less."
"No one was with him on the hill when he found Randall?"
Rosie shook her head. "Benji was out there for hours, wandering around." She frowned and worry altered her features. "You heard him just now."
"Has he said anything you could understand?"
Rosie pursed her lips. "When I first got here, he blurted out something about an owl of death . . . and something evil stalking the city."
"What, like Godzilla?" Sylvia massaged the muscles of her neck. "Tell me about Mr. Muñoz y Concha."
The women moved to a small table in a corner of the RV and sat down. Rosie leaned back against the hard wall. Usually in her job she was dealing with inmates who overdosed on pills, crack, or heroin, or inmates who shanked other inmates, or inmates who shanked staff, or correctional officers who used excessive force. There was nothing supernatural about the system—it nurtured a very down-to-earth breed of monster. Normally she didn't have to deal with witches and death owls.
"Rosita." Sylvia interrupted her thoughts.
"Ummmm?"
"How old is Benji?"
"Twenty-two."
"And he's in for—?"
"He's in the murf."
Sylvia knew that the Minimum Restrict Facility housed a wide variety of inmates—everything from first-time nonviolent offenders to murderers awaiting parole or unconditional release.
Rosie said, "Benji got popped for working with this hot-car ring in Las Cruces. They just zip them across the border. He swears he didn't know about the ring—got suckered in."
"And you believe him?"
Rosie turned to study Benji; the inmate didn't move a muscle. She said, "No. Not a word." She ran a hand through wild curls and smiled. "But I like him, and I want him to make it. Why are you so interested? You think he saw something last night? You think he saw Randall's killer?"
"I think he saw something that scared him out of his wits." Sylvia narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, chin propped on her knuckles, elbows braced on the table. "Tell me about his family background."
"He pretty much lives in his own world. His parents are dead. I think his mother was Pueblo, and his father was Spanish and Anglo. . . old-world, a healer."
"So he grew up with more than one reality?" Sylvia nodded encouragingly. So far, Benji sounded normal by New Mexico's multicultural standards.
Rosie weighed her next words. "I've known him now for more than a year. He sees things. He feels things before they happen."
Sylvia leaned forward until the edge of the table pressed against her abdomen. "You're saying he's psychic?"
Rosie shrugged. "I'm saying he thinks he's psychic."
"I'm not big on psychics." Sylvia shrugged, then smiled. With one finger she had traced a series of invisible stars on the tabletop. "They're my competition." She eased back and turned to watch the prostrate form of Benji Muñoz y Concha. She had read about susto —the frightened state that came with bewitchment. Many people had ways of expressing a similar idea. She thought of "ghost sickness." Some Southern Plains Indian tribes believed that the ghost of someone recently dead needs to haunt the living. And there was Rosie's grandmother-in-law, Abuelita Sanchez, who was clever, witty, a devout Catholic, and who believed in evil as a force of nature. Abuelita lived in a world already crowded with brujos , spirits, demons and their curses— el mal ojo , the evil eye. The woman made regular visits to a curandera —a healer whose seventeenth-century ancestors had brought their traditional practices from Spain to Nuevo Mexico. Sylvia knew Rosie wouldn't think of trying to dissuade her husband Ray's grandmother from her beliefs—Abuelita would give her the evil eye.
Rosie stood slowly and walked back to the cot where Benji lay
"No one was with him on the hill when he found Randall?"
Rosie shook her head. "Benji was out there for hours, wandering around." She frowned and worry altered her features. "You heard him just now."
"Has he said anything you could understand?"
Rosie pursed her lips. "When I first got here, he blurted out something about an owl of death . . . and something evil stalking the city."
"What, like Godzilla?" Sylvia massaged the muscles of her neck. "Tell me about Mr. Muñoz y Concha."
The women moved to a small table in a corner of the RV and sat down. Rosie leaned back against the hard wall. Usually in her job she was dealing with inmates who overdosed on pills, crack, or heroin, or inmates who shanked other inmates, or inmates who shanked staff, or correctional officers who used excessive force. There was nothing supernatural about the system—it nurtured a very down-to-earth breed of monster. Normally she didn't have to deal with witches and death owls.
"Rosita." Sylvia interrupted her thoughts.
"Ummmm?"
"How old is Benji?"
"Twenty-two."
"And he's in for—?"
"He's in the murf."
Sylvia knew that the Minimum Restrict Facility housed a wide variety of inmates—everything from first-time nonviolent offenders to murderers awaiting parole or unconditional release.
Rosie said, "Benji got popped for working with this hot-car ring in Las Cruces. They just zip them across the border. He swears he didn't know about the ring—got suckered in."
"And you believe him?"
Rosie turned to study Benji; the inmate didn't move a muscle. She said, "No. Not a word." She ran a hand through wild curls and smiled. "But I like him, and I want him to make it. Why are you so interested? You think he saw something last night? You think he saw Randall's killer?"
"I think he saw something that scared him out of his wits." Sylvia narrowed her eyes and leaned forward, chin propped on her knuckles, elbows braced on the table. "Tell me about his family background."
"He pretty much lives in his own world. His parents are dead. I think his mother was Pueblo, and his father was Spanish and Anglo. . . old-world, a healer."
"So he grew up with more than one reality?" Sylvia nodded encouragingly. So far, Benji sounded normal by New Mexico's multicultural standards.
Rosie weighed her next words. "I've known him now for more than a year. He sees things. He feels things before they happen."
Sylvia leaned forward until the edge of the table pressed against her abdomen. "You're saying he's psychic?"
Rosie shrugged. "I'm saying he thinks he's psychic."
"I'm not big on psychics." Sylvia shrugged, then smiled. With one finger she had traced a series of invisible stars on the tabletop. "They're my competition." She eased back and turned to watch the prostrate form of Benji Muñoz y Concha. She had read about susto —the frightened state that came with bewitchment. Many people had ways of expressing a similar idea. She thought of "ghost sickness." Some Southern Plains Indian tribes believed that the ghost of someone recently dead needs to haunt the living. And there was Rosie's grandmother-in-law, Abuelita Sanchez, who was clever, witty, a devout Catholic, and who believed in evil as a force of nature. Abuelita lived in a world already crowded with brujos , spirits, demons and their curses— el mal ojo , the evil eye. The woman made regular visits to a curandera —a healer whose seventeenth-century ancestors had brought their traditional practices from Spain to Nuevo Mexico. Sylvia knew Rosie wouldn't think of trying to dissuade her husband Ray's grandmother from her beliefs—Abuelita would give her the evil eye.
Rosie stood slowly and walked back to the cot where Benji lay
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