At Ease with the Dead

by Walter Satterthwait

  At Ease with the Dead

  Walter Satterthwait

  A MysteriousPress.com

  Open Road Integrated Media Ebook

  This book is dedicated to my friend Dick Beddow

  For the dead

  keep the promise

  Time made them.

  Their silence holds no

  bluster, no lust or greed,

  and with the dead

  I am at ease.

  —Ragnar Sturlason, c.1250

  (Author’s translation)

  During the storytelling sessions Geronimo would range freely over the events of his life in the characteristic Indian manner. This manner consists of telling only that which seems to the teller important and telling it in the fashion and the order which seems to him appropriate. I emphasize this because it is clear that certain rearrangements of the materials would make a more coherent narrative.

  —S. M. Barrett, editor, Geronimo, His Own Story

  Prologue

  Normally a Santa Fe summer is one of the blessings of the Weather Gods. At seven thousand feet the air is mild and diamond-clear, the cloudless sky is lacquered a deep, preposterous postcard-blue. Oppressive heat isn’t a factor in the equation. But that year, during those last two weeks of July, something had gone seriously amiss. The sky was still blue, the air was still clear, but the midday temperature never dipped below ninety-five degrees, and occasionally it topped one hundred.

  The locals sipped frosty margaritas in the shaded bars and told themselves, as sweat streamed down their necks, that it was a dry heat, thank God, think of those poor sad bastards down in Houston. The tourists tramped sluggishly across the Plaza, fanning themselves with street maps, tugging at the collars of their Izod shirts, puffing out their cheeks as they blew elaborate sighs of discomfort and disgust.

  At Rita’s house, perched a thousand feet above the city off the Ski Basin road, the air was a bit cooler, but not much. And the sunlight was just as bright, tumbling down harsh and white, bouncing off the flagstone walkway, glaring off the broad picture window.

  The Greenhouse Effect. Too much carbon dioxide in the atmosphere. Soon the Eskimos would be harvesting orchids, and here in New Mexico we’d be living in tents and looking forward to the Sunday camel races.

  Maria, Rita’s companion, let me in at the front door and told me that Mrs. Mondragon was on the patio. I crossed the living room and stepped through the open French doors.

  As usual when she was out there, Rita had rolled the wheelchair up to the balustrade at the patio’s edge. Spread out below her were green piñons and junipers and, beyond them, the sprawl of brown adobe that was Santa Fe.

  She looked up from the book she was reading, saw me, and smiled. “Joshua. Hello. You’re early.”

  “Not much happening at the office,” I told her, and plopped down in one of the chairs at the round white metal table opposite her. “All the bad guys are waiting for a break in the weather. What’re you reading?”

  She held it up to show me the cover. Advances in Forensic Medicine.

  “Terrific book,” I said. “I hear Spielberg’s trying to nail down the movie rights.”

  She smiled again. Her smile, as always, did things to the interior of my chest. “Is it my imagination,” she said, “or do you sound just a tad grumpy today?”

  “It’s not your imagination. I am a tad grumpy today. And a tad hot and tired.”

  She smiled again, closed the book, and set it on the table. “Goodness. And all at once, too. Do you think a beer might be a good idea?”

  “A beer would be a swell idea. Two beers would be an even better idea. Do you have any of that Pacifico left?”

  “I think a bottle or so.”

  As she leaned forward to press the button of the intercom on the table, her long black hair swung forward and brushed against her high Indian cheekbones. She was wearing a white peasant blouse that left both shoulders bare; and they were very good shoulders indeed, brown and smooth, the flesh nicely curved over the strong bones. Her skirt was pale-yellow, the color of jasmine, and it reached to her ankles. Ever since her spine had been smashed by a bullet, all the dresses she wore reached to her ankles.

  She asked Maria to bring us two bottles of Pacifico and a pair of cold glasses, then turned to me. “What did you find out about Mr. Murchison?”

  I shrugged. “His wife’s right. He’s got himself a sweetie. Mrs. Murchison brought in the phone bills for the past two months, and there was a lot of action on one particular Albuquerque number. I checked it against Cole’s and it belongs to a Beverly James.” Cole’s Directory is a kind of reversed phone book. It lists addresses and their occupants by their telephone numbers; you have a number and you look it up, Cole’s tells you who owns the phone and where.

  Rita nodded. “Yes?”

  “The address is a condo on Eubank. I called Leon, at the credit bureau, and he pulled her report. Twenty-seven years old, a barmaid at the Albuquerque Hilton for the last three years. Up until March all she had was a used Chevy, a rented apartment, and a Dillard’s charge card.”

  Maria arrived with the beer and we thanked her.

  Rita filled her glass, I filled mine. She said, “What happened in March?”

  I sipped the beer. “In March,” I said, “Murchison got her a Visa card. With a three-thousand-dollar credit limit.”

  She sipped her beer. “What a nice man.”

  “A prince. He also co-signed the note on the condo and came up with a down-payment check for five grand. And, presumably, he paid off what she owed on the Chevy because she cleared that out in March, too.”

  Rita nodded. “He didn’t do any of this through the Murchison’s joint account?”

  “Nope. Both the card and the financing on the condo went through First United. I talked to Aaron, at the bank, and he tracked it down for me. Murchison opened up an account there with a cash deposit of twenty thousand dollars.”

  “In March.”

  I tasted some more beer. “Gosh, how’d you know?”

  “I wonder where he got the money.”

  I shrugged. “Sold his string collection, maybe.”

  She smiled. “What else do we have on Beverly?”

  “Brown hair, brown eyes, five foot eight, a hundred and ten pounds. No eyeglasses.”

  “You got that from Motor Vehicles.”

  I shook my head. “It’s no fun doing tricks for you, Rita. You know how they all work.”

  “You’ve done a nice job, Joshua.”

  “An hour on the telephone. A robot could’ve done it. If he knew the right people. And had a dirty mind.”

  “We’ve got enough for Mrs. Murchison to bring to a lawyer.”

  I shook my head. “From the way I read Mrs. Murchison, she wants to keep the kids and she wants to fry up hubby’s liver with bacon and onions and make him eat it.”

  “She’ll want photographs? Tapes?”

  “Both, probably.”

  “We can put Pedro on it.” Pedro was her cousin and he liked taking dirty pictures. He said it brought out the artist in him. He said this with a snigger. Sometimes it seemed impossible that Rita’s and Pedro’s genes had ever been swimming around in the same pool.

  “Fine.” I took another sip of Pacifico, sat back, and looked away, sighing. Anyone but Rita might have thought it was a sigh of contentment.

  She said, “What’s the matter, Joshua?”

  I shook my head again. “Nothing, Rita. Everything’s hunky-dory.”

  Eyeing me, she sipped at her beer. “Too much dirty laundry?”

  I smiled. “Yeah, that. And the heat. And I don’t know what it is, but the days seem to drag on by, one by one. And then, when I look back, it seems like they’
ve all zoomed away. Poof. Faster than a blink. Last time I looked, it was just turning spring. The leaves were just coming out on the trees. Now, zap, we’re in the middle of summer.”

  She nodded sagely. “Mood swings? Hot flashes?”

  “Very droll,” I said. I drank some beer. “Listen, why don’t we get out of Dodge for a while? There’s nothing going on right now that Pedro can’t handle. We could jump into the Subaru and take off. Bring a tent and some sleeping bags and some fishing gear. Head for one of the lakes in Arizona.”

  She smiled. “Commune with nature?”

  “Right. The murmuring pines and the hemlocks. That stuff.”

  “I thought your idea of roughing it was a room at the Hilton with a black-and-white television.”

  “That was the old me. This is the new me. Spurning the hustle and bustle. Living close to the earth. Building fires. Cleaning fish. Wrestling bears.”

  “You big galoot.”

  “A man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do.”

  “If you went this weekend, you’d miss the Tina Turner concert on HBO.”

  “I’ll set the VCR to tape it.”

  She laughed. “Spoken like a true Mountain Man.”

  “Let’s do it, Rita.”

  Still smiling, she said, “Joshua, you know I’m not going to go.”

  “Look, Rita, it’s no big deal. No one’ll even see us leave.”

  Her smiled faded. “That’s not the point.”

  “Rita—”

  Her brow furrowed above the dark brown eyes. “How many times have we had this conversation?”

  I took a deep breath, exhaled. “I lost track two years ago.”

  She said, “I’ll leave this house when I can walk out of it.”

  I nodded. “It’s been three years now.”

  “Two years, ten months, and sixteen days.” She smiled slightly, the corners of her wide mouth tight. “But who’s counting.”

  I set the glass of beer down on the table. “Why do you have to be so damned stubborn? Why can’t you bend just a little? I’m not asking you to go dashing through the Plaza with me. I’m asking you to come along to the mountains. No one knows us there. No one’s even heard of the famous Rita Mondragon.”

  “Joshua, I’m not going.” Flat, unemotional, final.

  “Damn it, what’re you afraid of? You afraid some little kid’s going to see you and ask his mommy, What’s wrong with the pretty lady’s legs? You afraid of the pity? That’s pretty chickenshit, Rita.”

  With another faint smile, she said, “I didn’t know you were licensed to practice psychology.”

  “I don’t have to be a psychologist to see that you’re copping out.”

  “It’s not your life, Joshua. It’s mine.” Cool and remote, refusing to allow herself anger, and refusing to engage mine. Whether she intended it to or not, it came off as a kind of emotional jujitsu.

  “Fine,” I said, beginning to puff up with bad temper. “It’s your life. Then you live it. Meanwhile, I’m taking off for the mountains.”

  She nodded calmly; an infuriating woman. “I think that’s a good idea. You deserve a vacation. And you’re right. Pedro can handle anything that comes up.”

  “Fine.” I stood up, bloated with ire, functioning totally in asshole mode now. “Fine. I’ll call you on Sunday when I get back.”

  “You haven’t finished your beer.”

  “I don’t want it. See you.”

  I was halfway across the patio when she called out, “Wait!”

  I turned and saw her sitting there, her hair as black as ravens’ wings against the blue of the sky. Smiling, she said, “Be careful, Matt.”

  I stared at her for a moment, and then I sighed. It sounded a bit like air hissing from a punctured tire. And then, with some reluctance, I grinned. I said, “Sometimes, Miss Kitty, you’re a major pain in the ass.”

  PART I

  1

  I left the next day, Thursday, at nine in the morning.

  There are two ways to reach Lake Asayi on the Navajo Reservation by car from Santa Fe. You can go the fast way, zip down I-25 southwest to Albuquerque, grab I-40 there and scoot west through Grants, then swing north at Gallup and head for Chinle. It’s a drive where the scenery, for the most part, encourages coma.

  Or you can go the slow way. I slipped “River Deep, Mountain High” into the tape deck and aimed the Subaru north. Hooked a left at Espanola and cruised along the lazy brown sweep of the Chama River, past orchards and pastures and tiny farmhouses snoozing in the lavender shade beneath the cottonwoods. Glided up through the tawny bluffs at Abiqui, Georgia O’Keeffe country, and into the sun-swept green pines of Carson National Forest. Along the way, Ms. Turner asked me if I ever had a puppy that always followed me around, and assured me that she’d be just as faithful as the animal in question. Ah, Tina, would that it were so.

  I stopped for lunch at the Jicarilla Inn at Dulcle, on the Jicarilla Reservation, which serves what is arguably the best green chili stew in northern New Mexico. My stomach pleasantly swollen, I sailed along west, through Bloomfield and Farmington, and picked up 666 at the town of Shiprock and dropped south. Shiprock itself, the immense stone galleon in the desert that had baffled the conquistadors, rose straight up to my right, towering above the parched brown plains.

  Then I was running along the flanks of the Chuska Mountains, and then I was in them, pine forest on either side of me, silent and still. I stopped at the general store in Crystal and bought some Navajo fry bread and a Navajo fishing license, good for three days.

  When I reached Asayi, at two-thirty that afternoon, I was pleased to see that it was deserted. I parked the Subaru under the ponderosas at a campsite toward the eastern end of the lake, maybe forty feet from the flat blue water. I got out, kicked brown pine needles around until they looked like they’d provide some cushioning, wrestled with shock-corded fiberglass poles until the tent looked fairly habitable, then plopped it down. Dug the fishing rod, tackle box, and insect repellent out of the station wagon, lugged everything down to lakeside, located a tree to serve as a backrest. Slapped repellent all over me, vile-smelling stuff, then popped a couple of salmon eggs onto the fish hook, cast them out there, and sat down and waited for dinner to make its appearance.

  Two hours later, I was still waiting. I hadn’t gotten even a nibble.

  The only dinner had been provided by myself. I was sitting within a dense gray cloud of mosquitoes and kamikaze deerflies, all of whom were searching patiently for a chink in my armor of repellent.

  The stuff seemed to have only a limited life span. About half an hour after I splashed it on, it began to wear off. The deerflies, nastier than the mosquitoes, buzzing like miniature chainsaws, would dive closer and closer to exposed flesh. Finally one of them, braver than others, or maybe suffering from a sinus condition, would shoot through the invisible screen and get to me. They didn’t just sting, didn’t just draw blood; they ripped out chunks of meat, slung them over their shoulders, and carted them home. I was supplying flank steaks to their extended families.

  It was four-thirty, and I was beginning to think about quitting for the day, or for the rest of my life, when I saw the old man. He was ambling toward me along the shore to the west, right hand in the pocket of his jeans, left hand using a dark wood cane. He moved slowly, favoring his left leg as though it were wounded or rheumatic. Slender and short, his skin creased and burnt to the color of terra-cotta, he was in his late fifties or early sixties. His shirt was a red cotton plaid, buttoned to the neck. His steel gray hair, threaded with white, was pulled back over his ears and tied in a traditional bun below the brim of his Navajo hat. A pipe jutted from the corner of his mouth, and pale blue smoke streamed from the bowl, drifted lazily up around the hat, and disappeared against the pale blue sky.

  He walked as though he hadn’t seen me, which I doubted. Slowly, thoughtfully, he looked this way and that, up into the trees, out across the lake.

  My fishing line lay across the pat
h; to pass me, he’d need to step over it or circle around me and my borrowed tree. I reeled in the line and examined the salmon eggs. Like all the others, they hadn’t been touched. Disgusted, I tugged them off the hook and tossed them into the water.

  The old man stopped about eight feet away, took the pipe from his mouth, rested both hands atop the knob of his cane, and nodded to me. Noncommittal, neither pleased nor disappointed. “Catch anything?” he asked, without sounding especially interested. His voice was low and raspy. Zorba the Navajo.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  He looked off to his left and studied the lake for a moment.

  A deerfly strafed my neck. I picked up the plastic bottle of goop, squirted some into my palm, slapped it onto my skin.

  Still studying the lake, he asked, “Been here long?”

  “Couple hours.”

  He nodded again, the same way, then bobbed his head toward the bottle of repellent. “Bugs don’t like that stuff?”

  “No. I’m not real fond of it myself.”

  He nodded again, put his pipe back in his mouth, his hand back into his pocket, and started walking again along the path, the cane swinging slowly, lightly, before it tapped softly against the packed brown earth. Just as he was about to pass me, he turned. His smile was so faint, a tiny upward movement of the thin lips against the pipe stem, that maybe I imagined it. He said, “Fish like it, you think?” and then he walked on.

  For a few minutes I watched his back grow smaller. Then I clambered back up the slope to the campsite. I burrowed through the gear in the back of the Subaru until I found the water bottle and the soap. I washed my hands like Dr. Kildare prepping for a triple bypass, rinsed them, dried them, climbed back down to the fishing rod. Opened the jar of salmon eggs, scooped out two, impaled them on the hook, cast them out into the lake.

  Within three minutes I had a strike. I lost the fish, whatever it was, but I baited the line again, and within two minutes I had myself a rainbow. A keeper, about twelve inches long.

  A half an hour later, when I had two more, both bigger than the first, I saw the old man again. On the far side of the lake, a hundred and fifty yards away. Walking along, slowly, thoughtfully.