The cops got back on their bikes and led the way now; the three-vehicle procession followed a long, hilly driveway whose cobblestones had been pushed up out of the undulating earth. Weeds grew in fat sprigs between the loose uneven stones, and the unkempt landscaping on either side of the drive brushed against both sides of the truck as they ascended towards the main building. The property looked as if no one had lived here in years; the view illuminated by their headlights showed nothing but wild flora, fallow hills overgrown with pine and cacti and cypress and lime and orange trees, flowing vines, and tall grasses.
Laura explained that all the property, both within the walls and for miles around outside of the walls, had once been a massive hacienda, an agave plantation built back in the 1820s. The walled compound was at the center of the farm, and she pointed out several ruined stone buildings back in the woods, overgrown mostly by vines and geranium and azaleas.
Soon they arrived at the casa grande, the main house in the hacienda complex. Gentry thought it looked haunted in the dark with its broken masonry and aged whitewash and pink walls. Moneda, a green ivy that grew fast and thick, wove up the structure, wrapped around columns along the long arcaded front porch, and made its way through the ironwork on the second-floor balcony, where it integrated itself into the architecture. The truck and the two bikes parked in a round gravel driveway that had an old fountain as its centerpiece. A stone angel, probably half the size of a woman, stood above the fountain; her wings were broken, and her white eyes stared Court down through the windshield of the car. He turned off the engine and the headlights. Below the angel the fountain, even in the moonlight, looked like it was full of algae and trash.
A single light appeared suddenly in a window on the second floor. It was faint and it flickered like a candle.
“Someone is here.” Court said it looking back to Laura, and her eyes widened in surprise.
“Impossible. That cannot be. No one has lived here in three years.”
Gentry stepped out of the truck and began crunching across the gravel drive. Laura climbed out as well, chased up behind him, and grabbed him by the arm. Her fingers felt tiny yet strong. Insistent. “We need to leave. We cannot put anyone else in danger.”
“Where are we going to go? Elena has been lying in the back of the truck for four hours on bad roads. She needs to rest. We have to stay here, at least for tonight.”
Laura winced in concern, but she did not continue to argue. She followed “Joe” and the two Mexican officers up crumbling steps to a huge oak and iron door. Gentry knocked, his right hand hovering over the butt of the pistol stuck in his pants.
Laura stepped up beside him. “It might be a caretaker or some farmer from the nearest pueblo who snuck in. Let me talk to them.”
“Go for it.”
A minute later the door opened slowly; a man stood back away from it in a dark tiled hallway, and the long double-barreled shotgun in his hand was pointed at Court Gentry’s chest. Moonlight reached into the building, illuminating the old man like a gray ghost.
Gentry did not draw his pistol. He understood the man’s suspicion; he just hoped like hell Eddie’s sister could quickly explain the situation to this old coot’s satisfaction.
Laura gasped in shock, put her small hand to her small mouth. She recovered, spoke softly, “Buenas noches, Señor Corrales. It’s me, Laura. Guillermo’s wife?”
“Guillermo?”
“Yes. Guillermo. Your son.”
This dude was ancient; this much Court could tell. Much older than Ernesto. He wore a white mustache that hung low on either side of his face. By the look of it, he’d been sleeping facedown, the bristly hair shot out in random directions.
“Sí, Señor Corrales. ¿Cómo está Usted?”
“Guillermo is here?” The old man asked.
Laura responded softly, “No, señor. Guillermo is not here.”
Just then another ghostly form appeared behind the old man in the shaft of moonlight let in by the open front door. The figure moved towards the doorway from the recesses of the house.
“Lorita?” The voice of an old woman.
“Inez. How are you?”
“I am fine, little one.” The old lady shot out into the moonlight and hugged Eddie’s sister tightly. “Luis, put down the gun and let them inside.”
The old man lowered the weapon, stepped forward, and embraced Court. He spoke in Spanish. “Guillermo, my son. I have missed you.”
It was immediately apparent, by Señor Corrales’s words and actions, that Laura’s father-in-law suffered from some form of dementia.
Five minutes later all eleven residents and guests sat in a massive candlelit sitting room. A stairwell led to a second-floor landing that wrapped around the dim room, but it was too dark for Gentry to see past the banisters. Inez, Laura’s mother-in-law, brought a bottle of fresh but lukewarm orange juice and poured it into broken cups and plastic tumblers, laid the offering out on a long wooden coffee table. A bottle of tequila was placed next to it, there for the taking, but only sullen and silent Ignacio spiked his OJ.
This casa grande was huge, but it seemed quite literally to be falling down on top of the elderly couple. Thick cobwebs hung in the darkened corners of the sitting room, the floors were caked in dust, and the old furniture, though sturdily built from big oak and cedar logs, creaked under pressure.
The ceilings were high, the floors were stone tile, the smell of candle wax, dust, and mold was prevalent in the dim air. Voices echoed when raised above a whisper. There was a monastic feel to the interior of the big home; Gentry could not imagine living in a creepy place like this.
Thin black and green lizards streaked along the walls and ceilings, appeared and disappeared in and out of the long shadows cast by the candlelight.
Court did not want to ask, but he had the distinct impression that there was no electricity in the home other than a small gas generator that rumbled outside the kitchen. Inez had a little flashlight that she used to make her way to the sconces in the blackened corners of the large room. These she lit with wooden matches, giving a little more light and a spookier glow to the scene.
Luis Corrales sat in a large wingback chair, his eyes darted around the room, watching his late-night guests. Gentry could tell his mind was clearly someplace else. It didn’t take Court long to realize the old woman seemed slightly off as well. Nevertheless, as Laura carefully and honestly explained the reason for their appearance, Inez seemed lucid enough to understand the predicament her daughter-in-law had put her in.
Inez Corrales invited everyone to stay for as long as they wanted, proclaiming everyone present to be in “God’s hands,” and then she led the entourage into a dim hallway, asked the group to join hands around a nicho, a niche built into the wall where a Cristo, a small wooden statue of Jesus, had been placed between a circle of votive candles. She took a few minutes to light them, a red glow illuminated the miniature shrine as well as everyone’s faces, and then she asked Laura to lead the group in prayer. Court didn’t understand much of it, probably wouldn’t have been familiar with a lot of the words even if the prayer had been in English, but everyone else seemed to know the tune. He heard varying levels of conviction in the voices around him.
After the prayer Luz went with Inez to help her find a comfortable place for Elena to lie down. The bumpy drive must have been difficult for the pregnant woman, but Court noticed appreciatively that she had not complained once. She hadn’t even argued with her sister-in-law during the trip.