Thirty-six

Lewis charged the bedroom. His shoulders swept pictures off the narrow hallway walls. He came around the door frame gun first, the side away from his heart exposed.

Blood seeped from Aragon’s fist. She had her bloody hand over Montclaire’s, a polished wooden grip and thin black barrel showing between their fingers. Aragon had Montclaire’s other arm by the wrist as she twisted and turned. Rivera was behind, trying to get his arm across her throat.

Montclaire kicked Aragon’s leg. Aragon kicked back, a knee to the top of the thigh, her foot raking Montclaire’s shin, slamming onto her instep.

The gun hand swung his way. Lewis stepped out of its path as Aragon drove her knee into Montclaire’s groin. Montclaire folded, a sick groan replacing her shrieks. Aragon backed away with the gun, a small Beretta, a twin to the one found in Thornton’s Durango.

Rivera pulled Montclaire’s hands behind her back and pushed her to the floor.

“I never thought that worked on a woman,” Lewis said. “Jesus, your hand.”

Blood pulsed from a hole between the bones for the ring and pinkie fingers. The flow increased, blood spurted. Lewis took the Beretta and lifted Aragon’s empty hand above her head. His thumb pressed the hollow on the inside of her wrist.

“Does it hurt bad?”

She shook her head. “I grabbed the gun right as she fired.” Blood now flowed down her biceps and reached the shirt sleeve. “She couldn’t fire again. The spent brass couldn’t eject. That barrel has to pop up.”

“I told you I didn’t like those things.”

“I love them. Any other gun, someone would be dead.”

“You saved me from getting shot in the face,” Rivera said, his knee in Montclaire’s back while he dug plastic ties from his rear pocket.

Aragon looked at the hole in the back of her hand, then the ceiling. “It went somewhere.”

Lewis stripped a pillowcase from the bed and wound it tightly around her hand. He told her to keep it high. Instead, she kneeled to bring her mouth close to Montclaire’s ear.

“You just made the case for us, Lily. Those creepy photos, they weren’t enough. But with you trying to kill an FBI agent, and actually shooting a Santa Fe police officer … Let me just say, thanks for your invaluable cooperation.”

Lewis reached to help her to her feet but she pulled away.

“What’s that, Lily?”

“I said—” Rivera’s weight on her back, Montclaire spoke into the carpet. “I can give you more on Marcy. The things she had me do. You have no idea.”

“We don’t trade a girl’s murder for piling on a dirty lawyer. Thornton’s through without your help.”

Aragon let Lewis pull her up. She leaned into his arms.

“Okay, now it hurts,” she said and began shaking and couldn’t stop.

“You know what you did?” Rivera at the foot of her bed, a private room at Christus St. Vincent. She was still groggy from the stuff they’d slipped into her blood before surgery, a man behind a light blue mask saying softly, “You might like this.”

“Don’t you see it?” Rivera tried again, and she still didn’t know what he was talking about.

Cards and balloons taking up the space along one wall and the dresser top. She’d requested no flowers, especially roses. She couldn’t force Tomas to leave and didn’t want to start anything with Sergeant Perez in the room. Soon a captain would join them, standing in until the chief got back from the border law enforcement conference to check on his wounded detective.

Rivera was on the other side of her bandaged hand and the arm with the feed to the tube running to a bag on a hook. Her hand was suspended above, her body in a thin blue robe tied in the back, riding up her thighs, ankles locked, wanting a sheet to cover all of her. They said the hand had stopped bleeding, but it throbbed like a beating drum. The little bullet had cut through small bones that would take a long time to heal, then plastic surgery after this first round of cutting to re-attach ligaments so she’d have some grip and strength. Months with a physical therapist getting muscles to work, fingers on her good hand crossed, like her ankles. Hoping.

“I did my job,” she said, her voice scratchy from the tubes shoved down her throat when they’d put her under.

“You saved Miguel,” Rivera said. “The barrel was pointing at me, but it was Miguel you jumped to save. Now you can put that behind you. You don’t need to blame yourself anymore.”

She saw the look on Sergeant Perez’s face. Who’s this Miguel?

“I don’t want to talk about it. Get me a blanket, so everybody isn’t looking up my robe when they come in the room.”

Rivera left. She heard him calling for a nurse in the hall.

Sergeant Perez said, “You were talking about a Miguel when you were out in surgery. The doc told me it was about a rape and shooting. Another Silva we need to worry about?”

“Nobody you need to know about.”

“Rapes and shootings, that’s police business.”

“It’s personal, from when I was a kid.” Rivera was back with an ugly orange blanket. Maybe they used that color so nobody would want to steal one. “Tuck it under my feet,” she told him. “Here.” She grabbed a corner and pulled an edge to her waist, catching Rivera’s eye as he worked around her feet. Wanting to chew him out for mentioning Miguel in front of Perez, knowing the sergeant would always be wondering.

And then she saw that Rivera was right. She had saved the life of a man who loved her. Her nightmare with Miguel relived, but coming out different, the way she’d wanted to turn those dark dreams around. Yeah, she felt it. Rivera did love her. He’d never told her, but she was sure he’d said it to himself, maybe catching it later like she had, surprised, hearing it inside her head.

Does this make up for Miguel? Will all of that stop?

“You guys want coffee?” Perez asked and they shook their heads.

Never gonna stop. That day on her back watching Miguel die at her feet was in her, always would be. It’s what made her, drove her forward, forced her to be always stronger.

When they were alone, Rivera said, “I want to do something to thank you. I know you like the fights. We could catch a big card in Vegas, see the next women’s championship.”

“I hate Vegas. You know how many times I’ve gone there to bring back someone’s daughter, or return with worse news?”

“The opposite of Vegas, then. Disneyland.”

“We’re a little old for Mickey and Cinderella, don’t you think?”

“Just trying here. What about Nashville? You love country music.”

Every one of these an overnighter—how many nights?—going through the trouble of insisting on her own room when they checked in. No, before she even agreed to go.

“Or a Sandals resort in the Bahamas.” Rivera not giving up. “Sit back, be pampered. Somewhere exotic, an island with white beaches and palm trees. You told me once you’d never seen the ocean.”

“You want to do something for me?” Her toe peeked out under the orange blanket and she thought for a second of what Marcy Thornton was going through in another room in this hospital. “Check the bull riding in Farmington.”

“Farmington? You want a date in Farmington? Pump jacks and cowboys?”

“I like Farmington. It still feels like New Mexico, more than what’s happened to Santa Fe. Regular people at regular jobs. No New Yorkers or Californians claiming they discovered the Land of Enchantment. Those Navajo boys come in to show how crazy brave they are, bull-fighting teams getting between horns and riders when they hit the ground. You’ve never seen fearless until you see a skinny Indian pulling the tail on a one-ton steer named Red Rock Assassin.”

“Farmington?”

“Yes, Farmington.”

“Is there anywhere to eat out there?”

“We’ll eat in the stands. Navajo tacos and mutton stew. Then we can drive back home. After that, maybe I’ll think about some place on a beach, as long as it has a weight room. You can get your daily dose of iron, too.”