by J. J. Cagney
16
I had rather hear my dog bark at a crow, than a man swear he loves me. — Shakespeare
Rodolfo bared his teeth with a deep snarl. Mona hung back, closer to Cici, who laid her free hand—the one not struggling to maintain control of the leashes—against the dog’s side. With a mighty tug, Rodolfo pulled his leash from where it was wrapped around Cici’s other wrist and darted into the trees, leash bumping and dragging behind him.
Cici stood on shaking feet, her breath too short to call for her dog. Mona remained pressed to her leg, shoulder fur ridged and sharp canines visible.
Cici glanced behind her, where a faint outline glowed between piñons.
“Anna Carmen.” The name tumbled from Cici’s lips, catching almost on a sob.
Cici blinked and the apparition disappeared—if it had ever been there to begin with. Cici gaped at the arrow embedded deep in the sappy bark of the tree, just about the height of her head, where Anna Carmen had been.
Mona stayed close to her side as Cici shuffled closer to the arrow. A piece of paper rattled on its shaft, loosened, no doubt, by the force of hitting the tree.
Cici grabbed at the narrow sheaf of paper as it caught another draft of wind. She slid her free hand into Mona’s thick, warm coat as she read:
Susan’s story wasn’t complete fabrication. Evan knew this. Your sister’s death didn’t have to happen. Evan knew this, too.
Neither does yours.
Typed, like the last one. Just black pixels on white printer paper. Words that sent chills sweeping down Cici’s back and curling around her organs.
Cici grappled with her pocket and managed to yank out her phone. Her hands shook but she snapped the picture and texted it to Sam along with the message: I’m in one piece. Rodolfo took off after someone on the trail.
Sam’s response this time was instantaneous: Find cover. Sit tight. I’m on my way.
Much as Cici wanted to argue, she knew Sam’s directive was the most prudent.
So, she gripped Mona’s leash tighter and settled into the cluster of pine trees not far from the path.
Nearly an hour passed and Cici continued to stare out toward the trail, wishing Rodolfo would trot into the clearing.
He didn’t. But Sam did, followed by Justin and Kevin.
“Cici!” Sam bellowed.
“Here,” she responded, her voice ragged and too soft. She’d spent this time wishing she’d never left home—that she’d listened to Sam.
That she’d taken these threats with the dead seriousness they required. And wishing her dog returned.
Each moment proved harder to wait out.
Sam turned and homed in on her location.
She managed to stand and dust the pine needles from the seat of her shorts before Sam reached her. He gripped her biceps and turned her first to the right, then the left, to ensure she remained unharmed.
“I’m all right. But Rodolfo never came back.”
“Cee,” he began. Pain seeped into his eyes. He was the one who had helped her track down the pups after Anna Carmen had died.
When she’d returned to Santa Fe after subleasing her apartment in Boston and resigning from her position at the church, her father had already sold or given away Anna Carmen’s life, including her sister’s dog. The only reason Cici had the motorcycle was because Sam stored it in his garage—the place Anna Carmen and he used to work on it together.
With Sam’s help, Cici tracked Great Pyrenees in the Southwest, looking for the offspring of Anna Carmen’s dog, who’d been pregnant when her father had given the dog to a rancher north of Taos.
Mona and Rodolfo were the pups of Anna Carmen’s dog, Gidget, now long-dead. Mauled by a black bear while guarding the livestock on the ranch.
“Rodolfo?” she managed to push out.
Sam’s lips compressed and his fingers tightened around her forearm, keeping her upright. Cici pressed her free hand to her mouth.
“He’s alive,” Sam rushed out.
“Your dog’s been shot,” Justin said, coming up to her other side. “With an arrow. We called it in on our way up here.”
“Great job at screwing that up,” Sam muttered as Cici slid from Sam’s grip back to the ground.
“Will he . . . will he make it?” Cici whispered.
She looked between Sam’s stoic face and Justin’s ashen one. Justin must have just remembered her dogs were the last animated link Cici had to her twin.
“Um,” Justin managed.
“Will this stop?” Cici asked. “Will the deaths, the pain—will it stop?”
Sam simply watched her, his eyes as shattered as hers must be.
For the first time since her sister’s death—the second time in her life—Cici questioned not just her purpose for being here, but what type of god would allow this much pain.
17
When sorrows come, they come not single spies. But in battalions! — Shakespeare
Cici didn’t want to go home, but she didn’t have another option, really. She stood, looking up at her front porch. Sam would be back soon. Kevin was parked in her driveway.
If only she’d never left . . .
“Rev?” The voice was small but it startled Cici.
She dropped her to-go box holding the rest of her dinner on the porch with a thud, her now-empty hands coming to her chest as she breathed through the fright.
“Jaycee. You scared me.” Cici bent to pick up the food container, frowning at the seepage both from the eco-friendly packaging and from the new scrapes on her hands.
She was so tired. She closed her eyes, but all she could see was Rodolfo’s light brown eyes clouded with pain. The vet allowed Mona to stay in Rodolfo’s kennel because the larger dog’s vitals ticked better with his sister nosing him.
Her house was dark, too quiet. For the first time, it wasn’t a sanctuary she wanted to enter. Not after the person at the window, the truck at her door . . . the notes. Cici shuddered.
Sam had been sweet to buy her dinner, but Cici wasn’t hungry. Wasn’t sure how she’d ever be hungry again now that she had an idea of what got her sister murdered . . . and how involved the community appeared to be in the cover-up.
Jaycee also looked at the lid. “Sorry about that. I just . . . I needed to tell you something. About . . . about Juan’s dad. And . . . and Mrs. Johnson.”
Cici locked her knees and her jaw to reduce her trembling. Didn’t work. Adrenaline ricocheted through her system, causing her to twitch and gasp.
She cleared her throat, hoping to sound normal. “Come on in and we can talk.”
Jaycee stepped farther back into the shadows off to the side of Cici’s house.
“No offense, but being seen with you, going in your house . . . that’s why Juan’s family’s being targeted, Rev. Someone’s watching you. And they’ll know if I go in.”
After her dog getting shot with an arrow . . . after Miguel’s trip to the hospital, there was no way Cici could argue that point. She didn’t try.
Cici collapsed into the Adirondack chair next to her front door but had the sense to stare straight out into the street.
“That better?” Cici asked.
“I hope so.” Jaycee’s voice was soft.
“What did you want to tell me?”
“Juan’s dad still had a needle in his arm, Rev.”
Cici sat up straighter, but she immediately slumped back onto her seat, trying to look nonchalant. “You’re telling me you think someone shot him up intentionally. To silence—no, to kill him?”
“They gave him a lot of something related to opioids, Rev. I know that because that antidote worked. But, Rev, there was a note.”
A piece of paper fluttered to the porch, landing inches from Cici’s foot.
“A note where?” Cici asked.
“Pinned to Miguel’s pillow. On the bed.”
Cici gripped the edge of the chair, trying hard not to wince when her wounds opened up. “And you took it?”
“Yeah
.”
“Why would you do that? It’s evidence.”
“I think you should read it, Rev. And I think you need to be real, real careful.”
Not that she needed that reminder. All she had to do was look down at her ragged flesh on her hands and arms to know stuff was getting to be more than she could handle—and fast. Her dog, her baby. No, she couldn’t fall apart. She would not. Earlier, Crying instead of rushing to his side had almost cost Rodolfo his life.
Cici began to turn but Jaycee made a low sound in her throat. Cici instead bent down and scratched her ankle. She picked up the paper.
“One more thing, Rev. Juan’s dad has never touched any substance. Not a one. I know Juan told you that, but it’s important. And when Juan left to go to work, his dad was sleeping. He’d worked the night shift.” Miguel was a prison guard out at the state penitentiary on NM-14.
“All right. That’s a lot of information. Why didn’t you tell that to Detective Chastain earlier today?”
“Because of who else was there,” Jaycee’s voice trembled but the words were clear.
Cici continued to stare down at her shoes, but her mind revved and turned over.
“Read the note, Rev.”
“What’s going on, Jaycee? I don’t understand. From what you’ve said, you think someone came into Juan’s house and shot his father up with the drug?”
Jaycee shuffled back, even farther into the shadows. “I don’t think that. I know it.”
“Why?”
“Read the note.”
“Fine. Who was there—at the hospital that worried you so much?”
“Justin Espinoza was pulling away from the curb of Juan’s house when I turned onto the street,” Jaycee muttered.
This time, Cici couldn’t stop her head from turning. She wanted to gauge the girl’s eyes, see if she was lying. But Jaycee had already melted back into the shadows completely.
Cici unfolded the note with shaking hands.
These words, too, were on printer paper, stark black marks on the otherwise pristine white page.
If you don’t stop looking for answers, they’re all going to die.
18
These violent delights have violent ends. — Shakespeare
Nothing upsetting about that note.
Nothing at all.
She had no idea how long she sat there on her porch—exposed to the killer. The words on the page jumped out, retreated.
Shock. She must be in shock.
Finally, Kevin Loomis opened his car door. Cici squinted as the dim light from the door nearly blinded her. She hadn’t realized how dark it was—how late and quiet.
“You all right over there, Rev?”
No. She wasn’t. Someone planned to kill her. Someone had tried to kill her already—multiple times.
“Yeah,” she responded.
She stumbled back into her house where she tossed her leftovers into her trash can. All the while, the note remained clutched in her hand.
She turned the note’s warning over in her mind, unsure how to proceed.
She curled onto her couch and pulled out her phone.
“Shock and the aftermath of adrenaline,” she mumbled, fumbling with her phone, trying to unlock the screen to call Sam. But already the blackness tugged at her consciousness, pulling her under its thick, opaque wave.
The dream slammed into her with the force of a fist. She stood, once again, at the edge of the road leading to the Santuario de Chimayó.
But, again, in this dream, Cici was Anna Carmen. This time, though, Cici understood Anna Carmen’s thoughts, not just her strong emotions.
Weird.
And wrong.
Stay, Anna Carmen whispered into her head. Stay. You need to see. You must understand.
Somehow, Cici knew the day to be Good Friday, the day of the Pilgrimage from Santa Fe to the Medina-family chapel next door to the main church that housed the Santo Niño de Atocha—the Christ child—who’d been hailed as the savior of nearly one thousand New Mexico National Guardsmen who’d fought in the Philippines during World War II.
Cici settled into Anna Carmen’s consciousness, into her body.
Anna Carmen had made the pilgrimage to clear her head and focus on Evan’s proposal. He wanted to marry her, but then he wanted to move immediately to Scottsdale.
Evan had been offered a position with a firm there—a partnership-track where he’d work even longer hours than he did now. Evan didn’t want to focus on the trivial cases here. He wanted out of Santa Fe, out of the confinement of a tiny state with few big trials to litigate.
Her phone vibrated in her pocket. That would most likely be Evan, wondering when she’d get to the restaurant—why she hadn’t agreed to his rushed proposal or been more excited to leave the mess she’d created with the Sanchez family behind. She stared down at the dusty gray riverbed below her as she ignored the next vibrations and the next.
She tugged her soft fleece jacket tighter around her body.
She should call Cici, talk it through with her sister. Cee asked her yesterday what was bothering her, but she hadn’t wanted to pull her sister into the web of conspiracy and half-truths she’d been forced to concoct. Not even Sam or Evan knew how deep she’d wiggled herself down this rabbit hole.
Well, Evan had a good idea, and he was worried. That’s why she couldn’t tell him anything more until Mr. Sanchez came forward.
But Miguel Sanchez refused to look at the photos Anna Carmen took, shutting the door of his mother’s home in her face. Maybe he was right to do so—Marco’s death lashed them both.
That poor family—that poor man. To lose a wife and a child in such a short time. That’s why she had to do something.
Had she gotten through to Mr. Sanchez? Would the man talk to Evan or the police as she’d suggested? Would the SFPD be able to help protect him and his younger son from the potential backlash from the others involved in the drug ring?
She was so deep in thought, she never heard the other person approach. Only the soft, low voice in her ear. “Thought you’d get away that easy, huh?”
A voice that sounded just like . . .
Cici woke with a start, gasping, her heart pounding an unnatural, heavy rhythm in her chest.
She and her twin were always close but she’d never been in Anna Carmen’s consciousness before—not that intimately, not feeling her every emotion, knowing her every thought.
Cici pressed her clammy cheeks between her raised knees.
“You’re showing me this now?” Cici squeezed her eyes shut. “I have no idea what’s going on with you, but this is so freaking important. This should have been the very first thing you showed me, Anna Carmen.”
Cici slammed her fists against her twill couch cushion.
After a long moment Cici lifted her head and picked up her phone from where she’d dropped it on the floor.
Cici found Sam’s number and pressed “Call.”
“What?” he said, his voice groggy with sleep.
“I woke you,” Cici said, her voice flat and much too raspy.
“Well, yeah. It’s after midnight. What’s up?”
Cici heard the sheets shift, the low murmur of a woman’s voice.
“Never mind. I didn’t realize it was so late. I’m sorry for waking you and Jeannette. Go back to bed. We can talk tomorrow.”
Cici pressed “End” and leaned her head back against the couch. She should have known Sam wouldn’t let her end the conversation there.
“Why’d you hang up? What did you want?” he said in lieu of a greeting.
Cici sighed into the phone. “I’m really sorry I disturbed you. It can totally wait.”
“Your voice is still weird. What’s bothering you, Cee?”
She sucked in a breath, trying to calm herself. But that was impossible. The sharpness of the vision, having her twin’s thoughts running through her head . . .
“You need to question Justin Espinoza.”
“What? Whoa.
Your boyfriend Justin?”
“First off, we’re not anything—and thank God for that. Especially after you hear what I have to tell you. Second, Jaycee said she saw him coming out of Miguel’s house yesterday. Before we got the call.”
That must have been what triggered the dream.
Really, Aci? You’re the dead, omniscient one. Do better with directing my subconscious.
“We were at the station. He was at the station.”
“And you received a call a good hour or more after the EMTs administered Narcan to Miguel. That’s plenty of time to get back to the police HQ.”
Sam cursed.
“There’s more.” Because now that she’d had time to think on it, that cold brush on her skin had to have been Anna Carmen trying to warn her.
Sorry, Anna Carmen, for screaming at you the other night. For being mad at you just now.
Cici swallowed. How to explain this to Sam? As close as Sam had been to her sister, they didn’t share the immutable bond Cici and Anna Carmen did.
Better to leave that link alone. For now. Focus on the facts. Those were verifiable.
“You also need to ask Justin about why he never told anyone he spoke to Anna Carmen on that pilgrimage to Chimayó.”
19
Be great in act, as you have been in thought. — Shakespeare
* * *
Before the clock ticked over to 7:00 a.m., Cici sat next to Rodolfo in the veterinary surgeon’s office. Her normally gregarious dog couldn’t raise his head but his tail thumped weakly when she crouched down in front of him. His entire chest was shaved, and staring at the vulnerable pink-and-black speckled flesh made her want to weep with frustration.
Killing to protect family, maybe Cici could understand that. Maybe. But shooting a dog in the chest—mere inches from his beautiful, loving heart. No. That, there, was cruel.