Fire Dancer

by Susan Slater

  She pulled her cell out of her pocket and dialed 911 but quickly dropped the phone when she saw the Hummer coming up fast behind her. Where had it been? Her car had been the only one in the drive. She accelerated then barely braked for the turn onto the county road. The Hummer was gaining. The rough, washboard surface made handling even a Beemer difficult at this speed. The first bump jarred her and sent the sedan into a skid. She corrected, kept it on the road but wasn’t prepared for the force of the second slam to her bumper. The Hummer rammed her, pushing her forward and over. The BMW left the road and slid down the embankment on its side, tearing out all the scrub oak in its path. The windshield shattered and branches thrust their way inside.

  A culvert, anchored by concrete, halted her forward motion so abruptly she struck her head on the dash and was tossed backward to land on the floorboards, partly under the steering wheel. She was aware of her own labored breath but couldn’t seem to open her eyes or move her arms and legs. She heard a car door slam, some cursing, more door slamming, and a vehicle accelerating away from her. Then darkness.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Ben finally stopped pacing and sat on the couch in the waiting room. There was nothing he could do. Nothing he could have done. Hadn’t the doctors told him enough times? It wasn’t his fault. But if he’d picked up the message sooner, read between the lines, stayed in Albuquerque in the first place—

  Eight p.m. and UNM Hospital’s ICU was dark. No bustle of visiting hours, no TV blaring from the lounge. Ben stretched out his legs and leaned against the sofa’s padded back. He still couldn’t believe it. The car accident, the fire. Julie in a coma. He couldn’t shake a feeling of numbness, impotence—he wasn’t good at sitting and waiting. He looked up as a neatly groomed man approached—pleated khakis, flawlessly pressed button-down blue-checked shirt. Law enforcement. They didn’t have to be in uniform to tell.

  “Ben Pecos? Lieutenant Mark Samuels, APD.” The men shook hands and Lieutenant Samuels pulled up a chair and sat down. “Any change?”

  Ben shook his head, “Head injuries are tricky. Too often it’s just wait and see. The next forty-eight hours are critical.”

  “I wanted to say how sorry I am. I keep thinking there might have been something I should have done differently.”

  “Me, too—speaking for myself, that is.” Ben smiled ruefully. “But hindsight is always twenty-twenty.”

  “Yeah. Sure puts her in the middle of a bad situation. Obviously, we need to talk with her. I think she’ll be able to help us with this one.” Samuels stood. “I have a box of stuff in the cruiser downstairs. I kept her purse when the ambulance brought her in. Too often things walk away—more like get misplaced. Didn’t want that to happen.”

  He paused. “Took the liberty of opening the trunk before we impounded the BMW. A piece of Indian pottery and some documents from Ms. CdeBaca. She’d taken the time to make copies; I’ll leave those with you, but I’m going to help myself to the originals. A murder case always gives me a little legal latitude.”

  “A murder case?”

  “Ms. CdeBaca. You probably don’t know but your hostess was strangled. I just picked up a copy of the autopsy. Dr. Bancroft appears to be the last person who spoke with Ms. Conlin. Said she told Julie to get out—didn’t have a good feel about her staying in the house.”

  “Murdered? Are you certain?”

  “According to Dr. Bancroft.”

  “So, Julie was reacting to the doctor’s suggestion to leave? The doctor felt Julie might be in danger?”

  “It would seem so. She told the doc that she’d already moved, had just come back to pick up some things. Bad timing.”

  “Julie was maybe a minute away from being killed?”

  “I think we can say it’s a given. The force of the explosion coming from the center of the house obliterated the entire front. Scattered some pretty impressive pieces of timber and mortar a hundred feet from the door. Luckily, Ms. Conlin was already in the car and on her way out or there wouldn’t have been a car to get into.”

  “Hell of an explosion.”

  “Understatement. We don’t see explosives much, not in this community—a little too sophisticated for the sticks, I guess. And it takes someone who knows what he’s doing. It’s strange to see two incidents in a week—and, probably related. We’ll know more when the lab gets through.”

  He paused as though he was carefully choosing his words, Ben thought. Then continued, “I realize you’d just borrowed the car and the BMW’s pretty beat up, but do you know of any damage—dents or scrapes—before you and Ms. Conlin started using it?”

  “Nothing that stands out. I suppose there were some door dings, that sort of thing. It’s a couple years old. I think it was Connie’s personal car, but she preferred the Land Rover.” Ben stopped. Oh my God, he knew what the Lieutenant was getting at.

  “What are you saying? Someone deliberately ran Julie off the road?” Ben was standing now. Had there been an attempt on Julie’s life, in addition to the explosion?

  An intake of breath, a quick exhale. “I won’t lie. That’s my guess. There was evidence of contact along the back bumper and a crease on the driver’s side that wasn’t consistent with damage caused by leaving the road. And we have the recording of what took place just after she dialed 911. The sounds suggest her car was being struck repeatedly from behind and the side. Complete with someone checking on her before driving away. Checking but not helping her, I might add.”

  “I can’t believe this. I can’t think of anything she might have known that would put her life in danger.”

  “Maybe she saw the killer or the bomber. They could be the same person. I’m assuming the bombing was to destroy evidence. Something to do with Ms. CdeBaca’s death—or it could be something else—we don’t know. At this point we don’t even know how the bomb was rigged. But Ms. Conlin knows something. We just need her to tell us. I have, by the way, assigned a twenty-four hour guard.”

  “You think someone may attempt—” Ben couldn’t finish the sentence. On what was probably a really tight budget, posting uniforms could be costly. Lieutenant Samuels must be pretty certain Julie was in danger.

  “We’re back to hindsight again. I’d like to think this is just a precaution. Until we know something, I don’t want to take chances. Do you have a place to stay?”

  “Julie had checked us into the Doubletree downtown.”

  “Great. Close by.” He pulled out a notebook and wrote it down. “Best number to reach you?”

  Ben gave his cell number, hesitated and then gave Julie’s, too. He had to think she’d be fine—maybe by tomorrow morning … Normalcy seemed light years away but he had to assume; life had to go on. He couldn’t face thinking otherwise.

  “Thanks. You want to put that box of stuff in your car or should I bring it up?”

  “I’ll follow you down.”

  Lieutenant Samuels pulled his car around and parked next to Ben’s pickup. The box wasn’t heavy, just awkward. Ben smiled when he saw the wrapping around the Storyteller. He pulled her out of the pillowcase. She wouldn’t have withstood the explosion but a less challenging situation like going off the road, and she came through like a champ.

  “These are mostly legal papers. I’ve only taken a quick look-through. And here’s a copy of Ms. CdeBaca’s note—instructions for burial, that sort of thing. Mention of her son and what she’s left him. Her last will seems to have been drawn up recently—by a Denver firm. I’ll give them a call. They may want to send a representative down to deal with the family. I understand there are some surprises.” He scooted the box onto the pickup’s passenger side seat, “Well, guess that does it. I’ll be thinking of you. Give me a call if you need anything.”

  Ben thanked him, watched him pull out and head downtown. The chill in the night air was invigorating but too cold to stand outside for long. He opened the cab and climbed inside. He’d have to admit to being just a little curious about Connie’s will. He switched on the inter
ior light and pulled the box toward him.

  Chapter Eighteen

  A handwritten note had been stapled to the first page of the will. Ben leaned to the left so as not to block the overhead interior light. He noticed the will’s date was just three days ago. A fax number had been penciled in the margin next to the name, Arnold Baxter, Attorney, and then in parentheses, Baxter, Butterfield and Morgan, Denver. Interesting that she didn’t use, or maybe didn’t trust, Wayne. Ben gave in to a smirk before giving his attention to Connie’s note.

  As directed, I am putting into writing the request I made by phone this morning. I want the entire ten acres which comprises Enchantment Realty to be deeded fully to the Sandia Pueblo. Contact person should be Governor Stuart Paisano. The legal description of the parcel is part of the packet I sent earlier which included the original deed. This land, including my home, the partly completed house and the one just beginning construction will be under the jurisdiction of the Pueblo. All monies including down payments and building costs incurred on the properties under construction will be refunded to the owners by my estate. The estate will not be responsible for any law suits brought by said owners. The risks were spelled out in their contracts.

  The pueblo is at will to do with the land as they see fit. I would ask, however, that my home become a museum of pueblo artwork and artifacts. Any admission fees to go to a fund supporting and preserving the museum. Let me reiterate. Under no circumstances should any part of this land be administered to or claimed for any purpose by the CdeBaca children or by my own son. The pueblo is to have sole ownership.

  I know the fact of my having a son will come as a shock to friends and members of the CdeBaca family. Not even my closest friends knew and certainly not my husband. My son was conceived out of frustration and disappointment with a twenty year marriage to a man of little emotion. I’ve included particulars in the attached document.

  Ben paused and located three single sheets fastened to the last page of the will. Lieutenant Samuels must be a little obsessive, he’d duplicated not only the print but how the pages related to one another. Ben folded back the pages of the will and smoothed the three typewritten pages of information. The first sheet, some foreign official document attested to the fact that the young man was born March 15, exactly twenty years ago in Barcelona, Spain. Birth mother was one Constance Bigrope. The father was listed as J. R. Mondragon, but there was no address, nor was there any name given to the baby. Odd. But the third sheet explained it—a United States birth certificate issued by the U.S. Armed Services for the adoption of a male child by Colonel and Mrs. Frank Merritt. An address in Barcelona, an Air Force base, was given with a permanent address in Kansas. On this document, the baby was given a name: Robert Emmett Merritt.

  “Emmett! Yes!” Ben put down the paper. He felt a rush of excitement and gave the steering wheel a couple firm whacks with the palms of his hands. He’d seen this name before—on medical records and knew without a doubt he’d met Connie’s son—worked with him. It explained why suddenly this young man showed up on the doorstep of Indian Health Services in New Mexico. And maybe explained why he so instantly liked the young man, wanted to help him. Hindsight was always foolproof, but there was a resemblance—more than just in looks.

  Ben’s thoughts came in a random jumble. Emmett’s desire for sex change surgery—was that for real? Probably another long story. And where was Emmett now? With Connie’s death—how much did he know about her illness? Could that be why he was in Albuquerque? But Connie had been murdered. Where did that put Emmett? Did he know she was gone? How could he? Wasn’t he going home to Oklahoma? No, it must have been Kansas. Too many questions. He wished Julie was with him and couldn’t wait to share the news.

  He’d read enough for the time being. But just as he folded the papers, he saw his name—he and Julie had been named as co-executors of Connie’s estate. Oh my God.

  Wayne might not ever recover. Actually, Ben caught himself smiling. It made sense. She would need someone who sympathized with her position on the ten acres and would push to see her wishes honored. That certainly wouldn’t be anyone in the office. With help from the Denver firm, he was sure the two of them could muddle through.

  He checked his watch; he needed to get back upstairs. Another half hour with Julie and then he’d go back to the hotel and crash. The hospital staff had his cell number. He could get back to the hospital in five minutes if there was a change. And he needed to put these papers in the hotel’s safe. He slipped everything back in its original envelope, wedged it under the seat, and locked the truck. Safe at least for now.

  A nurse was coming out of Julie’s room when he got off the elevator. He watched as she said something to the cop sitting outside the door.

  “Any change?”

  She shook her head and continued to the nurse’s station three doors from Julie’s. Ben also nodded to the cop then pushed Julie’s door open. The light was low—more a glow from monitors than actual wattage, but he thought she looked better. He didn’t really think he could explain ‘better,’ maybe it was her color. Her eyes were closed and her breathing, assisted by a machine, was regular. The pallor of earlier in the afternoon was gone—no stark freckles against bleached white skin. There was a distinct rose-tan tint to her cheeks and forehead. Even her hand was warm. That had to be good. Certainly attested to improved circulation. And the doctors had been guardedly optimistic; had shared with him that best-case scenario would put her regaining consciousness within twenty-four hours. Best case … he hadn’t even broached worst case. He wouldn’t allow himself to think that way.

  He sank down into the chair closest to the bed. Suddenly, he was tired. Beat. From driving, from worry, and now from excitement. He knew Julie would be floored. Em … or Emmett, Connie’s child. What an unusual twist. He reached in his pocket and brought out Julie’s engagement ring. The nurse had given it to him for safe keeping. Thoughtful. He couldn’t look at it without seeing the mesa top outside the Hawikuh reservation in the late afternoon sun—the place where he’d proposed. And had been so afraid he’d hear ‘no.’ Had he been surprised when she said yes? Shocked, even. He hadn’t dared to hope.

  He’d chosen a wide gold band and asked the jeweler to superimpose a narrow band of inlay—polished slivers of turquoise, coral, obsidian, shell and pipestone with a raised half-carat diamond in the center. All the colors of New Mexico—in fact, that’s the first thing she’d said, ‘it looks like out here.’ He wanted them to stay in New Mexico, but she’d always have a remnant of the land he loved so much on her finger, no matter where they ended up. Once IHS was repaid for his schooling, they were free to go anywhere. He shied away from saying he’d live in New York, but he probably would go anywhere if it meant seeing her happy.

  But that was only a part of what he remembered about that afternoon, now over a year ago. He thought of her nakedness, her warmth pressed against him. The granite overhang, a view of the valley below. The wind whistling notes that could have come from the flutes of the ancient ones. And sex. Sweet. Slow. Whispered promises until the heat of the moment turned blindingly red hot. Then it was all hunger, a slippery fever-pitch to satiation, breath coming in gasps, Julie with legs around his waist, finally both of them slipping to the sand, holding, kissing, stroking, saying ‘I love you’ and ‘I’ll never leave you’ in a wash of emotion and spent energy.

  Ben reached out and took Julie’s hand. “I love you. Come back to me.” He thought he saw a quiver of an eyelid. He stood and leaned over, then mischievously whispered, “Besides, I have some news you won’t want to miss. Connie’s son—”

  The door behind him flew open—a challenge for a hospital door on pneumatic hinges.

  “How unthinking … uncaring. My baby is dying and you didn’t even have the courtesy to call, let us know.” Bev Conlin, one crutch firmly tucked under her right armpit, hopped into the room.

  “I think dying is an overstatement. Hello, Roger, Wayne.” Ben let go of Julie’s hand and face
d the visitors. “Julie has a head injury. A massive concussion, if you will. It’s a matter of waiting for the swelling to abate.” Ben kept his voice down and hoped Bev would do the same.

  “We would have appreciated a little heads-up on this,” Wayne hissed under his breath, stepping forward. “I understand Julie almost died in the explosion.”

  Ben didn’t correct him and silently noted it probably ruled out Wayne as the one who forced Julie off the road.

  “We were called by a police officer. Not her so-called fiancé—an almost-member of the family.” Bev sank into the Naugahyde chair Ben had just vacated. “Is this an example of the manners you learned on the reservation?”

  “Bev, please. I warned you about your manners.” Roger looked apologetically at Ben. “She’s upset. Ignore what she said.”

  Ben always wondered how such a mild-mannered, slightly built man could be married to Julie’s mother, a too-tanned woman with too-bright red hair and far too much makeup. Of course, Roger traveled a lot, maybe that explained it. Ben always called her ‘the Harpy’ but always to himself, never in front of Julie.

  “Sorry, Roger, I’m going to side with Bev on this. I think Ben owes us an apology.” Wayne looked smug. “I’ve seen mister macho Indian man in action and, quite frankly, he takes care of numero uno first.”

  What did that mean? Ben just shook his head. “I got into town an hour ago and am running on adrenalin. It’s been a tiring day. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be back in the morning.”

  “Who’s Julie’s doctor? Can we contact him? What’s the prognosis? Has a specialist been called in?” Bev wasn’t keeping her voice down.