Santa Fe Rules

by Stuart Woods

  “Thank you, Bob. I’ll draw up an assignment of powers and get it to you in a day or two.”

  “All right. Wolf, is there anything else I can help with? I mean, are you in need of any other legal help at the moment?” The question was heavy with meaning.

  “No, Bob, but thanks for the thought.”

  “Call me if you need anything.”

  Wolf thanked him and hung up.

  Jane was hanging up the other line. “Okay, they’ll deliver to Hal on Monday.”

  “Great. And thank you for doing such a terrific job.”

  “It was my pleasure.”

  “Well, let’s find you a room, shall we?” He grabbed her bags and led her to the guest wing, choosing the room farthest from the murder scene. “I hope you’ll be comfortable here,” he said, placing her bags on the bed. “The heat will be a little slow taking hold; it comes from pipes under the floor, and it has to heat the stones.”

  “I’ll be fine,” she said. “I’d like to have a shower. That’ll warm me up.”

  “Go ahead. I’ll book us a table for dinner somewhere.”

  “Fine.”

  “Dress casually; Santa Fe is like that.”

  “Okay. What’s the hot dress for?”

  “Oh, that’s tomorrow night; dinner with the D & D.”

  “Who?”

  “The Duke and Duchess of Kensington.”

  “Whatever you say,” she said, shaking her head.

  He left her and went back to his study. Another reading of Jack’s will provided no clues to the director’s state of mind. Jack had never mentioned the new will to him, but he had always been embarrassed about discussing personal matters.

  He rang Santacafé, his favorite restaurant, and booked a table for two.

  The owner, Jim Arno, greeted Wolf warmly at the door, and on the way to their table they passed three groups of people Wolf knew. Some greeted him; others waved half-heartedly. He didn’t introduce Jane to any of them.

  “Friends?” Jane asked archly as they sat down at their table and picked up menus.

  “That remains to be seen,” Wolf said.

  “They looked surprised to see me with you,” she said.

  “Fuck ’em,” Wolf said lightly. “I can recommend the smoked pheasant spring rolls or the Chinese dumplings to start; the fish is always good, and I’m fond of the duck.”

  “Surprise me,” she said.

  “Seems only fair,” he replied. “You’ve been surprising me for the past two weeks.”

  “Oh? How?”

  “Well, you were always just the editor’s assistant before; I had no idea you were so good.”

  “Why did you ask for me, then?”

  “I wanted a cutter—a technician; I didn’t expect more than that.”

  “I like to give people more than they expect,” she said.

  “A good policy,” he replied. “Tell me, how did you become a single mother?”

  “The usual way,” she said dryly.

  He laughed. “That wasn’t what I meant. Why didn’t you marry the guy?”

  “And compound my error? He was an out-of-work actor—still is—and it was just a roll in the hay. I was on the pill, but I guess it didn’t work.”

  “Was having the baby a tough decision?”

  “Not really. I had two strong feelings: one, I didn’t want to have an abortion, and two, I wanted a baby. No conflict.”

  “Has it been tough?”

  “Not as tough as you might think. My sister, who’s single too, has been great. She lived with me until Sara was old enough for school; otherwise, it would have been really tough.”

  “No disadvantages to being a single mother?”

  Jane shrugged. “Not many. Not much time for things other than work and Sara, I guess.”

  “So you’ve been a social recluse for the past eight or nine years?”

  “Well, not entirely; but I found myself turning down invitations that were just dates. There didn’t seem to be time for anything that didn’t have more meaning.”

  “Does her father see anything of Sara?”

  She shook her head. “She gets a birthday card from him most years; sometimes it comes with twenty bucks inside. He’s in New York—was on a soap for a couple of years, but now he’s at liberty again.” She looked down at the tablecloth. “Actually, I prefer having him in New York; I wouldn’t want to share Sara with him. I’m too selfish. You were married once before, weren’t you?”

  He nodded and told her about the accident, skipping his blackout.

  “That must have been tough.”

  He nodded again. “You get over these things,” he said. “In fact, I think I’m getting better at getting over them.”

  She looked at him oddly but didn’t question him further.

  When they got back to the house in Wilderness Gate, he said goodnight at the door to the guest wing. They didn’t touch.

  CHAPTER

  15

  Ed Eagle drove through the open gate and down the drive toward Mark Shea’s house. As directed, he turned off to the little building where Shea received patients.

  As he parked the car, the door to the office opened and Shea made his goodbyes to a tall, very beautiful woman Eagle recognized immediately. He had, in fact, seen her latest film the week before and had thought her brilliant. He was struck with an unexpected reluctance to make eye contact with her, and he waited until her car drove away before he got out of his. On his way to Shea’s front door he analyzed his reaction. Was it timidity? Probably not; hardly anybody made him feel timid anymore. Tact, that’s what it was, he decided. She wouldn’t want to be seen leaving her psychiatrist’s office, so he hadn’t seen her.

  “Morning, Ed; come in,” Mark Shea said, smiling and shaking his hand. “Can I get you a cup of coffee?”

  “If you’ll join me, Mark.” Eagle had known Shea since the psychiatrist had come to Santa Fe some years before, but they were not close friends. Still, he was grateful for the occasional referral of a client—especially one like Wolf Willett—and he liked the man. He’d heard that Shea had become a cult figure in the community, drawing wealthy patients from all over the country, some of whom had taken up residence in Santa Fe to be near him. Given Shea’s charm and intelligence, this did not surprise the lawyer.

  Shea poured their coffee and settled into a chair opposite Eagle.

  It was much like the arrangement in his own study, Eagle reflected: cozy, friendly, and designed to draw out the visitor. “I want to talk with you about Wolf Willett, Mark,” he said. “I have his permission to do so; you can call him, if you like.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Ed. Wolf has already spoken to me about it.”

  “A little background: When did you first meet Wolf?”

  “About three years ago, shortly after he built his house here.”

  “Did he come to you at that time for treatment?”

  “No. We first met at a dinner party, and he called me some weeks later.”

  “What did he feel his problems were at the time?”

  “He initially came to me for help in stopping smoking, and we fixed that, but Wolf felt he had difficulty forming close relationships with other people—both men and women—although he seemed to be better with women than with men. He was also going through a midlife reassessment of his existence: Did his work mean anything? Did he deserve his success? Was there any reason why anyone should love him? His concerns were typical of an intelligent, reflective, rather decent middle-aged man, and lacking a full relationship with a woman, he was without the support that a good marriage can bring. He needed some reinforcement.”

  “Is that what a psychiatrist does? Reinforce?”

  Shea smiled. “There are nearly as many opinions about what a therapist’s role is as there are psychiatrists. Many regard themselves as objective observers who, merely by listening to their patients, offer them a means of sorting themselves out. I do that with some patients, but on the whole, I lean t
oward a more activist view.”

  “What role did you take with Wolf?”

  “I’m beginning to think this is more an examination of my technique than a conversation about Wolf.”

  “I’m sorry, but it’s important for me to know his mind as well as a lawyer can, and it would be helpful if I understood how you worked with him.”

  “Wolf came to me a very self-sufficient man who had the dual burden of running a business and propping up a rather…ah, undisciplined partner. There were times when he felt inadequate to the job—especially the second role—and one of the things he needed from me was someone to tell him that he was all right, that he was doing a good job. I offered him that support. He deserved it.”

  “What other sorts of support did you offer him?”

  “Mainly someone to talk with openly. I regarded Wolf then as a stable, self-aware human being who was coping well. He just didn’t seem to be enjoying his life enough. I found him relatively free of neurosis, and—”

  “Relatively?”

  “None of us is free of neurosis; we all have our quirks.”

  “What were Wolf’s quirks?”

  “He was having some moderate difficulties with impotence; he wasn’t enjoying sex much.”

  “How did you treat his impotence?”

  “I prescribed a drug which is gaining a reputation for effectiveness. It’s based on an old herbal remedy, and it seems to dilate the blood vessels that carry blood to the penis and cause an erection.”

  “What do you mean, ‘seems’?”

  “The effect may be that of a placebo—who knows? As far as I’m concerned, an effective placebo is as good as a cure.”

  “Did it work for Wolf?”

  “Hard to say. He met Julia about that time, and she may have had a greater effect than the drug. He was capable again, anyway, and enjoying himself.”

  “What other quirks did he have?”

  “The only thing of any importance was something he wouldn’t talk about for a long time, something he really would talk about only after the murders.”

  “What was that?”

  “His first wife, who was pregnant, was killed in an automobile accident while Wolf was driving her to the hospital for delivery.”

  “Did he have guilt feelings about that?”

  “Of course; who wouldn’t?”

  “What effect did this guilt have on him?”

  “Depression, of course, for quite a long time. And—” Shea suddenly looked grave—“something else.”

  Eagle leaned forward. “What else?”

  “He blacked out. He told me that after the accident the police found him in a restaurant across the street, eating a cheeseburger as if nothing had happened. He had obviously suffered an enormous emotional trauma.”

  “How much time did he lose?”

  “A day and a half, he says.”

  “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it?”

  “Yes.”

  “Have you talked with him about what happened the night of the murders?”

  “Yes.”

  “What do you think happened?”

  “I don’t know enough to draw any conclusions.”

  “Come on, Mark, you’re not on the stand here. Help me out.”

  “I think he may have discovered the bodies. Or…” Shea stopped.

  “Go on.”

  “Or, it’s possible he may have…been present at the time of the murders.”

  Eagle sat back in his chair. “Mark, you choose your words carefully; have you ever testified at a trial—as an expert witness?”

  “No.”

  “All right, let’s have a little psychodrama here. You’re on the stand. The defense has already questioned you and elicited that Wolf is a normal person with few neuroses. You’ve conveyed to the jury that you have a high opinion of him. Now, I’m the prosecutor. Remember, you’re under oath; you have to tell the truth. But be brief; I’m a sonofabitch of a prosecutor, and since you’re a witness for the defense, you don’t want to give me any gratuitous information.”

  “All right,” Shea said. He shifted his position and crossed his legs.

  “Don’t cross your legs; don’t do anything that might lead the jury to feel that you’re defensive or contemptuous of the prosecutor. Don’t give smart-ass answers. You’re trying to be helpful, even if this guy is attempting to nail your patient with the death penalty.”

  Shea uncrossed his legs. “All right, I’m ready.”

  “Dr. Shea, is Wolf Willett a sane person?”

  “Sane is a legal term, not a medical one.”

  “Don’t get defensive; answer the man’s question.”

  “I believe Mr. Willett to be in full possession of his faculties.”

  “So if Mr. Willett murdered his wife and his partner and another person, he knew exactly what he was doing?”

  Shea froze.

  “Answer the question.”

  “It’s possible for a normal human being to have a moment when he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “You mean temporary insanity?”

  “Yes, you could call it that.”

  “Mr. Willett isn’t pleading temporary insanity; he’s pleading just plain not guilty. You’re his psychiatrist. Is Wolf Willett capable of murder?”

  “Only to the extent that anyone is capable of murder, that you yourself might be capable of murder.”

  “Is it psychologically possible that Wolf Willett committed three murders?”

  “It is unlikely in the extreme.”

  “But is it possible?”

  “Sir, it is possible that the judge committed these murders, but that is also unlikely in the extreme.”

  Eagle laughed. “Very good. You’ll be hard to corner.”

  “Thank you. Is Wolf going to be tried for these murders?”

  “I hope not. I’m doing everything in my power to prevent it, but if he is tried, we have to be ready. I take it you’ll testify?”

  “Of course.”

  “Mark, if we call you as an expert witness, the state will be entitled to have a psychiatrist of their choosing examine Wolf, too. Do you think another man might be able to find something in an examination that would reflect badly on Wolf?”

  “Another psychiatrist, on hearing that Wolf can’t remember the night of the murders, would immediately ask if he had ever had another such episode. He might try to make something of Wolf’s previous experience.”

  “I think I could handle that,” Eagle said.

  Shea smiled. “I’m sure you could.”

  Ed Eagle left Mark Shea’s place feeling that Shea knew more than he was telling about Wolf Willett, but he wasn’t terribly bothered by that. If the psychiatrist was trying to protect Wolf, he would protect him from a prosecutor, too. And he was smart; he wouldn’t be lured into damaging his friend. Eagle felt a little better about his case. He would feel even better, he thought, when he knew more about Julia Willett’s background.

  CHAPTER

  16

  A dark lump swam up on the horizon. Wolf pointed. “See that? The big rock in the distance?”

  “What rock?”

  “There.”

  “Oh, yes. It doesn’t look so big.”

  “That’s because we’re forty miles away from it. Wait a few minutes.”

  They had been flying for three-quarters of an hour, northwest from Santa Fe toward the Four Corners, where New Mexico, Arizona, Colorado, and Utah meet. Chaco Canyon was behind them, its ancient ruins snowy and still in the winter sun.

  “That’s Ship Rock,” Wolf said. “So called because the settlers on the wagon trains thought it looked like a big sailing ship from a distance.”

  “Now it looks impressive,” Jane said, squinting. “How tall is it?”

  Wolf glanced at the aeronautical chart in his lap. “About two thousand feet above the surrounding terrain.”

  “It just gets bigger and bigger as we get closer.”

  They passed the big rock and
flew on west, over a high ridge etched with little canyons, then over a broad plain.

  “What’s that in the distance?” Jane asked, pointing ahead.

  “In a few minutes you’ll know,” Wolf replied. He pointed below at a circular structure. “Look down there; that’s a hogan, a Navajo dwelling.”

  “They still live in those?”

  “There’s a more modern house just next to it, but the hogans are still used.”

  Wolf reset the altitude selector on the autopilot and the airplane began to descend.

  “Are we landing?”

  “Not quite. We’re just going to fly low for a while.” Another ten minutes passed.

  Jane peered at the formation before them. “I know what it is!” she exclaimed delightedly. “I’ve seen it so many times—in a hundred movies, I’ll bet, and in most of John Ford’s!”

  Monument Valley loomed ahead. Soon they were five hundred feet above the valley floor, flying among the ancient towers of red sandstone.

  Jane was busy with her camera. “This is fantastic! What a sight!”

  Patchy snow covered the ground for as far as the eye could see, and crowned the monuments with dashes of white. “I often wonder what the first settlers who saw this place must have felt,” Wolf said.

  “It has an almost religious quality, like a cathedral,” Jane replied. “I’ve never seen anything so beautiful.”

  Wolf threaded the airplane among the monuments for another quarter of an hour, then turned toward the southwest and climbed to ten thousand five hundred feet.

  “Wow! Where to now?”

  “Someplace else you’ll recognize.”

  Half an hour later Wolf pointed ahead to a large lake and, leading from it, a narrow cut in the stone. “Recognize that?”

  “No. What is it?”

  “Wait and see.” He turned south over the narrow gorge, which began to widen out.

  “I think I can guess,” Jane said. “It’s starting to look familiar, but it’s still too small.”

  The Grand Canyon widened before them, and as the airplane flew over the north rim, it seemed that the bottom had fallen out of the world. The late afternoon sun struck the mesas and valleys of the enormous gulley, casting long shadows and turning the earth red.