by Susan Slater
“You’ve got to see this.” Hank pointed toward the double gate at the back of the arena.
As both men watched, the gates opened and two young college students entered leading a magnificent Charolais that glistened silver in the overhead spotlights.
“Shortcake Dream?” Dan couldn’t believe it; he sat forward. This heifer was sparkling white with only the characteristic dark shadings on knees and hocks.
“How’d you get rid of the dye?”
“She’s been bodyclipped. But look how she’s filled out.” Hank leaned back. “That’s the best example of what this ranch is all about. I know he always said it, but I agree—she’s the best Billy Roland ever produced.” This last was said reverently. “What more could a man want than a living memorial to his work?”
Dan knew he didn’t have to say anything. Hank’s way to deal with the grief of Billy Roland’s death was to devote his life to maintaining, maybe improving, what his benefactor had started. Actually, the more he thought about it, it wasn’t a bad goal.
“What’s next for Shortcake Dream?”
“A few shows in the spring. Motherhood can wait until next year. Until she’s really ready.”
Hank was staring at the heifer with something akin to adoration. It was like Shortcake Dream was family. Dan hated to break the spell but he needed to find Eric.
“Did you happen to see Elaine Linden, or Eric, this afternoon?”
“Elaine was up at the house working on the study. But I think she’s out somewhere looking for that dog, now. I told her I thought he followed some folks over to the hangar a while back.”
“Guess I’ll head out that way.” Dan had the envelope of copies from the coroner’s office under his arm.
“Want to take Baby Belle? She’d like the attention.”
“Not a bad idea.”
The barns’ peripheral lights were on, some thirty spots strategically placed to illuminate work areas not under cover.
Dan was glad because the night was moonless, one of those velvety dark, “thick” nights with heavy clouds pushing in on the horizon.
Dan thought there was supposed to be a full moon hiding under all that fluff somewhere, but there was no hint of it now. It was only a little past eight; it could clear later.
Belle seemed spooked by everything, snapping twigs, crunch of the gravel in the drive, flapping of the flag against the pole in front of the house. He was just about to decide to take her back when she appeared to settle and trust his judgment. Probably just hadn’t been ridden in awhile.
He kept Belle to a slow trot, which wasn’t her most comfortable gait as his tailbone would tell him in the morning, but he had better control that way. As they crested the last in a grouping of small hills to the south of the house, Dan looked down on the runway and hangar still three-quarters of a mile away. It was ablaze with light.
Lights twinkled along the strip of asphalt as it stretched to the west. Could the Lear be ready to fly? He somehow didn’t think so. The hangar glowed a soft yellow through the small-paned windows along its side. The sight was eerie against the darkness of the night. Belle was snorting and side-stepping now, and it took all his determination to guide her down the incline.
“Must be some party,” he muttered to himself as he got nearer. And then he noticed what was odd, what must have been bothering Baby Belle. The lights in the hangar were flickering, winking, and wavering, causing shadows to drift across the windows.
“What the hell?” Dan now had to urge Belle forward, all the while talking encouragingly. He walked her around to the back and tied her to a utility meter next to one of the two ranch pickups parked beside the door. He started to slip the envelope out of his saddlebags, then decided to leave it; instead, he checked his revolver and felt better.
But not for long. Dan stepped into the domed metal building and, squatting to look under the carriage of the cargo plane, saw the candles. Some in tall glass holders with religious pictures on their sides, others in shallow dishes; they were placed to form the outline of a cross on the cement floor to the right of the front entrance.
Sitting in the center of the cross on a wooden straight-backed chair was Phillip Ainsworth, barefoot, hands resting on his knees, palms up, eyes unseeing, staring out of some hypnotic trance, a white handkerchief draped over his head. And around him in rhythmic motion moved a figure in flowing white robes who, as Dan watched, made the sign of the cross first at Phillip’s forehead, then his temples, elbows, palms, and feet.
Dan crept forward and crouched beneath the cargo plane and watched as the dancing figure turned his way. Dona Mari. But not the woman he was used to seeing; this one wore a crown of sparkling beads and tall plumy ostrich feathers over her braided silver hair, each cornrow caught at the end with a brightly colored, shiny bow. And more beads, strings of them hung from her neck and wound around her wrists and ankles. A surplice threaded with gold had been placed around her shoulders, its belled sleeves softening the jangle of her bracelets.
In the reduced light, filtered through the smoking candles, she looked beautiful, young, even. A high priestess from another land, another time. And she danced lightly, the springy steps of youth. He watched her turn, eyes closed, holding a brass plate full of fruit to the sky, an offering probably, before placing it at Phillip’s feet. Dan imagined how she must have looked standing beside her Voodoo priest-husband years ago. Was she carrying on his traditions? Or, like he suspected, had brought in help to carry them on?
He hadn’t seen the figure also in white sitting cross-legged in the shadows about twenty feet in front of him until the drumming began. A slow mesmerizing beat just a fraction of a second slower than a normal heart. The sound seemed to reverberate in the steel building, and he thought he felt his own heart slow to match the echo. It would be easy to fall into a trance; he took a deep breath and continued to stare at the back of the drummer’s head. The hair was just a shade or two lighter, now a white-blond, but the gold cord that nipped the white satin robe at the waist belied the dynamite body of Iris Stuckey-Eklund.
The Wings of the Dove must have taken on a new dimension. Was he surprised? Maybe not. Religious extremes in the name of whatever deity seemed to meld, to attract the same sort of converts, offer the same rewards. He was probably watching some guarantee that Phillip Ainsworth would be elected governor. He just wished he had a camera. He wondered how much a picture of all this would be worth to the candidate?
The tug on the sleeve of his jacket all but made him lose control of his bladder. He was reaching for his gun when the figure behind him hissed, “Dan, it’s me. Carolyn.” With a finger to her lips, she motioned for him to follow her outside.
The cool clear air felt like a slap after the murkiness of the hangar. The full moon had poked through the clouds to hang low in the night sky. He leaned against the steel building and took several deep breaths. Carolyn didn’t say anything, just watched him.
“What the fuck is going on in there?”
“There’s no need to curse—”
“It’s bad enough I find out you dropped your drawers for Eric Linden eight years ago. Now, I find out you’re into some kind of hocus-pocus.”
He heard her sharp intake of air. The Eric Linden thing. Good. Didn’t he owe dear old Sis a few? A payback for insinuating that he was a regular at the Ranch. That he had to pay for sex.
“It’s a cleansing.”
Was she going to ignore his reference to Eric?
“What does that mean?” He motioned to the hangar behind him.
“It’s an act to purify—”
“I know what the word means, Carolyn. I want to know what’s going on.” He didn’t even try to keep the anger and impatience out of his voice. He kept thinking this kind of thing goes on all the time in California, but this is New Mexico. But hadn’t people told him that healings were common out here? That Santa Fe was a second L.A.?
“I’ve been a believer, follower, of certain aspects of the Santera. Their herb
al treatments are better than any homeopathic care I’ve ever had. Over the years I’ve persuaded Phillip to try some of the…cures. I believe it has strengthened our marriage.”
“So in the name of homeopathy you drug your husband and let women in white robes dance around him and beat on a drum?”
“Hypnotized. He isn’t drugged.” Then she added, “You weren’t supposed to see this.”
“What kind of an answer is that? Does ‘not seeing’ make whatever is going on in there right?”
“Why does everything have to come down to right or wrong? Can’t people think differently than you do and still be okay in your assessment? You’re too judgmental, rigid, if you want to know what I think.”
He ignored the “judgmental” and decided he’d give some thought to the “rigid” part later.
“Where’s Elaine and Eric?” For the moment, it was easier to change the subject.
“Elaine may have started home by now. She was out chasing down Simon about a half hour ago over by the woods. And Eric could still be with Judge Cyrus.”
“What’s the judge doing here?” He asked the question and tried to stop the tiny finger of fear from skipping up his spine. “He’s overseeing the transfer of the estate to the university. The trust is at Midland Savings and Loan. He’s been spending a lot of time out here. We’re all pitching in. I’m bringing Dona Mari out twice a week to clean and help pack.”
“I’ll check the house again.”
“Dan…don’t mention any of this to Phillip later.” She gestured toward the hangar. “He won’t remember anything when he comes out of the trance, and I’m afraid your descriptions might upset him.” Her voice had that whiny, wheedling tone he hated, but she didn’t wait for his answer, just hopped down from the fender of the pickup and walked back through the door.
Dan watched her go then untied Baby Belle. He was glad he had an excuse to leave. He had a problem with candles and feathers and women in white robes. And he guessed if that made him rigid, so be it. For not the first time in his life, he wondered how in the hell Carolyn had ever gotten to be his sister.
The moon had slipped behind the bank of clouds again, but the runway flanked by a hundred lights kept the night from closing in on him with its blackness. He was just trying to decide whether to go back up to the house to look for Eric and Elaine when he saw a flicker of lights at the edge of the trees and felt Belle stiffen.
Fifty feet from where they were standing, the dense stand of cottonwood and elm marked the beginning of the woods. The infamous woods that held the secrets of things done on altars…. He didn’t let himself finish the thought but swung into the saddle and kneed Belle into a canter. It might be nothing; then again, it might be best to check it out.
He guided Belle behind the hangar and into the dark to approach the woods from the south, through the waist-high brush that formed a marsh of sorts during wet springs. Horse and rider would be concealed, not totally but enough as to not attract attention. But he had a feeling that the owners of the flashlights were long gone, now deep in the trees and concentrating on other things. But where was Elaine? Could she be over there somewhere chasing down Simon?
He slowed Belle to a walk at the edge of the woods, then slipped to the ground and tied her to a clump of scrub oak. He’d have to find his way on foot; the horse would make too much noise. He wasn’t sure he knew where he was going. He remembered the first time he was here, the group had followed the stream, so he worked his way to the right until he found the narrow ribbon of water, still barely a trickle, and, sticking to the shadows of the bank, hurried south.
Chapter Twelve
“The god-damned runway wouldn’t be lit up like Christmas if somebody didn’t expect something big.” Roger flicked on the flashlight to read his watch.
“I hope you’re right. Seems like we’ve been sitting out here forever.” Tom shifted his weight and continued to clean his binoculars.
“Only an hour. It’s a quarter to nine.”
“You got to be kidding. Didn’t think I could get this stiff and cold in an hour.”
“We’ll sit out here as long as it takes.” Roger’s voice had an edge to it, but he didn’t care. They had been all set to get out of New Mexico, next assignment was hinted to be Seattle, when a street drop totaling about ten million turned up in Houston. And it was suggested that they give the ol’ airstrip the benefit of another week’s close surveillance.
“Want some trail mix?” Tom was picking through the bag to find all the almonds.
Roger waved him away. The black theatrical makeup itched after it dried and on top of a close shave drove him almost nuts by stinging.
“Think you can do without me for a few minutes? Nature calls.” Tom stood and shook a half dozen errant raisins from the creases in his camouflage jacket before grabbing a flashlight and heading toward the streambed.
“Keep that light aimed at the ground.” Roger heard himself sounding peevish. Well, damn it, he was. All the accolades had slipped away. Eric Linden had turned out to be a bomb. Didn’t have any more information than the next guy on drugs being smuggled into this country by way of the Double Horseshoe. Every lead had turned to shit, that sheriff, the wife. Roger no longer thought that sitting out here in the cold and damp would make a difference.
Then, tonight, the runway lights had been on, and Roger allowed himself a glimmer of hope, a second thought about promotion. He picked up the discarded trail mix and ate a date.
He heard something thrashing around in the brush toward the stream. They had surprised a wild pig earlier. Maybe Tom had peed on something that didn’t appreciate it. Roger chuckled.
Suddenly, Tom came stumbling through the thicket, his fly still open.
“Rog…Come quick. I need some help.”
“What…?” Roger was instantly on his feet and followed Tom, who was moving quickly back the way he had come.
“I had to hit someone. He scared the piss out of me.”
“Who?”
“That insurance guy, Dan, what’s his name, Mahoney. But that’s not all, there’s some god-damned huge dog that won’t let me near him.”
By now the two of them had reached the slumped body of Dan Mahoney lying under the watchful eye and bared fangs of an enormous Rottweiler.
“What’d you hit him with? He’s out cold.”
“Just these.” The field binoculars sported a bent rim on one lens.
“Get some water. Help me bring him around.” Just maybe if Dan Mahoney was sneaking around these woods, they were onto something big. How many times had Roger been in the right place, right time? Could this be his lucky night?
“Come on, boy. I’m your friend. Just let me help your master.” A snarl indicated that the dog didn’t believe him.
“What are we going to do?” Tom had returned with a dripping handkerchief.
“You got anything beside the trail mix?”
“Hey, maybe I do.” Tom was rummaging in the pockets of his field jacket. “Beef jerky.”
“Let me have some.” Roger pulled a six-inch piece of dried meat from the packet. The dog was definitely interested. He licked his chops once, then drooled, mouth slightly open; but his expression had changed. The eyes that followed Roger’s every move were softer, the eyes of a hungry puppy.
“Here you go, pal.” Roger held out an inch of the treat in the palm of his hand and the dog looked uncomfortable, shuffled back and forth, half-standing, whined, then lay down.
“Why don’t you try to go closer? Go to him so’s he won’t have to leave Mahoney.” This from Tom, who was standing in back of him. Roger thought of letting Tom try since he was so know-it-all brave, but he didn’t, he crept closer himself, still keeping the jerky outstretched in front of him. And it worked. As long as he was being fed, they could get close to Dan.
“Hope the jerky lasts until we can get him to come around.”
Tom pulled Dan to a sitting position and applied the handkerchief that he’d dipped in the
stream to the back of Dan’s head. The dog glanced at him but apparently decided that he wasn’t hurting Dan and turned back for another treat.
“How’s he doing?” Roger had exactly two strips of jerky left.
“Back among the living.”
Dan opened his eyes, shut them, then kept them open and looked from Tom to Roger to the dog.
“Simon, where’d you find Al Jolson…two of them?”
***
When Carolyn had called that morning to ask for her help, Elaine jumped at a chance to take Simon to the ranch. Someone was needed to go through Billy Roland’s personal items, including books, and take an inventory of what was there, especially in the study, and then box up books that would be appropriate for the Tatum library. A few family friends were being asked to help over the next couple weeks. Dan had gone to Albuquerque and would be late. Why not help out if she could?
It was a perfect day, warm and clear; she arrived at the Double Horseshoe just after lunch. She left Simon at the barns. Hank said he thought he’d be fine, and he’d keep an eye on him. She unloaded her car, book boxes, labels, pens, tape, everything she’d needed when she had moved her office last year. She stuck a six-pack of Diet Coke in the fridge and after surveying the kitchen was glad she’d thought to bring something to drink.
The library was dusty. First, she opened the blinds and a couple windows, and felt immensely better. The room smelled fresher. The whole house was beginning to suffer from being shut up. She spent an hour running the vacuum she’d found in the hall closet, then aligned the empty boxes against the walls and began to pull down a row of books.
Sometimes, she’d give in to temptation and sit and read from some author that caught her eye. Billy Roland had a little of everything, best-selling paperbacks, a turn-of-the-century leather bound set of Goethe, two complete sets of Shakespeare, the Comedies and Tragedies; one wall held nothing but law, economics and farm management books, she’d leave that till last. It was at least a week’s work; she’d volunteer to come back.