Highway to Hell (9 page)

The Duck Inn was more crowded than I expected on a Sunday morning. The neon signs were dark and the jukebox was quiet. Sunlight fell on Formica, and coffee cups had replaced beer bottles, but other than that, the men who hunched over propped elbows or sprawled with their denim-clad legs out and their boots crossed at the ankles looked pretty much the same.

I walked to the bar, my flip-flops slapping the hardwood floor. There was a guy behind it today, and as he turned, my step halted. He was the man who'd told Dave we'd be fine on the walk to the room.

“Where's Teresa?” I said to cover my surprise.

He set a mug in front of me and filled it with steaming coffee. “Not even she can be here twenty-four-seven. I'm Hector.” His thin, craggy face creased with a friendly smile. “What can I get for you, little missy?”

He was the only one who said that with any irony, and I liked him for it. With an exaggerated sigh, I reached for the cream. “Where to start?”

“Why not start with some breakfast, and go from there.”

“In that case, I'll have one of those
taquito
things.”

“You got it.”

The coffee was good, strong enough to take the polish off a spoon. Hector put in my order, then returned to wiping the scarred wooden bar. “You're not having much of a spring break, Miss Maggie.”

“Not what I'd planned, no.” I didn't question how he knew my name. I would bet money that most of the town knew my bra size.

He flipped his towel onto his shoulder. “But sometimes things happen for a reason.”

My brows made an involuntary climb toward my hairline. My gran said that all the time. “What do you mean?”

With a shrug, he straightened the napkin holder. “Just that we don't know the big plan. Maybe this is where you're meant to be.”

“You sound like my Granny Quinn.”

“She must know what she's talking about.” He grinned.

I narrowed my eyes, tilting my head to look at him from an angle. “What did you mean last night when you told Dave we'd be safe on the way back to our room?”

He shrugged. “Just that it's a short walk.”

“Fine.” I let him be mysterious, for now. Maybe he knew about the protection that the psychic fence represented; maybe he just observed the effect. “So, what's your take on this chupacabra business? Fact or fiction?”

“Depends what you mean by fact.” A plate hit the
pass-through from the kitchen with a clatter, and he retrieved it, answering with his back to me. “Something is killing livestock. I can't say what it is.”

Someone plopped onto the seat beside me. “What what is?” It was Dave from last night, wearing a T-shirt and jeans. He hooked a boot heel on the rung of the barstool. “Hey, Hector. Hey, Miss Maggie.”

Hector set my
taquito
in front of me with a deadpan expression. “Good morning, Dave.” The barman's flat intonation made me snort into my coffee. I had to respect anyone who could do such a perfect imitation of HAL the computer.

“Coffee?” Hector asked.

“Keep it coming.” Dave turned to me, and I checked him out in the daylight. He had a Jake Gyllenhaal thing going on, a kind of nice-guy handsomeness that made him look like someone's brother or boyfriend.

“You asking Hector about Ol' Chupy? Wasting your time. He doesn't believe in it.”

Hector's craggy features twisted in skeptical humor. “Do I believe in a supernatural bogeyman or an alien space pet? No.”

“Alien space pet?” I failed to keep the laughter out of my voice.

His tone was dry. “That's what some people think it is. A pet left by UFOs.”

Dave picked up his coffee mug and said pointedly,
“Other people
think it's some kind of undiscovered animal, maybe a crossbreed or something.”

I unwrapped my breakfast taco before the eggs got cold. “So, you subscribe to the giant squid theory?”

“The what?”

“People used to think the giant squid was a myth, because it lived so deep in the ocean, but now they know it's real.”

He slapped the bar with an enthusiastic hand. “Exactly! There's a hundred thousand acres of nothing out here. Who knows what could be hiding.”

Hector shot me a wry glance. “Thanks for giving him ammunition, Maggie.”

Dave was on a roll. “The drought makes food scarce, and Ol' Chupy has to come in close to get something to eat. That's when people get a glimpse of it.”

I fished for anything more specific than the vague mishmash of description I'd gotten last night. “Have
you
seen it?”

“Nope. My Tía Rosa, though, she swore that it came to her place one night and carried off her puppy. My granddad found what was left of the dog out in the pasture, wouldn't let her see it. Said it wasn't natural. Forty years ago or so, and she's never forgotten about it.”

The stark retelling had more impact than Teresa's melodrama the night before. I leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “Did
she
see it?
El chupacabra
, I mean?”

“Swears so.” Dave nodded decisively. “Red eyes in the dark, rustle of wings …”

I sat back in disgust, and Hector laughed at my expression. “Oh, for crying out loud. That's the same thing everyone says.”

“Yeah, but Ol' Chupy is going to get careless. Sooner or later, someone's got to get a clear shot at him, with a rifle or a camera.” His eager tone indicated exactly who he thought that person might be. “And that lucky bastard is going to make a fortune.”

“Has
no one
ever seen a whole one?” I asked in frustration.

Dave shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Not a live one, anyway.”

Finally, a glimmer of hope. “Someone's seen a dead one?”

“Well, sure. There's a skeleton in the museum up the road.”

I set down my mug and turned on the barstool to look at him. “A real skeleton?”

“Sure.”

“How far is the museum?”

He rubbed his chin and thought about it. “Maybe twenty miles down seventy-seven, going on toward Brownsville. Right on the highway.”

Hector spoke up at last, his face comically expressionless. “Tell her what kind of museum, Dave.”

“I forget the name,” Dave said blithely. “But you can't miss it. Has a big sign that says ‘Two-Headed Snake.’”

“Two-Headed snake?” I echoed. What the hell kind of exhibition had a bicephalic reptile for a headliner?

Chuckling, Hector grabbed a fresh pot of coffee to make the rounds among the tables. The stuff was like crack here.

Dave leaned his elbow on the bar, turning to face me. “So. You and your friend sticking around until Buck fixes your car?”

“Yeah. Buck says he can probably do it by Friday. So Lisa and I will be hanging out.”

“Well,” he said, “there are a few things to do around here. Some people like to bird-watch out on the bay. Got a great restaurant there, too. Better than you might think.”

“Well, tomorrow we're going out to the Velasquez ranch.” I only mentioned it so that he wouldn't feel obliged to offer to play tour guide.

Dave laughed, either not realizing I was putting him off, or not caring. “Technically you've been on it since you got here. The Velasquez property takes up most of the county, 'cept the town and the highway.”

I stared at him. “Really?” No wonder Lisa was being so nice to Zeke.

He nodded. “Most of us who run cattle here lease acreage. My great-granddad was a Velasquedero—that's what they called the vaqueros who worked for the family. His son started with a twenty-acre lease and five head of cattle. My dad owned a hundred. I've got the lease now, though the numbers are down because of the drought.”

“A vaquero is a cowboy, right?” Dave nodded, and I went on. “Why are your numbers down? Not because of the … whatever Teresa thinks killed her goats?”

“Nah.” He sounded casual, but didn't quite fool me. “In a drought, it takes more land per head of cattle to keep them healthy. So a lot of us have had to sell off our breeding stock.”

“Oh.” Considering how much pride had laced his voice when he talked about how his family had built up their herd, it was a real shame, and I said so.

“Yeah.” His smile was, for the first time, unconvincing. “Especially at market price per pound. Doña Isabel has tried to help the tenants, but even she can't control the weather.”

Hector had returned with the empty coffeepot and set it on the burner to refill. He didn't rejoin the conversation, but there was a set to his shoulders that said he was listening.

“Doña Isabel?” I asked.

“Zeke's grandmother. Matriarch of Velasquez County.”

“Oh.” How old-fashioned, yet fitting, from the little bit I'd heard. “I think we're going to meet her tomorrow. Zeke said she was asking about Lisa and me.”

Hector turned, and Dave set down his mug. “Summoned into the presence,” said Dave. “Wow.”

“What's the big deal?” Other than the fact that she owned most of the county, I guess.

“Doña Isabel doesn't leave the ranch.” Hector's tone was carefully neutral. “People come to her.”

I glanced between them, wondering if they were pulling my leg. “She
never
leaves the ranch?”

Dave shrugged. “I can't remember the last time she did. But, as I said, the ranch is a big place.” He stood and fished his wallet out of his pocket. “I've got to run. We're all checking our fences after that cow got on the highway. Not that it'll do much good against Ol' Chupy.”

He winked at me as he left, which seemed a little flippant. I guess maybe if you think it's just an animal and not a monster, it's hard to get really worked up. That was the difference between him and Teresa; from what I'd seen, she had worked-up down to an art.

Hector was the mystery. When I quizzed him on the chupacabra, my gut instinct said that he took it more seriously than anyone. But he said he didn't believe in it. At least, he didn't believe it was an alien space pet.

He cleared away my plate. “What's your plan for the day. The two-headed snake museum?”

I gave him a penetrating stare, as if I could read minds. “Is that the best place to start?”

“As good a place as any, if you're serious about this chupacabra business.”

With a sigh, I sank my elbows onto the bar. “I am, but I'm transportation impaired.”

“Buck's got a couple of trucks he uses as loaners.”

“Yeah?” Since he'd dodged so many of my questions, the suggestion was surprisingly helpful.

He yelled over his shoulder at a trio of men sitting at the Old Guys' table, nearly indistinguishable in their sweat-stained caps and oil-stained jackets. “Hey, Buck. You got a truck you can lend this young lady so she can get around while her car's in your shop?”

The mechanic pushed his cap farther back on his head, talking around whatever he had stuck between his cheek and gum. “Don't see why not.” He detached a small key ring from his bigger one and tossed it to Hector. “Just come get it when you need to. Can't miss it parked beside the garage. Big old blue Chevy.”

“Thanks, Buck.” I included the enigmatic man behind the bar in my gratitude. “You too.”

He dropped the key into my hand. “Don't thank me until you've seen Buck's truck.”

I slid off my barstool and dug in my jeans for a couple of dollars. “Well, thanks for the breakfast, anyway.”

The barman waved me off. “I'll put it on your tab.”

“Thanks.” I started toward the door, but as I was passing the cash register, I saw a rack of road maps and a brochure with a sepia photograph of a bunch of men gathered with their horses around a campfire. On it was also a woodcut of a design I'd seen on Zeke's belt buckle—a simple cross with two arms, the top one slightly longer than the bottom.

The title on the pamphlet said:
Velasquez Ranch, Then and Now.
I guessed the symbol was the ranch's brand.

Grabbing one of each—a map and a pamphlet—I waved to get Hector's attention. “Add these to my bill, too, will you?”

“Will do, Miss Maggie.” He whisked away our mugs and wiped the spot where they'd been. “You be careful out there.”

“Will do.”

God, now I was even sounding like them.

Dave was right. We didn't have any trouble finding the place. Beside the highway, a faded billboard proclaimed:
SEE IT HERE! TWO-HEADED SNAKE! REPTILIAN WONDERS! ICE-COLD COCA-COLA! MEXICAN POTTERY!

“This must be it.” I kept both hands on the wheel of Buck's “loaner”—a seventies-vintage pickup truck, more rust than blue. It smelled like ancient cigarettes, old boots, and dirty socks, but since it lacked air-conditioning, I didn't notice the odor so much with the wind whipping through the open windows.

“Yeah,” Lisa drawled as a long, low building came into view. “I didn't figure there was more than one house of reptilian wonders nearby.”

“Nearby” was relative; it was a lot of driving for questionable payoff. If the bones were real, that was a point for the giant squid theory. If not … well then, as Lisa had pointed out, it didn't really prove anything one way or the other.

I pulled off the highway into a gravel lot, raising a cloud of fine, pale dust. It settled in a gritty layer onto my
sunscreen-coated skin as I climbed out of the truck and got my bearings.

The Brazos Valley Reptile and Curio Museum wasn't in any valley that I could see. The landscape was—surprise—flat and brown. The cinder-block building had a corrugated metal roof, and a chain-link fence enclosing the sides and back, I guess to keep people out, because it wasn't going to do much good keeping snakes in.