Short Cut to Santa Fe (19 page)

“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.”

“By the way, who's Rocco?”

“I don't know,” said Rodriguez. “Or maybe I should say, I'm not sure.” He glanced over at her. “Where did you hear about Rocco?”

“At Deever's. He came to collect his money. Something to do with Deever's wife, who is missing. And then one of the guys who broke into the cabin said that Rocco had told them that I was there. Or that I was probably there. I just wondered who he was.”

“So do I, Kate. So do I.”

“Are you cold?” asked John.

“A little. But not cold enough to wake the kids so I can drag more clothes out of the duffle bag. I'll be okay.” Harriet yawned and moved closer against John's chest. “I could use some bacon and eggs and hot coffee right now, though. And toast. Piles of toast.”

“There's the end of a box of crackers.”

“Ssh. That's for the kids. For when they wake up. Children don't stand up to hardship very well.” Harriet tucked her hands under her arms to warm them. “Or so I seem to remember from my own childhood. I'll survive with my fantasies. My love keeps me warm, as someone said once. And fed, you might say as well. How are you doing?”

“Fine,” said John. “A few days without food or sleep ain't gonna hurt me none, see? Real men are like snakes—they only have to eat every couple of weeks or so, and then they sit down and finish off a five-pound steak and a heap of fries.”

“And a pile of hot rolls,” said Harriet, starting to laugh. “With butter.”

“With a plate of spaghetti and meatballs on the side.”

“And apple pie. With cheese.” She held her hand over her mouth to cut the noise down.

“Don't forget the ice cream, too. With whipped cream and a maraschino cherry.”

“Ugh. That's going too far. Do you remember that song about Nellie? Eating oysters and beer and johnnycake and ham and jam and I don't know what else? I loved that song when I was a kid, and I always wanted to know what johnnycake was. It didn't figure as an item in our family diet.”

“Nor in ours. I haven't the faintest idea what it is.”

“I wish we could sing songs,” said Harriet. “And laugh out loud and tell jokes.”

“We'll wake the children if we do. And Diana.”

“It's amazing that she can sleep.”

“Her system's still full of drugs, I suppose. A good thing, too. That slab of rock she's sleeping on doesn't look very comfortable. Would you like to have children, Harriet?” he added without any change of tone.

“Why do you ask?” she said cautiously.

“No particular reason. You seem to be fiercely protective of the twins, that's all. And very good at dealing with them.”

“Anyone would be good at dealing with them,” she answered evasively. “They're bright and absolutely angelic in behaviour.”

“That's not an answer.”

“No, it isn't. Do you mean, if I—if we survive this experience, this night, would I like to have children?”

“Or a child.”

“I might. It's another of those things I never let myself think about, because it never seemed possible.” She paused. “Think of the seething cauldron of suppressed desires I must be—all for things I refuse to let into my conscious mind.” She tried to laugh, and it was a sad, shaky sound. “It hadn't occurred to me before.”

“I don't understand why you should think so many things are closed off for you,” said John. “My God—you're beautiful and talented and so damned competent to boot. You'd think the world would be opening at your feet wherever you went.”

“Maybe it did, and I didn't like the size of the hole in front of me,” she said. “But no—I might be all those things, but you've forgotten that one little phrase.”

“What's that?”

“For a woman. So talented for a woman. So competent for a woman. And you're the only man I've met who never adds it, except for the architects who hire me, of course. In that world, my work is as good as anyone else's. Or better. But you don't get rich and famous doing architectural photography. Not usually, anyway. And I've had to work hard to make a living, and I've had to live where the work is. Not much room for dreams there.”

“I hadn't realized how bitter you felt.”

“Not bitter, John. Really, I'm not bitter. I love what I do. It's tremendously exciting and satisfying and everything like that. But I am realistic. I know you can't have it all.”

“But you can have some of it, Harriet. You don't have to look things right in the face and then run and hide from them.”

“Oh yes you do. It's a great way to survive that jungle out there.”

He didn't reply, except to wrap his arm more tightly around her shoulders and drop his cheek down on top of her head. They sat like that until Harriet began to feel her chilled feet and legs going to sleep. “Surviving the jungle out there,” said John. “It's an interesting idea.”

“What do you mean? It seems pretty simple to me. I would have thought you'd find it even simpler.”

“No. One of the reasons I joined the police force when I did—just one of them, and there were other, better reasons, like needing to earn a living, fast—was that it was a potentially dangerous job, with high pensions, relatively, for the widows and children of men killed on duty. Life was a jungle, I guess, but I wasn't all that interested in whether I survived or not. But I did feel I had family responsibilities.”

“To your ex-wife.”

“To Marie. Yes.”

“I don't think I quite understand what you're trying to tell me,” said Harriet. “Or if I do, I don't like it much.”

“I got in and out of some situations because I wasn't scared. And I wasn't scared because I didn't care what happened to me. That's how I got my promotions, I think. And a few citations for bravery and stuff like that. And I dragged Ed up after me,” he said, thinking about his partner. “He's a better officer than I am, in many ways, but his life has always meant something to him.”

“Because of Sally.”

“I suppose so. He met Sally when they were fifteen and seventeen, and fell in love with her, and hasn't looked at another woman since. He doesn't want to get shot. Even a minor wound would have taken him away from her for a while. So he's careful. And that keeps him from taking stupid risks, and makes him use his head instead of wading into things the way I always did.” He stopped again and looked up at the starry sky as if seeking confirmation of all he had to say. “And now here we are, and I don't know what the hell is going on, and for the first time in my life it matters what happens to me. I don't want to miss all that time with you, Harriet.” He stopped again. “And don't tell me I haven't been spending much time with you lately,” he added quickly. “You have a genius for destroying delicate and sentimental moments.”

“I wouldn't dream of it. But if you keep going on like that I'm going to cry and that will spoil everything. If we had kids, do you think they'd be sentimental like you?”

“Only the boys. The girls will probably be hard-boiled and mean like their mother.” He took a deep breath and threw his head back. “The stars are fading a little, don't you think?”

“Either that or I'm going blind from the stress and difficulties of the last day or so. Do you think it's dawn? And we've survived?”

“I wouldn't want to speak prematurely,” said John.

“Then don't,” said Harriet, in sudden terror. “Don't say anything until we know we're safe.”

“We're almost there,” said Rodriguez. He reached his hand out in the direction of Kate's knee to wake her and then withdrew it.

“At Albuquerque?” said Kate, yawning. “You see—I'm awake. I know where we're going. I even know who you are.”

“Good for you. We'll be at my mother's house fairly soon. She lives at this end of the city, more or less.”

“Look at the sky,” said Kate, with another yawn.

“What about it?”

“The stars are all gone and it's beginning to turn gray. What time is it?”

“That's just the effect of big city lights,” said Rodriguez. “It's still night.”

“You're lying to me, aren't you? It's dawn, isn't it?”

“Yes. It's dawn.”

They drove through the broad, still streets of Albuquerque in silence. Every topic of conversation that leaped into Kate's head seemed meaningless under the circumstances, and her words died on her lips before they were spoken. She wasn't sure what was keeping Rodriguez quiet. Shyness, perhaps. Or exasperation.

He had exaggerated the security arrangements at his mother's house. There was chain-link fencing, but it started flush with the front of the house and encircled a large garden behind and to each side. The front was sculpted in rock, gravel, trees, and shrubs, reminding Kate of an understated version of the courtyard at Deever's ranch. Rodriguez pulled up into the driveway and handed Kate out of the car with all the gravity of a chauffeur. “Since when did I turn into royalty?” she whispered fiercely. “I know how to get out of a car.”

“You look to me as if you could use a hand. Stiff?”

“That's like asking someone with a concussion if he has a headache,” said Kate. “Yes, I'm stiff. I was using muscles last night I haven't used since I was in my crib. There wasn't that much climbing in and out of windows in my last job. But give me time—by next week I'll be first rate at it.”

As Kate hobbled up the flagstone path to the broad porch, the door flew wide open. In the darkness of the hall beyond, she could just make out the outline of a slender woman. “Fernando,” the woman called warmly. “Wonderful to see you.” Consuelo, the little sister, Kate decided.

“Kate,” said Fernando, “come and meet my mother. Antonia, this is Kate. She needs a little sheltering and food for the next few days.”

Antonia Rodriguez stepped closer and Kate realized that this elegant and beautiful woman was indeed not a teenager. There was too much experience written across her face, too much acuteness in her eyes for youth. Even so, it seemed impossible that the woman standing in front of her could be the mother of the man who was urging her forward to be introduced. Antonia's dark hair was pulled back from her wide forehead and hung casually in a plait over her shoulder. Her loose robe, dark red in colour and rather oriental in cut, moved with the voluptuous slither of silk, and made her warmly olive skin glow with the same seductive aura as Fernando's. She grasped Kate's hand firmly, and drew her into the house. They stepped over the first of many Rottweilers, this one stretched out in the front hall, guardian to the entryway. It opened an eye, moved its tail in acknowledgment, and resumed its interrupted sleep. Two broad rooms filled the space on either side of the central hall, both painted white and hung with rugs and tapestries. Antonia, still towing Kate along like a shy child, led her through the one to the right, a dining room containing a large, dark-stained table, and into a kitchen with tiled floors and a wall of glass. Outside she could see a patio, a patch of grass, and—clearly in the strengthening light of dawn—the kennels and a couple of fenced-off runs. They were a generous size. There were apparently a lot of dogs.

“Now,” said Antonia, “you must be famished and exhausted. Fernando can go days without food or sleep and forgets that the rest of the world is not like him.” Her English was flawless, except for the slight hesitant sibilance of the native speaker of Spanish when faced with certain English consonants. “Sit down, and I will get you some breakfast. Fernando, pour us some juice and coffee.” The juice came from a pitcher and had been freshly squeezed; the coffee was rich and continental in flavour. It was served with a pitcher of hot milk, and Kate felt wrapped in luxury and European cosmopolitanism. Except for the wonderfully homey odor of frying bacon. “Fernando tells me that you are a photographer and that you need someplace quiet and peaceful to stay for a few days. And safe. And having said that, that I am to forget it.” She smiled, and Kate saw where her son had acquired his shyly melting expression. “That is not a problem in this house. I am very forgetful,” she said, with a vague wave of her hand. “And we are certainly quiet and peaceful here. Except for the dogs, sometimes. People who need to perfect their Spanish often stay here for a while. Government people on trade missions, for example. It is something I started when we were short of money—we survived some bad times in that way—and I continue to do it for special people. I think that is what you will be. I shall call you Lola and make you a specialist in textiles.”

“But I don't know anything about textiles,” said Kate, in a panic.

“Neither does anyone else you're likely to meet here.” All her vagueness disappeared; she concentrated her alarmingly intelligent eyes on Kate. “Do you speak any Spanish?”

“Some. I studied it in college.”

“Perfect. You're probably convincingly bad.” Antonia slipped eggs, bacon, chili, and toast onto Kate's plate and put it in front of her, and then did the same for herself and Fernando. “You will keep this story up in front of Consuelo—although she is very discreet—and my other two sons, who are likely to visit because it is Sunday. Roberto and Guillermo. They are good boys but not necessarily discreet. But you must sleep as soon as you have eaten some breakfast. Before you go to bed I will introduce you to the dogs and then they will look after you, too. You will be safe here.”

“He has seen her,” said Fernando. “He knows what she looks like.”

“Then she will not look the same. Shall we cut her hair?” Her eyes danced with the excitement of the game.

“No,” said Rodriguez. “It's too beautiful to cut. How about one of those strange colours you put on yours?”

Antonia shook her head, looking at Kate judiciously, as if she were a room that needed redecorating. “Curls, I think. Lots and lots of curls. Blond ones. It will change her completely.” She laughed. “I have a wig that will do. We won't touch her hair.”

“Can I say something?” asked Kate, bristling slightly at this conversation that was taking place around her. “Cutting it makes more sense. When they saw me, my hair was loose and wavy and very windblown. It hid my face. I look very different when it's cut short. And it grows quickly, so that doesn't matter. It was short three or four months ago.”

“Good. We'll do that right after breakfast, shall we? Fernando will show you your room. You will probably want to shower and change—I have put out a robe for you. I have about thirty minutes' work to do right now, if you will excuse me.”

And Kate realized that no one put Antonia out of her routine.

“She is an awe-inspiring woman, your mother,” said Kate after Antonia had swept her way out a door on the other side of the kitchen that must lead into another room in the back of the house, overlooking the kennels. “Is that her study?”

He nodded. “Forbidden territory. No one disturbs her if that door is closed. She often works all night and then naps in there for a few hours before dashing off to teach. She doesn't seem to need sleep like the rest of humanity. But she never stops other people from indulging in normal weaknesses, like sleep and food and—” He stopped suddenly.

“And—” said Kate, widening her eyes.

“And I'll show you where your room is.” He walked back through the dining room to the hall. “Upstairs,” he said. “Can you make it? Or are you too stiff?”

“Of course I can,” said Kate, and winced as her leg went through the first set of complicated motions involved in climbing a stair. “Ouch,” she said. “It's embarrassing to admit that in the space of four months you have let yourself turn into some kind of limp vegetable.”

“Here,” he said, lifting her in one easy motion. “You're much too light,” he added, frowning, when they reached the top of the stairs and he set her down. “I hope you're not pleased with yourself.”

Not at all pleased, thought Kate. And certainly not pleased with being put down again. “Uh-uh,” she said, shaking her head. “I look like a skeleton. It's awful and I have no muscles left. I wouldn't survive half a day on an assignment.” She looked around the hall in curiosity. To the front of the house was a large window, with a window seat, broad sills, and plants. Near it, there was a desk pushed up to the wall and a couple of chairs. Otherwise she faced five closed doors.

“Antonia's,” said Fernando, pointing to the southwest. “Consuelo's is next to it, and I get the one across from Antonia if I sleep here.” He opened the door in front of them. “This is yours. It's the official guest room, reserved for official guests. Sons not numbered in that group.”

It was a large room, with windows facing east and north. The sun had just started to warm the horizon when Kate pulled back the heavy curtains to look. Down below, the dogs that slept in the kennel were waking up and trotting out into the yard, stretching and shaking themselves free of sleep and looking around curiously to see what new things might have dropped into their territory overnight. “It's terrific,” said Kate. “Real luxury.”

“This is your bathroom. Plenty of towels. Antonia is obsessive about towels and stockpiles them everywhere,” he said huskily. His eyes never left her as he spoke. “And the bed.” And he stopped again.

The head of the bed occupied the wall space between the entrance and the bathroom door; it was big enough for the tallest and weightiest trade official and covered in a bright blue homespun cotton that made Kate's eyes look luminous and full of promise. “That bed looks enormously tempting,” said Kate, and suddenly realizing what she had said, and wondering what devil in her subconscious made her say it, turned scarlet. “I mean—” She looked up at him, and laughed ruefully. “I probably mean exactly what I said, but I didn't mean to say it. I'm sorry if I embarrassed you. And in your mother's house. I can be impossibly tactless.” God, Kate, shut up, she said to herself, and felt her cheeks burning even brighter.

He was gazing thoughtfully at her, as though her embarrassment had wiped out his own. “You're beautiful with colour in your cheeks,” he said. “It makes your eyes shine, like—dammit—I don't know what they are in English, and, anyway, it doesn't matter.” He pulled her to him and kissed her, running his hands through her hair and over her body, and then drawing her closer and closer to him. “Am I hurting you?” he murmured at last.

She raised both arms and held him around the neck before letting her head fall back a little. “No,” she said, looking up. “And it doesn't matter, anyway. It doesn't matter at all. It feels good.”

“Jesus,” he said. “A little masochist. And I forgot my whips and chains.”

“No, never,” she said, laughing. “But my body feels alive. My God, it's wonderful. I'd rather hurt than be numb. And they're sapphires.”

“What are?”

“The things my eyes shine as brightly as.” She pressed herself against him once more, hungrily. “How much time do we have?”

“Right now? None. In the long term—forever, if we're lucky. Forever, Kate. Forever. But from now on, I have to call you Lola.” He grinned and then suddenly broke into laughter. “Trust Antonia to pick that name. I always hated it. There was an awful little girl in my class named Lola who used to make fun of the way I pronounced things.” He looked down at her and shook his head. “I can't believe it. Antonia must have smelled something over the telephone. Watch her,
querida.
Lolita
m
ί
a.
She's a lot fiercer than she looks. And very, very sly.” And he laughed again. “Go take your shower. And I guess you're supposed to wear this.” He picked up a bright blue silk robe that was lying on the foot of the bed and threw it at her. It floated through the space between them and landed on her shoulder, as soft as a leaf falling.

“It's day,” said John, in Harriet's ear. “I think I'll head down to see what we can rescue from the van. Want to come along? It's not far. The kids are sound asleep. And even if they wake up they shouldn't be too scared. It's bright out. The sun's almost up.”

Harriet yawned. At some point—at several points—in the night, she seemed to remember snatching a little sleep, but it had not been enough. Not nearly enough. “Oh, goody,” she said. “Just what I need. A nice brisk walk.” She ran her hands through her hair and then looked at them. She felt inexpressibly grubby. “Sorry, love,” she added. “You're right. After all, it's mostly my stuff. Let's sneak out of here as quietly as possible.”

“It really is just around that next curve,” said John. “You can tell by that odd-shaped black rock.”

“It wasn't that far,” said Harriet, trying to sound upbeat and optimistic, as befitted someone in charge of a pair of twins and a wounded librarian. And, to some extent, a worried police inspector.

“I'd stay away from the front of the van, Harriet,” said John as she moved ahead of him around the curve. “It's pretty gruesome.” He had lowered his voice to a whisper almost involuntarily as soon as they drew close to the identifying rock.

“Are you sure?” Harriet whispered back.

“Of what?” He laid his hand gently on her shoulder and looked past her. There was nothing there. No van, no body, nothing. “I'm positive,” he said. “It was just past that rock.” He stared down at the loose, gravelly surface. Here and there were the grooves that might have been made by a van running along on dead tires and metal rims. “It's gone.”

“Look over here,” said Harriet. She had walked over to the canyon rim and was examining the dirt at the edge of the road. Her voice sounded ominously hard.

He walked over beside her, and looked closely at the soil. There were gouges and skid and slide marks all heading for the precipice. “Oh no,” he muttered and peered over the edge. Somewhere, way down there, he thought he could see the muted sheen of a cream Chevy van with four-wheel drive, filled with a hideous corpse and Harriet's camera case. Camera case, hell. Her film. “Oh, shit,” he said. “The Kansas project. It's all down there, isn't it? All your exposed film. Harriet, I'm sorry.”