Highway to Hell (12 page)

Lisa watched me pace. “But you're still dreaming. Not like when the Sigmas blocked you.”

“I know.” Last fall an item had been hidden in my room that had stopped me from remembering my dreams. “This is different. But kind of not.”

She joined the search; we got systematic, checking all the drawers, under the beds, even behind the furniture. It didn't take long to explore the whole room.

Hands on her hips, Lisa scanned for something we might have missed. “I could do a general break-curse spell, but that would be a lot of work and energy.”

“I don't feel
cursed.
” The strangest thing about saying that aloud was how it didn't really feel strange anymore. My yardstick for “bizarre” had changed drastically.

My eyes kept going to the beds, even though I'd checked underneath them thoroughly, and found not even a dust bunny. Lisa followed my gaze and then slapped her forehead. “I am such an idiot. That's exactly where
I
would have put it.”

She reached between the mattress and box spring and pulled free a small drawstring sachet made of red linen. After giving the bag a once-over, she held it out to me. “Tell me what your mojo says. I can't open it without breaking the spell.”

I raised my deflector shields, even though I trusted, more or less, that she wouldn't have offered the bag if she knew it was something
bad.
When my fingers met the red linen, a cozy heat flowed up my arm—the warmth of a comforter and a cup of chamomile tea, of sun-warmed meadow flowers and a fat cat purring on a lap.

My eyelids drooped, and Lisa plucked the sachet from my fingers. “That's what I thought.” She sniffed it again. “Red is deceptive. It's a power color, but one of those powers is protection. The botanicals are basically comfort, good sleep, that kind of thing.”

“Well, this place needs something to counteract the décor.”

Lisa reached under her own mattress, and pulled out a matching bag. She tossed them in her hand, as if testing their weight. “Whoever made these is good. I didn't even notice. But then, I'm not a Seer.”

“Don't call me that.” It sounded like I should be draped in veils and jewelry, reading tea leaves and crystal balls. I didn't like any of those terms:
psychic, Seer, clairvoyant.

“Why not?” She cocked her head as she looked up at me from the floor. “It's what you are.”

“It's what I
do
,” I corrected. “It's just a talent. Like perfect pitch or a photographic memory. I didn't use it for years.”

“You didn't use it
consciously.
” She sat back on her heels. “But you've always done it. It's intrinsic.”

I sank onto the edge of my own bed, facing her. “What about you? The things you can do. They're not intrinsic to you?”

Lisa rose and went to her suitcase and pulled out a silk scarf. “This isn't Harry Potter, Mags. People aren't separated into wizards and Muggles. It doesn't take any special quality to do magic, just knowledge, preparation, the right components, some skill, and a lot of willpower.”

I pointed to the bags she was wrapping in the silk. “So anyone with that
long
list of requirements could make those?”

She didn't answer the question directly. “Charm bags are very traditional. It's a simple spell done well, so probably the person who made this had some practice, and a good teacher.”

“You
learned from a book.”

“Yes, but I'm D and D Lisa, supergenius.”

“And so modest.” I took the silk-wrapped bundle. The magic seemed insulated, barely discernible. “So who do you think made them?”

“I think Dulcina has a
bruja.
”

It sounded like she said
brew-ha
, but with more spit in the
h.
“What's that?”

“A kind of Latino witch. They do a lot of magic with candles and herbs and prayer. This kind of folksy stuff.”

“Could it be Teresa? She strikes me as the eye-of-newt type.”

“No kidding.” Lisa tucked the insulated bundle into one of the dresser drawers. “She's got white candles behind the bar in the Duck. But she could have bought a protection spell from a
bruja.
I figured if she was a witch, you would notice.”

Well, I noticed she was something. But I wasn't getting “witch” in a literal sense. “So, you're saying anyone could learn how to do these bag things?”

Lisa sighed and explained.
“Brujería—
that means witchcraft—is an occult practice that rolls together Latin American folk magic with a veneer of Roman Catholicism. Usually a
bruja
learns the craft as an apprentice to an older woman. Often it goes from mother to daughter.”

She grabbed clean underwear out of her bag and slung a bra over her shoulder as she headed for the bathroom. “Lecture over. I'm getting in the shower, unless you want to go first.”

I rubbed my head, which seemed very full. “I need coffee more than I need a shower.”

“Check it for potions before you drink.”

It occurred to me to wonder if the woman from my dream could be the one responsible for the charm bags, as Lisa called them. But it didn't feel right. She wanted me gone. I sensed that clearly. She wouldn't plant something in our room that would make us comfortable for our stay. It had to be someone else. Someone with a talent for magic.

As weird as it seemed for Lisa to be wrong about anything, I wasn't sure she was right about the anyone-can-cook
theory of sorcery. I understood where it was coming from— the same illogical place that said if the chupacabra was just an animal, it would mean Lisa could leave behind the magical side of her life. The reasoning followed, then, that if the ability to do magic was inborn, then it wasn't something Lisa could control.

Welcome to my world. I was learning
some
control over my freakitude, but I couldn't just drop this ability like a hobby that had become inconvenient.

The discovery of the charm bags made the nature of the chupacabra—giant squid, magical monster, or even, as Justin and I had discussed on the phone, a demon type of thing—a moot argument in at least one way. There
was
a supernatural mystery here. We couldn't get away from it.

The truly worrisome question was, had I really stumbled upon it, or had it found me?

Z
eke arrived at the hotel to drive us to the Big House. It sounded like we were making a prison visit, but that was what everyone called the Velasquez family abode: the Casa Grande. Which sounded like a Mexican restaurant. Couldn't really win in either language.

I'd brought my backpack, hauling everything I might need for the day: sunscreen, change of clothes, MP 3 recorder, both cameras—the Nikon, and the Canon that fit in my pocket. Zeke grunted under the surprising weight of the backpack as he stowed it behind the seat in the truck. “Did you pack for a week?”

Lisa explained, “Maggie believes in being prepared for anything. Flood. Famine. The Second Coming.”

She made me sit in the middle, with my feet on the axle hump, since my legs were shorter. I dug between the cushions for the seat belt, as Zeke headed northeast out of town.

“Did you find something to do yesterday?”

“We hung out, mostly,” said Lisa. Which was more or less true, except for our excursion to the curio museum. We'd snacked in our room and read the library books on local history. “How was your family dinner?”

“Nice.”

I stared out the window while they exchanged pleasantries across me. Wherever a live oak tree spread its branches, I could see clumps of dark red cows, hanging out like college students at a Starbucks. From last night's reading, I knew they were Santa Gertrudis cattle, bred for their heat tolerance.

“We also went to the two-headed snake museum,” I said, broaching the subject I really wanted to talk about.

“Really.” There was laughter in Zeke's voice. “What made you pick that grody old place?”

At least if he kicked us out of the truck, we were only a few miles from town. “I wanted to see the chupacabra skeleton.”

Zeke's knuckles tightened on the steering wheel, but he kept his eyes dead ahead, like the road held the secrets of the universe. “I see Teresa's been talking.”

“Not just her,” I said. Honesty compelled me. “Just about everyone in the bar had an opinion.”

“Look, don't mention it to my grandmother, okay? She doesn't like all that superstitious garbage.”

Lisa and I hadn't discussed this beforehand, but she followed my investigatory lead. “Any superstition,” she asked, “or just the goat sucker?”

I saw him flick her a glance, and his grim frown relented. “Any that comes from Teresa. Abuelita is a traditionalist— old-school Catholic—and Teresa … She's got a different tradition.”

Lisa leaned forward at that. “You mean
brujería?”

He flexed his hands again on the wheel. “Yeah.”

“So you do have a
bruja
in Dulcina.” She glanced at me, satisfied to be proven right.

I turned to Zeke, incredulous in spite of myself. “You're saying Dulcina isn't even big enough for a Dairy Queen, but you've got your own witch doctor?”

He gave a short laugh. “Every little town has its quirks.”

“I bet that just thrills your grandmother,” I said.

“Doña Isabel doesn't go to town much.”

“Yeah, I heard that.”

The curve of the road demanded his attention. “My uncle and I cover the day-to-day business; he does the networking deals up in Houston, I run things here. But of course my grandmother has the last word on any major concerns. The housekeeper takes care of what few things can't be delivered, doctors make house calls, and there's a chapel there on the ranch. She's got everything she needs.”

“She has her own church?” I asked.

“Chapel,” he corrected. “She likes to hear Mass in Latin.”

My eyebrows shot up. “They still do that?”

He smiled wryly. “They still do for my grandmother. And
a lot of the workers who live on the ranch attend there, too. Not everyone lives in town.”

“How many people work for Velasquez Ranch?”

He didn't have to calculate. “Maybe a hundred. We lease a lot of the land to independent ranchers and farmers.”

Lisa craned around me to stare at him. “Just how big is your property?” I realized that although I'd heard it from Hector and Dave in the bar, this was news to her.

“The state owns the highways and the right of way. Other than that …” Zeke made a sweeping gesture that encompassed the vista, uninterrupted until it fell off the horizon.

No wonder doctors made house calls for Doña Isabel. If I were old and rich, maybe I'd make people come to me, too.

The Big House was, in fact, a
huge
house, three stories and a tower, built in a Spanish Revival style with red tile and whitewashed stucco, framed by palm trees and live oak. Lush vegetation in riotous color encircled it; I could glimpse a swatch of blue water through the trees, and the breeze that stirred my hair was cool and damp.

Zeke parked in the gravel drive. We climbed out of his truck and I put my camera to use as he showed off the place, recording the arches that delineated a patio below and balcony above, and the red-roofed tower over that.

“What's on the weather vane?” I indicated the ornate metal arrow on the very top of the building. “An airplane?”

“A dragonfly. It's kind of a good-luck symbol.” He pointed to the corner of the tower. “See that bracket? They put a lookout and a Gatling gun up there during World War Two, to watch for U-boats in the Gulf of Mexico. This is actually the
highest point for miles. Now there's a cell phone antenna there.”

“You're kidding,” said Lisa.

He grinned. “The rent paid for a new barn in the north forty.”

A woman appeared on the porch. Her black hair was shot through with silver, and she wore an apron over a neat skirt and blouse. Zeke took the three stairs in one bound and greeted her casually. “Hey, Connie. Is my grandmother back from Mass?”

Connie—the housekeeper, I was guessing—included us in a friendly smile, but her eyes missed nothing—jeans, frizzy hair, sneakers. “She's freshening up. Show your friends in, and I'll bring them some iced tea while you see if she's up to receiving them.”

Lisa and I followed Connie and Zeke into an open foyer, where an arched doorway led to a formal parlor with portraits lining the walls. I only glimpsed them, though, as Zeke led us down a terra-cotta-tiled hallway to the back of the house. Another arch opened into a bright and airy room, with huge windows looking out on the sand dunes and the calm Gulf waters.

“Hang tight for a sec,” he said. “Do you mind?”

“No problem,” said Lisa. Like the front room, this one was full of old furniture, but pieces that actually looked comfortable. As Zeke and Connie left us, Lisa tested the settee.

I wandered toward the bookshelf opposite the windows. No paperbacks or recent bestsellers, but some classics and a few titles in Spanish. There were also framed photographs. I picked up a heavy silver frame, and studied the
black-and-white picture. A young woman stood beside a dark horse; she was elegant in jodhpurs and riding boots, and a white blouse with lace at the collar. Her thick dark hair was tied back with a scarf. Even if the clothes and the horse hadn't been the same, I would have recognized that bone structure, those deep black eyes.