“There!” the real professor screamed from the gallows. “There he is, there!”
The crowd turned, but the man with the black bag was gone. Espinoza got his own black bag: a death-hood that was pulled over his head. From beneath it he screamed, “The monster, the monster, the mon—” The trap opened, and he plummeted through.
The next sequence was of the masked superhero women chasing the fake monk over some rooftops, and it was here that Holly pushed pause. “Twenty-five years ago, I saw a version with subtitles instead of dubbing,” she said. “What the professor is screaming at the end is El Cuco, El Cuco.”
“What else?” Yune murmured. “Jesus, I haven’t seen one of those luchadora movies since I was a kid. There must have been a dozen of them.” He looked around at the others, as if coming out of a dream. “Las luchadoras—lady wrestlers. And the star of this one, Rosita, she was famous. You should see her with her mask off, ay caramba.” He shook his hand, as if he had touched something hot.
“There weren’t just a dozen, there were at least fifty,” Holly said quietly. “Everyone in Mexico loved las luchadoras. The films were like today’s superhero movies. On a much smaller budget, of course.”
She would like to lecture them on this fascinating （to her, it was） bit of film history, but this was not the time, not with Detective Anderson looking as though he had just taken a big bite of something nasty. Nor would she tell them that she had also loved the luchadora films. They had been played for laughs on the local Cleveland TV station that broadcast Shlock Theater every Saturday night. Holly supposed the local college kids got drunk and tuned in to yuk it up about the poor dubbing and the costumes they no doubt considered hokey, but there had been nothing funny about las luchadoras to the frightened and unhappy high school girl that she had been. Carlotta, Maria, and Rosita were strong, and brave, always helping the poor and downtrodden. Rosita Mu?oz, the most famous, even proudly called herself a cholita, which was how that unhappy high school girl had felt about herself most of the time: a halfbreed. A freak.
“Most of the Mexican wrestling women movies were retellings of ancient legends. This one is no different. Do you see how it fits what we know about these murders?”
“Perfectly,” Bill Samuels said. “I’ll give you that. The only problem is that it’s nuts. Out to lunch. If you actually believe in El Cuco, Ms. Gibney, then you are el cuckoo.”
Says the man who told me about the disappearing footprints, Ralph thought. He did not believe in El Cuco, but he thought the woman had displayed a lot of guts in showing them the film when she must have known what their reaction would be. He was interested to see how Ms. Gibney of Finders Keepers would respond.
“El Cuco is said to live on the blood and fat of children,” Holly said, “but in the world—our real world—he would survive not just on those things, but on people who think as you do, Mr. Samuels. As I suppose you all do. Let me show you one more thing. Just a snippet, I promise.”
She went to chapter nine of the DVD, the second-to-last. The action picked up with one of the luchadoras—Carlotta—cornering the hooded monk in a deserted warehouse. He tried to escape by way of a convenient ladder. Carlotta grabbed him by the back of his billowing robe and tossed him over her shoulder. He did a midair flip and landed on his backside. The hood flew back, revealing a face that was not a face at all, but a lumpy blank. Carlotta screamed as two glowing prongs emerged from where the eyes should have been. They must have had some kind of mystic repelling power, because Carlotta staggered against the wall and held one hand up in front of her luchadora mask, trying to shield herself.
“Stop it,” Marcy said. “Oh God, please.”
Holly poked her laptop. The image on the screen disappeared, but Ralph could still see it: an optical effect that was prehistoric compared to the CGI stuff you could view in any Cineplex these days, but effective enough if you had heard a certain little girl’s story of the intruder in her bedroom.
“Do you think that’s what your daughter saw, Mrs. Maitland?” Holly asked. “Not exactly, I don’t mean that, but—”
“Yes. Of course. Straws for eyes. That’s what she said. Straws for eyes.”
11
Ralph stood up. His voice was calm and level. “With all due respect, Ms. Gibney, and considering your past . . . uh, exploits . . . I have no doubt that respect is due, there is no supernatural monster named El Cuco who lives on the blood of children. I’d be the first to admit that this case—the two cases, if they’re linked, and it seems more and more certain that they are—has some very strange elements, but this is a false trail you’re leading us down.”