And then the demon spoke up, whispering: Why not Mondragón?
Why not Mondragón, indeed. What was his interest in the situation as it stood? Making sure that his son and Rainy were safe, certainly. But what beyond that? Why should he care about me at all? What was I to him but the man who’d stepped in to fill his place? Did it matter that the place had been empty for years? It might, especially if what he and Rainy had shared in those months of helping Peter to heal was more than just parental concern.
I wondered if this was the only device that had been planted in the house. It didn’t matter. I knew now the parsonage wasn’t safe. I could have destroyed the bug but, in doing so, would have played my hand. Better, I thought, to wait and to use it to my advantage, if that was possible.
The text came a short time later. It read simply: Goodman. I took the Winchester and slipped quietly out the back door. I walked up the road to the mesa top where the Goodman Center stood among the scattering of new, expensive homes. So late at night there was only one vehicle in the visitors’ lot, a dark SUV parked as far back from the glow of the overhead lights as possible. I started across the lot. As I approached, the doors of the SUV opened and two figures got out. Rainy and Mondragón. They came toward me together, so close to each other they might as well have been holding hands.
Rainy suddenly broke from her ex-husband and ran to me. She threw her arms around me and laid her head against my chest. “Oh, God, Cork I was so worried about you. And you found Peter. Thank you, thank you.”
It felt good to have her back in my arms, but as I held her, I saw Mondragón approaching, looking as if he thought I was going to rob him.
Rainy looked expectantly into my eyes. “Where is he?”
“Not here,” I said. “But I’m pretty sure I know where.”
“He’s safe?”
“He’s alive. At least, I believe he is.”
“I don’t understand,” she said.
I explained about the Lulabelle Mine and the mirror flashes.
“It could have been anything,” Mondragón said, clearly unhappy with what I’d brought him. “The reflection of the sun off something.”
I shook my head. “It was purposeful. It was meant for Jocko and me.”
“We need to go to him,” Rainy said.
“We’ll leave before first light. By the time we reach the area, we’ll be able to see where we’re going.”
“We leave now,” Mondragón said. “I don’t want to risk being discovered before we have a chance to get to Peter. We can wait out there in the desert until sunrise.”
Which made sense. But I didn’t like the way he said it, as if there was no room for objection, as if his word was somehow law. And I felt the demon stirring deep inside me again.
Rainy said, “I’d feel better if we left now, Cork. I’m not sure I could stand just waiting here.”
In the dim light, I thought I saw a smug look of satisfaction on Mondragón’s face.
“All right,” I said. “But I left the map at the parsonage.”
“Let’s get it,” Mondragón said.
“I’ll get it and meet you,” I said. “Safer for Rainy.”
He absorbed that and didn’t object. “Where?”
“Cadiz Corners. A gas station and convenience store at the north end of town.”
“Twenty minutes,” he said.
I kissed Rainy, longer than was strictly necessary, then headed off again on foot.
The moon had risen, a quarter full, delivering enough light for me to see my way easily. Which was good because my head was with Rainy. Rainy and Mondragón. The longer the two of them were alone together, the less I liked it. I entered the parsonage through the back door, still arguing with Mondragón in my head. I wasn’t completely in the moment, completely focused. A big mistake.
The blow, when it came, caught me from behind, and I fell into a blackness that no moonlight could penetrate.
*
I came to with a splash of cold water on my face. Everything was dark, and I realized I’d been blindfolded. I tried to move and discovered I was bound to a chair, hand and foot.
“Where is he?” said a voice I’d never heard. It was like gravel rattling in a tin pan.
“Who are you?” I said.
“Where is he?”
“What are you talking about?”
“You know what I’m talking about. Where’s Peter Bisonette?”
There was no Hispanic accent to this voice. Although that didn’t necessarily mean he wasn’t Latino, my first guess was that he was probably white.
“I put a couple of bullets into the last guys who asked me that,” I said.
The blow came to my ribs, left side. It caught me off guard and shook me hard. But not so hard I didn’t register the thought that whoever it was, he was probably right-handed.
“Where is he?”
He spoke close to my face. I registered the smell of whiskey on his breath, of marijuana on his clothing.
“Why do you want to know?” I said.
“If we get to him before those Rodriguez shits do, he might still be alive when we deliver him to his mother.”
“What do you want with him?”
“That’s between him and us.”
“I need a little information before I drop the dime on him.”
“I don’t think so. I think all you need is a little more of this.”
Another blow to my ribs, same spot. I was going to have an ugly bruise there in the morning.
“So, where is he?”
“You make a persuasive point,” I said, trying not to let the pain affect my voice. “But mostly you’re persuading me of what a bad idea it would be to give you Peter. Even if I could. Which I can’t.”
The next blow connected with my cheek near my ear. It rattled me good, but what hurt most was the cut it left. I could feel blood running down my jaw. So—my brain registered—whoever he was, he was wearing a ring big enough to cut a canyon across my cheek.
There’d been only one speaker, but I’d had a sense from the beginning that he wasn’t alone. Now that suspicion was confirmed because I heard whispering that involved several voices.
“You’re a stranger here. You have no idea what’s going on.” A different voice this time, but one that seemed familiar, though I couldn’t place it yet. “It’s a complicated situation, a very bad situation, which your Peter is only making worse.”
“How about this?” I said. “What if I convince him not to do whatever it is he’s doing that’s pissed you off?”
“I think we can convince him better,” said the first voice, the gravelly one I didn’t recognize at all.
I picked up something now, a subtle but pleasant fragrance. Something both floral and cinnamon. A cologne or perfume maybe.
Some more whispers, then another blow, this one directly to my stomach. It punched the air right out of me, and for a long moment, I couldn’t breathe.
When I finally gasped and sucked in air, the vaguely familiar voice said, “This will only get worse, O’Connor. You don’t want that. We don’t either. You’re not a part of this. So just tell us.”
“I can’t tell you what I don’t know.”
“Burn him,” said a third voice, hushed, whispery. Female?