Whitehorse (23 page)

"He should have thought about that—"

"Wait a minute," Leah shouted, causing the men to shut up and look at her as if forgetting she had been there in the first place. "You're all talking about Johnny as if he's already been tried and found guilty of something. Listen to yourselves. Not one of you has shown any concern whatsoever for anything other than what this may or may not do to his ability to make money—excuse me, make
you
money. Have you stopped to consider
his
feelings? What he must be suffering, and I don't mean because he might lose an endorsement or won't get his picture on the front of
Newsweek
again. Dolores Rainwater is dead, and if any of you jerks had ever taken the time to get to know Johnny, you'd realize that he must be dealing with incredible guilt, not to mention his sorrow over losing a friend."

They stared.

Fullerman sat on the desk edge and crossed his arms. "His up and disappearing doesn't exactly paint a positive picture, Miss Foster."

"The name is Starr, Mr. Fullerman. And if your reference to my maiden name is somehow a means of linking me with my father, then you can stuff it. What problems may exist between Johnny and my father have absolutely nothing to do with me. I have no intention of taking sides on their issues."

"You may be forced to,"
Anderson
said. "As Johnny's legal counsel I must say that the allegations your father is publicly making about Johnny border on slander … if Johnny is found to be clear of drugs, of course. Should Johnny decide to sue, I suspect your father will be hard-pressed to collect enough money to satisfy us, much less finance his upcoming election."

"Is that a threat?" she said through her teeth.

"Simply a fact, Mrs. … Starr. If you have any influence with your father whatsoever, I suggest that you relay this little conversation to him, pointing out that a lawsuit slapped on a man of his prominence will have major consequences down the line … should he ever decide to run for a higher office."

Leah backed toward the door, shaking her head. "You're all a lot of hyenas."

"Just businessmen, Mrs. Starr," Hall said, tapping cigar ashes into a container the shape of the state of
New Mexico
. "With a very lucrative commodity at stake.
Johnny Whitehorse is worth a cool hundred million in endorsements and television and movie projects, not to mention Whitehorse, Inc., revenue. In short, should Johnny decide to, he has the financial capability of squashing your father's bank account like a cockroach."

Turning on her heels, Leah left the room, stalked from the house, and stood beneath the tree near her truck, doing her best to control her anger before getting behind the wheel.

Leah pulled the truck onto the highway shoulder and shut off the engine. Ahead of her, on the side of the road, were two cars, windows rolled down as the occupants focused their long-lens cameras on the crash site and snapped away. Souvenirs of death. Leah wondered if the photos would take their place inside someone's picture album or find their way to the tabloids, for a hefty reward, of course. Obviously, anything to do with Johnny was worth a tidy sum, even if it depicted tragedy—
especially
if it depicted tragedy.

A half-dozen or so flower wreaths had been placed amid the blackened and scarred earth where Dolores's car had collided with the ground and burst into flames. There was evidence of the police investigation. Strips of yellow ribbon fluttered from charred tree trunks, their lower limbs, stripped of their needles, looking skeletal. The grass—what had been spared from the inferno—had been flattened by numerous car tracks.

Finally, the cars pulled away.

Leah left the truck and stood on the hot asphalt, feeling the heat of the day seep up through the soles of her boots as she scanned the area. A stench of gasoline and ashes hung in the air, as did the unusual and discomfiting silence.

A double stretch of black rubber lay imprinted along the road's surface, stretching perhaps fifty feet before disappearing off the shoulder. Leah followed the tire marks, toe to heel, balancing on the strip as if she were a tightrope walker until coming to the end, where the marks took an abrupt jag to the right—almost a perfect ninety-degree angle. Very odd. Hands on her hips, she stared down the embankment, to the place where the car had hit first, rolling back the earth, then again, further, where it had come to rest, wheels up.

Where, she wondered, had Johnny fallen? Had he witnessed the horrible explosion, knowing that Dolores was still strapped in the car, knowing there was no way of helping her? Or had he been unconscious?

Please, God, let him have been unconscious.

A crow cawed from above, circling the clearing, floating on outstretched black wings before diving into the trees. Cupping her hand over her eyes, Leah searched the treeline beyond the accident site. Some niggling disquietude tapped at her, as if there were something there she should be seeing, but couldn't. Sort of like the
Where's Waldo
pictures that always made her crazy with frustration. She knew it was there, laid out for her to recognize, though what
it
was was a total mystery.

This particular bend in the road had been a major source of despondency for a number of people through the years. During her senior year in high school the curve had claimed three lives, each going too fast to make the curve safely. How many times had she and Johnny so foolishly pushed the limits of safety in his father's old truck, racing ninety to nothing to get her home and back in bed before sunup—before her father realized that she'd spent the night making love to an Indian. Funny, but she'd never been frightened of the drive with Johnny. He'd handled the bends in the road as gracefully and competently as he made love—a man in total control of his actions.

The place where the car had come to rest was a flat hollow some fifty yards from the road. There were shreds of metal strewn over the ground. The larger rocks scattered around the clearing showed evidence of metallic blue paint.

What was she doing here? Leah thought. She was feeling a lot like a rubbernecker at a particularly grisly accident, slowing down to catch a glimpse of gore.

"I wondered how long it would take you to come here," came a voice near the treeline. She spun around, her heart pounding. Roy Moon stepped from the shadows. "You're looking for Johnny?"

She nodded.

"You won't find him here,"
Roy
said.

"Why are you here?" she asked.

"I am here for Johnny. Searching."

"For what?"

Roy
stepped over a rotting tree branch, his footsteps cautious and silent. His cowboy hat had been replaced by a bandanna tied around his wide, brown brow. He wore knee-high moccasins instead of boots. By the looks of his sweat-damp shirt he had been nosing around the site for some time.

It became apparent that
Roy
had no intention of answering her question, so she did not bother asking again. "Will you tell me where Johnny is?"

"What good will you do him?" he replied, stopping beside her.

"He shouldn't be alone,
Roy
."

"It is his choice, I think."

"But do you think it's wise, considering what you told me at the hospital?"

He studied the area with sharp eyes.

"He must be suffering," she said.

Roy
nodded. "If I take you there, you must promise to keep his secret."

"I swear."

"I risk his trust by doing so."

"He'll be glad I've come."

Without another word,
Roy
turned back to the forest. Leah fell in behind him.

They walked a long while until coming out on a dirt road where
Roy
had parked his truck—well hidden from view from the highway. Leah climbed in and they made the ride in silence through the trees, finally coming out on a blacktop road that wound north toward the reservation.

After a half-hour's ride,
Roy
pulled up in front of a tiny adobe hut. An old man sat in a ladderback chair on the porch, fanning himself in the heat. The engine still running,
Roy
looked over at Leah. "You know Johnny's grandfather."

She nodded, feeling a flutter of nervousness in her stomach. The old man had been totally opposed to his grandson's relationship with Leah those many years ago. Like Johnny's father, he looked at her as one more object to lure Johnny's loyalties away from his people. She was very certain they had celebrated her and Johnny's breakup with much pleasure.

Killing the engine,
Roy
left the truck. "Wait here. I'll speak to the old man alone. It will be up to him whether you see Johnny."

She nodded and watched as
Roy
mounted the porch and sat on an overturned crate next to Johnny's grandfather. As
Roy
spoke too softly for Leah to hear, the old man stared out at her, his expression inscrutable.

God, it was hot. The first really hot day of the summer. The sun beat down on the line of hovels, shimmered in waves off the roofs and weed-thatched gardens, reflected off the barren ground so the glare made Leah squint.

Closing her eyes and doing her best to ignore the sweat forming under her clothes, Leah leaned her head back against the seat, allowing memories to rise like threads of hazy smoke in her mind.

The first time she'd ever noticed Johnny Whitehorse had been the spring of her sophomore year in high school. She supposed that he'd been around for nearly a year, since his father had come to work at the farm, but she'd been too wrapped up in cheerleading, student council, and keeping her grades up to realize there was actually a life around her own house. Her steady at the time had been the quarterback for the football team—blond, blue-eyed Larry Norman. He drove a black Corvette convertible and lived in the second-finest house in
Ruidoso,
hers having been the finest, of course. Larry was dumb as a box of rocks, but it didn't matter, not with his throwing arm. Half the colleges in the country were trying to lure Larry Norman with scholarships. She'd always thought it rather sad that someone with his father's money could get his education paid for entirely just because he could throw a football.

Larry had brought her home from school one day after cheerleading and football practice. Gunning the 'Vette up the drive, he'd come within feet of plowing into Johnny and the horse he was riding. The animal reared straight up on its back legs, yet Johnny handled the situation with all the adeptness of his ancestors, whispering to the horse in Apache, his expression saying nothing of what he was really thinking.

Larry laid into his horn and shouted, "Hey, Geronimo, wanna watch where you're goin'?"

Leah slapped him on the arm. "Dingbat. Watch where
you're
going, why don't you?"

As Larry eased the car by the skittish horse, she looked up into Johnny's eyes, and smiled. "Sorry," she called. He did not reply, just watched her, perhaps hypnotizing her a little, causing her existence to hone to a pinpoint that made her heart ache. It had been all she could do to turn away from him, and for the remainder of the night she'd tossed and turned in her bed, thinking of the Indian with haunting eyes.