Sister Mine

8

Three days later found him topping the dry rock rim of a steep ridge, looking down over a wide flat land dotted with cholla, palm, and coyote willow. Here and there a thin stream sparkled in the sunlight. He'd passed the massive, twisted cactus shaped rock early yesterday and Riddick turned his eyes east, searching the horizon. Aguascalientes was out there, close by. He started the gelding down the ridge, the horse taking it like a wild born mountain goat, reaching the bottom easily, nearly dancing on his two front hooves. Riddick chuckled, patting the sorrel's shoulder.

"Okay, if you're a mind to, let's put some miles behind us, huh?" he put heels to the gelding's flank and the horse leapt eagerly forward.

They travelled quickly along the flatland, the warm summer air blowing by, flapping his shirt against his body. Riddick sorely missed having a hat but he could do nothing about that. He caught sight of what looked to be a low rising clay wall some seven miles distant and slowed the horse to a trot, fixing his eyes on the place. Why did that look familiar? With a start he realized it was Don Francisco's mansion and yard. What the Devil? Riddick scowled and slowed the gelding to a walk, uneasy. Francisco Santiago's mansion was a good seven days from Aguascalientes, at least the way they had come the last time. Was there a closer trail to the mission? If so, why use the longer one? He drew up in the meager shade of a dwarf palm tree and studied the place, wishing he had his field glasses with him, but they had been on his own horse. There seemed to be little movement, which was strange, for Santiago had many guards always on duty, watching for bandits. Perhaps he was not home? Deciding to take a closer look Riddick started the sorrel forward again, moving slowly and keeping to the brush and trees where ever possible.

He reached the low back wall surrounding the cultivated back garden with no trouble and stepped from the saddle, ground hitching the horse in the shade of the wall itself. Easing forward he looked around over the top of the dusty stone, his eyes roving the garden and veranda, seeing no one. He took the rifle from the bucket and moving along the wall Riddick worked his way around the corner of the wall to the small gate that opened up to an outdoor hallway between the small covered patio and the garden. The gate was unlocked and he slipped through, closing it quietly behind him, his eyes searching for any movement. There was none.

His boots made little sound as he moved down the tiled hallway to the back door of the house, slipping inside. He instantly dropped into the shadow behind the door, letting his eyes adjust to the dimmer light within the walls of the mansion. It was deathly still and Riddick paused, wary. Why had he thought that? The silence surrounding death was peculiar to itself, a heavy, thick stillness that made the hair on his arms stand up, as it was doing now. Abruptly Riddick realized that was what had been bothering him. The feel of death was everywhere, a household of servants and sentinels silenced, the master gone.

He pushed off the wall, the rifle ready in his hands, his eyes sharp for any movement. The kitchen was empty, as were the three servant's quarters he passed, and the dining room, though two chairs were missing. The library was a mess, papers and books scattered everywhere, and a dark stain of blood on the carpet caught his eyes. Riddick was sweating, not from fear or nerves, but suspense. There would be bodies, somewhere and he hated finding them days after death had taken them. The guest bedrooms and master suite were also empty so he moved on toward the front of the house, knowing only the large front parlor and ballroom were left.

He found the servants in the parlor. They'd been executed, shot at close range, bound and blindfolded. Riddick swore quietly, disgusted at the mind at work behind such a thing, but they were beyond what help he could offer, so he moved on. The guards were in the ballroom and Riddick instantly jerked back outside, bile in his throat, stomach churning. The very thought of staying in the room long enough to cut them down was out of the question, for the smell was enough to choke him. They'd been tortured, and by someone who wanted answers and who got them by whatever means necessary. One man made him look again, for he was not a guard, but by his dress he looked to be a bandit.