Secondhand Spirits (14 page)

So I was staying, come hell or high water. All I had to do now was figure out who had taken Jessica and get her back, then discover who killed Frances and help the police bring that person to justice. How hard could that be? I'm a witch, after all.

I pondered the events of the last twenty-four hours: Frances and I heard
La Llorona
's wail while we stood in the basement. It was nothing new for me to hear a demon's cry, but it was a harbinger of death for Frances. Why had
La Llorona
singled her out? Then, moments later, Jessica disappeared. She could have been snatched by any number of people—I shouldn't rush to assume it was
La Llorona.
Then Frances had died despite my protective spell. Who could have killed her?

A human, no doubt. I had not protected her from humans, concentrating only on demons. Stupid. After all my experiences, how could I have underestimated the capacity for human evil?

And now the police suspected me.

That was the part that really spooked me. I remembered too well what had happened back in my hometown. And seeing the
Malleus Maleficarum
at Sandra's place made me feel as though I were being warned of a witch-hunt to come. Most people thought we witches were no longer in mortal danger, but I wasn't quite so sanguine. If I stuck around long enough, I feared I might find myself standing upon the modern version of the proverbial flaming pyre.

The pastel hue of the evening sky over the bay reminded me that Easter was just around the corner. I had a sudden, vivid memory of Jessica hopping down the shadowy hallway like a bunny—or no, make that a kangaroo. She wouldn't be going on any Easter egg hunts this year, or receiving any chocolate rabbits or candy eggs.

If I were going to go down in flames, at the very least I should save Jessica. It might be my final redeeming act.

Chapter 9

I wasn't sure I would remember exactly which of the nearly identical buildings was Jessica's home, but I needn't have worried.

Already a makeshift shrine had been set up on the sidewalk outside the duplex. Garish helium-filled balloons bobbed in the breeze off the bay, flames flickered on dozens of tall votive candles decorated with Catholic saints, and bright pink ribbons adorned fluffy teddy bears and stuffed animals. One sees these offerings by the road from time to time, memorials to lives lost in traffic accidents or by stray bullets in intense urban battle zones. Usually I was careful not to open myself up to their agonized sensations, but in this case I felt the sorrow resonate in me.

I mounted the stained concrete steps to the small stoop and rang the doorbell. A thin young man, probably a year or two shy of twenty, opened the door a crack. Dark eyes flickered over me with no change in expression.

“¿Qué quieres?”
He asked what I wanted.

I hesitated, suddenly hyperaware of the wine stain on my inappropriate, brightly colored vintage dress. Through the opening of the door I could hear the sounds of a
telenovela
on the TV and smell the aroma of beans and
masa
, or corn flour. The scent made me think of Graciela on tamale-making day—she always wound up with a bit of corn flour on her nose. The memory gave me confidence.

“
Estoy aquí hablar de Jessica
,” I said. “
No soy reportera.”

My Spanish isn't great, but it was enough to get me in the door and to make it clear I wasn't a reporter. The young man stood back and let me in.

I paused for a moment in the doorway and took in the scene. The cramped living room of the apartment was lined with three twin beds that doubled as couches. A small linoleum kitchen table was surrounded by six vinyl chairs, and a single incandescent bulb in an overhead lamp provided the sole source of light. A television with rabbit-ear antennae was tuned in to a dramatic Spanish-language soap opera, its top adorned with items from a
botánica
, or herbal shop. There was a little Bud dha in a Plexiglas pyramid, several pictures of the Virgin of Guadalupe, multicolored candles, and even a tall aerosol can of something that promised peace and harmony in the home. There were similar charms and icons scattered on every horizontal surface in the apartment, plus small sachet charms hung over every doorway.

Thumbtacked to the wall was a large colorful calendar from a local bakery featuring a handsome Aztec warrior holding a swooning woman in his arms, the glorious capital city of Tenochtitlán laid out behind them. We humans love to create mythical pasts. Interesting to think that this family could live in cramped, poverty-level conditions yet find solace in romanticizing the fierce, empire-building Aztecs as paragons of romance and justice.

“Please, have a seat,” said a young woman with blond streaks in her otherwise loose, long black hair. She grabbed a chair from the small kitchen table and brought it into the living room for me.

Aside from the young man who answered the door, several people crowded the dim living room: An elderly man drank coffee at the kitchen table, five women of varying ages sat on the beds, and a half dozen children darted in and out of the adjoining bedroom. The adults had the red-ringed eyes and haggard expressions common to long, sleepless nights full of tears.

“Thank you for speaking with me,” I addressed the group. What does one say, in any language, to people so recently touched by tragedy? Words were simply not enough. I concentrated on emanating empathy. “I know it's difficult, but I was hoping you could tell me what happened with Jessica last night. I think I may be able to help find her and bring her home.”

“How?” asked the young man who had answered the door.

“I know some things,” I said, keeping my words vague. “You can trust me.”

“I'll go get my mother,” said the streaky-haired woman before disappearing into the bedroom.

A young boy, a little older than Jessica, brought me a cup of instant coffee with sugar, and set it on the scuffed coffee table along with a jar of Coffee-mate and a spoon. He crawled onto a plump, short-haired woman's lap. Then they all stared at me. The soap opera played softly in the background.

I sipped my coffee and allowed the silence to continue, letting everyone get used to my presence.

A few moments later Jessica's mother emerged from the bedroom and perched on the edge of one of the mattresses near me without meeting my eyes. The defeated slope of her shoulders and her blotchy skin told me all I needed to know. She couldn't have been more than fifty, given her young children, but she looked much older. Her black hair, drawn back in a disheveled ponytail, had only a few streaks of gray, but her face was etched with the trials of a hard life.

She told me her name was Felipa. Looking at her relatives rather than at me, she began to speak in broken English, talking as though she had recited the words before.

“First my son Juan, he died in an accident five years ago, right after he brought me up from Mexico. And now,
m'hija
, my daughter Jessica . . . Why has this happened?
How
has this happened to my baby?” She started to weep again and covered her face with a tissue, shaking her head. “You think you could find her?”

“My mother works for a housecleaning agency,” interrupted the young man. “She always makes sure we learn English so we can do well here. And now . . .” He trailed off, shaking his head. “We thought we had left
La Llorona
behind—”

The young woman with the streaked hair made a sound between a hiss and a
tsk
, and glared at him.

“My brother don't mean nothing by it,” she said with a shrug. “Superstitions.”

“I understand,” I said. “I know about
La Llorona
. I believe she may have been here.”

Again they looked at me without speaking, their dark eyes assessing.

“Could you tell me what happened last night, when Jessica disappeared?” I urged.

“I just came home from work,” Felipa said. “I brought groceries, mopped the kitchen before I made dinner. The front door was open, but I . . . I sent the children outside. I told them, ‘Stay on the stoop.' They were supposed to stay on the stoop. . . .” She began to weep again.

“The other children began to scream, ‘
La Llorona
'; that's when we knew,” the young man said.

I spoke directly to the little boy who had brought me the coffee.

“Did you see her?” I asked.

He nodded solemnly, huge eyes so reminiscent of Jessica's that I felt my stomach clench as I remembered what was at stake.

“Could you describe her to me?”

He craned his neck, looking to his mother for permission. She nodded.

I had to lean forward to hear him, for he spoke barely above a whisper. But he used his pudgy hands to clarify, holding them up to his scrunched-up face like claws. He described the ghostly spirit, her horrifying face, the gaping mouth, and the faraway-sounding cries for her children.

Presuming I could believe the child, I now knew for certain that
La Llorona
had absconded with Jessica. Whether that meant more or less hope for the girl's salvation, I wasn't so sure.

Just then the door banged open and in walked a large young man in a bright white sleeveless undershirt and black pants slung low on narrow hips. Intricate tattoos ran up his forearms, biceps, and onto his neck. He was the one who was holding Felipa while she cried after Jessica's disappearance last night.

He walked in as if he owned the place. The tone in the room shifted.

“
¿Qué pasa?
” he demanded, lifting his chin in my direction. “What's going on? Who's she?”

Immediately Felipa and the man launched into a heated exchange. My Spanish was nowhere near strong enough to keep up with their intense discussion, but I understood the word
botánica
, and made out that the fellow was angry at Felipa for believing in “ridiculous magic” that wouldn't help. He scoffed at the mere mention of
La Llorona
. I also learned the man's name: Tomás.

Tomás was right that no amount of paraphernalia from a
botánica
would help bring Jessica back, but it could bring consolation to the family. In any event, it couldn't hurt.

I pulled a small black leather charm bag out of my backpack and gave it to Felipa, wrapping her hands around it, then my own around hers. I looked into her eyes and said a brief incantation of protection, comfort, and solace. Still weeping, Felipa thanked me repeatedly, and blessed me.

Tomás made a disgusted noise and stormed out of the apartment.

I thanked everyone for speaking to me, then hurried to follow Tomás into the night-shrouded street.

“Tomás, wait, please!” I yelled to his back as he strode down the cracked sidewalk. He didn't slow his pace. I jogged up behind him. “Tomás, is there something more you can tell me about Jessica's disappearance? Could it have something to do with the men who were here that day?”

He turned toward me as I caught up to him. “What men?”

“I saw you last night. Jessica had just disappeared; you were holding Felipa on the stoop. There was a group of scary-looking characters right over there, across the street, glaring at you.”

He laughed. “ ‘ Scary-looking characters'? Scary like me?”

“Scarier. You're not all that frightening.” He was trying to be, but I sensed something else under the simmering anger: something almost noble.

“Who the hell are you, anyway?”

“I'm looking into Jessica's disappearance.”

“Why? What do you care about my little cousin? You're no cop.”

“No.”

“Reporter?”

I shook my head.

“Then why? Someone hire you?”

“I was visiting Frances Potts when Jessica disappeared. Did you know Mrs. Potts?”

“Oh, yeah, I know her. That old lady's unnatural, is what she is.” He turned and started walking away again.

Unnatural?

“That ‘old lady,' as you call her, was killed last night,” I said to his back.

He stopped, his shoulder blades contracting under his undershirt, revealing his tension. I couldn't help but wonder whether he was cold wearing so little out here near the bay. Why were young men always wearing either too much or too little? Down jackets in the summer, nothing but undershirts in the winter . . .

“I saw the police Do Not Cross tape. I'm not blind,” said Tomás. “And I'm not surprised.”

“Why not?”

“A lotta people wanted her dead.”

“Dead? Why?”

“They wanted her land. And she was a snitch.”

“A snitch?”

“Ratted out the homeboys. What the hell is she doing in this neighborhood, anyway?”

“She's lived here a long time. Why shouldn't she be in this neighborhood?”

“There's something wrong in that house.” His hands low on his hips, he shook his head and met my eyes for the first time. “Last Halloween some kids broke in there. . . . You mark my words. She's like that . . . how do you call her? In the fairy tales? The evil witch that lures kids in and they're never seen again.”

“We're talking about Mrs.
Potts
here? Frances Potts?”

Just then a beautifully detailed, candy-apple red Ca dillac pulled up, bass pounding to the beat of a Latin rap song. Without another word, Tomás climbed in and was gone.