Land of Burning Heat

by Judith Van GIeson

  A branch snapped in the woods. As she swiveled sideways to see, she heard the crunch of gravel behind her. She turned in that direction and saw a swirling shadow or a person hiding under the hood of a cape.

  “What do you want?” she cried.

  The figure raised its arm holding something in its hand. A bat? A branch? She watched it with a strange sense of detachment. This can’t be happening to me, Claire Reynier, a voice inside her brain said. Then the weapon came down hard on the place where her shoulder met her neck. The blow knocked her to the ground. As she fell, her purse was yanked from her arm and her keys dropped out of her fingers. She saw the golden glow of Tamaya flickering through the trees and then it went out.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  SHE CAME TO IN THE DIRT WITH A BRANCH BESIDE HER HEAD and the feeling she’d been dragged into a place with oversized trees toppled upside down and illuminated by lights. From where she lay the twisting shapes looked more like roots than branches. She had no idea how long she had been out. She tried lifting her head from the ground and felt a sharp pain in her shoulder and a dull pain in her head. She rolled over onto her stomach, hoping to get to her knees and raise herself from that position. She heard distant laughter, saw the lights from the deck and thought there must be a party somewhere. Then she remembered she had come to Tamaya to talk to Warren Isles. Someone had attacked her on the gravel path, but there was no gravel beneath her now, just soft dirt created by millenniums of floods. She got to her knees. The pain in her right shoulder was intense. She pushed with her left hand and sat up. There was enough light from the trees to see that her purse was not in the dirt beside her.

  Was it possible someone had attacked her just to steal her purse? She tried to remember what she had heard or seen of the thief, but all she could recall was the sense of a shadow in motion. What had happened to her keys? They’d been useless for defense, but she needed them to get into her truck. She crawled along the ground using her left arm and her knees like a three-legged animal, heading for the direction where the path should be, stopping periodically to run her hand across the dirt and feel for the keys. It was slow and uncomfortable going not knowing whether her assailant would return. She heard footsteps crunching the gravel up ahead, the sound of someone running. She saw the shape of the runner just beyond the trees. She thought of calling to him but feared he could be her assailant.

  At least she’d learned where the path was. She crawled to it, feeling for her keys, making her way around fallen twigs and branches. The path became visible with scuff marks in the gravel from boots and shoes. She remembered she’d fallen near the edge of the woods and headed in that direction. Crawling on the path made her too visible and the gravel scraped her hand and knees so she crawled beside it in the dirt. She came to a spot where the gravel had been brushed aside, reminding her of the sliding marks of children making angels in the snow. This was where she’d fallen, but she hadn’t really fallen. She’d been surprised and knocked down just like Isabel Santos had been. This attack may have had more to do with Isabel Santos than with anything in her purse.

  She felt around the edges of the scuff marks, reaching onto the path and into the woods until her hand landed on the jagged edges of her keys. “Yes,” she whispered. She picked them up, crawled back into the woods and considered what to do next. There was a tiny flashlight at the edge of her key chain but she hesitated to use it and call attention to herself. She had to ignore the part of her that wanted to curl up in a ball and hide here like a wounded animal. She could scream for help, but that might attract the wrong person. She needed to get to the cell phone in her car and call Jimmy Romero; she trusted him more than anybody inside Tamaya.

  She pressed her back against the rough bark of a cottonwood and worked her way up until she reached a standing position. Getting there was painful but once she was standing she reached a sort of equilibrium. She straightened her spine and neck, and her shoulder and head didn’t hurt so much. She took a step forward. Her head spun and she leaned back against the tree. When her head cleared she took a second step and then another. There were plenty of trees to lean on when she got dizzy. With this thought in mind she worked her way through the Bosque along the edge of the field stepping from one tree to the next, aiming for the parking lot and the shelter of her truck.

  Ahead of her something flapped in the wind. A solid shadow took shape among the sinuous Bosque branches. Had her assailant returned in the cape? She pressed herself against a tree. The shadow moved, caught a breeze, became a bad memory. Claire tried to blend into her cottonwood. The wind lifted the edge of the shadow and beneath it she saw the limbs of a tree, not the limbs of a person. Someone had disposed of the cape by tossing it over a branch. She went to the branch, picked up the cape and found her purse lying on the ground beneath it. She took the cape and the purse with her, planning to wait until she was inside her truck before examining them.

  Where had her assailant gone? she wondered. Back to the hotel, to a vehicle in the parking lot, or was that person still in the woods? She remembered the cavalier coyote trotting across the field totally oblivious to its audience. Her neck hurt but she felt less woozy now, less in need of a tree to lean on. She had to cross the field to get to her truck and she stepped into the open space. She was outside the circle of the light and the people on the deck were within it. They couldn’t see her but she could see them. She was close enough that if she screamed they might hear. In the field she could see if anyone was coming.

  She walked across the open space, glad now that she had parked at this end of the lot. She approached with her keys between her fingers, since the shape of a vehicle could be concealing her assailant. The keys hadn’t worked earlier, but it was the only protection she had. When she reached her truck, she inserted the keys in the lock, pulled the handle and let herself in. She didn’t want to call attention to herself by turning on the overhead light. Using the light on the end of her key chain, she looked through her purse. Her checkbook was there and so was her wallet. Her credit cards and driver’s license were all in place. Only the $50 she’d been carrying in cash was missing. Had cash been the motive or had the thief been looking for something else?

  Claire took an aspirin from her purse and washed it down with the bottled water she kept in the truck. She beamed the light over her clothes then on the reflection of her face in the rear view mirror. Her forehead was scratched and bruised. There was dirt on her hands and knees, twigs and leaves in her hair, the alarm of the hunted in her eyes. She couldn’t go inside Tamaya looking like prey.

  Her watch said it was close to nine, an hour more or less since she’d been attacked. How much of that time had she been unconscious? Long enough for her assailant to drag her off the path and into the woods. Long enough to cause a rupture in the artery of awareness. She wondered what the thief had done during the past hour? Driven away, gone deeper into the woods, returned to Tamaya?

  She picked up her cell phone and held it in her hand, knowing she should call Detective Romero but not wanting to reveal she’d been attacked once again with no proof. She didn’t want to be seen as a person who couldn’t get out of harm’s way, or even worse as a woman capable of imagining she was in harm’s way. She wanted to give Romero something other than shadows to go on. A description of the assailant or the assailant’s vehicle would help. A license plate number would be even better. It was possible the assailant’s vehicle was still in the lot. No one would have walked all the way to Tamaya to attack her.

  She started her truck, turned on the headlights, stepped on the gas and drove at a snail’s pace to the end of her row in the parking lot. The leg on the gas pedal had a tremor. Her shoulder hurt when she turned her head. Negotiating a parking lot could be almost as difficult as driving in heavy traffic. You never knew when another driver would do something unpredictable or back out of a space without warning. The rows were narrow and dangerous. But Claire drove so slowly if anything happened it would be a bump and not a crash. She
saw safety in the number of vehicles in the lot. Most were empty but any one might contain a witness.

  When she reached the end of her row, Claire turned and drove down the next one, then she turned again making a series of hairpin turns while she searched the lot. Her eyes were drawn to black SUVs. There were almost as many here as there were white rental cars at the airport, too many for any one to stand out. They came in many brands: Izuzu, GMC, Chevy, Ford, Subaru, Honda, BMW. She saw New Mexico plates, Colorado plates, Arizona plates, Texas plates, California plates. She saw no way to identify the SUV that had run her off the road if it was even here.

  She was ready to give up and dial Detective Romero’s number when she thought she saw someone she recognized step out of the jitney transporting guests from the hotel to their vehicles. It was a row away so it was hard to be sure. The person clicked a remote and turned on the lights of a vehicle, but it wasn’t a black SUV. It was a medium-sized white car similar to the one Claire had rented. The driver got into it and began to back out of the parking space.

  Not wishing to be seen Claire turned off her lights. The car headed for the exit road. She pulled out, too. When the car turned left at the road, she followed. As soon as she turned onto the narrow road she flipped on her high beams making it harder for the other driver to see and identify her truck. She forgot about the tremor in her leg and the pain in her shoulder as she negotiated the road that was barely wider than her Chevy. Her thoughts were on getting the license plate number and how fast she could go without spinning off the road into the desert. When she reached the 17 miles per hour sign she was doing 25 and not getting any closer to the car. When she picked up speed, it did, too, making it difficult to narrow the gap between them and get close enough to read the plate. Claire slowed down and let the gap grow, hoping the car might go slower if the driver didn’t feel pursued, hoping to catch up at the stop sign.

  By the 27 miles per hour sign she was three or four car lengths behind. She negotiated the last curve and stepped on the gas planning to read the plate when the car stopped. But the other driver ignored the stop sign, swinging wide and turning onto the two-lane road. Holding her breath, Claire clutched the steering wheel and swung wide, too. One wheel teetered on the place where the desert met the road but she held tight and straightened out again. The white car picked up speed—50, 55, 60. This road was wider and straighter than the other one. Claire could go faster here but not this fast. She looked down at her speedometer—65 and not gaining an inch. Feeling connected to this car by a tether, she tried slowing down again, lifting her foot from the pedal, falling behind, remembering that there was a traffic light ahead at Route 44 that was impossible to ignore.

  For the first time ever she was pleased to see a red light. The white car had stopped and there was no one between them. She was almost close enough to read the numbers when the light turned green. The car sped through and turned left onto 44. Claire followed. Cars were feeding into Route 44 from 528 and the traffic became her ally. She blended into the flow and closed in on the white car, which could only go as fast as the traffic allowed. When she thought she was close enough to read the plate, she swung into the white car’s lane, got behind it and read the critical numbers. She repeated them out loud a few times and then over and over silently until they were etched in her brain. She dropped back and let other vehicles fill the space between her and the white car. There was no need to be bumper to bumper now, only to be close enough to see where the car turned off.

  She watched it head south at I-25, then she turned onto the road that led to the cemetery, parked and dialed Detective Romero’s cell phone number.

  “This is Claire Reynier,” she said when he answered the call.

  “Hey. Are you all right?”

  She relayed what had happened and gave him the license plate number. It was a relief to get it out of her mind and into his. “The car turned south on I-25,” she said. “It looked like a rental car. It could be headed for the airport.”

  “We’ll stop it and question the driver. Wait for me there.”

  “I’m too exposed here,” Claire said. “Do you have permission to operate on the Santa Ana Pueblo?”

  “Yeah. They’re too small to have their own force.”

  “Then I’ll meet you at Tamaya.” Claire hung up before Romero tried to change her mind.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  WHEN SHE GOT BACK TO THE HOTEL she parked as close to the door as she could and accepted the ride offered by the jitney driver. The well-dressed couple on board looked at her with the distaste reserved for bag ladies and rodents. Her trump card for respectability had always been that she was a middle-aged woman but it wasn’t working with them. They were middle-aged, too, and infinitely more respectable right now than she was. The couple squeezed into the corner, getting as far away from her as possible. The driver passed the bronze fountain and parked in front of Tamaya’s entrance. A fire burned in the outdoor fireplace. Claire wanted to stand in front of it and absorb its warmth, but she went to the shop instead.

  The clerk gave her a wary welcome. Guests might come here after a round of golf but not after crawling through the Bosque. Golf wasn’t a contact sport.

  Claire improvised. “I was in a minor car accident,” she said. “I’m meeting someone for dinner and I can’t show up looking like this. Could I buy some clothes, wash up and change?” Her purse dangled from her shoulder. She took it off and rested it on the counter in front of the clerk. The only card she held now was Visa.

  “Okay,” the clerk replied.

  Claire picked some dresses off the rack, tried them on and bought the first one that fit. It was denim with a broomstick pleated skirt, silver buttons on the bodice and Lots of Santa Fe Style, more of a disguise than a dress. She thought this might be a good time to step out of character.

  “That’s an improvement,” the clerk said as she rang up the sale.

  The dress was too expensive but Claire paid the price, went to the ladies room, washed up, massaged her sore shoulder, dressed, combed her hair and put on some makeup. She put her own dress in the bag the store provided and walked out to the lobby to wait for Detective Romero. She was surprised to see him already there, standing by the entrance wearing the Sheriff’s Department uniform that made him hard to ignore.

  “Ms. Reynier?” he asked.

  “You got here fast,” she replied.

  “I was in Placitas when I got your call. You look different. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

  “I was a mess. I had to buy some new clothes.” Just in case he had any doubts she opened the bag to show him the dirty dress she’d been wearing when she was attacked.

  “Warren Isles is registered,” Romero said. “He took a room for the night, but he’s not there. I need your help to find him. I don’t know what the guy looks like.”

  “He looks plump and prosperous,” Claire said.

  “Everybody here looks like that.”

  “Let’s try the bar,” Claire suggested.

  As they walked through the living room and into the bar, the hotel guests pulled back when they saw a police uniform. Romero didn’t seem to notice, but Claire did. She supposed he’d gotten used to being treated like an unwelcome intruder. Fires burned in the fireplaces on the deck. People sat in the light drinking and laughing. They were the golden, privileged people who seemed so remote when Claire was in the Bosque. Now that she’d joined them they appeared more human.

  Warren Isles wasn’t in the bar and she didn’t see anyone else she knew.

  “Let’s try the restaurants,” she said.

  They walked down the stairs to the medium-priced restaurant, which was framed by layers of stone that reminded Claire of the ruins of Chaco Canyon.

  “This is a beautiful place,” Romero said.

  There weren’t many diners left at this hour. They circled the room but didn’t see Warren Isles. They went outside and followed the path to Corn Maiden, the more expensive restaurant, which was still h
alf-full. Did people who paid more eat later or linger longer? Claire wondered.

  She picked out Warren as soon as they stepped into the restaurant. He sat alone at his table in a chair that faced the door. There was no one left at the adjacent tables. The ceiling light was overhead. His skin had a ruddy tone as if he’d played golf that afternoon or taken a sauna. His hair seemed slick, maybe even damp. It was possible he’d attacked her, taken a shower, dressed and come here for dinner. He’d had time. When he saw her approach he looked at his watch.

  “That’s him,” Claire said.

  There was a sleek attaché case at Warren’s feet, an expensive and nearly empty bottle of wine on the table, a clean plate. He had a full and self-satisfied glow. He smiled his half-moon smile as they approached.

  “Claire,” he said. “Didn’t we have an appointment for six-thirty?”

  “I was here at six-thirty,” Claire replied, “and was told you were unavailable and would meet me at eight.”

  “Really? I didn’t leave that message. I was in the lobby then waiting for you. Nice dress. The color becomes you. I’m Warren Isles,” he said.

  “Detective Romero,” the detective replied.

  “Have a seat. Please.” He waved his hand at the empty chairs around the table. “The salmon is superb. I recommend it.”

  Claire wanted to sit down but Detective Romero remained standing, hovering over the table, and she followed his lead.

  “I brought a document here that I thought would interest you,” Warren said to Claire. “I heard talk in Santa Fe that you were looking for a Historical Journal of the Americas.”

  Her proximity to the food, the wine and Peter’s article made Claire feel weak and famished. “May I see it?”

  Warren flipped his half moon smile into a fake frown. “I don’t have the journal any more. You didn’t show up and I had another customer.”