All or none of them could be the Senator’s. Four of them were dead. Two of them were grandmothers or great-grandmothers. Not one of them had claimed to be the Senator’s offspring.
The name Winifred had expected, hoped, feared, wasn’t there.
She handed the list back to Carly. “Keep digging. There were more kids born than are on this list.”
Carly started to object but thought better of it.
“Why didn’t Sylvia divorce the Senator?” Carly asked as she put the list away.
“Catholic. And keeping the land. For Andrew.”
“Then Andrew died and she had a stroke.”
“No,” Winifred managed. “Tried to—kill the Senator. Fought him. Survived. Brain didn’t.”
Carly and Dan both went still. There was nothing, not even a hint of a whisper, in the family record or in the doctor’s report after Sylvia’s so-called stroke.
“My God,” Carly said. “How did you—”
“Find out?” Winifred cut in.
“Yes.”
“He told me—to let her die. And why.”
“But you didn’t,” Carly said.
The line of Winifred’s mouth was too savage to be called a smile. “He drove her—to it. Castillo land. Always.”
“Of course,” Carly said gently, trying to soothe the increasingly agitated older woman. “The Senator is dead and the land will go to Sylvia’s son, a Castillo as well as a Quintrell.”
Winifred’s face darkened as she coughed harshly, uselessly, gasping for air.
Dr. Sands rushed into the suite. “No more talking, Miss Winifred. I mean it.” He bent over and replaced the oxygen mask she’d pulled off an hour ago. “If I have to, I’ll transport you to a hospital against your will. The governor agreed with me. If necessary, we’ll call a judge and have you declared incompetent.”
Winifred gave the doctor a burning look and fought to control her breathing.
Carly started to gather up photos and documents, only to discover that Dan already had. Together they quickly walked out of the room, leaving Winifred and the doctor to their clashing wills.
“I should have asked her about the old Spanish documents first,” Carly said.
“Other people read old Spanish. Winifred is the only one left alive who remembers the Quintrell family during the last half of the twentieth century.”
“What about the governor? He’s alive.”
“He probably knows less about what his family was like than you do. Josh Quintrell didn’t even come home for Christmases.”
“So Sylvia tried to kill the Senator,” Carly said. “I wonder what triggered it?”
“Maybe she found out he was fathering bastards when he damn well knew how to prevent it. We’ll check the birth dates around that time. All of the birth dates, not just the probable ones.”
The whap whap whap of a helicopter’s rotors announced that the governor might have missed all the holidays with his family, but he would make it to Sylvia’s memorial service.
Carly wondered why.
“Why what?” Dan asked.
“Sorry, I didn’t know I said it aloud.”
Dan waited.
“Why does he bother coming here at all?” Carly said. “His parents sent him off to year-round boarding schools when he was seven and never looked back until his older brother died.”
“Josh is the Senator’s son through and through,” Dan said.
“What does that mean?”
“He’s political to his core. The last thing a politician would do is miss his mother’s funeral.”
“Gee, you have a cheery view of human nature,” Carly said.
“What does cheer have to do with it?”
“Nothing.”
“Bingo,” Dan said, smiling grimly.
He set down the cartons of supplies and photos before he gestured for her to precede him into the next room, the place where Sylvia had spent so much of her life. Winifred had wanted the memorial service to be here. No one had argued.
Maybe no one had cared. Certainly the guests hadn’t eaten much of the food that had been put out, despite the attractive presentation of canapés and glass coffee cups and saucers, and crystal wine goblets. There was a striking geometric design made by very small cups with no handles, like Turkish espresso cups, set out on an antique silver tray. Apparently the cups were meant for later in the ceremony, because two red ribbons in the form of a cross were laid protectively over them. The rich satin of the ribbon contrasted with the unglazed, undecorated clay cups and the nearby small, unglazed clay pitcher. The plain clay looked quite at home next to the array of santos glaring down at the table from nearby walls.
Carly glanced away from the primitive, and somehow primal, carvings of saints. There was something about the obviously hand-carved santos that made her uneasy in the same way that much Mayan art made her uneasy.
A fire burned cheerfully in the corner hearth, as if to counter the dark oppression of the santos.
Melissa, Pete, Alma, and Lucia were already sitting in four of the folding chairs that had been set up in the back of the room. Three other chairs were set up near the quietly burning hearth. Carly assumed those seats were for the family, so she headed toward Melissa and the ever-sullen Alma. Lucia nodded and smiled toward Carly. Feeling like a second thumb, Carly smiled back and sat in an empty chair. Dan sat next to her. If he felt out of place it didn’t show in his expression.
A few moments later, Dr. Sands wheeled Winifred past the folding chairs to the front of the room. He set the brakes of her wheelchair, checked the oxygen flow, and walked briskly to the back of the room. Without a word to anyone, he sat near Dan.
Governor Quintrell came into the room, shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with everyone except Carly and Dan. Whatever the governor said to Pete surprised him.
“You’re sure, Governor?” Pete asked.
“Absolutely. I decided that you’re right, that now isn’t a good time to think about cutting back on charitable contributions. I want you to concentrate exclusively on getting the ranch books in shape for the sale.”
“Do you have someone interested already?” Pete asked.
“Several parties. It’s not often a ranch this size comes on the market. Everyone from developers to conservation outfits are lined up waving money at me. Tell Melissa to start packing up the small stuff in the house and sending the contents to Santa Fe.”
With that, the governor chose the chair that was closest to Winifred and sat down, ignoring the other empty chairs. He glanced at the minister and nodded abruptly.
The minister walked to the fireplace and faced the room. “We are gathered together here today to commemorate the valiant spirit of…”
After listening for thirty seconds, Carly decided that the minister hadn’t had enough time to pillage dead poets for Sylvia, or perhaps only the Senator’s death required such resonant language. Today the minister had come down solidly in the dead center of the mundane.
With a small sigh Carly began memorizing the feel of the room so that she could record it in the history she would write. Someone had brought in fresh pine boughs and placed them on a linen-covered table. The boughs were arranged around the tray of ten, no eleven, cups. The santos gave color to the table and peered from unlikely parts of the room. The bright colors and dark features of the santos reinforced the crude vigor of the statues.
But the longer Carly sat there, the less she liked the look of the primitive saint figures. Something Dan had said about Penitentes lashing themselves through the stations of the cross came back to her. She wondered if the Castillo side of the family worshiped at the small roadside altars she had caught glimpses of as she drove through rural New Mexico, if the Castillos relished the darkness that surrounded the santos like ghostly cloaks.
Dan felt the slight shiver that went through Carly and followed her glance. The grim santos watching from the hearth and the walls and the table were considered collectibles by many and outri
ght art by a few. Whoever had gathered or created these figures had been drawn to the horror and pain of the martyrdom that had preceded sainthood. Less grotesque than gargoyles, more raw than the usual Crucifixion portrayals, the santos haunted the room, describing pain and treachery and death far better than the minister’s bland words.
Deliberately Dan laced his fingers through Carly’s and squeezed lightly, silently telling her that he was there. She gave him a quick glance and squeezed back. She didn’t know why the santos made her uneasy, she only knew they did.
Finally the minister closed his Bible and went to the governor, and then to Winifred, saying something too soft to be overheard.
“Just a few more minutes,” Dan murmured against Carly’s hair.
She nodded.
After a few fumbles, Winifred released the brake on her wheelchair and turned it to face the room. She nodded once.
Alma stood and hurried forward to remove the ribbons and pick up the tray of small cups.
Carly saw that the cups were filled to the top with something too thick to be coffee but just as dark. There were nine cups now, not eleven. They were laid out in the design of a diamond. She guessed that the missing cups had to do with the two missing Quintrells, but she couldn’t be sure. In any case, this part of the ceremony certainly felt more pagan than modern Christian.
“We Castillos have a tradition to ensure the passage of the soul to God.” Winifred paused, drew from the oxygen mask, and continued. “It began a thousand years ago as a stirrup cup for the dead.” Another breath. “But now it is a large shot glass. The modern tongue finds the ancient brew bitter.” Another breath. Her voice strengthened into something close to a command. “Yet still we drink it. As we drink, we pray for the dead. Every drop drunk, every prayer prayed, helps my beloved sister. Every drop not drunk makes the devil smile.”
Alma offered one tip of the diamond to Winifred. She took the cup, drained it, turned it upside down to show that it was empty, and put the cup back on the tray in its place. Then she folded her hands in prayer. Alma went to the governor and gestured toward the next row of the diamond. He looked warily at the small cups, then followed Winifred’s actions and took one. The taste must have been terrible, because he visibly fought not to spit it back out. Grimacing, he swallowed, upended the cup, and put it facedown in its place on the tray.
Alma worked her way through the small group, following the pattern decreed by Sylvia’s closest kin, handing out cups and waiting for them to be emptied and put upside down to re-create the diamond. Carly braced herself for her own turn.
“Don’t taste it,” Dan said very quietly in her ear. “Just throw it to the back of your throat and swallow.”
“Have you done this before?”
“No, but I’ve sat around some strange campfires.”
And then Alma was in front of them. There were three untouched cups left, forming a triangle. Out of old habit, Dan reached across the bottom of the triangle and chose his own cup rather than take what was handed out. Alma started to object that the diamond was supposed to be taken in order, following the governor’s choice.
It was too late. Dan had already tossed back the contents, turned the cup upside down to show that it was empty, replaced it, and closed his eyes.
Alma looked at Winifred, who had coached her in the correct ritual. The old curandera’s eyes were still closed. Melissa, who had repeated Winifred’s coaching, was still struggling with the bitter brew and hadn’t noticed anything amiss. With a sigh of relief that the breach of ritual hadn’t been noticed, Alma offered the tray to Carly.
Two cups left.
Pretend it’s a raw oyster, Carly told herself. If you can swallow a mouthful of cold snot, you can do this.
Carly took the next to last cup and managed to get the contents down without choking.
Alma took the final cup, drained it, shuddered violently, and sat down again.
The room was so quiet Carly was certain everyone could hear her tongue scraping against her teeth as she tried to get rid of the taste. Thank God stirrup cups went out of vogue. She couldn’t have managed a second swallow.
The sound of the helicopter revving up signaled an end to the gathering, at least as far as the governor was concerned. He shook hands all around—even Carly and Dan this time—and left.
The two of them went to Winifred, saw that she was still praying for her sister, and waited.
They waited for a long time. When the old woman finally raised her head, Dr. Sands and the minister had already gone. Only the household staff remained.
The tears in Winifred’s eyes made Carly understand how futile words were. Yet they had to be said anyway, heard anyway, while everyone knew that words couldn’t describe the emptiness death left behind.
“I’m sorry,” Carly said gently.
Winifred nodded. “Tomorrow.”
Carly understood that Winifred didn’t want to talk now. Carly hadn’t expected her to.
“I’ll walk you to your car,” Dan said to Carly.
He didn’t say anything until they were out of the suite. He bent, picked up the cartons of photos they’d left outside Sylvia’s room, and faced Carly.
“I don’t want you staying here alone,” he said.
She didn’t answer for the simple reason that she wasn’t wild about the idea herself. “Nobody knew my car was fixed until I showed up here, so…” She shrugged.
“So nobody had enough lead time to get fancy with rats and paint, is that it?”
She nodded.
“Bullshit,” he said.
“Hey, you checked my room out and found nothing.”
“That was almost two hours ago.”
“Everyone was here for the service. Anyway, I already told Melissa that I was going to drive back to town tonight. I don’t feel right about staying here when the household has had so much sorrow.”
Dan knew Carly was right. He also knew he didn’t want to leave her alone, even just to drive her little SUV down the mountain. The part of his mind that kept adding up things was heading toward a bottom line that he couldn’t read yet but already knew he didn’t like.
With a muttered curse, he followed her toward the outside door.
“You know what I’d like?” Carly asked after a minute.
“A toothbrush?”
“There isn’t one big enough.” She grimaced and swallowed while something acid tried to crawl back up her throat. Whatever the potion had been, her stomach wasn’t thrilled with it.
“I’ve got water in the truck,” he said. “As soon as we’re out of sight you can gargle and spit as much as you want.”
“You’re a mind reader. I’ve always liked that about you.”
“I’ll remind you of that.”
He walked with her into the icy air. As they headed for her SUV, the governor’s helicopter leaped up, pivoted around an invisible center, and gathered speed down the valley.
Carly looked around the ranchland. Houses might be built and abandoned. Cattle might be born and grow and be sold. The valley would be grazed or plowed or left fallow, and the mountains would watch over all of it, unchanging. The land survived. Man didn’t. For all the power the Senator and his wife had wielded while alive, in death little remained but the ranch.
For the first time Carly began to understand Winifred’s obsession with Castillo land.
“What?” Dan asked.
“Just thinking.”
He waited.
“Nothing is left of Winifred’s family and their ambitions but the land,” Carly said as they walked toward her SUV. “The ranch is as close to immortality as the Castillos will ever get, and Governor Quintrell has put it up for sale.”
Dan nodded, started to say something, then thought better of it. Carly didn’t need to know what he already did. Immortality was worth killing for.
“Come home with me,” he said abruptly. “Leave your SUV here. I’ll bring you back in the morning. I don’t want you to be alone.”
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She started to object, then saw the shadows and urgency in his eyes. Without a word she turned and started walking toward his truck.
QUINTRELL RANCHLAND
THURSDAY NIGHT
35
THEY HADN’T BEEN ON THE ROAD VERY LONG, BUT CARLY KNEW SHE’D THROW UP IF Dan’s truck hit one more icy rut. Frantically she lowered the window on the passenger side. They were on the winding part of the ranch road, where it dropped out of the valley to snake along the far side of Castillo Ridge. There was nothing below the vehicle but darkness and nothing above but stars.
Dan watched her closely. He knew how she was feeling. His stomach wasn’t happy with whatever herbal concoction had been in those cups. He was feeling nauseated and light-headed. If it got any worse, he would pull over and get it all out of his system.
“Dan?” Carly’s voice was ragged. The world spun crazily. Despite the rush of icy air over her face, her stomach heaved. “Stop.”
Dan slammed on the brakes without asking why. He didn’t have to. She was pale and sweating, her head wobbling unsteadily.
Carly managed to get her seat belt off but couldn’t wrap her fingers around the door handle. He dragged her across the center console and out his door. She pushed him away, fell to her hands and knees on the ground, and threw up again and again. Finally she tried to stand. Her knees wouldn’t cooperate.
“Easy, honey,” Dan said, biting back his own nausea and light-headedness, wanting to help her. Then training kicked in.
Throw up, fool. You’ve been poisoned.
He went down in the snow next to her and vomited repeatedly, ridding himself of Sylvia’s good-bye potion. His head spun but his stomach felt better immediately. He scrubbed out his mouth with a handful of snow, spit, and waited.
No more nausea.
Carly wasn’t so lucky. She was retching again, swaying even though she was on her hands and knees. He steadied her, held her head, and did everything he could think of to help her throw off whatever had been in the small cup.
Opium or heroin was his bet. Part of his training had required taking various drugs so that he would know his own limits—or know what was happening if somebody had slipped something into his coffee. When he was finished with that part of his training, he’d wondered why people spent good money to screw up their brain and body.
Always Time to Die Page 22
