Short Cut to Santa Fe (2 page)

Harriet opened her mouth to object and closed it again.

Kate settled back and gave her a crooked smile. “So tell me about John whoever-he-is. Couldn't you have found someone with a more original name? What does he do? What does he look like? Is he good in bed?”

She's drunk, said Harriet to herself, and God only knows what's in those pills. “None of your business, Kate Grosvenor. Besides, would I be messing around with anyone who wasn't? Anyway, he's a cop, believe it or not, and . . .” As her voice droned on, she studied the woman sitting across from her. She had met Kate four years ago at an advanced seminar on architectural photography in Rockport, Maine, and had been impressed, in spite of herself, by her energy and self-reliance. And cockiness. All packaged with long legs, a thick mane of wavy hair, and an oval face punctuated by sharply intelligent blue eyes.

Kate was the oddity in the group. Most of the participants worked in the field, and spent their time swapping information on subjects like the costs, benefits, and agonies of running your own colour lab, and whether the trouble and expense involved in changing format from four-by-five to five-by-seven was worth it. Kate was so typically the risk-taking, hard-driving, as-it-happens news photographer that Harriet would have dismissed her as a rank amateur who'd picked up the jargon from the movies, except that she worked for a major newsmagazine and her photo credits were everywhere. She had scooped Harriet into her circle, and one night over a late, late beer admitted that she had always wanted to do architectural work, to have the luxury of fiddling for hours over a single shot, instead of the snatch-and-grab stuff she was doing at the present. Harriet had laughed, thinking of Kate's prestige and probable income compared with her own.

Then she had received a painfully scrawled postcard a few weeks ago. Kate had been sent to do a background piece on the current state of affairs in south Lebanon. As far as Harriet could make out, she had been wounded in crossfire. She was going home to Denver to recuperate, she said, and begged Harriet to come and visit.

Kate lived alone. By choice, surely, Harriet had long ago decided, considering how funny and lively and incredibly good-looking she was. The world couldn't be that short of possible mates. The only man Kate had mentioned was a Dutch photographer with whom she had shared this house for a while after she had inherited it from her grandmother. “Anyway,” said Harriet, who had completely lost the thread of her narrative, if it ever had one, “that's about all I can tell you about John. Oddly enough, we get on very well. And he's tall, fairly thin, with dark hair going gray and a long, thin face. Quick-tempered, thoughtful, generous, and he likes me.”

“I should bloody well hope so,” said Kate.

“No—you don't understand,” said Harriet, frowning in intensity. “Anybody can love someone, but John actually likes me as well.”

They were sitting in Kate's tiled kitchen with the remains of takeout Mexican spread over the pale wood table. Kate had helped herself and then pushed at her food, nibbling a mouthful once in a while. She finished a token beer and returned to coffee laced with Scotch. “I've been thinking of going back to south Lebanon and doing a study of what's left. While it's still there. You know. The aesthetics of death. Rubble as beauty. Sort of après-bomb art. Too gruesome?”

“More like too dangerous,” said Harriet. “The next one might land a little closer to a vital organ.”

“Now there's an argument for booking the next flight to the Middle East,” said Kate. “Anyway, so much for me in this ten-minute time slot. Have you given any thought to Taos?” She bent forward, her clear blue eyes fixed on Harriet intently, as if her answer were terribly important.

“Some,” said Harriet cautiously.

“You have to go,” said Kate. “You've never seen anything like it. You have to go and take your equipment. As for me—all I can shoot in Taos is the tackiness.” She grinned lopsidedly again and refilled her cup. “I've done some terrific studies of that—hard-edged and vicious, sort of Arbus-like. But the real stuff eludes me.”

“What do you mean?” asked Harriet. “The real stuff. And how does it elude you?”

“You'll see when you get there,” said Kate vaguely. “It's funny, though. Sometimes it's physical. Like—I get set up and clouds whoosh in from nowhere. I step back to squeeze the shutter release and someone runs by and hits the tripod. Or I stumble and hit the tripod. I've had totally reliable equipment jam. It's weird. I walk into that place and I'm all thumbs.” This time her laugh was almost real. “A friend who's into crystals and all that kind of shit says that war and hatred have darkened my soul and prevent me from penetrating the atmosphere up there. But you might have the right genes or background or whatever it takes.”

“You're crazy, Kate. You're just working with equipment you're not that happy with.”

She shook her head. “No—it's real. Look,” she went on, leaning over the table. “I don't know when you have to get back, but if you can spare a few days, we could go to Taos together and I'll show you around. Unless you think I'm a jinx.” Her eyes burned with a drug-and-booze-sodden intensity that Harriet found profoundly disturbing.

“For God's sake, Kate, you're not a jinx. You're wounded. You can't work with a four-by-five yet. Too heavy and cumbersome. Laying off the booze and pills wouldn't hurt, either.”

“It's not that. It started before I was hit. It began—” Her pale face froze and she stared off into the corner. “It began years ago when—Harriet, do you know about
la noche oscura del alma
? The dark night of the soul? Well, I'm in it and I'll never reach dawn. I didn't tell you how I got this, did I?” she said, touching her shoulder gingerly. “I mean, the real reason. I didn't tell anyone. It wasn't random violence, the luck of war, or whatever you call it. I was taking a picture of a dead child when a sniper got me. She was just a little girl, maybe four or five. I'd been watching her play on the road. One of those really beautiful dark-eyed children, and she had a thing over her head, a scarf, to cover her hair, only it was coming down because she was concentrating so hard on whatever it was she was playing with. One of those perfect shots you sometimes get with kids, you know? Deserted, war-torn street, contrasting perfect innocence and domesticity. A career picture. An essence of the conflict picture. I spent a few extra seconds framing the scene and all that crap, and just as I released the shutter, she was shot in the head. And killed. And I walked up to her and took a picture of her anyway. Beautiful dead children also sell well. Then I was shot from the other side of the street. It makes me sick to think of it.” Kate's hands were trembling and she tried to steady them around her coffee cup. “Who could kill a child like that? It can't have been an accident—there was no one else to aim at. So it was some bastard on one side or the other who cold-bloodedly decided to shoot that little girl because a well-known photographer was standing close enough to take a ‘war is hell' picture. I killed her,” she said. “By being there. And her father or her brother shot me because he knew I was responsible.” She paused. “But, Harriet, that wasn't the first time that someone died for my benefit, let me tell you—only I never let myself think about it before. Any time I wanted to get a particular angle on something, all I had to do was appear. They're all hungry for media attention—everyone knows that. I have blood on my hands, Harriet, a lot of blood, and I can't get rid of it.”

“You don't know that,” said Harriet. Profoundly shaken, she began to clear the takeout containers and dirty dishes off the table as briskly as she could manage.

“Yes I do. Would you mind if I went Taos with you? Jesus, I hate whining like this, but it means a lot to me. I can't go by myself.”

“Nothing I'd like better,” said Harriet, lying bravely. “The only problem is that I'm picking John up in Santa Fe first.” She tried to form a mental picture of John Sanders and Kate Grosvenor sitting across the table from each other. And shuddered. “If you could meet us there,” she added, with a sinking sensation in her gut, “it would be great. But no—you'd never be able to drive all that way, would you?”

“Sure I can,” said Kate. “It's not far. And I know a neat place to stay. Slightly scruffy, but very comfortable—with fireplaces. Do you want me to get us a couple of rooms?”

“Yeah, sure, Kate,” said Harriet weakly. “Sounds great.” She leaned over and grabbed the Scotch bottle. “Just lay off this stuff or it'll finish you off before you get there, Kate,” she added grimly. “Especially if those are pain pills you're taking with it.”

Kate's perfectly shaped face was devoid of expression.

Harriet finished off her
huevos rancheros
, and turned her attention to the road map and brochures she had picked up the previous afternoon. After a moment's consideration, she ordered a sweet roll and asked for more coffee. After all, who knew when she would eat again? For two days she had been watching Kate play with her food as if every bite could be the one the wicked witch had injected with poison. And she'd brooded over John's reaction to sharing his brief holiday with a neurotic semi-invalid who drank her meals. The experience had done serious damage to Harriet's appetite and sleep patterns. That disordered state hadn't survived crossing the state line into New Mexico, and arriving at a peaceful motel in Raton.

The big decision was which route to take to Santa Fe. Via Taos or Las Vegas? Harriet had started in on this momentous piece of planning last night over dinner in the motel restaurant. On the principle that getting local input was always good, she had asked the waitress about the roads. They were, of course, just fine. All of them. Just fine.

“Listen, honey,” said a woman from the next table, “if you're thinking of that road through the mountains, don't. We just came that way and we're lucky to be alive. Aren't we?” There had been a chorus of agreement from the other three people at her table. “We don't have roads like that in Missouri, and we don't have people who drive like that on them either. Take your life in your hands, and that's God's truth.”

“Is it pretty?” Harriet had asked. First things first.

“Who knows?” her friendly adviser had said. “I had my eyes shut tight all the way. You stick with the other road.”

“It's beautiful,” the waitress had declared firmly.

“That road's not dangerous.” A man who was sitting at the counter eating a steak with French fries joined the fray. “Lady knows how to drive she won't have trouble.”

“That's right.” Someone from the table closest to the door added his opinion. “You can't hardly call that a mountain road at all. It's these people doing twenty miles an hour make it a problem.” He had glared at the foursome from Missouri, as if he suspected them of being prize members of the slow-driving fraternity. Then he had winked at Harriet.

Harriet weighed the claims of the opposing parties over her coffee and thought how extraordinary it was to have an entire restaurant fall into general conversation. Did it happen all the time in Raton, New Mexico, or had it required the catalyst of the table from Missouri? Perhaps the merry foursome from the plains wandered through the world, causing these tiny events, believing that everywhere people were chatty and concerned and helpful. She folded the map so that the right sector was visible, and decided on the mountain road.

And in another dining room, miles away, on a spacious piece of property close to Dallas, more travel plans were being finalized over breakfast, with even greater delicacy. Victoria Deever picked the coffeepot off its elaborate warming stand—pot and stand a present from some grateful beneficiary of Carl's generosity—and filled her tiny flowered cup. It was difficult to tell if Carl Deever noticed the shaking hand, and the telltale splashes of coffee that had found their way onto the tablecloth. But he seemed to be concentrating on a briefcase filled with documents that had arrived for him that morning. And frowning. Her anxiety level eased slightly as she watched him go steadily through the material, thick black pencil in hand. The more work he had, the less time he spent thinking about what she was doing. She took a deep breath to slow her racing heartbeat and counted to three before trying to speak.

“Carl, honey,” she said. “Can I get you more coffee?”

He made an indeterminate noise that could have been yes or no and held out his cup.

She took it and poured. More carefully this time. “Carl, honey—” she started.

He took the coffee cup, added sugar, and stirred vigorously to cover his surprise. “You said that already. What do you want?” She had never been an early riser, and he hadn't expected to see her at breakfast that morning, of all mornings; he fixed his expressionless brown eyes on her while he tried to figure out exactly what she was up to. Besides attempting to put one over on him. She was wearing the red silk negligee with ruffles around the neck and wrists that he had given her for Christmas. The one his secretary had found and paid a packet of his money for. It was worth it. The strong colour turned her blond hair to ash, and left her looking pale and elegant without her makeup. Once more he congratulated himself on her pure class, from her modulated vowels to her graceful bearing. She was worth every penny he spent on her. Even if he'd rather sleep with other people.

“Could I have Ginger to drive me to the airport this morning? Or do you need him?”

“The airport? Why in hell do you want to go to the airport this morning?” Deever's eyes narrowed, but his wife was too far into her scenario to notice or halt.

“But, Carl—don't you remember? I'm going to New Orleans with Jessica. Just for a week. You said you were going to be so busy you'd hardly be home and this sounded like fun. You know how I hate being alone in the house. I told you about it—at least three times.”

“What in hell are you going to do in New Orleans, for chrissake? It's dead right now.”

“But, Carl, that's not true. It's never dead. Jessica has a wonderful little hotel she stays at. She says the food is terrific. Not touristy at all and very quiet and private. If it's as good as she says, maybe we could go there for a weekend sometime. I'd have invited her here for the week, but I know you can't stand her.” A steel edge that was new to him crept into her voice. “I've already paid for a week at the hotel and the plane tickets aren't refundable.”

“Oh well—in that case, if the tickets aren't refundable, by all means, leave me by myself for a week.” Then he smiled to show that he was teasing her. The smile that reminded her of a piranha. “And you're right. I'll be very busy. But I'm afraid you can't have Ginger. Not this morning. He's already left on some urgent business for me.”

“That's okay,” said Victoria, who had watched him drive away as she packed and was not surprised. “I'll call for a limousine.”

“You do that, Vicky sweetheart.” The discussion was over. He returned to his documents; Victoria Deever clenched her teeth, picked up her coffee cup, and headed for her bedroom to finish packing.

As soon as he was alone, Carl reached for the phone connected to his very private line and jabbed his finger down on one of the preset numbers. “About that project,” he said. “Get going.”

Then he punched in another number. “Scotty,” he said. He sounded almost jovial. “Vicky's going on that trip after all. This morning.”

“No shit,” said Scotty. “I'll believe it when I see it.”

“Report back to me as soon as you have anything.” Carl Deever's wife didn't travel much these days, and when she did, it was rarely without an escort. Whether she knew about it or not.

In Washington, D.C., a promising young federal agent whose vacation plans involved leaving work before lunch was standing in front of the head of the division, mutinous thoughts hidden behind a mask of deference.

“He has
appendicitis
?” said the agent, overwhelmed by anguish and disbelief. “You're sure it isn't just a world-class hangover?”

“Look, Cathcart—I know you were hoping to get away today—”

That killed it. That verb. Hoping. Emphasizing that agents with only four years' experience are not supposed to think they can make definite plans. Not in this division. “Yes, sir, I was. The Santa Rosa file is finished at this end and my background report is written and on your desk, sir. And I have tickets, reservations, all those things that you get and pay for in advance.”

He shook his head. “That wasn't very bright, Cathcart. You should know better by now. But there's no question about it. We need someone to keep a close and unobtrusive watch on the subject. You can pick up Hendricks's tickets, instructions, reservations—all those things we arrange and pay for in advance. And identity.”

“Do I know where I'm going with these tickets? Sir?” asked Cathcart.

“Dallas, in the first instance. Where you pick up the subject. And if all goes as currently planned, to Santa Fe and a bus trip. You, of course, stay with the subject.”

“A
bus
trip? Is this some kind of stupid joke?”

“You know me, Cathcart. I don't make jokes. They tell me it's a very interesting tour. First class all the way and educational. Right in your line of things. I'm sure you'll do an even better job on this than Hendricks . . .” He added this last comment in his trailing, noncommittal voice that promised untold wonders of promotion and glory, but since everyone who had worked in his department for more than two weeks was only too familiar with it, it had no effect on the distinctly irritated agent standing respectfully in front of him.

The mountain road seemed a good choice, initially, although it proved difficult to drive and concentrate on the landscape at the same time. As Harriet climbed, more and more patches of snow sat on the dark evergreens that crowded the road from the uphill side, dark, brooding, and ominous even on a day that elsewhere was sunny and warm with spring. Then suddenly the road twisted, plunged, and leveled out into spaces that looked almost tame and domestic before making its next climb. Here and there, shiny cabins clung to the side of the mountains, like boils on a neck. On sudden impulse, Harriet pulled off the road, dragged out all her equipment, and began to set up a shot.

An hour and a half later she packed up her equipment, almost satisfied with what she had done, and settled it neatly back in the van. Just as she was about to pull onto the road, an elephantine RV lumbered past her and headed doggedly for the hills. At twenty miles an hour. A military convoy would have been easier to get around. A herd of moose would have been more responsive to the common good. Harriet honked, swore, dropped back, and resigned herself to a scenic drive.

When the procession neared Taos, the RV lurched away to attend to its own little concerns, leaving the road to Harriet and the fifty cars that had collected behind her. As she pulled onto Route 68, she glanced at her watch and was overwhelmed by a panicky sense of haste. It was almost four. She had little more than an hour to drive seventy miles and find the airport in Santa Fe. She hadn't left Raton until noon, determined not to spend hours pacing up and down in the airport, imagining all sorts of disasters occurring on John's flight. She had planned on a late, unhurried lunch in Taos and a peaceful drive to Santa Fe. Now she was haunted by visions of construction, accidents, and freak storms stopping her for hours. John arriving, exhausted and miserable, and no one there to meet him. There was no time to stop for lunch. What if she couldn't find the airport? “For God's sake, Harriet,” she muttered to herself, “there'll be signs to the airport. And if you can't find any, you can ask at a gas station.” Forty-eight hours with Kate Grosvenor and she was turning into a helpless neurotic. She stopped at a grocery store, bought sandwiches, cheese, crackers, fruit, drinks, and some ice, thought a moment and added beer in case John got off the plane hot and thirsty. She removed the film holders from the cooler, dumped in the bag of ice, and put the cheese and drinks on top. She set off on the road south again, puzzled and beset by a nagging sense that all was not right.

As soon as she approached the city, the same wave of uncertainty washed over her again. Why hadn't she checked the map and found out where the airport was? Because she was going to do that over lunch, only she hadn't stopped for lunch, and—“What is wrong with you, Harriet?” she muttered to the trip odometer. It was approaching the eighty-mile mark. Suddenly a vast sign with a tastefully executed airplane on it pointed her toward the next exit. She darted across three lanes of traffic, slowed, and pulled off, into the middle of ill-tempered, ill-regulated late Friday afternoon traffic. She looked at her watch. It was six-ten. An endless succession of car dealerships and shopping malls later and she was on top of another tasteful sign—so discreet she almost missed it—pointing her to the next left. She forced her way into a line of cars headed left.

She drove on and on and on, through piles of red earth, construction sites, desolation, and demolition. All the horror of the urban sprawl. Not a whiff of an airport. But as she searched the horizon, she actually saw a tiny plane circling in the sky. Evidence. There was an airport. Over the next slight rise she caught another glimpse of the plane as it began its orderly plunge toward earth. One more sign, one more left turn, and she had made it, just as the little plane touched ground and began to taxi gently toward a low building ahead of her. It was, as airports go, slightly grander than the two-hangars-and-a-shack variety, but no O'Hare. And that meant she shouldn't have any trouble finding John. She glanced at her watch again, her heart sinking. She was an hour late.

She pulled up behind a small but very elegant bus, dark blue in colour, that was identified by the logo discreetly displayed on the door as from Archway Tours. Surely John hadn't come on a charter—of course not. She glanced at her watch; he should be standing outside, furious with impatience. She peered into the waiting room; no John. Then his plane was late, too. Very late. She grabbed a small camera and jumped out of the van. Whenever trivial events in her life threatened to turn into overblown, crisis-ridden nightmares, she had always found that examining them through a viewfinder had a wonderfully steadying effect on the nerves.

While she was working her way around the building, people were crowding into it from the landing field. She concentrated on a young woman standing in the doorway, wearing a navy blue skirt and white blouse that shrieked “tour guide” in every stitch. Rapidly switching to a wide-angle lens, Harriet caught her in a continuum that started with the bleak doorway, followed the low sweep of the building, and ended with the tail of the small plane, looking very much as if it were growing out of the terminal. She grinned cheerfully, temper restored. The guide gave her an annoyed look of the you're-the-last-thing-I-needed-today variety and began to speak. “If you could all just identify your luggage, please, then we'll have it put on the bus. Unless you prefer to carry it yourself. There is room inside the bus for hand luggage. Larger pieces go in the hold.”