Bitter Recoil

Chapter 19

Father Nolan Parris greeted us at the door, and it seemed as if he had expected us-and more than that…he was somehow relieved we’d returned.

“I think you know Deputy Reyes-Guzman?” I said as Parris showed us into the front room.

“Our paths have crossed once or twice,” Parris said. He and Estelle shook hands. “Would you folks like some coffee or tea or something?”

We declined, and Parris closed the door. His limp hadn’t improved. He gestured to chairs and we sat. Estelle pulled out her notebook and pen and said, “Father Parris, I want to talk with you about Friday night.”

Parris nodded and folded his hands, waiting.

Estelle leafed through the notebook, stopping to read here and there. “Father, as you may have heard, we’re investigating the deaths of two young men. Their truck somehow went over the edge of Quebrada Mesa, probably sometime early yesterday evening.”

Parris again nodded. “A tragic thing,” he said quietly.

“Father, we have reason to believe that the truck in question was also involved somehow in the death of Cecilia Burgess on Friday night.”

Parris sat back in the chair. His right hand drifted up to touch his pectoral cross. He watched Estelle. It may have been my imagination, but I sensed an inner calm that hadn’t been there the day before.

Estelle looked up from her notes and cocked her head, giving Parris an opportunity. The priest held up his left hand, palm up, as if he were going to beckon for more information. His right hand remained on the cross. “And you feel that I have information about that night?”

“Yes, sir, I do.”

Parris looked at me. “Since we talked yesterday, I’ve had time for considerable counsel.” I didn’t ask if it was counsel with someone else or with his own soul. It didn’t matter as long as he had the right answers.

Nolan Parris took a deep breath, held it, and then released it the way a smoker might jet out a long, thin plume of smoke.

“On Friday evening I was out in the garden. Perhaps you’ve seen it, beyond the driveway. It’s not far from the highway. I’m not a gardener but it’s a quiet spot for reflection. There’s an old wooden bench under one of the apricot trees that’s a favorite of mine. I like to sit there and watch the stars.

“Anyway, shortly after ten…in fact, I was just about to go inside…I glanced up as several cars passed. In the light of their headlights I noticed Cecilia Burgess. She was walking along the highway.”

“Northbound?” I asked.

“Yes. But on the other side of the highway, facing traffic.” He hesitated. “I saw the moment as an opportunity, I suppose. I called to her. Now you must understand that we haven’t been on the best of terms…at least from her point of view. I thought that she was going to ignore me and so I called again. She crossed the highway. I wanted to talk with her about Daisy…about where the child might go to preschool in the fall, where the two of them were planning to stay. I was uneasy that she might not have made plans.”

“Were you able to settle anything?” Estelle asked.

Parris shook his head. “No. In fact, I made matters worse, I suppose. She asked me how much I was willing to pay, and I hesitated. She interpreted that as reluctance on my part to provide for the child. I tried to explain to her that I simply have no funds of my own-nothing significant anyway. She didn’t accept that. I tried to explain that there might be some sort of diocesan help…scholarships, housing, maybe that sort of thing. She took offense at that, perhaps thinking that I wanted the child in someone else’s custody other than her own.”

“Did you?” I asked.

“No, of course not. A child should be with its mother if at all possible. But Cecilia became angry. We’d had this same conversation before, I suppose. I tried to reason with her, and she became angrier still. She could be a most vocal young woman.” Parris looked rueful. “As her voice raised, I tried to calm her, and that made her even angrier.”

He held up both hands. “I’m afraid I made a stupid mistake. Thinking that she might react positively to a show of strength on my part, I reached out and held her by the elbow. I told her that if she really cared about the child, she wouldn’t leave Daisy out in the forest while she walks here and there late at night along a busy highway.

“I offered to drive her up to the hot springs. She retorted that I was last person she wanted to be seen with and that she’d walk wherever and whenever she pleased.” Parris shrugged. “It was one of those verbal fights that just…well, nobody wins.”

Estelle asked, “Did it end there?”

“No,” Parris said. “By this time, we had moved from the garden where I’d first suggested that we talk out to the shoulder of the highway. There were several oncoming cars, and as if to spite me, she stuck out her thumb to hitch a ride. None of the traffic stopped, of course.” He looked down. “I wanted nothing more than to jump into the underbrush along the road and hide.” He looked at me and smiled slightly. “I’m not much of a hero, am I?”

An appropriate philosophical reply didn’t materialize in my head, so I just shrugged.

Parris looked pained. “The next vehicle came around the corner almost immediately, and it did stop. It was the Ford pickup truck. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such panic because I could see, perfectly clearly, what would happen.” He stopped and both hands clutched the crucifix.

“A blue and white truck?” Estelle asked.

“Yes. I’ve seen it in the neighborhood on a number of occasions.”

“How many occupants?”

“There were at least four. Maybe five.” He hesitated. “Let me think.” After a moment he said, “Five. Two in the bed and three up in the cab. I knew from their behavior that they had been drinking.”

“What did they do?”

“They were loud and when the two in the back stood up to see why the truck had stopped, they could hardly keep their balance. The passenger on the window side held out a can toward Cecilia.”

“And she accepted a ride from them,” Estelle said, and I could see that she had finished the story for herself.

“I tried to prevent it; I really did. Cecilia stepped up on the back bumper, then over the tailgate, before I could reach her. She almost lost her balance, but one of the drunks helped her to the front of the truck bed. I reached the side of the truck and grabbed ahold, pleading with her to show some sense. The driver stepped on the gas hard just as one of them pushed me away. I thought for a moment I was going to be hit by the rear tire.”

“That’s when you sprained your ankle?” I asked, but Parris shook his head.

“No. They drove off, and I could see the truck weave this way and that. I was furious with myself and petrified for Cecilia. I pictured every tragedy that might happen except the one that did.

“I pictured the truck weaving off the highway and into the river. Or crashing head-on into someone else. The more I thought about it the worse I felt.

“Finally the obvious solution was the easiest one. I took the retreat’s station wagon and drove up the highway. I reached the campground and stopped. If they had let Cecilia off there, she would be walking up the trail to Finn’s campsite. So I parked and tried to find the trail. My flashlight wasn’t very good, but eventually I found the path and the Forest Service signs.”

I reflected that while Parris was stumbling around among the ponderosas, I had been snoring away in the Blazer, right there in the parking lot. He would have had to walk within a dozen paces of me. That was another reason to give up on the damn exercise routine. If I hadn’t taken the hike earlier, I would probably have been lying in the Blazer, eyes open like a lemur, insomnia in control. I’d missed a chance.

“I found the camp,” Parris said. “And Cecilia wasn’t there. Both Finn and the boy who stays with him were. Finn told me that Daisy was asleep in the tent. I told him what had happened.”

“What was his reaction?” Estelle asked.

“I’m not sure. It was dark and other than the camp fire and my flashlight, there wasn’t much light to see by. He told me that she probably was up the canyon, maybe at one of the other campgrounds, partying…that she’d be all right…that she could take care of herself.”

“Did you give Finn a description of the truck?”

Parris frowned. “Not a description. Not like you would. But I told him who I thought it was.”

“Who do you think owns the truck?” I asked.

“I don’t know who owns it. But I’ve seen one of the Waquie boys driving it on occasion. And his father. The family are parish members.”

“And you mentioned the name to Finn?” Estelle asked.

“Yes.”

“Then what?”

“Finn offered me a cup of coffee. He had a pot on the fire.”

“That’s it?”

“Yes.”

“You didn’t discuss Daisy with him?” I asked.

“No. I have to admit, Sheriff, that Finn makes me uneasy. Cecilia had mentioned at one time that Finn was a minister of some sort. I’ve only met him twice-that night was the second time. Both times, he looked at me…and my Roman collar…as if I were something of a joke.” Parris managed a wan smile. “I know I’ve got an active imagination. But that’s the impression I got.”

He looked up at the ceiling, using a dramatic pause like a good storyteller does when he’s organizing his thoughts.

“But I found myself thinking that if I accepted a cup of coffee, that might somehow bring the two of us-Finn and me-a little closer, and I’d be able to talk with him.”

“But that wasn’t the case,” I said.

“No. In fact, he handed me the cup and then went into the tent. So did the boy. Without a word. I stayed by the fire a few minutes, and when it was obvious that our conversation was over I left. Just a moment or two after the boy did.”

“Arajanian left?”

“Is that his name? Yes. He and Finn talked a little when they came out of the tent, and then the boy left. He went down the hill. Finn went back in the tent.”

“You didn’t go with him?”

Parris shook his head. “No. And I could never have kept up with him anyway. He ran.” Parris shook his head. “Like a ghost. He didn’t even use a light.”

I could feel Estelle looking at me and when I glanced at her, I could see that her face was set like stone.

When she spoke, her voice was so low I could hardly hear her. “When you left, Finn was still in camp?”

Parris nodded.

“And then you walked back to your station wagon in the campground.”

“Yes. It took me nearly an hour. I fell hard, just above the fork in the trail. I thought I had broken my ankle.” He rubbed his sock. “But it’s just a bad sprain.”

“And then you drove back here,” Estelle asked. “What did you do between that time and when you heard about Cecilia?”

“Prayed, I suppose,” Parris said. He looked at me thoughtfully. “I lied to you earlier, Sheriff. I told you I found out about Cecilia the next morning at Garcia’s Trading Post. That’s not the case.”

He turned to Estelle as if he wanted to make sure she got it right in her notes. “I heard all the sirens. I’m sure everyone in the valley did. I knew right away that whatever it was, the emergency somehow involved Cecilia. I knew it in my heart. I got up, got dressed, and took the station wagon.”

“With that bad ankle?”

“Yes. And I drove north until I came to the accident site. I saw all the red lights, the ambulance…I saw that they were just loading the gurney. I’m ashamed to say that I rationalized myself out of it at that point.”

“Meaning what?” I asked.

“Meaning that I should have stopped. I saw her face, knew it was her. I should have talked with you on the spot. But I decided that I couldn’t help Cecilia any more just then. She was in good hands. There was nothing I could do. So I drove back to the retreat, and when I learned she’d been transferred to the city, I drove to Albuquerque.”

“And you were at the hospital when she died?”

“Yes. The rest of my story, as I told you yesterday, is the truth.”

“Did you ever have your ankle looked at by a physician?”

“No.”

“Why not?” I asked.

“It’s just a bad sprain. There’s nothing a doctor could do for it that I can’t.”

“Did anyone else here at the retreat look at it?”

Parris frowned at my question. “Well, yes. Father Sandoval examined it shortly after I returned home. I had planned to ask him to look at it in the morning, but apparently he’d been awakened by the station wagon pulling into the driveway. He said he looked out the window and saw me limp to the front steps.” Parris turned and gestured at the door. “He met me in the entranceway and insisted that he look at the ankle then and there.”

“Is this Father Sandoval here now?” I asked.

“Of course.”

“We’ll need to talk to him.”

Parris looked at his watch. “It’s quite late. Can’t it wait?”

“No, it can’t,” Estelle said, her tone flat.

Parris turned from her to me, his eyes searching my face. “There’s something you don’t believe?”

I didn’t see any point in sugarcoating it. “You lied to me once, Father. We have no way of knowing if you’re lying now. If we talk with Father Sandoval and he confirms when he treated your ankle, that gives us something to go on.”

“I’m telling you the truth.”

“Perhaps. Is Sandoval here?”

Parris fell silent for a minute, then said as he stood up, “This is going to be a very public case after a while, isn’t it?”

“What do you mean by that?”

“I mean it will all come out in the end…about Cecilia and me, about Daisy…all of it.”

“I suppose it will,” I said. I wasn’t feeling kindly at the moment. It didn’t bother me much that Parris might have to wallow for a while in his own mess. “I’ll go with you to fetch Father Sandoval.” Parris didn’t argue.

We left Estelle in the front room and went upstairs. It was obvious that Parris’s ankle really did hurt. Father Sandoval must have been waiting at his door because he answered Parris’s light knock immediately.

Sandoval was the same priest who had greeted me on my first visit. He joined us downstairs and we made it brief. The older priest verified Parris’s story, and my instincts told me that Father Mateo Sandoval was telling the absolute truth.

After Sandoval left the room, Parris looked relieved. Estelle snapped her notebook closed and stood up. “There’s one more thing,” she said. “Finn has no legitimate custody claim on Daisy.”

“No, I suppose he doesn’t,” Parris said. I grimaced, because his tone said clearly to me, “I wish he did.” Estelle read the same message on his face. She didn’t raise her voice, but the words came out clipped and hard.

“Father Parris, I want Daisy out of the woods. And I want her out tomorrow.”

The priest started to waffle. “I was going to talk with you about that,” he said.

“I’m listening.”

The man didn’t know what to say. Maybe he couldn’t face H. T. Finn eye to eye…or maybe he was still unwilling to admit that his uncomplicated life at the retreat was over. I didn’t know what the Catholic Church did to one of its priests who became a parent…and right then, that wasn’t our concern.

“You’re her father,” Estelle said. “You can go up there with us tomorrow morning and take custody of the child. It’s that simple. You are her father.”

“I wish it were that simple,” Parris said, and Estelle locked him with an icy glare.

“It is that simple,” she said. “And between now and seven tomorrow morning when we pick you up, you might give some thought to the form your child support is going to take.” She stood up and turned to me. “I have all I need.”

As I stepped by him, I patted Parris on the shoulder. It was the sort of fatherly pat I might have given one of my sons after an ultimatum he didn’t like. “Seven o’clock, Father,” I said.

On the drive back home Estelle didn’t say a word until we turned into the lane to the adobe. And then, so quietly I almost didn’t hear, she said, “The fifth one.”

“In the truck, you mean?”

She nodded. “If we find the fifth kid who was riding in that pickup truck, maybe we’ll find the answers.”

“Paul Garcia’s been talking with Lucy Grider. Maybe he turned up something.”

“I hope so. Otherwise, unless number five comes forward, we’re going to have to sift through this community one person at a time.”

“That won’t be the first time we’ve done that.” I glanced over at Estelle. She was chewing the corner of her lower lip, her forehead wrinkled in thought. I could have counted on one hand the number of times I’d heard Estelle express doubts when she’d been working on a case. She had an excuse this time. We hadn’t enjoyed an extra minute to think things through or hunt for answers.

But this evening, as it turned out, the doubts weren’t necessary. We didn’t have to hunt. Kyle Osuna came to us.