Blood Memory

by Margaret Coel

  “Rex?” She blinked at her, as if somehow they were now discussing the safety of her dog when it was Catherine’s safety that concerned her. “Of course you can bring him to the house,” she said finally. “He and Macy always have a good time together.”

  Catherine pulled back against the booth. “He can’t stay at the house either. The man who’s looking for me . . .” Marie winced at this. Catherine hesitated before she went on: “If he sees Rex in the backyard, he’ll think you know where I am.” God, this was crazy. Her mother could also be in danger. “I don’t want to give him any reason to suspect you know anything.”

  Marie lifted one hand, but before she could say anything, Catherine said: “I don’t want Rex in a kennel. I was thinking about that breeder where you got Macy.”

  “Lucille?” Marie nodded. “She has the space, long outdoor runs. I’ll call and arrange it.”

  A heavyset waitress in a white blouse with sleeves that dug into the flesh of her arms materialized next to the booth and set a foam box on the table, with a check on top. “What’s this?” Catherine said.

  “In case you didn’t have time for lunch . . .” Marie tried for a smile, but the worry lines kept breaking through. She extracted a couple of bills from her bag and set them on top of the check.

  “We’ll have a long lunch when this is over,” Catherine said. How well her mother knew her, she was thinking. She picked up the foam box and got to her feet. “Rex is in the car. I need you to take him now.”

  She waited until Marie slid across the vinyl seat and pulled herself upward. Shoulders squared and thrown back, the collar of her pink shirt stiff against her neck, she started for the entrance. Catherine fell in behind, conscious of the way the tap of their footsteps on the vinyl floor cut through the hum of conversations. She found herself glancing around the restaurant, looking for him. In one of the booths, sipping soup at the table on the left, reading the menu at the table on the right. She wasn’t sure she would know him—a figure blurred in the town house, slouched on the front seat of a brown sedan. He could be anyone.

  How long had it taken? she wondered. Two minutes to walk across the street to the convertible. A minute to find the leash in the backseat and slip it over Rex’s head. Another minute when she had bent her own head into the soft fur of his neck and told him good-bye. Then three minutes watching as Marie led him across the street to the parking lot, let him into the backseat of the Honda, and drove away. And did she imagine it, or was Rex watching her out the back window until the Honda disappeared through the trees and traffic? Another layer of her life peeled away, she thought, and then a terrible thought that sent a shiver of ice through her: she might never see her mother or Rex again.

  She turned the ignition, pulled away from the curb, and wound through the streets toward Speer Boulevard, forcing the thought away. She had to hold herself together, if she were to stay alive. She drove through the traffic-clogged streets until she was on I-70. Heading east, the houses and buildings of the city falling behind and the brown emptiness of the plains opening ahead. She passed the section of undeveloped land where the Arapahos and Cheyennes intended to build the casino and hotel. She could imagine the glass and steel structure spreading across the earth, visible for miles—the new buffalo, Whitehorse had said.

  At the airport, Catherine followed the sign that said Long Term Parking. She wedged the convertible between a van and a truck in one of the endless rows jammed with parked vehicles. She put the top up on the convertible, dragged the backpack and the laptop out of the trunk— her bag over one shoulder, the laptop case over the other—and walked away. Another part of her life tossed aside. She rode the airport shuttle, as if she were departing on a trip, a vacation in the Caribbean, a business conference. The shuttle stopped in front of the terminal, and she walked across the lanes of traffic—the honking horns, burr of idling motors, and whiffs of exhaust—divided by asphalt islands and got on another shuttle to the rental car lot. She chose the company with no line at the counter, told the clerk she wanted the rental for a week, and was about to hand over her credit card. She started to put the card back in her wallet. She would pay cash, she said, but the clerk had insisted on taking an imprint of the credit card. Company policy, he said, as Catherine had retrieved the card, lifted several bills out of the envelope in her bag, and pushed them across the counter. She hoped there would be no reason for the rental company to use the card. The man who knew everything might even know how to trace her credit card.

  Twenty minutes later, she was heading west on I-70 in a gray Taurus that blended with the asphalt, the downtown skyscrapers shimmering silver against the mountains in the distance. She exited on Colorado Boulevard and drove south. On a busy street past Cherry Creek, she spotted the sign in front of a hair salon that said “Walk-ins Welcome.” Inside a girl about eighteen with a tattoo on her neck, a silver ring in her eyebrow, and short, dyed black hair spiked on top, ushered Catherine to a swivel chair, wrapped a pink smock around her shoulders, cut off most of her hair, and turned it the color of sand. Nondescript and almost natural looking. Even her eyebrows had been turned the color of sand.

  Catherine had stared in the mirror at the transformation as it was taking place—strands of black hair floating down, littering the floor like a matted rug, the brush painting a yellowish gluelike substance over what was left of her hair, and all the time the girl talking on about how her poker-playing boyfriend was cheating on her. What would you think if you found a lady’s lighter in his shirt pocket? And finally, the blessed quiet under the heat lamp that cemented the new color into her hair.

  Catherine opened the Mirror. Dennis Newcomb’s byline jumped out under the first-page headline: “Tribes Demand Land for Casino.” She skimmed through the columns. Pretty much the story she should have written last night: rally of three hundred Native Americans on the plains near the Denver International Airport; $300 million Arapaho and Cheyenne casino, hotel, and culture center proposed on five hundred acres.

  According to Norman Whitehorse, Arapaho tribal member and rally organizer, the tribes were willing to settle the claim for twenty-seven million acres of Colorado lands in exchange for five hundred acres near the junction of two major highways, I-70 and E-470. Whitehorse said that the five-star hotel and casino would be a destination resort expected to attract thousands of guests each year. “The casino will give our people the economic security that ranches could have provided, had Congress distributed lands a hundred years ago in reparation for the injustices the tribes had suffered,” he told the Mirror.

  Developer for the hotel and casino complex is Peter Arcott Enterprises, a private company located in Denver that has built casinos on Indian reservations in three Western states. Arcott was unavailable for comment.

  The article trailed to the inside of the paper, and Catherine turned to page six. Here was something new:

  A spokesperson for Colorado’s senior senator, George Russell, stated that the senator believes Indian citizens have been neglected long enough. “He supports the land claims settlement and will do everything he can to help right the historic injustices to the Arapahos and Cheyennes.”

  Catherine realized that the spike-headed stylist had rolled the heat lamp away and was motioning her out of the chair. She folded the newspaper, followed the stylist to the back of the salon, and dropped onto the chair in front of a sink. She leaned back onto the hard knob of porcelain and felt the cool water splashing over her head, the stylist’s strong fingers massaging her scalp. Dennis Newcomb was ahead of her on the story with the quote from Senator Russell’s office. She had dropped the ball. Worrying about Maury, running to the ranch, looking over her shoulder—and Erik on the highway this morning! She was off her game. There had been no time yesterday to call Russell’s office.

  She was back in front of the mirror, the sandy hair flying under the dryer. Then her hair was patted into place, and Catherine stumbled out of the chair, thanking the stylist—for what? For erasing the last of her and
leaving in place a woman she had never seen before? “Looks really great,” the stylist called out as Catherine made her way to the front desk, plucked another bill from the envelope, and paid for her own erasure. She left a tip for the stylist. It wasn’t her fault; she’d done what she’d been asked, and she was good at changing people, a magician, really, wielding her magical paints and scissors.

  Catherine huddled behind the wheel in the rental car, giving herself a moment to get used to a new reality, this new life flowing over her. The engine purred, the air-conditioning spit out cool air that had a faint smell of dust. Finally she pulled her cell out of her bag. She found the number for Senator Russell’s office and asked to speak to Harry Colbert. The voice mail kicked in: “This is Harry Colbert. Leave your name and number.”

  “Catherine McLeod from the Journal,” she said. “I’d like to speak with the senator about his support for the Arapaho and Cheyenne land claims.” She gave him her number and pressed the end key. Then she scrolled through her messages: three calls from Bustamante, a call from Marjorie, another call from Violet. A call from unknown. She stared at the readout, unable to pull her eyes away. The phone felt slippery in her hand, and she had to tighten her fingers to hold on to it.

  She hit the select button and pressed the phone to her ear. Her heart was galloping. “Hello, Catherine.” How smooth his voice was, like that of the heartthrob on a soap opera or radio voice selling soap or toothpaste. No more stains on your clothes; whiten your teeth.

  “Say good-bye, Catherine.”

  She squeezed her eyes shut and clenched her teeth. For a moment she thought she would vomit, the acid biting her mouth. She swallowed hard. So this was who he was, a sociopath, a stalker. He was enjoying this.

  It was another moment before she scrolled past Bustamante’s name without listening to the messages and called his office. “Where the hell are you?” His voice was stiff with anger. “I’ve had an alert out for you. You were supposed to come here a couple of hours ago. What the hell’s going on?”

  “He called my cell,” she heard herself saying, as if her voice were disembodied, floating in the rental car like a wisp of cotton.

  “When?”

  “An hour ago. He’s taunting me. He wants me to crack. I’ll be an easier target then.”

  “And are you?”

  “An easier target?”

  “Come on, Catherine. I’m trying to help you here. Are you cracking?”

  “No,” she said. She wasn’t sure; it might be true.

  “You have to come in. The Jefferson County sheriff needs a statement about this morning.”

  “He knows everything, don’t you get it? He thinks I’ll go running to you. He’s watching police headquarters.”

  “We can trace the call. If he used a cell, we can pinpoint where the call came from.”

  “Look outside! A brown sedan, Nick. It’s parked somewhere on the street or in the lot. He’s out there. I can’t go anywhere he might be.”

  “All right, all right. Listen to me, Catherine. I’m going to talk to the district attorney about putting you in the witness protection program until we get this figured out. You have to trust me.”

  “Witness protection program? You don’t get it. I’m the only one who can figure out why he’s trying to kill me.”

  “What?”

  “What do you know about the Sand Creek Massacre?”

  “What makes you think that’s why he wants to kill you?”

  “You don’t know anything about Sand Creek, and that’s why you can’t help me.” Catherine could hear the sound of her breathing mingling with the hiss of the air conditioner. She had a profound sense of being alone, cut off from everyone and everything familiar, as if she’d been transported to a different planet. “I’ll call you when I figure out the rest of it,” she said, and hit the end key, cutting off Bustamante’s voice in midsentence—something about recognizing the danger she was in. A sense of angry impatience hung in the silence.

  She called the office and listened to the sound of the ringing, broken by Bustamante’s attempts to call her back. When the receptionist picked up, she asked for Violet.

  “Hey, Catherine.” Catherine could hear the forced cheerfulness in Violet’s voice. “I have the name of the company that owns the five hundred acres. Denver Land Company.”

  “Any names of principals?”

  “That’s all I could find. Just the name of the company. Is everything okay?”

  Everything was fine, Catherine said. She asked to speak to Marjorie.

  The cell went dead for a moment, then Marjorie’s voice: “It’s about time you called. Where was our story on the rally?”

  “I’m fine, Marjorie. Thanks for asking, and yes, I read the Mirror.”

  “Newcomb got to Senator Russell. Tell me you’ll have a new angle. An interview with Peter Arcott, I hope.”

  “How did you know?”

  “His office called this morning to confirm.”

  His office called. “Man? Woman? Who called, Marjorie?”

  “I don’t know. Does it matter?”

  “Yes, it matters. Did you give out my cell number?”

  “Hold on a minute.” The hum of the air-conditioning rushed into the quiet, then Marjorie’s voice again: “It was a man, and yes, we gave him your number. I hadn’t had any luck in reaching you, but I was hoping he would. We’re going to need that interview for your story.”

  Catherine took the cell from her ear. Her thumb found the end button and pushed hard. He knew everything about her, even the fact that she had an interview at four o’clock—twenty minutes from now, by the dashboard clock—with Peter Arcott at his office in the Equitable Building.

  He was there now, waiting for her.

  15

  Catherine left the Taurus in a parking lot and nudged her way onto the Sixteenth Street shuttle with the crowd of suits and briefcases and tight-lipped faces that had started spilling out of the skyscrapers at five o’clock. She got off at Stout Street, elbowing her way to the door— excuse me, excuse me—and walked the block to Seventeenth Street, glancing around as she went, keeping an eye on the traffic moving past, half expecting the brown sedan to draw close to the curb, the shadowy profile of the gunman at the wheel.

  The sun washed over the mauve stone of the Equitable Building sitting squat and imperious on the corner, much like the city’s founders who had occupied the building in the 1890s. The Equitable Life Assurance Company, an eastern company, had financed the building, in a display of financial confidence for a western city with dusty roads and cows grazing in the yards. It was the city founders who had convinced easterners to bring their money west. David Moffat had brought the First National Bank to the main floor of the Equitable. Companies owned by the other founders had occupied the upper floors, including SR Associates, the real estate and development enterprise started by Leland Stern and Ethan Russell. Everything about the Equitable exuded confidence and permanence and tradition, as well as a serene privacy, like a private club that admitted only select members.

  Catherine stepped past the double doors into a lobby of beige marble floors and walls, with sunlight streaming red, blue, and yellow through the Tiffany glass windows. The bronze elevator clanked to a stop, and lawyers and business types shouldered through the parting doors. Footsteps pounded across the marble to the exit. She slid between the closing elevator doors. Peter Arcott’s office was on the third floor.

  The elevator rose slowly, the relic of a slower time, Catherine thought. She leaned against the brass railing and tried to ignore the fun-house-mirror image of the woman with short, dark-blond hair floating in one of the brass panels. A freak, this figure, a construct made from bits and pieces of the woman she had once been. She didn’t recognize this new woman, running and hiding, looking over her shoulder. She’d found a business hotel not too far from downtown, wedged between office buildings and a restaurant. She’d signed in as Mary Fitzpatrick. It was odd how Fitzpatrick had bubbled up out
of some deep recess in her mind. And Mary. Mary could be anyone. She peeled several more bills from the envelope, enough for one night, and pushed them across the counter to the red-cheeked, pimply faced clerk in a black suit and white shirt with a collar that stood out around his skinny neck. He had asked for a credit card for incidentals. A precaution. Of course it wouldn’t be used. Reluctantly she had pushed the card toward him and explained that she was recently divorced, had changed her name, and hadn’t yet received the credit card with her new name. This was who she was now, she thought, a woman with sandy hair and a backpack with a story to explain everything, who preferred to use cash. In town for business, she’d told the clerk.

  The elevator jerked to a stop, and Catherine made her way down the wide corridor to the pebbly glass door with black lettering: Arcott Enterprises. The bronze door handle jammed in her hand. She felt her heart lurch. She had deliberately waited until Erik concluded she had no intention of keeping the appointment. She’d timed her arrival with the precision of the hunted: late enough for the gunman to have left, early enough for Peter Arcott to still be in the office.

  The handle moved downward, giving her a jolt of surprise. She stepped into an office the size of a small ballroom, the sweep of polished wood floor interrupted by plush Persian carpets and mahogany paneling that ran halfway up the walls. On the cream-colored walls above the paneling were large photographs of buildings that looked like hotels and casinos, blocks of steel and brick and stone, the names on discreet plaques. There was no one in the office, but the brown leather sofa and chairs on the left still held rumpled imprints and the upholstered chairs around the table on the right were pushed back, as if a meeting had just adjourned. At the far side of the office, across from the entrance, a mahogany desk stretched in front of a bank of beveled glass windows that fractured the daylight. Through the glass, the images of the building across the street looked wavy and blurred.