Day of the Dead

by J. A. Jance

  This time the doctor’s approach took far longer than usual. For as long as possible, Maria Elena resisted the temptation to open her eyes. Someone had once said that eyes were the windows to the soul. Señor the Doctor had stolen her body from her, forcing her to relinquish it to him. By keeping her eyes closed, she hoped to deny him what little was left—her soul.

  Finally she could stand it no longer. She opened her eyes and was amazed to see not the doctor but his wife. Maria Elena no longer thought the silver-haired woman beautiful. She was evil—every bit as monstrous as her husband.

  The señora had come to Maria Elena’s cell with Señor the Doctor early on, during those first awful days when he had kept her tied up most of the time. He had hurt her some before that, but only a little. As soon as Maria Elena saw the señora, her hopes soared. She was sure the woman must have come to help her—to rescue her. Surely the señora would intercede on Maria Elena’s behalf. Surely she would stop her husband and keep him from hurting her.

  Instead, the señora had simply smoothed her skirt under her and sat down on the steps. Rather than stopping her husband, she had sat there, strangely silent, avidly observing everything Señor the Doctor did, smiling her approval, and seemingly deaf to Maria Elena’s screams.

  Over time Maria Elena had learned there was a peculiar rhythm to these sessions. The doctor preferred to start the process slowly, gradually escalating the assault and inflicting ever-increasing doses of pain. By the time it ended, he would have brought Maria Elena’s suffering to a howling, wild crescendo—to a point where she begged and pleaded for him to stop, even though he never stopped until he was ready. Sometimes he took pictures. When what he called that day’s “little game” was finally over, Señor the Doctor would force Maria Elena to eat and drink before once again shutting off the light, locking the door, and leaving her alone.

  But when the señora came to watch, things were different. For one thing, he never brought the camera along when his wife was there, but the torture was always far worse with the señora watching. At some point in the process, the señora would nod at him. When that happened, he would immediately break off what he was doing. Without a word, he would follow his wife up the stairs, closing and locking the door behind them and leaving Maria Elena alone and sobbing in the dark. Much later, he would return alone to finish what he had begun.

  Other times the señora would simply disappear from her place on the stairs. She would leave so quietly that at first neither Maria Elena nor Señor the Doctor would notice. When that happened—when Señor the Doctor realized she was no longer sitting there watching—he would take after Maria Elena with such fierce vengeance that all she could do was will herself to die.

  And so, this time when Maria Elena could wait no longer—when she finally opened her eyes, blinking against the harsh glare of light—she saw not the doctor but the señora herself standing alone beside the filthy cot. That in itself was unusual. Never before had the señora come any farther into the room than that spot near the top of the stairs. Maria Elena was sure Señor the Doctor must be there, too, probably standing somewhere just outside Maria Elena’s line of vision.

  The señora was strangely dressed. A green stocking cap confined her mane of silver hair. Over the green headgear perched a red-and-blue baseball cap. She wore a sweatshirt over ill-fitting jeans. On her hands was a pair of rubber gloves.

  At the very moment Maria Elena noticed the señora’s gloves, she also saw the machete. Seeing the weapon, the girl recognized it for what it had always been—a death-dealing tool. In an instant of clarity, Maria Elena knew that the señora had come not as an appreciative audience to that day’s torture but as the Angel of Death.

  Maria Elena watched transfixed as the shiny curved blade rose high in the air above her. When it fell, she made no attempt to dodge away from it or defend herself. Rather than fighting the swiftly falling blade, she welcomed the blow and willed herself to rise up to meet it. Her moment of release was finally at hand.

  After countless days of unrelenting horror, death came as a blessing to Maria Elena—an answer to her desperate prayers, the only possible answer.

  Seven

  At six o’clock in the morning, with the sun barely up, a cold nose brushed Diana’s bare arm. Damsel was ready to go out. Brandon had wanted to install a pet door. Despite the obvious convenience, Diana had rejected the idea. She remembered vividly how, a few years earlier, a troop of white-faced coatimundi had let themselves into one of her neighbors’ house through an unattended pet door. Alone in the kitchen for several hours, the mischievous, raccoonlike creatures had trashed the place. When the woman came home, the shock of finding her kitchen alive with wild animals had caused her to suffer a mild heart attack.

  No, having a pet door was absolutely out of the question. Diana much preferred being the one who got up early to let Damsel out. She padded out to the kitchen and started the coffee, then went into her office and turned on the computer. Early morning was Diana’s favorite time of day. She tried to slog her way through her e-mail while the coffee was perking.

  There were a dozen or so spams waiting to be discarded, a couple of e-mails from fans who had written to her through her Web site, and an invitation to appear at a librarians’ convention in the fall in Tallahassee, Florida. Finally, and most important, there was one from Lani.

  Twenty-two-year-old Lani had come home at Christmas all excited about the idea of spending the summer after graduation doing volunteer clerical work for Doctors Without Borders in some godforsaken corner of the world. Brandon had put his foot down.

  “Don’t you read the papers?” he’d demanded. “Every week I see something about those people getting blown up or shot or worse. If you’re determined to help out, surely there are less dangerous places for you to volunteer.”

  “What about Medicos for Mexico?” Diana had suggested, trying to find a compromise that might head off an argument between her husband and daughter.

  “Who’s that?” Lani asked.

  “It’s an organization started by some friends of mine from the reservation,” Diana told her. “I’m sure you’ve met them somewhere along the way. Each year Larry and Gayle Stryker take a team of medical volunteers—doctors, nurses, and what have you—down to Mexico, where they provide pro bono medical care for people who wouldn’t be able to afford it otherwise.”

  Brandon’s reaction to this was as instant as it was adamant. “Absolutely not!” he growled. “No way, José. You’ll work for those people over my dead body!”

  “I’ll work for them if I want to,” Lani had shot back at him. “I’m not your little girl anymore, Dad. I’m the one who gets to decide.” With that, she had stalked out of the living room and down the hall, slamming her bedroom door behind her.

  Her cheeks flushed with anger, Diana Ladd had glared at her husband. “That’s a nice way to start Christmas vacation,” she said. “And what on earth do you have against Gayle and Larry? They’re perfectly nice people.”

  Brandon shook his head. “Nothing,” he said. “Never mind.”

  “I won’t ‘never mind,’ ” Diana returned. “There must be something.”

  He chewed his lip before he answered. “I should never have brought it up. Forget it.”

  “I won’t forget it.”

  “You didn’t go over the campaign-finance public disclosure forms during the last election,” Brandon admitted finally, “but I did. I wanted to know where Bill Forsythe was getting all his campaign contributions. And there they were, right at the top of the list—Dr. and Mrs. Lawrence Stryker. They send us a Christmas card every damned year. I just saw this year’s in the pile on the entryway table. And all the while they’re making nicey-nice with you, they were stabbing us in the back—stabbing me in the back.”

  Diana was floored. “I’m so sorry, Brandon,” she said. “I had no idea.”

  “No,” Brandon agreed. “I’m sure you didn’t. I wasn’t going to mention it because I know they’re friends
of yours. My griping about them sounds like sour grapes, but the idea of Lani possibly going to work for them…” He shook his head. “It was just too much.”

  That discussion had happened the evening of the first day Lani was home. Diana had thought the summer-job issue would be a bone of contention all through Lani’s stay. Then, as soon as Lani found out about Fat Crack’s deteriorating health situation, all talk of summer jobs anywhere disappeared off the radar. It was all they could do to talk Lani into going back to Grand Forks to finish her senior year. She had wanted to stay home to look after Fat Crack.

  Opening the e-mail from Lani, Diana found that Gabe Ortiz’s health was still a major cause for concern.

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  Have you heard anything more about how Fat Crack is doing? I had a note from Wanda last week, but you know how that went. Wanda said he was fine, and for me not to worry, but I am worried. I’ve told my instructors that one of my family members is very ill and that, if he gets worse, I may have to take my exams early. Two of them said that would be fine, and they’re the last two on the schedule. As for graduation, that’s off. I already told the registrar’s office that I’m not going to walk through the ceremony. I’m sure that’s okay with you. I know how much you and Dad both love boring graduation speeches.

  It’s still cold here. I check Tucson weather online every morning. I’m looking forward to coming home. And staying there.

  Love,

  Lani

  With her fingers flying effortlessly over the keyboard, Diana wrote back:

  Dear Lani,

  As far as we know, Fat Crack is fine. He sent a woman from the reservation to see Dad yesterday. Her daughter was murdered years ago, long before you were born. She’s hoping Dad and TLC can resurrect the case and figure out who did it. If Fat Crack is well enough to be worrying about someone else’s problems, Wanda’s probably right and he’s doing just fine. After all, Wanda has been married to Gabe Ortiz for a long time. If she says he’s okay, I’m guessing it’s true.

  Dad’s still sleeping. He woke me up when he came to bed at two. He’s all excited about having a case to work on. I’m happy to have him doing something besides looking over my shoulder and asking whether or not I’m making progress.

  Please don’t worry about Fat Crack. Study hard and do well on your exams. I’m sure that’s what he wants you to do. It’s what we want, too.

  Love,

  Mom

  P.S. I’ll try to call you later on this afternoon.

  After answering the remaining e-mails, Diana went to the kitchen and poured herself a cup of coffee before going out to the patio. She sat in the shade and tried to work, but the words wouldn’t come. Her mind was too full of what Brandon had told her at dinner the night before.

  Emma Orozco had stayed on at the house in Gates Pass for several hours. Her more-than-patient son-in-law had gone away for a time but had returned and waited for another hour before Emma finally emerged from the house and hoisted herself up into the pickup. The son-in-law closed the door behind her and stowed Emma’s walker in back. Then, tipping his fraying white straw hat in Brandon’s direction, he clambered back into the driver’s seat and sped off. By then, Diana was dying of curiosity.

  She had emerged from her study in time to see them drive off. Now she looked at her husband as he stared after the receding pickup truck, eyes alight with an intensity she hadn’t seen for years.

  “What was that all about?” she asked.

  “Do you remember the girl in the ice chest?” he asked.

  “The one they found out by Quijotoa?” Diana returned after a moment. “Sure, but that has to be at least thirty years ago.”

  “More,” Brandon replied. “The girl—the victim—was Emma’s daughter, Roseanne.”

  Suddenly Diana understood. “Let me guess—they never solved it.”

  “Right,” Brandon said. “That’s why Fat Crack sent her to see me. He’s hoping TLC might be able to help her.”

  “After all this time?”

  “That’s the idea. Do you remember much about it?”

  Diana shook her head. “I had my hands full in 1970. Davy was a baby. Rita and I had just moved in here and were trying to make the place habitable. And the truth is, I didn’t really want to know about it.”

  The numbing combination of the murder of Rita’s granddaughter, Garrison’s death by what was supposedly his own hand, and the disappointment of Andrew Carlisle’s plea bargain had left a heavy burden on Diana Ladd. She’d had far too much of murder. Too much heartache. She hadn’t wanted to hear about anyone else’s hurt because her own was still too close to the surface. Or maybe there had been so much mayhem in Diana’s life that the Orozco girl’s murder no longer touched her in the same way it would have once. Maybe a part of her heart had become too accustomed to such atrocities—accustomed and immune.

  Even so, there had been some unavoidable talk at school. Once migrant workers, Emma Orozco and her husband had moved to Sells from Ak-Chin—Arroyo Mouth—while their daughters were still young. Henry Orozco worked for the Bureau of Indian Affairs. His wife became an aide with the tribal Head Start program. Andrea and Roseanne Orozco attended Indian Oasis School. Since Diana taught at Topawa Elementary, the district’s other elementary school, she hadn’t known either one of the Orozco girls personally.

  Still, some of the gossip had penetrated Diana’s emotional deflectors. “I seem to remember there was something wrong with Roseanne—that she was developmentally disabled or autistic. And something makes me think she was pregnant at the time of her death.”

  Diana and Brandon had gone back inside the house. The afternoon was warm. They had retreated to the kitchen, where Brandon rummaged through the freezer and found two small steaks which he put in the microwave to thaw. With Lani gone, they had slipped into an easy rhythm of sharing the cooking duties and eating dinner early.

  “Not autistic,” Brandon corrected. “According to her mother, one day when Roseanne Orozco was about five, she stopped talking—to anyone. Emma said they took her to the Indian Health Service doctors and even to a medicine man, but nothing helped. And you’re right, she was fifteen years old and pregnant at the time of her death.”

  “Who was the father?” Diana asked. “Wouldn’t he be a natural suspect?”

  “That’s the problem,” Brandon replied. “No one had any idea who the father was. As far as anyone knew, Roseanne didn’t have a boyfriend. Law and Order suspected incest.”

  “You mean they suspected Henry Orozco of abusing his daughter?” Diana demanded. “I knew Henry. He seemed like a perfectly nice man. No way would he do such a thing.”

  “That’s what Emma said as well. She said that when Law and Order broached the subject that Henry had done something bad with his daughter, he was really upset, and so was she. Ultimately, Law and Order couldn’t prove it one way or another. DNA testing didn’t exist back then. Paternity wasn’t nearly as easy to prove as it is now. Henry Orozco was a suspect in the case, and although he was never tried for it, he was never exonerated, either. When Law and Order allowed the investigation to go cold, Henry was more than happy to ignore it as well. Now, with Henry dead, Emma is willing to open it up again.”

  “And you’re going to help?” Diana had asked.

  “Absolutely,” Brandon had answered. “To the best of my ability.”

  It took time to deal with the body. Gayle had learned the art of butchering meat at her father’s knee. Growing up on the family ranch north of Tucson, Gayle rather than her prissy, puking brother, Winston, had accompanied Calvin Madison to the slaughterhouse when it came time to butcher cattle. By the time Gayle was twelve, her father liked to brag to his pals that if he turned Gayle loose in the slaughterhouse, she could do the whole job herself.

  And she could have, too—from beginning to end. Since the sight of blood made Winston sick, Gayle learned to love it. Sometimes, when her mother wasn’t around, she’d bathe her hands in the gory stuff. Then she�
��d track down her baby brother, wave her bloodied hands at him, and chase him into the house. Her parents caught her doing it once. Her mother had insisted that Calvin take the belt to her, but Gayle didn’t mind. Anything that tormented Winston was worth it.

  But a serious butcher knife was what was needed to do the job properly, to cleave bone and flesh apart at the joints and sever them into manageable pieces for bundling and carrying. She was unaccustomed to using Erik’s machete. It seemed like a clumsy tool for the job, and it wasn’t nearly sharp enough.

  Not only that, Gayle had to do the messy work in clothing far too big for her. Despite three pairs of socks, Erik’s Nikes threatened to fall off at every step. She had to cinch his belt up tight to keep his pants from falling down over her hips, but the blood splatter would be in all the right places—on the inside bill of his Arizona Diamond-backs cap, on the outside of his sweatshirt and jeans, and on the outsides of his shoes as well. There was no faking that.

  Her big concern these days was DNA. She had gathered some individual hair from Erik’s hairbrush and one or two curly reddish stray pubic hairs from his bed. She left those in strategic spots where an alert medical examiner ought to be able to find them. What she didn’t want to do was leave any evidence of her own presence behind.

  Erik LaGrange had committed the unpardonable. He had left Gayle rather than the other way around. Gayle was no longer furious with him over it. That had passed away from her sometime overnight, leaving her determined to extract the highest possible price. For her purposes, it was just as well this was happening in Arizona. Arizona was, after all, one of the few states where the death penalty remained in full operation. It was a place where death sentences were not only given but where they were also carried out, something that suited Gayle Stryker just fine, thank you very much. The death penalty was exactly what she had in mind for Erik LaGrange.