by John Everson
He shook his head “no” quickly, but then slowed his denial and shook it the other way. “Maybe,” he said.
“When did you get into town?” she asked softly.
“Tuesday,” he said, drawing in a deep breath.
She nodded. “Altitude. You’re not used to it yet. We’re at more than seven thousand feet here.”
“That must be it,” he breathed. Inside, he desperately hoped that was the reason.
She poked him in the side. “That or you’re out of shape!” Cindy laughed and then rolled off the bed to disappear into the tiny bathroom. Joe stared around the room. She lived in a small apartment just off Guadalupe Street, the main drag through old town. He’d been a little unsteady as she’d led him up the wooden outside stairs to the third floor. Once inside, she’d offered him a glass of ice water in the galley kitchen before pulling him past the front room couch and into her bedroom.
They never sat down.
“I don’t want you falling asleep on me,” she’d explained.
And then she’d introduced him to her mattress and the night had gotten much more interesting.
Now as he lay there, staring at the southwestern Kokopelli art on her walls and out the small window that revealed the thousands of stars up in the desert sky, he realized he didn’t know anything about her beyond her name. And the fact that she worked at the Cowgirl. And had… a unique way of twisting her hips when he pushed against them with his own.
“So why are you in town?” she asked when she returned. “Business? Pleasure?”
“Just wandering, really,” Joe said, pulling back the sheets so she could slip back in next to him.
“Great place to wander,” she said. “Be careful you don’t get lost out in the hills.”
“Are there a lot of stories about ghosts and stuff out here?” he asked.
“You mean like old Arnie was bullshitting about at the bar?” she asked. Cindy shrugged, exposing the delicate hollow of her breastbone. “I dunno. I’ve lived up here for seven years now, and I’ve never seen anything but strangers, lost souls and the quiet of the desert. There are always stories, I guess, and some old Indian traditions and folklore. But Santa Fe isn’t a ghost town, if that’s what you mean.”
Joe shook his head. “I used to be a newspaper reporter, and I’ve seen my share of weird, so I’m always curious. What’s the story with the Birchmir, that place the drunk guy mentioned?”
“Oh, it’s just an old, abandoned mission chapel out west of town. Used to be an Indian settlement, and then in the 1600s they converted it. But with all the other churches and stuff around town, it was abandoned a long time ago. Maybe a hundred years ago, I don’t know.”
“And it’s supposed to be haunted?”
“It’s been abused is what it’s been. Kids hold drug parties and black masses and God knows what else there. I think it’s just an empty, lost place.”
“Sounds like a lot of spots out here in the desert,” he said. “Empty and alone.”
Cindy slipped her hand across his chest, and pressed herself closer. “The desert, yes,” she said. “And a lot of people. But not here.”
“No,” he agreed, as her lips explored his shoulder and neck. “It’s not lonely here.”
CHAPTER 4
SHE ALMOST FELT the lights behind her before she saw them. And then the twin arcs flashed across the yellow pedestrian crossing sign ahead of her, and the crunch of gravel said the car was slowing down and edging onto the shoulder behind where she walked.
Cheyenne pulled her bag tighter, but didn’t pick up her pace. She wasn’t going to outrun a car, and it was better not to show fear, if someone was thinking of messing with her. Never let them see you sweat – the words were from a bullshit deodorant commercial, but they were also her personal mantra. And she thought her ability to project cool detachment had allowed her to walk past many an explosive situation. Definitely an important skill when you had to walk just about everywhere. And the desert had pockets of rattlers lying in wait all over the place. Despite whatever you saw on the Discovery Channel, the poisonous serpents out here were more often of the human variety than snakes, she thought.
Did she have her pepper spray in the bag, she wondered. She couldn’t remember if she’d transferred it to this purse yesterday or not.
The car slid next to her, rolling along slowly, pacing her. It was a 1990s Ford, silver. There was a dent just above the front wheel well.
Cheyenne didn’t stop walking.
The passenger’s window rolled down. A man’s voice called from inside.
“Hey there,” he said. “Do you need a lift somewhere?”
Cheyenne shook her head. “Nah, thanks. Just walking home.”
“So you live around here?” he asked. “Not much out this way.”
“Nope, pretty much just snakes and scorpions,” she agreed.
“Problem is, you can’t see them in the dark,” he said.
“And they don’t want to be seen,” she said. “It all works out.”
Cheyenne kept walking, struggling not to glance back in the direction of the pacing car. If she ignored him, he might get bored and drive away.
The car inched forward, not letting her get away. “My name’s Darin,” he said, leaning out the window.
She didn’t answer.
“What’s your name?” he prodded.
Cheyenne shrugged, and refused to look in the direction of the car. She still had another half mile to go before she would turn down the small road that led to her tiny adobe brick hut. It was not even visible from the road. But it was too far to make a run for right now. She needed to just keep on walking. Calmly. Steadily…
“Fine,” the man said after a moment. “I was just trying to help out is all.” And with that, he gunned the engine, and kicked up a spray of gravel. It ricocheted off her shins.
“Asshole,” she said under her breath.
The red taillights disappeared down the road and into the dark of the night after a few seconds.
Cheyenne dug her hand into her purse to answer the question she should have known the answer to without doubt. Her hand slipped past mascara and tissues and gum… and finally closed around the small canister of pepper spray.
She breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully she wouldn’t need it, but knowing it was there…
Up ahead, a pair of headlights moved in her direction. She tightened her fingers on the pepper spray. Usually when she walked home at two in the morning, she never saw a soul. There was something very cathartic about walking along the desert roads in the middle of the night. You could taste the wind. Free of cares. Free of people. That was not the feeling of this night.
The car drew closer. One headlight looked dimmer than the other, yellowish.
The car was silver. And it was slowing down as it approached her.
“Oh shit,” she said under her breath.
“Just heading back to town,” Darin announced. “Sure I can’t give you a lift somewhere?”
Cheyenne shook her head and kept walking. “Just go away,” she said in her head. “Go away. Go away. Go away!”
Something pinched her arm.
Cheyenne’s skin felt suddenly icy cold.
She looked down and saw a small blue-finned dart protruding from her biceps. Darin grinned at her from where he leaned out of the driver’s seat window. He looked like a nice guy – short dark hair, a square jaw, bright cheerful eyes. But his hand was resting a small gun on the edge of the window frame as the tires still slowly crunched the gravel. Creeping along next to her.
Pacing her.
“It really isn’t safe out here at night,” he said. His voice sounded weirdly far away. Under water.
And then Cheyenne’s legs stopped lifting, and she toppled forward, gouging her cheek on the orange gravel of the roadside. She hear
d a car door slam nearby. And then two hands were scooping her off the ground.
“I wouldn’t recommend sleeping out here,” Darin said. “Snakes and scorpions and such, you know. Like we talked about. But don’t worry, I’ve got just the place for you.”
CHAPTER 5
MORNING IN THE DESERT came early. And bright. Joe woke with the rays of the sun already warm on his face. The bed next to him was empty, but he heard the shower running in the other room. Now was the awkward time. Was she regretting last night? Did he? Too soon to tell. But he did know that he just wanted to be out of here, and back in his own space (even if that was a hotel room) before he thought too hard about the question.
He searched the floor until he found his jeans wadded up in the corner and then pulled them on. Part of him wanted to just grab his stuff and leave; save them both that morning-after stumbling. But that would be rude and he would probably see her again at the Cowgirl, like it or not. Because he definitely intended on returning there, as long as he was staying in town. Plus, the water had stopped in the bathroom, so his chance for an unseen exit was already probably past.
Sure enough, the bathroom door opened a moment later and Cindy stepped out, a big fluffy pink towel cinched around her chest as she tousled her hair with another smaller one.
“Mornin’ stranger,” she said with a smile.
“Back atcha,” he said.
She crossed the room and rubbed one hand on his bare shoulder. “How did you sleep?”
“Like a baby,” he said. “Your bed is comfy!”
“It is,” she agreed. “But it’s more comfy if there’s someone to share it with. Hope you didn’t mind.”
He laughed. “Hardly!”
She scrunched the towel across her head once more and then pulled it free, letting long kinky black locks fall across her shoulders. She leaned in to kiss him. A soft, warm, gentle press on his lips. Her breath was sweet. The cold tips of her wet hair tickled his shoulder and he shivered.
“Do you drink coffee?” she asked, standing up and walking back to the bath to ditch her hair towel. To his surprise, she also slipped off her body towel, dropping it inside on the sink.
“Um, yeah, I do,” he said, admiring the sun glow across the rich almond skin of her back and butt as she returned to pull a pair of underwear from a dresser drawer. She was not shy; she put one foot up on the bed and faced him as she pulled the white silk panties up over her foot before stepping down and slipping her other foot in as well. Her breasts jiggled as she pulled the panties up and then turned to the dresser to find a matching bra.
“Well, I don’t have any in the house,” she apologized. “But I can run up to Dunkin’ – there’s a store just a few blocks down the street. If you want to shower, I can grab that and some donuts?”
“Actually...” he began.
“You’re not running out on me, are you?”
“…Well, no… but I would like to go back to my hotel, use my toothbrush, get a clean pair of clothes, you know.”
She faked a lip pout and stared at him with two big brown eyes.
“Will I see you later?”
“Sure,” he promised. “Are you working tonight?”
She nodded. “Start at five.”
“Well, I’d offer you dinner but…”
“Come eat at the bar,” she said. “We can talk some then. I want to see if I like you or not.” She winked.
“Deal,” Joe said, and pulled on his shirt. “I think there’s a pretty good chance that I like you, but we’ll see.”
“Fair enough,” she said. “What are you going to do today?”
“I think I’ll head out to that Birchmir Mission,” Joe said. “I’m curious about those kinds of places.”
She shrugged. “Take a bottle of water. It gets hot out there.”
“It got pretty hot in here, last night,” he said.
She laughed and shrugged, but he could tell she was pleased with the compliment.
“Next time I’ll keep some bottles by the bed.”
“There’s going to be a next time?” he asked.
She shrugged. “We’ll see. Depends on if I decide I like you or not.”
“Five, huh?”
She nodded. “You can tell me all about the ghosts.”
Joe was far more worried about meeting thieves than ghosts. After going “home” to freshen up, he picked up a burger and a big jug of tea and headed up the Old Santa Fe Trail out of town. Santa Fe’s omnipresent adobe-centric clusters of low, squat businesses gave way to small one-story homes and then all buildings quickly faded in the rear view mirror. In minutes he was driving through the desert, just a strip of asphalt between the long rolling plains and hills on either side. The light brown earth was dotted with sagebrush and the occasional cactus. The road wound uphill slowly, but the real hills were a few miles to his left. Those rose suddenly to the sky, great pillars of rock and scrub trees. The clouds cast shadows over the ravines and run-off trails that led down from the tops. At this altitude, he assumed those tops were snowcapped in the winter months. But right now, it was summer, and the amount of green poking up from the desert and the hills was surprising. Part of him had expected it all to look like a big plain of cactus and sand.
His phone talked, alerting him to a turnoff ahead. With Google Maps, there were no secret places anymore; you could plug in just about any address and in seconds the calming feminine robot would talk you through how to get there. It was an amazing world, he sometimes thought. But while the digital world pushed belief in the invisible farther and farther from center stage, he knew that there was another world out there. Forgotten maybe. Hidden, surely. But a dangerous world still existed that was looking for a way into our own. A world most people didn’t acknowledge at all.
Joe wondered if he asked his phone robot for directions to find the Curburide, what she would say. “Not in this world,” maybe.
“In five hundred feet, turn left,” his phone prodded. The road was unmarked, just a dusty curve of asphalt that dropped off with a bump from the main road and appeared rarely travelled. “In one mile, your destination will be on the right,” the phone informed him.
And the phone was right.
A minute or so later, Joe saw the three-story, red adobe structure rising above the barren plain. He pulled down a rutted trail that wound around a small copse of trees. A dry creek bed crossed the property and no doubt fed the trees (when it had water in it) from the mountain runoff. It was nothing but brown gravel now, however.
He pulled up in front of the rambling old mission and parked the car. A cross was carved into the wall above the heavy wooden front doors. On the left side rose a small turret. Joe assumed that you could get to the rooms in the tower from within the building, but there were also steps carved in the wall on the outside. A lookout tower – a remnant from another, troubled time. To the right of the large arched doors, the building was simply a large adobe square, with the second level inset slightly from the walls of the first.
It was quiet here. Profoundly still. You could literally hear the air move faintly through the sagebrush and occasional scrubby trees. And that was all.
No cars. No radios. No electric hums.
It gave him the chills.
This was the end of the earth.
He was anxious – and a little nervous – to see what lurked inside those walls.
The big wooden front door did not budge when he pulled on the heavy copper handle. He walked around the old mission, looking for another access point. He could try to pick the lock on the main door, but if there was an easier way…
There was another door in the back, facing the long sloping drop-off valley of desert sagebrush beyond. That was fastened with a chain and a big clasp lock. If it was newer than the front door lock, it might be easier to jimmy.
But then on the sid
e of the building, he saw something that made him grin. “That’ll do nicely,” he murmured. One of the windows had been broken, and the wire mesh that was supposed to protect it had been peeled away. Obviously, he wasn’t the only one who had tried to visit the mission without a key.
Joe peered inside, but there wasn’t much to see. A couple empty walls painted beige, with the lighter discolorations of rectangular things once hung but now long gone. An old chest remained against one wall.
Near a doorway.
“Here goes nothin’,” Joe said, and hoisted himself up onto the sill. The glass had long been cleaned away, and he flipped one leg over and was inside in a moment. He flashed on his days working the police beat at the newspaper and the words “breaking and entering” ran through his head.
He shrugged it off. It was an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere – who was going to care if he took a walk through?
The interior of the building was filled with long shadows. There were some narrow windows, but not many; old adobe buildings were meant to hold in the cool during the heat of the sun, and windows only let the sun’s heat bake in. It was cooler inside, and the faint hint of sage or incense, scented the air. He walked down a short hallway towards the front of the building, and quickly found the main chapel that the structure had been built around. It was a large room with a stepped altar on the opposite side from the tall wooden entry doors. Half of the pews had long since been removed; holes in the wooden floor betrayed where they had once been. But that hadn’t stopped people from congregating. There were beer bottles, paper bags and other refuse lying in the corners and along the wall. A blackened spot in the middle of the room said that some squatters had built a fire here at some point. And spray-painted graffiti colored the otherwise bare walls. Worship Him! proclaimed one red scrawl. Next to it was a star drawn inside a circle. It looked Satanic. Somehow Joe didn’t think that “him” related to the Christian God in this instance.
A pedestal still remained on the altar; maybe the only thing left from when this room was actively used for masses decades ago. It was stained with something dark. Joe walked up the two steps to look closer.
