CHAPTER ELEVEN

 

 

“I don’t need stitches.” Ben was sitting on the edge of his bed next to Julie who was holding a bag of ice wrapped in a towel.

“You just don’t want your head shaved. I detect a little vanity,” Julie answered.

“We already have one shaved head around here.”

“You should never take a chance with a head wound.”

“I’ll be at the clinic in four hours. I’ll have someone look at it then.”

“At least call Tommy.”

“And what? Say I was hit on the head in the parking lot and don’t remember much else?”

“I’m not going to win, am I?”

“No.” Ben laughed.

“You’re impossible.” Julie fell backward on the bed.

“We both are. Headstrong and impossible. Think this relationship has any hope of working?” Ben was teasing but Julie thought there was an underlying seriousness.

“I want to give it a chance. How about you?” She propped herself up on one elbow. 

“I’m committed.”

“Ugh. You sound like my mother talking about me.”

“I’m in love. Sound any better?”

“Lots.” Julie threw her arms around Ben. “This whole thing is getting dangerous.”

“Past tense.” Ben gestured toward his head.

“And you have no idea who it was or why?”

“None. After the fireworks tonight I pulled in beside a car I thought I recognized. The night I locked the money I’d found in Sal’s trailer in my glove compartment, there was a car with Nevada plates parked next to the truck—same car. I’d swear to it.”

“So you decided to investigate?”

“Something like that. I guess I found out it was more than a coincidence.”

“And you don’t remember anything?”

“Nothing that makes sense. The trunk was open. I leaned down to take a look ...”

“And, then what?”

“I thought I saw trays of vials. Lab setup, sort of.”

“Maybe the guy’s in pharmaceutical sales.”

“It wasn’t like that. I don’t know how to explain it. All the test tubes had rubber stoppers like they were being delivered to a lab.”

“Couldn’t that be it? A collection of samples on its way to a university or hospital?”

“But what of? They all looked the same. All held some kind of white liquid.”

“A medium, maybe? Something could have been incubating in the tubes. The person could drive around the southwest picking up whatever it is for testing.”

“It wasn’t in dry ice or a cold container of any kind. Whatever it was, he or she didn’t want me to see it.”

“How can you be sure that the owner of the car whacked you on the head?”

“I can’t. But the car was gone when you got there. And the last thing I remember is looking in the trunk.”

“It’s probably a good assumption.”

Ben shrugged. “I vote for trying to get some sleep.” He pulled the quilt back. 

“It’ll be nice to have company tonight.” 

“There’s no way I’m going back to my room.”

“I’m beginning to think head wounds come in handy.”

Julie gave him her best withering look and pulled up the quilt.

 

+ + +

 

Ben picked up a handful of patient folders. The first day back after a long weekend and the cases seemed to pile up. He hoped he would have time to call around Albuquerque and find out more about .22 as a child.

“You look like lukewarm death. Something happen to your head?” Rose asked.

“Had a little tussle with a car part.”

“I don’t think you were the winner. Want one of the docs to take a look?”

“I’ll do it later.”

“The videos are on your desk. I made two copies. I thought you might need an extra.”

“Thanks.” First thing he’d do would be lock the original in a file cabinet. And the others? He wasn’t sure how he’d use them. He’d toyed with sending a copy to the board of examiners. He could find out who was performing the tests easily enough. He could probably just ask Hannah without arousing suspicion, use some pretext of sending them his findings, which wasn’t a lie. Only his ‘findings’ wouldn’t be what she thought they were. He had a break at nine after his first patient. 

Ben hoped his eagerness to finish the session wasn’t apparent. But he found his mind wandering. Not that a husband’s beating up on a boyfriend in a bar wasn’t interesting, he simply couldn’t concentrate. At ten ’til the hour, he fibbed that he was expecting a call and rescheduled the woman with her husband for a continuation on Friday at four and promised himself he’d be more attentive.

He’d checked into hospitals or homes that would have taken children on a boarding basis—treating any mental as well as physical problems, and, he had come up with three possibilities. At least the three had been in operation for fifteen years or more. Didn’t Dr. Lee say Hannah had taken .22 out of the school or hospital over some sexual misconduct when he was fifteen? Maybe someone would remember what that was all about. And wouldn’t it prove that .22 could have more normal moments? That maybe the tape wasn’t an aberration after all? He dialed the first number on his list.

The receptionist in records at the children’s hospital said they had only had boarding facilities for five years and didn’t accept teens, only children birth to twelve. Probably smart, Ben thought as he dialed the second number on his list, Woods Memorial Children’s Home and Psychiatric Hospital. He was kept on hold and listened to elevator music for what seemed like five minutes.

“How can I help you?” The older woman’s voice was brusque, businesslike, and sounded like she had more to do than chat with Ben.

“I’m Dr. Benson Pecos, Hawikuh Clinic. I recently completed an exam on a young man who may have been a resident at Woods. If he was, I’d like to speak with the supervising physician. His name is Harold Rawlings. He would have been fifteen when he left and that was about six years ago.”

“Rawlings?” 

Ben wasn’t sure but he thought he detected a note of curiosity.

“Yes. His father, Edward Rawlings, first placed him in the home. His mother visited once a year or so. Hannah Rawlings.”

“Tell me again why you need this information.”

Ben reiterated his part in the testing. He was requesting a history that would help him build a case for the boy’s trainability. He added that the young man needed to be able to enter a vocational school in the fall and would not receive the money to do so unless his success was assured.

“The board of examiners has requested a profile of his teen years, a history of setbacks, behavioral regression, as well as successes, that sort of thing. A review of previous testing might be enough.” It wasn’t that much of a fib. He expected the examiners to do just that.

Ben couldn’t read the silence that followed.

“I’m afraid you’re a little late. Those records have been released to the current consulting physician, closing the file here. You would have to direct any questions to him.”

“And his name?”

“Dr. Leland Marcos, Indian Health Service, Hawikuh, New Mexico.” There was a pause. “Isn’t that where you said you worked?”

“Yes.” Ben noted her suspicious tone and hoped he hadn’t sounded too curt before hanging up.

Dr. Lee. A player unaccounted for. Ben leaned back in his chair. What was the good doctor’s part in all this? Was he just trying to help out, unaware of the possibility of duplicity on Hannah’s part? Or was he an instigator, a mastermind who knew how to work the system and could grease the wheels of the medical community to get .22 through? His urging had certainly helped Ben make up his mind to test. Dr. Lee could be persuasive. 

But hadn’t he seen them together, .22 and Dr. Lee? Certainly at Hannah’s dinners Ben had never suspected Dr. Lee was anything other than what he seemed to be—a concerned friend. If Ben remembered correctly, on the tape .22 sat on the floor when Dr. Lee entered the waiting room and kept his back to the camera. Was there anything that indicated .22 was reacting differently with him? It was difficult to tell. .22’s face was blocked by Dr. Lee’s back. 

Ben could always give a copy of the tape to Dr. Lee. And then what? If he’s innocent, he’ll investigate, be thankful for Ben’s concern. If not? Ben didn’t have a good feeling about what that might mean. He couldn’t help but feel Hannah was desperate enough to try to get the inheritance any way she could. If .22 had died, foul play or not, she’d have to come up with a plan like this or lose out on everything she’d worked to protect. And didn’t it come down to what business was it of his anyway? Even after Thursday, why would he get involved at all? But there was an issue of ethics and his reputation—if .22 were ever proved to be an imposter. There was probably no way around it. Even based upon the flimsiest of suspicions, he needed to seek the truth. How to reach the truth was the only real issue.

 

+ + +

 

There were six children around the kitchen table ranging in age from ten to eighteen. The noise was deafening—yells, laughter, screams when an older child took something away from a younger—all this in a room no larger than twelve by twenty. Two of the younger children grabbed a bag of potato chips at the same time pulling until it burst amid squeals of accusations. Tommy’s mother, a short woman with long black hair caught in back of her head by two beaded barrettes worked at her kitchen counter fixing yet another sandwich—this time for her oldest, Tommy—totally oblivious to the cacophony of sound around her. Ben and Julie declined a sandwich. There was no way they would add to this person’s lunchtime craziness.

“This was a terrible time to drop by,” Julie apologized.

“They’ll all go back to the summer recreation program down at the Mission school in another fifteen minutes. Except for this one.” His mother playfully punched Tommy on the arm as she put the sandwich in front of him. “Then we’ll have peace and quiet. Besides, he promised to bring you over. I was beginning to think he’d forgotten.”

“I bet she’s asked me every other day since you got here.” Tommy ducked another playful blow from his mother before she picked up an empty pitcher that had held Kool-Aid and carried it to the sink to mix a refill.

Against Ben and Julie’s protests, Tommy made two of his brothers take their sandwiches into the living room to make room at the table.

“At least have a cup of coffee.” Tommy’s mother put two bright blue ceramic cups down next to a thermos, both had the insignia of the Hawikuh Wildcats on the side. “It keeps fresh this way. I fixed a thermos of coffee every morning when Tommy’s father was alive. He worked road construction for the state. I guess habits are hard to break.” She smiled and pulled up a chair next to Tommy.

Julie found herself murmuring something supportive. 

“Don’t get her going. Next she’ll tell you it’s been easy raising this mob by herself.” Tommy indicated the kids at the table, most of which were leaving, some with a half-eaten sandwich in one hand, chips in the other. The screen door banged after each exit.

“Peace and quiet. Finally.” Tommy’s mother got up to clear the table. Julie offered to help but was waved away.

“Julie and Ben would like to ask you some questions about when you worked for Hannah Rawlings,” Tommy said.

Julie saw his mother pause before she resumed wiping the counter.

“And here I thought she was going to ask me to star in her show.” His mother turned from the sink and smiled.

“I’m going to ask you to help me,” Julie said. That wasn’t a lie. She needed someone from the village to show her what could be photographed and what couldn’t, what could be said without offending. “I don’t want to overstep boundaries. I’d like to show you what I’m planning and get your opinion.”

“I could do that.” She sat back down at the table and poured herself a glass of grape Kool-Aid. “Why do you want to know about Hannah Rawlings?”

“Ben is doing a profile—testing .22’s proficiency—has to in order for him to continue at school.” Tommy went on to tell his mother what Ben had shared with him, about the inheritance, about why Ben was involved. Ben had indicated that he would be making the decision about .22’s future. He hadn’t mentioned the board of examiners in Albuquerque. And nothing had been said to Tommy about their suspicions—that .22 might be an imposter. Ben didn’t feel that they had enough to go on yet. Julie knew he didn’t want to make it a police matter when it wasn’t one, or influence whatever Tommy’s mother might be able to add.

“I don’t think it’s my place to get involved,” Tommy’s mother said.

“I think you can be helpful. Fill me in on what he was like as a child. His shortcomings—I need to know how much he’s improved—if he has, or whether he’s regressed.”

The silence stretched so long Julie was afraid Tommy’s mother wouldn’t say anything. Wasn’t going to help them at all, then without raising her eyes from the table, she said, “All this about inheritance? It shouldn’t even make a difference. .22 wasn’t Ed Rawlings’ son.”

“How do you know that?” Ben asked.

“Hannah. She came to me about aborting the child. She really didn’t want the pregnancy. This was before Ed knew. She was far enough along to be sure—maybe two months. She wanted the name of a woman in Ramah who performed such operations. The marriage had turned sour. She would have left if she could have. Some said there was already a boyfriend.”

“The father of the baby?” Tommy asked.

“Maybe. I never knew. Wasn’t my business.”

“Did she decide against the abortion?” Julie asked.

“No. She had one. It didn’t work; something went wrong. The woman in Ramah told someone the baby was a problem, impossible to dislodge. After the baby was born, and it was apparent that the child was not normal, Hannah went a little crazy. She wasn’t religious, but she blamed herself. And Ed was so attached. That baby meant everything to him. It favored Hannah, light skin, eyes—he worshipped that child. It didn’t take long for Hannah to realize the baby chained her to Ed, made the bad marriage even worse.”

“Then what happened?” Ben gently encouraged her.

“I was offered a job more or less full time at the trading post. I could bring my own babies as long as I gave adequate time to .22 and Hannah.”

“How long did this go on?” Ben asked.

“Three and a half, four years.”

“Until the accident,” Tommy added. “Everyone here knows about that?” Ben and Julie nodded.

“I had wanted to quit before the ‘accident’, as you call it. I couldn’t take it any more. She was mean to the baby. Any little thing was an excuse for a spanking or locking him in the closet. Hannah was devious. She’d ‘lose’ the baby. Put .22 somewhere and then pretend, I think, that she couldn’t remember where. We would find him in the cellar, the walk-in freezer, under the porch—it was too much. She put him in the root cellar under the pantry so many times, Ed had the place boarded up. Finally, he took the child away. It was the best thing for all of us. I couldn’t promise that I could protect him anymore. And the asthma attacks were terrible.”

“It’s surprising he survived,” Julie said.

“And got so big,” Tommy’s mother added.

“Have you seen him recently?” Ben asked.

“Hannah brought him over to the house when he first came home in June. I thought she was trying to show me he had grown up in spite of her, somehow prove to me, or just make amends, I don’t know. I had to admit that he had done well, looked healthy, better able ...” Julie thought she looked pensive and seemed to be choosing her words before she continued. “I wouldn’t have believed it was .22 if he hadn’t crawled over to the closet looking for the toy box. Sometimes I would bring him home with me for the night—when things got bad with the asthma and all.” She paused. “He called me ‘Ne-Ma.’ Don’t ask me what that means, it was just his name for me. He remembered.”

“If he hadn’t remembered those things, you said you might not have believed that it was .22?” Julie asked and felt Ben’s silent approval. Tommy’s mother seemed to have doubts—or were they too eager to find something that would support their theory?

“He was born with a double caul,” she said. “I was the midwife.”

“A double what?” The term seemed familiar. Julie tried to remember what it meant.

“The caul is a part of the amnion that can cover the child’s head at birth. Correct me if I’m wrong.” Ben turned to Tommy’s mother. “It brings good luck and is supposed to be an infallible preservative against drowning. Guess we know that part worked. But a double caul? I’m not sure.”

“It promises that the child will have special sight. Inward sight but more than just intuition. The child will be gifted as a … a ... what do you call it when they can see things that happen in someone else’s mind?”

“Mind reader? Perhaps, a clairvoyant?” Julie offered.

“Something like that. It’s a special gift. .22 couldn’t speak—but he could read my mind. It happened lots. I’d be thinking of something and he’d show me he could see what was here.” She paused to touch her forehead. “It became our game. I’d think of Cheerios and he’d crawl to the table and bring me the box.” 

“And the grownup .22?” Ben asked. 

“Nothing. I tried, but there was nothing. I don’t think he even had a hint of what I wanted him to do. When Hannah was in the kitchen getting a drink of water, I asked him to tell me what I was thinking. I swear he didn’t know what I was talking about, just looked confused, stuck his thumb in his mouth and started to rock back and forth on his heels. That part reminded me of the old .22, all right. It used to be exasperating. When he didn’t want to do something, he’d just close everybody out. He could suck his thumb and rock for hours.”

“Could he lose his special power as he grew up? Would that be common?” Tommy asked.

“It should get stronger. That’s why I was surprised. But I believe that it was .22—if anything, he looked even more like his mother than he did as a child. And his head always needed medicating because of the itching even then. We could never keep him from scratching, even if we tied his hands at his side. One winter I kept them bandaged. He wore big gauze mittens and still found a way to scratch the sores. It was awful.”

“Do you remember what you used to keep the itching down?” Julie asked.

“Bag balm.” She looked up. “You know, udder cream. Same stuff I put on Tommy’s goat after milking. Hannah asked me the same thing—if I remembered what we used to apply to his head when he was young. Maybe that’s the reason she stopped by.”

Julie felt elated. She hadn’t realized she had had her hopes up, wanted .22 to be who he appeared to be, no more, no less. For Ben’s sake. And now it looked like Ben had been exonerated—his first diagnosis was correct. Even Ben would have to agree it would be difficult to fool someone who had been so close to .22. Professional reputation was intact. But he didn’t look happy.

On the way out, Julie asked Tommy if there was any word on Sal. But there had been nothing, not even a false lead from someone thinking he could identify Sal from the posters. What was even stranger, Tommy hadn’t been able to prove that Sal had had any kind of local ceremony—“a demon-chaser” in Tommy’s words—at least, no one was admitting to knowing anything about one. Sal appeared to have vanished.

“I need to talk to Daisy again,” Tommy said.

“Daisy?” Julie had no idea who he was talking about.

“Sal’s sister, Daisy Sandoval. Not a particularly pleasant woman—especially when she’s upset—but she’s close to her brother and, of anyone, should know where Sal might have gone. He’d get in touch with her first, probably. Maybe if I keep after her—in school they taught us that perseverance could be everything. But that’s going to be harder on me than on Daisy.” He grinned, then waved good-bye to his mother.

Julie dropped Ben off at the clinic. If she had hoped he would be feeling better now that Tommy’s mother had strengthened the case that .22 was in fact who he said he was, she was disappointed. Ben seemed morose. And she wasn’t any good at reversing his mood.

 

+ + +

 

The drug hadn’t taken effect immediately. Sal remembered that much. He’d felt sleepy—was having difficulty standing, keeping his legs from crumbling underneath him until finally he’d slumped to the floor by the cot, unable to even crawl under the covers. He rested against the cot’s metal rail side wondering what time it was. He didn’t have the energy to check his watch. 

He couldn’t with the lead weights that seemed tied to each wrist mooring them to the floor. And his head hurt if he tried to think too much—like wondering who had turned on the lights that now blazed above his workbench.

It was then that the trapdoor had opened. Hannah. Hannah came down the steps first with ... with Atoshle behind her. Atoshle in his grand mask and white robes, tall, towering above him in his majesty, just like all the times he had visited before, had stood beside Sal’s bed looking down at him or peeked in the windows of the trailer, or followed him to the river to leave the amber rabbit on the hood of his truck after taking the body ... 

Sal had tried to rise but only fell to one side to rest on his shoulder, head lolling backward. He wanted to cry out. What had he done to deserve a visit from this kachina? Would the ogre hurt him? Was it time for his death?

Sal struggled again but instead of rising, rolled backward to lie flat on the floor staring upward at this monster—the personage whom parents called upon to scare children into behaving. But Sal wasn’t a child. Was there some mistake? What could Atoshle possibly want from him?

“Salvador, we need your recipe for amber.” It was Hannah speaking but the sound came from a tunnel, hollow with an echo. A voice over a voice, only one was just a split second slower. He must have started to shake his head because she went on. “It’s no good trying to say you don’t know what we want. Remember, I know you have a notebook filled with your experiments. A notebook that will tell us how to make the amber.”

She was kneeling beside him now. Atoshle looked miles away, floating above him as high as the ceiling. And Atoshle just hovered, swaying side to side.

“Salvador, where is the notebook?” 

He thought he shook his head.

“Do you want Atoshle to beat you?”

Sal thought he saw a club in the great kachina’s hand. Could he shake his head “no” again? He tried.

“It’s no use. You gave him too much. We’re not going to scare him into telling us anything. He’s a zombie,” Atoshle boomed out, but let the club drop to the floor.

“It’s here. I know it is. We’ve looked in the trailer and the shed. Where else could it be? Look in his tool box.” Hannah addressed Atoshle. At this order Atoshle moved to the workbench and then out of Sal’s sight. He could hear the crashing and banging that meant things were being turned over, thrown to one side when the notebook wasn’t found.

“Go through his pockets,” Atoshle called out from somewhere across the room.

The bass voice was familiar. Yet, that didn’t seem like something Atoshle would say. Hannah roughly checked his shirt pocket—nothing—then pulled his keys, and a three inch comb from a front pocket in his jeans. Reaching underneath him, she slipped his billfold out of a hip pocket. 

“Nothing.” Hannah sat back on her heels. “This would go so much easier for you if you’d cooperate.” She was peering at Sal, unhappy with him, he thought. Her lips were pulled tight against her teeth making her mouth a long pink line that stretched out straight then zigzagged in slow motion across her face when she spoke. He concentrated on her mouth.

“Let me see the billfold.” As if from out of nowhere, Atoshle swooped down, bent over Hannah and took the billfold.

A thought tried to surface, push and thrust and swim to the forefront of a brain turned to mush. Sal strained, some warning. He almost had it. Yes. There was something in his billfold. Something that would tell .... get someone in trouble. A secret. His secret with Julie. 

“Well look at this.” The bass voice again, muffled behind the mask. “A claim check, receipt for a locker at the Greyhound terminal in Gallup. But guess whose name it’s in? Your boyfriend has been screwing around with the little redhead.”

“Give me that.” Hannah jumped up, but Atoshle held it out of her reach. 

“So old Salvador was just devoted to you. Wouldn’t change his shorts without you. But went right out when you weren’t looking and got a little help. And what do you think could be in that locker? Do I have to give you more than one guess?” Atoshle was laughing. But not in fun, more in meanness, Sal thought. And Hannah was frenzied, leaping at the paper, then beating her fists against the kachina’s chest which made him laugh louder.

“Better save some of that energy. We don’t have the notebook yet.” He caught Hannah’s arms and held her stationary.

Hannah jerked backward. “Let me go. This is serious. Stop fooling around.”

“I don’t think I’m the only fool in this room.” Atoshle let her go, then handed over the receipt.

“What should we do?” Hannah held the receipt out in front of her to read before wadding it into a ball.

“Make Sal open the locker. Take him to Gallup—” Atoshle said.

“Don’t be stupid. We can’t risk letting him out of here.”

“Then, look for a key.” Sal thought Atoshle sounded impatient.

“Won’t someone have to sign for whatever’s inside?”

“Probably. So, you’ve got one possibility left.” 

“I’ll get Julie to open it for us. That should be simple enough,” Hannah said. 

“I doubt if she’ll just volunteer. Maybe I—” Atoshle began.

“I don’t want you near her.” Sal could feel the vehemence in Hannah’s voice without understanding what she was saying. “I’ve watched the two of you—you’ll give yourself away. Tell me you didn’t enjoy burying your head in her crotch this afternoon in the pantry. I frankly thought that was a little much.”

Atoshle gave a short laugh. “I’d call that one of my better performances, impromptu, but perfect.”

“You didn’t think your little act was just a tiny bit too realistic?” Hannah’s mouth pulled back into the pink straight line.

“Hey, how were we to know she’d walk in on us trying to feed Sal?”

“Well, I don’t want you ‘performing’ with Miss Good Morning America again.”

“Fine by me. After Thursday, we’re out of here. I’ve been limping and slobbering for two months. Enough is enough. I could care less about your little notebook.”

“It means a lot to me.” Suddenly her voice was a purr.

“Probably a lot of money. But I think we’ll have enough without it.”

“And if something goes wrong? If we don’t get the inheritance?”

“Hey, that’s almost a done deal. Did I fool that doc, or what?”

“There’s one more hurdle. Are you forgetting that?”

“Damn, this thing is hot.”

Sal watched as Atoshle’s head flew upward, off his shoulders and out into space, spinning end over end before crashing to the floor. Multi-colored feathers fanned out from the top then broke upon impact. His wooden beak splintered and bounced toward Sal.

“Why did you do that? Do you know how much this is worth? It’s ruined.” Hannah dropped to her knees, swept the pieces toward her, then cradled the mask before setting it on the workbench. “Didn’t we agree that no one would see you without a cover-up?” She nodded toward Sal.

“He’s as good as dead. Don’t you have what you want?” Sal saw a finger pointing to the receipt still wadded in Hannah’s hand. But the only word he heard was “dead, dead, dead.” It seemed to be circling in his head, a banner pulled around and around just behind his eyes.

“Maybe the notebook is in the locker, maybe it isn’t. We’ll have to see.” Hannah smoothed the receipt and put it in her pocket.

If Sal could have laughed he would have and not just made the sputtering noises that left saliva trailing down his chin. As his eyes focused, he could see the supernaturals were playing tricks. Instead of the mask of Atoshle, the head of .22 sat on the shoulders that were encased in white flowing robes. .22? Yes, it was .22. The ancient ones enjoyed a joke, and this was a good one. They had even given .22 a booming voice, and made him stand up straight.

“What’s wrong with him? Looks like he’s foaming at the mouth.” The toe of a sneaker pushed out from the hem of Atoshle’s robe and nudged him.

“He’ll be all right,” Hannah said.

“You have a weird sense of ‘all right.’ Left to die in an underground room isn’t my idea of ‘all right’.”

“Losing your nerve?”

“Maybe. I just want this to be over.” .22 bent over Sal, and Sal looked up into watery, deep blue eyes, familiar eyes, eyes he knew as well as his own, only they belonged to .22—the gods hadn’t overlooked detail.

“I liked this man,” .22 said.

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“Maybe I don’t want anything to do with his murder.”

“Don’t you think it’s a little late to show concern? Want me to remind you who killed Ahmed? Then dragged him all over kingdom come—and almost got caught. If that tourist hadn’t been crazy, you would have. You took a chance selling him that rabbit. That wasn’t too bright.”

“Shut up. It was a pretty good idea to kill Ahmed by the river, scare the shit out of Sal—and who thought up the scalping?” 

“Well, not until after you came back to the house with the body and asked my opinion.” 

Quickly Hannah stood on tip toe and kissed .22’s cheek. “Let’s not fight. We’re in this together. I couldn’t have done it without you. I owe all of our success to you. There, is that better? And, we’ll be rich—just one tiny hurdle left. But after Thursday, we’ve won.”

“Why don’t you forget about the amber? After Thursday, you’re right, we’ll be rich. Why press our luck? Why do this?” .22 motioned toward Sal.

“I don’t expect you to understand. It was a business deal. He owes me. All this was my idea. He would never have thought of it on his own. I bankrolled him; I was the quality control; I kept on top of the market. I found Ahmed, got him to sell back East, made sure we didn’t saturate any one area ... All that’s worth something.” Hannah walked along the workbench. “If anything should go wrong Thursday—if, for whatever reason, the board doesn’t believe you—I have to know I have enough money ...”

“You worry too much. Hasn’t it gone all right so far? Running the act by Ben was brilliant. We could practice and practice and still not have had an honest-to-God real-life test.”

“Yes, we have Leland to thank for that. But amber’s my ace in the hole. There’s a good solid market out there, worldwide, that won’t change anytime soon—worth about a hundred and twenty thousand a year.”

Sal heard .22’s low whistle.

“That much?” .22 asked.

“Impressed?” Hannah had begun to straighten things on the workbench. “And to think Salvador was having second thoughts. He didn’t want to make anything fake anymore. I honestly thought he might turn himself in, and me.” She walked back within Sal’s line of sight. “If anyone could understand the need for a little extra money, I’d think it would be you. How many of those frogs do you have now?”

“Toads. Colorado River Toads. A hundred seventy-five. More than I want to milk in one afternoon again soon.”

“Did Delbert pay you for the venom last night?”

“Yeah, he made me a good deal on the toads, too.”

“Just don’t lose the money,” Hannah said. “You were lucky to get it back last time.”

Toads. Frogs. .22 liked frogs. Took care of them in his room in glass houses. Sal had helped him feed the amphibians all the leftover flies and beetles. So what was this about venom and money? But Sal suddenly couldn’t keep his eyes open and the voices above him drifted farther and farther away until there was just a faint rustling of people moving around him, putting him on the cot, then nothing before he fell into a deep sleep.

 

+ + +

 

Julie’s bedroom was hot when she got back to the boarding house. Barely two in the afternoon and there was no air circulation, just an unbearable stuffiness. Another mid-summer day without rain. Everyone was reluctant to use the word “drought,” but she had overheard locals at the trading post refer to the rain as “behind schedule, a late monsoon season, a crop blaster.” Temperatures were usually in the eighties. But according to the radio, this was the eleventh consecutive day in the mid nineties. So far, this was the hottest summer on record. The porch was the only place inviting. She could spread out her notes on the table in the corner, and if there was any breeze at all, she’d feel it.

“Come on out. I’m just finishing up here.” Hannah was seated at the table shelling peas. “Our growing season is usually about a month behind those at a lower altitude. Most years, peas would be doing great about now. But there’s been too much heat.”

“I can work inside. I don’t want to make you move,” Julie offered.

“Don’t be silly. I’ve been wanting to talk with you.”

Against her better judgement, Julie found herself curious.

“Can I trust you?” Hannah lowered her voice.

The question took Julie off guard. What did she mean by that? Could she know they suspected something? That they had tried to prove her son wasn’t who she said he was?

“How do you mean that?”

“Let’s sit on the steps.” Hannah moved across the porch and pushed the screen open for Julie to follow. “Years ago, Ed and I used to sit out here and watch the garden grow.” Hannah had tucked the long skirt of her gingham sundress under her knees and, seated on the top step, leaned against the railing. “It all seems so long ago.” Abruptly, she turned to Julie. “Do you garden?”

“About as well as I carry a tune. Horribly.”

“It’s soothing. It’s the one thing I’ll miss.”

“Surely gardening will be easier someplace else. Isn’t it a challenge in the desert? Poor soil, scanty rain …?” Julie didn’t know where this was leading, but she doubted that Hannah wanted to talk about raising vegetables.

“Maybe, when I get paid for the house and all, I won’t have to grow my food just to make ends meet. I don’t ever want to be in that position again.”

Julie didn’t comment. She always found herself on guard around Hannah. Julie repressed a shiver and watched Hannah leave the porch to rearrange a watering wand, drag it to a patch of melons along a fence sporting a jumble of vines, some covered with four inch long cukes. No one could say Hannah didn’t have a green thumb. 

“I may be leaving sooner than I expected.” Hannah resumed her perch on the top step. “I’d like you to water the garden for me. I couldn’t bear to think of it withering away just because I wasn’t here. Would you mind?” Hannah turned to face her and Julie could feel the scrutinizing gaze of the deep, steel-blue eyes. But what did watering the garden have to do with trust?

“I’d be glad to. If you’d feel better, you could leave instructions. I’m not exactly a natural at this.”

Hannah smiled. She was being genuinely nice, Julie decided, but had the distinct feeling Hannah wasn’t being chummy over a garden. There must be something else.

“I need to take you into my confidence and, well, frankly, I’m not sure I should. I’m not sure whose side you’re on.” Hannah was twisting the hem of her dress, absently, a nervous habit, as she looked at Julie straight on, unblinking, the color rising in blotches on her neck.

“Try me.” What else was there to say? 

“I got a letter from Salvador.” Again, that unblinking lock-on eye contact. She’s trying to second-guess my reaction, Julie decided as Hannah paused before going on. 

“I know what you’re thinking. I should hand over the letter to Tommy,” Hannah said. “I shouldn’t even have kept it.”

That hadn’t entered Julie’s mind, but it was probably the right thing to do.

“Could you understand if I told you I couldn’t do that? Not ever. I don’t believe Salvador could kill anyone. I don’t care what evidence they think they have. I know the man.” Hannah turned to stare at the garden. “I won’t turn him in. He deserves a fair chance. That’s why he’s left— not just to get away, but to let things die down. Tommy’s a hothead, and he’ll go after him, drag him back, accuse him ...” She took a deep breath then added, “He’ll make him stand trial for the murder even if the evidence is only circumstantial.”

Julie watched as tears welled then spilled to roll down Hannah’s cheeks. 

“Sal needs our help. Your help. You’ve proved that you’re a friend. You’ve helped him before. He trusts you. We’re the only friends he has.” Hannah pulled a tissue from her pocket and blew her nose.

Where was this leading? How could she help Sal?

“He feels terrible that all this has happened, and he can’t be on your show. His word is his life, and now he’s backing out,” Hannah said.

“Are you sure? Did he say he wouldn’t be coming back?”

“Julie, he can’t come back. Maybe it isn’t the way you or I might handle the problem—to run away—but to Sal he’s just stepping aside until things get all figured out. He trusts that as long as he’s innocent, he won’t be prosecuted. He just needs to stay out of the way of justice. Let things take their course.”

Julie’s first reaction was anger. She had counted on him to be her focus. As a master carver, he was the pivotal person in presenting fetishes of the Southwest. Now, in under a month, she had to change the script—all of it—not to mention, she had spent twelve hundred dollars for a necklace that might not be appropriate to display if she used another carver ... But could she understand Sal’s reaction? Yes. Tommy seemed convinced he was a murderer. He’d blanketed a three state area with posters. She knew Tommy had the murder weapon, but still there was room for doubt. She just didn’t think Sal could have killed someone. In that, she agreed with Hannah.

“He sent me this.” Hannah reached into her pocket. Julie recognized the slip immediately even before Hannah had smoothed it against her dress and handed it to her. It was the receipt she had given Sal after storing his package. “He needs you to get his belongings for him and cancel the locker rental.”

“Did he say where I was to take the package?” Julie asked.

“I’m to call his sister. She’s going to pick it up here.”

“That’s good.” Julie could understand that Sal would want the fetish jar to remain in the family. It would be important to him. Maybe there was some ceremonial importance, something coming up. But why hadn’t he just given it to his sister in the first place? Who knew? She was sure Sal had had his reasons. “I’ll go to Gallup in the morning,” she said.

“One more thing. I think Salvador’s sister knows where he is. Please don’t say anything to Tommy or Ben. I suspect Daisy was the one who mailed the letter to me. But I don’t want Tommy to know. I don’t want her badgered by him. Can you understand that? Can this be our secret?”

It was true. Tommy was planning to talk with Daisy—had admitted to trying to pressure her. 

“Yes. I don’t have a problem with that.” She hated keeping secrets from Ben, but just this once it wouldn’t hurt. He’d want to tell Tommy ...

“Thank you. Salvador will be forever grateful. His spirit can rest easy now.” Hannah gave Julie a quick hug then stood. “I may not come back after the testing on Thursday. I promised my sister in Maine a long overdue visit. She hasn’t seen Harold since June. He’s anxious to see her, too. Will you remember to water? Just do the garden and the flowers along the sides of the house. It’ll need it twice a day if that isn’t too much. Gloria from Century 21 will manage the rest.”

Julie nodded.

“Thanks.” Hannah picked up the colander of peas and went back into the house.

 

+ + +

 

Would he have eaten had there been food? Sal didn’t know. He knew he was afraid of being drugged again. He was still wobbly and couldn’t trust his memory of events for the last two days. He continued to hallucinate but no more Atoshle. That image was gone.

He had straightened the lab, but he hadn’t worked. Probably didn’t need to because it wouldn’t save his life. The thing he knew for certain was that the claim slip was gone. Hannah had taken the receipt out of his billfold, and that as much as told her the notebook was in a locker at the bus terminal. She hadn’t found the key in his shoe, but she had won. There would be no reason to let him out. She could duplicate everything, the rubber molds, the dryers, the chemistry—she would be able to make amber. Maybe not as good as he could at first, but in time ...

It was difficult not to be depressed even with the lights on. How would Hannah get the fetish jar without Julie’s help? And then what would she do to Julie? And why did he remember .22 as a tall man in Atoshle’s robes? He sat down at his workbench and held his throbbing head. Did he let this happen? Could he have done something differently? He cursed the amber and his own stupidity for being sucked into a plan to help Hannah ... to help .22.