by Brian Hodge
And no one other than the three of them knew of its power.
Griffen shuddered again and took another drink, remembering even after all these years the feel of the thing. He had never touched it again, had never wanted to. Let Rob fondle it all he wanted. He'd just wait until Rob got settled in the White House and he got elected governor; then he'd be happy.
And in two days the fetish would be away from him, far away in Washington, and for that he was very glad. He looked over at the stone and took another drink.
"What about these murders I've been hearing about?" Kent asked, his voice breaking Griffen's reverie. "What's going on?"
"I don't know. Some maniac's loose. Don't worry—we'll get it all under control by Friday."
"You'd better." Robinson tossed down the last of his drink and stood and stretched lazily. "Well, gentlemen, we have much to do in the next two days, so I suggest we take our leave now. I'll get Maria to bring in your coats."
De Vargas looked at Griffen and smiled as he raised his glass.
"To Friday, old friend."
Griffen nodded, didn't say a word, and tried to ignore the knot of unease in his stomach.
CHAPTER TWELVE
It was inevitable, he thought as he watched the sleeping woman, that it would lead to this. After they'd left Carrow's, they'd driven to a market where she'd bought some eggs and cheese and milk and some vegetables, and then they'd come back to the apartment. She had invited him in; they'd had a few snacks and some drinks, talked, kissed a little, and somehow—he wasn't particularly clear on the method, but wasn't particularly surprised either—they'd ended up in her bedroom.
There she'd gone all shy on him and had looked away. He'd walked over to her, placed his hands on her shoulders and gently pushed her down until she was sitting on the blue bedspread. Carefully he'd undressed her, slowly unbuttoning her blouse, allowing his fingers to trace the smoothness of her chest above the line of the bra. She'd arched her back and, impatiently grabbing his hand, moved it to the snaps in the back. He'd chuckled, had undone the snaps and taken her breasts in his hands. He'd kissed each one, caressing the warmth of the nipples with his tongue, and she had moaned and lain back on the bed.
She had watched as he unbuttoned his shirt, pulled off his boots and pants. He had stretched out next to her, kissed her mouth even as he ran his hands down her stomach. She made love as precisely as she spoke—capably, but without fireworks. Later they had talked, until her eyelids had dropped and she'd fallen asleep. His head propped on his hand, he studied her face in the dim light coming through the drapes, then concentrated on the dark spot of a picture on the wall.
His thoughts were mixed—of her, of the creatures he'd seen in the .mountains, of the black car. He thought he heard a noise, and for a moment thought of the shadows. He cocked his head and listened. Nothing now. His attention was drawn away when she stirred, stretched and yawned.
"Did I sleep? I'm sorry."
"It's okay. You've obviously had a long day."
"I haven't been a very good hostess."
"You've been just fine." He dropped his head, kissed her shoulder, brushed its softness with his lips.
"I've never made love to an Indian before."
"Neither have I."
"You're joking!"
"A little. Just a little." Because of the closeness in the tribe, he'd avoided entanglements with the Apache girls he knew. His libido had been almost completely centered on the white girls, who'd thrown themselves at him while he was a University student, and later, when he was a professor.
"What do we do now?" she asked.
He shrugged, then realized she probably couldn't see the gesture. "Don't know. We've got to find Junior sometime. Somehow. I need to talk to him. Everything began to happen after I picked him up." He was quiet for a moment, then: "What about I call you at work early in the morning?"
"Fine."
She slipped her arm around his neck and pulled his face down to hers. They kissed long, open-mouthed, and he brushed a hand across her breasts, stroking her already aroused nipples. He bent down to her breast, then straightened abruptly.
"Kent," he said.
"What?" Her hand on his buttocks dropped.
"You mentioned doing a story on Kent's visit. Why's he coming here? Just to make lots of political brownie points at the Balloon Fiesta?"
"Oh no." He knew she was regarding him oddly in the darkness. "You have been out of touch, haven't you?"
"Yeah. Never was much interested in politics anyway."
"Oh.”
Strange, he knew, for her as a journalist to comprehend.
"Friday evening the Mayor is having a gala affair, as they say on the society page, where he will present our junior Senator with an Indian relic, which the good Senator in turn plans to present, with all good intentions I assure you, to the Smithsonian."
"Grave-robbing, eh?"
"That's what Yellow Colt said, too. But it's an old one, Chato. I mean it's been out of the ground for a long time, so there's no claim on it."
Obviously she didn't see it the same way he did. It didn't matter much to her to see artifacts belonging to New Mexico Indians removed from the state. What had happened to her veneer of liberalism?
"What sort of relic is it? The bones of someone's great-grandfather?"
"Don't be sarcastic. No. Just some kind of a stone figure. I can't remember what animal it represents."
A fetish, he thought, and recalled all the whites from out of state who'd grinned at the word, aware only of the usual English meaning. In the Southwest a fetish was a representation of an animal, a bird, bear, turtle, in stone, turquoise, bone, ivory. Sometimes they were hung on thongs around the neck; others were made into necklaces or earrings. Fetish necklaces were particularly popular, he knew, among white women, and he recalled one of his geology students, who'd come to his class, her sweatered chest almost entirely covered with necklace after necklace of coral and turquoise and shell fetishes.
Generally the Pueblo Indians made them, and they were thought to ward off evil spirits or witches.
To ward off—
Touched.
And he knew then they were not alone in the apartment. He had heard a sound earlier, had ignored it, and now, and now— He leaped from the bed.
"Chato!"
He ran into the living room, flipped on the light switch and saw the curtains blowing in through the open sliding glass doors. Cautiously he stepped out onto the balcony, stared down at the wide expense of lawn behind the apartment building, and saw something, in the lights from the swimming pool, slip past a lawn chair.
Something dark.
Touched.
Something touched his elbow.
He whirled, startled.
"What's the matter?" she whispered.
He turned back to stare down at the lawn. After a moment he realized they were both nude and standing on her balcony.
"Let's get inside before we get arrested for indecent exposure."
Once back in the living room, with the doors firmly locked—again, he thought—and themselves dressed, they sat down to hot coffee and some frozen doughnuts she'd popped into the oven.
"You did lock the backdoor earlier?" His hands were spread around the cup, as if he could warm himself that way. He needed it; all the warmth had been sucked out of his body and he was bone-cold. He heard the whispering voices in his head, and he didn't know if he was remembering them or actually hearing them now. He shook his head, trying to clear it.
"Of course. I always do. It's second nature for me. You know how traditionally paranoid women living alone are. Why?" She frowned, bit into a sugary doughnut and waited for him to speak.
"Someone…. Someone got in."
"Oh God." She dropped the uneaten part of her doughnut on the plate. "How?"
He shook his head, trailed a finger through the crumbs of his doughnut. "I don't know. I didn't hear anyone break in, and I never did fall asleep. Maybe it was just your a
verage garden-variety apartment thief."
"But how did he get the doors open?"
"That's simple enough for someone experienced at that sort of thing."
It also made a hell of a lot more noise than he'd heard. He frowned suddenly. Maybe there had been more noise than he'd thought. What if he'd drifted off without realizing it and had only heard the slight noise when he was once more awake. A good explanation. Only he didn't buy it.
C'mon, Chato, you know it wasn't human. You're just putting off your conclusion; you don't want to admit what you saw.
What he saw.
A shadow.
And it had been in the apartment with them.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"Says here that the cops shot the bear that's been killing people. "He looked at her over the top of the newspaper.
"Right." She sipped her coffee and nibbled at her toast.
"It says so in black and white." His laugh was bitter. He finished the last of his eggs. "I have something for you to consider."
She raised her eyebrows.
"What do you say to writing an article about what I saw in the mountains? You could interview those kids at the school as well. If the newspaper ran that, maybe it'd shake the damned politicians out of their complacency." He waited while she considered.
"You might be right. I have some meetings to cover today, but when I'm finished with them, I could start on the article."
For the first time that morning he saw some animation light her face. In fact, he had to admit that she looked more alive now than she had the night before when they'd made love. Oh well, he thought wryly, we can't all be Don Juans.
They parted ways, and outside he breathed deeply. It was already warm this morning, even though it wasn't yet ten. He could see one balloon hanging over the Rio Grande valley, and that reminded him again that the Balloon Fiesta was only a few days off. He rolled the windows down on the truck, sat for a few minutes with the engine off. So, he was going to look for Junior, eh? Where? He watched a grey cat stroll across the sidewalk.
Central, as he'd said to Laura. And if he struck out there, well, there was a long list of bars in the phone book. Providing the old man haunted the bars.
He started the truck, backed up and pulled out onto Montgomery. He glanced into the rearview mirror and froze when he saw it.
The black Buick.
He stopped at a traffic light and it drew up behind him. He tried to see the driver, but the glare of sunlight on the glass of the windshield prevented that.
Had the driver stayed all night and waited for him to appear? He was damned tired of being followed. The shadow creatures and now this car. What had he done to deserve all this attention?
He drove east on Montgomery, toward the mountains, then turned onto Juan Tabo. Then he took a right onto Menual, speeded up for a mile or mores pulled into the right lane, then back into the middle lane just in time to dodge a parked car in front of Ho La Ma Restaurant, before turning down Louisiana Boulevard. He drove until he got to Osuna, took a left down to San Mateo, then a left again.
Still the black car followed him, neither losing him nor gaining on him.
He speeded up, the accelerator hitting 60. He cut in and out of lanes, nearly sideswiping a pickup filled with bales of hay. He took the corner onto Montgomery wide, tires squealing, and he glanced anxiously around for patrol cars. Saw none.
Then he pushed the pedal down hard and hit seventy. Looked in the mirror again. Still no cops.
He pulled into the parking lot at Laura's apartment, jumped out of the cab and ran to the street just as the black Buick started to pull off the street. He ran toward it and had just reached the handle of the door on the passenger's side when the driver realized what Chato was doing.
The car slammed into reverse. Chato hung on to the handle as he was dragged backward. He managed to keep his fingers curled around the handle, and when the driver saw he was still there, the car was shunted into first. It shot forward as the driver floored the gas pedal. Chato felt as though his arm were being ripped from the shoulder socket. His feet were knocked out from under him, and then the car was pulling him along on his knees. He could feel the pavement shredding the denim of his jeans, and he looked up just in time to see a speed bump rushing toward him.
He let go, and tumbled backward, landing sprawled across the pavement. He rose slowly to his feet, unsteady from what had happened. The Buick stopped, backed up. It was coming straight for him. He dropped and rolled under a parked Chevrolet. The Buick slammed into the '57 Chevy. The car above him shuddered once, then twice when the Buick hit it again. He didn't move. Prayed, too, that the Chevy didn't spring a leak in the gas line.
Apparently the Buick driver was frustrated that he couldn't flush Chato out. After a moment of its engines being gunned, the car shot away and he watched as it eased out onto Montgomery. From his position on his stomach he could see it cruise slowly by. He waited, knowing it wouldn't leave soon. Minutes passed. The grey cat he had seen earlier peeked at him under the bumper and hissed, its back arched.
"Don't blame you at all, kitty," he whispered. "I'd be pretty wary, too." He knew he must look a mess. His hair had come loose, and damp with sweat, it was plastered across his face, down his neck. His jeans were torn, his knees bloody, and his shirt, face and hands were covered with dirt and grease from the pavement.
The Buick drove by again.
He chuckled softly to himself. He'd wait until he thought it was turning around down the street, then run like hell to the pickup. He waited for the Buick to pass, and as soon as it was out of sight, he rolled out from under the Chevy, jumped to his feet, smiled briefly at a startled woman who was walking toward the car, keys in hand, and ran for the truck.
Crawling into the cab, he crouched down on the floor.
When he thought it was safe, he looked out the back window. The owner of the Chevy was staring at him, and the black Buick was driving past again.
When it was gone, he slid behind the wheel, started the engine up, and instead of driving out onto the street, he went farther back into the complex. An alleyway led to another apartment complex, and that in turn led to a side street in a residential area. He reached that street, and there was no sign of the Buick.
Probably the driver thought he'd left by Montgomery.
Good.
He glanced at himself in the mirror, wrinkled his nose at what he saw.
Time to get back to the motel, shower and change. Time to do some thinking before he went looking for Junior.
Do some thinking about the driver.
He had seen the man behind the wheel of the Buick, despite the efforts of the driver to keep him from seeing anything.
Yeah, he'd seen him all right. Seen him, his dark suit—and the white Roman collar.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
She paused, her fingers curled over the typewriter keys, and reread what she'd just typed. She started typing again, finished that page, started another.
When she had a stack of nearly twenty pages, she finally picked up a pen and began going through the text, correcting the typos. There weren't many this time. She read quickly, thoroughly, pleased with her words.
She wanted it to be effective, hard-hitting, moving. And when it was published in the Courier, well, then no one—not the Mayor himself—could deny what had been happening.
In her article Laura detailed the murders in the mountains as well, describing the similarities between them. She told about the priest, the campers, the low-riders; she wrote about what Chato and the kids had seen.
All the grisly deaths. All the strangeness—creatures included.
She retyped one page with a few typos on it, then straightened the sheets. She crossed the large city room, made copies of the article, returned to her, desk. She glanced at the clock.
10:45.
There wasn't another person in the room, and the only sound was the click of the teletype at the other end. She put her copy of the article in her
desk, closed the drawer and picked up the original and her purse, which she slung over her shoulder.
She'd drop the article in Bob's basket, then be on her way home.
She'd have liked to have talked with him about it, but he wouldn't be in for a few hours and she really wanted to go home and sleep. Sleep, nothing more. Didn't want Chato to come over. Didn't want to sleep with him. Didn't want him around.
She wanted to be by herself.
She walked past the rows of desks, opened the door to Bob's office and dropped the article, its pages stapled together, into his basket. She started to leave, then hesitated and returned to take a slip of paper and write a note to him. She told him she'd get in touch with him early that morning. After she'd paper-clipped the note to the article, she left, closing the door behind her.
Chato hadn't called, and she wondered why as earlier he'd said he would. Maybe he'd found out something about the old man. Maybe he'd forgotten. Maybe he'd just said that.
She didn't know why she wanted to stay away from him tonight. But she did. It was enough, she thought, that she had written about his experiences in the mountains. She'd given him that much, after all. Tit for tat. Payment for last night.
She slowly walked down the stairway of the building that the Courier shared with the two other Albuquerque dailies. Her footsteps echoed in the stairwell, and above her a door opened and someone walked out onto the landing. She continued descending, deep in her thoughts.
Why did he make her, so uncomfortable?
Because he was Indian?
Maybe. Maybe not. There was more maybe than maybe not, she suspected. But why should that particularly bother her? She wasn't a racist. So what was it?
He'd been a good lover, too; it hadn't been a bad experience for her. No, he'd been thoughtful and kind and always considerate.
Yet...
Yet what, Laura? she demanded of herself.
It was, she decided at length, because he was a man obsessed. Obsessed about this mountain thing. He had to know all the time what was going on, had to talk about it all the time, wanted to find out everything about it. She knew he didn't understand why she wasn't wholeheartedly pursuing it. She had other articles to write, other stories to cover. She was intrigued by the murders; she wanted the killer to be caught, but it wasn't her story.
