Always Time To Die (29 page)

CHIMAYO
SATURDAY AFTERNOON

WEARING A PAIR OF LEVI
’
S THAT HADN
’
T BEEN TAILORED OR IRONED
,
ANNE QUINTRELL
met her husband at the door. There was no fanfare surrounding him, no town car and driver, no bodyguards. The vehicle in the driveway was one of the thousands of anonymous white rentals that infested airports. At Josh’s request they were staying at a supporter’s consciously rustic vacation house in Chimayo, rather than in the gubernatorial mansion. It was the only way he could dodge Dykstra.

Sometimes freedom of the press was a real pain in the ass.

As far as the public knew, the governor was still on the East Coast at a nonsectarian religious retreat to discuss the spiritual aspect of political office. Privately, Josh had thought it was a waste of time, but so was much of the public part of being a politician. When Pete had called, Josh had leaped at the reason for leaving, and everyone had agreed to keep it quiet so that he had time to grieve without the media ghouls hanging off every stoplight.

“I’m sorry,” Anne said to her husband. She barely recognized him beneath the slouch hat and clothes that were better suited to a fishing trip than a public outing. White stubble covered his face from cheekbones to throat. He looked like he’d hitchhiked rather than flown in from his last fund-raiser. “I know there wasn’t much love lost between you and your aunt, but it’s still not easy.”

Josh came inside so that Anne could close and lock the door behind him. He tossed his slouch hat aside, revealing his trademark thatch of silver hair. “I’m getting sick of bouncing back and forth for family funerals. In fact, I may be getting sick, period.” He thought of the flatout sprint for the presidency that awaited him. Eleven months of hell.

On the other hand, with a little luck, this time next year he’d be president of the United States of America. Not bad for a kid nobody had ever given a damn about.

“Did the Sorenson Foundation’s lawyer reach you?” Anne asked, stepping inside so that he could follow.

“No. I had to change flights three times because of the weather. Unless somebody has my private cell number, I’m off the scope. I’d like it to stay that way. What did the lawyer want?”

She closed and locked the front door. “A discounted price on the ranch for public service.”

“I’d like one of those myself, but I still have to pay for political ads the old-fashioned way—out of my own pocket.”

“The old-fashioned way is out of some other guy’s pocket,” Anne said, smiling slightly. “Father always did it that way. Did you eat on the plane?”

“In coach?”

“I don’t think I’ve ever flown coach.”

“If you’re lucky, they throw peanuts at you. Ten to a package, one package per customer.”

Anne winced. “Do we have to do anything today or can you get some rest?”

Frowning, he set down his fat computer case and shrugged out of his coat. “I should see the lawyer about final arrangements for Winifred.”

“Melissa is taking care of that.”

“At least there won’t be another nauseating toast to gag down.” Josh rubbed his eyes and stretched his long frame. “I’m too old to be sleeping in a center seat in coach.”

Anne shook her head. “Not too old. Too smart. But don’t worry. When you’re president, you’ll have your own plane.”

He grinned suddenly, looking more like forty than over sixty. “That’s the spirit. Did you have a chance to get some food for this place or will I have to keep on these ratty hiking clothes, pull my hat low, and slink into the local market?”

“No need. I did my Holly Homemaker act earlier. You’d have fallen on the floor laughing at my baggy jeans and sweatshirt.”

He snickered. “Thanks. I know you hate to go slumming, but it’s a great way to stay under the media radar.”

“I’m just terrified of meeting someone who recognizes me.”

“That’s the whole point. No one looks at ordinary people. Turn on the TV, will you? I want to catch the three o’clock local cable news. I told everyone to keep Winifred out of the news until I could get back, but you never know.”

Anne picked up the controller, turned on the small TV in the kitchen, and hit the channel for the local cable news feed. “You want a beer and a sandwich?” she asked.

“I’ll make it.”

“A sandwich I can manage. If you want something hot, you’ll have to do it yourself.”

“I didn’t marry you for your domestic skills,” Josh said, looking at his watch and then at the TV.

“You knew I could afford a chef.”

He smiled slightly. “And you knew I was on my way to the White House.” Some things were more binding than love. Ambition was one of them. He and Anne understood the deal they’d made when they traded wedding rings.

On TV, some local siding salesman was giving his pitch.

Josh hit the mute button and lowered himself onto one of the two stools that made an informal dining area of the counter. He watched Anne work and thought that here was a family values photo op if ever there was one. About the only time Anne went willingly into a kitchen was to discuss the menu for an upcoming party.

The usual closely edited, high-energy shots of the cable news team flashed across the TV, a lead-in to their three o’clock promo of upcoming news events. Josh had often thought it was like a striptease—
Have you heard the sky is falling? News on the hour. Have you seen a crack in your sky? News on the hour. Did the sky fall near you? News on the hour.
By the time the story appeared, far more time had been spent hyping it than was devoted to actually covering it. It was the kind of ten-second-sensation mentality that had reduced political coverage to an exchange of slogans at six o’clock, with an occasional weekend recap of “news” for the people who lived under rocks on the far side of the moon.

But each one of those rock dwellers has a vote,
Josh reminded himself.

His job was to get as many of those votes as he could and enjoy the benefits of power. The fact that political power was exercised in a way that would horrify the naïve didn’t matter. It was the naïve who had the vote, the naïve who had to be courted, and the naïve who allowed national politicians to leave office richer than when they went in and “journalists” like Jeanette Dykstra to flourish. And speak of the devil…

Josh hit the mute button again, restoring sound.

A serious Dykstra looked straight into the camera and leaned forward to give out the physical cues that translated as: Listen up out there, this is hot! The fact that she did the same thing for a story about two celebrities wearing the same outfit to a party was all part of selling the news.

“Exclusively from
Behind the Scenes,
Governor Josh Quintrell’s aunt Winifred Simmons y Castillo demands that her nephew have a blood test to prove that he is descended from Sylvia Castillo Quintrell. More as the story develops.”

The camera cut away to another talking head selling another ten-second news promo.

Josh didn’t listen.

“Did I hear your name?” Anne asked as she set a turkey sandwich in front of Josh.

Josh nodded. “Before Winifred died, she went crazy.”

“What do you mean?”

“She wants me to prove I’m a Quintrell.”

Anne stopped in the act of reaching inside the refrigerator for a beer. “Excuse me?”

“Like I said. She went nuts.”

“Well, she’s dead now, so it doesn’t matter.”

Josh thought of Dykstra’s eager ferret eyes and wondered if it would be that easy.

His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw the New York accountant’s caller ID. He punched in and said, “Make it fast. I’m in a meeting and can’t talk.”

Anne looked at her husband. He gave her the kind of smile he always did when he was distracted.

“Okay,” Josh said. “Thanks. Send me the bill.”

“Who was that?”

“Nobody important.” He yawned. “Forget the beer and make it a coffee. I have to go to the ranch.”

“Right now? I thought Melissa had already arranged for Winifred’s ashes to be scattered with Sylvia’s.”

“She did.” Josh yawned again. “Still, I don’t want that bitch Dykstra to think I didn’t love my dear old auntie. At the same time, I’ll give everyone their severance pay in person. And I should press some flesh in the hispano community.”

“I won’t wait up for you, then.”

“Good idea.” He rubbed his eyes. “If it gets too late, I’ll stay in Taos. More snow is expected up there.”

“Why not stay at the ranch?”

“Pete and Melissa usually go to town for dinner and a show on Saturdays and stay overnight for church on Sunday morning. There won’t be anyone at the ranch to cook or see that a bed is ready for me.”

“You shouldn’t have told them the ranch was as good as sold. They don’t care anymore.”

“I couldn’t just toss them out without warning. They’ve worked there for years.”

Anne shrugged. “The Senator spoiled them. It’s a job, not a sinecure. But he would never listen when I told him.”

“Don’t feel bad. The Senator never listened to anyone, including God.”

TAOS
SATURDAY AFTERNOON

CARLY WATCHED WITH GROWING EXCITEMENT AS ARCHIVED DATA FROM THE NEWSPAPER’S
computer flowed into hers. All but bouncing in place, she opened file after file and saw those glorious words.
Searchable documents.
It would save weeks of painstaking discovery and cross-referencing. “Yes!” she said, slapping the table triumphantly.

Dan grinned and typed in some more commands. More files leaped from computer to computer.

“You doubted me?” he asked.

She rolled her eyes without looking away from the miraculously growing list of articles. “This time? Of course not. The first six tries that crashed, now that’s different. I was afraid getting shot must have addled something.”

“You expect perfection the first time?”

“Hey, you gave it to me the first time,” she said absently, staring at her computer screen. “And the other times, too.”

He grinned. “Are we talking about horizontal dancing?”

She replayed the conversation in her mind, fought a blush, then just gave up and swiped at him, taking care to stay well away from the bandage on his forehead. “You know better than to talk to me when I’m distracted.”

“I’ll keep it in mind.”

She groaned, knowing him well enough to realize that she’d just given him another way to slide past her defenses. Like he needed any. All he had to do was get a certain look in his eye when he watched her and she was ready to jump in his lap and go treasure hunting.

“Knock knock,” said Gus from the top of the stairway.

“Is that the opening line of a lame joke?” Dan asked.

“Nope, just a warning that you aren’t alone.”

Carly fought another blush. Gus had come in earlier today. She and Dan had been pretty much dressed, but the sexual heat had been enough to make the air smoke.

“Appreciate that,” Dan said. “Hang on. I’ve got another two-month block of articles to set up.”

Gus walked down the stairs and stopped by Carly’s chair. Absently he tapped the envelope he held on the table.

“Told you he could do it,” Gus said. “Bump on his head and all.”

“You’re right. Your brother’s amazing. A nerd in wolf’s clothing.”

Gus smiled but it faded quickly. The image of his brother lying in the snow on Castillo Ridge had been a lousy way to start the day. The rest of the day had gone in the same direction. He looked at the envelope he’d carried in from his office.

“You hear from Winifred today?” Gus asked.

Caught by something in Gus’s voice, Carly looked up from her computer screen. “No, why?”

“There’s a rumor going through the hispano community.”

Dan hit a key and faced his brother. “What kind of rumor?”

“That Winifred is dead.”

Carly opened her mouth and shut it just as fast. Her hands clenched in her lap. “Surely someone would have told me.”

“Would they?” Dan asked. He put his hand over her fists and rubbed gently. “No one wanted you here but Winifred.”

“If they think I’ll leave because she’s ill or dead, they’re going to be real disappointed.”

Dan didn’t bother to argue that Winifred’s death would be a good excuse for Carly to go to a safer place. He was old enough to know which arguments would fly and which would die. She wasn’t stupid. She knew exactly what was at stake. Lying in a snowy ravine waiting to be shot had a real clarifying effect on thought processes.

“If she’s dead, what caused it?” Dan asked.

“Pneumonia.”

Carly bit the inside of her lip against a combination of anger and tears. Winifred wasn’t an easy person, but she was a living encyclopedia of Castillo and Quintrell history. If she’d died, all the insights, the love, even the hatred—all the emotions and memories that made history more than a litany of names and dates—had died with her.

“She can’t be dead,” Carly said.

And she knew she could.

“She saw the raven flying,” Dan said.
“Damn.”

“We can’t be sure she’s dead,” Gus pointed out.

“Did you call the ranch?” Dan asked.

“Of course.”

“And?”

“Melissa gave me a very polite runaround. The doctor was with Winifred, she couldn’t be bothered, she’d get back to me.”

“And she didn’t,” Dan said.

Gus shrugged. “Not yet. But maybe Carly can help.”

“How?”

“This is addressed to you.” Gus held out the envelope he carried. “It looks like old-fashioned handwriting, it came from the Quintrell ranch, and I’m thinking—”

“Winifred,” Dan cut in.

“Yeah,” Gus said. “I guess she didn’t know where Carly would be staying, so Winifred sent it care of me.”

Carly looked at the postmark. Friday morning. Quickly she opened the letter. A receipt of some kind fluttered out. With a speed that made her blink, Dan snatched a corner of the paper before it had fallen more than a few inches.

“‘Genedyne Lab,’” he read. “Looks like a return receipt for some kind of tissue or blood samples.”

“Why would Winifred mail her lab work receipt to Carly?” Gus asked.

Dan smiled slowly. It wasn’t a nice smile.

Carly looked at him warily, reminded of the man who had been lying next to her in the snow, bleeding, waiting with a drawn weapon, hoping to meet whoever was stupid enough to approach them.

“It’s one of the top genetic testing labs in the U.S.,” Dan said. “Looks like Winifred mailed some samples to them.”

“Why?” Carly asked.

“Good-bye, Gus,” Dan said.

Gus looked hurt.

It would have been more effective if he hadn’t licked his lips at the thought of a hot story involving the single most newsworthy family in the state.

“If you stay, you promise not to write, hint, or pass by sign language anything you hear,” Dan said. “If you want to keep Mom happy, you’ll abide by not only the letter of what I’ve said but the spirit. Or I’ll bust your balls and feed them to a coyote.”

Gus gave a shout of laughter. “He’s baaaack!”

“Who?” Carly asked.

“My real brother, the one who has been off somewhere sulking for three months. It took a rap on the head to wake him up.”

“Men don’t sulk, they brood,” Dan said.

Carly snickered.

Dan pinned his brother with a level glance that said he was through playing. “Are you in or out?”

“Does this have something to do with the baby names I’m tracking down?”

Dan waited.

Gus sighed. “Yeah, yeah, my lips are sealed, my hands are tied, and I won’t fart in code, okay?”

Carly laughed.

“I’m going to call the office,” Dan said. “They’ll be able to find out what Winifred sent to the lab.”

“How can they—” Carly began.

“Finding out things is what they do,” Dan said, “and they’re good at it.”

“They,” Gus muttered. “I thought you weren’t working for the Feds anymore.”

“I’m not.”

Dan took out his cell phone and wished he’d brought the satellite phone. But he hadn’t. It was locked in the case with his encoder-decoder, gun, ammo, and a few other things he didn’t want children of any age playing with. He punched in a number, listened, punched in another number, and left his name and callback number.

“Okay,” he said. “What else is in Winifred’s letter?”

Carly fished out what looked like an old legal document, unfolded it carefully, and shook her head. “She shouldn’t have crammed this into a business envelope. There’s damage.”

“Maybe she was in a hurry,” Dan said.

“What is it?” Gus asked, trying to get around Dan so that he could read over Carly’s shoulder.

“Some kind of legal document,” Carly said, scanning quickly. “Nineteen thirty-four. There’s an English translation at the bottom. At least, I think it’s a translation. My reading Spanish isn’t up to a point-by-point comparison.”

“May I?” Dan asked.

She leaned aside so that he could read.

“It’s an accurate translation,” he said after a minute.

“Of what?” Gus asked impatiently.

“Looks like a nuptial or prenuptial agreement between the Quintrell family and Sylvia Simmons y Castillo,” Carly said, scanning the English version. “He agrees that in appreciation of their contribution of money and local support, he’ll guarantee that only a child of Sylvia Quintrell’s body can inherit the land, and thereafter only descendants of that child may inherit, world without end, amen. If anyone not of Castillo blood attempts to inherit—or in case of death before children or divorce—the land and all its buildings and livestock immediately revert to the Castillo family.”

Gus looked surprised.

“From the look and feel of it,” Carly said, “whoever made this document was working from an older template. If I had to guess, I’d say that template was the original Quintrell/Castillo marriage agreement in 1865. Maybe it’s somewhere in all the stuff Winifred gave to me.”

“Guess the Castillos didn’t trust the Quintrells, then or now,” Gus said.

“They were realists,” Carly said, “and the reality was that women in the mid-1860s often died before their husbands, who then remarried and started another family. The Castillos were just trying to make sure that the children of a second Quintrell wife didn’t inherit Castillo land.”

“Then why the more recent agreement?” Gus asked, looking at the early twentieth-century document. “Women weren’t dying in childbirth as often.”

“The second prenuptial agreement is the Castillo family’s estimate of the Senator’s morals,” Dan said dryly. “They were afraid he’d use the Castillo’s influence with the hispano community to get elected, and then dump their lovely Sylvia for someone without Castillo blood.”

“Okay. So why does that matter now?” Gus asked. “The Quintrell begats are a matter of many public records.”

Carly put the old document on the table and removed another piece of paper. It was a holographic will leaving everything of Winifred’s to Carly, plus the right to search for, copy, or otherwise gather anything from the ranch records that would be helpful to the family history. The will also stated that Carly was to have free run of the ranch as long as the ranch was owned by Castillo descendants. The document was dated last Tuesday.

“What is it?” Dan asked, looking at her.

Carly handed over the last paper. “Winifred must have felt worse than she let on. She made certain I would get her papers and access to the ranch if she died before the family history was finished.”

“Smart woman,” Dan said, reading quickly. “This will help if the governor tries to get everything back and quash the history. If nothing else, it will give us time to copy all the papers and photos.”

Gus looked confused. “What are you talking about?”

“The governor didn’t want any family history to be published until after the election in November,” Dan said.

Carly took a final piece of paper from the envelope. Her eyes widened. “Looks like Melissa was right.”

She passed the paper over to Dan.

“What do you mean?” Gus asked.

“Winifred finally lost it,” Carly said. “She demanded that the governor prove he’s a descendant of the Castillos.”

Dan took the paper and read swiftly.

“It’s in the public record,” Gus said. “No problem.”

“It was for Winifred,” Dan said. “She’s demanding a special test to prove the governor was a Castillo.”

“What—bring back three golden apples from Olympus?” Gus asked.

“Nothing that mythic.” Carly picked up the receipt and waved it. “She sent in saliva samples of her own and Sylvia’s to Genedyne. That will give a comparison for the mtDNA.”

“Translation please?” Gus asked.

“MtDNA is passed to children only from the mother,” Carly said. “The father’s mtDNA never makes it into the female’s egg at conception. The mtDNA is carried in the part of the sperm’s tail that falls off outside the egg.”

“And?” Gus asked. “Help me here. I barely got through biology.”

“Bottom line,” Carly said, “is that any child of Sylvia Castillo Quintrell will carry her mtDNA, but only her female children will carry on the mtDNA to the next generation.”

“So what? The governor has already inherited. What does Winifred think, that he was swapped in the nursery by passing aliens?”

“I think she wants to make as much trouble as possible for the governor,” Carly said. “She was, um, real blunt on the subject of the Senator. Didn’t like him a bit.”

“If what she says is true, she had reason,” Dan said.

“Because he liked women?” Gus asked.

“Because Sylvia tried to kill her husband and ended up a vegetable instead.”

Gus stared at his brother. “You’re joking.”

“Nope.” Dan stood up. “I’m going to talk to Mom.”

“You’re either meaner or braver than I am,” Gus said.

“Getting shot does that to you.” Dan dug his keys out of his pocket and handed them to Carly. “Here, you drive. I’ve got some people to call.”