I nod again. Poor old lady.
“Okay. I’ll go talk to the boyfriend. Do I need an interpreter?”
“No. He speaks Spanish.”
That’s a welcome surprise. Most Americans come down here expecting us to speak English, and they get bent out of shape when the common person doesn’t understand them. Honestly, I don’t much like American tourists. Some of them are okay, but most? The Ugly American is a stereotype for a reason.
I go to room two and knock on the door. It’s just a courtesy — a warning shot, if you will. I’m not expecting him to call out and welcome me in. I walk in and find the room empty except for the table and three chairs, one of which is occupied.
The young man is clearly distraught. His eyes are puffy and red from crying, and his hair is a mess, because it looks like he’s been pulling at it. I’ve seen that kind of raw grief before, and it’s always a gut punch.
“Esteban Hernandez?” I ask, reading his name from the file. The guy looks very Mexican, so I’m guessing he’s a first-generation American.
“Steven,” he says, his hands gripping each other on the table top.
“I’m Inspector Elian Salamone from the Federal Ministerial Police.” I sit down across from him. “First of all, let me say how sorry I am for your loss. Sabinas is a safe town. This isn’t the sort of thing that happens here.”
He nods and answers in perfect Spanish, “Thank you. Who shot her?”
“We’re trying to find that out. In order to do that, we’re going to need your help. Can you tell me what you saw?”
Steven takes a ragged breath. “We were eating dinner, just minding our own business, and a white van is driving by. The back door pops open, and this woman comes flying out, screaming for someone to help her. Marisol…” He chokes, and I think for a moment he’s going to fall apart, but he manages to keep it together. “Marisol got up and ran to her right away. She was like that, you know? A good woman. Heart of gold.”
I nod and wait for him to continue. When he gets lost in his own head, I take the photo of the naked dead girl and put it on the table.
“This woman?”
He looks, and for a minute his expression is so flat and hollow that I think he’s not even seeing it. Finally, he nods. “Yes. Is she dead, too?”
“Unfortunately, yes.” I fold my hands on top of the closed folder. He doesn’t need to see his girlfriend’s corpse. “Did you see the face of the shooter?”
“Shooters,” he corrects. “There were two of them. And yes, I saw their faces.”
“Would you be able to pick them out of a lineup?”
He looks up at me then, and there’s a fire burning in his eyes. “I would. And I would be happy to do it.”
Grieving boyfriend to man with a mission in two seconds. I can respect that.
“Let me get a photo lineup gathered together for you. I know you’ve been through an awful lot, and I know it’s hard, but we really want you to identify these men while your head is still clear and the memory is still fresh.”
The corners of his mouth turn down. “There is nothing about this that I’ll ever be able to forget.”
“Your girlfriend’s name was Marisol?”
“Marisol Aponte. She and I were both born in San Antonio, Texas, but we came here to visit her grandmother. We wanted…” He chokes again, but this time he covers it with a cough. My heart would go out to him if I still had one. “We wanted her to bless our marriage.”
“You were engaged?”
He nods, disconsolate. “We’re… we were… getting married next April.”
This just gets worse and worse by the minute. I can see the newspaper reports already.
“Hang tight,” I tell him. “I’ll be right back.”
I leave the interview room, and Martinez, bless his pointy little head, has already gathered the books with the mugshots of the known Rojas associates. I accept them with a smile.
“Mind-reader.”
He laughs. “Always.”
Diego is walking back toward his desk, and I intercept him. “You took the grandmother home, right?”
He nods. “Maria Josefa.”
Honestly, I’m stunned. Everybody knows Maria Josefa, the local curandera. I remember going to her for healing when I broke my wrist in grade school.
“That’s rotten,” I say. “I guess I don’t have to ask you where she lives.”
Diego shakes his head, looking miserable. “She’s taking it hard.”
“Of course she is. She just watched her granddaughter die. Is she alone?”
“She wanted me to leave her. She’s set up at her Santa Muerte shrine, praying.”
I suppose that’s as healthy of an activity as I can expect. Still, I’m worried about her. Maria Josefa is eighty years old if she’s a day, and this kind of shock can’t be good for her heart.
“Okay. Thanks, Diego.”
I return to the interview room and the heart-broken American. He looks up when I come in this time, and that fire is still burning. He wants revenge. I know the feeling.
I put the mugshot books down in front of him. “Just look through and see if anyone stands out to you. Try not to overthink it at first.”
“At first?” he echoes bitterly. “But I can overthink it later?”
“First impressions first, then we’ll look at it more closely.”
He flips through the pages, and face after face of criminals flash by. I’ve been working on the Rojas Cartel for six years, and I’ve personally busted about half of the bastards in that book. Some of them are still in prison, and a few are dead. Hopefully those aren’t the faces that he picks.
Steven stops short on one page and jabs his finger into a photograph.
“This is one of them. This is the one who actually fired the shots. He was driving the van and got out with his gun and started shooting. The other guy just stood there.”
I look at the picture. It shows a man that I know well. I nod.
“Who is he?” Steven demands.
“Juanito Bustamante. He’s a wetwork specialist for the Rojas Cartel.”
Last I heard, Bustamante was hanging around Cancun, kidnapping rich tourists for ransom. I guess his latest kidnapping brought him farther north.
Steven’s mouth twists. “Wetwork? He’s a hired killer?”
“Killer, torturer, rapist… whatever Rojas needs from him.” I stifle a sigh. “I’m sorry that Miss Aponte was killed. She wasn’t the target.”
“They shot her three times.”
“I know. But their primary purpose was probably to silence the other woman.”
He runs a hand over his face, then looks up at me. “So now what? How do we catch this son of a bitch?”
“We don’t do anything. You go back to Maria Josefa’s house and try to get some rest. I will start investigating.”
“You can’t lock me out of this.”
“I can, and I will. This is a serious federal investigation, not amateur hour.”
He looks like he wants to punch me in the mouth, and that’s fine. It redirects his anger from the cartel and onto me, and it will hopefully defuse any vigilante leanings he might be developing.
“I need to call the American Consulate.”
“Yes, you do. The American government has been made aware of Miss Aponte’s death.” I hesitate. “Do you see the other guy anywhere in these pictures?”
Steven falters, but he goes back to scanning the pictures. He goes through all of them and shakes his head. “No. But that one didn’t do anything. He just sort of stood by the van with his mouth hanging open, and then he got back in again before they drove off.”
I nod. It sounds like the behavior of a new recruit, probably someone without a record yet. As God is my witness, that will change.
“All right. I’ll drive you back to Maria Josefa’s house.”
He stands. He’s taller than me by a few inches, and he’s broad, but I don’t get the impression that he’s much of an athlete.
I figure that in a hand-to-hand fight, I could probably take it. It’s pathetic that I size everybody up that way. Too many years undercover, I guess.
We leave the interview room, and I had the photo books back to Martinez. “Bustamante,” I tell him.
He knows who I mean instantly. “I’ll get to work.”
I turn to Steven. “This way, please.”
Maria Josefa
I can’t stop crying.
Officer Diego Sanchez drove me home, and the whole way, he kept looking at me, worried. I’ve known Diego his whole life. I was the midwife when his mother gave birth to him, and I was the first person on this earth to hold him in my arms. It’s a special bond.
Just like the one I had with Marisol.
I can’t get the image out of my head. The guns, the blood, the sight of her crumpling like a rag doll… every time I close my eyes, it’s there, repeating over and over. It’s a nightmare, and I can’t wake up.
I’m alone in my house now, and the shrine is ready. I’ve lit the right colored candles, and the sandalwood incense burns. I have the three flowers, white, yellow and blood red. I have water, wine and tequila in shot glasses, lined up in front of the statue of Santa Muerte. I look up into the painted face of the Bony Lady and struggle not to weep too hard. My words need to be clear.
“My White Child, my Black Lady, my Most Holy Saint Death,” I begin. “I beg you to bring justice to my fallen grandchild. Bring punishment to the wicked who took her life. Bring her to new life, and empower her spirit to return and wreak havoc on those who killed her! Give me justice!”
I roar the last words, and I’m shaking from head to toe from abject rage. A cold wind blows through the room, and all the candles on the altar go out at once. Even the incense stops smoking.
A female voice says, “Do you understand what you are asking of me?”
I turn, and she is there, her skeletal face beautifully surrounded by flowers and a lace veil. Her bony hand is gripping her robes, and the other is held out in front of her, as if she’s reaching for me. I drop to my knees.
“I know what I’m asking. I’m asking that you give Marisol the justice that she deserves.”
“You ask me to empower her spirit to return.”
“Yes! A vengeful ghost,” I say. “Let her come back from the other side to frighten the guilty. Let her be an avenging angel!”
Santa Muerte looks at me, and I can feel her balancing my request and my right to ask for it. “It is a difficult thing to return a spirit. Do you understand that there is a price to be paid?”
I’m afraid, but I answer, “I understand.”
She leans closer to me. “Do you?” Her breath is cold, and it smells like the grave, like cold soil and putrid flesh.
I nod. “Yes.”
Santa Muerte straightens. “Remember, Maria Josefa. This is what you asked for.”
The cold in the room suddenly vanishes, and it takes the saint with it. The candles spring back to life, and the scent of the incense returns to the air. I feel a sharp pain in my chest, and it radiates down my left arm. I can hardly breathe. My heart spasms.
This is the price, and I am willing to pay.
Steven
The cop drives me back to Marisol’s grandmother’s house. I suppose I should wonder how he knows exactly where to go, but I don’t care enough to spend the energy on it.
Marisol is gone.
I still can’t believe it. Just this morning, we were lying together in bed, sticky and happy in the mess we’d made. She was my everything. She was my light. Now there’s only darkness inside me, and only one thing to do.
I’m going to find the son of a bitch who killed her, and I’m going to rip his fucking heart out.
There’s no conversation at all, just silence. We roll through Sabinas and out to Maria Josefa’s place. The night is almost black, with clouds obscuring the stars, and even though the day was hot, the wind seems almost cold. There are no streetlights, so the only way to see is from the headlights on Salamone’s car, which seem pretty feeble. I keep waiting for some monster to lurch out of the shadows at us, and I almost hope one will. Maybe, if I’m lucky, it will kill me and end this pain. Maybe then I could see my Marisol again.
When we get there, the house is dark. It seems like the old girl would have left at least one light on, but maybe she was so out of her head with grief that she just went to bed and forgot that I was supposed to come back. Maybe I’m not even welcome to be here. I don’t even fucking know anymore.
Salamone seems to think there’s a problem. He parks and leans forward over the steering wheel, peering at the house. He slides out of the car and tells me, “Wait here.”
Well, fuck that.
I follow him, and he knows I’m there, but he doesn’t seem too surprised. We go into the house. The air is full of incense, and it’s so thick that I start to cough. Salamone flips the light switch, and then we see her.
Maria Josefa is lying on the floor, her eyes open but her lips blue. The rest of her face is shockingly pale. Salamone goes to her immediately, but it’s easy to see that she’s dead.
He checks for a pulse, and I sag against the wall, stunned. I didn’t expect this. I didn’t expect any of this. I wish I could go back in time and just cancel this trip, so then Marisol and her grandmother would both still be alive.
Salamone straightens with a sigh. “She’s gone. It looks like probably a heart attack, but there will have to be an autopsy.” He looks at me. “This is a crime scene now. I’ll get you set up in a hotel. You can’t stay here.”
That’s just fucking great. “Can I get my luggage?”
“Of course.”
He gets out his phone to call for help, I guess, and I go to grab my suitcase. It’s in the guest room, where Marisol was going to be staying. When I see her suitcase next to mine, I almost lose it again. This can’t be real. This absolutely cannot be real.
I sit on the bed and try not to cry, but the pain is too great. I can’t hold it in. I find myself praying to Santa Muerte, something I never thought I would do. My parish priest in San Antonio calls her a demon. Right now, I don’t care.
“Santa Muerte, please. Help me. Bring Marisol back to me, or bring me where she is. I don’t want… I can’t be without her. And help me find the man who did this and let me end him.”
I don’t know what I expect, but it’s not a female voice behind me. “What you ask can be done, but there is a price. If she comes back to you, are you willing to do whatever it takes to keep her?”
I’m too afraid to turn around. I feel something cold on my shoulder, and through the corner of my eye, I see a skeletal hand. I start shaking.
“I am,” I say. “I’ll do anything.”
“Will you share her with the world? If she returns, she comes with a special calling, and with a special burden.”
Her voice is raspy, old but young, and her breath reeks. How can a skeleton breathe? How can any of this be real? It beggars understanding, but if there’s any chance at all of getting the love of my life back, I don’t care.
“Yes. Whatever I have to do, I’ll do.”
The hand squeezes my shoulder almost painfully, and I feel her lean down. She whispers in my ear, “Remember.”
As suddenly as she appeared, she’s gone, and I’m left with a terrible burning where her hand was resting. I go into the bathroom and look in the mirror, and I see a brand new tattoo where nothing was before. It’s one word, simple and clear, and it terrifies me.
Recuerdo.
Spanish for “I remember”.
Catrina
“Wake up.”
I feel a jolt of energy run through me, and it’s like I’ve been electrocuted. It hurts, and it leaves me gasping. It’s also cold as ice. I can’t see anything. There’s no light at all, and sound, except for the voice I heard, is muffled. I can’t move.
“Wake up. I give you life and with it a new name. You are no longer Marisol. You are now La Catrina, and you will d
o my bidding.”
I’m utterly confused. I don’t know where I am, or how I got here, and I don’t recognize the voice. When I try to speak, I can’t get any sound, and I realize that I’m not breathing.
“Pull air in. Your lungs are empty. Then you can try to speak.”
It hurts. Oh, God, it hurts. I can feel lancing pain starting in my back, piercing through my lungs and bursting out my chest. There should be blood. Why am I expecting blood?
Then I remember. And I freak the hell out.
“Stop panicking,” the female voice says. “Accept your new name and with it your new life.”
“Listen to her.” It’s my grandmother’s voice. “Santa Muerte is calling you and you must obey.”
Calling me for what? I’m fucking dead. I was shot. I remember it now in vivid, excruciating detail. I want to speak, but I can’t. I’m awake and alive, but my body is still dead. That’s the only thing that makes sense with the way I’m feeling. I’m a living brain stuck in an inert lump of clay. I want to scream but I can’t. I’m suffocating because I can’t get my body to take a breath. My heart isn’t beating and I realize the reason it’s so dark and muffled is because I’m in a body drawer in a morgue.
I want to scream. I want to kick. I can’t do a thing.
Yes. Yes, I’ll accept the name and whatever you want me to do. Just make this end!
The saint says, “I will return you to the living world on the condition that you hunt down the ones who killed you, evil men that the law doesn’t touch. I cannot give you life, for only God can do that, but I can give you the means to draw your life from others, but only until All Souls’ Day. Do you understand?”
The mental image of me riding the hell out of Steven rises in my mind. Sex? Sex is how I stay alive?
“Sex is meant to create offspring. Life force is exerted to create new life. Gather the life force of willing men and use it to continue your existence.”
A sexual vampire?
Santa Muerte chuckles. ‘’More like a succubus, but that demon is shackled to your will and not the other way around.”
Wicked Souls: A Limited Edition Reverse Harem Romance Collection Page 76
