by Brian Hodge
A handful of monks in brown robes came out of the chapel and walked over to the main building; a few minutes later several left through a different doorway there and headed toward a smaller structure behind the main building.
The sun beat relentlessly through the windshield, making him hotter, making him sweat, and he shifted to get into the slight shade within the cab.
He was aware of the clock ticking in the dashboard, ticking away the minutes, ticking away the time until he was discovered.
He had to do it.
He had to brazen it.
It had to be now. He couldn't waste any more time, couldn't stall.
Now.
As though he moved in slow motion, he opened the door, jumped out and, taking a deep breath, headed for the buildings of the Monastery of the Holy Innocents.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
"Excuse me, Eagleton," Robinson Kent said smoothly, "I'd like to talk with Ms. Rainey alone." He smiled to take away any sting to the words.
Obviously none had been felt, for Haas waved jauntily and strolled off in the direction of a refreshment table. "This way, Ms. Rainey," the Senator said.
She didn't have much of a choice, for he'd clasped his hand on her elbow and was steering her toward the seclusion of the pavilion. She hated it when men did that, and she particularly did not like this man doing it. She brought her elbow up sharply, then snapped it closer to her body, breaking his grip.
Unruffled, he smiled at her, didn't try to touch her again. He pointed to the pavilion, and when they reached it, he indicated for her to sit. He sat opposite her, steepled his fingers, stared thoughtfully at her.
"Now, Ms. Rainey, I think we should talk."
"Precisely why I wanted to see you, Senator. Although it certainly was hard to reach you." She nodded toward his two bodyguards, who had trailed after them. They stood at a discreet distance. She didn't think they were pleased that she'd managed to get to their boss. Their boss. She studied the lines of his face, the strong jaw, the determined eyes coolly appraising her. Why had he wanted to talk to her? How had he known who she was? She thought she'd let him do most of the talking.
"You seem to be doing well, Ms. Rainey. I understand you were graduated not long ago from my alma mater, UNM." He smiled at her.
"That's correct.
"You're probably wondering how I knew that."
Her silence didn't seem to disconcert him in the least. "I make it a point to know about various members of the press. Especially those promising ones. Ones who might be interested in involving themselves in a political campaign sometime. And I don't mean as a member of the press." He paused, straightened his cuff. Still she said nothing. "You take my meaning—may I call you Laura?"
"Really, Laura, let's not make this difficult. All right?"
"I don't know what you're talking about, Senator. I'm here simply to cover the barbeque. I thought this would be the perfect opportunity to meet you and conduct a simple interview. That's all."' She hoped her face was as deadpan as her voice.
"I've heard otherwise." Again she said nothing. "I see you are going to be hardheaded. You're young, very young, and inexperienced, Laura. You aren't playing the game."
"I know. I've been told that before. It hasn't stopped me, as you can see."
"It will someday. You have to give in. Go with the system. Otherwise it'll eat you up. There'll be nothing left."
"We'll see."
“You certainly are the defiant one. A very liberated woman. I take it?"
She met his eye then. "I manage."
He said nothing, simply studied her, shifted his position in his chair.
"About the interview, Senator."
"Come now. We know that isn't your real reason for being here."
"What is my real reason then?"
"You are trying to harass the Mayor and to publicly embarrass him."
She stared, quickly recovered. "I don't have to do that. He does it well enough by himself."
He smiled. "Spirited, with a barbed tongue."
"I don't like being called a liar by the Mayor. I don't like getting the run-around. I don't like having one of my articles suppressed. I don't like cover-ups. And I particularly don't like what's been going on lately."
"Sometimes there are very good reasons—"
"What about all those deaths in the mountains?" she asked.
"I really don't know anything about that, Ms. Rainey. I just flew into the city today."
"So you won't say anything about them?"
"How can I speak uninformed?"
She stood. "That's almost a requisite for being a politician." She saw his darkening face and knew she'd made another enemy. The list was growing longer and longer. "Good day, Senator."
She walked out of the pavilion without looking back.
The bodyguards stepped toward her, but obviously Kent waved them aside and they let her pass.
Well, another avenue was closed to her. First the Mayor, now the Senator. There didn't seem to be many people left who might be able to tell her what was going on. Somehow, though, she told herself, she'd find out. Somehow.
And wished fervently there was a patron saint of journalists.
He reached the main building without anyone stopping him or, for that matter, seeing him. He thought. He hoped. He paused, his heart pounding, his breath short. Hurry, hurry, hurry, urged the faint whisperings. He stared hard at the bushes. What did he expect? Something sinister? Something that looked like eyes? But nothing was there. They were plain bushes, simple and very unsinister honeysuckle, dozens of bees buzzing around the delicate blossoms.
He pressed himself flat against the stucco and waited, wiped sweat from his cheek, wondered if he could pass as the gardener. No, that was probably one of the monks. For a moment he regretted his long hair and wished he'd brought a hat. But a hat would be noticed right away inside.
He should have waited until night, when no one could see him. But no, that had its dangers, too.
He peered around a corner toward a second and smaller structure. No one in sight. Couldn't see anyone at the windows. Walked quickly, purposely toward it. The large one in front probably housed offices and the like, and he didn't think the woman would be held there. She'd be kept in a dormitory, perhaps, away from most of the monks.
The second building had two wings and could possibly provide more isolation. Also, now that he was closer, he saw the other structures were a garage and a shed for gardening tools. Beyond that was a vegetable garden with cornstalks nodding in the heat, a patio with benches, and a basketball court.
He reached a double wooden door. Carefully he tested the handle, twisting it to one side. The door opened easily and with little noise, and he breathed a sigh of relief. He hadn't prepared himself for locked outer doors. He slipped in and found he faced a long corridor. Doors lined both sides all the way down to the end of the hallway, where there was another door.
He'd been right. This was obviously the dormitory.
From where he stood he couldn't see where the other corridor crossed, but it had to be there. He started walking. Each door had a grate set at eye-level, and he peered into the first. Nothing' out of the ordinary, and unoccupied as well. The same with the second, the third. Minutes were ticking by. He glanced at his watch, licked his dry lips. He had to find her soon.
He was just crossing to the fourth door when he heard a door close somewhere in the building. He stopped, his breath caught, and waited for someone to appear. No one did, and he inched carefully until he came to the transverse corridor. Left or right now? He listened, thought he heard something faint from the left-hand corridor.
Carefully he peered around the corner. At the far end was a straight-backed chair—occupied by one of the brown-clad brothers of the Holy Innocents Monastery.
He had found her.
He pushed back his hair, rubbed his chin, considered. The monk didn't look armed; surely he didn't have a concealed gun. And the man didn't look particula
rly sturdy either. He swallowed a few times, took a deep breath and headed boldly down the corridor. His boots tapped loudly on the floor, the sound echoing through the hall. He wished he were barefoot, but it was too late. The monk had heard him and was already standing, a puzzled look on his face.
"Griffen sent me," he said, trying to look fairly bureaucratic, and knowing he wasn't succeeding. The man was Chicano, and when he saw Chato was Indian, his puzzled look became a frown. "I'm here to—"
"I don't recognize you," the monk said curtly. "I don't think you should—"
He never finished his sentence.
Chato leaped forward, rapidly traversing the few feet separating them, and solidly slammed his fist into the man's abdomen. The monk grunted and doubled over, clutching his stomach. Then Chato gripped his left hand with his right and brought them down together across the back of the monk's neck. There was a thud as his hands hit his mark, and the monk toppled to the floor.
"Sorry, Brother.
He tried the doorknob. Locked. Damn. More delay.
Outside he heard a noise. Voices. Someone was coming. His heart pounding, he quickly knelt and searched through the monk's clothing until he found a key. He fumbled, dropped it, picked it up again.
Calm down, he told himself. No one would come in; no one would find him.
Inserting the key, he turned it, and the door swung open. He stepped into a room that looked precisely like the others he'd seen. There was a cot along one wall, a table under a high window, and a single lamp next to the table.
A chest sat to his right. On the table was a tray with several dishes on it. Nothing had been touched.
A blonde woman, dressed in a man's shirt, jeans and cowboy boots, lay on the cot, her hands tucked behind her head. She was staring up at the ceiling, and when he entered, her head tilted his way. She obviously expected the monk. Slowly she sat up, bringing her feet down to the floor with a thud.
"Look," he said slightly breathlessly. "I don't have much time, and I know this may sound crazy, but are you the woman who survived the attack in the mountains?"
She stared wordlessly at him, and he began to think he'd made a mistake. God, let her be the one. Don't let her be someone's swept-away mistress. "I said, miss—"
"I heard you." Her voice was low and pleasant. "Yes, I survived an attack in the mountains. I thought you knew all about it." She stood akimbo, looked him up and down. "What's it to you?"
"I'm here to rescue you."
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Martin Landsman, who was the butt of a lot of good-natured kidding from his ballooning buddies because of his name, cursed fluently in both Spanish and English, and threw in a few words he'd picked up when he'd been stationed in Wiesbaden.
The damned balloon was going down.
He threw out more ballast, watched as the sandbag hit the ground twenty feet below. The hot-air balloon lurched upward slightly, and he fell against the basket.
He shouldn't have gone up today. He'd known it was going to be bad from the moment he'd rolled out of bed that morning, realizing he'd overslept and missed the mass ascension. His crew had been waiting for him at Cutter Field, had been for hours, and he'd arrived just as the other balloons were lifting off. By the time the envelope was filled, everyone else was in the air. Then he'd gone up and a crosswind had hit him, carried him away from the others, driven him way far along the mesas, and he'd come down earlier than he'd wanted do—and had barely missed an immense tangle of electrical wires in doing so. Damned day. Damned Fiesta.
It didn't really start until Sunday, but just about as many balloons went up the few days before the Fiesta as on the opening day. And there were the usual tests and games as well.
He should have scratched this year, forgotten the whole thing until next year, and maybe just given up the balloon. It was expensive, God knows, and everyone he knew always expected him to give them free rides, as if it didn't cost a cent for him to operate. And then his partner, wonderful friendly Sammy Griego, who was everyone's good buddy, had run off with the bank account they kept. Last the police had heard from him, the sucker was running east through Texas. And they didn't think they'd be able to get the money back.
Then he'd gone and volunteered to be one of the balloonists at the political barbecue, and it wasn't even his party that was throwing the wingding.
So why was he doing this? Masochism, he decided. It was the only explanation.
He blasted the propane burner slightly; it hissed and air inside the orange and yellow nylon heated. The balloon rose a little, and he smiled, feeling some of his tension fade.
He still wouldn't miss this for the world. He liked the sound the balloon made, though otherwise the flight was virtually soundless; he liked the freedom from the earth and the magnificent views. It made all his problems seem so small when he was up in the balloon. He couldn't stay mad or upset for long.
Coming up quickly below him was the Cibola National Forest. He could see the forest ranger's station and outlook, the sunlit lines of the tramway and the restaurant at top, and across from him, on an outcropping of granite, he saw a herd of mountain goats. He grinned. Probably were wondering what the hell kind of bird he was. He waved. The sudden movement set them off. They blurred; dust rose, and when it settled, the goats were nowhere to be seen. By the Crest a hang-glider, trusting in the theories of aerodynamics, stepped off into space that ended well over five thousand feet below him, and his blue craft caught an air current and slowly, gracefully rose.
And behind Martin—he turned carefully and stared, feeling just great now.
To the west spread one of the most panoramic scenes he'd ever seen, and he'd travelled a lot with the balloon in his forty-six years. The air was so clear he could see Mt. Taylor, a full sixty miles west of Albuquerque. The city, all in shades of grey and beige and cream, stretched toward the river, and there he saw the band of green and gold of the great cottonwoods, trees that had stood since Coronado's time. Beyond that were the muted colors of the desert of the West Side, the dusty black of the volcanic Seven Sisters, and beyond that stretched even more desert until the eye reached Mt. Taylor. The highways, bisecting the city, were thin ribbons, dotted with tiny specks of light—cars, the sun reflected on the metal.
He could look northward and see the immense mountains, the Sangre de Cristos, around Santa Fe, snow already falling on the peaks. To the south were more mountains, and he could pretend he saw those by Socorro.
Thousands of miles of scenery—all up here within sight—and it was glorious. He never tired of looking at it. Couldn't. It was always changing with the days, the seasons.
He unzipped his jacket a little, leaned his hands on the edge of the basket, smiled and waved to some folks below at the barbecue. Then he glanced back at the instrument panel and his smile faded.
He'd dawdled too long and the air inside the bag was cooling too rapidly. The balloon began to descend again, and his good mood evaporated
Damn. There was always something.
He opened the burner wide, but it was too late; the balloon kept sinking, kept going down at an angle until it was headed straight for a strand of tall trees.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
"Rescue me?" she asked; her voice amused. "Is this some sort of trick?"
"I really don't have time to explain." He was talking fast, knew someone would discover them soon, or that the monk outside the door would come around. "Will you come with me?"
"Why should I?"
God, why was she being so stubborn? "Do you want to stay here for another week or however long it takes them to decide what they're going to do with you?"
That seemed to hit a responsive chord, for she shook her head, her long hair fanning out.
"Come on then." Without waiting for her to come to him, he reached out, grabbed her by the hand and edged out into the corridor.
The monk still lay sprawled across the floor, unconscious. She stared down. "Did you kill him?"
"Just knoc
ked him out." They were walking cautiously toward the main corridor now, and Chato was listening carefully for any voices.
"Where are we going?"
"Back to Albuquerque. By the way, I didn't catch—" He stopped. A door had opened. The door to the outside. Footsteps echoed down the hallway. Coming their way." Look, there's a door to the left at the end of the hall. I want you to run to it and get outside however you can. Get into the green pickup in the parking lot. I'll be right behind you." Then he shoved her toward the junction of corridors. She darted to the left.
"Stop!" a man's voice shouted.
He heard her running, and heard someone else running up the corridor toward the junction. Just as the monk came abreast of him, Chato leaped out, grabbed the monk by the sleeve, whirled him around and slammed him into the wall. He slid down. Chato turned to follow the woman when the outside door opened again.
He knew he'd been spotted.
He reached the door, found it opened into a men's lavatory. A window, about four and a half feet off the ground, was open. She'd obviously gone through that. He jumped up, grabbed the sill just as the door swung open. A hand got hold of his heel, and he kicked out hard. His boot hit something soft, and there was a groan. He squirmed through, jumped to the ground, almost fell, and started running. Through the trees he could see the woman. She had almost reached the parking lot.
And she was heading for the wrong truck.
There was a second green truck in the lot.
"No!" he shouted, all caution gone now. He heard men running after him. He glanced back, stumbled a little, saw two men behind him. They must have come through the window as well. He looked toward the lot and cupped his hands. "Hey! The other truck!" He pointed hard toward his pickup. She looked back over her shoulder, nodded that she understood and veered toward the right one.
As he ran, he pulled out his keys. God, he should have given her the keys, let her start it. As it was, if he could outrun the monks, they would just barely make it. They had to. So far they'd been damned lucky, and he wasn't about to let that change. She climbed in and pushed open his door. In a matter of seconds he reached it, started the engine. Then he closed the door, slammed the truck into reverse, and roared backward, knocking down a monk.
