“Cooper Urlich’s alibi is ironclad. Plus, we don’t think Mrs. Urlich was having an affair—we think she was targeted.”
Glenn slouched back against his chair, which squeaked as he collapsed into the stiff material.
“What kind of car do you drive?” Sam asked.
“I got a couple,” Glenn said. “A twenty-fifteen Prius Five and a ninety-one Bronco.”
27
Sam
Forgiveness is the key to action and freedom. ― Hannah Arendt
* * *
Sam’s heart thudded loudly in his chest—so raucously that he worried Glenn would hear it.
“Oh?” Sam asked, trying to remain noncommittal.
“Yeah. I drive the Prius to work. The Bronco’s for my projects. Ugly piece of metal, but it’s handy.”
“And what are your projects?” Sam asked.
Glenn scowled. “That’s private.”
“Well, here’s the deal, Mr. Elvering,” Sam said, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees. “We have eyewitness testimony that a tall, large man driving a Bronco entered Mrs. Urlich’s house. Thirty minutes later, her husband arrived home and found her in the rain barrel.”
Glenn shot upward out of his seat, his mouth working but no sound coming out.
“You think I would…”
“I haven’t formed an opinion, Mr. Elvering,” Sam said, also standing. “But I would like to know a bit more about your projects.”
Glenn’s cheeks turned pale and his eyes murderous, but he grunted. He turned on his heel and walked toward the back of his house.
He slammed open a door that led to his back yard. He continued to stalk across the yard to a large greenhouse. His next door opening shook the glass panels, leaving Sam no doubt about the depth of his anger.
Sam stepped inside and sucked in a deep breath of loamy soil. A variety of vegetation covered the four different wooden tables. None were marijuana, as Sam supposed when Glenn started toward the greenhouse.
“Vitis vinifera,” Glenn rumbled. “The Mission grape. First brought to New Mexico and planted in the Piro Valley in the fifteen hundreds by a Franciscan monk named Antonio Arteaga.”
Sam touched one of the bright green leaves, impressed by its suppleness. “You have a lot here.”
“Those are a French hybrid,” Glenn said, pointing to the broad green leaves. “They grow well in the colder climates up near Taos.”
“So, you seed grapevines?” Sam asked.
“For now,” Glenn said. “I want to help rebuild the wine industry here. Before Prohibition, there were over three thousand acres devoted to vineyards, making over a million liters of wine.” Glenn touched one of the leaves with a reverence. “It started to come back in the seventies, but nothing like it was before.”
He glanced up at Sam, and he fisted his hands to his side. “I know it’s not the coolest work, but…” He blew out a breath.
Sam began to smile. “Oh, it’s cool. And I happen to know the right person to get you in touch with to help you with your plans.”
Glenn’s eyes lit up. “Really?” he breathed, almost as if he was afraid to say the word aloud—as if it would negate the possibility.
“Yeah. Lucinda Sanchez knows everyone in the area. She’ll be able to set up some connections with the older families, help you reestablish the vineyards in Santa Fe County.”
“You’d do that?” Glenn breathed, his eyes round with wonder. He looked younger, like a kid who’d been handed his most sought-after prize.
Sam looked around. “You’re doing something that’ll help the community. I’m all for supporting that. But I hope you don’t mind that I want to take a look in your Bronco.”
Glenn’s face lost some of its light, his mouth returning to the flat, tight line he’d held it in earlier.
“Well, you could if it was here.”
28
Cici
She will not model her soul to suit the frailties of her companion, but to bear with them: his character may be a trial, but not an impediment to virtue. ― Mary Wollstonecraft
* * *
“So, I called the mechanic, but he’d left for the day. I made Raynor drive by—that’s why I was so late getting here—and the Bronco’s there, in the lot. I’ll double-check with the staff tomorrow, but it looks like it’s been parked there a while.”
Sam and Cici lay curled together in her bed as he caught her up on his day, his chest to her back, their fingers more entwined than their limbs. She snuggled in, still closer, basking in the heat of them.
“I got a call today,” Sam said. “From Mrs. Sanchez.”
Cici turned over, pressing her palm against his chest, rubbing her thumb across the dark, springy hair there. She liked touching him, but more, she loved how much he enjoyed her touching him. Perhaps that was why she didn’t want to talk about her church secretary—especially because she had a rather sneaking suspicion about Mrs. Sanchez’s Sam-blast.
“Oh?”
“She seems to think you’re living in sin and that would play out poorly for your congregants. Seeing as how you should practice what you preach and all.”
Her relaxed state evaporated along with the euphoria of the new connection she’d forged with Sam.
“I really don’t want to talk about my work right now,” she said, her tone stiff as her spine. No, she didn’t want the relationship she and Sam were building because of others’ expectations. “I want to enjoy my time with you.”
He brushed the hair back from her cheek. “Being with you here, now, is so much better than I hoped it would be.”
She smiled even as she nuzzled closer.
“Then, let’s not ruin the moment with what others think about us, okay?”
His expression remained solemn. “Does that mean you wouldn’t be ready if I asked you to marry me?”
She pushed a little so he rolled onto his back. She climbed on top and stacked her hands on his chest, resting her chin on her hands. “I know what you come from.” At least, she understood the abuse now that he’d begun to share his stories with her. “I don’t want you to feel rushed, Sam. Especially not to make other people feel better.”
“You didn’t answer my question,” he said. He kept his tone even but she saw him shut down, his face falling into neutral lines and his eyes losing their happy sheen.
She lifted her head and kissed him, eyes on his, until he cupped the back of her head and became fully present once more. They broke apart, breathless.
“I love you. I have for years—even when I thought you belonged to my sister. I will always love you, and I thought you knew that I wanted, as you so eloquently put it a few days ago, everything with you, too. Of course I’m dreaming of a wedding and—”
His smile widened as she spoke. “Got it, Cee.” His gaze turned tender and molten. “I’ll make sure you get the engagement you’ve always wanted—the one you love to tell your kids about.”
She resisted the urge to roll her eyes but was unable to stop her grin. “Getting you will be more than enough,” she said.
He tucked her back against his side, careful of the air cast she wore at night to protect her healing ankle. She slid into sleep with his rhythmic breathing soothing her way, convinced she’d remain at peace.
Her sister had other ideas.
29
Cici
As long as you can look fearlessly at the sky, you’ll know that you’re pure within and will find happiness once more. ― Anne Frank
* * *
The dream started off more like a slew of words Cici struggled to assimilate. The basic gist seemed to be that Aci wanted to give Cici more information—the details Sam needed to find the killer.
You need to find him. Soon, Cici. Find him.
As she slid further into the dream, Cici expected the same flashes she’d gotten before.
Nope. This time, the details were sharp and intense.
The water revived her. She thrashed around, fear turning to te
rror as she realized her arms were tied tight with ruthless precision behind her back. Her nerve endings screamed as the pain slammed into her, and her mouth opened in a scream.
The pain intensified, coming from her neck, her back, her arms, her buttocks and between her thighs. Murky water shifted around her as bubbles bloomed and popped from the air leaving her nose and mouth. She swallowed the dank, dirt-tinted water, and pressed her lips together. The surface. It was there. She could see it. Just as she could see a looming shape—the figure of a man getting closer.
He stood over her, watching, waiting for her to drown. Tears pricked at her eyes. She didn’t want to die.
He stepped back and she continued to stare at where he’d been, her thrashing legs connecting with the slimy bottom as she sank lower. She pulled her knees to her chest, her heart slamming against her ribs, her lungs fit to burst, when she sank further and her butt hit the bottom, she nearly cried out from the agony burning through her nerve endings.
More bubbles escaped before she clamped her lips together, biting them to keep from opening her mouth again. Her neck strained against the effort. She planted her feet flat, ignoring the small pebbles and sharper bits and shoved with all her might upward. Her strength had waned and her vision blurred, the edges hazy, as she bit harder. No more water. She’d die if she pulled more into her lungs. She’d die if she didn’t make it to the surface. Soon. Now. She flailed her exhausted, heavy legs, out of energy.
She watched an air bubble, one of her last, settle on the surface mere feet above her as the last of her air trickled from her nose.
30
Cici
It appears necessary to go back to first principles in search of the most simple truths, and to dispute with some prevailing prejudice every inch of ground. ― Mary Wollstonecraft
* * *
She woke, straining against the nonexistent bonds. But it was her screams that shook her. These were not the cries she’d made the night before in terror—her vocal cords released a sound of sheer agony. Her nerve-endings still pulsed with the pain the girl endured.
“Cici,” Sam called. Her name fell sharp from his lips, primed by the fear glinting in his eyes.
“Oh, Sam.” She threw herself into his arms. Her body began to convulse and the cold slick of sweat coated her skin. “What he did to her.”
The pain began to subside but the relief that she wasn’t his victim caused tears of shame to pool in her eyes.
“Another girl or the same one?”
“I don’t know…”
But she did. She didn’t want to say it—didn’t want to make it true. She forced out the words. “Another one.”
Sam cursed even as his arms banded around her, molding her body to his. He rocked her as she struggled to regain control over her emotions.
“I’m sorry,” she blubbered.
“No, Cee. No. Don’t be sorry. I thought you were dying. God, I thought you were—”
“I was.” The tears stopped. She sucked in a harsh breath. “For a time, I was her. I was drowning.”
And the horror of those moments caused her to flail from him, ignoring her ankle as she sprinted down the hall to the bathroom. She barely made it to her knees over the toilet.
Sam caught her hair and held it back. She retched and retched, emptying not just her stomach but the evil that tried to seep into her soul. No one should see what she had.
No one should live through it.
Cici didn’t pity the victim—she became her. And the woman’s determination to live bubbled up in Cici's chest then, as it did now. Except Cici still breathed, still had a voice.
That’s why her twin sent these terrible visions—so Cici would be able to tell these women’s stories. To be sure they were found and justice meted.
She brought her forearms up onto the toilet seat and rested her forehead against them. She wiped away the tears forming in the corner of her eyes.
The remnants of the dream rippled over her skin before they seemed to sink into her body, much like the stagnant, murky water.
“It’s hate, Sam.” Her voice was raspy from bile and emotion. She sat up, wiping the remnants of sick from her mouth.
Sam watched her from his perch on the side of her bathtub. He’d turned on the bathroom light and his eyes seemed as shadowed as hers felt. He stood up and brought her a toothbrush, already dabbed with toothpaste. She took it, grateful, to wash the horrid taste from her mouth. While she did so, he slid her boot back over her air cast. Cici winced at the throbbing in her ankle as it careened up her leg with each new jostle.
She rose with awkwardness and ambled the two steps to the sink. Once her mouth was empty and her toothbrush back in its holder, she turned back to face him.
“He hates these women. He’s punishing them, and each time it gets worse.”
31
Cici
Mystery is never more than a mirage that vanishes as we draw near to look at it. ― Simone de Beauvoir
* * *
The next morning, as dawn broke across their mostly sleepless night, Cici entered her bathroom for her shower/daily torture. She managed to wash her hair again, forcing herself to stay under the spray long enough to get the suds out. Cici gritted her teeth and tried to ignore the dream of drowning, but it settled over her skin, causing each drop of water to slap against her twitching muscles, the memories fresh and horrifying.
When she stepped out of the bathroom with a wave of hot steam, Sam was leaning against the far wall, impatience visible in each line of his muscles.
She squeaked, unused to him being there. She rocked back on her sore ankle and gritted her teeth, wishing the pain would stop already.
“I’m heading out,” he said. “I wanted to tell you so you didn’t worry.”
Cici clutched her towel in her fist. Taking clothes into the bathroom next time registered higher on her to-do list. At least a robe. “Right. Thanks. Be safe.”
Sam dipped his head in acknowledgment, his gaze far away as if already deep into a task. “We’re following a tip.”
“Oh?”
“A jogger thought she saw a girl who might match Jenny’s description in the car with a man. He wore a low ball cap and a scarf covering most of his face.”
“So, still no good ID on him?” Cici asked.
Part of Cici marveled that she could have an important conversation in a damp towel, beads of water dotting her skin, in a chilly hallway, but she went with the flow.
Sam’s frustration was a palpable entity. “No.”
“Where was this?”
“The runner was in the Dale Ball trail system.”
“But where?” Cici asked. Her skin tightened and not because the air in the hall caused it to. “That’s still a big area.”
“Since you mentioned water, I thought we’d look in the preserve.”
The Nature Conservancy’s Santa Fe Canyon Preserve was filled with wild golden grasses, wildflowers, and Ponderosa pine. The popular Cerro Gordo Trail was a part of the larger Dale Ball Trail system that looped around the marshes. The cienegas were part of the Santa Fe Watershed, which was made up of the original Old Stone Dam that was built in the 1880s and Two-Mile Dam, which was built about ten years later. Now, the city relied on the nearly one-hundred-year-old McClure Reservoir and Nichols Reservoir, which was built in the mid-1900s, for about half of the city’s water.
“You think he dumped bodies in our water supply?” Cici asked. Her stomach, still upset from its previous rebellion, rumbled with angry intent. She placed her hand over her stomach and grimaced, thankful nothing remained in her stomach.
Sam’s lip curled. “I doubt it. The water’s tested regularly.”
“So that leaves Two-Mile and Old Stone Dams,” Cici said.
That cold lick of air swirled around her neck, causing the tips of her ears to tingle and ache.
“Right,” Sam said. “We’ll hike around and see what we can find.”
No wonder Sam was dressed in an old,
nearly threadbare pair of jeans and an old UNM sweatshirt.
“Those pants were here?” she asked.
Sam chuckled. “I wondered what happened to them. They were in your guest room dresser. Same with the sweatshirt.”
“When…you know what? That’s not important. So, you’re going up there now?”
“I have to run home and grab my waders.”
Like most natives to the area, Sam was an avid fly fisherman—when he had the time. As far as Cici knew, he hadn’t been out on the water in months, probably years. His favorite spot used to be up by Mora. She tucked the information away for later use in case the man ever got to actually use his time off.
She frowned, trying to remember more details from her nightmare. She focused on the water the woman flailed in—anything to assist Sam in his investigation. The water turned murky as she churned her legs, making it difficult to see through.
“Old Stone Dam is unused because the flood filled it with silt back in 1904, right?” she asked.
“Yeah. That’s right.”
It sat, a small remnant of its former glory, at the top of Upper Canyon Road.
Sure, people hiked it during the day but the area was closed from sundown to sunup, leaving hours to dispose of a body. Every hair on Cici’s body rose as if lightning were about to strike. Look up—
Aci never meant to look up someone. She’d meant look up the river—quite probably up to the dam.
“That’s it,” Cici breathed. “Old Stone Dam. Why didn’t I think of the dams before?”
“Hey.” Sam tapped her chin. “Hey, we’re not sure he dumped them there. And we won’t be until we find…” He trailed off as he caught a glimpse of her expression. “Don’t beat yourself up. You’ve helped me a lot with this already.”
A Revelation of Death Page 13
