Malice

14

The quiet tapping of the stenographer's machine stopped as Richie Meyers checked his notes. The others in the room-Marlene Ciampi, Mikey O'Toole, Kip Huttington, and Clyde Barnhill-remained silent, like actors at a rehearsal waiting to deliver their lines. They were an hour into the deposition of Huttington, the first half covering O'Toole's history at the university, including his success and standing in the community, before moving onto the allegations that resulted in the ACAA hearing and suspension. But now Meyers was ready to delve into the heart of the lawsuit.

"Mr. Huttington, were you asked by Coach O'Toole for a public name-clearing hearing at the university following his suspension by the ACAA?" he asked as the court reporter resumed tapping away.

Huttington glanced at his attorney, Barnhill, who nodded.

"Yes, I was," the university president answered.

"And what was your reply?"

"Objection to the form of the question," Barnhill said. "President Huttington is a representative of the university; any reply was officially that of the university."

Meyers gave Barnhill an "are you serious" look. The university attorney had been a pain in the ass throughout the deposition-frequently objecting or touching Huttington on the arm to indicate he wanted to confer before answering the most mundane questions.

"Okay, then," Meyers sighed. "What was the university's official reply through its representative President Huttington when Coach O'Toole asked for a name-clearing hearing at the university?"

Huttington looked at Barnhill, who indicated that they should once again turn away from the others and discuss his answer. When the pair had their backs to him, Meyers rolled his eyes at O'Toole and Marlene. They both smiled and shook their heads; even the court reporter put a hand to her mouth to stifle a giggle.

The deposition was taking place in a meeting room next to Huttington's office at the University of Northwestern Idaho in Sawtooth. Meyers could have demanded that the university representatives come to his office, but given the cramped quarters there, he'd agreed to meet at the university. "Besides," he said, "I think it was enough of a shock when I filed notice that Butch Karp, who just happens to be the district attorney of New York, would be co-counsel. Barnhill even had his secretary call to confirm that I was talking about the Butch Karp."

Huttington and Barnhill turned back to the table and faced the court reporter. "The university denied the request," the president replied.

"For what reason?" Meyers shot back.

Apparently, Barnhill had anticipated the question and rehearsed it with Huttington, because he didn't bother to stop him from answering right away. "The university is a member of the American Collegiate Athletic Association and as such is subject to its rules and regulations," Huttington replied. "The ACAA conducted a hearing at which Coach O'Toole was given the opportunity to give his statement; the association then made its decision. The university as an entity was not obligated to provide Coach O'Toole a second forum, and we saw no good purpose-wanting only to get this business behind us for the university's sake, as well as Coach O'Toole's sake."

"You refused to give me a chance to prove that the charges against me were false so that I could clear my name for my sake?" said O'Toole incredulously.

"Sorry, Coach, but we will all have to move on with our lives," Huttington replied. He addressed the rest of what he had to say to the court reporter, as if he needed to explain his reasoning to her and no one else. "Coach O'Toole made a dreadful mistake. But one bad act does not make him a bad man. I wish him the best in his future endeavors."

"Gee, thanks for the vote of confidence," O'Toole said before Meyers could silence him with a look.

"There was no 'good purpose' in allowing him to present his side publicly?" Meyers said to head off any more of his client's remarks.

"Asked and answered," Barnhill replied before Huttington could say anything.

Marlene stifled the impulse to shake her head and say something. She had to remind herself that she'd been introduced as a plaintiff's investigator and was only there to observe.

When Meyers called in early January to tell Butch that he would be deposing Huttington, Marlene had decided to fly out to get acquainted with the players and help with interviews and any loose ends that needed to be tied up.

As much as anything, she just wanted to get out of Manhattan. The murder of Cian Magee had cast a pall over the holiday season. Other than the twins' usual orgy of overdosing on e-presents and other holiday treats, the celebrations had been quiet and contemplative.

Jaxon had taken Lucy to the hospital after the fire, where she was given a mild sedative and treated for burns to her legs. Because of the tears and the drugs, it had been difficult to get the full story from her when Marlene and Butch arrived. Only when she fell asleep was Jaxon able to fill them in on the details such as he knew them. "Which isn't much."

However, it wasn't until Lucy was released and returned to the loft that they heard about the Sons of Man book and its relation to the tape recording Jaxon had asked her to translate. Even then, it all sounded too incredible-a clandestine group of smugglers from a remote island in the Irish Sea who'd immigrated to America and established a crime empire?

"That borders on The Da Vinci Code fantastic," Marlene remarked.

Almost as disturbing as the story was Lucy's attitude around Jaxon when he visited the loft to see how she was doing. Marlene noticed Lucy's reticence around him and several times saw her daughter giving him sideways glances, as if weighing something. But Lucy didn't say anything and Marlene chalked it up to shock and grief.

When she got a moment alone with Jaxon, Marlene asked if he'd noticed anything about Lucy's mood since the attack.

"You mean toward me? And yes, I've noticed," Jaxon acknowledged. "I was the one who got her and Cian into this. Then I was late getting to Cian's apartment. I was…looking for someone, and it took longer than I thought it would. Lucy hasn't said as much, but I think she blames me. And to be honest, I blame myself, too."

The death of Cian Magee had been front-page news for all of a day. The attack was obviously a homicide and arson, but the police had no suspects or a motive.

Jaxon had "pulled some strings" and kept Lucy's name out of the press, but it hardly mattered. The media could not be bothered with the death of a bookstore owner and the story had died soon after.

Lucy had stayed in New York until Christmas day. After the presents were opened and a quiet Christmas dinner was picked at halfheartedly, she caught a taxi to LaGuardia and left for New Mexico to be with her cowboy.

Now it was January, the twins were back in school, and Butch was preoccupied with the bombing at the Black Sea Cafe and his obsession with the murder of the schoolchildren during Andrew Kane's escape. Going to Idaho seemed like a great way for Marlene to escape herself.

Marlene had been picked up in an old sedan at Boise Airport by two of O'Toole's players from the baseball team, Clancy Len and Tashaun Willis. The young black athletes had then wasted no time driving her north out of the city on a highway that within a few miles was climbing steadily into the snow-covered mountains.

Initially the land they drove through appeared to be barren-given over to rocks, brush, and stunted juniper trees. But as the road climbed in elevation, the increasingly steep hillsides were covered by a dense forest of pines and firs. "Over on the right is the Payette River," Willis said, indicating the mostly iced-over water in the deep gorge to her right. "It doesn't look like much of a river now, and I know that where you're from, the rivers are big, deep, and muddy, but come spring runoff from the snow and the Payette will be raging."

The higher they climbed, the windier the road became, but it didn't slow Len down much. Marlene, who was no stranger to wild rides, nevertheless clutched the door handle nervously as the old sedan swung around blind corners and skirted sudden precipices. Here and there, patches of snow and ice could be seen on the pavement. To take her mind off thoughts of plunging off the highway and into the river, Marlene asked her escorts their opinion of Coach O'Toole.

"He's the best," Len said. "There wasn't a lot of incentive for me to do well academically in high school. Where I come from on the South Side of Chicago, not a lot of kids go on to college. Those who try hard in school get a bunch of shit from the gangbangers for being 'too good for the hood,' so most just give up. I have to admit, the only reason I wanted to go to college was to play baseball until I could get noticed by a pro scout, only my grades weren't good enough to let me attend a big school. But Coach O'Toole gave me a chance, and when I got here, he found me a tutor so that I could catch up. Now, I'm straight As."

"Still planning on a baseball career?" Marlene asked.

Len took a moment to answer. "Some dreams die hard, and after I graduate, if I don't get drafted, I might try to walk on with some team, just so I can say I gave it my best shot. But I'm not counting on it anymore. Someday, baseball or not, I want to be a teacher…just as long as I can make enough money to save my little sister, Tanya, from the South Side."

"What about you, Tashaun?" Marlene asked. "Where are you from?"

"Believe it or not, right here in Idaho," Willis answered. "There ain't many of us brothers around here, but my father was in the air force, based out of Mountain Home Air Force Base down the interstate some from Boise. He was from Mississippi originally, but fell in love with this place and decided to stay."

"He still here?" Marlene asked, hoping she didn't sound nervous as the car swung around a corner just a few yards from the drop-off that plunged down to the river.

"Yep, he and my mom, two brothers, and a sister," Willis replied. "He retired from the air force and teaches computer science at Boise Community College."

"And what about your baseball dreams?" Marlene asked.

Willis laughed. "Hell, I can't hardly get off the pine with the team we got here," he said. "No, I'm a realist. I love the game, but after college, it's going to be softball leagues for me. I want to be a teacher, too, and maybe I can coach a little."

The group rode along in silence for a couple of minutes until Marlene asked, "What about these accusations against Coach O'Toole?"

"They're bullshit," Len exclaimed, "'scuse my language, ma'am."

"Forget about it," she replied. "I hear worse from my adolescent sons on an hourly basis, though I do appreciate your manners."

"Anyway, it's all a bunch of lies," Len added, "made up by Rufus Porter. He's the one that's stirred this all up because he got kicked off the team. It's a damn shame what they've done to Coach O'Toole; the university and the ACAA ought to be ashamed of themselves. I hope he wins his lawsuit for more money than they got."

Marlene caught the hitch of emotion in Len's voice. O'Toole's players love him. Just like his brother, she thought. I remember from the funeral how devastated his former players were. She was about to comment on that when Len, who was looking in the rearview mirror, spoke.

"Looks like we got some crackers for company."

A few seconds later, a big Ford pickup truck roared up alongside the sedan. Inside were three young men, all as bald as billiard balls. Two sat in the front seat but the third was leaning out of the cab window, pantomiming pumping a shell into the chamber of a shotgun. He aimed the imaginary weapon at Len and pulled the imaginary trigger, laughing as he looked back at his companions.

The two cars went around a blind corner and the faces of the three young men changed from laughter to panic. A semitruck bearing a load of timber was coming head-on from the other direction, and they were seconds from being obliterated. The driver of the pickup gunned the engine and swerved in front of the sedan just in time to avoid being crushed. For a moment, the pickup remained in front, as if the driver was recovering his wits, and then it rocketed off ahead.

"Speak of the devil," Willis said with disgust. "That clown leaning out the window was good ol' Rufus Porter himself, and those were some of his Aryan nation friends. That timber truck almost did the world a favor."

A few miles farther, Len turned off onto another two-lane highway and headed northeast. They'd gone about twenty more miles, much of it paralleling a railroad track, when they passed a gravel road with a gated entrance and guard station. No people were visible, but they could see the Ford truck pulled off the road on the other side of the gate.

"That's the property of the Unified Church of the Aryan People," Len said contemptuously. "As you can see, our friends are the religious types."

Another ten miles brought them to the town of Sawtooth, which, Marlene noted, had managed to retain at least some of its history. The entrance to Main Street was dominated by a tall wood-sided building that proclaimed in big white letters on a red background to be the Sawtooth Mercantile and Livestock Feed Store. Across the street was a saloon called the Cowboy Bar; as if on cue, two young men in ten-gallon hats and cowboy boots sauntered out.

"I love it here," Len added. "I hope to live here someday. The air is clean, the water doesn't smell like the sewer, and for the most part, people treat you the same way you treat them. That's one of the things that Coach O'Toole emphasized to all of us players: Be good members of the community if you want to be considered part of the community."

"Sounds a lot like his brother," Marlene replied. "How much farther to Coach O'Toole's house?"

Willis pointed to a small mountain that rose beyond the town. "About a half hour," he said. "Coach lives up there, past the university campus."

As predicted, a half hour later, the group arrived at the entry of a long driveway that led to a large log home where smoke was curling up from the chimney. A pair of curious horses watched them from a snowy pasture as they rolled up to the house. Tall, red-haired Mikey O'Toole and his attorney, Richie Meyers, were waiting on the wide porch.

"I hope my two young friends here didn't show you too wild a time," O'Toole shouted as he walked down the wide steps to embrace Marlene. "Clancy is a city boy, but he seems to have lost all inhibitions about driving fast on our treacherous mountain roads. He's the Mario Andretti of the University of Northwestern Idaho."

"Please, coach, maybe 'the Wendell Scott,' at least he was a brother," Len said, laughing. "But don't worry, Coach, I took it easy on her. We did have one small run-in with some of our friends from the Unified Church of Racists and Morons, including favorite son Rufus Porter."

O'Toole shook his head and apologized. "Sorry, Marlene, they really are in the minority, but our Aryan neighbors do like to make themselves stick out like sore thumbs."

"Say, Coach, you mind if we go downstairs and watch the TV while you old folks catch up?" Len asked.

"Watch it with the 'old folks' comments, Clancy, unless you want to be running suicide sprint drills every day for a month when I get reinstated," O'Toole said, laughing. "But go ahead, you know you don't have to ask, and you've probably behaved yourselves about as long as you can stand. There's beers in the fridge, but leave your keys with me, you're spending the night. I'm about to throw some steaks on the barbecue. How many cows do you think the two of you can eat?"

"No more than two or three each," Len said, and tossed his keys to O'Toole. "I'm not too hungry… What's for breakfast?"

O'Toole sighed theatrically. "I've gone into massive debt trying to feed these guys," he said. "And there are a couple dozen more just like them on the team. But come on in, I'm forgetting my manners, making you stand out in the cold."

Without being asked, the two baseball players took Marlene's suitcases into the house, followed by the others. Then with a wave to the 'old folks,' they disappeared down a big spiral staircase, and the sound of a game on television soon wafted up.

The next day while sitting in the university meeting room, Marlene smiled at the memory of O'Toole's banter with his players. Not exactly the sort to use sex and booze to recruit youngsters, she thought, and looked over at Huttington and Barnhill. So why were these two so willing to throw him under the truck for some racist jerk just because some fat-cat booster wants his boy on the baseball team?

Two hours after the deposition began, Meyers asked for a quick break so that he could go back over his notes and make sure he didn't miss anything. Back on the record, he asked a few housekeeping questions and then finished with a question that Karp had suggested during their telephone conversation.

"We're about finished here," he said, and looked directly into Huttington's eyes. "Is there anything else you can think of that would be relevant or significant regarding this case? Something I might have missed or was omitted?"

Barnhill scoffed. "What kind of a question is that? President Huttington has been completely forthcoming with both the ACAA investigation and your rather lengthy deposition today."

Up to this point, Meyers's demeanor had been polite and reserved. But now he fixed Barnhill with an angry glare, which made the other attorney laugh nervously and look quickly away. "Mr. Huttington, I asked you a question," Meyers said tightly. "This is a deposition and you must answer my questions, even if your attorney objects. And do remember you're under oath."

Barnhill scowled and began to say something, but Huttington waved him off. "That's okay, Clyde, we have nothing to hide here."

"Yeah, that's right, Kip," Barnhill agreed, though the smile he tried to assume looked almost painful. "Nothing to hide."

Marlene got the distinct impression that a message had just been passed between Huttington and his attorney. Indeed, it made her wonder what they were hiding.

"Your answer?" Meyers demanded.

Huttington blinked at the tone. Nice timing, Marlene thought. Richie's sending his own message.

"Uh, no, I can't think of anything to add that would be relevant or significant," the university president replied.

Meyers smiled like he'd just caught Huttington in a lie. "You're sure?"

Recovering his nerve, Barnhill angrily retorted, "Are you implying that President Huttington is lying?"

"Not at all," Meyers replied, his tone suddenly light again. "People sometimes forget when they're asked something in an uncomfortable circumstance, such as a deposition. So I was just making sure he'd had plenty of opportunity to answer the question completely and honestly."

"Then your question has been answered."

Meyers grinned. "Indeed. Thank you, that's all."

Huttington and Barnhill stood up quickly and left the room without saying anything more. Meyers looked at Marlene. "How'd I do?" he asked.

"Perfect," she replied. "Butch would tell you he couldn't have done it better himself."

"He's a great coach," Meyers replied.

"He had a great coach, too," Marlene noted, looking out the window. Big flakes of snow were floating gently to the ground. She shivered. "Someplace around here where a gal can get a hot cup of coffee?"

"You bet," O'Toole replied. "There's a great little Basque coffee shop around the corner."

They got up from the table and walked out into the hallway just in time to see Huttington and Barnhill confronted by an olive-skinned man wearing a bright red beret and carrying a wooden cane. "Where is my daughter?" the man demanded in heavily accented English.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Santacristina, we've been over this; I have no idea regarding the whereabouts of Maria," Huttington replied. "Now, if you'll excuse me." He started to move toward his office but Santacristina blocked his way.

Barnhill took a step toward the man. "I believe there is a restraining order that prohibits you from coming within one hundred feet of Mr. Huttington. Now, do I need to summon the police?"

"Summon whoever you want, Barnhill," Santacristina shot back angrily. "I'm sure the newspapers and television stations will enjoy the story of the father who was arrested for asking a married university president what happened to the student he was having an affair with."

On cue, a campus police officer appeared from inside the president's office. "Is there a problem here?" he said to the men.

Marlene expected that Huttington would have the angry man thrown off campus or in jail, but instead the university president shook his head. Glancing nervously in the direction of Marlene, O'Toole, and Meyers, he said, "No, it's all right, Officer. Mr. Santacristina's daughter, Maria, was a student intern in my office. She was reported missing by her father last spring, and he now labors under the mistaken impression that I know something about her disappearance."

"She was more than a student intern, wasn't she, Huttington?" Santacristina demanded. He pointed to the university president with his thick wooden stick. "This man used his position and smooth words to lure a young woman into an illicit affair. What would any father think?"

"Thinking might actually be wise before 'any father' goes around making more wild accusations," Barnhill retorted. "Or shows up drunk at a university dinner party thrown in honor of Mr. Huttington and makes a scene in front of all the guests, which is what got him slapped with a restraining order…an order, I might add, I am about to invoke if he doesn't get out of our way. Or maybe it's the Immigration and Naturalization Service I should call."

Santacristina glared at the two men. "I will leave," he said. "But I will never stop haunting you until justice is done." He turned to go but hesitated when he saw Marlene looking at him. His eyes narrowed as if sizing her up; then he headed for the exit, with the police officer following to make sure he left. Huttington and Barnhill glanced once more in their direction before walking into the president's office.

"What was that all about?" Marlene asked.

"Well, it was pretty big news here for a little while when Maria Santacristina disappeared late last spring," O'Toole said. "But that's the first I've heard that she was having an affair with Huttington."

"Do you believe it?" Marlene said. "Or is…what's his name-Santacristina?-a desperate father grasping at straws?"

O'Toole shrugged. "Believe what? That good ol' Kip was having sex with a student? What's not to believe? She was a lovely girl; he's a good-looking, well-spoken older guy. But I'm sure he wouldn't want that to get out. Sawtooth is a pretty small, conservative town-screwing students, excuse the imagery, would not go over well. Plus, he married into big local money, and knowing his wife, Suzanne, she'd leave him penniless. But the part about Huttington knowing what happened to her? That's not something I've heard about, either."

"Do you know the father?" Marlene asked.

"Not really. His name is Eugenio Santacristina," O'Toole replied. "He's one of our local Basque sheepherders, but well respected in their community from what I gathered from the news reports when Maria disappeared. Otherwise, quiet, keeps to himself like a lot of the other Basques."

Marlene recalled seeing a group of swarthy, mustachioed men standing outside the Navarre Restaurant in Boise wearing white leggings beneath red skirts and red berets. Willis had pointed them out and said they were Basque dancers taking a break from a festival taking place at the Basque Cultural Center on West Grove Street.

Marlene followed the other two out into the cold and headed for the Basque coffee shop. Several inches of snow had fallen since they'd gone into the university building, and Marlene was shivering by the time she spotted the sign for the restaurant. She stepped inside, gratefully basking in the warmth and the smell of fresh roasted coffee. However, as they made their way to the counter to order drinks, she noticed that the other patrons and waitresses were nervously eyeing four young men sitting in a corner booth.

What made them stand out was the "uniform" that, as much as their shaved heads, identified them as either skinheads or neo-Nazis. They wore baggy jeans held up by red suspenders over white T-shirts emblazoned with the Iron Cross, and completed the ensemble with heavy, steel-toed Doc Martens boots. They'd piled their long wool coats, which looked like German army issue from the Second World War, on a table next to them.

"If I'm not mistaken," she said, "that's Rufus Porter sitting over there with several of his friends."

Meyers didn't turn to look. "You're not mistaken, that's him, but best we ignore him."

However, as if he understood that he was the subject of their discussion, Porter and his friends got up and walked over to where they stood. "Well, well, if it isn't my dear old coach, Mikey O'Fool," Porter sneered. "I'm looking forward to getting back on the field this spring, but guess you won't be there."

"Don't count on it, Rufus," O'Toole replied. "The only way you'll get back on that field is if you get a job mowing the lawn."

Porter's eyes blazed at the insult and then noticed Marlene's smirk. "What are you smiling at, bitch?" he snarled, and started to poke at Marlene with a finger.

A moment later, Porter was yelping in pain as she grabbed his index and middle fingers and bent them backward, locking his elbow and forcing him up on his toes. With her attacker off balance and unable to do anything except respond to the pain, she propelled him back into his friends, silently thanking Jojola for the jujitsu training.

Porter's face changed into a mask of rage. He'd been humiliated and now he and his friends intended to settle the score, but their attention was diverted when the front door opened and Eugenio Santacristina walked in.

The Basque's dark eyes immediately took in the situation. He strolled over, placing himself between the skinheads and the others.

"You and your friends are not welcome here," Santacristina said calmly.

"Fuck off, spic," Porter spat.

Santacristina's face grew grim as he gripped his wooden cane around the middle and tapped it lightly into the palm of his free hand. "Say that again," he replied. "And I promise that you will not walk out of here on your own. I will break both of your kneecaps, and those of any of your friends who interfere."

"And I'll be glad to help," O'Toole added.

Santacristina glanced at the coach and smiled before turning his attention back to Porter and his friends. "Now, what is it to be? A future as a cripple, or merely a moron?"

Porter seemed to be weighing his options. His former coach was a big man, and even the small attorney looked pretty tough. The woman knew some sort of trickery, too. But it was the Basque and his stick that worried him the most.

"Let's go, Rufus," one of the other skinheads suggested. "We'll settle this some other day when there's not so many witnesses."

"I will look forward to that," Santacristina said.

Porter did his best to look tough and as though he would have still preferred to battle. But he said, "You're right. Too many witnesses." He stepped back from Santacristina and snapped a Nazi salute with his right hand raised, exposing a tattoo on the inside of his right bicep that appeared to be some Aryan symbol. "Death to niggers, kikes, spics, and race traitors."

"Get out," Santacristina said, infuriated by the salute but still keeping his cool.

"Got to get our coats," Porter said.

"Esteban," Santacristina said to someone behind the skinheads, who turned to see that four other Basque men had emerged from a back room and had positioned themselves behind them. "Bring these dogs their coats."

The youngest of the Basques responded by grabbing the coats, which he held at arm's length as though they smelled, and tossed them to the skinheads. "Now leave," Santacristina ordered, "or I will beat you like the mongrel dogs you are."

The skinheads made their way to the door and left. Porter, who was the last to leave, shouted an epithet but fled as the Basque men moved toward him.

When they were gone, Santacristina introduced himself, extending a hand to Coach O'Toole. "I was sorry to hear what happened to you. I do not believe these things they say."

"Thank you," O'Toole replied. "We're planning to fight back."

"So I have heard," Santacristina said. "I hope you win."

On impulse, Marlene asked, "Would you care to join us?"

Eugenio Santacristina inclined his head slightly and flashed a smile that looked all the brighter for his tan skin and created a whole series of smile lines around his mouth and eyes. "I would be delighted." He turned to the other Basque men, thanked and dismissed them in their language, and they left for the back of the restaurant again.

Some shepherd, Marlene thought. There's a man used to giving commands and being obeyed out of respect. "I noticed that you don't need the cane to walk," she said.

Santacristina held up the four-foot-long piece of gnarled but polished oak. "This? No, this is not a cane," he said. "I am a shepherd. This is a walking stick I use to keep up with my charges on the steep hillsides. However, I admit that at nearly sixty years old, I lean on it more than I used to."

"You're sixty?! I would have guessed much younger," Marlene said.

"Chasing sheep keeps one youthful," he replied with a laugh.

The three men and one woman were soon talking over steaming cups of rich, dark coffee, which Marlene would later swear had the consistency of motor oil but was the richest, smoothest, most flavorful coffee she had ever tasted.

Santacristina signaled to the waitress and ordered something. The language sounded similar to Spanish, or perhaps Portuguese, but with some other intonation-more like what she'd heard once on a visit to Romania.

A few minutes later, the waitress returned with a plate of cheese, bright yellow in color but streaked with blue veins.

When Marlene asked about the cheese, Santacristina replied, "This is Onetik, a traditional type of Basque cheese made from sheep's milk. It is best with a red wine, but seeing as how I am with another man's wife, and tongues may wag, we will stick with coffee." He laughed and said something to the hovering waitress, who laughed, too.

"Are all Basque men so charming?" Marlene asked.

"It is ingrained in us by our mothers from the day we are born," Santacristina said, and smiled.

As Santacristina and the other two men chatted, Marlene used the opportunity to study his facial features, which were strong-a prominent nose between deep-set eyes that flickered with intensity below thick, dark eyebrows. His tan face was framed on the bottom by a five o'clock shadow that she suspected might be permanent. But his most striking physical characteristic was the color of his eyes, almost amber against a darker background. When he turned to meet her gaze, she noticed a jagged white scar that started just below the hairline on the left side of his forehead and disappeared into his full head of jet-black curls.

Marlene hesitated, not wanting to be rude, but then asked, "If I'm not being too nosy…we saw your confrontation with Huttington and Barnhill today. What happened to your daughter?"

Santacristina's smile fell from his face, and he hung his head and appeared to be studying the depths of his coffee. "It is not a pleasant story," he replied. "I may not show it always on my face, but my heart is broken. I do not wish to burden you with my tears."

"I'm a good listener," Marlene answered.

Exhaling, Santacristina explained why he'd confronted Huttington. Indeed, why he'd been asking the same question of the man for the better part of a year, ever since his Maria had disappeared without a trace.

"She was a good girl," he said. "An angel given to my dear wife and me. She was attending the university and majoring in early childhood education. All of her life she wanted to be a teacher. But I am a poor man and unable to pay for her education, so she made her own way through work-study programs, including as an administrative assistant for that sasikumea Huttington."

Huttington had begun his pursuit by lavishing praise on her for her work and then finding reasons to keep her after hours and reward her with dinners. "I started to notice that she was spending more and more time with him, and then he started taking her on these little trips. She told me they were for 'university business,' but I could see that she had fallen in love, and my heart ached for her. He was a married man and twice her age. But she was as head-strong as her mother-who married me against the wishes of her family-and would not listen to me."

"Where is her mother?" Marlene asked, though she suspected the answer already.

Santacristina shook his head sadly. "She died four years ago, when Maria was seventeen," he said. When he looked back up at Marlene, his eyes were shiny with tears. "It was ovarian cancer. I was, of course, devastated. But it was even harder on Maria. Her mother doted on her, and they could talk about anything. Maybe if Elena had lived, she could have talked sense into our daughter. But I would not have wanted Elena to have the pain that I endure now."

"I'm so sorry," Marlene commiserated. "Was your wife Basque, too?"

"Yes," Santacristina replied. "I met her shortly after I arrived in this country and came to Idaho, which you may have heard has a large Basque community. My Elena was much younger than me and very beautiful." He stopped and pulled out his wallet, from which he produced photographs of two strikingly beautiful women. "This is my Elena and my Maria." He replaced the photographs. "They were my reasons to live. But now they are both gone, and I live only to find my daughter so that I may lay her to rest beside her mother."

"And you think Huttington has something to do with Maria's disappearance?"

Santacristina nodded. "I last saw her two days before she disappeared. I dropped by unexpectedly and it was evident that she had been crying. But she assured me it was nothing, and that soon everything would be all right. The next day, I called to check in on her, but there was no answer. And there was no answer the next day or the next, either… It was not like her. She called me almoste very day. She knew how lonely I was without Elena."

He'd driven to his daughter's apartment and talked the landlord into letting him in. "All of her books for school were piled neatly on her desk, ready for class," he said. "Even her clothes were laid out and waiting. Everything you would expect of a young woman going to school. But the most important clue that something was wrong was that her cat was almost crazy for want of food and water. She loved that cat and would have never left it to suffer like that."

"Did you go to the police?"

"Yes," he replied. "They were polite and took my information down. But they seemed to think that she was just a silly college girl who ran away from home."

"Did you tell them your suspicions about Huttington having an affair with your daughter?" Meyers asked.

"No," he said. "I was sure he had made her pregnant. But I did not yet suspect him. I was afraid that he had spurned her and…and she had, perhaps, harmed herself. Or maybe let her guard down in her grief and was attacked by a stranger."

"Have the police done anything?" Marlene asked.

Santacristina nodded. "Yes," he said. "As much as they could. When Maria did not return, a young detective was assigned to her case. He filed a report with the FBI and registered her with a national crime computer in case someone saw her, or she tried to leave the country, or…or a body was found that matched her identity."

The Basque stopped talking for a moment to compose himself, then smiled at some memory. "Her mother was always afraid of losing her, so she had Maria fingerprinted when she was a young child when the police were promoting such a program. But there was nothing."

Santacristina said he began to wonder more about Huttington. "I called and asked to meet privately with him. I wanted to ask him when he had last seen her and what had happened. But he would not see me without his attorney present, and there is something about that man, Barnhill, that makes my skin crawl. I did not want to discuss my daughter's sexual life in front of him."

Marlene frowned. "But what makes you think Huttington was responsible for her disappearance?"

Santacristina was silent for a long moment. "I believe that she was pregnant," he said. "I found a box for a pregnancy test kit in her bathroom trash can. There was a positive result on the indicator strip. I think that the child was his. But he is a married man, an upstanding-oh, what is the term?-pillar of the community. Getting a young college girl pregnant would have been a great embarrassment, and maybe cost him his job. I think this is why my Maria is…she is gone."

He'd crashed a university dinner party and attempted to talk to Huttington, but Barnhill had him thrown out and arrested for trespassing. "The charges were dropped, but I was told to stay away from him or go to jail. This seemed to me to be the acts of guilty men, so I went back to the young detective and told him what I believed."

"Did he look into it?" Meyers asked.

"Yes, or at least that is my understanding," Santacristina said. "He told me he talked to Huttington-though Barnhill had insisted on being present-but the sasikumea…"

"What is sasikumea?" Marlene interrupted.

"Bastard," Santacristina replied. "And he is one and worse. He did not show the slightest concern about Maria's disappearance, not even the sort a university president would for his intern. All he ever said to the press was that he hoped she was all right and had simply 'moved on.' Anyway, Huttington denied having an affair-saying that I had jumped to conclusions-and that he had not seen Maria for more than a week before she disappeared. He said he assumed she had quit."

"Did you ever tell the press about your theory?" Marlene asked.

Santacristina shook his head. "There is no proof," he said. "And if I made it public, Barnhill would go after me, and as you may have guessed from my conversation with them this afternoon, my immigration status is somewhat questionable. I would not care about that if it would help find my daughter, but I fear that if I am deported, there will be no one here who will remember Maria and seek justice for her."

"But what I don't get is why Barnhill hasn't carried out his threat to report you," O'Toole said.

"They are not anxious for the publicity," Santacristina replied. "So far the newspapers and television stations have not caught wind of this, but if I was arrested, they would pay attention to what I said. So we have this stalemate."

Santacristina hung his head and his shoulders shook. When he brought himself back under control, he apologized for crying. "It is a sign of weakness."

"No, it's not. It's a sign of love and heartbreak," Marlene replied. "But we can change the subject if you like."

Santacristina nodded. "Yes, please," he said with a weak smile. "Tell me why you are here with these gentlemen."

Marlene smiled at the gallantry, but let Meyers and O'Toole talk to him about the lawsuit. "So I guess we both have problems with Huttington and Barnhill," O'Toole said when they finished. "But unlike you, I don't know why they turned on me."

Santacristina suddenly furrowed his brow and then looked intensely at Marlene. "Maybe we were intended by God to meet," he said.

"I'm always open to the possibility," she replied. "But why do you say that?"

"Bear with me, as I have not thought this out entirely," Santacristina said. "But Coach O'Toole, you said you were surprised at the lack of support from Huttington, someone you once considered to be on a friendly basis with, no? What might that indicate to you?"

"I see where you're going," O'Toole replied. "That somebody has something on Huttington and is blackmailing him to support Porter and get rid of me."

Santacristina nodded emphatically. "Yes. And what if this blackmail ties Huttington to what happened to my daughter?"

"I guess that's one possible theory," Marlene said slowly, then shook her head. "But on its face, I think most people would say these are two unrelated events, and we'd only be guessing at a connection."

"Perhaps," Santacristina agreed. "Perhaps I am just a father driven mad with grief. But I believe it is true."

"And you know what," Marlene said. "Something in my gut tells me it is, too." She looked at the other two men and thought of Butch. "The question is what can we do about it?"

Two hours later, Clyde Barnhill was about to call it a day when the telephone in his office rang. Sighing, he answered it.

"What in the hell is that Jew bastard doing getting involved in this?" said the voice on the other end.

"Hello, John," Barnhill replied. "I told you before. The 'Jew bastard' knew O'Toole's brother. They were roommates in college."

"Yeah, so the fucking district attorney for New York just happens to take a case in Bumfuck, Idaho," Porter complained. "You don't find that a little coincidental? I don't believe it for a minute. And now his wife is out here-hanging out with that Basque mother-fucker."

Barnhill did not like Big John Porter, nor his idiot son. But they served an important purpose for his friends back East, and so he resisted the urge to tell him to stick it up his ass.

"Calm down, John," Barnhill said. "We checked it out with friends in New York. Karp is on a leave of absence. He got shot but the shooter was not accurate enough. O'Toole obviously called him and asked for help. I wouldn't worry about his wife, obviously just some bored housewife who wants to play investigator."

"Yeah, and maybe you don't know, maybe she's working with Santacristina," Porter said. "She and O'Toole and that attorney fella, Meyers, were about to mix it up with my boy and his friends when Santacristina showed up. That a coincidence, too?"

"I've said it before, John," Barnhill replied, letting a little anger seep into his voice. "Your boy needs to lay low and stay away from those 'friends.' It draws attention to him right now and won't look good if it gets into this trial."

"Yeah, yeah, I've told my boy that he has to watch out for what he does in public. But he likes those fellas, and they, at least, treat him with respect," Porter replied. "Tough to keep an eye on him 24/7."

"I understand," Barnhill said. "We just need to be careful around the woman. She's the wife of the district attorney. If something happened to her, there'd be a lot of eyes looking this way."

The phone went so silent that Barnhill thought he could hear the poorly greased wheels in Porter's head grinding slowly. "Yeah, you're right," the big man agreed at last. "But nobody messes with my boy and gets away with it forever."

If your boy was any dumber, Barnhill thought, he'd be a donkey, and not a very smart one. "Well, my advice right now is that we all sit tight. There are more pressing concerns than Marlene Ciampi."

"I ain't so worried about her," Porter replied. "But like you said, she's the wife of the fucking Jew bastard district attorney of New York, and that ought to worry everybody. If you know what I mean."

"I know, John," Barnhill said. "And our friends are monitoring the situation. Now go have yourself a nice Jack Daniel's on ice, and I'm going home to do the same."

"All right, Clyde," Porter said. "And oh, hey, we going to get any huntin' in this winter? We can use the Unified Church property anytime we want and no fucking game wardens to worry about."

"Sounds like a plan, John," Barnhill said. "I wouldn't mind shooting something…I wouldn't mind that at all."