SHADOWS
AMONG THE
RUINS
Marie Romero CASH
Camel Press
PO Box 70515
Seattle, WA 98127
For more information go to: www.camelpress.com
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.
Cover Photograph by David Alfaya
Cover design by Sabrina Sun
Copyright © 2011 by Marie Romero Cash
ISBN: 978-1-60381-836-0 (ePub)
Produced in the United States of America
* * * *
Dedication
For Jimmy:
I hear angel wings flutter when I speak your name
* * * *
Acknowledgments
I would like to thank my brother, Ricardo, for providing such great material for my stories (you prove that life makes for good fiction); my brother-in-law Jean, who contributed tales about Idaho and law enforcement; Forrest Fenn, who, many years ago, let me introduce him to the San Lazaro Indian ruins; and for Gregory, Audrey and Anthony, the Lomayesva clan, for encouraging me to keep writing.
Prologue
Jemimah Hodge first ran into Tim McCabe at the glitzy Buckaroo Ball in Santa Fe. He was schmoozing at the bar with Byron Mills, a jerk she recognized from her past. She stopped dead in her tracks, disconcerted that she even remembered the lecherous old man. She had no intention of giving him the pleasure of knowing that.
Byron strutted toward her, an apish grin on his face. “What’s a nice Mormon girl like you doing out here in this godforsaken desert?”
She gave him a phony smile and tossed her ponytail as if it belonged to her prized horse. She wanted to tell the son of a bitch to go to hell. Instead she picked her words carefully.
“That’s Doctor Mormon Girl. And I hope you never need avail yourself of my services.”
“Whoops,” Byron responded, his drink sloshing on the hardwoods when he almost collided with another patron of the bar. “Folks, we have a gen-u-ine professional person here. What are the services you might offer?”
“I’m an inspector of dead bodies. You got any skeletons in your closet?”
Byron made a lavish fake bow and announced:
“Whoops, folks, this lovely lady is a cor-oh-nerrh.”
“No, you jerk. Not a coroner.” She hated that word. “A forensic psychologist. I profile perverts and sadistic killers.”
Byron preened. “Well, that lets me off.”
Still at the bar, Jem caught McCabe’s eyes on her and Byron. She shot him a ‘rescue me’ glance. McCabe excused himself from his drinking buddies and ambled over. She’d met McCabe once before but couldn’t remember where, probably at the feed store. All she knew right now was that she needed someone to interrupt Byron’s arrogant confrontation. And he wasn’t going away without encouragement.
“Move aside, Byron, and give a real man a chance. My wife said I could dance with the second prettiest woman in the room and this one definitely qualifies.” He reached out to Jemimah.
She took his hand. “Gladly.”
Chapter 1
Walking her horse up the arroyo, Jemimah Hodge heard a shot, the third one in the last half hour. As soon as she reached flat ground, she mounted her Appaloosa, keeping her feet hard in the stirrups as the horse loped along the fence toward the San Lazaro pueblo ruins. She had already worked up a sweat, and the morning breezes were cool on her overheated skin. She kept an eye out for a running spring to water her thirsty horse.
Ahead, she saw McCabe’s shiny silver Hummer.
Near Medicine Rock, a pile of clothes lay on the shale, as if someone was in a hurry to shuffle out of them. There was no pool around to dive into, and running naked in the broiling sun was not a good way to escape the heat.
No, that was not just a pile of clothes. There was a body inside. And although the face was turned away, she was pretty sure she recognized McCabe’s frame.
A noisy jaybird in a mesquite tree brought Jemimah to a halt. Dismounting her horse, she looped the reins over a fence post and hurried toward the ruins. She knelt and placed her fingers on his neck. A faint pulse. What could she do? She wasn’t any good at mouth-to-mouth. Don’t panic, stay calm, she whispered to herself.
Her cell phone was still plugged into the battery back at the ranch. She checked McCabe’s pockets. Nothing. Her heart raced as she sprinted toward his vehicle. Maybe his cell phone was in the Hummer. And hopefully it would pick up a signal. Cellular service out here in the boondocks was sporadic at best.
She yanked open the Hummer door, eyeing the seat, the floorboard, the sun visors, before she spotted the phone on the dashboard next to the radio. She breathed deeply to steady her shaking hands and pressed 911 into the keypad.
“Come on, dammit,” she muttered. “Answer!”
The operator came on the line. “What is your emergency?”
Jemimah practically screamed into the cell.
“There’s a guy here on the ground and he seems to be dying—” God, what a screw-up she was. Calm down, Jem.
“Where is here?”
“Just south of Cerrillos, next to the Indian ruins at the end of 55A—”
“Is he breathing?”
“He’s not moving. He may have been shot.”
“Ma’am, is he breathing? Do you know how to take his pulse?”
“Can you send someone in a hurry? Maybe a helicopter? He’s not going to last much longer.”
“Look. Calm down. Can you tell me if he is breathing?”
“Yes. I took his pulse. It’s weak, but fast. Tachycardia, I think.”
“Are you a doctor, ma’am?”
“Not an MD, no, but my training is clinical psychology. I’ve taken a number of First Aid courses but I’ve forgotten some of them.”
“I’m contacting an officer right now.”
“Listen, I need to get back to McCabe right now and see if I can help him.”
“Just a couple more questions. What is your name and can you remain there until we send help?”
“Yes, of course. And my name is Jem—that’s jay, ee, em—Hodge. I own the Peach Springs Ranch at the base of the Ortiz Mountains.” She didn’t add, ‘… and a border collie named Molly, a long-haired tabby cat named Gato’ or that there was a barn for her two horses.
“Lieutenant Romero is in the vicinity of the Corrections Facility. He’s on his way. Give him twenty minutes. Ambulance also on the way.”
Jemimah punched off the cell phone and stashed it in her pocket. She rifled through McCabe’s Hummer, grabbed a blanket and a First Aid Kit, and ran back to his side to check his pulse again. Fearing she would make his injuries worse, she debated then decided against turning him on his back. Then she changed her mind and gently eased him flat on the rock, rolling up the blanket and putting it under his head for a pillow. He moaned and tried to lift his head.
“Take it easy, McCabe.” She gently stroked his brow. “You’ve been shot, but I don’t think it’s a critical wound. Just hang in there. Help is coming.”
McCabe mumbled something unintelligible.
“Yes, yes,” she soothed. “The ambulance is on the way. Don’t try to talk. I’m right here.”
Unbuttoning his shirt, she applied a handful of gauze pads to the wound. The bleeding seemed to have stopped. Not knowing what else to do, she stroked his temples
and held fast to one hand. Once, he opened his eyes and gave her a forlorn look before passing out again. Damn, she hated being so helpless.
She looked down the road, hoping to see the rising cloud of dust that would mean help had arrived. Nothing. She turned her attention back to McCabe. His face was drained of color. He had lost a lot of blood. She wondered again about giving him mouth-to-mouth but suspected his lungs might be too messed up to receive it. A tinge of fear shot through her as she looked around the ruins. The shooter could still be out there.
Chapter 2
Sheriff’s Deputy Lieutenant Rick Romero drove south on Highway 14, lights flashing and siren blaring. A blue and white ambulance tailed him. A Santa Fe native, Romero had worked as a detective for the Sheriff’s Office for the past fifteen years, slowly moving up to his rank as Lieutenant.
In his early forties, Romero’s muscular physique resulted from working out regularly at The Body Factory, across from the National Cemetery in Santa Fe. With his brown hair and green eyes, he scarcely resembled a stereotypical Hispano of northern New Mexico, frequently referred to as beaners, La Raza, and sometimes spicks.
Over a year ago the Santa Fe County Commission approved the installation of a substation for the Sheriff’s Department in the town of Cerrillos, about twenty miles south of Santa Fe. A day seldom passed without emergency calls about domestic disturbances, local merchants apprehending shoplifters, or a pack of coyotes camped out in front of the church. The new office prevented deputies from driving twenty miles from Santa Fe to investigate minor complaints.
The powers that be selected Detective Rick Romero to manage the satellite, not only because of his stature in the department, but because he was the single individual the Sheriff most trusted, regardless of the fact that his brother was locked up in the adult corrections facility across the street from the Sheriff’s Department. In spite of other personal shortcomings, Romero was a trained forensic specialist with the ability to follow a crime investigation through to the end. His relentlessness had pitched him into hot water more than once in his career.
Romero was headed back to his office in Cerrillos when he received the call about the shooting. Often the site of drug busts, carjackings, and marital disputes, Cerrillos was an area he knew like the contours of his face. The small village had a colorful history from the mining boom in the late 1800s. The nearby mountains had long been considered a prime source of blue-green turquoise. The newly designated substation and increased police surveillance was a welcome addition to many of the residents, but not all. Drug dealers and users now had to watch their backs.
The elementary school on Highway 14 had just dismissed classes for the year, and parents’ cars were streaming in a long line from the school drive onto the highway. Romero knew that drivers tended to ignore police vehicles, acting as though hypnotized by the flashing lights, so he cranked up the siren even louder to warn them to pull over to the side of the road. Police and emergency vehicles could only travel ten MPH above the speed limit. He was clocking seventy on the flat stretch of road. The ambulance had picked up on his tail and ran close behind him, sirens screeching in tandem. He took a left turn onto the county road. His cruiser fishtailed violently as the tires caught the pitted, washboard road. He knew it would be impossible to drive at a speed faster than twenty, so he slowed down until he turned at the railroad trestle, where he found the roads weren’t much better. Under normal circumstances, this would have been a leisurely drive. He had never been this far off-road. Didn’t even know anything existed past the turnoff.
The dirt road continued for another five miles, rocks spattering the underside of his vehicle. Traveling faster was still not an option. Up ahead the road forked, splitting the county road into two. A bright blue sign on top of a metal post read Crawford Ranch Road and directed him to take a right turn. He drove another three miles until he saw the ranch house and the Indian ruins.
Jemimah checked her watch. Thirty-five minutes had elapsed since she made the first call. Still no sign of a vehicle. She focused on McCabe, checking his pulse frequently, terrified each time that there would be none. Breathing still and shallow. Hadn’t made another sound.
Finally, a siren wailed in the distance, drawing closer. The silver Santa Fe County Sheriff’s SUV pulled into the side road, drove through the gate and came to a screeching halt.
Lieutenant Romero stepped out of his vehicle and hurried over to Jemimah. “What’s going on here, Ma’am?”
She pointed to the injured man lying motionless about ten feet away. “Over there. Looks like he’s hurt pretty bad.”
The ambulance ground to a stop behind the SUV. Two EMTs jumped out, one with a stethoscope around his neck. The other ran to the back of the ambulance to grab the gurney and eased it down the rocky drive. One of them slapped an oxygen mask over McCabe’s mouth and placed the canister next to him. He listened for a heartbeat while the other started an IV, balancing it precariously on its stand, and then applied bandages around the wound. The EMTs lifted the injured man onto the gurney, placed the paraphernalia on the side and wheeled him over the rocky driveway to the back of the ambulance. The EMT slammed the door shut and the vehicle headed back toward Santa Fe, leaving a trail of thick dust. Romero walked over to Jemimah and pulled a small notebook out of his back pocket.
“Sorry to take so long introducing myself. First things first. I’m Lieutenant Rick Romero of the Santa Fe County Sheriff’s office,” he said.
“McCabe’s a lucky man you were in the vicinity. I need to ask you a few questions and then get over to the hospital to see how he’s doing.”
“All right,” Jemimah said. “I think I’ve stopped shaking enough now to answer coherently.”
“Tell me what you saw. Any particular reason you were in the area?” Romero asked.
“I was riding along the fence looking for a way to go back to my place without cutting all the way across over to Galisteo. I live a short walk south of here—near those mountains. I didn’t realize everything was fenced off. I was just coming around the hill there when I heard a shot. I heard one earlier, too,” Jemimah said.
“Do you know Mr. McCabe?” he said.
“Acquainted, that’s all. Met him at a fundraiser in Santa Fe a few months ago.” Jemimah handed him her card. “You can reach me at this number most days.”
Romero glanced at the card before putting it in his Dayminder. Jemimah Hodge, PhD, Forensic Psychologist. On the back of the card it read: Exploring the Criminal Mind.
Jemimah told him how she discovered McCabe in front of the cave. “I figured it was just somebody out shooting at beer cans.”
“Okay, Mrs. Hodge ...”
“Miss.”
“Miss Hodge. Just what is a forensic psychologist?” He asked with a half-smile, thinking, another Anglo woman moving to the southwest to launch a career ... probably from California.
“I profile perverted, sadistic killers. Know any?”
“Not at the moment—at least, I hope not. And here’s my card. If you think of anything else pertaining to this situation, I’d appreciate a call.” Romero said.
Jemimah mounted her horse.
“Oh,” and Romero added, “I will be in touch in a couple of days.”
He lingered a bit longer than necessary. She had a feeling he was about to ask her for a date. As she rode through the gate, she could feel his eyes on her, evidently watching her hips move in rhythm with the horse’s gait. Jem wondered if there was a single man in this so-called Land of Enchantment who didn’t have anything other than sex on his mind.
Chapter 3
St. Vincent’s Hospital, or as locals referred to it, St. Victim’s, was just off the interstate on St. Michael’s Drive. The only hospital in this city of sixty-thousand inhabitants, the facility had been in existence since the mid 1860s. Several times large Albuquerque hospitals attempted to provide services in this community, but the Board of Directors of St. Vincent’s fought them. The single hospital continued to mo
nopolize health care for the citizens of Santa Fe, heedless of the complaints about long waits and lack of beds.
Dr. Amos Hillyer, chief surgeon at the hospital, came out of the scrub room, walked into Room 3 of the surgical ward, and leaned over the patient on the table being prepped for surgery.
“McCabe, what are you doing here?”
McCabe grunted something indistinguishable.
“Found any decent relics lately?”
Another grunt.
“You can hear me, can’t you?” the surgeon asked.
“Yes,” whispered McCabe.
“Are you having trouble breathing?”
“Some.”
“Are you in pain?”
“Chest.”
“You know you were shot about an hour ago?”
“Hurts.”
“Is your family around?”
“Wife. Home.”
“We need to call her, get her over here.”
McCabe whispered the number. “Two ... nine ... four ...” His voice trailed off.
“Never mind. We can get it from information. Right now you’re going to into the OR. We’re going to patch you up.”
The anesthesiologist fastened the blood pressure cuff around McCabe’s arm and pumped it up. When it shut off, he glanced at the doctor. “200 over 140. I think you’d better let Oldham take over.”
To Hillyer the anesthesiologist looked like he still belonged in high school. Panic was written all over his face. He wasn’t going to be able to handle the pressure. “Get Oldham.” Hillyer turned back to McCabe.
“Won’t be but a minute or two. Hang in there. Were you digging in the ruins when you were shot?”
“Uhmmm.”
“Probably some gold buried there.”
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