The First Circle
Page 1
The First Circle
Paul Perea
ISBN (Print Edition): 978-1-54394-630-7
ISBN (eBook Edition): 978-1-54394-631-4
© 2018. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
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Contents
PART ONE
MIRABELLA
CHAPTER 1
CHAPTER 2
CHAPTER 3
CHAPTER 4
CHAPTER 5
CHAPTER 6
CHAPTER 7
CHAPTER 8
CHAPTER 9
CHAPTER 10
CHAPTER 11
CHAPTER 12
CHAPTER 13
CHAPTER 14
CHAPTER 15
CHAPTER 16
CHAPTER 17
CHAPTER 18
PART TWO
GABRIELLA
CHAPTER 19
CHAPTER 20
CHAPTER 21
CHAPTER 22
CHAPTER 23
CHAPTER 24
CHAPTER 25
CHAPTER 26
CHAPTER 27
CHAPTER 28
CHAPTER 29
CHAPTER 30
CHAPTER 31
CHAPTER 32
CHAPTER 33
CHAPTER 34
CHAPTER 35
PART THREE
CHRYSALIS
CHAPTER 36
CHAPTER 37
CHAPTER 38
CHAPTER 39
CHAPTER 40
CHAPTER 41
CHAPTER 42
CHAPTER 43
CHAPTER 44
CHAPTER 45
EPILOGUE
EPILOGUE II
PART ONE
MIRABELLA
CHAPTER 1
Arroyo, New Mexico, 1925
Emma told her to run, and that’s exactly what she did. Gloria Rios ran from the house as if her life depended on it; but her age betrayed her, delivering her half-way down the long dirt road before she had to stop to catch her breath. Through eyes that burned of salty sweat and makeup, she looked back at the little adobe house. For a moment she thought of returning, but then thought otherwise, as crows, too numerous to count, blanketed the property. Their argumentative chorus was joined by the shrill buzzing of cicadas. Then another sound joined the cacophony. It was Emma. She was screaming.
Gloria turned and ran despite the pain in her legs. The wind did its best to stop her, pummeling her body and needling her face with sand; but the screams and caws and buzzing were stronger than the punishing wind. She pushed forward, head down and eyes stinging, until she reached the main road. With tears streaming down her cheeks, Gloria tried to cry out for help but the words would not come. It was then that she realized the wind had calmed and a silence had pervaded the landscape. The crows and cicadas were quiet. No more caws, no shrill buzzing, no sound from the little adobe house.
Gloria looked at the road that wound towards the heart of Arroyo. Seeking help in town would bring ridicule—of that she was sure—and going back to Emma’s was out of the question. The outskirts of Arroyo beckoned. The old church and cemetery lay in that direction, along with a trusted friend.
“Mari,” she whispered under her breath.
The decision reached, Gloria made the sign of the cross and lumbered on, ignoring the pain in her body until she was standing outside a familiar wall and wrought iron gate. She pushed open the gate and hobbled across the courtyard, her right arm extended, a divining rod leading her towards the front door of the sprawling adobe rancho. Forsaking her manners, she tried the door but found it locked. Gloria pounded frantically as fear trailed a bead of sweat down the small of her back. Sensing something close behind, she peered over her shoulder and saw a large raven watching her from the wall, it’s coal black eyes studying her.
“Mari!” Gloria screamed and pounded. From within she heard movement and then the sweet sound of a latch release.
“Oh, thank God!” Gloria cried as she spilled through the open doorway. “Quick! Shoo that bird away and close the door!”
“What in the world?” Mirabella asked as she leaned through the doorway and looked around. “There’s nothing there. Now would you mind telling me why you were trying to break down my door?”
Gloria inched up on tiptoes to peer over Mirabella’s shoulder. “It was just there! A raven. A bad omen! Oh, Mari, I need your help! I was just visiting Emma Gomez and she told me some horrible things. My grandson is in danger! I may be in danger! Oh, the things she saw in her visions! I’m burning up—I may be sick!”
Mirabella watched as Gloria collapsed into a chair with a handkerchief and patted the sweat that clung to her forehead, neck, and face. As Gloria struggled with her words, Mirabella went to the kitchen and filled a glass with water.
“I swear to the gods, vieja. I don’t know why you insist on visiting that silly fortune-teller. How many times have I told you that no one can predict the future? I would think that by now you would know better but you never learn, do you? All that woman ever does is upset you and then she sells you some useless tonic or potion. Here, pull yourself together.” Mirabella scolded as she handed the glass.
“I know…I know what you’re saying,” Gloria stammered. “But this time it was different. She had a vision—a vision of the man that haunts the bosque. Emma said she saw him in the woods talking to my grandson. She said the man was going to do some horrible things to him. Dios Mio, he’s just a boy!”
As Gloria rambled, Mirabella fetched a washcloth and tended to Gloria’s face, wiping away the trails of black and pink and red that had settled into fleshy crevices.
“All right. Now that you have my attention, tell me what else she said,” Mirabella asked as she continued to clean Gloria’s face.
“Oh, it’s too horrible,” Gloria cried, taking a small sip of water and then handing it back. “Don’t you have anything stronger?”
Mirabella sighed and went to the cupboard to retrieve the whiskey. It didn’t take any coaxing on Mirabella’s part to cause Gloria to babble.
“Emma was in a trance and whispered things to me as if she were afraid of being found out—like someone was listening. I could barely understand any of it. She said something like, ‘the river moves strangely here and is filled with voices and demons.’ She told me that she and I were in danger because the man had discovered her spying. She said he turned and looked at her with eyes that shone like sapphires. ‘The bluest eyes I’ve ever seen!’ Emma had whispered to me.
“She tried to warn me, but about what, I didn’t get the chance to find out. She came out of her trance and started shouting crazy things. She told me to run. Then she fell to the floor in a fit. I was so scared I just grabbed my purse and ran out. Oh, poor Emma! I can still hear her screams!”
“She actually had a fit? Don’t tell me she’s added theatrics to her repertoire. Well, she certainly keeps her act interesting, I’ll give her that. So, what do you want me to do about all of this?” Mirabella asked and shook her head.
“Stop teasing me and say you’ll help me. You can make something of this. You’re a witch, for heaven’s sake!”
Mirabella winced at the word.
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br /> “Don’t you look at me like that, Mirabella Cortez! I may be a foolish old woman but I’m no gossip. I keep your secrets—you know full well I do! You have to promise! Go see Emma. She’ll tell you everything. Do it for me, your dearest friend. I’m begging you!”
Mirabella looked into Gloria’s eyes and took measure—they said more than her words. This was not the usual anxiety Gloria exhibited after a visit with the fortune-teller. Gloria’s account had alarmed her, much as it pained her to admit it. Yet she did her best to remain calm, despite the fact that her intuition told her this might be much more serious than either of them realized. So, in an effort to quell her own worries and to calm her hysterical friend, she grabbed the bottle of whiskey and took two fresh glasses from the cupboard, motioning for Gloria to join her at the kitchen table.
“Here, come sit with me and sip a little more of this. Don’t worry, it’s from a reputable source.”
“Ramos? I thought he was in jail!”
Mirabella took a sip and nodded. “Yes . . . he was . . . but he’s out now and back in business, thanks to me.”
“As if things weren’t bad enough! We can’t even have a drink without the police hauling everyone to the jail!” Gloria complained and raised her glass in the air. “Here’s to Antonio Ramos, and to you, of course.”
Mirabella raised hers, smiled, and took another sip. She eyed Gloria over the rim of the glass and did her best to mask her thoughts. It had been a long time since she’d heard anything about the man that haunts the woods near the Rio Grande River. Some regarded him as an old ghost story, created to keep people away from the river, especially at night when drunken revelers were prone to lapses in judgment. Some believed the tall tales of a ghost, a demon, or an evil spirit—there were so many variations—and the people of Arroyo were as superstitious as they were religious.
Mirabella recalled a time, not long after she and her brother, Joseph, had settled in Arroyo. She had been out for a solitary walk through the bosque and had sensed something oppressive and dark hidden in the woods. Since that day, she had remained wary of the bosque even though she had never witnessed anything unusual.
Mirabella caught herself as she watched Gloria’s face fall. “Don’t worry . . . my mind was just wandering. I’ll see what I can do.”
“You’ll protect my grandson?” Gloria asked, her eyes searching.
“Yes.”
“And you’ll go talk to Emma?”
“And I’ll go talk to Emma so you can stop your moaning,” Mirabella said assuredly and reached out to pat Gloria’s hand. It was cold and trembled—not from age, but from fear. A diversion was needed.
“Now, tell me about your grandson, how old is he—four or five years now?” Mirabella asked, squeezing the old woman’s hand. “And how is your daughter-in-law and your son? Please tell me what they’ve been up to. I haven’t seen them at church lately. You know, Ruth is due any day now so I’ll soon be a grandmother, too!”
“I can’t believe it! You’re too young to be a grandma! But, ah, your Ruth is going to be such a good mother! Not like that good-for-nothing daughter-in-law of mine. I swear I never understood what Emilio saw in that girl! Did you know Helena has convinced my son to move to California? To the vineyard, no less! Can you believe it? Oh, what will my son do so far away from his home?”
Gloria finished what was left in her glass, and went on.
“And you hear the talk around town about Helena, don’t you?” Gloria asked in hushed tones as she helped herself to more whiskey. “You know I don’t like to gossip, and I myself don’t put up with it, but Luisa Montoya told me—”
The diversion worked and soon Gloria began to chatter on about all the goings-on in her life, the problems in her family, and even took the time to offer advice on how to be a good grandmother. Mirabella listened and nodded until the softening light signaled that the afternoon was taking its leave, and with it, Gloria’s worries.
“Would you like to stay for dinner?” Mirabella asked politely.
“No, no. I’d better get going. If I stay any longer I’ll drink too much,” Gloria slurred and groaned as she hoisted herself up from the chair.
“Well then, at least let me walk you home,” Mirabella offered.
“No need for that . . . I’m not an invalid . . . yet,” Gloria joked.
Mirabella chuckled as she saw her wobbly guest to the door. And after the usual long goodbye, she closed and latched the door, leaned against it, and wondered how in the world she would keep the promises she’d just made. One thing was certain. She must pay a visit to Emma, no matter how unsavory the thought.
Gloria walked slowly past the old church and cemetery until she was back on the main road. Her fear had been quieted by the whiskey and she soaked in the beautiful evening. Spring in Arroyo was her favorite time of year. The pods in the cottonwood trees had burst, sending feathery balls of cotton into the sky. It was magical the way they moved, carried up to the sky and swirling every which way, just like the snow globes she collected. Gloria felt as if the village were enchanted.
Far from Gloria’s meandering path, all the windows were open at the little adobe house that sat at the end of the long dirt road. The lingering sunlight filtered through them, casting long images along the floor. Cotton glided on air through the open space and rode the sunbeams. The kitchen was bathed in light—the light that reflected in the lifeless eyes of Emma Gomez—the cotton sticking to her wet, bloated body.
CHAPTER 2
Emma’s death shocked everyone, but no one more than Mirabella. The day after Gloria had come to her for help, news of Emma’s unusual passing had reached her ears from various sources, and the tale grew stranger with each re-telling. Some talked about the crazy old woman who went swimming in the Rio Grande, fully clothed, only to come home and die of a heart attack. Others said that Emma had been attacked, choked to death, her body left to rot on the kitchen floor. Mirabella knew better than to believe the rumors, and the thought of what may have actually happened caused her to shudder. Worse, in order to fulfill her promise to protect Daniel, she would need to find out what had occurred that left one woman dead and another scared for her grandson’s safety.
Mirabella’s concern for Gloria’s well-being was first and foremost on her mind. She knew that Emma’s death would send Gloria into a downward spiral and it pained her to think of how often she teased Gloria as “the woman who cried wolf”. But a visit to Gloria was unfortunately out of the question. Past experience had proven that Gloria’s son and daughter-in-law would be caring for the hysterical woman. Helena would not welcome her presence.
After a morning of chores, feelings of helplessness and worry were getting the best of her so she left her home and started towards the village in hope of any news that would help to alleviate her anxiety. As she came upon the church she saw that the priest and some parishioners were hard at work pulling weeds and planting flowers. She hesitated and thought of retracing her steps but it was too late. The priest spotted her and waved her over.
“You’ve come to help clean up the grounds, Señora Cortez?” he asked without looking up at her.
“No, Father, I was on my way into town. Did you hear about Emma Gomez?” Mirabella asked.
At the mention of Emma’s name, the priest turned, looked up at Mirabella, and scowled. “Yes, I heard.”
That was all the dour man had to say on the matter.
Mirabella cleared her throat and went on. “Have there been any updates from the sheriff? Any news as to what happened?”
“How the hell do these weeds grow so fast?” the priest swore, reaching up for assistance, his legs trembling. “Mirabella, what do you want to know? Don’t you have better things to do than looking for gossip?”
“It’s not gossip I’m looking for, I just—”
“You’re just determined to poke your nose where it doesn’t belong, as u
sual,” the priest interrupted. “It’s been far too many years since Philip passed. You’ve mourned long enough. Go find yourself a new husband . . . someone to keep you busy. You’re a good woman, Mirabella. You help with the church. You help your neighbors. Stop with all this chasing stories and behaving like a feminista. It’s unbecoming and not natural for a woman.”
Mirabella felt her face flush with anger at the old priest’s words. “Look, I’m too set in my ways. Right now what I really need are some answers, not another husband!”
“If you’re determined to find answers, find a way to get rid of these damned weeds!”
She was about to argue when the priest interrupted her again.
“Oh look, here comes Father Jimenez. Bend his ear . . . he’s good at wasting time,” the priest offered, coughed, and walked away. As he rounded the corner of the church, he called out, “And remember to keep quiet when I’m having mass! I can hear you whispering.”
“Oh, that man . . . always has to have the last word! I swear, Matthew, I don’t know how you put up with him,” Mirabella stammered and gestured.
“Don’t let him get to you. You know he acts like that with everybody,” Matthew laughed. “So, to what do we owe the honor of this visit?”
“I’m not visiting. I heard about Emma Gomez so I thought I’d head into town to see if anybody knows what happened.”
“Ah yes, Emma. Tragic. A heart attack, I hear,” Matthew looked around and saw that several parishioners had stopped their tasks and were staring and straining to hear what was being said. “Come, I’ll walk with you for a bit.”
“Do you think you should be seen walking with me—alone?” Mirabella asked sarcastically. “You know what people think about me—well, about you and me, to be exact.”
“I thought those rumors had subsided,” Matthew said and smiled.
“Rumors like that never die, at least not in this town. It’s too titillating—the widow and the handsome priest. Scandalous!” Mirabella laughed.
Matthew laughed, too, then noticed a few people looking at them disapprovingly. “Let’s get out of here before I completely lose all composure.”