Heartless

by Alison Gaylin

  “I’m not a reporter,” said Zoe. “I’m a potential witness.” But he had gone back to work. She no longer existed in his world.

  Another cop was gesturing to the top of a lifeless arm. “¡Mira!” he said. “Un pinchazo de aguja.”

  Zoe turned away, knowing no one was going to tell her what those words meant. No one was going to tell her anything, other than “Please leave, señorita.” And in the past that would have been enough for her. In the past five years, anyway, she would have just turned and left. But not now.

  She grabbed a pen out of her purse, found a receipt inside and wrote on the back of it, sounding out the words: Un pinchazo de agoo-ha. Then she slipped the receipt into her wallet.

  Maybe she could find someone downstairs who would talk to her. She began to head down, but in the middle of the second flight, she felt rough hands on the backs of her arms and someone yanking her onto the landing. She jerked away, but the hands were on her again, and then he was in front of her, grasping her shoulders, shoving her into the wall. Dr. Dave. “I told you not to be too long,” he said between his teeth.

  She pushed him off and glared at him. “Get away from me.”

  Dave’s face was inches away from hers. His voice was calm, quiet. “Let me explain something to you. You are a tourist. The rest of us are not. What you saw last night may not be your cup of tea, but for many of us, it is a way of life, and if it is revealed, it will be destroyed. Do you have any idea how the people here treat alternative religions?” He moved even closer. She felt his dry breath on her skin. “Do you?”

  “No, but I don’t—”

  “Do not tell the police about Grace. Do not tell them about Sangre Para La Vida. Do not say a word about what happened last night, and you will be safe.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “Do not ask questions. You don’t need answers. Just go back to Warren’s, book yourself an earlier flight back to New York City and cut your loss.” He smiled. “He’s obviously not the right guy for you.”

  “Listen, if there was someone killed in the exact same way as Jordan and—”

  “Grace wasn’t killed.”

  “What?”

  “She died of a broken heart.”

  Zoe stared at him. “You’re sick.”

  “You are not needed here,” he said. “He never should have brought you. Go home.”

  He turned, headed down the stairs. Zoe watched him go, a chill moving through her as she thought, I’m staying. And I’m asking questions, too.

  In the courtyard by the front door, she saw a group of three bored-looking young officers. One was chewing bubble gum; the other two were smoking cigarettes—all of them silent, as if talking were the most pointless possible thing to do with one’s mouth. They wore M16s slung across their hips like guitars. “¿Habla inglés?” Zoe said.

  The smokers shook their heads, but the gum chewer nodded. He had a thick, glossy black mustache that looked like a sable wrap for a Barbie doll. It bounced up and down as he chewed his gum, and Zoe couldn’t stop staring at it. It was such an odd look for a young guy from this century. Bet he’s a Magnum fan. “Terrible crime, huh?” she said.

  He shrugged his shoulders, his expression growing more bored, if that was possible.

  Zoe said, “Can I ask your professional opinion about something?”

  Another shrug.

  “Do you think she knew her attacker?”

  He narrowed his eyes at her, and she could practically read his thoughts. Crazy gringa. Then he shrugged again.

  “Look. I may have a lead for you. It’s a group that Mrs. Woods used to be involved in and . . .”

  He looked like he was going to fall asleep.

  “Maybe I could speak to your chief.”

  “The comandante is busy.”

  She started to leave, thinking maybe she could just find the comandante on her own. But then the thought hit her.

  “Magnum, P.I.”

  The gum chewer’s eyebrows went up. “¿Cómo?”

  She shrugged. “You look exactly like him. Don’t tell me nobody’s ever told you that. I mean, I know it’s before your time, but it’s uncanny.”

  “You know that show?”

  “Know it? I love it.” She gave him a conspiriatory grin. “So you think Higgins was really Robin Masters or what?”

  He actually smiled. “Yes. Yes, I do.” He stuck out his hand. “I am Mateo.”

  She shook his hand. “Zoe.” Never before had she been so grateful to her parents for placing no restrictions on her TV viewing when she had been in elementary school. “You know, though,” she said, “I never thought they gave TC enough airtime.” She made as if to leave, and Mateo stopped her. “That is the comandante—over there.” He gestured at a stocky man standing in a doorway across the courtyard talking on a cell phone, his back turned. “If you wait a little, I’m sure he will see you.”

  Zoe smiled. “Thanks.”

  Mateo watched the comandante. “I do think she knew her attacker,” he said quietly.

  “You do?”

  He nodded. “The comandante—I heard him say there were no signs of forced entry, and there seemed to be no defense wounds. This is very, very frightening because . . .”

  “Because . . .”

  “Her nephew, Jordan Brink, had no defense wounds either. The murders were identical, except Mrs. Woods’s heart was removed from the scene.”

  Zoe stared at him. His eyes were wide. Zoe saw the hint of fear in them. “You don’t think . . . You don’t believe Carlos Royas killed Jordan?”

  He shook his head. “I know Carlos. We took an English class together. He is—how would you say it—a wuss?”

  She nodded.

  “He would get beat up, never fight back. One time, a girl in our class cut her finger and he nearly fainted.”

  “But he robbed graves.”

  “I am sure he did not do that for himself.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Someone forced him into it—for whatever reason.” He looked at her. “It would not be hard to force Carlos to do anything.”

  “Confess to a murder, for instance.”

  “Sí. But the comandante believed his confession, so . . .”

  “Bet he doesn’t anymore.”

  Mateo leaned in close. “He does. He believes this one is a copycat. Perhaps one of Carlos’s friends . . .”

  Zoe remembered what Naomi had said: Alejandro called me and said he was serving someone evil and that I should stop asking questions. “His friends can be forced, too.”

  “No doubt.”

  Alejandro, whose dead father’s gun wound up in Warren’s garden safe. “Do you happen to know if an American stopped by the station this morning? He was supposed to be bringing in a firearm.”

  “No,” he said. “We were very quiet until . . .” He was staring at her.

  “What?”

  “That cross around your neck. Jordan Brink had one. Exactly like it.”

  Zoe’s breath caught. She felt her pulse start to speed up. Jordan, Grace and Zoe. They all had that same cross.

  Zoe backed up into a sturdy body. She turned, and found herself face-to-face with the stocky man Mateo had pointed out to her earlier. “Zoe, this is our comandante.” Mateo said something in Spanish, then turned to Zoe. “I told him you might have a new lead in this case.”

  The comandante looked at her. “Dígame.” But Zoe couldn’t speak. She could only stare at the dark mole on the comandate’s cheek . . . like a drop of fresh ink. He smiled at the cross around her neck, and her gaze flew to the man’s large hands, and she knew their salt taste. She knew the feel of his fist in her mouth.

  “Go on,” said Mateo.

  “He . . . already knows,” Zoe said. Barely able to breathe, she headed for the door.

  On the street outside Patty Woods’s house, the air was fresh and fragrant with flowers and hot food. But Zoe still felt death on her skin, in her nose and her throat and her veins, as if she wa
s oozing death, as if she’d been marinated in it.

  Zoe had told Naomi that evil wasn’t catching—but maybe death was. Patty had caught it from Jordan, who had caught it from Grace. And now Zoe was in danger of catching death, too.

  But who had been the initial carrier? She was afraid she knew. . . .

  Zoe felt Warren’s cross around her neck—the same cross Grace had worn, the same one Jordan had worn. And while Patty hadn’t worn one, a cross had been slashed into her cheek—by Warren. Warren hated Patty. He had referred to Jordan’s murder and mutilation as “karma” and had said, Now she knows what it’s like to have a visitor disappear. He had called Grace, simply, “a long time ago . . .” Warren, who had had something with Grace that looked like love but maybe wasn’t . . .

  Warren also had the gun of Alejandro’s dead father—and, unless Xavier had inexplicably stolen it when he’d brought Zoe home, then Warren had taken the gun and disappeared with it while she slept. . . .

  Warren, who could convince a cynical Jewish woman to wear a cross around her neck and attend a bloodletting ceremony and feel the healing power of a seven-foot piece of granite. Warren could make a love slave out of nearly every woman in this town—and, Zoe was sure, could easily convince a “wuss” like Carlos to take the rap for a murder. Zoe closed her eyes, and she was with Warren again on the roof, during her first night in San Esteban. She could see the fireworks illuminating his clear blue eyes as he told her, You are not a killer. She could hear the way he had said it, with such intensity, as if he were speaking, not to Zoe, but to himself. . . .

  Now Zoe was on the floor of Rafael’s sunroom in the midst of that nightmarish ceremony. Warren was bursting in, stopping Rafael from cutting her. . . . But he’d sounded more intent on humiliating Rafael than on saving Zoe. You have to take them unconscious now? Are you really that weak? And if he had truly wanted to save Zoe, why had he left without her? Had Warren really wanted Rafael to stop? Or had he wanted to be the one with the knife?

  Zoe’s muscles tightened. Her stomach seized up and her heart fluttered in her chest and she nearly felt like screaming. Please don’t let it be true. Please, please, please let me be wrong. . . .

  At the end of the street, Zoe spotted Vanessa and Naomi in the jardín. They were sitting on the same bench Naomi had shared with Zoe just two days ago. She remembered Naomi telling her that she hadn’t been able to cry with her aunt, but she was now, sobbing into Vanessa’s chest as the older woman held her tightly. Zoe felt tears spring into her own eyes, and she wanted so much to do that, to relax enough to sob; to be in the presence of someone she could trust; to be able to ask questions and get answers, real answers. . . .

  Carlos Royas didn’t kill Jordan. . . . Mrs. Royas has proof.

  Zoe tore back up the street to the front of the church, and asked a priest in flowing robes where she could find the farmacia, hoping with all she had that Alma Royas was at work today.

  TWENTY-THREE

  The pharmacy was dark, empty except for the one small woman who sat at the counter, rocking a basket, the baby’s screams piercing the air. Zoe walked up to her, locking eyes with her as she got closer. “Mrs. Royas?”

  “Sí.” Her eyes were so dark they looked hollow. Zoe wondered if her son’s were the same. As Zoe neared, she flinched, as if she was afraid of being hit.

  Zoe tried a smile. She glanced at the baby, still screaming, its face twisted and red, lying on its left side. “Qué bonita,” she said. “¿Cómo se llama?”

  “Dolores.”

  A baby named pain. Zoe peered at the tiny girl. “Is she sick?”

  Alma shook her head, and Zoe thought, She understands some English. “It’s okay,” Zoe whispered to the baby. “It’s okay. . . .” Alma kept rocking the baby until finally she quieted down and fell asleep.

  “Mrs. Royas,” Zoe said softly, “I know your son didn’t kill Jordan Brink.”

  The other woman’s eyes went wide. She shook her head. “No, no, no. Carlos le mató. . . .”

  “I know because there was another woman today, killed the exact same way.”

  Alma looked at Zoe blankly.

  Zoe racked her brain for the Spanish. “Hay otra persona. Corazón . . . sacado.”

  “No,” she said.

  “Sí. Es verdad. Patty Woods. Le conoce?”

  Alma’s jaw dropped open, and a new pain seeped into her wounded eyes. She did know Patty Woods. Very well.

  “Mrs. Royas, did Carlos have any friendships with . . . older Americans?”

  “Jordan.”

  “No. No, I know he knew Jordan. Older. Mucho más viejo que Jordan. Anybody who you might think—”

  “Mi hijo le mató a Jordan Brink.”

  “Mrs. Royas, no es verdad y usted. . . .” Zoe racked her brain for the right Spanish words, but finally her emotions took over. “Mira.” She showed Mrs. Royas the cross around her neck. Alma’s eyes went huge with recognition. “Mira.” Zoe yanked her shirt down, showed Alma the cuts on her chest. “There is a killer out there, Mrs. Royas, and it isn’t your son and you know that.”

  “Mi hijo le mató a Jordan Brink.” Alma’s voice was taut, trembling as if someone were holding a gun to her head. Zoe stared at her. She couldn’t figure it out. Even if Alma didn’t care who else got killed, even if someone were holding a gun to her head, what mother would keep telling a lie like that about her own son?

  Zoe shook her head. She opened her mouth, started to tell Alma again that she knew that wasn’t the truth, but what was the point? They were talking in circles. What mother . . . “No se comprendo,” Zoe said. I don’t understand you. But she didn’t know whether the translation carried with it the meaning she intended.

  “Lo siento,” said Alma. Her eyes pleaded. Zoe started to leave. Then the baby began to cry again, and Alma picked her up, comforting her. That was when Zoe saw it—the metaphorical gun at Alma’s head. . . . The baby’s right cheek was bandaged, but through the gauze, the wound still oozed blood—two slashes, in the shape of a cross.

  Why would she be afraid? Naomi had said back at El Boracho, after Alma had called her, after she’d taken back everything she had said about her son’s innocence. Why would she be afraid? Zoe’s throat clenched up as she pictured the scene—a scene too horrifying for words—that had taken place here, after Naomi had left.

  This is why. “Warren,” Zoe whispered.

  But Alma just looked at her blankly. The baby’s crying eased, and Alma placed her back in the basket.

  “I’m so sorry,” Zoe said. She reached over the counter and hugged Alma Royas. To her surprise, Alma hugged her back. She put both arms around Zoe and squeezed her with a fierceness that seemed impossible for so frail a body. Alma Royas held Zoe like a lifeline, like the last chance she would ever have. She turned her head and brought her lips to Zoe’s ear and whispered one word, very quietly. And then finally she pulled away, and began tucking blankets around the baby.

  “Gracias,” said Zoe, but Alma didn’t answer. She didn’t even watch Zoe leave. She’d said what she needed to say. She could be quiet, now. As Zoe walked out of the store and into the bright sunlight, that one word echoed in her head: master.

  When Rudolph Lehman had first placed his hands on La Cruz de San Esteban, he had finally understood the meaning of the words changed man. He’d been an unsuccessful rock musician, an unsuccessful artist, and after he’d finally settled down and gotten married and gone to divinity school, he lasted seven years as an unsuccessful minister at a congregation in Glendale before he was falsely accused of skimming money from the coffers and kicked out of his job.

  He’d escaped to Mexico with his wife, Lorelle. But no sooner had they settled into their home in San Miguel de Allende than Lorelle was diagnosed with stage four pancreatic cancer and given three months to live.

  That cross, though, that magnificent cross . . . Lorelle had been gone two weeks, and Rudolph had taken the bus to San Esteban, just to get away from the medicine-and-perfume-and-vomit s
mell of their house. The plan had been to find a cantina and drink mescal until he could no longer stand up . . . but he’d stopped at the cross instead. He’d placed his hands on it, and gazed into the face of that Aztec bird and felt his whole body vibrate. He had closed his eyes and Lorelle had come to him in a vision, whispering, It is your calling . . . It wasn’t until he opened his eyes again and felt the cool breeze on his wet face that he realized he’d been sobbing.

  Later, he learned the legend from Reiki Master Paul— San Esteban had been built on a bed of healing crystals and the cross, which had been made from the ruins of an Aztec temple, had been placed there as a conduit. But at that moment, with no knowledge of San Esteban that wasn’t sensory, Rudolph Lehman knew he would never leave. At forty, he had finally found his home, his work, his life, his calling . . . and not a moment too soon.

  That night, he took a cab to Las Aguas. He bathed in the waters and became young again. He took out the obsidian knife he’d received from the Brazilian shaman. He cut out all his weakness, all his sadness and his loss and his powerlessness. He fed the earth with it and saw flowers bloom before him. He sliced Rudolph Lehman to bits. And he became Rafael.

  Since then, all he had wanted to do in life was to help others cut away their weakness and feed the energy source . . . to help others become as strong as Rafael.

  Rafael opened his eyes, the memory still in his muscles— his first encounter with La Cruz. “Arise, arise . . . ,” he whispered. He took a long, slow pull off his bottle of tequila and gazed at the picture of Grace on the wall of his sunroom and thought, How very far we’ve come since that day. How very far down. Rafael didn’t like others to see him drink. It was a sign of weakness, an invitation for them all to take advantage. But today was his butler, Emilio’s, day off, and he had no class to teach. He was alone, completely alone with his painting and his memories.

  Rafael took another swallow, felt the sweet burn as it traveled down. . . .

  God, youth was such a cruel thing. It stuck around just long enough for you to figure out what to do with it, and then it up and left, followed by everything you ever loved. Everything . . . He looked up at the portrait, into the eyes of his Grace—gone five years, almost to the day. Just eighteen years old, but such a wise, wonderful soul. Such a beautiful body, such a precious mind . . . The one woman in the world whom he’d loved as much as Lorelle, and she too had left him. She had left him twice.