She began picking them up and stopped. Stuffed into the pile was the newspaper article about Marco. Cere pulled it out, careful not to tip over the rack. The newspaper looked like it had been folded and unfolded many times. Why had her mother kept the paper and then acted as though she didn’t even remember it?
Across the room, the phone rang and Cere let it ring. Her mother’s machine would take a message. Then she heard Freeda’s voice.
“Tia, I decided to stay here over night. Daphne will pick me up tomorrow when she comes back. Tell Cere to behave. And if she hasn’t told you, ask her about her ghost and her dreams.”
The line went dead and Cere frowned at the machine. Damn Freeda! It was a good thing she had told her mother about Marco Gonzales.
Cere picked up the newspaper again. Marco’s hypnotic eyes reached out to Cere, drawing her in. She nodded at the smudged photo as though answering a call.
Why did no one want to talk about his death? Even Rafe seemed reluctant to discuss the old case. As sheriff, wouldn’t it be a feather in his cap to solve the old mystery? Marco’s defiant eyes blazed from the paper, piercing space with a silent appeal for truth.
“Only you can help me.”
Just who was Marco Gonzales? And why couldn’t she let go of this mystical hold he had on her?
“Okay, Marco, show me what I need to know,” Cere whispered, as though he was in the room with her. A vision popped into her head as though it had been placed there by Marco.
The Palladium.
Its sagging structure rose in her mind’s eye and she turned to the page that showed the building. That was where she needed to go. She glanced through the window. It was early evening. At least two hours of sunlight remained.
Why not go there now as she had suggested earlier to her mother?
Chapter Sixteen
After changing into jeans and tennis shoes, Cere grabbed her purse and video camera case. At the last minute she tucked a can of mace into the pocket of her jeans. If she ran into Diaz again, she was going to be ready. As she backed out of the driveway, she shivered with anticipation. She was going ghost hunting!
The streets of downtown Rio Rojo were nearly deserted, despite the early hour. Only the packed gravel lot at the Matador showed signs of life. Even the lot at Gennaro’s held only a few cars. The town ended abruptly, giving way to open, grassy fields dotted with stubby cedars.
Despite knowing where she was going, Cere nearly overshot the turn off for the dance hall. Only at the last minute did she spot the weathered sign and trail of twin ruts. The car lurched in protest as she guided it down the road, drinking in the surroundings, thinking about how it might be photographed.
The road stretched across a mile long patch of prairie before rounding a bend. At that point she caught sight of the long building of pale gold sandstone that she recognized as the Palladium. Her heart skipped. In the golden evening twilight, it looked like it could harbor a ghost. As she neared it, she stopped the car and got out her video camera. Without Freeda to distract her she could take her time and appreciate the overall ambience.
She studied it through the camera lens. The long building hunkered on an open plain, forlorn and empty, surrounded by thin strands of prairie grass. The stubby piñon trees she’d once feared were demons chasing her provided a benign backdrop toward rolling hills of amber sandstone. The roof was a steeply pitched length of rusting tin, though one end appeared to have been added on later. That portion of the roof sagged, its wooden shingles gray with age. Posts marked the porch below the shingles.
Her gaze examined the area near the building. No sign of Diaz or anyone else. Good! After putting away the camera, she slid into the car and inched it forward, stopping where they parked earlier. Nothing stirred but the breeze, a scene so serene she couldn’t understand why she had been so terrified as a child.
Grabbing her camera bag from the back seat, she dropped in her keys and video camera. Her mind was on the story and it began to form visually as she approached the building. The dying sunlight cast long shadows, making the setting perfect for shooting at sunset. The dance hall would be dark enough to look like a spooky outline. Maybe if she stayed longer she could shoot enough preliminary video to give Alan a taste of what could be produced. He might relent and let her go back to writing the blog.
She circled the building, phrases and ideas popping into her head. Cere knew the hand print was in a room on the second floor and she would have to go inside to see it. At the back of the building, she hesitated, but tonight no strange man lurked beside the door. Too bad he hadn’t left his crowbar. The door was padlocked.
Cere hoisted herself onto the porch using a sagging post, since the stairs looked nearly rotted through. The wooden veranda creaked under her weight. Some of the floorboards had broken completely, and weeds sprouted through the open areas. She stepped carefully, not wanting to fall underneath. Her nose wrinkled at the thought of what might be under there. Snakes? Spiders? Neither was an appetizing thought.
Reaching down, she touched the latch that held the lock and was surprised when it pulled away. So! Diaz must have gotten in. Inside, two sets of prints were visible in the dust. The interior was cool and gloomy and the tracks disappeared. The scent of rotting wood filled her nostrils.
A narrow band of light from the broken plank of a boarded up window cast the only light into the room. Damn! She needed a flashlight. Was there one in the car? There was no light kit for the camera and she couldn’t shoot in this darkness.
Slowly her eyes adjusted to the gloom. A rusted sink and a long counter occupied one side—some sort of kitchen. Something scampered in one corner. A rat? A lizard? Cere shivered, but she wasn’t afraid. She stepped gingerly toward the dark door. It opened onto a large open room that ran the length of the building.
This was the dance hall itself. The interior was dusky, though rays of dying sun streaked the hall through narrow strips where boards had been ripped off windows. A hardwood floor retained a dull polish in spots. The ceiling was two stories tall, with a narrow balcony and rail ringing the second floor. A raised platform which must have been the bandstand occupied a corner.
Cere closed her eyes, and in her head she could hear music. She could picture a dance band of men in cowboy shirts with jaunty bandannas tied at their throats while a thin blonde with teased hair wailed a tune about her cheating husband. On the polished floor, gaunt-faced men in new jeans and gingham shirts whirled women in floral dresses over stiff petticoats.
And Marco? Her heart thumped, and it was as though she could sense his presence. She could see him leaning against a wall, in a tight white T-shirt and rolled up jeans, his black hair longer than the other young men. Why had she thought of that? Except for the newspaper article she had no idea what he looked like. Continuing her advance, she crossed to a sweeping set of stairs that curved up into darkness.
The stairs were wide, but much of the hand rail was gone. Rotting posts held a few feet of a wide rail in several places. As she began climbing, the steps creaked in protest even though she stepped gingerly. Several cracked ominously. Despite a slow ascent, her heart banged against her chest by the time she reached the top step.
The upper story was almost dark, and she stopped to get her bearings. Chico, no, Rafe, had led them along the upper landing toward a narrow hall at the end. One of the rooms off the hall held the handprint. Keeping the rotting stairs in mind, she stepped daintily along the warped floorboards, noting broken planks. In several places, the bottom floor was visible through cracks. No wonder Rafe kept people out.
The building creaked, as though it was being violated. What was that? Cere stopped, listening, but all she heard was wind whistling through the boarded up windows.
The dark hall loomed. Chairs and tables were stacked to one side. To her left was a partially open doorway; to the right, a closed door. Cere couldn’t remember in which room she would find the hand print.
She could almost swear something guided her to t
he right, but she didn’t want to believe she was hearing or feeling ghostly happenings. The sensations might be useful in her story but they wouldn’t help now. Ignoring the sensation, she turned left toward the open door.
A musty scent teased her nostrils, and gloominess surrounded her as she stepped inside. Again it took a few seconds for her eyes to adjust. Only dim outlines were discernible. The hand would never be visible in such low light, but the spookiness of the room chilled her.
“Talk to me, Marco,” she whispered. “Tell me your story.”
Nothing. Or was that a creak she heard? She fumbled for her camera and tried to scan the dark walls, but saw only ghostly shadows. A sudden swish behind her startled her.
Bam!
The sound reverberated around the room, and the old building shook as though hit by an earthquake. Cere jumped as the room plunged into blackness. The door behind her had slammed shut. Had the wind done that? Her heart thumped as she moved in the direction of the door. Did she hear creaking outside in the hall?
Something hit her foot, and Cere stumbled, pitching forward and bumping into a solid surface. She cried out, but there was no one to hear. Or was there? Did she hear shuffling? She thrust out her hands in front of her, like a blind woman.
Touching a flat surface was a welcome discovery. The wall. She moved sideways and her shaking fingers sought the door knob. Darkness didn’t frighten Cere, but this was different. A cry of relief escaped her as her fingers found the outline of a door jamb and then the knob. She twisted it and yanked. To her horror, just as when she was a child, the knob didn’t budge.
Cere rattled the knob, pushing at the door at the same time. No! She couldn’t be locked in. The door was jammed. The knob refused to turn, and the wood, for its old smell, and for all the rotting timbers around her, proved surprisingly strong when she thrust her body against it. She pounded against it again and again, stopping only when her fists grew raw.
Her heart was pounding from exertion, but she also felt a slight edginess. What if she was trapped? She stood very still. The only sound was her labored breathing, though she felt her thudding heart was also audible in the room. She reached for her bag to get her cell phone and emitted a cry. The phone was in her purse, which she’d left in the car.
“This isn’t going to scare me,” she whispered into blackness. Nothing here could harm her, right? Unless there were snakes. Could one be around? Sensing her and inching along the floor toward her?
Something moved beyond the door, and her breath caught. Was someone out there?
Cere pounded on the door. “Hey, you! Let me out! The door is stuck!”
Stillness was the only answer.
She pounded again. “Whatever you were trying to do, you made your point. Now let me out. Diaz? Is that you?”
What was that sound? Footsteps? Cere pressed her face to the door, but if there had been footsteps, they had retreated. There was only silence. She was alone.
She turned back toward the room and realized one end of the room appeared lighter, as though a window might be hidden somewhere. She stepped in that direction only to bang her thigh on an unknown object.
“Damn!” Tears stung her eyes and she drew a deep breath, fighting pain. For a minute, she couldn’t move. Frustration crept in like a gathering fog. Why hadn’t she propped that door open or brought a flashlight? Why hadn’t she put her damn cell phone in her pocket? Even if it didn’t work, it would provide a tiny light.
The stillness returned, pressing in like a compacting wall. She’d been in dangerous situations for stories. She wasn’t going to let this frighten her.
What about ghosts? Like Marco?
“I’m not afraid. I’m here to help you, Marco. You wanted me to come. Now get me out of here!” An eerie calm settled over her, as though she had nothing to fear from spirits. If this place was haunted by Marco, he was on her side.
Ghosts? She shook her head; she didn’t believe in them, but another, more frightening thought touched her. What about the scratchy voice on her voice mail? It had warned her not to pursue this story. Could that person have followed her and locked her in? That was more likely, and it was probably Diaz.
Something sticky clutched at her face. “Yuck!”
Okay, spiders and other creepy things like that might bother her, but she could defeat them too. She peeled away the clingy net. Her heart had stopped pounding, and her leg no longer throbbed.
The stillness was broken momentarily. What was that? A car engine? Was it coming closer? The noise vanished. She didn’t think she could hear traffic from the main road. If she’d heard a car, it had to be nearby. If she could find the window she could call for help.
Putting her hands in front of her, Cere inched forward like a blind woman until her fingertips touched the wall again. Pressing her palms to the wall, she moved sideways until her body collided with something solid. A faint ray of light seemed to come from beyond the object. She yanked at it, but it refused to move. It appeared to be some sort of large wooden box.
She attempted to get a grip on the side and front, but the surface was too slippery and her fingers dropped through the air. They landed on something flat and smooth setting off a musical crescendo. She jumped, but fear turned to humor as her laughter rang out. The heavy wooden object was a piano.
“Untuned,” she said with a forced laugh. Cere put her back to the side and braced herself flat against it. With a cry worthy of karate class, she shoved as hard as she could. A loud screech of protest came from the rotting wood floor and the base of the heavy instrument, but it shifted. She took off her bag, set it on top and shoved her fingers behind the piano. Bracing herself again, she yanked it toward her.
Another screech and another halting move, but a gray band of light filtered into the room. Pushing her hand into the space between the piano and the wall, she tried to get a better grip. Maybe those workouts using weights could come in handy. Her wrist caught, and she struggled to pull free. She might be bruised by the time she got out, but she sensed progress.
Leaning over, Cere saw the edges of a boarded up window behind the piano. Sensing an escape route, she attacked the instrument with renewed vigor. Dust flew as the piano scraped against the floor, but it moved with each assault. After a few intense minutes, Cere managed to get the piano far enough from the wall to wedge behind it.
Her body felt battered by the time she reached the weathered boards blocking the window. Dim light was visible through slits between the boards. Night was falling outside. She jerked at a board, but it refused to budge. That didn’t deter her. Bracing her back against the piano, Cere kicked at the boards. The screeching sound of rusted nails giving way brought a sigh of relief. She was going to get out.
She drew her legs back and propelled them forward again. C-r-a-c-k. Those leg exercises were paying off too. Another thrust and wood began to splinter.
“Think of it as your evening workout.”
A few minutes of steady kicks freed enough boards so she could poke her head outside. A small glow of twilight remained on the western horizon. In a few minutes, darkness would swallow the valley. The only way out was to climb through the window and drop to the ground. It looked a long distance away, even in the gloom.
“I can do this.” Summoning courage, she hauled herself through the window. With a twist she gripped the window sill and stretched as far as she could down the stone side of the building. With a cry, she let herself drop.
One foot caught on a rock and twisted, tossing her down. She collapsed on her backside, but at least she was free.
Stars popped into the evening sky above her.
“Thank you, Marco,” she whispered.
Chapter Seventeen
Her ankle was tender as Cere struggled to her feet. Something grabbed at her ankles—tumbleweeds clawed at her. She jerked free, but their stickers remained, coming through her socks. Removing the prickly thorns didn’t work. It would be easier to remove her socks. She leaned against the buildi
ng and removed her shoes to take off her socks. She sensed a lecture from her mother when she got home. Freeda would probably find it funny as hell.
When Cere bent over to put her shoes on, the first went on easily, but as she fought with the second, her ankle buckled. She hopped away from the wall, lost her balance and fell backwards. Needles pierced her backside from her thighs to her waist.
Was there no end to this? She twisted and discovered she had tumbled into a cactus patch. She struggled to her feet, but despite her troubles a smile came to her face as a familiar sound became audible.
A car engine! This time she was certain. It grew louder, until twin spikes of light sliced through the parking lot.
Cere stumbled forward, waving, hoping for a carload of curious kids. They might laugh at her predicament, but maybe a girl in the group could pull the stickers from her sore backside.
The vehicle stopped, headlights blinding her. A door opened. “What the hell?”
So much for the carload of kids, she thought, wrinkling her nose as she picked up Rafe Tafoya’s deep voice.
“What are you doing here?” he demanded, walking toward her. He had changed from earlier. He wore jeans and a light colored shirt. A black cowboy hat rested on his dark hair.
“What are you doing?” she countered. “Playing sheriff and looking for kids to chase away?”
“Far from playing. I’m on duty, more or less. Your mother called when she found you gone. She figured you’d come out here.”
Cere didn’t know if she felt betrayed or relieved. “My mother knows me too well. I thought she had dinner plans. How did she know I was missing?”
“She didn’t say. She was concerned that you had disappeared and worried you might get lost.”
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