“Sueñe sus sueños,” Aidia commanded in Spanish. Dream your dreams. “I am going to turn out the light now, Tito. Tomorrow we go to Barrio Antiguo, and show my new paintings to that miser Chavez. I am finally ready, after working so hard all these long months. Money is thin, and his galería is very popular right now. We may have to turn you back into a mendigo to beg from the pious pigs coming and going from the Museo de Arte Contemporaneo if Chavez takes nothing from me. Get your sleep. It will be a long day.”
Tito's face flushed. Aidia might as well have caught him masturbating. She was one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen. Even in middle age, Aidia was in fine shape. Her frame was small but curvaceous, her black hair streaked with strands of white, and the lines under her eyes only added to the depth of her beauty, especially when she smiled, showing off her perfect white teeth. The clothes she wore were always light and airy, the colors of the jungle and sky, and more often than not, the thin linens exposed the fact that she wore no bra, that she hated physical and emotional restrictions of any kind. Her breasts were perfect.
Aidia's family was wealthy. Her father was the owner of a large manufacturing plant in Monterrey, but she was an artist. She had long ago left the comfort of money behind, pursuing her own dreams instead, getting by meagerly on the sale of her paintings, and doing odd jobs if she had to. The casa was full of canvases depicting scenes of the poor side of Mexico; peasants in the field, nómadas, migrants, crossing the big river, their bundles of clothes, the whole of their life, floating away in the distance. And of the street boys, the mendigos, panhandling the turistas on the corners of Makro Plaza, where he had met her.
Three weeks after he had arrived from San Luis Potosi, he spied Aidia under a tree watching him, painting him and the other boys he had befriended. Orphans, or those without parents, since Tito did not consider himself an orphan, it seemed, made friends more easily than most people. A lost and lonely look was all one needed to join a gang—even if the danger of it outweighed begging on the street alone. After Aidia had finished the painting, she had sought him out, offered him a roof over his head and food in his belly every day, if he would do her chores, run her errands, clean her paintbrushes. . . . She was intrigued by his blue eyes, by his light skin, his perfect English, of which she knew little. She said he was, “Copper among the rubble of deaf stone.”
God had sent him an angel, and he had been with her ever since—trying with all his might not to love her. But five minutes after he met her . . . it was too late.
Rain pinged off the metal roof. A cool breeze circled through the small cement-block house, mixing the smells of Aidia's home into a bouquet of comfort: Turpentine. Achicoria, chicory, for the morning coffee laid out on the sink, and the sweet fragrance of honey and almond bath soap. The light clicked off, and Tito undressed and lay down on his cot. He pulled the blanket up over his shoulders and closed his eyes, but images of Aidia mixed with the remembrance of his days as a mendigo, of his journey to Monterrey from El Refugio.
He grasped the St. Christopher's medal that forever dangled around his neck and wondered how so much time had passed. He wondered if he could ever free himself from the pull of Aidia's kindness, of her heart and passion that seemed to throb out of every pore of her body. He needed her love as much as he needed to breath . . . but he knew deep in his heart that one day he would have to leave her. And his heart, his growing desire to be with a woman now that he was nearly a man, told him that his leaving would have to come soon, or he would stay in Aidia's casa for as long as she were alive. He would never make it to Nuevo Laredo, never cross the border, never step foot in the place he once called home.
Tito was indebted to Aidia for saving him, for pulling him from the streets before he fell victim to the flesh sellers and glue-sniffers, and the thought of leaving her pained him. But he was losing himself, losing his dreams, his memories, and sometimes, he felt just as trapped in her presence as he had with the nuns.
Slowly, he settled in to a comfortable position. The rain lulled him to sleep.
The soft sound of Aidia's steady breathing, a few feet away, was nothing but a simple lullaby that reminded him of distant tomato fields and the smell of menudo simmering on the stove.
CHAPTER 23
August 22, 2004, 4:39 P.M.
After knocking on Ginny's trailer door three times, Jordan kicked it in. He stepped back, gripped the .38 a little tighter, and swept inside.
The front room was a mess; the television shattered, a chair turned on its side, papers strewn across the floor. He made his way through the kitchen, inching along the wall, listening for any sounds of someone else inside. There was no air-conditioning, no fans running, no windows open. The trailer was sweltering under the tin roof. The kitchen smelled like sour milk, the faucet was dripping steadily, and the refrigerator door was standing wide open.
He stopped before heading down the hall, anchored his hand on the sweaty paneling, and remembered leaving, Ginny's sobs, the fear in Dylan's eyes. Goddamn it, he should have taken them with him, should have done what Ginny wanted—ran away and became something else, someone else. A fishing guide in Minnesota, or a ranger in Yellowstone. Either one sounded pretty good, but he knew he couldn't leave, not then, and certainly not now. He finally had to ask himself a tough question: Did Ginny know what was coming? Is that why she wanted so desperately to run away? If she took his bullets, then the answer to that question was yes.
Maybe she was trying to protect him as well as herself. Maybe? Maybe she still loved him. Maybe not.
While Jordan was inside, Spider waited in the van with the shotgun in his lap. There was no way Spider could provide backup for Jordan other than to crawl up the rickety steps, dragging his legs behind him. That was too dangerous, too slow, since they didn't know what Jordan could be walking into. Ginny's car was gone, and Ed's El Camino was nowhere to be seen. It looked like the trailer was empty, like no one was home. Spider was less than thrilled about Jordan's plan, but he'd gone along with it, keeping the van idling, ready to get help or get the hell out of there on a second's notice. It was all he could do. Just sit there and wait, one more time. Only Spider had a cell phone—Jordan had never felt the need for one since a radio was always strapped to his hip. But he wished he had one now so he could call Spider if he needed him.
Jordan edged down the hall, hesitating, listening, before he entered the doorway to Dylan's room.
The small ten-by-ten bedroom was empty, the bed unmade, bright red and blue Spiderman sheets in a tangle. Toys were scattered across the floor; a Tonka semi-truck, an army tank, action heroes missing a leg, an arm, a head, laying in a pile in the middle of the floor. The closet door stood open. Jordan quickly cleared it, assuring himself that the boy was still with Louella. He'd seen Dylan that morning, being led into the station by his mother. All things considered, that could've changed, and the police station was the next place he'd go if he didn't find Ginny home.
Sweat dripped off Jordan's forehead. The thin hallway was like a sauna. Early evening light dappled through the curtains of a single window no bigger than a cement block, casting seashell-shaped shadows on the dark walnut-paneled walls.
He could hear the van running outside. A cat meowing next door. The constant drip, drip, drip of the faucet matched the beat of his heart.
The bathroom door was open and Jordan ducked low, ready to roll into Ginny's bedroom if he had to. He eased up next to the door casing, peered inside, and saw nothing but his own reflection in the mirror as he jerked the .38 in front of him. His black eye had ripened, and was starting to fade from its original deep purple. His face glistened with moisture in the soft light. He hardly recognized himself, standing in front of the mirror, pointing a gun at himself.
Nothing seemed like it had changed in the bathroom since he was there a few nights ago, after making love with Ginny. Nothing except his face, the wounds on his body, Big Joe's return to Dukaine, the discovered graveyard at Longer's Pond, and Holister dead an
d gone. The guilt Jordan felt from not being able to save Holister was heavier than anything he'd ever felt in his life. A lot had happened during his life that had been out of his control—except the shooting. He was trained for that. If only he'd done one thing different Holister would still be alive, would be there to answer his questions . . . if only. If only . . . He knew he had to push the thought away or he'd go crazy, beating himself up with one more thing.
Everything had changed once he'd left Ginny's bed. And now he was back under her roof, fearing she was dead, or at the very least, had come to some great harm—or worse, was somehow involved in this mess. Had Ed led her down one more dead-end path?
With that thought in mind, Jordan went to the medicine cabinet and opened the door. The needle was gone. The aluminum foil rock was gone. Only the ordinary, everyday items were there. Something did catch his eye, though, as he went to leave the bathroom.
Ten empty packages of cold and sinus medicine were littered across the bottom of the bathtub. A coiled piece of black tubing lay in the corner. Several empty pickle jars sat on the edge of the tub. The only thing missing was a hot plate, antifreeze, muriatic acid, and the rest of the necessary chemicals. He had been right, his hunch verified; Ed was home-cooking meth.
He took a deep breath, saddened by the discovery, and pushed his way out of the bathroom. Ginny was more involved than he had hoped, she had to have known what Ed was up to . . . and he had to seriously consider the fact that she did take his bullets—he just couldn't figure out why she would do something so drastic. But he would.
An odd smell permeated the bedroom, and he edged up to the door to check the final room in the trailer, unsure of what he'd find. His shoulder knocked a picture to the floor. An 8 × 10 Wal-Mart portrait of Ginny, Ed, and Dylan smiled up at him from the floor. Almost unconsciously, he cocked the .38, pulled the hammer back, and entered the bedroom, expecting the worst—only to find it empty as well.
The bedroom was a shambles. Drawers pulled out, emptied on the floor and on the bed, mixed with the piles of dirty laundry. The fan was off, and the window was closed, the sheer curtains torn from the rods, hanging sideways on one nail. Perfume bottles lay shattered, and the smell was immediate and overwhelming; a mixture of jasmine, sandalwood, and musk that attached itself to his pores, causing him to shudder. Each fragrance triggered a memory of Ginny at various stages in her life, his life, their life.
Not finding her at the trailer eased his mind. But only for a moment. It was obvious somebody had tossed the place. The question remained whether it happened when Ginny was there or not. Did Ed and her get into a fight? Or did somebody take her away against her will? Only pieces of the meth lab were present—did Ed take them somewhere else, along with Ginny? There was no telling what had happened, especially if Ed was stoned. And that was likely, considering what had happened earlier when Ed came looking for him. The rage Ed was in would be notched up times ten if he was high.
“I should have shot the son of a bitch in the head when I had the chance,” Jordan said out loud, “and put him out of his misery.”
His gut told him Ginny hadn't been abducted, not unless it had happened after she dropped off Dylan. Fighting with Ed made more sense. But when did that happen? This morning before Ed came looking for him with the pipe? Or later? Or was she using too? On a binge with Ed? She'd headed in the wrong direction when she left the station and should have been going to the hospital. Where did she go?
There were signs that Ginny was using, now that he thought about it, but he hadn't wanted to see them. He had wanted nothing more than to be nineteen again, nothing more than to have one more chance at winning her over. Spider was right. He was a fucking dumbass . . . He would have done less harm by climbing into bed with his ex-wife, or Lainie, or the redheaded waitress at the Flying Tiger.
Jordan saw no blood, no sign that there had been any physical harm done to Ginny. All he knew at that moment was that he had to find her. Make sure she was all right and go from there. Take her to Celeste once he found her. To another reality that was even less pleasant than the one he stood in right now.
How could he still want to save her if she had betrayed him, used him, put him in harm's way?
He pushed that question away, too, then thought of Holister—of the reality that his friend, his boss, Ginny's father, was really dead.
“They were laughing like it's all a goddamned joke,” Holister said.
Jordan backed out of the bedroom with Holister's voice ringing in his memory. The first undistinguishable shot had twisted the old man's puffy face into a surprised burst of pain. And then the laughter. It seemed familiar. Distant but familiar. He stopped, tried to place the laughter, and then reentered the bedroom, his eyes searching the top of the dresser. He was sure he was missing something here, a clue staring him straight in the face, waiting to be found.
Two of the bottom drawers remained intact, and he opened them quickly, rummaging through the drawers of T-shirts and socks . . . looking for a bullet, something that would prove or disprove his theory that Ginny had taken the bullets from his Glock. He really wanted to find something to prove himself wrong, that Ginny hadn't betrayed him.
He found nothing to convince him either way, so he eased his way outside. He had a recurrent feeling, the same one he'd had the other night: He was in another man's house looking for something that did not exist.
Spider revved the engine of the van as Jordan stepped out the door of the trailer, sending a big blue puff of smoke into the air.
Jordan shook his head, telling Spider he hadn't found Ginny. He removed the bullet from the .38's chamber, stuffed the gun back into the holster, and walked slowly to the van, eyes on the ground, looking for anything that might provide a clue to Ginny's whereabouts, or what had happened inside.
Nothing. Unless he was going to analyze every brand of cigarette butt littering the gravel where Ginny parked her car. There wasn't time for that, there were too many butts to choose from.
“Let's go to the station,” Jordan said as he climbed into the van.
“Are you fuckin' crazy?” Spider asked, setting a bottle of water into a cupholder on the dashboard console. “Strike that. I know the answer. Why? What'd you find?”
“The place is a wreck. Somebody either tossed it looking for something, or Ginny and Ed got into a fight. Hard to say which,” Jordan said, taking a drink from his bottle of water. “There's remnants of a lab. Somebody was cooking—maybe Ed, maybe Ginny.”
“I'm not surprised.”
“Me, either. I should have seen it . . .”
“You were blinded by . . .”
“Stop it,” Jordan said, hitting the dash. “I know it! Goddamn it, I know what I should have seen, what I should have done, and what I shouldn't have done!”
“Sorry, man.”
“Don't be. Just lay off. There's enough shit going on. I don't need to be taken to the cleaners every time her name comes up.”
“You're right.”
Jordan stared at Spider for a second. Let the anger go, he told himself. Let it go. “Damn, I could use a beer,” he said.
“You didn't answer my question. Why do you want to go to the station?”
Jordan looked at Spider curiously. “I want to check on Dylan. Make sure he's all right.”
Spider nodded. “That's cool. But what if Hogue or Johnny Ray want to keep you there?”
“I doubt Hogue'll be there. He's got his hands full at the pond. I can handle Johnny Ray.” Jordan looked at his watch. “Louella will be leaving, or is already gone, it's after five. Unless they got her working overtime because of everything that's going on. If she took Dylan home with her, then we'll have to go there.”
“What if they detain you? What then? I'm supposed to bail your ass out of jail?” Spider asked.
“Then you'll have to find Ginny and Ed.”
“And you think it's worth the risk, checking on the kid?”
“Yes.”
“I don't.�
��
“All right. Here's the deal,” Jordan said, frustrated, still not sure he wanted to tell Spider the whole truth, even though he had no choice. “I left my Glock on the nightstand when I was at Ginny's. I was on duty when I slept with her.”
Spider laughed uncomfortably but said nothing, probably in response to the look he was getting from Jordan not to say a goddamned word.
“She—could've taken the bullets,” Jordan continued. “Put it all together. If Ginny really did take the bullets and gave them to the shooter, then she's involved. She knows what's going on. Knew what was going to happen. The call was a set-up—just like the letter to Holister. We had sex for one purpose—so she could get the bullets. The rest of it was bullshit.”
“That's got to make you feel even better, huh?”
“Oh, yeah, great. Just great. Can't be much more stupid than that, can I?” Jordan said, mocking himself but letting the tone go quickly. “Maybe Ed's the shooter. Maybe I'm right. Maybe he's transporting, dealing again, and he pulled her into it. Dylan was there, too, that night. I've seen too many kids in houses that have had labs in them. I just want to make sure he's safe.”
“But why would Ed shoot Holister? He's Ginny's father.”
“I haven't figured that out yet. Maybe this has something to do with the INS and DEA coming—Hogue's big bust. Not only was Holister Ginny's father—but he was a cop, too.”
“You, too.”
“Yeah, two dead pigs. I know. There's been a lot of activity at the pond, cookers using the woods to hide in. Me and Johnny Ray have both had calls out there in the last couple of months. If somebody was getting too close to making a bust, then maybe it was time to take action. If Holister got shot with bullets from my gun, and I was the only one there . . .”
“. . . Then you're more than a suspect—you're directly linked to the shooting. Case closed. Which is exactly what's happened.”
“Thanks to Hogue.”
“Ed Kirsch's motherfucking uncle. You think the sheriff's involved in this?”
The Devil's Bones Page 21
