reading

________

Sprawling above a basalt escarpment that lined the valley of the Rio Grande, the West Mesa formed when ancient volcanoes spewed lava that laid a foundation for silt to accumulate over tens of millions of years. From that spare soil grew a ragged carpet of bunch grasses and snakeweed spiked by gawky cholla cactus and stunted juniper trees.

Few people frequented that lonely place on the outskirts of Albuquerque. Yet on this day as on most, Kevin Pitcairn’s lanky figure strode through the early morning light. Beside him trotted a ghostly white dog while further away a dun-colored one cavorted among pale mounds of Indian rice grass.

The high desert was a perfect environment for Pitcairn. Countless trails offered space for his agitated and seemingly inexhaustible energy, and provided the perfect place to exercise his dogs. The open space was like a second home. The emptiness of the mesa absorbed him.

Pitcairn scanned the growing splash of color in the east above the Sandia Mountains. He stopped and pivoted to shout at the darker dog.

“Lucy!” he cried, trying to catch a glimpse of her.

There was no indication the dog heard him.

“Damn it, Lucy! Come on!” he roared. Lincoln, the pale dog, gazed behind them into the fading night.

The purebred boxers were beloved companions. Lincoln was five years old and perfect in stature. Despite his regal bearing a genetic abnormality had robbed his body of normal pigmentation. Further, his pale, brown eyes didn’t tear properly. Hardened corneas left only peripheral vision. Born with the defects, the dog was highly adapted to his limitations.

On the other hand, three-year-old Lucy played the part of the clown. Her temperament would have better suited a cocker spaniel. Regardless, the dogs were perfect in Pitcairn’s eyes.

Lucy remained oblivious to his calls. With a menacing gesture of his left hand he screamed, “Lucy, you idiot, listen to me!”

The boxer bolted toward them, and an instant later nearly leveled Pitcairn as she dove into him. Steadying himself, he lovingly scratched Lucy’s outstretched neck. She stood with paws on his chest, a goofy, tongue-lolling look on her face.

Pitcairn released the dog then stared into the distance. Each night he woke long before sunup to a recurring nightmare or in dread anticipation of it. Since 1988 he could count the number of uninterrupted nights on the fingers of two hands. But on this summer’s morning thoughts of the letter he received the previous day roused him from sleep before the nightmare came. The careful script on yellow legal pages mailed in a plain manila envelope clawed at him. It was a lengthy and complicated read, a reflection of the exceedingly deliberate and disturbed mind of the writer. Regardless, the first few paragraphs had seized his attention.

Dear Mr. Pitcairn:

My name is Daniel Davidson. I am a condemned man. When most people think of death row inmates, I’m the one they think of. To them, I’m the worst of the worst, a serial killer responsible for the rape and murder of eight women in three states. I have assaulted several others and stalked and frightened many more. I have never denied what I did and have fully confessed to my crimes. The only issue in my case was, and still is, my mental condition. For years I have been trying to prove that I am suffering from a mental illness that drove me to rape and kill, and that this mental illness made me physically unable to control my actions. As you can imagine, I have met with little success and less sympathy.

So here I sit in my cell in Santa Fe, soon to be returned to death row in Texas, waiting for the judicial system to complete the tedious process that will likely result in my execution. Sometimes, when I close my eyes, I can envision the hundreds of people who are likely to gather outside the prison gates on that night. I can see them waving placards, drinking and rejoicing, and I can hear their cheers as my death is finally announced.

Who is Daniel Davidson? And what could possibly motivate a clearly intelligent individual, a graduate of Villanova, to commit such horrendous crimes? As you might expect, I have been examined by many psychiatric experts since my arrest. All of them, including the state’s own expert psychiatric witness, diagnosed me as suffering from a paraphiliac mental disorder called “sexual sadism,” which, in the experts’ words, resulted in my compulsion “to perpetrate violent sexual activity in a repetitive way.” These experts also agreed that my criminal conduct was the direct result of uncontrollable sexual impulses caused by my mental illness. The state’s only hope of obtaining a conviction was to inflame the jury’s emotions so that they would ignore any evidence of psychological impairment. In my particular case, that was quite easy to do in Texas, and the state succeeded in obtaining convictions and multiple death sentences. This diversion to New Mexico has only delayed the inevitable.

The urge to hurt women could come over me at any time, at any place. Powerful, sometimes irresistible desires would well up for no apparent reason and with no warning. Even after my arrest — while I was facing capital charges — these urges continued. I remember one day being transported back to the county jail from a court appearance just prior to my trial. I was in the back of a sheriff’s van in full restraints — handcuffs, leg irons, belly chain — when we passed a young woman walking along the road. I cannot begin to describe the intensity of feeling that enveloped me that day. I wanted … no, were it not for the restraints, I would have had her. The situation was both ludicrous and terrifying. (And later, back in my cell, I masturbated to a fantasy of what would have happened.)

Even after I was sentenced to death, the urges persisted. One day, after seeing my psychiatrist, I was being escorted, without restraints, back to my cell by a young female correctional officer. When we got to a secluded stairwell, I suddenly felt this overwhelming desire to hurt her. I knew that I had to get out of that stairwell, and I ran out into the hallway. I’ll never forget how she shouted at me and threatened to write a disciplinary report; she didn’t have a clue. She never knew how close I came to attacking her, and possibly even killing her.

You would think that being sentenced to death and living in a maximum-security prison would curb such urges, but this illness defies rationality. I eventually found some relief. Almost three years after I came to death row, I began weekly injections of an anti-androgen medication called Depo-Provera. Three years later, after some liver function trouble, I was switched to monthly Depo-Lupron injections which I still receive. What these drugs did was significantly reduce my body’s natural production of the male sex hormone — testosterone. For some reason, testosterone affects my mind differently than it does the average male. A few months after I started the treatment, my blood serum testosterone dropped below prepubescent levels. (It’s currently 20; the normal range is 260 to 1,250) As this happened, nothing less than a miracle occurred. My obsessive thoughts and fantasies began to diminish. If I had this treatment years ago, who knows how many lives it would have saved, including my own.

Having those thoughts is a lot like living with an obnoxious roommate. You can’t get away because they’re always there. What the Depo-Lupron does for me is to move that roommate down the hall to his own apartment. The problem is still there, but it’s easier to deal with because it isn’t always intruding into my everyday life. The medication has rendered the “monster within” impotent and banished him to the back of my mind. And while he can still mock me on occasion, he no longer controls me.

One thing is surely true: There are other “Daniel Davidsons” out there. It’s easy to point a finger at me, to call me evil and condemn me to death. But if that is all that happens, it will be a terrible waste. Tragic murders such as those I committed can be avoided in the future, but only if society stops turning its back, stops condemning, and begins to acknowledge and treat the problem. Only then will something constructive come out of events that took the lives of eight women, left their families and friends bereaved, resulted in my incarceration and probable execution, and caused untold shame and anguish to my own family. I have read your columns and think you’ll understand what I am saying. The past has already happened. It’s up to you to change the future.

Sincerely,
Daniel Davidson

As a freelance journalist and columnist for the local afternoon newspaper, the Albuquerque Chronicle, Pitcairn often received unsolicited mail. In this case, he immediately recognized the name of Daniel Davidson. He knew all about the case. Davidson was convicted for the murder of four of his six Texas victims after protracted delays for psychiatric evaluation. During that time, the state of Oklahoma had opted not to prosecute him for the murder of a seventh victim. But after those many lengthy delays, he was remanded to the custody of the state of New Mexico for trial in the murder of a seventeen-year-old Santa Fe high school girl.

That final proceeding was notorious for ending without a conviction two weeks before. Unlike the Texans, this jury had bought the psychological evidence. Their decision was greeted with derision and accusations of racism from the northern New Mexican, Hispanic community to which the young woman belonged. The police had to quell a near riot. Now Davidson was to be returned to Texas to await execution.

Davidson’s case was unusual. Despite the efforts of anti-death penalty agitators to appeal his case in Texas on psychiatric grounds, especially in light of the New Mexican decision, the murderer requested that his sentence be carried out as soon as possible. It was reported that he understood he had broken society’s covenants and actively sought his own death.

While Pitcairn’s could easily use the material at the Chronicle, he had no idea what to make of Davidson’s request. Pitcairn intended to set the matter aside until he spoke to his editor after the upcoming weekend. The story would still be a big one by then. He told himself he could put it aside until then, but for some reason he was unable to shake a pervasive uneasiness.

Davidson was to be transported back to Texas in less than four weeks. Pitcairn had tossed and turned in bed last evening, unable to keep thoughts of the letter from stirring him. He couldn’t escape the idea that there was more than just a story here. Finally he got up, dressed and slipped into the night. The early awakening was nothing new, but the letter had provoked him in some as yet unexplainable way.

Nearing his Jeep after covering several miles on the meandering trails of the West Mesa, he paused and kneeled beside a fresh gash in the earth beside the access road. Heavy afternoon thunderstorms had pelted the Albuquerque area the previous afternoon. A local neighborhood flooded beneath the escarpment of the mesa, the result of a cloudburst that unleashed nearly three inches of rain in less than an hour on the undulating terrain he had just hiked. The arid condition of the soil resulted in massive, rapid runoff and quick draining except in basins. Where the slope was steep, the reshaping of the ground was immediate and dramatic.

Pitcairn studied the layering effect from the rushing waters that had carved a Grand Canyon in miniature. A billion grains of sand could be rearranged so quickly. Slowly the wind would inexorably heal this scarred earth one particle at a time. Someday it would be ripped by another torrent.

The West Mesa always brought a measure of clarity for Pitcairn. Today was no different. He glanced toward the city, its lights twinkling and residents soon to be roused. There were a few inquiries he could make before the day ended and the weekend began.

________

A hummingbird hovered above the thick foliage cascading over the arch to the gate of the front yard. Pitcairn eyed the bird for a few moments as he breathed in the heavy fragrance of honeysuckle and trumpet vines. The brief reverie passed. He opened the gate then stepped aside as Lincoln and Lucy rushed forward.

He and Maria Elena had purchased their home on Gold Street a few years earlier. The decision came after more than two years of dating, when they realized they would someday marry. Buying the house was their commitment to each other. The vine-covered adobe walls that encircled the house offered her a sense of security. It was not a particularly dangerous neighborhood, but the walls and dogs discouraged intrusion.

Pitcairn enjoyed the seclusion he felt in their home. Inspired by Spanish haciendas, the L-shaped house sat in a corner of the lot with virtually no back- or side yards. A single ancient and massive cottonwood shaded the house and the better part of the yard. They had removed the grass lawn that sucked up so much precious water and laid out flagstone seating areas beneath the tree. Cinder walkways wandered amid bark-covered native plantings. They were told the trumpet vines that laced their way across the sunny front wall and over the portal above the gate were planted by the original owner.

Stepping onto the covered porch that fronted the house, he opened the door and again allowed the dogs to clamber past him. Maria Elena had already cranked up the swamp cooler to allow it to begin its daily battle to fend off the heat. The dogs’ toenails clicked loudly on the tile as a waft of moving air carried the rich odor of carne adovada.

“Woman of the house,” Pitcairn bellowed with a mock Irish brogue, “where’s me breakfast?”

Maria Elena responded to his standard morning routine with one of her caustic responses: “Up yours!”

His girl was certainly feisty.

As he swung into the kitchen, Lincoln and Lucy already wolfed kibble and meat scraps in the corner. Pitcairn appreciated how Maria Elena always sought to feed every person and creature around her. Given this way of expressing her love and his delight of New Mexican cooking, it was a near perfect match.

He approached her tiny frame where she stood vigorously stirring the pork and fiery chile. Eggs sizzled in a huge cast iron skillet and pinto beans simmered on the back burner. Towering over her, he carefully placed his hands on her shoulders, bent down, and gently kissed the top of her head. Tickling stray hairs the color of a raven caused him to recoil and furiously rub his nose.

Maria Elena turned and gazed up at him through almost black eyes that shone brightly. Her face reminded Pitcairn of an Aztec priestess: high cheekbones, tapered chin, and full lips. She defended a blue-blooded Spanish heritage like so many native New Mexicans, but her looks were unequivocally Toltec. Maria Elena C de Baca grew up near Old Town Albuquerque, only a short distance from their current home. Her parents, Tomas and Raquel C de Baca, could supposedly trace their heritage back many generations. But she was estranged from her entire clan as well as the Catholic roots of her childhood.

“You were up even earlier than usual, Cito,” she whispered with the Spanish lilt so common to New Mexican Hispanics. “The nightmare again?” she asked.

The irony of the nickname was not lost on him. Kevincito, Cito for short. Little Kevin.

Pitcairn shook his head in response. “No, it was the letter. My instincts tell me to check it out. It’s a great story but I don’t really know what Davidson wants. And for reasons I can’t explain, I’m reticent.”

Maria Elena’s eyes blazed in response. “Why are you interested in that bastard at all? He deserves what he’s going to get!” To emphasize the point, she mimicked his impending execution with a full body spasm simulating the electricity coursing through him. Her glare locked onto his eyes before she spun on her heels to flip the eggs and stir the carne adovada.

Her infrequent bouts of steeliness always threw him off balance. He had learned to use the instant of quiet that followed to think before proceeding, and to swallow his tendency to react. It was simply a part of her capricious emotions.

“Emmy,” he began with her nickname, a playful variation on her initials, “if what Davidson writes is true, he’s not an evil man. And that’s a story that needs to be told.”

Pitcairn saw the cords in her neck knotting as he spoke. A wisp of a grin came to his lips in anticipation.

Maria Elena whipped her head over her shoulder with a nasty hiss. “Listen,” she snarled with flashing eyes. “Any man who does what that man did to the girl in Santa Fe is vile! He deserves to be fried!”

He draped his arms around her as she pitched forward and away from him, whispering into her hair, “I may not always understand you, but you’re gorgeous when you’re pissed.”

Her body sagged into him as a sigh escaped her, “Pitcairn, if you defend Davidson, you’re as much a bastard as he is. Now let go of me before I burn your eggs.”

The look on her face told him the fight was over. Like a fast-forming summer storm, Maria Elena exploded with a fury that passed swiftly.

He slouched into a chair and grinned at her as she deftly placed three eggs on the blue enameled, tin plate and ladled beans beside them. Then she smothered the plate with steaming carne adovada before yanking open the oven and gingerly folding two tortillas along the edge of his plate.

Maria Elena turned, saw the broad smile on his face and with an impish look asked, “What are you grinning about?”

Pitcairn laughed merrily. “What more could a bastard want? A beautiful, tenacious woman. A platter of world-class New Mexican food. Doesn’t get any better than that.”

In response she leaned over and kissed his forehead before setting his breakfast on the table and returning to the stove for her own meal.

Quiet descended on the kitchen as he awaited her return to the table. The dogs studied him from the corner as they licked their muzzles in hopeful anticipation.

Maria Elena seated herself as Pitcairn lifted the first bite to his mouth. “Are you really going to do something with this letter?” she asked tentatively.

“I gotta check it out. If his story is legit it has huge implications. The man might be sick rather than bad. With all the debate about death penalties and stiffer sentencing for felons, that’s a newsworthy perspective.” He pointed with his fork before adding, “Controversial too.”

Chewing thoughtfully as he paused, he then shook his head. “Emmy, it’s not like he made it clear what he wants. If Davidson is as rotten as you think, I’ll drop it. Until then, I need to see it through.”

He watched as Maria Elena chewed, digesting both food and thoughts. He knew she would change the subject. The grin crept back to his lips as long moments passed.

“I’m meeting Darlene for dinner tonight,” she announced. “We’re going to meet two other women for dinner at Church Street Café.”

A malicious smirk came to Pitcairn’s face as he interjected, “Our Ladies of Perpetual Revenge do Old Town?”

Maria Elena rolled her eyes in exasperation. “How can such a nice guy act like such a jerk?”

Silence filled the space before she continued. “I know it’s one of those jokes about women in Al-Anon. That we’re out to punish alcoholics. But I really don’t appreciate it. Especially because Darlene has been such a great sponsor. I could never have healed without her help. So I hardly think her guidance qualifies as revenge somehow directed at you.”

“You’re right, Emmy. But you have to admit Our Ladies of Perpetual Revenge has a great ring to it.”

She stared at him in mock disgust. “It’s a good thing I have a job. If I were cooped up with you for too long I’d have to kill myself.”

“Touche!” He quickly added, “I hope you remembered I’m speaking at Saturday Night Live Group tomorrow. I would like you to be there even though you’ve heard my story ad nauseum.”

“After the crap you put me through Pitcairn, I should avoid you like an obnoxious teenager,” she said with a smirk. “But I’ll be there. It’s important to you. It’s okay if Darlene comes with me, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely. Just tell her to check her instruments of torture at the door.” He winked at her.

Maria Elena shook her head once again, then glancing at the clock on the kitchen wall, jumped up with a gasp. “You’ll need to take care of the dishes. I’ve got a 7:30 meeting I can’t miss.”

“Done. I’ll handle it. I’m a very competent guy.”

She leaned down to kiss him. He grabbed her breast. She laughed and dashed out the door.

***

With dishes done and dogs snoring on the futon in the corner of his home office, Pitcairn pulled out his file of names and contacts. He dialed Kate Delmonico.

“Kate, this is Kevin Pitcairn. How’s your life?”

She giggled uncomfortably. He marveled that a woman so bright could be so socially awkward. But in a long ago interview on her first book on addictive brain chemistry, they had laughed together about themselves as social inepts. That conversation established a rapport that endured. Delmonico was brilliant, even inventing some of the elements within her own field when existing knowledge fell short.

“Pitcairn,” she bubbled, “So nice to hear your voice.”

“Ditto,” he replied. “Have you got a few minutes?”

“For you? Always.”

“Great. Now look this is not really up your alley, but --”

She cut him off, “But you figured you would give it a shot anyway?”

“Kate, even on a slow day you’re sharper than all the shrinks in town.”

Laughter punctuated by snorts burst over the telephone line. “You are dangerously smooth.”

“Maria Elena says I’m ‘autentica’, gen-u-ine. But that’s a conversation for another day. I’ve got a hot project that involves brain chemistry. You in?” he inquired.

“What’s the story?” she replied in earnest.

Pitcairn described the letter, then proceeded to read the paragraphs on the testosterone effect Daniel Davidson described. “What’s your take?” he probed.

“I suppose you want my professional opinion as opposed to commentary,” she countered.

Pitcairn chuckled. “Come on, Kate. The whole truth and nothing but the truth.”

“Well …” Delmonico began with an uncharacteristic stutter, “it’s consistent with my findings, but the implications trouble me. I mean … as word creeps into the community of sexual perpetrators, they’re all going to start pleading brain chemistry disorders as a defense. As a scientist, I can defend that but it’s still disturbing.”

He heard her take a deep breath.

“So it’s possible, if not plausible?” Pitcairn interjected swiftly.

“Sure. Every year continues to bring more evidence that many behaviors are genetic and biological in nature.”

“Listen Kate, no way do I want to justify this guy’s crimes. But if he’s right, we’re incarcerating and executing people who are sick simply because we don’t want to admit they’re not the convenient, evil stereotype. That’s newsworthy no matter how heinous the behavior.”

After a long silence, she asked lightly, “How do you get involved in these strange stories anyway?”

“I’m karmically challenged,” he laughed again. “Though admittedly, I don’t believe in that nonsense.”

Kate responded, “Well, this has all the marks of a very interesting situation, which piques my interest. Let me know how I can help.”

“One last thing comes to mind. Do you have any suggestions on shortcuts to find out who’s treating Davidson in Santa Fe?”

“Pitcairn, I may be bright,” she said with uncharacteristic charm, “but you’re on your own navigating those waters. There are probably no shortcuts through the penal system.”

“I knew you’d say that,” he replied. “But thanks anyway. I’ll be in touch.”

Delmonico offered a quick goodbye.

His interest was increased by Delmonico’s thoughts. He gazed out the window as he pondered proceeding, then pulled open his file of contacts once again. He began a methodical series of calls through the bureaucracy. Two hours later he’d made little progress. Since it was Friday, the best he could do was to leave messages after talking to clerks who offered little direction or hope.

Lincoln and Lucy emerged from their slumbers with a great deal of yawning and stretching. Pitcairn took a break to limber his legs as he sauntered around the yard preoccupied with thoughts of Daniel Davidson. With no clear direction before him until he talked to his editor, he shrugged off further thoughts and drove away in his jeep to run errands. The mystery would have to wait.

________

He snapped awake with a loud grunt, the damp bed sheet clutched in his hand. Maria Elena threw her arm protectively across his chest and pulled herself tightly to him. The sound of nails clicking on tile announced the arrival of the dogs. Lucy nuzzled his forearm.

He took a deep breath and exhaled swiftly in several short bursts to force the terrible picture from his mind. It was part of a detraumatization regimen he’d learned to help him cope with post-traumatic stress disorder.

“God damn it,” he muttered.

Her grip tightened.

The nightmare began in 1988. He was on assignment for the Indianapolis Star a few miles down the Ohio River from Evansville, Indiana, in the town of Mt. Vernon. A plastics manufacturing site had been conducting studies to prevent catastrophic chemical emergencies, a major news story. He had visited Hawk’s, a tiny bar and grill, then at the urging of the barman had meandered down the hill to the riverfront titty bar where he proceeded to get very drunk.

Somehow he had driven his car to downtown Evansville, but rather than heading for his hotel room he found another bar. After that, his memory was spotty.

The nightmare filled in troubling details. Lurid wallpaper in a seedy, riverfront hotel formed the backdrop. His right hand clenched an ugly little man by the throat. Pitcairn’s whitened knuckles stood out in vivid contrast to the man’s face with its bulging blue eyes and torrid complexion. Bluish tinges of asphyxiation gave way to dark violet as bubbles frothed on the man’s lips. In the periphery of Pitcairn’s vision the man’s arms and legs flailed. A terrible focused fury held him against the wall until the struggling ceased. The little man’s eyes dimmed. He dropped with a dull, lifeless thud when Pitcairn eased his grip.

Pitcairn awoke at dawn, slouched sideways in the seat of his car. The dirt parking area lay atop a wooded bluff above the banks of the Ohio River. At first he had no recollection of the night, but when the image of the man he strangled came to him through the drug- and alcohol-induced fog, he bolted for Indianapolis.

There was no telling what really happened. Pitcairn guessed he left the bar to find drugs. A bad drug deal ensued, or perhaps he simply flew into a drug-induced rage. That was certainly not uncommon in those days.

News reports confirmed that a man was found murdered in the Old River Inn. The police had no leads but the dead man was a drug felon. Little effort was expended to find the killer. Pitcairn was never even questioned. He escaped the police, but not the guilt. With it had come the nightmare and a powerful fear that drove him to the seeming haven of New Mexico. It was an unconscious attempt to find a geographic cure. While it didn’t free him from the demons of his past, it did lead to his eventual sobriety.

“Emmy,” Pitcairn said as he leaned his head against hers, “the eyes in the nightmare were Daniel Davidson’s.”

Maria Elena kissed his cheek and patiently caressed his forehead. He glanced toward the clock. It was 3:30 on Saturday morning. Discouragement threatened to overwhelm him. Sensing his despair, Maria Elena kissed him again.

“Want to be distracted?” she whispered seductively.

Preoccupied with the lingering effects of the nightmare, it took Pitcairn a moment to answer. “You’re in charge.”

Her forthrightness always surprised him. Given the childhood incest she had battled to overcome, he expected her to be timid or frigid. Yet she loved making love to him. She experienced some healing catharsis when she initiated sex. She admitted part of the attraction she felt for him was the hint of violence that lurked within him. Years of therapy had helped her to see these passions were the actions of a woman trying to transcend her childhood wounds, to both confront and banish her history and fears. At moments like these, the psychology didn’t matter.

Slowly she swirled her hand across his chest and stomach. One foot slid sensuously along his inner calf. She showered tiny kisses on his neck and chest.

Steadily she raised herself above him then sat upright to pull her camisole over her head. Her skin glowed in the pallid light as she leaned down to press herself against him. He responded half-heartedly. She remained undeterred, slowly coaxing him along.

Soon she had his attention. Sensing this, she rose again into an upright position and began to grind her hips with deliberation. He felt the heat rising in him and reached upward to fondle her small breasts. A moan escaped her and she reached down to make way for him to enter her.

Pitcairn watched Maria Elena with fascination as her passion and movements increased. Her excitement was captivating. He closed his eyes as waves of sensation built in him.

A few seconds after her climax, he was swept into his own as she continued to draw him into her. A protracted groan poured from him and she collapsed onto his chest.

As their breathing quieted, she slipped beside him, then spoke softly with the side of her face pressed into his chest. “I love you, Cito. I wish I could take the nightmare away.”

Pitcairn chuckled as his fingers played in her hair, “You just did. And I love you too.”

The respite was temporary. Tendrils of ugly images crept into his thoughts. He waited quietly, pondering his past until his lover’s breathing sagged into the deep rhythm of sleep. Carefully he extricated himself from her arms, leaned to kiss her on the cheek, then rose and crept from the room. Lincoln and Lucy knew the routine and followed him.

***

Streaks of gray tinged by the first pink hints of sunrise painted the sky above the mountains on the eastern horizon. The onset of dawn’s winds swirled around Ja, the southernmost of the five volcanoes that crested the West Mesa. Air moved downward to be met in a swirl in the valley by countervailing currents sweeping grandly from the mountains.

For time immemorial men had come to these crumbling, lava-strewn relics to seek meaning beyond what they found in their lives. It was as if the presence of the volcanoes amid the vast openness signaled an answer to unclear questions. The mesa drew them to its rocky bosom.

***

Lucy joyfully led the way up the flank of the volcano. Lincoln trailed Pitcairn as he followed the female boxer, carefully dodging broken ground. Thorns tore at his forearm as he slipped carefully through a narrow passage between two protruding knobs of reddish rock that guarded the helm.

He glanced upward across the remaining twenty yards of slope to see Lucy whimpering stupidly as she gingerly lifted one paw.

“Lucy, I don’t how any dog could be more idiotic. You’d think that sooner or later you’d figure out what cactus looks like.”

He crossed to her and ruffled her ears before hunkering down beside her to remove the spines. He probed gently with his fingertips and plucked them from her flesh. She licked his hand exuberantly and promptly bounded away.

Pitcairn shook his head in amazement and looked at Lincoln. “Unbelievable! You suppose we ought to be more like her, boy?”

Lincoln lifted his nose as if to nod in agreement. They resumed their ascent.

As Pitcairn stepped onto level ground at the top, he spun to survey the coming dawn. He threw back his arms in a huge stretch then eased himself to the ground, crossed his legs and propped his back against a craggy outcropping. Lincoln lay beside him with head erect. Lucy snorted and snuffled around the perimeter.

Facing south, he squinted to make out the terrain. Soon the light would shimmer on the waving grasses. Already meadowlarks called, welcoming the day.

The walk from the road to Ja had settled Pitcairn somewhat. He had counted his steps, another good strategy for managing his PTSD. Still, tears welled up as he closed his eyes. The voice of his mother taunted him.

Both his parents were dead. Scotty Pitcairn, the third generation of Welsh-Scottish immigrants, worked himself to death in the huge steel mills of Gary, Indiana. His father was a huge man – made larger by memory - who gave his son his first boilermaker at the local tavern at the age of twelve. Co-workers and barflies gathered to watch this rite of passage, laughed when he choked and spat, and cheered when he asked for another.

Hard-living men were drawn to his father and his larger-than-life persona. Partly it was his reputation for never having been bested in a brawl but, more than that it was the stories of how he had humiliated a number of company men during violent union strikes. If nothing else, Scotty Pitcairn burnished his images with well-told tales.

Four children were fathered by this man. A first-born daughter, Mary, died shortly after childbirth. Michael, the oldest son, was killed in an accident at the mills while Kevin, the second son, was in college at Indiana University. Elizabeth, the youngest by three years, still kept a blue-collar home a few miles from their birthplace.

Kevin’s childhood was filled with typically boyish adventures that sometimes became misadventures. He had a reputation for broken limbs and pranks, as well as tenacity. Pitcairn played football until his sophomore year of high school when his aggressive style resulted in a horrendous fracture of a teammate’s leg. He had hammered the young man into the ground during a drill. In a coach’s comments Pitcairn heard the murmurs for the first time. “That bastard is certainly his father’s son. Mean as hell.” He lasted only a few more games before guilt forced him to quit.

No one knew that the fuel for his doggedness did not come from Scotty Pitcairn, but from his mother, Anna. She offered nothing but criticism to her son’s accomplishments, which included honor society, salutatorian of his class and a full scholarship to college to study journalism. For Pitcairn, each was simply one more failed attempt to appease an unappeasable bitch.

Anna Andreskewicz was born of Polish immigrants. Pitcairn could not recall a single childhood sign of affection from her. Not one kiss. Not one hug. Not one touch. Only a tersely worded phrase she always uttered in response to her son’s latest success or adventure, “Boy, you’re just like Kruschev.”

One day she said it in response to his first place finish in a debate tournament. Driven by an ache he could not express, he hurried to the library to research Kruschev. Nothing he found made sense. His only redemption was to excel at everything. He became a chronic overachiever and highly competent in every venture he undertook. His was a story of over compensation, outer determination in response to an inner wound that simply did not heal no matter his efforts.

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After the waves of heartache abated, he rested against the rock. He offered a silent prayer to an unknown God, a God in which he did not believe. “It hurts. If you’re there, help me. I don’t want to drink or drug, and I don’t want to die. Not today. Just show me what to do. I’m willing.”

He remembered Maria Elena and a tender smile slipped onto his face. He admired what she had overcome. Not only did she now hold a senior advisor position for the city council and a Masters Degree in Economics, she was tough and resilient. Still, it was her capacity to care that he most adored. She was one hell of a woman and a very good reason not to drink or die.

Light shimmered in the green of the valley then swept upward into the foothills of the Sandia Mountains. Darkness was vanquished by light.

Suddenly Lucy sat very erect and gazed toward an arroyo to the southeast. Pitcairn focused carefully and watched as two well-camouflaged coyotes moved furtively up the wash. He grinned as he grabbed the dogs’ collars.

The adaptability of the coyotes enthralled him. A short piece he had written on the subject had been published in New Mexico Magazine the previous year. Many suburbanites hated the wilderness just beyond their concrete walls. They wanted governmental support to exterminate the coyotes that often snatched dogs and cats for snacks. Pitcairn adored that wildness.

The coyotes disappeared into the brush. Pitcairn playfully tousled his dogs’ heads. As a reward for their good behavior, he bonked his head into Lucy’s. She backed off, stubby tail wagging, and began to growl.

“Dumbass,” he said to her.

Lincoln placidly watched as Pitcairn rose and stalked Lucy around the rocks in a spontaneous game of slow-motion chase. Lucy yapped and cavorted. Pitcairn wordlessly crept after her, feinting and occasionally darting toward the boxer.

Pitcairn played the game for several minutes until Lucy became distracted. Taking one last walk around the volcanic cone to view the mesa beneath the new day, he pivoted and herded the dogs down the broken slope.