Jeanne Stein - Haunted

Max turns toward me. “This is a topographical map of the area. We’re looking for a way to get to the village where Santiago is said to be living. A way that will not expose us to the villagers or to Santiago’s air patrols.”

I don’t so much as glance his way but stay focused on the map. “Where is the village?”

Ramon places a finger on a point that, judging from the legend, seems to be about ten miles east of us. But the area does not look to be mountainous, just flat desert.

“Not going to be easy,” I say. “To approach unnoticed.”

“We can’t take the Jeep,” Culebra says, nodding. “Too noisy. But Ramon says there is vegetation so we’ll have cover. We go on foot.”

Ramon looks at me, then away. I read the skepticism on his face before he says, “It will be too difficult for a woman. Anna should stay here.”

He’s talking to the men, naturally.

“Don’t worry about Anna.” Max says before I can speak up. “She’s tougher than she looks.”

I stay quiet. I’m not about to defend myself again to Ramon. If my little display of bravado with the pilot didn’t convince him, nothing will. Besides, it might be better if he doesn’t want me to come with them. I can move far faster and with more stealth on my own. Tracking this trio should be a piece of cake. I look at Culebra and open my thoughts.

Culebra understands. You may be right. He lets a frown pull at the corners of his mouth and says out loud, “Perhaps Anna should stay here. We’ll move faster without a woman holding us back.”

I almost smile.

Then Max sends an astonished “what the fuck” expression Culebra’s way that is sure to be followed with some kind of spoiler about how strong and fast and what a good tracker I am. Was he listening at all when I told him Ramon shouldn’t know about me? Or has he been hitting the mescal again? I take matters into my own hands.

By smacking him across the face. Hard.

He yelps, hand on his cheek, and turns fire-flashing eyes toward me. “What the hell.”

“I know what you’re doing. Don’t think you can make up with me. I don’t want to go anywhere with you. You boys think you can do better on your own? Be my guest.”

Ramon lowers his head and says to Culebra, “Pensé que ella era homosexual. ¿Son amantes?”

“Evidentemente no más,” Culebra replies dryly.

Max finally catches on, though the anger blazing from his eyes at my smacking him is real enough. “La perra se queda aquí,” he snaps.

The bitch stays here.

Cute, Max. Nice way to get into character.

The three proceed to plot their course as if I’ve left the room. I plop myself into a chair to pout. And listen. When all the plans are made and they are ready to leave, that’s my cue to jump out of the chair and glare. “I’m going to my room,” I snap and flounce off.

No one, not even Culebra, bothers to say good-bye.

I LEAVE THE BEDROOM DOOR OPEN JUST A CRACK SO I can listen to what’s happening in the living room. There is a rustling of activity as supplies are gathered, backpacks filled, weapons made ready. At one point, Ramon enters his wife’s room. I assume to let her know that they are leaving. She follows him back to the living room, voice tense as she says her good-byes.

Neither Max nor Culebra venture into my room. Max is still offended by the slap; Culebra knows we will be in touch as soon as they leave and I follow.

Finally, I hear the pneumatic whoosh of the door being opened. Maria calls a last “ vayan con dios ,” reverently, as if the three were embarking on a religious crusade. All I have to do now is wait for her to go back to bed and I can be on my way, too.

So, I wait.

Maria is walking around the living area. It sounds as if she’s straightening up, glasses clinking, papers rustling.

Come on, Maria. You can do all that tomorrow morning. Go to bed.

But she doesn’t.

In another minute, the smell of coffee drifts back.

Shit. She’s making coffee. What’s she planning to do? Hold a vigil until her man gets back?

Finally she goes into her bedroom and closes the door. Now’s my chance. I exit my room and tiptoe past her door, heading for the living room. Then I’m through the living area and ready to work the code to open the door to the staircase. Hopefully they haven’t changed it after my unexpected and stupid appearance yesterday.

Suddenly, I hear her bedroom door open once again and footsteps approach.

My fingers fly over the keypad. I’ve just hit Enter when I hear another sound. The door slides open, but I hardly notice. At my back, the unmistakable ratchet of a pump-action shotgun being primed to fire freezes me to the spot.

“Turn around. Slowly.”

I do. I don’t intend to see what a shotgun would do to me or to find out how long it takes me to recover from such a wound.

Maria has the gun leveled at my torso.

“What are you doing, Maria?”

“Ramon said you might try to follow. He was right. He wants you to stay here.”

“But I came to help. How can I help if I’m here?”

Maria sniffs. “You are a woman. How could you help? You would only be a distraction. What is to be done is men’s work.”

“And you know what is to be done?”

“I know enough. Ramon is wise in these ways. He and Tomás will do what is necessary.”

“And Max.”

Another disdainful sniff. “Ramon knows what Max is. Un policía contra narcótraficant. He is alive only because he is Tomás’s friend. He will stay alive only as long as he is useful. If you and he are indeed lovers, I think you will soon be wearing ropa de luto .”

I don’t recognize the expression. “What does that mean?”

“Mourning clothes,” she says.

An icy finger touches the back of my neck. I have to get out of here. Maria is still gripping the trigger of the shotgun. I need to get it away from her without waking Gabriella. If she’s like her mother, she’s likely to come out guns blazing at the sound of a shotgun blast.

“Can I sit down?” I ask. “That shotgun scares me.”

She jabs in the direction of the couch. I back toward it, keeping Maria in my line of sight. I’m hoping she wants to secure the door and sure enough, she half turns to the keyboard, trying to keep the shotgun level on me at the same time she works the code.

I don’t give her a chance to do, either. I’m on her in less than a heartbeat, wrenching the gun from her and pushing her down onto the floor. I put a finger to her lips. “No noise. Wouldn’t want to wake your daughter.”

She glares at me. “Puta.”

That again. “How do you communicate with Ramon?”

She looks like she’s not going to answer so I tickle her chin with the barrel of the shotgun. “I said I didn’t want to wake your daughter. I didn’t say I wouldn’t.”

Harsh, maybe. But it works. “Cell phone.”

“Where is it?”

She clamps her jaws tight but her eyes betray her. They flicker toward the table. I grab her arm, yank her to her feet and pull her with me. The cell phone is on the counter separating the kitchen from the dining area. I drop it to the floor, crush it with my heel and toss it onto the counter.

“Does Gabriella have a phone?”

She shakes her head. “No. Cell phones are a danger to us—too easy to trace. We have only the one. She is not allowed.”

Knowing Gabriella, knowing teenagers, I suspect she might have a phone her folks don’t know about. Like the iPod. But there’s nothing I can do about that. I push Maria down into one of the chairs and look around for something to tie her up with. I don’t see anything promising. In the kitchen area there are some towels hanging from a wooden spool. I grab up two, tear them into strips and bind her hands and feet.