I wasn’t sure how I felt about what I’d learned inside the station. Well, assuming Saldana wasn’t a nut job. And maybe he was; a badge didn’t make him trustworthy. Sometimes it just focused the crazy.
“Have a nice chat?” Chance asked, turning the key in the ignition like he wanted to break it off.
Purposefully I gazed out the window. I hated Laredo. When I’d left the first time, I promised myself I’d never come back and yet here I was. Overall, I wasn’t much fonder of the rest of Texas, although I didn’t mind Texarkana. When I passed through in July of last year, it was still lush and green, reminding me more of the Smoky Mountains where I’d spent a few summers camping, before my mama died.
She hadn’t told me anything about people being gifted or not gifted, or little blue sparks to set them apart. I don’t know if all practitioners react to each other this way or only those with limited talents. I’m also not sure if she didn’t know about all this, or whether she never got the chance to clue me in. But then, she worked her magick through ritual, focus, and dreamy soft chants that sounded like low, husky lullabies.
If I closed my eyes, I could hear her, even now. Singing.
It never occurred to me to question her about whether her powers were real or if I should listen to the kids at school who made Bewitched jokes. I guess all little girls secretly think their mamas are magical, and mine gave me more proof than most. My mother taught me everything I know about love. She gave me life, and twelve years later, she died for me. What more is there?
I didn’t let my thoughts continue to roam that way, but my voice sounded more clipped than I wanted when I finally replied. “Yep.”
“Are you planning to tell me what that was about?”
Flicking the card between my fingers, I decided to tell the literal truth. “He wants to take me to dinner while we’re in town.”
Yeah, I made it sound personal. Sue me. Chance owed me for a lot of bad moments over the years, wondering whether he wanted me or just my gift. Wondering whether he slept with me to keep me biddable.
His hands tightened on the wheel, incredulity and... jealousy?... warring in his voice. “You made a date with him?”
“Tentatively.”
“My mother is God knows where,” he bit out, “and you’re thinking with your crotch.”
Such language wasn’t like him. He never lost control, never slipped that way, and I felt savage satisfaction at having goaded him to that point.
I shrugged. “Why shouldn’t I? I’m pretty good in bed. Maybe I can win some influence with him. Get him to break some rules. How’s that different from the way you pimped me?”
He cut me a daggered look as we turned into the parking lot of a shitty La Quinta Inn. “Were you always such a bitch?”
“Yeah.”
“Why didn’t I notice?”
Because I cared desperately what you thought of me then.
I shrugged. “Why didn’t you notice a lot of things?”
“I have no idea,” he said, sounding dazed. “But it turns me on something wicked.”
I peeked at his lap as he parked the car and decided he wasn’t kidding.
Killing Time
With a snicker, I left him to wait the problem out.
The Chance I remembered didn’t suffer from inconvenient erections, nor did he get horny at inappropriate times. He planned lovemaking, all details in place for a perfect, civilized seduction, everything in its place, everything orchestrated. Me, I like a good bit of cloth ripping, panties on the lampshade, and some shouting before it’s over. He’d never gotten there with me, and I’d figured it was somehow my fault.
But I was done with that mentality.
I handled check-in while he unloaded the bags. Just as well because the woman’s Spanish was better than her English, even in Laredo. Chance came up to the counter just as I concluded the deal, and I passed him his key-card, taking a certain petty pleasure in his annoyance that I’d booked separate rooms. His jaw clenched when I blithely told him how much he owed but he forked over the money.
“Why are we here?” I asked as we walked. Reading his look, I clarified, “This motel. It doesn’t look like you, so there has to be a reason.”
It was a peeling pink stucco building, set amid an industrial area. The only other open business was the Denny’s next door. Everything else had shut down, installing gates and bars to keep kids from breaking in.
“You act like I’m an elitist snob or something. Maybe I’m being frugal.”
“You are an elitist snob. Why are we here?”
Chance sighed. “I caught a peek at the file in Saldana’s office and I saw the address of the warehouse.”
That made sense. “So we have a reason for being in this neighborhood.”
He’d never have stayed here otherwise, and certainly not with his mom. Wherever they’d stayed, the room was long cleaned by now, and I couldn’t reasonably be expected to find anything. At the warehouse, though—well, they’d have probably taped it off as a crime scene, better safe than sorry. Blood made people twitchy.
I stepped into my room without enthusiasm. What they called a queen bed looked no more than full to me, and the mattress felt hard as brick. The room was decorated in vintage motel with a cheap orange spread and muddy paintings on the wall. Gazing at the pasteboard furniture, I felt a touch claustrophobic and hoped I wouldn’t have to spend much time here. Worse, it felt damp inside, so I flicked on the air con. In response, water immediately began to drip somewhere from the bathroom ceiling.
My backpack bounced on the bed where I tossed it, and I sank down beside it, unzipping the front pocket to delve beneath blouses and hair ties until I found what I was looking for. Cradling it in my hands, I studied the black pillow, no more than six inches wide and embroidered with white characters I couldn’t read. I traced them with a fingertip, remembering.
“I know what being with Chance can be like,” she’d said with a half smile. “So I’m giving you some luck of your own.”
She had, in a small way, stood in for my own mother, although Min always respected the half-step difference. She’d taught me to make the noodle soup Chance liked and she had a great laugh, really loud and infectious for such a small woman. Oh, Christ, and she was—
Neither of us held much hope we’d find her alive.
I clutched the pillow to my chest, finally letting loss sweep over me. Over the past day, I’d been keeping it at bay with various defenses, first focusing on him and then the trip. But now there was nothing but me and the stupid drip from the bathroom ceiling. My eyes welled up, and I felt the hot trickle down my cheeks. I wept silently, as I did the night I watched my mother burn.
“They’re coming,” she’d whispered, pushing me toward the back door. “You run to the black oak in the woods and stay there until morning, you hear me? Don’t you come back until the sun’s come up.”
I’d fought her. I wanted to stay. Even then, I thought I could make a difference. Maybe that’s why I’ve lived my life the way I have.
“If you love me, Corine, you go.”
I went.
Behind me, she’d begun a chant, the last one she’d ever speak. In the distance, I saw the scattered lights marching toward our house like a wicked firefly army. I don’t know if I knew what would happen then, but my whole world went up in flames.
No more would the hurdy-gurdy man come to supper at our house. Mama used to say his music was magical, and I think it surely was because none since then has sounded so sweet or lifted my spirits the way his harmonica did back then. We had a constant parade of visitors, some more amazing than others; Cherie Solomon never met a stranger.
I sat and rocked, fifteen years removed from that night, weighing it against this fresh loss. In the movies, Chance would have sensed my pain, come to offer me comfort, and everything in my world would’ve been made right. He would have held me as I did him the night I didn’t want him in my bed. In reality, I cried myself out alone and fell into a sleep that left me sticky and thick when I woke.