Matters of the Blood Read Free

almost effortlessly, with the smooth moves of a much younger man.
    I turned back to Greta. “So, how's Boris doing?"
    She grimaced a little, but kept her polite tone. “He is better."
    I heard the uncertainty behind the words, not completely masked by her matter-of-fact delivery.
    "No more problems, then?"
    "A few nightmares, but he is better. I will let him know you asked, thank you."
    With that, she smiled and walked away.
    I watched as she handed him his coffee. They were too far away for me to hear anything, but as he took a sip, he wiped his forehead with a red bandanna and looked over at me, a strange expression on his face.
    I waved a “hello” and walked into the caf?.
    Poor man. I wasn't the only one having nightmares. Boris had mentioned he had horrible nightmares, sometimes so terrible they affected his health. Were they as bad as mine? Maybe, except his were based on reality; mine only seemed like they were.
    Last time I'd talked to Boris, a few days ago, his usual tan was faded and his eyes were sunk into his wrinkled face, making him look much older than his seventy-odd years. Normally he was as fit and as physically able as his sister or more so. Perhaps he was better, as Greta said but, knowing Boris, he probably figured lying to his sister, pretending the drugs helped, was better than continuing to go to doctors who could never really cure what was wrong. Doctors cannot make the past go away.
    I'd only seen the numbers tattooed on his forearm once, but I knew what they were. Greta had her own set. Neither of them ever discussed it, but I knew enough to recognize the symptoms of trying to forget. I could relate to having memories that needed to stay hidden.
    I crossed the floor of the caf?. Before I could order, Bea's nephew, Noe, handed me a giant mug. Coffee: hot as hell, sweet as love and white with real cream. I took a deep gulp of the hot liquid and silently blessed the boy for anticipating my order.
    "Thanks, Noe,” I said. “Can I get my usual?"
    He nodded and rang up my order.
    I was putting my wallet back into my backpack when a deep voice behind me muttered, “Strange doings at the Wild Moon."
    I turned to see Boris standing just inside the door of the restaurant. He wiped his hands on his bandanna, then placed it carefully in his left back pocket as he approached. He walked up to the counter and I watched him pull two packets of sweetener from a small bowl and place them into his shirt pocket, then pat the pocket as if to make sure they were carefully tucked in.
    Boris wore a male version of my own outfit: jeans, hiking boots and a plaid cotton flannel shirt, worn open over a T-shirt. His was crew necked with short sleeves; mine was a tank top, but both were standard Hill Country gear. Most local guys wore their shirt sleeves rolled up, even in winter, but Boris's sleeves stayed tightly buttoned over the telltale numbers on his arm.
    "Hey, Boris."
    He did look a little better, less faded than the last time I'd seen him, but I could still see the strain in his eyes.
    He nodded, a grim expression on his face. “I was there this morning,” he said.
    "There where?” I asked.
    "At the Wild Moon."
    Once a local hunting ranch, the Wild Moon had closed about thirty years ago when its absentee Houston owners abandoned it after their oil stocks tanked. The bank that held the note couldn't unload the place, so it had been left to decay, becoming the playground for the county's adventurous teenagers who liked to trespass. Its nearly two thousand acres also provided a great happy hunting ground for members of my family who preferred to hunt the old-fashioned way—chasing down their prey before they killed and ate it.
    A couple of years ago, not too long after I'd come back home, all that changed. Some unknown outsider bought the place and started renovations.
    I hadn't heard the Wild Moon was open for business, but it was possible. Although the ranch was located only a dozen miles outside of town, none