by Brian Hodge
"Yeah. You?" He sensed the shrug, didn't see it in the dark.
Hurry, hurry.
They passed Presbyterian Hospital and saw two ambulances pulling into the driveway by the Emergency Entrance.
He thought about swinging by the paper to see Laura, but glanced at the clock. Not yet seven. She said she wouldn't be leaving until eight, so there was no sense. They could drop by her apartment later. Good God. He needed to find a place for Sunny to stay. Maybe Laura wouldn't mind if the other woman stayed with her.
"You know," she said, "we talk about these creatures and the murders they've committed, and we don't know why or what makes them do it. We don't know what they are. Except evil.”
A gust of wind blew in his window, and he shivered with the sudden coolness.
"Evil," he murmured, as though echoing her, and the urgency within him clamored. "I have to do something. I don't know what."
"About the creatures."
He nodded. "Tenorio came to me—after he was dead. Told me. I turned my back on my religion many years ago. I have to turn back to it.”
She was silent. Any moment he expected her to jump out of the truck, shrieking that he was a madman. But she didn't; she just sat there, her head slightly tilted as she listened.
"They can be anywhere, I guess. But they haven't done, much in the city, as far as I know. It's almost as if they're waiting … for something. For someone." And he felt chilled at his own words.
They'd left the business section of downtown Albuquerque far behind now and had entered a section less prosperous, much older. It was darker here, too, with fewer street lights, fewer house lights on. He swung the truck into a small, crowded dirt parking lot before a bar, whose sign out front had been broken so that only two C's and a T were still lit. The Schlitz sign, however, was intact. Iron bars had been placed across the windows and the adobe on the outside was chipping; out back a garbage dumpster was spilling over with uncollected garbage.
"Charming,” the woman said as she got out of the truck and looked around. "You certainly know how to pick them."
How different from Laura, he thought, as they walked toward the front door. Laura would have pursed her lips disapprovingly and probably refused to set foot in the place.
Even outside they could hear loud rock music, and when they stepped through the door, heavy cigar and cigarette smoke swirled thickly through the bar's warm air. The room was dimly lit and fully occupied, and no one looked their way. He paused at the bar, glanced casually around as his eyes adjusted to the lack of light. Sunny was also looking around.
He knew they were being watched, and the main topic of conversation seemed to be a fire that had started earlier in the evening. He shut out the heavy voices, concentrated on looking for Junior. After a moment he said, "Do you see him?"
She shook her head.
He walked up to the bartender.
"Yeah?"
"Looking for Junior Montoya. A half-breed. Broken teeth."
Keeping his eyes on him, the man shook his head. "He not been here tonight."
"Thanks." He dropped a five-dollar bill on the counter, walked outside. She followed.
"How do you know he was telling the truth?" she asked once they were back in the truck.
"I don't. I just have to take his word. If he knows where Junior is, he'll let him know I'm looking for him."
He glanced up at the mountains, saw the lights of the restaurant atop Sandia Crest shining faintly through a haze clinging to the face of the mountain. It was a hushed night. Expectant. Waiting with-out breath. The only sounds in the city were of the cars racing past on Central and the distant fall and rise of sirens.
The second bar wasn't far from the first, and it was a repeat performance. No one had seen the old man. They drifted from bar to bar, each one seemingly worse than the one before, and the hour crept closer to midnight.
He pulled into another lot. "Okay. This is it. If we don't find him here, I give up for now."
This bar was farther out west on the highway than the others they'd been to; in fact, it was almost out of the city limits. Its rough sign was hand-painted. Only a few trucks and older model cars sat in the field that served as a parking lot.
There were no lights out here to break the darkness of the night, and he again thought how still everything was. As if something … they … were waiting.
They walked into the single room, and found it remarkably quiet. Just a handful of Indians sitting at a bar, drinking and saying very little. There were no video games, no pinballs, no television. Just the eerie silence. And the dimness. The seats of the booths were red vinyl, now cracked with hard and long use and mended with electrical tape. Candles in green bowls set on the tables served a dual purpose—to light the table area and to keep insects away. An old jukebox in one corner was quiet for now. The bartender, a dark man with a bulging belly, glanced in their direction, didn't speak.
Sunny tugged at his sleeve, and he turned to look where she pointed.
And in the back of the room, he saw Junior Montoya.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
Four empty glasses and a full one sat in front of the old man, and he looked as though he'd been expecting them. Probably had, Chato thought dourly.
"So, boy, we meet again. Heh, heh."
The light from the candle caused th6 ruins of his face to look like the ravages of a canyon. He was just as old, just as seedy-looking as Chato recalled.
"Ah, señorita, " the old man said, staring at Sunny with obvious recognition. He noticed Junior's eyes had widened when he saw the woman. He was apparently surprised to see her still alive.
She didn't speak, and he knew she must be recalling the horrible events of that night when her friends had been killed and she'd barely escaped.
Chato sat without waiting to be asked. Sunny pulled her chair away from the table, away from Montoya, who leered across the table and cackled.
"You're in a fine humor, Montoya."
"Si. Meester Chato, I tell you I am doing fine."
"You remember my name."
"I remember much about you."
"And what about your friends, the shadoweyes?"
For a moment Montoya looked surprised, but he covered it by leaning forward, the light playing across his face, making it even more hideous.
"You have met them?"
"Yeah. Right after they killed the low-riders."
"Dumb shits. Those people." Junior shook his head, hawked, spit on the floor. Chato's disgust increased. Being with the old man was like having turned over a rock and finding something best left in the dark dampness of the soil.
He glanced at Sunny. She was staring down at her folded hands. Listening, but not looking. Montoya saw his expression and grinned again, winked.
"You got good taste, boy. Last time she was with a rich Texan and he—"
"That's enough, Montoya," he said quietly. "I'm not interested."
At that moment the bartender wandered over to them. "You want something?" he asked Montoya.
Chato shook his head, as did Sunny. The man shrugged, returned to his post behind the bar.
"Why don't we talk about your friends?" Chato suggested.
"How do you know they are my friends?"' Montoya grinned at him, scratched his chest through a long rip in the material.
"We're not stupid, Montoya. No matter what you think." He continued to stare at the half-breed, noted that in the yellow light Montoya's face unpleasantly reminded him of a jack-o-lantern. Teeth and all. "After I saw you that day I found those Chicanos; later on I found out about the dead campers Sunny was with, and then a priest. All from those creatures. And I've been given the royal run-around by the Mayor and his people, who are scared shitless this'll drive business away, or whatever. So tell me about them, Montoya. Tell me about this mysterious pueblo. This Pueblo de Sombras."
The half-breed swallowed some of his drink, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Such a clever boy, eh? You learned much at the U
niversity. You're not a dumb Indian like these, eh?" He jerked his head toward the Indians at the bar "No. You're better than them. We all know that."
"Montoya," he warned.
The half-breed grinned. Held out his hands. "Eh, all right. You are so smart to find me. I will tell you." He drank some more beer. Chato watched as some of the liquor trickled down Montoya's chin. The old man made no move to wipe it away. "The pueblo is old. Very old. So old that all record has been lost of it."
"How did you find out about it?"
"Ah, I am a guide. It is my job, Meester Chato, to find these things out." He grinned. "So old the people were gone long before Coronado came through."
"You said that before," Sunny said, speaking for the first time.
He simply cackled. "There are guardians there of great treasure, it is said. And the guardians have been disturbed. They do not like it.”
"The shadoweyes." When the old man did not answer, he pursued. "Is that what you mean by guardians? Are the shadoweyes the guardians?"
Montoya's lips pulled back in a grin that was a grimace. "The shadoweyes. Very old."
"They're the guardians?"
"They've got to be," the woman said, "or the old fool wouldn't keep repeating himself." Her voice was sharp. It was fear, he thought, that sharpened it. The fear that he felt, too.
"They are the ones who watch. And wait."
"For what?"
"Si. They wait."
Senile old fool. What a waste of time it had been looking for Montoya. He hadn't told them anything they didn't already know.
"Wait for what?" Sunny asked.
"Wait for him to come."
Chato frowned. Montoya wasn't making sense. "What about the fetish?"
The old man's eyes flicked. And for the first time he noticed how dark and flat they were. Rocks. Without emotions. Like a reptile's.
"Fetish?"
He didn't believe Montoya's innocent act. Not for a minute. Not from this man. "Yeah. What's its connection with the pueblo?"
"There is rumored to be a fetish from the pueblo. Found by a white archeologist a long time ago. But it has no value other than what the whites put on it." He winked. "Let them play with their pretty rocks and pebbles, eh? We have better things, you know?"
"The fetish."
"A plaything. Nothing more."
And of course that meant it wasn't. But it also didn't tell him what the fetish's significance was. The mysterious fetish. There was a connection. He just didn't know how it connected. Junior knew, but wasn't about to tell him. And he didn't like guessing games, so he wasn't about to sit here all night pumping the geezer.
On the other hand, he really didn't have much choice, did he?
He decided to change his tactics. "Won't you help us?” he asked. "We're your people. They aren't. They'll turn on you in the end, and you'll be hurt—murdered—just like the others. They can only use you for so long. Come on, Junior. Help us. Okay?"
Junior blinked at him, took a sip, blinked some more. The flame of the candle wavered with a sudden current of air, and the smell of wax and sour sweat from the old man drifted over to him.
Chato folded his arms and leaned back, waiting for Junior's cooperation. He had a hunch it might take a while. They'd just wait. The air in the bar was getting warmer, heavier, choking him, and he wished someone would open a window to let the breeze in. Where had that one draft come from? Probably someone opening the door. He was tired, too, and he stifled a yawn. He wanted nothing more than to go to bed—and sleep.
His eyelids were heavy, and they kept dropping, as if he had no muscle control.
"The shadoweyes wait for you," the old man whispered, and Chato nodded sleepily. Suddenly Montoya cackled, and Chato jerked up in his seat.
The half-breed was gone.
He stared at the empty chair, turned to Sunny. She was asleep sitting up.
He touched her arm, and she flinched, opening her eyes. "What?"
"We fell asleep. He's gone." He rubbed a hand across his face and looked around. Most of the customers had gone. In fact, except for the bartender and one man who had his head resting on the bar, they were the only ones left in the room.
"How long were we asleep?"
He looked at his watch. "Jesus. It's been hours. It's after midnight." He stood a little unsteadily, as if he'd been drinking a lot. He ached all over, too, and his head pounded. "Let's go. We're not going to find out anything else tonight."
The air outside had grown remarkably cool, or perhaps it was the contrast with the hot, sullen air of the bar they felt. For a few minutes they stood and breathed deeply, let the night air cool them. His head began to clear, and the muscle ache eased. The stars were faint tonight, as if the haze by the mountains had seeped across the sky. He wondered if it would rain later. The city needed it, needed to have the stench of death and fright washed away.
They got into the truck and pulled away from the bar, and when they got back on the highway, he thought he saw something scamper across the road. Something with bright eyes.
A finger traced ice down his back. He looked at Sunny to see if she'd noticed, but her eyes were closed. He decided not to say anything.
She yawned, then with a puzzled tone to her voice, said, "That was so strange. Both of us falling asleep like that, and for so long."
"Yeah. I don't like the idea of someone exerting some kind of control over us. And I don't understand it either. He doesn't seem like someone with"—say it, Chato, he told himself, say the word out loud—"powers."
"I know," she whispered.
Powers. The old man had power. The shadoweyes had power. Didn't anyone have power against them, power to stop them from what they planned?
The shadoweyes wait for you, the old man had said. For you. For you. For me, Chato thought, the knot of fear twisting inside. For me alone.
Remembering what he'd seen—or thought he'd seen—run across the road, he quickly rolled up the window on his side.
"We're going to Laura's apartment now. We'll talk with her. Maybe she saw the fetish at the presentation."
"Sure." Her hand reached out, switched on the radio; and they listened to the country music as they drove on the freeway.
When they reached the Montgomery exit, a newscast came on, and he automatically tuned it out as he thought about their encounter with Montoya. Then he thought he heard something about the barbecue, but by that time the music had returned.
"What'd they say?" he asked.
"There's been a ballooning accident at the barbecue," Sunny replied quietly. "A fire started and dozens of people have been killed or injured. Including the Mayor. It mean, he's dead."
Griffen dead. A fire. That's what the men in the bars had been talking about. That's why there was the haze over the mountains. That was the yellowish cast to the sky he'd seen to the north earlier. That's why there were so many, ambulances out.
He had been a fool not to suspect that something was wrong. An absolute fool.
Oh my God. Laura was there.
He pressed the accelerator down hard and the truck jumped forward with a scream of its engine. He swung wildly past a station wagon, cut sharply in front of it, ignored the blast of the horn.
He had to get to her apartment and find out what had happened—find out if she were okay.
If she weren't—maybe she hadn't—
No. He wouldn't think of that. Not now.
And in his head, in the cab, he heard the horrible cackling of Junior Montoya.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
He knocked loudly, heard hesitant footsteps behind the door; then they became running steps, and the door was thrown open.
Laura stood there, framed against the light, and he'd never seen her look so bad. In fact, she looked horrible. Her hair was windblown and tangled; she had soot on her face, and blood streaked her ripped and stained dress; her eyes were red from crying. And her expression was one of absolute terror.
She gave a muffled cry when she
saw who it was, started toward him, then stopped when she noticed Sunny. She backed away as they entered the apartment.
"Laura, what happened?" She was acting so odd, so unlike the confident woman she was.
She flung herself in his arms then, burying her face against him. She tried to talk, but could only make pitiful mewing sounds. Finally he just hushed her, held her and rocked her gently.
"I'll get her something to drink," Sunny said quietly, slipping past them and heading for the kitchen.
He nodded and stroked Laura's dark hair. He let her cry, feeling her body shake against his chest. The tears became sobs that racked her body, and still he just held her, was a warm comforting presence. Finally, when the sobs had diminished, he led her by one hand, as though she were a child, to a chair in the living room. She stood numbly by it, did nothing, and so he carefully placed his hands on her shoulders and pushed her gently, forcing her to sit. Offering no protest, she sank onto the cushion and leaned back, her eyes closed. There were deep dark smudges under her eyes, and soot had worked its way into the tiny lines around her mouth and eyes. He didn't see any signs of burns, so she probably wasn't injured. But what was wrong? More than the fire had disturbed her, he thought.
Not more than a few minutes later Sunny, who'd waited until Laura was calmer, brought a glass of whiskey to her. She accepted it with hands that shook, drank it in great gulps.
Chato waited until she had almost finished the drink, then asked again, "What happened?"
Laura took a deep breath, passed a hand over her face and stared at the blackness that came away on her fingertips.
"They came out of the balloon, and—and—" Her voice choked.
"Take your time, Laura," he urged. He got up and poured a second drink for her. She gulped that one just as rapidly as the first.
Then, in a small voice so low they could barely hear her at times, Laura told them her story, from the moment she had arrived—told them of seeing Eagleton Haas and meeting Senator Kent, of watching the descent of the balloon, of the horrors that followed afterward.
She refused to look at them as she talked of the creatures. He reached over and brushed her cheek with his fingertips. She flinched, and immediately he withdrew his hand. Alter she had run away, never once looking back, she explained, she found herself on a busy street—Juan Tabo, she thought, although she couldn't recall now. She recalled seeing ambulances and fire trucks speeding by, but time seemed suspended to her, and she didn't make the connection. She stood by the curb and waved her arms, and at length a kind-hearted motorist stopped and gave her a ride back to the apartment. The man had asked her what had happened, but she'd only said there'd been a fire. When she got back to the apartments, she'd had to go to the manager's to get a pass key—her purse and everything in it had been left behind at the picnic grounds.
