Blessed Are Those Who Weep (6 page)

 

Chapter 12

T
ERESA
C
ASTILLO
LIVES
in San Juan Bautista. Kellogg reluctantly gave me the thumbs-­up for the trip because it will be the first interview with a family member of the victims. He made a point to remind me that covering the Mission Massacre was still Nicole's job, but that it'd be okay if I wrote this one story, a profile piece of Maria Martin. Gee thanks.

The trip will take most of my day. I'm missing Sunday dinner at Nana's. But I'm slightly relieved I can postpone facing my family and all their questions about the Mission Massacre.

And I'm doubly glad I don't have to see Donovan today. While I know it's not entirely his fault and that I'm being childish, I'm still furious we missed our window. Part of me wishes I would've pushed him and said, “Come on, let's just have a quickie!” Nothing wrong with that. Instead, a tiny nugget of resentment against him forms.

The sun is creeping over the Gabilan Mountains in a misty haze when I zip past San Jose. The light this morning is amazing, golden and hazy, mingling with lingering coastal fog.

I know I'm close when the car fills with the pungent smells of Gilroy's garlic fields. I pull over at a roadside stand, where I grab a latte and a braid of garlic for my kitchen.

It feels great to fly down the freeway with my windows down, cranking The Cure's “Just Like Heaven,” buzzed from the caffeine in my latte. Even though I'm filled with disappointment, a tiny part of me is relieved that I don't have to worry about getting pregnant for another month. The feeling of a weight being lifted combines with a pang of sadness that my body will go even longer without a baby inside it.

I make great time, so when I pull into San Juan Bautista, I'm forty minutes early for my meeting with Mrs. Castillo. After cruising past her tiny bungalow so I know where it is, I park a few blocks away and head for the mission. I've seen it in movies so many times that I'm anxious to see it in real life.

A small line is formed in front of what must be the village bakery. The smell of fresh bread reminds me I skipped breakfast. I'll stop in the bakery after I visit the mission.

At the chapel, a crowd pours out after what must have been the 10:00 a.m. Mass. I creep inside and genuflect before kneeling toward the back.

Closing my eyes, hands clasped, I pray. The wood kneeler digs into my bare legs.

I pray for Lucy. A lurid image of the death scene in that apartment rushes back. I press my eyes even tighter, my face scrunching up. I pray for my own baby. And pray for the chance to get pregnant again.

I know I don't deserve it, but I want to be a mother so badly
.

I think about Caterina, and for once, I don't pray to avenge her murder.

Father Liam once told me to try praying for Caterina's killer. I don't know if I will ever be capable of that. Right now, I fear I would pray for his long, painful death at my own hands.

But thinking of him has stopped my thoughts of my dead baby. Pushing my hair back, I look up. The church has nearly emptied.

A dark head is bowed in the front pew.

The altar's bright colors draw me closer. The woman in the front pew briefly looks up, and her eyes brighten when she sees me. She gives me a small smile and nod, and bows her head once more.

I pause in front of the altar. There are six cubbies, lined with red curtains that contain intricately painted statues. I recognize the one that is most prominent, John the Baptist, but the others I'm not sure about.

When I turn to ask the woman in the front row, I realize she must have silently slipped out a side door, because the church is empty.

A
FEW
MINUTES
later, I knock on the door to the bungalow. Small yellow flowers in terra-­cotta pots flank the entryway.

Soft singing from inside the house filters out an open window, and a moment later the door opens. It's the woman from the church. Her black hair is cut in a Louise-­Brooks-­type bob, with a silver streak down one side. She wears blood red lipstick on her full lips and a black turtleneck with black Capri pants.

A small smile spreads across her face, but her gray eyes are possibly the saddest eyes I've ever seen. The loss of her daughter weighs heavy in them, but the warmth in her smile is genuine, and I can't help but return it. I thrust a warm loaf of rustic bread at her.

“This smelled too good to pass up.”

“
Gracias
. We'll have some with our coffee.” She opens the door wider so I can enter.

Inside, the main room is nearly empty. A small wood table pressed against one wall holds an old-­fashioned stainless-­steel percolator and two coffee mugs. The main feature of the room is a large easel with a seascape partially completed. Stacks of finished canvases lean against the lower parts of the white stucco walls. Most of them appear to be Mexican landscapes featuring tall, soaring cactus with purple and red flowers against a cobalt sky.

“You're an artist?”

The woman gives a graceful shrug. “It pays the rent.”

She has a thick accent, but she obviously learned American colloquialisms quickly. I wonder how long she's lived here.

“Excuse me, why did they say your daughter didn't have any other family in America?” I say as I take the cup of coffee she hands me.

“Let's go out to the patio.”

A small door through the kitchen leads to an inner courtyard filled with flowers.

“I am dead to him,” she says once we are seated at a small metal bistro table outside. Her tone has grown somber. “A few months ago, I tried to get Maria to leave him. She told him. He forbid her from speaking to me. But she did anyway. I am her mother.”

“Her husband? Joey Martin?”

“Yes. He met Maria on leave in Mexico. He wants to ‘save' her, he says, he marries her, brings her up here, and leaves. She is so lonely. He brings his parents and sister and nephew to live with her. He is overseas the whole time.”

“So, he was gone most of the time?”

“Yes.” Mrs. Castillo pours us more coffee.

“How often did he come to visit since they married?”

“Not much. Maybe three times. Only for a day or two.”

Long enough to knock her up, though.

“But the last time, Maria asked me to come to stay when he is on leave here.” She raises an eyebrow as she says it. The last person I would want around when my husband was home on leave from overseas would be my mother.

Mrs. Castillo butters some bread and hands me a thick slice. I take a bite, chewing. Despite the smell, it tastes like everything else I've had to eat lately—­cardboard. Even so, I am halfway done with my piece while she gingerly nibbles on the crust of hers.

Maria asked her mother to stay in her small apartment when her husband was last home on leave.

“Why did Maria want you to stay?”

“She was afraid.” Mrs. Castillo says this matter-­of-­factly.

“But she was never really alone, was she? You said his parents were up there, and his sister as well, right?”

“Yes, they live in the same building as Maria. They watched baby Lucy for her sometimes.”

They lived in her building? Did the police search their apartment, as well?

“Do you remember what apartment number?” I keep chewing the soggy piece of bread, which is lasting an eternity in my mouth.

“312. I remember it because it is the same as my birthday—­three, twelve—­March twelfth. Maria spent a lot of time there, too. She liked his parents.” Her bright eyes blink back tears.

I finally swallow the bread.

“There was also his friend,” she says, and I wonder why she is bringing this friend up. Is there a reason? “He was always around. Wish Maria would have married him. Much nicer. Good family,” she says and takes another tiny nibble of her bread, running a fingernail around her mouth to make sure her lipstick hasn't smeared.

“What friend?” Why does she want me to know this? What is she trying to tell me?

I wait as she finishes chewing. “Army buddy. Nice boy.”

“Do you remember his name?”

Mrs. Castillo looks off into the distance as she tries to remember.

“Marnie? Arnie? Maybe something with an A, but some type of girl name. On a boy.” She says this as if it's a travesty. Fingering her chin, she gives a big sigh. “It will come to me. One of these days.”

“Can you call me if you remember that friend's name?”

She nods, absentmindedly handing me another slice of bread she has buttered.

“Do you have a picture of Maria I could borrow? I could make a copy and mail the original back today.”

The screen door slams behind her as she heads inside. I lean back, looking up at the blue sky for a few seconds before I take in the morning glory flowers snaking up a trellis beside me.

When Mrs. Castillo returns, her eyes and nose are red, as if she was crying and blew her nose because she didn't want me to know. She hands me a glossy five-­by-­seven picture. It's a wedding photo.

It is a candid shot of the ­couple walking on the beach. Maria wears a white gown that is severely buttoned up to the neck, which somehow highlights her voluptuousness. He is dressed in his army uniform. Only his profile shows as he looks at Maria.

Maria's face is lit from within. She is laughing merrily, hair slightly mussed, holding his hand in a way that looked like they had been swinging their arms. Tucking the picture into my notebook in my bag, I ask about Maria's childhood.

Mrs. Castillo tells me how Maria grew up on the family ranch in Mexico, helping her father with the horses and cows. How she rode the wildest horses, taming them, having them eat out of her palm. And how shortly after her father died, she met Martin. He was visiting a friend on a nearby ranch, and he saw her riding bareback in a dress with her long hair flowing behind her. He decided right then she would be his wife. He was charismatic and handsome, and Maria told her mother it was love at first sight.

Glancing at my watch, I realize I've skirted around the issue long enough. “Why did you want to speak to me in person? Why do you want to stop Lucy's father from getting her?” I take another sip of my coffee.

“He is so crazy about her, he wants to be with her all the time. He was so angry he had to go overseas. His own fault. He signed the papers. Twelve more years.”

Twelve more years enlisted? That's a serious commitment. She stands and begins puttering with her plants, stroking the leaves and checking the soil for moisture. She's avoiding my eyes. I see her swipe at her eyes when her back is turned.

“Mrs. Castillo? I know this is difficult for you, but you haven't answered my question. You called him a monster. Said you would rather die than see your granddaughter end up in his care.”

She gives a nervous laugh and doesn't look up from an azalea plant. “I don't know. Sometimes I say crazy things.”

Why is she backing off now? What has changed? I can't figure it out. I stand and set my coffee cup down. I open the door to her bungalow, and she follows.

“You told me on the phone that more than anything else, you needed to stop him from getting your granddaughter,” I say once we are inside, standing near the front door. “You need to explain that. I didn't drive down here for the coffee.”

When she looks up at me, I see the answer in her eyes. Mingled with the sadness is a look of terror.

“You're afraid, aren't you? You're afraid of whoever killed your daughter?”

She acknowledges my words with a nod so slight it could be imagined.

“Lucy will not be safe if he has her. . . . That little girl is all I have now. All I have of my Maria . . .”

She trails off.

“Why won't you tell me why you're afraid? You called me down here for a reason. Why won't Lucy be safe with her father? Please tell me.”

She shakes her head no.

Something dark and unfathomable stirs inside me for a second. She looks up and takes my hands in hers.

“Can you save Lucy?” Her sharp fingernails, painted the same blood red as her lipstick, dig into my hands.

“Tell me what you're afraid of.”

She won't look at me. Her demeanor conveys a desperation that doesn't match her words. I sense her fear, shooting through her hand into mine.

“He is here. He has been here. He was here the day Maria died.”

“What? The police said he's thousands of miles away in Iraq. What are you trying to say? Are you saying he had something to do with your daughter's death?”

“Can you stop him from getting Lucy?” she repeats, her hands clutching mine so tightly that it hurts.

“Not unless you cut the bullshit and tell me what you really know. What do you mean, he's here?” Infected with her fear, I lash out, in a harsher tone than I intended. I tear my hand out of hers, open the front door, and step outside.

Instead of answering, she pulls back and closes the door on me as if I've slapped her. I pound and pound, but she doesn't open the door. Finally I stop and put my mouth near the door.

“If you can't convince me, you'll never convince the cops.”

The door slowly opens. Only wide enough for her face to peer out.

“In her apartment. In her closet, there is a steamer trunk. Underneath is a loose board. There you will find her letters. If they are not there, check in the in-­laws' apartment. In the linen closet. She said she will hide them one of those places. They will explain everything. You have to believe me when I say Lucy is in danger.

“He is here.”

 

Chapter 13

A
S
SOON
AS
I'm in San Francisco, I find myself missing my exit for the Embarcadero and taking the next one. Before I know it, I'm parked in front of the apartment building in the Mission, peering up at the lighted windows of the four-­story structure. Several windows are dark, including the corner apartment on the second floor, where Maria lived, and one on the third floor—­the one where her in-­laws lived? Is Mrs. Castillo crazy with grief, or is Lucy in danger? If the letters are there, I'll believe her. And if she's telling the truth, the cops need to know. I just won't tell them exactly how the letters ended up in my hands. A minor detail. Besides, none of what Mrs. Castillo says is going to matter if we can't prove it.

It only takes me a few seconds to decide. I'll need to swing by my apartment first. Donovan left a message earlier saying he was going to try to sleep a few hours at his place before heading back to work.

At my place in North Beach, I rummage on top of my cabinets, where I keep things hidden: mace and my lock pick set. I have one canister of mace on my keychain, but I like to have an extra one hidden in my apartment. I grab my lock pick set and tuck it into a small bag I sling crossways over my body.

O
NCE
I'
M
IN
front of the apartment building, I wait until the street is quiet before I get out of my car, closing the door softly and not setting my noisy car alarm.

At the front door of the building, I look both ways down the street before slipping inside, my heart pounding. I jog up the small flight of stairs to the second floor. At the end of the hall, the door to apartment 210, Maria's apartment, looks normal. Once I'm in front of the door, I try the handle. Locked. I take out my lock pick kit. My hands are shaking, and my palms grow sweaty and slippery even looking at the door. I'll start at the in-­laws' apartment upstairs. It has been a few months since I picked a lock.

Lopez gave me the lock pick kit in August for my birthday.

He spent an entire afternoon showing me how to pick different types of locks. Armed with a set of picks and a tension wrench, we practiced on dead bolts, combination locks, pin tumbler locks, and regular doorknob locks at his family's homes.

“Get that torsion wrench in and hold it with a light touch with your thumb. Very little pressure. Now, take your pick and hold it like a pencil. Use your wrist, not your fingers, to move it . . . push it up and down gently. Feel the pins?”

I'd shake my head no, but he never lost his patience.

“Don't push the pick all the way to the back. Do you feel a pin that is stuck? Yes? Apply a little pressure. You can tell every time you unlock a pin, because you'll feel it in the wrench and the plug will move a little, got it?”

I'd nod excitedly when all the pins were unlocked.

“It's all about the touch, man,” he kept telling me that afternoon. “The biggest mistake ­people make is they think they need to crank on that thing. When you pick a lock, a light touch is what works.”

Lopez always treats me like another one of his little sisters, and that day was no exception. He got so excited for me when I finally figured it out. “High five, man. You got it!” The rest of his family seemed to think this was a normal birthday gift and a perfectly reasonable way to spend our Saturday afternoon. His sister cooked a feast, and we stayed for the best tamale dinner north of San Diego.

Even though I pretty much have the hang of it, it takes a lot longer for me to open a door than it does Lopez. He's promised to make me a bump key—­a key that can open most locks—­but hasn't yet. A lock pick kit is better, he says, because you can sneak in and out without any trace, and bump keys sometimes ruin locks.

“Do burglars know about these?” I asked him.

“Fuck yeah, home skillet. 'Course they do.”

Great.

Upstairs, at room 312—­Joey Martin's parents' apartment—­I kneel in front of the door and work on the lock, remembering what Lopez taught me, but I am jumpy, worried every time I hear a small sound from neighboring apartments. Beads of sweat are dripping down my brow by the time I hear the last click and the door swings open.

Inside, I close the door behind me and lean against it in the dark, catching my breath. My blood is racing through my veins, pumping loudly in my ears. I did it. I am officially a burglar.

Moving carefully in the dark, I reach for a light switch.

The apartment is simple, like Maria's down below, but it seems more cheery, homier. It also is impeccable. Is there a chance the cops dropped the ball and didn't search this apartment?

There is a colorful afghan blanket thrown over the couch. I smell something that reminds me of my uncle Sal, and it makes sense when I see the small ashtray that contains a tiny, half-­smoked cigar.

A Formica dining room table is spotless, and a morning paper is neatly stacked on one corner. I glance at the date. The morning Maria called me.

Everything is in its proper place. Dishes from breakfast are clean and resting on a dish rack to dry. Towels on the counter are perfectly stacked.

I glance around the bedroom. The bed is neatly made.

The few clothes in the small closet are neat. Shoeboxes contain well-­worn and cared-­for shoes. The bathroom, also, yields nothing. It smells like bleach. But it looks like the cops haven't searched it. I wonder why not.

Holding my breath, I crack the linen closet in the hall and rummage around. It only contains neat stacks of towels and sheets. No letters. I scan the rest of the apartment. I'm not sure what I thought I could find. Maybe it's what's missing that tells me something. There is only one picture on a small end table—­of Joey Martin's mother and father taken years ago. Maybe their engagement picture? Or wedding picture. He wears a dark suit. She wears what appears to be a pale jacket over a high-­necked blouse. Her hair is clipped neatly back away from her face. They are smiling.

But there is not one single picture of Joey. Not a baby or school picture. Not a wedding picture of Joey and Maria.

Before I leave, I give one last glance around, trying to memorize it and take it all in, just in case I missed something. I can't believe the police searched this place and left it so undisturbed.

Back on the second floor, I pause, looking down the hall at Maria's apartment, but I can't make myself go in there. Not in the dark. Not by myself. No matter how hard I try, I can't help but see the apartment in vivid Technicolor, full of bloody, chopped-­up bodies. Their ghosts surely must haunt that tiny space.

But I owe it to Maria to look for those letters. I owe it to her and her baby. She turned to me for help. Someone killed her before she told me her secrets, but maybe I can help her now.

In front of apartment 210, I press my ear to the door. The only sound is my heart thumping loudly in my ear. I know I'm overreacting, but I get the overwhelming feeling that a tangible evil is emanating from the apartment. My mouth grows dry, and the hairs on the back of my neck stand at attention. I wipe my palms on my pants before I try the doorknob to make sure it's still locked. I get out my lock pick kit. It takes a little less time than before. I stand back and gently kick the door open. The apartment is dark. A noise down the hall that sounds like a door opening sends me scurrying inside, pushing the door closed softly behind me. I reach off to the side for the light switch, but when I flick it, the room remains black.

My heart races, and even in the dark, I see bloody faces in corners, my imagination running wild, mixing with my memories of the massacre. The apartment seems alive even though I know all the bodies are long gone. A lingering evil presence remains. With shaking fingers, I fumble in my small bag for my flashlight. I'm about to turn it on when a floorboard across the living room creaks and I hear a breathy sound—­like someone exhaling with scuba gear.

I am not alone.