St Kilda Consulting 01 - Always Time to Die

Dan.
    Governor Quintrell came into the room, shook hands and exchanged pleasantries with everyone except Carly and Dan. Whatever the governor said to Pete surprised him.
    “You’re sure, Governor?” Pete asked.
    “Absolutely. I decided that you’re right, that now isn’t a good time to think about cutting back on charitable contributions. I want you to concentrate exclusively on getting the ranch books in shape for the sale.”
    “Do you have someone interested already?” Pete asked.
    “Several parties. It’s not often a ranch this size comes on the market. Everyone from developers to conservation outfits are lined up waving money at me. Tell Melissa to start packing up the small stuff in the house and sending the contents to Santa Fe.”
    With that, the governor chose the chair that was closest to Winifred and sat down, ignoring the other empty chairs. He glanced at the minister and nodded abruptly.
    The minister walked to the fireplace and faced the room. “We are gathered together here today to commemorate the valiant spirit of…”
    After listening for thirty seconds, Carly decided that the minister hadn’t had enough time to pillage dead poets for Sylvia, or perhaps only the Senator’s death required such resonant language. Today the minister had come down solidly in the dead center of the mundane.
    With a small sigh Carly began memorizing the feel of the room so that she could record it in the history she would write. Someone had brought in fresh pine boughs and placed them on a linen-covered table. The boughs were arranged around the tray of ten, no eleven, cups. The santos gave color to the table and peered from unlikely parts of the room. The bright colors and dark features of the santos reinforced the crude vigor of the statues.
    But the longer Carly sat there, the less she liked the look of the primitive saint figures. Something Dan had said about Penitentes lashing themselves through the stations of the cross came back to her. She wondered if the Castillo side of the family worshiped at the small roadside altars she had caught glimpses of as she drove through rural New Mexico, if the Castillos relished the darkness that surrounded the santos like ghostly cloaks.
    Dan felt the slight shiver that went through Carly and followed her glance. The grim santos watching from the hearth and the walls and the table were considered collectibles by many and outright art by a few. Whoever had gathered or created these figures had been drawn to the horror and pain of the martyrdom that had preceded sainthood. Less grotesque than gargoyles, more raw than the usual Crucifixion portrayals, the santos haunted the room, describing pain and treachery and death far better than the minister’s bland words.
    Deliberately Dan laced his fingers through Carly’s and squeezed lightly, silently telling her that he was there. She gave him a quick glance and squeezed back. She didn’t know why the santos made her uneasy, she only knew they did.
    Finally the minister closed his Bible and went to the governor, and then to Winifred, saying something too soft to be overheard.
    “Just a few more minutes,” Dan murmured against Carly’s hair.
    She nodded.
    After a few fumbles, Winifred released the brake on her wheelchair and turned it to face the room. She nodded once.
    Alma stood and hurried forward to remove the ribbons and pick up the tray of small cups.
    Carly saw that the cups were filled to the top with something too thick to be coffee but just as dark. There were nine cups now, not eleven. They were laid out in the design of a diamond. She guessed that the missing cups had to do with the two missing Quintrells, but she couldn’t be sure. In any case, this part of the ceremony certainly felt more pagan than modern Christian.
    “We Castillos have a tradition to ensure the passage of the soul to God.” Winifred paused, drew from the oxygen mask, and continued. “It began a thousand years ago as a stirrup cup for the dead.” Another breath. “But now it is a large shot glass. The modern tongue finds the ancient brew bitter.” Another breath. Her voice strengthened into something close to a command. “Yet still we drink it. As we drink, we pray for the dead. Every drop drunk, every prayer prayed, helps my beloved sister. Every drop not drunk makes the devil smile.”
    Alma offered one tip of the diamond to Winifred. She took the cup, drained it, turned it upside down to show that it was empty, and put the cup