Down These Strange Streets

meow-oh-shit as my last words . . .”

“You have no idea,” the woman said, looking past him. “None at all.”

Then she turned her eyes on him. “Let’s be clear. There was no fire. There is no such thing as a Brézé family. You never heard of them. You particularly haven’t made any records or files of anything concerning them. That will be checked.”

“Sure,” he grinned. “Check what? About who?”

Salvador waited until they were back in the office before he began to swear; English, Spanish, and some Pushtu, which was about the best reviling language he’d ever come across, though some people he’d known said Arabic was better.

“Let’s get some lunch,” Cesar said, winking.

Yeah, Salvador thought. Got to remember anything can be a bug these days.

“Sure, I could use a burrito.”

When they were outside Cesar went on: “How soon you want to start poking around, jefe?”

Salvador let out his breath and rolled his head, kneading at the back of his head with one spadelike hand. The muscles there felt like a mass of woven iron rods under his hand, and he pressed on the silver chain that held the crucifix around his neck.

“It’s fucking Eurotrash terrorists now, eh?” he said.

“Yeah. Eurotrash vampire terrorists. Maybe Osama bit them?” Cesar said, still smiling.

“Or vice versa.”

“What sort of shit is going on?” Cesar said, more seriously.

“Our chances of getting that from those people . . .”

“. . . are nada.”

Cesar looked up into the cloudless blue sky. “Maybe these Brézés are just so rich they can shitcan anything they don’t like? Call me cynical . . .”

“Nah,” Salvador shook his head. “You can’t get that just with money. Not with those people, the spooks. You need heavy political leverage. Whoever they were, they were feds, and not your average cubicle slave either. They’re not going to tell any of us boondockers shit. The chief didn’t know any more than we did; he was just taking orders.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve known him a long time.”

“So . . .” Cesar said.

He leaned back against a wall. “How long do you want to let it cool before we start poking in violation of our solemn promise?”

“Couple of months,” Salvador said. “First thing, get all the data on an SD card and make some copies and let me have one. Scrub your notebook and anything you’ve got at the office. None of this ever goes on anything connected to anything else.”

Cesar grinned. “I like the way you think, jefe.”

* * *

DREAM.

The sense of sick dread got worse as the flames erupted through the door and he was flung back to lie helpless. This time he could see the figure who walked through the fire.

It was a woman, young, naked, her face doll-like and pretty with slanted eyes, hair piled up on her head in an elaborate coiffure that looked Asian. If he’d seen a picture like that, he’d have gotten horny. Instead, he felt as if giant fingernails were screeching down slate everywhere in the universe, as if he should run and run and run, and there was a stink that wasn’t physical at all, and he retched hopelessly.

“Who’s been a naughty boy?” she crooned.

Then she knelt by Johnson’s body, only it wasn’t Johnson anymore, it was Cesar, and he was naked too. They rolled in the dust, coupling like dogs, but Cesar was screaming. When she raised her head, blood masked her mouth and dripped from her chin and poured from Cesar’s throat. Yellow flecks sparkled in her dark-brown eyes.

“I just love brave men,” she said. “They’re delicious.”

* * *

“CHRIST!”

This time there were cigarettes under his searching hand. He fumbled the lighter twice. The dark coal glowed like eyes as he sucked in the smoke. Salvador fumbled for the light switch and sat with his feet on the floor. He pulled the smoke into his lungs again, coughed, inhaled again. After a while his hands stopped shaking, and he looked at the time. It was just three o’clock, which meant he’d been asleep a bit less than two hours. The air in his bedroom smelled close, despite the warm breeze that rattled the Venetian blinds against the frame of the window. Sweat cooled on his back and flanks.

He looked at the phone. “I’m not going to call. Cesar puts up with a lot, but he’s not sleeping alone. I can’t tell him I had a bad—”

The phone rang. He picked it up.

“Jefe ?

“There’s anyone else at this address?”

“Get over here. I’ve got something you need to see.”

* * *

SALVADOR KNEW SOMETHING WAS WRONG. HE COULD FEEL IT, A PRICKLING along the back of his neck. The house was completely dark except for the light from the streetlamp, which was very damned odd even at three thirty, since Cesar had just called him. His partner’s new Chinese import was parked in the driveway; the ground between the road and the house was gravel with a few weeds poking through. The neighborhood was utterly quiet, and the stars were bright. A cat walked by, looked at him with eyes that turned into green mirrors for an instant, and then passed. Nothing else moved.

“Shit,” he mouthed soundlessly, and pulled his Glock 22, his thumb moving the safety to off.

Then he touched the door. It swung in. He crossed the hallway, instinctively keeping the muzzle up and tucking his shoulder into the angle between the bedroom door and the wall. Then the smell hit him. He looked down. It looked black in the low light, but the tackiness under his foot was unmistakable.

* * *

“WELL, THAT’S UNIQUE,” THE CHIEF SAID.

The forensics team moved around the room. Most of them had more than one hat; Santa Fe’s police force didn’t run to elaborate hierarchies.

Salvador felt a surge of anger, and throttled it back automatically. It wouldn’t help . . . and he’d said the same sort of thing. You did, it helped you deal with what you were seeing. Usually.

Cecile was on the bed. Usually bodies didn’t have much expression, but usually they weren’t arched in a galvanic spasm that was never going to end. They’d have to break her bones to get her into a body bag. The look on her face was not quite like anything he’d ever seen. He licked his lips, tasting the salt of sweat.

Cesar was naked, lying on his face between the bed and the window. His pistol was in his right hand; the spent brass of fourteen shells littered the floor around him. Most of them were in the coagulating blood, turned dark red now with brown spots. In his left was clutched a knife, not a fighting knife, some sort of tableware. A wedge of glass as broad as a man’s hand at its base was in his throat, the point coming out the back of his neck.

“This is a murder-suicide,” the chief said quietly.

Salvador stirred. The older man didn’t look at him. “That’s exactly what it is, Eric.”

He doesn’t call me by my first name very often.

“Probably that’s what the evidence will show. Sir,” Salvador added.

I’ve seen friends die before. I didn’t sit down and cry. I did my job. I can do it