by Sarah Lovett
She was rounding a curve when she heard the low throb of a car engine, and she dashed for cover behind a tree. She waited, heart in mouth, but no vehicle appeared. After a few seconds, she moved on cautiously. She found she felt safest when she walked on the shoulder of the road. While her body covered ground, her mind worked like a separate animal.
The sound of breaking branches shocked Sylvia back into her body; she was instantly aware of every breath she took. On her left, toward the river, something was moving through a stand of salt cedars. She stopped, her body rigid. The air, suddenly cooler, made her shiver. She screamed when a giant beast thrust its head through the brush and stared at her.
A cow. . . a fucking cow. She was so grateful to see the animal she wanted to throw her arms around its neck.
She took to the center of the road and maintained a slow, steady jog. When she had covered what felt like two miles, she stopped, caught her breath, and then looked up. The entire sky seemed to have burst open, spilling glitter—the Milky Way, the Dippers, and Venus. She rounded a corner and saw faint lights, earthbound and lonely; she hoped they belonged to the monastery.
WHEN VESPERS ENDED, it was the duty of Brother Ashok to close up the chapel Although the warmth of the sun was now gracing his birthplace—Bombay, India—he sensed the last wash of light in the charcoal sky visible through the glass wall. That sky was what he loved the most about the monastery—glass kept the heavens available.
The door to the chapel stood open and Brother Ashok heard a scale of staccato yips, the excited and complex symphony of a coyote pack. He stood in the middle of the chapel floor, eyes closed, broom unmoving, and calculated the animals' distance at less than fifty yards. Hours earlier he had put out table scraps—although Brother Xavier had warned him against encouraging wild creatures. But he had spent hours tracking them during the days when he had free time.
Brother Ashok sighed, opened his eyes, and found himself staring at an apparition. A person—a woman—was standing in the doorway. Even in the dim light he could see that her eyes were wild, her hair and clothes disheveled, and she was breathing quick and hard. But her voice was calm when she spoke.
She said, "I just tried to kill someone." She seemed to hear her own words, and her dark eyes widened in disbelief. She shook her head. "No—he tried to kill me."
Brother Ashok lifted his broom several inches from the floor. He spoke softly to the woman as if she were an untamed creature. "What is the usual procedure in a case like this?"
"Call the police?" She shifted her weight, and braced one hip and shoulder against the door frame.
"Which police?" Brother Ashok asked. He saw she was trembling and he moved toward her and held out a hand.
"Española? The state police. A friend of mine is staying here; Rosie Sanchez." She spoke softly. Her pupils were dilated and her olive skin was flushed. Suddenly words poured out: "God, I wanted to kill him, but he tried to kill me, I couldn't do anything, but I know him, he's my client—"
The priest squeezed her hand firmly and nodded. "Let's go find your friend, and we'll use the radio phone. Española police, you say?"
She said, "No. . . Matt England with the state police in Santa Fe."
THE SKY PALED with gradual and diffuse light—a dark velvet sponge absorbing a smoky wash. The stars were extinguished like distant candles. Below the monastery, the Chama River aligned itself for the easy race through the shallows. From her place on the bank Sylvia was lulled by the soft, clear chanting of male voices. Her gaze settled on the meadow beyond the river; her eyes lingered on the buffalo grass and yellow daisies just becoming visible with predawn light.
She sat without obvious motion, but everything inside her seemed to follow the rhythm and flow of the river. Her mind balanced between each inhalation, each exhalation. There was nothing but the serenity of emptiness and connection.
She knew only that some time had passed when her thoughts pulled themselves from the watery silence, shook themselves off, and demanded attention. She let the stillness go.
What came to mind was Violet. . . in a padded cell in California.
I know you. . . you're the killer's doctor.
Sylvia had made a career of her ability to contain the most extreme, the most violent emotions of other humans. It brought satisfaction and it brought complications. Sometimes she believed it nourished her own darkness.
She felt a presence behind her just as she heard Rosie's voice. "Sylvie?"
Sylvia smiled, but she turned her face away and gazed out at the meadow. "I scared myself out there last night."
"He tried to kill you." Rosie sat next to her friend. Her face was highly expressive and her features changed constantly, but subtly, like colors in a sunset sky. The brothers had managed to work the radio telephone—never an easy task—and a call had gone through to Matt a little more than six hours ago. State police had discovered Sylvia's Volvo on the road. But they found no sign of Kevin Chase or his car. He was still a fugitive.
On the surface, Sylvia seemed to be coping well enough—although she was unable to sleep, unable to come down from the adrenaline rush. Rosie knew a distressed soul when she saw one.
Sylvia looked up at her friend. "I came here to help you. I came because you always help me—you're always there when I need you."
"I know." Rosie took Sylvia's hands and squeezed them gently. "Jita, you have this way of getting into trouble."
THE WOMEN BEGAN to walk when the first full rays of sun streaked the sky from the east. They made their way down to the rocky bank to stand at the edge of the river. Although the air was cool, they took off their shoes and socks and set them carefully on the shore. The initial touch of icy water sent electricity along Sylvia's spine; the charge felt good. She found footing on stone after smooth river stone. Once, she slipped from the rocks and a jagged submerged branch cut into her flesh. But the wound was slight and the cold water numbed any real pain. When Rosie reached the opposite shore, she stood on the rough bank and held one hand out to her friend.
They found a soft place to sit. After a few moments, Rosie said, "When I heard I was actually going to get fired, I forgot about taking rational, legal action, and instead I thought about tearing the warden's balls off."
Sylvia murmured, "That would get his attention."
"Then I thought about going to his house, waiting outside, and doing . . . something bad. I don't even know what. It's like my rage connected me to him. I felt this intimacy with this man I despise." Rosie shook her head. "It was weird." She sighed. "A woman's rage is much more frightening than a man's, don't you think?"
After a long silence, Sylvia spoke. "It's like looking into a well shaft. . . it has no end. . . it goes down and down and never stops." Her eyes had lost their shine; they were dull, lifeless. Then she blinked, and the pupils changed again—they gleamed.
Rosie tucked her fingers around her knees. "Since I've been up here I've had time to think. Women don't know how to deal with their own power and everything that comes with it—all the destructive forces." She sighed. "Maybe we feel more comfortable in the role of victim because we've had so much practice."
Sylvia turned to stare at Rosie.
"You know what Jesus says in the Gnostic text?" Rosie asked.
"When did you read that?" Rosie smiled wryly. "When you question your faith every day, you read a lot. Even heresy."
"What does Jesus say?"
"If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."
THE WOMEN LEFT the monastery before eight; they would reach Santa Fe by ten-thirty, give or take a few minutes. Rosie led the way in her husband's four-wheel-drive pickup. Sylvia followed in the Volvo, which was still smudged with a mess of gray fingerprint powder. As they drew closer to the highway, they passed vans loaded with rafters arriving to embark on a journey down the Chama. Some of the rafts were already in the water, bouncing and
jolting over white waves. The riders looked sunburned, spirited, and intent on their work. But it was the stark majesty of the canyon in full sunlight that really drew the eye.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
IT WAS ALMOST eleven when Rosie Sanchez parked in her own driveway. She walked into her living room and she saw her husband, Ray, and her son, Tomás, perched on the couch. Neither man noticed Rosie's entrance. Their eyes were glued to the television.
She looked at the screen. A titan—orange hair spiked, face painted white and purple—was pounding on a smaller man who was the color of milk chocolate and who sported a loincloth and feathered headdress. Both men were professional hulks and their arena was the world of pro wrestling.
The titan hammered his opponent's face into the floor, and Ray took that opportunity to glance up. His face brightened, and he stood and enveloped Rosie in his arms. Then he led her to the sofa where she claimed a place between the two men in her life.
Tomás put one arm around his mother as Ray asked, "How are you? How's Sylvia?"
Rosie had called her husband from Bodes General Store in Abiquiu that morning to tell him she was on her way home. Now she reassured him that both she and Sylvia were reasonably functional.
Ray squeezed Rosie's thigh with his big hand. He'd taken the day off from work at the highway department. His concern for his wife overrode his sense of duty to the state.
Rosie yawned. After Sylvia's ordeal, her own worries, and a night without sleep, she was exhausted. She snuggled back into the sofa and felt a lazy and comforting sense of well-being. She was secure in her life, if not in her job.
On the television screen, the wrestler in the loincloth took a flying leap at the titan. While he flew through the air, his headdress buoyed out like a horsetail. At the last moment the titan shifted, and the other man slapped into the ropes. Both Ray and Tomás groaned loudly.
Ray stood and pulled Rosie up by one arm. He said, "Let me make you some lunch."
"Breakfast." She smiled, nodded, and followed him into the kitchen. She watched him work expertly, coffeepot on the burner, frying pan warmed, eggs cracked and scrambled. Before he could pour the eggs into the pan, Rosie stopped him.
She said, "Let's go into the bedroom."
Ray's eyes widened. "Now?"
"Why not? It's not every weekday we get to . . . hang out."
"You mean fool around?" He allowed himself to be led into their bedroom. Even with the door closed, the faint noise of the television was still audible. Rosie drew the floral curtains closed until there was just a narrow shaft of sunlight entering the room. She joined her husband on the bed where he had sprawled out against a soft pile of pillows.
She said, "Raymond, you know how much I love my work."
"Sure." He ran his fingers along her cheek and sighed. "But sometimes you've got to roll with the punches." His voice softened to a whisper. "You don't work for the Department of Corrections anymore, jita. Maybe it's time to face that fact."
Rosie pulled herself up from the feathery tangle of sheets. She wasn't angry that he wanted her off the job. For years he'd put up with the hours, the worry, and the stress that came with a job at the penitentiary. She was grateful for his patience, and for his love. Ultimately, he would go along with her decision to reclaim her position as penitentiary investigator, even if he didn't like her choice of job. And Rosie knew that Sylvia would support her all the way through the legal system.
She said, "I'm going to take this to the courts if I have to; Sylvia's going to talk to Juanita Martinez."
Ray shook his head cautiously. Martinez was a lawyer with a reputation for busting balls—actually, pulverizing cojones. He said, "Lawsuits and lawyers and dirty politics—we're not kids anymore."
Rosie held her hand to her chin. Against her olive skin, her maraschino nails shone with a hard gleam. "You think it's a midlife crisis? You think I want my job back so I can prove I'm not getting old?"
"You are getting old. So am I, jita bonita. Let the young people do the dangerous work." Ray batted at the rumpled sheets impatiently.
Rosie covered Ray's lips with her hand. "Tomás is young. You want a boy like our son in my job?" She spoke her son's name with the accent on the second syllable; his name was a worry bead collected from her grandfather, who spoke only Spanish and refused to embrace the Anglo world. "I think my age, my experience, gives me value, an expertise that a kid in a three-piece suit doesn't have, no matter what fancy college he graduates from." For a moment, anger sharpened her eyes and flushed her cheeks.
Ray put his arm around Rosie. He pulled her gently to his body and hugged her. His heart turned over with helpless longing. Here was someone he loved completely.
In her ear he whispered what he felt.
Rosie raised her mouth to his. A shaft of milky light washed over their bodies as they fell into the familiar refuge of each other.
MATT STOOD IN the hallway of the Department of Public Safety's basement and listened to the tap-tap-tap of computer keyboards. Through the closest doorway he saw three women seated in front of computer monitors. They were entering data into the N.C.I.C. system from recent crimes and arrests.
As if she sensed his presence, Jackie Madden turned to stare at Matt. She looked the way she always looked—very neat and well dressed. Her pale, freckled skin was flushed, and her sandy reddish hair framed her face with baby-soft waves. She didn't look like a woman who was guardian of a fugitive wanted for murder and—most recently—assault. Matt nodded to Jackie and approached her workstation. Calmly she returned her attention to her computer screen and her hands tripped over white keys.
He touched her shoulder lightly because, like the other word processors, she was wearing a headphone. He said, "Jackie?"
Now her hands slowed to a stop. She removed the headset without looking up. Her voice was almost inaudible over the continued tapping of keys. She said, "Is Sylvia all right?"
One of the other processors—a petite woman with a long black braid—glanced up curiously from her work.
Matt said, "She's doing fine. Can we go somewhere and talk for a few minutes?"
Jackie Madden stood and followed him out into the empty hall. She waited with her arms held stiffly at her sides, and distress flashed across her face. Matt ushered her into an empty kitchenette where employees took their coffee breaks.
He spoke softly. "The longer he's out there, the worse it gets. Where is he, Jackie?"
"I don't know. I haven't talked to him since they found Jesse Montoya's body. . . ." Her voice faded away. Her eyes focused on anything but Matt.
"Who were his friends? Who was he involved with?"
"I already told Terry Osuna, I don't know." She shook her head in frustration. "He wasn't that social. I mean, he hung out with someone in Pojoaque sometimes. But I never knew who it was. A woman, I think."
Matt hadn't been present when Jackie Madden was interviewed by Criminal Agent Terry Osuna, but he'd talked to Osuna after the fact. Jackie Madden had been a dead end when it came to Kevin's friends. Now, she was suddenly coming up with a place, a person.
He asked, "What made you think it was a woman?"
"I guess, the way he kept her a secret from me."
"Do you believe Kevin was involved in a sexual relationship?" Matt thought about the information Sylvia had relayed to him right after Jesse Montoya's murder: Kevin Chase had tried to hide chafe marks on his wrists.
"Why do you people keep asking me the same questions over and over? Can't you leave me alone?" Tears spilled from Jackie Madden's eyes. She brushed them away when a coworker, the woman with the dark braid, passed by the kitchenette and disappeared down the hall.
Jackie set her shoulders. "I thought he'd come back to me. . . I thought he'd tell me there was some mistake . . . there must be some mistake. Kevin can't be a murderer." She was crying softly. When she met Matt's gaze, she said, "Please go away. Just go away."
As Matt walked down the hall, he wondered why Jackie Madden had ever
taken on the responsibility of Kevin Chase. He would be a burden for anyone. Certainly for a young woman who seemed to be without connections. But perhaps that explained it—Kevin was Jackie's family.
He turned the corner, and an arm extended out the doorway of the women's bathroom, and a tiny hand tapped him gingerly. The processor with the braid.
Her voice was faint, and he had to lower his head to hear her words. She said, "I think maybe I know why Kevin Chase would want to kill one of them."
Matt nodded encouragement.
"To kill a rapist." The woman pursed her lips in distaste after uttering the last word. "This is secret, but. . . Jackie told us she was raped . . . a couple of years ago. She never reported it, but Kevin knew." She lifted her chin and gazed at Matt.
He said, "Jackie Madden told you she was raped?"
The tiny woman looked embarrassed. "Well, no . . . not exactly, but I heard her talking to Kevin once on the phone. Don't tell on me, okay?"
As Matt left the D.P.S. building, he considered the best way to follow up on this new information. But right now, he had something that took priority.
He cruised across Cerrillos, past Villa Linda Mall, to Rodeo Road. Although he hit every red light along the route, it only took him minutes to reach Erin Tulley's home.
"Did your conscience get the best of you?" Erin Tulley stood in her doorway, arms crossed, and she allowed Matt a half smile. But when she saw the anger on his face, her smile faded.
She spoke quickly. "What's wrong?"
"You tell me." Matt pushed his way past her into the house. He crossed the living room and entered a hallway. He thrust the bathroom door open with one hand. The small room was spotless, the air was hot and close from a recent shower.
Erin had followed him down the hall, and she confronted him. "Who the hell are you looking for, Matt? I'm alone."