by Alma Boykin
The first time, Alicia was standing near the head of the line at the snack bar. Someone slipped a hand into her skirt pocket. She grabbed the offending wrist, yanking the hand out of her pocket and calling out, “Hey, keep your hands to yourself! That’s my pocket, not yours.” Before security could arrive, a half-dozen vendors and visitors swarmed the other woman. Someone up-ended her purse and four men’s wallets and a pair of coin purses fell out, along with two pieces of ribbon-work jewelry. Alicia scooted up to the counter and ordered a bottle of water and a bagel dog, careful not to look at the muted commotion behind her. The second time, only Alicia’s reflexes kept her out of trouble.
All too familiar with Denver rush-hour traffic, she’d pre-packed the old beater car the night before. Alicia checked out at five thirty Monday morning and strolled out to the parking lot. A few birds chirped in their sleep. She’d taken care to park her rental car under a streetlight and everything looked clear. But as she passed a small white sedan parked two slots from the junker, movement flickered in her peripheral vision. She jumped sideways, away from the car, tossing her overnight bag at the junker to free her hand. A man lunged at her and missed, sailing past her before he could regain his balance. He swore and she recognized his voice: Cousin ‘Sto. Alicia ran to her car, keys between her fingers like brass knuckles. She unlocked the door, grabbed her bag, and dove for the driver’s seat as her cousin grabbed at her. She slammed the door on his hand.
He screamed. Alicia opened the door just enough for him to pull his hand out, then slammed it again and locked it. He pounded on the window as she started the engine, honking the horn to try and chase him off.
“You bitch,” he yelled through the closed window, pounding with his other hand on the glass. “This is your final chance, you stupid, ungrateful piece of skirt. Juan Nepocimiento Alvarez says he’ll pay for your business and for you, although after this I may tell him you’re not worth bothering with, even if you do have a sweet ass.”
Her face flamed red. “My answer is no. Go away unless you want tire tracks on your back.” She was too mad to curse at him, and too scared.
“You father will pay for this,” he warned, although he took a step back. “You’re ruining his honor.”
“My honor is my own. Now move.” She put the car into gear and began backing. He flipped her off as he scrambled out of her path and she wasted no time getting onto the highway northbound. Alicia risked cutting through central Denver. Traffic remained light until after she cleared the worst choke points, and she’d driven well into the suburbs before the sun began peeping over the eastern horizon. But she didn’t stop shaking until she passed Boulder.
Fabian knew something was wrong as soon as he saw her. “Alicia, what happened?” He demanded as she sagged into the kitchen chair, folded her arms on the table, buried her face in her hands, and burst into tears.
“Cousin Ernesto made trouble at the show. He said I’d dishonored Papa by not doing what he asked.”
A scar-warped hand tucked a clean, worn red bandana under one of her hands. “Unless you were acting as your father’s agent, the only honor you could damage is your own, Miss Salazar.” She blew her nose, face still hidden. “Perhaps it would be wise for you to inform your father of the threat, should your so-called relative decide to attempt something rash.”
Alicia blew her nose again and sat up. “I … I’ll do that. Right now.” She tried calling her father’s phone, but got no answer. He’s probably working and has it turned off, as he should, she decided. So she sent him an e-mail describing ‘Sto’s threats and her refusal.
Her father called back that night. “Stay away from him, Rosita, stay far away. I do not want you anywhere that,” and her father used words she’d never heard him say before. “I just learned from Guadalupe that he spent all of Tia Manuela’s estate. Her grave is still unmarked, even though we all gave money for her headstone. His gang has taken over Tia Manuela’s house. Guadalupe is furious, but she’s in Korea and can’t get leave to come home.”
Ut oh. I wonder if ‘Sto ran up debts and he wants to use me to pay them? The thought made her blood boil. No, not this time. I am my own woman and no one buys or sells me but me, damn it. “Don’t worry Papa, I’m staying as far away from ‘Sto as I can, and the art show people know not to let him in. He threatened another woman at Littleton. I think he tried to shake her down.”
“Stay out of Denver, Rosita. That’s an order.” She removed the phone from her ear and stuck her tongue out at it, then put it back. “ … And I’ll warn Mama and the girls to be careful. Maybe it’s just as well Mr. Perez still hasn’t finished the house. The police respond faster here in town.”
“Yes, sir.”
He filled her in on other family news, then said good night and hung up. Alicia turned off her phone, shaking her head at her father. I suspect if I’m sixty and he’s ninety, I’ll still be his baby girl, in need of explicit instructions.
Trouble found her two weeks later. She’d just settled down to start work on the Littleton orders when the intercom crackled, startling her. “Alicia, come upstairs please.”
That doesn’t sound good. I hope Fabian’s not sick or something. He’d scheduled the first round of the next phase of reconstructive surgeries, and needed to stay well. She hurried up the steps to Fabian’s office.
“Miss Salazar, are you expecting company?” Fabian asked. “Someone is attempting to force the house gates open.”
Her mouth went dry. “Can you see what he’s driving?” The words came out in a hoarse whisper.
“No, I cannot. The battery backup for the camera appears to have failed.”
“I, I think it’s cousin ‘Sto. He wants me to work for his gang.”
Fabian’s eyes bulged and she saw the vein in his temple starting to pulse. “He desires what?”
She managed to get enough saliva in her mouth to swallow. “He wants me to make jewelry and stuff as a front for his gang, to open a shop they can use to launder money, I think. And,” she gulped. “I think his ‘master’ likes me, thinks I’m cute.” She shivered.
“I see. And I take it that you do not find this ‘master’ as attractive as your cousin does.”
She shook her head. “No, no, no, no, yo no quiero.” She’d never be free from them. “He said he’d find me, ‘Sto did, said he’d bring me back one way or another.”
Fabian took a deep breath, then another, and his hands clenched into fists. “Your so-called cousin seems to have stopped attacking my gate. Or at least, the alarms are no longer flashing.” He pointed to the computer screen.
Alicia’s phone rang. She pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the number. “It’s him, do you want me to answer it?”
“That is your choice, Miss Salazar.” He got up and left the room.
Should she? She didn’t want to, but maybe it wasn’t ‘Sto outside the gate. Maybe ‘Sto was still in Denver. She pushed the button. “Hello?”
“I’m here to take you home, prima mia. Have your landlord open the gate so I can come in, Rosita.” He sounded out of breath and she wondered if he’d been pounding on the gates.
“No, thank you, ‘Sto. I have work to do and I don’t need to go anywhere, thank you. I’m sorry you wasted so much gas—“
“You” and he yelled some very rude names, ending with, “ungrateful dog. After everything the Latin Masters have done for the family, you have to come with me. Open the damn gate and come out, or mis amigos will—“
A pink hand removed the phone from her loose grip. “Your ‘amigos’ will do no such thing. You are welcome to depart, and I encourage you to avail yourself of the calming properties of the Poudre. Cranial immersion is most effective for the overwrought.”
He just told ‘Sto to go soak his head in the Poudre River. Oh, uh oh. She felt the blood draining from her face.
“What powder?” ‘Sto yelled. Fabian held the phone well away from his ear and shook his head. “This is your last warning you stupid,” and anoth
er string of bad words vomited from the phone’s tiny speaker. “Or don’t you want to let your,” and now she blushed at the word, “go find a real man?”
“Real men do not threaten their blood-kin, nor do they join such a craven pack as the Latin Masters. Stay away from Illif House.” He did not say, “or else,” but she could hear it in his voice.
“Oh yeah? You’ll see. I’ll be back and you’ll see what real men can do, you— BEEP.” Fabian terminated the call.
“Although cutting him off mid-tirade is inexcusably rude, I did not care to hear further variations on his vulgar theme. Nor is there any need for you to hear them.” He closed the phone. “Miss Salazar?”
Her mouth moved but no sound came out. After several tries she whispered, “They’ll kill us.”
“That is certainly possible. They may also discover that they’ve selected their last target.” He handed her the phone, and a heavy leather belt with a holstered pistol hanging from it. “You’ll do better with this. Wear it at all times unless you are showering or asleep, please, Miss Salazar.”
“We’re outnumbered.” She put the rig on and felt better, but only a little better. She knew the revolver.
“True, and possibly outgunned, although I doubt that. However, we have the land on our side and they most emphatically do not, all assertions about mystic connections to lost Aztlan to the contrary. And I’ll let the sheriff know about the threat, so we have a record if your cousin’s associates do try something.”
Did they? He did, but did she? And what if the Power got busy doing other things, or was asleep? No. I am not going back with ‘Sto. I’d rather take my chance with someone I love than …The thought faded into surprise. I love Fabian and I want to fight by his side if it comes to that. And she suspected that it probably would. He’d insulted ‘Sto’s manhood.
Or would ‘Sto do anything? Almost a week passed without anything, and Alicia began relaxing. She still felt jumpy, but that had more to do with the weather and wind than anything human. A constant hot south wind sucked the moisture out of the air. There’d been news reports of grass fires farther east, out by Limon, but nothing along the Front Range. She still sniffed the air and watched for threads of light-brown smoke while she spread compost over the garden and spaded it in. Fabian helped when he could, but he needed to get another book edited and released, now that he had the cover art ready.
Alicia leaned the turning fork against the wall of the house and went to get a drink of water from the hose. At least the west wind today feels almost cool. She turned off the water and began putting the tools away. She heard honking, like a car with a stuck horn, and felt something stirring inside her. What?
The Presence gave her a sense of anger and hatred, and something bordering on the ragged edge of sanity. “’Sto and his friends. They’re here.” She locked the shed and rushed into the house, almost colliding with Fabian.
“Your purported relative appears to have brought some associates with him.” Fabian wore his shoulder holster, along with his belt rig. “Bring the rifle from by the door and get your shotgun. I’ve moved the ammunition to the watcher’s window and the rear porch.”
She picked up the rifle, checking the safety out of ingrained habit. She locked the back door, then the inner door, and followed Fabian up the steps. He took them two at a time, but she picked her way. He continued up to the third floor while she retrieved the shotgun and shells from their usual spot. Once she reached the third floor, she found him laying on his stomach, watching through binoculars. His deer rifle lay beside him.
This is real. This is not a game, this is real. Her gut clenched and she needed to go to the bathroom. She hurried down the hall. By the time she returned, Fabian had opened the window and propped it up. As she knelt beside him, she heard a shriek of metal, followed by the sound of engines getting louder. “They broke the gate?” But I like the gate. It’s pretty.
“Yes. Now, do they have any idea about how to attack a house, or are they going to be stupid. Were I a betting man, I would wager on the latter.” He set the field glasses aside and pulled the rifle into position.
“I want to help.”
He grunted. “You see the spare receivers and the ammunition box? Keep the receivers loaded.” A big black diesel pick-up slammed to a stop in front of the house, followed by a black SUV. “That is so stereotypical,” Fabian sighed.
A half-dozen men piled out of the black vehicles. She recognized ‘Sto and guessed that the man giving orders was Juan Nepocimiento Alvarez, the “master” who wanted her to be his mistress. The others wore worn jeans and denim or flannel work-shirts, with red bandannas around their necks. They could have passed as some of the day laborers she’d once seen loitering near Papa’s hardware store. The men milled around, looking for something. Finally Nepo made a quick wave toward the front door and ‘Sto strode up the steps and began pounding on the heavy oak door.
“Open the door, Rosita,” ‘Sto yelled. “If you do it now, Señor Alvarez won’t be mad.”
“Mad at who?” Alicia whispered under her breath. She leaned back, out of the edge of the window and kept her eyes on the men nosing around the south side of the house as best she could.
Fabian corrected, “At whom, Miss Salazar.” She smiled despite her nerves.
Bang, bang, bang against the door. “Damn it, Rosita, open this door and come out. Quit being stupid.”
Nepo waved his hand again and one of the men pulled a sawed-off shotgun from the back of an SUV. “Not my door you do not. That oak is irreplaceable.” Fabian clicked the safety off on his rifle. The man with the shotgun walked past the porch and aimed at the window in the base of the tower. Fabian shifted onto one knee, pointing the rifle down. “That is not wise.”
“Boom,” and she heard breaking glass. At almost the same instant she heard a deafening “bang,” from beside her. The gunner dropped, spraying red from what remained of his head as he did. The others stared, then scattered, some pulling guns out of their waistbands and firing wildly, wounding one of their own and breaking a window on Nepo’s pick-up in the process, along with another of Illif House’s windows. Fabian sighted, then sighed as his target ducked under cover.
He just killed that man. Alicia put one hand over her mouth, staring at the dead body. She wanted to scream. But all she felt was satisfaction and relief. Fabian rolled onto his side against the wall, out of sight from the ground, or so she guessed. He reloaded the rifle.
“Go watch the stairs,” he growled. “Take the shotgun, Miss Salazar, and do be careful not to damage the woodwork unless you find it absolutely necessary.” She nodded and slid out of the room and down the short hall.
OK, if I were going to attack the house, how would I do it? She and Fabian had talked about this. He’d ridden along with the police and had asked them lots of questions over the years, as well as pestering some soldiers for information for his books. Assume they know we’re on the third floor. They can try to come in from the back and front at the same time, but they still have to come up the stairs and we have the advantage. Or they could try to climb up onto the back sleeping porch, but the ladder is up here and the other ladder is locked in the shed. She heard more pistol shots and two rifle shots. Or they can try and burn us out, but it’s hard to burn down a house.
The shots stopped. Fabian appeared, holding the rifle with its muzzle to the sky, his finger well clear of the trigger. “They’re trying to flank the house, to come in the back,” he mumbled. She had to listen closely to understand him; he spoke so fast. “You need to put on shoes, real shoes. Leave the shotgun here.” Alicia nodded and padded down the steps as fast as she could without slipping. She ducked into her room, grabbed her sturdy boots, and risked a peek out the back window. She saw motion by the house and again out beyond the garden. She dropped the heavy curtain and ducked, trotting for the door. “Bang—crack tinkle.” The window shattered and the curtains jerked as a shot hit them. She fled up the stairs.
“They’re at the
back door,” she gasped. She got behind Fabian and tugged on the shoes, cursing under her breath as she almost knotted the lace instead of tying it. “And out by the sheds.”
She listened hard. Footsteps on the stairs, and swearing in Spanish. Someone did not want to be the first up the steps. Alicia grinned but Fabian shook his head. He’s right, this is not funny. People are dying and people are not deer. At least these guys can’t shoot—
“Blam!” Thunder roared and plaster bits rained down on them. Shotgun! Fabian tried to get into position to shoot back, but the rifle’s long barrel got in the way. He looked back at the front room, then the steps, then the front of the house again, then slung the rifle over his shoulder. He grabbed her free hand and all but dragged her to the porch door.
“Out and down, onto the flat.” He shoved open the door and threw her forward. She kept her balance, somehow, and dropped to her knees, then all fours as he followed her, dragging an office chair. He propped the heavy old chair under the doorknob. They heard someone cursing and fighting down by the back door.
“I don’t wanna go in,” a whiny voice protested. “They got Paco and ‘Tonio already. Let’s burn ‘em out, boss.”
A pistol shot snapped. “Any further discussion?” a harsh voice demanded. Alicia stared at Fabian, her eyes wide.
He eased over to the edge of the porch, to a gap in the heavy safety rails around the edge of the roof. With great care and painful slowness Fabian opened the little gate by the box with the emergency fire ladder in it. He looked around, risking poking his head farther to see around the edge of the siding.
“Boom,” and the door disintegrated, knocking the chair out of the way. Felicia heard a shotgun being pumped.
Without thinking she rolled over, drew her revolver like she’d practiced, sighted for the center of mass and fired, then fired again. The man dropped his shotgun and staggered back, out of her line of fire. Should she follow to make sure?
