The Blackbirder

by Dorothy B. Hughes

  No, she couldn't go inside, announce, “I've found Jacques. He's dead.”

  There was only one thing to do. Chance getting back to town, to the hotel, be gone on the bus to Albuquerque before the men arose in the morning. From Albuquerque on to the border. Chancey, yes. But possible. If she could make it to the hotel it was more than possible. She didn't believe the roads would be patrolled. The storm warnings had been insistent, emphatic, all through the evening. Even if anyone missed the radio warnings, he wouldn't set out at night with the storm still battering, not unless there were reasons more vital than his own safety. She could handle a car. she could get away unobserved she could take it easy, not more than a mile to the highway, about four miles, to Tesuque, five or six miles to Santa Fe.

  No one would be disturbing her room early in the morning. She was a guest. By the time Popin learned she had departed, she would be enroute to El Paso. There was another risk. If Schein came to her room tonight or if Blaike returned to it, her absence would be noted. That chance would have to be taken. One thing, this murder was not meant to be discovered as yet. She must get away fast before the time for discovery.

  She couldn't start out in the storm without a coat. Jacques must have one she could borrow. She was afraid to leave this front room, enter the bedroom. It might be blind alley. There on the floor was the dark plaid of his mackinaw. She caught it up. It wasn't bloodstained. She enveloped herself in its weight, buttoned it high, clutched her purse under her arm. Her eyes gave one brief eulogy to the man crumpled there. He couldn't have died for her. It couldn't be Tanya's pattern repeated.

  But bitterly she knew it could be.

  The wind was moaning against the door. She stood inside for a last moment, dreading the plunge into the vicious night. Already there might be someone waiting outside. She opened the door, stepped through, pulled it tight against the wind's struggle to push it wide again. She saw no one, no shadows. The main house was dark. The shortest way to the garage was across the back of the house, past the kitchen and the studio. She stumbled and pushed through the deepening snow to the kitchen wall. She hugged it for a moment before daring the screaming temper of the blizzard again. Past the kitchen, protecting her face from the whiplash with one arm. The studio outer wall to encompass. The blackout curtain made it blank, inscrutable. If she could only know the three were yet about the fire. She had stood between curtain and window tonight, another could do the same.

  She didn't hesitate. Before she reached the window she dropped on all fours, snaked her way in the snow to the end of the room. She stood up then, not attempting to brush away the snow that froze to her skirt, to her legs under the thin mesh stockings. A straight line now, back to the garage. She couldn't run for it, snow was furry about her ankles, wind flung ice pellets on her face to impede her. She could only push, stagger on, hoping, praying to reach her goal. If only the night were dark! But the luminosity of snow, sky and the white grayness of fallen snow carved her stark and black against the landscape. Her breath was whimpering, no one could hear that, not above the wind. No one could hear the garage doors open.

  Exhausted she stood inside. There were two cars, the one Popin had sent to meet the bus and a light pickup truck. She switched the ignition on both. Either one had enough gas to carry her to Santa Fe. The sedan would be warmer and there were chains on its rear tires, none on the truck wheels. She brushed some of the snow from the mackinaw before climbing behind the wheel. Her skirt was a thin sheet of ice from below her hips. She had lost one slipper somewhere between Jacques's house and here. It was unimportant. She kicked the other.

  She would run without lights until she was well out of sight. There would be no danger of collision, no one would be abroad on the side lane. The old car was noisy. Would the sound of wind drown out the rattle and chug? Would a fire, a punch bowl, conversation, obliterate unexpected sound? She warmed the car in the garage, backed it, turned its slippery, shifting wheels still by the garage, far enough from the house. No one had heard. No curious hand pulled aside the curtains. Now!

  There was no road. She headed through unprospected snow to the front of the house, away from it. She was in the lane, turned right, toward the highway. She was so cold, so uncomfortably cold. Soon the engine would warm the car, thaw her a little. She brushed back her hair. It was stiff to touch. She adjusted the rear-view mirror. No one behind her. It was difficult holding the car, the snow was unbroken by so much as a rabbit paw. So cold. Her hands were too cold to clutch the cold wheel. She blew on the left fingers, thrust them into the pocket. No gloves. She slowed, holding with the left now, wedged her right hand into the other pocket. It touched something colder than snow. It touched steel. She knew what it was. The gun Jacques had held last night.

  For a moment her eyes stung. If she'd wanted a gun, there'd have been gloves. Because she needed gloves— With her knuckles she dug out the moisture. Frozen eyes wouldn't help. Had she seen a gleam of light already? She couldn't tell. If the snow packed too heavily on the rear window she wouldn't be able to watch the road behind. It was caked on the windshield, the wiper worked sluggishly, the triangle of clear view became smaller. The floorboard was warming now, her foot was wet, not stiff. But she had to open the window to the cold, her breath was misting the windshield. She saw in the mirror the gleam again. It wasn't a star. There were no stars visible on the overcast sky. She had been discovered.

  Wearily the thought lay on her, perhaps she was meant to find Jacques. This might be their move to take power over her. But why did these men want to harm her? She had no wish to harm them.

  She knew by what evil they moved. Paul. Paul who hated her, hated her enough to kill Tanya, to kill Jacques. He had sent them for her. He would not rest until she was destroyed. And not until he was destroyed would she ever escape.

  She could stop the car now, wait for those bits of light to catch up with her. She had Jacques's gun. But she feared the risk. If she missed, there were two of them, against her. She must get away this time, wait for certain opportunity. The highway was beyond. Careful at the turn. The wheels whirred and she cried out. They must compass the drift. Frantically she dug her foot into the gas pedal, maneuvered the wheel. Breath broke from her as the car made a perilous lurch, cleared the mound, and she was headed to Santa Fe. The highway was empty, a long, straight, white treadmill, beneath its snow the slick of ice shivering the wheels. No pin-points showed behind her now. She had the head start. Whoever followed in the truck couldn't hope to better her time on these roads; he must be more careful without chains on his wheels. She didn't dare increase speed. It was difficult enough holding the car with her numb hands.

  She was heading into falling snow again, the wind hurled fistfuls against the windshield. The lights reappeared. How far behind her? Were they closing in?

  Whatever man held the other wheel held also the greater strength to pack the car over the treacherous road. She swung perilously from the ditch; watch the road, not pursuing lights. She wouldn't be able to outdistance them all the way to Santa Fe. There was nothing but road in her eyes, no refuge along its emptiness. Her foot pushed down on the gas, muffling the panting in her throat. Faster, faster. Faster wasn't safer. She touched the gun again. Was it loaded? She couldn't investigate. The wheel needed both hands.

  Almost too late she saw the side road. She swung the turn. The car skidded dangerously, but with aching fingers she managed to right it. A side road in this open country could mean but one thing: habitation at the end of it. That road itself was heavy with unbroken snow. Will alone forced the wheels through the drifts. Her whimpering was audible, she didn't try to control it. If only the refuge she sought wasn't too far away. She didn't expect the pursuing car to overlook her turn off the road; there were no other headlights in the whiteness to confuse the issue. She would be followed here, followed more quickly than she could lead. She was breaking path. If only one house would emerge out of the shadowy whiteness. The lights again glared her mirror.

  This,
then, was the end of flight. She was to be taken, returned, killed.

  And then the shadows ahead became small mounds, homes. She didn't hesitate. She skidded the tires, turned her car a barrier across the road. She slipped from under the wheel, plowed forward, stumbling. The snow was too heavy for moving quickly. But the first house wasn't far. Her fists beat against the primitive door, beat harder. Those other lights were closing in on the road. And the door swung open.

  Chapter Five

  PURSUED BY THE F.B.I.

  Julie saw nothing in the room, not shapes, not shadows in the firelight. Her choked voice alone had function, crying hoarsely, “Please help me. Don't let them get me! Please, please! Help me!”

  She heard the door close behind her, heard the bolt fall while her voice babbled frantically, “Please, please help me. Don't let them in. They'll take me back! They'll kill me!”

  The figures closed in on her. She shrank back. Only then did she actually see the man who had admitted her, his faded blue jeans, his faded blue shirt, the weary hat on his head, the inscrutable black eyes in-the face like an Aztec mask. The two black braids over his shoulders were twined with red rag. She was in the Tesuque Indian pueblo.

  She said brokenly only to herself, “You don't understand. You can't save me.” She leaned back against the door to keep from falling.

  The voice was quiet. “You are in some trouble.” He came into the circle then, a younger Indian, blue-jeaned like the older man, his hair cut short. There were two women coming nearer, fat, black-banged, curious. There were children with sleepy, black-bead eyes slanted at her. There was no expression on any face.

  She heard a motor cut. She broke in whispering, her eyes begging all of them, “Don't let them take me. Help me. Please, help me.” She didn't realize how she must appear, shoeless, stockings frozen to her legs, her wild hair frozen above her face, the man's mackinaw wrapping her. She didn't even realize that fear was livid on her face and that fear transcended language barriers.

  The braided man said, “Soledad.” He pointed.

  One woman came forward, took her hand, led her like a child to the wall. She draped a blanket over Julie's head, about her shoulders, pointed to the floor. Julie sank down. She could hear a voice shouting outside. The woman spoke, evidently in Tewa. The children scuttled to their positions by the hearth. The woman squatted beside Julie, pulled a blanket about herself, rested her head against the banco. The guttural shout was outside the door. “Open up, in there. Open up, I say.” Julie shivered. The woman laid a quiet brown hand against her shoulder.

  The door shuddered. “I say, in there.” That was Blaike.

  The braided Indian moved cat quiet to the door. His hands were deliberate on the bar. The opening was small. The lantern was held high to foreign faces. The young Indian stood behind the older man.

  “Where is that girl what came in here?” Schein's voice was heavy.

  The Indian shrugged. “No girl. Nobody. Go ‘way.”

  The thick voice grew more guttural. “Don't lie. She is here. I saw her come.”

  “Nobody here. Go ‘way.”

  Blaike broke in pleasantly, trying to eradicate the hostility engendered by the German. “My sister. She lost her way in the storm. We are searching for her. We thought we saw— ”

  The Indian repeated, “Go ‘way.”

  “If we could but look— ” His ingratiation could succeed where Schein's arrogance failed. Blaike was pushing to the door opening. But he didn't enter.

  The two Indian men, young and old, blocked the way, with dignity, with more, with menace. “This our house. You do not come in.”

  The door closed implacably in his face. The bolt fell. The quiet brown hand stroked Julie's blanket. The braided man turned. Only his eyes were pleased. “My house. He no come in,” he repeated in Tewa to the wide black eyes of the children. They giggled.

  Fists again at the door. Schein's voice threatened. “Open up there. Open up.” His voice was joined with others. Indian inflections. Not pleased at this. The older man took up the lantern, spoke to the boy. He went out and the bolt fell heavily in place.

  The boy came to Julie. He said, “Do not be afraid. You are safe here.”

  “Thank you.” She couldn't say more. She was still too terrorized to speak.

  The woman, Soledad, murmured. He translated: “Your clothes are wet. You are cold. My mother will bring you dry clothes to change into if you will.”

  Again Julie said, “Thank you.” But when she tried to rise, fear held her. Her eyes scuttled to the door.

  He said with pride, “Do not fear. He does not enter my father's house.”

  She rose then, holding the blanket about her. She followed the woman to the fireplace. The boy pad-footed into the inner room. A little girl had warmed the calico dress, the black cotton stockings, the brown hide moccasins fastened above the ankles with silver star buttons. Julie changed quickly, gratefully. She retained the blanket. Another child brought her a tin cup of hot coffee. She shook her head. “I can't take your coffee.”

  The boy was in the doorway. “You must not refuse a gift in the house of a friend. My mother would not understand if you did.”

  Julie accepted the cup, swallowed gratefully.

  He came in then. He said, “I am Porfiro. I speak English. I go to the boarding school in Santa Fe. Those men would hurt you?”

  She nodded. She realized then that the noise outside had ceased. She said, “I don't know what they want. But I'm afraid. I'm terribly afraid.” She heard the turning of a motor. They were leaving. But they would lie in wait for her.

  Porfiro said, “Do not be afraid. We will help you.” Someone was pushing at the door. She clutched the boy's arm.

  He said, “That is my father returning.” He went noiselessly, admitted the braided man, rebolted it. She could not understand what was said. There was soft laughter, mimicry of Schein's wild rage, of Blaike's politeness. Porfiro returned to her. “The governor himself came forth. These men are warned not to enter again into our pueblo.”

  She said it aloud then, soberly: “They will wait for me.”

  “They have driven away. One took your car.”

  “It wasn't mine. I borrowed it.” She whispered, “They'll lie in wait to catch me, to take me back, to kill me.”

  Porfiro said, “You are safe with us.”

  “But I must get to Santa Fe. Could you help me reach Santa Fe?” Once there safely she could get a bus going south, going to the border.

  “Tomorrow, yes. When the road is opened.”

  Soledad spoke again.

  Porfiro said, “My mother says you are to sleep. We will watch. Tomorrow we will help you.”

  Julie said, “Thank you. All of you.” She curled in the blanket on the smooth dirt floor. She wouldn't be able to sleep. She said, “I cannot thank you enough. If you had not opened your door— ”

  “No one would turn away a person in need. My father had just returned from the flocks.”

  It was quiet in the room. These were good people, simple people. They cared for their flocks, they shared with a stranger at the gate, they helped the helpless, they dared stand up to the strength of evil. Their verities were untarnished by old and tired discussions, by neo-philosophies of a blind present. She was safe for tonight.

  Her eyes closed heavily. Exhaustion alone gave her sleep, exhaustion plus the certainty that no harm could befall her with Porfiro and his family on guard.

  When she woke, the others were already moving. It was only seven by her watch. A small girl brought her a basin of water and a towel, stood watching while she washed. Julie took out her comb, worked over her matted hair by her purse mirror. Several children watched her. She used her lipstick.

  There was pan and strong coffee, a bowl of beans with chile gravy. She ate hungrily with the women and children, cross-legged before the fire, They watched her, speaking among themselves. The children tittered together, pointing at the fit of her Indian clothes. Not until Porfiro r
eturned could she ask questions. Snow stomped from his boots. He said, “Hello.”

  “Has the storm ended?”

  “It is not snowing. But there is no sun.”

  “The roads— ”

  He was confident. “We will go to Santa Fe at noon. It will not be difficult.”

  She had to ask. ‘Those men— ”

  He measured her. He said, “A truck waits on the highway. The fat one is in it.”

  Her lips closed tightly.

  Porfiro asked, “Are you afraid to go?”

  “There is no other way to Santa Fe?”

  “No.” He assured her, “You are welcome in our home.”

  “I must go.” Go before they returned with the police. “I must go,” she repeated more firmly. She must get away before she was taken and locked up. Get away. Communicate with Popin by phone. Fran must be released from prison. Fran helpless, while Paul took steps to thwart her. Her lips twisted. If Paul knew that his beloved son wasted in prison because of his evil. Some day he would know. She would tell him. But at present she must stay free to help Fran. She must get away.

  Porfiro said, “We will go as always. Many of us in the truck to Santa Fe for supplies. You will be one woman with many in the back of the truck. The blanket will cover you. Your skin is not too white. The man will not see you with us. If you are not afraid.”

  “I am afraid,” she told him. “I'm always afraid. But I'm not afraid to face what must be done. And I must get away before they can take me.”

  He nodded his head slowly. And he asked, “That man is not your brother?”

  “No.”

  “They are not police officers?”

  “No. Did they say that?”

  He said, “First it was you were the sister of the tall gray man. Then the fat black one said he was an officer. The governor put them out of the pueblo.”

  She said, “I don't really know who they are. I only met them. One at La Fonda. One at Popin's.”