Cut Throat (12 page)

“Yes, okay…and, Father…?”

He stopped, then turned to her, a questioning expression on his face. “Once we start back to Adobe Blanco, I will follow you.”

He shrugged. “The station wagon is old. It does not always cooperate with our needs. Maybe it would be best if you drove ahead and made sure that

the policía do not give up the baby before we can arrive.”

“Oh. Yes. All right. Don’t worry. I’ll make sure the baby is still there— whenever you arrive.”

Seven

Cat glanced in the rearview mirror as she drove out of Adobe Blanco. She could still see the priest with Pilar’s family in the old church station wagon behind her, but not for long. Padre Francisco’s top speed wasn’t going to be more than forty-five miles per hour. All gassed up and good to go, she was shooting for eighty. After a quick look at her wristwatch, she stomped the accelerator. She had the satellite radio in her SUV jacked up on high, hoping that music would drown out the memory of the wails of Pilar Mendoza’s grief-stricken parents.

Their faces had been wreathed in smiles when she and the priest had gotten out of their cars. She’d watched their pleasure at seeing the priest at their door turn to disbelief and then horror. Even though she hadn’t understood the language, she’d known when Padre Francisco had explained her presence. They’d looked at her, then through her, as if by refusing to acknowledge her presence, the truth of what had happened to their daughter could be ignored.

She’d known, too, when they’d asked about the baby—Maria Elena. She’d seen a break in their grief when they’d been told the baby still lived. When the mother suddenly threw her arms around Cat and hugged her, she supposed the priest had told them about her part in saving the baby’s life. She wanted to tell them that she knew how they felt, but she couldn’t—not even if she spoke the language. Marsha had been her best friend, not her daughter. And even though she was grieving on her own level for the loss, she had a suspicion that it was nothing to the loss of a child, no matter how old that child might be.

After a few brief moments of having her condolences translated by Padre Francisco to Pilar’s family, she’d told the priest she was heading back to Casa Rojo. She wanted to make sure she got back in time to keep Dominguez from turning that baby—her baby—over to the Mexican welfare system. She wouldn’t let herself rationalize the absurdity of feeling so protective toward someone else’s child. Her emotions had already been ripped to shreds from the brutality of Marsha’s death. Maybe she’d subconsciously connected Pilar with Marsha, and Maria Elena with Marsha’s unborn baby. If she had, then she’d been no more good to Pilar than she’d been to Marsha. She’d been too late to save either mother, but this time there had been a survivor—a baby only minutes away from becoming food for the animals. It wasn’t exactly a fair shake for Marsha and her baby, but like life, it was what it was.

By the time Cat got to the old gas station to make her first turn on the road back to Casa Rojo, she was already shifting her mental focus to the moment when she would see Pilar’s baby in her grandparents’ arms. Later, she would grieve again for the death of her best friend, but today she was going to see a positive end to a sad beginning. All she had to do to make it happen was get to Casa Rojo before sundown.

The baby kept crying. Dominguez had called in his wife right after the American woman left town, fully convinced that he would never see her again once she got a look at the road to Adobe Blanco. He’d already made a call to Nuevo Laredo informing the authorities there of the woman’s death and the baby’s presence. They were sending someone to pick up the child but couldn’t get there before morning. His wife had gone all soft when she’d seen the baby, but the bloom had soon fallen from the rose. Despite her best efforts, the baby had continued to fuss and cry. Dominguez had said a quick prayer to the Virgin Mary to keep the child

well. He didn’t want to have to explain to the Nuevo Laredo authorities why a seemingly healthy baby had died on his watch.

He still didn’t understand what was wrong with her. She had no obvious wounds and no bruising, so there was no reason to assume she might have internal injuries. Her diaper was dry, and except for the possibility of something effectively invisible, such as insignificant as an earache or the onset of teething, neither he nor his wife could understand why she kept crying.

They’d tried feeding her with the same milk that had been in the dead mother’s possessions, and even though she’d downed it, she had soon spat it back up again. She’d been bathed, fed, held and diapered numerous times, yet she remained inconsolable. It was almost as if she knew her mother was dead, even though Dominguez knew that was impossible. The child was too young to understand what had happened, surely. And yet…

He glanced out the window, noting the swiftly setting sun, then back at his wife, who was sitting on a cot in an empty cell, rocking the fussy baby in her arms. His expression softened. His wife was a good woman. It was unfortunate that they’d never been blessed with children.

The baby, who seemed to be on the verge of falling asleep, suddenly jerked in her arms, then began to scream all over again. He cursed beneath his breath, and when his wife looked up at him with concern, he shrugged.

At that moment the hinges on the front door squeaked. He turned to see who was coming in, then stared in disbelief.

The American woman—Cat Dupree—was back, and with an angry look on her face.

“What’s wrong with her?” Cat asked, as she pushed past Dominguez and headed for the open cell. Without waiting for permission, she lifted the baby out of his wife’s arms and clasped her to her breast.

“Hey, hey, no tears, no tears. I found your family, baby girl. I found them for you.”

Cat’s husky voice softened as she crooned to the little girl, rubbing her hand gently up and down the baby’s back as she rocked her in her arms. The baby’s hair was soft against the underside of her chin. The sweet, clean smell of her, along with the dampness of baby tears on Cat’s neck, washed through her senses, triggering instincts she’d never known she had. Just for a moment, she let herself imagine what it would be like to have a child of her own. Then she shuddered. Those thoughts were for people who had futures. Cat had a job ahead of her that could very easily eliminate any sort of future.

She turned to face Dominguez, only to find him staring at her. “What?” she said.

“The baby…she’s stopped crying,” he said.

Cat arched an eyebrow, then glared. “Don’t tell me she’s been crying ever since I left.”

“As you wish,” Dominguez said.

“Are you serious? The baby has been crying all this time?”

“Maybe she’s getting sick,” Dominguez said. Cat laid a hand on the baby’s forehead. “She doesn’t have a fever and she’s not crying now.” “Yes, I see that,” he said, and then pointed at her. “You came back.” She frowned. “I said I would.”

He shrugged. “I didn’t think you meant it.”

“I always mean what I say,” Cat said. “Oh…by the way. A priest, Padre Francisco, from Adobe Blanco is on his way with Pilar’s family to claim the body and the baby, who happens to be their granddaughter.”

Dominguez stiffened. “But I’ve already contacted the authorities to take the—”

Still clutching the baby, Cat took a quick step backward. “You said you’d wait until sundown.”

Dominguez shifted his stance, glancing first at his wife, then back at Cat. “So…I will make another call, okay?”

The glare in Cat’s eyes eased but didn’t disappear. She was reserving full judgment until she saw, for herself, this baby returned to her family.

“You do that,” Cat said, as she continued to pat the baby’s back.

As Dominguez went to make the call, his wife moved past Cat, nodding shyly before giving the baby’s head a final pat.

“Esta bien,” she said.

Cat nodded, then rubbed her cheek against the baby’s curly hair. “Yes, it’s good. Everything is good.”

Cat glanced back at Dominguez. She supposed he was calling off the people who were coming after the baby. It would be at least an hour, maybe more, before Padre Francisco arrived, and she was tired—so tired. The baby had fallen asleep in her arms, clutching a fistful of Cat’s hair. She couldn’t lay the baby down without pulling the hair out of her hand and feared that would wake her back up again. The cot inside the empty cell looked inviting, and Cat really was so tired.

She moved inside, then eased down on the cot. The baby squirmed but didn’t wake. Cat leaned back, then slowly stretched out and turned on her side with the baby still held fast against her breasts.

“Maria Elena,” Cat whispered, gently kissing the side of the baby’s face, then closed her eyes to rest—just for a moment.

By the time Dominguez finished his conversation, Cat and the baby were both asleep. The silence was welcome, and now that he knew the

responsibility of the baby would soon be out of his hands, he, too, began to relax. He sat down in his chair, put his feet up on the desk and then kicked back. He hadn’t been any help in putting the baby in a good mood, but in this part of the world, nothing happened quickly. Nothing else was going to happen until the family arrived, and Dominguez knew how to wait.

Solomon Tutuola had found the perfect house to buy. It had been standing empty for over eighteen months, and the owners were eager to sell. He’d spent half the day with a Realtor named Chouie Garza, who was getting on his last nerve.

Chouie Garza had never been afraid of a prospective client before, but after meeting Solomon Tutuola, he could no longer state that claim. He’d gone from shock to fear so fast that he’d excused himself within minutes of their meeting and gone to a bathroom to pee before he wet himself.

Even now, after spending a good half day with Tutuola, showing him first one property, then another, Chouie was still unable to look him in the face for very long without shuddering. When Tutuola had finally settled on a place that had been for sale for almost two years, he was elated—both for the fact that their time together was coming to an end and because he was finally going to get rid of a place he’d considered unsalable.

Tutuola was just as happy to be done with Garza. Every time he looked at the man—with his dark, beady eyes, long, pointed nose and odd, elongated ears that stood out from the sides of his face like small wings—he thought of a rat.

Pissed off by the man’s lack of machismo, Tutuola had given him a slow smile, accentuating the perfectly filed points on his teeth. When Chouie

Garza saw them, he literally gasped. At that point, Tutuola laughed out loud. Stretching his slowly healing skin was painful, but Rat Man’s reaction was too good to ignore.

“I want to take immediate possession,” Tutuola said.

Garza shifted nervously. That was an impossible suggestion. Then he glanced up just long enough to gauge Solomon Tutuola’s attitude and decided he wasn’t man enough to disagree. Between the burns and the tattoos, Tutuola looked like something out of hell.

He danced from one foot to another, then shook his head.

“The owners…they have the final say, but it is customary to wait until the final papers have been signed and money has changed hands.”

“How long is that going to take?” Tutuola asked. “Maybe two weeks.”

“No. Hell no,” Tutuola muttered. “I’ll look elsewhere. I’m not going to spend the next two weeks in some motel. I’ve been injured, damn it. I need rest…real rest.”

Garza panicked. He could see his commission going down the drain. “Wait! Wait. Maybe I could give the owners a call…see what they say?” “Then do it,” Solomon said.

Garza walked outside with his cell phone to his ear.

Solomon watched Rat Man’s face, well aware that he was afraid of losing a big fat commission. When he saw Garza’s expression lighten, he smiled to himself. It was going to work out after all.

Garza came back into the house, all but strutting.

“It is all right, Mr. Tutuola. I have fixed the problem for you. The owners will agree you take immediate possession if you are willing to give more earnest money.”

“Whatever,” Solomon said.

“Five thousand,” Chouie added. “It is furnished, you know, and they don’t want their—”

Solomon held up his hand, then strode out to his car with Garza right behind him. He popped the trunk, dipped into the bag with Mark Presley’s money and counted out five thousand American dollars.

“Here,” he said. “Now where are the keys?”

Garza was stunned. The money was in his hands, but he couldn’t quit looking at the car, wondering exactly how much more was in that bag in the trunk.

Tutuola picked the man up by his shoulders until his feet were dangling off the ground.

“I cannot breathe so good,” Garza said. Tutuola let him drop.

Garza landed with a thud, then staggered slightly before regaining his balance. His hands were shaking as he handed Tutuola the keys.

“When the final papers are ready, I will be in touch,” Garza said, and made a break for his car.

Solomon didn’t bother watching him leave. He was already unloading his car.

It was nearly midnight when Wilson walked into his apartment. He closed the front door behind him without turning on the lights and tossed his keys on the hall table before hanging up his coat. Another cold front had come in just before sundown. According to the weatherman, it was just above freezing, but with the windchill, it felt more like twelve degrees.