The Lies that Bind by Judith Van Gieson Read Free Book Online Page B

towed it away and impounded it as evidence. On the other hand, they were probably thinking of Justine’s death as an ordinary hit-and-run at that point. Sometimes police carelessness works in a defendant’s favor, sometimes not.
    Justine had a revolver in her car, not that unusual in New Mexico, where your car is considered your house in the eyes of the law. It could have been a .38, a gun women favor. Sensible people leave the chamber under the hammer empty for safety reasons, which would mean that only one bullet had been fired. I had no way of knowing who or where. As for when, I’d say recently, or Justine would have reloaded. The police had the investigatory resources to find out who and when, but Saia wouldn’t tell me what they discovered, not yet anyway.
    Martha’s hands pressed together in her lap like a closed book. “Justine Virga was a killer. She carried a gun,” she said. “The DA let her get away with killing my grandson, and now he wants to charge me with murder. That’s his idea of justice? What kind of a name is Saia anyway?”
    â€œAmerican.” I stood up. “I’d like to use your bathroom.”
    â€œIt’s down the hall.”
    I walked down the hallway to Martha’s bathroom, which had the same pinky-beige carpet that covered the rest of her floors. White hand towels with the initials MCC embroidered in pink hung on the rack. I flushed the toilet for camouflage and opened her medicine chest. A lot of women have their own private Idaho, a place where the grass is greener—a little stash of marijuana, Xanax, José Cuervo or whatever it takes, substances that work when used sparingly, cause worse problems when used to excess. Martha’s little helpers were on the shelf in a brown plastic container with a white prescription label. I picked up the container, made a note of the doctor’s name, Muldauer, and pushed down on the childproof lid, which would be a challenge for anyone not at the peak of reflexes and conditioning to twist open. It was already loose. Martha probably kept it that way so she could get at the Halcion easily in the middle of the night. The pills were smooth white ovals about the same size and shape as Xanax but without the dividing line down the middle. None had been broken in half, and there were plenty of them, more than enough to encourage abuse.
    I knew something about Halcion, a drug that—along with romance novels and TV—puts ladies all over America to sleep. It had been in the news lately, and the news had not been good. A half is not supposed to hurt you, but sometimes a half stops working, and then it’s a whole and then two or three, and before you know it you’ve got a jones on. There’s a narrow margin between a safe dose of Halcion and a dangerous one, because the body metabolizes it so quickly. Alcohol exacerbates the effects of Halcion. Alcohol exacerbates everything.
    I looked into the container in my hand and tried to enter that part of Martha’s mind where an anger burned that drugs and drink apparently hadn’t extinguished. I saw it as a smoky, smoldering dump. There were already a number of cases before the courts in which people (usually—but not always—women) had committed murders (usually—but not always—of family members) and were using the Halcion defense. It wasn’t the kind of defense I’d choose, because I’m not sure that Halcion causes psychotic or violent behavior. It could be that it keeps the bad dreams away and prevents the little aggravations from being expressed daily until finally, after years of repression, they explode. Deal with it now when it’s a problem child, deal with it later when it becomes an adult monster. Sooner or later you have to turn the headlights on in your life.
    I looked deeper into the Halcion container. Would Martha miss three or four? I wondered. Probably not. I took three and put them in my