Page 102 of The Texas Murders

I FIND THE skeletons of the women, their clothes in tatters, their bones gleaming white in the moonlight. I count three skulls. Around the vertebrae of one of the necks is a silver necklace, which I recognize from the photo of Chipeta Tavaci.

I’m sure the other two are Rebecca Trujillo and Tina White Wolf.

I suspected all along that they were dead, but to be confronted with their remains is still hard. I feel overwhelming sadness that these women were killed. That we weren’t able to save them.

But there’s no sign of Fiona.

If she were here, her remains would be more fresh. Which means—dead or alive—she’s out there somewhere in the darkness.

And there’s no sign of Isabella, either.

A trail of blood leads through the brush toward the creek. It’s hard to follow in the moonlight, the splotches of red getting lost in patches of dark dirt. Now is when I wish I had a flashlight.

I draw my pistol—with difficulty—and walk forward with the gun in my left hand, where it feels uncomfortable and awkward. I curse myself for never practicing with my left.

I don’t call out anymore. Now I try to be as silent as possible. There’s a small drop-off into the creek bed, which I hobble down. My boots sink into two inches of water. Any trace of blood has been washed away.

I kneel and squint and look around, trying to figure out where she could have gone.

A shot rings out behind me as a bullet zips by my ear. I drop onto the ground and roll over in the water, my injury exploding with pain. I attempt to get my gun up, but between the pain and the sling and my clumsy left hand, I can’t seem to get oriented.

Isabella Luna leans forward out of the darkness of an overhanging rock, her gun leveled at me.

Before I can act, I hear a wild screeching noise. The sound startles Isabella as well as me, and she hesitates.

A ghostly female form lunges out of the brush, balancing on only one leg while holding a rock the size of a bowling ball above her head and screaming like a banshee. With long dark hair hanging over her face and skeleton-thin arms straining to hoist the stone above her, she looks more like a phantom from a horror movie than a human.

Isabella swings the gun toward the apparition, but the phantom is too fast. She slams the rock onto the top of Isabella’s skull with a sickeningcrack.

Isabella goes limp, and her gun hand falls into the water.

The apparition—Fiona Martinez, emaciated and haggard but very much alive—drops onto the ground, sobbing.

“I’m sorry, Isabella,” she cries. “I’m so sorry.”

I’m not sure if she’s apologizing for leaving Isabella here all those years ago or striking her with a rock just now.

Or both.

Fiona puts her face in her hands and weeps. I see that the back of one hand is swollen like a water balloon, punctuated by an enflamed red welt.

My eyes drift to Isabella, whose face lies in a puddle, the clear liquid turning a dark crimson in the moonlight.

No breath ripples the water.

EPILOGUE

CHAPTER 96

I’M ON THE road driving to headquarters in Austin. It’s a typical Central Texas day—humid and hot as hell but otherwise beautiful.

I’ve been suffering through rehab for my injury, and I’ve finally gotten to the point where I don’t have to wear a sling. I’ve got two matching scars—one where the bullet went in and one where it came out—not to mention a lot of lingering pain. But the doctors seem to think I’ll make a complete recovery in time.

I remain skeptical.

To say I used to be good with a gun is an understatement, but who knows if I’ll ever be as good again.

Maybe I won’t be as accurate.

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