The Right Eye of God
Page 31
They watched with droll irony as hundreds of people in the arena scooped up sand and pocketed it. Later, it would be preserved in special bottles to which the owners would often proudly refer, “That is the sand of the greatest corrida ever. It is alive with the brave spirit of Cid Campeador y Camaro and the soul of the living bull El Muerto.”
The austere matador was helpless, riding on the shoulders of the enthusiastic mob that tramped around the ring of sand three times before letting him go. Others, less athletic but no less energetic, were shouting themselves hoarse, throwing flowers, ladies’ handkerchiefs, hats, scarves, handbags, and fresh cigars from the stands, and flashbulbs winked and popped.
Navarre and Peñas listened to a portion of the plaza radio announcer’s vivid description of the celebration to his vast radio audience and watched as President Calderón’s helicopter lifted in the air above the crowd and flew away.
Navarre gazed at the departing helicopter and at the exultant faces of the mob of people withdrawing reluctantly from the field of sand. He was depressed, utterly drained. He looked wearily at Peñas and said with dull irony, “After all this, with Nuños dead, the farm destroyed, you won’t be able to connect the assassination attempt to the Ring of Gold, will you?”
“Yes, it is over, thanks to you. I hate to think what would have happened here if Nuños had succeeded in killing you in the desert. They had good reason to be confident. If you hadn’t guessed about the trucks . . . Oh, if only! With Nuños dead we are like one-armed men, but we saved the president’s life and that is no small achievement. But I meant to ask—what happened when you discovered Nuños was in the tunnel? Jesus, I had no inkling you and Nuños were in there when I dropped the gate behind the last bull. As you know, Colorado had replaced the gatekeeper. With him gone, somebody had to let the bull in. Why didn’t you call for help when you heard the gate come down?”
“There wasn’t time,” Navarre said lethargically.
“You’re lucky the bull chose Nuños and not you for his target.”
Navarre was silent for a moment. “It wasn’t luck,” he said finally.
It took a moment for Peñas to comprehend the strange resignation on the American’s face.
“You mean . . . My God, Thomas . . .” Peñas lost his voice as he grasped fully the admission Navarre had made. His eyes seemed to come to black pinpoints of light in what he envisioned of death and darkness, of fear and retribution in the bull’s passageway.
He sighed and said slowly, deliberately, “That is a strange justice. I just remembered Zopo’s curse. It came true, didn’t it? El Muerto in the tunnel?”
“Yes, it did. Oh, I forgot to ask about the dogs in the trucks.”
Peñas grimaced, and then said, “By now they’re dead. I charged Siempre Bombito with their disposal. His men dropped gas bombs in the vent holes at the top of the trucks: Quick, effective, and no danger of dispersal with the hay to absorb the fumes. You know he’s still bewildered by the missing black dog. He’s dead. You killed him. But where’s his body?”
“It’s a mystery we’ll never solve, I think,” Navarre replied softly.
Just then Navarre heard his name called. He turned and there, standing near the small door at the rear of the infirmary which the matadors used to make their entrances and exits to and from the arena, stood Yuma Haynes. She was lovely in a simple white cotton peasant blouse and a cotton skirt with a red sash around her waist. A matching red band held her luxurious blond hair in place. Behind Yuma stood her two bodyguards and a small man in a dark brown suit. He seemed nervous and uncomfortable. His eyes looking past Yuma at Navarre were questioning and suspicious.
“Yuma,” Navarre said, happily surprised. “You’re here.”
He walked to her and grasped her hands in his. Peñas smiled at Yuma and remained standing where he was. Her fingers in Navarre’s hands were warm and tingling. Her vague perfume made his pulse race.
“Quarrels are so stupid,” she said. She lifted her hand to touch his scraped face. “You’re hurt. You came out of the tunnel after that man who got hooked by El Muerto. I saw you. That was Nuños, wasn’t it?” Her eyes widened as comprehension dawned. Thomas nodded his affirmation of her statement.
“The curse—you weren’t killed. Good has finally prevailed in the battle that began over two years ago. Thomas, you represent all that is good and right with the world.” As Yuma said those words, her eyes penetrated deeply into the windows of his soul. The two star-crossed sojourners stood transfixed by one another’s gaze as time seemed to stand still.
Then Yuma broke the silence and added with a haughty grin, “I’ll bet you clean up pretty nice too!” She restrained a giggle as she pinched her nose shut, lifted the back of her right hand to her forehead, and feigned a dramatic, fainting collapse right into Thomas’s arms. His reflexes, quick as ever, allowed him to instinctively catch her limp body. The angelic rag doll in white peered up at him, smiled, and winked. Once an actress, always an actress, he mused as his twinkling eyes beamed with admiration at the girl with copper-colored skin, a freckled nose, and a swath of blond hair that dangled over his battered bicep, which held her firmly.
She pulled herself haltingly back into an upright stance, wrapping her arms around his neck for added balance. A spark of static electricity jolted them both with a zapping shock. They cried, “Ouch!” in unison, and burst into laughter.
Yuma smoothed her dress and adjusted her belt, and when she was fully composed, albeit teary eyed, she said, “As you know, I’m with Cid’s party and well protected. This man is Felix. He’s an uncle. He doesn’t speak any English.” She continued matter-of-factly, “Cid’s getting dressed.”
Navarre bowed slightly, and Felix bobbed his head in polite response.
Yuma whirled around to Uncle Felix, looked him squarely in the eyes, and said in a very sweet, cordial tone, “Hasta luego?”—which meant, “See you later?” Felix obliged her request with the dignity befitting an older gentleman, spun around to hasten his departure, and replied amicably, “Luego.”
“What about Cid?” Thomas queried apprehensively.
Yuma looked at him with fierce intensity and piercing green eyes. “Do I have to faint again, Thomas? Cid who?”
Thomas felt a spark being ignited in his once-wary heart. He was beginning to make peace with Meg’s death after witnessing Nuños meet his literally gory ending. This little fireball could be just what I need. He held this thought for a mere instant and then added, For life . . .
“Nos tocó la suerte,” Yuma said, meeting his glance. She had picked up on and reciprocated the spark that Thomas couldn’t conceal.
“Yes, we are touched with luck!”
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—The End —
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Author Biographies
of Thorn Bacon and Julie A. Mitzel
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The writing team of Bacon-Mitzel can only be described as Divine. Two halves of a whole: strong writers with equally strong personalities, whose tremendous respect for one another have created an unstoppable team. Bacon has a prolific writing career which spans over 65 years. He was nominated for the 2013 Oregon Book Awards-Charles Erskine Scott Wood Distinguished Writer Award. Thorn’s career as a journalist, writer, editor and novelist began when he was employed as a copy boy for the Oakland Tribune, then as a reporter for the Madera Daily News and subsequently as city editor for the Richmond Record-Herald. A quote from Mary Folberg founder of Northwest Academy only scratches the surface of this complex, brilliant, gentile, articulate, highly professional genius, “Thorn Bacon . . . what an outstanding man of the word!” Throughout his copious writing career, Mr. Bacon has written over 800 articles published in various periodicals including Reader’s Digest, National Wildlife, Popular Science Monthly, Argosy, True, Flying, The Saturday Evening Post and others. His article titled, “Death Does a Twist” spawned his book Weather for Sportsman, an Outdoor Book Club selection. Mr. Bacon was the ghost-writer for Savage Shadows which sold mor
e than 300,000 copies worldwide. His epic novel about Louis Remme titled Race for the Gold has been optioned for a movie twice and is currently being considered for a Hallmark movie.
Mitzel’s passion for writing goes back to her early childhood. Growing up in N.E. Portland, Oregon she would run to the mailbox at the age of seven to retrieve Reader’s Digest, dash back to the house, open the popular magazine to “Increase Your Word Power,” and dive in. By the time she was twelve her family marveled at how she was scoring in the “excellent” category on her first attempt every month. It was no surprise to her brother that in 2012 after raising two stellar young men, that she received her first book contract from Darkhorse Publishing. She is currently under contract with her partner, Thorn Bacon to write a literary nonfiction account of her great-grandfather who was an abortionist during the 1920’s-1946, titled 10,000 Ghosts. An addendum to their book contract also includes an option for movie rights. In the winter of 2009, Julie grabbed a garbage bag, three dollars, and donned scruffy clothes and experimented with homelessness to obtain material for her literary non-fiction story titled, Femme Fatal. In 2010 it was published in a book titled Dead Men Tell No Tales Writers Do. Julie has been a freelance writer for numerous local periodicals. Julie is an unrepentant vocabulary and research junkie, which occupies much of her free time.
Bacon-Mitzel currently have two books they have collaborated which are being circulated throughout large publishing houses via the prestigious Max Gartenberg Literary Agency in Yardley, Pennsylvania. The miracle of Bacon-Mitzel is so perplexing to both of them it is difficult to put into words. Simply said, they have the ability to finish one another’s sentences verbatim and can write every other paragraph or chapter with seamless continuity. Now if that isn’t a match made in Heaven, they don’t know what is!
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