Blood Test

“Seven years ago. The land went fallow. Scrub and brambles. Couple corporations thought of buying it — executive resort and all that — but all of ‘em backed out. The buildings weren’t suited to it — rooms like cells, no heat, looked like a church any way you cut it. The cost of renovation would have been too high.”

“But perfect for the Touch.”

He shrugged.

“Something for everyone in this world.”

The front door was rounded at the top, a slab of stout boards braced by wide iron bands. Inside was a three-story white-walled entrance floored with Mexican pavers and skylit from above. A smear of color reflected from the stained-glass windows rainbowed the tiles. The spicy aroma of incense suggested itself. The air was cool, almost to the point of refrigeration.

A woman in her sixties sat at a wooden table in front of a pair of oversized doors that were rounded and banded like the one out front. Above them was a wooden sign that said SANCTUARY. The woman’s hair had been tied back in a ponytail and fastened with a leather thong. She wore a sack dress of raw white cotton and sandals on her feet. Her face was weathered, bland and pleasant, and free of makeup or other pretense. Her hands were in her lap and she smiled, reminding me of a well-behaved schoolchild. The teacher’s pet.

“Good afternoon, Sheriff.”

“Hello, Maria. Like to see Matthias.”

She rose gracefully. The skirt reached below her knees.

“He’s waiting for you.”

She led us to the left of the sanctuary down a long hallway unadorned except for potted palms placed at ten-foot intervals. There was a single door at the end, which she held open for us.

The room was dim and lined with books on three walls. The floor was pine plank. The incense smell was stronger. There was no desk, only three plain wooden chairs arranged in an isosceles triangle. At the peak of the triangle sat a man.

He was long, lean, and angular and wore a tunic and drawstring trousers of the same raw cotton as Maria’s dress. His feet were bare, but a pair of sandals lay on the floor by his chair. His hair was the waxy, amber-tinted white that is the heritage of some blonds grown to maturity, and was cropped short. His beard was a shade darker — more amber and less snow — and hung across his chest. It curled luxuriantly and he stroked it as if it were a pet. His brow was high and domed and I saw the crease just below the hairline, an indentation you could rest your thumb in. The eyes, cradled in deep sockets, were gray-blue in color, not dissimilar from mine. But I hoped mine gave off more warmth.

“Please sit.” His voice was powerful and somewhat metallic.

“This is Dr. Delaware, Matthias. Doctor, Noble Matthias.”

The imperial title sounded silly. I searched for mirth on Houten’s face but he looked dead-serious.

Matthias kept stroking his beard. He sat meditatively still, a man not uncomfortable with silence.

“Thanks for cooperating,” said Houten stiffly. “Hopefully we can clear this thing up and move along.”

The white head nodded. “Whatever will help.”

“Dr. Delaware would like to ask you a few questions and then we’ll take a stroll around.”

Matthias remained in repose.

Houten turned to me.

“It’s your show.”

“Mr. Matthias,” I began.

“Just Matthias, please. We eschew titles.”

“Matthias, I’m not here to intrude upon you or your—”

He interrupted me with a wave of his hand.

“I’m well aware of the nature of your visit. Ask what you need to ask.”

“Thank you. Dr. Melendez-Lynch feels you had something to do with the removal of Woody Swope from the hospital and the family’s subsequent disappearance.”

“Urban madness,” said the guru. “Madness.” He repeated the word as if testing it for suitability as a mantra.

“I’d appreciate hearing any theories you might have about it.”

He inhaled deeply, closed his eyes, opened them, and spoke.

“I can’t help you. They were private people. As are we. We barely knew them. There were brief encounters — passing each other on the road, perfunctory smiles. Once or twice we purchased seeds from them. In the summer of our first season the girl worked for us as a scullery maid.”

“Temporary job?”

“Correct. In the beginning we were not yet self-sufficient and we hired several of the local youngsters to help. Her duties were in the kitchen, as I recall. Scrubbing, scouring, readying the ovens for use.”

“How was she as a worker?”

A smile vented the cotton-candy beard.

“We are rather ascetic by contemporary standards. Most young people would not be attracted to that.”

Houten broke in. “Nona was — is a live one. Not a bad kid, just a little on the wild side.”

The message was clear: she’d been a problem. I remembered Carmichael’s story about the stag party. That kind of spontaneity could wreak havoc in a place that prized discipline. She’d probably come on to the men. But if that had anything to do with the issue at hand I couldn’t see it.

“Anything else you could tell me that might help?”

He stared at me. His gaze was intense, almost tangible. It was hard not to look away.

“I’m afraid not.”