by Lisa Gardner
“As I mentioned, I’m doing a piece for the Sedona Sun, a ‘Where are they now?’ sort of thing.”
“Uh-huh.” Mrs. Toketee worked on pouring the coffee. Her movements were very slow but capable, like sap pouring from a tree. Tamara clutched her pen and notebook more tightly, wanting to help but understanding that it would insult her hostess.
“Do you remember October 15, 1987, Mrs. Toketee? Do you remember the car accident?”
Mrs. Toketee finished pouring the first cup of coffee. She shuffled it toward Tamara’s side of the table. “Bad night.”
“Yes.” Tamara’s fingers were starting to tremble slightly. She forced herself to be calm. She was supposed to be a reporter, talking to a potential witness; the Toketee residence was the closest house to the crash site. It had all happened to strangers.
“A family died, yes?” Mrs. Toketee murmured.
“Three people. A mother, father and the boyfriend of the daughter. The daughter survived.”
“Happened down there. There’s a cross in the road at the site. You like the coffee?”
“The coffee is great.” Belatedly, Tamara took a sip. It was good but very strong, and she hadn’t eaten all day. It settled hard in her stomach. She set the cup back down.
“Bread?”
“Uh . . . well . . . yes, please. Mrs. Toketee—”
“The accident happened late, yes? The family was there all night. I remember now.”
“What do you remember, Mrs. Toketee?” Tamara leaned forward. The sticky slice of zucchini bread was forgotten in her hand.
“The road curves there. It is a very dangerous road. At night, people go too fast.”
“This family’s car wasn’t speeding.”
“But the other car was. Hit-and-run, the newspapers said.”
“Did . . . did you see anything, Mrs. Toketee? Did you hear anything?”
Mrs. Toketee set down her coffee cup. Her weathered face creased into a deep frown. “That was a long time ago.”
“Yes. I understand that. Please . . .”
“I think there was a moon that night.”
A full moon, like a globe up in the sky, casting the canyons into dark shadows, slashing across the man’s face as he leaned over her. Illuminating his figure as he ran back to his car and sped away.
“I heard something. Something loud. At first, I think it is something in my yard.”
“Yes?”
“I wake my husband. I tell him to go look. He grumbles. He doesn’t like getting up in the middle of the night. I make him go, anyway.”
“Your husband?”
“He’s dead now. Buried in the cemetery in town. The one where the caretaker was shot. It is no longer such a good place.”
“I’m sorry.”
“He comes back to bed, tells me there is nothing. We both fall asleep.”
Tamara nodded. Her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow. She felt at the verge of a precipice, and the tension inside her was almost unbearable. The woman was going to say more. She was so sure the woman was going to say more.
“And then?”
Mrs. Toketee sat back. “It’s morning. We hear ambulances. We see the accident. My husband feels bad. If he would’ve searched harder, maybe gone down to the road. It bothered him for a long time. You don’t like the bread?”
Tamara looked down. She’d squeezed the heavy bread flat with her fingers. Belatedly, she released her grip. “Sorry,” she murmured. “The bread is fine. I was just . . . caught up in the story.” She set the bread down and spent several long minutes arranging it on the napkin. She concentrated on breathing deeply, then exhaling.
“Did you go to the accident scene?”
“My husband did.”
“Did he tell you anything about it? Did he see the car, maybe, or skid marks, or anything?”
Mrs. Toketee shrugged. “I don’t remember.”
“They never caught the man who drove the other vehicle.”
“The man?”
“The . . . the person. The other driver.”
“That could be. The police, they questioned my husband, but he didn’t have much to say. We didn’t go down until it was too late. There was nothing to see anymore.”
Staring at the zucchini bread, Tamara nodded. By morning, her family had been dead and the other driver long gone. She’d gotten to read the police reports. Traces of red paint had been found on her parents’ car. The force of impact indicated that the other vehicle should have been seriously damaged and the other driver probably hurt. But twelve hours later, when the search began, a damaged red car and hurt driver were never found. The police checked with auto body shops, car rental agencies and tow truck companies. They checked with taxicab businesses for anyone looking for a ride. They checked the local junkyards for the car and the local hospital for the driver. Nothing.
Whoever had done it seemed to have simply disappeared.
Or had the resources for a solid cover-up.
“I’m not much help,” Mrs. Toketee said. She was nodding almost in a rocking motion. “You’re disappointed?”
“A little,” Tamara admitted, then summoned a smile. “But it was very kind of you to take the time to speak with me.”
“I don’t get many visitors.”
“The coffee and bread were excellent.”
“Maybe if I think of something, you’ll come again?”
“Of course.” Tamara gathered up her notepad and pen. She drained the coffee cup, though the strong brew made her stomach roll queasily. She needed to be better about eating. She needed to be better about sleeping.
“Here, you take this.” Mrs. Toketee was holding out one of the dolls. This one was a richly clad figure of a wolf dancing on a wooden block. It had been intricately painted with deep turquoise, yellow, red and blue. The detailing was incredible and had probably taken Mrs. Toketee a very long time.
“I couldn’t. It’s too much.” Tamara waved the doll away as gently as possible.
“You know the kachina dolls?”
“Not much. They’re good luck charms, or something like that.”
“In the pueblo, we believe the kachinas are real beings. In the past, when our people needed them, they assumed human form and visited us. They brought gifts, taught us arts and crafts, how to hunt. But our people took them for granted, lost respect for their caring. Struggles broke out and the kachina stopped visiting. Their love, however, is better than ours. And though we mistreated them, they care for us still. When a person is sad or lonely, the kachina will come and dance for her. Make her understand that she is not alone. You take the kachina. The kachina will be good for you.”
Mrs. Toketee placed the doll in Tamara’s hand. It felt warm and smooth. The wooden figure was so richly colored. It vibrated with the grace of the dance.
“Thank you. You are very generous.”
Mrs. Toketee bobbed her head. “It fits you. Very nice.”
“Here . . .” Tamara jotted down the number of her hotel. “If you think of anything, please give me a call.”
A minute later, Tamara eased her car—with its new brake line—down the steep driveway. There would be no magical follow-up call; she understood that. After ten years, an eyewitness account was just too unlikely. Patty had been right—she was silly to pursue this. She should go back to Manhattan, return to the job she did so well.
Buy another car. Take another trip to Europe. Get on with her life.
She turned onto the highway and did her best not to look at the wooden cross protruding from the roadside as she drove by.
• • •
By the time she pulled into her hotel parking lot, she was lost in thought once more. She needed to know more about the mysterious red car. When the senator came into town, how did he get a car? Did he always sign up for a limo or driver? Or did he sometimes rent a car? Say a red car? Who would he rent from?
And how could she ask such questions without arousing suspicion?
Her head hurt. Sh
e pulled into a parking space, killed the engine and rested her bandaged forehead against the steering wheel for just one moment. When she looked up again, she groaned.
C. J. MacNamara stood in the parking lot. He was leaning against the convertible black Mustang she recognized from two nights ago. His booted feet were crossed at the ankles, his trim body resting quite comfortably against the door. His fingers threaded through the belt loops of his faded blue jeans, his arms akimbo and nicely sculpted beneath the short sleeves of his white T-shirt. Wheat blond hair rippled back from his face, looking freshly finger-combed. Of course, he was smiling, and that smile grew as he spotted her looking at him. That smile became smug.
Damn, egotistical, overly persistent, misguided fool. She took a deep breath and climbed out of her car ready for battle.
“No,” she said firmly before he uttered a word. “It’s Friday night. You should definitely be taking care of your bar.”
“It’s only six thirty. Even on Fridays, the bar doesn’t get hopping for another few hours.” He flashed a mischievous grin. “But thanks for being so concerned about my business.”
“I’m not going out with you.”
“You haven’t heard my offer.”
“It doesn’t matter. I’ve had a long week. My head hurts. I want a long bath and then bed.”
“Wow, and here I thought I’d have to at least buy you dinner first.”
She scowled, but he winked at her so playfully it was hard to maintain her ire. The man had obviously taken lessons from a puppy dog.
“You look very nice,” he said softly, and his blue eyes took on a warm, appreciative hue that let her know he meant it. For a moment, she thought she was going to blush. Flustered, she smoothed her hand down her suit. Today’s ensemble was an olive green, safari-style pantsuit. The jacket buttoned all the way to her neck and ballooned out with four big pockets. A wide, dark brown leather belt clipped the jacket sharply at her waist. She’d bought the suit because it concealed well, as all her clothes did, but also because it emphasized her figure, which very few of her clothes did. A moment of weak vanity, particularly for a woman who knew better.
“I had to work today.”
“Ah, that senator’s a real slave driver.”
“Presidencies aren’t built overnight.”
“No, I’m sure they’re not.” He cocked his head to the side. His hands were still resting comfortably on his lean hips. In contrast to her, he looked casual, relaxed and comfortable. His face and arms held a golden hue. When he looked at her, his eyes were bracketed by laugh lines, signs of a man who grinned easily and often. She found herself settling against her own car. Not stepping closer, but not turning and walking away when she really should.
“Here,” he said abruptly. “I figured you had had a long week. So I brought just the thing for you.”
He reached into the backseat and produced a big wicker picnic basket. He lifted the flap, letting the tempting odor of fried chicken waft across the parking lot.
She went weak in the knees. Her mouth salivated. She groaned. “You do not fight fair.”
“Fried chicken, coleslaw and apple pie. Put the color back into your cheeks.”
“And the cholesterol into my heart.”
“Uh . . . this is cholesterol-free fried chicken? Come on, Tamara. It’s just a meal, and I promise to be on my best behavior. The evening can end whenever you’d like.”
She wanted to say no. She knew the smart thing was definitely to say no. Her gaze locked onto the wicker basket. She hadn’t had real food in twenty-four hours, and Mrs. Toketee’s coffee was settling badly in her stomach. The thought of chicken, slaw and apple pie sounded so tempting.
And dammit, some small, treacherous part of her was happy to see C. J. MacNamara. Some silly, naive part of her responded to his smiles. She had this ridiculous image of him running a warm, comfortable bar where everyone knew your name. She swore that after this she was never going to watch Cheers again.
“It’s only because I like fried chicken,” she warned.
“Of course.”
“And I haven’t eaten all day.”
“Of course.”
“All right, dinner. But only for an hour.”
“Your gratitude warms my heart,” he assured her. She rolled her eyes. But she still wasn’t as immune as she should have been. Shaking her head and muttering at her own weakness, she climbed into his car.
• • •
She had forgotten how beautiful Sedona was. As C.J. turned onto Highway 179, the sun set behind the red rocks and the landscape fired to life. For eighteen years, Tamara had grown up amid this incredible landscape, never appreciating the stark beauty, never wondering why the rest of the world didn’t have anything so lovely. Now, quiet and alone in the passenger’s seat, she could drink her fill of towering red rocks and a vast amber sky. Hundreds of years of eroded sandstone and petrified sand dunes combined in swirling streaks of pale gold and bloodred. Forest trees added a lush carpet of deep green.
She had been living amid glass skyscrapers and bustling traffic. She’d forgotten what it was like to stand in the middle of land and feel at once part of something so big and something so small. The rock monuments had formed more than several thousand years ago. They would still be here in another several thousand. Only Tamara would be forgotten.
C.J. pulled over on the side of the road, the way people did in Sedona. “Why don’t we walk up here? The view from the top is amazing.”
“All right.” She bit her lip before she suggested a different stopping point. She was a vacationing New Yorker—she wasn’t supposed to know Sedona that well.
“Will you be all right with your leg? It’s not that far up. We can take it slow.”
“I’ll be fine. Exercise is good for it. Keeps it loose.”
“Hmm, let me grab a blanket. Arizona can be hot as hell during the day, but once the sun goes down, it cools off in a hurry.”
He lifted out the picnic basket, unburied a blanket from the trunk and led her to the trail cut in the sandy red ground by other hikers. They climbed without a word, weaving among the pine trees, creosote bushes and agave plants that dotted the lower grounds. Slowly, they worked their way up, the smooth sandstone rising in a series of undulating swells that started off easy and grew progressively steeper. Tamara, unfortunately, was wearing boots meant for form, not function. A third of the way up, she pulled them and her stockings off, and went at it barefoot. C.J. slowed his pace to match hers. Having donned a sweatshirt and hiking boots, he was perfectly attired for the climb. His strides were long and steady, revealing nicely muscled thighs. As he moved in front of her, she had a clear view of his firm butt caressed by worn denim. Fool that she was, she spent more time with her eyes on him than on the scenery. He was a very good-looking man.
In New York, she was surrounded by the ultra successful GQ sort of guy. Pierre Cardin suits, Armani wire-rimmed glasses. Donald, in particular, had been a very snappy dresser. When he’d smiled, however, laugh lines had not bracketed his eyes. His face was too smooth for that, having absorbed a great deal of expensive men’s facial care products. Certainly one of the best things to come out of her yearlong relationship with Donald had been a host of new conditioners that left her hair silky, shiny and full-bodied.
C.J. didn’t look like a deep-conditioning sort of guy. She figured him as wash-and-wear. He probably didn’t use a loofah or exfoliate. His hands were formed like the sandstones from years of exposure, erosion and use. Strong, enduring, commanding. The kind of hands a woman couldn’t ignore as they brushed through her hair or lazily outlined the curve of her breast.
“Okay. Here.” C.J. stopped abruptly.
She looked at him blankly, requiring several moments to pull herself together. Her mouth was dry. “What?”
“We’ll eat here. We don’t have the gear to climb higher.”
Belatedly, Tamara looked past C.J. to the towering red rocks. They soared almost straight up now, for sever
al hundred feet.
“Oh. Of course.”
C.J. came to stand beside her, smelling of soap and shampoo and, darn it, Old Spice again.
“Look,” he said, and twisted her slightly. “Look there.”
She caught her breath. The sun was captured like a sinking doubloon between two canyons. It retaliated fiercely, showering the cliffs with dazzling gold rays. The colors were so bright, they hurt her eyes. She watched, anyway, transfixed by the beauty.
“This is my favorite spot,” C.J. murmured by her ear. “I like to come here and just look.”
“It’s . . . it’s something.” It was more than something. It was beautiful; it was primordial. And it was odd and strange and powerful to see it and feel C.J. standing next to her. She heard the soft rhythm of his breathing. Her stomach tightened again. Strange, exotic sensations danced in her blood. When she looked down, her hands were shaking slightly.
She fisted her fingers and ordered the trembles to stop.
“Umm . . . maybe we can eat now. The chicken?”
“Sure.” C.J. opened the picnic basket and briskly set out everything. She helped arrange things on the blanket, needing something to do with her hands. He sat down, not across from her as she would’ve liked, but right beside her. When he leaned forward to pick up the chicken, his cheek brushed her hair. When he turned to offer her a piece, she felt his breath whisper across her lips.
His eyes were clear, blue, gentle. Blond hair waved across his brow. It looked like it would be soft to the touch.
She turned away, feeling absurdly self-conscious.
“Chicken?” C.J. asked quietly.
“All . . . all right.” She edged back a few inches, needing the space. Unconcerned, C.J. fell to eating, ripping into a piece of breast meat with sharp white teeth as if he hadn’t a care in the world. After a moment, she followed his lead.
“How’s your ankle?” C.J. asked.
“Fine.”
“Surgery?”
She stiffened, then realized that her ankle was now exposed since she’d taken off her boots and socks. She had three very distinct scars. Two round holes, almost like bullet wounds, where the screws had been for the external fixation. Then a thin, snaking line from the surgery that had happened later, when the fracture still hadn’t healed.
