Shady Lady

Dead Man Says What?

I woke to two silenced shots hitting the towels mounded to look like me. At Kel’s insistence, Shannon and I had bedded down on the floor in between the two beds. Now I appreciated his caution.

Her breathing said she was awake, but we didn’t speak. The slow grate of footsteps over glass, coming through the balcony door, suggested the gunman meant to check his work. He was competent; he’d just never run into targets like us before. Montoya should’ve briefed him better.

His shadow fell across the bed as he ripped the covers back. An oath escaped him when he saw he’d killed a number of dirty bath towels. Kel hit him from behind, wrapping a shoelace around the other man’s neck. Their struggle was relatively quiet, as such things go, until at last the gunman went limp. Kel made sure he wasn’t playing possum, and then he swung him over his shoulder, strode to the balcony, and jumped.

That was our cue. We weren’t conducting the interrogation in here; blood in a hotel room would arouse too many questions. For a moment I paused, shocked at the coldness of the thought. Likely, such a consideration wouldn’t have occurred to me before. I didn’t even know whether the thought had come from me or some darkness lingering from the demon who saved me . . . or the murderer’s weapon in my side. It was a pragmatic concern, however, and I could not deny its validity. Still, I shivered, a ripple of dread warning me that once I started down this path, there could be no return to innocence.

Yet I told myself I needed to find out what this hired gun knew. He couldn’t be a good man, or he wouldn’t be on Montoya’s payroll. Good men didn’t break into hotel rooms with a silencer and try to murder women sleeping in their beds. Determined, I threw off the blanket with Shannon hot on my heels. Since we were both fully dressed, I only needed to snatch Butch and hurry out the door. I took the stairs two at a time, an athletic feat that surprised me because I didn’t fall. When I hit the ground floor, I broke into a jog.

They had security here, but they wouldn’t say anything about registered guests exercising on the property in the middle of the night, so Shannon and I offered our best impressions of fitness nuts. The bored guard we passed just raised a hand in greeting; I could imagine his perplexity, but as long as he didn’t catch us doing anything worse, we’d be fine.

I ran through the parking lot and down toward the lake before doubling back toward the temascal hut. As she was taller than me, Shannon kept up easily. A smoky scent lingered, though the fire had gone out. I set Butch on the ground.

“You’re an important part of this plan,” I told the dog. “If anybody comes within sniffing distance, bark twice. I mean it—you can’t wander or be distracted by a bird.”

He lowered his head. I could almost hear what he was thinking: Not fair, that only happened one time. But he gave a yap, indicating he understood his mission. He was crucial to our success; early warning would permit us to escape undetected.

We sank to hands and knees to crawl inside; it was dark and close and there were stones inside that could be heated to inflict excruciating pain. In short, the place was ideal for inflicting physical and psychological damage. I sat down, and Shannon brought out the candles she’d tucked into her pocket. Kel had made a supply run earlier in the evening, lifting some from the patio tables for our purposes now. She lit the candles and eerie little flames kicked up in a semicircle, lending our faces a demonic aspect against the clay backdrop.

The killer lay like a Christmas goose, bound with arms over his head and ankles securely fastened. At most, he could flop around like a dying flounder. No threat—and if he moved with too much enthusiasm to the left, he’d burn himself on the hot rocks. To the right, he ran into Kel and his blades.

“Bring him around,” I said.

It might seem cruel to start with physical pain, but this man had tried to kill me, and it wasn’t as if he’d go away if I asked him nicely. These men played hardball and I had to prove I understood the rules of the game if I wanted to survive it. Still, I looked away as the guardian produced a knife, made a shallow cut, and then sprinkled salt in it. Incredible: The man could create a torture kit out of items found on a room service tray. In the same motion, he clapped a hand over the gunman’s mouth, anticipating the scream. The assassin gazed up at us, eyes wide.

Kel addressed him in Spanish. “You work for Montoya, yes?”

Not surprisingly, the killer kept quiet. He knew his life was worth less than nothing if he talked. He couldn’t have been more than five-foot-eight, average build. Sweat damped his shoulder-length black hair, and his eyes gleamed like a frightened child’s—probably because Kel’s skull tats glowed faintly.

The guardian played with his knife, letting it hit the candlelight just so. “You jeopardize more than your life,” he said quietly. “If you die unshriven, it also imperils your immortal soul.”

Since Mexico was a predominantly Catholic country, he played that card well. I read soul-deep fear in the gunman’s body. He was thinking about that, dying here without talking to a priest one last time. We could do worse than draw a few cuts, of course. We could unleash the spirits on him, but I was reluctant to go that far if we didn’t have to. At this point, it was impossible to say what Shannon’s ghosts might do, or what could happen if they broke free. I wasn’t eager to relive that terrible night in the woods outside Kilmer.

Shannon added softly, “That wouldn’t be so bad, if you’d led a good life. But you haven’t. We know the things you’ve done for Montoya.”

I was proud of how quick she’d picked up Spanish. Like me, she wasn’t fully fluent, and she thought before she spoke—doing mental translations—but by the way the man whimpered, he took her meaning. Still, he wouldn’t break.

Kel carved a fresh line on him. Blood spilled from the wound, trickling hot over the killer’s forearm. With exquisite, awful artistry, he sprinkled more salt, and this time he added lemon juice and then ground it against the cut. I clapped my hand over the killer’s mouth and tried not to pity him as he ate his own screams. Shannon pinched his nose shut, frightening him with the threat of asphyxiation.

This man tried to murder you. You will not feel sorry for him. But I did. I also loathed myself for doing this, and loathed Montoya for making it necessary, even as a colder part of me nodded in approval; that aspect felt like a terrifying stranger struggling beneath my skin. The cartel hit man thrashed beneath our hands, but Kel held him still. By the time we let go, he lay writhing on the clay tiles, oxygen deprivation shorting his logic. His breath came in ragged pants.

“Do you know this man?” I asked, producing the sketch. I had worked with Kel to refine the image, based on what I’d seen handling the other assassin’s dagger, and the candlelight was sufficient for our suspect to get a good look.

His eyes widened until the rolling whites shone. Clearly he did, but he turned his face away and bit down on his tongue. I worried that he’d chew through it to keep himself from talking.

“Physical pain alone won’t break him,” Kel whispered. “He smells frightened, but he fears Montoya and his sorcerer more.”

“For good reason,” I muttered. “All we can do is kill him. The sorcerer can summon demons to eat his soul and use his body as a puppet.” I recalled the monkeys, and a shudder worked through me.

Shannon said, “I’ve been thinking. Before, you said the warlock was working on his own, and you took him out. So I suspect Montoya will keep his caster close this time.”

I considered. “Yeah. Likely. So if we find Montoya, we find the sorcerer. We can take them both.”

Kel stared down at our gunman. “And he knows where to find them.”

“We have to break him.” I didn’t like it, but some things had to be done. “If not physical pain, then we move to plan B.”

Time to raise the stakes.

“Check.” Shannon dug into her bag for the radio.

As soon as she clicked it on, the hissing started. This was no ordinary radio. Using it, Shannon could contact the other side and summon the dead to her. Moreover, we could hear what they had to say on the tinny old speakers. Inside this tiny clay hut, the results would be terrifying.

She had never attempted to attune to spirits with whom she hadn’t been personally acquainted before, but this would only work if she called the killer’s victims. Without meaning to, I reached for Kel. He glanced at me, brow furrowed, but his fingers folded around mine—apparently he was permitted to give reassurance.

Shannon closed her eyes while she fiddled with the dial and whispered in Spanish. For a while, the only sounds within came from the eerily crackling radio and her pale, parted lips. In the candlelight, she owned a fearsome, witchy aspect—and the gunman couldn’t look away from her.

“What’s happening?” he demanded. “What are you doing?”

Nobody answered him. That silence built even greater dread.

I knew the moment she made contact. The atmosphere chilled, and shadows grew where there was no light to cast them. They swarmed around the killer’s prone body, crooning to him in Spanish. I understood snippets, and fear went livid in me too.

Traitor. You murdered me. I will eat your heart and build a house of your bones.

As they fed from his terror, the summoned shadows gained form. They went from amorphous clouds of darkness to wraiths with faces twisted into rictuses of hatred and hunger. Shit, what have we done to you, Shan? She did not falter. The cadence of her murmurs took on the aspect of a spell, keeping them in check.

“At any moment,” Kel told Montoya’s assassin, “she can unleash them. They will make good their promises. You will face the dead you wronged.”

Time to play good cop. Doubtless I looked the part more than the other two.

“Pero no necesita ser así. Puedes cambiar tu destino. Solo dime dónde puedo encontrar Montoya.”

I paused, aiming a glance at Shannon, who paused her chant for a few seconds. The angry ghosts surged, nearly reaching the assassin’s skin. She stopped them with a murmur at the last second, and the gunman moaned in abject horror. Nothing like being confronted with your own sins.

“Sí, voy a hablar. No más, por favor. Montoya es—” He broke off, his face purpling.

While we watched, his face withered in the candlelight as if the spirits were, in fact, sucking the life out of him. Shannon shook her head, her denial discernible in the candlelight. His tongue swelled in his mouth, turning black and eventually rotting away in putrid chunks. It was like watching an accelerated film from the Discovery Channel, where they show you how decomposition works.

“Can you contain the ghosts?” I asked her.

But something else was already happening. The candles revealed a darkness rising from the ravaged mound of flesh. A jubilant, wordless cry sounded over the radio, and then, in a roil of black, they all went away. One last scream echoed in the tinny speakers, raising goose bumps on my arms.

And Butch barked twice.

“That’s our cue,” Kel said. “I’ll pack up here and meet you back at the room.”

Shannon and I scrambled for the exit. We couldn’t do anything for the dead man, but here, at least, they could burn the scraps of remaining flesh, although they would have to wonder what the hell had happened. Hopefully they would assume some animal had crawled in to die. That’d be the best possible outcome; maybe it would be a while before the next ritual.

“We’re going walkies,” I told Butch loudly in English. “Aren’t walkies fun?”

He looked none too convinced, but he did trot at my heels as I cut a path toward the lake. Maybe I could convince the security guards we were crazy tourists who didn’t want to waste a moment of our magical vacation sleeping. We crossed paths halfway to the shore. I beamed at the man in uniform.

“Bwa-noes noe-chays,” I offered in my worst American accent, and then added, “Kay bone-eeta!” while pointing toward the lake. I’d found the tourist persona helpful, as Mexican nationals assume you’re too dumb to be up to something if you can’t speak the language properly.

The security guard merely waved as he went by. For appearance’s sake, I let Butch pick our path back to the hotel, which meant we stopped every four feet so he could smell something. No problem, he’d earned it. When we reached the parking lot, I picked him up again.

At a glance, I could tell Shannon needed to eat. Though she was a trooper and not complaining, summoning screwed her sugar levels. Which was weird, because using my gift had a different cost. Still, once we let ourselves back in the room, I dug in my purse for the Snickers bar I kept on hand for just such an occasion.

Her fingers trembled as she unwrapped it. As promised, Kel sat waiting for us. He’d put the blankets and pillows back on the bed, not that we’d sleep again. It was two hours before dawn; I figured we’d leave at first light.

I asked the unspoken question. “What happened back there?”

Kel shrugged. “My guess? A trigger spell. Powerful sorcerers can set a curse that will be set off only if certain conditions are met.”

“Like a henchman about to betray el jefe,” Shannon said around a mouthful of chocolate, peanuts, and nougat.

“Exactly,” he answered.

“He definitely recognized the caster and he feared him.” I sighed. “Unfortunately, it leaves us back at square one. In Laredo, we had a list of his properties, but he’ll have sold them by now, and most likely plugged the leak Esteban exploited to get the info in the first place.”

Shannon asked, “Who’s Esteban?”

I gave her the short version of how I’d read a necklace for the guy—he worked for a rival cartel—and told him why his sister disappeared years before. Esteban had been so grateful he’d produced the information we needed to go after Montoya in his mountain fortress. That wouldn’t be happening again—and as we’d realized earlier, when we found Montoya, he’d have this new sorcerer at his side. Not. Good.

She nodded, thoughtful. “We need help from somebody higher up the food chain this time.”

Like that was going to happen; I didn’t know any cartel bosses. In Mexico, it was bad news to evince curiosity about doings near the border. Living in the interior in a safe neighborhood was a different world from Juarez, Nuevo Laredo, or Tijuana.

We needed to move. . . . I just didn’t know where to go.

Kel had been quiet. I glanced over and saw his eyes were closed. For all I knew, he was communing with his archangel, and was about to dump us for new orders. I didn’t kid myself he’d care.

Sensing my regard, he sat forward in his chair. “There was a woman who helped you before. In Texas.”

I shook my head. “Oh, no. I’m not dragging Eva into this. She’s got to be eight months along.”

“Not Eva.”

For a moment I couldn’t think of any other woman, and then it hit me. “You mean Twila?”

Right, he’d been shadowing me, so he had probably trailed me to her house. I knew that because he saved my life for the first time in the cemetery. Back then things were simpler, because I thought he wanted to kill me.

“Yes. She may have contacts we can use.”

“To do as Shannon suggested?” Surely he wasn’t endorsing the idea that we join forces with a rival cartel. That was like using a rabid dog to kill a few rats. The whole thing put me in mind of the old lady who swallowed the spider; this idea had a snowball-rolling-downhill feel to it.

“I have been watching the possible outcomes,” he said softly. “And that may be your only hope.”

The words dropped into the room like lead shoes, so when Shannon crumpled her candy wrapper and Butch whined, the sounds seemed extra loud. Even my breathing rasped in my ears. Kel alone appeared unmoved by the pronouncement. My little dog covered his muzzle with his paws and burrowed deeper into my arms.

“Why do you say that?” I asked.

In answer, he clicked on the television; I judged the move wholly out of character until the clicking remote stilled. Kel left it on a news channel. I didn’t understand why, but we watched for five minutes in silence. And then the presenter answered my questions in the worst possible way.

I translated the Spanish mentally and came up with: Firebomb in Mexico City. As yet no terrorist factions have claimed responsibility. Luckily there was only one fatality and the blaze did not spread to adjacent buildings. Police suspect it may have been cartel related. Gang and drug violence on the rise—Kel muted the television before the man could complete the sentence.

“No,” I breathed.

Stop, I mentally commanded the announcer. I don’t want to see—

Oh. Before the images came up on-screen, I knew. It was my shop. Kel had known before the news came on; perhaps he had been receiving a bulletin in his head. From the beginning, he might have even known I’d never see the place again, and I hated him for his distance, his surety, and his calm.

Seeing the truth made it no easier to bear. Burned plaster and chunks of cement littered the street. As the camera swung around, they showed scavengers picking through the rubble. Once again, I was homeless, reduced to what I could carry. Chance had sent my belongings as promised, including my Travis McGee book collection. All gone. Those were my things, treasures Señor Alvarez had—

One fatality. It sunk in at last, above my own misfortune. Oh God. Oh my God. He died because of me. First Ernesto, and now Señor Alvarez. Sick, I wondered how many innocents would die so that I might live. At what point should I stop running and take the bullet?

“When did this happen?” I asked hoarsely.

Shannon didn’t know, of course, but the question wasn’t for her. Kel answered readily. “Shortly after the gunman died.”

I thought about that, and came up with only one interpretation. “It was a warning. Montoya’s sorcerer must’ve known his spell went off. So now he’s telling me that no matter what I do to him, he will visit it upon me a hundredfold.”

“Yes,” Kel said. “You see why I counseled you to seek aid from one as powerful as Montoya.”

“Because you can’t just smite him,” I said nastily. “What good are you?”

Nothing I said touched him. He was made of ice and silver. “There are limits to my power, as there should be.”

The weight fell on me like my collapsed shop. When I turned to Shannon, I saw the echo of it in her eyes. She, too, had been displaced. She, too, had lost her home—for the second time in less than a year. I tried to bite back my tears, but when I saw her eyes swimming, I stopped fighting it. We went into each other’s arms and wept for everything we’d lost. I couldn’t tell her it would be okay; I had no platitudes, but I wouldn’t ever leave her. That much I could promise.

Kel stood and gave us his back. It might’ve been embarrassment at our weakness or kindness in offering privacy. “Get ready. We’re heading for Texas in an hour.”