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“But you live in the same town.”
“Like I said—she lives her life; I live mine.”
“Do you help support her, give her money?”
“Of course I give her money. You think she makes anything as an archaeologist? I advised her not to go into that profession, but she didn’t listen.”
Nora opened her mouth, thought better of it. Corrie was peppering the man with questions as it was.
“And Elodie’s relationship with your new wife? How is that?”
“Laurie is ten years younger than Elodie. That didn’t go down well.” He laughed harshly.
This is going nowhere, Nora thought as she listened to the back and forth. But if nothing else, it illuminated why Elodie might have fallen in with a cult. What a childhood she must have had, growing up with a distant and uncaring father like this—justthe type to be susceptible to the brainwashing of a charismatic, faux-paternal figure.
“Is thereanythingyou can tell me, Mr. Bastien, that might shed light on why Elodie did what she did?”
“Nothing,” Bastien said.
“In that case, may we go in and speak to her?”
“Be my guest. The doctors say nothing’s wrong with her brain—she just refuses to talk.”
He stood up and led them through a succession of more spare, white rooms and corridors, arriving at last in a beautiful room with windows overlooking the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. Elodie was sitting up in bed—as Corrie had described her in the hospital—staring at a dark flat-screen TV.
“Here she is,” Bastien said, and withdrew.
Corrie sat down in a chair next to the bed, while Nora took a seat on the opposite side.
“Elodie,” Corrie began, in a gentle voice. “I’m Agent Swanson from the FBI—you remember me, I hope—and I’ve brought Nora Kelly, an archaeologist working as a consultant to us. We’d like to ask you some questions.”
No response.
Corrie then proceeded to make a series of inquiries, but Elodie remained stone-faced throughout, always staring forward, never reacting. It was almost as if she was catatonic. After a while, hoping to make a connection, Nora reached out and took Elodie’s hand lying on top of the bedcover. The hand was ice cold. The woman didn’t flinch at the touch, but she did slowly withdraw her hand from Nora’s and slide it under the bedsheets.
Corrie glanced at Nora and gave her a subtle nod. Since nothing had worked, it was now time to try the idea she’d suggested. Nora reached into her briefcase and removed a smallmetal box, which contained protective padding around a heavy Ziploc storage bag. The bag itself held a large, flat piece of stone, its edges roughened and coarse, as if it had been knocked or chipped from its original position. On its flat side, a design had been inscribed. Very carefully, she lifted the bag from the box, holding the face of the stone away from the girl in the bed.
“Elodie, I’d like to show you something,” she said. Cradling the stone within its protective casing, she brought it closer.
No response.
Nora turned the stone around, bringing the design into Elodie’s field of vision. At first, the girl’s gaze remained straight ahead, staring at the television—but then Nora saw a flicker of movement and the eyes turned toward the stone. They widened abruptly, and she issued an involuntary gasp. Her face drained of color, and her lips trembled. But this reaction lasted barely a moment before her gaze once again swiveled back toward the television set and her near-catatonic composure returned.
45
BACK IN THEcar, Corrie turned to Nora. “So whatdoesthat strange design mean?”
Nora took the metal box out of her bag again, opened it, and showed the chunk of stone to Corrie. On it had been drawn, quite carefully, a spiral design ending in a snake’s head.
“It’s from the Institute’s collection of items of Gallina origin.”
“How did you know it would get a reaction?”
“I didn’t,” said Nora. “But a reverse spiral like this is known to the Pueblo Indians as a sign of evil. It is believed witches use the reversed spiral to project their evil power. The Gallina ones always have the Feathered Serpent as a head.” She paused. “I took the trouble of getting an authentic specimen from the Institute collection—we could never put it on display, given its associations—because I thought that might get more of a reaction out of her than simply a sketch I made myself. She recognized it—but she didn’t talk.”
“I don’t think she’s ever going to talk,” Corrie said. “I think she’s withdrawn from the world—and no wonder, with that monster of a father.”
Nora paused, wondering if this was the right time to mention something she’d been mulling over. She decided that, with this unsuccessful interview concluded, there was no point in waiting.