Free The Demon Hunters by Linda Welch Page B

have done more than
look. But the Labiosa expected me and nobody would get in my
way.
    ***
    You can’t miss the double
cast-iron gates of the Labiosa property and the high brick wall
fronting the block. Several muscular young men lounge either side
of the gate day and night, their long black hair pulled back in
braids, the white of their singlets emphasizing dusky skin etched
with tattoos in all colors of the spectrum. They may seem lazy, but
they see everything, and nobody gets near those gates without their
okay.
    The young men are not
guards. Senor Labiosa doesn’t believe he needs protection and he’s
probably right. An attack on the family could bring on a gang war
the likes of which has never been seen in Clarion, and nobody wants
that, especially not the gangs. It would bring the cops down hard
on them and their territory. The lads stand at the gates of their
own volition, makes them feel big and mean, and Gerarco Labiosa
indulges them.
    Of course, they are big,
and they are mean.
    I pulled up on the end of
the driveway and stayed put until one of them came to the car and
looked me over in a deliberate way. He nodded, and someone inside
the property operated the mechanism which made the gates slowly
swing apart. I thanked him and drove on through.
    The gravel driveway wound
between tall poplar and clumps of pink peony, purple and white
hydrangea, and pink rhododendron. You might expect the landscape to
open up to a huge immaculate lawn fronting a plantation style
mansion, but instead come abruptly to a tiny square of grass and
the family’s modest, two-story brick home.
Six such homes once occupied the block, but the Labiosa took
possession of them twenty years ago, razed them and built their
private compound. I’m sure the former owners were suitably
compensated. There again, I doubt they had a choice.
    To look at Gerarco and Margot Labiosa’s house, you would not
know they have the wealth to live in a considerably nicer
neighborhood. Gerarco does not look like he wields power akin to a
Mafia don.
    Gerarco sat in a wood rocking chair on
the porch of their house, wearing a starched white shirt with the
sleeves rolled up in homage to the warm temperature, black braces
supporting his baggy dark-brown pants. In his eighties, he held a
black kerchief in one hand with which to mop his bald, gleaming
head. Piercing green eyes watched my approach over the top of tiny
round spectacles. “Mama, she is here,” he called over his
shoulder.
    Margot bustled out the front door as I
walked up the path, looking like a traditional Old-World Spanish
grandma, wiping floury hands on her yellow and white floral apron.
The hose beneath her black skirt wrinkled around her ankles and
flour dotted the wrinkled skin above the neck of her black blouse.
A half-dozen jeweled pins were stuck porcupine fashion through gray
hair pulled back in a tight bun.
    Three years ago this sweet, motherly
lady stood in front of forty-year-old Gilberto Fuentes, who knelt
at her feet with his hands tied behind his back. She put the barrel
of a Glock G17 9mm pistol to his forehead and pulled the trigger. I
bet she wore an apron then, too. He killed her ten-year-old
granddaughter. I gave her his name.
    Senora Labiosa came to my
house one evening in midwinter. She said the spirits guided her to
me, but I think it more likely the Labiosa family have a friend at Clarion PD who
told them about the consultant who tracks down killers. I knew a
little girl died and the police investigation had stalled. I
thought Mike would call me anyway if they didn’t get a lead soon. I
would get a head start.
    Talking to a dead child is painful. I
reminded myself her family needed closure. They needed
justice.
    When I told Margot who killed Flora,
and I would take it to Lieutenant Mike Warren, the conversation
went in a direction which chilled my blood.
    Margot thanked me profusely
and assured me Fuentes would never molest another little
girl . She stressed how grateful she