Haunted

CHAPTER 39

IT’S GROWN VERY QUIET IN THE VILLAGE. THE WOMEN have taken their men back into their shacks. There is just the occasional muffled cry as a wound is being tended. I can only imagine the primitive tools they’re using to extract those bullets.

Should I feel sympathy? I can’t. Bastards let little girls be tortured under their noses. I hope it hurts like hell.

I look out the window. The body of Luis’ dead henchman lies unattended in the dirt. Flies drone around like the corpse in a cloud. A pack of mangy dogs materialize from the brush around the village. They sniff the body, take tentative nips as if testing to see if there is any life left, any movement that could signal a threat. After a while, two of them work in concert, grabbing the ankles, yanking the body to the side of the well out of my view.

Away from the lone man standing outside the nearest shack.

Luis’ guard, the only one not searching the perimeter for the girls, stands at attention beside the door to the shack. Trying to ignore the dogs. But he can’t ignore the sound. He can hear as well as I the noise the dogs make as they tear into the flesh of Luis’ victim. His eyes swivel back and forth. Sweat trickles down his face, stains the collar of his shirt. He doesn’t try to wipe it away. He doesn’t move at all, afraid maybe to incur Luis’ wrath like the man being torn apart on the other side of the well—especially if the wrath takes the form of a bullet to the brain.

I’m glad the girls are huddled in back. They can’t see or hear this.

When I think it’s safe, I climb out of the back window and drop silently to the ground. I have only to make it a few feet before reaching cover. Then I’m scurrying through the brush like a desert coyote, eyes, ears and nose alert for the return of Ramon and his men or the approach of Luis’ search party. Those cowards seem to have disappeared. Maybe the idea of facing repercussions for not being able to find the girls made running away a more favorable option.

The duffel remains where I left it. Culebra’s shack is within sight, but I don’t take time to reach out to him. I’ll let him know that Max is on the way when I’ve gotten back to the girls.

I lift the duffel carefully, hold it against my chest to keep the guns inside from shifting around. It’s so quiet around me, even the slightest sound might draw attention.

Then I’m racing back to the church. When I reach the back window, I lower the duffel silently to the floor and climb in after it.

The four girls are just where I left them, clinging to each other, breathless with fear. The older girl’s eyes flicker with relief when she sees me.

I zip open the duffel to see if there are any more of the protein bars inside. There are only two left. I hand them to her. “Éste es todo. Tu tienes que compartirlos con las otras.” When she’s taken them and is dividing them, I ask, “¿Como se llama?”

She waits until the three have started to eat, before she answers, “Esmeralda.” She points to each girl in turn, “Francisca, Dorotea, my sister, Peppi.”

“Do any of the others speak English?”

Peppi alone looks up from her bar. She has been eating slowly, one tiny bite at a time. “Sí. Yes. A little.”

I rummage in the bag to see how much water is left. One bottle. Shit. I think back to a few hours ago when I used a bottle to wash the blood from my face. A stupid waste of water. Water these girls need. With a sigh of self-recrimination, I pull the last bottle out and hand it to Esmeralda. “This is all the water.”

She understands and opens the bottle. She tells the girls in Spanish, “Take just a sip. We must make this last.”

There are no groans of protest, just grateful smiles. Each in turn tips the bottle to parched lips and swallows a mouthful. When they pass it back to Esmeralda, she recaps the bottle without taking a drink herself. She hasn’t eaten her bar, either, but has rewrapped it and slipped it into a pocket in her skirt.

She reads the question in my expression. “I don’t need it. They might.” Her eyes turn to the girls.

She is saving hers for the little ones. “You need to be strong for them. At least take some water.”

“You haven’t.”

And there’s a very good reason for that but telling her what it is might make going back to Luis seem a better bargain than staying here with a vampire.

“I drank a bottle earlier,” I lie. “I’m fine. Please. At least take a sip.”

She seems ready to argue but then, since I don’t appear ready to give in, she opens the water bottle and brings it to her lips. As if I can’t tell she’s not really taking a drink. Then she carefully recaps the bottle, and stares at me until I give her a grudging nod.

She’s stubborn. She reminds me of me.

I like her.

Nothing to do but hunker down and wait for Max and hope he gets here before any of the villagers realize no one has yet made a thorough search of the church for the missing girls. The fact that Luis’ men couldn’t move fast enough to get away from him is working in our favor. Hiding in plain sight does sometimes work.

Esmeralda has the three girls gathered around her like a mother chicken with her peeps. They are all so quiet, so withdrawn. Since they arrived less than twenty-four hours ago, and Luis has had other things to occupy his mind, maybe I’ll be able to get them away before their nightmare becomes worse than being kidnapped and drugged.

And what Luis had planned for them is infinitely worse.