Always Time to Die

by Elizabeth Lowell

  Finally Carly stopped vomiting.

  “Better?” he asked her gently.

  She tried to talk. Couldn’t. The world was turning around her. She tried to focus, but her eyes wouldn’t work. She tried to hold on to Dan but her fingers wouldn’t work. All her body wanted to do was sleep, right now, forever.

  Dan’s heart stopped when Carly went slack in his arms. He carried her to the truck, propped her up against the hood, and took her pulse.

  Weak, slower than it should be.

  Same for her breathing.

  Shit.

  Her head thunked against his chest. He grabbed her chin, lifted one of her eyelids, and saw a pinpoint pupil. He opened her mouth. Despite the recent vomiting, her tongue was dry. The color of her lips was tending toward blue rather than pink. She had all the signs of an opium overdose.

  No point in making her throw up; there was nothing left in her stomach. Mother Nature’s way of taking care of unwanted cargo. Traditional medical care was too far away and he was damned if he’d let anyone at the ranch house touch Carly.

  Someone there had poisoned both of them.

  But Dan was much bigger, more able to tolerate the drug without succumbing. Carly wasn’t. It had hit her like a falling building.

  She was going under.

  Fear slammed through Dan in a wave of adrenaline that made him forget his own light-headedness, his own slowed reactions. He pulled Carly away from the truck, clamped his arm around her, and tried to walk and shake her awake at the same time. He had to keep her moving until her system could cope with whatever drug she hadn’t already vomited.

  She hung from his arm, sliding away.

  “Carly!”

  Her head lolled.

  He grabbed her hair with his free hand, brought her face up to his, and shouted, “Carly! You have to wake up and move. Do it now.”

  Her eyelids flickered. Her head jerked unsteadily. “Dan?”

  “I’m here, Carly. Somebody gave you an opiate. You threw up most of it.” I hope. “Now you have to stay awake until your breathing is better. Walk, honey. I’ll be with you every step of the way.”

  She heard someone talking to her at a distance. A long way away. A dream. After some effort she identified the voice as Dan’s. No matter how many times she told him to go away, he wouldn’t stop shouting at her so that she could sleep.

  Finally, slowly, her legs started to get the rhythm of walking. She couldn’t wholly support herself, but she at least could keep her feet under her some of the time.

  “That’s it, Carly. Good. Good. Much better. Hang on to me, honey. We’re winning.”

  Slowly she became aware of her feet, icy, and her body, heavier than wet sand. She didn’t see how she stood up. Then she realized she wasn’t standing, not really. Dan was supporting her and at the same time forcing her to put one foot in front of the other.

  “Walk, love,” he said, rubbing his cheek on her hair. “Just walk. I’ll take care of the balancing act for both of us. It’s helping clear my head, too.”

  Carly opened her eyes and understood that it wasn’t a dream. Dan was frog-marching her up one side of the frozen road and down the other. The truck jerked by her. No, the truck wasn’t lurching. She was. But with every step, every heartbeat, every breath, she felt more in control.

  “When I catch the fucking coward who did this to you,” Dan continued, “I’m going to do the entire Colombian dance on him—necktie, cock and balls, the whole tortilla.”

  She licked dry lips with a tongue only slightly less dry. “Sounds painful.”

  Abruptly Dan stopped. “Carly?”

  “I think so.”

  He swept her up in a hug that told her how worried he’d been. His face was buried against her neck and he held her with the strength of desperation. His skin was clammy against hers.

  “What…” She swallowed against the dryness of her throat.

  “Someone dropped an opiate in our toast-the-dead cup. I threw it up before it could really take hold. You were more susceptible, but you threw up enough to keep from going under.”

  “An opiate? You mean like heroin?”

  “Yes.”

  She swallowed again. A bit of moisture was finally returning. Her head was only spinning some of the time. She felt like she’d been beaten with a sock full of sand. The taste in her mouth would have gagged a skunk.

  “You’re saying people pay to feel like that?” she asked in disbelief.

  He grinned slightly. “Most people don’t take enough to get sick. They just get woozy and nod off.”

  “I’m never getting close to that dog crap again.”

  “You didn’t exactly volunteer this time.”

  She leaned against him. “I still feel fuzzy.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean.” He took her pulse and listened to her breathing. “You’ll do fine.”

  “Because of you.”

  Dan had been trying not to think about that. If Carly had been alone when the narcotic hit, she could have driven off the road and died when her vehicle hit something hundreds of feet below. Even if she had realized something was wrong and managed to stop on the road and get out to be sick, she wouldn’t have been able to climb back in her SUV afterward. She would have passed out and frozen to death before anyone even noticed she was gone.

  She sighed and leaned harder on him. “Sorry to be such a wimp.”

  “Wimp?” He lifted his head and looked at her. “You don’t get it, do you?”

  She just looked at him.

  “You could have died,” he said harshly. “Overdose. Driving off a cliff. Passing out and freezing to death. Take your pick. That’s what somebody dished out to you when they filled your cup with drugs.”

  “Maybe my stomach just didn’t like—”

  “Bullshit, honey,” he cut in angrily. “Just plain bullshit. I know what opiates are like, what they do to me. We were drugged.”

  The white plumes of his breath looked like smoke.

  “I don’t live in a world where people try to kill me,” she said faintly. She still felt woozy, and beneath that she was plain scared. At least adrenaline was useful; it began to clear the fog from her brain. “People might frighten me and try to make me go away, but they don’t try to kill me. Besides, anybody could have picked up the cup I did. You could have.”

  “I should have, but I jumped the queue. I got Alma’s dose.”

  Carly blinked. “Huh?”

  He started to explain how he’d taken the point of the remaining triangle rather than a cup from the base of the triangle. “Never mind. You’re still not up to par. Think you can sit in the truck and not fall asleep or do you want to walk some more?”

  “Keep scaring me. Adrenaline helps me focus.”

  “Adrenaline.” He smiled, lowered his head, and bit her neck with exquisite care. His hand roamed down her back to her buttocks, flexed, squeezed, caressed, rubbed her against him.

  Her breath came in with a strangled sound. Her heart raced. Her breathing deepened.

  “How am I doing in the adrenaline department?” he asked after a few moments.

  “Overload.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and shivered. “Pure overload. Do it some more.”

  “Time to get back in the truck. You’re cold.”

  She laughed. “A little wobbly around the edges, but not cold.”

  “You shivered.”

  “It wasn’t from cold.”

  Dan’s eyelids went to half-mast and he took a deep breath. “Right. Into the truck with you.”

  She nuzzled against his neck. “You sure?”

  “We’ll see how frisky you feel after the emergency room.”

  “What emergency room?”

  “The one I’m taking you to as soon as we get to town.”

  “Wrong.”

  He opened the truck door on the passenger side, lifted her in, and fastened her seat belt.

  “If I had too much wine and threw up,” she said, “would you
take me to a hospital?”

  Without a word he shut her door and walked around the front of the truck.

  “Well,” she said when he climbed in and slammed the door, “would you?”

  “Not unless you passed out,” he said reluctantly.

  “Ha. You went to college. How many of your buddies threw up, passed out, and woke up the next day with a hangover the size of Australia?”

  “A few.”

  “How many did you take to the ER?” she asked.

  Dan started the truck.

  “That’s what I thought,” Carly said. “Besides, what would you tell the doctor, that I ate the wrong brownie and things went south?”

  “You’re thinking of hash or pot, not an opiate.”

  “The point is the same. You go to the doctors, they find traces of heroin or whatever, and I get to explain to the sheriff how it got there. Imagine how he’ll react when I say, ‘Gee, it must have been that farewell cup for Sylvia. You know those Quintrells—notorious dopers every one of them.’ He’ll have me locked up in a hot second. Then I won’t be able to work on the Quintrell-Castillo history, which seems to be the whole point, doesn’t it?”

  Dan felt like banging something against the steering wheel—her head, his head, both.

  She was right, but he didn’t have to like it.

  Without a word he drove the truck down the road, watching for lights in the mirror. Nothing but darkness. As soon as the road allowed, he pulled off and backed into the cover of the forest. When he was satisfied that he would be able to see the road but nobody could see him, he turned off the truck. Darkness slammed down around them.

  Carly sat straighter and looked out the windows. “What’s the attraction—submarine races?”

  Smiling, he shook his head. “You’re well on your way back to sassy.”

  “Thanks to you.” She tried not to yawn. “Other than feeling more than a little buzzed, I’m fine. Do you have any more water?”

  He reached under the seat and pulled out a fresh bottle. “Let me know if it makes you sick.”

  “You’re such a Pollyanna.”

  “It’s a gift.” Dan sat and watched his passenger from the corner of his eye. The rest of his attention was on the road.

  After a bit of a struggle, Carly managed to open the water. She took a mouthful, let it dissolve the foul flavor in her mouth, and spat it out the open window. The third time she did it, her mouth tasted more like her own. She sipped and swallowed tentatively. Another sip. Another.

  “You doing okay?” he asked.

  “So far. It’s not like having too much booze in my blood. Drinking water doesn’t make me feel worse.”

  He waited.

  After a final sip she capped the water. “Let’s see how that settles.”

  “Good idea.” With that, Dan gave his full attention to the road. After five minutes, he glanced over at Carly again. “Doing okay?”

  “I’m still fuzzy. But not like before. I can stay awake.”

  He took her pulse. Slow, but nothing to worry about. She was just really, really relaxed. He turned the ignition key so that he could run up the passenger window.

  “Here,” he said. “Sleep if you want to. It’s safe now.”

  “You mean you aren’t going to jump me?”

  “This minute? No.”

  “Well, damn. Then why are we freezing our butts off out here?”

  “Humor me.”

  “But—”

  “Do you really want to know?” he asked.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m waiting to see who comes along.”

  “I figured that out. But why?”

  “Somebody might be curious about how well the dope worked. Or to finish the job if you’re still…” He shrugged.

  Alive.

  Neither said it.

  Both thought it.

  QUINTRELL RANCH

  LATE THURSDAY NIGHT

  36

  WINIFRED IGNORED THE SLUGGISHNESS OF HER BODY AND MIND, STRENGTH LOST to a drug, strength she couldn’t afford to lose.

  Who was it?

  Who drugged us?

  Why?

  The questions battered her mind as much as illness battered her body.

  Everybody could have. Once the doctor brought me into the room, my back was to the bottle holding the farewell toast. Or it could have been put in the empty cups.

  Anyone. Anyone at all.

  With a sharp movement of her head, she tossed back the stimulant she’d mixed for herself as soon as she’d understood what had happened. While the false strength hummed through her blood, she put away the old questions and asked another one.

  Who couldn’t have drugged us?

  That was the person she would trust to mail the envelopes.

  With steady rhythm and unsteady hands, she wheeled herself through the house’s wide hallways to the Senator’s office. She didn’t see the paintings and sculpture, the expensive knickknacks from another time; she thought only about the members of the household, the people who had access to her herbs and those who didn’t.

  Nothing changed. It still could have been anyone. She would have to see to the copying and mailing herself.

  She opened the door to the office and nudged her wheelchair through. Across the room, the old-fashioned clock ticked between photos of the Senator smiling into the camera, his eyes on the main chance and his hands ever ready to grab a female butt.

  I should have killed him years ago.

  But she hadn’t. She’d been afraid of his son, a fear that proved wise.

  She wheeled over to the desk. Everything she needed was there, from copier to computer to supplies. Melissa kept the office as if the Senator was still alive, still able to dictate letters and watch them typed. Outgoing material—bills and checks and orders for supplies—lay bundled on the polished wood tray at the edge of the old desk, just as mail always had at the ranch.

  Winifred turned on the copier and went to work, reproducing the old document she’d taken from a locked box hidden in her room. When she was finished copying, she shut off the machine and turned to the desk. The wheelchair made reaching everything awkward, but she had no choice.

  The side drawer stuck, then finally gave with a creak when she kept tugging. Deliberately she counted out three envelopes crisp with the Quintrell ranch logo and began addressing them. Into each envelope she put a copy of the old document. She hesitated, then put the receipt for the DNA samples that she’d sent into the envelope destined for Carolina May. She also put the original document in that envelope, folding the brittle paper ruthlessly.

  With deliberate motions that belied the frantic beating of Winifred’s heart, she sealed the envelopes and put stamps on each. Then she carefully mixed the three envelopes in with the ranch’s normal outgoing mail, bundled everything up again, and set it neatly on the tray. Whoever took them in to town tomorrow morning—the Snead boys or Alma or Lucia—wouldn’t notice the extra mail.

  Winifred hesitated, but finally couldn’t resist. She wanted the Senator’s son to know. She wanted him to understand that she’d won. Grimly she dialed the governor’s cell number. The governor answered after four rings.

  “What is it, Pete?” Josh asked. “More problems with the books?”

  “It’s not Pete,” Winifred said. “But you have more problems than balancing the ranch books.”

  “Winifred? Is something wrong?”

  “No, something’s right.” She coughed but managed to get her breath. “Finally it will be right.”

  “Look, it’s late. I have a speech to edit, a plane to catch in four hours, and I’m still sick from whatever—”

  “Oh, it’s late all right,” she interrupted. “Late for you and the Senator’s plans. I fixed him, and you.” She wanted to laugh but was afraid it would dissolve into coughing.

  At the other end of the line, Josh pinched the bridge of his nose, shook himself like a dog coming out of water, and wondered what in hell was going on. Had
the old woman finally cracked?

  Just what I need right now—a certifiably nutty aunt.

  “Winifred,” he said curtly, “you’re not making sense. Put Melissa on the line and—”

  “Sylvia’s great-grandmother, Isobel’s mother, was una bruja,” Winifred said, ignoring Josh’s attempt to talk. “She knew the Senator couldn’t be trusted with the land. She made him sign a document agreeing that—”

  “Isobel? Isobel who?” Josh said impatiently. “What’s this all about?”

  “Castillo,” Winifred hissed. “It’s about the marriage between Castillo and Quintrell.”

  “That was a long time ago, long before the Senator was even born. How could anyone trust or not trust a man who wouldn’t be born for forty years?”

  Winifred took a shallow, careful breath. She had to focus so that the governor would understand.

  So that he would know she’d won.

  “They signed a marriage agreement,” Winifred said. “Sylvia and the second Quintrell. One of the things they agreed was that only children with Sylvia Castillo’s blood in them could inherit the land. Her children, not his.”

  “And your point would be?” Josh asked sarcastically. “Sylvia and the Senator had kids, and only one survived. That would be me. I inherited the ranch, and this whole conversation is nuts.”

  “Can you prove it?” Winifred asked, her voice hoarse and triumphant. “Can you prove Sylvia Castillo Quintrell is your mother?”

  “Of course I—”

  “No you can’t,” Winifred said, her voice trembling with victory and rage and illness. “You’re no more a Castillo than I’m a Quintrell.”

  “You’re crazy. Don’t make me prove it and lock you up. You don’t want to spend whatever time you have left wearing a hug-me jacket in a padded room. And that’s just what will happen if you keep flogging this nonsense.”

  The governor hung up before Winifred could say another word.

  You’re crazy. Don’t make me prove it and lock you up.