“I know she’s here. That little girl can’t keep from coming to say goodbye to her aitatxo.”
Engrasi remained quiet, trying to evaluate and understand the weight and importance of each move, each act, and each word. “She’s not here, Rosario, and she’s not coming back. And I intend to outlive you to make sure that when she does at last return to this valley for a burial, it’ll be for yours.”
A hateful grimace twisted Rosario’s mouth. Engrasi could have sworn that Rosario gulped and panted like an animal before snarling, “Don’t give me ideas, Engrasi. It wouldn’t be the first time we gutted her guard dog.”
Engrasi felt her knees weaken. She clutched the edge of her brother’s coffin.
“You whore!” she lashed back, trembling with fury. “I’m no dog. If you come after me or the girl, I’ll tear your head off. I make that vow on the sacred memory of my brother, who was kind and good-hearted enough for the both of us. I’m not Juan. I’ve got all the macho brutality he lacked, along with enough psychological resilience to live with a clear conscience after murdering you. I will kill you, Rosario, and I won’t lose a wink of sleep over it.”
She was trembling like a leaf exposed to a blast of wind, and she kept herself upright only by holding on to her brother’s coffin, but her words burst forth with more than enough force and conviction to convey her threat.
Rosario’s sneer vanished. She jerked her hands and head ever so slightly in some kind of nervous tic. She turned and pushed the swinging doors. The shadows awaiting in the gloom closed around her.
A single savage scream echoed in the exterior hall. After that, nothing. A slight draft, a breath of wind; then the exterior door slammed shut, and only emptiness remained.
Engrasi exhaled and inhaled deeply as she tried to control her tremors. She looked at her brother.
“Juan, I don’t know if I ever mentioned it, but your wife is a witch. A real, honest-to-God witch.”
76
METALLIC BALLOONS
Lakeway, Texas
Saturday, September 3, 2005
Martin Lenx, who’d been Robert Davis for almost two decades, pulled to the curb in front of his home, just as Brad Nelson had done a few days earlier in Florida. Like Nelson, he took some time to study the front of the house. But unlike the policeman, he wasn’t plagued by doubt. He wasn’t nervous or afraid of being rejected. He was a bit tired, that was all. The bus out of New Orleans had taken forever to get to Baton Rouge, and it had been no simple matter to find a car to rent for his return home. He ached to go inside, take a long hot shower, and sleep for ten hours. But he couldn’t permit himself those luxuries. He’d planned everything: the timing, the words to chant, his return, the birth, the trip home from the hospital, everybody together in the living room, asking Michelle to play something on the violin . . . But the unexpected early arrival of his son had thrown it all into high gear. God was giving him a push. He leaned forward, just as Nelson had, his arms against the steering wheel to support himself. And he, too, tried to pray.
But he couldn’t.
His wife’s car was parked in the driveway again, and he saw the ugly oil stain under the rear of the vehicle.
He’d told her a million times not to leave her car there. Natalie had been sloppy and negligent for quite some time now. Martin hadn’t wanted to accept the evidence of his own eyes, and he’d told her how to do things until he was blue in the face, for God’s sake! They had a three-car garage! Did she even understand English anymore? And after she got pregnant again, she’d really let herself go.
It used to be that she would take the trouble to pull the car inside, at least when she knew he was returning from a trip. Okay, he had to admit that she wasn’t expecting him back today. He’d managed to phone her at the hospital, and after pretending to be sorry he’d been away and saying how wonderfully happy he was about the baby, he’d promised he’d get back the next day.
Martin ruefully shook his head as he contemplated his wife’s car. A sardonic smile spread across his face.
She’d pulled it forward on the driveway a bit, not much, just enough to leave almost enough space for his mother-in-law’s SUV, which sat with its rear wheels on the sidewalk. If this continued, before long they’d have two oil stains instead of one.
The sun reflected off the metallic balloons crowded against the back window of the SUV. “It’s a boy!” was printed across their fat faces. He had another son, a new one, and that fact, far from pleasing him, just proved to him that God was putting him to the test again.
Martin Lenx leaned over and unlatched the briefcase on the floor in front of the passenger seat. He took out his revolver. Stretching his legs and lifting his butt off the seat, he tucked the gun under his belt, hidden by his shirt and perfectly tailored jacket—Now slightly rumpled, he criticized himself. He used the linen square from the breast pocket of his jacket to wipe his glasses, then he folded it and carefully returned it to its place. He ran a hand through his crew-cut hair and got out of the car.
He didn’t go to the front. He went around the house to the kitchen instead. He had the key in hand, but there was no need for it; yet again, Thomas or Michelle had left the door unlocked. He snorted in disgust and drew air sharply through his nostrils.
Martin closed the door carefully behind him and threw the deadbolt. He wasn’t about to risk a surprise visit from the woman next door.
There was the distinct smell of baby, even in the kitchen. He was surprised by that confirmation that the extraordinary event had taken place. The scent signaled the arrival of a tiny new creature, a real miracle. At any other time, it would have been a promise of fulfillment. The new arrival would normally have been a holy gift.
The moment Lenx had learned his son was in utero, he recognized the divine omen. That herald of the Last Days had lifted the scales that had covered Martin’s eyes for so many years. Anguished, he’d asked himself if this was to be the inevitable pattern of his life. Perhaps he really was cursed. Victimized by his family’s many sins, he had been forced to pray for their souls. But when God closes a door, he opens a window. Martin Lenx knew what he had to do: start over. Next time everything would be better.
He heard his family whispering in the living room. Perhaps the baby was sleeping. He took out his revolver, held it behind him, crossed the hall, and stepped into the living room.
The backs of his children’s heads were visible above the U-shaped sofa, which was facing away from him. They were on either side of his mother-in-law. Natalie sat across from them. Totally captivated by her newborn son, she didn’t even look up as he lifted the gun and aimed it at his mother-in-law’s head. That was the required order; she had to be the first to die.
He heard the click of a pistol being cocked behind him.
Amaia pointed her gun at his head. “Martin Lenx, this is the FBI. Drop your weapon and raise your hands!”
Martin grimaced in displeasure.
Catherine, Michelle, and Thomas scrambled away from him in terror and huddled around Natalie and the baby on the far end of the sofa. The baby bawled and so did his mother-in-law. Natalie trembled violently, but the strongest reaction came from his older son, who planted himself in front of the others and glared defiantly at his father.