Page 95 of The Texas Murders

As she pulls away from the curb, I lean my head back and try to rest. But I can’t stop wondering why Ava hasn’t called. I try her number. The phone just rings and rings. I tell myself to worry about this in the morning. Still, I can’t shake the feeling that something might be wrong. Ava is a consummate professional.

She would have called.

“On second thought,” I say to Kara, “can you take me somewhere else?”

CHAPTER 87

TEN MINUTES LATER, Kara pulls up next to the Tigua community center, or what’s left of it anyway. The second story has collapsed onto the first, leaving a pile of blackened debris. Tendrils of smoke drift into the sky. The cracked and weed-filled parking lot is damp with water. One fire truck is still there, with the firefighters keeping an eye on the rubble to make sure the fire doesn’t spark to life again.

My truck is sitting where I left it.

I thank Kara and promise to stop by to see Marvin later, then I nod to the firefighters and climb into my truck and start the engine.

Before Ava and I took our trip to Colorado and Arizona, we stopped at her house so she could pick up a few things. I don’t recall the address, just the vicinity, and after a few minutes of driving around, I pull up out front.

There’s no sign of Ava’s SUV, but the garage door is open,full of weight-lifting equipment. The radio is playing pop music—Kelly Clarkson, I think—and Marcos is lying on a bench, pressing up a bar loaded with four 45-pound plates. He slams the bar onto the rack and sits up, smiling at me as he wipes his brow with a towel.

It seems too late to be weight lifting, but Ava had said Marcos, as a trucker, keeps irregular hours.

“Hey, Rory, what’s up?” He looks me up and down. “Man, you look like shit.”

I tell him I’m trying to find Ava.

“She went over to Isabella Luna’s house,” he says. “That was a while ago. I guess they really got to talking.”

I ask him if he knows where Isabella lives. He doesn’t know the address but knows the street and what the house looks like. After he gives me some basic directions, he looks at me with serious concern.

“Something wrong?”

“Probably nothing,” I say. “Try not to worry.”

Three minutes later, I pull up in front of the residence. Ava’s police SUV isn’t here, either. But I figure I’ll check anyway. The Pueblo is small enough that Ava could have walked here.

As I approach the house, Isabella swings the door open, smiling.

“Oh, hi, Rory,” she says. “Ava and I are just finishing up. Want to come in?”

She has a flushed, happy look on her face, like she’s been laughing—or maybe just had a glass of wine. Whatever I was worried about goes away. Her demeanor sets me at ease.

“Just for a minute,” I say.

She opens the door for me and I step in.

“She’s in the living room,” Isabella says, pointing down the hall.

I take one step forward as Isabella shuts the door behind me.

Suddenly, I feel two side-by-side stings on the back of my shirt, like I’ve been shot simultaneously by twin rubber bands. I try to turn, but electricity vibrates through my chest and limbs. I drop to the floor, unable to control my cramping muscles. My body writhes on the hardwood, my muscles consumed with painful spasms. The pulsating waves of electricity cease, but I’m still momentarily paralyzed. I try to reach for my gun, but my hand just won’t do what it’s told.

“I’ll take that,” Isabella says coolly, plucking my pistol from its holster.

CHAPTER 88

ISABELLA TOWERS OVER me, retracting the cords of the Taser. Her expression—so animated before, so happy—has been replaced by cold indifference. She reaches into my pocket and pulls out my cell phone.

“Where’s… Ava?” I manage to grunt.

She pats my belt and says, “Where are your handcuffs?”

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