2000 Kisses

by Christina Skye

  The old man turned the shard over, studying it intently and watching the light touch the design. “Whoever made this had a light hand. They worked with brushes made of yucca fibers split many times. Even artists today find it hard to match such details.” He pressed the clay piece back into Tess’s hand, watching her face. “If you carry it, it will become yours, sharing your heat, hearing all your unspoken thoughts. Perhaps it may even protect you.”

  He made a small movement with his hand, and for an instant, sunlight seemed to gather over the fine white surface.

  Then he coughed and stepped back. “We were to visit the camp in the mountains today, but I have come too early.”

  “What? Oh, the survivalists.” T.J. jabbed a hand through his hair. “I got a little caught up.”

  “It is easy for a man to forget when he is in the arms of a beautiful woman.” He bowed with grace to Tess. “I am glad you have recovered from the sun sickness. Your face now carries the glow of many dawns.”

  “Thank you.” Tess tucked the pottery shard back in her pocket and turned to T.J. “So you have to go?”

  T.J. sighed. “I’m afraid so. Tom Martinez should be here any minute.” As he spoke, the bell in the outer courtyard chimed.

  “I will greet your guest,” Miguel said. “You may wish to say your good-byes with privacy.” He made no sound as he crossed the gravel.

  “How does he do that?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.” Again, he sighed. “I have to go, Tess.”

  “I know,” she said softly. “Whatever it is you’re doing, promise me you’ll be careful.”

  “Always.” T.J. traced her mouth. “I’d appreciate it if you stayed here with Tom until I get back. Not an order, but a request.”

  Tess knew it cost him something to frame the words that way in spite of his concern for her safety.

  “I’ll be here. I want to work up some ideas for Mae’s new project. Just you hurry back, because I’ve got a thousand questions to ask you.” She smiled. “About chiles. And about other things.”

  “I’ll be back,” T.J. said huskily. “To answer your questions about chiles … and other things.”

  Leaving Tess was the last thing T.J. wanted to do.

  He glared at the road, wishing this visit would keep and knowing it would not. He slanted a look at Miguel. “I appreciate your coming along. I’d like your help.”

  Miguel’s eyes flickered to T.J.’s face. “What is it that we look for?”

  T.J. made a flat sound of irritation. “I don’t actually know yet. Maybe for signs of drugs. You’re the most observant man I know. You’ll see things that I won’t, and any one of those things may be useful.”

  T.J. turned off the main road, heading north. “If they’re involved in killing coyotes, I want to know that, too.”

  The old man nodded. “Why do they camp up here?”

  T.J. smiled thinly. “Because they believe civilization is toppling. Jeffrey Graystone, their leader, has gathered his tribe to wait out the end of the world. It wasn’t just on December thirty-first, you see. They believe the effects of the computer errors are only beginning. Markets will topple. Electricity will fail. You get the general idea.”

  The old man nodded slowly. “It has been said before. Many of our old ones spoke of the world that ended in darkness because of the evil of man. Of course they are right.” His eyes glinted like polished obsidian. “This world will end.”

  “Are you telling me to get my food bags ready and head up into the hills because the skies are about to split open?”

  “Many will choose this way. Many burn with the fear of change. This is why the problem you call Y2K still brings such discord. It exists and yet it does not exist.”

  “Run that one by me again,” T.J. muttered.

  Miguel gestured slowly to the landscape before them. “All this will change. Among the old ones of Yucatan, the year of turning is given. The Mayan stones record that mankind will awaken from a long, bleak dream, and as our eyes change, the world around us changes and from our pain will come great joy.” He fingered his herb bag. “This is their prophecy.”

  “Do you believe it?”

  The old man stared into the desert sunlight and inhaled slowly. “Each will believe in his way and time. Those who choose darkness will see darkness.” He smiled, holding out his hand. “Will you have one?”

  “Cactus candy?” T.J. felt as if he’d been wrenched back sharply to earth. First the end of all human life, and now cactus candy. “I haven’t eaten one of these since I was six.”

  “Sometimes it is good to see things as a child of six. Perhaps our eyes were clearer then.”

  T.J. took the bright red candy. As its sweetness filled his mouth, he sensed that Miguel spoke on many levels—most of which T.J. missed.

  The old man rubbed his jaw. “Your woman will prefer the green ones. The ones that taste bitter.”

  “How do you know she—” T.J. stopped, sighing. He didn’t bother to question how Miguel knew such things. He simply did. “She’s still not my woman.”

  “A matter of opinion.” Gravely, Miguel re-shouldered his worn cotton bag. “Only the heart can speak, yet we live in such noise that we do not listen. You must be careful, for your time of choosing comes soon.” He nodded. “We are at our destination, I see.”

  As usual, he was right.

  Four children were playing on a rough wooden bench as T.J. drove into the compound through a gate cut in a mud-brick wall. A dozen homes of adobe were completed and more stood waiting for roofs. Horses stood in a corral beside barking dogs. There was noise and activity, but the camp appeared to be well maintained.

  Every inch was self-contained, T.J. had been told. There was no external electricity, no outside water lines. Everything began and ended here, stemming from Jeffrey Graystone’s fanatical certainty that all civilization was on the verge of crumbling and isolation was the only protection.

  T.J. stopped his car in front of an unpainted building that appeared to be a social center. A woman with long braids and a baby on her back was sweeping the porch. She looked up warily as T.J. and Miguel emerged from the car.

  “Sorry to bother you, Ma’am, but we’re looking for Jeffrey Graystone.”

  She shielded her eyes, glancing at the official insignia on the side of T.J.’s Blazer. “Are you police?”

  “Sheriff McCall. Could you tell me where to find Mr. Graystone, please?”

  She put down her broom in a resigned gesture and pointed up the slope. “That’s his house, but I don’t know if he’s there. We’ve had a lot of visitors here lately. They take up a lot of his time. His name is Adam now.”

  “Adam?”

  “Ask him; he’ll tell you.”

  It wasn’t exactly a warm greeting. T.J. hadn’t expected one.

  The adobe up the slope was slightly larger than the rest. A dog lay sleeping on the front porch and a metal chime clanged in the wind. When no one answered their knock, T.J. moved around the side of the house, where a dusty Jeep stood with engine idling and hood raised. A man was bent under the hood, muttering as he worked on the engine. An interesting contradiction, T.J. thought. The survivalist who wouldn’t depend on city water or the trappings of a dying civilization still ran a car and used gasoline.

  “Excuse me. I’m looking for Jeffrey Graystone.”

  The man straightened slowly. T.J.’s first impression was of rigid determination. His next impression was of a man whose eyes flickered because he had something to hide. “Who is asking for him?”

  “Sheriff McCall.” T.J. showed his badge. “I’d like to ask him a few questions.”

  The sun cast deep shadows over the man’s face as he leaned back against the fender of the car. “Who’s your friend?”

  “Miguel Trujillo. He’s a naturalist.”

  The man wiped his hand on the rag in his pocket. “I used to be called Graystone.”

  “And now you’re Adam?”

>   “A new name for a new social order. All the old must be swept away, Sheriff.” His eyes narrowed. “Even the law will be useless when the storms come upon the land.”

  “I guess I missed that particular weather report,” T.J. murmured.

  The dog trotted around the corner and gave a low growl.

  “He doesn’t like strangers.” Graystone’s eyes narrowed. “He gets that from me. What kind of questions do you want to ask? If you’re looking for our building permits and property deeds, they’re all in order. Our children have been vaccinated and our plumbing works.” His face hardened. “If you plan to search, you’ll need a warrant.”

  “Things look orderly.” T.J. turned, running a hand along the smooth wall of painted adobe. “Nice work. Is it straw bale construction?”

  “You know about that?”

  “I used it in my own house. There’s no better form of insulation for the money. Recycles resources, too.”

  Graystone nodded. “Soon the resources will be gone. People will have only what they grow or make with their own hands. We’re prepared, Sheriff. Are you?” he demanded.

  Before T.J. could answer, Graystone gestured toward the steps. “Come with me.”

  The interior of the house was hung with bright textiles of desert landscapes and abstract patterns. There was order and careful design, but too much rigidity to suit T.J. He touched a bronze figure of a Kachina.

  “That’s my wife’s work. She’s off in Santa Fe teaching a class right now.” Graystone stared out the window. “I didn’t want her to go but she insisted.”

  T.J. touched the fine detail of the figure’s mask. “I have some of her work.”

  Graystone’s brow rose. “You do?”

  “Storm Dancer. It’s one of my favorite pieces. I had no idea she was here.”

  “We live simply here, and Marina doesn’t care for visitors.”

  T.J. suspected that Graystone didn’t either, especially when they came to see his wife and not him. There was a large ego at work beneath those shifting eyes. It took more than luck for a man to make his first million by the age of twenty-two the way Graystone had.

  T.J. swept a glance over the rest of the room. “Do you get a lot of visitors up here?”

  “A dozen or so every week. Mostly kids out to stare at the weirdos. But they’ll soon see that we are right.”

  T.J. fingered a bright tapestry of masked figures holding stalks of corn. “I don’t suppose you have any drugs here.”

  Graystone’s shoulders tensed. “Old tools for an old world. We have no need of your numbing pills up here, Sheriff. Now, is that all of the interrogation?”

  “Not quite. Have you seen any dead coyotes in the area?”

  T.J. watched the man’s face for any change in expression.

  The survivalist shrugged. “Several. They were pretty badly eaten by the vultures when we found them.”

  If he was a liar, he was a good one, T.J. decided. “Have you seen anyone up near the Needle?”

  “We’ve seen what could be lights. Or it might be the sun’s reflection off metal. Nothing that stays in one place. Why?”

  T.J. ignored the question. “Has anyone been up here asking questions in the last week?”

  “Someone was here yesterday. Two men. They wanted to know if there had been a woman here in the last few days.”

  T.J. felt his muscles tense. “Did they give her name?”

  Graystone shrugged. “They said she was from back east and driving some expensive car that she’d stolen from them.” He moved to the door and called out.

  A young man with fluorescent Oakley sunglasses trotted into the room and brightened as Graystone rapped out a question. “Car? Yeah, I saw it, Adam—a baby-blue Mercedes CLK300. I saw her about five days ago over near the interstate.”

  T.J. managed to keep his voice steady. “Did you tell them that?”

  “Sure.”

  Graystone looked at T.J. “Is something wrong?”

  “Could be.” T.J. stood up to leave. “If anyone else comes around asking questions, I’d appreciate it if you let me know. You might want to get their license plate, too. Here’s the number where you can reach me.” He handed over a card.

  Graystone fingered the card, frowning. “That woman you mentioned. Is she in some kind of trouble?”

  T.J. looked to the south. The sun was a ball of white over the mountains, and the wind blowing in off the wash carried the scent of sand and dead sage. “I’m afraid so.”

  “We’re all in trouble,” Graystone said flatly. “There will be more deaths like those coyotes, only soon it will be people. Then the time of madness will be upon us all.”

  There wasn’t much he could say to that, so T.J. didn’t try. With a tip of his hat, he left, Miguel beside him.

  They were walking along the porch, when T.J. saw a truck being unloaded.

  “Delivery day?”

  Graystone nodded. “We have our supplies trucked in. It’s cheaper that way. We buy in bulk with a group order.” Just beyond the courtyard, four people were busy lifting boxes and metal drums.

  T.J. studied the boxes marked with names of standard brands of canned goods. Then he noticed a small metal drum standing at one side of the truck. It was covered with wire, but the red letters were visible. So was the universal symbol for danger.

  “You keep poison on your grocery list?”

  Graystone made an irritated sound. “That was delivered by mistake. We found it this morning.”

  “That poison is rare. You could kill a lot of prairie dogs with a can that size.” He watched Graystone’s face. “Or coyotes.”

  The man’s expression didn’t change. “It’s not ours. Do you think we need that up here? More poison in a world that’s already half dead?” He turned away without another word.

  In the car, with Miguel silent beside him, T.J. mentally reviewed the visit, but nothing became clearer. He glanced at Miguel. “Did you pick up anything unusual?”

  “There were tracks of a truck near the delivery area. There were prints of many boots. But there were also the tracks of a horse. One single horse, separate from those in the corral.”

  “You think someone carried the poison in by horse and left it there without being seen?”

  “It is for you to judge the law.” Miguel’s mouth tightened as he fingered the heavy buckle at his waist. “I can tell you only what I have seen.”

  Andrew O’Mara scowled as he stared at the phone.

  He had just skirted insubordination for the third time, and the result had been exactly the same.

  From the start it had been agreed: allow the criminals to complete one transaction on the Atlanta account. Then, when they tried to remove the funds, field agents would close in and apprehend them.

  Unfortunately, another department had taken control of the operation. As a result, the plan had just changed. Now the Atlanta account was sealed tight. There were to be no chances that the money could slip through their fingers.

  With the Atlanta account sealed, Andrew O’Mara knew who would be next on the target list.

  Tess.

  He kicked his garbage can across the room, watching paper explode over the floor. January sleet streaked down the office windows overlooking Connecticut Avenue. Pedestrians bent beneath dark umbrellas, moving in a silent stream.

  Maybe it was time he took a vacation in the desert.

  Just in case.

  22

  While T.J. was tied up with his official duties, Tess paced the courtyard. She’d read the Almost Gazette twice. Then she’d tried Andrew, only to reach his voice mail. She’d skimmed and reskimmed her one copy of The Wall Street Journal.

  After that, she stared at the phone, valiantly fighting an urge to call Annie and find out how things were going in Boston. At twenty minutes to twelve, she gave up the fight and dialed.

  “Tess, thank heavens you called! Where in the world are you?”

  “Somewhere quiet,” Tess said evasively. “I decid
ed I needed a rest after all that cruise work. How are things there?”

  “Wholesale mutiny, that’s how. You’d better grab a seat on the next airplane from wherever you are, because two of your high-profile passengers have left the cruise and five more are threatening to leave when the boat docks in New Orleans tomorrow. The berths have been mixed up, the captain has juggled the ports of call, and the champagne appears to have been lost.”

  “Impossible.” Tess gasped at the thought of all her months of careful planning gone awry. “What does Richard say?”

  “We haven’t been able to reach Richard. But the cruise director swears that we’ll have a shipload of furious passengers if you don’t get down to New Orleans fast and pour oil on those troubled waters.”

  T.J.’s warnings filled Tess’s head. “But—”

  “But what? This is your baby, Tess, and the baby’s in trouble. This could be our first and last cruise venture.” Her assistant’s voice fell. “There’s even talk of litigation.”

  “Litigation?” Her hands locked on the telephone. “Can’t you go?”

  “Out of the question. Now I’m due in Chicago to placate the chocolate people in six hours. You’re the one with the cruise contacts and the people skills. It will take you a day, Tess, no more. Just stroke them a little in that special way of yours.”

  New Orleans wasn’t that far, Tess thought. She could be in and out the same day. “Well, I suppose I could—”

  “So you’ll go?” Annie asked breathlessly. “Where are you, by the way?”

  “Somewhere you’ve never heard of,” Tess murmured. “Annie, I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “Are you in some kind of trouble?”

  Tess swallowed. “Not really.” She grimaced at the lie. “It’s just not convenient for me to travel right now.”

  “Have you met a man?” Annie asked.

  “No. That is, it’s not what you think.”

  “My advice is for you to get on the first plane to New Orleans. Those passengers were out for blood, Tess. You’d better take a bulletproof vest in case things get worse before you reach the boat.”