by Sarah Lovett
All this raced through her mind, but she couldn't share her thoughts with Matt. She realized she still felt the distance between them. A distance she didn't know how to bridge.
She shook her head. "I don't know what's wrong with us."
Matt said nothing, just stared at countless dust particles visible in a shaft of daylight until Sylvia turned and left. When she was out of view, he sat up in bed. Suddenly, he felt weary and exhausted. It was going to be one of those full-moon days when the bars filled up with howlers, gang-bangers partied, and lovers did bad things to each other with kitchen knives, baseball bats, or just plain words. He and Sylvia were off to a great start.
For the first time that morning, he remembered that Jesse Montoya was missing. Dan Chaney was missing, too. Matt had left three cryptic messages on the federal agent's voice mail. Now, he was getting paranoid. He'd made sure his words didn't betray Dan's possible whereabouts. What he wanted was a meeting—somewhere neutral, like Tommy's Bar during off-work hours. Face-to-face, he could assess Chaney's mental state. Maybe figure out if his old friend really had something solid on an F.B.I. cover-up. So far, no response.
Matt groaned when he stood. His back ached and his right shoulder was tight. As soon as he got his clothes on, he'd pop a couple of Advils. Painkillers and coffee, the breakfast of champions.
He found Sylvia seated at the kitchen table sipping coffee, tearing chunks off a fat frosted cinnamon rolL While she ate, she studied the front page of the Albuquerque Journal North. Matt could see where she had doodled a series of eerie masklike faces in the paper's margins.
Without glancing at him, she said, "There's a story on Jesse Montoya's disappearance." She pulled the newspaper off the table, away from Matt's over-the-shoulder view, and read: " 'A spokesperson for the Department of Public Safety revealed that a local psychologist has received messages from a possible perpetrator.' " She looked up and shook her head sharply. "When are you going to talk to Dan? You should see the videotape—"
"I'll see it when I track Chaney down." Matt was dressed in the same jeans and rumpled khaki shirt he'd worn the night before. His Luccheses needed a shine. His hair stood out from his head in weedy clumps.
Self-conscious, he straightened his collar with unusual care. "Before, in bed, I don't think I said anything wrong."
"Oh. Then you do want to have a child?"
His finger discovered a belt loop and tugged nervously. "It was a figure of speech."
For an instant, sadness clouded Sylvia's features. Then it was gone, replaced by cool efficiency. She said, "There was a message for you on the machine. From Erin Tulley, about her lawsuit. She sounded upset." Sylvia raised an eyebrow.
Matt almost looked nervous. "She still wants me to testify at her hearing."
"And you're going to?"
"I haven't made up my mind."
Sylvia frowned and shook her head.
He said, "About you and me living together—"
"Let's talk about it later."
Matt took his car keys from his shirt pocket. He'd been dismissed, and that angered him more than a nowin argument. He started to say good-bye, but Sylvia turned her back as he walked out the door.
ON SANTA FE'S EAST side, the high-pitched hum of cicadas electrified the hazy summer air. Matt stood on the veranda of Judge Nathaniel Howzer's Upper Canyon Road home. An hour earlier, he'd stopped by D.P.S. headquarters to smooth-talk Captain Elizer Rocha. Politically, N.M. State Police was a hypersensitive organization. Any investigation involving a district judge usually included the "big guns." Now he watched as the red glow of a new forest fire near the Tsankawi ruins warmed the sky over the Jemez Mountains thirty miles to the northwest. The distant mountain range included the vast caldera of a volcano that had erupted and collapsed roughly a million years past. Now, the sky between mountain and city was hazed with ash and smoke.
Matt took a last look at the view and reluctantly returned to the subject that had brought him here. "You told Jesse Montoya's grandfather that the flames of judgment were on their way. Why would you say that?"
"Did I?"
"That's what Augustine Montoya remembers."
"I remember a little differently. At the trial, Augustine seemed very distressed by his grandson's crime. I reminded him that justice has a way of catching up with each of us." Howzer smiled ruefully. He was almost six feet tall and heavy. Thick white fingers clutched a glass. He took regular sips of what looked like tomato juice but Matt guessed was a Bloody Mary.
Howzer continued, "You and I both know Montoya's release wasn't popular in the community. He's a registered sex offender."
"He's also a missing person," Matt said quietly.
Howzer used his free hand to shelter his eyes from the sun. "How do you like my view, Matt?"
Matt finished his coffee, set the cup on the rail, and said, "The fire's changing course." And the judge was changing subjects.
"Is it?"
He didn't answer, but he thought about the fact that the judge had lived in the city for ten years. Funny how some people could stay so unaware of their surroundings. Unaware even of the prevailing summer winds. They almost always blew up from the Pacific Ocean and swept across Mexico, southern California, and the Arizona desert. This time of year, they usually brought rain. But the rains were long overdue, and the sluggish winds had shifted.
The judge was still staring out at the distant fire as if a keen eye could steer the conversation away from Jesse Montoya. Matt took the opportunity to study the older man. Strong features—high forehead, aquiline nose, full mouth—were undermined by a weak chin and blurred by a weariness that went deeper than physical fatigue. He looked pale, and he seemed restive. Matt wondered exactly what was going on with Nathan Howzer.
"Shall we go inside? I need to freshen my drink."
Matt followed the judge through French doors. Although he had known Howzer casually for years, he'd never been to his home. His first impression had been that the living room was humble for a house of such grandiose scale. But the judge explained that the room was simply his library. Bookshelves lined with legal volumes bound in blue, red, and black stretched the entire length of three walls. Later, Matt had seen the actual living room; it boasted eight times the square footage of the library, and it was as large as a Spanish Colonial church.
Somewhere along the way, the man had accumulated beaucoup bucks. This house wasn't built on the salary of a district judge.
Every wall in the pueblo-style mansion—interior and exterior—was constructed of double-brick adobe. The central ceiling was supported by thirty-foot-long vigas that were as thick as a fat man. Many of the mansion's rooms seemed to exist only to contain daunting ornamental displays—pots, kachina dolls, masks, pipes, and other ceremonial objects all much too small and too simple not to be expensive.
"Matt. . . ?" The judge held a crystal decanter in the air, but Matt shook his head. Howzer returned the decanter to its tray and took a sip of his Bloody Mary. "Do you believe Montoya is the second victim of some . . . vigilante killer?"
"Yeah, I do."
Howzer said, "I was a lawyer for twenty years in California and New Mexico. I've held a judgeship for more than a decade. Imagine having the audacity to think one could actually dole out justice." He kept a straight face and waved a fleshy arm toward one of a set of matching armchairs.
Matt sat and faced Howzer across a Persian rug. He knew the judge had a dry sense of humor as well as a reputation around chambers for being secretive, enigmatic. He'd testified in Howzer's courtroom, and so had Sylvia. He pushed away the memory of her. . . of their morning argument
The judge spoke quietly. "Adobe lost his nerve a while back." At his feet, a timeworn black-and-brown Doberman had come to rest, legs crossed, chin on paws. Howzer patted the dog absently and said, "He's a pitiful coward—but we become very attached to our family, don't we?"
"I've got a cat." Matt shrugged.
"I worry about what will happen to them after I'm
gone." The judge closed his eyes, gathered his thoughts. "Just look at my docket; within three years, Beck, Martinez, Tafoya, Dolan. . . those are just the trials that became media circuses. Then, there were the plea bargains, suspended sentences, dismissals. And, of course, both Jesse Montoya and Anthony Randall passed through my courtroom."
Matt studied the judge. The man spoke with a certain bravado, but beneath the veneer, the intangible something might be fear or dread. . . or resignation.
" 'To me belongeth vengeance and recompense.' " Judge Howzer's voice was barely a whisper.
"Deuteronomy."
"You're a religious man?"
"I was raised on a well-thumbed copy of the King James, but my Bible's rusty these days."
"Vengeance seems to be what the public wants."
"Do you blame them?"
Howzer shook his head slowly, then he swallowed a third of his drink. "But personal vengeance is very impractical." An odd smile flashed across his mouth.
Matt thought it was a false smile—asymmetrical, involving only the lower portion of the face, dropping away abruptly like a mask.
Howzer continued. "And who really knows what makes the guilty suffer most cruelly?"
Matt leaned back in the leather chair and tried to get a bead on the judge's state of mind. He said, "You passed judgment on Randall and Montoya."
"Montoya, yes. Randall got away. But only for a few hours." There was a sudden twinkle in his eye. "You don't think I'm a secret vigilante, do you, Matt?"
Matt was surprised by something warm and wet that rubbed against his hand. He looked down and saw a long-haired dachshund gazing shyly at him.
Matt patted the dog, stood, and faced Nathan Howzer. He said, "Have you heard of a man called Dupont White?"
The judge swallowed, then frowned, as if he were thinking back through the years. After a long moment he said, "Of course. The blowout at Las Cruces. . . He was the arms dealer who died. Why do you ask?"
Matt shrugged. "Just following up a loose thread. By the way, I spoke with your secretary this morning. Ellie tells me you've received several threatening letters in the last two weeks."
"Ellie has too much imagination." Howzer summoned the dachshund to his side. Very gently, he stroked the animal's silky ears.
Matt moved to the door, then stopped. "I don't know why, Judge, but you're lying to me."
Judge Howzer looked up from his dog, and his expression was ironic. "You and I should find new careers, Matt. Life is too short."
"Is someone after you?"
The judge threw back his head and laughed. He was still chuckling when Matt let himself out.
THE PENITENTIARY'S MAIN hospital was a mind-numbing institutional infrastructure, outmoded and sullied by the ghost of a 1980 riot Built as part of the original pen structure, its thick walls had absorbed the accumulated misery of forty years of incarceration. Scuff trails had been worn along its dull linoleum floors. Fluorescent lights illuminated loose tiles and peeling plaster. Exposed wires crawled across the beveled ceiling.
The staff did their best to create a healing environment—brightly colored posters and inmate crafts decorated the walls—but they did not have an easy task.
Sylvia found a nurse in the hall between examination rooms. She introduced herself.
The woman nodded. She was small and blond and she had a nicely wicked glint in her eye. "I've been expecting you. Rosie Sanchez talked to Dr. Cray, the psychiatrist, about your visit."
She beckoned for Sylvia to follow and stepped briskly toward the stairwell. "We've got Benji Muñoz y Concha upstairs, where he'll get some peace and quiet." She took the stairs easily, talking nonstop. "He's really improved, knows where he is, good spirits and all."
"So he's talking?" Sylvia reached the top of the stairs behind the nurse.
"Some. He started on his own yesterday morning." As the nurse moved, she trailed her fingers along a white stripe painted over green walls. "Dr. Cray thinks it's a cultural thing." She pursed her mouth in disapproval.
Sylvia said, "What's a cultural thing?"
The nurse offered Sylvia an apologetic smile. "You can ask him yourself; Dr. Cray's waiting for you." She stopped and held her arm straight out as if she were directing traffic. Sylvia peered into an open office and saw a man standing by the mesh-covered window. He turned in her direction.
A number of psychologists and psychiatrists worked on staff at the penitentiary, and turnover was frequent Sylvia didn't recognize Dr. Cray.
He was somewhere in his thirties. Pale and thin with earnest eyes. He wore a cotton dress shirt and a suit coat—in the heat. Sylvia recognized the cropped hair and the black-rimmed glasses as an effort to add maturity to his presentation.
She braced herself. At first glance, Dr. Cray appeared to be chockful of learning-by-the-book. He walked toward her, arm extended, and she saw his fingernails were gnawed down to the quick. A job at the penitentiary would quickly test the doctor's mettle; then again, it was less a job than trial by fire.
She smiled, introduced herself, and shook his hand. "Welcome to the fray."
"Thanks." As he tucked a clipboard under his arm in a gesture that reminded Sylvia of a fledgling bird adjusting its wing, he began a slow walk down the hall. "I know you've come to see Benji Muñoz y Concha."
"How's he doing?"
Dr. Cray coughed quietly. "I've been observing him pretty closely." He tugged on his ear—the lobe was pink from constant irritation. "I've never seen a case of cultural psychosis before."
Sylvia came to a standstill, and the doctor shifted to face her. She said, "Cultural psychosis?"
"Well, yes." He puffed up his chest, but his smile wavered when he said, "I don't believe in witches, do you?"
Sylvia widened her eyes, tipped her head. She couldn't afford to offend Dr. Cray; he was penitentiary staff, she was the outsider—and the walls at the joint had ears. She kept her mouth shut.
Cray looked discombobulated. "I don't think you understand, this inmate believes he was poisoned by a witch. Literally." Dr. Cray's pitch went up a notch on the last word.
Sylvia considered her response, then said, "Let's look at it from another angle. What you call cultural psychosis is a physical and emotional reaction to something very real—in symbolic terms."
"Well, yes. . ."
Sylvia began to walk and the psychiatrist kept pace. She said, "Dr. Cray, you're making a judgment of pathology, but I don't see it. I don't think Benji is psychotic."
He said, "Fine. So Benji saw a symbolic witch." His voice was peevish.
Sylvia smiled reassuringly. "Fine. We can agree on that."
They had come to a standstill beneath a window at the end of the hall. On the other side of embedded wire and dingy glass, Sylvia caught a glimpse of perimeter fence and guard tower. She turned toward the psychiatrist, who frowned as if he were Silently replaying their recent conversation.
She said, "May I stop by your office after I speak with Benji?"
Dr. Cray nodded. He pulled a key ring from his belt and unlocked the door to Benji's room. He said, "I'll send the nurse up in five minutes to let you out." He stared at Sylvia's back as she entered the hospital room alone.
It felt like a cell. Single bed, bare walls, a small window with a view of the maintenance building. The room smelled of old linoleum and institutional cleansers. The hydraulic door pulled shut with a soft tick as the lock engaged.
Seated in a plastic chair, Benji Muñoz y Concha looked younger than his years. Thick black hair was pulled into a long braid. Wrists and fingers were bare. The T-shirt and baggy faded jeans did nothing to hide a wiry body.
"I remember you." His voice was soft and low.
Sylvia studied him quizzically, watchful for signs of confusion or depression. But when Benji turned toward her, his eyes were alert; they were also the rich hue of burnished walnut.
"I remember you from the fire . . . you're Rosie's friend."
She smiled. "I'm Sylvia Strange."
> "A doctor." His voice was guarded.
"Psychologist. Sometimes I work at the penitentiary. I'm not on staff with the hospital. Do you mind if I sit?" She perched on the edge of the bed when Benji didn't protest.
"Are you here to decide if I can go back to the murf?"
The murf was the penitentiary's Minimum Restrict Facility. "I don't have any say about whether you stay or go."
Benji shrugged.
She said, "I'm amazed at the work you do—fighting wildfires."
He pointed at her face. "How did you get that?"
Sylvia's fingers went instantly to the small scar at the corner of her left eye. She was surprised to discover she felt self-conscious. She said, "It's old."
"Did you win the fight?"
For an instant, Sylvia remembered another institutional room, and the painful slap of the angry matron. "No. . . I thought so then, but I was only sixteen."
Benji's face settled like a quiet pool of water. "My family has always known about fire, but I'm the only one left to fight." His fingers tapped the smooth skin at the corner of his eye. "Like you. They're wrong about my forgetting. I'm not crazy." He was quiet for a moment. He closed his eyes, and a shadow seemed to fall across his handsome features.
"Benji, a man's body was found on the hill."
He nodded. "They told me I saw him burn. Owl always brings death."
Sylvia waited. She knew the owl was connected with witchcraft in some belief systems. Night predator, raptor, and highly skilled hunter. She reached into the pocket of her shirt and fingered a thin notepad.
Dan Chaney had told her there were no recent photographs of Dupont White, but she could still visualize the man on the videotape—his painted face was seared in her brain. She set the pad and pencil on the bed next to Benji. "Can you draw the witch you saw?"
It took him a moment to make the decision. He seemed to have a clear sense that the image might affect him strongly. He said, "I saw you . . . in one of my dreams. You know someone who's going to die soon. . . like the other man."
Sylvia closed her eyes and thought of Jesse Montoya. When she opened her eyes again, Benji had picked up the pencil. Intently, Sylvia watched a primitive being take shape on the page.
