Texas Hold 'Em (8 page)

“San Miguel Arcángel,” she murmured, recognizing the figure. “What are you doing in my bedroom, señor? Who brought you here and lit you up?”

A small piece of paper just underneath her bed skirt fluttered as another puff of wind came through the broken window. Using the barrel of her weapon, she bent over and pinned it to the carpet, dragging it closer.

It was a receipt for the candle from a store…in Mexico City.

The bottled candles were a staple of the locals and beyond. They used them to bless new babies and send the old ones to
el cielo
, to slay their enemies and to beg for the winning numbers. A candle could help many things—no problem was too big or too small—but each one had a very specific purpose.

St. Michael’s candles were burned for many purposes, but in Rio County it only meant one thing.

Someone was about to die.

Chapter Nine

Rose told herself she was calling Santos strictly as a professional courtesy. This was something he would want to know about. All it took was one ring for him to answer.

“Hey, there. What’s up?” He’d always greeted her that way. She used to feel a surge of happiness when she heard those words, and she felt relief at hearing it now. She could take care of anything that came her way, and she had for years, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t appreciate someone helping. Especially if that someone was Santos, she realized with surprise.

“Someone’s been inside my house,” she said. “They’re gone now, but they left me a present.”

“I’ll be right there.”

“No, absolutely not. I’m just letting you know because—” She broke off when the empty line started to buzz.

Sooner than she would have expected, she heard the roar of his motorcycle come down the street then pass her house. Ten minutes of silence followed before a knock sounded at the back entrance. With her hand on her weapon, she pulled back the curtain then opened the door.

“You didn’t need to come over, Santos,” she protested. “I can handle this.”

“I’m not here because I thought you needed help. I’m here because I want to see for myself.” He pushed past her. “Where and what?”

She led him toward her bedroom and stepped aside at the threshold. “I knew someone had been inside when I entered the front door. I cleared the premises then did a secondary search. No sign of forced entry other than the window, nothing missing, no evidence other than this and a receipt.”

“Damn,” he said softly. “What kind of candle is it?”

He’d seen as many of them in San Antonio as she had. “It’s a San Miguel Arcángel.” She explained how the locals used them.

“They have a thousand meanings.”

“Not here.”

He leaned over and read the receipt, still on the floor where she’d found it. Not too many men had been inside this bedroom, and his presence seemed to fill the entire space. When he straightened, she took a step backward without thinking.

“Not exactly a local vendor, but…” He looked back at the candle, his expression thoughtful. “Ortega likes this kind of stuff, that’s for sure.”

“Is he really a believer, or does he just use it to manipulate the locals?”

“Some think El Brujo has mystical powers. Either way, he’ll kill them if they don’t do what he says.” He glanced up. “In reality, he doesn’t believe in anything except violence and money.”

She slipped on a pair of plastic gloves, grabbing the paper sacks she’d brought from kitchen. Gingerly picking up the extinguished candle and then the receipt, she put them into separate bags, folding the edges over once, speaking as she did so. “King’s on his way over. He’ll do the drill. We can try to track the candle down, run some prints, try to learn who sold it. I already took pictures. I’m not sure the effort to track down all the candle’s particulars is worth the expense, though.” She shook her head with a look of disgust. “We won’t get the results till Hell freezes over. Rio County’s requests are pretty low on everyone’s priority list.”

“Send it all to Austin,” Santos ordered. “I’ll call and tell them to get on it as soon as they get it.”

She arched an eyebrow. “So you’ve got pull.”

“I don’t know about pull, but we’ve got money and sometimes that’s the same thing. We need to find out for sure who the hell did this, even though I think I know.” He looked down at her, his voice suddenly softening. “You okay?”

“I’m fine. It’s no big deal.” She’d told him the truth; she didn’t like the fact that someone had been in her home, but what really bothered her at that particular moment was the look in his eyes. The sex they’d shared had always been incredible. Even when things weren’t smooth between them, he could still make her cry out in bed. But when he looked at her like this, it really stole her breath. Kisses she could handle; his concern was something else entirely. She repeated her words to give herself enough time to recover.

“It’s nothing. I only called to inform you. Like I said, you didn’t have to come over here.”

“Maybe so, but it’s obviously a threat.”

“If I got rattled every time someone got pissed at me, I wouldn’t last too long in this job.”

“Has anything like this happened before? Someone in your house?”

“No,” she admitted reluctantly.

His expression went grim. “Does your mother have a key?”

“Why would she have a key? Even more important, why would she do something like this?”

“Do you know Dickie Barclay?”

His switch in topics threw her off guard, and she answered automatically. “Yes, unfortunately, I do. He’s an idiot, but I’d know if he’d been in here. I’d smell him. What’s that got to do with my mother—”

He didn’t let her finish. “Dickie showed Jessie Delacourt a video last night at the Ice House.” Santos described what he’d seen.

She made a scoffing sound even as her mouth went dry. “And you’re thinking one of the women on that clip might be my mother, right? She might have been Queen Elizabeth, too. You’re grasping at straws, Santos.” A knock at her front door interrupted her. “That’s got to be King. You need to leave. If I don’t let him in, he’ll think something’s wrong.”

She pivoted but Santos put a hand on her arm and stopped her, his voice suddenly deeper. “I can come back and spend the night, Rose. Whoever did this could return.”

The danger Santos posed to her heart far outweighed what any criminal could possibly do. She’d feel
less
safe with him there. But still she was tempted. In the end, though, she shook her head. “That’s not necessary. You don’t need to stay here.”

He waited another beat, the gaze of his dark eyes sending a course of heat down her back. “Are you sure?” he asked.

She met his look with one of her own. “I’m not sure of anything right now.”

He nodded as if he understood, then without any warning he cursed and pulled her hard against his chest. Then he kissed her. They both ignored the second knock against the front door.

The kiss they’d shared outside the barn was nothing compared to this. That one had been a suggestion; this one was a demand. His mouth came down over hers and insisted she return his desire, his hands unrelenting as they pressed her into the line of his body. Rose didn’t hold back because she couldn’t. Santos had taken over, and all she could do was whatever he commanded. His left hand dragged her even closer as his right hand came to her breast and cupped it, his thumb brushing over her nipple.

Holding her breath, Rose let the sensations flood her, the swift currents and hidden traps under the surface washing away any lingering concerns. His tongue sought hers, and the kiss deepened before he tore his lips from hers and buried his face into the crook of her neck. His lips began to move against her skin, and she realized then he was saying her name, over and over, a mantra of need.

The sound of his desire brought her to her senses. Untwisting her hands from his hair, she slowly pulled away.

His eyes were even darker than they’d been before. “What are you doing?”

“I’m stopping us,” she answered. “This…this isn’t why you’re here. It isn’t what we need to be thinking about.”

“It’s all I’ve been thinking about,” he said harshly. “For too damn long.”

Santos no longer looked like a man who cared what she wanted, but he stepped away from her as he spoke. Her back door closed with a whisper when he left a moment later.

…

The next morning Rose headed out early with yesterday’s episode fresh in her mind. She was rattled and edgy, as much from the kiss they’d shared as from the candle she’d found. Santos’s talk about the video was troubling, as well.

It wouldn’t be unlike Gloria to leave an obtuse message like the candle if she was near. But if she was, why not just contact her directly? If Gloria and Ortega were involved and had somehow arranged Lilith’s kidnapping together, anything was possible. Nothing had ever been simple between her and her mother or, for that matter, between her and Santos. Why should things prove any different for both situations now?

She reached her destination—the turnoff to the Stanley’s ranch—in thirty minutes, the house another twenty after that. Carl and Henrietta Stanley were eighty-plus, and Rose checked on the fierce older couple at least once a week, whether they wanted her to or not. They had one son in Arizona who never visited or called. To her way of thinking, they lived too far from town to be left all alone. Gloria had cleaned their house at one time, and Rose had sometimes gone with her. They’d always had chocolate milk and warm
mantecados
waiting for her. She’d studiously avoided asking them anything about her mother—until now.

Carl came out the front door as she drove up in the cruiser and got out. Crossing the gravel drive, she met the older man halfway. “How you doing, Carl?”

“I’m fine,” he said loudly with a nervous glance behind him. “Just fine. But Hattie—she’s not doing so good. I’d feel a lot better if you—you came inside and took a look at her.”

Carl Stanley asking for help? He had his hands clasped in front of him, his fingers twining together to make an “X” before he curled them back the opposite way. Her cop radar instantly pinged. Carl was definitely not the sort who ever asked for assistance. He was one of the steadiest men she knew, short of Silas. Never ruffled, never in a rush, never an unkind word for anyone. Then again maybe she was the one rattled, a hangover from last night. She could be imagining it.

“Oh, no! I’m sorry to hear she’s under the weather. Has she seen a doctor? Do I need to take her to town or call for an ambulance?”

“No,” he barked in an even louder voice. “We don’t need no ambulance. Just you, that’s all.”

His harsh tone destroyed any doubts she had about her interpretation of the situation. “You know how us old people are—one little ache, and we get all worried.”

“What’s going on, Carl?” she asked quietly. “What’s happening?” As she turned to study the house, a shadow behind the nearest window moved, and she caught the outline of a man towering above Hattie Stanley. Her back was arched, and he was holding something long and straight against her throat. The silhouette disappeared abruptly.

“Damn it,” she muttered. “Who is he?”

“I don’t know.” Anger swept over his face as he abandoned his act and whispered. “He just showed up an hour ago. He knew you’d be coming out here. He told me I had to bring you inside, or he’d kill Henrietta.”

“Go get in the car, Carl.” She spoke without looking at him. “Use the radio. Tell them I need backup. And whatever happens, you stay inside the car. I’m going in there and—”

“No! That’s exactly what he wants you to do…” His voice wavered for the first time. “He’s going to figure out I’m not gittin’ you in there like I’m supposed to be. Please, just turn around and leave. He wants you to come inside the house, and I don’t want you hurt so just go, dammit to hell.”

“I’m not going anywhere. But I can’t help Hattie ’til I know you’re safe.
You
git. And right now.”

“You leave.”

“No.”

They held a staring contest. The elderly man didn’t move, his blue eyes set with determination.

Rose gave in with a curse. “All right, you stubborn old goat, we’ll both go in, but you stay out of the way.” She threw her arm around his shoulders and raised her voice. “Let’s see about Hattie, Carl. I wanna go through the back door, though. Gotta take a quick look at that old generator. It was acting up last time I was here. Hattie’ll need that a/c if she’s feeling bad.”

“Yeah, yeah, okay,” he said loudly with an unhappy look. “I’ll show ya. Right by the back door.”

They made their way around the old ranch house until they reached the corner where Rose halted. “This is where you stop, and I keep going,” she said empathically. “If you don’t, I’ll handcuff you to the porch post.”

He frowned fiercely, then nodded with great reluctance.

She took out her gun and moved slowly toward the back door, pausing at the rusty generator Carl actually did have sitting on the back porch. If she could draw the intruder into the kitchen, she’d have a better chance at controlling the situation. Originally a shotgun house—you could shoot through the front door and the bullet would go out the back—the house had morphed through the years into a conglomeration of additions. It was still a straight shot from the living room to the kitchen, but like spokes on a wheel, four other hallways now radiated off the living room as well. In the kitchen, there was only one way in and one way out. The bad guy would have to go through her to escape unless he turned and went back into the living room. She had a fifty-fifty chance he’d come her way.

“I th
ink I’m gonna need a hammer,” she said loudly. The air tank on the condenser gave off a dull thud as she tapped it with the butt of her gun. “You got one inside in the kitchen, don’t you?”

The sound of heavy footsteps reached Rose through the screen, the scrape of something being dragged or pulled accompanying them. With grim satisfaction, she nodded to herself. He’d clearly moved into kitchen and brought Hattie with him. Rose caught a murmur of protest before it was abruptly cut off.

Her weapon in hand, she slipped up the porch steps and edged toward the screen door. Just as she reached for the handle, everything went to hell.

Back in the living room, the battered front door blew open with a screech as Carl Stanley burst inside. Waving an axe above his head, he charged straight toward the kitchen with a banshee cry.

Stealth no longer mattered. Rose flew through the screen door at the other end of the house. Trapped between them, the man with the knife wheeled in confusion, pulling Hattie by the hair as he pivoted first toward Rose and then toward the old man. In his shock, he dropped the knife, and it tumbled to the floor and slid across the kitchen. He reached for it without thinking and Hattie twisted out of his grip, scrambled away on all fours.

“Drop to the floor,” Rose cried at the man. “Drop, right now!”

From the corner of her eye, she saw Hattie pull herself up and grab a skillet from the stove with both hands. Rose barely had time to jump back as the old woman darted closer, then slammed the cast iron against the stranger’s head. The pan connected with a sharp clang against his temple, hot oil splashing over his arms and down his legs. His scream filled the kitchen as he fell into a tangled heap. Rose approached him with her gun arm extended, but Carl beat her there. Gasping as he stood over his wife’s attacker, he paused long enough to catch his breath, then he brought the axe down with a powerful swing. Rose’s heart stuttered as the deadly edge thudded into the hardwood floor within inches of the man’s face. The blade was still vibrating as Rose dropped to her knees, brought out the zip ties, and secured the intruder’s arms behind him.