Get Lost

by Robert D Kidera

  She stood upright, fussed with her hair and drew a black lace shawl around her bare shoulders. At first, her face seemed lopsided. Then I noticed one false eyelash had slipped its mooring.

  “Nice to meet you, Juanita.”

  “Huh?” She fluttered her eyes with a start and the lash fell, kissing her ankle on its way to the carpet. I stooped to retrieve it. She spun on her heel and wobbled around the corner and out of sight.

  I slipped the eyelash into my breast pocket and knocked on Onion’s door. “It’s me.”

  “Come on in, the door’s unlocked.”

  Onion stood across the room by a bed, a crystal coffee cup raised to his lips. At least his pants were on. The spare tire around his waist obscured any belt.

  “Hungry?” Often a rhetorical question where Onion is concerned, but I said it anyway.

  Onion lowered the cup and pointed to the empty silver tray that rested on the seat of a small bedside chair. “Nah, we ordered room service.” He returned the cup to the tray. “Can you believe I had a BLT, fries, a salad, and a slice of chocolate cake for less than twenty bucks? It costs more than that for a beer and brat at a Mets game. Fuckin’ nine-fifty for a hot dog last time I was there. And that’s without fries or anything.”

  “Onion—”

  “Eleven-fifty for a brewski, plus tax.”

  “Shut up, please. We have work to do.”

  He struggled to tuck the shirt into his pants. “Okay, Brain. You won’t see Juanita again, I promise.”

  “Just don’t let me see her on your expense account. Did you at least find time to check out the Sun Mountain Art Gallery like I asked?”

  “I did.” He crossed the room, took his small notebook from the top of the dresser, and thumbed through it. “Interesting stuff. The joint’s been closed for the past four days. I talked with the shop owners on either side of the gallery. No sign of Reginald Addison. So I checked the New Mexico taxation and revenue records.”

  “And?”

  “Addison’s listed as sole proprietor. I found out his home address and checked there too. Beautiful old adobe in what I’m guessing to be a gay neighborhood. Nobody home. Mail in the mailbox, lots of it. I left it there.”

  “I wonder.”

  “Wonder what?” Onion closed his notepad.

  “Is Addison running from the cops or from whoever killed Klein?”

  I paid Onion’s bill on our way out. When he promised not to complain about being hungry for the rest of the day, I even covered his room service.

  “Thanks, Gabe.” He pulled a tan trench coat over his shoulders and loosely cinched the belt.

  I tucked the receipt into my shirt pocket. My fingers brushed against Juanita’s fake eyelash. “Here you go, champ,” I whispered as I handed it to my friend. “A keepsake from the Land of Enchantment.”

  Onion’s face turned light crimson. That didn’t keep him from running the item under his nose and slowly inhaling. His face glowed. “Patchouli.”

  “Come on.” I led the way outside to the guest parking lot. By chance, I’d parked right next to Onion’s rental. We’d be driving to Santa Clara Pueblo in two cars. He already had my cellphone number. I entered his on my speed-dial, so we could stay in touch no matter what.

  I pulled out first and headed north past the Santa Fe city limits. Onion followed in a dark blue Dodge Avenger. Santa Clara Pueblo was a half hour drive away in good weather, but the snow flurries I battled earlier found me again. So did the howling winds.

  In downtown Española, I turned off the highway and into the drive-thru lane of a Lotaburger. My stomach growled in anticipation of my first real food of the past two days. I asked them to hold the green chile on my cheeseburger, skipped the fries and soft drink. My Hudson predated the arrival of built-in cup holders, but a thermos of still-hot coffee held more appeal than cold soda anyway.

  Burger in hand, I pulled ahead into a parking slot and took my first bite. Onion had parked alongside. When he got out and came over to my window, I opened it a couple of drafty inches.

  “What’s that?” He pointed to the paper-encased burger as I lifted it to my mouth a second time. I gave him a wicked grin and rolled the window back up.

  He knocked against it. His ring making a grating sound.

  “What?” I yelled through the window.

  “You gonna eat all your fries?”

  “I didn’t order any.” I took Onion’s middle finger in stride. He gave up and returned to his car. All these years and so little about him had changed.

  When my burger was reduced to its paper wrapper, I had a final swallow of coffee and phoned Nai’ya. The call routed straight to voicemail. I left a message to tell her we’d be there in fifteen minutes. With a blast of my horn to signal Onion, we resumed our journey to Santa Clara.

  The snow flurries held steady. The winds intensified. Ten minutes later, I led our two-car convoy off the highway at a convenience store/gas station/mini-mall outside the Pueblo entrance. I climbed out, filled my tank, and refilled my thermos when I walked inside to pay for my gas. Onion waited in his car. Maybe he was still pissed about the lack of fries.

  We turned to leave the mall. A hook and ladder from the Española Fire Department roared by and nearly sideswiped me. It passed through the Pueblo’s entrance arch and spit a shower of gravel in its wake. A small red and gold vehicle with a screaming, rotating emergency light, and a larger rescue ambulance, swept past and chased the fire truck like a couple of angry dogs.

  I rang Onion. “Let’s follow them until we’re sure they have nothing to do with Nai’ya.”

  “Check.”

  By now the three vehicles were several hundred yards ahead on the single-lane Pueblo entrance road. They passed over a rise and disappeared from view.

  I braked at the top of the hill and squinted through my snowflake-streaked windshield. A burning doublewide off to my left lit up the entire valley floor. I turned my dual-speed wipers on high, but that only made things worse. I opened the window, raised my body and stuck my head outside for a clearer view.

  Flames from the trailer shot twenty feet into the air. A second later, my car rocked from an explosion. A propane tank must have ignited.

  I called out to Onion, who by now was standing outside. “Let’s go in closer. We’ll park on the periphery in case we need to make a quick exit.”

  We climbed inside our cars and sped within fifty yards of the blaze. A crowd of people parted momentarily as the emergency vehicles and their crews deployed. The back door of the rescue ambulance flew open. Two figures jumped out and moved toward the burning trailer.

  My pulse raced. My breath came fast and shallow. I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. Less than three months before, I sat in that very trailer on a warm summer night, sharing good times with Nai’ya, her brother Estefan, and his wife.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  I sat frozen in the Hudson, unable to move. The wheels inside my head spun and went nowhere. My ringing cellphone snapped me out of it.

  “Gabe? What do you want me to do?”

  A glance in the rearview mirror showed Onion climbing out of his car. I hung up without responding and slid outside to meet him.

  We stood together atop the ridge and looked down at the fire. I leaned a hand on Onion’s shoulder.

  “What’s wrong, Gabe?”

  I stared into the flames. A second fire truck roared past and joined the other vehicles at the bottom of the hill. I got that sick, after-the-fact, helpless feeling. “Nai’ya’s brother lives in that trailer. It’s where they were hiding.”

  “Then for God’s sake let’s get down there!” Onion pushed me the first couple of steps. I took a deep breath to clear my head and ran as fast as I could, leaving Onion in my wake.

  A ring of people blocked my path fifty feet from the trailer, a human wall as solid as the flames. I picked two flannel shirts at random and wedged my way between them.

  “Excuse me,” I was panting now. “Let me through.”r />
  The burly guy to my left recoiled at my intrusion and pushed back. “Watch it.” He turned to face me, a fist raised and ready.

  “My family is in there!” I kept pushing forward and struggled free of the crowd. Then I ran toward the fire.

  “Stop!” A loud voice bellowed from the shadows. “Where the hell are you going?” An older man in uniform stood facing me, a massive silhouette against the flaming backdrop. His burly, rounded shoulders hunched forward, a Grizzly ready to pounce. He ran forward, crashed into me and caught me before I fell. Nose to nose with me, his voice cut through the jumble of sound surrounding us. “Get back to the crowd. You’re in the way.”

  “Officer, my family’s in that trailer!” I struggled against his grasp but couldn’t break free.

  “Take it easy, fella. We found only one man inside. He’s laying over there.” He let up on me and pointed to my right. A paramedic with a long braid down his back and a female EMT aide worked over a body prostrate on the ground. The man’s jeans and boots caught most of the light from the fire, his head and chest remaining obscured. The EMT worker held either a transfusion of blood or IV bottle over the body. Shadows made it impossible to tell.

  I turned back to the burly officer. “Is that Estefan?”

  His eyes narrowed. “How do you know him?” He gave me the once-over and studied my non-tribal face. “Who are you?”

  “I’m Gabe McKenna. I’ve come from Albuquerque to—”

  “McKenna, eh?” His features softened only a little, like it hurt him to drop the scowl. “Sam Archuleta phoned that you’d be headed this way. Told me all about you.”

  “Sheriff Naranjo?”

  “That’s me.” The fire crew drew closer as they moved to get a different angle on the blaze. “Let’s you and me get out of their way.” He stepped me back fifteen feet toward the gawking crowd.

  Onion broke through the line and stumbled forward. He doubled over to catch his breath. I put an arm on his shoulder. “You okay?”

  Naranjo motioned with his head. “Who’s this guy?”

  Onion remained breathless, so I spoke up. “He’s Deke Gagnon. A detective friend of mine from New York.”

  “N.Y.P.D.?”

  Onion shook his head. “Private,” he gasped.

  Naranjo made a dismissive sound and turned toward me. “You two stay out of the way. We’ll talk later.” He took a step to leave.

  I caught his arm. “One question first, Sheriff. Was this an accident?”

  He shook his head. “Not a chance. Somebody worked Estefan over real bad. The way he is now didn’t come from the fire.” Before I could say anything else, he moved away to confer with the fire crew.

  “Come on.” I pointed over to Estefan and the emergency crew.

  Onion winced. “Gabe, the sheriff told us to steer clear.”

  “I have to see if Estefan can talk. Maybe he can tell us what happened. And why my family isn’t here.”

  “I’ll stay behind and keep an eye out for the sheriff. If he heads back this way, I’ll let you know.”

  I moved through the shadows to where Estefan lay. A Coleman lantern lit his face. He wasn’t saying anything. He was hardly breathing, his only movement coming from the erratic heaving and sinking of his chest. Blood dripped from his purple, swollen chin. A large patch of hair and skin was missing from the front of his scalp. Beneath that, an angry hole was all that remained of his left eye.

  Onion snuck up next to me. “Sheriff’s coming,” he whispered.

  His movements alerted the paramedic to our presence. He turned, looked up at us, and motioned with his head. “Get out of here. Now!”

  I pulled Onion away. “Come on, let’s go back to our cars.”

  “Right.” He turned up the collar of his trench coat. We staggered back to the top of the ridge.

  The farther we got from the fire, the colder the air became. The wind gusted with such ferocity I struggled to remain standing.

  “What now?” Onion inhaled a couple of deep breaths.

  I didn’t have an answer.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The cold wind blew through to my bones. I scanned the valley from the top of the ridge. The last light of the vanishing sun withdrew over the dark outlines of distant western hills. How much time did I have to find my family?

  On my one previous visit to Estefan’s doublewide, an old woman stopped by for a visit. Her dog had gone missing. Estefan and I put off dinner to aid in the search. We found the mutt in less than an hour, leashed him and returned the animal to the woman’s small home on the east side of the village.

  The old woman seemed well acquainted with Estefan, his wife Belana, and Nai’ya as well. Aunt Pablita was the only other Pueblo resident I knew by name. I’d start with her.

  “Well?” Onion flapped his arms around his torso to ward off the cold and stood with his back to the wind.

  “Stay here and learn what you can,” I said. “Nose around discreetly. Tell anybody who asks that you’re a detective. I’ll get the print of Jacob Wallace’s mugshot from my car. Find out if anybody has seen Gray Wolf around here recently or knows what happened at Estefan’s.”

  Onion nodded. “Where are you going to be?”

  “There’s an old woman who lives about a quarter mile from here. An elder in Estefan’s family. I’m gonna see if she knows anything. Meet you back here within the hour.”

  He glanced at his watch. “By six-thirty then. Let’s get that photo.”

  On my way to Pablita’s, I told myself the absence of my family was a good thing. Nai’ya must have had time to flee with Angelina and Matty. Estefan must have been tortured in an effort to make him talk. It had to have played out that way.

  The trek to Pablita’s felt longer than it actually was. I warded off several dogs, walked into Northwest headwinds and felt my way over uneven terrain. It was nearly fifteen minutes before I arrived at a tiny adobe home, nestled between a pair of lofty blue spruce trees.

  I knocked on its thick wooden door. Nothing. I knocked again, waited, and peered through the single front window. The curtain was drawn, with only a dim, flickering light visible inside. I pressed my ear against the window and caught a low growl and then a deep, throaty bark of a dog. A woman’s voice gave a command, in Spanish I thought, and the barking stopped. I took three quick steps back to the front door.

  Another knock. “Pablita? This is Gabe McKenna. I’m looking for Nai’ya Alonso-Riley.”

  Nothing.

  “Please open up. My daughter and grandson have disappeared. I’ve come to take them home. Please help me.”

  The front lock turned. The door opened a crack, still secured by a heavy chain that clacked against the wooden frame. The features of an old woman’s face emerged from the darkness inside as she moved closer to the narrow opening.

  “Señor McKenna?”

  “Yes.” The door opened enough for us to make eye contact. “Good to see you again, Pablita.”

  “Come in.” She unlocked the door. The old woman held a large-eyed, dappled hound by its collar. With a kind firmness, she backed it away from the door, her free hand clutching a string of rosary beads. “Nai’ya said you might come.”

  My heart leapt. “Nai’ya was here?”

  “Until two hours ago. Señor, I am so worried.” She fingered her beads and looked up at me with moist eyes.

  Maybe prayer was enough for her. It wasn’t enough for my family, and it wasn’t enough for me. I reached into my pocket and slid my finger along the barrel of my .38.

  “Casa!” Pablita released her hold on the dog’s neck. The animal moved straightaway to a rumpled blanket on the floor by the fireplace.

  Though the old woman stood no more than four and a half feet tall, with thin arms and even thinner gray hair, she radiated inner strength and resolve. I might have felt reassured as well, except for what her eyes were saying. “Come. Sit.” She pointed a bony hand toward a square wooden table in the middle of the room.

 
; “Thank you, Señora, but I don’t have time to talk right now. Nai’ya and my family are in danger.”

  She fixed me with a steely stare. “Let me tell you what happened.”

  I took the nearest chair and leaned my arms forward on the table. “Where are they?”

  Pablita ignored the question. “A few hours ago, Nai’ya, Angelina, and Matty came to my door. Estefan sent them. Two strangers had entered the village, but Estefan had men watching. They recognized one of the strangers as Jacob Wallace. The man who is called Gray Wolf. Nai’ya told me he was after them.”

  “Where is she now? I have to find her.”

  “We all do what we can. I pray.” Pablita rolled her beads in her hand. “Nai’ya and Angelina have gone to Tsirege. Estefan told them to hide there and wait.”

  “Puye?” I knew the cliff dwellings and mesa top well. The ancient ruins were about three miles south, back along Route 30, and five miles west along the tribal road. “Did they go by the main road or cross-country?” If they’d gone on foot, they would face more than six miles of rugged terrain. In the dark.

  “They took the old trail. Nai’ya knows the way. I gave them some food and a blanket.”

  I thought of the plummeting temperature and the likelihood of more snow during the night ahead. “One blanket for the three of them?”

  “Matty is too young. He’s here—sleeping in my bed.”

  “Here?” My heart quickened. “May I see him?”

  “You’ll wake him up.”

  “I won’t make a sound.” I tiptoed to the only closed door. “In here?” My hand settled on the doorknob. My eyes looked for approval in the old woman’s face. She nodded, but remained seated.

  The knob squeaked, so I turned it less than an inch at a time. I paused inside the tiny room while my eyes adjusted to the darkness.

  A small rustic bed sat flush against the exterior wall beneath a square, shuttered window. A shelf with several santos and unlit candles protruded from the wall above the bed.

  Matty lay on the bed, his body covered by a blanket, his head resting on an overstuffed pillow. Light from the main room illuminated his face. I bent forward close enough to hear his breathing. His features were dark, with hair hanging down across one eye. Was I looking at him or trying to find something of myself in his face?