The Demon Hunters (10 page)

Three years ago this sweet, motherly
lady stood in front of forty-year-old Gilberto Fuentes, who knelt
at her feet with his hands tied behind his back. She put the barrel
of a Glock G17 9mm pistol to his forehead and pulled the trigger. I
bet she wore an apron then, too. He killed her ten-year-old
granddaughter. I gave her his name.

Senora Labiosa came to my
house one evening in midwinter. She said the spirits guided her to
me, but I think it more likely the Labiosa family have a
friend
at Clarion PD who
told them about the consultant who tracks down killers. I knew a
little girl died and the police investigation had stalled. I
thought Mike would call me anyway if they didn’t get a lead soon. I
would get a head start.

Talking to a dead child is painful. I
reminded myself her family needed closure. They needed
justice.

When I told Margot who killed Flora,
and I would take it to Lieutenant Mike Warren, the conversation
went in a direction which chilled my blood.

Margot thanked me profusely
and assured me Fuentes would never molest another little
girl
. She stressed how grateful she was,
the Labiosa family was indebted to me, and this was between just we
two, wasn’t it. She spoke at length and I didn’t catch half of it,
because at some point, from a subtle word here and there, I
realized I’d been warned to keep my mouth shut.

I asked around, and
discovered
more than I really wanted to
about the Labiosa.

Three days after I spoke to Margot,
two teens looking for a place to make out drove to a semi-derelict
farmhouse in Mantua. They found Gilberto Fuentes body. Mike called
me in on the case two weeks later, so I got to talk to Fuentes
personally. He told me who killed him, and how. But I came out of
there and told Mike I didn’t get anything from the crime scene.
When Mike took me to the scene of Flora’s murder that same week, I
didn’t tell him I already communicated with the child. I just shook
my head to indicate I got nothing, and walked away.

You see, I’d weighed the pros and
cons, and there were no pros. I know that sounds cold, clinical,
but believe me it wasn’t. If the family had an informer in the
police department, they would soon know I talked. Would I survive
long enough for Mike to find evidence linking the two murders,
evidence which proved the Labiosa killed Fuentes? Whether he did or
not, even if Gerarco and Margot Labiosa went to trial and were
convicted - which I sincerely doubted - I’d be on the run for the
rest of my life, however long it lasted. In the end I chose to keep
my mouth shut. I’m generally a law-abiding person, but I’m not an
idiot.

Does a weight of guilt bow down my
shoulders, for handing a man over for execution? It did for a
while. Although I didn’t know at the time, I marked that man for
death. I should have checked out the Labiosa before agreeing to
help them. I should have found evidence and gone to Clarion PD.
Fuentes deserved to die, but it should have happened in the
penitentiary, not a back room of an abandoned house.

But, God forgive me, when I think of
that little girl, I’m glad Fuentes is dead. Don’t judge me unless
you saw that sweet child lying naked at your feet, unless you
talked to her, and saw the terror in her eyes.

So the Labiosa family owes me and
considers it a lifelong debt. If you’re smart, you don’t collect
from the Labiosa family unless you really need their help, but I
figured this was a good enough reason. Borrego was one of their
own.

Gerarco got up from his rocker and
both of them ushered me in the house. We went directly to the
living room, a small and cluttered place with plaster Virgin Mary
and crucifix on walls, atop the mantle and on miscellaneous pieces
of furniture. Some truly hideous paintings of a religious theme,
done on black velvet, hung here and there. Doilies lay all over the
place as if they got together and bred like rabbits. There were so
many tasseled cushions on the couch and chairs, sitting without
letting on you feel smothered would be an act of
diplomacy.

I perched on the edge of an
overstuffed chair and gave Margot the gift I took along: a small
gold rosary inlaid with seed pearls, an inexpensive but pretty
antique. She was delighted.

Closed drapes muted the
sunlight in the dim room, but it felt stuffy, and still warm enough
to make my pale skin flush. Margo bustled out, leaving me with
Gerarco, and we politely pretended not to see each other. The
Labiosa were grateful for my help, but Gerarco wasn’t inclined to
small talk. However, the formalities must be observed, and Margo
returned with coffee in tiny cups and a plate of
biscochitos
, little
Mexican cookies. Then she politely inquired of my health, commented
on the heat while waving one hand at her bosom, and I sipped harsh
coffee and nibbled on an over-sweet cookie, replying politely and
trying not to wriggle with impatience. That took up all of ten
minutes. The business part of our meeting took less than
two.

“
And how may we help you?”
Margot asked as she placed her cup in the saucer.

I put my cup, saucer and tea plate on
the coffee table. “A young man has gone missing and his . . .
friends . . . are concerned. I’m trying to find him.”

“
Ah. You speak of Rio
Borrego.”

No hedging, no puzzlement, no
questions. They already knew why I went to them, and they
approved.

I nodded and leaned over my knees,
caught the edge of Gerarco’s frown and straightened up again. Thou
shalt not slouch in front of formidable old men who could off you
with a gesture. “My partner and I have little to go on. We’re
looking at every angle. A year or so ago, Rio was engaged in a
fracas with some local boys.”

A fracas. Not a turf war,
not a gang fight, not a vendetta. A noisy but fairly harmless
set-to. Just local lads having a disagreement.
Right.

Gerarco’s right eyebrow rose and his
chin nodded almost imperceptibly in agreement with my choice of
words. Yeah, I can be diplomatic when I have to.

“
My partner and I wondered
if Rio and these young boys met again.”

I didn’t have to add anything. They
knew what I did not say. I waited, bolt upright, starting to sweat
in an unfeminine way, as some kind of unspoken communication passed
between Margot and Gerarco.

Margot got to her feet and I rose to
mine. “We know these boys. We will talk to them,” she
said.

I turned to Gerarco. “Thank you,
Senor.”

He nodded.

I turned back to Margot.
“The coffee and
biscochitos
were delicious.”

Margo’s hand went to the crucifix
which now hung around her neck and she smiled slightly. She walked
behind me as I went through the house and out the front door. I
didn’t look back as I went along the path.

Chapter
Eight

I munched on a donut, but that
reminded me of Royal. He has this cop ability to eat a powdered
donut and not get a speck of sugar on himself. I get it
everywhere.

I sighed as I looked at the monitor. I
had hacked into the Utah DMV, but couldn’t track down a black
Mercedes-Benz. I’d browsed some more, and didn’t find anything I
didn’t already know about Gia Sabato or Daven Clare. Just to be
thorough, I took a look at the Bugle’s archives. Our local
newspaper is just that, local, so I didn’t expect to find
anything.

And there it was in black and white.
Daven Clare’s house on Bella Vista burned to the ground three weeks
ago.

Staring at the monitor, I leaned back
in the chair. If Gia and Daven wanted my help, why withhold
possibly significant information? Rio attacked by a rival gang a
year ago was trivial? The fire department said the fire at Daven’s
house was deliberately set - arson wasn’t worth mentioning? What
else weren’t they telling me?

“
What
is
going on?”

“
Maybe they know it had
nothing to do with this Rio’s disappearance, so why say anything?”
Jack said.

I started, and I don’t usually when
voices came at me out of thin air. Not in my house, anyway, because
I know who they belong to.

“
God, you’re jumpy,” Mel
said.

I rattled my fingernails on
the edge of the keyboard. “Yeah. This case is getting to me.” I
swung my chair. “
They’re
getting to me.”

“
I don’t blame you,” Mel
said. “The woman is unnatural.”

“
Tell me about
it.”

I held up a warning hand as
Mel opened her mouth. “I did
not
mean it literally.”

“
What about my idea?” Jack
asked.

I rubbed my hand over my mouth,
squeezed my chin with my fingers. “Perhaps they don’t see any
relevance. Perhaps they do, but it’d take me places they don’t want
me to go. But, hey, they hired me. I’m an investigator, I’m gonna
investigate. I’m gonna take a look at Clare’s house.”

I closed down the PC and went to my
closet to get a pair of heavy shoes. Although the fire happened
three weeks ago, the site could still be messy. I hoped Daven
hadn’t started cleaning up the property.

I trotted downstairs and through the
hall, pausing to turn on the AC so the house would be cool when I
got back. Mel and Jack watched me go through the door like a mom
and dad seeing their kid off to school.

I all but gasped at the heat inside my
car, but I have to keep the windows closed in summer when it’s
parked, unless I want to drive with hornets, bees and a hundred
other bugs in there with me. Nothing liked driving off and finding
unexpected company in your car. My air-conditioning didn’t work, so
I opened the windows once I pulled out the driveway, though the
wind tugged at my hair and threatened my braid.

Instead of heading west to downtown
Clarion, I took the old White Basin road, the only road to the
White Basin ski resort until John Hammond built a fancy new road
for the expected horde of visitors to the 2002 Olympics. Now only
residents use the old road, but it’s still well-maintained,
resurfaced in places in summer and the snow plowed in winter. It’s
the scenic route and a nice drive in spring, summer and
fall.

I smelled the scent of flowering alder
and wild flowers on the air. Fat silvered cloud masses dotted a
deep-blue sky. I could hear nothing above the noise of the engine,
not even the ever-present grasshoppers. The air cooled as I climbed
the winding road, feeling oh-so-good on my skin, and I put my arm
out the window to channel it inside. A doe and her fawn raised
their heads from the grass as I passed a mountain meadow, ears
perking forward, nostrils flaring.

Bella Vista is a ten-mile, unpaved,
winding mountain road. The area is ultra-private with the houses
set way back, the driveways gated. You can’t just drive in. But the
gates belonging to 1582 North Bella Vista stood wide open and I
drove right through and on down the asphalt driveway. The
burned-out shell of the house sat below me in a large hollow in the
mountainside. A good location for privacy, although not the best
when the spring thaw came, but the French ditch around the house
would divert snowmelt away from the foundations and down a
gully.

Not much of the house still stood and
the remaining blackened and crumbling brick walls gave me no idea
of the original layout. The smell of charred brick and burnt timber
still lingered. I parked the car, got out and walked down to the
house.

By the look of it, the fire must have
been fierce. According to the newspaper article, Daven wasn’t home
at the time and the fire went unnoticed as the evening winds blew
the smoke up a narrow ravine, where it dispersed among the pine. A
neighbor saw the flames as she returned home in the dusk of
evening. Unchecked, the fire could have taken out the entire
mountainside.

I was sorely tempted to call one of my
old contacts at Clarion PD. The newspaper article said the Fire
Marshall ruled arson, but what did the arsonists use? This place
looked like it had been bombed.

Vehicles had driven over the lot after
the fire department soaked it down, creating deep ruts now dried
hard as rock. There was an empty feeling to the area, a desolate
silence. The birds and animals would not return while the fire
stink tainted the air.

Sometimes curiosity takes me to a
place. Sometimes it’s a hunch. Whatever took me to Daven’s ruined
house, it was worth the effort.

I heard voices, two men talking in
hoarse whispers. I looked up at the road.

“
Someone’s
here.”

“
Yeah, so what? More nosey
locals.”

“
Yeah, probably. So, what
we gonna do tonight?”

“
Me, I was thinking of
hanging around this burned house. You?”

“
What a coincidence. Just
what I had in mind. Shall we?”

Bemused, I looked over at two men who
appeared on the road above the house. Neither had a regional accent
I could identify, which can be the case when a person spends their
life moving from town to town, state to state. Shabby, they wore
long grubby overcoats which had seen far better days, and worn
boots. The taller one wore a black stocking-cap over his long,
straggling gray hair. He stood stiff and upright, a military
bearing. The other guy’s blond hair was shaved almost to the scalp.
And both carried swords.