Misplaced (56 page)

Th
e
policema
n
insiste
d
o
n
w
atchin
g
he
r
unloc
k
th
e
door
and
w
aited for her signal that e
v
erything
w
as all right.

Smuggling runs in your blood.

Sh
e
rushe
d
t
o
th
e
bathroom
.
Splashin
g
col
d
w
ate
r
o
n
her
face
,
sh
e
fough
t
risin
g
nausea
,
pullin
g
i
n
hug
e
gulp
s
o
f
air
.
Then
she
slid
down
the
shiny
tiles
of
the
w
all
until
her
knees
w
ere beneath her chin and rested.

Arlan
Mieley
had
brushed
ugly
black
strokes
of
doubt
onto
the
landscape
of
her
life.
He
knew
her.
Mimicking
her
uncle’s
“Beektoria
Barrón,”
he
rolled
his
“r”s
with
perfection
and
held
the
“o”
long
enough
to
make
her
shudder.
She
closed
her
e
y
es
and
placed
her
palm
flat
onto
the
cool
floor
to
test
its
solidness;
she felt as though she
w
ere free-falling.

In a few minutes she would call her uncle, and his soothing
voic
e
woul
d
convinc
e
he
r
o
f
th
e
grey-e
y
e
d
man’
s
lies
.
She
woul
d
abando
n
he
r
foolis
h
pla
n
t
o
tak
e
Khar
a
t
o
Egyp
t
and
send
her
home
alone
as
he
had
insisted.
He
would
be
pleased
abou
t
he
r
chang
e
o
f
heart
,
an
d
thing
s
woul
d
b
e
a
s
the
y
had
been only a few short
w
eeks ago.

V
ictori
a
w
en
t
bac
k
t
o
he
r
office
.
Se
v
era
l
time
s
sh
e
picked
u
p
th
e
handse
t
an
d
pu
t
i
t
down
,
unsur
e
ho
w
t
o
pos
e
suc
h
a
questio
n
t
o
Elia
s
an
d
e
v
e
n
les
s
certai
n
abou
t
ho
w
h
e
might
respond.
The
look
in
his
e
y
es
when
she
’
d
shown
him
Khara’s
bracelets
had
ans
w
ered
for
him.
For
an
instant,
he
had
become
a stranger, his expression cool. She slumped onto the couch.

A
n
indeterminat
e
amoun
t
o
f
tim
e
passed
.
Then
,
fro
m
inside
he
r
handbag
,
th
e
muffle
d
soun
d
o
f
he
r
cel
l
phon
e
ringing
roused her.

“
V
icki, I’
v
e been trying to reach you.”

V
ictori
a
sai
d
nothing
;
sh
e
di
d
no
t
immediatel
y
recogniz
e
her
friend’s voice.
“
Y
o
u
sai
d
i
t
w
asn’
t
saf
e
fo
r
u
s
t
o
g
o
home
,
bu
t
fo
r
cryin
g
out
loud, what are
w
e supposed to do?”

“Oh, Bea, I’m so glad you called.”

“Didn’t
you
ask
me
to?”
Bea
asked,
and
sensing
V
ictoria’s
hesitation
,
continued
,
“
Y
o
u
don’
t
soun
d
s
o
good
.
Ar
e
yo
u
all
right?”

“Can you meet me at La Hacienda?”

“Sure. Khara and I are on our
w
ay.”

“Y
ou
’
ll probably get there first.
But what about your kids?”

“I left them with the sitter
a couple of hours ago. See you in
thirty minutes.”

V
ictori
a
hun
g
u
p
an
d
gathere
d
he
r
things
,
w
avin
g
of
f
the
polic
e
office
r
w
aitin
g
outside
.
“
I
jus
t
nee
d
t
o
mak
e
on
e
stop
first
.
Soo
n
a
s
I’
m
done
,
I
’
l
l
dri
v
e
straigh
t
t
o
th
e
polic
e
station
and fill
out a report,” she promised.

Chapte
r
Twenty-Five
Vic
t
oria

I
t
w
as said that spirits haunted La Hacienda, and that the
ghos
t
o
f
Do
n
Jua
n
d
e
Oñat
e y
Salazar
,
th
e
conquistado
r
who ha
d
colonize
d
th
e
Nati
v
e
American
s
o
f
th
e
South
w
es
t
fo
r
the
glory of Spain in 1598,
w
aited at the ri
v
e
r
’s edge. Many of his
soldier
s
w
er
e
half
w
a
y
acros
s
th
e
Ri
o
Grand
e
whe
n
th
e
cruel
undercurren
t
too
k
the
m
down
;
the
y
drowne
d
unde
r
th
e
w
eight
of
their
fine Spanish
armor.
On
w
arm
afternoons,
the
ghost
of
P
ancho
V
illa often appeared, drinking
cer
v
eza
and gnawing on a
roaste
d
le
g
o
f
cabrito
.
W
ithi
n
a
stone’
s
thro
w
o
f
th
e
restaurant,
V
ictoria’
s
fathe
r
ha
d
disappeare
d
unde
r
th
e
gree
n
w
ate
r
and
he
r
mothe
r
ha
d
bee
n
take
n
a
w
ay
.
Sh
e
cam
e
her
e
often
,
he
r
heart
aching and full of unfulfilled
wishes.

Inside
the
restaurant’s
w
alls,
which
w
ere
made
of
foot-thick adobe bricks, she felt a sudden chill.

“I
’
d
rathe
r
si
t
outside,
”
V
ictori
a
tol
d
th
e
youn
g
ma
n
standing
just inside the door.

He
smiled
as
though
he
understood.
“This
w
ay,
señorita,”
h
e
replied
,
withou
t
gatherin
g
a
men
u
o
r
askin
g
ho
w
man
y
w
ere
in her party.

Outside
,
bougainvillea
s
w
ashe
d
th
e
court
y
ar
d
w
all
s
i
n
fuchsia
.
Th
e
herringbone
d
brick
s
o
f
th
e
pati
o
w
er
e
displace
d
by
the
roots
of
an
ancient
Mexican
Elder
tree
that
stood
in
its
c
ent
e
r
.
V
i
c
t
o
ri
a
c
h
os
e
a
tabl
e
n
e
a
r
th
e
o
ut
doo
r
o
v
e
n
a
n
d
sa
t
down.

“Can I bring you something?” the
w
aiter inquired.

“Mayb
e
later,
”
sh
e
muttere
d
absently
,
lookin
g
pas
t
him,
hypnotized by the ri
v
er.

“It’
s
a
n
afternoo
n
fo
r
tal
l
margarita
s
an
d
ol
d
friends,
”
the
w
aite
r
commented
.
“I’
m
guessin
g
yo
u
lik
e
your
s
traditional,
with extra salt.”

“Thank you, but no.”
Understandin
g
tha
t
he
’
d
bee
n
dismissed
,
h
e
turne
d
t
o
lea
v
e
.

“On
second
thought,
I
could
use
one,”
V
ictoria
called
after
him.
Sh
e
recalle
d
tha
t
th
e
garde
n
i
n
he
r
childhoo
d
hom
e
had
b
lossom
s
th
e
sam
e
shad
e
o
f
purple
.
Sometimes
,
i
n
t
h
e
la
t
e
afternoon
,
he
r
parent
s
sa
t
outsid
e
wit
h
glasse
s
o
f
lemonade,
speaking in voices too low to be o
v
erheard. These
w
ere pri
v
ate
moments,
but
not
of
an
intimate
nature—at
least
they
had
not
seemed that
w
ay to her at the time.

In
those
days,
V
ictoria
sometimes
woke
to
find
her
mother
checkin
g
th
e
windows
,
countin
g
he
r
rosar
y
beads
,
and
wringing her hands.

“What’s the matter,
Mamá
?”

I’
m
w
aitin
g
fo
r
P
apí
.
G
o
bac
k
t
o
sleep.
”
He
r
mother
sounde
d
worried
.
H
e
al
w
ay
s
returne
d
jus
t
befor
e
dawn,
w
elcomed
by
her
Mamá
with
frantic
relief.
But
why?
He
ran
a
company
that
bottled
soda.
Where
did
he
go
at
night?
V
ictoria
ha
d
ne
v
e
r
wondere
d
before
.
Bu
t
hadn’
t
th
e
federale
s
accused
her
father
of
running
a
smuggling
ring?
A
sick
feeling
spread
throug
h
her
,
an
d
sh
e
too
k a
lon
g
drin
k
fro
m
th
e
salt-rimmed
glass.
And then she thought
about
the relati
v
e ease with which she had dealt with Murgat; she hadn’t felt any guilt at all.

Smuggling runs in your blood.

She let herself out the patio door and follo
w
ed the path to
th
e
ri
v
e
r
’
s
e
d
ge
,
wher
e
sh
e
stopped
.
Behin
d
her
,
th
e
free
w
a
y
droned
.
“Lies!
”
sh
e
screamed
,
he
r
hear
t
bursting
.
More
turbulent
than the
w
ater rushing by
w
as the memory flooding
he
r
consciousness
.
P
ap
í
ha
d
t
ol
d
he
r
wi
t
h
a
b
solu
t
e
cer
t
ain
t
y
t
ha
t someone
would
be
w
aiting
for
the
Modesto
family
on
the
other side. How else could he ha
v
e known?