by Sarah Lovett
TWENTY MILES SOUTH of Santa Fe, Billy drove the Corvette off 1-25, parked on pueblo land near the underpass, and watched a crow glide past the windshield. He pressed his head against the neckrest and closed both eyes. With the mouth of the Wild Turkey pint, he traced the dark outline of the tattoo on his chest and thought about his mother. And Luke.
His brother had been Lily's favorite and she gave him her special time. That made Duke furious. It made Billy jealous.
He opened his eyes, leaned forward, and stared at his own shadow in the rearview mirror. The oblong shape of his temples, dark brown eyes, and the bridge of his nose were reflected back. Since Luke's funeral, he'd done a lot of thinking. And drinking, and shooting at crows. And he'd made a decision, a commitment to pick up where his brother left off.
His gaze shifted to the heavy Army-issue Colt .45 in his lap. The old man's shooter. Billy took another taste of whiskey and pulled the trigger. Click. Empty chamber. He squeezed the trigger again and again. Metal against the firing pin was a good sound.
The Duke had fifty "gun" rules he'd drilled into his boys. He gave his sons guns the way other fathers gave out baseball mitts. He'd made them oil and polish fucking metal for hours at a time.
Billy dry-fired the Colt again and smiled—Duke wouldn't like it. Duke didn't like much of anything these days. He didn't like all the questions Luke had started asking six months ago. Where were we the night Lily died? Where did we go? Why weren't we home? Duke hadn't liked those questions at all.
And Billy wasn't sure he liked them either. He remembered the housekeeper's home. And images that flashed through his mind like scraps of a cut-up photograph. He didn't know where Luke fit into the picture. But he had one fleeting vision of his father weeping . . .
Billy got out of the car. He finished the last of the Wild Turkey, threw the bottle against a rock, and yelled at the fat blackbird circling lazily overhead. It surfed air currents like waves.
He began the quarter-mile walk to reach the arroyo, a walk he'd made many times. It was huge, a sand river that flowed from the southeast and the Ortiz Mountains to the Rio Grande. The Sandias loomed behind the mineralized Ortiz range. This was the place he loved, the place he always came to shoot and drink and work things out when they got knotted up.
Billy could see the highway in the distance. Cars crawling like ants at 10 A.M. Early to him; he'd stayed out all night to party. That bitch he'd tried to make it with had laughed at him when he couldn't finish what he started. The fact that the evening had been fucked was no big surprise. His entire life was fucked.
Here he was, hungover and thirsty in an arroyo somewhere between Algodones and Budaghers. He loaded the Colt .45, raised the gun overhead, and shot at the crow.
He missed. Another shot, another miss. He used up three rounds shooting at the damn bird.
He tore up an aluminum can with the next three rounds. He reloaded, fired at the crow again, and the bird squawked but stayed airborne.
The last bullet almost took off his right foot. He forgot where the Colt was pointed when he squeezed the trigger. Billy stared at the fresh bullet hole in his boot heel. The crow cruising overhead belted out a mocking caw.
AT 10:50, BILLY TOOK the La Cienega exit and cruised slowly north along the frontage road. Five minutes later, he pulled up in front of the neat two-story house. A large sign, weathered by age, declared forty acres as the site of Blue Mountain Business Park. But no mountain was visible, and the closest business appeared to be the Santa Fe Downs racetrack, a half mile away. Billy climbed out of the Corvette, walked to the porch, wiped his soles on the boot-scrape, and took the three steps in one leap. He released his fingers from the Colt .45 that was tucked into his waistband and rang the doorbell. He recognized the neat plaque mounted on the front door; HENRY ORTIZ, D.D.S. had been seared into burnished oak. Although Henry was retired now, he'd been the Watson family dentist forever. Mostly, Billy had pleasant memories of the man who had supplied candy for his younger patients.
He stepped back as the door opened.
There was a long pause, then a voice asked, "William?"
The smell of bizcochitos and camphor washed over Billy as he stared into the dim house. "Dr. Ortiz?"
A heavyset man smiled out into daylight. He had a hound's jowls, and his skin was the color of used tea bags, but his eyes sparkled. "What's this about an emergency?"
"Sorry to bother you, sir," Billy said. "But I've got a bad toothache."
The door stretched wider and Billy entered a spotless living room. A magpie of a woman tiptoed out from the kitchen and patted Billy's arm. "Is this little Willy?"
"Billy, ma'am," he corrected shyly.
"You know Henry's retired now, Billy. How's your father?"
"Fine, Mrs. Ortiz."
"Such a fine, fine man," Dr. Ortiz murmured. He grinned at Billy. "I'll come out of retirement for you. Follow me."
"What about some cookies—" Mrs. Ortiz began.
Her husband waved a hand. "The poor boy's got a toothache, Myra."
Billy remembered the way to Dr. Ortiz's spacious office. The hall looked exactly as he remembered it from his last visit two or three years before. Nothing seemed to change in the old man's life, Billy thought. The enormous black leather dentist's chair felt just as it always had, too big, too hard. The drills, each neatly docked at shoulder level, were antiques.
"Open wide," Dr. Ortiz said. "Now which one . . . ?"
Billy said, "I don't really have a toothache. I need a cap."
Dr. Ortiz looked puzzled.
Billy squirmed in the chair, pulled his lip away from his gum, and pointed to his left canine. "Nothing wrong with that."
"I need it capped, sir."
"Now, William, that's a perfectly healthy tooth. By the way, I could only fit you with a temporary crown." "Would this temporary crown be gold?"
"It would look gold." He frowned. "I'm just not in the business anymore, at least, not enough to deal with labs and molds and cosmetic brighteners . . . all those modern things."
Billy found that it felt good to tell Dr. Ortiz the story of Luke's death—to unburden himself. My bond with my brother is so powerful . . . I must have this crown. A way to honor my dead brother . . . a way to show respect.
Dr. Ortiz turned away to the window and thought about his youngest boy—no, he'd been a man—who had died in the Gulf War. In front of his eyes, the sweep of land toward the Jemez Mountains became nothing but desert sand and wind. When the dentist finally nodded reluctantly, Billy shook hands with the man.
While the novocaine took effect, Billy closed his eyes and felt the Colt heavy against his gut. The chemistry of whiskey and painkiller had a numbing effect and the tension evaporated from his muscles.
The grinder looked like a carpenter's tool and spit bits of tooth into the air. Billy felt his skull vibrate, electric pain fired up his nerves and pulled the blood to his feet. Dr. Ortiz had always been stingy with the novocaine. Billy squeezed his eyes shut and took the pain. He remembered how Luke had always taken the pain for him when they were kids.
When the job was done, Billy paid Dr. Ortiz with two slugs from his old man's gun. Then he paid Myra.
In their kitchen, he stuffed two of Mrs. Ortiz's fresh-baked bizcochitos into his mouth and almost threw up. It depressed him to kill—he felt sorry for himself—but there could be no witnesses to his transformation.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
THE ROAD TO the ski basin curved past the massive homes of Hyde Park Estates, past a popular Japanese-style bath house and Black Canyon Campground, then continued to climb the Sangre de Cristos. Thick stands of piñon gave way to the denser forest of spruce, fir, and aspen. Ridges of dirty snow—the frozen wake of snowplows—lined both shoulders of the two-lane road. Sylvia watched Albert Kove guide his Subaru wagon around a particularly tight turn. His glasses crept down the bridge of his nose, but his grip on the steering wheel didn't relax.
She said, "Your eyes aren't open yet, Albert."
"We didn't have to drive this far to find a cup of coffee."
He glanced at her quickly, then his eyes returned to the road. "I wanted a chance to talk to you . . . without interruption." He downshifted to keep a safe distance between the Subaru and a yellow school bus loaded with children and skis. "I'm worried about you."
"Albert. . ."
"Don't tell me you can take care of yourself; I've never doubted that."
"Should we even be having this conversation?" She sat up straight, and her voice gained an edge. "Doesn't it jeopardize your objectivity? As a member of the board."
Albert cut her off. "Malcolm was one of my oldest friends, Sylvia. And he cared for you as if you were his own daughter."
She eyed Kove sharply; as far as she could gauge, he was sincere—no irony, no veiled sarcasm intended.
A weariness washed over her; she was tired of her own secrets, tired of her loneliness masquerading as the need for privacy. She was exhausted . . . and she felt uncomfortably wedded to a much younger Sylvia, the girl-child who always seemed to be waiting for her father's return.
She almost blurted out the truth to Albert Kove: Malcolm was my lover, not my father. But the internal rush of her own anger silenced her. That wasn't the truth. She had lost another father.
"What?" Kove gazed at her curiously.
"I didn't say anything."
"Oh." He smiled and tipped his head.
Sylvia was reminded of the wonderful crow, an animal wizard, who often hung out on the telephone pole near her house. A rascal.
They were silent for several miles. The road wound past Nun's Corner named after the women whose car had gone over the precipice four decades earlier.
Just two months ago, these same mountains had been covered with the soft green-gold of the turning aspens. Now, the aspens had shed their leaves and the deep evergreen of pines contrasted sharply with the snowy scrim.
When the Subaru was midpoint on an S-curve, Sylvia stared out at Pleistocene alluvial fans—the western toes of the Sangres—that stepped boldly toward the Española Badlands . . . Las Barrancas. That sky was a clear-biting blue, but a fat black cloud hovered over the ski basin.
"When I drive this road, I always remember why I chose Santa Fe over New York or L.A.," Albert said.
"You might as well say it."
"What?"
"Whatever you got me up here for."
"Coffee." Albert smiled. "They have the world's best coffee at the ski basin."
She gave him a wry smile. "Right. Were you surprised by the article in yesterday's New Mexican?"
"I was surprised that you made the papers so quickly." Albert turned the Subaru into the parking lot below the ski area. "But considering the other party, I shouldn't be. So I brought you up here for coffee and some tips on self-defense." The lot was almost full, but he found a half-space beside a mound of plowed snow. They followed the short path past the "chipmunk" play area and the main chairlift. When they reached the lodge, Albert motioned to the open veranda where vendors sold coffee, doughnuts, and sandwiches.
Albert bought two coffees, and they sat and watched skiers maneuver the powdery slopes. The basin was still foggy, but the air wasn't uncomfortably cold, and the low clouds lent an atmosphere of soft intimacy.
After a few minutes, Albert said, "Duke Watson came to my office yesterday."
Sylvia kept her eyes on the distant skiers, who appeared and disappeared in drifting fog.
Kove continued, "He's extremely unhappy with you." His voice was low, but that didn't lessen the solemnity of his tone. "Whatever pain he is suffering because of his son's death seems to be focused exclusively on you." After a long pause, he continued. "I know you didn't do anything unprofessional—I have great respect for you, both as a psychologist and as a human being—but this whole thing may go well beyond an ethics review."
Her face and hands felt numb.
"Do you have a lawyer you can trust?"
"I'd already planned to talk to someone—"
"Don't wait."
"All right." She didn't expect her voice to sound so insubstantial, so ill-prepared. She cleared her throat and put force behind her words. "I'll get some help."
Kove studied her face for several moments before he nodded deliberately, "Don't underestimate Duke Watson."
They finished their coffee, and, although they talked of everything except the complaint, Sylvia knew that Albert Kove continued to assess her emotional stability.
As they stood to leave, a lithe female skier dressed in a hot-red bodysuit raced by the veranda doing at least thirty miles per hour. Sylvia kept her eyes on the colorful and reckless athlete. Within seconds, the woman narrowly avoided three collisions as she skidded to a stop in front of the chairlift access.
Sylvia and Albert exchanged glances. Then, with a last look at the long, slick run and the downhill parade, they walked back to the Subaru. The return trip to Santa Fe seemed to take twice as long as the drive up. Traffic was heavier, and, more than once, Albert swerved to avoid oncoming vehicles.
He pulled up in front of her office where she'd parked the Volvo. She was surprised when he squeezed her hand for an instant before she got out of the car. She watched the Subaru merge into the slow, steady stream of traffic, and then she drove straight to the mall.
By eleven that morning, the parking lot at the Villa Linda Mall was a solid mass of cars. Sylvia drove around for fifteen minutes before she finally found a space at the edge of the lot. As she walked briskly past a young patrolman mounted on a bay gelding, she smiled and said, "You've got your hands full."
"Wait 'til you get inside."
He was right; inside, the mood of the shoppers seemed frenzied. Sylvia groaned. It was crazy to come within five miles of the mall two days before Christmas; she wanted to be home alone even though she knew that social contact was the healthier choice. She'd promised Rosie that she'd make a special effort to be festive and to shake off the weight of the month's events. But that was before the complaint and before her meeting with Kove. His warning had left her feeling the need to take action, but that didn't include Christmas shopping.
A child dressed in a Santa's cap grinned at her and Sylvia grinned back. 'Tis the season, she thought.
She worked her way toward the mall's east end where the Cinema Six offered the latest holiday releases, Santa Claus had set up house, and food kiosks were clustered around a carousel. The smell of pizzas, egg rolls, and burritos jogged her appetite and gave her energy level a boost. Food always made her feel better.
Still no sign of her friends.
Sylvia was about to grab a burrito when she heard someone call her name. She scanned the crowd and saw Ray astride a green giraffe, and Rosie perched sidesaddle on a yellow horse. The merry-go-round ground to a halt, and they stepped off.
"Feliz Navidad." Ray kissed Sylvia's cheek.
"How did you get on that thing?" she asked. "The line is a mile long."
Rosie laughed. "Ray knows the ticket man. He offered him a bribe."
Ray ducked his head and smiled. "I invited him to our regular poker night. He's been wanting in for years."
"Shop or eat?" Rosie asked.
Ray and Sylvia both answered in unison. "Eat!"
"Oy," Rosie patted her husband's paunch. "You look as though you need nourishment." She smiled mischievously at Sylvia. "And you better watch out. Some morning ten years from now, you'll wake up fat. Trust me, that's what happens to skinny people."
Ray nudged his wife. "It's a good thing I love plump women."
Rosie and Sylvia carried trays of Chinese food back to the table Ray had staked out. Fried rice, egg rolls, mushu pork, and wonton soup overflowed plastic ware.
Ray dipped his egg roll in hot mustard. He swallowed and then fanned his mouth as he talked. "So what are you going to get your mamacita, Sylvia?" He knew about the estrangement between mother and daughter, and he'd been trying
to reunite them. To Ray, family was everything.
Sylvia gave him a look. "Listen Raymond, don't start with me." She jabbed her fork into a thick strip of pork.
He said, "It's an innocent question."
"I went to the Chile Shop yesterday and sent her the New Mexico Assortment. Satisfied, Mr. Manners?"
Ray gave her a thumbs-up sign.
Sylvia tapped on the table with her fingernails. "Who wants this egg roll?" She immediately picked it up and took a bite.
Rosie said, "God, you eat like a horse." Her mouth was full when she noticed a homeless woman digging deep in a trash container. She nudged Ray and said, "Give her some dollars, Raymond, please?"
Ray stepped away from the table, and Rosie gazed at her friend. "You were right. He's alive."
"Who?" Sylvia scrambled to catch up with Rosie.
"The jackal. An inmate named Andre Miller was stabbed yesterday."
"Miller? I don't think I know him."
"It's too late now. And he died before I could talk to him." Rosie's words ran together. "He lived in CB-1. Guess what I found in his cell?"
"Angel Tapia's pinkie."
"Who told you?" Rosie looked crestfallen.
"Nobody."
Rosie eyed Sylvia suspiciously, and it took her a moment to get back on track. "This is the weird part: Miller was missing his little finger when he was found."
"You mean it was freshly amputated?"
"Yes."
"Where was Miller killed?"
"In the kitchen. He worked there."
Sylvia slid a fingernail between her front teeth to free a sesame seed. She licked her finger. "The kitchen has lots of chrome surfaces, doesn't it?"
Rosie nodded. "You always do this . . ."
"So did you notice anything unusual? Like shattered glass, soap on pots and pans—"
"Where we found him, the counter was smeared with blood." Rosie pictured the sheen of stainless steel obscured by reddish-brown swirls.
Sylvia said, "I've got an oddball theory that the jackal is afraid of his own reflection."
"Like a vampire?"