by Sarah Lovett
He let his hand follow her arm, tracing the elbow, then down to her wrist. He pressed his palm against her belly, waiting for resistance. When he didn't sense it, he slid his fingers under the T-shirt along her skin until he reached the soft weight of her breasts. His tongue touched hers lightly and then with more insistence.
Sylvia ran her hand up the rough nap of England's jeans until she reached the zipper. Her fingers labored with the metal until he reached down to guide her. She bit his ear with sharp teeth and they both stumbled.
Rocko growled and Sylvia pulled away. "Wait."
Matt's body stiffened.
"Not here." She took a blanket from the linen closet and led Matt to the study. There was a moment when they both stood watching each other in the dim light. Then Sylvia slowly pulled her shirt over her head. She felt the scratch of his whiskers as his mouth brushed her skin. His tongue circled her nipples, then his teeth delicately closed over the erect flesh.
Together, they dropped down onto a slightly threadbare Navajo rug. Light from the doorway cast shadows overhead. Matt pushed Sylvia gently back against a small, embroidered pillow, and he reached for the waistband of her pants. He fumbled for a moment with the snap, and then slid her pants down her legs. The tips of his fingers brushing against the inside of her thighs almost made her skin burn.
She opened her mouth to whisper his name and then caught herself. Malcolm; she had almost called for her old lover. She took a deep breath, but the thought was chased away by the immediate sensation of skin, hair, and heat.
She heard Matt make a sound that was closer to a growl than a moan, and his tongue flicked lightly against her clitoris. Sylvia caught her breath. She could smell the scent of both their bodies as she drifted into the languid inertia of sensuality. Her body met his in a rhythm all its own until she was teetering on the verge of orgasm, suspended by pleasure.
She came with a rush, suddenly under water, every inch of her body sensitized to the point of pain. While her muscles were still caught in the contractions of orgasm, Matt plunged deeply into her, his breath escaping in short gasps, his face slack with abandon. When he reached climax, his teeth chattered, he arched his body, until finally all tension left his muscles.
They lay with limbs intertwined like roots growing into each other. Minutes later, when Sylvia stirred, she heard Matt's breath deep and regular, and she saw that they had moved to opposite sides of the rug. She had her mouth over him, kissing, caressing, before he was fully conscious, and he seemed to slide from half-sleep to sex without waking. This time, she climbed on top.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HE WAS THE watcher—a different person now—hiding behind air so cold, his breath left his mouth in ghostly clouds. He stood at the window, every cell absorbing information, and his muscles twitched methodically in the twenty-degree temperature. He saw them through the slatted blinds.
She rode the cop like a horse, her body twisting and thrusting, her head thrown back, her mouth open wide. Her hair tangled and curled in the wet heat. Beads of sweat glistened on her olive skin. The warmth of both their bodies steamed the windows and he viewed them through a soft mist. But he heard when she cried out.
And the sight of what she did to the cop after that made him sick.
He stumbled away from the window and vomited.
When he looked up again, the house loomed like an obscure monolith behind the shelter of two giant cottonwoods. It had eyes and it seemed to speak to him. It whispered, Wait. Be patient. You are the watcher.
His eye was on the front door when it opened. He saw them both. The sound of their voices reached his ears. His hands gripped the club.
She said something and walked back into the house. England carried a suitcase down the porch steps and walked toward the two cars parked in the drive. His Chevy was behind her Volvo.
His own breath came in ragged spurts now. He forced it back down his throat and kept it prisoner in his belly. He crouched low, the club in his hand. The dead lawyer's blood had dried black against wood. He could not see it in the darkness, but he knew the taste. He would do to this man what he had done to the lawyer—teach him to stay away.
He took four steps, raised the weapon, and heaved it downward with all his strength just as England turned instinctively toward his attacker. The club grazed flesh and England stumbled to his knees. Again, he raised the club, but he was thrust off balance by the force of the cop's elbow back-jabbed at his belly. Something small and black hurled itself at his ankle. He let a growl surge up from his gut, tried to shake the thing off: her dog. He could feel its teeth break his skin.
He saw the cop swaying in front of him. He kicked England—sent the dog flying instead—but the cop retaliated with a left elbow to his face. He raised his club for a third time, swung and missed. England faced him now, kicked, and shoe connected with groin. The dog was back, lunging. He felt himself weaken, knew that he had to finish it all with his last blow. He heaved the club upward.
Just as his motion reached its apex, he heard her voice. She was running down the steps with the shotgun in her arms. There was a blast and pellets stung his shoulder. He screamed in pain and smashed his weapon down. He felt the club crush bone, and the cop crumpled to the ground.
He turned, faced her, saw her backlit by the artificial light cascading through the open door.
"Matt!"
He was torn between the desire to finish the job and the need to avoid her eyes. Like a racer thrust forward at the crack of a pistol, he sprinted toward the icy river where he could cut back to the road and safety.
DR. TURNER HELD out a hairy hand. "Mrs. England?" His eyes were bloodshot like the liquid globes of a bassett.
"Sylvia Strange."
"Ah. It's a serious concussion, but his vitals are strong, and I hear he's a fighter." The doctor shrugged and patted his pockets. "He's doing as well as anybody can do after getting bashed. I'm waiting for the neurologist to get here. We'll know more later." They were both silent for a moment until the doctor said, "Look, we can't let you see him, so go on with your day, keep yourself busy." As he turned away, he smiled gently and the skin crinkled around his face. He already had a good start down the hall when he said, "We may have some news in a few hours."
Sylvia nodded to his back.
"Dr. Strange? I'm Agent Osuna."
Sylvia found herself staring blankly into the intelligent eyes of Terry Osuna. "Yes, I remember you. Did you see him?"
"No. They couldn't tell me much. He sustained a heavy blow to the head, but his shoulder took some of the force, thank God."
Osuna's dark brown eyebrows rose. She stared down at the polished toes of her boots and then continued, "Our guys haven't located the weapon at the scene, but the doctors picked some rough wood splinters out of the wound." She lowered her voice. "I'm not forgetting that Herb Burnett was clubbed."
Sylvia swallowed and her mouth was dry. "I saw him."
"Was it a man?"
"Yes."
"Anglo? Hispanic?"
"White."
"Did you see his face?" Agent Osuna kept her eyes on Sylvia. "It was dark. What makes you think the assailant was a white male?"
"I saw his face for an instant, in the light."
"What did you see?"
Sylvia's voice was low. "Lucas Watson."
Osuna gazed unblinking at Sylvia. After a silence, she said, "Lucas Watson's dead, Dr. Strange. We have an A.P.B. out on William Watson."
A woman's voice, paging a party to emergency, interrupted the normal hum of sound. Osuna stretched her neck in a gesture of irritation. "It's not a good idea for you to stay in your house right now. Not for a few days."
Sylvia bit off her next words. "I've already packed. I need to find my dog."
"I'll drive you back," Agent Osuna said on her way out the door. She seemed relieved that Sylvia hadn't pressed the subject of Watson.
Skirting exhaust-stained patches of ice, they crossed the road to the parking lot, and Sylvia sa
w a familiar figure approaching. Rosie Sánchez was shivering in high-heeled boots, a wool skirt and short jacket, and a scarf. Her normally meticulous makeup was askew. She immediately hugged Sylvia and held her for several seconds. When she stepped back, Rosie's eyes were filled with tears.
"They've called in a specialist," Osuna said.
Rosie spoke quietly. "The man is a lion. He'll pull through."
Agent Osuna kept her head turned away and mumbled, "I just want to nail the sonofabitch who did this." She walked angrily across the lot to her car and Sylvia began to follow.
Rosie reached out and caught Sylvia's sleeve with her fingers. "You'll stay at the house with Ray and me until they catch the guy."
Sylvia nodded. "Was there an escape from North the night of the riot?"
Rosie stared at her.
"It was Lucas Watson." Sylvia turned and walked back toward Agent Osuna's car. As they drove out of the lot, she saw Rosie still standing in the cold, staring open-mouthed.
Sylvia was grateful that Osuna kept the volume on her police radio aggressively loud during the drive to La Cieneguilla. She didn't feel like talking.
At the house, a small fleet of cars was parked on the road near the driveway. Uniformed and plainclothes officials were at work.
Inside, Sylvia sat down to answer Agent Osuna's questions. She told the woman that someone had been outside her house before the attack on Matt. But she didn't mention Lucas Watson's name again.
When Osuna had almost exhausted her questions, a uniformed officer arrived at the door.
"I wrote down the number where I'll be," Sylvia said, handing Osuna a business card. "Rosie Sánchez's."
The officer cleared his throat and said, "We checked the house across the river. There was a broken window with some cardboard taped over the glass, but no sign of occupants."
"That's the Calidros' house," Sylvia said.
The young officer shuffled his feet and frowned at the interruption. "We did search the outbuildings in a thorough manner."
Agent Osuna nodded. "Anything?"
"No, ma'am."
"What about the windmill?" Sylvia asked.
"Uh." The officer looked uncertainly at Agent Osuna. "We checked that, too."
"And?" Osuna's voice was sharp.
"There's some bottles like Thunderbird and stuff, like winos maybe hang out there."
The officer scraped the heel of his boot against the floor and said, "We did find this by the mailbox." He carefully held out a torn piece of paper.
Osuna used her thumb and middle fingernails to take the page. She scanned it, said, "Jesus," and set it on the table.
Sylvia read the scrawled words.
I think about this every waking second.
As if I'm preparing for some turn.
A reunion in the catacombs.
You of all people should know
it will cause you pain to regain yourself.
We should accept pain and surrender.
Do you know what it's like to breathe
here in darkness?
"You better watch your back until we get this bastard," Osuna said. "Stay close to your friends."
"SHIT. " DOWNTOWN, AT her office desk, she had to try three times before she punched in Lucille Gutierrez's number correctly. Her movements were jerky, and her heart still pumped too fast. The room had a glare, a painfully bright aura, and she recognized the beginning of a migraine.
Her mind refused to settle and her thoughts tumbled over themselves until she didn't think she was capable of speech. It had almost killed her to leave Matt lying in the snow—blood gushing from his nose, mouth, and scalp—while she called for help. She feared that the minute she left, he'd be attacked again. She'd packed snow on his wounds, and cradled him until the ambulance arrived. The wait had been endless.
So many people were dead. And Sylvia was convinced that all the violence around her had its genesis in Lily Watson's death. If she understood more about the woman who had been Lucas Watson's mother, perhaps she could put an end to the nightmare.
She thought of Ramona Herman in her bed at St. Claire's. She wondered if Lucille had inherited her mother's strength of will. After a dozen rings, Sylvia was going to hang up when she heard a child's voice.
"Hi."
"Hello. Is your mom at home?"
"Hi. Hi."
"May I speak to your mother?"
The child's rhythmic breath grazed the receiver for several seconds and then there was a click.
At first, Sylvia thought the child had hung up, then she heard voices in the background. Moments later Lucille Gutiérrez reached the phone.
"Yeah?"
"Lucille Gutiérrez?"
"Un huh. Who's this?"
"I spoke to you last week. I'm a doctor, and I visited your mother at St. Claire's. She asked me to get in touch with someone for her: Belle Nash? Your mother used to work for her sister many years ago."
After a lengthy silence, Mrs. Gutiérrez spoke again, suspicion clouding her tone. "What kind of doctor are you?"
"I'm a psychologist."
"Who hired you? Does this have anything to do with the will?"
Sylvia was about to deny any connection when she changed her mind. "Probably not, but it will make things flow more smoothly if we can reach Ms. Nash." It was possible that Albert Kove and the Board of Psychologist Examiners would have quite a bit to say to her in the future, but she didn't give a damn at the moment.
"Why?"
"You know how complicated legal matters can become, and since Mrs. Herman expressed this desire, it might be in your interest to speed the details along, however routine they may be."
"Yeah, right. So what do you need from me then?"
"I need an address for Ms. Nash."
"Look in the phone book!"
"She's not listed. Is Belle Nash married?"
"No." Lucille Gutiérrez screamed at a child named Ruby without removing her mouth from the receiver. "Why should she get married? She seems to be happy with what she's got."
"Excuse me?"
"She's a housekeeper."
Sylvia was puzzled by the information. Somehow domestic helper did not fit her image of Belle Nash. "Do you know where I can reach her?"
"Sure." Lucille Gutierrez spit the words out. "Try Duke Watson. She lives with him."
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
THE WOMAN NAMED Emma clutched her small vinyl handbag to her stomach and stared up at the thick round tower ahead. This was not her first trip to the penitentiary, but it always felt that way. The huge tower was one of the reasons visits were unpleasant. That, and the wire that topped the steel fence like a giant slinky with razor blades. And the guards who sneered as she passed by. And the sight of her brother. Emma couldn't lie to herself. It had become too much after so many years. Reform school had stunted his spirit at sixteen, then the Army, and now prison was draining his soul. Emma's mother had stopped visiting her son after her stroke. Two years later she died, and Emma had come to tell her brother the news. After that, she took her mother's place, but the visits were becoming difficult. Only something very urgent could induce Emma to enter the Penitentiary of New Mexico today.
At the security desk, she explained to the guard; she had not come to visit her brother; she needed to see Ms. Rosie Sánchez.
It took fifteen minutes to track Ms. Sánchez down by phone, and the guard was angry by the time he let Emma pass through the electronic gate and back into daylight. A plump black-and-white cat meowed from behind the parallel fence and Emma murmured hello. Inside Main Facility, the air warmed considerably with each step she took.
Ms. Sánchez was waiting just behind the gate to the right. Although it had been years, Emma recognized the other woman immediately and thought how pretty she was. They shook hands after the gate opened, and Ms. Sánchez touched Emma gently on the shoulder.
"It's very nice to see you again."
"You remember?" Emma was so used to being invisible, she could hardly
believe a woman as important as Ms. Sánchez would retain a nobody in her memory.
Rosie Sánchez smiled. "Of course. How are you doing these days?"
"So-so, Ms. Sánchez. That's why I'm here."
"Rosie."
"Rosie." The halls and stairs disappeared in a blur of dull green as Emma allowed herself to follow the efficient click and swish of Rosie Sánchez.
Inside the office, Emma sat low in a big chair while Rosie made tea in the lounge next door. For several minutes, Emma examined the office through the thick lenses of her glasses and clucked appreciatively at two paintings by inmates of statuesque women dressed only in snakes. She found them innovative.
Rosie entered with a mug and a Styrofoam cup and saw Emma almost enveloped within the folds of her heavy woolen coat. Emma smiled timidly as she accepted the tea; her eyes blinked myopically behind glasses. Both women sipped the steaming beverage for several minutes. Emma spent the time allowing herself to relax in Rosie Sánchez's presence now that her mind was made up. Rosie disciplined her curiosity and let the other woman unwind.
"I thought of you because you were so helpful when Mother died," Emma said finally.
"I'm glad you felt free to come," Rosie said. "I'll do anything I can to help you again."
Emma nodded. "Have you seen my brother recently?" Her voice communicated interest and dread simultaneously.
"Actually, I may see him today," Rosie said.
"Ahh." The syllable escaped as a poignant whisper. "About anything in particular?"
Rosie let her index finger trace the rim of her tea mug but kept her eyes on Emma. The woman was becoming increasingly upset although she struggled to maintain a calm exterior. "Why don't you tell me why you came here today?"
Emma took a sip of tea, and her hand shook as she lowered the cup and set it on the desk. She opened the clasp of her purse. Her gray hair obscured her face for several moments while she hunched over her handbag and reached inside. She retrieved what appeared to be a packet of neatly tied envelopes and handed them to Rosie.
"Letters from your brother?" Rosie asked after examining the bundle. Emma nodded, and Rosie took that as a sign to read the first letter, which was neatly written on the penitentiary's inmate stationery.