The Edge of Reason

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “Fragile.” Richard covered his mouth with a hand. “Oh, God, they are going after my mother. I’ve got to get back to Rhode Island. Find out who’s behind it, and stop them.” He flung himself at the door. “You’ve got to arrange it with the chief.”

  “Wait. Wait. Wait. I can’t have Rhiana gone, and you gone, and Cross incapacitated.”

  “Excuse me, how did you manage before?”

  “Hid. Moved. Had Cross. Richard, they’re planning something. Let’s not play into their hands, shall we?”

  “This is my family!”

  “Yes, and the Lumina is more important.”

  “You have one day.” The door fell shut behind Richard. Kenntnis dropped his head into his hands, and wished they could get past emotionalism.

  Angela stood in the driveway, leaned on her shovel and eyed the pile of sand. She didn’t seem to have made a dint in it. Beneath her sweatshirt sweat clung to her sides, rapidly becoming a clammy chill now that she wasn’t working. From her complex on Rio Grande Boulevard Angela had a great view of the Sandias. The snow powdered the rocky sides of the mountain and blushed rose as the sun sank in the west. She gave herself a few more moments to contemplate the view, then opened another bag of brown paper lunch sacks and started folding down the edges to form a narrow cuff.

  The electric luminarias on the condo to her left seemed to mock her. She surreptitiously threw a finger at the offensive display. At least she’d convinced the young transplant couple from Boston on the other side that going electric was tacky and if they really wanted to experience a New Mexico Christmas they needed to go all natural. They, however, had ordered five dozen luminarias from the Valley High School Marching Band, unlike Angela, who was building each luminaria from scratch.

  Richard was supposed to have joined her after work, but he had called and begged off, saying he had to take a double shift. He’d sounded funny, but Angela hadn’t pushed. She’d pushed once and to disastrous effect. No, she thought as she lined up the sacks at the rim of the sand pile, I’m going to be a model of patience and understanding.

  Soon she had several dozen sacks prepared and her hands were cramping. They looked like squat little soldiers in their neat lines. Gathering up the shovel, she dumped scoops of sand into the sacks. Next she set votive candles inside. Pressing her hands against the ache in the small of her back, Angela straightened, groaned and sighed. This was a lot more fun with other people. She even had apple cider simmering on the stove and a plate of biscochitos.

  She returned to the sacks. These are supposed to light the way for the Christ Child to come to Earth, she thought. Not that I’ve ever been a believer, but it does seem pretty weird this year knowing what I now know. I sure as hell hope this isn’t going to serve as runway lights for monsters. She chuckled, trying to pretend she wasn’t really worried, but she shivered as she remembered that thing seen through the wall up in C. Springs.

  A car door slammed. Angela paid no attention until she heard footsteps coming up the driveway. She looked up eagerly, but it was Damon Weber, not Richard, who approached. His tread was heavy, his shoulders slumped and his broad pockmarked face seemed to be pulled down as if gravity had proved too much for flesh and bone to resist.

  “Wow, you look like shit,” Angela said, but he didn’t crack a smile. Alarmed now, Angela jumped to her feet, dusting sand off the knees of her blue jeans. “What? What’s wrong? What’s happened?”

  “I need to talk to you. Can I talk to you?” Weber asked. He looked strained.

  “Is it Richard? Has something happened to Richard?”

  He shook his head and she thought he looked embarrassed. “Not … exactly. Look, can I come in?”

  “Sure. Okay.”

  The entrance hall had a white plaster barrel vault ceiling. Light was provided by two blue glass Mexican star lights. There was still enough light for the stained-glass window next to the front door to make a rainbow on the slate floor. Weber looked at the glass and gave a grunt of disapproval.

  “You should pull that out. All some guy has to do is bust it, reach around and the front door’s unlocked.”

  “And then I’ll shoot him,” Angela said, wondering why cops had to be so negative. “But I’m not taking out my stained-glass window.”

  “Okay, hope you don’t live to regret it,” came the comfortless reply.

  She settled Weber on the sofa in the living room, and ducked into the kitchen for cider and cookies. He was studying the art that graced the walls, paying particular attention to the Doug West serigraph of the blossoming apple orchards of Velarde. Underfoot was a Navajo rug in a Two Gray Hills pattern.

  “Most folks hang these,” Weber said with a nod to the rug. “They don’t walk on them.”

  “Yes, but they’re rugs and they were woven to cover the dirt floor in hogans. I believe in using things.”

  He followed her over to the sofa and accepted a mug of cider. He sat warming his palms on the glass and stared frowning into the yawning black depths of the kiva fireplace. Angela noticed that he chewed his hangnails, leaving bloody trails around his cuticles. She couldn’t help but contrast them with Richard’s perfectly manicured hands. Nibbling on a biscochito, Angela kicked off her boots and tucked her feet up under her. She was striving for patience, but the thought of the waiting luminarias kept intruding. The minutes crawled past and still he didn’t speak.

  “Look, I don’t mean to be rude, but I’ve got another three dozen sacks to fill and store in the garage.”

  Weber shot to his feet. “How about I help you?”

  “Fine, but I thought you wanted to talk.”

  “You hold, I’ll shovel, we’ll talk,” he said.

  Once more bundled against the cold, they went to work. The western sky glowed with a pearly light. Overhead, stars glittered in a midnight blue sky. Angela didn’t turn on the garage lights, wanting to use the last of this magical twilight.

  The rows of completed luminarias clustered about her like chicks around a hen and still Weber hadn’t spoken. “So, we got two out of three. When does the talking part happen?” Angela asked brightly.

  Weber’s face twisted as a complex rush of emotions passed across it. He threw the shovel violently into the sand. “He’s a fag.” His jaw worked as if he were biting down on an aftertaste from the words.

  Angela didn’t need to ask which he they were talking about. Dismay and anger, though at whom she couldn’t say, squeezed her heart.

  Weber paced, the sand grating beneath his shoes. “Christ! I had him stay at my apartment. He slept in my bed!” He ran a hand through his hair.

  She forced herself to think again. “Well, unless you were in it with him, what’s the problem?”

  “I liked him. I trusted him,” Weber said.

  “And that’s changed how?”

  “This doesn’t bother you at all?” Weber demanded. “You’ve had the hots for him.”

  “And I expect I will continue to.”

  “This doesn’t change how you feel?” Weber asked.

  “Well, first of all, how do I even know this is true?” Angela asked. She sat down on what remained of the sand pile, feeling the grains shift beneath her and the cold start seeping through her jeans.

  “This guy came to headquarters. According to the guys who saw him, a real mincing pansy.”

  “And how do you know Grenier didn’t just hire him off the street?”

  “Richard’s reaction,” Weber replied. “He didn’t deny it. He just left.”

  Angela bowed her head and stared at her knees. It didn’t feel like a lie. It felt like a piece of the puzzle that was Richard Oort had fallen into place. But his attraction to her was real. They had spent a long time snogging like a pair of teenagers after their last date. He couldn’t have faked that.

  “Why are you telling me this?” Angela finally asked.

  “Because I don’t think I can work with … around the guy now. Queers just … I can’t work with him.”

  Alarmed
at the defection, Angela jumped to her feet. “Look, maybe it’s true, but it’s not the whole story. Richard likes girls. I can promise you that. So at the worst he’s bisexual—”

  “Bi, gay, it’s all the same to me. He fucks men. I can’t handle that. I need you to tell him.” He turned and walked toward the street.

  “You bastard! Tell him yourself!” Angela shouted after him.

  Weber’s shoulders hunched as if she’d launched a blow rather than words. He jammed his hands into his pockets and increased his pace until he was almost running by the time he reached the car.

  Angela sank down among the luminarias. Tears coursed across her cold cheeks like trails of bile, but whether they were for herself or for Richard, she couldn’t tell.

  After the tumult of the day before Richard almost skipped his ritual stop at the hospital to inquire after Father Fish, but he felt guilty, so he got off the freeway at University and stopped. Each time it had been “no change.” Today when Richard asked the question, the nurse at the station outside of Intensive Care set aside the chart and took his hands between hers. His heart seemed to beat in the pit of his stomach, and the stink of bedpans and antiseptic broke through his control. Richard gagged and the nurse’s hands tightened around his fingers.

  She was an older woman, her face careworn but kind, and she smelled of vanilla and chocolate, as if she’d been baking cookies before coming into work.

  “I’m so sorry.” The musical cadence of her Hispanic heritage softened her words. “We lost the good Father last night.” Tears spilled over. The nurse pulled out a tissue from the box on the desk and offered it to him. Richard wiped his eyes and cleared his throat. “It’s sad, but he’s with the good Lord now,” the nurse added, patting his hand.

  He tried not to yank it away. Richard stepped back slowly. “Was there any reason to think it wasn’t natural causes?”

  The nurse gave him an odd look. “No, he’s been in a coma and that takes a toll on a body. Forgive me, detective, but that sounds really paranoid.”

  “Yes, yes, of course, you’re right. I’m sorry.”

  “May I ask you something?”

  “What?”

  “You were so good, coming every day. I … I wondered why?”

  “He saved my life.”

  No desert could have been more barren than the surface of Weber’s desk. The sense of desolation settled onto his chest, crushing Richard’s breath. Snyder looked up from his computer. His eyes were narrowed with cruel amusement, but he didn’t say a word, forcing Richard to ask, “Where’s Damon?”

  “Transferred to the Arroyo del Oso substation, pretty boy,” Snyder said.

  Richard sank into his chair. There was a pile of papers on his desk. He started through them, then realized they were gay personals, and flyers about the gay and lesbian alliance of Albuquerque. He swept them all into the trash, pulled the phone close and called the DA’s office.

  He was lucky. Salisbury wasn’t in court. “You’ve got to get Andresson back,” Richard said without preamble.

  “What? Who is this? Oh, Oort.”

  “Yes.”

  “Look, Detective. I’ve got twenty-three files on my desk. Why would I increase that by one?”

  “Because it’s a murder now.”

  “What?”

  “The Episcopalian priest died last night.”

  “Oh, shit, I’m sorry.” She paused. “Look, I don’t mean to seem unfeeling, but he had a heart attack.”

  “Brought on by his exertions defending me. If they can bootstrap the driver of a getaway car into a felony murder charge you can make this stick.”

  “Don’t throw around terms you don’t understand.” Her tone held the dismissive tone used by many professionals when talking to someone less educated.

  “My father is a federal court judge. My sister is a public defender. I have a master’s degree. Don’t treat me like a lackey! I will not have it!” Richard found he’d slammed the flat of his hand down on the desk. A number of people in the squad room looked over at him. He moderated his tone. “Please, please, pull this man back.”

  “I’ll try,” Salisbury promised, and hung up.

  Snyder smirked at Richard. “If butch don’t work, you could always try crying.”

  Richard gave him a look of loathing. Ortiz came out of his office and beckoned to Richard, indicating his office.

  “I’m pulling you off the street,” the captain said.

  Richard, standing in front of the desk, stared down at Ortiz, but the captain never looked up to meet his gaze.

  “My solve rate is at ninety-four percent.”

  The office chair squeaked as Ortiz spun around and started rummaging in the credenza behind his desk. “So why not take a little break? Rest on your laurels.” The captain’s voice was muffled.

  “Look, let’s just come to the point.” Richard was pleased to hear that his voice was steady. “I can work without a partner.” He could feel another headache starting and he rubbed at his temples.

  “That’s not how we do things around here.”

  “I won’t quit,” Richard said, and remembered with a pang the last person to whom he’d spoken those words.

  “I’m not asking you to,” Ortiz grunted.

  They were both surprised by the sharp knock on the frosted glass door. “Who is it? I’m in a meeting,” Ortiz bawled.

  But whoever it was didn’t answer. Instead the door opened and Torres walked in. The crown of his head sported a bald strip where they had shaved away the hair to treat the gouge left by the bullet. There was a tiny sprouting of black fuzz, but Torres still looked like he had a racing stripe.

  “Captain.” He touched two fingers to his eyebrow in an almost salute.

  “What do you want, Joe? I’m busy here,” said Ortiz.

  “This won’t take long. I’ll partner with Oort.”

  Nothing could have surprised Richard more. From the captain’s expression he apparently shared the feeling.

  “Excuse me?”

  “It’s all over the building that you’re pulling Oort off the street. That’s a waste, sir. He’s good. Nobody knows that better than me.” Richard smiled in gratitude, but Torres didn’t look at him. “So, what do you say?”

  Ortiz cocked an eye over at Richard. “You okay with that?”

  “Yes, sir, I’ll be happy to partner with Detective Torres, but after—”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I really have to go home to Rhode Island. It’s imperative,” Richard said.

  “It is, huh?”

  “Yes, sir,” and Richard’s voice sounded small.

  “Do you want to continue to have a job here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Torres comes in here and gives you a fucking gift. It’s two weeks before Christmas, and you’re asking to leave. Are you seeing the problem here?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Now get out of here, and make me not regret this.”

  Richard followed Torres out of the office and pulled the door closed behind them. Torres stared down at him.

  “I’m just going to say this once. I’ll work with you because I owe you, and you are good, but keep your fucking hands to yourself, okay?” Torres pulled a piece of paper out of his pocket.

  “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Torres looked up from the note. “Huh?”

  “What makes you think you’re cute enough to interest me?” Richard asked, and gave him a bland look. Torres stared hard at him and gave a sudden single crack of laughter.

  “Okay. Touché. We got a dead hooker out on the West Mesa. You coming, or are you going to Rhode Island?”

  Chapter TWENTY-FOUR

  Richard sat in the dark in Kenntnis’s living room and gazed out at the rocks of the Sandias. The moonlight glittered off the snow. It was a motif of silver and black, and it was repeated in the sword that rested across his knees.

  Kenntnis had asked him to sleep at the penthouse until Rhiana ret
urned. Richard had agreed because he still hadn’t bought that plane ticket.

  Because if he left he’d lose his job. And he couldn’t go home and face the judge and tell him he’d walked away from another job. But he had to go because they were after his mother. He felt like a bug on a pin, tugged in opposing directions and therefore unable to move at all.

  His thoughts skipped and jumped to the sad bundle of bone and flesh, the platinum wig askew, the sand from the West Mesa caked in the bloody wounds that he’d looked at earlier in the day. They had a solid lead. He and Torres would pick the guy up tomorrow. Maybe if it turned out to be a righteous bust the captain would let him leave as a reward. Richard played with that happy outcome for a few moments, then put it regretfully away. Life didn’t tend to work out that way.

  Richard released the hilt and the blade vanished. He checked his watch. One a.m. on the East Coast. He couldn’t call Amelia at this hour, wake the whole family, and she was in Boston. His father had already dismissed his fears. Which left only one person. He pulled out his cell phone and dialed.

  Pamela answered on the third ring. The husky blur of sleep softened her normally sharp consonants.

  “Hello?”

  “Pamela, it’s Richard.”

  He heard fumbling. “Do you know what time it is?”

  “Yes, I’m sorry, but I needed to talk to you.”

  “Why? Do you need a lawyer?”

  “No, why would you think that?” Richard felt the constriction closing down on his lungs, his own tone sharpening to match hers. It had always been this way between them.

  “Papa told me you shot and killed a man.”

  “Who was trying to kill my partner, and then probably would have shot me … . Oh, never mind, I wanted to talk to you about Mama.”

  “Yes, Amelia told me that you called her about Mama’s latest psychodrama.” That feeling of always being the outsider while his sisters discussed and dissected him returned.

  “So, what have you done, other than killing someone, that would send you to Hell?” Pamela continued.

  “Look, Pamela, could you not beat me up right now about my profession? I think Mama could be in danger … trouble,” he amended. “Could you please just …” Richard hesitated, trying to think of something concrete to suggest. “Take her out to lunch, or go shopping with her, be there for her. Make sure she’s all right. Please.”