Zia Summer, Rio Grande Fall, Shaman Winter, and Jemez Spring

by Rudolfo Anaya

  “And Gilroy doesn’t take no for an answer,” Sonny said.

  “He’s got a lot of people on his string, Sonny. People in power in Santa Fé. He’s running the high-quality stuff into the state and even the drug boys stay away from him.”

  “Because of his old CIA connections?”

  “Yes. I knew he was using the balloon fiesta, but I didn’t know how. I didn’t want to know. That’s my only sin. I turned my back and pretended he wasn’t there. You have to believe me.” Her voice was soft, pleading.

  “I need something to go on,” Sonny insisted.

  “If I knew anything, I’d tell you. I can only guess that whoever buys the drugs from Gilroy is here. But I know it’s not a balloon pilot.”

  “You checked through your records?”

  “Jerry and I checked every single entry. We know our pilots.”

  “But anyone can register.”

  “True.”

  “How many balloons are going up?”

  “Seven hundred.”

  Like looking for a needle in a haystack, Sonny thought. “What time?”

  “Takeoff is seven thirty.”

  Sonny glanced at his watch. He had three hours. “The FBI knows about Gilroy. So does the DEA. What are they doing?”

  “Just to be on the up-and-up, we permitted agents with their drug-sniffing dogs on the field. No one with drugs can get past them.”

  “Yeah,” Sonny said. Maybe Raven was no one, no man. He looked across the room to the painting on the wall. A nude woman reclining on a Navajo blanket spread out on the dry grass of the West Mesa. In the background was the brilliant gold of the river cottonwoods in their fall dress. Beyond the yellow of the river bosque lay the blue outline of the Sandia Mountains, and in the wide, blue sky a hundred colorful balloons rising.

  The nude was Madge, staring not at the balloons, but out at the viewer. Her eyes held Sonny.

  He rose and walked to it. Something in the eyes of the nude beckoned him. He drew close and saw that the artist had painted two dark balloons as irises. He turned and looked at Madge. Was she telling the truth?

  She pulled the belt of her gown and let it slip to the floor. “I want to help you,” she said softly. “Stay with me.”

  Sonny shook his head, turned, and walked out of the room.

  “Damn you!” he heard her cry.

  He was quickly down the stairs and out the patio door, running as he leaped over the patio wall. He turned back. She had parted the curtains to the upstairs bedroom; she stood outlined against the light, her body sharp and clear.

  He turned and ran to his truck, then gunned it out of the compound, north on Coors to the Paseo del Norte bridge and across the valley to the Pyramid Hotel, hoping Gilroy was still there.

  22

  Sonny drove into the parking lot of the Pyramid Hotel, or as some of la gente called it, the Peso Pyramid, referring to its supposedly Mayan inspiration.

  This was definitely not a place to plot the course of the moon at night as the Mayans had done from their pyramids for hundreds of years, not a place to worship the sun as it came over the Sandias, following its diurnal course. On June 21, the sun rose over Sandia Crest; on the winter solstice it rose over Tijeras Canyon.

  Then the people from the pueblos would pray for the return of the sun; there would be a cycle of ceremonies and dances. Prayers and ritual. That’s what sustained the life of the old inhabitants of the valley, prayers and ceremonies. A belief that they were intimately connected to the earth, to the course of the sun, moon, and planets.

  Last Christmas Eve Rita had invited him to la misa del gallo, midnight Mass at the Old Town San Felipe de Neri Church. Then they went to his mother’s home to eat posole. After a few hours of sleep, they drove to a deer dance at Jemez pueblo. The spirit within was fulfilled in those ceremonies. But the kids Sonny had taught at Valley High weren’t into the old ceremonies anymore. On Christmas Day they headed for the malls. Days of worship gave way to shopping and football games.

  Would Rita be with him this winter solstice to pray for the return of the sun? he thought as he walked into the deserted lobby. Yes, she will; he answered himself. I’ll make sure.

  He flexed his arm. Tomorrow it would be sore, maybe swollen, from the strain of his bout with Turco.

  He paused, sniffed the air, and was met by the sweet smell of roses. He remembered the lilac fragrance that had permeated the dead body of Gloria Dominic, and for a moment he felt his stomach churn. He glanced into the lobby area and saw dozens of flower stands; little carts with awnings surrounded the lobby. The conference schedule board announced the end-of-season meeting of the New Mexico Flower Society. Displays of October flowers and roses filled the stands.

  A huge balloon made entirely of flowers graced the middle of the lobby.

  Sweet old ladies, Sonny thought, and some sweet old guys, having a ball showing off their prize flowers, dreaming sweet dreams of this year’s prize Peace Rose or next year’s red hybrid tea.

  Sonny turned toward the deserted reception desk. There were two ways to get into Gilroy’s room: bluff the desk clerk or steal a key. He glanced over the counter at the reception desk. A light shone from the room behind the counter. It was four in the morning and a sleepy night clerk was probably watching television.

  Okay, Sonny thought, just do it! There was sure to be a security guard or two roaming the balcony areas that looked down into the huge, empty lobby. Break and enter. If he got caught, Garcia would probably let him rot in jail, but he was going for broke. Going for Rita.

  He hurried around the counter, riffled through the key slots, found the electronic key for Gilroy’s room, and stuck it in his pocket.

  At the elevator a security guard appeared out of nowhere and stood in front of him. His stern look said, What the hell are you doing out this time of the morning?

  Sonny put on his innocent smile and blurred his voice. “Late party,” he mumbled, “gonna be hell to fly,” and he walked past the guard and into the elevator. He pushed the button, and when the door closed, he breathed a sigh of relief. The elevator rose quickly, the glass pane allowing him a view of the lobby below.

  On the sixth floor he stepped out and quickly walked down the deserted balcony, found the room, and stuck the card into the slot. He opened the door and stepped into the anteroom, closing the door quickly and waiting for his eyes to adjust to the dark. There was someone in the room; he could sense a presence. Someone asleep? A hallway led from the anteroom to the bedroom beyond, going past the bathroom to the side.

  All was dark. A sliver of moonlight through the dark curtains was the sole illumination in the bedroom area.

  West side, Sonny thought. If he opened the curtains the view was toward the balloon field. Beyond that, the lights of the sleeping city.

  But what of the presence he felt? Sonny wondered as he moved cautiously past the bathroom, into the bedroom. He held his breath, peered in, the bed was empty. John Gilroy was gone. Sonny breathed easily. The bed was made. If Gilroy had been here, he hadn’t slept here. Sonny flipped on a bedside lamp.

  On a glass-topped table beside the bed sat a bottle of scotch, two glasses, and faint traces of coke lines. Gilroy had partied before he left. Maybe partied with Madge; maybe they toasted each other and laughed at Sonny Baca, the dumb private dick they led by the nose.

  But there was no trace of Gilroy. Had he flown the coop after he argued with Madge, or was he already at the balloon field orchestrating the distribution? Sonny turned to leave when his “cuidado” sense told him the presence he had felt was still in the room.

  He felt goose bumps along the back of his neck. Be alert, he told himself, like the coyote. Go slow. There’s danger here. Blood? The scent of blood!

  The bathroom, he thought as he paused at the door. I didn’t check the bathroom! That was a stupid move. He pushed the bathroom door open slowly then flipped on the lights.

  He shuddered. The large, white-tiled room was splattered with blood. Lying
in the bathtub lay the body of John Gilroy, partially covered by the shower curtain he had grabbed as he fell. His vacant eyes were open, staring up at Sonny. Blood soaked Gilroy’s clothes and streaked his face.

  “Damn,” Sonny cursed. He felt for a pulse but found none. The body was still warm. He had come too late. Someone had just axed his prime suspect. He had missed the killer between the time Madge left Gilroy and the time it had taken Sonny to get here. Unless Madge …

  Sonny felt his stomach turn queasy but he forced himself to look closer. Yes, it was Gilroy and the way he lay told Sonny that Gilroy had known his murderer. There were no signs of struggle, no torn shirt. Perhaps they had just done a line of coke together, then Gilroy got up to go to the bathroom and was taking a leak when “his friend” cut his throat from behind. Gilroy turned, received two more stabs across his carotid artery, grabbed for the shower curtain, and toppled into the bathtub. It took only seconds.

  Madge was the last one with him. They were arguing, Diego said. Shouting at each other, fighting over the money that would be paid in a few hours when the dope was delivered. Madge was strong, Sonny knew, but could she wield a knife? Could she deliver a deadly blow? Gilroy was a big man, a cautious man, and a highly trained CIA operator. Could coke put him so off guard?

  No, it had to be someone stronger than Madge. Sonny covered his mouth and nose and leaned closer. If it was Raven who’d rubbed out Gilroy, he hadn’t left his calling card. There were no black raven feathers on the body.

  A tingling sensation ran along the back of Sonny’s neck again, and in that instant he knew he had made a mistake. He’d never checked the closet. Raven hadn’t had time to leave his calling card! He was still in the room!

  Sonny cursed and turned quickly just as the bathroom lights went out and a dark figure leaped forward. Sonny lifted his arm as Raven struck. The knife came slicing across Sonny’s left arm, missing Sonny’s neck by inches, but cutting through his leather jacket.

  Sonny countered with a right cross that smashed into Raven’s chest, a blow not strong enough to stop Raven’s rush, but enough to slow the second strike.

  The onslaught sent Sonny crashing into the wall. Sonny pushed back, and they tumbled into the dark anteroom. In the struggle Sonny grabbed at Raven’s right hand, twisting away the knife. Raven let go of the knife and at the same time brought his knee hard into Sonny’s groin. The blow made Sonny stagger, and a second blow to the face sent him crashing into the divan.

  Raven turned and ran out of the room, followed by a dazed Sonny stumbling after him. Raven was halfway to the elevator when it opened and Chief Garcia, a hotel security guard, and two cops jumped out.

  “Freeze!” Garcia called, and all four drew their pistols and aimed at Raven.

  Raven turned to face Sonny.

  “Where’s Rita?” Sonny gasped, the fury in his voice echoing into the atrium’s open space.

  “Stay where you are!” Garcia called again. “You move and you’re dead.”

  Raven looked at the cops, then at Sonny.

  “Where’s Rita?” Sonny shouted, advancing on Raven.

  “She’s mine!” Raven cried.

  “I’ll kill you,” Sonny swore.

  “No!” Raven snarled. “It’s you that dies!”

  “You’re surrounded!” Garcia shouted, and he and the cops advanced slowly with drawn pistols. “Get down on the floor! Facedown! Down on the floor or we shoot!”

  Raven knew he was trapped. He looked over the edge of the balcony to the lobby six floors below.

  “Get down!” Garcia repeated as they closed in. “Sonny, you too.”

  “You’re too late,” Raven said, and disappeared over the side of the balcony.

  The startled security guard leaned over the railing and got off one quick shot, an explosion that echoed through the atrium.

  “Don’t shoot!” Garcia shouted. “You don’t know who else is down there!”

  Sonny rushed to look over the railing. He expected to see Raven smashed to the lobby floor below. What he, Garcia, and the cops saw was a collapsed flower cart where Raven had landed, the awning crumpled.

  “Sonofabitch jumped!” Garcia swore. “Hope he broke his neck!”

  “Come on!” Sonny shouted, and rushed to the elevator, followed by Garcia.

  “Check the stairs!” Garcia shouted, and the cops went for the stairs. “What were you doing here?” Garcia asked as he kept punching the lobby button.

  “Looking for Gilroy,” Sonny answered.

  “Find him?”

  “He’s dead,” Sonny answered.

  “Raven?”

  Sonny nodded.

  The elevator opened at the lobby as Garcia’s men burst out of the stairwell. They all rushed toward the cart where Raven had landed, Garcia shouting instructions to his boys. “Surround it! Go in slow. Sonofabitch has more lives than a cat!”

  Above them, guests had come out of their rooms to lean over balconies and look down. A woman screamed, “He jumped! I saw him jump!”

  “What’s going on?” someone shouted.

  “Police! Stay in your rooms!” one of Garcia’s officers shouted back. “Everything’s under control, stay in your rooms!”

  Outside a siren wailed.

  “Did you leave someone at the door?” Sonny asked.

  Garcia looked at him and cursed. He pushed one of the cops. “Cover the door! Go on! Cover the fucking door!”

  They approached the cart cautiously, expecting to find Raven’s body in the tangled awning and spilled roses. Sonny pulled away the awning, revealing broken pots and smashed flowers. He tossed the awning aside and looked up. Six floors—but the awning and the cart had broken Raven’s fall, and the brujo who could fly had gotten up and walked away.

  Raven is a brujo, an evil shaman who can fly, both don Eliseo and Lorenza had warned Sonny.

  “Okay,” Sonny whispered, “I believe you now. He can fly.”

  “Sonofabitch!” Chief Garcia cursed. He vented his anger on his assistants. “Get out there! Seal off the parking lot! Check the entire lobby! Go! Go! Go!”

  The cops and security guards ran to do his bidding.

  “Do you believe this!” A frustrated Garcia turned to Sonny. “Do you frigging believe this?”

  “Yes,” Sonny replied.

  Raven had been washed down the worst arroyo flood Sonny had ever seen, and he had lived through it. Now he had jumped six floors and was nowhere to be found. He had many lives, one for each step to the underworld.

  Garcia turned to greet two DEA agents coming through the front door. “If it isn’t Chief Garcia,” one of the agents said. “Out partying, Chief?”

  Sonny recognized Joe Flannery.

  “Raven just flew,” Garcia answered.

  “Raven?” Flannery acted surprised. “Is Matt here?”

  “No,” Garcia replied. “The FBI didn’t find Raven, Sonny found him. This is Sonny Baca.” He motioned. “Joe Flannery.”

  “Mr. Baca”—Flannery grinned—“you seem to have a knack for being in hot spots. Frisk him,” he snapped at his assistant.

  The agent with Flannery put his hand to his pistol and snapped at Sonny. “Turn around and put your hands against the wall!”

  Sonny blew him off. “Are you for real?”

  “Yeah, we’re for real,” a very irritated Flannery replied, drawing his pistol. Garcia jumped in front of him.

  “Easy, Joe! You’re pissing up the wrong tree!”

  “We got a call! Baca was described!” Flannery grunted.

  “I’m in charge here, and I say back off!” Garcia shouted.

  Flannery fumed but nodded at his partner.

  “This guy’s bleeding,” the agent said.

  “Did he get you?” Garcia asked.

  Sonny held up his arm. His shirt sleeve was dark with blood. During the excitement he hadn’t felt the cut. “He had a knife.”

  “Better get a doc to look at that.”

  “Later,” Sonny said.

/>   “Okay,” Flannery grunted, “so why in the hell are you here, Baca?”

  “I got a call, saying you’d be here,” Sonny retorted.

  “Not funny,” Flannery replied. “I’m up in the middle of the night chasing ghosts, so can the humor.”

  Sonny shrugged and removed his jacket. The leather jacket had saved him from a bad cut.

  “Never can tell about a knife wound,” Garcia said. He handed Sonny a handkerchief, which Sonny wrapped around the wound. “One of my boys can patch you up for now.”

  “I’m okay,” Sonny insisted. “The guy that’s not okay is Gilroy.”

  “Show us the body,” Garcia said.

  “Body?” Flannery asked.

  “Baca says we’ve got homicide.”

  They took the elevator up and entered Gilroy’s room. Garcia flipped on the light.

  “In the bathroom,” Sonny said, and the chief flipped on the bathroom light.

  Garcia and Flannery peered in.

  “Holy mother of God.” Garcia whistled. “It’s Gilroy, and he is dead as a doornail, all right.”

  “Whoever got him is good with a knife,” Flannery said, reaching for a cigarette as he looked down at the body.

  “Raven.”

  “You’re lucky, Baca,” Flannery said. “A slice like that will definitely take you out.”

  “Maybe that’s why you were called,” Garcia said, following him into the anteroom.

  “We’ve got nothing on Gilroy.” Flannery shrugged.

  Sonny bit his tongue to keep from challenging. Of course the DEA knew Gilroy’s past! The whole world knew his past! He had been sheltered by the government, and now he was dead. So much for government protection!

  “Really,” Garcia grumbled. He, too, was angered that the DEA wasn’t leveling with him, and he had had enough run-ins with the arrogant Flannery to develop a healthy dislike. “I thought he was one of your undercover agents.”

  “No way.”

  “Come on, Joe, everybody knows Gilroy worked for you,” Garcia insisted.

  “Maybe for Matt, not for us!” Flannery replied, his anger flaring for an instant. “Anyway”—he shrugged—“if you believe Baca here, I would say you just solved your case. Raven’s been terrorizing the fiesta, right? And he just killed Gilroy, right? Get Raven and it’s all over.” Flannery turned to Sonny. “So, Baca, you can go back to your people and tell them it’s safe to fly. Raven’s on the run. I’m sure Garcia here will have him corraled in no time. Yeah, it’s safe to fly.” He chuckled, and went out smiling.