"But you got shot."
Dan shrugged. "Maybe he got cold and tired of waiting and decided to take the best shot he had rather than the one he'd planned."
"Wouldn't a poacher have come prepared to lie in the snow all night? Or are we talking an amateur here?"
"Now you're thinking like the sheriff."
"Quick, get me a brain transplant."
Dan smiled despite the feeling in his gut that they weren't talking about an amateur poacher trying out a new scope.
"He couldn't have had much more than five minutes to find his new blind, sight in the scope, and wait for us to skyline ourselves. But this blind looks as 'lived in' as the first one. He spent more than a few minutes here."
"Waiting until it was safe to make a run for it?"
"Maybe." Dan started off along the holes the man had made once he left his blind. "Maybe not. He didn't head right down the hill."
"Where'd he go?"
Instead of answering, Dan walked swiftly along the tracks. "He went to check on his kill, but he waited until we were gone. See where his tracks come down on top of ours?"
"Why did he wait?"
Dan looked down at the muddled tracks and the dark splash where he'd lain and bled into the snow. The man knew what he was doing. He'd waited, shot, missed Carly, and waited some more.
And not shot again.
"Dan?"
"Maybe he came back to look for a bullet."
"In the dark?"
"It's possible. The truth is, I just don't know what happened here."
"And the sheriff doesn't care."
"Looks like."
"A real clusterhug," Carly muttered.
A grim kind of smile changed the lines of Dan's face. "That's one way of putting it."
Chapter 53
SANTA FE
SATURDAY MORNING
"Here are your nutcases for the day." Jeanette Dykstra's assistant dropped a batch of mail on the desk. Tom was a middle-aged former traffic reporter who'd nearly crashed in a helicopter once too often for his wife's comfort. His new job was to get paper cuts opening Dykstra's mail and pointing out the good stuff to her.
Dykstra looked up from the notes she'd been making on an expose of the bisexual lover of New Mexico's youngest elected member of the House of Representatives. The story had possibilities, but it wasn't going to get her show promoted on the six o'clock news. She needed that. Her ratings were flat.
"Anything juicy?" she asked without much hope.
"Anorexic pets of neurotic owners, how about that?"
"Next."
"Another alien kidnapping."
"Jesus." Dykstra shook her head. "What do these people think I am, a supermarket tabloid?"
"But this victim dropped a litter of little somethings nine months later."
Dykstra rolled her eyes.
"How about gambling?" Tom asked.
"Don't tell me, let me guess-Tuesdays at the Catholic church."
"Bingo," Tom said innocently.
She groaned.
He grinned. "The police chief is rumored to like little boys."
Dykstra's head tilted with her first sign of interest. "Proof?"
"He's a Cub Scout leader. And he buys candy from grade schoolers trying to go on trips."
"Funny," she said in disgust. "In your next life you'll be a comedian. And that life will begin real soon if you keep wasting my time."
"A fighting cock got loose in the barrio and raked a kid's face."
"Pictures?"
"If you hurry. It happened yesterday. The neighbor reported it. The kid's mother refused to press charges. Afraid of the dude that owns the cocks."
"Gee, I'm shocked," Dykstra said with a total lack of interest. She'd grown up in the barrios. She knew what it was like to be wary of neighbors who had enough money to buy fighting cocks, take bets, and carry guns.
From the mound of mail, Tom pulled an envelope with its contents fastened to the outside. "According to Ms. Mendoza-the one who wrote you-she's complained to the police numerous times about the presence and noise of fighting cocks. The cops thank her kindly and promise to drive by when nothing else is happening in the city."
"Even with a sad-faced kid, the day would have to be really slow before I lead with a barrio story. I did a scab picker about dogfighting three months ago. Didn't do shit for the ratings. Who the hell cares about chickens?" But while she said it, Dykstra made a note to see if the mother would agree to an interview before the kid's face healed.
Tits and tots, vets and pets. The grist of human interest stories hadn't changed in a hundred years.
"Is that it?" she asked.
Tom flipped through the pile. "A bowl of posole reveals the face of the Virgin of Guadalupe."
"You better be making that up."
He tossed her a letter and a photograph.
She glanced at the photo. "Okay, you aren't." She dropped the photo and letter in the trash. "When are these geeks going to figure out that I
know about digitizing? Give me a computer and I could find the Last Supper in pond scum." She looked at her assistant. "You'through torturing me yet?"
"Just about. Saving the good stuff for last." He pulled an envelope out of the pile, waving the Quintrell ranch logo at his boss. "The governor's aunt is a nutcase."
Dykstra perked up. "That has possibilities. Has he been ignoring or abusing her, denying her treatment?"
"She didn't say."
"She who?"
Tom flapped the envelope and its contents. "The aunt."
Dykstra grabbed the papers and read quickly. The letter was quick and to the point. The photocopied document was more difficult. It was written in old Spanish with an equally old English translation at the bottom. Both versions were signed in the precise yet flowing script that centuries of nuns and schoolmistresses had drilled into students.
Miss Winifred Simmons y Castillo's handwriting was almost as dated, but the charge she made was very clear: in order to inherit the Quintrell ranch, Governor Josh Quintrell should have an mtDNA test to prove beyond any doubt that he is the descendant of Isobel Castillo.
Dykstra snorted. Obviously the aunt was a head case, but that didn't matter. The governor and presidential hopeful was news. With luck, this could be milked for a week, maybe even get featured on the evening news show. She'd have to set up an interview with the old bat, but first…
"You know anything about, uh, mtDNA?" Dykstra asked.
"Not a clue."
She handed back the letter. "Get busy. I want to do a brief promo on this at three o'clock."
Chapter 54
CHIMAYO
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
WEARING A PAIR OF LEVl'S THAT HADN'T BEEN TAILORED OR IRONED, ANNE Quintrell met her husband at the door. There was no fanfare surrounding him, no town car and driver, no bodyguards. The vehicle in the driveway was one of the thousands of anonymous white rentals that infested airports. At Josh's request they were staying at a supporter's consciously rustic vacation house in Chimayo, rather than in the gubernatorial mansion. It was the only way he could dodge Dykstra.
Sometimes freedom of the press was a real pain in the ass.
As far as the public knew, the governor was still on the East Coast at a nonsectarian religious retreat to discuss the spiritual aspect of political office. Privately, Josh had thought it was a waste of time, but so was much of the public part of being a politician. When Pete had called, Josh had leaped at the reason for leaving, and everyone had agreed to keep it quiet so that he had time to grieve without the media ghouls hanging off every stoplight.
"I'm sorry," Anne said to her husband. She barely recognized him beneath the slouch hat and clothes that were better suited to a fishing trip than a public outing. White stubble covered his face from cheekbones to throat. He looked like he'd hitchhiked rather than flown in from his last fund-raiser. "I know there wasn't much love lost between you and your aunt, but it's still not easy."
Josh came inside
so that Anne could close and lock the door behind him. He tossed his slouch hat aside, revealing his trademark thatch of silver hair. "I'm getting sick of bouncing back and forth for family funerals. In fact, I may be getting sick, period." He thought of the flat-out sprint for the presidency that awaited him. Eleven months of hell.
On the other hand, with a little luck, this time next year he'd be president of the United States of America. Not bad for a kid nobody had ever given a damn about.
"Did the Sorenson Foundation's lawyer reach you?" Anne asked, stepping inside so that he could follow.
"No. I had to change flights three times because of the weather. Unless somebody has my private cell number, I'm off the scope. I'd like it to stay that way. What did the lawyer want?"
She closed and locked the front door. "A discounted price on the ranch for public service."
"I'd like one of those myself, but I still have to pay for political ads the old-fashioned way-out of my own pocket."
"The old-fashioned way is out of some other guy's pocket," Anne said, smiling slightly. "Father always did it that way. Did you eat on the plane?"
"In coach?"
"I don't think I've ever flown coach."
"If you're lucky, they throw peanuts at you. Ten to a package, one package per customer."
Anne winced. "Do we have to do anything today or can you get some rest?"
Frowning, he set down his fat computer case and shrugged out of his coat. "I should see the lawyer about final arrangements for Winifred."
"Melissa is taking care of that."
"At least there won't be another nauseating toast to gag down." Josh rubbed his eyes and stretched his long frame. "I'm too old to be sleeping in a center seat in coach."
Anne shook her head. "Not too old. Too smart. But don't worry. When you're president, you'll have your own plane."
He grinned suddenly, looking more like forty than over sixty.
"That's the spirit. Did you have a chance to get some food for this place or will I have to keep on these ratty hiking clothes, pull my hat low, and slink into the local market?"
"No need. I did my Holly Homemaker act earlier. You'd have fallen on the floor laughing at my baggy jeans and sweatshirt."
He snickered. "Thanks. I know you hate to go slumming, but it's a great way to stay under the media radar."
"I'm just terrified of meeting someone who recognizes me."
"That's the whole point. No one looks at ordinary people. Turn on the TV, will you? I want to catch the three o'clock local cable news. I told everyone to keep Winifred out of the news until I could get back, but you never know."
Anne picked up the controller, turned on the small TV in the kitchen, and hit the channel for the local cable news feed. "You want a beer and a sandwich?" she asked.
"I'll make it."
"A sandwich I can manage. If you want something hot, you'll have to do it yourself."
"I didn't marry you for your domestic skills," Josh said, looking at his watch and then at the TV
"You knew I could afford a chef."
He smiled slightly. "And you knew I was on my way to the White House." Some things were more binding than love. Ambition was one of them. He and Anne understood the deal they'd made when they traded wedding rings.
On TV, some local siding salesman was giving his pitch.
Josh hit the mute button and lowered himself onto one of the two stools that made an informal dining area of the counter. He watched Anne work and thought that here was a family values photo op if ever there was one. About the only time Anne went willingly into a kitchen was to discuss the menu for an upcoming party.
The usual closely edited, high-energy shots of the cable news team flashed across the TV, a lead-in to their three o'clock promo of upcoming news events. Josh had often thought it was like a striptease-Have you heard the sky is falling? News on the hour. Have you seen a crack in your sky? News on the hour. Did the sky fall near you? News on the hour. By the time the story appeared, far more time had been spent hyping it than was devoted to actually covering it. It was the kind of ten-second-sensation mentality that had reduced political coverage to an exchange of slogans at six o'clock, with an occasional weekend recap of "news" for the people who lived under rocks on the far side of the moon.
But each one of those rock dwellers has a vote, Josh reminded himself.
His job was to get as many of those votes as he could and enjoy the benefits of power. The fact that political power was exercised in a way that would horrify the naive didn't matter. It was the naive who had the vote, the naive who had to be courted, and the naive who allowed national politicians to leave office richer than when they went in and "journalists" like Jeanette Dykstra to flourish. And speak of the devil…
Josh hit the mute button again, restoring sound.
A serious Dykstra looked straight into the camera and leaned forward to give out the physical cues that translated as: Listen up out there, this is hot! The fact that she did the same thing for a story about two celebrities wearing the same outfit to a party was all part of selling the news.
"Exclusively from Behind the Scenes, Governor Josh Quintrell's aunt Winifred Simmons y Castillo demands that her nephew have a blood test to prove that he is descended from Sylvia Castillo Quintrell. More as the story develops."
The camera cut away to another talking head selling another ten-second news promo.
Josh didn't listen.
"Did I hear your name?" Anne asked as she set a turkey sandwich in front of Josh.
Josh nodded. "Before Winifred died, she went crazy."
"What do you mean?"
"She wants me to prove I'm a Quintrell."
Anne stopped in the act of reaching inside the refrigerator for a beer. "Excuse me?"
"Like I said. She went nuts."
"Well, she's dead now, so it doesn't matter."
Josh thought of Dykstra's eager ferret eyes and wondered if it would be that easy.
His cell phone vibrated in his pocket. He pulled it out and saw the New York accountant's caller ID. He punched in and said, "Make it fast. I'm in a meeting and can't talk."
Anne looked at her husband. He gave her the kind of smile he always did when he was distracted.
"Okay," Josh said. "Thanks. Send me the bill."
"Who was that?"
"Nobody important." He yawned. "Forget the beer and make it a coffee. I have to go to the ranch."
"Right now? I thought Melissa had already arranged for Winifred's ashes to be scattered with Sylvia's."
"She did." Josh yawned again. "Still, I don't want that bitch Dykstra to think I didn't love my dear old auntie. At the same time, I'll give everyone their severance pay in person. And I should press some flesh in the hispano community."
"I won't wait up for you, then."
"Good idea." He rubbed his eyes. "If it gets too late, I'll stay in Taos. More snow is expected up there."
"Why not stay at the ranch?"
"Pete and Melissa usually go to town for dinner and a show on Saturdays and stay overnight for church on Sunday morning. There won't be anyone at the ranch to cook or see that a bed is ready for me."
"You shouldn't have told them the ranch was as good as sold. They don't care anymore."
"I couldn't just toss them out without warning. They've worked there for years."
Anne shrugged. "The Senator spoiled them. It's a job, not a sinecure. But he would never listen when I told him."
"Don't feel bad. The Senator never listened to anyone, including God."
Chapter 55
TAOS
SATURDAY AFTERNOON
CARLY WATCHED WITH GROWING EXCITEMENT AS ARCHIVED DATA FROM THE newspaper's computer flowed into hers. All but bouncing in place, she opened file after file and saw those glorious words. Searchable documents. It would save weeks of painstaking discovery and cross-referencing.
"Yes!" she said, slapping the table triumphantly.
Dan grinned and typed in some
more commands. More files leaped from computer to computer.
"You doubted me?" he asked.
She rolled her eyes without looking away from the miraculously growing list of articles. "This time? Of course not. The first six tries that crashed, now that's different. I was afraid getting shot must have addled something."
"You expect perfection the first time?"
"Hey, you gave it to me the first time," she said absently, staring at her computer screen. "And the other times, too."
He grinned. "Are we talking about horizontal dancing?"
She replayed the conversation in her mind, fought a blush, then just gave up and swiped at him, taking care to stay well away from the bandage on his forehead. "You know better than to talk to me when I'm distracted."
"I'll keep it in mind."
She groaned, knowing him well enough to realize that she'd just given him another way to slide past her defenses. Like he needed any. All he had to do was get a certain look in his eye when he watched her and she was ready to jump in his lap and go treasure hunting.
"Knock knock," said Gus from the top of the stairway.
"Is that the opening line of a lame joke?" Dan asked.
"Nope, just a warning that you aren't alone."
Carly fought another blush. Gus had come in earlier today. She and Dan had been pretty much dressed, but the sexual heat had been enough to make the air smoke.
"Appreciate that," Dan said. "Hang on. I've got another two-month block of articles to set up."
Gus walked down the stairs and stopped by Carly's chair. Absently he tapped the envelope he held on the table.
"Told you he could do it," Gus said. "Bump on his head and all."
"You're right. Your brother's amazing. A nerd in wolf's clothing."
Gus smiled but it faded quickly. The image of his brother lying in the snow on Castillo Ridge had been a lousy way to start the day. The rest of the day had gone in the same direction. He looked at the envelope he'd carried in from his office.
"You hear from Winifred today?" Gus asked.
Caught by something in Gus's voice, Carly looked up from her computer screen. "No, why?"
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