop with the inane questions. “Tell me,” she was saying now. “How did you know that Warren was ‘the One’?”
Zoe glanced at Warren. He hadn’t said much during the ride, but she was hoping he might ask his dear friend to stop auditioning to be the next View cohost so Zoe could enjoy the scenery.
She expected him to at least look irritated, but no. Warren smiled out at the road as if he were listening to his favorite song from childhood. Zoe thought about the way he’d been hugging Vanessa in th
e airport, like he hadn’t seen her in years. What was that about anyway, when they had come to pick up Zoe together? “I still don’t know if he’s the One,” Zoe said.
Vanessa laughed.
“That wasn’t supposed to be funny.”
“What is going on with you, Zoe?” said Warren.
“Me?”
“Yes.” His voice was cold. “Ever since you got here, you’ve seemed determined to be miserable.”
Zoe started to tell him that she’d quit her job today—that reality was setting in—that she had at most three months’ rent saved up and this was the absolute worst time to take a vacation. But though all that was true, it wasn’t her real problem. She turned around in her seat and gave Vanessa St. James a long look. She sensed the confusion in the woman’s tigerlike eyes and, behind that, a budding anxiety. “Why were you questioned in the Jordan Brink murder?”
Vanessa’s mouth dropped open. “That was . . . No one was supposed to . . .”
Warren said, “How do you know that, Zoe?”
“A friend of mine told me.”
“What friend?” said Vanessa. “Was it someone in the press? I specifically told them . . .”
“It’s not going in the press. My source told me off the record.”
“Your source?”
Warren said, “You aren’t acting like yourself.”
Zoe stared at Warren. “If you want me to act like myself,” she said slowly, “try telling me the truth.”
He glared out at the road. “I did tell you the truth.”
“What, that Vanessa was having family problems?” she said. “If there’s just been a brutal murder in the place where I’m going on vacation, don’t you think I deserve to know—”
“She was having family problems.”
Zoe stared at him. “What are you talk—”
Vanessa interrupted her. “My niece discovered Jordan Brink’s body.”
“Your . . . niece?”
“I didn’t want it in the press because they had been doing peyote together earlier that night. She’s a young girl—just seventeen. Her mother passed away two years ago, and she’s got nobody except me, and I’ll be the first to admit, that’s not a lot.”
Zoe looked at her, the fine frown lines between her arched brows deeper now, her eyes downcast. Zoe felt very uncomfortable with herself, as if she’d just punched Vanessa in the gut for no reason.
“I felt awful enough for letting her go into the desert with those kids,” Vanessa said. “The least I could do was protect her privacy.”
“I understand.”
“And besides all that,” said Warren, “we just heard that someone confessed.”
“You did?”
“Local drug dealer—Carlos Royas. Says he did it because Jordan stole the peyote from him.”
Vanessa nodded. “It’s a shame because I know Carlos’s mother, and she’s a dear woman. She works in the farmácia.”
“But all the same,” said Warren, “at least he’s off the streets.”
“The police called and told me just as your plane landed,” Vanessa said.
“That’s why you were hugging each other.”
“I didn’t know you saw that.” Warren grabbed Zoe’s hand. Startled, she turned back around, and when she looked at him, she saw the most tender smile. “I would never put you in danger, Zoe,” he said. “You need to believe that.” He brought her hand to his lips and softly kissed it, then turned his eyes back to the road.
Zoe watched his face, a warmth rising up inside her, her heart seeming to swell . . . until she noticed the two deep slashes on the back of his wrist—one about two inches long, the other half its size. She touched the wound, and he flinched a little. “What happened?”
“Cut myself,” he said. “No big deal.”
Zoe said nothing. The two slashes formed a perfect cross.
Naomi didn’t know Carlos Royas that well, but she’d met him. He was very thin, with nails he’d colored black with indelible pen out of boredom and dull black hair that spiked up in back—not from products, but from greasiness and neglect. He was probably twenty, but he looked and acted more like twelve.
There was a large green park near the far side of town. Its official name was El Parque de Pancho Villa, but the locals called it Parque de las Lavanderas because there were a series of long public sinks at its edge where women would bring their washboards and gossip while doing their laundry. Carlos hung out at the other edge of Parque de las Lavanderas, near a thick line of jacaranda trees. He was mostly alone, except when he was with his friend Alejandro—a shy, chubby kid about Naomi’s age who went to the Catholic boys’ school—or when he was talking to gringos who wanted to buy drugs.
Sean bought pot from Carlos when he was in town. Corinne rarely went along. Carlos creeped her out, she said. But it wasn’t because she saw him as physically threatening.
Corinne thought Carlos Royas had so much bad luck that he shed it—that misfortune just flew off his sad, dirty body and attached itself to whoever got close. In her mind, Carlos was why Alejandro’s father had died in a car accident; Carlos was to blame for his baby sister’s asthma, his parents’ divorce, his own sorry poverty. More than once, Corinne had discussed this theory of hers, and each time, it made Naomi embarrassed to be her friend.
But now . . . Naomi didn’t know, maybe Corinne had a point. Carlos Royas was about five feet five inches, maybe 110 pounds. He looked like he’d have trouble standing up in a stiff wind, and Naomi was supposed to believe he wreaked that horror on a strong boy like Jordan? Over some stupid peyote?
Bad luck, though, or maybe evil spirits. That she could believe.
Corinne and Sean had gone back to the States after Jordan’s death, but Corinne knew about Carlos’s confession. The police had contacted her family before they’d called Vanessa and Naomi. It was close to eight now, and Naomi couldn’t remember who had discovered whom online, but she and Corinne had been IMing for over an hour about Carlos, Jordan and that night by the bonfire.
Jordan BOUGHT the peyote from Carlos, Corinne had just typed. He didn’t steal it. Jordan never stole.
Naomi typed: Then why did Carlos say he did?
Maybe the Federales asked him why, and that was the only *why* he could come up with.
Naomi thought back to Jordan by the fire, the troubled look in his eyes. . . . There’s . . . weird stuff going on, stuff I’m guessing you don’t know about. . . . Or maybe there was a different *why*. You’re young. You need to be careful.
Huh?
Naomi typed: Did Jordan say anything to you about being young?
The screen said TexCori91 is typing. It said that for a long while. Naomi waited and it still said it, so she waited some more, thinking, What is she going to tell me? But when Corinne finished typing and her reply finally came through, it was this: No.
A chill seeped through Naomi’s shoulders. She recalled that feeling she’d had, sitting next to Jordan, alone by the fire—the cold burn of someone watching them. It was hitting her again. She could sense the killer’s eyes, the way a doomed animal would sense a hunter. . . . Naomi started to type Are you sure? But she didn’t finish, didn’t hit SEND because her hands were frozen. . . .
Naomi gritted her teeth and shut her eyes tight, trying to ward it off—another one of those flashbacks. She wished she had some anxiety pills that worked, but all she had were stupid herbal capsules. She hated this town sometimes, the whole self-help, New Agey, you-have-the-power-to-change-your-own-life-ishness of it. Some problems are real, you know. Some things can’t be cured with chanting and herbs. . . .
She breathed deeply and gripped her chair. Again she could feel the hot sun on her neck; again she could hear the hum of those flies. . . . You are not in the desert. You are home. You are alone. . . . Corinne’s typed words flashed on her screen: You still there? Naomi started to tremble. Silence rushed into her ears. . . .
She saw the angel from her desert dream—a figure in a dark
hood, standing before her. She heard the angel’s voice. You are safe . And then she heard a real voice, saying her name.
“Naomi . . .”
She spun around. Less than a foot away stood Corinne’s grandmother, Jordan’s great-aunt Patty. The vision washed away. “Mrs. Woods,” Naomi breathed. “You scared—”
“The housekeeper let me in.” Her mouth was a penciled line. Her eyes were two pieces of sea glass, pinpricks for pupils. All grief. She glanced at Naomi’s screen and said, “Corinne?”
“Yeah. Do you want to—”
“Please don’t tell her I’m here.”
“Okay.”
“I need to see your aunt.”
“She’s out,” she said. “She should be back soon, though.”
Mrs. Woods nodded, her gaze softening. “I’m sorry, honey. I never asked how you’re feeling.”
“Me?”
“Awful isn’t it, finding someone like that?”
“Yeah.” Naomi closed her eyes for a few seconds, took a breath. “I . . . I’ll be okay, though.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Excuse me?”
“You might feel like you’re over it in time, like you barely even remember what he looked like . . . the blood, the hands, that awful smell. . . . But it’ll be like having a pin stuck permanently in your finger. You’ll go on with your life because you have to. Maybe you even forget it’s there, but the minute you catch sight of that pin again and focus on it, the way it’s sticking through your skin, those images will come back to you. It will hurt just as much as it did when you first got stuck.”
Naomi swallowed hard. She had to look away if she was going to keep it together, but she couldn’t. “Mrs. Woods?”
“Yes?”
“Why did you say ‘the hands’?”
“Pardon?”
“You mentioned Jordan’s hands. How did you know there was anything strange about his—”
“I don’t know. Lately, I’ve been saying a lot of things I don’t mean.”
Naomi looked into Patty’s sea-glass eyes. She knew the woman was lying. She might have pressed her, were it not for that hurt, floating off her like vapor. “Jordan was such a cranky baby,” she said. “Back when we lived in the States, Charlie and I would watch him sometimes and he’d just scream nonstop. Didn’t matter how many times we changed his diaper and fed him and played with him. But then finally, through trial and error, we discovered the one thing that could calm him down.”
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