Blue Diablo (Corine Solomon 1)

We’d been living in Tuscaloosa a few months. People knew who we were, but they didn’t bother us, except to offer work. Kelly’s dad did just that. He had no proof except a father’s surety and a gas station clerk’s description of a woman who sounded like Kelly getting into Mann’s car. But he had a bloody scarf, and that would tell us everything we needed to know.

In the end, that stained scrap of cloth led us right to Mann’s lair, a condemned building where he liked to take his girls.

I hadn’t wanted the job. Thought it would be too dangerous, based off Mann’s lengthy rap sheet. He’d done time before, arson and assault, and if he went down a third time, he might as well forget about parole. But Chance talked me into it.

And that was the beginning of the end.

“I wanted to help people, but not if it meant hurting you, love. Goddamn, I would’ve done anything for you, and you walked away thinking I saw you as nothing but a . . .” He paused. “A show pony. Isn’t that what you said?”

How I wished I could believe him. “If that’s true, why didn’t you come looking for me until you needed me again?”

I hadn’t realized until this moment how much that hurt. I spent half my trip across the country looking over my shoulder, expecting Chance to show up demanding an explanation. By the time I reached Mexico City, I realized he never would.

“You almost died because of me. I understood why you wanted out. What right did I have to keep you if you wanted to go?”

“Is it a question of rights?” I clenched my hands into fists, fighting the urge to yell. “You could’ve said something. Anything. But communication was never our strong suit.”

His voice came as a silver thread of sound, salted with anguish. “Maybe I felt like I deserved to lose you.”

I exhaled unsteadily as I realized we’d turned into the parking lot at the station. For a moment I let myself look at him, really look—probably what Eva would term eating him with my eyes. I’d missed everything about him, but time passed and sometimes broken things heal crooked. The pieces didn’t fit anymore.

“I don’t believe in that, people getting what they deserve. That implies the world is fair and it never has been. You made a choice, Chance, just as I did. You chose to let me go. If you did it to punish yourself, then take off your crown of thorns. What’s done is done, and I don’t blame you for anything. If we were meant to be together, we still would be.” I opened the car door and got out. “Let’s go see Officer Saldana.”

Expect the Unexpected

Jesse was on the phone when we came into his office. Once again, mess cluttered his partner’s desk but the guy was nowhere in sight. I fought the urge to collect the trash and dispose of it on principle. I’m not a neat freak, but there’s something wrong about letting food decompose outside of a compost heap. To amuse myself I counted fast food wrappers and dirty cups.

He motioned us to wait a minute by holding up his index finger. “Yes, it’s chicken blood in the warehouse.” I already knew that. “Did you contact—Oh, right. Yes, sir. I’ll try to keep the press from claiming we have a satanic cult operating in town, but I really don’t have any—Yes, I agree. The last thing we need is religious zealots picketing the parking lot. I’m sure it was just kids messing around.”

I wasn’t so sure about that, but I didn’t think his captain would appreciate any of my theories. Plus, apart from Jesse, I did my best to avoid law enforcement. Like cats always climb on the one person who’s allergic to them, cops always come sniffing around me, sure I’ve been up to something. Once they stopped me in Cut Shin, Kentucky, for driving too slow.

After hanging up, Saldana sighed. “I have a feeling this is going to get worse before it gets better.” As he produced the purse, he added, “Glad you guys are on time. I need to get this back before shift change.”

I expected there to be some tension, but both guys seemed focused on my reading. Bracing myself, I picked up the purse, but to my surprise it felt inert. No charge, no searing pain. I opened it, checked inside. When my fingers brushed across a stud holding the strap to the handbag, I received a small shock, not unlike what I got when I touched Saldana.

Somehow inside the current, I heard a breathy whisper that sounded as if it might be Yi Min-chin: “The zona.”

And that was all.

They regarded me with puzzlement. I guessed the show turned out to be something of a letdown. “You can take it back. I’m done.”

Since he’d seen me handle the night before, Jesse looked at my fingers and then the palm of my hand. “It didn’t work?”

“Some things just don’t hold a charge. Metal has the best resonance for capturing and keeping images. Textiles fade much faster.”

This was a synthetic handbag, vinyl disguised as leather. I didn’t know whether she’d done this on purpose or if this qualified as a failure on my part. It had never worked like this before.

“Have either of you ever been to the zona?” I asked.

Chance looked blank but Saldana arched a brow. “Are you looking for a prostitute?”

I thought of Señor Alvarez, running my shop. How much would he skim, if anything? Would he withhold sales? “I doubt I can afford one.”

“What’s the zona?” Chance asked.

“People in the States usually call it Boys Town. It’s a walled compound in Nuevo Laredo where people go looking to party and buy whores. It’s legal there,” Jesse added, evidently seeing Chance’s confusion.

“Yep.” I spoke to fill the silence. “They spring up around the border towns.”

“I haven’t been there since I was eighteen. I guess every guy in Texas checks it out once. If you decide to go for reasons I probably don’t want to know, keep a tight hold on your wallets, watch for pickpockets, and stay away from Tranny Alley. The places don’t get busy until ten and the party runs till six in the morning. You’ll find most people out after dark, if you have questions, but bring bribe money if you expect answers.”

Was Chance’s mom a former hooker? Why else would she nudge us in this direction? Maybe she got out of the life when she got pregnant with him. Well, the purse seemed to be a dead end otherwise, and I didn’t know what to make of this.

“I’ll let you get back to work now.” I saw about a hundred questions in Jesse’s eyes, but I didn’t care to answer them. “I’ll call you, okay?”

Heading for the door, I didn’t see if Chance followed me, but he caught up with me before I left the police station. “Don’t keep stuff from me, Corine. What does the zona have to do with anything?”

“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “I just heard the words when I touched the inside of the purse. It sounded like your mom’s voice.”

He frowned as we pushed open the door and stepped out into a blindingly bright November afternoon. “But there was no accompanying image?”

“No. It’s strange.”

Chance knew how backward that was. If an item accepted a charge, it captured whatever its last handler experienced, much like a silent film, but it took a specialized gift in order to unlock it. This sounded like his mother had used the bag to record her words. I didn’t know how that was even possible, but if she could do it, why didn’t she say more?

Offering a tired smile, he said, “I know you’re worried about my feelings, but I don’t think anything could surprise me now. My mother knows how to summon demons and she’s apparently connected to Boys Town as well. So what’s our next move?” He paused outside the Camry, managing to look cool as a Long Island iced tea even as sweat trickled down the small of my back.

I was glad he’d decided to let the relationship stuff go.

“You’re asking me?” I projected astonishment. “Then I want some lunch.”

To my surprise, he didn’t argue, just got in the car. “Mexican or Italian?”

Why did I smile because he offered the choice between my two favorites? On his own he’d go Japanese; he loved sushi and I couldn’t stand the stuff, except for California rolls. Chance said those didn’t count, though.

The hot seat made me hiss as I wiggled around. “Depends. Are we talking about Olive Garden Italian or good Italian?”

“I liked Johnny Carino’s when I ate there with my mom, but it is a chain, not a dive with red checkered tablecloths.”

I happen to harbor a soft spot for dives and the folks who operate them.

“Something more authentic then. Surprise me.”

When he pulled up outside a brown brick building on McPherson Avenue, I gaped at the wagon wheels outside the Cotulla Style Pit Bar-B-Q. “Home of the world-famous mariachis, huh? Too bad it’s not Saturday night.”

“We could come back.”

I gave him a look as we pushed into the dim, cool interior. There was a definite cowboy theme going on, a cheerful blend of Western and Mexican decor. The place smelled deliciously of barbeque and most of the tables were full, always a good sign.

A hostess sat us down with two menus, and I decided on the mixed parrillada with nopales and beans. He went with chicken chalupas. Chance also ordered us a pitcher of sangria, which earned him points. If he wanted them. Did he? I put that complication aside as the waitress departed.

“We need to figure out the connections here. Once we do that, I think we’ll have a good idea where to find your mom.” Easier said than done. “This may seem like a stupid question, but did you make sure Clayton Mann and Kel Ferguson are still locked up? Even so, they might have someone acting for them on the outside.”

Those two topped the list of people who wanted to hurt Chance and me, bad. Ferguson was a stone-cold killer for Jesus. He claimed angels told him that people he hunted would unleash the end times, and God didn’t intend to wrap things up yet. He wouldn’t say a word about what that had to do with the child he’d stolen, however. Even while he stood in the courtroom facing his sentence, he claimed divine inspiration.

Over and over, he’d said, “God will deliver me. No earthly bars can hold me.”

No matter how the prosecution questioned him, he never wavered from his story. Until they took him off the stand in disgust, and there were whispers of an insanity plea.

Sometimes I still dreamed about his eyes, as if he could somehow track my every move. He wasn’t easily forgotten. I’d finally managed to shake the feeling that he lurked around every corner, though. Mostly. Except on really dark nights.

In his egocentrism, Clayton Mann didn’t see why anyone should get to tell him no. Rape wasn’t a crime to him; it was him teaching the woman that she wanted him. And he’d very nearly been the end of me.

As far as I knew, they were both in prison.

If they aren’t . . .

Chance paled, both hands wrapping around his glass, and for a minute I thought he might be sick. Then he knocked back his drink as if it were whiskey. “I should’ve found out first thing. It never occurred to me they might strike at me through my mom. Oh, Christ.”