Highway to Hell (18 page)

Adrenaline and elation got Dave as far as the pickup. I kept him talking about his plans while I bandaged the deepest of his wounds with the military surplus first-aid kit I
found in the truck. It beat the hell out of the little one in my Jeep, and I was definitely going to have to get one of those.

Forget a first-aid kit. The way my life seemed headed, I was going to need a whole new skill set.

“We'll pitch the story to everyone.” Dave sounded punch-drunk. “Get a bidding war going.”

“Sure thing.” I tried not to cringe as I tied a pressure bandage around a particularly deep gash, then looked at the pattern on his upper arm and over his shoulder. “Oh my God, Dave. That thing really
bit
you!”

“You're shitting me.” He craned his head to look. I'd helped him out of his shirt; under that his wifebeater was splotched with red. “Son of a bitch. Do you think it will scar?”

“I don't even know if this thing is poisonous. Or if it's going to transform you into another one, like a werewolf. Jeez, Dave.” He laughed, not taking me seriously. But at the very least he should have been worried about tetanus or rabies or the bubonic plague.

His head fell back against the bench, his adrenaline high fading, but not his big dreams. “I'll betcha I'll get on
The Tonight Show
for sure, now.”

“I've got to get you to the hospital first,” I said, checking to see if I'd missed any cuts that were more than superficial.

“First,” he said, grabbing the flashlight from the dashboard, “we gotta get out there and find that thing's sorry lizard carcass.”

“No way.” I put my hand on his chest and pushed him back. “You can't even stand up.”

“Sure I can.” He slid off the truck seat, and would have kept going, straight into a heap on the ground, if he hadn't
grabbed on to me. I staggered under his lucky-not-to-be-dead weight and managed to get him back into the truck.

“Okay,” he wheezed, holding his bandaged shoulder. “Maybe we'll just mark the spot on the GPS so we can come back in the morning.”

“Great idea.” It was easier to agree than to point out that after the hospital was done stitching him up, I doubted they'd sanction another chupacabra hunt.

I buckled him in, then climbed behind the wheel, proud of my battlefield composure until I found that my hands were shaking too badly to get the key in the ignition. Resting my forehead against the steering wheel, I took a second to remind myself how to breathe.

Come on, Maggie. Sensible action.
It was absurd to fall apart at that point. Not to mention impractical. What if Ol' Chupy came back pissed?

I couldn't dwell on that. I'd think later, in the safety of my motel room, about the way my weirdometer had redlined when the thing had grabbed me. There was
weird
, and there was
bad
, and then there was a whole other magnitude of
worse.

It wasn't difficult getting to the hospital in Kingsville. Once I reached Highway 77, I simply turned north and kept going. The hospital was visible from the highway, four stories looming over a darkened neighborhood. I pulled in, woke Dave as gently as I could, and got him inside. The hardest part was convincing him he shouldn't mention
el chupacabra
to the ER staff.

A nurse in Saint Patrick's Day scrubs took charge and whisked him back to the triage area, exiling me to the
waiting room with nothing to do but fret. At least there was a bathroom.

I washed my hands and face and checked my phone messages. Lots of texts from Lisa, of escalating worry, but when I called her back, there was no answer.

And still not a single message from Justin.

In the icebox of a waiting room, I found some coffee that had been on a burner too long. I wrapped Hector's denim loaner shirt tight around me, and tried to get comfortable. Before long, despite the subzero temperatures and a crappy cup of coffee, I dozed off.

At least, I assumed I slept, because one moment I was huddled on a polyester tweed sofa, trying to keep my teeth from chattering, and the next I was sitting in my Granny Quinn's kitchen, the smell of chocolate chip cookies warming me from the inside out.

“I am dreaming, right?”

Gran poured a dose of steaming amber-brown tea into a china cup and slid it across the table to me. “Unless you've developed a sudden talent for astral projection.”

“God, I hope not. I'm freaky enough already.” I reached for the sugar bowl and ladled in a teaspoon. I like my tea supersweet when I'm in shock, or possibly having an out-of-body experience.

I took a bracing sip before eyeing Gran again. She wore a light green sweater set—her signature color—and her bright red hair looked as though she'd just had it done. Except for the lines of experience traced around them, her green eyes were exactly like mine. Fitting, I guess, since I'd inherited the Sight from her side of the family.

“So is this really you?” I asked. “Or is it like a projection of my subconscious into the shape of you, because I need advice and comfort?”

She sighed in exasperation. “Must you overanalyze everything? You should
think
a little less and
listen
a little more to your instincts.”

“I always listen to you, Gran.” I grabbed a cookie and ate the majority of it in one bite. All my troubles were easier to contemplate in the familiar comfort of my grandmother's kitchen.

“Maybe that is why I'm here now,” she said, pouring her own cup of tea with unperturbed calm, “telling you what you already know.”

“So …” I let my inflection go up expectantly. “What do I already know?”

“The nature of the beast.”

Groaning, I sank my head into my hands. I was as bad as Lisa and Zeke—I wanted so badly to resist the obvious evidence, not to mention the knowledge in my gut. “What are the chances that I could be hundreds of miles from home, and stumble across a …”

I broke off, unable to say it out loud. But Gran didn't let me avoid it. “A what?”

“A chupacabra.”

“Why do you persist in calling it that ridiculous name? You know what it is.”

Outside the house, the wind rustled the trees, and I shivered. “Something Evil. Capital
E.
”

She sipped her tea. “It's always easier once you call a thing what it is.”

I searched her gaze, looking for answers, or at least reassurance. “Is this kind of thing going to keep happening to me, Gran? Am I some kind of magnet for everything weird and wicked?”

“I can't tell you what I don't know, Magdalena.” There was a tap against the window and I jumped. “It's just the wind, dear. Drink your tea.”

The china was painted with blue dragonflies. I raised the cup to my lips just as a clap of thunder rattled the house. My hand jerked and the cup fell from my grasp, shattering on the tile.

The tea spilled across the floor and collected in a warm, dark pool. Puzzled, I rose from my chair and went closer. The liquid had thickened, sinking into the floor as if the tile had become porous. Reaching out a hand, I touched the pool, and my fingers came away coated in crimson.

Blood. I rubbed it between my fingers, as a hand closed on my shoulder. With a startled cry, I jerked awake, striking out at whatever had me in its grip.

“Hey!” said Lisa's voice. “It's me!”

Wildly I looked around, trying to remember where I was. The waiting room walls, industrial beige. The smell of stale coffee. The rough texture of the sofa beneath me, and Lisa, standing in front of me in her date clothes, looking angry and relieved and pissed at the same time.

I ran my hands over my face and through my gritty hair. “What time is it?” The room was empty except for us. “Where's Zeke?”

“About two-thirty. He's talking to the doctor about Dave. Are you out of your mind?”

Trying not to grimace at the pins and needles of restored circulation, I uncurled from the couch. “You're going to have to give me a frame of reference for that question. It's been a long night, and in no way lacking in crazy.”

Her gray eyes darkened like thunderheads when she saw the shredded hem of my jeans. She pulled back the denim to expose some wicked purpling bruises.

“What were you thinking?” she hissed, strangling back her outrage. “What would I tell your mother if anything happened to you?”

I refused to be drawn into an argument. My emotions were as spent as my body, nothing left but the dregs. “Anytime you're ready to get over yourself, that's cool with me.”

She drew a breath to snap back, then paused to examine her options: bitch pointlessly at me some more, or find out new information. “Fine.”

My brain caught up a bit. “How did you know I was here?”

“I didn't.” She sat in the chair catty-corner to me. “Jorge Gonzales was attacked, too. They brought him here, and Zeke and I came to meet them.”

Pushing myself straighter, I glanced toward the ER doors. “Is he going to be all right?”

“Don't know yet. Am I forgiven for flipping my shit when I saw you sacked out here, looking half dead, too?”

“Yeah. I guess.”

Zeke appeared in the doorway, his expression grim and tired. He saw us in the corner and headed over.

“How's Dave?” I asked when he reached us. “And Jorge?”

He rubbed his neck, as if trying to ease an ache. “Jorge lost a lot of blood, but he'll pull through. They're going to
keep Dave overnight. As soon as it's light, we'll send a party out to find the carcass of the thing that bit him so it can be tested for rabies.”

“Rabies?” asked Lisa. I tucked the tattered end of my jeans under the sofa. After my talk with Gran, I was pretty sure disease wasn't a factor, and I had too much to do to be stuck in the hospital getting shots. “And what do you mean, carcass?”

Zeke nodded. “Rabies would explain why this animal kept attacking things it normally wouldn't. Carcass, because Maggie shot it.”

“Hold on,” said Lisa. “Maggie
shot
something? With a gun?”

“Shotgun,” I corrected automatically.

Zeke kept on target, which happened to be me. “I expected you to be the voice of reason, Maggie. Not join the ranks of delusion.”

“How can you still say anyone is delusional?” I was too tired for real anger, but I had to defend myself. “Forget the name, Zeke. There really is something out there. You saw Dave's bite, right?”

“Damn straight! And Jorge getting twenty stitches in his leg.” He was pissed enough to shake me out of my pique. “You could have been killed. I feel responsible for you girls.”

“Us ‘girls’?” Lisa asked, in a warning tone.

He scrubbed a hand through his hair. “I feel responsible for all of these guys, but you two are like guests. Not to mention a couple of tenderfoots.”

There was enough irony in the word
tenderfoot
that I didn't take offense. I knew what he didn't—that we were more used to life-and-death situations than we appeared.

“Zeke,” I began tentatively, because the middle of the night in a hospital waiting room didn't seem like the perfect place to reveal the full scope of our freakitude. “You're assuming we're a couple of normal college girls.”

His brows twisted with tired humor. “Obviously not. What kind of normal college girl goes on a stakeout for the
National Enquirer?”
He dug his keys out of his pocket. “Anyway. It's done. Let's get back to Dulcina. If I never hear the word
chupacabra
again, it'll be too soon.”

I didn't move. “It's not done, Zeke. The chup— The
thing
isn't dead.”

He frowned. “What do you mean? Dave told me you shot it. He saw the blast hit it.”

“What time did Jorge get attacked?” Dreams and gut feelings weren't going to convince Zeke. I had to come up with something concrete.

He checked his cell phone call log. “Around one.”

“Dave and I were attacked about twelve-thirty. So it had to be alive afterward.”

Still scowling, he looked from me to Lisa and back again. “How is it possible that you shot the animal full of buckshot, and half an hour later it's tearing up someone else?”

I was ready to tell him everything, even if he left us stranded here at the hospital, maybe in the psych ward. But Lisa spoke up first. “Did you ever read any Sherlock Holmes?”

His brow knit in confusion. “No. But I've seen the movies.”

“Holmes always says, whenever you eliminate all the possible explanations, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the answer.” Lisa unfolded her arms, her body language unbending. “Jorge and Dave both said it was impossible that they were attacked by a cougar, a wolf, or any
animal they'd ever seen before. If those things are impossible, then it must be something else.”

Zeke processed that for a moment, then rubbed his hands over his eyes. “Okay. Tomorrow we'll round up the cattle, and post guards all around the corrals.”

“And you should talk to Doña Isabel,” I said. “She's been here so long, she may know—”

“No.” He cut me off. “I'll listen to you on this, Maggie. But I'm not going to my grandmother with a crazy story about an unkillable monster.”

“Don't you think—”

“No.” There was no arguing with him. Everything—his tone, his expression, his posture—said that to continue would be like hammering against a wall.