Where were Zeke and Lisa? They must have seen me galloping past the watering hole. Zeke, at least, was an experienced rider and should have been hard on our heels. But there was no sign of either of them. Just like on the highway, I felt as though I'd slipped out of time and space. Me and Sassy, and my Spidey sense going off like an alarm clock on finals day.
The horse stood stiff-legged and trembling, and I realized it wasn't just the crazy gallop that had her wound tight as a bowstring. A carrion wind stirred the leaves of the mesquite and eddied sand around the horse's hoofs. The stink of death and decay.
The smell came from where the land rose slightly, hiding what lay on the other side of the rise. I tugged on the reins, but Sassy rolled her eyes and didn't budge. Her meaning was clear: if I was crazy enough to check out the stink, I was going to have to do it without her.
First I had to dismount without landing on my ass. You would think that going down would be easier than going up, but no. I swung my right leg over the horse, clung to the saddle like a life preserver while I worked my left foot free of the stirrup, then dropped down. My legs trembled as if I'd climbed to the top of the Empire State Building, but I stayed on my feet.
I staggered up the rise. Beyond it, the ground dropped away into a drought-empty pond, nothing but cracked earth at the bottom. That, and what once had been a cow and her calf. I think.
Both carcasses were covered with a carpet of fat black flies. Two turkey vultures flapped back at my approach, but they were too brazen, or too full, to take off. Other scavengers had been there, also, and left bloody pieces of the calf scattered, like messy children with their toys. The cow's red-brown hide had been torn in huge gashes. Dark slimy things spilled out, soaking the ground and turning the bed of the empty pond to mud.
The putrid stink was so heavy that I almost missed the other smell, a rotten-egg odor that was barely perceptible, like the top note of a sick perfume. The buzzing of the flies was as thick as radio static. One of the vultures hopped forward to pluck out the cow's eyeball with a soft, wet pop, and my skin went prickly hot with nausea.
I took short, shallow breaths through my mouth, the refrain of don't-puke-don't-puke-don't-puke running through my head, covering all sound until a gunshot split the air. I jumped, the stab of adrenaline like a splash of icy water. The vultures lumbered into the sky with a rustle of greasy black feathers as Zeke lowered the pistol he'd just fired.
He stared at the carnage in the dry pond, his nostrils pinched, white lines of tension around his mouth. Lisa came up the rise after him, and stopped when she saw what lay below. “Oh my God.”
I shuddered. There was nothing godly about this. Nothing natural, no circle of life. Something very bad had done this.
That certainty made me turn to Zeke more fiercely than was tactical. “You can't tell me this was done by a coyote.”
“Who knows, after the scavengers have been at the bodies?” He ran a shaking hand through his short hair. “Maybe a cougar has come back into the area. Or a wolf. They're notorious cattle killers out in Yellowstone.”
“Come on.” Frustration—not to mention freak-out—had cut short my temper. “What are the chances of that?”
“Better than the chance it's some kind of fairy-tale monster,” Zeke snapped, color coming back to his face.
“Bogeymen—stories of bogeymen,” I edited, trying not to alienate him completely, “they've always been around, Zeke. Only the names change. Maybe the tales are based on something. This kind of carnage, and that smell, like rotten eggs…”
Zeke pointed across the carnage in the pond, to a horse-head pump, placidly nodding up and down. “The smell is hydrogen sulfide—impurities in the gas coming from an oil well. It's sure as hell not the breath of el chupacabra.”
“I'm not saying it is—”
But he had a full head of steam now. “You can smell the wells all over, even when you don't see them. Stinking oil wells and real, live animals that have eyes that reflect the light. That's all. The rest is superstitious bullshit.”
I simmered, so tempted to tell him what I knew about superstitious bullshit, that a legendary animal would be the least weird thing I'd seen. After what I'd been through in the last year, I would be relieved if we were dealing with an alien space pet.
Teeth clenched on all the things I could say, I turned to Lisa, ready to put her on the spot. Before I could speak, though, she went for the preemptive spin control.
“Give Maggie a break, Zeke. She learns in reporter class to investigate all angles of a story, no matter how bizarre. Right, Mags?”
“Right.” I ground out the word, only because I realized that she was trying to defuse the situation.
Zeke looked from her to me, processing Lisa's words and seeing their logic. Then he dropped his angry stance with a hard exhale of apologetic frustration.
“I'm sorry, Maggie. I just don't know what to make of all this. I'm trying to hold things together, and all the irrational grumblings in Dulcina aren't making it any easier.”
His words gave me insight into his denial. When you were trying to keep a lid on general hysteria, maybe the first step was clinging to a stronghold of normalcy, no matter what the evidence to the contrary.
“Why don't you talk about this with your grandmother?” I asked. “She doesn't seem like someone who needs sheltering.”
His jaw tightened and he shook his head. “It upsets her, I can tell. Abuelita has some strange ideas about things, and I'm not going to let that kind of foolishness distress her. She's not a young woman.”
It didn't surprise me that Zeke failed to connect his grandmother's strange ideas with the weirdness going on at the ranch. He was a logical, modern guy who herded cows in a helicopter. Not the kind of person who believed in the Sight, or chupacabras, or brujas.
He brushed a couple of flies off his jeans and got back to business. “I'd better get the tag number from that cow so I can let the owner know what's happened.”
Forcing myself to glance back at the mess, I asked, “They aren't yours?”
“No.” Zeke pointed to the brand—what was left of it—on the cow's flank. “That's the Bar S. One of our tenant ranchers.” He glanced at me. “You've got your camera, right?”
Lisa chuckled. “Maggie's always got her camera.”
I shot her a look, but answered Zeke. “You want me to take some pictures?”
“It might help with the insurance claim. If you don't mind.”
He added the last in a sheepish tone, as if he was embarrassed by his previous, uncharacteristic discourtesy. It was hard to hold a grudge. Especially when he was asking me to do something I needed to do anyway. As he went back to the horses to grab his radio and call Lupe, I steeled myself to face the carnage close up.
“Way to back me up there, Lisa.” My voice was much colder than I meant it to be.
She eyed me, and I noticed that her face was ashen, even though her expression stayed unperturbed. “It won't do any good to convince him we're crazy.”
I cast a quick glance toward the horses, and hissed, “Lisa, you can't pick and choose. We both swallowed the red pill on this one. There's no going back into the Matrix now. We can't unlearn what we know.”
“That's not what I'm doing, Mags. But what do we know? It leaves footprints and may or may not smell like sulfur, may or may not have red eyes?”
“At least you could give my dreams some credit.”
She took a breath and let it out, resuming control. “All I'm saying is, Zeke is funny about this stuff, and way defensive about his grandmother. If he kicks us off the land, you won't be able to investigate anything.”
Unable to argue that point, I pressed my lips together. “Okay. That I will accept. Now let me get this over with.”
I pulled my Canon from under my shirt. The cord had rubbed my neck raw during Sassy's mad gallop, but I was glad I hadn't brought my Nikon. I might have broken a rib with it thumping around. Or worse, broken the camera.
I
tried to detach myself as I took the pictures, and it helped get my fear under control. Lisa wasn't the only one good at pretending this didn't still freak her out.
13
The first obstacle after Zeke dropped us off at the motel was the stairs up to our room. Some action hero I was.
Using the banister, I hauled my aching butt up to the second floor, and sanctuary. I fumbled with the lock, went in, dropped my backpack, and fell onto the bed. I was filthy, but at least the dirt wouldn't show on the monstrosity of a bedspread.
Lisa came in a minute later and closed the door, which I'd left standing wide open. “You are really out of shape.”
“How is that a surprise to you?”
“I thought that since you're a mighty demon slayer now, you'd exercise occasionally.”
“I'm not a demon slayer.” Except by circumstance. “I'm a reporter.”
“Right.” I heard the tap run; then Lisa appeared at the bed and held out a glass of water and two ibuprofen. “Zeke asked me to go out to dinner with him.”
That surprised me, but not for the reasons you'd expect. “You can eat after that?”
Her raised eyebrow was eloquent. “Eating really isn't the point.”
I was delighted to have something to distract me from the gory mess we'd found that afternoon. “So, you really like him?”
She snorted and headed for the bathroom. “Not the point, either. I'm just going because it will give Doña Isabel nightmares.”
The door closed before I could call bullshit on that.
Speaking of romance … I found my phone and checked for word from Justin. I was disappointed not to have any messages. This wasn't clinging-girlfriend behavior; I wanted to know if he'd found any records of past weird incidents on the land. What I'd said to Zeke back at the pond rang true. Monsters in the dark are a constant across time and cultures. Only the names of the bogeymen change.
By the time Lisa got out of the shower, the ibuprofen had started to do its own magic. I was back to work, too, with one of the regional history books in my lap, jotting a to-do list in the spiral notebook on the bed beside me.
“Looking up Great-granddaddy Velasquez, the gunrunner?” Lisa asked, toweling dry her hair.
“No. I was looking for something I skimmed last night, about the Native Americans who used to live here. The book doesn't call them the Coahuiltecans, but it must mean them. They did disappear, but not into thin air.”
She sat on the bed, a wide-toothed comb in her hand. “What's the story, then?”
“Same old thing. A bunch were killed by European diseases brought over by the settlers, others by neighboring tribes. The rest went into the Spanish missions, and were absorbed into the settlements.”
“But no mention of them being chased off by the chupa-Are we really going to keep calling it that?”
I looked up from the book. Her purple camisole matched her purple and green striped underwear. I assumed there would be more to the outfit eventually. “It's as good a name as any, for the moment.”
“Fair enough. Not any more ridiculous than calling it the giant squid theory, I guess.”
“Especially since I don't think it's a giant squid.” I doodled on the notebook. My arm still ached, but my fingers weren't numb anymore. “It's just a feeling I've got.”
She tapped her comb against her leg. “You're going with extraterrestrial pet, then?”
I gestured to the notebook. “I only put two columns. Natural. Supernatural. There's no third column for extraterrestrial.”
She worked on combing the tangles from her wet hair. “So what does this have to do with the Native Americans? I don't see a column for vengeful spirit, either.”
“It's this medallion we saw.” I got out my Canon and thumbed back through the gory stuff until I got to one of the pictures I'd taken at the snake museum. “What if it was protection against something like the chupacabra? I was hoping Justin would call if he found out something about past animal attacks. Maybe there's some kind of pattern.”
“Maybe he and his buddy are having too much fun with their other school chums to spend all day in online newspaper archives.”
I narrowed my gaze. “Just because you have a hot date …”
“I can stay here if you want,” she volunteered a little too quickly.
“Don't be such a chicken.”
“Excuse me?” Her brows drew up in affront.
“It's just a date. And he likes you.” I flipped my notebook over so she didn't see the part of the to-do list that said: Get Lisa to convince Zeke of Chupy “I'm sorry I said you were putting your head in the sand.”
Her expression turned bleak. “Maggie, I summoned a demon. I'm going to be paying for that the rest of this life and the next. I guess maybe I have been keeping my head in the sand, hoping for the natural explanation, even past the point where it's logical.” She sighed. “That's why I need you. As long as you keep getting into these messes, it keeps me from getting complacent.”
“Um … thanks?”
Her mouth curved in a rueful smile. “That, and you're the only one who knows me and likes me anyway.”
I looked at her levelly. “Lisa, that's only because you don't let anyone else see the real you. You should give people a chance. Maybe starting with Zeke. He's Doña Isabel's grandson, after all. He can't be completely oblivious, even if he chooses not to believe in all this superstitious bullshit.”
Her brows twisted wryly. “You can see why that might be a problem.”
“Come on. You're D and D Lisa, supergenius. You thrive on a challenge.”
“Well, that's true.”
I unfolded myself from my place on the bed and headed for the shower. “So go have a good time. Tomorrow we'll get back on the chupacabra trail.”
14
Lisa left shortly after I got out of the shower. I threw on a T-shirt and a clean pair of cargo shorts and went out to the landing to call Justin. I was starting to think of it as our spot. He didn't answer, so I hung up and sent him a text message instead.
Survived horse and chupacabra. Call me.-Maggie
As I typed, the sun set, lowering a plum-colored curtain, leaving only a soft glow on the horizon. Headlights cut through the shadows as the parking lot of the Duck Inn began to fill with cars and trucks.
Something was up. Even if this was the only restaurant/bar in a hundred miles, it was still a Monday night, and it looked like the whole town, maybe the whole county, was rolling in. So I swatted a mosquito, stuck my phone in my pocket, and headed there, too.
The clang of the cowbell over the door went unnoticed. The tense babble of voices inside had a runaway feel, like a flooded river, and anger and fear pushed against my skin. The air was thick, but it wasn't the cigarette smoke.
“What we need is a plan.” The speaker was Bud Man from the other night, the one who didn't believe in the chupacabra. He stood near the bar, raising his voice over the others. “We can't just run off half-cocked.”
I hung back under the restroom sign. The lights were on and every booth and chair was full; people stood around the walls, leaning on the pool table and the jukebox. Ignore the beer signs, and the whole thing looked like a shabby town hall meeting at the beginning of a lynching.
“Planning takes time.” The speaker was a balding man with a sweat-stained hat on the table in front of him. “We can't afford to lose any more cattle.”
“Or goats.” Teresa grabbed center stage and, like a Wagnerian prima donna, launched into a chorus of I Told You So. “I was the first one to lose livestock, and I warned you all. A whole herd of goats—”
“Three,” interjected Bud Man. “Your herd had three goats, Teresa.”
She jammed her fists onto her hips. “But I did tell you all that this would happen. El chupacabra …”
The volume of the chatter surged—annoyed groans, shouted down by protestations and testaments.
“Quiet!” The balding man yelled over the noise. “This isn't getting us anywher
e.”
But the chaos only escalated, voices loudly topping each other with suggestions, demands, and a lot of finger-pointing.
I recognized Hector, the barman from Sunday morning, watching the fracas from behind the bar, his arms folded and his face grim. Weaving through the crowd, I squeezed into a spot at the counter.
“What brought all this on?” I had to shout in the din.
“Your gruesome discovery.” He popped the tab on a can of Coke and put it beside a glass of ice. “And a similar one 'bout ten miles the other direction.”
I had to stand on my tiptoes and lean across the bar to hear his answer. “Killed on the same night?”
Hector nudged the shoulder of a lanky cowboy taking up space on one of the barstools. “Show some manners and give the lady your seat.”
The guy slid from the vinyl-covered stool and I climbed up where we could talk with only a little shouting. “Seriously, Hector. How many livestock deaths does this make?”
He paused carefully before answering. “It's hard to tell. Animals die out here. Dogs get bit by snakes and bobcats raid chicken coops. But the rumors started after Teresa's goats were killed. Then there were a couple of calves. I think your cow on the road was the first adult, but now two in a night has people worried.”
“Does Zeke know?” I didn't think he would have gone out with Lisa if he did.
A sharp rap dropped the roar of voices to a murmur. Bud Man set down the bottle he'd banged like a gavel. “Listen, people. We need to trust the Velasquezes. They're not going to just sit and do nothing.”
“Doña Isabel wouldn't have done nothing.” The bald guy spoke again, his challenging words echoed by a few nodding heads. “But you know as well as I do, her son doesn't ride anything but the desk in his office in Houston, and Zeke is too young. He's full of newfangled ideas. We need action.”