by Olive Balla
“Oh, I’m definitely feeling pretty scathed.” Frankie snorted. She forced her lips upward at the corners, but the rest of her face felt like a slab of concrete.
“Humor can be a great coping mechanism. But if you continue to work with me, you’ll have to face your losses head on. No holds barred and no exceptions. Are you up for that?”
“I’m willing to do whatever it takes.”
Angela nodded. “Glad to hear you say that. And I’ll do my best to help.” She smiled again. “Have you been in any relationships since your divorce?”
“Not really.” Frankie picked at her thumbnail. “Unless having tea with my elderly neighbor every couple of weeks counts.”
“You have a great sense of humor. But just so you know, whenever you deflect a question by tossing out a meaningless response, I’m going to call you on it.” Angela smiled to soften her words. “Let me be more specific: have you been involved romantically with anyone since your divorce?”
“I haven’t…no one else has… No.”
“So what do you hope to get out of our sessions?”
Frankie shifted her eyes toward the room’s single window and focused on the deep burgundy leaves of a Japanese maple and the blue, cloudless sky beyond it. “I just want to have a normal life. I can’t remember ever feeling normal.”
“Having what you think of as a normal life and feeling normal are two different prongs of the same fork. Describe your version of a normal life.”
Frankie turned her eyes back toward the therapist. She lifted her hands in front of her, palms outward, as if trying to stop a charging bull. “I guess the first thing I want is for the voice to stop.” She grew thoughtful. “And I’m tired of always having a knot in my stomach.”
“People carry their emotions in different parts of their bodies. Some develop stiff necks and shoulders, and some carry their fear and anxiety in their stomachs. But therapy is a little like lining up dominoes. You push one over, and the rest will follow.”
“Okay, what’s the first domino?”
“Let’s begin with the voice. Do you recognize it?”
Frankie shook her head. “When I’m stressed I hear my uncle telling me what to do. But this child’s voice is different. Sometimes it seems familiar, sometimes not.”
“And when do you hear the child’s voice? What are you doing when it’s most likely to speak to you?”
“It sometimes comes in a dream, but it can happen anywhere. It’s even popped up while I’m in the middle of choir practice.”
“And what kinds of things does it say?”
“She usually cries and begs for help. Sometimes it’s like she’s talking to someone else, and I just overhear it.”
“She?”
“Yes.” Frankie took a deep breath in through her nose and slowly let it out through her lips. “I don’t know why… It just seems like it’s a little girl’s voice.”
“And what does she want you to help with?”
“She never actually says. She just cries and pleads.” Frankie sucked in another gulp of air.
“Can you tell me what’s going on with your breathing right now?”
“I sometimes hyperventilate. Have done since I was a kid.”
“Do you need to take a break?”
Frankie shook her head. “I think I need to keep going.”
“Okay.” Angela’s smile was gentle. “Does this child ever ask you to hurt yourself or someone else?”
“No. But it breaks my heart that she’s so scared.”
“You’re wringing your hands. Can you tell me about that?”
“I guess I’m dreading what you’re going to say.”
“What do you fear I’m going to say?”
“I don’t know. I…I guess I’m afraid you’ll tell me I’m losing my mind. My last therapist told me I was borderline schizophrenic.”
“Oh? And how did you feel about that?”
“At first I was pissed. It might be denial, but I don’t agree. I mean, do mentally ill people recognize they have a problem?”
“It’s been my experience that they often do.”
“But schizophrenia? I mean, wouldn’t I be doing things like wearing aluminum pyramid hats, or living on the streets?”
“Not necessarily. That diagnosis covers a pretty broad spectrum of issues. Although, sadly, some people suffering from that disorder do wind up on the street due to lack of resources, I have schizophrenic clients who do quite well once we get the right medication going.” The therapist cocked her head. “But let’s get back to the voice. Tell me what you feel when you hear it.”
Frankie clasped her suddenly-clammy hands together under her chin and forced her breathing to slow down. “Terror. Sometimes it’s so strong I feel like I can’t breathe.”
Angela leaned forward in her chair, her face intent on Frankie’s. “How long does the terror last?”
“Until I tell her to stop and go away.”
“Does that work?”
“At first it did, but lately not so much.”
“And that feels like…” Angela left the question open for Frankie’s response.
“It feels like she knows she’s running out of time.”
“Before what?”
“I don’t know.” Frankie opened her mouth wide and pulled in a lungful of air. “But whatever it is, I have a feeling I’m not going to like it.”
Chapter Nine
In a chamber atop a morgue attached to an Albuquerque hospital two rubber-apron clad cutters sat on stools at their stainless steel work station tables. It was the cutters’ job to harvest ligaments, tendons, and other tissue from the continuing stream of human remains donated to the hospital’s Willed Body program. Once excised, the flesh would be packaged and transported to a nearby facility for cleaning.
Various body parts lay on the table in front of one cutter. Two arms and a leg rested side by side along one edge of the table, mutely awaiting their turn under the knife. The cutter’s blade skillfully flashed over a partially skinned head from which the eyeballs had already been harvested.
On the other table lay a complete human cadaver, as yet untouched. The second cutter retrieved a long-bladed butcher knife from a pile of instruments of various sizes and shapes with which he expertly removed the corpse’s arm at the shoulder joint. He whistled a tuneless melody as he moved around the table to do the same with the other arm.
At some point, one of the cutters would retrieve the leftover bones to which bits of flesh still adhered. He would wire a metal tag etched with specimen data to each bone and put it into a plastic bin for transport down the hall to the Colony.
In the Colony area, the cutter would place the bones on a gray paper tray then cover the whole thing with moist paper towels. He would then introduce the bones to a colony of dermestid beetles. In less than a week, the flesh-eating insects would have completely cleaned the soft tissue from the bones, which would then be treated and sold to medical schools, research facilities, and medical practitioners for use in replacement surgeries.
The whistling cutter, Hector Cordero, glanced at his watch. Time for his lunch. His mouth watered at the thought of the handheld burrito his wife packed for him: pinto beans, carne adovada, queso, and red chile, all wrapped in a homemade tortilla made of masa.
Hector sighed. At least he would try to enjoy his lunch. It was growing more and more difficult for him to enjoy anything these days. Ever since that cabrón Bellamy and his enforcer came to Hector’s modest home, his life had grown steadily less comfortable.
The empty-eyed Bellamy was smooth, even courteous as he made his demands. But the other one, the one Hector referred to as El Dedo because of his disfigured little finger—that one had the unmistakable look of one to whom violence came easily.
Before giving in to Bellamy’s demands, Hector had spent hours searching for a way out of his deal with the devil. He’d considered quitting his job at the hospital and finding other work. But his wages were better than any h
e’d had since coming to this country. And the health care benefits covered his little daughter Anna’s steep hospital and medical bills.
Born and raised in the streets of Juarez, Hector had known some very bad men. But the way El Dedo had stared at his nine-year-old baby Anna made the hair on Hector’s neck stir and his insides turn to stone.
That look had ensured Hector’s compliance.
And now he was in too deep. If the law found out about his role in this ugly business, Hector would go to prison, leaving his family unprotected.
A man of abiding and optimistic faith, Hector prayed every morning and every night to the Blessed Virgin for intercession. But even as he prayed, he kept his eyes open for the opportunity to quit his dance with the devil. He didn’t doubt for one minute that Our Lady would present such an opportunity when the time was right.
Hector stuffed the last bite of burrito into his mouth. He licked the red chiles’ liquid fire off his fingers, washed his hands, and went back to work.
****
Her morning can-counting ritual completed, Frankie retrieved the business card Nick Rollins had given her. She punched the number into her phone. A woman answered on the fifth ring and identified herself as the dispatch operator for the Colfax County Sheriff’s Department.
“This is Frankie O’Neil. May I speak to Deputy Nick Rollins please?”
“He’s in the field. But if you’ll leave your number and a message, I’ll see that he gets it. He’s good about returning calls.”
“Would you please tell him to call me?” Frankie repeated the number in case the deputy had misplaced it.
“Wait a second, Deputy Pritney just came in. Would you like to speak to her?”
“I think I should speak to Deputy Rollins. He’s the one who’s been working with me.”
“Deputy Pritney and Deputy Rollins work cases together. Hold on, I’ll get her for you.”
After a couple of beats, Pritney’s voice came over the line. “Hello, Miss O’Neil. How can I help you?”
“I was just wondering if there’s anything new in the investigation of my brother’s death.”
“It’s ongoing.” Pritney’s voice was cool, the words crisp. “Have you remembered something?”
What the hell was the attitude about? Frankie could almost sense the statuesque, raven-haired woman rolling her eyes at the phone. “No, I haven’t. But Deputy Rollins told me I could call for updates.”
“Okey dokey. I’ll let Nick know you called.” Pritney’s voice lingered on her partner’s first name, the implied message clear regarding their relationship. “One of us’ll be in touch if anything important comes to light. Bye now.” The deputy hung up with a dismissive click.
Other than Pritney’s physical appearance and suspicious demeanor, Frankie barely remembered her from their sole encounter at Kate’s. Had she committed some kind of chain-of-command faux pas by telling the operator she preferred to speak with Deputy Rollins?
She pulled a couple of cans of sugar-free fruit cocktail, pears, and peach slices from the market shelf and slipped them into her shopping cart. She reached for a can of cherry pie filling just as her cell phone rang. She tapped her ear bud and answered.
“Hello, Miss O’Neil,” Nick Rollins said. “Dispatch said you called.”
“Yes. Deputy Pritney said there’s been no progress in the investigation?”
Frankie placed her items onto the conveyor belt at the checkout. The canned fruit was more expensive than she’d realized. She’d have to cut something else from her budget this month. Damn.
A young man she assumed to be a market employee motioned that he would carry the shopping bags to her car. She absently nodded agreement.
“We’ve had no response to the all points,” Rollins was saying. “We questioned the locals, but no one admits to seeing or hearing anything out of the ordinary. We haven’t found a weapon or any other evidence that might help find the men you said followed you.”
“The men I said followed us?” Frankie’s voice rose in pitch. Why did everything that came out of the deputy’s mouth irritate her?
Seemingly unaware of the sudden tension in Frankie’s voice, the young man placed the bags in the back seat of Tim’s car. He closed the door, smiled, and raised his hand to his forehead in a mock salute. But instead of returning to the market, he walked to an old banged-up Mercedes parked several spaces away and got in.
“We found footprints around your cabin, so we know at least two people other than the dead hunter spent some time wandering around there—”
“Right.” Cutting off what she knew Rollins was about to say, Frankie’s voice shot from her mouth as if fired from a howitzer. “Like I said…they were waiting for us.”
“Miss O’Neil, it’s hunting season, and your cabin sits right up against federally held land. That’s a popular hunting area.”
“I don’t believe this. Are you really trying to convince me my brother’s death was just some hunting accident, like that other poor man? These guys followed us all the way from Albuquerque. They shot at us and then stood around our cabin waiting for us to show up. Does that sound like an accident?”
“Look, we should talk about this in person. I could either make a trip in to town or we could meet somewhere.”
Frankie forced herself to take a deep breath so she wouldn’t shout her next words into the deputy’s ear. “I’ll be in Eagle Nest tomorrow to return Kate’s clothes.”
“I’ll be in that area as well, maybe we could meet at the café.”
“Fine. I’ll see you at noon.” Frankie tapped the ear bud off and climbed into Tim’s car, where she sat staring through the windshield. Was it possible she’d been wrong? Could Tim’s death really have been an accident?
One of Frankie’s psychology professors had said that memories are malleable and fluid things, designed to help in the struggle for survival rather than for absolute verity. As subjective products of the mind, memories can metamorphose over time, depending upon need and the chemicals firing in the brain of the one doing the remembering. Was her memory of Tim’s death an artifact of her brain functioning in panic stricken, self-preservation mode? Could her mind have manufactured the voices at the cabin? Had she spent several terror-filled hours running through the forest like a mad woman for no reason?
Running through the forest like a mad woman—the words pounded through her head.
What was happening to her? Only a few days ago she’d been looking forward to starting a new life in her new home. And now her life had turned into something out of a horror movie.
With shaking hands and trembling fingers, she started the car.
****
Larry watched Frankie pull out of the market parking lot. He tugged his phone free from his pocket, punched in a number and held the phone against his ear.
“Hullo?” Mel said at the other end of the line.
“Where are you?”
“On my way back to the farm.”
“Why have you been following me?”
“I wasn’t following you.” Mel’s emphasis on the last word caught Larry’s attention.
“Really? Then if you’re not following me, who are you following? Because I keep seeing you everywhere I go.”
“I figured I could help you keep track of the sister.” Mel let go with one of the twisted, little-girl giggles Larry hated. “When you brought the Chevy back to the farm you seemed pretty tense. You know, like you were kind of, I don’t know…it got me to worrying, that’s all.”
Larry grunted. “Right. You don’t need to worry about me. You ought to be worrying about what we’re going to do if O’Neil’s sister finds Bellamy’s shit.”
“What can she do? She won’t know what to do with it even if she does find it.”
“See, now that’s the kind of thinking that could put us away for the rest of our lives. All she has to do is show that stuff to the law. They’ll connect the dots from there.”
Unbroken static on the line in
dicated Mel was considering Larry’s words.
“And don’t think Bellamy will jump in to help us,” Larry added. “The law won’t mess with him. He’s got piles of money, as well as friends in high places.”
“You know something funny? I don’t even remember pulling the trigger.”
“I know.” Larry blew out a long breath. “I don’t hold it against you. It’s just the way your brain’s wired. But don’t worry. I’ll take care of things just like I always do.” Larry broke the connection.
Mel’s inability to control his impulses was a growing problem. He’d nearly got them both killed by skimming money from their boss in Amarillo, and he’d always been quick tempered. Quick on the attack. But lately he’d been doing crap that didn’t make sense. Stupid crap, for no reason.
And now it all came down to that O’Neil bitch. Larry had plans for his life. And he had good ideas, ideas that were going to make him rich. She could destroy it all in five minutes. Yessiree, Miss Frankie O’Neil was the real problem here.
Larry started his car and drove out of the parking lot.
Chapter Ten
Once home from the market, Frankie dodged an ambush by a grumbling Collette and pulled groceries from her bags. Finding no space in her pantry, she stashed the canned fruit in her hall closet beside a fifty pound bag of cat food. She scooted the wire hangers to the far left of the closet for another few feet of space.
“At this rate, I’ll have to add on a room,” she said to Collette.
The cat answered with a drawn out yowl.
“Right. Enough idle chatter. Food coming up.”
While Frankie scooped food into the cat’s dish, her mind went over her strange conversations with deputies Pritney and Rollins. Where Pritney had brushed her off, Rollins had sounded concerned—like he was taking her seriously. That was at least worth something.
Even though she’d gone through her can counting ritual for the day, she felt compelled to repeat it. With guilt and self-censoring thoughts leapfrogging through her mind, she touched each can, package and box three times. She added a few more times for good measure, until the tightness in her neck loosened and the agitation singing along her nerves calmed a bit.