The Witch's Grave Part 29

I didn't doubt Claire was right about the smugglers using a nearby house. Too many events dealing with undoc.u.mented workers had popped up recently. Were these the same men responsible for trying to smuggle Antonio Vargas's sister across the border? And who then left her to die? If so, Antonio knew more than even I had expected. Was he a threat to them now, like Stephen had been?

I tugged on my lip. Why Ben Jessup? Were they really aiming at Krause? Then why had Ben's apartment been burglarized? What had they taken? Oh yeah, electronics-as in computers. Suddenly, I got the connection between Stephen, Vargas, and Ben, and it felt right.

I whirled around and slammed the door. I knew where they were hiding the immigrants, but I needed proof. I couldn't reach Bill, so I'd have to go to the DCI. And I knew I'd better have something more than dreams and premonitions to tell them.

Sliding down to the floor, I grabbed my tennis shoes and shoved my feet into them. As I was tying them in a rush, I hit my elbow on the leg of the table and sent the newspapers cascading into my lap.

"Ouch." I scooped up the pile and, scrambling to my feet, shoved them back on the table. That day's paper happened to land facedown.

Staring up at me from below the fold was the article about the accident on the interstate. Accompanying the story was a picture of the driver. Even though the black and white picture was grainy, I recognized the photo.

The man in the picture had a scar running down the side of his face.

While driving to the winery, I made my plans. If the man who chased me in St. Louis was the killer, as I suspected, I should be safe. He was beyond hurting anyone else now. And the old church should be abandoned. All I had to do was slip out there and find the proof I needed. Once I did, I'd beat it back to my car and call Bill on my cell phone. If I couldn't reach him, I'd talk to a deputy.

Piece of cake.

There was a chance the trash had been left by construction workers, but I doubted it. I was convinced they were using the old church as a hiding place. Did that mean Ron Mark was involved, or were they pa.s.sing off the new faces as workers? And what construction company was handling the renovations?

I'd worry about that one later. And whether or not Ron was involved, I didn't think that after the last incident, he'd welcome me back to the winery with open arms. I'd have to make sure he didn't spot me.

Glancing in my rearview mirror, I noticed one of Tink's baseball caps on the backseat. I'd wear that, and sungla.s.ses. Not much of a disguise, but it would have to do.

When I drove down the gravel road to the winery, I saw a big silver bus pulled over to the side. Great, a tour. Great, a tour. I'd blend in with the group and wait for my chance to slip away. I'd blend in with the group and wait for my chance to slip away.

I parked behind the bus and slipped on my sungla.s.ses. Getting out, I reached in the back and picked up Tink's hat. I pulled the hat on, settling the brim low on my forehead and tucking my hair underneath.

Walking around the corner of the bus, I caught sight of the tour group and groaned.

Hair, ranging from flat black to odd shades of silver, shone in the sunlight. The group was dressed in almost identical outfits-textured polyester shorts, knit polo shirts tucked into elastic waistbands, and white tennis shoes with anklets folded neatly below varicose-veined calves.

From the back, I guessed the average age to be about eighty. How in the devil would I blend in?

In front of the group I saw the young woman from the gift shop. Her voiced carried across the heads of the little old ladies as she explained the art of grape cultivation.

Pulling my hat even lower, I edged my way to the back of the group, trying to fit in with the group of seniors. I'd mosey along with them until I could make a break for the woods. The gravel crunched as I stepped behind a lady with flat black hair wearing mint green shorts and a yellow polo shirt.

She turned at the sound, and from behind her gla.s.ses shrewd blue eyes appraised me.

"Hi," she said pleasantly. "Are you with us?"

"Um, sort of," I stammered.

"Good," she said, moving back and linking her arm with mine. "It's so nice to have young people join us. I'm Lucy and this is Mabel." She pointed at the woman on the other side of her, wearing a bright purple sun hat, lavender shorts, and a pink shirt.

Gee, this was working out better than I thought. As long as I didn't run into Ron Mark, I'd be okay.

I waved at Mabel.

Lucy gave me a friendly smile. "We're from Sunset Retirement Homes-"

A soft snort came from Mabel, cutting Lucy off. "What a stupid name-Sunset. They might as well call it 'End of the Trail.'"

"Now, Mabel," Lucy admonished, "you have to give us a chance." Lucy turned to me. "Mabel's children talked her into selling her house and moving to Sunset. She's not happy about it," Lucy whispered loud enough for Mabel to hear her.

"Well," I said, scanning the backs of the ladies in front. "You look like a pretty lively bunch."

"Oh, we are." Lucy's eyes flashed. "We come here every year for a tour and a dinner with all the wine we can drink."

I chuckled. This Lucy reminded me of Aunt Dot.

"But," she lowered her voice again, "we've got to keep an eye on Phoebe over there. She can't hold her liquor and she gets a little crazy."

I didn't want to know what was considered crazy for an eighty-year-old, so I let the remark slide.

"Do you know if the old church is on the tour?" I asked.

Mabel whipped her head around so fast that I swore I heard her neck pop. "Is it haunted?"

It was to me, but I wasn't going to explain that one. "No, I've never heard that it was."

"Does it have an old graveyard?" Mabel was getting excited.

"I suppose," I replied with a small frown.

Mabel straightened her shoulders and stood tall. "I'm psychic, you know. I can sense spirits."

I suppressed a smile. "Really?"

Lucy waved a wrinkled hand in Mabel's direction. "Oh, don't get her started."

Mabel's face fell. "Well, I am, and-"

"Oh look, there's Ron," Lucy exclaimed, and dropped my arm.

I watched as both she and Mabel raced up to the front of the group, crowding the crazy Phoebe out of the way. Each took his arm. His chuckle drifted back to me as I ducked my head and fell a few steps behind the rest of the group.

The gang followed Ron, Lucy, and Mabel toward the winery while I stayed as far back as I could. We neared the path and I saw my chance. Quickly, I dodged to my left and ducked behind a tree. Holding my breath, I waited until the voices became fainter.

Then I whirled and took off down the path at a dead run.

Thirty-Four.

Wise now to the old memories lurking in the clearing around the old church, I stopped for a moment before I approached. Taking a deep breath, I thought of my experience on the hilltop and imagined the warm glow I'd felt within. It ran through me, around me, making a fierce shield. With a long sigh, I felt prepared, ready to face any challenge.

Instead of entering the clearing directly in front of the old church, I made a half circle through the woods to the back. Mabel had been right, the old cemetery was directly behind the church. The building had blocked my view when I was there last week.

Pine trees cupped the graveyard, and not only cast the ground in deep shade, but the wind sighing through the boughs sounded like the whispers of the dead. The weathered stones either stood or lay tumbled on the ground in precise rows. Some tilted at crazy angles, their bases having sunk partially into the black soil.

The breeze tugged at a strand of hair that had escaped the baseball cap, but when I stepped into the graveyard, the air calmed. Nothing moved-not the deep gra.s.s, not a b.u.t.terfly, not a bird-the only motion was mine as I walked through the tall gra.s.s. A heavy stillness seemed to weigh down on this place. While crossing the graveyard, I noticed that many of the headstones had an angel or a lamb carved deep into the pitted surface. I didn't need to pause to read the dates-those were the markers of children gone too soon.

I reached a single door located on the side, at the rear of the church, and stopped. To my left were two large doors extending out from the building at a downward slope. Cut into the foundation next to them was a boarded-up square. The cellar doors and the old coal chute.

I extended my hand and was about to touch the doork.n.o.b when I dropped the hand to my side. Did I really want to do this? I could leave now, run back to my car, and leave this place for good. I could dump it all in Bill's lap and let him figure out what was happening.

A sudden buzzing in my ears urged me to finish what I'd started, and I reached for the doork.n.o.b again and slowly turned it. The door opened with a creak that reverberated through the quiet glade. I glanced quickly over my shoulder. Why-I had no idea-it was only me and the spirits of the long dead here now. Stepping inside, I softly closed the door.

Dim light shone through grimy windows placed high in the wall to my right. I stood in a hallway leading to the front of the church, and ahead of me spied a door to my left. Creeping up the hallway, I grasped the tarnished k.n.o.b and turned it slowly. Then, with a hard push, I flung it open.

Nothing-the room was empty save for some mildewed boxes and an old kerosene lantern sitting on a decrepit end table. Crossing to the boxes, I flipped one open, sending a fine cloud of dust into the air. I sneezed. Again nothing-old newspapers that had been shredded into a mouse's nest. Yuck. I quickly closed the lid.

I wiped a grimy hand across my forehead and scanned the room. No one had been there for a long time. Looking down at the dirty wooden floor, I saw that the only footprints tracked through the dust were mine.

I left the room and proceeded to the main part of the church. A shaft of late afternoon sun shone down through the hole in the ceiling, and dust motes danced in its beam. The room was as it had been last week, except the pile of trash and the moth-eaten blanket had vanished.

I stuck my hands in the back pockets of my jeans and did a slow 360 while I searched the room for any sign of life. How could this be? How could this be? I'd been so sure I was right. For once, I'd believed in my gift, and thinking over the last week and a half, every clue, every step I made had led me back to the old church. The smugglers I'd been so sure I was right. For once, I'd believed in my gift, and thinking over the last week and a half, every clue, every step I made had led me back to the old church. The smugglers had had been using this building. I was sure of it. been using this building. I was sure of it.

I snapped my fingers. The cellar! The cellar!

Hurrying back down the hallway, I went out the back, and after another glance over my shoulder, studied the cellar doors. They appeared newer than the other doors leading into the church. The hinges were a bright and shiny silver, not rusted like all the others. Grasping one of the rings, I heaved the door open. Its top edge fell back against the side of the building with a thump. I did the same thing with the second door.

At my feet, stone stair steps led down into the gloomy cellar.

Dang, I didn't have a flashlight. How could I snoop around without any light?

The kerosene lantern.

I ran back into the church and to the small room. Picking up the lantern, I shook it and heard a satisfying slosh. Yes...it still had kerosene. Yes...it still had kerosene.

My bubble burst, and I placed the lantern back on the table. How did I intend to light it without matches? Then I thought, If there was a lantern, there had to be matches somewhere. I opened one of the old boxes and with a wince stuck my hand in the shredded paper. No matches.

I tapped my foot in frustration. The sun would be setting soon, and the idea of prowling around these old grounds at night gave me the creeps. I didn't have time to run home and grab a flashlight. I noticed a drawer in the old table and yanked it open, and saw a box of farmer's matches.

Excited, I slid the box open. There were three matches inside. I had three chances-it had better work.

Setting the precious matches on the table, I lifted the latch at the top of the lantern and raised the gla.s.s globe, exposing the wick. I stuck the first match and the smell of sulfur rose. The match spluttered and died. I sc.r.a.ped the second one. The flame flickered twice and suddenly caught. Shielding the burning match from drafts with one hand, I carefully touched the fire to the wick. It crackled once, then a thin blue line of flame shot across its frayed edges.

I slid the globe down and locked it into place. I didn't know how much kerosene the lantern held so I had to hurry. Grabbing it by its metal handle, I rushed back the way I'd come and to the cellar steps.

Reining in my excitement, I took each step carefully. Dead leaves crunched beneath the soles of my tennis shoes as I descended one step at a time. The first few steps were illuminated by the fading sun, but the lower steps were shrouded in shadows. I held the lantern higher, making its circle of light wider.

At the bottom of the steps, a chill hit me, and I rubbed the arm holding the lantern. The walls were of rough limestone above a dirt floor. Above me, the fine strands of spiderwebs crisscrossed the floor joists. The atmosphere was dank and dreary, and along with the musty odor, the scent of stale cigarettes and the sour smell of too many bodies in too small a s.p.a.ce lingered.

Old mattresses covered with grungy blankets littered the floor. A heap of plastic bottles, empty styrene coffee cups, tin cans, and food wrappers sat in one corner.

Yup, I thought with a sense of exhilaration, people had definitely been living down there. But how did I prove they were undoc.u.mented workers smuggled in by the coyotes? I needed something concrete that I could take to Bill.

Crossing to the pile of trash, I placed the lantern on the floor, squatted down, and began to rummage through it. If I could find a piece of paper with a name, a bus ticket, anything to show who had been camped out down there. I held each piece of paper next to the lantern and skimmed it quickly before discarding it. My pile grew bigger, and still I found nothing.

Suddenly, a hand on my arm yanked me to my feet and spun me around.

Antonio Vargas...and in his hand he held a snubbed nose revolver.

I stepped back, holding my hands in front of me. "Antonio, don't do this...think about Deloris and Evita," I pleaded. "What will happen to them if you kill me and go to prison?"

In the light of the kerosene lantern, I saw a perplexed look run across Antonio's face. "I'm not going to kill you," he protested. "I want to shoot the men who left my sister to die in the desert."

I dropped my hands. "You do do know them." know them."

"Yes, they contacted me. The man on the motorcycle-he lied. He said they were holding my sister in Phoenix for ransom. If I paid them more money, they'd let her go." His voice broke. "All the time, she was dead."

"Tell the sheriff what you know-Bill will arrest them-"

"No." His voiced bounced off the limestone walls. "They'll just deport them."

"No, they won't. They'll be punished," I insisted.

"Basta ya!" someone yelled from halfway down the stone steps. someone yelled from halfway down the stone steps.

Antonio whirled around as I peaked over his shoulder.

A man holding a gun came down the steps as he yelled at Antonio in rapid Spanish. Antonio yelled back and waved his gun.

I didn't comprehend what they were saying, but it looked like a standoff. Both had guns, and it was only a question of who would fire first.

The man stood at the bottom of the stairs now, blocking any hope of escape. I had to do something. My eyes flew around the room looking for a weapon, but all that lay at my feet was trash. I could kick over the lantern and start a fire. Maybe that would create enough of a diversion for us to make a run for it.

I began to inch my foot toward the lantern when I caught the word familia familia and saw Antonio's shoulders sag. The gun in his hand thudded to the floor, and he kicked it toward the stranger. and saw Antonio's shoulders sag. The gun in his hand thudded to the floor, and he kicked it toward the stranger.

The man's eyes never left us as he stepped over to the gun, bent, and picked it up. With an evil grin, he stuck it in the waistband of his jeans.

Great, we were trapped. But for some reason, I didn't feel afraid. I felt calm and in control. It seemed the warm glow of my shield hardened around me. I wasn't foolish enough to think it would stop a bullet, but it gave me courage that I hadn't known I possessed.

I stepped out from behind Antonio. "Hey," I said, calling attention to myself, "you speak English?"

The man looked me up and down. "Poco...a little," he replied.

I darted a look at Antonio. "What's 'witch' in Spanish?"