Always Time to Die

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Do you remember any details? Winifred only talked about these,” Carly said, pointing to a swath of tintypes on the bed that looked very similar to the ones they had just recorded.

  He shook his head. “Mom never talked about her immediate parents, much less her great-greats.”

  Carly made a frustrated sound. “No matter what Winifred wants to believe, this is part of her family, too.”

  “She’s paying the bills.”

  “Still, I don’t like doing a half-assed job.”

  He gave her a slow sideways look. “I’m so glad to hear that.”

  “Stop that.”

  “Stop what?”

  “Acting innocent and throwing out double meanings for me to trip over.”

  “You trip and I’ll beat you to the floor.”

  She tried not to laugh. She laughed anyway. “Focus, Dan. Focus.”

  “I am.”

  “Don’t focus on that.”

  “What?”

  “Sex.”

  “I’m a man, honey. That’s like asking me not to breathe.”

  What he didn’t say was that it was good to feel like a man again, instead of a bloodstained wraith raging at what couldn’t be changed. But if he mentioned that, his curious Carolina May would have a thousand questions, none of which he could answer.

  Carly saw the change in Dan’s expression, dark again rather than amused, and wondered what he was thinking about. Not sex. She would have bet on it.

  With a stifled sigh, she picked up a tintype from the group Winifred had agreed to talk about, and started describing it. When she was finished, she added the information she’d received from Winifred. “The date is January third, 1870. Juana Castillo married a third cousin, Mateo Cortéz de Castillo.” Carly picked up another tintype, described it, and said, “Two years later she died in childbirth. This image is of her dead.” Carly picked up the next tintype, described it, and said, “María, daughter of Juana. Mateo Cortéz de Castillo remarried two years after his wife’s death. All trace of him in the Castillo family history stops as of his remarriage. His descendants didn’t count, even if they were half siblings to María.”

  “Clannish lot,” Dan said.

  “To put it mildly. From what I’ve gathered, Winifred and her mother didn’t think much of Mateo. He’s the one who pretty much lost the farm to the Anglos. That’s why he married off his barely fourteen-year-old daughter María to Hale Simmons.”

  Dan whistled. “Fourteen? Even in the bad old days, that’s a little young.”

  “Hale was at least forty. The odd thing is that they didn’t have any kids for almost twenty-five years. Then Sylvia María was born in 1916.”

  “So Sylvia’s daddy is over sixty-five before he starts fathering kids with the same woman he’s been living with for a quarter century?” Dan asked skeptically. “Sounds like María finally jumped the fence to look for sperm donors.”

  “You want to suggest that to Winifred?”

  “Why not? She’s the one who’s hell-bent on detailing the maternal family history. Does she think she’s descended from a long line of Mother Teresas?”

  “Um, right. I’ll ask her, but it probably won’t matter to her anyway. Simmons isn’t a Castillo.”

  “You have a point. So Winifred was born right after her sister?”

  “If you think ten years is right away, yes.”

  He did some fast addition. “Menopause baby?”

  “It happens. That’s why there’s a name for it.”

  “New boyfriend? Hale was likely too old to get it up, much less shoot anything but blanks.”

  “I’ll be sure to ask Winifred,” Carly said dryly. “But there were some stillbirths along the way, so I’m guessing the boyfriend was a steady one.”

  “If you want to be sure, find Hale’s grave, get some DNA, and see if me or my mother could be related to him.”

  Carly thought quickly. “It’s been a long time since Hale died.”

  “You’d be amazed at what the labs can do.”

  “I wonder if Winifred would pay for the tests.”

  “Forget her. I’ll pay.”

  Carly stared at Dan. “Why?”

  “Because if Winifred realizes that she can’t control the results of her family history, she’ll probably decide not to do it at all.”

  Carly put her hands on her hips and faced him. “Oh, gee, thanks. Forget about digging up Hale. Nice to know you want me out of work.”

  Dan stood before she could back up even half a step.

  “What I want,” he said, his face very close to hers, “is to keep you from being the one screaming into a microphone.”

  TAOS

  VERY EARLY WEDNESDAY

  26

  DAN STRETCHED HIS LEFT LEG AND KNEADED MUSCLES THAT WANTED TO KNOT UP. Walking and running he could do well enough, but sitting at a computer for hours at a time was guaranteed to make his leg ache. He glanced over the summary of his report and hit the send button, letting people in D.C. know that Colombia was going to hell in a handbasket. Again. Maybe Colombia’s staggering government could pull the country out of the mire created by drug money and illegal armies. Maybe the World Bank could pump in enough legal money to keep things afloat for a while.

  But nothing would replace the middle-class professionals and the upper class whose wealth and talents were hemorrhaging out of the country at a chilling rate.

  Greed, the engine of the global train wreck.

  He hoped his report made a difference in the speed of U.S. and world reaction to Colombia’s rapidly developing crisis. Nobody needed another failed state. Nobody benefited from it but the crooks at the top, the ones that rode the body politic right into the ground, murdering the competition and grabbing money with both hands as long as the ride lasted.

  Thinking about it didn’t make Dan’s leg feel any better.

  So think about Gus’s kids smiling and laughing. Soon they’ll be over the flu and running around, bursting with health and intelligence, well fed, well loved, well educated, and ready to take on the world.

  Fuck the politicians.

  It’s the kids that keep me trying to salvage something from the train wreck.

  Quietly, efficiently, Dan shut down the computer, disconnected the box that automatically encrypted outgoing material and decoded incoming messages, and stored the machine in its titanium nest.

  There was no sound from beyond the closed bedroom door, where Carly slept. At least Dan hoped she was sleeping. Thinking about her lying awake and alone in the living room would keep him awake and restless.

  Don’t forget the bone.

  How could I? The evidence is right there in front of me.

  Two dogs barked in the darkness, from the direction of the Rincon house. The barks rose in savagery and then shut off at a shout.

  Dan waited, listening for whatever had set off the dogs. He didn’t hear anything but the settling of piñon logs in the fireplace beyond the bedroom. Wind sighed over the roof and cried in the cottonwood’s massive branches. Moments later the dogs started barking again, drawing another irate shout from their owner.

  Something is upwind of the house. The dogs bark every time the wind blows.

  Suddenly glass shattered in the living room and something thumped to the floor. Alarms went off everywhere.

  Dan was on his feet and in the living room before the missile stopped skidding across the wood floor. He saw instantly that it was an adobe brick, not a gasoline or pipe bomb. An envelope was tied to the brick.

  Ignoring it, he went to the alarm panel in the living room and shut off the noise.

  The neighbor’s dogs were going nuts.

  “What’s going on?” Carly’s voice was hoarse with adrenaline and being yanked out of deep sleep.

  “Don’t get up. I mean it, Carolina May. Stay put.”

  She didn’t move, held in place more by the quality of his voice than his words.

  He crossed back to his bedroom, knelt by the titanium cas
e, and quickly went through the locks. This time he didn’t pull out a decoder.

  The Desert Eagle didn’t shine with chrome. It was matte finish, dark, and all business. The weight of the weapon told Dan what he already knew—it was loaded. With automatic motions he released the safety and held the gun down along his leg. Quickly, silent but for the faint crunch of glass beneath his shoes, he went back across the living room and stood to the side of the broken window.

  Moonlight poured into the living room through the torn curtains. He stared out at the front of the property. Nothing moved except a black shape speeding away down the road.

  Someone was running without lights.

  “Dan?” Carly’s voice was a whisper.

  “Not yet.” His voice was low, pitched to reach only her. “I think he’s gone, but I want to be sure. Don’t move from your bed until I get back.”

  “But why should you be the one to…” Her voice died as she spotted the gun held against his leg. “Oh.”

  He tossed his cell phone to her. “Call 911. My house is in the county’s jurisdiction.”

  She grabbed the phone out of the air and began punching in numbers. “You’re really going to have to tell me about your job,” she muttered.

  He went out the kitchen door without saying anything. The night was bright and clean and icy. The faint smell of a badly tuned gasoline engine lingered on the air.

  If Dan had thought he was the target, he would have taken a long, careful time going around the house and narrow lean-to. But Carly was the target and he wanted to wrap his fingers around someone’s neck. He went through the motions of a search with a speed that would have appalled his Special Ops trainers. But then, as he’d told them every day of training, he was a scholar, not a soldier, and there was no way they could turn him into a lean, mean killing machine.

  All Dan found was a blurred set of tracks going from the road to the frozen front yard and back again. The combination of half-melted and then refrozen snow and mud didn’t offer much in the way of information. The person hadn’t been a giant or a midget, and hadn’t worn spike heels or anything that left a distinct impression.

  He put the gun on safety and jammed it into his jeans at the small of his back. It wasn’t comfortable that way, but it wouldn’t wander.

  “It’s okay, Carly,” he called out. “But stay in bed anyway. There’s glass all over and it’s damned cold.”

  He went to the lean-to, found some old fence posts, and brought them into the house.

  Carly watched in silence while he nailed the posts over the broken window. He wielded the hammer like a man with vengeance on his mind. The butt of the big handgun showed against his shirt.

  Moonlight glittered through broken glass and vertical posts.

  “Looks like a jail,” Carly said.

  He smiled rather grimly. “It won’t do anything for the warmth, but it will keep out visitors. I’ll get some plywood in the morning.” He really looked at her for the first time. She was pale in the moonlight, almost ghostly. She was holding what looked like a greeting card. Her hand trembled. “You okay, honey?”

  “Sure. Why wouldn’t I be? People throw bricks through my windows all the time. And leave dead rats, and trash my car, and scream at me over the phone, and…” She swallowed hard, trying to remove the adrenaline huskiness from her voice. “Outright death threats are still new. They’ll take some getting used to.”

  He crunched through the glass and sat on his heels beside the inflatable mattress. Silently he took the card from her hand. It was a standard greeting card, available in any store. The front said: I’VE BEEN MEANING TO TELL YOU…

  He opened the card. The action triggered the tiny recorder that was part of the card. A voice whispered, “Get her out of town before she dies.”

  QUINTRELL RANCH

  WEDNESDAY MORNING

  27

  MELISSA COVERED HER FACE WHILE THE HELICOPTER SETTLED ONTO THE SMALL PAD and shut down. She didn’t step forward until the rotors stopped turning and the air settled down.

  “Governor, what an unexpected pleasure,” Melissa said. Her expression asked what was wrong. She raised her hand, signaling to one of the ranch employees. “Jim just brought the mail in from Taos. He’ll take care of your luggage.”

  Josh rubbed his face wearily. He and Anne had spent a long night hashing out the least politically destructive way to handle the Jeanette Dykstra situation. He hadn’t planned to move this quickly after the Senator’s death, but he didn’t have any choice now.

  “Thanks, Jim,” Josh said, shaking the man’s hand. “How’s the hunting?”

  “Real slow. The drought has cut way back on the predators.”

  “Good news. I could use some.”

  “Yeah, you look kinda like you been rode hard and put away wet.”

  Josh almost laughed. “Good thing you’re a hell of a shot. You’d never make it in politics.”

  “That’s the Lord’s truth.” Jim scooped up the single duffel the chopper pilot unloaded. “Traveling light.”

  “Yes.”

  Josh’s tone didn’t invite conversation, but he knew Jim wouldn’t be insulted. The wolfer’s job kept him away from people most of the time. If Jim didn’t like being solitary, he would have found other work.

  Biting her lip, feeling fear clench her stomach, Melissa followed the governor to the main house.

  “Is the doctor finished with Sylvia?” Josh asked.

  She glanced at her watch and then at the driveway. The doctor’s Mercedes was still parked to the side, dusty from the ride in.

  “He’ll be through soon,” she said. “As you requested, I told him to wait for you.”

  Josh grunted. As soon as they were inside, he headed for Sylvia’s suite. When he got there, he walked in without knocking.

  Winifred glanced up, frowned, and then turned to Sylvia again, rubbing in more smelly goo. Though no one could tell it, Winifred was impatient for everyone to leave. In the mail Jim had brought there was a package from a DNA testing group. She wanted to get the samples mailed as quickly as possible.

  And as quietly.

  Dr. Sands removed his stethoscope, draped it over his neck, and straightened up from his exam of his patient.

  “Well?” Winifred asked the doctor.

  “She’s slipping. It’s fairly slow, but it’s sure. Pulse is shallow and rapid, same for breathing, dry skin, barely any flesh.”

  “You said that last week.”

  “I meant it then. I mean it now. It’s a miracle she’s still alive. I should send that stinking cream you use to a lab for analysis.”

  For a moment, Winifred closed her eyes. She knew more than the doctor how close her sister was to death. Only Winifred’s all-day, every-day care kept her alive. Damn that womanizing son of a bitch to the deepest circle of hell. And damn his son, too. She opened her eyes and gave Josh a bleak look.

  He said, “I think it’s time to admit Sylvia to a care facility.”

  Whatever Winifred had been expecting, it wasn’t that. “No!”

  “Yes.” Josh’s voice was like he was, calm and immovable, a man used to being heard.

  The doctor busied himself putting away the blood pressure cuff and other gear.

  “I’ve kept her alive for years,” Winifred said.

  “We’re grateful. Unfortunately, you’ve traded your health for hers. Most nights you spend sleeping in a chair next to her. Now, even five feet away from you, I can hear the difficulty you have breathing.” Josh looked at the doctor, who nodded.

  “I’ll check Miss Winifred before I leave,” Dr. Sands said.

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “My lungs just got cold when I went out for more firewood, that’s all.”

  The doctor looked at her and frowned. “If you don’t take care of yourself, you’ll have pneumonia. Sounds like you’re more than halfway there right now.”

  “In any case, we can’t have you close to Sylvia when you’re ill,” Josh said. “She’s too f
ragile. Dr. Sands, I want you to arrange medical transport for Sylvia to Oasis Nursing Home in Santa Fe as soon as possible. Surely within the next few days.”

  “I’ll—” began the doctor.

  “No, I won’t allow it!” Winifred cut in fiercely. The force of her statement was spoiled when she went into a fit of coughing.

  Dr. Sands listened to her and shook his head. “Do you still have the oxygen apparatus the Senator used?”

  Josh turned and looked toward the hallway, where Melissa waited in case she was needed.

  “Yes,” Melissa said. “I kept it to have on hand in case Sylvia’s breathing deteriorated any more.”

  “Bring the equipment, please,” the doctor said. “I’ll set it up in Miss Winifred’s room after I’ve listened to her lungs.” He looked at Winifred. “Come with me to your room, unless you would prefer to be examined right here.”

  “I don’t want to be examined at all.”

  “Until Dr. Sands declares you to be free of any communicable disease,” Josh said evenly, “I can’t allow you near your sister.”

  Winifred went very still. Then she walked slowly to Josh. Though he was tall, she was nearly at eye level with him. She looked at him for a long, tense moment.

  “Melissa’s right,” Winifred said in a low voice. “You’re going to clear us out and sell the ranch.”

  “I kept the ranch going for the Senator. He’s dead. We can’t afford the losses any longer.”

  “You mean you’d rather spend your money in the city. This is Sylvia’s ranch.”

  “And I’m her guardian. If I feel my mother’s best interests would be served by living in a city with first-class medical care, then I’ll sell the ranch and use the money to ease whatever of her life remains.”

  “You say that like you’ve been rehearsing it for the cameras,” Winifred said bitterly.

  He didn’t bother to answer.

  She looked at his blue eyes, so like the Senator, so determined, so cold. She coughed once and couldn’t stop. And then she knew it was all slipping away, the plans and the hopes, the victory and the just vengeance of Castillo against Quintrell.