by Medora Sale
“That’s okay. I’m not that insistent on the forms of equality. Are you comfortable?” she whispered.
“Mmm,” he murmured. “Amazing how quiet it is, after living downtown.” He stared into the enclosing darkness, silent except for the small rustles of the night, punctuated by a clear sharp bark in the distance. “Would you like to live somewhere like this? Or do you need the city?”
“I’m not sure,” said Harriet. “I’ve always had to live where my clients were, and that’s in the city. I try not to dwell on things that can’t be changed. It just makes me miserable.”
“Don’t you? That’s where some of my best dreams come from—changing the unchangeable. One or two of them have even come true.”
“Like what?”
“You,” he said simply. “There was a point in my life before I met you when I believed that any kind of happiness—I mean, personal happiness, love or whatever you want to call it—was an impossibility, a dream created by poets and songwriters who knew it wasn’t achievable. And that the only way to make your life worth living was to get somewhere in your job. But I’m not the type to make chief and I knew that, too.”
“What type is that?”
In the distance a twig cracked to remind them that they shared the mountain with other living entities. They both listened with painful intensity to the ensuing silence before he considered her question. “A manipulator,” he said at last. “And that’s not a criticism. You can’t function in that job without being able to manipulate the board and the politicians and all the people who work under you. They all have different theories on why you have a police force, and what it ought to do, and if you listen to all of them they cancel each other out.” He stopped to listen again. “And nothing gets done. If you make one segment the most important, the others get sore and nothing gets done. I haven’t the patience or the sly cunning to make each group work with the others and still believe that it’s running the show.”
Harriet smiled into the darkness. “And how old were you when you worked that out?”
“I don’t know. I must have figured it out a hell of a long time ago. I have to admit I never put it into coherent words until right now.”
“It’s all this clean air,” said Harriet. “It stimulates the brain cells. Or maybe it’s the prospect of being butchered before dawn. That concentrates the mind, too, they say.”
“I keep forgetting that women are much more gruesome and bloody-minded than men. Not to say realistic. And pessimistic.” He squeezed her shoulder affectionately. “I’ve been sitting here pretending there isn’t anyone out in the woods slaughtering innocent civilians because I didn’t want to upset you.”
“Upset me? Ignoring danger upsets me.” She reached up and brushed her lips against his cheek. “I’d rather be looking so I can see it coming. Then I know when to hide. Women are more practical, that’s all.”
“You wanted to see me?” The words were polite and softly spoken; the stance was militarily correct.
Nonetheless, the man on the other side of the desk felt a twinge of recognition as he looked into those brown eyes. Behind them lived a mutinous, insubordinate, and arrogant bastard, and one of the best younger officers he had. But the code of conduct said nothing about eyes as far as he knew, and he yawned. There had been a time when his own eyes must have been pretty insubordinate as well. “Yes, Rodriguez, I wanted to see you. Actually, I wanted to stay in bed, but someone senior to me wanted me to see you. So here we are. Just one question. What in hell were you doing at the Deever ranch tonight? I was dragged out of bed in the middle of the night to listen to a report that you tried to break into Carl Deever’s place, that you threatened one of Deever’s subordinates, and that you accused both Deever and the subordinate—we talking about Ginger here?”
“Yeah. We’re talking about Ginger.”
“—of various and unspecified crimes and said that you were going to get them. Deever found himself a judge, the judge got on to one of the governor’s assistants, and everyone is shitting their pants in case poor Deever gets annoyed. Except the governor, of course. He’s on your side. He loathes Deever.”
“It beats me,” said Rodriguez. “Where the man gets his clout, I mean. One of these days we’re going to yank one key card out of his operation, one positive and solid thing, and the whole house of cards will come down around his ears. Then it won’t matter how goddamn rich he is. Anyway—you already know that. You want to know about tonight. Okay—here goes. I received information that a major witness in the disappearance of those two children—Caroline and Stuart Rogers—had been picked up by a car owned by Mr. Carl Deever and that she—the witness—had been driven out to the Deever ranch. Needing further information from her, I went out to the ranch and rang at the gate. The bell was answered by Mr. Deever’s chauffeur, Ginger. I asked if I could come in and speak to my witness, Ms. Kate Grosvenor. He refused me admittance in the absence of a warrant, as was his right. Then he informed me that he himself had driven Ms. Grosvenor back to Taos earlier in the evening. He volunteered the information that she had an appointment for dinner. At that point I left. I wasn’t actually on duty at the time.”
“Clearly you were on overtime,” said his boss, yawning again.
“Thank you, sir.”
“Give me a copy of your report and I’ll take care of it. And I’ll get those bastards for dragging me out of bed. I thought you’d taken a tank to his gate this time.”
“Never touched his property except to ring the bell,” said Rodriguez, all innocence.
“And the witness?”
“I’ll see her tomorrow morning. No problem.”
Rodriguez brooded over Deever’s instantaneous overreaction. Something about Kate upset Deever, and he was a dangerous man when upset. If he interpreted his assignment and his recently completed interview literally, he now had some breathing room. He turned the car back in the direction of Kate’s motel to pick up her belongings.
He was a little late. The room was already a disaster. Someone had been in there searching for something he hadn’t found, and had taken his fury out on the physical surroundings. Rodriguez looked around thoughtfully, picked up Kate’s suitcase, and began putting everything in it that didn’t look as if it belonged to the motel. He gathered up the makeup, soap, and shampoo from the counters, from inside the bathtub, from the tiled floor, and anywhere else he found it and dumped it into the overnight bag; she could sort it out better than he could. Last of all, he picked up the pieces of her camera with great care and set them, as they were, very gently into her camera case.
Kate lay in bed and stared at the ceiling. She had slept for a couple of hours, very heavily, until she had been awakened by a dream of getting stuck between two walls, unable to move, with pursuers behind her and no escape. By the time her heart had stopped pounding, sleep had fled. She went to the bathroom. She drank a glass of water. She stared out the window—the one with the rope ladder, so convenient and easy to use—into the blackness of the woods behind the cabin. She needed a book to distract herself from herself and there were no books up here that she could see. Really she should go downstairs and find a book, some juice, and a comfortable reading chair with a light. Then she could read until she felt sleepy again. And stop thinking.
The flashlight was beside her bed. She would use that instead of trying to light the lamp and carry it downstairs with her on the ladder. She went over to inspect the opening mechanism of the ladder-trap door system. It was a simple catch that looked as if it could be easily snicked back with a thumb. She gave it a tentative pull, discovered it was too stiff to budge, and just as she was switching to her left hand—stronger basically than her right, and almost as deft—she heard a car outside and froze in panic. Scarcely daring to breathe, she slipped back into bed and pulled the covers over her.
“Wait there,” she heard someone say. “I’ll be right back.”
The footsteps took forever to reach the front porch. The car must have been parked some distance away to avoid alerting her. Someone banged loudly on the door. “Ms. Grosvenor. Are you in there? It’s Bob Rodriguez, Ms. Grosvenor. My brother sent me to pick you up.”
Rodriguez’s warning rang in her ears and she pulled the covers more tightly over her head.
“Is she there?” This was a second voice.
“She’s supposed to be. Get that door for me, will you?”
There was a screech of metal and a scream of wood being torn apart. Then footsteps clumped about just beneath her. “Shit,” said the first voice. “Are you sure Rocco said she was here?”
“He said, ‘probably.’ He never said he knew she was here. I told you that.”
“Well, she isn’t. Let’s get the hell out before someone turns up.” And the two sets of footsteps crashed away into the night.
It was a long time before Kate even rustled the covers that covered her.
“You know what?”
“What?” asked Harriet sleepily, since some response seemed to be expected of her.
“How can there possibly be someone out there? Unless we’re a hell of a lot closer to civilization than we realize. Who could have followed us all the way out here without having some kind of vehicle? And if there’d been another car, truck, anything, we’d have heard it.”
“Unless he lives out here all the time. And only wants to protect his mountain from strangers. Like those wild men living in the woods in Oregon and Washington. Survivors from Vietnam, screwed up with shock and paranoia, hiding from the world.”
“Okay. But if he’d been doing this for a while—slaughtering everyone who turned up, cutting their throats and all that—wouldn’t someone have noticed that everyone who camped here disappeared? And what about all those corpse-filled cars littering the mountainside?”
Harriet began to giggle. “John, stop it. You’re trying to make me laugh, and it’s not fair. Or right and proper.”
He rubbed her shoulder appreciatively. “Not really. I’m puzzled, that’s all.”
“Well—maybe whoever it is came off the bus with us. Maybe it’s one of the guys who took off in the night.”
“Like Brett Nicholls?”
“Killing his own wife like that?”
“You were ready enough to believe that the husband in my last case had killed his wife and daughters until we couldn’t find any evidence to prove it, remember?”
Harriet nodded. “Okay. But it seems bizarre to wait for a trip like this for an opportunity to do in your wife.”
“What could be better? Then you wouldn’t be the obvious suspect.”
“So who killed the sunshine boys? And Kevin Donovan? Did Brett kill them, too? Just to establish the idea that there was a serial killer wandering around the mountainside?” She shivered. “I can’t believe anyone would be that cold-blooded.”
“Or crazy.” He paused. “At least if it was Brett, then he won’t be killing anyone else.”
“Why not? Oh. I see. His objective has been accomplished. But what if it was one of the others? Rick—”
“Kelleher.”
“Or one of the women,” added Harriet. “Teresa Suarez. Or the guide. Karen Johnson.”
“Or Mrs. Green, who turns out to be a karate expert? Really, Harriet,” said John in exasperation. “Stay within the bounds of reason.”
Even though Kate had been convinced that fear would keep her awake and trembling until dawn, the next time a car pulled up and footsteps sounded on the porch steps she was deep under. The pounding on the door came to her from a very great distance away. Then directly under her head a familiar voice called her name with urgency. “Kate! Wake up! We have to get out of here. It’s Fernando,” he said, and she smiled.
“Hi, Fernando,” she said. Nice to know he was who he said he was.
She rolled out of bed, so stiff that she could hardly move. And bruised. And sore, especially around the rib cage. No wonder she’d been having such awful dreams. She grabbed the flashlight once more and followed it to the latch for the door and the ladder. She removed the loop of rope, flicked the latch with her thumb, and the beautiful mechanism began to open slowly, allowing the ladder to slide down to its appointed place. For a second she wondered why she had not been able to work it the night before, and then Rodriguez was up the ladder. “Are you okay?” he asked.
“Sort of,” Kate said. “People came looking for me. Two men. I hate to admit it but I was terrified. I stayed up here and practiced my survival-without-breathing techniques.” She laughed in a shaky voice.
“I can see that,” said Rodriguez. “They did in Roberto’s door. We really ought to get out as quickly as we can.”
“Just let me go to the bathroom and put on my shoes,” said Kate. “Do I have time to brush my teeth? Is there a toothbrush?”
“Put your shoes on in the car. No, you don’t, and I don’t know. You can clean up at the nearest truck stop.”
“Where are we going?” said Kate, carefully removing the top from a cup of coffee and taking a sip before handing it to Rodriguez. She had found a comb, her toothbrush, and toothpaste in the mess in her overnight bag, as well as a tube of madly expensive moisturizer that she had bought before her Middle East assignment and never used. Now, with her hair pulled back neatly, her teeth clean, her face washed and smelling pampered, and coffee and a dubious-looking muffin to keep them going, the terrors of the night had begun to recede.
“To Albuquerque.”
“Isn’t that where Deever lives?” One more second and she was going to get the shakes again, she knew it.
“Deever? In Albuquerque? Good God, no. He lives in Dallas when he’s not at the ranch. Or near Dallas. He’s been trying to turn himself into a Texas man, although I guess your average Texan wouldn’t be that proud to claim him.” He accepted another mouthful of coffee from their joint cup and handed it back to her. “Actually, no one seems to know where he comes from. I’ve heard people say that he’s really a Cuban and that his family came over when he was just a kid because of Castro. But he doesn’t speak any Spanish—not more than a few words.”
“Then why are we going to Albuquerque?”
“That’s where my mother is.” He sounded surprised at the question. “It’s the safest place in the world for you at the moment. And I think you’ll get along with her all right. She’s—well—she’s an interesting woman. And so are you. In different ways.”
“Does she live alone?”
“No. She lives with my little sister, Consuelo. And, of course, the dogs,” he added, as an afterthought.
“What do you mean, ‘and, of course, the dogs’?”
“Well—when I left home, my mother decided to get a dog. Reasonable enough. Two women living alone, concerned about companionship and protection. But she isn’t a reasonable woman. Interesting, wonderful in many ways, but not reasonable. She went into the whole matter of breeds and temperaments and all that sort of thing and decided to breed her own dogs. She has five or six at the moment. Maybe seven. Along with various puppies. We don’t count puppies. She’s built them a huge yard with one of those professional-type mesh fences all around the house—you know, like a scrapyard—to keep them safe. She doesn’t want anyone trying to steal them. So you’ll be fine there.”
“What kind of dogs?” said Kate, with a mental vision of a crowd of Yorkies snarling behind a great mesh fence as a dognapper swooped down on them with a big net.
“Rottweilers.”
“What?” said Kate. “Somehow I can’t imagine someone crawling into a yard full of adult Rottweilers, intent on robbery. Are you kidding me?”
“Certainly not. But you’re right. I can’t imagine anyone trying to steal them. Especially since some of them are bitches with puppies,” he added. “Protective. Very protective. But theft is what my mother says
she worries about.”
“Where does she find the time to look after all those dogs and hold down a teaching job?”
“She’s very organized. And Consuelo helps. She’s just finishing high school. And she has someone come in several days a week.”
“Look—you can’t just dump me on her like that,” said Kate, sounding very worried. “Won’t I drive her crazy? An extra person around all the time, getting in the way, creating more work? Besides, teachers are always on their knees with exhaustion. What grade does she teach?”
“Grade.” He paused, slowing down to let a very impatient little car get in front of him. “She doesn’t exactly teach a grade. She has a couple of undergraduate and one graduate course she teaches. Usually. Spanish literature. She’s a fifteenth- and sixteenth-century specialist.”
“Who breeds Rottweilers. Your mother is a professor of Spanish literature at the University of New Mexico.”
“Yes.”
“And she probably writes books and articles and gives abstruse talks at important conferences and all that kind of thing.”
“That’s right.”
“Then where in hell did you pick up that pathetic little peasant boy disguise? You do everything but shuffle your feet and pull your forelock and call me ma’am. Working in the fields. Your mama’s very own chili indeed. You practically had me in tears over that chili.”
“Antonia did make that chili,” he protested. “She makes terrific chili. Just because you teach Spanish literature doesn’t mean you can’t cook.”
“Antonia?”
“My mama, as you say. We always call her Antonia. She’s hardly older than we are.”
“So tell me about her. I need to know if I’m going to stay there.”
“No—she’ll tell you herself. She likes talking about herself. I will tell you that she’s a widow, and that my father died fifteen years ago, and that we gather that she doesn’t exactly miss him, so you don’t have to be careful.”
