Lewis pulled files, leafed through them and dropped them. He turned when Flora opened the door. They looked at each other for a full ten seconds, just standing there. Lewis went back to the desk and pulled open drawers, dumping handfuls of things onto the top, loose bullets, plastic toy handcuffs, mint candies.
Flora came back to the doorway, more composed. She said, “Manny wants to talk to you on the radio.”
Lewis stared at her for a few seconds, then followed her to her desk. She picked up the handpiece and said, “Here he is, Manny.” She gave the thing to Lewis.
“What’s going on, Lewis?” Manny asked. His voice sounded strange through the speaker.
“What’s going on?”
“You have to push the button down to talk,” Flora said.
He held the button down. “What’s going on, Manny?” He felt Flora’s chair behind him and sat in it.
“Tell me what you’re talking about,” the sheriff’s voice cracked with static.
“Maggie’s missing.”
“What do you mean, missing?”
“I went to the state police, Manny.”
“What’d they say?”
Lewis began to think that Manny was trying to keep him on the radio and became anxious. “I’ve got to go.”
“No, wait until I get there, Lewis.”
He put the handpiece down and backed away from it.
“The sheriff wants you to wait,” Flora said.
Lewis said nothing to her. He got up and walked past her and out of the station. He got into the truck and sped off. He rubbed his head at a four-way stop. He stopped for gas, nervously checking for Manny or anybody. No one was following him, he was confident of that.
He parked across the street from the house of boots and just sat for several minutes. He decided he just couldn’t watch Salvador cry again and left. He needed to go home, though he didn’t think that was the safest place, get his shotgun and hike up into the canyon behind Martin’s cabin. The answer, some answer, was up there. He didn’t feel afraid anymore. He didn’t care what happened to him.
Chapter Twenty-three
As Lewis drove up the mountain he thought about what he had done in Manny’s office. He’d let off steam and perhaps made some kind of statement, but he had learned nothing and had maybe alienated the only person who might have come to his aid. He wondered if subconsciously he was attempting to lure the sheriff into following him. He laughed at himself. Would that he were that smart. He glanced again at his mirror, looking for flashing blue lights.
Lewis went into his house and grabbed the shotgun. He stopped at the door. For all his holding it and gaining comfort from it, he had not loaded it. He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and snatched up a handful of shells. He put them in his pocket. If the situation did arise that he would have to shoot at someone, if he could at all, he would not need many shells, the loading of the double-barrelled gun being so slow. He went to the kitchen and filled his canteen with water from the tap, then left the house and put the gun in the back of the truck under a tarp.
As he rolled down the dusty trail to the highway, he spotted a blue van parked a ways up a fire break. He backed up and studied it for a while. Then he was out of the cab and grabbing the shotgun. He approached slowly, looking behind him as much as forward. He stood by the back doors. So, it wasn’t brown, but blue. What was it doing here? He heard moaning from within.
He wondered if Maggie could be inside. He stepped wide cautiously to see that the driver’s seat was empty. He did the same on the other side. He walked forward and looked through the window, but could not see into the back. The moaning continued. He went to the back doors and grasped the handle, pushed down slowly. The handle clacked loudly so he jerked it quickly, pulled the door open and swung the shotgun up.
A woman screamed. She pulled a blanket over her body and the young man beside her pulled discarded clothes into his lap. Lewis knew he had made a mistake, but he was embarrassed and adrenaline filled his bloodstream and heart.
“What the hell are you doing out here?” he asked, letting the gun down.
“We didn’t mean to trespass, mister,” the young man said.
Lewis looked at the woman. She was considerably older than the man. The situation was painfully obvious, Lewis thought.
“Well, you did,” Lewis told them. “So, get your clothes on and get out of here.” He closed the door and walked away from them, back toward the truck. He put the gun under the tarp. It slipped from his sweaty palms and banged against the metal of the bed. He got in and just sat behind the wheel for a while. He could have shot someone. His head ached. He could have shot those people, taken them both out with one squeeze of the trigger. He looked up the fire break and saw the back-up lights of the van come on. He started the truck and drove on down the mountain.
The way to Martin’s seemed longer, though there was little traffic. On his way through town, he thought he saw his pickup at a gas station. He looked at everything, trying not to think. He watched young women, fashionable and pretty, walk through the downtown area. He watched one of Manny’s deputies, idle at a red light, not noticing Lewis, and again he was thankful for having switched trucks. As he rolled out the other side of town, he looked closely at the eroding adobe dwellings of poor Mexicans.
He drove on, across the river, past the cafe and up the road to Martin’s cabin. He considered hiding the truck off the road, up a fire break covered with brush, but he thought if he ran into trouble, he might need it in a hurry. He told himself again that he might not find anything up there, but he might luck up. He was overdue. He might find Maggie, alive and uninjured. He shook his head. He had a feeling that Maggie was dead.
He took the shotgun from beneath the tarp, left the truck and started up the trail into the canyon. Again, even more, he was struck by the absence of the sounds of birds. The trees seemed to be suffering now as well, browning, the bark of the firs reddening. He climbed higher and found the leaves of the aspens curling. There were no flies, no bees. He turned over a log and found nothing. If things were dying, they still had to be somewhere, he thought. He walked past the point where he had stopped before. He paused to catch his breath, leaned the shotgun against a tree, and drank from his canteen. He looked at the gun. He broke it open, observed the shells, and engaged the barrels. He walked on.
Lewis saw a fence and two men behind it searching for something. Then he was dizzy. He closed his eyes for a second, then opened them, trying to see more clearly. He heard a rustling and so he stopped, looked around. He stepped toward some bushes for cover. He heard another sound. In a forest without animals, any noise screamed. Then there were footsteps, definitely footsteps. Something had him. A hand was over Lewis’ mouth, the gun out of his grasp. He tried to kick and his legs were grabbed. All he could do was look and he saw Ignacio in front of him, controlling his legs and holding a finger to pursed lips. Lewis nodded and the hand fell from his face. He looked behind him and there was Ernesto. Ernesto wasn’t looking, but listening.
Lewis tried to breathe normally, quietly.
“Did you two follow me?” Lewis asked.
“Yes,” Ignacio said.
“You’re a crazy old man,” Ernesto said.
Lewis nodded.
“I thought about what you said,” Ignacio said. “But it’s not up to me alone.”
Lewis realized that they were supporting more and more of his weight. Ernesto said something to him, but he couldn’t make it out. He tried to speak, but he wasn’t sure his mouth was moving.
“Do you hear it?” Lewis thought he was saying.
“What?” Ignacio asked.
“Listen.”
He could see Ignacio and Ernesto talking to each other.
“Listen.” His tongue felt huge in his mouth.
He read Ignacio’s lips to say, “It’s okay.”
“No birds,” he said. “No animals.”
The brothers stopped walking and listened. Lewis passed out.
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Chapter Twenty-four
It was Mala. Lewis focused. Mala the Doberman sat with unblinking eyes, watching Lewis, his tongue moving back and forth in a slow pant. Lewis frowned, his head hurting as he raised it. He was on a sofa. An Indian blanket was over the lower half of his body. He looked under the cover and saw his legs. He was without trousers, though his underwear remained. Mala closed his mouth and leaned forward. Lewis didn’t move. The dog put his cold nose against the side of Lewis’ face. Lewis petted Mala’s head, then sat up, keeping the blanket over his lap. The room was furnished with mismatched chairs and a large china closet, partially filled, in a corner. A television was on across the room. It was dark outside and the room was lit by two ornate standing lamps, one with a ripped shade so that light blared out of it like noise. Lewis looked away from it. Mala stood and leaned his head against Lewis’ thigh. Lewis stroked him some more. Lewis could hear that it was raining outside. He thought how they really needed rain, then laughed. What good could rain do for dead people? He looked at his hands. They had been washed, but the scratches were plain to see.
Slowly, everything came back. Lewis remembered the fence, the masked men, Ignacio and Ernesto. He pulled up the blanket from the bottom to look at his leg. The wound had been dressed neatly in gauze and surgical tape. He could see the sink of the lighted kitchen from where he sat. He heard a rustling and he remembered the woods again.
Ignacio’s teenage daughter walked in from the kitchen with an open bag of potato chips. She stopped when she saw Lewis sitting up. “You’re awake,” she said.
Lewis nodded, still petting Mala’s head.
“I see you made a friend,” the girl said. She sat in an over-stuffed chair in front of the television. “How do you feel?”
“Okay. Did you put the bandage on for me?”
“Me and my daddy.”
“Gracias.”
“No hay de que.”
They sat quietly for a couple of minutes, the girl looking at the set. “What are you watching?” Lewis asked.
“Something about monkeys. Wild Kingdom, something like that.”
“Any good?”
“I like nature shows.” She looked at him, offered him chips.
“No, thank you. May I have some water though?”
“Sure.” She got up and went to the kitchen. She came back with a tall glass of water with ice.
“Gracias.”
She returned to her chair, turned up the sound.
Lewis sipped the water. “Where is your father?”
“He said he’d be back soon.”
Lewis looked around the room again. There was a cross on the wall over the mantel of the fireplace. “Where is your mother?”
“My mother is dead,” the girl said without taking her eyes off the television.
“Me llamo Lewis.”
“Carla,” she said.
“Pleased to meet you,” Lewis said. “I wish it could be under other circumstances.” He put his glass down on the coffee table, looked at the old newspapers and magazines. “How long has it been raining?”
“About an hour, off and on.”
“We need it,” he said.
Carla pointed at the screen. “I think they know they’re being cute.”
Mala walked away from Lewis, barked once and sat facing the door. Lewis watched the muscles of the dog’s body, smooth and tense. Someone knocked.
Lewis knew someone was there before the knock. The girl had to know it too, but she didn’t turn her attention from the monkeys until she heard it. She got up and went to the door, opened it an inch.
“Buenas tardes, Carla,” a man said.
“Sheriff,” she said. Mala stood. Carla held up a hand and told him to stay. He sat again.
“Como esta usted?”
“I’m okay.” The girl held the door where it was and let Manny stand out in the rain. “No one is here but me.”
“Donde puedo encontrar Ignacio?”
“I don’t know where he is?”
“Tell him we found his truck.”
“Okay.”
“May I use your telephone?” Manny asked.
Lewis tried to get up and walk into another room, but his head throbbed and he fell back.
“It’s not working,” Carla said.
“Okay. Tell him about the truck.”
“I will. Hasta luego.” Carla closed the door and went directly back to her chair where she again put her eyes on the television screen.
“Thanks,” Lewis said.
She ate a chip.
Lewis laid back down. Mala walked over, sat and watched him. Lewis closed his eyes.
Lewis woke up again to find Ignacio sitting in the chair beside the sofa. Ignacio leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “How are you?”
“Fine, thanks. And thank you for helping me.”
“I want to help your friend, too.”
“You’re a good man, Ignacio.”
“I think the same about you.”
“What do we do?” Lewis asked, sitting up. His head hurt less.
“I’m to bring you to a meeting. Our council must vote on what you want.” Ignacio worked a kink from his back. “Like I said, it is not up to me.”
“I understand. Are we going to the morada?”
“Si.”
“The sheriff was here.”
“Carla told me.”
“She’s quite a young lady,” Lewis said.
“Gracias.” Ignacio looked at the draped window. “It’s raining hard.”
“What time is it?” Lewis asked.
“After midnight,” Ignacio said. He pointed to the end of the sofa. “There are your pants.”
Chapter Twenty-five
It was a hard rain and it had made the night cool. Lewis sat on the passenger side of his truck while Ignacio drove. A draft squeezed through the door and up the rip in Lewis’ pants. He zipped up his jacket and folded his arms over his chest. The wiper in front of him did a lousy job, leaving the glass streaked with each pass. He couldn’t see where they were going and he figured it worked as well as a blindfold.
“Are they going to ask me questions?” Lewis asked.
Ignacio shrugged.
Lewis imagined himself standing before old Mexican men, giving a presentation, candles burning, a skirted Jesus nailed to a cross on the wall behind him. Lewis thought about the sheriff.
“I hope I haven’t caused you any trouble. With the sheriff or otherwise.”
Ignacio leaned forward to see the road better.
“What do you think those men were looking for?” Lewis asked.
“I don’t know. Something bad.”
Lewis nodded.
The men watched the windshield. Headlights from approaching cars seemed threatening and each one turned Lewis’ head.
“I hope your friend will be okay,” Ignacio said.
“Me too.”
The rain was falling harder when Ignacio stopped the truck in front of the morada. There were no torches burning outside tonight. Lewis got out and limped after the younger man, through the mud and into the adobe. Inside, the room was lighted as before, torches on the four walls. Jesus was indeed skirted and on the cross above the altar. There was no body this time. There was a table to one side and at it sat five men, Salvador Alvarado among them. A battery-powered camp area-light sat in the center of the table illuminating their still, solemn faces. Lewis nodded to them.
“Sit here,” Ignacio said.
Lewis sat in a cane chair, one in a row, away from the table. He watched Ignacio as he joined the men. He was the youngest of them.
Their meeting began. Lewis couldn’t make out what they were saying. Words were muttered in Spanish. It did not take long before there were louder utterances, no less understandable to Lewis for the volume. Salvador said virtually nothing. Ignacio remained calm, speaking softly to the older men who yelled at him. There were frequent glances over at Lewis. He tried to keep his eyes on them or
the floor, so as not to appear to be gazing upon their secret place. Finally, Ignacio shouted and all were silent. They sat without speaking for probably just a minute, but to Lewis it felt like a long time. He adjusted himself in the uncomfortable chair, tried to put his leg out straight so that it wouldn’t go to sleep.
Ignacio spoke calmly again. There was more discussion and then the youngest was standing, walking back to Lewis.
“Are you ready?” Ignacio asked.
Lewis gained his feet.
Ignacio walked out of the morada without looking at the table. Lewis did quickly glance that way, but none were looking at him.
Outside, the two men trotted to the truck. Lewis climbed in on the passenger side again.
“Well, we talked it over,” Ignacio said.
Lewis nodded.
“You cannot speak of this to anyone, not even your friend if she is alive.”
“Okay.”
“And not to me after this night.”
“I understand.”
“I cannot go with you to get Martin.”
“I wouldn’t want you to, Ignacio.”
The words were not coming easily to Ignacio. He looked at the rain rolling off the windshield. “Martin is buried up Lobos Canyon. Arroyo Azul comes down the middle of it. Do you know where I mean?”
Lewis nodded.
“There is a dirt road between mile marker six and seven. Turn there toward the mountain. The road will stop. About forty yards beyond that is where Martin is buried. The grave is not marked.”
“Thank you.”
“You can take your truck.” Igancio opened the door and started to get out, stopped and spoke without looking back. “Martin was not buried in a box.”
“Okay.”
Ignacio shut the door. Lewis slid across the seat. His whole body ached and the cool night air was stiffening him. He could not see Ignacio cross the yard to the morada, but he saw him when he pulled open the door and the strange light shown behind him.
Chapter Twenty-six
Lewis started the engine and realized as he pulled away that he didn’t know where he was. He drove back the way they came and travelled the muddy road, looking for anything familiar in the darkness. The clock in the truck read one-thirty. He reached the main highway and turned north toward his place. He needed a shovel and a light.
The Body of Martin Aguilera Page 10
