“Yes.” She told him where it was, then asked about the car she’d seen being towed.
Tom’s smile faded. “That’s what we heard last night. It was a high school kid, crashed into Dead Man’s Hill. Chief Baskerville says he’d probably been drinking.”
“A shame,” Alex said.
“It is. Happens, though. You might want to be careful if you drive that road at night, especially when school’s out. Kids race, play chicken, all sorts of horsesh—’Scuse me, all sorts of shenanigans. Watch yourselves up at the camp, too.” He told her about the goat and the Church of the Prophet’s Apostles. “It might interest you to know,” he added, rubbing his chin, “that they’re pretty rabid about the UFOs.”
“They are?” Alex asked.
“Thought that would make your eyes light up.” One corner of Tom’s mouth crooked up in amusement. “Jim-Bob Sinclair comes on the radio every night, and lately he’s been preaching about ‘heavenly visitations’ in the last days of earth. He claims the UFOs are angels giving the faithless —that includes everyone but card-carrying Apostles—one last chance to see the light and repent. He also claims that the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse will ride on Armageddon, but that before they do, a great army will smite down the heretics.”
Alex chuckled. “I see.”
The cowboy’s look of amusement disappeared. “The thing is, they think the world is ending this Sunday, and we’re the tiniest bit concerned that the Apostles might come marching down the road looking for a few heretics to smite.”
“Are you telling me I should be careful?”
“I guess I am,” he said slowly. “Those people are straight down the road from you and you’re pretty isolated. You know how fanatics can get.”
“We’ll keep our eyes open,” Alex promised.
Tom scuffed one boot in the dust. “On the other hand,” he added after a long pause, “they could be harmless. We had some vandalism in the Catholic church this morning, and that might mean it’s one of those satanist groups behind things.”
“Did they hold a black mass?”
He chuckled. “Well, I don’t know, though I’d guess not. We had trouble with one of those self-styled devil cults before, but all they did was leave dead chickens on the altar. This time, I’m told, they poured blood all over the Jesus-on-a-stick.”
Alex raised an eyebrow.
“No offense meant.” He blushed. “It’s a crucifix, the padre’s pride and joy, too: a life-size antique wooden one, imported. It’s big-time vandalism, all right. They wrote ‘six-six-six’ on the wall in blood, and broke some other things.”
“That’s terrible! A crucifix like that must be priceless.”
“I hear it’s worth a fortune. Hope they get the blood out.” He gave the horse another carrot. “So are you here for the show?”
“I was on my way into town, but I thought I might look around a bit here first. Are you in the show?”
“Yes, ma’am. The little arena in half an hour. Belle and I are gonna do some fancy ropin’.”
“I’ll be there,” she said as they began walking toward the entrance.
Abernathy started to veer toward the corral entrance, then paused. “You and Eric planning on staying a spell?”
“How long’s a spell?” She smiled.
“However long you think it should be,” he explained. “It’s an easygoing length of time.”
Alex laughed. “I guess we’re staying a spell. Two weeks or longer.”
“Come on, then, let’s take care of you.” He led her to the ticket window and a moment later she had two long-term passes in her hand. When she tried to thank the cowboy, he just tipped his hat and said, actually said, “‘Tweren’t nothin’, ma‘am.” He paused. “We’re having a little get-together at my ranch Thursday evening about seven o’clock. I’d be honored if you and your assistant would like to drop by.”
“Well, I . . .”
“Good way to meet people. If you’re looking to ask folks about UFOs, well, this would be a good place to do it. Our police chief will be there. I know he’s seen a few, if you can get him to admit it. He’s looked at some mutilated sheep, too.” He stared at her a moment, then laughed. “My Lord, your eyes lit up like Christmas trees when I mentioned the sheep.”
Alex felt herself blush and stammered, “Are mutilations a current problem here?”
“You bet. Marie Lopez has lost five of her flock in the last few months, last one just last week. She’s got about forty head of merino. Sells the wool. Just losing one of ’em is a huge loss—they aren’t your garden-variety woollies.”
“Will she be there?”
“Not this week.” Abernathy’s long, tan face looked supremely sorrowful for a moment. “She’s grazing them up in Rattlesnake Canyon.”
Alex smiled. “Seven o’clock?”
He nodded.
“I’ll try to make it. We can’t leave our campsite unattended, so we can’t both come, but I’ll try to stop by for a while.”
“Bring your appetite. My ranch manager’s the best barbecue cook this side of the Mississippi. You can take a plate back to Eric.”
“I’d be a fool to pass up an invitation like that. Thank you, Tom.”
She watched him amble through the corral gate, his horse right behind him, working at getting into his pockets, and realized she was grinning foolishly. She was fairly certain that Tom Abernathy was exactly what he appeared to be, and she wondered how he managed it. As for herself, the thought of socializing terrified her. She was only at home in her own world, and could never find anything to say to people who didn’t share her interests. When Abernathy mentioned that she might talk to the others about UFOs, her anxiety decreased enough for her to accept. Still, she didn’t look forward to it.
After entering the gates, she forgot her nervousness. Off to the left was the arena where the next stunt show would play in half an hour. Everywhere else were streets lined with freshly painted false-fronted western buildings. Weathered plank sidewalks ran along the storefronts, and wooden handrailings, small trees, and watering troughs filled with blooming marigolds, daisies, and a rainbow of pansies lined the packed dirt road.
Charmed, she walked up Main Street. Some of the buildings were a blaze of tourist-attracting colors and items, displaying pink and blue-haired Troll dolls, postcards, and cowboy boot coffee mugs. These she passed without a second glance. What held her interest were the shops that were nearly authentic reproductions, in looks and what they sold. She couldn’t resist buying herself and Eric each a piece of walnut fudge at Lupe’s Sweet Shoppe. Next door was an apothecary shop filled with herbal, homeopathic, and other old-fashioned medicines, and she bought a tube of beeswax lip balm there.
Somewhere between the blacksmith’s shop, where she bought a horseshoe with Eric’s name on it, and the mercantile, where she found a decent pair of sunglasses and a dozen postcards to send to friends, she realized she’d lost track of time and had missed Tom Abernathy’s show. She felt terrible about that and ended up eating Eric’s fudge.
Realizing that she’d been in the park for forty-five minutes already and hadn’t even explored all of one street, she decided not to go in any more stores today, because she’d end up buying something she didn’t need in every single one of them. Well, she had needed new sunglasses, she amended, as she picked up her pace.
At the end of the street, she found several eating establishments, and gulped down a burrito while she explored the nearby amusement rides. Those weren’t much: an octopus that was closed and being worked on by a short sweaty bald man with terminal butt-crack; a Ferris wheel, nothing special; and a partially restored merry-go-round. All the restored horses were ribboned off; and people were only riding the faded ones. Alex smiled, wondering if anyone would ride after the carousel was completely restored.
Beyond the rides, signs pointed south toward Boot Hill Cemetery, north to the Haunted Mine, and due east to the Spanish Courtyard, which was, unfortunately, cordoned off with
yellow police tape. The area contained a beautiful little church and other adobe structures, and she realized this had to be the vandalized church. It was so beautiful, such a shame to have to close it.
Not that she was religious; she had little use for organized religion, but she loved the feelings the old buildings stirred within her. She found ancient monasteries and pagan structures equally fascinating. The people occupying them had often been ancient astronomers, studying the same things she studied now, and being in such places always imbued her with a sense of belonging and identification. Like them, she had devoted her life to her studies; her work was her love, the only relationship she would allow herself. Hundreds and even thousands of years separated her from these ancestral colleagues, but she could feel them around her in those ancient places, and she wondered if they knew less or more than she did about the universe’s secrets.
She checked her watch, then turned and started back down the other side of Main Street. Another day, she would explore the rest: She’d have to thank Tom Abernathy again for the passes. That, and apologize for missing the stunt show, and inquire as to another performance time.
Halfway back down the street, a small, perfect shop caught her eye. The picture window was framed in dark green velvet curtains, and on the glass, in a gentle half circle, were the ornately gilded words SORCERER’S APPRENTICE. A green-clothed table held a crystal ball, two brass candlesticks, an array of wood-cut tarot cards, and a single fresh-cut red rose. A small wooden placard in the corner of the window announced the presence of a fortune-teller.
She bent, cupping her hands around her face to see farther inside. There was a display case, oak-framed glass, that contained an assortment of quartz crystals and other stones. The countertop held displays of tarot cards, jars of incense, and small crystal balls. The walls of the shop were lined with books, irresistible books.
“Hi.”
Startled, she straightened and turned to face a teenage boy twirling a large rabbit-foot key chain on his finger.
“Dr. Manderley? I didn’t mean to scare you.”
“Oh, no. You didn’t.”
“Do you remember me?”
She smiled. “You’re the young man who led us into Spirit Canyon last night. Of course I remember you!” But she couldn’t remember his name.
“Justin Martin,” he said, smiling. “How’s the campsite?”
“We had a nice, quiet night, Justin, thank you.” He looked so happy that she didn’t want to tell him they’d moved this morning.
He seemed to read her mind again. “You might find a much better spot farther from the road if you look in the daylight.”
“Thank you, Justin.” She would let him think they took his advice. “So are you on Easter vacation?”
“Next week. This week’s quarterly finals, so we get out early. I work at the Haunted Mine.” He glanced at his watch. “In fact, I’m in charge today and we’re opening in about fifteen minutes. Would you like a free ride?”
“Yes, that would be lovely. But some other time? I’m running late today.”
His astonishingly blue eyes darkened a moment, then he smiled, all sunshine again. “Sure. Any afternoon.” He pushed a stray lock of hair from his forehead and turned to look in the fortune-teller’s window. “Have you been inside yet?”
“No.” She turned back to the window. “I was just trying to talk myself out of it. All those books. I wonder if they carry anything on local paranormal phenomena.”
Toward the rear of the shop, a pale hand appeared from behind a set of heavy dark drapes covering a doorway. It pulled the material back and held it while two little round gray-haired ladies exited. Alex could see them smiling and jabbering, then a tall man, owner of the hand, followed. The ladies stared up at him with rapt attention and he smiled and said something that made them laugh.
She heard Justin Martin catch his breath. “Something wrong?” she asked.
“No,” he said quickly, and stamped his foot a couple times. “Charley horse. From football. That’s Carlo Pelegrine, the owner. Would you like me to ask him about the book for you?”
“That’s okay, thanks.” She gave him an odd glance. “If I decide to, I’ll ask him myself.” Watching the fortune-teller, she suddenly wished Justin Martin would leave.
Carlo Pelegrine had thick dark hair and pale skin. Patrician features with a strong Roman nose and large dark eyes were framed with fabulously arched eyebrows. He wore an eggplant-colored shirt that had a vague gypsy flair, tucked neatly into dark pants, but she thought that he belonged in a Renaissance painting, perhaps wearing a nobleman’s toga, or more appropriately, an astrologer’s robes.
Astrologers and astronomers were once one in the same; they were both her ancestors. You haven’t been seriously tempted by a man in a decade, Alexandra. Don’t start now!
But just as she started to turn away, he looked up and their eyes met. Now it was her turn to catch her breath.
24
Carlo Pelegrine
CARLO PELEGRINE HAD MANY REPEAT CUSTOMERS, BUT FEW CAME so far or so often as the Katz sisters. Mabel and Missy drove all the way over the Cajon Pass from Santo Verde every Wednesday for an hour-long look into the following week’s fortunes.
The sitting had been, as usual, unremarkable but pleasant. They required what they referred to as “the works,” and with them, it was an oddly sensual experience. It mattered little what he said because their visits were not for information but for assignation. First came. the crystal gazing, a somber affair wherein he could barely catch either blushing lady’s eye. Next there was the tarot reading, a bit more personal, their fingertips brushing his as they picked cards and handed them to him. He used the Queen of Wands, a card depicting a lush woman with a cat in her lap and another at her feet, as the significator in the dual reading, and they never tired of coyly asking him about the traits they shared with the beautiful queen. He always obliged them, speaking in hushed, respectful tones of their virtues.
Today the dark, brooding King of Swords had crossed their Queen, and the foreplay-for that was what the reading was—intensified because they knew that was his card. The ladies blushed and giggled like schoolgirls, and let their fingertips brush his more frequently then usual.
Then came the palm reading, ten minutes for each of them. This was the lovemaking, and because, even to Carlo, this portion was intensely personal, he was always a little ill at ease at the voyeuristic way the waiting sister gasped and cooed with the one whose palm was being examined.
Their creamy, small-pored hands were exquisite. They were always manicured and fragrant with softening emollients: They visited the manicurist before coming to see him. The skin showed little sign of age—the Katz sisters were genteel women, daughters of a citrus baron, and had never had to work for a living. Mabel had a crescent-shaped scar on one palm, and she always trembled when he touched it—he always saved that for last. Missy, who had larger, squarer hands, required a climactic moment wherein he ran his fingers gently across her heart and life lines.
It amused him to think what their reactions would be if they knew that he was celibate and that he enjoyed the sessions almost as much as they did, and in the same way. But, of course, he never told them, just smiled and nodded knowingly, maintaining the cool aloofness of the King of Swords that they expected.
Today he guided them out of the reading room, into the shop, just as he always did. They chattered at him, praising his nonexistent psychic abilities, promising to be on time for their next appointment, and he nodded and said yes, next Wednesday at one o’clock, as usual, and thank you for coming—and at that moment he glanced up and found himself trapped in the eyes of a woman like no other he had ever seen.
“Carlo?” asked Mabel.
“Carlo?” Missy echoed. “Is anything wrong?”
“Is it a spirit?” Mabel asked breathlessly.
“Yes, a spirit.” He tore his gaze from the window and smiled at the sisters. “Your aunt Helen sends her love.”
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Mabel and Missy looked at one another, smiled, and said, “Aunt Helen. Isn’t that nice?” simultaneously.
They gazed at him again and he smiled benignly as he urged them to the door. Opening it, he was unable to see if the woman at the window was still nearby. Finally the sisters stepped out onto the recessed porch, then down the three shallow steps. He stood on the porch, as always, because he knew they would turn and wave at least twice. He was at the edge of the steps, and if he turned and looked, he’d know if the woman was there. The old ladies waved. So did he.
“Hi, Mr. Pelegrine!”
He jumped at the sound of the teenage voice at his shoulder. Regaining his outward calm, he turned and came almost nose to nose with Justin Martin. He didn’t know the boy well, and didn’t want to. Although he was highly thought of by Henry Marquay and nearly everyone else he knew, Carlo didn’t like him: He had the cold, soulless eyes of a predator.
“Hello, Justin.” Behind the youth, the dark-haired woman stood, looking at her wristwatch far longer than necessary.
“This is Dr. Manderley,” Justin said, and the woman looked up. “She’s looking for a book and I told her you might be able to help her.” He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get to the mine or Mr. Marquay will have my hide!” With that, he turned and trotted away.
Carlo cleared his throat, found himself staring at his own hands, and forced himself to meet her eyes. The effect was staggering. He wanted to get lost in those eyes, with their midnight irises and slight exotic tilt. Get a grip! “What sort of book are you looking for, Doctor?” he managed.
She didn’t answer for a moment, and he wondered if she was as stricken as he. It couldn’t be. Don’t be egotistical.
“It’s rather an odd thing, I’m afraid.” There was the slightest hint of England in her voice, which was rich and melodious, pleasantly husky.
“Then you’ve come to the right place. Come on in.”
Thunder Road Page 11
