Highway to Hell

by Rosemary Clement-Moore

  Her expression was distinctly irritated. “No. I just think all that ‘you can't help who you fall in love with’ stuff is crap. We're human beings, not animals.”

  “I didn't decide that I was going to fall in love with Justin.”

  “Sure you did. He's perfect for you. Sensible and steady. Smart. Ready to slay dragons. And jeez, where else are you going to find someone who not only believes in the stuff you See, but has a freaking degree in it?”

  None of that was news to me, of course. “So, who's your perfect guy, then?”

  “Temporary.”

  “Like Zeke?” I pried. “Do I detect a spark there? A little thawing of the D&D Lisa level-five ice shield?”

  “There is no level-five ice shield,” she said in a voice full of ennui. “That's a level-ten spell, minimum.”

  “Clever plan. Distract me with your nerditude.”

  She drained the last of her soda and tossed the can in the trash basket. “So, how are you going to find out about this chupacabra thing if you can't ask the square?”

  Grumbling in frustration, I tossed my cell onto the bed. “My next phone is going to have a Web browser.”

  “I'd like to see what job you're going to get to pay that bill.”

  Stretching out on top of the covers, I felt yesterday's nearly sleepless night catching up with me. “I guess I'm going to have to do my sleuthing the old-fashioned way.”

  After all, Nancy Drew didn't have any Internet, just a great wardrobe and a sexy roadster. My Jeep was in the shop and I had a suitcase full of cargo shorts and flip-flops. But I would persevere.

  The phone woke me from a dreamless sleep. In the dark room, I fumbled on the nightstand for my cell.

  “Hello?” My voice was hoarse from the smoke in the bar. From the other bed, I heard Lisa roll over and pull the pillow over her head.

  Justin didn't waste time on a greeting. “What's this about tracking down the chupacabra?”

  “Hang on a minute.” I struggled out of the marshmallow bed and grabbed my hoodie from the desk chair. Unlatching the door, I slipped out and sat at the top of the stairs.

  “You didn't have to call me back tonight,” I said when I was settled.

  “Come on, Maggie. El chupacabra? Like I could let that go?”

  It was difficult to get a read on his mood over the phone. “Did I say I was tracking it down?”

  “Why else would you be staying in that town until Tuesday? You really think there may be a legendary monster?”

  “The jury is still out. Something is killing livestock.”

  I rubbed the sleep from my eyes, pulling up the details, such that they were. “Goats at first. Someone mentioned a herding dog. And the cow on the road. The woman who runs the bar and hotel here thinks that it's this goatsucker thing.”

  “And … you think she might be right?”

  I leaned my head against the banister. It was two in the morning. Why wasn't he sleepy? What had he and his buddy been up to? “There were a couple of things in the description that could be significant. But no one can really agree on the details.” I wasn't quite ready to mention the glowing eyes and smell of sulfur. “You're the one with the degree in folklore. Have you ever heard of this thing?”

  “Before this? Just lumped in with Bigfoot and UFOs. Cryptozoology isn't really my thing.”

  “What the hell is cryptozoology?”

  “The study of animals that are rumored to exist, but haven't been proven. Mostly urban legends and folktales.” In the background I heard the tap of a keyboard. “The list is mostly pretty crackpot—Bigfoot, the fur-bearing trout, little green men, that kind of thing. Then you get something like the giant squid, which lives so deep in the ocean, no one had ever seen a whole, live one. Just tentacles that got snagged in fishing nets.”

  “Yeah, but I saw on the National Geographic Channel where they've caught pictures of it, with deepwater cameras or something.”

  “Right.”

  “Any proof like that for the chupacabra?”

  “Depends on your standard for proof. Grainy photographs, eyewitnesses that didn't really see anything. An unidentified animal carcass that turned out to be a really mangy coyote.”

  “Lovely.” On the other side of the village green, a cat ambled through the light of the streetlamp by the courthouse. “But this chupacabra thing could be like the giant squid. It lives out in the desert, and doesn't come near enough to people to be documented.”

  “That's one theory.” I heard the click of a mouse. “Latin American myths aren't my area, so I did a little Internet surfing. The name el chupacabra was coined by a Puerto Rican newspaper in the eighties. After that, reports of a goat sucker killing livestock started popping up in Mexico and the southwestern United States.”

  He paused, and I could picture him looking up from the computer, all earnest and scholarly. “You know, Maggie, the fact that the legend has spread more through common language than through linear geography is consistent with story lore. Urban legend, like I said.”

  So cute and so nerdy. “I appreciate your expert opinion.”

  “My expert opinion is you are either wasting your time, or messing with something you shouldn't.” He paused, then stated the obvious. “Not that it will stop you.”

  “It's that or sit around watching my navel lint accumulate.” I kept my reply flippant, though I wasn't fooling either of us. Something in Dulcina had triggered my dreams, and I couldn't not investigate.

  I heard Justin exhale—more than a breath, less than a sigh. “So, what's your plan?”

  Plan. It would be good to have one of those. “First I need to find out as much as I can about the chupacabra legend, and compare it to what's actually been seen around here.”

  “Have your dreams been any help?”

  I sorted my thoughts, still too short on real-world information to put the vague vision in context. “I keep seeing a fence. It's symbolic, not real, and way powerful.”

  “Protective magic, maybe?”

  It struck me, now that Justin had suggested it, that when the guy at the bar had told Dave we'd be fine walking back to the room, it had been more like he was reminding him of something he already knew.

  “Protective magic would make sense. I could put Lisa on it, if it doesn't contradict her role as the skeptic.”

  Justin's surprise was entirely fake. “Lisa? The skeptic?”

  “Don't you think that's weird?”

  “Not really.” His voice held a shrug. “You're intuitive. She's very reasoned. She decides whether to believe in things or not. But disbelief doesn't make a thing untrue, which is where she's gotten into trouble in the past.”

  That was Lisa. All about control.

  The air had turned cool when the sun went down, and the coastal humidity was settling into dew. I smothered a yawn and wrapped my jacket tighter, satisfied to have solved at least a part of one mystery.

  “Go back to bed,” Justin said, in a new, softer tone. “Sorry to call so late.”

  “I'm glad you did.” The words slipped out naturally, without my overthinking them. “I miss you.” Distance made the feeling acute.

  “I miss you, too, Maggie. Just promise me you'll be careful, okay? Whatever this thing is, supernatural or not, it's a dangerous predator.”

  “Do you think I'm going to play big-game hunter and go after it? Give me a little credit, Justin.”

  “I give you a lot of credit,” he answered. “You're brave and brilliant, and if someone is in trouble, you'll rush right in where angels fear to tread. Just be sure to take backup.”

  I was speechless a moment too long. “Text me with updates,” he said. “I'll call you tomorrow afternoon.”

  “Okay.”

  “Sleep tight, Maggie.”

  “You too.” I closed the phone and held it against my cheek, the lingering electronic warmth a symbolic connection to things far away. Not only Justin, but everything familiar.

  A salt-scented breeze stirred my hair,
and I brushed it back, gazing out on the sleeping town. Even the Duck was quiet now, and the only lights were from the streetlamps on the square and the small red beacon atop the water tower. Dulcina, it said. No high school mascot, because there was no high school.

  I tucked the phone into my pocket. In the shadows by the motel pool, I saw the green-white flash of eyes, low to the ground. The cat was checking up on me.

  Dusting off the seat of my pj's, I headed for the room. There were worse things to dream about than your boyfriend saying that you were brave and brilliant. Hopefully none of them would show up in my sleep that night.

  Crossroads again. In the field nearby I could see the shining barbed-wire fence, stretched endlessly across the moonlit desert. I stepped off the road, dry grass scraping my ankles. Weird that I wore my shamrock pajamas even though I was dreaming. Completely impractical, but at least I'd managed to dream myself a pair of sneakers.

  Looking up from my Nike-clad feet, I saw twin flashes of red. Not taillights, but eyes. A fist of foreboding squeezed my heart. Was that what Lisa and I had seen on the highway? It seemed stubborn to stick to the idea that it had been a car.

  Except for the eyes, the nightmare creature was solid shadow. It was on the opposite side of the fence, and I followed it along the strands of wire, hurrying to keep pace with the occasional glimpse of crimson. Before long, I lost sight of the … whatever it was, and stopped running, staring at the fence in frustration.

  The barbed wire glowed and gave off an electric thrum of power, mesmerizing and maddening, because I knew that to get a look at the red-eyed creature, to find out if it was the chupacabra, or a figment of my imagination brought on by the power of suggestion, I was going to have to get over the fence somehow.

  As I searched for a gate or gap, there came a steady tread against hard ground, too heavy to be a person. I raised my gaze and looked across the fence, where a woman astride a dark horse stared back at me.

  She was young, but her flawless skin and aristocratic bone structure made her seem ageless. She was beautiful now, and probably always would be. Thick dark hair fell over her shoulders, reflecting the moonlight like a polished stone. Her posture in the saddle was relaxed but commanding, and her clothes were old-fashioned—jodhpurs, riding boots, and a long-sleeved white blouse, with a scarf around her neck.

  Intimidating wasn't quite the word. I was in my pj's, and she had a rifle across her saddle. The fence lay between us, and the imagery was clear: she belonged here, and I was infringing on her territory.

  “Nice fence.” Inane, yes, but I wasn't sure where else to start.

  My words seemed to surprise her, but after a moment she answered evenly. “You can see, then, that this land is protected.” Her accent was Hispanic, but more refined than the Tex-Mex blend I'd heard at the Duck Inn.

  I eyed the barbed wire, shining in the dream moonlight. “Yeah, I got that.”

  “Then what are you seeking here?”

  The challenge was unmistakable. The only other time something in my dream had looked back at me, it had been a really bad something. But this woman spoke of protection, and seemed to be the one responsible for the fence. So even though I didn't appreciate her tone, I kept my own mental voice civil.

  “I was following something.”

  Her black brow arched. “A white rabbit with a pocket watch, perhaps?”

  Her sarcasm set my teeth on edge, but I was unable to make myself say el chupacabra to this woman, whether she was a figment of my imagination or not. “There was something running through your pasture over there.” I pointed to her side of the fence.

  “That's impossible.”

  “Why?”

  “Because this is my domain.”

  “But this is my dream,” I countered.

  The woman blinked, and her horse danced beneath her. She brought it under control with a sure hand on the reins. “Who are you?”

  A wind came up, cool and damp against my bare shoulders, and blew my short hair into my eyes. I pushed it away, and the woman was gone.

  Another gust, and I looked up to see clouds swelling across the night sky, extinguishing the stars and crowding in on the moon. I shivered at the omen. A storm was coming. Real or figurative, I didn't know.

  8

  I woke easily in the morning. Between one breath and another, I became fully conscious, staring at the cracked plaster of the Artesian Manor ceiling. My head was distinctly unmuddled and non-achy.

  There must be something terribly wrong with me.

  It was easier to concentrate on that—wondering why I didn't have one of my psychic hangovers after such a vivid dream—than to sort through what it meant. I could remember the vision clearly, but it raised more questions than it answered. Who was the woman? What was the red-eyed creature? And why did I see it when she couldn't?

  I heard my name and realized I hadn't woken spontaneously; Lisa's phone must have rung and she'd gone outside, like I'd done last night. I could hear the murmur of her voice through the window. She sounded almost friendly. I didn't need my mojo to know it was Zeke on the line.

  Back in high school, D&D Lisa had a cutting wit, but she could be amiable if she decided you were worth the trouble. Since the incident with the demon Azmael, though, her sarcasm had more bite. It was like she'd decided she didn't deserve any friends, and her prickly demeanor kept everyone distant. I knew her history, and her need for atonement, so I was immune, but I wondered what things were like for her at Georgetown. Lonely, I'd bet.

  The girl on the phone outside was more like the old Lisa. I wondered which came first: Had Zeke slipped through her guard because she'd decided to be “normal” (for Lisa, anyway)? Or was she acting more like old Lisa because she'd decided to let herself like Zeke?

  Since I couldn't hear her conversation clearly enough to eavesdrop, I flung back the covers and went to the bathroom to wash up. Lisa came in while I was brushing my teeth, and she tossed her phone on the bed.

  “How is Zeke?” I asked, mouth full of foam.

  “Fine.” She pulled the rubber band out of her hair and combed through it with her fingers. “His grandmother wants to meet us. That should be interesting.”

  I paused, toothbrush clamped between my molars. “Really? Why?”

  “She's a pistol. After Granddaddy Velasquez died, she ran the ranch alone for fifty years, and still hasn't completely given up control of it.”

  “Good for her.” I spit and rinsed. Eyeing my humidity-frizzed hair, I gave up and brushed it into a headband. “Want to get some breakfast?”

  “You go.” She grabbed clean clothes and headed to the shower. “I'm not sure I can handle another round of the chupacabra follies just yet.”

  I picked up the room key and my cell phone. “Suit yourself.”

  “I usually do.”

  Her skepticism didn't seem to have let up any overnight. I wondered if that was Zeke's influence, too. I thought about telling her about my dream, but figured it could wait until I came back. The Lisa follies were also hard to handle, at least on an empty stomach.

  The Duck Inn was more crowded than I expected on a Sunday morning. The neon signs were dark and the jukebox was quiet. Sunlight fell on Formica, and coffee cups had replaced beer bottles, but other than that, the men who hunched over propped elbows or sprawled with their denim-clad legs out and their boots crossed at the ankles looked pretty much the same.

  I walked to the bar, my flip-flops slapping the hardwood floor. There was a guy behind it today, and as he turned, my step halted. He was the man who'd told Dave we'd be fine on the walk to the room.

  “Where's Teresa?” I said to cover my surprise.

  He set a mug in front of me and filled it with steaming coffee. “Not even she can be here twenty-four-seven. I'm Hector.” His thin, craggy face creased with a friendly smile. “What can I get for you, little missy?”

  He was the only one who said that with any irony, and I liked him for it. With an exaggerated sigh, I reached for the cr
eam. “Where to start?”

  “Why not start with some breakfast, and go from there.”

  “In that case, I'll have one of those taquito things.”

  “You got it.”

  The coffee was good, strong enough to take the polish off a spoon. Hector put in my order, then returned to wiping the scarred wooden bar. “You're not having much of a spring break, Miss Maggie.”

  “Not what I'd planned, no.” I didn't question how he knew my name. I would bet money that most of the town knew my bra size.

  He flipped his towel onto his shoulder. “But sometimes things happen for a reason.”

  My brows made an involuntary climb toward my hairline. My gran said that all the time. “What do you mean?”

  With a shrug, he straightened the napkin holder. “Just that we don't know the big plan. Maybe this is where you're meant to be.”

  “You sound like my Granny Quinn.”

  “She must know what she's talking about.” He grinned.

  I narrowed my eyes, tilting my head to look at him from an angle. “What did you mean last night when you told Dave we'd be safe on the way back to our room?”

  He shrugged. “Just that it's a short walk.”

  “Fine.” I let him be mysterious, for now. Maybe he knew about the protection that the psychic fence represented; maybe he just observed the effect. “So, what's your take on this chupacabra business? Fact or fiction?”

  “Depends what you mean by fact.” A plate hit the pass-through from the kitchen with a clatter, and he retrieved it, answering with his back to me. “Something is killing livestock. I can't say what it is.”

  Someone plopped onto the seat beside me. “What what is?” It was Dave from last night, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He hooked a boot heel on the rung of the barstool. “Hey, Hector. Hey, Miss Maggie.”

  Hector set my taquito in front of me with a deadpan expression. “Good morning, Dave.” The barman's flat intonation made me snort into my coffee. I had to respect anyone who could do such a perfect imitation of HAL the computer.

  “Coffee?” Hector asked.