The Jade Notebook (26 page)

We’ve got a big lead, but the guys must have recovered. Soon they’re crashing through the underbrush behind us. “Stop!” they cry. “You’re dead!”

We keep running. It occurs to me that our lead isn’t big enough. If we keep going to the cabanas, we’ll lead them straight to the innocent guests. And there’s no telling what these guys would do. Why didn’t we think of this before? But there’s nowhere else to go. Unless …

“Wendell,” I say, breathless. “Follow me.”

I look back, see flashes of their clothes through the trees behind us. Their shouts grow louder, closer. I’m running as fast as I can, tripping and stumbling over bushes, ducking under branches, my heart about to explode. I take one more look behind me, see the glint of a machete, catch their words: “You’re dead!”

I dart past the
TRESPASSERS WILL BE DEVOURED
sign, bolting toward the Forbidden Territory. I hurl my body against the wire fence, making a clang. I hope Gatito’s a light sleeper. But if that didn’t wake him up, the men’s shouts will.

I grab Wendell’s hand, pull him along the fence in the direction of the gate.
Come on, Gatito, come on!
Three seconds later, when the men have nearly reached the fence—which they wouldn’t know is there—Gatito roars and pounces.

The men scream in utter terror. I keep racing along the fence, with Wendell at my side. My lungs are aching, blood pumping wildly.

Meche’s house comes into view. We’re nearing the gate
when she appears on the doorstep. A black satin robe flows around her, grazes her knees. Her feet are bare, her hair in a loose braid over her shoulder. “What’s going on? I heard Gatito, and—”

I’m doubled over, struggling to catch my breath.

“Meche!” Wendell shouts. He reaches his arms out in a pleading gesture.

Meanwhile, Gatito bounds to Meche’s side. A guttural growl escapes the cat. Meche puts her hand on his back, silencing him. “Is something wrong?”

I find words. “We’re being chased.” I’m so breathless and terrified I can barely get the sentence out. “By poachers.”

In a few quick strides, Meche is at the gate, unlocking it with a key from her pocket. She swings the gate open, motions for us to enter.

Wendell and I hesitate, eyeing the jaguar.

“Come in, come in,” she urges in her husky voice. “You’re safe here. Go inside. Quickly.”

As she locks the gate, Wendell and I scuttle past Gatito through the door to Meche’s home. Thankfully, the animal stays outside.

The room is small, aglow with a bright lantern. Firelight flickers over bare walls and unpainted wooden furniture that looks like Meche might have made it herself. In contrast to the simplicity, in the center of the room is a red velvet sofa. Following us in, she motions for us to sit. “I’ll make you tea,” she says, oddly composed, and walks into a tiny kitchen.

I collapse onto the soft cushion, trying to calm my thrumming heart, my shaking legs. Wendell sits beside me,
wraps his arm around me. I bury my face in his shoulder, and we hold each other for a moment. “Think the poachers were scared away?” I murmur. “Or you think they realized Gatito was behind a fence?”

He breathes into my hair. “Who knows.”

“They wouldn’t be able to get in here, would they?” I ask, biting my lip.

Wendell tightens his arm around me. “I don’t think they’d get past Kitty. I think we’re safe, Z. For now.”

Soon Meche comes out of the kitchen with clay mugs of fragrant chamomile tea. I note that our cake platter serves as a tray.

“Gracias,”
I say, wrapping my hands around the cup, breathing in the sweet steam.

Meche perches on a wooden chair across from us, tightening the sash on her black robe. I stare at her, her gorgeous face, bare of makeup, in the golden lantern glow.

I’m struck by a wave of gratitude. “
Gracias
, Meche,” I say again. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

She looks at her lap, embarrassed.
“De nada.”
It was nothing.

“You saved us,” Wendell says.

She waves away our thanks.

I wait for her to ask what happened, but she just sits there, watching us. Watching me, mostly. She seems curious, and something else, some emotion I can’t put my finger on.

Finally, I say, “We wanted to catch the poachers in the act. So Wendell took their photo. They chased us with machetes
and knives. All the way up here.” I study Meche’s concerned face. “Do you have any idea who they are?”

Wendell turns on his camera, and the photo appears on the screen. It’s too small to make out much detail. Two of the guys’ faces are visible; the other guy had his back to us. Maybe on a bigger computer screen we’ll get something useful. We pass the camera to Meche, who examines it carefully.

“Look familiar?” I ask.

“No,” she says, stirring her tea. “But I keep to myself. Gatito is enough for me.” Her eyes shine in the firelight. “I’m sorry I can’t help you more.”

Wendell tries another avenue. “Have you noticed anything strange on the beach? Truck sounds? Music?”

“Listen,
muchachos
,” she says with a sigh. “I have only one suggestion: Be careful who you trust. Especially on the police force.”

“What?” Wendell says. “How—”

She cuts him off. “I don’t feed rumors.” She gives a bitter laugh. “Unless they’re about me, that is.”

I glance at Wendell, puzzled. “Meaning?”

Meche raises an elegant eyebrow. “Years ago, when I married an outsider, gossip flew. And then … when a certain tragedy happened in my life, the rumors multiplied. I decided not to fight it. If people thought I was a scary
bruja
, they might leave me alone. In peace here with my memories, with my Gatito.”

“Is that why you put up those signs?” I venture.

She laughs. “I admit, I had fun making those signs.”

I can’t quite gather the courage to ask if she also had fun sticking dead chickens on our stoops. Instead, I ask, “And what about the managers before us? You never—got to know them?”

She shakes her head. “The rumors they heard were stronger than what they saw with their own eyes.” She looks at me, almost fiercely. “Or hearts.” She sets her teacup on the table. “They expect a witch, so I give them a witch.” She peers out the window to Gatito. “Anyway, I only care about my baby.”

I nod, sipping the last of my tea. I want to ask her more, but I’m not sure where to start.

“I liked your pink cake,” she says out of the blue.

“Oh, that’s good,” I sputter.

“Could I have the recipe?”

“Sure,” I answer, surprised. “It’s angel food. I’ll tell Layla.”

I remember how, when I first saw Meche at the market, I wanted to interview her. And now’s my chance. I sneak Wendell a little smile, then take my notebook and pen from my bag. He gives me a you’ve-got-to-be-kidding look as I turn to a fresh page. After a moment, I ask, “Meche, can perfect happiness exist?”

She’s unfazed. Maybe she’s been a recluse for so long, she has no expectations for normal interactions. She cups her chin in her hand and says thoughtfully, “In moments and memories.”

“Like what?” I push.

“The laugh of a little girl.” She stares into her empty teacup. “Or the nuzzle of Gatito.”

“Tell me more about—” I want to say
the girl
, but Meche looks so vulnerable sitting there, I finish with “Gatito.”

Tears fill her eyes. “Gatito … he’s getting old. I’ve seen the changes. Losing his appetite, tired all the time, trouble walking.”

Just when I’m thinking that this creature certainly didn’t have trouble hurling himself at the fence, Meche says, “He still has bursts of energy, when he feels he’s protecting me.” Her voice trembles. “But soon, he’ll be too weak for even that. Soon, he’ll leave me here alone. Then I won’t have those moments anymore. Only the memories.” Her voice lowers, nearly inaudible. “And I don’t know if that’s enough happiness to live on.”

I stay quiet, glance over at Wendell. His eyes glisten with tears.

Meche is wiping her face on her sleeve, composing herself. “Sorry. I’m not used to talking to people. And it’s the middle of the night. And you’ve been kind. Kind enough to bring me that pink cake. Angel food.”

She takes a quivery breath. “The truth is, I’m afraid. I’m so afraid of what will happen when Gatito leaves me.”

I meet her gaze. I think about how Doña Lupita said she was a sweet girl, a caring mother. I think about Layla’s plan to gush pink waves of love. “After Gatito,” I begin, “I mean—anytime, now even—you don’t have to feel alone, Meche. Come visit us. There are always people coming and going. They’re friendly, interesting. Travelers who’ve never heard the rumors.”

“Zeeta,” Meche says softly. “That night in the woods,
I thought you were my daughter. She’d be a young woman now, like you. Sometimes … when you spend so much time alone … it’s as though you see things, talk to ghosts. I thought you were—I hoped you were …” She shakes herself and says, “Would you like Gatito and me to walk you home?”

I look at Wendell.

“I think we’ll be okay,” he says. “But thanks.”

I nod. “It’s been quiet out there. I think enough time has passed. Seems like the poachers gave up the search.”

“It’s probably for the best,” says Meche. “Gatito has trouble walking more than a few paces at a time now.”

On the way out the gate, Meche hands Wendell the cake platter.

As he takes it, he says, “Come over soon, Meche. Layla can teach you to make that cake.”

I chime in, “Or you could come to sunrise yoga. Or how about a bonfire? You’d like it.” Impulsively, I reach forward and offer Meche a hug. At first, her body is rigid beneath my arms, but after a moment, she softens.

Wendell raises a hand in farewell and says, “Give Gatito a hug for us too.”

“And a kiss on the nose,” I add. And I actually mean it.

Back at the cabanas, Wendell slides the camera’s memory card into his laptop. When the photo comes up on the screen, we study it. Two of the men are unfamiliar to us—teenagers in baseball caps, white T-shirts, and jeans. Their faces are generally nondescript—the same dark, square, handsome
faces as most teenage guys around here. The third man has his back to us, just a black T-shirt and cutoff camouflage shorts visible. He’s not wearing a cap, and he has a buzz cut, a fairly common hairstyle. His hand grips a shovel.

I stare at this third man. Something about the thick neck and stubbled hair is familiar. And those camo shorts … “Hey, Wendell. Zoom in on this guy’s hand.”

Close up, it’s obvious. The guy’s missing a finger. His ring finger.

At the same time, Wendell and I say, “El Dedo!”

After just a few hours’ sleep, Wendell and I grab quick cups of coffee, then head straight to the police station. Chucho and Gerardo are there, sitting on their desks, watching TV. “What can we do for you?” Gerardo asks.

“Actually,” I say, taking a deep breath, “we’d like to speak with you, Officer. In private.”

Chucho bristles. Then he stands up and walks outside. I see him hovering by the open window, imagine his ears straining.

Wendell talks to Gerardo in a low voice. “We were chased by poachers. Last night, at Playa Mermejita. They had machetes. They threatened to kill us.”

Gerardo’s face fills with alarm. He opens the file cabinet, flips through it, mumbles, “Still can’t find your other report.” Opening a fresh folder, he pulls a pen from his pocket and
starts filling out the form. With concern, he asks for details—estimated times, exact locations. Wendell hands over a copy of the photo on a memory stick.

Gerardo studies the image on his computer screen. “Bet they’re from the city,” he comments. “The trouble-makers always are. Not like our local boys.”

I wish he would keep his voice down. I’m very aware of Chucho lurking outside the window.

Wendell zooms in on the four-fingered hand. Keeping his voice just above a whisper, he says, “There’s a guy here, from Mexico City. He’s always picking fights. He’s missing the same finger on the same hand.”

“Well, look at that!” Gerardo practically shouts. “Missing a finger!”

I notice Chucho’s form outside the window, shifting. I imagine him texting El Dedo about this right now.