Highway to Hell (21 page)

Lisa contemplated the page as well. “You're sure Doña Isabel isn't the
bruja?
Even if she never leaves the ranch property, she could have had someone here in town put those charm bags in our rooms.”

“Charm bags?” asked Henry, sounding as if that was one blithe magical reference too many.

“Yeah,” she said. “Check under your bed before you go to sleep.”

“It's not her,” I said, before things could get off track again. “The two protections—the one on the room and the psychic fence around the
ranch—feel
different.” I struggled for a comparison. “It's like the difference between a folk song and Handel's
Messiah.
”

Justin had picked up the pamphlet on the Velasquez ranch and was thumbing through it. “Doña Isabel is this guy Zeke's grandmother?”

“Yeah. Matriarch of the ranch. The whole county, basically. Way powerful.”

“What's with the holy cows?” Henry pointed to the sepia photo on the front cover. “Why do those cattle have a patriarchal cross on their backsides?”

“That's the Velasquez brand,” I said. “The double-armed cross.”

Justin read from the first page. “ ‘Raphael Velasquez chose it to honor the French Oblate missionaries who rode from ranch to ranch to deliver the sacrament and the Word.’ ” He looked up. “There's a job for you, Henry. Put your polo pony to good use.”

Lisa swiveled to stare at Henry. “Polo pony?”

“Let's focus, people.” I jumped up to think on my feet. “We need to figure this out. We've got until sundown. That's it.”

“So this thing can't come out until night?” Justin asked.

“It's photosensitive. That's how the camera flash saved me.”

He watched me pace the tiny space between the beds. “Is it intelligent?”

“The thing in the pasture seemed more instinct than intellect. But it's not neutral, it's not just a hungry animal. It's Evil.” My mind went again to my dream and I wrapped my arms around myself, unable to stop a chill. “It doesn't just eat to survive. It wants to kill, to consume. In my dream I saw—” I broke off and rubbed my eyes with my
hands. “There was blood, and it was soaking into the ground and somehow making this thing more solid. More real.”

Silence met my words, thick and heavy. Henry spoke first, and actually sounded shaken. “No wonder you were screaming.”

I smiled ruefully, appreciating the sympathy, even if he didn't believe my dream meant anything.

Lisa broke in. “Am I the only one who noticed that Maggie just called this thing Evil? Otherworldly, destructive-for-the-hell-of-it-type Evil?”

“I just always assumed it was,” said Justin. “We haven't encountered anything supernatural that wasn't.”

“Hello.” I pointed to my freakish brain. “I resent that. And so does my tea-leaf-reading granny. Lisa might have something to say about it, too.”

Lisa leaned against the wall, deliberately indolent. “Evil geniuses make it a policy never to apologize or explain.”

Justin rubbed his face, looking fatigued. “What's the next step, Maggie?”

“I need to speak to Doña Isabel. She knows a lot more than she's telling.” I stretched my arms over my head and tried not to groan. Everything ached. “Lisa, what's Zeke's plan for the day?”

She checked the clock on the nightstand. “He's supervising the roundup. They were going to start as soon as it was light. In fact, Zeke will be picking me up any minute now. I said I'd help however I could.”

I glanced at the window, where gray light edged the floral curtains. “It's dawn now. The Duck will be open, and I can
get some coffee, then head out to the Big House. The guys can get some rest, and we can all meet up later.”

Justin's hand on my arm stopped me before I got any momentum. “One more thing.” His backpack lay on the floor near him. He pulled it over with his foot, and took out a small notebook. “I searched for info on previous animal attacks, like you asked. Livestock getting killed by wild animals wasn't uncommon until all the apex predators got driven off and hunted to extinction.”

His dedication was admirable, but he looked half dead with fatigue. “Can't this wait until you've gotten a couple of hours of sleep?”

“No, we need to talk about it before we do anything else.” He flipped open the notepad. “So to narrow things down, I looked for anything in Velasquez County that happened around a drought. Two events stood out. One was an anecdotal story from the eighteen hundreds, about the ground getting so dry that cracks opened up large enough to swallow whole cows.”

I sat on the edge of my bed, thinking about my dream, about sinking into the ground and the monster crawling out. “Okay. What's the other one?”

“The last thing I found was in the nineteen fifties. Also a drought. Also mutilated cattle, blamed on a cougar. But it stood out to me because a cowboy died.”

“The fifties?” Doña Isabel would have been at the ranch then. She'd have been about the age she appeared in my visions. “Did it say where this happened, exactly?”

“No.” He pulled a folded map out of the notebook. “I planned to plot all the past and present incidents and see if
there was a pattern. But I couldn't narrow down any locations.”

“I know how we can find out.” I stood up purposefully. “Meet me in the Duck in fifteen minutes. It's time to turn the inquisition around.”

If anyone knew the chupacabra's social schedule, it was Teresa. And if her memory didn't go back that far, I was betting the Old Guys' did.

I
entered the Duck alone, having hurried to dress and get there before the guys. The bar seemed almost deserted, especially after the crowd the night before. There were only three Old Guys at their table. Hector, as I'd hoped, was drying mugs behind the counter, and I headed his way.

Teresa intercepted me en route, one hand on her hip, the other holding a pot of coffee. “There better not be any hanky-panky going on, little missy.”

“Hanky-panky?” I warily eyed the steaming pot and didn't try to go around her.

She gave me a death-ray glare and flipped a dish towel
over her shoulder. “I know what you kids get up to on spring break, but this is a respectable place.”

One of the Old Guys called from their table. “Give her a break, Teresa. That girl shot your chupacabra.”

“Hmph.” She pressed her lips together and went to fill their mugs.
“El chupacabra
is not so easily killed.”

I continued to the bar. Hector had coffee waiting for me, a pitcher of cream beside it. “Heard you had some gentleman callers this morning.”

“It was an exciting night all around.” I climbed onto a stool and put his folded denim shirt on the counter. “You probably heard all about that, too.”

“Yeah.” He wiped the spotless bar. “Dave's headed home from the hospital already. Carl went to go pick him up.”

“That's a relief.” I pushed the shirt across the counter-top. “Thanks for loaning me this. It was a big help. Especially this morning, when I had a hammering headache.”

He smiled at my lack of subtlety. “Hang on to it. I reckon you might still need it.”

I checked that Teresa was still busy with the Old Guys, and then gave Hector a narrow-eyed stare. “Lisa said that only a woman can be a
bruja.
”

The creases in his cheeks deepened further. “She'd be right. A male witch would be a
brujo.
”

“Do you know any?”

“Brujas?
Just you and your friend.”

I stifled my frustrated response as Teresa returned to the bar. Hector, his humor fading to a warning glance, went back to drying mugs.

The cowbell over the back door clanged. I swiveled on my
barstool to greet Justin and Henry. They'd both changed clothes and looked considerably less rumpled. The Old Guys watched their arrival with interest.

They slid onto seats on either side of me, and Henry asked, “Where's Lisa?”

“Getting dressed. Zeke is picking her up in a bit.”

Justin shook his head. “I'm trying to wrap my head around the idea of Cowgirl Lisa.”

“Hmph.” Teresa plunked down two more mugs, one in front of each of the guys. “She thinks she's a smart cookie, that tall girl. She must figure Mr. Zeke will own most of the county when Doña Isabel dies.”

Henry and Justin looked taken aback. They weren't used to how eating in the bar entitled Teresa to know, and comment on, all your personal business.

Hector nudged her aside in order to put a tray of glasses under the counter. “Teresa, don't go telling these folks the Velasquezes' private concerns.”

“Well, it's not private, is it? The whole county knows.” She filled the guys' mugs without asking. “They might as well tell their friend and save her a lot of trouble.”

“Tell her what?” I asked.

She flicked her dishtowel over a nonexistent spot on the counter. “Doña Isabel is leaving all the land to the Catholic Diocese of Corpus Christi. Zeke will either have to work for them, or go do something else.”

Hector looked seriously annoyed. “You make it sound like Ezekiel Velasquez doesn't do a lick of work around here.”

Teresa put her hands on her hips. “You know he wants to put a bunch of airplane propellers all along the coast?”

Justin—who was still sitting with his mouth slightly open
in bewilderment—looked at me for explanation. “A wind farm,” I said. “He wants to go green.” Which was kind of ironic when you thought about how the other big industry here was oil and gas.

Henry cleared his throat. “Could I get an iced tea instead of coffee?”

Teresa moved off, still in a huff. Hector took away the coffee cup, meeting my eye with a grimace. “Is it true?” I asked him. “Doña Isabel seems so fond of Zeke.”

The lines of his face dragged down in concern or regret, and he seemed to choose his words carefully. “I can't explain it to you, Maggie. You'll have to add that to your mysteries to solve.”

When Hector left, Justin turned to me, eyes wide. “What was
that
about?”

“I told you there was a lot going on here.” I lowered my voice as Teresa brought Henry's iced tea. “Even I don't know the half of it.”

Henry took a sip of tea and set it aside. “It's certainly a colorful place.”

They exchanged looks—a silent communication I couldn't interpret—and Justin opened the map he'd brought with him. “Let's get these locations plotted and see if we get a pattern.”

He smoothed the thick paper, and I saw that it wasn't a road map but a geological survey chart—the kind of contour map used for orienteering and hiking. It was a much larger scale than an atlas, and overlaid by gridlines. “Start with your accident, Maggie. Where did you hit the cow?”

I hesitated over the line for Highway 77, then pointed to a spot that seemed right. “Here. I think.”

He marked it with a felt-tipped pen. Teresa loitered
across from us, not bothering to pretend she wasn't paying attention. Justin turned the map toward her. “Teresa, would you mind showing me where your goats were killed?”

She pointed to a spot outside the town's dotted administrative boundary. The entire incorporation of Dulcina was smaller than my college campus. “There. The whole herd.”

Marking the spot on the map, Justin turned again to me. “How about the coordinates you got from the GPS system last night?” I read them off; they were faded but still clear where I'd written them on my arm. Justin found the intersection of two gridlines and made an X. “Any idea where you found those cows on your ride?”

“Um …” I oriented myself with the curve of the shore and the road that connected Dulcina to the Big House. “Here, maybe.” I indicated a small area bounded by a couple of unimproved roads. The topographical chart was much more detailed than a road map, getting in close to show fences and gravel roads as well as stock ponds, windmills, and wellheads.

Justin prompted Teresa with questions about the present attacks, and she was thrilled to be taken seriously. As she recalled the incidents, he marked them on the map and started a legend:
G
for goat,
C
for calf,
C
with a line under it for grown cow. The Old Guys at their table had stopped their talk to eavesdrop. Eventually one of them ambled over to us, peering around Henry's shoulder.

“Don't forget Carl's best herding dog,” he said.

Henry rose and offered the barstool to the Old Guy. “Have a seat.”

“Don't mind if I do.” The Old Guy sat and pointed to a
spot on the map. “There it was. Neck torn right out. Wasn't natural, Carl said.”

I made sure my voice would carry over to the table. “We heard there was a cowboy killed, years ago.”

Another Old Guy came over, carrying his coffee cup. His cap was embroidered with the USS
Lexington
seal, marking him as a navy veteran. “I remember that. Young guy, riding the herds to protect them.”

The first guy chided the second. “Joe, you old coot. You're thinking of that young fellow who got bit last night.”

Lexington Joe rubbed his chin, rasping the nearly invisible gray stubble. “No. This was years ago. I was home on leave.”

I seized on that. “So this has happened before? Livestock being attacked?”

“Of course. Nothing new under the sun.” He held his mug over the counter. “How about a warm-up, Miss Teresa?”

“When was this? Were there a lot of cattle killed?”

He scratched his head under his cap. “I don't reckon I remember. It was after the war, when little Isabel La Tour came from New Orleans to marry young Mike.”

“You mean Doña Isabel? Zeke's grandmother?” Everything she'd said indicated a much longer association with the land.

“Yeah,” said Joe. “She was a Velasquez cousin. Twice removed or something like that. Her father's father went to the Big Easy to make his fortune, but Isabel spent every summer here. We all knew she'd marry Mike Velasquez, but not for lack of our trying to convince her otherwise.”

“Cousins?” I echoed. Eew.

Henry noticed my tone. “Probably not closely related. Franklin and Eleanor Roosevelt were sixth cousins.”

“That's right,” said Joe. “People's circle of acquaintances was smaller then. No meeting people on the internets and all that.”

“So about these livestock killings—the ones from the fifties,” I clarified. “Did they coincide with Isabel's arrival?”