by Sarah Lovett
But one thing was clear to anyone in law enforcement—know the victim or victims if you want to know the perpetrator.
He'd delivered the second Polaroid to Hansi Gausser just over twenty-four hours ago. He was hoping that Gausser had worked a miracle.
He found the serologist hunched over a comparison microscope.
Without looking up, Gausser gave Matt a small salute. Gausser said, "Your tax dollars at work—and a rush job to boot. After I promised to hand over my firstborn, Los Alamos lab supplied us with a beautiful enlargement of your hostage."
He straightened and gestured to a packet on a table. "They also returned the original Polaroid by courier. I'll check it out and let you know if I find anything interesting, but I wouldn't hold my breath, pardner." Occasionally, Gausser tried to affect a cowboy drawl, Swiss style.
"The photo will be clean just like the first one," Matt said. Both Polaroids would be sent to the F.B.I. lab at Quantico. There, analysts would enlarge, enhance, and assess behavioral markers and search for identifying factors. By the time they came up with anything on the second victim that could be sent out to law enforcement agencies for a possible I.D., there would already be a corpse. Matt and Gausser shared the conviction that the second victim was dead or would die soon.
"Can I speak to you for a minute, Matt?" Both Gausser and Matt looked up. Captain Elizer Rocha stood in the doorway of the lab. Rocha nodded to the serologist and turned away.
Matt joined his commanding officer in the hall. Rocha said, "What's the latest on Anthony Randall?"
"Terry Osuna's running a Crimestoppers bulletin and pushing the anyone-who-has-information angle. So far, none of the calls have led to much. We're working on an I.D. on the second victim—"
"Fine. Keep it at that." Rocha nodded curtly. "And I want those Polaroids sent off to Bureau analysts ASAP. This afternoon." He opened his mouth, as if to add something to his orders, then turned and walked away.
The brief exchange left Matt feeling uneasy. Rocha tolerated the F.B.I., but he wasn't partial to their attitude. State cops never were. So why was the captain so eager to hand over jurisdiction?
Matt joined Hansi Gausser at his desk with another question. "Can you do something with the handwriting on the photographs?"
Gausser lowered his voice. "If I get a known sample, then I can compare. If not, you'll have to wait for the guys at behavioral science." He held up an eleven-by-fourteen-inch photo enlargement. "Your Polaroid. Subject: male groin and penis. . . complete with tattoo. Isn't technology fabulous?"
Matt took the enlargement and examined it for a few seconds. "Damn. . . Albert Kove was right. It is a tattoo. A snake?"
"Snake or sword." Gausser tapped at the enlargement. "See, this could be the hilt. How many men do you know who tattoo their cocks?"
"I know one." Matt whistled. "Jesse Montoya."
"That's right." Hansi scowled. A felon with a trademark tattoo on his penis became instantly notorious within law enforcement circles. "Jesse Montoya, a.k.a. Zorro."
THERE ARE TWO types of blacktops in New Mexico; those that twist like a snake on the end of a stick, and those that drive themselves straight across the plains. For the first fifteen miles out of Santa Fe, State Route 14 fell into the second category. In darkness, illuminated by headlamps and a three-quarter moon, the white stripe seemed drawn toward a distant, straight-ahead point. Matt kept one hand on the steering wheel.
Sylvia watched a shadow land of trees, trailers, and homes blur together in the passenger window. They passed the Corrections Academy and the Penitentiary of New Mexico. The Main Facility was lit up by the flat white glare of perimeter lights.
Jesse Montoya—Zorro—had done time at the pen. But not very much time. Most recently, Montoya had been convicted of criminal sexual penetration of a minor and sent to South Facility. With "good time," his original commitment had been reduced to less than three years, and his release two months ago had garnered heavy publicity.
Neither Sylvia nor Matt had spoken a dozen words since they left her home. They were on their way to the village of Cerrillos, eighteen miles south of Santa Fe. In the 1880s, it had been a thriving mining community funded by the Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe Railroad. Cerrillos, "Little Hills," was named for its surrounds, the mineral-rich Ortiz Mountains. There was some historical evidence that seventeenth-century Spaniards had forced Indians to mine turquoise in the Ortiz. A few hardy individuals still sought wealth in the hills, but for the most part, Cerrillos was a marginal community whose residents included surviving hippies, a few artists, Spanish families, and a scattering of rich folks.
They were going to pay a visit to Augustine Montoya, Jesse Montoya's grandfather. Sylvia had seen the old man at Jesse's trial. Stooped and twisted like a root—that's how she remembered him. Grandfather of a convicted rapist.
Jesse Montoya was what behavioral scientists classified as a "power/reassurance rapist." He raped young women to reassure himself of his own masculinity. His fantasy was about relationships—he forced his victims to consent "voluntarily." It made him feel like a man. The tattooed penis was out of character because it was a little too macho. She'd done an evaluation when the defense toyed with the idea of going for "guilty but mentally ill." They had not used her testimony when it failed to support their theory.
Maybe Jesse had paid a very high price for his crime, after all.
When they passed the railroad tracks at Cerrillos, Matt said, "Augustine's road is a half mile from here."
The turnoff to the property was almost hidden behind a large boulder and scrub brush. Rinsed by moonlight, the hills looked larger than they actually were. Sylvia gripped the dash as the truck bounced over a bar ditch.
Matt negotiated a tight turn. The truck slammed into a rut that almost qualified as an acequia, and Sylvia felt her teeth grate. She was relieved when he pulled over and parked at a slight widening of the road.
"Wait here." Matt climbed out and closed the door quietly.
She watched him traverse the smooth rise of the hill. She'd never accompanied him on the job, and she didn't particularly like his attitude tonight. Moody, withdrawn, cold. But they were both jittery, expecting bad news—and another body—any minute. The killer or killers had acted very quickly when they kidnapped and murdered Anthony Randall. There was no reason to believe Jesse Montoya would receive different treatment.
She glanced at her watch: 8:36.
A faint breeze ruffled her hair, and crickets kept up their incessant song. She leaned her head against the half-open window and closed her eyes.
She wasn't sure how much time had passed when she became aware of a sputtering sound; a fire had started somewhere nearby. Acrid smoke curled into her nostrils. She coughed and woke with a start.
THE TWO-ROOM HOUSE was filled with the hiss of kerosene lanterns. The yellow light delineated the two wooden chairs, the handmade table, the plywood counter propped next to the deep old-fashioned sink. It washed over the neatly stacked tin plates, the lidless Mason jars, the pot of pinto beans that simmered on a hot plate.
There was no sign of Jesse Montoya or his grandfather, Augustine.
Matt's boots crunched earth and sand as he crossed the dirt floor. When he pulled the handle on the old gas refrigerator, the heavy door swung open with the groan of rusty hinges. Inside, a bright red can of Coke, an almost empty bottle of ketchup, half a loaf of Wonder bread, and a jar of cocktail franks occupied the two shelves. He closed the refrigerator door quietly.
The only other furniture in the room was an armchair and a television set with wires that fed out the window; Matt figured the old man ran the set off car batteries. He ducked through the doorway that led to a tiny bedroom.
The earth floor had recently been sprinkled with water and swept. The bed was a cot. From a retablo on the north wall, the Virgen de Guadalupe kept watch. Next to the Virgen, in a nicho, burning votive candles framed a photograph of Jesse Montoya. Tiny flowers had been placed between the candles. A faded ojo
de Dios, eye of God, hung beside the altar.
Matt guessed Augustine Montoya believed his grandson was dead.
He heard the rueful hoot of a barn owl as he retraced his steps to the front of the house. The chorus of crickets came to an abrupt halt when he appeared in the doorway. In the distance, the soft swell of two voices drifted up the hillside.
"¿COMPRENDE?" THE MAN stood inches from Sylvia's face. She caught the scent of malt and cigarette smoke as she slid toward the driver's door. There was a small explosion—the crack of a pop-top.
The owl called again.
She could see the man now. He was thin and stooped, and he clutched a cigarette and a beer can in one hand, his hat in the other. He grinned at her. She opened the truck door and stepped out.
"¿Bebe, jita?" He offered her the can. "You want Schlitz?"
"No, gracias." Her heartbeat slowed to normal as she shook off the confusion of sleep. This was Augustine Montoya.
He said, "Su chota, he's looking for me, pero yo. . . I'd rather talk to his mujer."
Chota—she'd heard it before. It meant something like prick. Augustine had defty insulted Matt and stated his preference for the cop's woman; he had expressed himself politely, and she wasn't the least bit offended. In fact, she found herself liking Augustine Montoya.
He shuffled around the front of the truck, took a drink, and offered Sylvia his free hand. His skin was rough as sandpaper; his handshake felt good.
"¿Buscando a Jesse? You want to find him?" He shook his head softly. "No. . . you come to tell me, está muerto."
Sylvia caught it: he's dead.
She studied Augustine's face in the moonlight. She saw a ghostly topographical map of canyons and valleys. His mouth fell slack to one side. It was difficult to read the expression in his eyes; she felt more than saw a mixture of sadness and resignation.
Sylvia shook her head. "I don't know that," she said softly. But she couldn't shake the image of the bound body in the Polaroid.
Augustine was matter-of-fact "Muerto."
"Why do you think your grandson's dead?" Her voice was a whisper, but she thought it sounded loud.
Augustine took a last swig of beer and used one gnarled hand to crush the can and toss it into the bushes. He eased closer to Sylvia, and she felt his eyes like delicate fingers on her face.
"Mi esposa . . . Elena . . ." His voice broke when he said his wife's name. "She told me to take care of Jesse."
He gazed up at the sweep of stars overhead, and Sylvia followed his lead. The Big Dipper and Hercules hogged the sky. Other summer constellations proved more timid. For an instant, the gleaming planets, asteroids, and stars clustered together to form a woman's profile, a shoulder, the rump of a horse. Just as quickly, they blurred and melted back into infinity.
Augustine said, "Jesse went missing three nights ago—el sábado." Saturday.
"Does he have friends?"
"Nadie. He's not staying with nobody." The old man turned his head away and spit at a rock. "People want him to pay."
"For his crimes?"
"Sí." He nodded. "His time in prison . . . it wasn't enough." Augustine's body swayed for a moment, then he caught himself. "El juez. . . he warned me that someone might try—"
"What?" Sylvia crossed her arms around her waist; she was frustrated by her lack of Spanish. "Did someone threaten your grandson?"
"Una troca. One, maybe two nights it parked on the road."
"Which nights? Did you see the driver? What kind of truck?"
He shook his head. "It was . . . amarilla maybe, una troca de panel."
A yellow panel truck. That would fit with the Polaroid.
Both she and Augustine heard a stone tumble down the hill thirty feet away. Neither looked toward the sound. She said, "You think they came for Jesse?"
"Su chota. . . "Augustine gave a low growl that turned into a rasping cough. "He's got big ears, no?"
Matt called from fifteen feet away. "Hola, Augustine."
Augustine ignored the greeting and touched Sylvia hesitantly on the shoulder. "Una troca Ford, maybe, but I only see it from far away."
Matt rattled off a long string of Spanish; its meaning completely eluded Sylvia, but from the inflection she recognized a series of questions. She watched Augustine's posture stiffen.
He said, "Mi nieto, Jesse. . . fue un bad hombre." His voice dropped to an angry whisper. "Vienen las llamas de juicio, the flames of hell. El juez, the big judge, told me they would come!"
Augustine swayed toward Sylvia; he touched a shaking finger to his forehead. Then he turned away, and his feet scraped the ground as he crossed the road and disappeared behind a stand of Navajo willows.
Matt slid behind the wheel of the truck. When Sylvia was next to him, she touched his arm. "Augustine believes Jesse's dead."
"I think he's right."
"What else did he say?"
"The flames of judgment, the flames of hell are on their way."
Sylvia found her cotton jacket on the seat. She draped it over her legs. "The judge told him that?"
"The judge warned him there would be justice."
"The judge as in God?"
"I don't think so." Matt started the truck's engine. "From what he said, I've got a feeling he means your judge."
"Who?"
"Judge Nathaniel Howzer."
THEY WERE TWO miles down the main road when Matt turned onto a dirt track that led past livestock chutes. He cut the headlights and accelerated.
Sylvia's eyes failed at the abrupt loss of light; the world passed in a blur of smells and sounds. The blind motion was exhilarating and frightening.
Finally, Matt let the truck coast to a stop near the old Atchison, Topeka & Santa Fe tracks. The moon stared down like the yellow eye of a black cat. Under its milky gaze the landscape appeared bare, a relief of oblique angles. The earth was caliche. Where it allowed any visible growth, dark spears of yucca plants probed the air and native grasses resembling clumps of hair marked the rusty tracks.
With the truck windows open, the night's sound and scent were surprisingly complex. A chorus of crickets, the mating trill of a spadefoot toad, a barking dog, the musty aroma of pond water, manure, and creosote. When Sylvia took a deep breath, she imagined she could taste the earth. Her skin felt like paper, sweat evaporating unseen, no dampness visible between the tiny hairs that covered her arm. Sylvia settled back and closed her eyes.
Matt took a tired breath. "Jesse Montoya deserved more punishment than he got." A soft breeze crossed his cheek. "But he doesn't deserve to die the way Randall died. Nobody does."
Sylvia said, "When I was a kid, I used to lie awake at night, in bed . . . and I'd think, there are people out there doing bad things right this minute, and I can't stop them."
Even without the moonlight, Matt would have been able to tell she was turning toward him. He watched, wordless, as she negotiated the claustrophobic space. With almost desperate energy, she slipped off pumps and hiked her skirt up bare legs until it bunched around her waist. She straddled him, and he heard the cotton fabric of her underpants tear when he tugged at the side seam.
Through her silk blouse, the steering wheel dug into the small of her back. She could feel the heat where his hands had gripped plastic. The warmth felt good. Alive. She silenced him with her mouth; her fingers found his zipper. Callused fingers slid up her thighs, moved roughly over belly and breasts. With a quick animal cry, she let him inside.
CHAPTER NINE
JUST AFTER SUNRISE, Sylvia stepped out of the shower and dripped water all the way to the bedroom. As she stared down at Matt asleep in her bed, she was disconcerted by the sensation of unfamiliarity. Maybe it was only the milky sunlight that paled his skin and highlighted signs of age and fatigue—but for a moment, he was a stranger.
Partly for reassurance, she kissed him on the mouth, and his eyes opened slowly.
"Good morning, sleepyhead."
He said, "Do that again."
"Good mor
ning?"
"The kiss."
She smiled. "Should I leave you alone?"
He rubbed his face like a drowsy kid, focused, and then let his eyes play over her nude body. "Too late for that." His hand moved down his belly. She could see his erection pressing against the blue cotton sheet.
She scrambled over him, fell onto the mattress, and pulled him on top. He brushed her hair from her neck and kissed damp skin. His mouth moved to her breasts, and she willingly lost herself in a wave of physical sensation. She almost missed his whispered demand.
"Let's make a baby."
Sylvia pushed him away and sat up abruptly. "Shit."
"What?" He propped himself on one elbow.
She stared at him, her eyes compressed into dark slits. "Forget it." Her skin was flushed, she was breathing hard.
He watched her grab her robe and stalk out of the room. He heard the refrigerator door open, then slam shut. The soft hum of the answering machine's message playback went on for a long time. A jet streaked overhead, and its rumbling vibrations could be felt inside the adobe. Matt sighed and lay back on the bed. The words had popped out of his mouth; worse, they'd come out of nowhere.
"So, you want a baby?" Sylvia had appeared in the doorway.
He folded his arms over his bare chest. "You're overreacting."
Sylvia started to protest—her anger flared again, then died away. She held back tears and shook her head. Her emotions were shifting so quickly, she couldn't keep up. But she knew this reaction was connected to her own internal struggle. A part of her wanted a child, a family. Another part of her was committed to her career. And she was torn in an even deeper way—she was estranged from her mother, and her father had disappeared years earlier pursued by twin demons: alcohol and depression. Sylvia knew her biggest issue around having a child: she feared that she would prove unfit as a mother.
