by Brian Hodge
He didn't understand.
She was afraid.
Afraid of those shadows he'd mentioned, afraid now that she had talked with the little girl about them that the shadows did exist. At first, when he'd told her about his experiences in the mountains, she'd thought he might just be a gentle crackpot. But going to the school had changed that. It had become reality.
She should report it. She should dog the story, demand of the Mayor to know what was going on and why he claimed that it was a bear that killed those people. She knew all this. Just as much as she knew she wouldn't do it.
To find out too much would lead to harm. It was a good way of getting hurt, just as getting to know Chato too well would end in pain. It always did. This time would be no different. Cut him loose, she thought, before it's too late.
The footsteps behind and above her quickened, and she glanced up into the shadows. And saw nothing.
Maybe it was her imagination. No, probably it was one of the night shift people from one of the other papers. But why didn't they use the elevator? For that matter, why didn't she?
She needed the exercise, and maybe the other person did too, she thought with a quick smile.
When she reached the ground floor, she pushed through the door, crossed the lobby. It wasn't large, not like the ones in New York, and soon she was out on Silver. She looked up and down the street, so quiet at this time of night, and breathed deeply. The coolness of the night air cut into her lungs, but she didn't mind it. In fact; it felt good after the stuffy confines of the news room upstairs. Her car was parked in the lot behind the building, set aside for the papers' employees. She started walking toward it.
As she reached the corner, she heard the footsteps behind her. She stopped,glanced back, saw nothing.
She was letting things get on her nerves, she told herself. Chato was making her nervous. Made her jump at shadows. Made her afraid.
And she resented that. She was strong and determined, and had never been afraid of the dark. But he was doing his best to subvert that.
Leave it to a man, she thought irritably. They were never happy with an independent woman, always wanted the "girls" to run to them to be protected. Well, she wasn't about to do that.
Something moving caught her attention out of the tail of her eye, and her breath caught in her chest. The top of a trash can clattered to the pavement, and a plaintive meow sounded.
A cat.
That was all.
She laughed aloud, nervously, shifted the shoulder strap of her purse.
She was getting as bad as Chato. He was superstitious, and now he was trying to make her the same. Well, it wasn't working. Nope. She had better things to do with her time, and that wasn't one of them.
The footsteps continued behind her, and she quickened her pace.
She could see her car, a late model Datsun, straight ahead. It was parked under a street lamp, sitting in an arc of light.
A few blocks away a car's horn honked, and she heard the rumble of a truck. Music drifted faintly down the street from a radio, but she realized she was the only one out. No one else was in sight.
Only her … and the owner of the footsteps…
Tomorrow Senator Robinson Kent would arrive at the Albuquerque International Airport. In the afternoon there was to be a cocktail party, and in the evening a barbecue, in his honor. She'd managed to wrangle an invitation to the barbecue, and she intended to get close to the senator and ask him some questions. Kent planned to hold a press conference when he arrived, and he would speaking about the gift to the Smithsonian.
The Indians.
Oh my God. She could have groaned aloud.
She had totally forgotten about Yellow Colt and his group. They would be there, no doubt, protesting to the top of their lungs about Kent removing something that belonged to them. Incredible. They'd never owned that rock; neither had their ancestors. They were so quick to pick a fight, even over a bit of inconsequential rock now.
But worse—she had dropped the ball. She should have kept in touch with Yellow Colt. Was it too late to call him? She checked her watch. After eleven. She didn't think he'd be going to bed early. She could always drop by the Hilton. It wasn't all that far away.
Or maybe she should go back to the office now and call him. She turned. The footsteps stopped.
"Hello. Is anyone there?"
Her voice showed her nervousness. After all, in the past few weeks there'd been several rapes in the downtown and University areas. She secured her car keys between her fingers, waited for someone to answer. She peered back into the darkness. Saw no one.
She would keep going to the car, drive over to the Hilton, try to talk with Yellow Colt. And tomorrow she'd attend the press conference and the barbecue.
And tomorrow there'd be Chato.
And tomorrow she would worry about him.
She quickly unlocked the car door, glancing over her shoulder from time to time as she did so, aware that since she'd spoken aloud the footsteps had not resumed.
Maybe she had scared whoever it was off.
Maybe they were waiting …
She slid into the seat, hit the lock with the heel of her hand. She looked out toward the building, still saw nothing.
Something scratched along the side of her car.
She shrieked. Fumbling with her keys, she pushed them into the ignition. The car rumbled to a start.
The scratching continued.
It was on her side. Just be-low the level of the window. On her side. So close to her. Just a matter of a few inches of steel, not even that. Between her and … it.
The car's engine fluttered and died, and her breath caught. She flipped the ignition on again, threw the car into reverse. She had to get out of here. Had to get away from whatever it was that had stalked her, whatever it was that was scratching her car.
The Datsun roared backward, and she glanced at the spot where the car had been sitting.
Nothing.
What if the thing were stuck to her car?
She shuddered. Glanced at all the windows. They were, thank God, rolled up. It could have been summer; she could have left the windows down as she normally did.
She shuddered again.
The scratching began again, still on her side.
She wanted to see what it was. She wanted to lean her head against the cool glass, stare down and see. See it. And see it staring up at her. No.
She put the car into first gear, then threw it into reverse. She kept doing this, hoping the creature would fall off. How was it hanging on? The sides of the car were smooth. There was nothing for it to cling to.
The car rocked back and forth, and then she listened for a moment. She couldn't hear the terrible scratching sound.
She was breathing hard, her mouth open to get more air, and she was so hot, so suffocatingly hot in the closed car. She wanted to open the window, but didn't dare. Instead she opened the vent. Air, not much cooler than that already in the car, flooded in.
The scratching was gone.
Breathing more easily now, she shifted back into first and directed the car out of the lot. She glanced back at the parking lot. And frowned.
She could see nothing on the asphalt.
Puzzled, she turned her head.
And looked into yellow eyes staring at her through the glass.
She shrieked again, jerked the wheel to one side, and went to shove her foot on the brake. Instead she hit the accelerator and the car shot forward. The eyes still stared, unblinking at her, and she threw the car to one side, trying to dislodge the creature. The steering wheel slid out of her hands, spun, and too late she saw the parked truck.
The Datsun slammed into the larger vehicle, the awful sound of metal scraping along metal rasping in her ears. She was thrown forward, her forehead, smacking against the steering wheel, and before she sank into the blackness, she had the satisfaction of knowing that at least the creature had been crushed between the car and truck. She smiled. Fainted.
And the unblinking yellow eyes continued to stare in at her.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
The road was dark, unlit, and he jounced along on the pickup's seat. A tree loomed in the beam of the headlights as the lane curved. He glanced up at the black sky, where no moon was tonight. On the dashboard the luminous hands pointed to five before midnight.
Earlier he'd called Laura at the newspaper, but the first time there'd been no answer. The second time some man had answered, snapped a quick no to his inquiry, and slammed the phone down before he, could leave a message. The third time no one answered. She wasn't home either. She could be anywhere. She didn't have to check in with him.
His day hadn't been very successful. He hadn't found Junior, hadn't found anyone who knew the old guy, and he was beginning to think Junior might well be a figment of his mind.
Dreamer of dreams.
He had gone back to his hotel and taken a nap, had awakened after dusk from an uneasy sleep filled with odd dreams. Dreams that left him uncomfortable even now that he was awake. He felt a little lost tonight, and didn't know what to do now that he couldn't reach her.
Just knew he had to do something quickly, quickly before the shadow creatures caught up with him, before the car and whoever had sent it caught up with him.
Tenorio. From Isleta. He had to see the old man again. Tonight. Had to talk with him.
Now he pressed the accelerator down, watched the needle creep up to fifty, past fifty-five. Faster. He had to get out there quickly. Had to find the old man and talk with him. He glanced back over his shoulder, as though he expected to see the shadow creatures or the black Buick, but there was nothing behind him but night. He'd managed to elude his tail, for the car had been gone when he'd come out of the motel. Now he rolled the window down, coughed a little in the dusty air, and kept driving. He might as well be on another planet, for all the strange shapes that loomed out of the darkness as he swept past. There were no sounds either, except that of the truck's engines and its tires on the dirt.
Alone. He was alone except for—
A figure stepped off the shoulder onto the dirt lane, directly in the path of the truck. He slammed on the brakes and the truck fishtailed as he sought to control it. Finally he straightened it, and when he'd thrown on the handbrake, he jumped out of the cab.
The figure still hadn't moved from the center of the road.
"I knew you would come, dreamer of dreams." It was Fedelino Tenorio.
"Goddamn, old man, I could have killed you!"
"You… You would not have."
Tenorio stood still, didn't come closer.
He felt a prickling along the back of his neck. Nerves; he dismissed it. Chato came around to the front of the truck and studied the old man in the beam of the headlights. He had on a sweater against the coolness of the night. Otherwise he looked the same as the other day when Chato had gone to see him.
"Turn out the lights."
For some reason he couldn't determine, he found himself obeying. Maybe it was because for many years he had been told how wise old people were, how they were to be obeyed in all things, listened to and revered. Maybe there was something more in the old man's voice. Something that made him want to obey.
When it was dark all around him, the old man beckoned to him. He could just make him out faintly, still standing in the middle of the road. He walked up, until he was just a few feet away.
"Look, my son. Look into the sky. "
He threw his head back and stared up into the blackness. Here, so far from the city and lights, the stars shone brighter… Cold and distant, though. Red and white, gold and blue.
Minutes passed as he stared up at the stars. "What am I looking for, old man?"
"See the vastness; know that you are touched. I am an old man. I am a believer in the old ways. You ask yourself, what can this old man know? I do not know books as you do. But I know myself. I tell you again, you must believe in the old ways. You must hunt for the end in the past. You must."
A cold breeze, slight and slow, had sprung up, bringing with it the soft fragrance of the night flowers. He stamped his feet, blew on his hands and rubbed them together. "You keep saying that."
"Yes."
"I can't … that is, to believe in the old ways, to accept the superstitions—"
"White men call them such."
"But ghosts—and witches. I…. " His voice trailed off and he felt the darkness close around him.
"And the evileyes. What is the explanation for that? What does science tell you? Are they animals? What animal has that cunning, that viciousness? Only one? Man. And it is not Man who does this. You know that. It is the evil eyes. The shadoweyes."
Shadoweyes.
He could feel the hairs along his neck prickle, and he felt as though he were being watched. Suddenly he wanted to get out of there and return to his warm hotel room.
The past tugged at him, flooded him with memories of Josanie and their many hours together.
"Know that even now they are meeting, that they seek the power, that power which is to be yours, that power which only you can control." Chato said nothing, trembled as though chilled. "You have much to do, and little time in which to do it. First you must find a medicine pouch, which will carry all those things which you need to—" And for a moment he could not tell who was talking. Josanie or Tenorio.
"A medicine pouch? I'd be laughed out of the first store I went into."
The Pueblo Indian remained silent; uneasiness mantled Chato. He shifted position, stuck his hands in his pockets, cleared his throat.
"I am finished. Go back to your motel. Go back and be killed."
That last chilled him more than the night breeze.
"You know damn well I don't want to be killed."
"I do not know it. I see a man who sees the answer before him—in him—and yet will not see it. I can say no more to you. I can do no more. I have warned you. I have tried to help. That is all I can do."
He hobbled away slowly.
"Come back, Tenorio."
The old man continued on his way.
Something flapped its wings overhead; flinching, he looked up.
An owl, he guessed, even though he saw nothing now.
He stood there for a few minutes more, scanning the darkness, trying to see Tenorio, but he couldn't. Maybe he should go after the old man.
No. He remembered too well the lightning in the mountains.
He got back into the truck and turned on the headlights; he saw nothing but the empty land. Did I dream the meeting? he asked himself on his return to Albuquerque. Dreamer of dreams, the old man had called him again.
"How does he know?" Chato cried aloud, and only the noise of traffic answered him.
He knows as I knew to go to him.
He shivered, and pulled into the parking lot of the motel. And when he walked into the room, the light on his phone was on. He called the operator and found someone had left a message.
Laura wanted him to call her.
She was in Presbyterian Hospital.
She wasn't badly hurt—a few bruises, mostly on her forehead—and he took her home and stayed with her the night. In the morning, on their way to the airport to meet Senator Kent's airplane, he told her what had happened to him. She said only that she was in an accident.
She'd picked up a newspaper as they were leaving the apartment complex, and she was glancing through it now. For a long time she didn't say a word, then finally: "It's not here."
"Your article?"
"Yes. The one I worked on last night. I don't understand."
"Maybe they didn't have enough space. Or maybe it's been slotted for a later edition."
"No. I know Bob would have put it in this edition. That's very strange."
"Call him when we get to the airport."
"I will, if we have time."
He didn't pay much attention to the posted speeds, but kept an eye on the rearview mirror for flashing red lights. He didn't h
ave to worry, though, for they arrived with minutes to spare.
The day was already hot, the sky clear and blue. There were no signs of clouds yet. To the east he saw a faint grey, like rain clouds, approaching the mountains. He hoped they'd hit the city with Li cooling rain. It certainly needed the moisture.
He thought he saw something dark move under one of the cars in the parking lot, but when he passed the car, he saw nothing.
Imagination. It was getting away from him. Old Tenorio was certainly spooking him. And probably enjoying it one hell of a lot.
Once inside the main building, they checked the arrival board, found that the Senator's flight had been delayed slightly due to bad weather in Washington, D. C.
"All this after we nearly killed ourselves getting here," she said.
"Of course. It's Murphy's Law."
He took the newspaper from her and sat on a bench inside the terminal as Laura left to make her phone call to the Courier. He leafed through the paper, not really reading the articles. He stopped and frowned when he came to a small two-inch report buried in the back pages.
An elderly Indian man had been killed along the highway by Bosque Farms the night before. The police reported he'd been killed around dusk, the time of day when it's hard for motorists to see pedestrians. Apparently he had been walking on the shoulder of the highway, had strayed into the path of an oncoming car. Killed instantly, he'd been thrown thirty feet.
The Indian's name was Fedelino Tenorio.
He stared.
Killed at dusk.
And he had talked with the old Indian at midnight.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
"Damn him!" Faintly, as though his head were enveloped in a thick fog, he heard the click of her high heels on the tile before she spoke. "Can you imagine what he said? Chato?"
He was still looking at the article about Tenorio's death. Still disbelieving. But here it was. Printed in the newspaper. And he knew he'd talked with the old man. Remembered it well. Remembered, too, the time of the meeting. The old man … dead … when Chato had seen him. Dead. A ghost. He shuddered. He had talked with a spirit.