“Nah,” Chuy said. “She’s too old to sleep. She loves to talk anytime. Here’s how to get there. You go back to Isabel’s house and follow the ditch road. It’s the house on the other side of the field. Grandma Tey will be waiting for you.”
“Thanks,” Claire said.
“No problem. Now, if it’s all right with you, I have to get back to work.”
“Okay,” Claire said. She watched Chuy shuffle back to the blackjack table and lay down his chips. She finished her lemonade and walked out through the casino.
As she pushed the outside door open, feeling she was about to be released from a noisy prison, she was greeted by the fresh smell of rain. She put out her hand and felt the touch of a gentle rain, the kind the Navajos called a female rain. Where did it come from? she wondered. The clouds she’d seen hugging the Sandias earlier had not been rain clouds. Rain was always welcome in New Mexico and she opened her arms to it. “Hello, rain,” she said. If she were at home she would have stayed outside, watched it dance in her courtyard and let it wash away the sadness and the dust. She didn’t want to show up at Tey Santos’s house dripping wet, so she hurried back to her truck and clicked on her windshield wipers for the first time in months.
Chapter Seventeen
THE RAIN AND WIND PICKED UP SPEED as Claire drove through Bernalillo, forcing her to turn the wipers from intermittent to medium. Isabel’s death had been an undercurrent tugging at her emotions and her memory, but the minute she turned the corner onto Calle Luna it swelled into a wave. Death had a way of receding then rushing back whenever the memory of the deceased was reactivated. Claire thought of Isabel as a crushed butterfly, a bright and vibrant spirit who should never have died so young. Despair about her loss was mingled with frustration that the death seemed so pointless.
As Claire approached 625 she thought she saw a light flickering in a window. But when she reached the house, it was dark. She stopped and watched through the rain beyond the windshield wipers. Isabel’s presence was strong, but Claire saw no other vehicles and no activity around the house. The windows were all dark. The light might have been a reflection of her headlights or a projection of her imagination. It was dark enough here to give her second thoughts about visiting Tey. On the other hand, people were more likely to confide and agree in the intimacy of a dark, rainy night.
She drove to the end of the street and turned onto the ditch road that passed behind Isabel’s house. The road was made of dirt and was about as wide as the road into Tamaya, wide enough for one vehicle. But here she didn’t have the option of escaping into the desert. On one side there was a ditch full of water, on the other a drop off into the field that surrounded the house where Isabel died. The field had been bulldozed lower than the road so when the ditch water flowed in, it wouldn’t flow back out again. The road had the slickness of a surface that was about to turn to mud. The weeds stood high as a child beside the ditch. The arm of a cottonwood hung across the road, and branches full of wet leaves scraped the roof of Claire’s truck.
Visibility was poor in the darkness and the rain. Claire clicked on her brights, but that only deepened and lengthened the shadows. She thought she saw a shadow lumber onto the ditch road. She blinked trying to clear her imagination. The shadow turned toward her and she faced an SUV with the headlights off and darkness as a driver. The only lights along the ditch were her headlights and the SUV seemed drawn to them like a vengeful bat. Claire felt trapped in a high-stakes gamble. The SUV gave no indication of intent to stop or turn away. Braking might stop her truck, but it wouldn’t stop the oncoming vehicle. Her options were to dive into the ditch or into the field or to face a head-on collision. She was in a state of slow motion suspension, but the SUV was getting so close, she could almost hear it beating its wings.
She focused on the sounds and the feel of the dangers—the sickening impact and shattered glass of a crash or the splash and water pouring into the cab if she turned into the ditch. She swung the steering wheel toward the field. The truck lurched across the lip and stumbled into the field like a horse with a broken leg. While she struggled to regain control, it careened into a picnic table, smashing it to kindling. She swung the wheel to the left crashing into the trunk of a cottonwood. The glass on her side of the cab shattered on impact and fell to the ground. Her engine died. The headlights went out. Claire was all alone in the middle of the Santos’s field with no protection. She felt around the cab searching for her cell phone. Through the broken window she saw the SUV turn onto Calle Luna with its high beams on and continue down the road.
Claire found the cell phone and punched in 911. She gave her name and location to the operator, relayed what had happened and asked if it would be possible to send Detective Romero.
“We send whoever is on duty,” the operator replied.
Feeling like a stationary target inside the cab of her truck, Claire climbed out. If the SUV returned, she could disappear into the darkness on foot with the cell phone in hand. She left the truck behind, found her way to the portal of Isabel’s house and stood under it listening to the rain drumming the tin roof. In the heat of the day she wouldn’t have imagined that she could be so cold, so wet, so soon. She tried to see through the windows into the house, but it was darker inside than out. She shifted her weight from one foot to another searching for warmth, listening for any sound beyond the rain. She heard a rustle, a displacement of water beside the house. She heard motion, the jingle of a collar and Chuy’s dog came around the corner, poked her with a cold nose and began to lick her arm.
“Are you alone?” she whispered, grabbing his collar and holding tight, hoping the dog would provide some protection if a person came out of the darkness.
The next sound beyond the rain was the whine of a distant siren. As it got closer, she saw the lights of a Sheriff’s Department vehicle flashing like a strobe.
The car parked. Leaving the headlights on, two cops stepped out.
“Over here,” she called.
They turned their flashlights towards her, and she wondered if she looked as damaged as she felt.
“Are you all right?” a policewoman called. “I think so.”
Claire released the dog and he ran off to greet the police. As they approached Claire became more illuminated, but they disappeared into the darkness behind their flashlights.
“That’s a nasty cut you’ve got,” the woman said.
“Where?” Claire’s arm was covered in blood. “I didn’t even notice.”
By now the policewoman was at her side. The flashlights had turned away from Claire’s eyes and she could see how petite the woman was. She took hold of Claire’s arm and examined it. “It’s a nasty cut but it looks like a flesh wound. I’m Deputy Anna Ortiz and this is my partner Deputy Michael Daniels.”
Her partner was a burly man several inches taller than Claire with a pushy, aggressive manner. “What happened here?” he asked.
He moved in close while he questioned her, as if sniffing her breath. Drinking was an issue when someone drove off a road, but denying an accusation that hadn’t been made yet would do Claire no good. She kept quiet about her glass of wine.
“I was on my way to Tey Santos’s house on the ditch road when someone in an SUV pulled out of the field with no lights on and ran me off the road. I lost control of my truck when I turned and I hit the tree.”
“Why were you on this road?” Daniels asked.
“This is the way Chuy Santos directed me.”
“Chuy? How do you know him?”
“I knew Isabel. I came here to see her on the day she died. I’ve been talking to Detective Romero and Lieutenant Kearns about the case.”
“Is that right?” The deputy was standing too close invading Claire’s private space. “So what brought you here tonight?”
“Chuy sent me to talk to his grandmother. I thought I saw a light on in Isabel’s house as I drove down Calle Luna. As far as I know her death isn’t a closed case yet. Is there any possibility of getting
Detective Romero to come over and look at the house?”
“I’ll give him a call,” Deputy Ortiz said.
While they waited for Romero, the policewoman took Claire back to the car, turned on the inside light and began filling out a report. Daniels stayed outside circling the house and property with his flashlight, looking for evidence. He came back and said, “I saw SUV tracks climbing the embankment on the south side of the house. No sign of breaking and entering.”
Detective Romero approached quietly. He pulled up next to the police car, stepped from one vehicle to the other, and sat down in the back seat. He wore jeans and a T-shirt that emphasized his hard, muscular arms. His hair was cropped so short he appeared to be bald. He was younger than the police officers, but he took command with his soft-spoken manner.
“Are you all right?” he asked, examining Claire’s arm. “That’s a bad cut. Do you want me to take you to the emergency room or call a paramedic?”
“I’m okay,” Claire said. “It doesn’t hurt. I’ll clean it up when I get home.” The blood had clotted and caked, which stopped the bleeding. “I’m sorry to call you out at this hour.”
“No problem. Tell me what happened.”
He turned on his tape recorder and she repeated her story, wondering as she did whether she was giving it any change in emphasis or detail because he was the listener.
“So you think the attempt to run you off the ditch road was deliberate?” Romero asked.
“Yes. The SUV came right at me playing chicken. There would have been a head-on collision if I hadn’t turned off.”
“Did you see a license plate or anything else that would help to identify the vehicle?”
“It was big and black. That’s all I saw. I couldn’t even tell if it had a driver. There was nothing but darkness behind the wheel.”
“Did anybody know that you would be driving the ditch road tonight?”
“Chuy Santos knew. He told his grandmother. I don’t know whether he told anyone else.”
“When did you talk to him?”
“I saw him at the Santa Ana Casino about an hour ago. He had his cell phone with him. Someone called and he said ‘hey, bro’.”
“Anybody could be a brother to Chuy especially when he’s had a few drinks.”
True, Claire thought, but he only had one blood brother. “He sounded annoyed that he’d been interrupted.”
“Could you tell if Chuy had been drinking?”
“I don’t think so. He didn’t act drunk. He was drinking a Dr. Pepper while I talked to him.” She knew Detective Romero and didn’t mind raising the issue of her own drink with him. “I went to Tamaya before I met Chuy and had a glass of wine there with Warren Isles, one of the experts May Brennan recommended to Isabel. I’m sure it has worn off by now.”
“One glass of wine will keep you well below the legal limit. Did you tell Warren Isles where you were going?”
“No.”
“Did you see what kind of car he drove?”
“No.”
“Tell me why you were going to see Tey Santos.”
“I’ve been talking to a forensic anthropologist from the Smithsonian and he asked me to see if I could find someone in the Santos family who would allow them to do a DNA comparison to the skeleton’s DNA. I thought I saw a light inside the house as I drove down Calle Luna, but when I got here, it was off. Would you be willing to go inside to see whether anyone has been there?”
“Let’s do it,” Detective Romero said.
They left the car and walked across the yard with the cops trailing behind. Romero stepped around the house and turned his flashlight on the truck. It was the only truck Claire had ever owned, the trusty Chevy she bought right after she split up with Evan. It was her symbol of an independent new life, and she was more attached to it than a grown woman ought to be to a truck. Seeing it smashed, made her feel that she had failed. The damage to the truck bothered her far more than the gash on her arm.
“The front end is pretty beat up,” Romero said. “We need to get the vehicle towed back to the shop to investigate further. I can give you a ride home.”
“Thanks,” Claire said.
He had skeleton keys in hand when they reached the front door, but tried the knob before using them. The door swung open. He ordered Claire to stay outside, pulled out his weapon, stepped through the door and flipped the light switch. Deputy Daniels followed. Deputy Ortiz remained with Claire.
Romero called out “all clear” when the search was completed and Claire and Deputy Ortiz went inside. The house wasn’t as chaotic as it had been earlier, but it wasn’t orderly either. A rug had slid or been kicked sideways, the sofa pillows were askew, a closet door was open. Two candles on the mantelpiece had burned down, dripping wax all over their candlesticks and leaving a faint smell of smoke in the air. The mirror over the mantle was covered by a black cloth. Why? Claire wondered. So the glass wouldn’t reflect what had gone on here? She stared at the covered mirror. In the depths of the black cloth, which absorbed light rather than reflecting it, she saw an image of Isabel swaying like a reed in her platform shoes. She saw the golden butterfly embroidered on her shirt. She saw someone give Isabel a hard shove, but she didn’t see Tony Atencio. Was it the person in the SUV? Did Isabel have some thing or some knowledge that person wanted? She saw Isabel fall and hit her neck against the table. She saw her land on top of her purse. Claire cringed.
Romero tapped her shoulder with a light touch. “You okay?”
“Yes,” Claire said. “But being in this house reminds me of Isabel.”
“Her death was terrible,” he agreed. “It’s one of the old ways to cover the mirrors in black when a person dies as a sign of mourning.”
“I didn’t know that. Is Tony Atencio still in jail?” she asked.
“Yes.”
“The person in the SUV couldn’t have been him.”
“Not him, no, but it could have been one of his homeboys.”
They walked down the hallway. The mirror in the bathroom was also covered in black.
They moved on to the bedroom, which now resembled an archaeological dig. The bricks had been pulled out and stacked to the side and there was a deep hole in the middle of the room. Most of the dirt had been carted off. Romero sat on his heels and stared at the hole with his hand hovering over the dirt as if he longed to be digging in it himself but knew that was forbidden. The law that said digs were reserved for scientists wouldn’t have stopped a criminal. Claire saw signs of recent activity. There was sand on top of the remaining brick floor and marks that appeared fresh inside the dig.
“Has the OMI been here recently?” she asked Romero.
“I don’t know when they were here last,” he said.
“Harold Marcus with the Smithsonian told me he came out here with them a few days ago.”
“It might have been then.”
“Do you think whoever ran me off the road was here?”
“Someone was inside the house,” Romero said. “Someone lit the candles and let them burn down, but that could have happened hours ago. It could have been a family member. Let’s give the officers the opportunity to examine the house and I’ll take you home.”
Chapter Eighteen
THEY TOOK THE BACK ROAD THROUGH SANDIA PUEBLO and didn’t see another vehicle between Bernalillo and Albuquerque. The rain fell softly now and clouds scurried across the sky, indicating the storm was moving on.
“Best rain we’ve had all summer,” Romero said. “Only rain we’ve had all summer.”
“Usually I love the rain, but this was the wrong night to be out in it.”
“Tony Atencio is still our prime suspect, but if someone did go back to the house it might open other avenues of investigation. A connection between Isabel’s death, the robbery and the old bones would pretty much eliminate Tony. That’s a guy more interested in scoring drugs than in history.”
“He may have gone to the house after Isabel fell and taken advantage of an
opportunity. That would explain the fingerprints.”
“True.”
“Have you found a match for the fibers?”
“No. I hear you’ve been doing some historical research.”
“Some,” Claire admitted.
“What have you found out?”
“I told Lieutenant Kearns that Manuel Santos is the name of a man who witnessed the Inquisition of Joaquín Rodriguez. But that particular Manuel Santos went on witnessing Inquisitions after someone else named Manuel Santos arrived in New Mexico in fifteen ninety-eight.”
“It could be a son. The bones have been traced to the early seventeenth century by the OMI and the Smithsonian traced the cross to roughly the same period.”
“I hadn’t heard about the cross.”
“That’s the advantage of being a police officer. We get the good news first. We also get the bad news first.” Romero stared straight ahead at the road. Claire couldn’t see him well in the darkness but she imagined he smiled when he said that. “We can find out easily enough if those bones are Santos bones if the family agrees to DNA testing.”
“It was what I intended to talk to Tey Santos about. If she doesn’t agree, can you make the old bones part of the current investigation? Can you insist that the Santos family submits to DNA testing?”
“Not really,” Romero said. “There’s nothing to indicate the man under the floor died of unnatural causes. Even if there was a crime, it could be four hundred years old.”
“Is covering the mirrors a custom everybody followed in the old days?”
“I’ll ask my grandmother,” Romero said.
They reached the wide turn onto Tramway and Romero took it, heading east toward Claire’s house in the foothills. They passed the new Sandia Casino, an enormous building in the style Claire thought of as nuevo pueblo grande, a pueblo enlarged and embellished. She went to the casino once because the deck in the back was a good place to watch the full moon rise above the Sandias. She had to walk through the casino to reach the deck and was impressed by the high ceilings, the architecture, the decoration and the state-of-the-art air filtration system. It was the only casino in which she’d been able to breathe. If she was ever going to gamble, this was where she would go. But Santa Ana was expanding, too, and when it was finished it was likely to equal or outshine Sandia.
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