by Sarah Lovett
At seven o'clock, Sylvia answered the phone to Monica Treisman's breathless soprano. She could hear Jaspar in the background asking to speak with her, and she smiled with pleasure. When Monica explained that her aunt had lapsed into a coma, Sylvia immediately offered to watch Jaspar.
"Should I come over?"
"Let me drop him off with you. It's just as easy. He's been talking about you and Rocko since Christmas."
Sylvia hung up the phone without mentioning Rocko's absence. She didn't have the heart.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
LIQUID GREEN LIGHT; the upper hallway of Main Administration glowed in the semidarkness. Behind their frosted-glass windowpanes, all the offices on the floor were empty. Even Rosie's office was illuminated only by the small Tensor lamp she kept at her desk. Every few minutes, the growl of thunder vibrated against the old institutional walls. Neither Rosie nor Colonel Gonzales said a word. She leaned anxiously against her desk. The colonel sat in a chair and smoked. He had agreed to back Rosie up; she felt a confrontation was necessary to get the information she needed, but her methods for the evening were unorthodox to say the least.
It was Rosie who sensed his presence at her door. He had come at her request. She stood, moved around her desk, then held a finger to her lips and reached for the doorknob. It was time to meet the jackal.
When she stepped out into the hall, Bubba Akins nodded. "Miz Sánchez."
"Mr. Akins." She closed the office door firmly and Rosie dismissed the correctional officer who had accompanied Bubba from North Facility. "We're fine here. Check back in fifteen minutes." The C.O. seemed happy to leave.
"Night of the Jacka'. . . a good nigh' fo' travel," Bubba slurred.
Rosie said, "You'll be on your way soon. The transport vehicle should be here in forty-five minutes."
"I wan' thank you fo' keepin' your word."
They both turned when they heard footsteps on the stairs. C.O. Anderson's skin took on an odd purple cast from the green reflection. Shuffling along beside him, Elmer Rivak's egg-shaped head barely topped the buckle of the C.O.'s belt. Rosie thought of a ventriloquist's act she'd seen recently on television. These two made believable stand-ins for the comedian and his dummy.
When they were within earshot, Rosie said, "That's close enough, gentlemen."
"I thought you wanted to interrogate him?" C.O. Anderson's voice had an unpleasant edge magnified by an echo in the hall.
Rosie nodded. "I do." As she opened her mouth, a crack of thunder exploded overhead. In the electric stillness that followed, Elmer spoke.
"Thunder . . . unusual in winter. The gods are angry tonight."
"I agree with you, Mr. Rivak." She paused, then said, "Elmer, do you know why the gods are angry?"
"Oh, yes."
Rosie raised her eyebrows, folded both arms across her waist, and watched him with interest.
"All the waste," Elmer said.
"I'm not sure I know what you mean."
"Him." He pointed to C.O. Anderson. "And him." To Bubba. "Such a waste."
"He's crazy" C.O. Anderson mumbled, but the words were swallowed up by another crack of thunder. He was stepping from foot to foot like a shadow boxer.
Bubba said, "Wha' make you so nervous, Butt-fuck? This lady, she lookin' for whoeve' kill the devil dog."
It was the first time Rosie had heard the expression, but devil dog seemed an appropriate description of Lucas Watson.
Thunder didn't faze Bubba. "Why don' you tell her 'bout Lucas? Why don' you tell her 'bout all that moola from the senator who wan' a job done?"
C.O. Anderson lurched toward Bubba.
"That's enough, boys." Rosie turned to Elmer. "I understand you were at My Lai."
"Yes."
"You saw a lot of waste in Vietnam?"
Elmer nodded. "Waste. Broken men. Organicity."
Rosie kept her voice so low it was a whisper. "Do you mind if I ask you a personal question?"
"Not at all. The Lord told me you'd contact me soon."
"Why did you need Angel Tapia's pinkie?"
"Ah, because I didn't have one, did I?"
"Did you have a hand but no little finger?"
"Yes."
Rosie shot Bubba a look when he laughed. Although she didn't smoke, she found herself filled with the sudden desire to light up. "What else do you have?"
Elmer looked surprised at the question, as if Rosie had somehow not lived up to her role as hostess for an otherwise pleasant evening. "Everything."
"You mean arms and legs?"
"Oh, yes."
"How many exactly?"
"Well, actually I have one extra arm. I haven't decided which one to use."
"For what?"
Elmer frowned again and seemed abruptly tired. He spoke to Rosie as if she were a rather slow child. "Construction. Organic architecture."
"Ahhh . . ." Rosie's words were simultaneous with another bolt of thunder. "You're building a body. I mean a person."
"Of course," Elmer said.
"I tol' you," Bubba snorted. "Doc Frankenstein."
"What about the head, Elmer?" Rosie tensed suddenly. "Whose head do you have?"
C.O. Anderson stepped forward but Bubba Akins's meaty hand slapped the guard's belly. Anderson stopped.
The jackal said, "God gave me Lucas Watson's head."
Rosie nodded to Bubba.
"No, he didn'," Bubba announced.
Anderson looked amazed.
"Yes, he did," the jackal said.
"No."
"Yes."
They went on like schoolboys until Rosie said, "Enough. Bubba, whose head does the jackal have?"
Bubba peered at the small man named Elmer Rivak and grinned. "Accordin' to my mouth, ya'll got John Gab'don's head."
Three things happened simultaneously. Bubba exploded in laughter, lightning hit the building and crackled down the hall, and the jackal charged C.O. Anderson.
"You told me I'd get Watson's head!" The jackal's eyes were level with Anderson's neck, and he could watch his own fingers tighten around the hack's throat.
Anderson fell backward; his skull smacked the wall just as the jackal changed gears. He lowered his head and bounced off Bubba Akins's grotesque belly.
The door to Rosie's office flew open and Colonel Gonzales emerged in time to see the jackal and Bubba grappling in the dark hallway like two titans. Their shadows climbed the walls and bounced off the ceiling. Although the jackal was outmuscled, he was amazingly fierce. Before Rosie's eyes, he transformed from a mousy porter into a ferocious combat vet, a guerilla fighter.
The jackal bit off a piece of Bubba's ear and the big man roared. Pain and anger thrust him forward, and he trampled C.O. Anderson's semiprone body. Colonel Gonzales helped Anderson out of the way.
The impact of Bubba's next tackle sent the jackal flying. His torso smacked the door to Rosie's office and glass shattered. When Rosie saw him reach for a glass shard, she stomped on his wrist with her stiletto heel. The jackal howled in pain.
Bubba was wheezing, walking in circles. He glared at Elmer Rivak. "You're not the real jacka'."
C.O. Anderson moaned, "Shut up."
Bubba turned to Rosie. "Senator Duke Watson. He's the King of the Jacka's. He paid these boys to kill Lucas. But you'll never prove it."
At that moment, the guard who had accompanied Bubba from North topped the stairs and turned into the hall. He stopped, and his eyes widened in amazement.
Rosie's head was swimming. She spit out a command. "You know where to take Mr. Akins."
She turned to Jeff Anderson. "We got some talking to do, mister."
Finally, she said, "Elmer Rivak. Help me, and I'll help you, because the Lord talks to me, too. Now take me to this damn head."
Elmer stood carefully. Every vestige of the savage combat fighter was gone. Now, with his flyaway hair and his myopic eyes, he truly appeared to Rosie like an elfin Dr. Frankenstein. Colonel Gonzales stood by, ready for action.
Elm
er said simply, "It belongs to Lucas Watson. You'll see."
SYLVIA TURNED OUT the lights in the kitchen and balanced a very full cup of cocoa in her hand as she walked toward the bedroom. Several drops of the chocolate mixture slopped over the side and onto the floor, but she managed to keep the cup upright. Jaspar was tucked under the duvet, his eyelashes fringing sleepy blue eyes. He blinked back a tear when he saw her. "I'm sorry."
"Jaspar, you don't have to be sorry; you didn't do anything wrong."
"I made it wet."
"You had an accident. Everyone has accidents, especially when they've been going through such a hard time. I bet you've been really sad and angry."
Jaspar nodded slowly.
"Did you have one of your dreams about the bad men?"
"I think so. One bad man came, and I got so scared I couldn't move. I froze."
"Why don't you tell me some more about the dream?"
"I want to read now."
Sylvia set the cocoa on the bed stand and adjusted the lamp. "Are we going for dinosaurs?"
"I think so."
Sylvia gave Jaspar a peck on the cheek and then she picked up two books for review. "This one?"
"Nope."
"How about this one?"
"Yep." He squirmed deeply under the duvet.
Sylvia opened the book jacket and began to read. She was four pages into the story when she heard a sharp, faint noise.
"What?" Jaspar asked sleepily, his eyes almost shut.
"Nothing," Sylvia said. She continued to read, but much of her attention was straining outward, waiting for the sound to recur. For a moment, she had been sure it was Rocko's bark in the distance, in the storm.
ACCOMPANYING ELMER AND Colonel Gonzales down the hall, Rosie wondered once again how they could encounter so few correctional officers. They had been walking for several minutes, and she'd used her keys to open two manual grills. Once, passing the cell blocks, someone had laughed. After that, it had been too quiet. Their shadows bounced off the walls of the deserted hall.
Elmer turned and entered the cavernous area of the cafeteria. Rosie could smell turkey and canned peas. The colonel switched on a flashlight. Chairs, tables, a drinking fountain emerged in garish light.
The kitchen was a gleaming space of stainless steel and tile. Great kettles, cans, and double boilers stood mute watch. Rosie saw that the jackal had suddenly covered his eyes.
His voice was barely audible as he recited the words like a litany: "Look not mournfully into the Past. It comes not back again. Wisely improve the Present. It is thine."
Rosie froze in her tracks when something streaked by. Elmer sucked in oxygen beside her as a dark form shot across his path. A cat. Colonel Gonzales let the flashlight beam play over the institutional surface, but could not find the stray trespasser. They continued toward the bowels of the kitchen, the giant walk-in freezers.
Rosie had to try twelve keys before she found the cut that fit the padlock. The great door swung open and the overpowering smell of Freon filled her nostrils. Elmer sneezed. When Rosie looked up, he was already inside and headed toward the back of the freezer, shuffling past crates of frozen corn and hunks of meat. She flashed her beam so it hit the wall fifteen feet away. Elmer motioned to her from the corner; childhood fears of hell and death in tight spaces washed over Rosie. She prayed softly and entered, followed by the colonel.
"Here," Elmer said when she stood by his side. He seemed very much at home as he pointed to a lumpy, undefined mass wrapped in white freezer paper. Rosie swallowed hard. Her throat hurt. She ran through a mental checklist of possible body parts that might match the size and shape of the package. "What is it?" she asked wearily.
Elmer began to unwrap. The paper fell off piece by piece. Although logically there would not be much odor, Rosie held her breath as the paper cracked open.
She paused for a moment to see if the uneasiness in her stomach would become more violent, but she managed to examine the object before her with clinical detachment. It was a leg, or more exactly half a leg. She was staring at a slice of human thigh, scorched and scarred with deep burn marks, the flesh turned greenish-black from time and decay. Rosie swallowed quickly to force down the bile rising in her throat.
"Elmer?" Her voice sounded surprisingly normal. "The head. Do you have it?"
Elmer nodded and set down his precious thigh carefully. He began to rewrap and Rosie spoke quickly. "Could we see the head first?"
Elmer considered the question. "That's irregular," he said finally.
"I know. But this is an emergency."
Elmer struggled to lift a wrapped sphere from a fruit crate. Rosie tried halfheartedly to help, but he wouldn't let her near. Again, he went through the painstaking procedure of unwrapping the parcel. This time, the inner layers of wrapping were stained with blood and the seepage of other bodily fluids. There was an unmistakable odor of flesh. A sheet of paper crumpled away and a cloudy fishlike eye stared up at Rosie. She put her sleeve in front of her mouth and motioned for Elmer to remove the rest of the covering.
The head was really a pulpy brain mass, no longer round, no longer contained by bone structure. The hair and scalp were singed to charcoal and the throat blackened by the flame of the blowtorch used to sever head from body.
Rosie realized her eyes were six inches from the skull and the mouth that gaped open in a rictus grin. There was no gold cap covering either canine. In a raspy voice she whispered, "Juan Gabaldon."
SYLVIA WATCHED JASPAR sleep until her own breathing matched his. The dinosaur book had fallen to the floor. The boy clutched a fabric cat next to his chest When she stood, carefully so he wouldn't wake, her muscles ached from the effort. She picked up the cup of cocoa and walked back to the kitchen. As she washed the liquid down the sink, again she heard the distant cry.
She flung open the door and stood listening. After a few seconds, the sound rose once more, a piercing howl.
"Rocko," Sylvia said under her breath. A faint streak of lightning illuminated the sky, and the ridge gleamed like a great fossil animal. She stepped outside and bitter flakes of snow burned her face and hands.
"Rocko!"
The dog's cries were steady now, coming from a place halfway up the ridge. She could reach him quickly if she ran. She found a flashlight under the kitchen sink and started back to the bedroom to wake Jaspar when she realized that didn't make sense; if Rocko was badly injured, she didn't want Jaspar to know.
Her windbreaker was draped over a chair, her keys in the pocket, but she couldn't remember where she'd left her gloves. She closed the kitchen door and stumbled as she began the run up the rocky hillside.
Bolts of electricity brightened the sky every thirty seconds, but not every one was intense enough to illuminate the path. Flashlight in hand, she groped her way over ice and shale.
After three or four minutes she stopped abruptly and shone her light on the large pile of boulders thirty feet ahead. Shadows danced against rock.
She moved in bursts and fits, calling and listening, gaining ground. Her chest burned with every inhalation. "Rocko!"
After each stroke of lightning, the night seemed darker and more silent. Sylvia used her hands, fingers numb with cold, to feel her way along the path.
The soles of her shoes were slick. She felt her shin crack soundly into a ridge of granite and she went down, tumbling five feet over rock. When she stood again, her ankle ached and she was disoriented. She closed her eyes and strained to hear Rocko once more.
This time the cry seemed close, coming from behind a boulder roughly eight feet away. She skirted a skeleton of cholla and limped to the rock. Her hands slid over the porous surface, she stumbled around the ledge, and choked off a sound when she saw him.
Rocko stared up at her, wet, shivering, his back leg abnormally twisted. When she knelt down, the dog moaned and his tongue came out automatically to lick her hand.
There was blood on his head, over much of his coat. Rocko whimpered, and Sylvia bit
her lip as she scooped her wounded dog in both arms.
The storm was almost on top of them now. Electric streaks of light and color came so fast the effect was one of implosion. Wind whipped her hair in her eyes, and the cold was wearing on her body.
She was a third of the way down when she saw her house illuminated by the soft glow of lights. The man cast a deep shadow as he entered through the kitchen door. Moments later a shotgun blast echoed off the ridge.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
THE SHOTGUN WAS gone. Lucas Watson had taken it from the top shelf of the linen closet. The ammo box was on the floor, shells scattered underfoot. There was no way of knowing how many loads he had.
The phone was dead; it had been blasted to pieces, the wires blown out of the wall. The house was empty. She left Rocko bundled on the bed and stepped outside. There was one set of footprints in the fresh snow.
She moved quickly past the Volvo—its hood gaped open. Moonlight made it easy to follow his trail. At the road, the tracks continued directly toward the creek.
When she reached the barbed fence that kept strays off the road, Sylvia saw a child's footprints scattered next to a man's shoe print. They'd gone under the wire.
It took her two minutes to reach the icy creek; it felt like ten. There was a footbridge a quarter mile upstream, but the tracks did not veer, they led straight into the water. She slid over rocks and stumbled up the opposite bank where the snow gave way to sheltered earth and clumps of weed. She'd lost their trail.
Across the field, to the northeast, the Calidros' house was dark. Straight in front of Sylvia, roughly an eighth of a mile away, stood the rotted wooden frame of the old windmill. She caught her breath—they were in the windmill.
The electrical storm had blown itself south, and distant lightning zigzagged across the sky. A soft, steady snow had begun to fall on Santa Fe.
Her pace quickened until she was ten feet from the windmill and then she stopped. The silence was broken only by the distant drone of a jet. The hum of great engines increased and then faded away.
