Something brushed against the back of my legs. I looked down. It was a black cat. The cat rubbed against me again, meowing. I nudged it with my foot but it kept rubbing on me. The same heavy material hung in the back window, but the window was cracked open a couple of inches. I leaned forward to the window, the cat tangling itself between my feet.

“Scram!” I hissed, kicking at it.

I pushed the window up and pulled the curtain material back.

There in the room, illuminated by flickering white candles, was Cathy Vega. She was laid out on a platform covered with a red and black flag. Someone had dressed her in camouflage pants and shirt. Her hair had been brushed down, but it still stood out around her head, making her features look small. Her face was bare. It was the only time I had ever seen her without makeup. A scarf of red and black was knotted around her neck, and the room smelled. It had that same rotten gardenia odor I had smelled when I had seen her in the loft downtown. It seemed a long time ago. More than a few days. Centuries ago. And the smell was getting worse.

Cathy Vega was barefoot. All of my thoughts were lost in the candlelight. I could not remember if people got buried with shoes on or not. I don’t know how long I stood there that way, transfixed by her naked feet. She had on red nail polish.

Something hard pushed into the base of my spine, bringing me back to Los Angeles.

“Is that a gun, or are you just excited to see me?” I said to the air. I have always wanted the opportunity for this kind of quick repartee.

An arm reached past me and jerked the curtain closed, enveloping us in the night. It was a woman’s arm. I started to turn my head to look, but the something hard quickly moved up to the back of my head.

“Back up slow.”

I recognized the voice as Emma Garcia’s. I turned to look over my left shoulder, to talk to her. I saw Raul standing there, the same big, silent Indian eyes, and then I was falling and it was very, very dark.

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Things were fuzzy around the edges, like a bad black and white photograph. A million years had passed. A lump the size of an eggplant had sprouted on the side of my head. I tried to swallow, but my mouth was dry. Someone had turned on a bright overhead light and there was a bad smell in the room. Feeling sick to my stomach, I pushed myself to my knees.

“Yes, we knew Cathy. Why deny it?”

I struggled to lift my head. Emma Garcia was leaning against the opposite wall, with Cathy Vega stretched out on the bier between us.