Carolyn G. Hart_Henrie O_05 (26 page)

Upstairs, how could I get upstairs? I didn't even try to think what I could do. But I had to get there in time. I dashed down the hall, pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

A muscular man heaved a plastic tray of dishes onto a countertop.

I skidded to a stop. “The back stairs! Where are they?” This was an old, old house.

A plump woman with her hands deep in suds looked up. She nodded toward an old brown wooden door. “That way, ma'am. But—”

I hurried past the man, his eyes wide, mouth in an O, and yanked open the door, moving up the steep, rubber-capped treads. Dark now, not a trace of light. I couldn't hear over the rush of blood in my ears. I slipped my hand along the banister. My right knee gave a sudden sharp twinge as I raced up the steep, steep steps. At the top, I fumbled in the darkness, found a metal knob slick with age and use. I twisted it and didn't breathe again until I felt the knob turn, the door yield. I edged the door open, found myself at the end of a dim hallway.

His back to the hallway, Tony Garza stood in a flood of light in a doorway midway up the hall. A large man, he filled the doorway. I was certain that inside the room, he appeared overweeningly powerful—broad taut shoulders, big hands hanging loosely by his side, forward-thrust torso balanced on strong legs. Big and strong, utterly still, poised to leap, gathering force to strike.

I opened my mouth to scream. They would hear me in the kitchen. They had to hear me in the kitchen.

“Stop.” Tony's voice was deep and guttural, a cry
of pain and despair. His big hands reached out, clung to the doorjambs. “You told me Manuel hit him.” His voice rose, quivered. “You told me Manuel killed him.” The words were wrenched from deep within. He took one step, another, through the doorway.

I moved down the hall, edged close to the doorway, looked inside at an elegant bedroom in blue with silver accents, the blue draperies drawn for the night. But I didn't even glance at the bed or furnishings. My eyes were riveted on the bubbling surface of the in-floor hot tub just within the huge oversize bath and on Manuel's legs, the trousers sodden and rippling against the force of the water jets.

Susana knelt by Manuel's limp body, her crimson-tipped nails talon-tight on his shoulders.

Manuel's head rested on the apron of the hot tub, his chin up, his mouth open, his jaw slack. His eyes were closed, the dark brush of long feathery lashes resting on his face. Despite the silvery streaks in his hair, he looked like a sleeping child, untouched, untroubled, undefiled.

Susana's burning eyes dominated a face ravaged by fear. Her once lovely features twisted in pain and despair until she was almost unrecognizable, her eyes deep and tortured in their sockets, her cheeks a blazing red, her mouth agape and ugly, her breath coming in short bursts.

“Manuel fell. He hit his head.” Her voice was thin and high like a keen. Her fingers still gripped Manuel's shoulders. She began to push. The water swirled higher, reaching his chest.

Tony stumbled across the room, his hands outstretched. He fell to his knees, grabbed his brother's limp arm.

“Tony!” Her cry was a piercing wail, sharp as the
scream of a steam engine. “He fell and slipped. They'll find him drowned and then it will all be over. I'll be safe.”

Tony pulled Manuel half out of the water, held him tight. He stared at Susana and his face was that of a man beholding horror, a pit of writhing snakes, hell's fire dancing at a witches' midnight.

Susana stared at the brothers. “Damn you, Tony.” Her eyes blazed, her voice shook, her shoulders heaved. “I had to kill Ed. I had to do it for you.” Now she loosed her grip on Manuel, her hands reached out, fastened on Tony's bare arm, tight enough, sharp enough, to bring blood. “Ed was going upstairs. He was drunk and he was going to tell Maria Elena everything, how you and he planned the biggest theft in the world and how you got away with it. He was going to tell her, Tony!”

Tony pushed away her hands. He slipped one arm behind Manuel, pillowed his head.

Susana knelt by the edge of the floor pool. She leaned forward, stretching out her hands in a plea.

The welts on Tony's arm oozed blood.

“Tony,” her voice was low, feverish, “listen to me. It will be all right. They'll think it's an accident. Everybody knows how Manuel loves to look at water. He fell and hurt his head. He'll drown and everything will be all right.”

Tony was on his knees now too. He slipped his arms around his brother, slowly picked him up. Straining, he came to his feet, Manuel cradled in his arms. Tony never looked at me as he walked through the doorway into the hall, toward the stairs.

Susana scrambled to her feet. She bent forward, her hands reaching out. “Tony, Tony…” She began to scream.

I am especially grateful to Patsy Garza Asher, owner of San Antonio's superb mystery bookstore, Remember the Alibi. Patsy welcomed me to her hometown, willingly served as a cheerful guide, and was extraordinarily helpful in finding excellent books about San Antonio.

I am also grateful to Spanish scholar Dr. Judith LeBlanc Flores for her translations of materials from Mexico City's National Museum of Anthropology.

It was a great pleasure to visit San Antonio, explore its unique and lovely River Walk, and learn more about Hispanic art, which has made and is making a vital contribution to the wonderful cultural mosaic that is the United States.