His voice, too, seemed familiar. As Romero approached, he heard the reedy gentle tone with which the young man explained to a customer the intricate care with which the icons were created.
Romero waited until the customer walked off with her purchase.
"Yes, sir?"
"I know you from somewhere, but I just can't seem to place you."
"I wish I could help you, but I don't think we've met."
Romero noticed the small crystal that hung from a woven cord on the young man's neck. It had a hint of pale blue in it, as if borrowing some of the blue in the young man's eyes. "Maybe you're right. It's just that you seem so awfully-"
Movement to his right distracted him, a young man carrying a large basket of tomatoes from a pickup truck and setting it next to baskets of cucumbers, peppers, squash, carrots, etc., on a stand next to this one.
But more than the movement distracted him. The young man was tall and thin, with short sandy hair, and a lean esthetic face. He had clear blue eyes that seemed to lend some of their color to the small crystal hanging from his neck. He wore faded jeans and a white tee-shirt, the same as the young man to whom Romero had been talking. The white of the shirt emphasized his glowing tan.
"You are right," Romero told the first man. "We haven't met. Your brother's the one I met."
The newcomer looked puzzled.
"It's true, isn't it?" Romero asked. "The two of you are brothers? That's why I got confused. But I still can't remember where – "
"Luke Parsons." The newcomer extended his hand.
"Gabe Romero."
The young man's forearm was sinewy, his handshake firm.
Romero needed all his discipline and training not to react, his mind reeling as he remembered. Luke Parsons? Christ, this was the man he'd spoken to the night his son had been killed and his life had fallen apart. To distract himself from his memories, he had come to this market, only to find someone who reminded him of what he was desperately trying to forget.
"And this is my brother Mark."
"…Hello."
"Say, are you feeling all right?"
"Why? What do you-"
"You turned pale all of a sudden."
"It's nothing. I just haven't been eating well lately."
"Then you ought to try this." Luke Parsons pointed toward a small bottle filled with brown liquid.
Romero narrowed his eyes. "What is it?"
"Home-grown echinacea. If you've got a virus, this'll take care of you. Boosts your immune system."
"Thanks but-"
"When you feel how dramatically it picks you up – "
"You make it sound like drugs."
"God's drug. Nothing false. If it doesn't improve your well-being, we'll give you a refund."
"There you are," Romero's sergeant said. "I've been looking all over for you." He noticed the bottle in Romero's hand. "What's that?"
"Something called home-grown…" The word eluded him.
"Echinacea," Luke Parsons said.
"Sure," the sergeant's wife said. "I use it when we get colds. Boosts the immune system. Works like a charm. Lord, these tomatoes look wonderful."
As she started buying, Luke told Romero, "When your appetite's off, it can mean your body needs to be detoxified. These cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower are good for that. Completely organic. No chemicals of any kind ever went near them. And you might try this." He handed Romero a small bottle of white liquid.
"Milk thistle," the sergeant's wife said, glancing at the bottle while selecting green peppers. "Cleans out the liver."
"Where on earth did you learn about this stuff?" the sergeant asked.
"Rosa down the street got interested in herbal remedies," she explained later as the three of them crossed the train tracks, carrying sacks of vegetables. "Hey, this is Santa Fe, the world's capital of alternate medicines and New Age religions. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em."
"Yeah, those crystals around their necks. They're New Agers for sure," Romero said. "Did you notice their belts were made of hemp. No leather. Nothing from animals."
"No fried chicken and take-out burgers for those guys." The sergeant gave Romero a pointed look. "They're as healthy as can be."
"All right, okay, I get it."
"Just make sure you eat your greens."
The odd part was that he actually did start feeling better. Physically, at least. His emotions were still as bleak as midnight, but as one of the self-help books he'd read advised, "One way to heal yourself is from the body to the soul." The echinacea (ten drops in a glass of water, the typed directions said) tasted bitter. The milk thistle tasted worse. The salads didn't fill him up. He still craved a pepperoni pizza. But he had to admit, the vegetables at the Farmers' Market were as good as any he'd come across. No surprise. The only vegetables he'd eaten before came from a supermarket, where they'd sat for God knew how long, and that didn't count all the time they'd been in a truck on the way to the store. They'd probably been picked before they were ready so they wouldn't ripen until they reached the supermarket, and then there was the issue of how many pesticides and herbicides they'd been doused with. He remembered a radio call-in show that had talked about poisons in food. The program had dealt with similar problems in the environment and -
Romero shivered.
The program had been the one he'd listened to in his car the night he'd been waiting for the shoes to drop and his son had been killed.
Screw it. If I'm going to feel this bad, I'm going to eat what I want.
It took him only fifteen minutes to drive in from El Dorado and get a big take-out order of ribs, fries, cole slaw, and plenty of barbecue sauce. He never ate in restaurants anymore. Too many people knew him. He couldn't muster the energy for small talk. Another fifteen minutes, and he was back at home, watching a lawyer show, drinking beer, gnawing on ribs.
He was sick before the ten o'clock news.
"I swear, I'm keeping to my diet. Hey, don't look at me like that. I admit I had a couple of relapses, but I learned my lesson. I've never eaten more wholesome food in my life."
"Fifteen pounds. That health club I joined really sweats the weight off."
"Hi, Mark."
The tall thin sandy-haired young man behind the vegetables looked puzzled at him.
"What's wrong?" Romero asked. "I've been coming to this market every Saturday for the past six weeks. You don't recognize me by now?"
"You've confused me with my brother." The man had blue eyes, a hint of their color in the crystal around his neck. Jeans, a white tee-shirt, a glowing tan, and the thin-faced, high-cheekboned esthetic look of a saint.
"Well, I know you're not Luke. I'm sure I'd recognize him."
"My name is John." His tone was formal.
"Pleased to meet you. I'm Gabe Romero. Nobody told me there were three brothers."
"Actually-"
"Wait a minute. Let me guess. If there's a Mark, Luke, and John, there's got to be a Matthew, right? I bet there are four of you."
John's lips parted slightly, as if he wasn't accustomed to smiling. "Very good."
"No big deal. It's my business to deduce things," Romero joked.
"Oh? And what business is – " John straightened, his blue eyes as cold as a star, watching Luke come through the crowd. "You were told not to leave the stand."
"I'm sorry. I had to go to the bathroom."
"You should have gone before we started out."
"I did. But I can't help it if-"
"That's right. You can't help me if you're not here. We're almost out of squash. Bring another basket."
"I'm really sorry. It won't happen again."
Luke glanced self-consciously at Romero, then back at his brother, and went to get the squash.