We went to visit the Wilsons in the morning.
The family lived west of Shiprock, on a flat expanse of desert scrub and sagebrush. The police report left directions. We turned off the highway onto a dusty track masquerading as a road. A couple of miles along, we found the house. Some run-down rail and post fencing marked corrals, but nothing lived in them. The house was one story, plank board, small and crouching. It didn’t seem big enough to serve as a garage, much less house a family. A couple of ancient, rusting pickup trucks sat nearby.
We parked on the dirt road and walked the path—a track lined roughly with stones—to the front door.
“If it were anyone but Cormac I wouldn’t be doing this. I’d write the whole case off,” Ben said. “I have to go in there and ask these people to help me defend the man who killed their daughter. This kind of thing didn’t used to bother me but now all I want to do is growl and rip something apart.”
I started to say something vague and soothing, but I couldn’t, because I felt the same way. Every hair on my body was standing on end. “There’s something really weird about this place.”
We’d reached the door, a flimsy-seeming thing made of wood. Ben stared at it. Finally, I knocked. Ben took a deep breath and closed his eyes, opening them as the door opened.
A young woman, maybe eighteen, looked back at us. “Who are you?” The question and her stance—the door was only open a few inches—spoke of suspicion. Maybe even paranoia.
“My name’s Ben O’Farrell. I’m trying to find information about Miriam Wilson. Are you her sister?”
Of course the girl was. I’d only ever seen Miriam dying and dead, but they had the same round face, large eyes, and straight black hair.
The girl stole a look over her shoulder, into the house, then said, “She’s gone. Been gone a long time. I don’t have anything to say about it.”
Ben and I glanced at each other. Did she know her sister was dead? Surely someone had come to tell her, when the police here found out.
“What’s your name?” I said.
She shook her head. “I don’t want to tell you my name.”
Names had power, yadda yadda. Okay, then. We’d do this the blunt way.
“Miriam’s dead,” I said, “She was killed near Walsenburg, Colorado. We’re trying to learn as much as we can about her so we can explain what happened.”
Some expression passed over her. Not what I expected, which was grief or sadness, or resignation at learning the truth after months of uncertainty. No, the girl closed her eyes and the release of tension softened her features. It was like she was relieved.
She said, “You’re better off letting it go. You’re better off forgetting about it. Let it end here.” That was the same thing Tony had said. And Tsosie.
“We can’t do that,” I said. “It’s not over. Don’t you want to know what happened?”
“No.” She started to close the door.
“Is there anyone else who’d be willing to talk to us about her? Are your parents here?”
“They don’t speak much English,” she said. A convenient shield.
Ben spoke up. “Would you be willing to translate for us?”
“They won’t talk. My sister—my oldest sister died before Miriam disappeared, my brother died a couple of weeks ago. We’ve had a hard time of it, and we’re trying to move on. I have to go now.”
Ben put his hand out to stop the door from closing. “How much of that did they bring on themselves? They hired my client to kill your brother. He did it, then Miriam came after him. He’s in jail now, and you know as well as I do he doesn’t deserve to be there. Where did this whole thing get started?”
She was lost, cornered, staring at us with a panicked expression, unable to close the door on us and unable to speak.
“Please,” I said, “talk to us.”
The words seemed to war inside her, like she both did and didn’t want to speak. Finally, the words won. “Joan was murdered. No matter what anyone else says, she was murdered. But the more we talk of these things, the more likely we are to bring more curses upon ourselves.”
You got to a point where one more curse wasn’t going to make a difference.
“Louise, who are you talking to?” a male voice shouted from within. The father who didn’t speak much English, I bet.
“Nobody!” she called over her shoulder.