Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“And you want Parris’s prints?”

“I want a thumbprint.”

“Parris doesn’t have any kind of record where his prints were taken? Passport, anything like that?”

Estelle shook her head. “Not that we can find.”

“And what good will his prints do, anyway?”

“Remember the guardrail? The bloody prints, top and bottom? We assumed Cecilia Burgess somehow pulled herself over or under the rail.”

“You’re telling me the prints we saw aren’t hers…she had help?”

“That’s right. The prints aren’t hers. That’s what Sheriff Tate told me over the phone when he called to tell me Burgess died.”

“What about that guy who stopped and called on the CB radio? Maybe he tried to help her.”

“He said he didn’t. And he’s a state employee. Works in the Department of Revenue and Taxation. His prints were easy to doublecheck. He’s clean.”

“And no luck on what’s his name, with the Forest Service? He was there before you were.”

“Les Cook? He’s a cop. Not a chance.”

“Then someone else was there and split,” I said. Estelle nodded. “Might have been the driver of the vehicle, maybe someone else.” I cleaned off the photo with my handkerchief and carefully slid it in my pocket. “I’ll get Parris’s prints for you. And I suppose this means we’re going to have to walk all the way back up to the hot springs, too.”

“The prints don’t match Arajanian’s. Tate already checked for me. We don’t know about Finn. So yes, we need to go back.” I groaned at the thought of this exercise business becoming a habit.

Estelle and I ate dinner without her hubby. Francis called from the clinic just about the time Estelle had to turn on some lights so we wouldn’t trip over the furniture. He’d been about to leave for home when an Indian woman walked through the door with a sick youngster.

The stoic little kid had been flinching from a middle ear infection for several days, and the infection had bloomed. When his temperature spiked through 104 degrees, the mother decided herbs weren’t enough. The kid had himself a fine case of infectious meningitis.

Estelle sighed with resignation when Francis told her he wouldn’t be home much before midnight. After the youngster was transferred to Albuquerque, Francis wanted to follow up with a visit to the pueblo to see with whom the kid had come in contact.

The two chatted for a few minutes, and when Estelle hung up I smiled. “Marry a doctor and you starve to death.”

“Usually, it’s me who gets called out at all hours,” Estelle replied.

I leaned against the refrigerator and watched her cook. The kitchen was as tiny and cramped as the rest of the house, and I took it in at a glance. The row of bottles on the narrow windowsill above the sink surprised me-a whole alphabet of vitamins, minerals, and human fuel treatments. I reached over and picked up the largest, a collection of vitamin E capsules.

“I thought you always said that green chili cured all,” I said. She glanced my way and I put the bottle back.

“Francis wants to make sure the baby gets everything he needs,” she replied as offhandedly as if she’d remarked on the weather.

She laughed at the blank look on my face and went back to chopping onions.

“Well, congratulations,” I said. “When?”

“When what?”

“When’s it due?”

She took a deep breath. “February 10.”

I laughed. She even had that event pegged to the day. “That’s great. Does Sheriff Tate know?”

Estelle shook her head. “Francis and I agreed that I’d go on leave in October. That’s soon enough.”

“Then what?”

“We’re not sure. I don’t think I want to work.” She grinned widely. “I don’t think I want to face the wrath of mi madre . She’d never speak to me again if I left her grandson in a day-care center.”

“You two will work it out I’m sure,” I said. I picked up a loaded plate and carried it over to the table. She’d called it frijoles con something, and the food was so damn hot I accused her of serving it with a sauce of lit gasoline. But the spices-and the news about the pending kid-perked me up.

As we ate, our conversation kept circling back around to Cecilia Burgess and her boyfriends. Estelle wanted me to visit Father Nolan Parris, and there was no better time than that evening.

Shortly before nine, feeling fat from too much high-octane dinner, I arrived at the retreat complex just north of the village. As the crow flies the place was less than a mile from Estelle’s home.

The center included several small buildings clustered around a large three-story house. Monstrous cottonwoods shaded the complex and blocked out what little light there might have been from passing traffic, the moon, or even starshine.

Estelle hadn’t needed to worry about being seen by the wrong folks if she visited Parris. It was too dark for starting rumors. I parked the Blazer behind an older model Fairlane station wagon. A single bulb beside the double front door of the main house illuminated enough of the siding and porch to show that the facility was well maintained. I opened the door of the Blazer and listened. The compound was stone quiet. Maybe the clergy were in the middle of their late evening services.

The three raps of the brass knocker were loud enough to make me flinch. I formed a mental picture of a row of bowed, maybe even shaved, heads snapping up at the sound and nervous hands clutching rosaries.

The retreat was for clergy who had strayed from the straight and narrow. Some may have nipped the bottle too often…maybe a few dallied with members of the fair sex-or even with their own sex. “I think it’s sort of a second chance house,” Estelle had said and that made sense. If a priest couldn’t concentrate on his prayers here, he was probably out of luck.

The right-hand side of the double doors opened and an elderly cleric peered out at me. I shouldn’t say elderly…hell, he was about my age, maybe a year or two younger. He wore basic black, without the Roman collar.

“Good evening,” I said and held my identification up so he could see it through the screen door. I adopted my most accommodating tone. “I wonder if it would be convenient for me to visit with Father Parris?” The priest squinted at the badge and commission card, and I wondered if he could read it well enough to see the county name.

His watery gray eyes flicked from the identification to my face, and I put the wallet away. “Well,” he said and placed one hand on the screen door like he was preparing to push it open for me, “this isn’t the best of times.”

“I won’t need much of his time,” I said. “And it would really be a help.”

He started to push open the door, then asked, “You may have to wait a moment or two. May I tell him who’s calling?”

The doorkeeper had just flunked the reading test. I could just as easily have held up my Sears card. “Undersheriff Bill Gastner.” He’d forgive a minor sin of omission. I opened the screen the rest of the way and stepped inside.

“If you’d care to wait here, in the front room?” the priest said, indicating a small parlor crowded with overstuffed furniture and a small upright piano. “I’ll fetch Father Parris.” He touched my elbow lightly as he guided me into the room and then left.

I thrust my hands in my pockets and gazed around. I stepped over and perused the titles in the single bookcase. Most were Reader’s Digest chopped editions. If the good fathers had a theological library, this wasn’t it. I turned at the sound of footsteps.

“Father Parris will be down in a few minutes,” the priest said and smiled. “Can I get you a cup of tea or coffee or something?”