Land of Burning Heat

by Judith Van GIeson

  “You would be doing my family and Isabel a service if you dropped all this business about Inquisitors and Jews.”

  “The document Isabel described could have enormous historical significance. Don’t you care about finding it?”

  “For me and my family seeing that Tony Atencio pays for his crime is a priority. Finding the document is not.”

  Before Claire was able to reply, a backpack-toting student approached them. For a split second it occurred to her that backpacks could be considered a weapon and that she and Manuel might be in danger, but then the student smiled and said, “Excuse me, but are you Manuel Santos?”

  “Yes?” Manuel replied.

  The student extended his hand. He had the short blond hair and earnest manner of a Mormon missionary. “I’m Charlie Bowles, president of the Young Republicans Club on campus. It’s such an honor to meet you.”

  “My pleasure.” Manuel smiled a professional smile and shook the student’s hand.

  Claire had been wondering whether Manuel Santos the slick politician would surface. She wasn’t surprised he could turn on the charm when he wanted to, but the quickness and completeness of the change were as startling as a lightning flash.

  “Would you be willing to speak to our group some time?” the student asked.

  “Of course,” Manuel said. He handed a business card to him.

  “Thank you,” the student gushed, taking the card and walking away.

  It took longer for Manuel to turn off the charm than it had taken to turn it on. Still basking in the glow, he turned toward Claire. “Are we done?”

  “Yes,” Claire said.

  “My family will be suffering from the death of my sister for a long, long time. We would be grateful if you would let us deal with our grief in our own way.”

  She remained seated on the bench while Manuel walked across the plaza accompanied by his shadow. Smith Plaza wasn’t that large, but it was bordered by the massive library building. When it was empty it reminded Claire of public spaces in Mexico, the plazas where the Aztecs ripped the still-beating hearts from their prisoners, the Spanish slaughtered the Aztecs, the Inquisitors tied Jews to the stake and burned them to cinder. There had been plenty of violence in New Mexico, too, but there was no record of it ever being the public spectacle it had been in Old Mexico. She wondered about the effect of Isabel’s murder on Manuel Santos’s career. To Claire it was a dark stain that could widen and spread like ink on a blotter, but a random murder by a petty criminal might have familiar reverberations and evoke sympathy in voters. It was the kind of violence that could—and all too often did—happen to anyone. A murder related to hidden documents and family secrets would be harder to understand and explain.

  When Manuel had reached the far side of the Plaza, climbed the stairs and disappeared from view, she went back to her office. She still intended to go to the signing at the bookstore, but there was something she needed to do first. She skimmed through the addresses on her computer to see who she knew at the Smithsonian. Over the years her career had created a web of contacts. She came across the names of several people she knew, but the one she knew best was Sarah Jamieson who had once been an anthropologist at the University of Arizona. The Smithsonian offered her a good job and she had reluctantly left the dry heat of the desert for the steamy heat of Washington, D.C. It was two hours later in Washington and Sarah might be home from work.

  Claire dialed the number. When the answering machine came on, she said “Sarah, this is Claire Reynier, I was wondering if…”

  “Hello.”

  “Sarah?”

  “Claire. How have you been? It has been years, hasn’t it?”

  “Years,” Claire said. “How are you doing? Are you liking the Smithsonian and Washington?”

  “Pretty much, but I miss the desert. It gets in your blood. I hear you’re at UNM now.”

  It wasn’t exactly the Smithsonian, but Claire liked it. She told Sarah about Isabel Santos, the cross, the document and the skeleton found under the house. “It would be incredible,” she said, “if that skeleton could be traced and connected somehow to Isabel’s death.”

  “Bones don’t lie,” Sarah said, “and neither does DNA.”

  “Do you know any of the forensic anthropologists at the Smithsonian?”

  “I know Harold Marcus. He’s the best.”

  “The Sandoval County Police told me that the Smithsonian only gets involved in exceptional cases and ones having to do with paleoindian artifacts, but my impression is they don’t want them to get involved. The OMI here is territorial. The Smithsonian has better resources and has a better chance of finding out what happened than anyone else. If they got interested in the case, how could local law enforcement say no?”

  “Would you like me to mention it to Harold?”

  “Yes, but…” Claire feared she was exceeding her authority.

  “I won’t say you’re suggesting the Smithsonian get involved, only that you told me about a very interesting case.”

  Sarah had an intuitive understanding of people and was good at management. Claire was not. Claire had never learned how to persuade other people to do her bidding. “Thanks,” she said.

  The conversation moved on to work, old friends and ex-husbands, ending in a promise to get together soon. It was a sincere promise, but they both knew it was unlikely to happen unless something brought one to the other’s city.

  As Claire hung up the phone she had the sensation that she wasn’t the only person working late at CSWR, that someone had been wandering through the corridors.

  “Hello,” she called, but there was no answer. She gathered up her belongings and left her office. As she locked the door behind her, she heard the gate that led from the library to the center creak open and shut. When she went through the door and entered the library herself, she found the great hall empty.

  It was still light as she walked across campus. Usually the bookstore closed at six, but this was a special event honoring a well-known woman writer from South America. She gave a passionate reading that went on longer than Claire expected. She waited in line afterwards for a signed first edition.

  When she left the bookstore night had fallen. Except for an occasional megaphone of artificial light suspended beneath a street lamp, the campus was dark. As she passed by the construction site that had once been the Student Union, she became aware that she was very much alone. She enjoyed that rare sensation during the day, but it wasn’t so pleasant at night. Student escorts were available after dark, but she never would have called one. This was where she worked and spent much of her time. In a way it was her home.

  As she headed toward the steps that led down to Smith Plaza she heard footsteps behind her that seemed to echo her own. When she took a step, the echo took a step. She didn’t want to turn around and give the impression that she had noticed or was afraid. She continued walking. The footsteps continued following. When she reached the steps she took a diagonal path, turned her head slightly and glimpsed a man in the glow of a light. She turned back toward the library and began descending the steps at a rapid pace. The man was still walking on level ground. Their footsteps got out of sync, but it sounded as if he, too, had picked up his pace. It became a syncopated beat rather than a literal echo. At any time someone could have come out of the library or the Humanities Building, but no one did. Claire and the man remained the only people within sound or sight.

  She began to cross the open space of the plaza where there was no cover. In a sense the openness provided protection. Whatever happened here could be seen from the library, if anyone was watching. Still she kept on walking as fast as she could without appearing to be running away.

  The footsteps stopped and once again the only sound she heard was the beat of her own feet. The lights from inside Zimmerman Library spread across the steps and beckoned.

  She crossed the plaza, climbed up the stairs to the library and let herself in through the glass doors. Zimmerman wasn’t buzzing wi
th activity at this hour, but it was in operation. Students manned the information desks. A guard sat on the bench. She looked through the door that faced the plaza and saw no one. The man had stepped back into the shadows or had turned and walked away.

  She could have asked the guard to escort her to her truck in the back lot, but to ask for help would mean admitting that she thought she’d been followed and she wasn’t ready to do that. Besides, the guard appeared to be half asleep. She walked around the corner to the ladies’ room, took her key chain from her purse and inserted the keys between her fingers with the sharp ends protruding. She walked out the back door toward the parking lot with her keys at the ready but no need to use them. No one was on the walk, no one was in the lot. She got in her truck and drove home.

  Chapter Twelve

  AFTER WORK THE NEXT DAY SHE WENT TO SEE HER FRIEND John Harlan who was an antiquarian bookseller at Page One, Too. Their friendship dated back years to the time when they were both married. John had become a widower. Claire had gotten divorced. There was a possibility that they would become a couple after they both became single, but it hadn’t happened yet. John was seeing another woman. Claire was waiting for a message from Pietro, which resembled waiting for a message in a bottle. She thought about him as she drove through the traffic to Page One, Too. What was she expecting to hear anyway? The chances were overwhelming that Pietro was married. In her more detached moments she wondered if she daydreamed about him because he was in some ways a known quantity, or was it because he lived in Italy and was most likely unavailable? They had parted many years ago with regret but no bitterness on her part. It was safer to contemplate reuniting with a long distance lover she had once known than moving forward with a person who, as a lover anyway, was unknown.

  “Hey, Claire,” John said when she entered his office, which, as usual, was piled high with books and papers. He stood up, brushing his hand across the top of his head, giving it an electrical charge. “How’s it going?”

  “I’m good. And you?”

  “Not too shabby.”

  “How’s Sandra?”

  “Fine,” he said.

  Claire thought she would prefer a little more enthusiasm if she were Sandra.

  “Have a seat. What’s on your mind?” he asked, sitting down himself and preparing to play the role of book dealer psychologist. Claire knew that psychology often came into play when buying and selling books, particularly when coaxing people to part with their books.

  “How do you know anything is on my mind?”

  “You look worried.”

  “I do?”

  “Yup.”

  “Tell me what you know about Warren Isles.”

  “He’s a good customer. He’s interested in New Mexico history. He’s got a lot of money.”

  “How did he get his money?”

  “By coaxin’ old ladies to part with theirs, persuading them to invest in mutual funds during the boom years of the nineties. Trust me.” He laughed. “Getting old ladies to part with their money is not as easy as you might think.” He leaned back in his chair. “What is your interest in Warren Isles?”

  “Strictly professional,” she said. “Have you heard about the murder of Isabel Santos, a young woman who lived in Bernalillo?”

  “There are a lot of murders in New Mexico,” John said. “What’s special about this one?”

  She told him the story of Isabel Santos and the document she found.

  “You think the document was stolen from her?”

  “It might have been.”

  “What good would that do a thief? It would be like having a stolen Van Gogh. You’d have to keep it in the closet; you’d never be able to show it to anybody. That would take all the fan out of owning it, wouldn’t it?”

  “May Brennan gave Warren’s name and number to Isabel. Is this a document he would want to add to his collection?” she asked.

  “It’s possible. He’s been buying up a lot of stuff related to New Mexico history and paying a good price for it. He’s especially interested in the Penitentes.”

  “Would this be considered New Mexico history or Old Mexico history?”

  “I’d say both if it was found in New Mexico. You’re sure that the document Isabel found was written by a Jew?”

  “Yes.”

  “You know the Penitentes were—and still are—very secretive. It’s a tight brotherhood that flourished in remote New Mexico villages. They meet in their moradas, their places of worship. They say their prayers, they conduct their rituals, they reenact the crucifixion. The church frowned on their practices. The Jews had to be secretive about their practices, too. Both groups were outside the control of the church. They lived in areas where the padres seldom visited. Some of the ephemera I sold Warren speculates that the Penitentes allowed the Jews to worship in their moradas. No one except for those involved will ever know if that is true or not. It may be interesting to speculate, but you’re never going to find out the truth about a people who practiced their religion in secret for centuries.”

  “I didn’t realize you knew so much about the subject,” Claire said.

  “If you want to become an expert on a subject quickly, this is a good one. It is so shrouded in secrecy you can claim anything you want to claim. Who’s to deny it?”

  “Peter Beck? He’s the leading scholar of the Mexican Inquisition.”

  “Now there’s a fun job. Can you imagine spending your working hours thinking about all the innocent people the Inquisition slaughtered in the name of God? Would you want anything to do with that God?”

  “I have very little to do with Him,” Claire confided. “But the concept of a masculine God still exists in my psyche. I don’t know why I do it, but when I’m worried or in trouble I find myself consulting with Him and bargaining with Him.”

  “Conditioning,” John said. “In Texas where I grew up we were raised in the Baptist tradition of a masculine God. It’s hard to break away from that. It probably wasn’t all that different in Tucson. You were raised an Episcopalian, right?”

  “Right.”

  “When you’re a Protestant the differences between the denominations seem large, but once you break away, they all look pretty much the same. Catholics are another story. People don’t break away. Once that church gets a hold of a person it doesn’t let go. They still have a tight grip in New Mexico.”

  Claire never knew where a conversation would go when she visited John. The piles of books and papers and the clutter in his office made it a comfortable place to sit and chat. She also never knew when a conversation would be interrupted. A customer appeared at the door and ended this particular conversation.

  “Nice talkin’ to you,” he said to Claire, standing up to greet the customer.

  “You, too,” she replied.

  Checking the E-mail when she got home had become as routine as letting the cat out. That night she checked it again to find an extensive selection of credit card offers. She made herself a salad and was sitting down to eat it when the phone rang. She checked the caller ID box and saw anonymous, one step up from unavailable. Occasionally anonymous was a real person instead of a computerized phone dialer that reached 500,000 people a day. On a whim she answered. The line was full of the static caused by distance and time.

  “Hello? Is this Claire?”

  “Yes.”

  “This is Pietro. Your old…friend, Pietro Antonelli.” She knew that the minute she heard his voice.

  “Pietro. It’s so good to hear from you. How are you?”

  “I’m fine. And you?”

  “Fine.”

  “It was such a wonderful surprise to get your E-mail. You are living in New Mexico now and working at the University library?”

  “Yes.”

  “I teach American literature at the University of Florence. It was so amazing to hear from you after all this time. I’ve thought about you often and wondered how you were.”

  He had taken the step of calling her. Now she had t
o plunge into cold water to find out what his marital status was. “I got divorced a few years ago and started a new life. I’m doing well now. I have two grown children. My daughter Robin is in graduate school at Harvard. My son Eric is in the computer business in Silicon Valley in California. Do you have any children?”

  “I have a daughter Sophia who is sixteen. She is very beautiful.”

  “I’m sure she is.” Did his daughter have his brown eyes? she wondered. “And your…wife…?”

  “My wife…” His voice seemed to come from an island of sorrow, someplace in the middle of the Mediterranean where the tree limbs remained bare and women in black wailed a constant lament. “My wife has cancer. It has been difficult. That’s why I didn’t answer you sooner. I couldn’t put it in an Email.”

  “I’m sorry, Pietro. It must be awful.”

  “It’s hard to talk about.”

  “What kind of cancer?”

  “Of the breast.” Pietro sighed into the line and changed the subject. “Tell me about your work. You said you were doing something involving the Iberian Peninsula. Something that reminded you of the time we spent together. It was a very special time.”

  “It was,” Claire agreed. She noticed how fluent his English had become. Pietro’s English had been a rather charming struggle when she knew him. “Your English is excellent now.”

  “I teach American literature. I had to become absolutely perfect.”

  “Do you remember the day we spent at the Alhambra? The time we spent looking for the Jewish quarter in Barcelona?” The souk in Rabat? The snake charmers in Marrakech? The blue doors in Essouara?

  “I remember it well. You were so beautiful then, Clara.”

  He was the only man who had ever called Claire beautiful. The best she ever got from her ex-husband was “nice dress” or “did you get a haircut?” Even the name Clara which sounded clunky in English sounded melodic in Pietro’s voice.

  “Thank you.”

  “It’s true.”

  “I came across a document that appears to have been written by a converso who came to the New World and was killed by the Inquisition in Mexico City. It was found buried under an old house here. It got me thinking about old Spain. To me the Alhambra is a symbol of the time when Jews and Muslims and Christians lived in harmony. Why are those periods so rare in Europe?” She didn’t expect Pietro to be an expert on the subject, but she was interested in his point of view.