Wild Mystic

by Sandi Ault

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid I don’t know her. She may be new in the area.” Just then, Brother Tobias came in and whispered something in the father’s ear. “Well, I’m sure you will let us know if there is any need to worry about Ms. Abasolo. Now, if you’ll excuse me, Miss Wild?”

  “Certainly, Father. It was nice to meet you.”

  “Likewise. Brother Tobias will see you out now.” He turned and left the room.

  20: It Takes a Village

  Peñasco was little more than a wide place in the road, but still the largest of several nearby communities, each no more than a cluster of a dozen or two homes that barely showed up as freckles at the outer edges of the Picuris reservation on the map. This burg boasted a rural clinic, the Bear’s Paw Café, a small general store that was seldom open, a gas station with limited hours and no pay-at-the-pump, four in-home roadside art galleries, and a summer-only potato store which ran out of a 1960-s double-wide trailer set on concrete blocks. It felt less like a town than a long stretch of disconnected, struggling enterprises scattered along the two-lane state highway. There was no visible town center. The largest structure one could see without leaving the pavement was the ranger station. Traveling through on a Sunday or after 4 p.m. on any winter day, one might think it a ghost town. But somewhere back of the main road the homes of several hundred villagers nestled in the surrounding hills, plus a school, the cemetery, a Catholic church, and its accompanying Penitente morada—the gathering place for the brotherhood in the community who discreetly practiced ancient rituals of self-flagellation and crucifixion re-enactment.

  The easiest way to talk to people in Peñasco, as Dominic had learned, was to go to the Bear’s Paw. I parked out front, went inside, and stepped to the register, ready to get some grub. I’d missed lunch and it was almost three in the afternoon, so I’d probably have to take whatever they had left.

  The woman behind the counter interrupted me before I could place my order. “You’re not going to cause trouble in here again like you did yesterday with Eddiejoe and his brutes, are you?”

  “I think that’s settled now,” I said. “I just wanted to get some coffee...”

  “You think it’s settled, huh? Let me tell you something: nothing is ever settled around here.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Listen, honey, people here are still angry about things that happened hundreds of years ago. The Indians are mad at the Spanish for coming and taking their land five-hundred years ago. The Spanish are mad at the Indians for the Pueblo Revolt a hundred years after that. They both resent the Anglos for settling here over a century ago. And if somebody did something that you didn’t like twenty years ago, it’s still good cause for payback.”

  I had heard this story about northern New Mexico before, and saw some truth in it. “I just meant that I think the grazing permit issue...”

  “You don’t get it, sweetie. It’s not over. You and your buddy might have backed Eddiejoe and his goons down yesterday, but they’ll be looking for you now. Besides, this grazing thing is a double-grudge for him.”

  “I don't know what double-grudge means.”

  “He’s already good and mad about the land deal that cut him out of a place to graze the cows. Now, he got his macho bruised by you guys for trying to graze them someplace else.”

  “Wait a minute,” I said. “What land deal cut him out of a place to graze?”

  She cocked her head to one side. Two long grey braids hung from beneath a ball cap that said Talk to the Paw across a graphic bear paw print. “That poet lady. She bought the land when she found out Eddiejoe was about to lease it for grazing.”

  “What land are we talking about?”

  “Over by her place, that piece that belonged to old Bota Romero. He was going to lease it to Eddiejoe to graze his cows, but that writer gal got wind of it and came over to Romero’s with a cash deal too sweet for him to pass up. Eddiejoe was furious.”

  “Are you talking about Adoria Abasolo? The US Poet Laureate?”

  “Yes, her. This was a few years ago. She seemed nice enough, but after the land deal, everyone from Chimayo to Dixon and beyond shut their doors to her. She couldn’t even buy a gallon of gas as far away as Velarde or a taco at the road-side stand down in Rinconada. Everyone with a drop of Hispanic blood around here took Eddiejoe’s side, and that meant that author woman had to go all the way to Española for anything. One time, someone broke into her car at night, right outside the wall by her house. They put sugar in the gas tank—completely ruined the engine; she had to get a new car. She put a lock on the gate where her drive meets the road, so someone left about fifty bags of trash blocking her driveway so she couldn’t get in and out. Then, they hauled a mattress up there and set it on fire at the end of her drive. For a while, it was so bad that she hired a security guard to watch her house around the clock. She really started keeping to herself after that, although she was never all that social to begin with. She used to come in here to breakfast sometimes and she came to a lot of the kids’ little theater performances, even gave some money to the camp they started for the latch-key children. But after the whole thing with Eddiejoe, she didn’t come around anymore.”

  “Could you tell me where I might find Bota Romero, the old man who sold her the land?”

  “For that, you gotta go to the cemetery next to the church. He died about a month after the land deal was made. Why are you so fascinated with our persecuted poet?”

  “I’m more concerned about getting some coffee and something to eat,” I said, smiling.

  “I’m out of burritos, but I got one scone left. You’ll have to pay for it and the coffee, but the chit-chat was on the house.” When she placed the coffee and a bag with the scone in it across the counter, she added: “You’re about the fourth person in the past couple weeks asking about that gal. Must be because she’s got that thing coming up at the inauguration.”

  “Who’s been asking?”

  “Strangers. That’s all I know.”

  “Could you describe them?”

  “Listen, I’d love to keep chatting with you, but I gotta sweep up, and then I got pies to bake and get ready for tomorrow. You need anything else?”

  “No, thanks.”

  She held up a finger and then lowered it at me, as if it were loaded. “I wasn’t kidding about Eddiejoe, doll. I’d keep one eye on my rear-view mirror if I were you.”

  21: Parking Violation

  As Prescott had mentioned, thanks to a technology grant and the labor-intensive retrofit of a former radio tower, Picuris Pueblo had managed to guarantee cellular coverage for the reservation and nearly all of the surrounding area, except for in the low mountain passes. This achievement not only demonstrated the super-sized power of such an undersized indigenous population (Picuris was the smallest of the nine northern Indian pueblos in New Mexico), but it also endeared the Indians to many in the neighboring community. This was especially true for the Anglos and the few business owners, who benefited by this technology most—because no connectivity of any consequence had been present before the tribe moved to gain a foothold in the new millennium.

  I was happy to take advantage of this relatively new development, too, when I got back in my Jeep outside the Bear’s Paw. I checked the Screech Owl for messages, hoping that perhaps Kerry had left one for me. Nothing from him, but my favorite librarian Carla had called to let me know that she had a stack of research materials for me, so I should come by the library at my earliest convenience. And there was a voice mail from Roy, as well, but I cut it off before listening to it when darkness suddenly came over my vehicle. A sound like a jackhammer and a shadow in my rearview mirror told me something big had pulled in right behind me. I looked through the rear window and saw Eddiejoe Ibanez glaring down at me as he hung out of the passenger-side window of an ungodly huge exhaust-oozing monster idling less than a foot from my bumper.

  If a truck could have a personality, this big, butch, super-pimped diesel dooly truc
k would have been Darth Vader—painted a flat stealth black (even to the wheel covers), with windows like obsidian mirrors, tricked out with a custom locomotive-style cow-catcher grille, and towering high on six oversized, heavy duty, all-terrain tires. The engine revved louder and louder, dominating everything in range with its near-deafening din.

  The wolf rose up on all fours in the back cargo area and began to pant nervously and stare out the rear window. “It’s going to be all right, Mountain,” I said as I leaned as unnoticeably as I could to open the glove box. I carefully pulled out my pistol in its clip-on holster and then brought it across toward me, keeping it low and behind the cover of the seats. As I turned to open the driver’s side door and stepped out, I used the motion to deflect attention from what I was doing simultaneously—reaching behind me to clip the holster on my belt in back.

  Eddiejoe jumped out of the demon truck, went to the back of it and hoisted a plastic bag of considerable size and weight out of the bed. He came around the side of the vehicle and heaved it toward me. It landed right at my feet, just hitting the toe of one of my boots, bursting open and splattering the side of the car. “Just a little present, Chiquita,” he yelled over the persistent pounding of the truck’s engine. I’ll give you something even better next time I see you.” And then he turned and went back to the passenger side of the truck, stepped onto the running board, gripped the handle on the cab, and slid back inside. The Vader-mobile backed out onto the highway, and Eddiejoe rolled down the window and extended a leather-jacketed arm in my direction. A middle finger stood erect from his upside-down fist as the truck peeled away to the south.

  From the smell, I already knew the nature of my “gift.” It was at least twenty-five pounds of cow manure, and when the bag had cracked open, it splattered my boots as well as the Jeep and all around where I stood. I shouted after the truck. “Oh yeah? Well, I’ve had worse threats from much bigger containers of shit than this,” remembering the time a couple years back when my brake lines had been cut and Mountain and I nearly collided with a septic pumper on a steep and winding gravel road. Since no one was around to appreciate my remark, I drug the offending parcel by its still-intact corners up next to the trash can beside the entrance to the café. I got back in my Jeep again, cursing myself for varying from my usual routine of parking my car nose-out, ready to get away. I also cursed the fact that since Eddiejoe wasn’t driving that truck, I couldn’t be sure what kind of a vehicle he would be in next time he came bearing gifts.

  Within seconds, the smell of the manure on my boots and the bottom of my jeans began to pervade the atmosphere inside the car. I punched the voicemail icon on the Screech Owl and listened to Roy’s message: “Jamaica, I just got a call from the monsignor, or whatever the hell you call him at that mission up there, and he was up in arms about you conducting some sort of top secret investigation into one of his neighbors. He said you’re upsetting everyone in the community. Before I call Santa Fe—or he does, and gets us all in trouble—what the hell is going on? I assured the man that we worked as caretakers of public lands, and nothing we did was secret, but he said you had said otherwise. This fella was really steamed. I told him I’d get to the bottom of things and call him back, so how ‘bout you call me and tell me what is at the bottom of this so I’ll know what to say.”

  I put my forehead in my hand and sighed, then realized that my hand smelled foul, too—evidently handling that gift bag had left some of its goodies on my hands as well. “Wait here, Mountain,” I said, and I went back into the café to wash my hands.

  The same woman was sweeping the floor behind the counter, and the place was quiet. In the ladies’ room, I used a damp paper towel to brush off the bottoms of my jeans and wipe off my boots. I washed my hands, then stopped back by to ask another question: “Do you happen to know what kind of a car Adoria Abasolo drives?”

  She stopped and gripped the broom handle high up with both hands, leaning slightly on it. “I think it’s a Mercedes, an SUV. Silver.”

  “And Ibanez? What does he drive?”

  “Lord, that guy has about two dozen rides. He shows up in all kinds of things from big Harley hawgs in the summer to trucks like that one he was just riding shotgun in.”

  “So, you saw that? I’m sorry, I put that bag of manure up by your trash can. I didn’t know what to do with it.”

  “Manure? That figures. Don’t worry, we can use it. Makes a great winter dressing for the kitchen garden out back. I worried more that it might have been a dead animal, just by the look of it.”

  “He wouldn’t do anything like that, would he?”

  “Baby, I wouldn’t put anything past him.”

  I got back in my Jeep and dialed the BLM. When I got Roy on the line, I felt acid begin to bubble in the middle of my chest. I hated having to lie to him. “Boss, it’s me. I’m sorry you got taken to task by the abbot. I don’t know why he’s so upset.”

  “Well, what the hell are you doing asking a friar—or whatever you call him—a bunch of questions about his neighbor? I thought you were working with an archaeologist at the pueblo up there.”

  “I am. I’m working with a man named Prescott on some boundary issues at Picuris.”

  “So, what has all this got to do with the monastery and some woman neighbor of theirs? And did you tell them that what you’re doing is top secret?”

  “No, I…we wanted to ask this woman’s permission to access the back of her property, and it borders the monastery. She isn’t home and her housekeeper doesn’t speak much English. The abbot sent some brothers to summon me to come talk to him. It was already well into the afternoon, and I still had a lot of work to do. I really didn’t mean to involve him at all, but I went, out of respect, and while I was there, I asked if he knew when I might find his neighbor at home, or where she might be.”

  “Well, hell, that don’t even sound like the same conversation that he told me about.”

  I hesitated a moment. “I don’t know why I did it, but he seemed overly inquisitive about why I wanted to talk to her, and I just told him I wasn’t at liberty to say.”

  “Why in hell did you say that? You know as well as I do that the church leaders in these small villages are the de facto government in nearly every case. Man’s just trying to watch after his community. Why didn’t you tell him the same thing you just told me?”

  “I tried to, but he kept pressing, and it got my back up a little. I finally told him it was a matter between us and the landowner.”

  “Well, according to the father, he is the landowner. So he has every right to know what’s going on.”

  “He’s the landowner?”

  “Yes, that’s what he said, that lot where the neighbor that you were asking about lives—it belongs to the Mountain Mission. I don’t hardly think a man of the cloth would lie about something like that when you can look it up in the public records.”

  “But…he led me to believe that he barely knew who I was asking about.”

  “Maybe he doesn’t know this woman very well. Just because he’s the landlord don’t mean he’s on a first name basis with her.”

  There had been nothing about this in the Secret Service file, nor the information I’d just learned about Abasolo buying her neighbor’s land. The abbot hadn’t told me he owned the property either. “Well, I can’t think why he didn’t tell me that when he had me there for a command appearance. I’m sorry this landed on you, Boss. What can I do to make it right?”

  “Keep your nose out of things is what you can do. I already hear you taking exception to this guy and it can’t do any good, given he’s who he is, so leave it alone. Nobody can sniff up a bunch of trouble out of nothing like you, Jamaica. Why is that?”

  “I don’t know.” The Boss had said this same thing to me more than a few times before, and I used to argue with him until too much evidence had mounted on his side for me to have a chance to win.

  “I guess I’ll call the guy back tomorrow and tell him what you told me. In the me
antime, please try to steer clear of him. But if he happens to talk to you again and wants to know what you’re doing, tell him, for chrissakes! I’ll let you know if there’s anything else we need to do to smooth things over.”

  “Thanks, Boss. Oh, and did you happen to get with Jerry Padilla about what kind of car Lor Talgren drives? I’d like to be on the lookout and try to avoid him.”

  “I did. In fact, I forwarded you an email Jerry sent me with the tag numbers and everything. Talgren has several vehicles currently registered and a few more with tags that aren’t up to date, but Jerry says he’s the type who would still drive them, regardless. So he could be in any of as many as 6 trucks and cars, most of ‘em old clunkers, but a couple recent models, too. There’s no way to tell which one he’s going to be driving.”

  I was quiet.

  “You haven’t seen him, have you?”

  “No.”

  “I hope to hell you don’t. I think he must have been hepped up on something when he was in here. He was clean out of his mind. Remember, you call me when you head home tonight.”

  “Like I said, it might be late.”

  “I can get back to sleep if you wake me.”

  “Okay, Boss.”

  Once again, as I headed back to Taos, I took the High Road instead of driving west and down the mountains into Dixon. Partly, that was because I didn’t want to go anywhere near Lor Talgren’s place, and I would have had to go right past the turnoff to it if I’d gone the highway along the Rio Grande. But it was also because I needed to think, and the beauty of the scenic drive through the mountains and Carson National Forest was just the kind of thing that would quiet my addled brain and let my intuition go to work.

  22: Wild Temple

  At this time of the day, in the late afternoon, the bright winter sun was still shining bright out on the flats of the high mesas. Yet as I drove through the mountains between Peñasco and Taos, I traveled deep into hollow valleys brimming like bowls of black tea with the shadows of the tall peaks around them. The ponderosas and junipers stood out black-green against the white snow, as if gathering for some solemn occasion—perhaps a ceremony for oncoming night, or a procession to mark the crisp cold of winter, or a memorial for one among them who finally succumbed to wounds from a summer lightning strike.