Matters of the Blood (11 page)

My hands shook as I poured us each a large mug and brought them to the table. I could barely think. He'd meant
murdered,
not just dead.

Carlton took a long sip of the steaming coffee before speaking again. When he did, I had to strain to hear him. I'd never known him to speak so softly.

"Ruben went in and found all the lights on, as if no one had bothered to turn everything off after the electricity came back on. He said he didn't think too much about it and just went around doing the morning cleaning.

"When he got to the back, he realized something was wrong. The prep room door was open, something jammed in the doorway. When he went to check, he saw your cousin."

I looked up from my coffee when the words stopped coming. Carlton was staring at his mug.

"Tell me,” I whispered, not wanting to know, but needing to. My hands wrapped around the oversized mug, as if to leach the warmth out of it and into the iciness of my body.

"He was laid out on the embalming table, nude. Blood completely drained from his body. One of those small drainage tubes—” His voice broke as he talked. We sat in complete silence; the only sound penetrating our awareness was an occasional drip of water from the kitchen faucet. I sipped my coffee, eyes closed, trying to not imagine exactly what Ruben must have seen and failing. I couldn't erase the scene that had immediately been etched on my mind's eye—the same exact scene I'd witnessed in my damned-further-expletives-deleted nightmares. So much for avoiding what my brain had viciously conjured up.

Looked like today wouldn't be any better than yesterday. In fact, it was already worse. Was there some twisted fuck sitting somewhere in the netherworld thinking, “I'm going to screw with Keira Kelly's life now"? I gulped as I realized how selfish that thought was. Marty was dead.

Carlton's fist slammed down on the kitchen table, causing me to spill what was left of my coffee. “This shouldn't be happening here! Damn it, I came back to Rio Seco to get away from evil, from senseless killing—and it followed me anyway.” His head dropped into his hands.

I started to reach over to comfort him, but before my hand touched his shoulder, he stood, slapped his hat on his head and adjusted his Sam Browne belt. The lawman had returned, leaving the emotion behind.

"I've got to go back there, Keira.” He reached over and took my chin in his hand, tilting my face to look at his. “I only came over here so that I could be the one to tell you. Now, I've got work to do.” He dropped his hand and hooked his thumb in his belt again. “You going to be okay?"

I nodded, still silent, still seeing my cousin's body motionless and white on the table, blood dripping from his body, just like the spilled coffee dribbled onto my floor.

"Go on, Carlton. I'll manage.” My voice was quiet, but steady. I had to manage. If I really stopped to think, I might run screaming out into the day. “Do you need me to...” I let my voice fade as I asked, but he knew what I meant.

"To ID him? No. But if you need to, I can arrange for you to view the ... him. Before the autopsy."

I nodded. I didn't want to, but I had to. In order to convince myself this wasn't all part of the same bad dream that had started yesterday or the day before, or whenever the hell it had been. Whatever had happened, I needed to know for the clan's sake. They may have disowned Marty, but they would want to know.

"Take your time,” he said. “It'll take us some time to finish at the mortuary. We don't have much in the way of up-to-date forensics here, but I called in a favor. A friend of mine is coming in from SAPD to help. I'll call you when we're ready for you.” Carlton walked out the front door and turned as he reached the bottom porch step. I stood there staring at him, still not saying a word.

"Keira, until we find out what's happening here, please be careful. Keep all your doors and windows locked. We don't know who's done this.” He adjusted his hat like some mockery of a movie cowboy and walked away.

I knew I'd have to try to reach Tucker to let him know about Marty, but not right this second. Before I called anyone, I wanted to think. I needed to put a little distance between what I'd just heard and talking to my brother.

I poured myself another cup of coffee and sank into my favorite easy chair. Who on earth would have wanted to hurt my cousin? Obnoxious? Yes. Annoying? Absolutely. But I couldn't think of why he'd been marked for death. Poor Marty, his life span was so short anyway. To have it cut even shorter was pure irony.

Nightmare was not the word for what I experienced during the rest of the morning. Bizarre phantasms and kaleidoscope horrors blended together with my mind's interpretation of what Marty must have looked like when the killer had finished with him. Maybe I shouldn't have gone back to bed, but since I'd gotten only a couple of hours of sleep, I'd figured that some rest was better than none. I wanted to be rested before having to face either my brother or looking at my cousin's dead body.

But rest was not what I'd gotten. Instead, my brain kept replaying my nightmare, only this time, every time I tried to leave, Marty appeared in front of me, miles of plastic tubing emerging from his body, filled with his blood and dripping on the floor. I'd try to push the table out of the way, but every time I grabbed the edge, Marty sat up and told me that I was trapped and I had to take the blood.

On the third or fourth round of this gruesome cycle, I woke up. A deafening clap of thunder knocked me out of dreamland and into the damp early afternoon of the same awful day. So much for a restful sleep.

I took my time showering and getting dressed. I didn't want to face the reality of being awake. Maybe if I stayed home and didn't talk to anyone, this whole thing would go away.

But the world intruded when I walked into the living room. My brother was sitting in my easy chair, a mug in his hand and an easy grin on his face.

"Hey there,” he said. “Good coffee."

He nodded toward the answering machine, which was blinking malevolently on its small stand. “You've got messages."

"You listened to my messages?"

He shrugged. “Not exactly. I've been here for a few hours. I didn't want to wake you up. I heard the messages when they called."

I took the cup from my brother and sank into the couch across from him, slugging down a healthy dose of caffeine. He was right—it was good coffee.

"Who called?"

Tucker frowned. “Bea called, three times. Then your old friend, the sheriff. Did I hear him right? Is Marty dead?"

I nodded. “Yeah, Carlton stopped by earlier to tell me. The cleaning service found him."

"Dead how?"

"Murdered."

The word sounded so blunt, so final.

"Any ideas?"

I shook my head. “No, I was going to go over there, to—"

"Look at the body?"

More blunt words.

"Yeah."

"Good idea. Want me to come with you?"

I looked at him relaxing in the chair, all denim shirt, chinos and topsiders, six-foot-four pale-faced pseudo-yuppie sporting a braid longer than Willie Nelson's and a history longer than most European countries. No one looking at him now would be able to guess his true nature. He really was my favorite brother.

I smiled a little. “Yeah, I'd love it if you came with me."

He smiled back. “Anytime you're ready."

I drained the remains of the coffee and stood up. “Tell you what, let's stop by Bea's first and get food before we go to the Sheriff's office. I need a little fortification."

Tucker grinned as he followed me out the front door. “Oh yeah, there was one more call."

I glanced over my shoulder as crossed the porch. My brother's grin widened.

"Adam Walker. Wanted to know about dinner."

Oh, great. Another complication I didn't need right now.

"Did he leave a number?” I asked, ignoring my brother's silent, but obvious question.

"I already programmed it into your cell phone."

He ducked as I swung my backpack at his head.

I gave in and told Tucker about seeing Adam last night. Although he hadn't been in England while I was there, he knew about what happened with Gideon. Tucker had been the only member of my family to listen to me when I'd come back. It still hadn't stopped him from emigrating, though.

"I agree with Bea,” he said.

"What?” I grunted as I pulled into the caf? parking lot.

"Go out with the guy, see what happens."

"Shit, don't you start,” I said. “Besides, we need to find out what happened to Marty before I think about anything like a date."

Tucker smiled as he unfastened his seat belt. “That wasn't a ‘no'."

"It wasn't,” I said. “But it wasn't an ‘I'm going to jump his bones’ either. Let's just get through today and worry about the rest later."

"Deal,” he said.

Neither Bea nor Noe were out front, but Carlton sat at the same booth as he had yesterday morning, as if he'd never left. Piles of dishes and cups were pushed to one side. He was reading from a stack of papers. Well, shit. Didn't he have an office to go to? Or a murder investigation to conduct ... somewhere else?

Without looking in his direction, I motioned to Tucker to follow me and walked past the cash-wrap and into the kitchen. The place was in chaos. Noe was up to his shoulders in dishwater and dirty plates in the sinks, while Bea's elderly Aunt Petra sat on a tall stool peeling potatoes. Two equally elderly uncles were scurrying back and forth, various kitchen implements in hand, stirring pots of steaming food.

Bea appeared out of the storeroom underneath an industrial-sized sack of carrots. She hefted the bag onto the counter, whirled around and ran back into the storeroom, a bare nod of acknowledgement to us.

"Hey, Tucker, Keira, hang on a sec, ‘kay?” she said over her shoulder as she rummaged through stacks of canned goods. “It's only a couple of hours until I have to serve the early dinner specials and I still need to make the carrot salad.” The rest of her words were lost as she stuck her head between shelves.

"
Aqui, m'hija,
” said Tia Petra, patting a stool next to her. “You don't want to get dirty.” She smiled and climbed back onto her own stool to peel more potatoes. Tucker followed and stood next to me. “Beatriz is worried. Those men never came to work today."

I looked at her with a frown. I opened my mouth to speak, when Bea came out of the storeroom balancing a large can on either arm. Petra's husband, Richard, took the cans from Bea and went back over to the stove. “Thank you,” he said in his quiet, low voice. “I will begin the enchiladas."

Bea smiled her thanks at him then came over to me. “I'm so sorry to hear about Marty,” she said as she grabbed me in a bear hug and kissed my cheek. “Are you okay? I was worried.” She shot a glance at Tucker. “When did he get here?"

"Last night,” I said. “I went to sleep after Carlton left. Nothing but nightmares. But I'll be fine."

She grimaced. “We've been pretty swamped all day,” she said, starting to chop carrots. “The two idiots didn't show up to work and they're not answering the phone at their apartment.” She chopped even harder. “I had to call in family to help."

So the Albrights had proven their reputation. I wasn't surprised.

Bea snorted, her knife hitting the chopping block with an audible thunk. Orange-colored slices flew off as her blade bit into the roots. “And
ese,
” she nodded toward her nephew, who was out of earshot, “decides to sleep in this morning and not show up until nearly ten. Petra and I handled breakfast rush. That boy is becoming worse than useless."

I watched Bea for a few more minutes, listening to the clanging of pots and pans and the normal kitchen busy-ness. I wanted to offer to help, but the last time I'd tried to help in the kitchen, Bea had thanked me and asked me to never do it again. I'd managed to ruin an entire night's special by mixing up tablespoons and teaspoons. Tucker stayed silent, observing the chaos.

Bea swept the last of the chopped carrots into a large metal bowl and handed it over to Aunt Petra. “Here,
Tia,
would you start the salad for me?” She wiped her hands on her apron then turned back to me. “Come on, you two, we need to talk,” she said, and took off in the direction of her office. We followed her.

"Close the door,” she said, settling into her chair. I did as she asked and sat down, Tucker settled beside me. “Tell me, what exactly happened? Sheriff-man out there isn't saying much even though he's been sitting in my caf? for the better part of two hours."

I wasn't sure where to start, so I told her everything. From the nightmares of Marty's death to what Carlton had told me. She was silent after I finished talking, her normally mobile face still.

"Damn, Sis,” Tucker said quietly. “You dreamed all of this?"

Bea shook her head slowly from side to side. “I can't believe all of this,” she said, her voice uneven. “Things like this don't happen in Rio Seco.” She took both my hands in hers, pulled me over and grabbed me in a bear hug. “Are you okay? Really, okay?"

I stood up, pulling away from her hug.

"Okay? I have no earthly idea. I'm not sure what to feel. I don't feel like crying. I'm pissed off, at Marty, at myself for—damn it, I don't have any clue what the hell I'm supposed to do."

I felt as if I'd been set adrift in a bad
Twilight Zone
episode and if I looked closely, I'd see a skinny man in a dark suit standing in the corner, ready to announce the next episode. This was all too unreal.

"You're not supposed to feel fake feelings,” Tucker said, his blunt honesty refreshing. “Keira...” He grabbed my hand and pulled me back into the chair. I hadn't realized I'd started pacing. “You never liked Marty and it's not your fault he died."

I leaned over and put my head in my hands, not wanting to hear him. Wallowing was better than having to deal with this guilt.

"It would be better if it was my fault,” I mumbled around my hands.

Tucker's hand smoothed an awkward path down my back. He'd never seen me like this, not his all-together smart-ass sister.

"Damn, that really sucks,” said Bea. “I don't know what to tell you. Marty was an asshole, but I know you didn't want him to be murdered. You had nothing to do with it. All you did was dream about it."