mountains,” he said softly, his tone far from kindly.
“Please…I’ll pay anything,” she repeated desperately, hoping the words could be heard over the painful pounding of her heart. She tried pushing to her feet, but her hands only slid in the mud and she merely scooted forward an inch or two.
“Señora,” he said, a dangerous light now in his eyes. “Your money means nothing to me.”
The silence left in the wake of his words was torn by the shrill pulse of the sirens’ screams. Melanie jumped and automatically turned to watch the arrival of a brown Bronco bearing a sheriff’s silver star on the side panel. It whipped into the muddy gas station lanes. Not twenty yards behind the Bronco was a large, white ambulance with red lights whirling angrily in the gathering afternoon dusk.
She turned back and was too late: Teo Sandoval—El Rayo—was gone, having disappeared as thoroughly as if he’d never been there. She frantically sought his solid figure among the shadows of the surrounding forest, but saw nothing save pine boughs, sodden scrub oak and dark, dark shimmers of raindrops winking at her as though in amusement.
The unmistakable sound of tires losing their grip in mud called her attention and she turned just in time to see the sheriff’s mud-spattered unit spin across the gas station driveway. By yet another miracle on this peculiar day, the unit avoided slamming into anything, but did serve as a sharp reminder that she’d left her son alone in the car. With a single backward glance toward the seemingly empty woods, she awkwardly pushed to her feet and made her way to Chris.
In the pandemonium that reigned upon the sheriff’s arrival, and the ambulance driver’s frantic attempt to avoid collision with the sheriff’s Bronco, Melanie realized that Teo Sandoval had been allowed to fade from sight. Amid the explanations of why the sheriff had been called—a call Pablo now said apologetically had proved unnecessary—Melanie noticed that no one mentioned El Rayo. It was as if he didn’t exist.
She listened to all the explanations and the carefully worded evasions, and with one eye on Chris—who, thankfully, was now asleep and therefore unable to maintain his dancing game—searched the woods across the road for any sign of the most powerful telekinetic on record.
She wouldn’t betray El Rayo by asking the voluble townspeople about him in front of the sheriff, but she intended to stay where she was until she could ask where the healer had gone. She also preferred to be the one to approach the villagers rather than have any of them get close enough to the car that they might wake Chris and witness his amazing bag of tricks.
Wiping as much mud as possible from her clothing and hands, she waited quietly until the furor had lessened somewhat. Then, with one last reassuring glance at her son, she walked around the building.
Despite the gathering darkness, the evening shadows, Teo could see the woman clearly. He watched her round the corner and rejoin the fringe of the group surrounding Demo. She was covered in mud and her hair was sodden from the rain. But there was nothing amusing about her. Nothing at all.
His gaze remained on her, and he willed her to look his way, to find him in the shadows. He’d seen her looking before, trying, squinting her remarkable eyes against the mist, questing for him. Though he’d felt the shock of her gaze sweeping the branches beside him, around him, seemingly right at him, she hadn’t spotted him, had stared through him as though he were invisible. Her gaze had merely traveled on, taking in the oak, the red and shriveled leaves, the wet shadows surrounding him.
Why couldn’t he read her? Why couldn’t he hear this woman’s thoughts, feel her wants, needs, and the thousand other confused little memories, impressions and dreams that seemed to bombard him from everyone else in the world?
Without even trying, he could “hear” everyone standing around Pablo’s gas station. Demo was filled with pride over being the object of everyone’s attention. Tempering that pride was a heavy dose of relief, not that he had survived the car falling on him, but that he had lived through El Rayo’s touch of lightning. Doro, his wife, was thinking of the pot of frijoles she’d left on the stove when the men had first called that Demo had been hurt. Were the beans burned? Did they need salt, more chili? The baby’s diapers were wet and his nose itched. Jaime was wondering who the new señora was and if she would talk about Teo, about what she had seen. And then there was Pablo, the hardest to read of all of them. His thoughts were half closed, gifts like Teo’s twisting the thoughts into chaos. Pablo was hoping, as he always did, that he would live long enough to be forgiven an afternoon’s trip many, many years ago.
But Teo couldn’t read her at all. Not even a glimmer of her mind was revealed to him. It both frightened and intrigued him, because, for a startlingly clear moment, he had been reaching for her thoughts. Then she had shut him out. He’d felt a distinctive mental slam. It still echoed inside him. Yet before she had slammed the door on his probing, for a few charged seconds he’d seen something in her that he’d never encountered before.
An intangible something, almost like a daydream. And it rocked him to his core, for that intangible something had seemed all too like a promise of hope or connection. But he knew all too well that promises only led to despair and pain—
He shook his head in anger. Damn this woman. Who was she? What did she want? The only other time he’d felt blocked from someone’s thoughts had been at the PRI, and then only because the men in the lab coats had stood behind leaded glass and lead-lined doors. But there hadn’t been any intangibles there, only fear, hatred, need and furious control.
She had touched him. She had held him in her arms, moved the hair on his brow, smoothed the rain from his cheeks. Her fingers had been warm and soft, not healing hands such as his were, yet oddly remedial in their very presence.
Why had she helped him? Was it because she didn’t know his terrible curse? But she had to have known. She had called him by his name. His name. How long had it been since he had been held, even in sympathy? How long had it been since he had heard his name upon a woman’s lips?
She had said something about the PRI. She seemed afraid of it. She had damn good reason to be; if the PRI wanted her, they would succeed. Or had he misunderstood…and she was from the PRI?
He wanted to scream out in anger, lash out in denial. No. It couldn’t be. Yet, wasn’t he weak from the healing? He might have been too weakened from the healing to recognize all the dangers today. He fought the rage building in his lungs, the pain boiling in his heart.
God, he thought, and then stopped. No amount of prayer would help him. It never had, it never would.
He cursed her silently for ever coming to Loco Suerte. She was too damn beautiful and, though he knew nothing more of her than her name, and perhaps a measure of her desperation, he was too attracted to her. She’d stripped him naked not only with her gentle embrace, but by the very fact that she’d touched him at all. He ached for more and, though he knew it was irrational, hated her for that, for making him want her…for making him remember that for him there was to be no touching, no love, no life. Ever.
A host of questions clamored in his mind like the raucous calls of piñon jays in winter, and slowly answers coalesced. She wasn’t from the PRI, but she wanted him to help her son. She would pay anything, she’d said, but he’d told her to leave. And he’d meant it. It was far too dangerous for her to stay. Too dangerous for him.
His thoughts turned to her son and his gaze followed their direction. The child was no more than a babe and was asleep, dreaming of his mother and a host of simple, nothing thoughts.
As if recognizing the intrusive stranger even in his dreams, the small child sat up suddenly
