You may not have use for the past, Warren. But I do.
Zoe crept out of bed. She held her breath, padded over to Warren’s desk as lightly as she could, as if she were made of crepe paper, listening to his snore the whole while. As she slid open the top drawer, she heard a slight catch in his breathing and froze. But before long it was regular again.
In one fluid movement, Zoe slipped the key out of the drawer, pulled her cell phone out of its charger and slid the drawer closed again. Then as fast as she could, she stole out of the room. It wasn’t until she reached the roof garden safe that she realized she’d forgotten the penlight. But it was okay. There was enough light. It was the night before a full moon.
Steve was at a Broadway show with Debbie Cohn, but it wasn’t Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat. It was a production of Phantom of the Opera, starring Warren Clark as the Phantom, Zoe as that chick the Phantom had a thing for—Christine? Was that her name?—and Glen Campbell, the singer not the reporter, as a tap-dancing clown. Clark was on his knees, center stage, belting out a tour de force version of “The Music of the Night,” as Glen Campbell did a soft-shoe and Zoe stood off to the side in a bright red gown watching Clark, her hands clasped next to her face like Olive Oyl watching Popeye. All of a sudden, Clark stopped singing, pulled a switchblade, rushed up to Zoe and stabbed her in the heart. “Now that’s what I call a plot twist,” Debbie whispered as Steve watched horrified, wanting to save Zoe but unable to move.
Then Debbie started singing, “Tommy, Can You Hear Me?” and Steve said, “Hey, that’s my ring tone,” and he realized it was his ring tone and then he woke up.
He looked at his clock. Two in the morning. Who the hell was calling his cell phone at two in the morning? He looked at the screen and saw Zoe’s cell number. He remembered Jordan Brink’s list—a bad list, he was sure—and his blood went cold. “Zoe? Are you all right?”
“Yeah, Steve. I’m fine.”
He exhaled. “Jesus. You scared the hell out of—”
“I know. I’m really sorry. I was just wondering if you could do me a favor.” She was whispering. It was hard to hear.
Steve rubbed his eyes. “Sure.”
“Can you get one of your police sources to run an NCIC check for me? I’ve got a serial number.”
He sat up. Zoe hadn’t asked a question like that since she had police sources of her own. “Are you serious?” he said. “What . . . did Clark pull a gun on you?”
He’d been joking, but Zoe didn’t laugh. “Nothing like that,” she said. “It’s a girl I met here. She found it in her boyfriend’s things and she told me the serial number. Asked if I had any reporter friends . . .”
“Sure, Zoe. Gimme the number. I’ll call my buddy at the Sixth, John Krull.”
“You’re the best ever. It’s 074764.”
“Got it. Easy to remember.
“Oh, and it’s a forty-five caliber. Semiautomatic. Glock.”
“You bet. Hey . . . Zoe?”
“Yeah?”
“How come you called me about this at two in the morning?”
There was a brief pause, then, “I miss you, Steve.” And before he could ask any more, she ended the call.
Steve probably thought she was nuts. Zoe knew this as she hit END, but if you took every troubling thought that was worming its way through her brain right now, and you lined them all up and weighed them against one another, Steve thinking she was crazy was the lightest by far.
The heaviest was the sound of movement she heard through the open bedroom door. Warren was awake. He was getting out of bed. “Zoe?”
Gritting her teeth, she put the gun back in the safe. Then she placed the scarf back on top and locked the door. “I’m out here!” she said.
“I know.”
She turned around. He had been standing right behind her. For how long, she wasn’t sure. She swallowed. “Oh, hi,” she said. “You scared me.”
“Who were you talking to?”
“Huh?”
He pointed to her cell.
“Oh, right. I was . . . just calling home. Checking my machine.”
He stroked her cheek, gazed into her eyes. “Come back to bed.”
“Okay.” She kissed him and followed him back to the room, her heart racing, the key a sharp secret in the palm of her hand.
A mile away, in a four-poster bed on the top floor of Studio Rafael, Vanessa lay with the Master, awake and worried. She had come by hours ago, unable to say anything other than “I need you.”
The Master had obliged. The Master always obliged, making love to Vanessa for hours, filling her so completely that it was transformative. There was no other like him, no one in the world.
Rafael was filled with light. It poured out of his eyes and his hands and his mouth and his skin, and when he was inside you, it was like the sun being inside you. It was almost too much for Vanessa to bear.
It wasn’t often that she needed the Master, but she had needed him tonight. She needed him still, only in other ways, and for the first time since she had arrived, she turned to him and spoke. “It’s happening. The press knows about SPLV.”
Rafael shook his head. “Patty told us she wouldn’t say anything. She promised, no matter what—”
“I got a call from a reporter, Rafael,” she said. “He started innocently enough, asking about my friendship with Warren, about what life was like in San Esteban. Then . . .” She brushed a hand against the side of his face. “He asked me how I knew Jordan.”
“Vanessa.”
“Not if. How. The way he said it . . . He asked how Warren knew Jordan—and if he might have been angry with him.”
“Warren?”
“Yes . . . I told him that Warren had never even met Jordan, but he didn’t seem to believe me. Everything he said had Patty Woods written all over it.”
“Are you sure?”
“He asked me . . . He asked if I was worried for Naomi.”
“Oh, my poor dear.”
“You don’t understand,” said Vanessa. “Patty had asked me the same thing. Used the same words that Glen . . . that this reporter did. Are you afraid that Naomi might be next?”
Rafael stared at her. Until she had met Rafael, Vanessa had always thought it was David Bowie who had the most mesmerizing eyes she’d ever seen. Rafael’s eyes were astounding—amber globes with lit candles inside. But in all seven years of gazing into those globes, she had never seen them like this. It frightened her.
He parted her lips with a finger, and his touch was so gentle. The opposite of his eyes. “I will,” he said softly, “take care of this.”
FOURTEEN
When Patty was fifty, she’d had a lump removed from her breast. After a biopsy, it was determined noncancerous, and Patty had experienced a palpable sense of relief, a glorious, daylong sigh. Interestingly, though, it wasn’t the biopsy results that had made her feel that way—it was the lumpectomy.
Cancerous or not, the thing’s presence on her body—its attachment to her—had upset her so much, she couldn’t sleep. She began thinking of the lump as a breathing entity, sucking the spark out of her moment by moment, in some kind of awful science fiction way.
Being rid of the lump freed her. It made her think she could start over. It made her feel . . . not young again, but more alive than she’d felt in a while. And that was what she hoped it would be like when she was free of San Esteban.
Patty needed a new lease on life so badly.
They were still doing it. She had been right about that much. They were still taking young adults and bleeding them dry, stealing their spirit and sucking out their hope and using it for what they claimed was a greater good—but was it?
She remembered the way they had all stood in front of her yesterday—the coven elders. All of them wearing the same cold stare. Warren Clark’s stare. She’d planned on just speaking to Rafael, but she’d gone through with it nonetheless. She’d come this far; there was no turning back.
�
��Maguey spines were placed in my nephew’s hands,” she had said, her voice much frailer and older than it had been in her imaginings. “He was killed and laid out exactly like Grace.”
Oh, how they had all gasped at the word Grace, as if saying her name were worse than what had been done to the poor girl, to poor Jordan. . . . Listening to those gasps, Patty had felt something snap, deep within her. The fear dissolved. Anger poured ice-cold through her whole body, freezing her toes, her hands, her face, making her numb and strong—a glacier. She stared directly at Warren Clark. The words crashed out. “What were you saying to Jordan in front of La Cruz?”
“What?”
His stare didn’t frighten her, the cruel twist of the mouth. “You heard me. I saw you talking to my nephew by the cross at midnight. He was murdered twenty-four hours later, and I want to know what you said to him.”
Rafael said, “Is this true, Warren?”
“I have no idea what she’s talking about.”
“You must be mistaken, Patty,” Rafael said.
“I’m not—”
“She needs to be punished,” Warren said, “for saying the name of G.”
Patty had said, “You can’t be serious.” But Rafael had nodded and Vanessa had nodded.
“Yes, it must be done,” she had said. Vanessa, that weak-willed bitch. And every last one of them had stood there, silent. They had let Warren Clark take Rafael’s obsidian knife and cut Patty’s face with it. They had let him spit on that cut and walk away, and they had done nothing.
Not a shred of sympathy for a grieving woman.
Patty closed her eyes. Cut it off. Throw it out. Forget them all. You’ll have a new life soon.
Patty was standing in her bedroom. Her bags were all packed. She hadn’t called the car service yet, but she would. She had time. It was nine a.m., and her plane didn’t leave till twelve thirty.
Patty heard her doorbell ring, but she didn’t answer it. Could have been Jehovah’s Witnesses or the peanut-and-corn man or the mango girl or Vanessa, stopping by to say she was sorry. Patty had no desire to see any of them.
She waited until the doorbell stopped ringing, then maybe ten, fifteen minutes more before she walked out into her courtyard, and climbed the two flights of stairs to her rooftop patio. There was a small white wrought-iron table up there, a few dying plants and a metal arbor festooned with tiny white Christmas lights that Patty never turned on anymore.
When her husband, Charlie, was alive, there had been different plants up here—potted white hibiscus and impatiens and even a few camellias—their petals reminded Patty of melted strawberry sundaes. Every night at twilight, the two of them would sit at this table. Charlie would turn on the Christmas lights and pour himself a glass of pinot grigio, give Patty a cup of her favorite tea. Together they’d watch the breathtaking sunset, holding hands, feeling so lucky it was shameful.
Until one day, when they were walking home from the mercado. Charlie was carrying home a bag of avocados, and suddenly, he started complaining about how heavy it was. His face turned bright red and he got to feeling so winded he couldn’t stand up. The numbness in the left arm came next, and Patty knew enough to realize what that was.
At the time, the town had not yet built a cell phone tower, so Patty banged on the nearest door and asked for the teléfono. She called the hospital, explaining in her terrible Spanish what had happened, but by the time she got back outside, her husband of thirty years was on his back next to the spilled bag of avocados, his eyes closed. Patty put her ear against his chest and heard . . . nothing. She might as well have been putting her ear to the ground. She looked at his face and even that was different. Charlie wasn’t in there anymore. Patty tried to scream, but she couldn’t breathe. Charlie was gone, and it was as if the air had suddenly turned to water and she was holding the body he’d left behind, sinking with it. . . .
That was fifteen years ago. One year later to the day, she had met Rafael.
Patty’s throat clenched up a little. She felt tears coming and choked them down, closed her eyes until they went away because these were the worst kind of tears. The ones that you cried over what might have been. If only you’d done things differently. If only you’d said no instead of yes. If only, if only, if only . . . As Charlie used to say, What’s done is done. Life doesn’t have an eraser.
Patty walked to the edge of her rooftop patio and looked down at the sidewalk below. Two hopeful-looking street dogs were trailing a Mexican family, the little boy laughing, telling a sister, Soy muy fuerte. I am very strong.
Patty said it herself. “Soy muy fuerte.” I am very strong. I will survive.
“Patty.” It was a whisper so thin, it seemed to come from within her mind. But she knew it hadn’t. Someone was standing on the roof behind her.
She turned around, confusion overtaking her in a wave. She looked at the intruder. “What are you doing here?” Patty said. “Why are you whispering like . . . ?” Her mouth kept moving, but her voice faded away. She felt rough hands on her, surgical gloves. But all she could do was stare at the hypodermic needle, feel the sting as it drained into her arm.
Finally, she snapped out of it. She started to scream, but realized quickly that she couldn’t open her mouth. This was not the result of fear or nerves. She was physically unable. What had been in that needle?
She tried to run, but her legs wouldn’t move. The only movement she had seemed to be in her shoulders. She tried to propel herself forward, but it was impossible. Her arms flopped and flailed at her sides, useless growths. Her hands couldn’t grasp; her elbows couldn’t bend. She wanted to gulp air, but she could only manage shallow breaths. Her legs buckled. She saw a large black bag on her patio tiles as she fell.
What is going on? What do you want from me?
Patty was laid on her back with a surprising gentleness. “It’s called pancuronium. It isn’t legal in the States anymore, but in Mexico, it’s easy to get hold of.”
She stared up into that familiar face. Why?
“It’s a muscle relaxant. Since I gave it to you subcutaneously, it took a little longer to set in. But by now, you shouldn’t be able to move anything. You’re able to breathe, but not deeply. You should know that if you try too deep a breath . . . you might choke.” The intruder unbuttoned and took off her blouse, removed her bra, and again she thought, Why, why? Patty felt the sun on her bare chest, those eyes on her skin, cold and appraising. It was humiliating. She wanted to fight back, wanted to scream, wanted to push those hands away . . . but she could not. She couldn’t even cry.
“You understand you’ve done wrong, Patty. This is your punishment.”
Punishment? Patty couldn’t move her shoulders anymore. Her hands were laid flat on the tiles, palms facing up. Out of the bag came a gleaming black knife and two maguey spines. The knowledge barreled through her. No, please, no. I didn’t do anything wrong! All I did was tell the truth, and I won’t tell anyone else, I swear! She screamed the words within her closed trap of a body, its mouth still, its eyes open and focused, its skin feeling . . . everything. One spine was placed in her left palm, the other in her right. The thorns scratched her skin, and then the face was close. She felt warm breath on her eyes.
If only she could close her eyes.
“Pancuronium is only a muscle relaxant.” She watched the knife coming toward her. . . . “It’s not a painkiller.”
Patty felt the blade slicing into her chest. Her mind roiled—terror, then explosive, unbearable pain. Her bladder released, soaking her immobile legs.
“It’s interesting, how this type of trauma separates the body from the mind.”
Stop, stop, please stop, please. . . .
“Two people can have the exact same ugliness inside. They can hurt others with very similar words and actions. But when the punishment takes place, each of their bodies will respond in its own unique way.” The knife came away. Patty’s killer regarded her with curious eyes. “Jordan didn’t wet himself. But you did.”
Jordan. The police had said he never fought back; there were no signs of a struggle. At the time, Patty had thought that was good. At least he had been unconscious when it happened. . . .
He was conscious.
“There’s no fighting it, Patricia Anne. It’s karma. All you can do is take the punishment you deserve . . . and let the body react.” The knife was back, cutting deeper, and she wished her mind could conjure a kind face, a place she could escape to. But it would not.
As her agony escalated and darts of white light shot through her eyes, Patty thought about the name she’d been called. Patricia Anne. She hadn’t been called Patricia Anne since her first communion, and it was strange, hearing that name from the last voice in her life. She held on to the thought, just for a few moments. Then the gloved hands went into the black bag. And they pulled out the bolt cutters.
For the second morning in a row, Zoe woke up alone. This time, there was a note on the pillow. But all it read was, BE BACK SOON—W. No I.L.Y. Zoe wondered if Warren was mad at her. What if he had seen her locking the safe last night after all?
Zoe stretched. If he knew, wouldn’t he have confronted her? She checked the bedside clock. Eleven thirty a.m. A little better than yesterday, but not much. The altitude was still taking its toll on her sleeping habits. She sat up . . . and that was when she saw it glistening next to her pillow. The key.
Oh no, no, no . . . She remembered: After they’d gone back to bed, Zoe had lain next to Warren for the longest time, awake with her eyes closed, waiting for his breathing to turn into a snore so she could sneak back to the desk and slip the key back in. Snore, Warren, snore . . . , she had thought, the chant running through her head. Snore, Warren, snore. . . . But the snore had never come and the chant had lulled her asleep and she’d passed out until eleven thirty a.m. with a stolen key in her hand.
Damn, damn, damn, damn . . .
Maybe he hadn’t noticed. Maybe he’d just showered and gotten dressed and left hours ago. The desk drawer was still closed. No reason to believe that he knew she’d opened his safe again, that he had noticed the key on the sheets.
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