Sacrum pulled another beer out of the cooler and handed it to his guest. No water.
“I don’t do much with the bones,” Sacrum said. “In case your skeleton is discovered, it’s best to leave it as much intact as possible. Can’t depend on the coyotes and bobcats doing the kind of damage I might want them to do to hide carved-up bone. So say what’s left of you is found, with the skeleton intact, they’ll just think you’re another poor illegal immigrant that didn’t survive the great journey to America.”
The boy now smiled broadly. He knew the word. America. Land of the free.
Sacrum continued talking in his practiced gentle voice. He knew it was a soliloquy in the absence of any understanding. “I have a bad back, you know. Digging graves in this caliche soil? Not for me.”
Sacrum pulled out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter from his shirt pocket.
“Want a smoke, Juan-John?”
Juan-John very much wanted a cigarette. He sat up straight in his chair and reached to accept the pack with alacrity.
Sacrum set the lighter to the right side of the table. Easier for him to position his fucked up left side out of the way. He could move pretty fast if his right leg led. He accidentally knocked the lighter to the floor.
“I’ll get it,” he said. He moved quickly and from behind the boy, he handed him the lighter.
With a cigarette in his guest’s one hand and the lighter in the other, Sacrum made his move.
The duct tape flew across Juan-John’s arms and wrapped around to the back of the chair. Legs were next, before the boy could even grasp what was happening.
Juan-John screamed. Sacrum knew it really didn’t matter. No one would hear him, but the piercing shrieks hurt his ears.
With a zipping sound, duct tape reeled around his mouth.
“Piel,” Sacrum said. “Piel y muerto.”
He didn’t know if this task at hand was only a murder fix or medical research. Either way, the work must go on before his grand experiment could commence. He would try some exceptionally interesting things this time, trying to totally reconfigure the human face and get things reattached. The nose where an ear should be, the ear where an eye should be. That kind of thing. Grays Anatomy, scrambled, Sacrum thought.
When he’d finished his work and put away his toys, he began crying. He loathed this part of his routine. Why did he cry if he was truly a psychopath? He had no remorse. No regrets. No concerns.
Oh, yes. He cried for his dead mother. That was okay.
Chapter 22
Birthdays are for Hallmark
MY BIRTHDAY. A big bang and a bigger parade. Not.
Gage was in Chicago. Again.
The loneliness crept in like simmering pools of melted mercury. Ready to poison me. I can’t explain it. I liked being alone. Most of my adult life I had lived alone, but Gage had grown on me. So damn funny. So damn cute. So damn easy to be around.
I took my coffee mug and a two-day-old croissant and walked around our home in the silence.
Mostly this is of comfort to me, but today I wanted songs and bugle horns and the doorbell ringing with guests and stupid cards and sentiments of love.
I found the yellow sticky-note attached to our bathroom mirror. Gage didn’t want to wake me when he left. Back soon. I love you! Take care of you and Earl Harry of Éclair.
It happened to be my friggin’ birthday and no one in Tucson knew it. Gage knew it and he left me.
The bed linens remained crumpled on both sides. The only trace of Gage. My kitchen, unlived in, but for the half-case of leftover champagne on the counter I’d brought home from my opening night. Cheerless. I walked outside. Even the pool had no life. The glass water lay as flat as my university algebra professor. That’s flat. Lifeless, but at least not murky.
I took my time meandering out toward our guesthouse that served as Gage’s studio. We had no guests and I never anticipated any.
Inside, a dozen completed landscapes lined the walls, both hanging and stacked against the walls. Even for his defined artistic style, I recognized the White Mountains, Mt. Lemmon, Sedona, Oak Creek, with all of the robust and sometimes not-so-robust colors of the desert and its skies.
A draped easel caught my attention. I lifted the fabric and found myself staring back at me.
Nude. Me. Beautiful and not at all me, but for Gage’s talented brush strokes. And I’ve never known him to paint humans. Not even a portrait.
I doused the flames of the candles on my pity-party cake. Gage had a birthday gift to present for me. His timing thing. Our timing thing. Not always perfect. I had to loosen up and just love the man I loved and get over clocks and calendars and silly special days like birthdays.
THE STORE BURST with activity that next morning. Several repairs came in, along with buyers that for whatever reason had to “sleep on it” during our grand opening and were upset when the piece they were interested in had been sold. The inevitable also included a few returns from buyers that pulled out their wallets to impress the crowd, and then regretted it. I know these purchasers are all for show and intend on the return at the time of the purchase, maybe wearing pieces out on the town for a night or two.
My right-hand man, salesman, and gemologist, pointed to a back desk that served as a private viewing/consultation station for our finer stones or any couple seeking wedding rings and needing extra coddling. Floral bouquets spilled over it, with a few balloons anchoring the ceiling. Genuinely miffed that they didn’t know it was my birthday, staff suggested they’d take me out at closing time.
I’d opened a few cards when the customer came in.
“Dr. Armstrong, I’m sorry, but I haven’t received your special order yet. It’s due in next Tuesday.”
“Forget that. It’s your birthday?” He nodded toward the obvious display on the table.
“Good deduction. Yes.”
“You like to ride horses, right?” he said immediately.
I took pause. So quick his reference to something I’d mentioned. “Yes.”
“You never responded when I asked earlier. How about a ride? You and your boyfriend. This weekend for your birthday.”
“I’m sorry. My fiancé is in Chicago this weekend.”
He shook his head and said, “Okay, but it’s not a date-date. Just a ride. It’s a birthday gift. You can still come out and ride, can’t you?”
“Can you ride?” God, I hated that I asked that.
“You are referring to this hideous limp?”
“I’m so sorry. Honestly. I just wondered if you would ride along with me. It’s been a while since I’ve been on a horse and I’m definitely not used to the desert terrain.”
“It’s not that I can hide it. I had a little back surgery when I was a kid that didn’t exactly go as planned;, but yes, I can ride with you. Good horses. Gentle landscape.”
“I’m working on Sunday,” I blurted out. “Will Saturday be okay?”
“Perfect. Here’s my address.” He removed a card from his left breast pocket. A personal card with his residence address and home phone on it. “Say ten o’clock? It’s not so hot we have to head out any earlier this time of year.”
“It’s a date,” I said, before catching it.
He sized me up with eyes that ricocheted from my head down to my toes. I backed away and he laughed.
“Just want to fit you with the right horse. You’re smaller than I thought. Long legs and high heels. I thought you to be taller.”
“Tall enough to mount any horse you have for me by myself,” I said. “It’s just the staying on top I may need brushing up on.”
“When you reach the ranch you’ll need to call the main house for the gate to open. Then take the right curve and follow the drive up to my stables.”
Chapter 23
The Windy City
GAGE BEAUCHAMP CHECKED in at the registration desk of The St. George. He turned his luggage and three heavy crated pieces of art over to the bellman. He slipped him a nice green bill that woul
d ensure their safety.
God, he loved Chicago. Old world. New world. A symposium of art throughout the ages reflected in the architecture, and the people and the blending airs of stale smog and clean lakeshore breezes. He hadn’t figured out why Chicago had become such a generous market for his paintings, far and beyond his success in New York. Maybe here they understood there was life, and even culture, west of the Mississippi, since they were barely on the other side.
He loved Chicago. He loved the St. George. He despised travel. He hadn’t eaten anything for hours. Damn airline security. Damn connecting flights with no time to grab an eight-dollar day-old sandwich at an airport stand.
As he made his way toward the restaurant he noticed the stunning redhead in the corner of the lobby, her head bowed down.
He knew she would have a slight Irish brogue as he had seen her only two weeks earlier. He hesitated, and then decided to approach. “Rachel?”
She lifted her head and swept the loose strands of hair away from her eyes. That’s when Gage saw the rivers of mascara running down her face, her expression laced in sadness.
“What’s wrong?” Gage asked.
“Gage! It’s really not as bad as it looks. I thought I arranged for an early check-in because the art exhibit I’m working doesn’t even open the doors until eight. I wanted to freshen up. Turns out they have nothing for me. Nothing. I’ve been traveling and I’m a wreck. End of story.”
“Are you sure they have nothing?”
She pulled out the Platinum American Express card with the one-hundred dollar bill still wrapped around it. “I think not,” she said.
“Other hotels?”
“The concierge tried. There’s some political event in town and probably it was a politician that took my room. I can stay with a girlfriend of mine after the show tonight. Until then, I’m kind of in limbo. Even the hotel spa is closed for renovations so there’s no shower for me.” She laughed her old sultry laugh Gage immediately remembered, but he still couldn’t wrap his head around the fact that this stunning, classy, educated woman was the Rachel Lee he once knew.
“I was just going to grab a quick bite to eat in the restaurant. Why don’t you join me?”
She smiled. God, Gage did remember that killer smile.
Chapter 24
The Ride
I HAD EASY DIRECTIONS UP Reddington Pass, although I readily admit I’d never been out this way. I pushed the intercom at the gate, entered as it swung open and then veered right, finding the stables ahead very hard to miss. The white fencing reminded me of something you would see in Kentucky or Tennessee. Sprawling and perfect.
Marcus Armstrong was grinning and waving at me from the front of the building. Two horses were with him, saddled up and ready to go. I parked a respectable distance away and walked to meet them.
He shook my hand. I suppose we were both a bit awkward. He said something about me wearing perfect outfitting and asked me if I had decent sunscreen protection. After answering correctly, he then introduced me to the horses.
“This here gray girl is Sarah. She’s a Percheron. She’s not as big as her friend, but she’s a bit feisty and not so friendly to strangers. I’ll be riding her.”
“And this bay colored one is a Shire,” I said.
“Very good, Sterling. Grand girl, this one. Her name is Clara. She’s as gentle as she is big barreled.”
I let Clara sniff my hands, and then readily rubbed her mane. She was a huge horse and I worried I’d have trouble mounting her after I had told Marcus I could get atop any of them. I spied the wooden stool next to Sarah. I presumed Marcus would need it to make his mount, even on the smaller horse. I turned away and got atop Clara with a forced and not so ladylike hike and pull.
We had a perfect day under full sun, spotty clouds in the distance, and a gentle breeze. Riding for ninety minutes, it felt like only twenty. I wondered if Marcus worried I was tired or if he had had enough. I’m not sure how extensive the ranch was, or if we ever left it, but it felt like we could keep on riding for hours when we returned the horses to the stable master and walked over toward the main house.
“Chef is making us a late lunch. I hope it’s not presumptuous of me, but rides make me hungry and you have to be thirsty.”
“Thanks. I accept!”
We walked through a fortress that reminded me of the great gates announcing the entrance to Jurassic Park. Once inside, another pair of doors held us at bay until Marcus ran a thumbprint across a small screen. The doors opened.
With no explanation I followed his lead toward the back of the house. I wasn’t offered a tour nor did I ask for one having noticed Marcus’ limp had worsened after the ride. I glanced down both directions of wide corridors and saw nothing, but a sea of white. White floors and walls, white furniture. White sculptures. We crossed a wide entryway and through glass doors on the opposing side. The only colors in sight burst with the full spectrum endowed by the gardens outside. A table had been set for two under the ramada near the pool. Misters provided a gentle moist breeze while moving in the air currents of huge palm fans. The person I presumed to be “Chef” waited to seat me with cold ice water already poured.
“Chef will bring salads and bread. He just needs to know if you prefer yellow fin tuna, crab cakes, or salmon.”
My natural inclination would be to ask for whatever was easiest, but sensed Chef was a devoted culinary artist. “Salmon, please.”
“Perfect. And the same for me,” Marcus told Chef. Chef refilled our water glasses, then uncorked the bottle of champagne, poured, and disappeared.
“It was a great ride. Thanks.”
“My pleasure, and a belated happy birthday to you. Like I told you, my horses need to be ridden. Not enough time in the days; not enough help to keep them at their peak.”
He adjusted his back in the chair and I blurted out, “Your back?”
“I’m used to this annoyance.”
“A bad surgery, you said.”
“It’s my sacrum. That’s the triangular bone at the base of your spine. My mother spent every dime she had to get me the surgery, but obviously it was a marginal success. I was nine. I wanted to go into medicine ever since, so I guess it was my destiny.”
“Then I call that a great success. You can walk, you can ride, and you are a prominent doctor helping a lot of people.”
The rest of the lunch was small talk. My business. His patients. His pro-bono work fascinated me.
“Usually, I’m just gone for a long weekend. I go to some of the outlying small towns that don’t have much in medical facilities. Sometimes I go out to the reservations, and occasionally I’m on longer trips overseas where you can expect pro-bono work is sorely needed,” Marcus said.
“I guess we’re not talking face-lifts and tummy tucks?”
He laughed. “Mostly birth defects, car crashes, and other disfiguring accidents. Civilian war injuries.”
“I applaud you,” I said.
“Don’t bother. Just seeing them light up with smiles when my work is done is all I need in accolades.”
“This has been a lovely outing for me. I can’t thank you enough, but I really need to get going. Check on the store and call my guy. You know how it is.”
“Right. You call him around five your time, no matter where he is.”
I smiled. Maybe I blushed. “Right. A little business though, before I leave. Are you still interested in those rings I have coming in? They’ll be here Tuesday.”
“Absolutely. We have a date.”
Not a date-date, I thought.
Chapter 25
The St. George
SEATED IN THE BOOTH at the St. George, Rachel asked, “Why are you staring at me?”
Gage replied, “I can’t tell you how happy I am. Happy to see you so happy. And you’re doing so well. An art appraiser. It’s just awesome.”
He had looked her up out of curiosity. Stacks of references and recommendations.
“I had to make something
of myself, Gage. You more or less told me that.”
“How did you rise up so fast?” Gage asked.
“If it weren’t for you and our relationship I don’t think I would have. You taught me Art Appreciation: 101. It’s one of the reasons I loved you. I guess a thank you is long overdue.”
They ordered, received and devoured two hamburgers, sharing fries like when they were lovers.
“Look,” Gage said, “we’re going to the same event center tonight. We’ll take your bags up to my room and you can shower, do your thing and I’ll do mine. We can share a cab tonight and get your things transported over to your friend’s house while we work the show.”
“Are you sure?” Rachel asked.
“We’re old friends. We’ve proven we can be civil once again, and it seems we’re traveling in the same crowds. No imposition at all.”
What can be the harm? Gage thought.
Finding no bellman, Gage and Rachel took her three bags to his room for safekeeping.
Rachel checked her watch. “Do you mind if I just grab a few of my things and hit the shower first?”
“Not at all,” Gage said. “I can keep plenty busy on the computer.”
Rachel thanked him again, discreetly pulled out some clothes and her cosmetics train from her luggage, and disappeared into the bathroom.
Forty-five minutes later she reappeared, fresh and dazzling in a red silk dress with a Dali-inspired print.
“Sorry I took so long. Listen, I can just grab my things and work down in the lobby,” Rachel said.
“Nah. Might as well stay here. Set your laptop up on the desk. I’ll grab my shower and we’ll find ourselves that taxi that can drop us off and deliver your bags to your friend’s house. That was the plan.”
Rachel smiled. “If you say so. I remember you liked to stick to the plan.”
Gage turned to head for the bathroom, then turned around and said, “Help yourself to the honor bar. I’ve already unlocked it.”
Evil Cries Page 7