Jeanne Stein - Haunted

I look out the window, but even with vampire vision, I can’t see much. There’s no moon to cast even a shadow on the terrain below. It’s a dark blur of black on black. Occasionally we pass over a cluster of lights from a village, but nothing that resembles a city. I think the pilot is purposely avoiding well-trafficked air space.

I remember from the map that the route was a straight shot across Mexico and that Reynosa was on the Rio Grande. I also remember from newspaper articles that it was a hotspot of cartel killings. Reynosa is like an 1880s Tombstone. I have the feeling we’re heading right into our own gunfight at the OK Corral.

“Do you really think you have a chance of getting close to Santiago?” I ask Max after a minute.

He lifts his shoulders. “Depends on how badly he wants Ramon. He may send some men to do the actual killing but if he’s really pissed, he may want to be there to make sure it gets done right.”

“Are you going to alert your DEA buddies when we land?”

“Not right away. Not until I know we have a chance to get Santiago.” He grins. “Besides, I have the best backup I could hope for. Culebra and a vampire with a hatred for people who abuse kids.”

I snort. “I think that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

“Well, don’t let it go to your head. It’s probably the last nice thing I’ll ever say to you.”

Yeah. Before this trip is over, I’m sure I’ll piss him off again. He’s so easy to piss off and I’m so good at it.

IT’S NOT UNTIL WE COME IN FOR A LANDING THAT I realize how close to the ground we’d been flying. First a bright orange flicker appears suddenly out of the darkness in front of us. Then, we’re descending, and the next moment, the wheels are scraping dirt. A cloud of dust rises like a ghostly fog, obscuring my view out the window. I assume the low altitude was to escape radar detection but frankly, I’m glad I didn’t know how low we were flying. And doubly glad we had a pilot who knew the terrain.

We deplane while the engine is running at a dirt airstrip surrounded by dense brush. Dust hangs in the air and at the far end of the field, a second orange flicker dances in the darkness before it’s quickly extinguished. A boy has thrown a tarp over what I can see now is a burning barrel of—I sniff. Oil. The boy is running back toward us now and the pilot waves a hand.

There’s a building with open hangar doors and after we jump out, the pilot waits for the boy to climb aboard and then turns the plane toward the hangar.

Culebra and Ramon are walking to a battered Jeep parked a hundred yards away from the airstrip. Max and I follow. Ramon motions us inside and cranks the engine over.

I look toward the hangar. “The pilot isn’t coming?”

“He’ll wait for us here,” Ramon answers.

It’s a quiet ride. No conversation from the front seats or back. I glance at my watch. Ten. Max catches the gesture, mimics it.

“It’s two hours later here,” he says, slipping off his watch to adjust the time.

I do the same. Midnight. The witching hour.

We travel for thirty minutes down dirt roads with no discernable signs of life. We must be a good distance from Reynosa. No glimmer of city lights. I do catch the scent of water and hear the rush of currents. The Rio Grande is somewhere behind the thick curtain of vegetation we’re skirting.

At last we come to a clearing. Squatting in the center is a small clapboard cabin with boarded-up windows. Ramon swerves the Jeep into the dense brush alongside the cabin. Then he points to it. “We will stay here tonight.”

I glance at Culebra. “Why would Ramon want to wait? I thought he was worried about his family’s safety.”

Ramon hears my question. He answers. “My wife will be frightened by the arrival of a vehicle this late at night. She has been through enough.”

Like Ramon and Culebra, Max and I have to fight our way through the tangle of brush ensnaring the Jeep. Camouflage by nature, I guess. Max has his duffel bag in hand and once in the open, he charges after Ramon.

Culebra hangs back. Anna, a word.

I stop, turn to him.

I have not told Ramon that you are vampire.

Does he know you are a shape-shifter?

Culebra shakes his head. No one from that part of my life knows. After the way I was treated by my own family, I wasn’t going to take the chance.

I nod. Keeping the secret of your true nature from humans, even those who love you, is something I understand only too well. Shall I tell Max not to let anything slip?

When you have a chance to do it without Ramon overhearing.

There’s a sense of unease shimmering through his thoughts that startles me. You don’t trust Ramon? If that’s true, what are we doing here?

Culebra releases a breath. It’s not that I don’t trust him. It’s just that a lot of time has passed since I last saw him. Things change. People change.

I don’t understand, Culebra. If you have any doubts, why are you risking your life to help him?

Culebra looks away, toward the cabin. I owe him a great debt. It is my obligation to pay it.

When he turns back to me, his thoughts no longer radiate concern. Let’s get inside. We have much to discuss if we are to help Ramon and his family.

I follow him toward the open cabin door. His attempt to banish anxiety from his head was masterful but not entirely convincing. It leaves me troubled.

Ramon and Max have pried open the door to the cabin. When Culebra and I join them, they have an oil lantern burning on the table and are examining the contents of shelves lining the kitchen area of a very primitive one-room dwelling. A wood-burning stove, a small pile of wood beside it, a plank table, a freestanding sink with a pump handle are the only objects in the room. No chairs. No beds. No creature comforts of any kind. The structure is made of rough-hewn wood, floor, walls, ceiling. It’s so small, the five of us make the place seem crowded.

Ramon pulls a coffeepot from one of the shelves and points at Max to grab a small burlap bag from another. When Max opens it, the rich smell of coffee fills the room. Max opens the belly of the stove and slips a log inside. He pulls a book of matches from an inside jacket pocket and strikes one. The wood catches fire immediately, the crackle and pop of dry tinder making me wonder how long it’s been here.

I join Culebra to stand around the table while Ramon works the pump handle at the sink. At first, just a squeal of protesting pipes greets his efforts. Then a gush of brown water with the stink of sulfur.

My nose crinkles in disgust.

Ramon keeps pumping and gradually the water clears though the smell remains strong. He fills the percolator, dumps in some grounds, sets the pot on the stove. In a few minutes, the water boils, the coffee brews, the smell improves—a little.

Still, I think I’ll pass on that coffee.

Max seems to agree. He unzips the duffel and pulls a couple of bottles of water from inside, holding one out to me.

I take it and drink. My digestive system won’t be affected by bad water, but I draw the limits on bad coffee. “What else do you have in there?” I ask him, pointing to the duffel.

“Oh, this and that,” he replies.

He turns away before I can ask again. I’m liking the ambiguity. Makes me feel all warm and safe. Knowing Max, that duffel probably holds a small arsenal right along with the water.

A Boy Scout. Hell, better. When heading for a gunfight, who better to have with me than my own personal Wyatt Earp.

ONCE THE CHUG AND GURGLE OF THE OLD PERCOLATOR stops, Ramon pulls tin cups down from the back of one of the cabinets. When he looks over at Max and me, offering us mugs, we both hold up our hands in gestures of refusal. He pours two steaming mugs and he and Culebra gulp them down.