“Warren told you that?”
“Yeah. He stayed with him a week, and they had a fight and he disappeared.”
“Did Warren tell you about the audition?”
“You mean, the one where they ran into each other after high school? Got back in touch?”
“Yeah. Did he tell you what it was for?”
“He said he didn’t remember.”
“Bullshit,” said Steve.
“Excuse me?”
“It was an audition for The Day’s End. Dr. Matthias Caldwell.”
Zoe gasped, audibly.
“Nicholas got the part.”
After they finished their coffee, Steve insisted on paying the bill. “So just to make sure we’re on the same page,” he said, “Warren’s buddy gets the part he wants, then mysteriously disappears. When everybody is hassling Warren, he receives an equally mysterious gift—which happens to be an illegal firearm. Jordan and Patty—neither of whom Warren particularly likes—threaten to tell the world about SPLV, and die horrible deaths. A guy confesses to Jordan’s killing, and it turns out his best friend’s dad is the owner of aforementioned illegal firearm—which winds up being used in the so-called suicide of Warren’s new job rival.”
“That’s about it,” said Zoe.
“Can I ask you something?” said Steve. “Is there any murder in this town that isn’t connected to Warren?”
“The thing is, though, there’s a witness who claims to have seen Rafael taking the gun from Warren’s place. I don’t know why he’d say that if . . .” An image flashed into Zoe’s mind—Warren talking to Xavier outside Las Aguas. The admiring way that Xavier had looked at him, the reverence with which he’d led them both into the baths . . . Señor Clark is singular. “I guess he could have been convinced to say that to the police,” she said. “Warren can be very convincing.”
Steve nodded. “Most cult leaders are.”
I slept with a cult leader. “There’s one more of those names that I want to check out,” she said.
Steve looked at her. She pulled the steno pad out of his pocket, pointed to the second name on Jordan’s X list.
“Grace?”
“Yep.”
“She’s connected to Warren, too?”
Zoe nodded. “I’m pretty sure she was cheating on Rafael with Warren.” She handed Steve the notebook back and stood up from the table.
Steve gave her a smile. “You really do have crappy taste in men.”
“Don’t rub it in,” she said. “Anyway, I think we should go talk to Vanessa about Grace. She seems to—”
Zoe stopped. In the rear corner of the restaurant, she saw him—drinking a shot of tequila alone, his glasses on the table. He was no longer crying as he’d been in the police station, but his face was tight with grief. Dr. Dave. She walked over to him. Steve followed.
Zoe didn’t say Dave’s name. She just stood over him, waiting for him to finish the shot. She remembered how he was when drunk, how he had kept asking Warren about Patty—a hostile drunk, yes. A bad drunk. But truthful.
Dave looked up at her. He said nothing.
Zoe said, “Why did Rafael kill Jordan and Patty?”
Dave swallowed. His eyes were still wet. “He didn’t,” he said. “He wouldn’t.”
Zoe glanced at Steve, then back at him. “Who would?”
“Rafael,” he said. “Pastor Rudolph. He was a wonderful man. He wanted nothing but good for all of us. But he let the devil into our group, and before he could make it right again, the devil got them all. Jordan. Patty. Poor Nick Denby . . .”
Steve said, “Nick Denby?”
Dave kept looking at Zoe. “Rafael shouldn’t have drugged you. He was very sorry about that. Nextlhualli only works if the young person is alert and willing.”
“Who is the devil, Dave?”
“If you are willing, it is beautiful. Rafael understood that. . . . That is why he let Jordan go, because he stopped being willing. Nick Denby. He was never willing.”
Zoe said, “Nick Denby was bloodlet?”
“Yes. Warren encouraged it, and Nick went along, but he felt humiliated afterward. He vowed to tell the producers of that soap opera about Warren’s involvement in the group. They fought about it in a bar. . . .”
Zoe’s eyes widened. “He never told me that.”
“He doesn’t tell much, never has.”
“Jesus,” said Steve.
Dr. Dave looked at Zoe. “Rafael was a wonderful minister and a godly human being, and if I find out for sure that Warren was the cause of his death or Nick Denby’s, then I will hunt him down and kill him myself. I swear.”
Steve and Zoe stared at Dave. His eyes were the tips of ice picks, his face a mask of hate. “Thanks for letting us know,” Steve said.
They started to walk out, but Dave said, “Wait.”
Zoe and Steve turned around.
“Even if he wasn’t the cause of anyone’s death, you should know this.” His black eyes narrowed, he stared directly at Zoe. “Warren Clark is the devil.”
Warren was dreaming his sheets were covered in short, wet hair. He stretched out, and felt damp bristles under the palms of his hands, the soles of his feet, and as his eyelids started to flutter, he thought, Grass. . . . He opened his eyes and felt the sun on his face. He heard the gentle lapping of water on rocks, and he knew, without looking around, that he was at Las Aguas.
He wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. The last thing he remembered was that ridiculous conversation with Rafael. He’d been heading out of the studio and over to his car, thinking, What a stubborn old man he is.
Just after he’d gotten into his Cherokee, Warren had felt a hand over his eyes and a needle in his arm and a voice had whispered, This will just make you sleep. No tone behind the whisper, just air. . . . And then he’d woken up here at . . . He looked at his watch. It was two in the afternoon.
He’d been out for hours. His heart started to pound. Don’t panic, he told himself. You never panic. He jumped up, ran out into the parking lot. His Cherokee was gone. “Xavier!” he called out.
But there was no answer, and Xavier’s pickup truck was gone. Of course he isn’t here. What were you thinking, shouting his name like a fool?
Warren took a breath. Keep it together. Stay calm. He was not afraid. Angry, yes. But not afraid. As far as he could tell, this was some sort of elaborate carjacking, and right when he needed to be in town the most. He needed to visit his followers. He needed to stop by the homes of Celia and Mariposa and Avery and Denise and Robin. . . . It was two in the afternoon, and still he hadn’t visited them. Not a one. If he didn’t visit them every day, if he didn’t stoke their fantasies, if he didn’t place his hands on them with his healing touch and gaze deep into their eyes and cup their faces and kiss them . . . if he didn’t minister to them, if he didn’t cut them . . . they might forget. Warren might slip out of their minds like sand through a sieve, and they’d be back to Rafael, and that could not happen. . . .
Warren would call the police. That was what he would do. Warren would call the comandante.
He walked back to the grass. He plucked his BlackBerry out of his pocket. He was about to call the comandante and report his carjacking when he noticed two text messages— one from Robin, the other from Zoe. Robin’s said: Wherever you are, lie low. Do not call police. Will explain later.
Warren frowned. Then he scrolled to Zoe’s message and read it. He texted her back.
TWENTY-FIVE
When Steve and Zoe got to Vanessa’s, Robin was there, too. It was just as well—after that look in the police station, Zoe also had questions for Robin. Vanessa poured them all cups of chamomile tea, and they sat around the dining room table, Vanessa sighing over Rafael.
Zoe had a few sips of her tea while Steve asked them basic questions about San Esteban—where he could buy a toothbrush, for instance; he’d forgotten his. Vanessa was telling him how to get to “the best convenience store in town,” when suddenly Zoe just
came out and asked her, because she couldn’t think of any way to lead in gracefully. “Did Warren have anything to do with Grace’s death?”
Naomi said, “Whoa.”
“Of course not,” said Robin. But Zoe paid attention only to Vanessa’s response.
Vanessa said, “No, he didn’t.”
“Are you sure?” said Steve.
“Warren adored Grace. We all did. Especially the Master.” She inhaled sharply. “It was four years ago. A year after . . . Jordan. Grace showed up out of nowhere, took Rafael’s painting class. Soon he was painting her himself and then she was . . . she joined us.”
“You bloodlet her,” Zoe said.
“She bloodlet herself,” said Robin.
“That’s right,” Vanessa said. “Grace believed in Rafael’s teachings more than he did. She loved Rafael even more than he loved himself. She was . . . she was special. The more she gave of herself—not just her blood but her singing and her sweetness and her soul—the more beautiful the town became. The more everyone’s lives . . .” Vanessa looked at Naomi. “Do you remember, honey? Four years ago? Remember what happened to your mom?”
“She went into remission,” Naomi said softly. “The doctors told her she was cancer-free.”
“That’s right.”
“You thought . . . you believed Rafael and Grace had cured her?” Naomi asked.
“I thought we’d all cured Lucy,” Vanessa said. “When it came to your mother, Naomi, I was willing to believe in pretty much anything.”
Naomi smiled a little. Her eyes glistened. “You’re really sweet, Aunt Vanessa,” she said. “Weird. But sweet.”
Vanessa smiled back. “Yeah, well . . . your mom is why I got involved with SPLV in the first place. She was diagnosed. I was devastated. A day later, I’m walking through town and I see this beautiful young man with his hands on La Cruz, this . . . absolutely charmed expression on his face.”
“Warren,” Robin said.
“Yes. He introduced me. I met Rafael through him. It was . . . a very special gift.”
“I don’t understand,” Zoe said. “Who killed Grace?”
“She killed herself.”
“But—”
“Rafael blamed himself for her death, his ego. She got so into giving of herself that she didn’t know when to stop. She slit her wrists and bled to death in Rafael’s sunroom. He found her. She was gone. . . .”
Naomi said, “But the maguey spines on her palms . . .”
“After he discovered she was dead, Rafael called us over—the elders in the group. We decided that this couldn’t get out. It would mean the end of all of us. Few would believe such a lively girl was capable of suicide. And there were rumors . . . about Grace and Warren. Rafael—maybe all of us—would have wound up in jail. So . . . Dave was to dispose of the body. Isn’t that right, Robin? Bring it to the abandoned silver mines in Patsquaro, just outside of San Miguel. Drop it down. . . .”
Robin stared down at her hands. “Yes.”
“God,” said Naomi.
“It’s gruesome, I know,” said Vanessa, “but we were at a loss and . . . really, we would have done anything to protect Rafael.” She took a breath. “Somehow, during the time when Grace’s body was left alone, someone cut her heart out, put the maguey spines in her hands. Like a human sacrifice . . . It was the most horrible thing any of us had ever seen. We vowed to stop practicing. But, God, Naomi, your mom got sick again as soon as we stopped. Warren started to have some troubles with his job. Dave’s and Paul’s practices began to suffer. . . .”
“Mariposa had a heart attack,” said Robin.
“So we took it up again, in secret,” Vanessa said. “Some of us were bleeding ourselves out of guilt . . . just to make up for that awful sacrifice. For disposing of that poor girl’s body in such a horrible way, and in the back of my mind, Zoe . . . in the back of my mind, I was always terrified that . . .”
“What? It’s okay. You can tell . . .”
“I was always terrified Rafael had made the sacrifice.”
“Because of the rumors?”
“Yes. Grace and Warren,” she said. “Rafael was a very jealous man.”
Zoe turned to Robin, who hadn’t directed a single word to Zoe since she’d arrived. She sensed the same strange feeling in Robin as she had at the police station, ever since the night of the ceremony, or maybe even before—that evasive-ness. . . . “Where’s your dog, Robin?”
“In my car,” she said. “I wasn’t planning on staying long, and Soccoro’s allergic.” But still, she refused to meet Zoe’s gaze.
“I used to have a dog allergy, but I got over it,” Zoe said. “On a totally different note, though, there’s something you’re not telling me.”
For the first time, Robin looked at her. She swallowed hard. “Can I talk to you in private?”
Zoe nodded. She followed Robin into Vanessa’s enormous kitchen, Steve watching them as they walked. Once the door was closed, Robin leaned up against the counter. “You’ve probably been wondering where Warren has been disappearing to . . . in the mornings.”
“Yes.”
Robin gave Zoe a long, pleading look. Then her gaze fell to the floor. “I know where he’s been.”
Zoe’s pulse speeded up. She thought of Rafael and Patty, both killed in the morning, almost exactly twenty-four hours apart . . . both killed while Warren was gone.
“Warren,” she said, “has been with me.”
Zoe coughed. “He has?”
“We’ve been having an affair.”
Zoe gaped at Robin, completely speechless. “You’re . . . you’re telling me the truth. You’re not just trying to protect . . .”
“I didn’t feel bad about it at first. I mean . . . we’ve been . . . we’ve been kind of together like this for eleven years, and I never felt guilty when he was with Patrice or Juliana or Margarita or even Grace . . . even though no one was supposed to know about him and Grace. He and I are his biggest secret, his longest. Warren calls us a beautiful secret. Every morning when he’s in town, we . . . hook up in Dave’s office, before he shows up for work.”
Zoe stared at her. “But with me you’ve felt—”
“Guilty, yeah. Because I like you. And you like Adele. How could I cheat on somebody who likes Adele as much as you do?” She tried a smile. It didn’t work.
“That’s it?” said Zoe. “That’s the whole reason why you’ve been acting so strange?”
“Yes. I didn’t want to say anything. But with you guys suspecting Warren, you need to know he has an alibi. It’s me.”
“You know, Robin,” said Zoe, “this whole conversation probably would have really upset me a couple of days ago. But as of now, I don’t give a damn.”
“Oh, thank God,” Robin said. “I’m so relieved.”
“Yeah.” Zoe frowned. “Me, too.” She looked at this girl, this child trapped in a thirty-seven-year-old’s body. She thought of the worshipful way Robin looked at Warren, and how Warren’s first choice to take to Mexico had been Tiffany Baxter, his teenage TV daughter. “Man,” Zoe whispered. So maybe Warren had an alibi. Maybe he wasn’t a murderer. Maybe it had been Rafael who had killed all those people, including himself. . . . But Warren was, most assuredly, a grade-A, USDA-prime asshole.
Unless Robin was lying about being with him in order to protect him. If that was the case, he was worse. . . .
From the other room, Naomi shouted, “Text message!”
Robin and Zoe hurried out of the kitchen, and Naomi handed Zoe her phone. Zoe. Please come to Las Aguas. I need you. Warren. Zoe rolled her eyes.
“What’s wrong?” Naomi said.
“Nothing.”
Robin said, “What’s he doing at Las Aguas?”
Zoe said, “I have no idea. But I guess I’d better go. . . .”
“I’m going with you,” said Steve.
“We need a car.”
“I’ll take you guys,” said Robin.
One big, happy family.
>
As Robin headed for the door, Steve leaned over, whispered in Zoe’s ear, “Let me guess. She gave you an alibi for Warren?”
“Yep.”
“They’ve been screwing.”
She looked at him. “Yep.”
“I’m . . . I’m sorry, Zoe.”
She smiled at him. “Crappy taste in men.”
“I want to go, too,” said Naomi.
“No,” Robin said. “You take care of your aunt. You’re safe here.” And Zoe and Steve followed Robin to the front door, Robin using her cell phone to call the police. She glanced over at them. “Just in case he’s hurt or something.”
“We’re not complaining,” said Steve. “It’s a good idea.”
“That’s my car,” said Robin, pointing to a Jeep Wrangler at the end of the road.
Zoe got in the front seat next to Robin, while Steve hopped in the back beside Adele, who was all over him like a new bride.
“Down, Adele,” Robin shouted.
“No worries,” said Steve. “I love dogs.”
Zoe didn’t say much during the drive over. Not much to say when you were going to see your narcissistic, philandering, borderline pedophile cult member of a soon-to-be ex-boyfriend with the woman who’s been his side action for more than a decade. And judging from the way she clamped the wheel and the nervous, half smile on her face, the side action felt the same way.
Warren Clark. What had Zoe been thinking? But at least he hadn’t slashed that baby’s face. At least he hadn’t done that to Patty. . . . Zoe recalled the group of officers clustered around her destroyed body. She remembered them looking at the top of her arm. She grabbed the receipt out of her purse. “Robin?” she said. “What does un pinchazo de agoo-ha mean?”
Robin frowned at the road. “It’s like . . . the prick from a needle. Why?”
“Nothing . . . just something I overheard.” Zoe glanced in the rearview mirror. An orange VW Bug from the seventies was riding the Wrangler’s tail. And, aside from being impressed that such an old car could go so fast, Zoe wondered, What is that asshole’s hurry?
Robin swerved into the right lane. The VW followed. She shifted back to the left. It did the same. “Jeez,” she whispered.
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