"I can't, Mason," she said finally. "I'm not going to do this one. I'm truly sorry."
Mason gave his head a skeptical toss. "Fine. As I say, you can tell it to Julieta McCarty. That's her now. And she's got the school physician with her-Dr. Tsosie. Excellent!" And he waved to a woman and a man who were descending the ramps toward them wearing expressions Cree knew only too welclass="underline" the look of people coping, poorly, with the inexplicable.
4
After outrage at Mason's presumption, Cree's first response was surprise at the woman's appearance. Julieta McCarty was tall, narrow waisted, dressed in snug jeans, cowboy boots, a man's blue work shirt, and a denim jacket with cuffs rolled one turn to reveal silver and turquoise bracelets. She had enviably big black hair that tossed freely in the wind, flashing almond-shaped blue eyes, and a tan augmented by a touch of bronze coloring that suggested Native American or Hispanic blood. Cree's first thought was, stunning. Movie star stunning. Definitely not anyone's idea of a typical high school principal. Too curvaceous, too young-no older than her midtwenties.
Seeing her at close range changed Cree's first impression somewhat. Nearer, her real age was evident in her face: closer to forty than thirty. The skin around her eyes and mouth was etched with a skein of fine creases that told of a life in the dry high-desert air and hard sun. Her eyes held a searching look full of wariness, worry, fatigue, doubt, determination.
It was a look Cree had seen in other people trying to deal with an incomprehensible experience, to live when their every belief and expectation had been called into question. It was also a look she saw far too often in the mirror.
The eyes made a twang in Cree's chest, a feeling of such poignancy that she forgot her anger at Mason. In one glance the connection was made, so real Cree could almost see it, a shimmering golden cord arcing between them and binding them together.
Remaining a pace behind Julieta, Dr. Tsosie was a Native American man in his midforties. He wore khakis, jogging shoes, a blue nylon windbreaker parted to reveal a white shirt and a belt cinched by an ornate silver buckle. A beeper and cell phone clipped on the belt marked him as a physician. The brown eyes that shone from under the brim of his cowboy hat were somber and appraising, and though he maintained an impassive face Cree sensed that the root of his current caution was a protective urge: He was looking out for Julieta, determined to help her through whatever crisis she was enduring.
Meeting them, especially Julieta, had a fated, inevitable feel. As they shook hands, Cree inwardly cursed Mason, hating that he could tell exactly how she'd react. That he'd known her for the soft touch she was, that her immediate and overpowering empathy for Julieta would compel her to take the woman's problems as her own.
Mason made only a halfhearted effort to keep the pleasure off his face. Cree wanted to kick him.
"Thank you for coming, Julieta. Joseph, it's a pleasure to see you again." Mason had conjured his public persona of charm and authority. He pushed back his cuff to glance at his watch and then smiled up at them. "Shall we stay outside and catch the sunset, or would you like to confer over dinner? I took the liberty of making reservations at the High Finance here-their strip sirloin is quite splendid. In either case, I know Lucretia is eager to hear the specifics of your situation."
Julieta McCarty admitted that she was too tense too eat, so they opted against dinner. Instead, Cree rolled Mason's chair down another series of ramps to the ridge trail below the restaurant, where they strolled slowly as they talked. The wind had died, but the air was turning chilly; Mason took a blanket from a pouch and arranged it over his legs. Back on the deck, Lupe found a position that allowed her to keep an eye on them, opened a paperback, and pretended to read.
The sun was swelling as it descended, a bloated red balloon just above the horizon. On Sandia crest, the light that saturated every west-facing feature had turned a succulent orange-pink, startling in its contrast with the blues of evening infiltrating from the east. The light had named the mountain, Mason explained: sandia was the Spanish word for watermelon.
Mason lectured them as if they were a postgrad psych class and he was putting forward a case study for them to solve: "A fifteen-year-old boy, presenting intermittent but extreme symptoms. Two rounds of exhaustive testing show no cranial abnormalities and no seizure activity. Blood chemistry good, no indication of chronic disease or drug abuse. Good general health history. Psychological tests show a fairly normal adolescent male profile: issues with status and self-esteem, resistance to authority-the usual. Appears to be an active, healthy young man with a higher-than-average IQ and a notable talent at visual art, which brought him to the attention of Oak Springs School. Like many kids his age, he has a minor history of trouble-graffiti, a little vandalism, one arrest for underage driving and one for possession of marijuana at the age of thirteen. But he has no drugs in his system now and he claims he hasn't taken anything for two years. The hospital's initial diagnosis is dehydration and stress. After the second and third episodes and the diagnostic batteries that followed, their psych staff conclude he's faking it-this is a desperate bid for attention by a child deeply troubled for reasons not yet understood. They prescribe Prozac and talk therapy on an outpatient basis-"
"Diagnosis completely unsatisfactory to school administrators," Julieta interrupted. "This infuriates me-nobody could fake what he was doing! He-"
She cut herself off as Dr. Tsosie lightly touched her elbow. They exchanged a short glance and Julieta calmed herself with an effort.
"Diagnosis fails," Mason went on, unperturbed, "to consider the severity of symptoms or reliable observations of their anomalous nature by the residential staff, the school nurse, and the school physician. At which point Dr. Tsosie sought me out. I then spent two days at the school, during which I reviewed the patient's medical records, observed him while full symptoms were presenting, and conducted interviews. After which I decided that a further referral was necessary. By serendipitous good fortune, my first choice for that referral was soon to be in the area for a speaking engagement at UNM." Mason shut his eyes, tipped his head, and for a long moment let the rich light play on his skin. "Which brings us to Sandia Ridge for a sumptuous sunset and the joint contemplation of a most unusual and dire neuropsychological phenomenon."
They had stopped at the end of the ridge path. Beyond stood a forest of ponderosa pines, now a shadowy cathedral shot through with shafts of light that cut the tree canopy into an intricate lattice. A few sightseers clung to the rail far behind them, snapping photos. On the lower path, just back of the crest, other visitors had begun returning to the tram station, chattering, clutching sweaters and windbreakers tightly around them.
"I still don't know anything about the boy's condition," Cree said. "From what you've told me so far, I can't see why you think I might be of any help. What-he claims he's seeing ghosts?"
"I think we're getting ahead of ourselves here," Dr. Tsosie interposed. He'd stayed quiet throughout their conversation, maintaining a reserve that he seemed to overcome only with difficulty. "Dr. Ambrose, you have an impressive reputation. But I'm here because I need some reassurance that we're doing the right thing. I don't know anything about Ms. Black and I'm skeptical of supernatural explanations. That we're up here talking to a… I don't even know what you call Ms. Black… a medium?"