“Jack? Nils Anders. Listen, I’ve got a question. Can you check the missing persons roster for Idaho and Colorado? . . . Don’t know the name, but she’s around seventeen, very blond”—he leaned closer to look at Andi—“gray-green eyes, noticeably pretty.” Nils smiled at Andi, who flushed, then looked away. “Get back to me on that, then, will you? It would have happened about four months ago, late January, say . . . Thanks. . . . What? Oh, some people I know coming through Santa Fe said the daughter of a friend of theirs in Idaho Falls or one of those places. . . . Yeah. . . . Thanks.” He hung up, said, “He’ll get back to me.”
Mary clamped her hand to her forehead. “Why didn’t we think of that?” She looked over at Andi.
“Because we don’t think in terms of getting information from the police, only in giving information to them. That still doesn’t dispose of the possibility—I mean, even if he says nothing’s on the board about it. It might not have been reported.”
“How couldn’t it have been?”
Nils shrugged. “People do strange things. And we don’t know enough to reach any conclusions. Still, if Oñate says the cops have no knowledge of a missing person answering to that description, then this man was very likely lying. Look, Andi”—and here he sat forward—“you really should tell someone about this. It’s too much of a burden to carry by yourself.”
“I did tell someone. I told her—” Andi nodded toward Mary. “I told you.”
Nils Anders sighed. “Yes. Okay. You got away back in January. Where’ve you been all this time?”
“In the mountains. The Sandias. I came across an empty cabin. I’ve just been living there. I like it.”
Anders frowned. “My God. It was a rough winter. What did you do for fuel? Not to mention food.”
“Whoever it belongs to had logs stacked up on the porch. And a lot of dry food, beans and stuff. There’s a store twenty or thirty miles away I know, so I hitch rides and go there for supplies when I need them. I’ve got money. I got it from his coat that he left in the room. I can pay the people who own the cabin back.”
“I wasn’t especially concerned about reimbursing the owners. But I am concerned about you. You’re as determined as she is.” He nodded toward Mary.
Mary didn’t care whether it was meant as a criticism; she took it as a compliment. “She saved the lives of a couple dozen coyotes, a fox cub, and a rabbit. They were trapped.”
Andi looked embarrassed.
Anders regarded Andi for some time. “Leghold traps?”
Andi nodded, said nothing.
“Well. Freeing coyotes. Like Sunny.” He looked at Mary.
He was always arguing about Sunny’s pedigree. “Part, maybe. Have you ever seen a tame coyote?” She answered her own question. “No.”
“Who said Sunny was tame?”
Mary rolled her eyes as the phone rang. Nils snatched it up, said “Hello,” and then listened. “Okay, thanks.” He replaced the receiver and said to them, “Jack Oñate—one of our state police—said as far as he can get information, there’s been no missing girl reported in either Idaho or Colorado.”
Andi’s smile was a little uncertain. “Then I guess I’m wrong. I’m not missing.”
“Not missing in Idaho, perhaps. Not reported missing.”
“But how could she go unreported?” asked Mary.
“There are other scenarios. Say, for instance, Andi’s parents have gone somewhere else—Europe, maybe—leaving her by herself. And if there are people used to seeing her around, then perhaps they could be under the impression she went with her parents. What about the bed-and-breakfast owner?”
“What about her?”
“Don’t you think she could give you some information?”
“But she already has.”
“I doubt that what she’s told you is all she knows. I don’t mean she’s deliberately keeping back information, but she didn’t really set her mind to recalling everything. He must have talked to her for some time to have that effect on her. He might be a person who enjoys danger. Who gets off on seeing how much he can get away with without getting caught.”
Andi looked at Mary. “We should talk to her again.”
Nils held up his head. “Whoa, Andi. I don’t think either of you should do one damned thing—what’s the matter?” He looked up at Andi, who had risen as if to leave.
She said, “I got away from him; I managed to get to the mountains; I’ve been taking care of myself, alone, for four months. Why do you act like—just because I’m”—she paused—“seventeen, well, why do you think I can’t go to the bathroom by myself? But thanks anyway; I know you’re trying to help.”
Mary stared after her as she walked out. She looked from the empty doorway back to Nils Anders.
He said, “You two should get on like a house afire.”
13
Another car passed, whipping up their dark and light hair, blowing it across their mouths and eyes.
“I just don’t know why I didn’t think of it,” said Andi, sweeping her hand back, thumb extended. The next car was a rusted-out Olds that must have been carrying seven or eight Indians. They all waved.
“Going back to that bed-and-breakfast? Well, I do. You’d have wanted to put it out of your mind, wouldn’t you?”
Hands shoved in the pockets of their leather jackets—Andi had borrowed some of Mary’s clothes—they trudged along the road between downtown Santa Fe and the ski basin, making only halfhearted attempts to hitch a ride. The Santa Fe Institute wasn’t that far from the city center.
“Maybe I was afraid to,” said Andi, kicking a stone at her feet.
Mary smiled. “I doubt it.”
“Or maybe I wanted someone to go with me.” Andi smiled at her.
It was one of the few times in her life Mary Dark Hope had felt really useful to somebody else. She felt a rush of gratitude.
• • •
Mary wondered how many of these places called themselves Mi Casa Su Casa. Did the name really attract customers? It was a small compound, a main house and several casitas, all adobe, spotted about in the acre of land, concealed behind leafy trees and thick hedges.
Andi suggested they go around to the back, to the door that led into the kitchen and dining room. She thought Patsy Orr was likely to be there, and she was right. The woman in the kitchen, in the act of taking groceries out of one of two big supermarket bags, looked toward the door. At first she put a smile in place, a proprietorial smile, hiding all of the little daily annoyances behind it. But when she saw Andi, she took an involuntary step back into the kitchen. Her hand flew to her face as she said, “My goodness! You!”
“Hello, Mrs. Orr. I’ve come to ask you some questions.”
Although it was mildly put, the fact of this lost girl in the walkway that joined the main house with the casitas was giving Patsy Orr the devil of a fright. She dealt with it by asking questions herself. “What happened to you, for heaven’s sakes? Where on earth did you go?”
“Camping. May we come in?”
Patsy Orr nodded but kept her distance when they entered. Mary could not think why she was so nervous, unless she had suspected something was wrong but put the thought away.
“Where did he go?” Andi asked.
“Why, Idaho, I imagine. Back home. He was furious when he found you weren’t here. The way he was acting—I can tell you I was getting scared. Raving. When he’d gone to your casita and come back and asked where you were, I naturally had to say I didn’t know. He said your things were gone and got angrier and angrier, you know, as if I were supposed to watch over you, and all I could say was, I gave you some breakfast and you seemed perfectly fine. Heavens, I didn’t know what to do, my husband being away and all. I want to tell you, I was getting ready to call the police, the way your father was acting crazy like that. Beside himself,” she repeated, as if she wanted better and stronger words to describe his weird behavior. “But he wouldn’t let me—call the police, I mean—I thought he was goi
ng to break the telephone, the way he grabbed it out of my hands.” Patsy Orr wiped her forehead with the back of her hand as if the struggle were taking place again, right here and now. “I must say your father can be violent—”
“He’s not my father.”
It was like watching someone fall through ice, the sharp crack of it and then the freezing descent. Patsy Orr’s mouth worked numbly, as if she was trying to form intelligible words with her ice-locked lips but was finding it impossible. She took another few steps backward, as if she were being physically assaulted.
Mary was astonished that Andi would tell the woman this. Everything about Andi had undergone a change: her tone, her stance, her expression. She looked as hard and implacable as one of the red rock formations they’d passed in their drive, and as immutable.
Open-mouthed, Patsy Orr looked from one to the other. It occurred to Mary that in their black cord jeans and black leather, they could look threatening and were—were, at least, to Mrs. Orr. Mary felt an adrenaline rush tightening all of her reflexes.
Patsy Orr’s backward step, the look of fright in her eyes, was not altogether owing to the presence of these two black-garbed teenagers but to her recognition that she herself was guilty as sin. She should have known what was going on when this “father” asked for a room. It wouldn’t surprise Mary if she had known, deep down, on some level, but hadn’t wanted to know. Maybe because “Daddy” was so charming and she’d just opened this place. She wanted the money. And there would also have been that fear of confrontation that seemed to plague every adult Mary had ever known. Adults like Mrs. Orr didn’t want “trouble.” Didn’t want to see it, didn’t want to think about it, didn’t want to know about it. And if you felt that way, it meant you had to go along, day after day, in hiding. It was as if all the wildness had been bred out of such people.
The very air in Mi Casa seemed fraught, tense with the ticking of the longcase clock. For Andi was trouble-in-the-flesh. And Mrs. Orr knew it, no matter how she tried to deny anything irregular had happened. “But that’s—” impossible was what she wanted to say and knew she couldn’t. Then, rallying, she asked, “Well, why didn’t you say something at breakfast? There you were, eating away, saying nothing.” Nervously, she took jars and cans out of the grocery bags, shoved them into the cupboard over the counter.
Andi wasn’t about to acknowledge this shifting of the blame and asked again, “Did he tell you he was going back to Idaho?”
Patsy Orr moved her head in a kind of nervous spasm, as if she couldn’t make up her mind whether to shake it or to nod. “Why—I think so. Yes, he did.”
In a very level voice, Andi said, “But how could he do that, with his daughter supposedly missing?”
“Oh, but after he cooled down and thought about it, he said that he’d forgotten you were going to stay with a friend.”
“And you believed that?”
Patsy Orr flushed to the roots of her hair. She didn’t answer.
“Where? Where was this friend?”
“I don’t know. Really”—the shrug, the wave of the hand were distracted gestures—“really, it’s been so long.”
“Yes, I know. But it’s very important to me. Try to remember everything you possibly can, Mrs. Orr.”
Patsy nodded, looking a little relieved at the change to a more compliant tone, but she was still perplexed.
“Begin with what he looked like.”
Again, she was surprised. “Looked like? But you were—with him.” Mrs. Orr blushed.
Andi was losing patience. “Just tell me what he looked like.”
Patsy Orr had taken several steps back, away from Andi, and bumped into a chair. She felt behind her but did not take her eyes off Andi.
“He was—I guess you’d say—medium height, maybe five-ten, five-eleven. Tall to me because I’m short. Medium build. Tan and well-muscled. And he was dark; remember I told you your coloring is so different?”
Andi nodded. “What else did he tell you?”
Patsy Orr set a jar of raspberry jam up on the shelf. “He said he liked outdoor sports. Hunting, that sort of thing. If you can call hunting a sport.” Her look was disapproving, as if now she was only too willing to disapprove. “He told me one or two very funny stories about hunting and fishing, and he was very entertaining. I guess you’d have to say he was—well, charming.” An involuntary smile touched Patsy Orr’s lips, and she blushed heavily, as if admitting to her shameful reason for not suspecting him.
“You would, maybe.” Andi gave her a quirky, bitter little smile. “I wouldn’t. In the guest book he put Idaho Falls. Did he say anything about that?”
“He said it wasn’t the most exciting place: a jerkwater town, that’s what he called it. Kidding, you know. He was quite a kidder.”
“I’ll bet. Go on.”
“He didn’t live—you, the two of you, didn’t live right in the town but outside of it. He had his own business, something to do with boats, I think. He said he takes people out in them.”
Andi frowned, was thoughtful.
“A sort of guide, I think.”
“And he said this was near Idaho Falls?”
Patsy Orr put her fingers to her temples somewhat in the manner of a medium calling up souls from the dead. “I honestly can’t. . . . He talked about some rivers he liked to fish. The Rio Grande, that was one; the Snake, I think, was another. And another was . . . oh, what was it?”
There was a silence as Andi seemed to be digesting this information. Then she said, “What was his business in Santa Fe?”
“Now that I really don’t know, dear. He didn’t say a thing about that.”
Andi just looked at her. She stood with her hands shoved into the pockets of the leather jacket, slowly blinking, like a cat, looking at Patsy Orr. There was nothing hostile in the look, merely interested, curious. Or perhaps not even seeing the Orr woman but, instead, watching her own internal landscape.
The silence was almost as disturbing as Andi’s mildly threatening manner had been. Then she said, “He mentioned some other places he—or we—had been along the way. He couldn’t have got here all the way from Idaho without stopping.”
“Well . . . I believe I told you he mentioned Cripple Creek. They have a lot of casinos there now. I got the definite impression he liked to gamble. He struck me that way, you know. A man of chance.” She smiled as if she supposed both of them would have been struck the same way.
“That’s the place in Colorado, I told you before,” Mary said to Andi. It seemed odd to her that Patsy Orr wasn’t asking questions herself. Then she thought, no, she wouldn’t want to know about Andi and “Daddy.” It was an issue she’d sooner stay away from.
“Oh!” Patsy Orr exclaimed. And “Oh!” again. “That was it.” She held out a can, silver and red: Red River Sockeye Salmon.
“Red River?”
“That’s in Colorado too,” said Mary.
“No, no, dear. Salmon. It’s a river in Idaho and your—he definitely mentioned that. That was the one I was trying to remember. And the town, it’s called Salmon too.”
“What did he say about it?”
She put the can down, her palm over the top of it. “Well . . . I can’t recall exactly. I know he put down Idaho Falls as the address, but somehow I got the impression one of you might have been from someplace else. Boise or Salmon, maybe.” She shrugged. “Or even someplace in Colorado.”
“Colorado,” said Andi, with a sigh. The spectrum of places that she hoped had been narrowed only widened out again. Abruptly, she thanked Mrs. Orr and said they had to get going. They had not sat down, so they did not have to get up. They thanked her again and left.
• • •
“How long is Rosella going to be gone?”
Mary shrugged. “Ten days, I think, maybe long—” She stopped suddenly on the pavement and looked at Andi skeptically. “You don’t mean what I think you mean, I hope.”
“You said the car was yours.”
�
��It belonged to my sister. Forget it, I don’t have a license.”
“You drove all the way to Mesa Verde, you said.”
“I drove there because I wanted to. Because I felt I had to; it was one of Angela’s favorite places. We used to go there all the time.”
Andi started walking backward so as to keep Mary’s face in view, as if staring her down would get her to agree. “You said Mesa Verde was over three hundred miles. So how much farther can Idaho be?”
“Another one, two thousand.”
“Come on, you know it isn’t. Listen: if you won’t drive, I can. I’m I over sixteen.”
“You don’t have a license, either.”
“I just don’t have it with me.”
Mary rolled her eyes skyward. “Oh, sure. You probably can’t drive.” Mary knew this was a weak argument. If Andi was over sixteen, she knew how to drive, all right. It was the only reason for turning sixteen in the first place.
“There’s one way to find out.”
“Dr. Anders is right. You shouldn’t be allowed out by yourself.”
Determinedly, Andi said, “I’m going to find him, Mary. One way or another, I’m going to find him and make him tell me what happened.”
Another car was moving toward them, and Mary stuck out her thumb.
“If you don’t go with me, I’ll just hitch rides.”
“All the way to Idaho?”
“All the way to Idaho.”
14
The more she thought about it, the more Mary wanted to go. The thought of such a trip was exciting; all she needed to do was work up the nerve for it. (Andi had enough nerve for several people; still, it was awfully daring.)
They were talking in bed again that night. Andi was describing her imaginary family. “Their—I mean our—name is Olivier. I have two brothers. The younger one is Marcus; he’s two years older than me. Then there’s the much older one”—she stopped—“Swan. Swan Olivier.”
Mary turned her head, frowning. “Swan? I never heard of such a name.”
With a self-satisfied smile, Andi said, “It sounds foreign, doesn’t it?”
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