“Whoa, Bessie,” Jack said in my ear.
I bristled. That solved my hormonal problem. “Are you calling me a bovine?”
I wrenched my arm away and stood back on my own two feet.
He squinted at me, looking a little spooked. Then his mouth made an O.
“Uh,” he said, “just an expression.”
Pausing for emphasis between the words, I said, “Jack. Ass.”
His jaw fell. “What?”
“Just an expression.”
I raked a murderous glare across his face, daring him to cross me, but instead he grinned ear to ear.
“Jack. Ass.” He said it just like I had. “I like it.”
“Argh!”
I didn’t care that I was yelling as I started marching toward the hangar again, dragging my bag, which by now had a rock caught in one of its wheels, which stopped spinning. I hated that he’d driven me to cursing, and hated it even more that he liked it. He caught up easily and fell in stride with me.
Well, the horse was out of the barn, so I might as well ride it. “Do you mind telling me what the travel arrangements are, Mr. Ass?”
Was it my imagination, or was that a twinkle in the eyes that didn’t meet mine? “Sure. I have a Cessna 172—er, Skyhawk. It’s very comfortable. Snowflake rides shotgun, so you’ll be in back. You can even nap. It’ll take about three and a half hours to get there.”
This didn’t sound right. This sounded really quite wrong, in fact. I swallowed, hard.
“A Skyhawk? Is that a jet?”
He laughed, too loud. “No, it’s, um, a single engine, and, uh, it has high wings and a propeller.”
Suddenly I saw spots. I didn’t look at him, just tried to breathe evenly and get through this spell of lightheadedness. As my vision cleared, I spied a totem-pole-like sign ahead. White arrows pointed from it in all directions. Big blue letters on each arrow identified different destinations and mileage to them from here. Albuquerque was about halfway down: 285.
I gulped a big breath and spoke in a rush: “You didn’t think it might be worth mentioning to me that we’re flying in a toy-sized airplane? And where’s the pilot of this thing anyway?” My voice wobbled like I was singing opera.
He turned to me, and his whole body radiated his grin. “Emily, you aren’t scared of small planes, are you?”
***
Four hours and three barf bags later, Jack hollered back to me that we were making our final descent. Snowflake peered out the side of her kennel from where it was buckled into the seatbelt in the front passenger seat.
I shot a feeble bird toward the front seat and muttered, “Not you, Snowflake.”
I kept my head in bag number four, my body slumped against the side of the plane, and my head vibrating along with the frame. The engine, prop, and wind noises were unbelievably loud, and I was now attuned to every change in the sounds—and even more so to every bounce and wobble. I already knew we were going down. The only question was whether it was by design or not; I was past caring much.
I decided to sit back up. I loved Albuquerque, and if we were going to die, I wanted the last thing I saw to be the city and the Sandia Mountains, not the inside of the airplane. All I had left was the dry heaves, anyway. I couldn’t believe how sick I’d been. I’d never gotten airsick before. It was probably my little bean. I kept the bag right where it was, just in case, and peered out the window.
What I saw cleared my head and dried my mouth instantly. No city. No mountains. Just desert right below, coming at us, fast.
“Jack, we’re going to crash!” I screamed, lurching forward and dropping my barf bag to the floor.
I put my head between my knees and my hands over the back of my head. The barf bag had fallen on its side between my feet and the last of my stomach bile trickled out and pooled in a foamy mess that managed to reach both of my soles. At least I hadn’t worn sandals.
No answer from Jack. Just then the plane hit the ground with a wrenching jolt. I tensed, ready for us to cartwheel into broken bits and flames. The plane roared, then slowed so fast it was like the wheels had hit a sandbar. My body weight strained forward against my seat belt, and my head bounced on my knees as we careened over rough earth.
And then the pressure eased and we slowed, almost to a stop, and made a tight left turn. The plane rolled forward almost casually, jostling me again, but more gently this time. Slowly, I sat up. No carnage. No inferno. We had landed, and I wasn’t dead.
The plane was taxiing down what looked like a little dirt road to a tan metal barn with a silver roof. Beside it was a pole with an orange flag—no, an orange bag or sock of some kind—blowing horizontally in the strong wind. Next to it was some kind of big white tank on thin metal legs. I could now see mountains behind us to my left, which I was very glad I hadn’t seen before landing. They were way too close. Where were we?
A vintage blue Suburban was parked near the barn. As I watched, a woman of medium height with long, dark gray hair got out of the driver’s side. She was clad in blue jeans and a boxy shirt that, even from a distance, had a New Mexican vibe to it. Earthen colors. Something long hanging in the neck area. As we got closer, I could see that she wore moccasins on her feet, and that she had dark skin, sharp features, and broad cheekbones. She walked to the barn and raised its door. Jack pulled the plane to the entrance, turned it around facing back where we’d come from, then shut it off.
The instant quiet was deafening.
He opened his door and hopped out, then leaned back in, saying, “Welcome to New Mexico.”
I thought very seriously for a moment about punching him in the throat. But he was the only criminal attorney I knew, and it was pretty clear I was going to need him to represent me sooner rather than later at the rate my hormones were going. I kept silent and gritted my teeth.
Jack moved his seat forward and stepped out of my line of vision. Outside, I heard the woman greeting him and his friendly reply. I had to pull myself together. I unbuckled my seat belt and carefully gathered up my three full puke bags. Stepping gingerly over the mess in the floorboard, I followed him out, then reached back in for bag four on the floor. I held them up to show Jack, cocked my head, and lifted my shoulders.
He pointed to a barrel inside the barn. “You okay? Need a bottle of water?”
I tilted my chin higher and nodded.
“There’s a case of bottled water just on the other side of the hangar from the barrel.”
“Thank you.”
I disposed of my mess and grabbed a water, sucking saliva like mouthwash through the insides of my mouth to try to make it a little less vile. I uncapped the bottle, took a slug, swished and spit away from Jack and the woman, then greedily sucked down half the contents. Only then did I walk back toward them, smoothing my hair into place.
Jack put his hand on the woman’s shoulder. “Judith, this is Emily. Emily, Judith.”
His secretary. The one I’d talked to on the phone. I dipped my head. “Hello, Judith. Very nice to meet you. I’d shake your hand, but it was a rough flight and I’m . . .”
She nodded as I trailed off, but didn’t say a word to me. To Jack she said, “I had Mickey drop me off, Boss. I thought I’d make sure everything here was all right and ride back to the office with you.”
I wondered how much there really was to take care of here, in the middle of a pasture, but she went on.
“I mowed the runway and ran off some pronghorns,” she said. “We’ve got some prairie dogs that have set up down near the end. I don’t think they’ll be a problem, but you might want to take a look.”
Wow. If that was the kind of work his secretary did, I was really glad I was the paralegal.
Jack treated it like her mowing the runway was no big deal. “Thanks. Sounds good.”
He got Snowflake out and grabbed our bags while I retrieved my purse. We took our things to the Suburban, and Snowflake and I got in, but Jack walked back to the plane with Judith. They positioned themselves on either side of the fuse
lage, leaning over at the waist and placing their hands on the struts. Together they rolled the plane a few feet to the tank I’d seen earlier. Jack lifted a nozzle and stuck it into the wing of the plane. Fuel, I surmised. While this was going on, Jack went into the barn and came out with a spray can of Lysol. He leaned into the backseat and appeared to spray it, for a very long time, then brought the bottle back and tossed it in the trash barrel. I burned with mortification. A few minutes later, he and Judith pushed the Skyhawk backwards into the barn. Then they came back out, Jack pulling the door down shut behind him. He fastened a padlock, then followed Judith to the Suburban. He clambered into the driver’s seat and she went to the front passenger side.
“Next stop, the office,” Jack said, starting the Suburban down a dirt road leading away from the barn and the runway.
The land was dotted with clusters of green yucca (with tall stalks of dried blossoms) and other high desert plants, like tufts of cascading bear grass. There were some whitish-pink and some bright yellow flowered shrubs, neither of which I recognized. The nearby foothills were treed, although we were too far away for me to tell with what. There were no trees out here on the desert plain. It looked so desolate, with no people or buildings in sight—save the hangar behind us. More desolate even than the Panhandle.
The Panhandle might not have trees, but it had grassland—not desert—and there weren’t many spots that were as devoid of civilization as this. Heck, as devoid of all forms of life. I felt like I was on the surface of the moon, a million miles away from my own life. Not just from my life in Dallas, but from my reestablished life in Amarillo. From Sofia, who was doing God knew what in a prison, and from Valentina, the little girl I’d never seen but couldn’t get out of my mind. I hoped they were all right. There was nothing I could do from here.
My phone chimed. “Sorry,” I said. I turned off the ringer and read the text.
Collin: Emily, you there?
Me: If by “there” you mean New Mexico, the answer is yes.
I hit send. The answer came back immediately.
Collin: No way! Where?
Me: Tularosa.
I thought I was in Tularosa, anyway. I definitely wasn’t in Albuquerque. We could have been anywhere, though.
Collin: “So you’re near Alamogordo?”
I remembered Jack’s explanation.
Me: Yes.
Collin: That’s where I am this weekend. How long are you there? Any chance of getting together?
Collin lived in Taos and was based out of Santa Fe. What was he doing here? And wanting to get together, now, when I was pregnant? He didn’t even know I was getting a divorce.
I typed: I would love it. I’m here for work, just for the weekend. I’ll let you know my plans as soon as I talk to my boss. So . . . maybe.
We crossed a cattle guard and turned right onto a paved highway. I looked back at the entrance, marked with a metal sign suspended above the gate: Wrong Turn Ranch. Wind tossed it to and fro. The name sounded familiar.
“Where are we?” I asked.
Jack turned until I saw his profile and said, “Highway 70. Halfway between Bent and Tularosa. The Sacramento Mountains and Lincoln National Forest are behind us, the Sierra Blancas behind you to your right. We’ll be at my office in about ten minutes.”
I laid my head back against the seat and let my eyes close. It had been a rough few hours. Judith and Jack talked while I remembered Collin and his 501 jeans, looking as much like Tom Cruise in Top Gun as Tom Cruise ever had. I strolled into the dream as the Kelly McGillis character, the instructor in the leather jacket, only I had a baby bump, and Tom Cruise didn’t give me a second glance.
I must have dozed off, because when the Suburban jolted to a stop (typical Jack), it woke me up abruptly. I looked around us. We were on a broad, small-town street in a residential neighborhood. Scrubby trees and patchy yards stretched in front of stucco houses—or adobe, I guess they called it here. Jack had parked in front of a small, red adobe house with a Columbia blue door and a metal Kokopelli bear totem painted in the same color hanging beside it. The front yard was grassless and covered in small, red landscaping rocks. An aged bronze sign hung like a flag off a pole. It read Law Office.
Jack put the Suburban in park and said, “Home sweet home.”
Chapter Six
Judith ushered me inside. “Lobby,” she said as we walked through what once was a den. It now housed an old leather couch and side chair, a coffee table with a Johnny Football-covered Sports Illustrated on top of a stack of magazines. A deer antler lamp sat on an end table between the couch and chair. Black and white photos of mountain and desert scenes adorned the walls.
“Kitchen.” She pointed to her left as we walked down a central hall. The small room had white cabinets and appliances on three sides with a wooden table and chairs in the center.
She swung to the right. “Conference room.” A large, weathered, round wooden table anchored the room. Burgundy leather rolling chairs surrounded it. A corner table held a phone. Again, landscape photography hung on the walls, these in color.
Judith took a few steps, then stopped and turned to me. “Here’s the bathroom,” she said, indicating the door on the right side of the hall. “Jack’s office.” The left. “Mine.” The right again. “He had me set an extra desk up for you,” she said. “You have your laptop?”
“Yes, I brought it.” I patted my shoulder bag. I’d even stashed my clutch in it, since I’d prepped it for airport security. It was nearly two pounds lighter and a few inches slimmer than usual. I flashed her a big smile. Her face remained still. I noticed that, for a woman of her age in such a dry climate, she sure didn’t have many smile wrinkles or laugh lines.
She stood in the doorway to her office and pointed at a bare table. “The network cable’s underneath.”
“Thanks.”
She walked in soundlessly, not so much as flinching to show she’d heard me.
Jack came up behind me, his boots noisier than Judith’s. “Everything good?”
I nodded. Judith’s cold welcome wasn’t something I would unload on him.
“What’s our plan?” I asked.
“Judith ordered in lunch for our meeting with Paul Johnson. He’ll be here at one. That’s . . .” he glanced at his watch, “in half an hour.”
I had time to brush my teeth and take a French shower, at least. “Is the car unlocked? I need to grab my overnight bag.”
He tossed me the keys—a horrible throw—and my left hand shot up and caught them as they went past my ear.
“Why don’t you come to my office when you’re done and I’ll bring you up to speed.”
“Thanks. One more thing.” I inhaled and my breath hit a wall, stopping shallow. “I have a friend in Alamogordo. Do we have time for me to go out for breakfast tomorrow?”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “We’ll leave about ten a.m. Can you be back and ready by then?”
“Yes, thank you.”
I rushed through my ablutions in the ancient bathroom. It was so small that my elbow hit the rubber ducky shower curtain while I washed my face. I rubbed my face with a tear away paper towel from a kitchen-style roll, then put on some nude lipstick and mascara. Still too pale, I thought. I swiped the lipstick over my cheekbones and lightly rubbed it in. Better. In the mirror, I saw a photograph behind me. The photographer had captured four Native American dancers with elaborate headdresses, their bare torsos painted with white symbols, skirts hanging almost to their knees over moccasin boots. I turned to study it. It was really beautiful. The photographer had signed it in the bottom right corner. I leaned in close to read the name: Mountain Spirits. Lena Holden.
I thought about the name for a moment. I recognized it—and not just because of the obvious last name—but I couldn’t place it. Damn pregnancy hormones. Besides turning me into a rage monster, they’d siphoned off a fair portion of my brain function.
I took a moment to text Collin before I left the bathroom: I can meet
for an early breakfast if you can come up my way.
I packed up my bathroom bag and returned it to the car, then went to Jack’s office.
His Tularosa digs were nothing much compared to the ones in Amarillo, but it was still a nice, warm space. A rug that looked to be a Native design graced one wall, a bookcase covered another, and UNM Law and NMSU diplomas hung on either side of a large, bare window. The desk here looked much like the one in Amarillo: messy, with picture frames turned to face Jack. Two armchairs with cowhide upholstery sat in front of his desk; I took the one nearest the door. Jack had his back to me, a book in his lap. Snowflake snoozed in a bed by the door, looking awfully at home.
I cleared my throat.
Jack swiveled around and set the book on his desk and closed it. I read the title: Spider Woman’s Daughter. Anne Hillerman.
“New client,” he said. “Paul Johnson. Native New Mexican. Grew up in Las Cruces. Made his money in nightclubs, in New Mexico and West Texas. Started importing cheap art from Mexico. You know, like the metal chickens and geckos. Made more money. Has a ranch just east of here—gorgeous place, near Bent.”
He said this like the location would mean something to me. It rang a little bell, but I couldn’t place it.
“Not far from where we flew in this morning,” he said.
Ah. The bell rang louder. “What are we doing for him?” I asked.
“Nothing yet. He asked me for this meeting so he could explain what he’s looking for. He wants me on retainer.”
“You mentioned that his employees tend to attract negative legal attention?”
“Yep,” Jack said. “Bouncers. Truck drivers. Warehouse guards. Rough types.”
“What do you want me to do during the meeting?” I asked.
“Listen. Ask questions. Then, next week, I want you to find out everything there is to know about him.”
“That’s all?”
“And eat. I have a feeling your stomach is kind of empty.”
***
“Hello?” a girl’s voice called from the front of the office.
Judith was in the kitchen working on lunch, so I walked out to the lobby. A tall, thin teenage girl in knee-high buckskin moccasins stood there. Freckles covered her cheeks and a large, distinctive nose, but elsewhere her skin was so white it was almost blue. It was her hair that captured my attention. Somehow she’d fashioned her kinky black hair into individual locks, almost like ringlets, except that it radiated from her head, no strand longer than what appeared to be shoulder length. It was part Afro, part dreadlocks, and part finger-in-a-light-socket. I couldn’t have made a single hair on my head defy gravity like hers.
Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) Page 8
