Highway to Hell Read online

  The bathroom was more humid than old pipes and the Gulf Coast humidity could account for; Lisa must have showered before she disappeared. A pleasant citrus scent hung in the air; my head cleared a little more, and the weight of the almost sleepless night began to fall from my shoulders.

  A brown plastic bottle sat on the edge of the tub, like a cough syrup bottle with no label. I unscrewed the lid and smelled lemon and ginger and early spring mornings after a good night's rest.

  Lisa was studying international finance at school, but if world domination didn't work out for her, she could make a fortune bottling that stuff for Bath & Body Works. No aromatherapy had ever worked quite like that.

  Strange, the things that tempt you. A little magic to make the morning easier. I put the bottle aside and grabbed my own body wash. Maybe I was being a hypocrite. Lisa's arcane studies had saved my life, but sorcery had also put some of my favorite people in the hospital. So yeah, I was unreasonably squirrelly about it. Besides, I had enough freakish trouble without picking up more voluntarily.

  As I'd predicted to Justin, the details of my dream solidified as I worked up a lather of shampoo. I still didn't know what it meant, but at least I had a linear story to tell.

  I had dreamed I was at a crossroads, standing under a sky of silver velvet, stars competing against the full moon. In all directions was the mesquite savanna of South Texas; a moist and salty wind rustled the dry grass and leaves like music.

  A flash of red grabbed my attention; taillights retreated down the one-lane farm road that crossed the highway. I'd followed them in an effortless run—definite proof that I was dreaming—until the gravel road ran out and I found myself in a field, with a barbed wire fence blocking my way.

  It extended in both directions, as far as I could see. The bright metal wire glowed with captured starlight, concentrating it to points at the twisted, sharpened barbs. I reached cautiously toward one of those shining spikes, and felt a tingle as though I'd put my hand near an electrical field. The damaged nerves of my arm began to sting in warning, and I prudently pulled my hand back.

  The dream settled one matter. Whatever had killed the cow by the road, this fence was … something. The barrier didn't have to be literal. It could be a figurative construct. The question was, what did it keep in? Or, for that matter, out?

  Lisa still wasn't back when I got out of the shower, so I pulled on a pair of jeans and a green Bedivere U T-shirt, slipped on my flip-flops, and went to find some breakfast.

  Dulcina wasn't a big town, and from the second-floor landing of the Artesian Manor, I could see most of it. Heck, I could probably see all the way to the Gulf of Mexico if I had a pair of binoculars. The land was that flat. I made for the stairs as I pocketed the key—an honest-to-God metal key with a large plastic tag hanging from it, my room number in big, come-break-into-me digits.

  Digit, I should say. There were eight rooms in the Artesian Manor. And from the looks of things, that was seven more than required.

  It was an old building, even older than the interior décor indicated. Vaguely Spanish Revival, I guess, with dingy whitewashed walls. Four doors upstairs, four doors down, all facing a parking lot and a fenced-in, empty pool. A cracked concrete path led to the back door of the restaurant/bar that also served as the day office for the motel. This triumph of multitasking was called the Duck Inn, and I hadn't asked if they did room service.

  A cowbell above the door clanged as I went in. The morning wasn't hot yet, but the air-conditioner hummed, ready for combat, as sunlight struggled through the tinted windows. It smelled of last night's beer and the last decade's tobacco. The wood floor was scarred and sticky. Booths lined the paneled walls, which were hung with more hunting prints and a few stuffed fowl that justified the pun of a name, but didn't really excuse it.

  A Bud Light sign above the bar was dark, and a black-haired woman, whose apron covered a wealth of terrain, was drying glass mugs behind the counter.

  My greeting was tentative—it was my first time ordering breakfast in a bar. “Could I get a cup of coffee and …” A bagel was probably out of the question. “And some toast?”

  The woman thunked a mug on the bar and tucked the towel into her apron. “You think this is some big-city Starbucks?”

  “No, ma'am,” I said, because she reminded me of a scary biology teacher I had in high school, who, it was rumored, would dissect troublesome students like frogs, then feed them to her pet iguana.

  “You drive all night, wreck your car, then think you can get through the morning on a little coffee and a piece of bread?”

  “Yes, ma'am … I mean, no … um …” I didn't know whether I was more flustered by the lecture or her detailed knowledge of my situation. “I'll have, um—”

  “Get the taquito.” I turned at the sound of Lisa's voice. She peered around the high back of one of the booths and addressed the lady behind the bar. “Por favor, déle un taquito como que usted me dio.”

  The woman's smile made her look much less like a scary biology teacher. “¿Le gusta a usted?”

  “Fue muy bueno. Gracias, Teresa.”

  “De nada.” The woman—Teresa, I guessed—turned back to me, smile fading. “I'll bring it to you.”

  “Thank you,” I said. Then added, “Gracias, ” which aside from ¿Dónde está el baño? was the extent of my Spanish.

  I was a little surprised to see Zeke sitting across from Lisa. He was dressed in jeans and a red T-shirt. Still no cowboy hat, but in the daylight I could see that it would be a shame to hide his thick, inky hair.

  “Hey.” I slid into the booth next to Lisa and directed a question to Zeke. “You have nothing better to do on a Saturday?”

  “New faces,” he said, taking a sip of coffee. “Get tired of looking at the same ones all the time.”

  “Thanks a lot, Mr. Zeke,” Teresa called from behind the bar.

  Dull red embarrassment spread over his cheekbones. Lisa pounced right away, like a cat with a new toy. “Mister Zeke? Are you lord of the manor or something?”

  “No.” He leaned back in the booth, maybe guessing— correctly—that the less he squeaked, the less Lisa would bat at him. “My uncle is Mr. Velasquez. I'm Mr. Zeke. It's just a matter of clarity.”

  “Right,” she said. “So what is Zeke short for? Ezekiel?”

  He gave in to a sheepish smile. “You should meet my uncle Gabe and cousin Mike.”

  Lisa laughed in genuine amusement. “Gabriel, Michael …”

  “Miguel, actually,” he corrected.

  “Was your dad Rafe?”

  “He got off easy with Isaiah. We're just prophets, not angels.”

  “Were your parents in some kind of cult?”

  “Only if you count the Catholic Church.”

  The unholy laughter in Lisa's gray eyes warned me her reply would be a doozy, but I spotted Teresa on her way over and kicked my friend under the table. She pressed her lips shut as Teresa set down a mug of coffee and a plate. On it was a foil-wrapped cylinder as big around as a Coke can and twice as long.

  “Oh, a breakfast burrito,” I said, as delighted as I was hungry.

  “Ay chihuahua.” Teresa flung her gaze skyward. I'd never actually heard anyone say that before.

  The taquito— which was delicious, stuffed with scrambled eggs, cheese, and sautéed potatoes—claimed my ravenous attention, and Zeke—holder of the latest gossip—had captured Teresa's.

  “Do you know whose cow it was on the road?” She lifted the glass coffeepot in a tacit question.

  Zeke pushed his empty mug toward her. “Hanging J brand.”

  “That's too bad.” She made a ts k sound with her tongue as she poured. “Jorge can't really afford to lose another one.”

  “He'll lose the calf, too, unless one of the other cows will let it have a teat.”

  I stopped eating long enough to pour cream in my coffee. “Do you lose a lot of cattle this way?”

  Teresa raised her brows. “Hit by cars?”

 
; My eyes went to Zeke. “Killed by coyotes.”

  She looked at him, too, and he answered with his gaze fixed on his coffee mug. “Looks like she was chased out onto the road. A coyote”—he said it with only two syllables, ki-yote—“was my best guess.”

  Teresa narrowed her eyes. “I've heard of them taking down a calf before, but not a full-grown cow.”

  There was something argumentative in that, and in Zeke's reply. “Maybe a pack of them ganged up.”

  “Oh, come on, Zeke.” She parked the coffeepot on the table, hard enough to rattle the glass. “You've been riding the herds since you could sit on a horse. Have you ever seen a coyote chase an adult cow away from the group, let alone take it down?”

  “If it was sick, or weak for some reason …”

  She gave a pffft of irritated impatience. “There's been a lot of weak cattle around, then, is all I can say.”

  “Well,” said Zeke. “We are in the middle of a drought. And even coyotes get desperate.”

  “Other things might get desperate, too.” Her reply was cryptic and significant, as if this was a continuation of a previous discussion.

  He set down his mug with a thump that put a period on the conversation. “Teresa, I'm trying to do something about the problem, and your superstitious gossip isn't helping.”

  Teresa drew herself up to her full height, color blooming in her cheeks. “Perdóname, Señor Velasquez. I forgot my place.”

  Zeke relented immediately, but she had gone, sailing off on her offended dignity. He watched her go, his mouth hardening into a slash of irritation.

  “So,” I said, the word loud in the awkward lull. The caffeine had kicked in and my brain caught up with the conversation. “Your name is Velasquez like … Velasquez County?”

  “Yeah.” He didn't look happy about it at that moment.

  The exchange had been interesting, but raised more questions than it answered. “What does she mean, other things get desperate?”

  “The ranchers, probably.” Zeke finished his coffee in what must have been a scalding gulp. “Could be an insurance scheme.”

  While I didn't believe this for a second, it distracted me with an awful new thought. “I'm not going to get sued for hitting someone's cow, am I?”

  “No. It's the rancher's, or the landowner's, responsibility to make sure the fences are secure. Which is why I'm going out with you and Buck to get your car. I want to see what that fence looks like.”

  “Don't look so grim,” I said. “I'm not going to sue you.” He gave me a rueful smile, but I was glad to see some of his humor returning. “Don't speak too soon. You haven't gotten the news on your Jeep yet.”

  4

  It didn't seem possible that the highway scenery could be even more boring in the daylight.

  I rode in the cab of Buck's tow truck; the mechanic was a nice guy with a slow drawl and no hurry to get anything done. He liked playing tour guide, though, and answered my questions about the landscape.

  “Gulf's about ten miles that way,” said Buck, pointing to the east side of the highway, which was a little greener than the west. “Stays a little wetter. There's some bird-watching out by the water, and a restaurant about twenty miles up the coast. Some mighty good shrimp there.”

  There wasn't room for all of us in the tow truck, so Lisa and Zeke were driving ahead in his pickup. Interesting how chummy they'd gotten. Back in her goth days, D&D Lisa wouldn't have sat on the same side of the cafeteria as Zeke the rancher.

  “So, Buck. How well do you know Zeke Velasquez?”

  “Young Zeke?” He shrugged. “He's a good kid. Got some highfalutin ideas about a few things. Wants to put big ol' windmills all along the water, generate electricity or some such business.”

  “You mean a wind farm?”

  “Yeah. Got the other counties in a pelter. Say the birdwatchers won't come down if there's big airplane propellers interfering with migration.”

  “Would it? Interfere, I mean?”

  Buck shook his head. “Had a bunch of college types down here to check it out. Zeke wouldn't do anything to hurt an animal. He loves 'em. Just got a puppy from him.”

  I tried to picture the laid-back mechanic with a yapping little dog. “A puppy?”

  “Yeah. My granddaughter needed a new one after her last one got killed.”

  “I'm so sorry.” We hadn't had a dog since I was little. Mom had been thinking of getting another one, but then she got pregnant, so I have a little sister now instead. Not exactly the same thing.

  “Yep. Coyotes got him. Weren't pretty.” He nodded ahead, to the southbound side of the highway. “That your car, little missy?”

  I was glad for the distraction from that mental image. The Jeep, with its safari-brown paint, could have been nicely camouflaged in the desert. Especially since it was missing its black canvas top.

  “Where is the top?” Twisting in the seat, I craned to peer across Buck, in case I had simply not noticed the roof of the Wrangler.

  “Must have got stolen” was Buck's sanguine answer. “Hope you didn't have anything valuable in there.”

  “Just that whopping big part of my car.”

  The carcass of the cow was gone, too, but there were a lot of gooey stains on the road, smeared by countless tires. Zeke put on his turn signal as he approached the median cross over, then U-turned onto the southbound lanes and pulled onto the shoulder, leaving room for Buck to back the tow truck up to the Jeep. I noticed that, despite my dream, there was no second road crossing the highway there.

  Watching for cars, I opened the door and slid out, taking my camera bag with me. There was a lot more traffic on the road this morning. A semi roared by, followed by two cars full of spring breakers.

  “Do you mind if I take a few pictures before you load it up?” I asked Buck.

  “Suit yourself.”

  While he went to work, getting out chains and whatever else he needed, I took shots of the Jeep from all angles. The insurance people had been helpful on the phone, but I wanted to make sure I documented everything.

  “Where's the cow?” Lisa stood by the pickup, frowning at the dark, icky spot on the highway and the empty grass of the median.

  “I called the cow's owner last night and he came to get it.” Zeke slipped a pair of funky-looking pliers into his pocket and pulled on a thick pair of gloves. Hauling a partial spool of barbed wire from the back of the truck, he gave Lisa a teasing glance. “You said it yourself. Too late for anything but a barbecue.”

  She snapped her gaze toward him. “You're not serious.”

  “Don't you know where your hamburger comes from?”

  “Not from roadkill. I hope.”

  He smiled, but lost his teasing edge. “Don't judge people for salvaging what they can. Jorge's family counts on those cattle for their living. This drought has hit everyone hard.”

  Buck hailed me from halfway underneath the Jeep, bringing me back to my own problems. “You tore this thing up pretty good, little lady You're going to need a new gas tank, maybe a new exhaust system. Think you might have cracked a CV joint to boot.”

  “Do you think you can fix it?” I watched him emerge and dust off his grimy jeans. “Is it totaled?”

  “Totaled? Nah.” He lifted a sweat-stained cap and smoothed his thinning brown hair. “They haven't changed these old Jeeps much since I learned on 'em in the service. Gotta get the parts down here, though. That'll take a few days.”

  “A few days? Can't they overnight them?”

  “Sure. Overnight to Corpus, then another day down here. That's the quickest we get things, missy. And tomorrow's Sunday besides.”

  “Okay,” I said, trying to sound like I dealt with this kind of thing all the time. I'd gotten the Jeep—not new, but reliable—when I'd gotten my license, and I'd never had so much as a fender bender.

  “I'll load 'er up and get back to the shop. I'll know more when I get it up on the lift.” I must have failed in my attempt to look calm, because he put a hand
on my shoulder. “It'll be okay, little missy. We'll get you set to rights.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Buck.” And I meant it, despite the “little missy” part.

  I waited for another Padre-bound car—the rear-window graffiti was a giveaway—to pass, then stepped out into the lane to take a picture of the blood on the road, and the skid marks of the Jeep.

  In the daylight, I could see the trail the cow had left as it blundered through the fence and onto the highway. I wondered, briefly, if the tears on its skin could have been from the barbed wire, then discarded the idea. Instinct said no, and so did logic. The gouges had been too deep.

  Zeke was stringing new wire with professional efficiency. Lisa stood on the dirt shoulder, staring at the ground with an intensely thoughtful expression.

  I started toward her, and she said without looking up, “Watch your step. I think these are animal tracks.”

  Treading carefully where the dry grass was undisturbed, I joined her. There was definitely some kind of imprint in the dirt, dramatically different from the cow's hoofs. “Does that look like a coyote to you?” she asked.

  “How should I know?” I said.

  “You were the Girl Scout.”

  “I was a Brownie. In the first grade. We were too busy making macaroni art to do much wild animal tracking.”

  “Too bad. It might have thinned the weak from the herd.”

  “I wish I could tell when you're joking.” Crouching, I framed the footprint in the camera's lens and zoomed close. Maybe I was no Eagle Scout, but I could tell it hadn't been made by a canine type paw. The impression was sort of thin, with long toes and claws. It looked kind of reptilian, like the footprints in Jurassic Park.

  “Do you have a quarter?” I asked.

  “Planning to make a phone call?”

  “No. I want to put it in the picture for a measure of scale.”

  Lisa dug into the pocket of her jeans. “You watch too much CSI.”

  “I got that from a Jeffery Deaver novel, actually.”