by Susan Slater
“If you so much as touch him—” She grabbed the banister for support, her knees threatening to no longer hold her upright.
That laugh. One of pure pleasure at winning. “I guess I know what’s important to you. Put the one-fifty in the mailbox, Saturday afternoon, four p.m. promptly. And that’ll be cash. I won’t come begging. If I don’t find it, you’ll have another skull for your collection.” This time the hand at her throat was a caress, a thumb lightly pressing her carotid artery.
“I can’t get the full amount by Saturday. Give me two weeks. I’ll leave fifty thousand in an envelope—a good faith down payment. You’ll have to wait for the rest.”
“I’m not good at waiting. Two weeks is tops. And don’t forget your fire dancer lover—get smart and he’s toast.”
They both turned as the Rover appeared at the end of the half-mile driveway accelerating toward them.
“I’ll check the mailbox at four.” And he was gone, a leap up the steps and a jog down the long porch around the corner of the kitchen.
Panic. She had to take long, deep breaths to steady herself. Had she been stupid? No, it was better to know he was watching; she had placed her only salvation in danger. She had to warn him. Had to snatch the babe from the wolves and save him—at all costs, save him. And fifty thousand? She’d have it by Saturday.
Chapter Six
“Listen to me for God’s sake. It’s right here in the newspaper. She gave two million dollars to UNM so that a group of damned Indians could go to college. Two million of our money, brother dearest.”
Byron clicked her off speakerphone and picked up the receiver.
“Calm down, Cherie.”
“Are you forgetting that you buried your father? We’re his flesh and blood—not Pocahontas. I don’t think there’s any reason to believe he expected this throw-away to continue.”
“Dad gave to charities all his life. Don’t overreact. We need to maintain our cool.”
“I’m launching Lavender and Lilacs next month. I need money. This line of sachets is killing my reserves. The advertising alone—my crew is meeting with Martha Stewart’s people. If I’m lucky she’ll mention the product in her column.”
“You know as well as I do that until Connie dies, our hands are tied. We have our allowance, but it’s looking like that’s it for awhile.” He interrupted an expletive on the other end of the line. “Patience. First things first. We need to make sure the land stays in the family for now.”
“How’s that coming? The lawsuit by the pueblo.”
Byron CdeBaca didn’t try to cover the sigh.
“That good?” His sister’s voice sounded hard. “I think we need another family powwow. The sooner the better.”
“I like your choice of words.”
Cherie ignored his chiding about the reference to her stepmother’s heritage. “And have that lawyer of yours give us a rundown on what he’s doing for two-hundred-fifty dollars an hour. Screwing us out of it, for all we know.”
“Do you think Jonathan will come?” Byron gazed out the window at the Sandias and ignored her reference to the lawyer.
“Maybe, if he thinks he can grandstand about the environment and someone will listen. For once we’re all on the same side—for totally different reasons, of course, but all of us want the land grant to stay in the family.”
“We can meet here at the office. Tomorrow afternoon at two?”
“I’ll bring samples.”
“Of what?”
“Lavender and Lilacs, silly. I’m sure Pru will approve.”
Byron didn’t respond. His wife and his sister were close. Cherie’s business was a mystery to him, but it kept her out of his way. “Remember Julie Conlin? Bev’s daughter.”
“Sure. Is she visiting?”
“I think it’s a little more than that. Connie asked that an office be set up for her. She’s going to be working on marketing.”
“Marketing, my ass—try snooping.”
“Yeah, that’s my take. I think Connie wants another set of eyes around here.”
“Use the safe for anything you don’t want her to see.”
“Already done.” He hated his sister’s condescending airs, always telling him the obvious, but he let it slide. He was tired of talking to her. “Just be here at two.” Abruptly, he hung up.
Chapter Seven
Devon Enterprises. Stan Devon, Licensed Private Investigator. The gold leaf lettering on the glass door was the only luxury—only bit of frivolity attached to the ten- by fifteen-foot room. Connie leaned against the back of a metal folding chair. Spartan. No, not even that word really described his office. Transitory. Yes, more like it. Everything portable. Strike the tent and leave whenever. But maybe she was being too harsh. Did she care what he did? No, not if he had been useful.
“The meeting was successful?”
Devon nodded. “Yes.”
Connie paused. By whose standards, she wondered. The man who sat across from her wouldn’t think a meeting had been successful unless there was some kind of confrontation, some face-to-face interaction. Her mind strayed to the fire dancer.
“Make the check out to Devon Enterprises.” He leaned forward, foot tapping against the metal desk leg.
Connie reached in her handbag and brought out her checkbook. The best spent ten thousand of her life? She’d like to think so. Stan Devon seemed discreet. But she knew better—had learned the hard way about the supposed nice people in this world—the ones who had her interests at heart. That’s why the non-disclosure clause in his contract brought her here—the bare one-hundred-fifty square foot office under a dance studio next to a costume store on Fourth Street—not the high rent district. On the phone he had seemed … neutral. Yes, that was the best word. A nice balance between interested and disinterested. Someone she could trust? She could only hope so. She trusted the friend who had recommended him.
Meeting him here in his office made her not so certain. Luckily, she hadn’t met him first or she might not have hired him. He seemed wired, ready to spring, only his amber, cat-like eyes with pinprick small pupils remained fixed on her. He was short—eye level with her five foot six-inch frame. There wasn’t anything extra anywhere on his body—this was a man who still ate banana splits at fifty and no one would guess. There was more to his demeanor, a hardness? No nonsense approach to things? But isn’t that what she wanted?
She had retained Stan Devon with a hand-delivered envelope of cash and now the last payment. She had thought of bringing cash but decided a paper trail might not be a bad thing. Just in case. They would need to know she’d sought out a private investigator—that he was paid to find her son. Go beyond sealed records and bring him back to her. Bring her life in so many ways. It would not do to have him just show up claiming what was his … at her death … yet, wasn’t he the very one who could give her life? If he would … she had no idea.
She carefully tore along the perforation, separated the original from the copy and slid the check across the desk.
“Everything is there.” Stan slapped a manila envelope down in front of her. “Covers birth through the end of high school. You know these cases are my bread and butter now. Everyone searching for roots or what they’ve discarded. No disrespect intended. We all have reasons for moving on.”
Connie didn’t comment. She picked up the envelope, a hefty bubble-pack mailer. Yet, so slender to hold a life history, albeit a young history. What had she expected? A box of memorabilia? She worked the two-prong clasp loose and looked inside. A list of addresses, names of guardians, perhaps, or just places where he had lived; then, a few pages of what looked to be a profile, and a high school annual. She pulled everything out.
“Did you meet him?” She needed to ask. It had been a stipulation of his hire—he was only to seek out information—not make contact.
“I honored our contract.”
“Good.” Everything was to have been discreet. How much did her son know? Very little, she assumed. He had bee
n adopted. Did he even know that? Had to. Indian son to Anglo parents. Had that been the right thing? No, right or wrong hadn’t come into play—it had been the only thing.
There had been money on a monthly basis out of her house account. Only a thousand dollars but it continued until this past spring when he turned nineteen. Had the money made his life easier?
“The family? Did you find out anything?”
Stan reached to pick up a folder behind him.
“Interesting. Not the easiest of lives. Father died when he was eight, former military, there was a lawsuit trying to trace the cancer to his work at Los Alamos. Nothing ever came of it—the government settled out of court, but the pension allowed mother and son to live well. Then things turned sour again. Mother was found murdered—a blow to the head presumably occurred during a break-in. The circumstances were murky. Your son was sixteen …”
“Go on.”
Stan had stopped and seemed to be choosing his words. “Your son was cleared—”
“Cleared?” Had she heard correctly? Of murder?
“You know, small town, heinous crime—Indian living with a white woman.”
“He was her son, for God’s sake.”
“Prejudice isn’t logic. Hear me out. They weren’t close. There had been some problems. There were a number of good reasons he was a suspect.”
“What kind of problems?” This wasn’t what she’d expected—nothing like what she’d expected.
“She’d had him put in detention—the D-home for wayward teens. Actually it wasn’t just once. She’d been calling the cops since he turned fifteen.”
“Why?”
“Report was difficult to get. An old law enforcement buddy worked the case. I wouldn’t have gotten this far if I hadn’t had an ‘in’.”
He paused again. Was she supposed to be impressed? Ten thousand dollars said she was paying for just that kind of “in.”
“The mother was a stickler for rules. A couple times he’d run away or a party got out of hand. Then, seems the kid took her car without permission and she reported it stolen. Guess they’d had a yelling match when a judge released him. Ugly. Lots of witnesses. Cast more than a little suspicion his way when her body was found about a week later.”
“It doesn’t necessarily sound like unusual teen behavior.”
“That’s what I thought. But it seems that after he discovered the body, he kept it quiet. Lived with his dead mother a week before going to authorities. When they got into the house, she had been laid out—new dress, hair combed, jewelry—half her head caved in and he just cleaned up and life went on.”
“Stop.” Her hand had shot out in front of her but stopped midair as if to ward off a blow.
“I think you need to hear this.”
She shuddered, then nodded. She did need to hear, but this macabre twist to her idyllic, no, naive picture of his life was almost too much. She’d imagined a case full of trophies—basketball, track—all American, good kid raised in a small town, no gangs, no violence … doting parents.
“The murderer was never caught. The evidence was a little cold after a week but it was determined that, other than suffering the shock of finding his mother and tampering with evidence, he was probably innocent.”
“Probably?”
“The kid seemed to blame himself—the fights with his mother—there didn’t seem to be any love lost, so to speak, between them. But, finding her murdered, he just snapped. Seemed to think he’d wished it so and it happened, his wishing come true. Lots of pretty good shrinks were brought in—he didn’t lack for money; there had been a sizable inheritance. He was sent away for a year.”
“Sent away?”
“Hospitalized. Private institution. It was better than criminal charges. Of course, he’d pretty much destroyed evidence. An overzealous DA in the town went for him. Only a very good and very caring shrink with a couple good lawyers kept him out of jail.”
“You talked with them?”
“I met his lawyer. The one who handles the trust. He won’t be twenty-one until—”
“I know when he was born.” A touch of sarcasm.
“Of course, sorry.” Stan referred to his notes. “He came back to the local high school for his last year.”
“That must have been traumatic.”
“Part of therapy. Face the demons, I suppose.”
“Was it positive?”
“I don’t think so. Left at Christmas, got a GED, tried a semester at Haskell Indian College but then just took off. Frankly, I was surprised when you said he’d made contact.”
“Why?”
He paused. Yellow cat-eyes searched her face. “I also talked to the psychiatrist who had supported him. He was against any interference in the kid’s life. It was difficult, but I kept your name out of things. The shrink was my contact—the way of reaching your son. I honestly wasn’t certain he’d deliver the message.”
“What do you think he was afraid of?”
“Don’t know. I’m not sure he was telling me everything. Seemed to think the kid was pretty fragile.”
Too fragile to help her? To give her the bone marrow transplant which would save her life?
“He gave me his number. I told him the circumstances and he wanted me to encourage you to call—to be sure and call before you talked with your son. The card’s in the envelope.”
She reached into her bag for cigarettes and tapped one from a new pack. “May I?”
Stan nodded. Not thrilled but he was not going to deny the gift horse either, she decided. The pause was necessary—to collect her thoughts. Who was it who said quitting this habit involved replacing the ritual as much as the nicotine? The way of ordering your thoughts as you did a mindless repetitious task. The snap of the lighter seemed to echo in the small room.
“Do you think I should call the psychiatrist?”
“I’ve given that some thought. It may not be what you want to hear. I frankly felt he was disappointed you were trying to get in touch. I believe he’ll discourage any further contact.” Stan fingered the crease in a trouser leg. “You know, I don’t claim to be an expert but I’d suspect a mother’s caring—a blood relation thing that can’t be denied—might win out. Might be just what the kid needs—some permanent connection.”
She nodded. Her thoughts exactly. The fact he’d chosen to communicate with her as the fire dancer, a symbol of his heritage, spoke volumes. Yet, the “permanent” part might not be possible and if he lost another parent …
She began to leaf through the annual, then put it aside and picked up the page of test scores.
“There’s pictures of him.” He waved toward the annual.
She wasn’t sure she was ready. She ran a finger over the embossing and traced the school insignia. Haskell Panthers. A lopsided, barely discernible cat’s head reared out of the black cloth cover.
“I’ve marked them.”
Three yellow sticky notes protruded from the book’s edge. On impulse, she flipped the annual open to the first one. R. E. Merritt. The picture was all Adam’s apple on long neck, wild black hair spiked up in front, but appeared pulled back at the neck. A braid? She thought so. Dark eyes. High cheekbones. Her smile—just hinted at—pulled up the corners of his mouth. Handsome? Yes. But more striking. In the image of his father. In fact, he was a wonderful blend of the two of them. She felt tears and blinked. Underneath the picture the usual enigmatic caption—“Voted most likely to change.” The other two pictures were groups—drama club and culinary arts. Here a tall young man in a chef’s white hat leaned over a tray of what looked to be hors d’oeuvres. Not exactly the lawyer or historian or statesman she’d imagined, but under the circumstances …
“Would you say that there’s a happy ending in the making?” Stan’s question seemed more for conversation than a need-to-know.
Wasn’t happy ending an oxymoron? She stubbed her cigarette out in the glass ashtray Stan had pulled out of a bottom drawer. “Time will tell.” She put the
annual and papers back in the bubble pack. “How does your Saturday afternoon look? I may need you for something else—a delivery around four o’clock.”
“Let me check.”
The exaggerated turning of pages in his appointment book was a sham. She guessed he had no other appointments. She took the packet from her purse. The thousand-dollar bill she’d slipped under the rubber band on top caught his attention.
Chapter Eight
Ben sat in the parking lot of the hospital and looked up at the perfect art deco restoration that might now be torn down. No. That was a little drastic. He couldn’t imagine the hospital not being there—a change once again in its reason for being, but it would exist. Change and survival—not necessarily compatible terms.
Last year the clinic had cut its evening hours. Beginning in a month, pharmacy services would be scaled back, no longer open on Sundays and holidays. Prescriptions were to be limited to 30-day supplies. Those traveling long distances, especially the elderly and ill, would be greatly inconvenienced. The urgent care/walk-in clinic would be closed on weekends and holidays, and mental health staff would drop to two—a full-time psychiatrist, and a full-time contract psychologist. Ben’s two days a week were paid for by a contract shared with the Gallup hospital.
Ben had no doubts that the scale-down was severe and would have drastic repercussions. What could be done about it was completely sobering—very little to nothing. The last statistics Ben saw concerning Indian health over three years ago listed seventy-four doctors for every 100,000 American Indians. The general population had two-hundred forty-two per 100,000. With a national population of 1.51 million Indians and Native Alaskans, health care costs of some four billion were now split between tribes and the federal government. But this was bare bones—still far too little to attract first-rate health caretakers. Doctors, nurses and pharmacists were leaving IHS in droves.
It wasn’t that IHS hadn’t supported enticements to swell the ranks—he was the product of a scholarship and loan repayment program that would keep him assigned to various reservations for three years. But too little, too late. Testimony before the Senate Indian Affairs Committee suggested Congress consider even greater funding of such programs, but it was only a drop in the bucket. Maybe something was better than nothing, but Ben figured it wouldn’t even be noticed in an area like Albuquerque.