Tonight You're Mine (34 page)

If that were true, then
he
would have made the call she'd received from someone imitating Magaro. But how could Miguel have possibly known what Magaro said to her the night of the rape?

Simple, she thought as she stopped at a light. The information highway. Magaro told Bobby, Bobby told Lisa, and Lisa told Miguel. Maybe Miguel was going along with Lisa's plan back then. Or maybe he was just trying to scare me so I'd turn to some man for protection, hopefully him. Or perhaps the information stopped with Bobby. Maybe it was
Bobby
on the phone that night. He'd certainly love to frighten me.

When she pulled into her driveway, she noted that the patrol car was still in front of the house. Well, at least she was providing fodder for the local gossips, she thought. Probably the only person who found it exciting instead of frightening was Newton Wingate, whom she frequently saw talking to the patrolmen. “Just brushing up on my police procedure,” he'd called to her one day, smiling merrily. “I'm thinking of writing a murder mystery.”

“Am I your inspiration?” she'd asked, amused.

Newton looked at her waggishly. “My dear, you'd inspire any man.”

But Newton was nowhere to be seen today. Maybe hard at work on his typewriter, she thought. Inside the house, Nicole sorted through the mail, noting there were no bills and no postcards, kicked off her shoes, and poured a glass of iced tea. I am
so
tired, she thought. So terribly tired. She set her glass on the coffee table and stretched out on the couch. In five minutes she was sleeping soundly.

It was night. She walked through the brush and voices floated toward her. “She thought she had us,” Magaro was saying.

“She almost did,” Zand answered, snorting something.

“No she didn't. It would have been better if we could have killed her like I wanted, but she still couldn't hurt us. I got too many friends, man. I
told
you I'd come up with an alibi.” Her right hand squeezed around something metal. It fit perfectly within her palm. It gave her a feeling of power. “I said I'd keep you out of prison, didn't I?”

“Yeah, you did.”

“And you promised me something in return. I'll tell you what I want. No more of this roadie stuff. I got talent, man. I shouldn't be haulin' around equipment I should be on the drums.”

“Vega's on drums. He's been with the band from the beginning.”

“So? You get rid of him. No big deal.”

“That wouldn't be easy, man. I wouldn't know how to do it.”

There was a long, ominous silence. “You never know how to do anything, do you?” Magaro hissed in disgust She saw the flash of an all-too-familiar knife. “You get rid of Vega, or he might meet an unfortunate fate, worse than the girl's. At least she lived, although I'd still like to get this knife in her throat for all the trouble she caused.”

And then there was a crunching in the grass. Someone approached the two men, someone tall, someone she couldn't quite see. Her fingers tightened on the object in her hand.

“All right, Magaro, take it easy,” Zand was saying. “If you want Vega out, he's out. Put that damned knife away.”

The shadowy figure was off to her right, moving toward Magaro and Zand. She frowned, her sharp eyes piercing the clear night. Then, in the light of the moon, she caught a glimpse of the face…

The figure turned. Clifton Sloan looked directly into her eyes. “Nikki!” He rushed to her. Magaro and Zand were laughing uproariously at something. They hadn't seen or heard them. They also didn't see a third figure hovering near Nicole and Clifton. Clifton peered at her. “You're sleepwalking again.” He dropped a gun into the grass. “Oh, God, you're barefoot.” He lifted her, knocking the flashlight out of her hand. “We're going home, sweetheart. We're going home and you're going to forget all about this.”

As he swung her around, heading for the road, she caught one last glimpse of the other figure standing absolutely still, watching them. The face. She could barely see the face…

Nicole bolted up from the couch, her heart hammering. “Oh, dear God!” she cried. “I
was
there that night. And so was my father. With a
gun
. My father had come there to kill Zand and Magaro!”

1

At dusk Nicole was still pacing around the living room, stunned by the buried knowledge her dream had revealed. Her gentle, gun-hating father had intended to kill Magaro and Zand. What was his plan? To leave his hotel in Dallas and drive to San Antonio, kill Zand and Magaro, then drive back to Dallas and be there for his morning meeting? It could be easily done. Dallas was less than two hundred miles from San Antonio. And the police had verified that he was seen in the hotel at ten o'clock in the evening, and again the next morning at eight. His plan would have worked, but he hadn't counted on seeing his daughter in Basin Park. That had stopped him from committing murder.

Or had it? Had he taken her home, put her to bed, and gone back to finish the job? Would Zand and Magaro have still been there? Would he have been able to find the gun again? Would he have set up Paul to look like the murderer?

She sat down, twisting her hands in her lap. What should she do with this knowledge? Call Ray? Would it diffuse his certainty that Paul was a killer? Maybe. It would also cast a terrible light on her father.

But there was a third person out there that night. She'd seen the silhouette. Could she identify that person? No. Could she prove that person had murdered Magaro and Zand after she and her father left? No. If Ray even believed her story about the third person, he would probably think it was Paul.

She was certain it wasn't. So who was it? Carmen, as Lisa believed? Nicole concentrated on the memory. The person had been taller than she, and certainly heavier, but beyond that she could remember nothing. Could it have been Bobby, wanting only to kill Magaro because he was forcing Zand to kick him out of The Zanti Misfits? But why would he have killed Zand? Could
that
murder have been an accident? Or could it have simply been an unknown, crazy person who'd seen her father drop the gun and seized an opportunity?

Abruptly Nicole realized she had a splitting headache. She went into the kitchen, downing two more aspirin as she glanced out the window. It was dark now. She'd been pacing and thinking for over an hour, and she still didn't have any answers.

She went back and lay on the couch, waiting for the aspirin to take effect, glad Shelley wasn't here to see her in this condition. Would her life ever return to normal? Would this mystery ever be solved? Or would she end up in prison?

She was still lying in the dark when the phone rang. Oh, no, she thought. How can I possibly sound normal if it's Shelley or Ray?

Nicole rolled off the couch and stumbled into the kitchen, banging her knee on the coffee table along the way. “Hello?”

A moment of silence spun out. Finally Paul said in a raspy, pain-ridden voice, “Nicole, come to the Mission San Juan. I need you.”

Then the line went dead.

2

Nicole stood holding the phone for a few seconds. What could have happened? Had she led someone to Paul less than twenty-four hours ago?

Without hesitation, she bolted for the bedroom, and nearly tore off her suit. Within minutes she was in jeans and a sweater. She pulled a jacket over her clothes, stuffed her gun in the pocket, then picked up the bedroom phone and called the taxi company, once again directing them to pick her up on the street behind hers as soon as possible.

As she ran through the darkened living room, she remembered Ray saying the night Avis had been murdered, the patrolman outside had seen her moving around inside: The men sent to watch her were clearly alerted to survey for normal light patterns, and here it was pitch-dark, not one light glowing in the living room. Quickly she went around, turning on lamps and even the television. She pulled back the sheer curtains, looking outside, just in case he was looking back and could see her face. Then she drew one set of draperies. All looked normal for eight-thirty on a week night.

Next she went to the basement and retrieved her ladder. She went out the back door and propped the ladder against the fence. Two minutes later the ladder lay in the backyard of the empty house, and she had made another successful drop to the ground. She arrived at the sidewalk just as the taxi pulled up.

“The Mission San Juan,” she said, climbing into the backseat.

The driver turned around. “Not
again
!”

Nicole looked at him. “Good lord, what are the chances of getting the same taxi driver two nights in a row?”

“Slim. Look, lady, I told you I don't like it out there.”

“Didn't I pay you double last night? Didn't you make more than you would have in a normal night?”

“Yeah,” he said grudgingly.

“Did any harm come to you?”

“Well, no.”

“Then what's the problem? I'll pay double the fare again tonight. You could use the extra money, couldn't you?”

“Okay.” He shook his head. “But if you're havin' an affair, lady, I'd suggest you find a better place like everyone else. This is weird.”

“Please just drive. I'm in a hurry.”

“You're
always
in a hurry. I'd sure like to know what this guy's got goin' for him. No woman would do this for me.”

You're not Paul Dominic, she thought. I'd do anything for Paul if he needed me.

But what could be wrong? Nicole asked herself as they crossed the city, this trip slower than the last one because it was earlier in the evening. If someone
had
caught up with Paul, why would they be holding him at the mission? It certainly couldn't be the police or Paul would be in custody. What about Miguel? Carmen? Maybe even Lisa or Bobby?

But perhaps Paul wasn't being held at all. Maybe he'd been badly hurt and taken refuge at the mission instead of going to a hospital, which would be too dangerous. If that were the case, though, why hadn't he gone to his mother's? Fear of Rosa? And what could she do for him?

After what seemed an interminable ride, they finally arrived at the mission. “Don't tell me,” the driver said. “You want me to wait.”

“Yes. Do I have to pay up to this point?” Nicole asked.

“No. You were good for the fare last night. I guess I trust you.”

Thank heavens, Nicole thought, remembering she only had ten dollars in her purse and no checkbook. He'd have to wait until she returned home to get paid.

She jumped out of the cab, passed through an opening in the stone walls, and crossed the grounds. The tall wooden cross looked more stark and rough than it had last night. She stopped. Something was different. It was the light. The cross wasn't bathed in only the softening sheen of moonlight. She looked toward the church to see light flickering through the open doorway. There must be a special event tonight because the church was open. In that case, she had to be extra careful.

Nicole ran to the ruins of the unfinished church where she had met Paul last night. Moonlight played over the statue of Jesus holding the baby in one arm. Someone had placed a bouquet of flowers in the statue's free hand. Slowly she went into the first room on the left, which she knew had been intended as the baptistery. No Paul.

She searched all the rooms of the ruins, then went outside. “Jordan?” she called softly, hoping the dog would come to her again and lead her to Paul. But the dog didn't appear.

Next Nicole went to the
hospedería
, or guest lodgings, but to no avail. She emerged again onto the open grounds. Where could he be? The historical museum was closed. Only the church remained open.

Music floated from the open door. Gregorian chants, beautiful and haunting. And loud. Then it hit her. If there were a special event going on, where were the cars in the parking lot? There were no cars, no sign of activity. Paul was in the church. It was the only place left. But he certainly wouldn't turn on lights and play loud music.

He wasn't alone, she thought with a chill. Someone had him.

Nicole approached the door slowly, afraid to go in, afraid not to. Finally, getting a firm grip on the gun in her pocket, she stepped inside.

She'd always thought the inside of the church was beautiful, although outside it was the most austere of the missions. The walls were snowy white, the ceiling high and lined with rough beams. A simple circular chandelier decorated with only six candles hung high above. But the altar was magnificent, with its crimson hangings, golden pillars, vividly colored religious statues, and more candles. Fresh baskets of poinsettias sat beneath a delicate, lacy white altar cloth.

To her right on a table, votive candles burned.
All
of them, nearly fifty. The music soared, filling the old church with the reverent, perfectly pitched
a cappella
voices.

“Paul?” Nicole called over the music. “Paul, are you here?”

At first there was nothing but the sound of the chants. Then she heard it. Groans. Someone kicking the wooden floor near the front of the church.

Slowly she moved forward, still holding the gun in her pocket. How strange that felt. To be in a church, holding a gun.

Another groan sounded at the front of the church. Nicole bolted forward, then stopped. A man rose up from behind the altar. He held a battered, gagged Paul. He was also holding a gun to Paul's temple.

“Ray?” Nicole's voice was high with disbelief. “Ray, what are you doing?”

“I knew you'd come if
he
asked you. You still love him, don't you? After all this time.” Nicole went hollow inside. “
He
wouldn't make the call,” Ray said. “
He
wouldn't lure you out here. Not even when I got
…persuasive
. So I had to imitate his voice again.”

“Again?”

Ray lapsed into a perfect imitation of Paul's voice. “Nicole, come to the Mission San Juan. I need you.”

Suddenly Nicole remembered Paul saying he would never call her because he was afraid her phone was tapped. She also remembered Ray imitating Izzy Dooley's girlfriend's voice. Obviously he had a faculty for mimicry. How many times had he used it?

“Ray?” Nicole asked, feeling as if the words were coming from someone else. “Did you call me pretending to be Magaro?”

“Yes. After Dominic hit me, I made the call on my cell phone when I regained consciousness. Scared you, didn't I?”

Nicole was shivering, but her voice was steady. “You're the person behind all of these murders, aren't you?”

He looked at her nonchalantly. “Certainly, Nicole.”

Horror engulfed her. How many times had he sat in her living room, offering comfort, delivering bad news with soft words and kind eyes? She'd believed in him. She'd considered a relationship with him when this ordeal was over. This ordeal he'd created. But she knew it would be a mistake to let him see her revulsion. Somehow she knew he would expect surprise, even be pleased by it, but he wouldn't tolerate revulsion.

She swallowed. “So you're responsible for the murders lately, but not fifteen years ago. You didn't kill Zand and Magaro.”

“Oh, yes, them, too.”

“Them, too?” she echoed in shock. “Why?”

“Because they hurt you.”

“Because they
hurt
me? Ray, you didn't even
know
me.”

“Yes, I did. Sort of.” He smiled sweetly. “You don't recognize me, do you?” Nicole slowly shook her head. “You don't remember Rosa's son, Juan?”

Nicole's mind spun back over the years. The shy teenager, always darting out of the way, never meeting her eyes. And Rosa's last name was DeSoto. She hadn't thought of that for years. Besides, there were so many DeSotos in the area. “You're Rosa's son?” she repeated dumbly. “But your name…”

“Raymond Juan DeSoto.” He smiled. “Don't feel so bad. Paul here didn't recognize me, either, did you, Paul?”

He tore the gag from Paul's mouth. Dried blood streaked down from a corner. One eye was circled with purple, and his right cheek bore a long cut. “No,” he croaked.

“How about that?” Ray said, smiling. “Didn't even recognize his own brother.”

Paul's head jerked toward him and Ray pushed the gun harder against his temple. “Be
still
,” Ray hissed.

“What are you talking about?” Nicole asked. “Paul doesn't have a brother.”

“Not one that he knows about. Not a
full
brother. I'm the product of an affair the saintly Alicia Dominic had when Paul was about twelve.”

My God, Nicole thought. She had considered that the affair with Javier resulted in a child, but she'd thought that child might possibly be Miguel Perez because he looked so much like Paul. There was no resemblance between Paul and Ray besides dark hair.

“Alicia doesn't think I know,” Ray went on, “but I've
always
known. She was too religious to have an abortion, so she found a woman who was an illegal immigrant and promised that if she'd pretend the child were hers, she'd pull strings to get the woman's citizenship papers along with giving her a permanent home in a mansion. She and Rosa left San Antonio, Alicia supposedly for Europe. Actually, they were both in California. Shortly after Alicia had me, giving
her
name as Rosa DeSoto in the hospital, she came home. Three months later Rosa showed up with a baby and was hired as the housekeeper.”

“The other one,” Alicia had said. Ray was “the other one,” the son of Javier.

“I don't believe you,” Paul grated out.

“Well, it's true.” Ray jerked him and Paul cried out. Obviously his left arm was broken. His face paled, and Nicole saw the gleam of sweat on it. “Not that I was ever treated like your brother. Oh, I lived in the same house, but I was kept away from you as much as possible. Your mother was always afraid some resemblance between us might show up. That's why you've never recognized me. You left home at fifteen—I was only three—and when you were back on visits, I was ordered to stay out of your way. That was part of it, anyway. The other part was that your mother,
my
mother, could barely stand to look at me. I was a reminder of her great sin. Rosa told me that one night when she'd had too much to drink. She drinks in secret, you know.”