Always Time To Die (20 page)

“Or else had his mouth redone entirely when he hit forty,” Dan said. “A lot of politicians do. In America, bad teeth are equated with poverty and moral turpitude.” He took the magnifying glass and studied the photo. “You’ve got a good eye, Carolina May. That chin isn’t as impressive as Josh’s is today. Gotta love implants and plastic surgeons.”

“At least he let his hair go gray. A lot of them don’t.”

“Them?”

“Anyone, man or woman, who spends time in front of cameras.”

“Gray is distinguished, haven’t you heard?” Dan said, smiling slightly.

“Tell that to an anchorman who has someone thirty years younger leaving footprints up his spine. You, of course, would be exempt.”

He glanced at her. “I would?”

“Yes. You’re going to be like your mother, dark except for one extraordinary silver streak over your left temple.”

“I already have the streak.”

“If five hairs make up a streak, sure.”

“I have more than that.”

She pretended to count the gray hairs above his left temple and gasped. “Omigod. Seven! You’re definitely headed for the downhill slide into Viagra-land.”

Dan was tempted to stand up and show Carly just how wrong she was about the sex pill but didn’t. People were still moving around the storage area above them. At any moment a reporter could come down to the basement to research past newspaper articles. Dan didn’t want Carly embarrassed or inhibited when they made love, biting her lip when she wanted to groan or scream.

Overhead, someone dragged the tarp aside, lifted the door, and called down. “Dan? You in there?”

Go away, Gus.
“C’mon down, Gus.”

“How long have you been down there?”

Too long. Not long enough.
“Since breakfast. Why?” Dan said.

“Then you haven’t heard the news.”

“What news?”

Gus appeared on the bottom step. “Sylvia Quintrell finally died.”

NEW HAMPSHIRE
NOON, THURSDAY

GOVERNOR JOSH QUINTRELL SHIFTED ON THE METAL FOLDING CHAIR
.
HIS EXPRESSION
was engaged, interested. Behind the façade, he devoutly wished he was anywhere but in a gently shabby hall full of veterans of foreign wars trying to digest the indigestible, and reminiscing about wars nobody else gave a damn about anymore. Josh would use his service record and purple hearts to reassure voters, especially veterans, but did he talk about it every chance he had? Hell, no. He’d rather dye his hair pink and wear a tutu. Ninety-seven percent of the people in the dining hall hadn’t been shot at, hadn’t been tortured, hadn’t killed; the three percent who had didn’t want to talk about it.

The chicken salad lunch was truly incredible. They should pass out medals for eating it.

I’m going to get a doggie bag for my campaign manager,
Josh thought as he clapped mightily for a speech that had left most of the hall comatose.
Why should he miss all the fun he signed me up for?

His cell phone vibrated against his waist. He glanced at the call window, saw that it didn’t list a number, and went to the message function. No voice message, just text. He punched in commands and wondered what had been so urgent that it had to break in to his campaign time.

Words scrolled across the tiny window:
THE SENATOR HAD SECRETS WORTH KILLING TO KEEP
.
STOP INVESTIGATING CHARITIES
.

Josh thought about it.

He thought about it some more. As the second speaker was talking about
our brave boys overseas
he decided to stop investigating charities on the ranch end.

Then he’d light a fire under the New York accountant’s ass and wait to see what crawled out from under the rocks.

QUINTRELL RANCH
THURSDAY EVENING

THANKS TO BAD WEATHER IN NEW HAMPSHIRE
,
THE GOVERNOR
’
S PLANE HAD BEEN
late landing in Santa Fe. Sylvia Quintrell’s memorial service would be delayed until the governor’s helicopter arrived.

Carly didn’t mind. Over Dan’s protests, she’d driven out early in her newly cleaned and shod SUV, eager to interview Winifred on various subjects, including the possibility of the Senator’s illegal offspring. Dan had followed her in his own truck. The extra hour delay before the memorial service had given Carly more time to talk with Winifred—and to prepare herself for another poet-mangling effort by the good minister, who was hovering in the hallway near Winifred’s suite like a car salesman looking for a live customer. Dr. Sands hovered with him. He hadn’t wanted Winifred to exert herself talking.

Winifred had told him to get out.

Silently Dan handed Carly another photograph for Winifred to look at. The box of plastic sleeves and forms that the airline had misplaced had been waiting at the ranch when he and Carly arrived for the service. While she talked with Winifred, he put various photos and documents between sheets of the clear protective plastic.

Winifred coughed. The sound was husky and dry, shallow, like her breathing. Dan had heard unhealthy noises like that in places where war or plain governmental incompetence kept antibiotics from reaching hospitals and villages. He wasn’t a medic, but he really didn’t like the sound of her breathing. He knew pneumonia was most dangerous when the chest was tight, not when the lungs loosened.

“Are you sure you should be talking, Miss Winifred?” he asked gently.

She ignored him and peered through reading glasses at the photograph Carly was holding out. Normally Winifred wouldn’t have needed—or admitted that she needed—glasses, but she was too tired to struggle tonight.

“Andrew,” she said. “Grammar school.”

Carly filled in a label, peeled it from its backing, and stuck it to the plastic sleeve. Dan handed Winifred another sleeved photo.

“Victoria. After Pearl Harbor. She was seven.”

Carly entered the data and labeled the photo.

“Victoria. On D-Day. Polio. Killed her before—she was ten.”

“You need to rest,” Carly said quickly.

“I need—to die,” Winifred said.

Grimly Carly sorted through the pictures she’d selected for positive ID by Winifred. She’d hoped to find some of Josh and Liza after they were ten, but so far she’d come up empty. All the school and professional photos were of Andrew and Victoria. Family snapshots had stopped after Victoria died. The closest thing to group photos Carly had found after 1944 were the yearly political barbecues. Often as not, neither Sylvia nor the children attended—or if they did, there weren’t any photographs to prove it.

The Quintrells weren’t what Carly would call a close family. No surprise there.

When the photographs ran out, there was a list of names. “These are the Senator’s possible children,” Carly said in a low voice. “That is, these children were born to women within ten months of a probable liaison with the Senator. None of the birth certificates list the Senator as a father. Often they list another man, but you asked me to ignore that, correct?”

Winifred nodded curtly and took the list. Eleven names stretching over a period of sixty years, but most of them were clustered around the years before the Senator became a senator.

Jesús Mendoza. María Elena Sandoval. Manuel Velásquez. Randal Mullins. Sharon Miller. Christopher Smith. Raúl Sandoval. Maryanne Black. Seguro Sánchez. David McCall. Suzanne Fields.

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 outright 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.”