deputy had only four days before this was news to the community. He could at least appeal to Borjon's sense of propriety in exchange for an exclusive on whatever the investigation uncovered. Maybe that would keep the reporter quiet. No doubt about it, Jeremy wore many hats in the little seven-man operation. Even if more happened in and around Jefferson, he doubted that the antiquated press of the newspaper could handle putting out anything more frequently. Their only competition to sales was gossip, plain and simple.
Maybe Jeremy Borjon would keep quiet if only to scoop the rumor mill.
Deputy Jacobs was on the outskirts of Jefferson when he passed a roadside bar and grill. He always saw the same three vehicles parked in front of it, during the day. Two belonged to the owner and his only employee, the bartender and Calvin Smootz. Smootz was on and off the wagon so many times that he often forgot whether he was early or late for his next AA meeting. Roth only knew him because of the number of times Calvin had slept off a binge in an unlocked cell back at the office. Just why he drank, nobody knew and, typical of a judgmental God-fearing town, the good people of Jefferson didn't care. He was a drunk and that was that.
This morning, Calvin wasn't drinking alone. The sea-foam green of a rusted out old Dodge pickup truck with aluminum railings caught the corner of his eye and Roth swung the patrol car about at the only stoplight leading into town. There were definitely four cars in the graveled parking lot. Specifically, two cars, a truck and a beaten up scooter with a wire basket on the back, the only transportation allowed Smootz after so many DUIs.
The truck belonged to Jorge Ramirez. No need to check the tags, Jacobs decided as he pulled alongside for the second time that morning and got out of the brown and gold Plymouth to read the plates. Dead Texas stickers. "It's him all right," the deputy sheriff decided and went inside. Between the creaking of the screen door, the bell over the top to check who was leaving without paying their tab and the unintentional slam that accompanied any entrance or exit, all but the Chris LeDoux music on the jukebox stopped when he entered the darkened bar. It smelled of alcohol and old smoke, but otherwise had a local charm that made it a favorite among older singles, as well as underage kids looking to sneak in for a place to dance.
Ramirez was seated at the end of the bar farthest from the door. He had forgone the shot glass in front of him and was downing the last of a bottle of tequila. As he chewed mechanically on the worm from the bottom of the fifth, he nervously glanced up at Jacobs in the barroom mirror. The deputy sheriff ordered a beer from the bartender and took the open stool beside the migrant worker.
"You okay?" Roth asked the Mexican, and was met with a stony silence. The more he drank, the less Jorge could contain the shaking with which he raised and downed his alcohol. Something had frightened the hell out of him, and Jacobs was determined to find out what it was. "You sure let out of the Sykes place in an awful hurry this morning, Mr. Ramirez. Is there something you'd like to tell me about what happened?"
Still no response.
"Look, I can take you in for suspicion of unlawful destruction of cattle, a felony in Texas. Once I get past the dead plates on your truck, there's always the little matter of your green card and work Visa from Mexico to be here. You do have them both, don't you?" Ramirez raised nothing but his eyes to the reflection in the barroom mirror of the deputy sheriff. There was nothing left to be gained in silence.
"I did not kill Percy. You must believe me, Officer Jacobs. Señor Sykes and his daughter have been very kind to me. I ask the patron saint of my village back in Juarez to bless their safety and prosperity. Theirs is mine, and I would do nothing to take the food, shelter or clothing from my wife and children. Please do not blame me for this, I beg of you."
Roth studied the young man's profusely sweating face and found recognition there as well as an inescapable fear. "If it wasn't you, and you don't believe that Olin or Miranda are responsible, why did you run off like that? You had to know once I found you again that I would ask you some very personal questions. Is that why you left? Were you afraid of being deported back to Mexico?"
"No, señor, not at all. I would welcome the safety of my family to what has happened here. There is much you don't know about my people and our way of life, but I believe you are a good man. I want to make you understand so that you can warn Sykes and the others. There is nothing you can do to protect them, but it does not matter. They are not in danger. It will not hurt people, but it will come for and kill their animals. It is always hungry and comes at night with fiery red eyes and a thirst for sangre."
"Sangre?"
"Blood, Mr. Jacobs. In its eyes and on its tongue. It is a sanguijuela, from the days of the ancient Mayans, a vampire from the stars."
THE DOG AND THE DRUNKS
"It is a creature we call El Chupacabra, which means in English, ‘The Goatsucker’. It has been known in the United States for only a short while, since 1996 I believe, but in that time the fear of this soulless beast has spread from Puerto Rico to Mexico. There are other countries of Central and South America with animals that have been killed in the same manner as this bull."
Ramirez eyed Jacob's beer and the deputy ordered one from the bartender, a former semi-pro wrestler by the name of Blayton Collier. He preferred to be called 'Blake' in and out of the ring. Still a considerable mountain of a man in spite of a ponderous middle age spread, no one dared call him by his given name. Without a word, the barkeep and owner of the Third Round pulled a draught from the cold tap and slid it down the bar to the two men as Roth nodded and asked to have it put on his tab.
"You called it a vampire. Does that have anything to do with the lack of blood around the body?"
"I have never seen where it attacked an animal so large, but yes. It bites the neck and makes a hole where the blood of the victim is drained. How it does it or why it never takes the meat, I do not know." Ramirez swigged at the beer and wiped the dribble at his chin. He was already clearly drunk, his normally darkened skin ruddy and his eyes unfocused as they tried to bore their meaning into those of the deputy sheriff.
"We had just such an attack in my village outside Juarez, three in fact, not two years ago while I was away in California with a group of men following the harvest in the San Juaquin Valley. These were chickens, rabbits and a child's pet, a young goat I think. In each case, the outcome was the same. There was no blood left in the body or spilled where it died. Whatever killed them did not want the flesh. It left the dead animal behind, where it stiffened as though it had laid there for days before it was found."
"Did you ever see one of these creatures?"
"Never," Jorge replied with a derisive laugh. His speech began to slur as he swayed on the stool.
"Then how do you know it exists, or even that we're talking about the same animal?"
Ramirez leaned over into Jacob's face, mere inches as he lowered his voice.
"As I said, you do not know my people. Unlike you Americans, we have very long memories about what affects our lives. El Chupacabra was not a fad that happened on Puerto Rico many years ago. It has spread to my country and others. It or others of its kind hunts there still. I have heard since from relatives living in Florida that animals have begun to die there in the same awful manner as well."
"You underestimate The Goatsucker. It does not follow our people. It follows our cattle and our livestock. It is not the legend that is spreading; it is the Chupacabra itself. It is here, whether you choose to believe it or not."
Ramirez nodded and jabbed his finger at the air around him.
"You, me, all of us. Those who depend on beasts for their livelihood will be decimated before this is through. As long as there is an animal alive and unguarded, it will remain. It will feed on the blood of the living and leave the flesh to rot. Mark my words, amigo, and heed my warning. Tell your people what is after their cattle before it is too late."
Roth saw that the drunken migrant worker was fading fast.
"How will I know the Chupacabra when I
see one? What does it look like, Jorge?"
Ramirez laughed as tears of anguish welled up in his eyes. "El Diablo, señor. The Devil himself!"
Before the deputy could ask another question, the Mexican's head drooped down to his crossed arms on the counter. Within moments, he was snoring loudly. Jacobs shook his head. It would be hours before he could get another word out of the only person in town who understood what they were up against.
He took up his hat, motioned for the check and with the help of the barmaid was able to maneuver Ramirez to the back seat of the squad car. Roth then asked if it would be alright to leave Jorge's truck in the lot overnight.
"Sure," the strawberry bottle-blonde replied. "Outside of Smootz's Moped, it makes it look like we're crowded for a Tuesday morning anyway. She winked and went back inside, an exaggerated swing to her hips for the deputy's benefit. Jacobs managed to get the migrant worker into a half-sitting position with the seat belt drawn across his reclined chest.
He reversed the procedure when they arrived several blocks later into town at the sheriff's office. Bill James, the self-proclaimed 'man with two first names' and the only other deputy in Jefferson, helped get Ramirez inside. They laid him gently on the bunk of an open cell. The migrant worker shifted to find a