“What was that?”
“Jimmy Cliff! We’d put our Harder They Come record on, he’d stop crying, fall right asleep. Could you imagine? A little baby reggae fan.”
Naomi smiled a little. They heard the front door open, then Vanessa’s musical voice, asking Soccoro in Spanish how everything was.
On her way to the door, Patty stopped, gave Naomi a long, sad look. “This town,” she said, “is no place for young people.”
Before Naomi could ask what she meant, Jordan’s aunt had left the room.
Vanessa’s house—house was an understatement; it was more of a hotel—was located at the top of a hill, at the western edge of San Esteban. Enormous, pale pink and artfully lit, it sported a tropical rooftop garden that was visible from below and obscenely lush, considering the natural topography of the region. “You guys need to work on your carbon footprints,” said Zoe when she and Warren stopped to drop Vanessa off. But all she got in return were blank stares from both of them.
“You’re going to love San Esteban, Zoe,” Vanessa said. “I bet you’ll decide you don’t ever want to go home.” And then she headed for her door and Warren took off, Zoe’s gaze lingering on the rearview as the door opened, a small Mexican woman gesturing frantically at Vanessa.
When Zoe looked back at the road, the paved highway had turned bumpy, and they were headed into San Esteban. Warren had never described the town to Zoe—not in much detail, anyway. And since the rush to pack and make it to the airport had precluded the Google image search she’d been planning to run, Zoe had been left to use her own imagination, which had conjured something sleepy, flat and sunbaked—the type of place you’d see on a mural in a Mexican chain restaurant.
But now, with San Esteban twinkling and winding before them, she realized how wrong preconceptions could be. To Zoe, it looked like an illustration in a fairy tale book, the streets narrow and twisted and made of thick cobblestone, tall adobe town houses pressed up against one another, their doors painted such bright colors they made you blink, even by the dim light of the streetlamps. As traffic increased and Warren drove slower, Zoe got a closer look. Sprouting off the tops of most of these buildings were strange stone fixtures. Some looked like screaming gargoyles, some wide-mouthed fish. . . .
“Those are gutters,” Warren said, when he noticed Zoe staring at one—a pointy-eared dog, its mouth wrenched open. “They’re quite a sight during rainy season—all these strange creatures screaming water.”
“I can imagine,” said Zoe.
“It’s fun seeing this place through your eyes,” said Warren. “I don’t notice things like the gutters anymore.”
There was a big Gothic church, with curvy turrets like a rush of tears. Across the street was a well-lit central square bordered by food stands and metal benches and stunning-looking trees with graceful trunks and blooming purple flowers. “That’s called the jardín.”
“Those trees are amazing.”
“Jacarandas—they normally don’t bloom this time of year. I think they’re trying to impress you.”
Zoe smiled. “Kiss-ass trees.”
A large white stone cross stood at the center of the jardín. There were four outdoor lights aimed at it, but Zoe had the sense that even if it weren’t illuminated, it would still glow. Odd for an inanimate object to have that power, that charisma, but Zoe could feel it, even from inside Warren’s car.
“You’re looking at La Cruz de San Esteban—the cross.”
“How did you know?”
“How could you not?”
Zoe peered at the cross. There was a carving on its face. From the car, it looked like a large angry bird, shrieking in profile.
“It was made from the ruins of an Aztec temple. Some of the older people here, the Catholics, they avoid La Cruz because they think it’s cursed,” Warren said. “Me, I feel just the opposite.”
She watched his face. “You think it’s blessed?”
“Yes,” he said. Dead serious. She glanced at the cross-shaped cut on his hand, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled.
He turned to her, smiling. “Almost home.”
Zoe’s ears clicked. She was sleepy, and her head felt sort of cottony inside. The altitude—higher even than nearby San Miguel, Vanessa had said—was making her loopy, a little paranoid maybe.
“Warren?”
“Yes?”
“In that note you left me, what did I.L.Y. stand for?”
“What do you think?”
Zoe’s heart swelled. As Warren drove past the jardín, heading up another steep street and then another, Zoe thought, I’m driving into a fairy tale with Prince Charming by my side. The evil monster had been captured by the police. And if anything seemed a little strange—about Warren, about this beautiful town, about the way Zoe was reacting to both—it could easily be blamed on the thinning of her blood.
SIX
Warren parked the Grand Cherokee on the street in front of his place—a three-hundred-year-old, three-story town house located about five blocks north of the jardín. Like most all the other homes here, Warren’s was fortresslike, with a white stucco facade, small windows protected by wrought-iron bars and an imposingly large and heavy door—mitigated somewhat by the fact the door was painted cantaloupe orange. Zoe peered up at one of the house’s gutters—a shrieking hawk with the scaly body of a snake. “Now that is truly gruesome,” she said.
Warren looked a little hurt. “I had the gutters specially made.” He put his key in the front door. “Let’s see if you like the inside better.”
On the ride over, Vanessa had said, The houses here are like people—so surprising, once you break through the exterior. Zoe hadn’t quite gotten it at the time, but when she saw the inside of Warren’s home, she did.
“I had it renovated,” he said.
“Yes. Yes, you did.”
The door opened onto a huge courtyard, which, carbon footprints be damned, was breathtaking. Zoe wasn’t much of a gardener—she’d lived in New York City apartments her entire adult life—but if her mother had seen this place, she would’ve fallen to her knees. Luscious ficus trees, papery white orchids, thick, sensuous succulents the color and texture of jade . . . Even the cactuses had burst into bloom, their flowers bright as Halloween candy wrappers. Judging from the glass-paned doors lining the courtyard walls, every room had direct access to the garden, which was probably even more stunning by daylight. She didn’t want to leave it, even to go inside. “You must have a massive water bill,” she said.
“Actually,” said Warren, “water has nothing to do with it.”
Zoe caught a heady scent that made her think of her mother’s garden back in Tarrytown. She followed it to two blooming lilac bushes. She grasped a cluster of the blossoms, held them to her face and inhaled. Lilacs in the desert . . . “Incredible.”
Warren said, “Do you like it here?”
“My God, Warren, this is . . . it’s paradise.”
He put his arm around her waist and pulled her to him. With the crook of his index finger, he tilted up her chin. She caught that ache in his eyes, and fully understood the expression weak in the knees. “Speaking of water,” he murmured, “I’ve got a hot tub.”
He took her hand and led her to the stone staircase at the far end of the courtyard. They climbed the stairs, the stars and moon shining down on them as they passed more glass-doored rooms; then they walked through an equally stunning garden on the second floor to take yet another staircase to his rooftop patio.
The patio was well lit but wonderfully private, with red roses climbing up the high wall that faced the street. Roses in Mexico . . . Under a trellis covered in orange bougainvillea, Zoe saw a woven blanket laid out with silver platters of cheese and fruit and an iced bottle of champagne. “The maid put that out for us. But she’s gone now—we’re all alone.” Zoe followed him past the picnic spread, past a line of potted hibiscus and camellia to a cedar hot tub. He flipped on the jets and kissed Zoe deeply.
&nb
sp; “Paradise, huh?” he said. And she knew he was about to bring new meaning to the word.
TexCori91: Hello? Are you still alive?
It took Naomi a while to see the words on her screen. She was too busy trying to hear what Mrs. Woods was saying to Vanessa at the foot of the stairs. She caught, “need to talk,” from Mrs. Woods and “Not now,” from Vanessa, and then “important.” After that, though, she couldn’t make out anything, other than emphatic rushes of breath as the women whisper-argued.
Naomi typed: Sorry. V came home.
Did she bring Brad Pitt? Naomi had to smile at that one. Brad Pitt was the code name they used for Vanessa’s sometimes-boyfriend, Rafael. He was a sixty-year-old American artist with a studio in town and so not Brad Pitt— but the retired ladies fell all over him like he was. Actually, pretty much all of Vanessa’s friends acted like Rafael was God’s gift.
It was good to see Corinne attempting a joke. It made Naomi feel like maybe things could go back to normal, no matter what Mrs. Woods said about pins stuck in fingers.
She typed: LOL! No—she’s Pittless tonite. ;)
From downstairs, Naomi heard Vanessa say, “Fine then. My room.” Gotta run! Later!
Naomi moved over to her door, pressed her ear against it and listened to the hard rustle of clothes as Vanessa and Mrs. Woods hurried upstairs. When Vanessa’s door closed, she waited for a full minute, then crept out into the hall, making her way toward Vanessa’s room.
Before she was even there, Naomi heard their voices. She couldn’t differentiate words, but she knew it wasn’t a friendly conversation, and when she finally got her ear to the door, the first thing she heard was Mrs. Woods saying, “Grace.”
Naomi put a hand to her mouth.
Vanessa said, “I wish you wouldn’t say her name. It isn’t good.”
Grace. It’s a name, not a word.
“You said it yourself. You told me Jordan’s hands were just like hers, the heart . . .”
“I didn’t say her name. We made a vow.”
“My nephew was ripped open, Vanessa. Forget about vows and names!”
“Carlos Royas did it. It’s tragic, but he was the killer. He confessed.”
“You can’t possibly believe that. How would that boy have known to put his hands like that, with the maguey spines? Exactly like—”
“Did you tell the police?”
“What?”
Vanessa’s voice pitched lower, its edges laced with threat. “Did you tell the police about . . . Grace?”
Silence.
“Jesus, Patty.”
“What could happen? You and I didn’t do that to Grace. It was four years ago, and it’s not as if we’re all meeting anymore. . . .”
Naomi realized her hands were balled into fists, every muscle in her body tensed. Silence rushed at her like a truck—the beginning of a flashback, she knew. She squeezed her eyes shut. Hold on, hold on and keep it together. . . .
Mrs. Woods said, “Oh, my God.”
“Patty—”
“You are still meeting, aren’t you? All these years, after we promised. You’re still meeting. You probably still have a cross in your closet.”
“That’s not—”
“And whoever cut Grace’s heart out is still doing it, too. One of you did that to Jordan. And that . . . that one will do it again.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. You’re grieving. Carlos Royas, a known drug dealer with a criminal record—”
“How would you feel, Vanessa, if Naomi was next?”
“Don’t you ever say that, Patty. Don’t you ever fucking say that to me!”
“I will say it, Vanessa. Naomi. Who else do you know who is under thirty-five?”
Naomi backed away from the door. She pivoted, walked quickly back to her room, her head down. Don’t think about it, don’t think about it, don’t think . . .
Vanessa’s door slammed. Naomi heard footsteps thudding down the hall, then the stairs. She closed her eyes and gritted her teeth: Grace. A name, not a word. The name of a dead girl. A girl who was killed in the same way Jordan was.
This town is no place for young people.
There was a soft rap on her door. Naomi dug her fingernails into her palms and breathed in and out. Act normal, act normal. . . . “Yeah?”
Vanessa cracked the door open and poked her head through. “Hi, honey. Sorry I just ran out like that. I was at the airport. Warren’s friend Zoe decided to come two days early.”
Naomi forced a smile. “No worries.”
“Listen, I’m heading out for a little while.”
“Where are you going?”
“Just over to Rafael’s studio.”
“Okay,” Naomi said. “See ya.”
Vanessa stopped for a moment, then looked into Naomi’s eyes in that bright, questioning way she had. Naomi’s fists clenched tighter.
“Isn’t that great news,” Vanessa said, “about Carlos Royas confessing? I feel safer now, don’t you?”
“Yeah.”
Vanessa smiled. “Love you.”
“Me, too.”
Then she left—Naomi’s aunt Vanessa, who said, “I love you,” to her every time she went out of the house, who brewed Naomi herb tea and sent her to Catholic school and who, self-absorbed though she could be, always took Naomi’s moods so personally . . . Vanessa, who had paid off every police officer involved in Jordan’s case to ensure Naomi’s identity was never released to the press, and who had once told her, “You look so much like your mom it makes me want to cry.” Vanessa, her mother’s oldest and favorite sister, whom Naomi had known since she was born and knew too well and didn’t know at all.
She heard the front door close, but she didn’t move until she heard Vanessa’s footsteps moving toward the garage, the Land Rover’s engine revving. . . .
With a surprising calm, Naomi got up from her desk. She walked down the hall and into her aunt’s unlocked bedroom. And then she opened Vanessa’s closet.
At first, she didn’t see anything but clothes, but when she pushed a few of Vanessa’s shirts aside, she noticed a strip of dark wood hanging behind them. Why keep a cross in the back of a closet? Naomi lifted the cross off its hook and pulled it out. It was large and heavy. She held it in front of her eyes. And when she saw what had been painted on it, her hands started shaking so bad that it dropped, clattering on the tile floor.
“Should I turn off the jets?” Warren asked.
“Mmm . . . ,” said Zoe, who had lost all ability to form vowel sounds. She leaned back against his strong chest and rested her hands on the edge of the Jacuzzi and inhaled the sweet smell of all those moist, healthy plants. Once Warren switched off the jets, she could better hear his breathing, and Zoe closed her eyes for the full effect. On a basic, sensual level, she was so content, she barely felt human. It was doglike, this pure delight in sensations and sounds and smells, this inability to speak.
Warren was such a good lay. She’d known that for a while, of course, but sometimes it scared her. When they made love, she forgot who she was. She didn’t want for anything, didn’t question anything. For hours after, it was as if Warren could take her to a cliff and push her over the side, and Zoe would go willingly, smiling the whole way down. . . .
From somewhere on the street below came a blast of gun-fire. Dogs howled in protest and Zoe’s whole body tensed up, but Warren just laughed. “Fireworks.”
Zoe exhaled. “Did you arrange them?”
“Don’t need to,” he said. “They set them off here nearly every night—saints’ birthdays, revolutionary heroes, a wedding, a funeral. . . . Any excuse to celebrate, San Estebanses will take it and run with it.”
“How do you know it’s not a gun?”
“Guns are illegal here—except for the police.”
Zoe smiled. “That’s nice,” she said, the last word drowned out by another explosive burst as the sky lit up red, green and white.
She tensed up again and gasped; she cou
ldn’t help it. Zoe had always worn her nerves close to the surface—an odd trait for a onetime crime reporter. Loud noises made her want to coil up and jump out of her skin.
Warren said, “Wait a second.” He left the tub and Zoe heard a softer pop and then he was back again in a terry cloth robe, holding two glasses of champagne and an extra robe for Zoe. “You think of everything.” Zoe slipped out of the tub and took one of the glasses and drank the champagne—very dry, with a soothing little burn from the bubbles that eased the pinch in her shoulders, warmed her throat. She let Warren wrap the robe around her, pressing his powerful body against her as he tied the belt. “I meant what I said in the car, Zoe. I would never put you in any danger.”
“I know.”
“I’ll always protect you, always keep you safe.” Zoe turned and looked at him. The candlelight softened Warren’s chiseled features, and it was with utmost gentleness that he stroked her cheek. But what struck Zoe most was the way he was looking at her—such fierce caring in his eyes. A healing gaze. It wasn’t a thought she’d ever had before; they weren’t words she would normally choose. But then again, she’d never been looked at in quite that way. Warren said, “I know about Daryl Barclay.”
A scattering of fireworks punctuated the sentence. Zoe’s jaw dropped open. She backed away. “You . . . How do you—”
“Don’t be upset.”
She said nothing—just stared at him, questions racing through her mind.
“About six weeks ago,” he said, “Kathy Kinney was talking about it at a Day’s End fan event. My ears perked up when I heard your name.”
Zoe’s voice came back. “What the hell does Kathy know about it?”
“She said you used to be a crime reporter. Covered the Barber-Butcher murders for the Daily News under the name Zoe Jacobson.”
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