by Brian Hodge
The mention of the picnic grounds brought back the horrors for her, and tears welled in her eyes again, seeped down her streaked cheeks. "I've never seen anyone killed before." She hid her face in her hands and he once more took her into his arms to comfort her.
Sunny had said nothing during Laura's recitation, but had simply sat on the sofa and listened. He knew she must be thinking of her own encounter with the shadoweyes; her face, though, held no emotion.
After a few minutes, when Laura had quieted, Sunny stirred. "I think we ought to put her to bed. She needs to rest, needs sleep."
He agreed and slowly helped Laura to her feet, then into the bedroom. There they managed to get her out of her ruined dress and stockings and into a clean nightgown. Sunny returned to the living room, while he gently wiped Laura's face, arms and hands with a damp washcloth he'd retrieved from the bathroom.
When he started to get up, Laura grabbed him with frantic hands. So he sat again, and said nothing, and watched her as her eyelids closed while he stroked her hair. After a few minutes her breathing became regular and he knew she was asleep. He quietly left the bedroom.
Sunny was sitting in one of the chairs. "What now?" she asked tersely.
"I don't know." He slumped into one of the chairs. "I wonder who had the fetish. We'll ask her tomorrow, when she's rested. We should go to bed now. It's late, and I think tomorrow's going to be busy."
"I don't know if I can sleep," Sunny said.
"Try. It may be the last we get for a long time," he said.
They found extra pillows and blankets in one of the hallway closets and made a bed for Sunny on the sofa and one for him on the floor of the living room. When they were finished, they stood for a moment almost touching, and he could feel the desire growing inside him. He wanted to hold her, to kiss her, to make love to her, because tomorrow … tomorrow he might not be here. He forced himself to draw away, kissed her chastely on the forehead.
He checked once more on Laura, saw that she was soundly asleep and would not, he thought, be disturbed by nightmares that night. The whiskey had helped there. He returned to the living room, found Sunny already settled on the couch. He switched off the light, glanced out the sliding glass doors and remembered when he had seen that dark shape run across the grass. Had it been only days ago? It seemed like weeks.
He yawned, stretched and lay down, pulling the blanket up to his chin.
But he couldn't go to sleep.
He saw the eyes that stared, unblinking. They stared. They watched. Him. He heard them whispering and they were calling his name.
And he heard Junior's laugh. He moaned aloud and heard a rustling noise in the room. He tensed, waiting for the shadow to appear.
Something warm slid under the blanket next to him. Sunny.
He reached for her, and she came easily into his arms. Holding her against his chest, he felt the steady beat of her heart, her life. Her arms slipped around him, and he kissed her mouth; her firm lips parted under the pressure of his. Her hands gripped his shoulders then, the fingers strong and urgent. Gently he unbuttoned her shirt, pulled off her jeans, and lay down next to her, his mouth already on hers, his hand on her firm breast. She wrapped her arms around his neck, pulled him close, and he lost himself totally in his arousal. He thought of nothing but this woman and himself, and for once the terrible images of the shadoweyes were driven from his mind.
Afterward she slept peacefully in his arms, and he drowsed, content, staring up at ceiling, and saw there the round yellow eyes. And heard the siren call. Whispering softly, beckoning for him to come to them.
He closed his eyes, forced the image from his mind. Sunny stirred, as if sensing his disquiet. He stroked her hair, murmured to her, twisted a curl that lay across his arm. She fell asleep again.
Again he shut his eyes, and saw death beyond them, and all sleep faded.
He might die soon.
Death … He had faced it in Vietnam ten years before. Had been injured, left to die, but had crawled back to safety, and had been patched up so they could order him back into the jungles, and he had managed, despite the sanguinary desires of his commanders, to come home alive and whole. You didn't much like it, didn't like being so close to death, but in a war you expected that. You didn't expect to find death in these hideous forms from the mountains. You didn't expect death this way. Facing shadow creatures with talons and fangs, creatures that could tear you to shreds in minutes. That would rip out your throat. That would kill you in agonizing ways.
Ways … the Old Ways.
The old Isleta Indian had said look to them. Believe in them. Follow them. He said to make a medicine pouch.
The old ways. Who remembered them? Long ago he had turned away from the shaman Josanie. Now he wished he hadn't. He wished he had listened and learned all that he could from his teacher, wished because he knew that he would face the shadoweyes, that the burden he had feared so long had finally come to settle upon his shoulders. Like a great eagle, it dug its talons into his shoulders and clung to him. The talons of the shadoweyes.
Junior was right. They waited for him, and he would go to them. But not tonight. Tonight—what was left of it, for already he saw the sky beginning to lighten—tonight must be rest.
He closed his eyes, seeking sleep, willing it. And finally it came.
Silver, cold and dark and silent, surrounded him, and it was very misty, as if a fog had crept over the city. No noises of the city disturbed his concentration. His brow was furrowed as if he were deep in thought.
The voices coaxed.
And he responded.
The jingling. Keys in his hand. He could not see where he was going. Did not know where he was going. It was not important. It was only important that the eyes were before him, the voices calling, and that he—
Someone called his name. The woman.
Again, louder this time: "Chato!"
Her voice. Soft and concerned and perplexed. Whispering. Whispering to him. Urging him.
He did not look back, did not want to see her in the moonlight.
The door of the pickup. Keys out. Keys—
His arm shook. "Chato! What are you doing?"
The silver fog disappeared and the whispering faded; he opened his eyes. Sunny was standing next to him, her hand on his arm. He stared at her, unable to speak. What had happened? What was she doing out here? What was he doing out here? The last thing he'd recalled was falling asleep. He frowned. It was almost dawn, and somehow he'd managed to get dressed, get down the stairs and out to the parking lot in front of the apartment building.
She touched his cheek. "I woke up when you got your keys out. I called to you, but you just kept going. You didn't even look back. I knew something … funny … was going on, so I followed. Are you all right now?"
He took a deep breath, stuck the keys in his pocket. "Yeah… I was dreaming."
She put an arm around him and they moved back toward the apartment. He paused at the foot of the staircase and stared at the blackness of the mountains to the east.
They had been calling him, had been drawing him to them. And they had almost succeeded. If it hadn't been for Sunny…. He shuddered, turned and swiftly kissed her. Her lips were cool and sweet-tasting and they widened under the pressure of his. For a moment they were held together in the embrace; then a cool wind drifted across them and they separated.
Holding hands, they started up the stairs.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
They ate a hasty breakfast, the three of them, shortly after eight and stared at the Courier. The banner headline read, "FRIDAY FIRE KILLS MAYOR, ARCHBISHOP," and beneath it were the photographs of the prominent dead and articles about Griffen, five professors from UNM, a former governor, the liquor distributor, the country-western singer and the leading playwright. Over a hundred people were reported to be dead or injured. The deaths were blamed on a balloon mishap. The out-of-control balloon, reported the account, had come down in the midst of the partying crowd. The ba
lloon had caught on fire and the flames had spread across the artificial ground covering. People had panicked and chaos had resulted.
Nothing was said about the shadoweyes. A horror too great for anyone to talk about, Chato suspected. Most survivors would probably be all too glad to repress the memory of the hellish shades.
"Kent's name isn't among the list of dead," Sunny said, looking up from her section of the paper.
"Then he must be alive," Chato said. He frowned, looked at Laura. "Did Griffen ever get a chance to present the fetish to Kent?"
"Yes. That happened just before the balloon started to go up. It was scheduled for later, but the Mayor seemed like he wanted to get the ceremony out of the way."
He must have suspected something about the fetish, Chato thought, and wanted it away from him. "Wait a minute. If Kent isn't dead—although we don't know that for sure, and if he had the fetish with him when the shadoweyes attacked—"
"Then there could be a connection," Sunny supplied. "Damned right. Where was the Mayor when the creatures attacked?"
"With Kent and de Vargas," Laura said.
"They died; Kent didn't. My God! But the only way we can find out for sure is—"
“Is to find him!" Sunny said
"Do you mind explaining to me?" Laura asked, her voice a trifle acid. She had showered this morning, and washed her hair, and dressed in clean slacks and a blouse, and except for the dark circles still under her eyes, Chato could not tell that the night before she had faced horrible deaths and mutilations.
"It could mean," the other woman said, "that if Kent had the fetish with him when the shadoweyes attacked, he was somehow protected by it.”
"It makes a hell of a lot of sense to me," he admitted.
"And," he continued, "it means that whoever goes after the creatures should have the fetish. It's an amulet against evil. That evil."
Not whoever.
There was just one candidate. Had always been, but he'd been too stupid to see. He, looked up to see Sunny watching him, her eyes were filled with sympathy. And realized something in that moment.
"It's me they've wanted all along," he whispered. "Me."
Laura's voice held cynical amusement. "And why you, Chato? Why would these creatures select you, of all the people in the world? Isn't that fairly egotistical of you? And what do they want you for anyway?"
"Do you have a better explanation for what he's gone through?" Sunny demanded. She stared at the other woman until Laura dropped her eyes. "I believe him—he knows more about all of this than we do. Why can't you just listen to him?"
"Tenorio tried to warn me, but I wouldn't listen. Then they killed him—had him killed rather—and he still came back, still tried to help, and I was so goddamned thickheaded, so filled with modem ideas, so—"
"Why you?" Laura shouted. "Why, why, why?" She was standing now, her face flushed, her chest rising and falling rapidly.
He looked up at her, his face pleading. "Because I'd planned on being a shaman. Because I didn't become one, and because my faith wasn't as strong as it should be—and because I had a power—a gift, if you will—that I refused to recognize. Josanie said I should use it, but the burden was too great. God, I was only fifteen, sixteen." He was up, pacing agitatedly, running his hands through his hair. Sunny watched him, said nothing. "Because my faith was so weak, because I'd turned my back on it, and because I had this gift after all, they could seduce me more easily than someone who'd found his faith, his ways."
"No," Laura said, shaking her head adamantly. "It's just a bunch of crap. Old Indian crap. I won't listen to this."
"You're going to have to," he said quietly, "because I expect you to help me."
She laughed—a shrill, ugly sound that grated. "I'm not going to help some dumb bastard kill himself. No way, Chato. You found another white woman. You go ahead and use her."
Before he could respond, Laura moved swiftly across the living room, grabbed her purse and left the apartment, slamming the door so hard that one of the pictures fell off the wall.
He stared at the door, at the cracked glass, at Sunny's concerned face. "It's going to be soon. So soon. I have to do something. But I don't know what to do. I really don't."
Sunny's arms went around him. "Don't worry," she said, her breath warm by his ear, "we'll work something out."
And oddly he was comforted.
He took a deep breath. "We have to find Kent. Where he is, we'll find the fetish. I have to get that first, before we do anything else. But where?"
"Does she have an address book?" Sunny asked, nodding toward the office.
"Probably." He went into the office, and they both began searching, taking little care to keep stacks of paper neat. He was angry at Laura, although perhaps he shouldn't be. He couldn't expect her to believe in what he had himself just come to accept. And yet, nagged one part of him, Sunny accepted.
Sunny's different, he told himself, and knew he was lucky she was with him. Knew that it had been the right thing to rescue her the day before. They had known each for only a day, and yet it seemed longer, as if they had been together for always.
"Got it!" she said triumphantly, holding up a small maroon book.
They grabbed sandwiches, hopped into the truck and pulled away from the apartment complex. She thumbed through the book until she came to the K's, brushed the crumbs away she'd dropped on the pages.
"Here it is. His address—local, that is—is given as Ranchos de Vista. There's a P.O. box. Its address is San Tomas."
"I know where that is," he said quietly. "On the other side of the mountains, on the road to Santa Fe. He must live out in one of those fancy developments."
"How quickly can we get there?"
"In about thirty minutes. I've got to get to the freeway now."
As they stopped at a light, just before they turned right onto Wyoming, a blue car slid to a stop beside him. The driver glanced at him, then away.
Chato saw the fear reflected on the man's face. The fear that kept many people off the streets today, even though it was Saturday morning and there. should have been a lot of traffic. But there were only a few cars out, his and the blue car and a handful of others. Fear of the murders, of the tragedy that had happened last night, and a sense of unease that something terrible threatened the city. He hadn't seen any balloon gondolas in the backs of pickups. The Fiesta had probably been cancelled, after last night's disaster.
They rode in silence, Chato concentrating on his driving and feeling the urgency beating at him inside. Twisting and squeezing, taking his breath away, and he had to do something now. But he couldn't—not until he found Kent, not until he found the fetish.
"Wait a minute," Sunny said as they were approaching the freeway entrance. "Would Kent go to his house—where all the reporters would be sure to follow?"
"Probably not," he said slowly. He hit the steering wheel with the heel of his hand. "Jesus. We'll never find him now. Goddammit."
"Oh yes we will, Chato." She smiled at him, the expression broadening at his apparent confusion. "Go and get on the freeway. Okay. Now, where else could Kent have gone?"
"I don't know," he replied, his voice sounding as defeated as he was feeling. There were so many places Kent could have holed up in. He could have left the city, the state, be far away by now, and they'd never find him. Never in all the time left to them.
And the voices chuckled.
"Where could he go that would be discreet, where he could come and go at his own will, where he could be protected, where there is some connection with him?" she asked softly.
"I don't know—"
"Oh, but you do." She smiled, and he thought—inanely, so out of place now—how pretty she was. "I was there."
"Jesus… The monastery."
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
They passed four city cop cars on the freeway as they headed for Tijeras Canyon, so Chato let up on the accelerator.
"Looking for Kent, probably," he said to Sunny, when sh
e glanced his way. "I don't want to attract attention. They may not remember me but they might, and we can't have any delay now."
She nodded, and the rest of the ride was made in silence. As they drove down the dirt road to the monastery, he wondered how she felt returning to what had been her prison. He glanced over at her, and she responded by giving him a jaunty smile.
He parked; they got out, and he took a deep breath. Kent had to be here, and if he weren't—what then? No, he wouldn't think about that. At least not yet.
"We aren't armed," she said, as they headed for the main building.
"I didn't think we'd need to be, but now that I'm here, I don't know," he replied truthfully. "I don't think the monks are armed. God, I hope not."
"The Church Militant?" she said, and he laughed. "Look, Chato." She pointed to the far end of the parking lot. A black Buick sat there.
"I thought I saw a priest driving it. A priest from here, I wonder?" he asked thoughtfully. They paused before the front doors. "They probably know we're here. I mean, we didn't exactly sneak up." She nodded, didn't speak. "Okay then, let's go."
He tried the door, found it locked. He kicked at it. Once, twice, three times, and on the fifth kick there was a sharp splintering of wood and the door fell open. They pushed in past it and looked around. They were in a sort of reception area. A few plastic-covered couches sat among some potted plants. There was a gift shop off to one side and a piano along another wall, and beyond it another doorway. And no sign of a single monk.