Jeanne Stein - Haunted

He looks up at Max.

Max had just raised his glass to his lips. Whatever he sees in Culebra’s eyes makes him lower the glass. He takes up the story.

“We were on a routine border patrol when we found Culebra. We thought he was an illegal who had been attacked by coyotes. He’d almost made it to the border. It was a miracle he made it at all. The gunshot wasn’t serious, but he was dehydrated and exhausted. He’d lost a lot of blood.”

Max watches Culebra as he tells the story. Culebra, for his part, keeps his head down, his eyes on the glass clasped between his hands.

“He was near death for three weeks. We found papers on him—Mexican and American passports in different names. One we recognized. The name connecting him to the Sinaloa Cartel. As soon as he was well enough, we moved him to a safe house for questioning.” A cold smile. “He was a tough nut to crack. Wouldn’t tell us what happened. Wouldn’t name his shooter.”

“So how did you convince him to talk?”

“We found the bodies of his family. Buried in a shallow grave not far from where we found him. It was a fluke. We’d gotten a tip about the location of a cartel body dump. His family happened to be among the dead we were able to identify. Ballistics matched the bullet that we took from him to the ones that killed his family. Seeing their bodies, knowing they were killed by his own people reminded him of what he wanted most. Revenge.

“Culebra has been of great help to us. We captured Gallardo with information he supplied. We’ve taken a lot of drugs off the street and closed some major supply routes. He’s more than made up for what he was.”

“But the drugs keep flowing and the gangs get stronger.” I don’t realize how angry and disappointed I’d become until that anger turns my blood to fire. I round on Culebra. “Do you really think you can ever make up for what you were? A killer. An assassin for a drug dealer. Do you know how many deaths you are responsible for? Thousands. On both sides of the border. Your family—” The words spill out, forced from a roiling gut. “I don’t understand how you could have allowed yourself to be involved in such a thing. You risked your life not long ago to save a young girl—a stranger—from Belinda Burke. That’s the Culebra I know. The one you are describing now is someone I don’t recognize.”

Culebra makes no attempt to explain or excuse. Anger overcomes disappointment. Bile burns the back of my throat. His silence lights the fuse and trips an explosion of invective.

“Of all the people I’ve come to depend on in my life, I thought you were the purest of heart. You came here and offered refuge to worldly and otherworldly creatures seeking safe haven. You are a protector. Never would I have suspected you capable of being a cold-blooded killer.”

Max breaks in. “This place was Culebra’s idea. You know the good he does. He still helps us when he can, but basically he is left alone to help whoever—or whatever —he chooses.”

The last is said with an inflection as sharp as a pointed stake. He’s not looking at me. Learning I was vampire was what broke us up. I thought we had gotten past that. Especially since he came to me not long ago for help with a rogue vampire. A rogue I took care of. Maybe the booze is stirring up feelings of betrayal in him the way Culebra’s story is stirring up feelings of betrayal in me. Irrational maybe, but real just the same.

In a muddle of alcohol-fueled emotion, I’d not shielded my thoughts. Culebra’s intrusion into my head is as soft as a whisper. I can’t undo what I was, what I did.

The weight of his sadness and regret is heavy. I know the toll past mistakes can exact. I’ve also seen firsthand the misery narcos inflict. Max and I have both been victims.

I push the chair away. It’s better I go before I say or think something that might irreparably harm my relationship with Culebra. Neither man says anything when I stand up.

As I leave, I see the shadow of shame in Culebra’s eyes.

It’s not enough.

THE SUN COMING THROUGH THE GLASS DOOR AND right into my eyes is a painful wake-up call. I have to force myself to sit up, blocking the sun with a hand. It’s Christmas Day. My pounding head reminds me of last night. Bits of Culebra’s story insinuate themselves into my consciousness, stinging like wasp bites. Then there’s the aftertaste of all that whiskey. My throat burns. My tongue feels like I’ve been licking the insides of those oak barrels the stuff was aged in. I roll my head in my hands and groan.

From a galaxy far, far away, I hear the ring of a doorbell.

I sit up straighter.

My doorbell.

Shit.

I’ll ignore it. Even Santa wouldn’t have the bad judgment to ring my doorbell this early.

The doorbell rings again. This time, one long sustained clash of bells, like someone is leaning an elbow on the fucking thing.

Persistent bugger.

Foolhardy.

Slowly, I haul my ass out of bed, pull on a pair of sweats, shrug into a tee and start downstairs, dragging fingers through my hair as I go. Hand on the doorknob, I grind my teeth in anticipation of kicking the ass of whoever is standing behind the door. The scowl on my face should give even Santa pause. I yank open the door.

“Surprise!!”

Is it! Three pairs of laughing, wonderfully familiar, totally unexpected eyes gleam at me for a second before I’m completely wrapped in three pairs of arms all hugging me and clapping me on the back and kissing my cheeks in one fell swoop of exuberance.

My family has come to visit.

The scowl gusts away like a candle blown by a breeze. I’m laughing and hugging back and overwhelmed by how happy their unexpected presence makes me.

I herd the trio into the living room and get them seated on the couch. I take the chair opposite so I can look at them. It hasn’t been that long since I’ve seen them, three months or so, but each time I do, I take mental inventory. When they’re gone, the memory is all I have to cling to.

Mom looks as healthy and happy as ever. She’s gained a few pounds in the year she’s been away, but she wears it well. Her hair is no grayer than it was, but the hairstyle is different. Cut in a stylish bob that makes her look much younger than her sixty-plus years. Dad hasn’t changed a bit. Still carries himself like the successful businessman he was—or is. He’s gone from retired investment banker to running a winery. The change agrees with him. Tan, broad-shouldered, he reminds me more than ever of a Roman nobleman with his close-cropped hair of gray curls.

But Trish. My niece looks different every time I see her. She’s grown from an awkward thirteen-year-old into a graceful, self-confident soon-to-be fifteen-year-old. Her hair is drawn back from her smooth, even-featured face with a barrette and cascades down her back to just below shoulder length. She’s wearing jeans and a designer T-shirt with a logo I don’t recognize—something French.

They’ve been chattering like excited squirrels. “You all look so happy ,” I find myself interjecting. “So wonderful!”

Mom beams at me. “Oh, Anna. We love France. Trish is doing well in school. Speaks French like a native.”

“Merci beaucoup, grand-mère,” Trish says with a grin.

Mom laughs. “Your dad has become quite the vintner and business is growing. Just a year and our wines have begun taking prizes in local fests.”

“Of course most of the credit has to go the great staff we inherited with the winery,” Dad says with a modest smile. “But we’ve experimented with some new grape blends that are getting noticed.”

“And wonder of wonders,” Mom adds, “Your dad is beginning to appreciate French food.”