Read Online Bitter Recoil by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online

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.

Chapter 8
    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