Demon Walk Page 4

  The answer was short, and as she spoke, Pilar looked deeply into Sam’s eyes.

  “She says,” Carmen translated, “that if she leaves, he will be free. Free to roam, free to grow more powerful. Free to kill.”

  Lacey watched the silent communication between Sam and Pilar. The old woman stared sadly into his eyes, and he responded by nodding once, then covering her hand with his.

  “We’ll help you,” he barely whispered. “We’ll help you.”

  Pilar did not seem to need a translation. She smiled briefly and patted Sam’s arm. “Gracias,” she said softly.

  For a moment they all sat in silence, frozen in time like a tableau. Then Sam cleared his throat. “All right. We have work to do.” He stood up, bringing Pilar to her feet beside him. “Thank you,” he said to her. “Gracias.”

  “Si, si,” she said, nodding and smiling. She broke into another spate of rapid Spanish.

  “She said she looks forward to your help. She knows you will help,” Carmen said. She gathered up her car keys as they all headed for the door.

  Lacey pulled out her cards and gave one to Carmen and one to Pilar. “If you have any questions, or think of anything we should know, call me,” she said.

  Carmen looked the card over, then raised her eyes to Lacey’s. “Do you really think you can help? She shouldn’t be here alone. I don’t believe all this”—she waved back at the house—“but I do want my abuelita to be in a safe place. She needs to be where she can be cared for.”

  “We’ll do all we can,” Lacey said.

  Sam leaned down and brushed a kiss across the old woman’s papery-skinned cheek. “Adios,” he said. “For now.”

  ~~~

  SEVEN

  Lacey didn’t even ask, just drove directly to a diner she’d seen on the way down. She and Sam often debriefed over a meal, and she had so many questions now, she could hardly contain them until she parked the car and they went inside. She fidgeted impatiently while Sam perused the menu, then wondered if the waitress could write their orders any slower. Finally when the woman walked away, Lacey leaned across the table.

  “Okay, what’s going on? What was all that with Pilar? Is she sensitive? What did you get from that closet? What’s this guy’s story?”

  Sam gazed at her, his black eyes sparkling, his mouth curved in just a hint of a smile. “Which question do you want me to answer first?” he asked sardonically.

  Lacey snapped her mouth shut and sat back against the booth seat with a huff. She crossed her arms and glared at her partner.

  “Relax,” Sam said. He sipped his water. “Is Pilar sensitive? Yes, definitely. And not only to him, but to me, too. I think that’s why she glommed onto me right away. She knew I was there to help. Like from Carmen, most of what Pilar gets from people is doubt, or downright disbelief. I doubt she’s had a supportive, sympathetic visitor in a long time.”

  “And yet it sounds like the family doesn’t like to go there, doesn’t want to spend time there,” Lacey said. “They must feel something.”

  “Probably.” He nodded. “But a feeling of discomfort is easy to dismiss after the fact, once they’re away from it. And it sounds like they’re tired of hearing about it. Did you notice what Carmen said when Pilar said Reyes killed her husband and father?”

  “Yes. Total disbelief.” Lacey got out her notebook and starred that reminder to check into those deaths. “So they just dismiss her wildest claims as the rantings of an old woman,” she said.

  “Sure. That’s easier than believing a demon lives there.” Sam stared out the window for a moment, lost in thought. Lacey watched him. She could almost see the wheels turning in that Navajo brain.

  “But there’s more than that there,” he said finally.

  “More than… Reyes?” she asked.

  “Yeah. There’re other spirits there. I can’t tell exactly, but there’s a mix of the good and the bad. And some are… imprisoned. Suppressed by Reyes. Like they’re not strong enough, powerful enough to push past him.” Although he sat very still, Lacey could almost see him reaching with his mind, reaching for more information, more feeling. “Some of that rises up from that closet. Not the closet itself, but from that area. I feel like there’s a well there, a deep, dark well where those souls emanate from, and that the house—and the closet—were just built on top of it.”

  Lacey checked her notes. “But you said this was very old. The property records show the house first bought by Pilar’s father in 1918.”

  “It goes back way before that,” he said. “There had to be something there before.”

  “Something before.” Lacey made another note to herself. Looked like she was going to have to do some digging.

  “Okay,” she said, nodding to herself. “So what does Reyes want? What’s he hope to gain by terrorizing people?”

  “Power,” Sam said simply.

  Lacey drummed her fingers on the table. “That seems to be a theme with bad guys,” she said. “The witches out on the reservation. Drug dealers in Vegas. What is it with people doing anything and everything to attain power? Why do people do that?”

  Sam shrugged. “People crave what they don’t have.”

  Lacey stared into those black, bottomless eyes and thought about that. “So you’re saying anyone who craves power does so because they feel powerless.”

  “Well,” he said slowly, “that’s a huge simplification, of course. The dynamics of the human psyche are rarely that straightforward, and there are usually lots of variations and lots of layers. But basically… yeah.”

  Now it was her turn to stare out the window, fitting the pieces together in her mind. “So what you’re also saying is… Reyes is human. He’s not a demon. He’s not supernatural.”

  Sam nodded. “Correct.”

  “But how does he do what he does? How does he attack people? If Pilar is right, and he’s killed at least two, how does he do that?”

  “Old magic,” Sam said. “Ancient magic. Remember when Carmen mentioned the early Native Americans the Spanish found here?”

  “Yeah, the”—she paged through her notes—“Acjachemen.”

  “An ancient people who lived close to the earth and who understood how to harness its power.”

  Something in Sam’s voice caught her attention. She glanced up. “Like the Navajo?”

  He nodded once. “Like the Navajo.”

  The waitress brought their food. Lacey pushed aside her notebook to make room for her grilled cheese sandwich and fries. She fiddled with her napkin and the salt shaker until the woman left. When they were alone again, she pointed a fry at Sam.

  “So how do we fight him?”

  He smiled sardonically. “We fight fire with fire. We have to use the same magic he uses.”

  Lacey munched a French fry and tapped her notes. “I’m guessing we need to find out where Pilar gets her herbs and charms.”

  “I agree,” he said. “I would bet there’s a folk market somewhere around here. Carmen should know. I doubt Pilar drives, so someone has to take her.”

  Another note for Lacey to follow up on. She definitely had work to do. But another issue was nagging at her, one she wasn’t anxious to address, simply because it made her very uneasy. She looked down at her lunch.

  “What’s the deal with him not liking men?” She glanced up. “Did you feel that?”

  “Oh, yeah,” he said. His voice was casual, but Lacey detected a more serious tone underneath. She waited. “I don’t know what’s behind it but it was there. We need to find out who Reyes is—or was. We need to find out his story. Once we know what happened to him, we’ll know what motivates him.”

  She nodded, concentrating her attention on her French fries. For a long moment, she sensed Sam just watching her avoiding his gaze.

  “What is it, Lacey?” he asked finally.

  She flashed him a quick, false smile. “Remember when we were out on the reservation and you wanted me to leave?”

  He locked eyes with her. She
knew perfectly well that he remembered. He’d pleaded with her to go back to LA, to leave him to face the witch alone because of the danger.

  “Your turn now?” he asked in a low voice.

  She sighed unhappily. “Yes.”

  “You refused to go,” he reminded her.

  “I know,” she said miserably.

  They were both quiet, but the conversation continued in the silence. Lacey begged with her eyes; his gently but firmly refused.

  She huffed out a breath. “All right,” she said testily. “But just… be careful, okay?” She snagged another fry. “I don’t want you dying of a heart attack,” she grumbled.

  He stole one of her fries and saluted her with it, smiling crookedly. “At least not for a while, huh?”

  She just shook her head. She couldn’t even joke about it.

  Sam reached out and touched her hand. She knew he wanted to comfort her, and she tried to wrap herself in it, but it wasn’t a strong feeling. Just the thought of losing him…

  “Hey,” he said. She looked up. “We need to talk about something else.”

  “We do?” She wondered if she’d forgotten anything, but she was usually pretty thorough in her research.

  “You know I don’t usually nudge,” he said.

  “Yeah.” She was still at a loss, and could only wonder what the dark depths of his eyes were telling her. He continued to rub his thumb gently across the back of her hand.

  “How’s your arm?” he asked finally.

  “My arm? It’s fine.” She lifted her right shoulder and rotated the arm, showing him there was not even a twinge from the gunshot wound she’d gotten in Vegas. She’d have two scars, one for the entry point and one for the exit point, but beyond that, there was no residual damage. “I don’t even think about it anymore,” she said.

  He nodded slowly. “Good. I know how much it bothered you those few weeks you moved in with me. I know you hated not being able to do all the things you normally do, and you hated being dependent on me. I’m glad that’s not an issue anymore.”

  Lacey frowned. Where was he going with this? She wasn’t sure she liked the sound of it.

  “It seems to me,” he continued, “that we’ve been just kind of treading water lately. Staying in the same spot. I’m just wondering if it might be time to start moving forward again.”

  “Moving—” She swallowed nervously. Ducked her head. “You mean us.”

  “Yes. Us. I love you, Lacey. I know you love me. Usually when two people love each other, they want to spend most of their time together. Being friends with benefits is fine, but… I just think it’s time for more.” He regarded her intently, his eyes glittering. “What do you think?”

  She stared down at the table miserably. She saw her own hand, his covering it, caressing it. Saw his strong, copper-colored fingers being so gentle, so loving. She dragged in a deep breath.

  “I’m scared,” she whispered.

  His thumb stopped moving, then a heartbeat later, started again.

  “Of?” he asked.

  She sighed. “I’m afraid it won’t work. I’m afraid it’ll get all wonky again. What if we try to live together again and it doesn’t work?” She lifted her eyes to him, her fear and misery clear in the green depths.

  “But the thing that made it wonky is gone,” he said, tilting his head at her arm. “Neither of us will be dependent on the other. We’ll both be equals, just like we are now, when we’re working. We each contribute, and together we do more than either of us could on our own.”

  She nodded, unconvinced. “But what if we can’t?” she asked softly. “I-I don’t want it all to go belly up. I don’t want to lose what we have. I’d rather keep what we have now than take a chance on losing it all.”

  He sat very still, barely breathing. She saw the change in his eyes, the disappointment. The same disappointment she’d seen when she’d told him she was going back to her own apartment. The pain in her chest was like a hand squeezing her heart.

  “All right,” he said. His voice was calm, quiet. “But think about this. You’re afraid we’ll fail. Okay, I understand that. But by not trying, by not moving ahead, isn’t that failing already? Isn’t not trying the same as failing?” He pulled his hand away from hers. “We’ve never backed away from anything we’ve ever tackled, Lacey. And I don’t plan on starting now. Just think about that.”

  She nodded unhappily, wishing she could feel the confidence that was so evident in his voice, his eyes. “All right,” she said softly. “I will.”

  ~~~

  EIGHT

  Saturday morning, after a mostly sleepless night, Lacey forced herself to put everything aside except the case. Worrying about her and Sam did absolutely no good. When she thought about moving back in with him, she felt her stress level rise, and she immediately retreated from the imaginary confrontation. It was safer to keep everything at arm’s length. At least for now.

  She set up at her laptop and plunged into her research. She had her notebook and phone to one side, a cup of coffee and an English muffin on the other. Barring an earthquake, she was ready to hunker down.

  She’d already decided to start with the most current aspects of the case and work backward. She could be relatively assured of some small successes with the more recent issues than with the older ones.

  Manuel Archuleta died October 5, 1958. The death record online was painfully lacking in its information. She’d need more. She pulled up a website to request public records from the Orange County Medical Examiner’s files. As she typed in the information to identify the record, she wondered if an autopsy had been performed. Many people were opposed to such action performed on their loved ones.

  She hit the submit button and went back to her notes.

  Next up: Humberto, Pilar’s father. Died April 18, 1949. Again, death records had only the barest information. She switched back to the ME’s request for information form and sent that one off, too.

  She pulled up property records on the house next. The first recording at that address was Humberto in 1918. How could witchcraft be going on there before there was a house? A vacant lot? She guessed that in 1918, a lot of the town of San Juan Capistrano was vacant. She checked city records: the town didn’t incorporate until 1961, but there were census records back to 1880. Three hundred and seventy-six people.

  One of those had to be Reyes.

  She switched back to the property records for the house and recorded the township and range for the location, then did a search on that.

  Bingo. An image of an old land grant came up, but for more than the small property. It was for a hectare.

  What the heck was a hectare?

  She looked that up. One hectare equaled 2.47 acres. Decent sized piece of property, she thought. And the land was granted to… Guillermo Casales.

  Pilar’s grandfather.

  She checked the date of the grant. 1888. But try as she might, she could not find anything to tell her if there was any kind of construction built on the property. Not a house, not a barn, not a chicken coop. Which made sense, actually. There was no town council, no planning and zoning commission, no building inspectors. People laid claim to land and built on it as they wished. There was no one to stop them.

  She made a new note to check with the city. They might have copies of older records that weren’t digitized.

  What else? Feeling frustrated by the lack of success, she drummed her fingers on the table. And noticed her now-cold English muffin. She took a bite—meh. Well, she needed to eat. She choked it down and chased it with lukewarm coffee. She really needed to eat more mindfully, but once she started on an investigative thread, everything else just faded away.

  She looked up the Indian tribe, the Acjachemen. Like so many extant peoples “discovered” by Europeans, they were quickly brought into the fold of the Catholic Church, but unlike some, seemed content with their lot. They had their own spirituality and mythology—like all people—which revolved around a creator god/cultu
ral hero named Chinigchinich. Not many details had survived, but religious rituals involved the hallucinogenic properties of the datura plant, and Chinigchinich was apparently a guide and judge, monitoring morality and punishing the lack thereof.

  Lacey starred that information in her notes. She wondered if any of the old religion was still practiced today.

  Which brought her to the folk market. She googled that in San Juan Capistrano, and came up empty. She tried to frame it several different ways: Mexican farmer’s market, herbal market, charm market, magic cures. The only hits she got were for ordinary farmer’s markets or New Age shops with crystals and singing bowls. She wondered if places like this deliberately kept a low profile in the cyber world. Referrals for folk magic, charms and witchcraft would be more likely passed by word of mouth, not via Twitter or Facebook.

  She checked her watch: nine a.m. Late enough to make some phone calls. She picked up her phone and dialed Carmen.

  “Hello?”

  “Carmen, hi. It’s Lacey Fitzpatrick. How are you doing today?”

  “I’m fine,” Carmen said, her voice vaguely suspicious.

  Lacey ignored the tone. “Great. Hey, I have a question for you. Do you know where Pilar gets her milagros? And her herbs? Is there some kind of farmer’s market where that stuff is available?”

  Carmen hesitated. “You don’t believe all that stuff, do you?”

  Lacey did her best to keep her emotions in check. She didn’t want to offend the girl, since they might need her help, but the disdainful scoffing of Pilar’s predicament rankled.

  “It’s not my job to believe or not believe,” she said carefully. “But it is my job to check every aspect of this mystery so we can solve it.” She left it at that. What Carmen did with it was beyond her control.

  The girl blew out a breath. “There’s a market of sorts on the south side of town. It’s not… regulated, as you might guess. It’s in an abandoned warehouse.”

  “Okay. What’s the location?”

  Carmen gave her directions. “There are no signs, obviously, and the door’s in the back. The stuff you’re looking for is in the back corner. Look for the chickens.”