Rebel Island (Tres Navarre #7)(41)

“So why hasn’t he killed the rest of us?” Garrett asked. “If this guy’s such a cold-blooded murderer, it would be easy to do.”

“I don’t think he wants to,” I said. “I don’t think he enjoys killing.”

“Yo, little bro. Tell that to Chris Stowall.”

“Calavera was cornered,” I said. “First by Longoria, then Chris Stowall. But I don’t think he relishes the idea of murdering everyone in this room.”

“If he has to,” Lindy said, “he will.”

“We don’t know that.”

“I’m sorry, son. I do. If you have any idea who the killer is, you need to tell us now.”

Alex stood suddenly, as if Benjamin Lindy had just slipped ice down his back. “And what will you do about it, old man? Start killing the suspects?”

“Alex,” I said. “You want to say something?”

He looked around at all of us, like our presence horrified him. Then he took a shaky breath. “Garrett?”

“Yeah, man?”

“Here.” Alex handed him an envelope—beige hotel stationery, like the one that had been slipped under my door. “In case something happens—”

“Nothing’s gonna happen, man. It’s okay.”

“In case it does, keep charge of that, okay? Don’t read it unless…”

“Whoa, man. I told you—”

But Alex raised his hands to block Garrett’s words and stormed out of the room.

I stood in uncomfortable silence, everyone’s eyes on me. I felt like I was back in front of my English class at UTSA. I’d just assigned an unpopular essay on Chaucer’s use of dirty jokes and the class was about to rebel. The only difference was that in most of my classes the students weren’t armed.

“We should stay in here for what’s left of the night,” I suggested. “Safety in numbers.”

“All right,” Lane said.

Garrett looked unhappy. I had a feeling he’d had other plans about where to spend the night, and they did not involve anyone but Lane.

“What about Mr. Huff?” Lindy asked.

I looked at the doorway. I wasn’t sure how to explain Alex’s sudden exit.

“I’ll talk to him.” I turned to Imelda. “¿Y dónde está Jose?”

It was the first time I’d spoken Spanish to her. I could see her doing a quick mental rewind, trying to figure out if she’d said anything embarrassing around me in español.

“Upstairs, señor. The news about Señor Stowall—”

“I’ll find him, too. Garrett, you and Mr. Lindy try to keep everybody else together.”

“I don’t have a gun,” Garrett complained. “He’s got a gun.”

I handed him Maia’s .357. “Now you have a gun.”

It must’ve been a Texan thing. Two pistols in the room made me feel easier than just one. I turned and headed out the way Alex had gone.

At the end of the third-floor hallway, light leaked through an open doorway. I peeked inside and found Jose sitting on a bed. It was raining inside the room. The ceiling drizzled and sagged. It looked more like a washcloth than sheet rock.

The room smelled of marigolds and limes. In one corner was a little altar covered with a turquoise shawl. It held a statue of the Virgin of Guadalupe and a few framed photographs, probably Jose and Imelda’s dead relatives. A row of candles sputtered and flickered.

The bedspread was soaked. Everything was soaked. But Jose just sat there, holding his flashlight, watching the candles die one after the other.

“Jose.”

It took him a second to focus on me. “The attic. I think the roof above us is gone.”

“Do you know where Alex is?”

His eye twitched. “No, señor.”

“Your things are getting ruined. You want help covering them?”

Jose’s flashlight beam traced a figure eight on the soggy carpet. “There is not enough tarp in the whole house, señor. God’s will, what He keeps or destroys.”

I approached the altar. Among the photos of the honored dead, one showed Jose and Imelda, ten or fifteen years younger, each of them holding a baby.

“Your children,” I guessed. “Twins?”

He nodded.

“How did they die?”

He looked up, anger flaring in his eyes. We were suddenly man to man. No subservience, no careful deference. “I don’t talk about that.”

Translation: None of your damn business, señor.

A trickle of rain spattered on my back. The drops against the damp carpet sounded like kisses.

“Chris Stowall was in the freezer for hours,” I said. “You didn’t have any reason to go in there when you prepared dinner?”

“No, señor.”

“Who else goes into the kitchen, usually?”

“I didn’t kill him, señor.” There was an odd tone in his voice…almost like regret.

“You said you’d heard of Calavera before. Was it only from the news?”

Jose’s nails bit into the palm of his hand. “That man, Señor Brazos. When he came here—”

“Wait a minute. Peter Brazos came here?”