Highway to Hell by Rosemary Clement-Moore
“Keep it coming.” Dave turned to me, and I checked him out in the daylight. He had a Jake Gyllenhaal thing going on, a kind of nice-guy handsomeness that made him look like someone's brother or boyfriend.
“You asking Hector about Ol' Chupy? Wasting your time. He doesn't believe in it.”
Hector's craggy features twisted in skeptical humor. “Do I believe in a supernatural bogeyman or an alien space pet? No.”
“Alien space pet?” I failed to keep the laughter out of my voice.
His tone was dry. “That's what some people think it is. A pet left by UFOs.”
Dave picked up his coffee mug and said pointedly, “Other people think it's some kind of undiscovered animal, maybe a crossbreed or something.”
I unwrapped my breakfast taco before the eggs got cold. “So, you subscribe to the giant squid theory?”
“The what?”
“People used to think the giant squid was a myth, because it lived so deep in the ocean, but now they know it's real.”
He slapped the bar with an enthusiastic hand. “Exactly! There's a hundred thousand acres of nothing out here. Who knows what could be hiding.”
Hector shot me a wry glance. “Thanks for giving him ammunition, Maggie.”
Dave was on a roll. “The drought makes food scarce, and Ol' Chupy has to come in close to get something to eat. That's when people get a glimpse of it.”
I fished for anything more specific than the vague mishmash of description I'd gotten last night. “Have you seen it?”
“Nope. My Tía Rosa, though, she swore that it came to her place one night and carried off her puppy. My granddad found what was left of the dog out in the pasture, wouldn't let her see it. Said it wasn't natural. Forty years ago or so, and she's never forgotten about it.”
The stark retelling had more impact than Teresa's melodrama the night before. I leaned forward, elbows on the bar. “Did she see it? El chupacabra, I mean?”
“Swears so.” Dave nodded decisively. “Red eyes in the dark, rustle of wings …”
I sat back in disgust, and Hector laughed at my expression. “Oh, for crying out loud. That's the same thing everyone says.”
“Yeah, but Ol' Chupy is going to get careless. Sooner or later, someone's got to get a clear shot at him, with a rifle or a camera.” His eager tone indicated exactly who he thought that person might be. “And that lucky bastard is going to make a fortune.”
“Has no one ever seen a whole one?” I asked in frustration.
Dave shrugged, sipping his coffee. “Not a live one, anyway.”
Finally, a glimmer of hope. “Someone's seen a dead one?”
“Well, sure. There's a skeleton in the museum up the road.”
I set down my mug and turned on the barstool to look at him. “A real skeleton?”
“Sure.”
“How far is the museum?”
He rubbed his chin and thought about it. “Maybe twenty miles down seventy-seven, going on toward Brownsville. Right on the highway.”
Hector spoke up at last, his face comically expressionless. “Tell her what kind of museum, Dave.”
“I forget the name,” Dave said blithely. “But you can't miss it. Has a big sign that says ‘Two-Headed Snake.’”
“Two-Headed snake?” I echoed. What the hell kind of exhibition had a bicephalic reptile for a headliner?
Chuckling, Hector grabbed a fresh pot of coffee to make the rounds among the tables. The stuff was like crack here.
Dave leaned his elbow on the bar, turning to face me. “So. You and your friend sticking around until Buck fixes your car?”
“Yeah. Buck says he can probably do it by Friday. So Lisa and I will be hanging out.”
“Well,” he said, “there are a few things to do around here. Some people like to bird-watch out on the bay. Got a great restaurant there, too. Better than you might think.”
“Well, tomorrow we're going out to the Velasquez ranch.” I only mentioned it so that he wouldn't feel obliged to offer to play tour guide.
Dave laughed, either not realizing I was putting him off, or not caring. “Technically you've been on it since you got here. The Velasquez property takes up most of the county, 'cept the town and the highway.”
I stared at him. “Really?” No wonder Lisa was being so nice to Zeke.
He nodded. “Most of us who run cattle here lease acreage. My great-granddad was a Velasquedero—that's what they called the vaqueros who worked for the family. His son started with a twenty-acre lease and five head of cattle. My dad owned a hundred. I've got the lease now, though the numbers are down because of the drought.”
“A vaquero is a cowboy, right?” Dave nodded, and I went on. “Why are your numbers down? Not because of the … whatever Teresa thinks killed her goats?”
“Nah.” He sounded casual, but didn't quite fool me. “In a drought, it takes more land per head of cattle to keep them healthy. So a lot of us have had to sell off our breeding stock.”
“Oh.” Considering how much pride had laced his voice when he talked about how his family had built up their herd, it was a real shame, and I said so.
“Yeah.” His smile was, for the first time, unconvincing. “Especially at market price per pound. Doña Isabel has tried to help the tenants, but even she can't control the weather.”
Hector had returned with the empty coffeepot and set it on the burner to refill. He didn't rejoin the conversation, but there was a set to his shoulders that said he was listening.
“Doña Isabel?” I asked.
“Zeke's grandmother. Matriarch of Velasquez County.”
“Oh.” How old-fashioned, yet fitting, from the little bit I'd heard. “I think we're going to meet her tomorrow. Zeke said she was asking about Lisa and me.”
Hector turned, and Dave set down his mug. “Summoned into the presence,” said Dave. “Wow.”
“What's the big deal?” Other than the fact that she owned most of the county, I guess.
“Doña Isabel doesn't leave the ranch.” Hector's tone was carefully neutral. “People come to her.”
I glanced between them, wondering if they were pulling my leg. “She never leaves the ranch?”
Dave shrugged. “I can't remember the last time she did. But, as I said, the ranch is a big place.” He stood and fished his wallet out of his pocket. “I've got to run. We're all checking our fences after that cow got on the highway. Not that it'll do much good against Ol' Chupy.”
He winked at me as he left, which seemed a little flippant. I guess maybe if you think it's just an animal and not a monster, it's hard to get really worked up. That was the difference between him and Teresa; from what I'd seen, she had worked-up down to an art.
Hector was the mystery. When I quizzed him on the chupacabra, my gut instinct said that he took it more seriously than anyone. But he said he didn't believe in it. At least, he didn't believe it was an alien space pet.
He cleared away my plate. “What's your plan for the day. The two-headed snake museum?”
I gave him a penetrating stare, as if I could read minds. “Is that the best place to start?”
“As good a place as any, if you're serious about this chupacabra business.”
With a sigh, I sank my elbows onto the bar. “I am, but I'm transportation impaired.”
“Buck's got a couple of trucks he uses as loaners.”
“Yeah?” Since he'd dodged so many of my questions, the suggestion was surprisingly helpful.
He yelled over his shoulder at a trio of men sitting at the Old Guys' table, nearly indistinguishable in their sweat-stained caps and oil-stained jackets. “Hey, Buck. You got a truck you can lend this young lady so she can get around while her car's in your shop?”
The mechanic pushed his cap farther back on his head, talking around whatever he had stuck between his cheek and gum. “Don't see why not.” He detached a small key ring from his bigger one and tossed it to Hector. “Just come get it when you need to. Can't miss it parked bes
“Thanks, Buck.” I included the enigmatic man behind the bar in my gratitude. “You too.”
He dropped the key into my hand. “Don't thank me until you've seen Buck's truck.”
I slid off my barstool and dug in my jeans for a couple of dollars. “Well, thanks for the breakfast, anyway.”
The barman waved me off. “I'll put it on your tab.”
“Thanks.” I started toward the door, but as I was passing the cash register, I saw a rack of road maps and a brochure with a sepia photograph of a bunch of men gathered with their horses around a campfire. On it was also a woodcut of a design I'd seen on Zeke's belt buckle—a simple cross with two arms, the top one slightly longer than the bottom.
The title on the pamphlet said: Velasquez Ranch, Then and Now. I guessed the symbol was the ranch's brand.
Grabbing one of each—a map and a pamphlet—I waved to get Hector's attention. “Add these to my bill, too, will you?”
“Will do, Miss Maggie.” He whisked away our mugs and wiped the spot where they'd been. “You be careful out there.”
“Will do.”
God, now I was even sounding like them.
Dave was right. We didn't have any trouble finding the place. Beside the highway, a faded billboard proclaimed: SEE IT HERE! TWO-HEADED SNAKE! REPTILIAN WONDERS! ICE-COLD COCA-COLA! MEXICAN POTTERY!
“This must be it.” I kept both hands on the wheel of Buck's “loaner”—a seventies-vintage pickup truck, more rust than blue. It smelled like ancient cigarettes, old boots, and dirty socks, but since it lacked air-conditioning, I didn't notice the odor so much with the wind whipping through the open windows.
“Yeah,” Lisa drawled as a long, low building came into view. “I didn't figure there was more than one house of reptilian wonders nearby.”
“Nearby” was relative; it was a lot of driving for questionable payoff. If the bones were real, that was a point for the giant squid theory. If not … well then, as Lisa had pointed out, it didn't really prove anything one way or the other.
I pulled off the highway into a gravel lot, raising a cloud of fine, pale dust. It settled in a gritty layer onto my sunscreen-coated skin as I climbed out of the truck and got my bearings.
The Brazos Valley Reptile and Curio Museum wasn't in any valley that I could see. The landscape was—surprise—flat and brown. The cinder-block building had a corrugated metal roof, and a chain-link fence enclosing the sides and back, I guess to keep people out, because it wasn't going to do much good keeping snakes in.
A tattered collection of stuffed animals—the taxidermy kind—guarded the front door. A vulture lurked atop a wooden crate, and an armadillo hunkered beneath one of the pottery chimney stoves for sale. On the wall was another large sign, painted in garish red: SEE THE DEADLY CHUPACABRA! THE ONLY COMPLETE SKELETON IN THE WORLD!
Lisa's sneakers crunched on the gravel as she paused to take it all in. “That sign does wonders for its credibility.”
“Everyone's got to make a living, I guess.” The front door was propped open, and I stuck my head inside apprehensively, worried the place would be slithering with vipers, like the pit in Raiders of the Lost Ark.
The tiny foyer was deserted and free of snakes. Live ones, anyway. A glass display counter held an ancient cash register, and the walls were lined with shelves full of rubber snakes, stuffed animals—the fabric kind—and cheap Mexican souvenirs. An ancient cooler, humming noisily in a corner, held the promised ice-cold Coca-Cola.
Everything was covered with a thin layer of grime, and there was a strong, musty smell. At the counter Lisa picked up a placard listing the admission fees. “Five bucks? For a two-headed snake?”
“And chupacabra bones,” I said. “Cheap at any price.”
To the right of the counter was an open doorway. Lisa stuck her head in and called, “Hello?”
The only answer was probably my imagination, a hiss of protest at an interrupted nap. “They—whoever runs this— must be in the back.”
“Maybe.” She was full of gruesome glee. “Could a two-headed snake eat you twice as fast, do you think?”
I tried not to shudder. “Thanks for that mental image.”
After a last look around, she started in. “Let's just pay on the way out.”
Of course I followed her rather than be left alone in the place. Snakes or no snakes, museums creep me out.
I had to pause to let my eyes adjust to the low light. At the end of a short hallway there was a diorama of the local desert. Scrubby mesquite trees, salt grass, cacti, and more taxidermy specimens: a bobcat, a tortoise, and a mockingbird. I eyed the fauna for goat-sucking potential. The tortoise and bird I ruled out right away, but the bobcat could probably do some damage to a herd of goats. A cow, however, would be a stretch.
To the right of the display were three glass cages. Yellowed index cards taped to the front identified the animals inside. The rat snake, the hognose snake, and the black racer were all harmless and beneficial, keeping the rodent population in check.
The black racer flicked his tongue at me through the grimy glass, following my movements with its slitted yellow eyes. He might be harmless and beneficial, but that was still eerie.
“Check this out, Mags,” Lisa called from the next display.
On the wall was a mural of a woolly mammoth being hunted by saber-toothed tigers. In front of this grisly scene was a huge bone—like, Flintstones huge—helpfully labeled: MAMMOTH LEG BONE.
Lisa read from the typewritten info card. “This says that a rancher found the bone after Hurricane Celia washed out part of an arroyo.” She glanced at me, curious. “Is it real?”
“Yeah.” I could sense the age and authenticity without touching the thing. Clearly other people hadn't held back, because there was a hand-sized dark spot on the fossil where the bone thickened at the end.
“Remember when we went on that eighth-grade field trip to see the King Tut exhibit? How you fainted in front of the sarcophagus?”
I shot her an irritated frown. “Vividly.”
“At least now you know why.”
She was right. Even as a kid, art and artifacts had seemed very alive to me. They were observers of everyday domesticity and witnesses to the end of kings and countries. Maybe that was why I've always found museums so unsettling. At least in legitimate ones, that history was contained and safeguarded. Here, not so much.
I moved to the next diorama, where some department-store mannequins stabbed a big lump of fake fur that was meant, I guess, to be a bison. Not exactly a respectful representation of the prehistoric Native Americans. In front was a dusty case full of flint arrowheads, most of which just felt like funny-shaped rocks to me.
The next scene was a burial; the mannequins were having a weirdly macabre doll funeral. Beneath the fly-specked glass of that display case were domestic items—a stone for grinding meal, some carving tools, and what looked like jewelry: small pieces of horn or tusk ornaments, and a necklace made out of delicate bleached bones.
These artifacts were real and old. Seeing them under the thick layer of dust made me sad and indignant. The index card said they were from an excavation of a cemetery site in Velasquez County, believed to be from the grave of a Coahuiltecan Indian, maybe a medicine man or shaman, but no one could be sure.
“These things should be in a proper museum.” When Lisa didn't reply, I glanced over to see her pensive face lit by the fake firelight in the diorama. “What are you thinking?”
She shook herself back from wherever she'd been in her head. “About burial grounds. Sacred space.”
I stared at the case, feeling like there was something here I was missing. “This stuff was found on ranch land, right? Maybe the ranchers are having trouble because they've violated Indian burial grounds. Like in Poltergeist.”
She chewed on that. “There have been Europeans here for over two hundred and fifty years. It's a little late for revenge on the long knives, no matter how jus
“I guess.” Continuing through the plywood maze, I rounded the next corner and came nose to nose with a rattle snake.
I jerked back and the snake made the same motion, cocking his head as if to strike. At the other end of his coils, his rattle tail blurred with the force of his warning.
“Whoa.” Lisa leaned over my shoulder to peer into its glass cage. “Does it have two heads?”
“No.” I put my hand over my stuttering heart. “One is more than enough.” The snake, still buzzing, fixed me with its cold yellow stare, its triangle head poised to attack.
Lisa put out a finger like she was going to tap the glass, but didn't. “It sounds just like the movies, only more so.”
I knew what she meant. The sound was blood-chilling, sending the cold of instinctive fear rushing through my veins.
“Let's go find this chupacabra already.” I moved off and the snake stopped rattling.
Lisa didn't follow. When I went back to see why not, the rattler started buzzing its tail again. The chill in my gut intensified, a colder dread than the noise itself could provoke.
“It doesn't like you.” Lisa stared into the sand-filled enclosure, fascinated.
“It's just reacting to my motion. I'm moving, you're standing still.” All the same, I was seriously weirded out, and not just because of the Western movie sound effect.
“You know,” she said thoughtfully, “snakes aren't always associated with evil. Some cultures think they can see between worlds. Maybe it recognizes another Seer.”
“Yeah, that would be why it looks so glad to meet me.” I pulled her away before she could tell me anything else I had in common with a deadly serpent.
The next doorway finally paid off. Inside a small, octagon chamber, was el chupacabra.
“Wow,” said Lisa, confronted with the grotesque figure that greeted us. “That is one ugly son of a bitch.”
I stared at the five-foot-tall sculpture, the “life-sized artist's representation,” as the card described it. The legend in 3-D. “No argument here.”
The depiction was weirdly hypnotic, a Frankenstein monster made up of parts of other animals. As tall as me, it had tar-black hide and stood on its hind legs, kangaroo style. Batlike wings sprouted from its shoulders, and spines ran down its back. The head was smooth and dome-shaped, and the eyes were violent red, like the forked tongue that poked through huge white incisors.