Short Cut to Santa Fe (9 page)

“Where's that bastard I'm married to? Has he left yet?”

John was left openmouthed, trying to think of a tactful way of answering her question. “I didn't really notice—”

“He probably fell down the mountain,” said Jennifer calmly, and turned her attention back to Diana Morris.

Sanders flashed the beam over the tiny galley and halted it on the shiny urn that said “Coffee.” He located the cup dispenser, poured a cup, and brought it back to the tired nurse. “You want some coffee? It's black, and it may be cold, but I brought some sugar and a spoon.” He emptied these out of his pocket and dumped them on her lap.

“You are a lifesaver,” she said.

He filled two more cups, put lids on them, and began to work his way back to his seat. “I found us some coffee,” he said to Harriet. “First come, first served.”

“Do you think we should wake people up?” asked Harriet. “Let them know those guys have gone?”

“Why? The Kellehers are awake already, and so is the nurse. That leaves the two kids, and the pair in front of us. The rest have taken off. Anyway, there's not much we can do before daybreak. Let them sleep. Maybe some of the people who left went to find help. They might be back when it gets light.”

“My God, are you ever filled with the warm glow of hope and charity,” said Harriet. “The ones who left didn't strike me as the selfless and sacrificing types. If you want my opinion, they took off without a word before anyone could ask them to do something.”

Harriet stared out the window into the blackness and nursed her cup of coffee. She tried to remember the exact route and times of last evening's journey. How many miles had they driven away from Santa Fe? And in what direction? The road had snaked a good deal at first, she remembered, and it seemed to her that they were heading southwest or even south as much as they were heading in any other direction. As soon as it was light enough, she'd get the map from the van and check what center of civilization they were likely to be near at the moment. If any. And check how close she had parked to the abyss down there. If it was really an abyss, and not just a slope. She yawned and started wandering down the slope, admiring the spring flowers . . .

“Don't spill that coffee,” said John. “I'm not sure how much of it there is.”

“I'm wide awake,” said Harriet.

“Liar.”

And then suddenly the bus seemed to be filled with cold gray light. Harriet wriggled her toes, stretched her spine up against the seat back, and drank the remains of her coffee. Small noises—birds, animals scuffling about—broke the silence of the night and she looked around. The remaining passengers were moving back and forth, energized by the returning day. The Kellehers, bright-eyed, were sorting out their belongings. “We're going out to see where we are,” said Rick. “But we'll be back. We're hikers, and it might be that we can find a way to get help. Does anyone have binoculars?”

The remark drew nothing but silence. Rick shrugged his shoulders and headed outside.

“Let's get ourselves out there, too,” said John. “I've had enough of the bus for the moment.”

Harriet glanced over at the first seat and was disturbed to see that the tour guide had also left. Her unspoken question was answered before she had time to frame it. “I don't know, my dear,” said Rose Green. “I must have fallen asleep—I found last night very tiring—those men, and all the mess. I was very upset and that always makes me tired and when I woke up again she was gone. I thought nothing of it at first. A call of nature, you know. That's what I thought. After all there were people creeping back and forth all night. I heard them, and you could feel the bus lurch and sway as they went down those steps. But she hasn't come back. Such a nice girl and so far from home, you know. Comes from Maine. She doesn't know this part of the world at all.”

“Then what in hell was she doing as the guide?” asked John. “Aren't guides supposed to know more than the people they're guiding?”

“Well—she did worry about that, she said, but apparently the company thought she'd be fine. It was an emergency, you see. The regular guide didn't turn up and they called her in as a replacement. At the last minute. She had all these books and things she was supposed to read last night to find out about where we were going.” Mrs. Green's voice hoarsened and she fell into a brief fit of coughing.

“Can we get you some coffee?” asked Harriet. “Or tea? I think there's tea, isn't there, John?” He nodded.

“Yes, please. I always find that—”

“Sugar? Milk?” asked John, and fled back to the galley.

In seconds John had the lukewarm drink in her hand. “We're off to look around and catch a breath of air.”

“And to get some warmer clothes,” said Harriet. “But we'll be back.”

As soon as she stepped outside the bus, Harriet understood why she had felt that they had driven into the absolute darkness of hell the night before. The nose of the bus was buried in the towering slope above them. The road looked to have been carved into the side of the mountain at this point, and rock, trees, and earth hung over them like a roof. Only the darkest of evergreens and crawling plants seemed able to find a foothold in that hostile environment, and the result swallowed up light like a black velvet background cloth. On the other side of the road, the slope continued its precipitous descent, but another dark hill rose up from the other side of the narrow valley at the bottom. The effect was to enclose them in a black-sided box.

And they had indeed managed to park the van beside the precipice, close enough to the edge to make backing out an endeavor that would require steady hands and calmness of spirit. Not that it mattered. Their second discovery made the first one irrelevant for the time being. Someone had paused long enough in his—or her—flight from the bus to let the air out of all four of the tires on the van. Even the front right one, the one that was lodged in a deepish pothole. John stared at it.

“Goddammit,” said Harriet. “The bastards. Why did they do that? What was the point?”

“They didn't want us to get help in a hurry. I'm surprised they didn't just take your keys and leave in the van with all our stuff. That was what I was expecting.”

“Maybe it was because I was clever and shoved the keys down between the seat and the back when they were searching,” she said. “But, you know, I don't think that was the reason. They didn't seem interested in the van or my keys at all. They were looking for something smaller than the van and bigger than the keys.”

“That narrows the field, doesn't it? Maybe they have a helicopter waiting for them somewhere nearby,” suggested John.

“A helicopter,” said Harriet. “Those two bozos? Come on, Inspector, you're letting your imagination run away with you. They were having trouble driving a bus, much less piloting a helicopter—or whatever one does to it to make it work.”

“Don't be so damned superior. They got the bus this far, didn't they? Over a pretty spectacularly bad road. And look where we are now. It was hard to see road last night, but I'd be surprised if you could find many spots to disable a bus that would be this difficult to get out of. Even on this road. I'm willing to bet he was planning to trap us by skidding into the hillside at this particular point. He certainly succeeded, anyway. And that means that he—they—have transport up ahead there. They assumed that we'd retrace our steps. And while poor old Wayne may not look very adept in life skills, his big brother impressed me as a man who knew what he was doing.”

“I didn't like the way he was carrying that weapon,” said Harriet, shivering.

“He looked to me to be about forty, wouldn't you say?” asked John. “Older than his brother.”

“A lot older,” said Harriet. “They could almost have been father and son. But at least ten to fifteen years.”

“Cast your mind back twenty years. He would have been around twenty, right? And there must have been a hell of a lot of eighteen- to twenty-four-year-olds around here who learned how to fly helicopters and handle automatic weapons and all that sort of thing, Harriet. Did Gary look like a draft-avoiding college student to you? Just think.”

“Okay,” she said, “so flying a helicopter wasn't farfetched, but for two guys like that to own one . . .” she added and shivered again.

“Are you scared?” he asked. “Or just cold?”

“Freezing. You did say you'd brought my heavy sweater, didn't you? There's a real wind blowing along this road.” She licked her lips. “And it's gritty, too,” she went on, as John opened the back and took out her sweater from his suitcase.

“What's in that dark blue thing with the spigot?” he asked.

“Spring water. Five gallons. I was thinking of shooting some things out in the desert if we had time. Rock formations. Maybe even cave dwellings and stuff like that. It's Kate's. She said I'd be stupid to try to kick around for whole days at a time in the desert on bad roads without carrying water. It's a sort of giant thermos.”

“Five gallons?”

“I know,” she said, answering the implied criticism. “But that's the size they come in. They hold one of those big carboys of water. There didn't seem any point in not filling it. The people at the store poured it for me,” she added defensively and then stopped to look at him. “Why in hell am I apologizing to you for carrying water in the van?”

“Because you're tired,” said John. “It was a wonderful idea. We may need that water before we're finished. What do you have in food?”

Harriet walked reluctantly back into the bus; she felt as if she had been trapped inside it for a month. It was a very unreasonable attitude, she supposed. But then she had never been a reasonable person. She paused at the second step and looked into the interior. It remained tranquil. The children slept on. Jennifer Nicholls was up and around in the back, quietly attending to the injured woman, the Kellehers were still out exploring, and Mrs. Rose Green was still in her seat, looking white-faced and tired. She couldn't bear to go in and sit down. Not yet. She felt consumed with a restless fury, helpless and enraged, and the last thing she wanted to do was to sit. Perhaps that was why all those others had crept away. Anything was better than sitting here.

“I'm climbing up there,” she said to John, pointing to the section of the mountainside several yards back down the road where the slope was less precipitous than it was where the bus had come to rest. “Just to see what I can see. Are you coming?”

“Sure,” said John. “It beats sitting in the bus doing nothing.”

The first ten feet or so were both steep and slippery. Conquering it was not exactly a grand triumph, but it felt good, thought Harriet. Then the terrain leveled out slightly, and the trees grew thicker and more prosperously. As they wandered toward a patch of light ahead that might indicate an opening from which they could get a view of the valley below, Harriet suddenly stopped. “That's what happened to at least one of them,” she whispered. “He seems to have been after a good night's sleep.”

“Who is it?” whispered John, drawing closer.

“Donovan, I think,” said Harriet. “He's the right size anyway, and he's got a suit on. Don't you think we should wake him up?” He was lying on his stomach, apparently in profound slumber. “Mr. Donovan, are you all right?” she said. She gave Donovan's shoulder a shake. His body felt heavy under her hand, heavy and still and cold. “Oh, God,” she said, pulling her hand away and looking at the dark, sticky red stain on her palm. “John. Oh, God. Look. John, he's covered with blood.” She backed away, staring at her hand.

Sanders crouched beside him, lifting his shoulder and then dropping it again. “He sure as hell is,” he said. “His throat's been cut.”

“I have to admit I didn't care for the man,” said John thoughtfully, as he rocked back on his heels. “But someone else must have developed a truly intense dislike for him.” He stood up and automatically brushed nonexistent dirt off his hands. “Wayne and Gary's farewell gesture, I suppose. Unless it was one of our fellow passengers. Come on, let's get back.” He began to scramble down the slope in a direction that would take them a good hundred yards from the bus when they reached the road.

“Or someone who lives around here,” said Harriet, moving cautiously from solid piece of ground to solid piece of ground, as she followed him. “And doesn't care for visitors.” Glancing around automatically for a hostile local inhabitant, she forgot to watch where she was going, stepped on a flat rock, loosened it, and almost fell.

“Careful. This section isn't very stable,” John said, turning and holding out his hand to steady her. “How about an old friend who invited him out for a refreshing stroll in the middle of the night to talk over what was going on and when he got him a convenient distance away, stepped behind him, and—gotcha!”

“You really think it was someone he knew? I mean, before last night? What makes you sure?”

“I'm not, of course. But it makes sense, doesn't it?”

“I suppose it does,” said Harriet, in grudging tones. “Why would anyone wander off into the night with a knife-wielding maniac? And if he'd been dragged off the bus, wouldn't we have noticed?”

“I would have,” said John. “He left under his own steam.”

“Maybe he was going to meet someone,” said Harriet. “But no one on the bus behaved as if they knew him,” she added, moving onto a large piece of solid rock and stopping. “He did talk to those brothers as if he knew them, don't you think?”

“No. I don't.” John stopped as well to look back at her. “He was baiting them, not chatting. Didn't you get that impression? As though he recognized them. Maybe he just recognized the type, though. One hood to a couple of small-time operators.”

“You mean Donovan's crooked?”

Sanders looked at her and grinned. “We recognized each other, saluted, and passed on.”

“And you don't think that Gary cut his throat?”

“Come on,” said John, turning back in the direction of the road. “We really should be getting back.”

“John—” Harriet was staring back at the terrain they had just covered with such difficulty, slipping and sliding, and starting minor landslides.

“Yes?” It was a “now what” sort of yes.

“Why in the name of God would any two people who could walk down a relatively flat road in order to have a conversation go for a stroll on
that
?” She pointed to the area they had just covered. “In fact, why would anyone come up here? Unless they're crazy, like us.”

John stopped and studied the contours of the land. “Because it's the shortest route to that dip in the mountains up there,” he said slowly. “That changes things, you know.”

“How?” asked Harriet.

“It means that Donovan was heading for the hills, literally—”

“Trying to escape from someone—”

“Who pursued him up there very quietly and slaughtered him.”

“My idea exactly,” said Harriet triumphantly. “But why quietly?”

“No signs of struggle. Of course, Donovan was so damned big that you'd almost have to take him by surprise.”

They walked back to the bus in silence. “Could you just slip in there and ask that nurse to come out here and have a look at him?” asked John, once they were within hailing distance of the vehicle.

“The nurse?” said Harriet, startled. “What do you expect her to do? Raise him from the dead?”

“Shut up, darling, will you? I know it's futile, but I prefer to get an expert to point out that death has occurred, and when, and why—and for the moment, she's the most expert we've got. Call it habit. Go get her, will you?”

“Sir.”

Jennifer Nicholls had been happy enough to leave her sleeping patient, even on such a gruesome errand. She opened the supply cupboard at the back, took out another blanket, and followed Harriet up the gravelly slope. She stood leaning on a pine tree, and looked down at the man lying there. “Dead? God—I should say so. Look at the ground and everything around him. It's all soaked. He bled like a pig.”

“He hasn't been dead long, has he?” asked John. “There's no sign of rigour yet.”

She leaned over and wiggled one of Donovan's fingers, and then gave his jaw a small push. “That was a pretty comprehensive accounting course you took,” she muttered. “You're right. He's barely cold, as they say. He can't have been dead more than two or three hours. It might be a good idea to turn him over and straighten him out before he stiffens up, though. Otherwise it's difficult for the emergency crew.” She paused. “Wrap him in the blanket. We don't want the kids wandering by and seeing him.”

They wrapped him in the blanket and laid him on his back in a dark, cool spot under the trees. The three of them stood around him, in a ragged circle, looking like a grim parody of a burial service.

“You're a cop, aren't you?” said Jennifer. “Night shift, rigour—you just don't talk like an accountant, somehow. And on the other hand, you don't sound quite arrogant enough to be a doctor.”

“You need some acting lessons,” said Harriet.

“After all those correspondence courses I took on how to talk like an accountant, too,” said John. “Anyway, you're right. I got the feeling, though, that telling Wayne and Gary I was a cop might have unsettled them a bit.” He shook his head. “And they were unsettled enough already.”

“Probably a wise decision,” said Jennifer. “In the circumstances.”

“How did that woman get herself shot?” asked Sanders, curiously.

“It was his fault,” said the nurse, looking down at the corpse. “He made a sort of lunge for the younger brother—at that point in our little drama Wayne was holding the rifle—and then the bastard ducked. The poor little tour guide was standing in the aisle right behind Donovan and should have taken at least ten rounds in the chest and abdomen. But Morris came tearing up the aisle and pulled her down, getting a couple of those bullets in her thigh. She has fast reflexes,” she added. “And an odd set of automatic responses to a life-threatening situation. For a librarian. Also odd was that no one else was hit. I suppose the rest of the bullets are in the ceiling or buried in seat backs.”

“Are you sure that's what happened?”

“We were sitting right beside the action. I'm positive.”

“And she's a librarian,” said Harriet.

“Right,” said Jennifer. “Just like he's an accountant.” She nodded in John's direction. “What is it with this trip?”

“I don't know,” said John reflectively. “But maybe some of the people still on the bus do. It might be a good idea to ask.”

“We can try, anyway,” said Harriet. “How is Ms. Morris?”

“Not good,” said Jennifer. “But she's scrappy—a real fighter. If I can get more liquid into her it would help, but I'm a trifle worried about supplies. What if it takes a day or so to get rescued? I don't know how much water is stored in the bus.”

“We have spring water,” said Harriet. “Locked in the van. Five gallons.”

“Hang onto it,” said Jennifer. “In case. We don't want people using it to wash their hands and faces. But that means I can be a little more generous in the amounts I give my patient. If you've never lived in a dry area, you probably don't realize—” Her voice trailed off in sheer fatigue and she yawned.

“Where are you from?” asked Harriet, in a friendly attempt to keep the woman awake.

“Kansas. A farm in Kansas. We had water. But I've lived in the Southwest. I know about dry.”

“What about food?” asked John, who was beginning to feel empty.

“There are snack trays in the refrigerator. I don't know how cold they are now that the bus systems have stopped functioning,” said Jennifer, with a worried frown. “But the cheese and biscuits and raw vegetables will be fine. We might as well eat them now as later.” She stretched and looked around her. “Foreboding, but beautiful, isn't it?” she said. “I have to get back to my patient. Come on—let's hand out the trays.”

Kate Grosvenor awoke to a throbbing head and a ferocious thirst. After a brief and silent battle, thirst won. Keeping her head as motionless as possible, she eased herself slowly off the bed and transported herself with great care into the bathroom. She was still dressed in yesterday's jeans and T-shirt. At some time during the night, she had kicked off her running shoes and crawled under an edge of the quilt that formed a bright coverlet on the bed, but she hadn't managed to change and get under the sheets. How many times in the last two weeks had she crawled out of bed in the morning with her clothes on? Twice? Four times? A brand-new stage in the development of Kate. She felt inexpressibly grubby.

Five minutes in a hot shower helped. She dried herself off and examined her image in the bathroom mirror. A gaunt and haggard scarecrow looked back at her. She had spent so much time concentrating on the scarlet, dimpled, ugly disfigurement in her shoulder, avoiding bathing suits, cotton tank tops, all the good things of summer, that she had not noticed the whole woman until this morning. Compared to the rest of her, the wound was scarcely noticeable. She stepped back into the shower and shampooed her lank wet hair for the first time in weeks.

There was no doubt that clean hair and clothes helped. She even managed to control her gagging enough to brush her teeth. Maybe one day she would put on the makeup that she still carried around with her everyplace she went. She pushed open the door to her room, blinking painfully in the strong light and shivering in the cold morning air. Her physical misery—the cold, the brightness, the throbbing head—lent a reassuring sense of reality to the scene. Otherwise, it looked like the backdrop for a travel ad. The sun hadn't made it over the edge of the mountain yet, but the sky was clear and clean. The air smelled of pine, and was filled with the rustling of cottonwoods in the light wind. There was only one discordant note. The van that should have been sitting outside the next cabin was not there.

She drifted quietly over to the unit and peered furtively in the window. Nothing could look less occupied. The bright red curtains were still pulled back, and inside not so much as a glass or a towel had been disturbed. They had probably stopped for dinner and drinks, and in the end decided to stay the night in Santa Fe. Harriet could have called and let her know, Kate thought resentfully.

She needed coffee. And if she remembered correctly, that meant driving into town. It was likely that she also needed breakfast, but the thought of food this early in the morning made her gag. She turned back into her room, grabbed her handbag, and headed toward the car. “I can't get into that thing,” she said to herself. “Not after yesterday. Not even to drive a block. Come on, Kate. The walk will do you good.” And she set off for the Paseo and the plaza to look for breakfast.

Carl Deever had had a late night, and when the telephone shrilled in his ear at a quarter to seven in the morning, he did not react well. “This better be important,” he said. Flat and loud and nasty. Fury was clearing the sleep out of his system and he was ready to fire or eradicate whoever was on the other end of the line.

“I dunno what happened, but Scotty hasn't been in contact. And the bus has disappeared. It's nowhere near the rendezvous point.”

“What the hell?” he said. “Shit! Is that you, Ginger?”

“Yeah. Anyway, I dunno what's happened to her.”

“I want to know where that fucking bus is. Now.”

“I dunno. I've been driving up and down those roads all night. I didn't see nothing at all.”

“Look—someone got that bus, didn't they? It isn't just off on its little tour route?”

“Yeah, someone got it all right. The cops are looking for it all over the state. Those cowboys Rocco hired probably got lost somewhere. Anyway, sorry to wake you up, but I thought you oughta know.”

“The cops. Shit. Did the plane get off?”

“I think so. No one reported problems with it.”

Carl Deever set down the receiver and stared out the window at the newborn day.