Free Crache by Mark Budz Page B

threadbare sprayon gauze that hides the yellowed photovoltaics. Under it, the family has set up an altar table. A vase on the table sprouts a bouquet of yellow marigoldlike flowers he can’t identify. Some knockoff hybrid. There’s a cross made out of two green chili peppers tied together by a red ribbon, even a festive sugar skull. The biolum panels on the walls have been muted. The only light in the room is given off by a votive candle made out of myrrh-scented glycerin, the chipped plastic holder etched with a colorful image of the Virgin Mary cradling the Baby Jesus.
    L. Mariachi turns to the bed where Lejandra is asleep, resting uncomfortably under sweat-stained sheets. The woman, thirty-something, has a haunted look. Troubled. Her face is gaunt, her skin jaundiced but glossy. Just under the translucent flesh the bruised outline of her skeleton is visible, as if her bones have been scorched black. In contrast to her sunken cheeks and pursed lips, her tightly closed eyes are huge, bulging with fever or some other internal pressure. The pulse in her neck is rapid, as if fueled by a high-octane nightmare.
    A flesh-and-bone Day of the Dead skeleton puppet, he thinks. That is what she looks like. Under the illness, something else about her is familiar. The association vague, unpleasant.
    “Did the
bruja
say what’s wrong with her?” L. Mariachi asks.
    “She did a reading,” João says. “The cards indicated she was suffering from ghost fright.”
    Ah. The tarot deck.
    “Lejandra was shivering real bad,” Balta explains. “She couldn’t get warm no matter what.”
    That explains the triangle on the floor, the crosses over the windows and doorway. According to the old tales, people who have been badly frightened by an encounter with a spirit are susceptible to evil air—sometimes known as
aire de noche,
night air—which gives them chills. Usually the ghosts that cause evil air sickness are of people who have died violently.
    “Did she sprinkle holy water?” L. Mariachi asks.
    Isabelle nods. “Wherever she found a cold spot.”
    “But the exorcism didn’t work.”
    João shakes his head, the corners of his eyes drooping almost as much as the ends of his mustache. “That’s why we’ve decided to do a cleansing.”
    “What about a doctor?” L. Mariachi says. “Did you take her to the clinic for an examination?”
    “Two days ago. All of the tests came up negative. They said there was nothing the matter with her.”
    Which is why they contacted the
bruja
.
    “The politicorp doesn’t want us to know what’s wrong!” Balta blurts out. “The fucking
patrón
is trying to hide it from us.”
    “Why would he do that?” L. Mariachi says. It doesn’t make sense. If there’s a virus or some other kind of transmittable disease going around, it’s in the best interest of the politicorp to keep it from spreading.
    “We think they accidentally exposed us to something, and now they’re trying to cover it up,” Isabelle says.
    She goes to the side of the bed and rouses Lejandra by brushing aside a tangled strand of matted hair and kissing her on the forehead. Then she blinks, straightens her head, and stares at the eyescreens on her shades. “She’s here.”
    João and the two brothers hurry to the front room. Isabelle stays with Lejandra, one hand caressing the side of her face. L. Mariachi drifts uncertainly into the hallway, following the others. He hears a knock on the door, then two more, before the boys let her in.
    “Doña Celia,” João says, all respectful. “Welcome back.”
    The
bruja
is old and stooped, a thick stump of a woman in her white cottonlike dress, freshly sprayed. Her hair is a smoky white bun, coiled on her head. She’s dosed herself with cleansing/deodorizing bacteria that reek of copal-scented cologne or soap. She’s carrying a black mesh duffel bag in one gnarled hand and a battered instrument case in the other.
    “You’ve been burning the candle.” Her voice is a scratchy