by Renee Simons
"I'm not doubting your skill. I just want to be there. Is that so wrong?"
"What's wrong is you don't trust me." He massaged the bridge of his nose with his thumb and forefinger. He seemed to do that often, but her anger kept her from asking why.
"Just because I want to be a part of your investigation doesn't mean I don't trust you." Not totally true, she thought.
He stepped closer and looked deeply into her eyes. "Be honest. From the first, you thought I might be connected to the vandalism. That even if not directly involved, I might have looked the other way. To avoid biting the hand that feeds me."
"I won't deny it, but that was before."
"Before a double set of raging hormones became impossible to ignore? Before we both decided to put aside instinct, caution and common sense — everything that experience has taught us about getting in too deep." He went silent for a moment, then added, "I think that guy might have done us a favor."
The weariness in his voice and the stiffness of his stance put her on guard. The obvious disappointment shadowing his eyes confused her. "Meaning?"
"We should thank him for interrupting us before we made a colossal mistake."
Her breath caught in her throat, wedged behind a knot of anger she could neither expel nor swallow. Her fingers curled into fists she had no choice but to jam into her pockets. How else could she stifle the urge to punch him in the mouth?
That glorious mouth that only a short while ago had brought pleasure, awakening feelings and impulses she'd chosen over revenge. The same mouth that now called what they'd almost shared, a mistake? She bit down on her tongue to suppress her anger and then thought, the hell with it.
"You needn't concern yourself about either of us making a 'colossal mistake.' Or, heaven forbid, getting in too deep. I'm too smart and you...." She poked him in the chest. "You're too chicken."
She started up the stairs and turned briefly. "Don't let the door smack you in the butt on your way out, Señor Sheriff."
Luc closed the door quietly behind him, making sure no part of his anatomy got in the way as he stepped out onto the veranda. He sat on the top step watching the sky brighten with the coming day. This was getting to be a habit and a bad one at that.
He'd welcomed the vandal's intrusion because it had given him a chance to step back and take a deep breath, an impossible task when he was around the fair Ms. Patterson. Just as he seemed about to lose what little control he had, he'd forced her to bail him out by evoking her anger and wedging it between them.
Her words echoed in his head and churned in his gut. She was right about his cowardice, but not for the reasons she believed true. The episodes of blurred vision and headaches were coming more frequently. What if they didn't stop? Or got worse? If they were the advance guard of something even more serious, he would have nothing to offer Callie.
As long as his future lay in doubt, he could do nothing about the hurt and disappointment in her eyes. He’d put them there and would have to live with them. Sadly, so would she.
* * *
Alternating hot and cold showers had rescued Callie from a night without rest. Three cups of strong black coffee set her on her feet. Unfortunately, neither tactic provided enough incentive to make the ride into Albuquerque as she'd originally planned. Thank God Luc had left before she came downstairs. Facing him would have been too devastating.
Facing Nick and his workers wasn't much easier. Although the contractor had painted over the graffiti, the incident and the fact he and his men knew Luc had spent another night inside the house left her too uncomfortable to hang around. She hiked down to the Mercantile to pick up her mail.
Elvira was sweeping the worn plank floor and smiled as Callie stepped over the threshold. "Got a package for you today." She put aside the straw broom and retrieved a small box from behind the counter.
Stacked on top were several letters from friends in New York and her brother in Boston. The package had come from Gram's lawyer, Garrett Hobbs, and felt heavy enough to arouse her curiosity.
She glanced up at Elvira. "Do you have a letter opener?"
The woman nodded and pulled a flat-head screw driver from a pocket in her overalls. "That do?"
Callie grinned. "That'll do just fine."
She set the carton on the counter and slit the packing tape. Inside lay five small leather-bound books. She riffled the fragile onion skin pages of the top book.
"It's Grandmother's diary. She wrote in it nearly every day that I can remember." She checked the date of one entry, then looked at Elvira. "It goes back a long way."
"She kept a diary even when we were girls. I did, too. Only Hattie didn't have the patience. Or see the need."
Callie tucked the book and her letters inside the carton. "Guess what I'll be doing for the next few days."
Elvira pointed to the box in Callie's arms. "What a nice way to get in touch with your Grandma again."
Callie nodded and headed back to the house, using the kitchen entrance to avoid small talk and pleasantries on a day when she no desire for either.
She filled a Thermos™ and stuffed it into a backpack along with a sandwich, a disposable camera to take photos for the promotional campaign and a powerful flashlight she'd already stashed there for a nighttime excursion underground. Laying one of the books on top, she set out past the Golden Eye mine for the solitude waiting within the ruins of Blue Sky. Her perch on the edge of a stone wall gave her a panoramic view of the valley with its tumbledown remnants of buildings.
She pulled out the diary, savoring the feel of its buttery-soft leather beneath her fingertips. The book fell open to a page that seemed worn from repeated readings.
"Poor C. is in trouble," it said. "The worst kind. She can't tell her father; he'd kill the hapless fool who led her astray. Apparently, marriage is out of the question, tho. she wouldn't say why. I have heard of a young girl on the Mexican side of town who has been midwife to several of her country-women. I suggested C. talk to the partera. Maybe she knows a way out of this dreadful dilemma."
Dreadful indeed, Callie thought, at a time when having a child without benefit of marriage would have stigmatized a woman — and her child — for life. Several pages further on, Lucinda picked up her story.
"The partera was unable to help as C. is too far along. I fear for her. She is family and I would help her if I could. But we can tell no one and have little recourse in this situation. I have suggested she go away and have her baby in Europe, perhaps. Then she might put up the child for adoption. She has decided against my advice and will raise the baby alone, if Uncle J. refuses to help his daughter and grandchild. Such a sad occurrence and even sadder choices. But I do so admire her courage."
Callie dug into her memories of family history, but nothing Gram and Aunt Hatt ever told her tied into this incident. Who was Uncle J? And had the scandal caused a rift within the family? One so wide “C” and her child were ostracized? Or at least, never spoken of again?
"Couldn't be," she muttered. Gram never would have deserted her cousin. Not the Gram she'd known all her life, the woman who'd raised her after her parents' death, who'd been parent, friend, teacher and confidante.
Not that she would have qualified for sainthood. She had, after all, been capable of carrying a life-long anger toward the Morenos. Most specifically, Fernando.
Of course, it was he who had incurred Gram’s wrath. His reaction to Callie, filled with pain and regret and something that had almost seemed like – longing – spoke of a sad history. He seemed to be the right age to have been a contemporary of Gram's and charming enough to have appealed to any young woman of the day.
Surely Dorotea couldn't have been the cause of anger; she seemed much younger than either Lucinda or Fernando. Unless, Callie thought, she'd come between them and stolen him away....
She paged forward. "I have been a fool," Gram had written. "Wasting my sympathy and caring on a snake in the grass, thinking that family counted for something, when, to certain p
eople, it doesn't. I would have done anything within my power to help her and her child, but she has just revealed the identity of its father. And tragedy of tragedies, he is none other than Mi Amore. Together they have betrayed me and it matters not which of them took the first steps toward the other. Father speaks of returning to St. Louis. Until now, I have fought him, but no longer. I shall leave this place willingly and would just as willingly leave behind my broken heart. If only I could.”
Although she still had no clue to “C’s” identity, she knew finally why Gram had sent her to be a thorn in Fernando Moreno’s side. Although she’d always implied that she wanted to avenge a wrong between families, in truth, a shattered romance lay at the core of her anger. Surely one of the other diaries would confirm her suspicions, either directly or by innuendo.
If the awful event not taken place, Lucinda might have spent the rest of her life in Blue Sky, perhaps even married her amore. Callie looked down on the valley and felt a need to explore the place that would have been home to the person she, herself, might have been.
* * *
A trail crossed the caldera wall. Dozens of old mines pockmarked the rocky hillside. Here and there, rusting machinery left reminders of past glories and failures. Glad she'd worn jeans and a long sleeve denim shirt, she climbed an incline overgrown with sagebrush and mesquite.
At the first mine entrance Callie directed her light through the opening and looked inside. A chorus of shrieks and the throb of flapping wings greeted the intrusion of the powerful beam. Bats, she supposed with a shudder.
“Yuck.”
She backed out and tried several other openings in the rocky hillside until, finally, one yielded only silence.
As she leaned inside, she noticed faint scratches circling the upper part of the entrance. At roughly eye level, they seemed to be there more by design than accident. If only she had a magnifying glass, she could see the marks more clearly, she held the flashlight in one hand, the camera in the other and snapped off several photos of what seemed to be letters worked into the natural seams in the rock. Maybe enlarging the shots later on would tell her something.
She tucked the camera into her knapsack and knelt to search for other writings near the bottom of the opening. At the sound of a footstep behind her, she turned — directly into the path of a booted toe. A well-aimed kick to the temple sent her crashing against the edge of the mine entrance.
Pain filled her skull. Her shoulder and back throbbed where they’d slammed into the unyielding stone. On one knee, she held up her arm to deflect the next blow. Like a fist delivering a one-two punch, the offending foot struck again, first knocking her arm aside and then smashing into her jaw.
Through the brain-rattling impact and the fuzziness that came with it, she felt the weight of the flashlight in her hand. Maybe she could hit him with it. She tried to roll away but the cold rock at her back made escape impossible. She found herself wedged crosswise against the entrance to the mine.
"Here," the attacker’s voice whispered, "let me help you."
His hands reached for her. She doubled her knees against her chest, preparing to kick him. Before she could either strike or move out of his reach, the booted foot shoved her into the tunnel. She struggled to her knees again, hoping to make an end run around him. With a foot between her shoulder blades, he pancaked her into the dusty ground, deflating her lungs in a great "whoosh."
He nudged her over with his toe, sending her further into the dark interior. An inner voice ordered her to protect herself. Disoriented, bombarded by pain and unable to evade the danger, she could only curl in on herself again.
"That’s a good girl," he said in a voice heavy with his exertions. His hands pushed against her back. Like a bottle rolling off the edge of a shelf she tumbled down an incline and into the enveloping darkness.
Chapter Nine
Late in the afternoon after the late-night attack on The Mansion, Luc's buddy at the state crime lab handed him the evidence bags. Fluorescence examination disclosed a minute fragment of a print on the spray tip. They stared at the photo images projected on the viewer. The truncated curves wavered before Luc. Was this another trick of his faltering vision?
"If we had more, computer graphics could extrapolate and give us something to work with." Bryan shook his head. "I just don't think we have enough."
"Try. I need a line on whoever is harassing Ms. Patterson."
"I'll do my best. If I can put something together, I'll send you a report."
“Call me either way.”
Nick Forrest got in the first call. “You better get yourself out here, Sheriff. There’s something you need to see.”
“More vandalism?”
“Nope. Just something real strange.”
“I’m on my way,” Luc said, slamming down the phone.
The short ride out seemed even shorter. He wondered if the prospect of seeing Callie again had anything to do with it. When she failed to appear, he didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed, but he did take note of an emptiness in the pit of his stomach.
Nick met him at the veranda steps. “It’s inside.”
“It?”
“Yeah, well, we pulled down an inside wall because of water damage. There’s a bundle of some kind.” He pointed a flashlight between two studs. “There.”
The beam circled an object Luc estimated to be about a foot by a foot-and-a-half. In shades of deep red and green, the cloth seemed heavy and rough-textured, woven, like a Native blanket or rug. The item was cylindrical and swaddled like an infant.
“Let’s get more light in here,” Luc said.
“A flood okay?” Nick’s voice behind him asked. “The outlet in here’s been disabled.”
“200 watts or better, if you have it. I need to see details before moving this.”
From the equipment bag he’d brought with him, Luc selected an oversized evidence bag, a pair of surgeon’s gloves and a digital camera he used to snap photos of the bundle in its surroundings. The floodlight showed several marks in the plaster that would have to be analyzed later on. He photographed these as well. He diagramed the area and made notes of measurements and positions. When he’d satisfied himself that he’d documented everything, Luc walked to a corner where he had some privacy. SOP required a forensics expert to take charge of the remains in a case of unexplained death. He speed-dialed the Office of Medical Investigation in Albuquerque and kept watch over the bundle as Joe Barry came on the line. After the usual brief but friendly banter that marked their working relationship, Luc described their find.
“My gut tells me they’re human remains, a fetus, maybe, but I haven’t checked yet. Didn’t want to disturb anything. When can you get down here?”
“I have no problem trusting your gut,” Joe said. “Especially since we’re short- handed at the moment. Most of our people are at a regional conference so the rest of us are pulling double shifts.”
“How about I bring the remains to you? It isn’t by the book, but there’s been some suspicious activity here and I can’t take the chance of leaving them in situ.”
“I think there must be a Chapter on procedural adjustments in the event of emergencies. If not we’ll write one.” Barry chuckled. “You are hereby authorized to transport the remains as is to OMI. I’ll sign off on the order.”
“Thanks. I’ll see you in a couple of hours.”
Luc removed the carefully folded cloth package and sealed it inside the oversized evidence bag, which he labeled with date, time and initials before sealing and locking it in his carrying case.
“Dontcha’ wanna know what’s inside?”
Luc turned toward the voice. “We need to protect the contents. I’ll transport it to the medical investigations office.”
He looked at the contractor. “You’ll have to leave this wall open, Nick. In case we need to come back to it later.”
“No problem. We’ll work around it. Just let us know when you’re done.”
By
the looks of things, the bundle had been hidden many years. Luc thought a few more minutes’ delay wouldn’t do any harm. He walked through the downstairs rooms, hoping to see Callie even though she’d said she was going to Albuquerque.
In the kitchen a small carton and a stack of unopened mail sat on the card table. He removed one book and riffled the pages of small, delicate handwriting. A word here or there registered, but violating someone's privacy for no reason seemed pointless and, his mother might have lectured, an ungentlemanly display of bad manners. He returned the book to its mates and looked around inside and out. Her keys were gone. So was her bike.
Luc located Nick. “Have you seen Callie?”
“Not since early in the morning. She didn't say where she was going. Probably just taking a walk or something."
"Her bike would be here and it isn't."
Nick turned to his men and called out, "Anybody see which way Ms. Patterson went?"
Vague expressions and shrugs greeted his question. One man pointed south and turned back to his work.
Luc noticed the freshly painted house front. "I'm glad you covered the graffiti, Forrest. It was a painful piece of filth."
"We didn't want it staring us in the face so my guys threw some paint on it. We just left that bit at the end so you'd have a color reference."
"Good thinking," Luc said with a nod. "I'll have another look around."
"Hey, do what you have to." Nick hefted his tool belt and started up the porch steps. "You need anything, just holler."
In the storage shed, Luc rummaged through piles, cans and boxes. None of the materials interested him, but a carton in the corner, partially hidden by several bunches of lathing strips, caught his attention. He placed it atop a stack of bundled roofing shingles.
The carton contained two dozen spray cans tightly packed in rows six cans long by four wide. All seemed to contain the same color - a florescent orange-red. At first glance, they appeared undisturbed, but a closer look showed that the fine layer of dust covering one of the caps had been disturbed.
