by Sandi Ault
“He was just going to go get gas in the truck?” I asked.
“That and pick up the rest of the money he was owed for something. He said it was all set up and it wouldn’t take long.”
“Do you know who he was meeting for the money, or what it was for?” Kerry said.
“I don’t know nothing about that. Santiago never tells me nothing about his business. But he said it was all set, and he just needed to go get it. And then he was going to get some gas, like I said.”
“And that was Tuesday?” I asked.
“Yes. Two days ago. I know I told you he goes off for days sometimes, but he don’t never give away his dogs and sell the TV and tell me he’s taking me back to Texas. This time, it’s different.” She was quiet for a few seconds, as if she was thinking over the events of the past few days. Then she said, “I don’t know if it’s got anything to do with it, but I think I better show you what I found out here in the shed.”
Kerry and I pulled up to my vehicle. He looked at me. “I’m worried about you. Why not come to my place? I can roll out a bedroll on the floor. You can have the bed. Just until we know that you are safe again.”
“I can’t. But I need your help.”
“Just name it.”
“I left something here at the ranger station. It’s in the lockbox where I keep my tack. I put it there yesterday and it was still all right this morning, but it is very important that no one gets to it. I need you to make sure it stays safe.”
“It will be safe there. No one is going to mess with your tack box. The ranger station is staffed all day, and we’ll be back tonight for the next operational period. I’m more concerned about you. Nothing is more important than that.”
“I will be all right. I have a full day, I’ll hardly have a moment alone. I really need you to help me with this. I need what’s in the lockbox to be safe.”
“You put your own lock on it, right? No one else has a key?”
“I locked it, and I put the key in an envelope and put it in your message box. I don’t want you to use the key unless you have to, though. I need you to make sure no one gets in that lockbox.”
“Why? What’s in there?”
“I can’t tell you.”
He slumped. “You don’t trust me.”
“No, I do. That’s why I gave you the key. I do trust you. And I will tell you, when I can. Just-please, can you do what I’m asking? Don’t open the lockbox. And don’t let anyone else open it either.”
“Okay. I’ll stay here today. I’ll guard it with my life. But what about you?”
“No, you can’t be obvious about it. I don’t want anyone to even think there’s anything in there worth guarding. Just watch out for… I don’t know, just check on it every once in a while. Maybe you could take some apples to Redhead late this afternoon, you know, and check on it. Try to watch when things quiet down, when there aren’t so many people around. If anyone knows that it’s there, that’s when they would try to steal it.”
“Well, it’s busy up here all day, but I’ll stay here, too. I can even sleep in the stables right there by the tack boxes. But what about tonight? We have a big night ahead of us.”
“I’ve been thinking about that. They close some of the Forest Service roads, post checkpoints on Holy Thursday, don’t they? Because of the Penitentes?”
He nodded.
“Well, it might be all right then.”
“So you’re not worried that someone from the Forest Service would steal this… this… whatever it is. You’re thinking it would be someone else.”
“Yes, if that someone figures out that it’s there. I would have bet money that person would have been Santiago Suazo. But after what his wife told us, I don’t know. It could be someone he was in cahoots with. It could be anyone.”
“So I’m starting to put a few things together now.”
“I wish I could tell you more, I really do. Now, I’ve got to go. There’s a meeting I have to go to at the BLM. I’m not going to get much sleep before tonight. And tonight, I’ll stay in short range of my base camp if I can. Come get me if anything happens, okay?”
“Sure. I’ll check in on you anyway.”
“Okay, I better go now.” I started to open the door of the truck.
Kerry took hold of my arm. “Wait. I meant to ask you: did you ever look at that photo memory card to see what was on it?”
I felt in my coat pocket. The device Kerry had given me was still there. “No, I forgot about it. I’ll try to take a look at it when I’m at the BLM today. I gotta go.”
His eyes beckoned me. I hesitated. He leaned over and touched his lips to mine. “Please be careful, Jamaica.”
33
Picture This
I stopped by the library in Taos and asked the reference librarian to help me out with some information. I handed her the business card on which I had written the name I had copied from my book. She was able to get me what I needed in a matter of minutes. After that, I reported in for the meeting at the BLM.
“We’re going to work closely with the sheriff’s office and the Forest Service these next few days,” Roy said, “to try to manage the influx of people wanting to see the Penitente processions. There will be folks trying to camp and drive where they shouldn’t up in the areas around the High Road and out in Arroyo Seco. We’re going to put extra night details in both areas.” The Boss used a laser pointer and a map to flesh out the assignments for everyone. “Jamaica, I’m going to have to put Art out in Seco. You’ll have Reed working with you up in your area, though, so I want you to stay in close range of him, and vice versa. The weather forecast says we’ve got a big system coming in that could produce a lot of snow. And you all know how these early spring snows in high country can be-they’re usually the heaviest ones we get. Everyone gear up for that, and that means chains for your rigs, parkas, whatever you need to survive in case you get stranded.”
After the meeting, I headed for my cubicle to use the phone. As I listened to the ring on the other end of the line, I took the memory card that I had found a week ago in the illegal camp where Redhead had thrown me and inserted it into the reader device. I plugged the reader into the port on the computer.
“Deputy Padilla.” He fired it off fast.
“Jerry. This is Jamaica Wild.”
“Well, hello there. No more car chases, I hope. How you doing? You all right?”
“Yeah, I’m fine, thanks. Hey, I have a favor I want to ask of you.”
“You do? Well, now, tell me this: am I going to want to do it?”
I was opening the images from the file on the memory card reader drive. The pictures had been taken at night, and several of them were almost completely black.
Padilla continued, “What I mean is: is this something I need to brace myself for? Seems like whenever you’re involved, things gets pretty complicated.”
“What? Oh, no. No, I-sorry-I was looking at something else and lost concentration. No, I need you to do something for me, Jerry. It’s not complicated. And I’m going to give you a little information in return.”
“Well, that sounds a little better. What do you need?”
“I want you to try to find Santiago Suazo.”
“Hah!” he snorted. “You and half of all Taoseños! What’s he done to you?”
“Nothing, really. At least I don’t think so. It’s his wife. She believes some harm has come to him. I guess she tried calling your office to file a missing persons report, and then she phoned here to the BLM and asked to see me.”
“Yeah, I saw that she had called in, but, see, we have to play by the rules. We can’t file an MEP until someone has been missing three days, unless it’s a child or someone in need of medical attention or infirm in some way. Besides, you know it’s only a matter of time before something bad is gonna happen to that little bastard, anyway. You can bet he’s got a bull’s-eye on his butt no matter what he’s wearing.”
“Yeah, I know. I know. But Mrs. Suazo told me
some interesting things. I think he might have gotten in way over his head this time.”
“Well, let’s see,” he said, “what sort of things would that be? Maybe I might get concerned about all this if I knew what we were even talking about, Jamaica. But I don’t know why we’re even talking about Santiago Suazo. Instead, I’m more concerned about you. Did you find someplace else to stay?”
“Suazo told his wife he was going to take her home to her people in east Texas. He found homes for their dogs and gave them away, sold or gave away everything they could, and helped her pack up the rest of their things. He had been flashing around a lot of money lately, like maybe he had just scored at something major, Jerry. Mrs. Suazo said she saw two big rolls of bills. Anyway, he left Tuesday at midday to run into town to get gas in the truck so they would be ready to leave-and to meet someone to pick up some money he was still owed. And he never came back.”
“Way I hear it, Jamaica, that guy disappears for days like that a lot.”
“I guess this time it sounds like it’s different, Jerry. It did to Mrs. Suazo, and it did to me, too. She thinks someone has done him in.”
“Well, see, there’s just about a five-mile-long line of people who’d be suspects for that. You hear what I’m saying?”
“Yeah, Jerry, I hear you. But there’s more. Suazo was involved in the theft of those Penitente icons. That had to be where he was getting all the money from. His wife showed me a shed on their property. It’s full of bultos and retablos.”
Padilla whistled into the phone. “Well, that might be, but I don’t have any authority to go look through Suazo’s shed without-”
“Do you have the reports on those stolen icons? Couldn’t you have someone go out and compare the descriptions of the stolen property with-”
“But that’s just it, Jamaica. There are no reports. You know the Penitentes. They aren’t going to talk about what’s going on with them to the law.”
“But isn’t there some kind of team investigation or something?”
“Team investigation? Who told you that? Salazar? It’s just another one of those concurrent jurisdiction things where we got a phone call from the sheriff of Rio Arriba County and a fax from the sheriff’s office in Santa Fe County, and everyone’s hearing the same rumors, but nobody’s got nothing. That’s your team investigation.”
“Well, if you send someone out to Suazo’s place, I know his wife will show you what’s there; you won’t need to get a warrant. I told her I was going to call you and talk to you about it. I’m pretty sure some of the stuff in those rumors is in his shed.”
“Okay, I’ll go out there myself.”
“And, would you just keep a lookout for Suazo? Like I said, his wife said he was going into town to collect some money and then to get gas in the truck. Maybe you could ask around at the gas stations-”
“Speaking of trucks, I haven’t had any luck looking for your shot-up Ford Ranger. You don’t think that could have been Suazo driving it, do you?”
“It wasn’t his truck. And it doesn’t jibe with his wife’s story. She said Suazo disappeared midday on Tuesday, the day before the Ranger tried to run me off the cliff.”
“Well, let’s see then… do you think Suazo is tied in to the incident at the gorge bridge?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s the thing, see? We’re over a week out from that, and we still don’t have any idea who did it or why. The trail is getting cold, and we don’t have a single lead. Nine times out of ten when I have a murder, I know who did it within a day or two. This one has us all stumped.”
“Well, Suazo could be a lead of some kind if you can find him.”
“Okay, Jamaica. I’ll get on it. I’ll let you know if I find anything. In the meantime, you keep yourself safe.”
I turned my attention to the photo files on the computer’s desktop. Twelve images had been dark or blurred and were impossible to make out. But six more showed the same scene over and over again, each with a different icon centered in the picture. Someone had photographed Los Hermanos as they performed some important ceremony in front of the Boscaje morada, their large crucifix at the head of the procession, then the carreta de la muerte-the large wooden cart with its life-size carved wooden skeleton figure of death holding an ax nailed to its seat-and el hermano mayor holding La Arca! I scanned the images carefully, looking at the men’s faces. One of them I recognized immediately. I was sure it was him, the big man standing there behind the elder with the ark. He looked the same, even in that old-fashioned long, black coat. The dark hair, the dark eyes… it was him. There was my angel.
34
Looking for Something
After I left the BLM, I drove to my cabin to try to get a few hours’ sleep before I had to go on duty again. When I pulled up, I saw at once that the front door was open. I took my pistol from the glove box, turned off the engine and pocketed the keys, then quietly opened the Jeep door, stepped out, and scanned the area. This was starting to be my homecoming routine.
There was no other vehicle, no sign that any other cars had been there. But the frozen ground wouldn’t have taken a track impression from tires anyway. This time, I wasn’t going to screw around. I holstered my pistol on my belt and reached in the back and got out my pump-action shotgun. I walked quickly to the portal, then eased myself to the side of the doorway and raised the shotgun barrel, holding it with both hands. I pointed the gun into the cabin and swept a semicircular pattern from one side of the room to the other, my eyes following the barrel, my finger on the trigger, ready. I pulled my left hand away, still holding the gun in my right, and pressed the door back until it hit the wall, assuring me there was no one behind it.
Someone had ransacked my cabin, leaving it in total disarray. But my spartan living quarters didn’t offer much place for a person to hide. The log bed made of thick aspen limbs sat high off the ground, its covers torn from the mattress and thrown to the side. Beneath it, I could see the floor all the way to the wall. On the other side of the room was the kitchen, with its stove, fridge, sink, and cupboard, the contents of which had been emptied onto the counter and the floor. The one big chair had been shoved all the way into the corner, and the only other furnishings, besides a small table with two chairs, were my dresser, the open shelves of books, a portable stereo, and my nightstand-all of which had been emptied, their contents rearranged or knocked to the floor. I moved cautiously across the room toward the pass-through closet that led to the bathroom, still holding the shotgun at the ready.
The bathroom door was open. The shower curtain had been pulled aside, revealing the empty tub. The cantilevered doors to the closet, too, were open, and everything had been pulled off the shelves, the clothing pushed aside on the hangers, the shoes strewn apart, and all the boxes that had been stacked on the top shelf had been dumped out onto the middle of the closet floor.
Nobody there. I lowered the shotgun barrel.
I looked down, still in the habit of following my gun with my eyes. Among the scattered items at my feet I saw a yellowed sheet of lined notebook paper with the familiar blue lacy script. I stooped and picked it up, squatting over my boots, and read again what I had read before many times:
A woman
with her head down
gone underground
trying to hide herself
in the tying of a toddler’s shoelaces
the washing of a family’s dinner plates
the gathering of the eggs.
A woman
with her dreams gone
barely holding on
having lost herself
somewhere in all the sunsets
forgetting why she
ever wanted to see the sunrise.
A woman
hollowed out from the wind
burned out by lightning
scorched by dry sun
forgetting who she was
knowing not who she is
blows away like dust.
I felt like I was going to cry. Come on, Jamaica, you better keep it together, I told myself, as I laid the shotgun on the floor next to me and picked up the rest of the poems my mother had written, placing them in the box with the few other things of hers I had kept. I knew that whoever had trashed my cabin was looking for La Arca and knew that I was its guardian now. I grabbed the shotgun and walked back into the main room where the door had swung back to a halfway position, drew back my left leg, and kicked the door as hard as I could. It shook the whole room when it slammed shut.
35
Holy Night
Clouds as dark as flint began to pile up over the Jemez Mountains as I went on duty that night, and the temperature sank with the sun. It looked like snow. It looked like a lot of snow. Roy had briefed us at the meeting that morning that the Forest Service road would have a checkpoint at each end, and the gate to the four-wheel track would be locked because it was Holy Thursday.
Any curious Anglos hoping to see a Penitente crucifixion in this area would have to take the High Road through Trampas and Truchas, where they would be met by menacing-looking villagers, some with rifles slung on their shoulders. The cars of these prying intruders, if they dared park them and set out on foot, would be stripped and looted. Villagers would conveniently have chickens or goats escape from pens and fill the streets so traffic would be stalled. And then the windows of out-of-town cars would be pelted with eggs or fresh animal dung as the occupants sat helplessly within. Law enforcement officers at remote locations would be suspiciously delayed from responding to distress calls from cell phones in Mercedes, if they were in cell range at all. The inhabitants of these vanity rides would be fearful and complaining, waiting hostage with windows rolled up tight, their expensive parkas and fur-lined après-ski boots too much for spending the evening trapped in their car.
