Always Time To Die

Chapter 41

TAOS

FRIDAY NOON

CARLY STRETCHED, THEN BENT OVER THE MICROFILM READER AND WENT BACK TO work on the articles about the death of Isobel Castillo Quintrell in 1880, when she was only thirty. Reading between the lines, Isobel had been worn out by marrying at fifteen, then bearing three live children, plus ten premature or stillborn babies in the next fifteen years.

"They had methods of birth control then," Carly murmured into her recorder. "It must have been obvious what all the pregnancies were costing her. Why didn't… cancel that. She was a deeply religious Catholic wife."

Carly read quickly, skimming for the facts she would need to recreate the funeral in print. " 'Predeceased by only sister, Juana de Castillo y Castillo, tragically lost during the birth of her first child in 1872.' Editorial comment: the Castillo sisters had a hard time with labor and pregnancy; maybe their parents married one too many cousins. Or maybe they married and started getting pregnant too early. Interesting. Wonder if there are any studies about the correlation between very young brides and wives dying very young."

Her eyes searched the text, looking for names of people attending the funeral. There weren't any unfamiliar names, so'she went to the next item on her list and read, talking occasionally into her recorder. For the Castillo book, she would include reproductions of newspaper articles and images; she was already compiling a list for Dan to transfer.

What she needed now was some sense of how close the children of the Castillo sisters had been.

After two hours of reading, it was clear that major events-funerals, marriages, baptisms, Quinceaneras-were shared by first cousins. The generation after that there was more separation. They gathered for some funerals, but little else. The Quintrells became the backbone of the emergent gringo political system. The Castillo/Simmons/Sandovals stayed a fixture within the hispano community, making up a secondary, nearly parallel government. Instead of taxes, there was tribute. Instead of cattle, there was smuggling. Instead of English, there was Spanish and/or Indian languages.

And through both cultures ran the same blood, the same genes, the same hopes and disappointments and joys.

A feeling of excitement fizzed in Carly. She forgot the careful list she'd made and simply enjoyed the tapestry of family and New Mexico history that was condensing in her mind. This was what she loved about her job, the moment when the chaos of facts and questions stopped whirling around and settled into a pattern of family generations played out against a timeless land and a constantly changing culture. This was what she wanted to give to future generations of Quintrells and Castillos, an understanding that each person was part of a chain stretching back across the centuries and reaching out to the coming centuries. This was-

The bang of the cellar door startled Carly out of her thoughts.

"You're back early," she said without looking up from the reader. "Or is it Gus come to babysit me again?"

"Keep guessing."

Carly spun around and saw Sheriff Montoya standing six feet away.

He didn't look happy to be there.

She felt the same.

"Good morning," she said coolly. "Or is it afternoon?"

"Doesn't much matter. I understand you had some trouble out at the Quintrell ranch yesterday."

Well, that's certainly blunt. "Trouble?" She shrugged. "Something didn't agree with me. I was sick."

"What about your Siamese twin, Duran?"

"He threw up, too." She didn't say any more. She didn't like the feeling of being grilled like a criminal about something she hadn't asked for and nearly hadn't survived.

The sheriff took off his hat and smacked it against his thigh. Snow sifted to the floor.

"Why didn't you tell me?" he asked curtly.

"Since when do citizens report hurling to the local cops?"

"You can't be as stupid as you sound, Ms. May."

"Oh, you'd be surprised," Dan said from the stairway. "There's a big dose of stupid going around Taos right now."

Montoya stiffened, then turned around to confront Dan. "You must have caught a double dose of it. What the hell were you doing with Armando Sandoval?"

Dan whistled softly. "Quite the grapevine you have, Sheriff. Or did Armando tell you all by himself?"

The sheriff didn't answer.

Dan hadn't expected him to.

"Well?" the sheriff asked.

For the first time in years, Dan wished he had federal credentials again. A gold FBI shield was something the sheriff could understand. But all Dan had these days was a business card that read ST. KILDA CONSULTING. Below that was a toll-free telephone number.

All things considered, Dan doubted that the sheriff was knowledgeable enough about the real world to be impressed by the card.

"Nobody told me you were working on my turf," the sheriff said. "It purely pisses me off how arrogant you federal boys can be."

Federal boys? Carly's eyebrows went up and her mouth stayed shut.

"Nobody told you because I'm not working for the Feds anymore," Dan said.

"Then why were you talking to Sandoval?"

"Why do you care?"

"Listen here-"

"No," Dan cut in. "You listen. Until Armando Sandoval is proved in court to be a narcotraficante and a murderer, he's a citizen in good standing. What we have to say to each other is none of your business."

The sheriff wanted to argue, but he had the losing side and he knew it. "You ever think I might be able to help?"

"Not after the first round of complaints we filed and you forgot," Carly said behind him.

A dull red showed on the sheriff's cheekbones beneath his toast brown skin. "I have enough problems with rich tourists," he muttered, not taking his eyes from Dan. "I don't need whining from a homeboy who sticks his nose in the wrong places and gets smacked for it."

"Carly isn't a homeboy. She didn't deserve what happened to her."

Sheriff Montoya looked over his shoulder at her. "Sounds like somebody wants you to leave."

"Sounds like," she drawled. "Too bad this is a free country. I don't feel like leaving."

The sheriff's dark eyes narrowed. "Ms. May, most times I'm lucky to have one deputy for every hundred square miles. That's how free this country is."

"Is that a threat?" she asked.

"It's a fact. That's why I don't have any patience with troublemakers, and there's trouble written all over both of you."

"What? Armando Sandoval isn't trouble?" Carly asked in disbelief.

"Armando Sandoval is the devil the sheriff knows," Dan said. "If it wasn't for Armando, there would be narcotraficantes killing each other until the next jefe chingon rose to the top of the cesspool and peace returned. With Armando in place, the sheriff knows there won't be any Taos County voters caught in the crossfire of a drug war, which means the citizens are happy, which means the sheriff is real likely to hang on to his job. It's win-win-win, except for the occasional outsider getting ground up between the gears of politics as usual."

Carly grimaced, certain that she was the "occasional outsider" who was caught in the meat grinder.

"You're a lot smarter than you used to be," the sheriff said calmly to Dan.

Dan waited.

"Now show me how smart," the sheriff said. "Take the little lady and go on a nice long vacation in the Bahamas."

"Wait just a-" Carly began.

"I don't have enough deputies to protect you if you stay here," the sheriff said, pinning her with a black glance. "By the time I get to the bottom of the rats and slashed tires and bad food, you could be badly hurt. Or dead."