“I heard the big thump-thump the cans make when you open and close them,” Mr. Sanchez said. “I took my rifle from the coat closet and walked out the sliding door. It was too dark to see. Really, I didn’t expect to hit anything.”
There was a bullet hole in the wheeled blue recycling bin.
“When I fired, I saw it in the blast. A nagual, covered in red-brown fur, held the woman from behind. I hit it! Then, all I see is spots in front of my eyes. But I hear the animal bump and scratch over the fence, and feet running away.”
I moved closer to the cans. They were seated in a little corral that was attached to the fence. The fence itself was over six feet tall. Even I, as gym-phobic as I was, could easily lever myself up onto the corral wall and over the fence. Could I do it carrying a body? Maybe not.
There was no visible blood on the ground. No claw marks marred any surface. “Are you sure you hit it?”
“Sí, in the arm.” Sanchez gripped his right upper arm with his left hand. “You know, in the movies, if you find the one with the wounded arm, you’ll find the nagual.”
Sure. No problem. How many people had I encountered with wounds on their upper right arm? Nysa Galatas, Remy Zelidon, hey, even Sgt. Josephine Gustafson could be on that list, if that wasn’t really a fresh tat.
“How many people know about naguals?”
His mustache turned down as his shoulders went up. “Most everybody, I guess.”
“Everybody knows there are werewolves running around the abandoned golf course at night?”
“You do if you live by the abandoned golf course,” he said.
“That makes sense.” In a way, I thought.
Was Delta Vista always this strange, and I hadn’t noticed growing up? Maybe I had been sheltered, but before leaving this town, my life revolved around school. School and homework, school dances, dating boys I knew from school, football and basketball and soccer games, summer and winter breaks hanging out with friends from school. Sure, there were scary stories, the goat-men, the black cats, supposed experimental military creatures haunting the old base. But there were scary stories like that everywhere. Every town had a haunted house, every town had a local bogey man.
There were psychics in my family, The Gift, or La Miel, the honey, as Remy called it, ran through our lineage. We kept it on the down low. But maybe everyone in this town had something similar, a bruja, a werewolf, a psychic in the family. Now, it seemed, everyone talked about it.
“If you can, will you see about getting my gun back? I’m living on a fixed income,” Mr. Sanchez said.
“I’ll see what I can do.”
WHICH WAS LITTLE TO nothing, really, since I was suspended. But with only the mind-numbing dissertation for entertainment, I headed out. I had nothing by time on my hands for now. Five minutes later, I parked at Zelidon Farmacia y Market.
Leo side-eyed me when I entered. He was stocking shelves in the market part of the place. There was no line for the pharmacy. Remy’s face appeared behind the window. It brightened when he saw me. Then it darkened.
“Did you find something?” he whispered.
“I need your address,” I said. “And your house keys.”
Remy dug in his pocket. “I touched things in my apartment after it happened. Cleaned up. I mean, if you’re looking for fingerprints.”
I reached through the window and grabbed the key. Instead of telling him that his fingerprints would be in his own apartment regardless, I grabbed his hand firmly. “I’ll let you know what I find.”
His eyes were intense as they locked with mine. The grip was warm and firm. I felt a little thrill run through me. “Thank you, Mary.”
When I got back in Babykiller, I felt breathless and a little loosey-goosey. Remy still had a pull on me. Call it animal magnetism. Still, I had just interluded with Errol Smith. It seemed I was turning into some kind of slut.
Remy lived in my old neighborhood, on the east side of The Hammer. His place was near Harrison Park, which boasted two tennis courts, a basketball court, a picnic area and frequent shootings. The two-story apartment building stood behind a gas station on the corner of Delhi Avenue and El Cibola. The back of the gas station’s market served as a wall of the apartment building driveway.
I drove back, finding parking for six cars. With barely enough room, I wedged Babykiller into slot six, Remy’s spot. Scouting around, I saw a back door to the building. Between the wall of the gas station market and a fence opposite, you only had two exit points—the driveway and the front door. I went in through the back and up the stairs.
Unit Six had a view of the covered garage below, the neighbor’s yard and a random palm tree. Hardwood floors ran through the apartment. Remy’s furniture had once been nice, matching leather sofa and recliner. Now, big rips marred the leather. A coffee table had a leg propped up by three bricks and a bunch of books. In the kitchen, the fridge was dented near the bottom. Something sharp had pocked the linoleum. One of the lower cabinets was scored, hanging from a single hinge, the pull missing.
The bedroom smelled like Remy. A mingling of his shampoo, body wash and cologne hit me, almost subconsciously stirring a longing deep in my brain. I was pretty sure I was too young for hot flashes, but I felt pretty warm. I flipped up the covers on the bed to find the side of the mattress ripped completely along its length.
As Remy said, whatever he changed into really did a number on the apartment. But had it gone beyond that? I locked up. Slowly and carefully, I backed out of the space. I wasn’t worried about scratching the car. I was more afraid that if I hit the supports, the big-ass car would bring the whole shelter down.
I parked at the gas station market and badged the teenage attendant behind the register. Sure, I was suspended, but he didn’t need to know that. “Need to look at your security footage from a couple nights ago.”
The pimply kid looked at the badge on my belt, eyes lingering on my chest before meeting mine. “Don’t you need a warrant or something?”
“No,” I lied. “I don’t want a copy. I just want to take a look. This is a favor for a friend. He thinks someone tried to break into his place. One of your cameras looks out on his street.”
For a moment, the kid thought it over. “He’s got, like, a stash in there or something?”
“Yeah, something,” I said. “Do you need to call your manager?”
“I am the manager,” the kid said. Finally he shrugged and walked from behind the register. There was an unmarked door leading to an office. A single monitor blinked various views of the gas station, mostly on the plates of cars gassing up. “I don’t really know how to use this stuff. We keep it in case someone robs the place, or tries to steal gas with a stolen card. You know, CYA.”
Cover Your Ass. Always a good idea. “That’s fine, I’m sure I can work it.”
“Oh, cool, really? ’Cause I really need to be behind the register.”
The whole security system ran off a laptop. With a tweak of the mouse, the desktop appeared. Most of the icons seemed to be paid porn site access. One icon looked like a bird’s eye. I clicked it, and a list of files appeared by date. In each file were three view options: pumps, market, door.
The door view was the one I wanted. While the market door was central, I could see Delhi Avenue in the periphery. Fast-forwarding through the day, I saw six cars leave, people and cars zooming up and down the street, shadows angling. After sunset, the camera switched to some kind of night vision. I slowed down the footage. From 0100 to 0500, nothing entered or left the driveway or front door of Remy’s building.
Could he have climbed the garage pillars and gone through the neighbor’s yard? Perhaps. I didn’t know what kind of animal Remy changed into when he didn’t take his meds. For now, I crossed one suspect with a wounded arm off my list of garbage-raiding shifters.
For a moment, I stopped myself. Was I really only helping out a friend, or did I really want to involve myself in a case, a federal case, while I was suspended from duty?
I waited, leaning against Babykiller. The sky looked as if it were being worked by a giant watercolor brush, darkening here, lightening there. Soon, it would rain. Twenty minutes later, Remy came out the back door.
“Well?”
I handed him back his keys. “Well, it looked like something tore up your apartment. But you didn’t leave. You didn’t kill that woman.”
Amber eyes welled. He lurched forward, catching me in a big bear hug. I hugged back. My hand slid over ridged muscles beneath fabric.
“Thank you,” he breathed in my ear.
The sensation made me arch into him, my fingers becoming claws. I lost myself in the mass of him, breathing in his scent. Before I could climb him like a tree, he broke the embrace.
“Mary? Are you all right?” Remy blushed, his face almost comically confused.
I was practically panting. There was no apologetic bone in my body. I felt consumed with lust. My face darted forward, kissing him.
“Mary, whoa!” His blush ran down his neck.
“I’m feeling a little needy,” I said. “My car has a really big back seat. We could finish what we started. At the prom.”
Remy looked around the parking lot. Was he considering it? “This isn’t the time.”
“Because we’re in the parking lot of your business?” That made sense. I didn’t want to make sense. I wanted to make love.
“No! I’m not in control of myself. I could turn into a raging beast, maul you, tear you apart.”
I shrugged. “Kinda what a girl wants.”
He stood there, blinking at me, unable to move. After a long moment, he said, “I have to get back to work. I’ll call you.” Remy moved back to the market at a jog. He shot a look over his shoulder as he went inside. His former blush had now become a pallor, eyes wide. I think I scared him. What the heck is with me.
Chapter 14
I sat outside the haunted house, banging my head on the steering wheel. What the hell was wrong with me? I needed a cold shower. But I didn’t have a shower. Cold bath? No way. Ugly darted out on the porch, gave me the bug-eye, and fled back inside.
Taking a deep breath, I tried to get it together. Since when was I a raging, horny tramp? Something had broken in my brain. It felt right, which made it all the more wrong. I wondered if Errol Smith was home from work, and how quickly he could find a sitter...
“Damn it!” I shouted out loud.
Shaking, I made my way into the house. Maybe I could barricade myself inside to keep the horn-dog locked up. Maybe I could call some other guy I knew and...
“Eccckk!” Ugly hissed at me.
I looked at her bowl. Half-full. Water looked full.
“Eccckkk!” She arched her back and spat.
“What do you want?” I shouted at her.
She stood on her hind feet, batting me with her paws. Again, the awful sound came out of her. It’s like Ugly was trying to say something.
“Is this what distemper is?” I asked the cat.
Ugly dropped down on all fours. She closed her bulging eyes and turned away in disgust.
I made my way to the bedroom for jammies. Sure, it was only after three, but I was beat. Maybe a few more minutes with Jane Smith’s dissertation would knock me out completely. Ugly padded in behind me as I shrugged out of my clothes.
“Eccckk!”
“Go away, I’m naked.”
“Eccckk!”
Before I could throw my top at the animal, a muffled voice stunned me to stillness.
“For crying out loud, listen to the cat!”
After a moment, I spun toward the windows. Was someone outside?
“For a girl who can read thoughts, you have a really closed mind, kiddo.”
The voice came from behind. I turned, taking in the empty room. I saw my reflection. Small on top, bigger on the bottom, balanced by a lot of auburn hair, arms crossed over my chest. Then, regular old me disappeared. A woman stood there in my place, in the same pose. Glossy black hair roiled in 1950’s glamour waves, dressed in a print house dress, the sharp-featured reflection scowled at me with dark eyes.
I quickly shrugged into a long sleep T. When my head cleared the neck hole, the woman still stood in the mirror. “I get it now. I’ve simply lost my mind.” The room went cold enough so that I could see my breath.
“You’ve been tainted by your filthy hippie mother,” the reflection said, voice muffled by the glass. I supposed. “All that pyramid power, spirit guides, New Age BS and Carlos Castaneda nonsense.”
I’ve heard my mom called a lot of things, but never a filthy hippie. The shoe kinda fit, though. “Get out of my mirror.”
“This is my mirror. This is my house. Why haven’t you furnished the place? You’re worse than the crackheads who lived here, and more boring. At least a couple of them would have sex once in a while.”
“What? Eew!”
“Couple-three,” the reflection shrugged. “But you—not even a TV. I’m missing my stories, and Jerry Springer.”
I simply didn’t know what to say. The room felt even colder. I hugged myself and shivered.
“I can’t keep this up for long. Just listen to the freaking cat. She’s only trying to be a good familiar. And you—ugh!” The woman rolled her dark eyes and faded away. Once again, I was looking at my own reflection. From my expression, it looked like someone had just hit me over the head with a grand piano.
“Eccckk,” Ugly said.
I crouched down. “Okay, I’m already down the rabbit hole. What are you trying to say?”
“Eccckk!”
While I could read people’s minds, could I read a cat’s? What did cats think about, other than food, naps, and licking themselves? I reached out. Ugly backed up a step. Was I close enough? Should I try to grab her?
“One more time,” I said, hand inches from the animal.
Hexed.
I could hear the cat in my mind. Still, hexed? What the hell did that mean? The cat simply sat there.
“Hexed,” I said out loud. “What the hell does that mean?”
Ugly’s eyes bulged, impossibly, even wider. She turned and ran down the stairs at cat-speed. Since it was freezing, I slipped my slippers on before following.
The cat sat on the card table. I’d never owned a cat, so I wasn’t so sure this was okay. Ugly pawed at the manuscript. It seemed she was trying to turn the pages. Her paws weren’t up to the task.
“You want me to flip through this?” I asked the cat.
Ugly looked up at me. Blinked. Looked back down at the pages and pawed at them.
I flipped forward a few pages. The cat sat back on her haunches and purred. My reading so far had been less than ten pages. I continued flipping until I was near the end of the document. Maybe the cat just liked watching pages flip? She sat up, making a little growl.
A little hesitantly, I looked down to see what was on the page.
...recruitment was never an issue for the Maenads, for despite the bronze boot of the patriarchy upon their necks, many women sought their freedom, and thus, sought out the Maenads. Occasionally, a woman of inordinate skill was coerced into the cult.16 These women were most frequently possessed either great wealth, or the abilities of an oracle or soothsayer.17
None refused the Maenads, for to deny the power of Dionysus was to be driven to madness. Resisting could lead only to suicide,18 homicide 19 or crippling insanity. 20
I read the passage a second time, a third, either trying to glean the meaning, or trying to disbelieve my own conclusions. Was I being recruited? Is that what the hex, the rampant horniness, the reckless behavior was about?
Nysa Galatas had spoken a little poem when she put the necklace, the match to the one found at the crime scene, in my hand. Was that a spell? Was Nysa a part of some modern-day Maenad cult? I
flipped back to the beginning. “Better get caught up on just what the heck Maenads are,” I said to the cat.
Ugly made a negative sound.
“No?”
“Rrru-hhh! Aaayy!” She looked at the boarded-up window and back.
I shook my head. “I got nothing.”
With a show of reluctance, the cat moved closer.
“Rrru-hhh! Aaayy!”
I held my hand out, nearly touching her brown-and-black patched fur. With my mind instead of my ears, I listened.
“Roof,” the cat said. “Rain!”
Pulling away, I was sort of impressed by the cat’s attempt at human speech. But what the hell was she talking about? Rain was on the way. Certainly by tonight, the Central Valley would get deluged, according to the two-second weather report on the car radio. Did the roof of this house leak? Did I need to get someone up there? But, no, Ugly wasn’t looking up. She turned her head toward the window. Some other roof, then.
I sat back in the folding chair. Without the chronology of the case in front of me, I had to think back carefully. Trajectory: Burl Jefferson had used that word, and Chuck Shen had scoffed at it. At the time, we were both looking on the tallest building in Delta Vista. The county court building was at least ten stories, maybe more.
According to my phone, it was still business hours. I put in a call to Metro’s Crime Scene Unit. While I waited on hold, I skimmed through more of the dissertation. Maenads were wild-women, running through the hills, at the mercy of the god of wine’s whims. That sounded like Jane, a high steel worker, an impulsive binge-drinker. A woman who ran out in the middle of a movie to go on a jog, climbed the face of a church to break out the stained glass, rode giraffes at the zoo bareback. It did not seem like a sophisticate antiquities dealer and potential hexer (hexist?) Nysa Galata.
“CSU, Jefferson.”
His voice sent a thrill through me. Burl filled out his clothes nicely. He groomed himself metrosexually. He smelled good. He was intelligent. It took me a moment to find my voice.
Bound for Magic (The Tortie Kitten Mystery Trilogy Series Book 1) Page 8
