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Inwardly, he sighed.

He gave back the license and registration. “Sorry to bother you.”

“No problem, Officer. I know you have to do your job.”

“Going all the way back to Dillon tonight?”

“Yes, sir.”

“As I said, it’s a long way to travel to sell moss rocks.”

“Well, we do what we have to do.”

“That’s for sure,” Romero said. “Drive safely.”

“I always do, Officer. Good night.”

“Good night.”

Romero drove back to the top of the hill, picked up the hiking shoes, and put them in the trunk of his car. It was about that time, a little before ten, that his son was killed.

He passed the crash site on the way home to Pecos. Seeing the flashing lights and the silhouettes of two ambulances and three police cars on the opposite section of the Interstate, grimacing at the twisted wrecks of two vehicles, he couldn’t help thinking, Poor bastards. God help them. But God didn’t, and by the time Romero got home, the medical examiner was showing the state police the wallet that he had taken from the mutilated body of what seemed to be a young Hispanic male.

Romero and his wife were arguing about his late hours when the phone rang.

“Answer it!” she yelled. “It’s probably your damned girlfriend.”

“I keep telling you I don’t have a—” The phone rang again. “Yeah, hello.”

“Gabe? This is Ray Becker with the state police. Sit down, would you?”

As Romero listened, he felt a cold ball grow inside him. He had never felt so numb, not even when he’d been told about the deaths of his parents.

His wife saw his stunned look. “
What is it?”

Trembling, he managed to overcome his numbness enough to tell her. She screamed. She never stopped screaming until she collapsed.

*  *  *

Two weeks later, after the funeral, after Romero’s wife went to visit her sister in Denver, after Romero tried going back to work (his sergeant advised against it, but Romero knew he’d go crazy just sitting around home), the dispatcher sent him on a call that forced him to drive up Old Pecos Trail by the Baptist church. Bitterly, he remembered how fixated he had been on this spot not long ago. Instead of screwing around wondering about those shoes, I should have stayed home and paid attention to my son, he thought. Maybe I could have prevented what happened.

There weren’t any shoes on the road.

There weren’t any shoes on the road the next day or the day after that.

Romero’s wife never came back from Denver.

“You have to get out more,” his sergeant told him.

It was three months later, the middle Saturday of August. As a part of the impending divorce settlement and as a way of trying to stifle memories, Romero had sold the house in Pecos. With his share of the proceeds, he had moved to Santa Fe and risked a down payment on a modest house in the El Dorado subdivision. It didn’t make a difference. He still had the sense of carrying a weight on his back.

“I hope you’re not talking about dating.”

“I’m just saying you can’t stay holed up in this house all the time. You have to get out and do something. Distract yourself. While I think of it, you ought to be eating better. Look at the crap in this fridge. Stale milk, a twelve-pack of beer, and some leftover Chicken McNuggets.”

“Most of the time I’m not hungry.”

“With a fridge like this, I don’t doubt it.”

“I don’t like cooking for myself.”

“It’s too much effort to make a salad? I tell you what. Saturdays, Maria and I go to the Farmers’ Market. Tomorrow morning, you come with us. The vegetables don’t come any fresher. Maybe if you had some decent food in this fridge, you’d—”

“What’s wrong with me the Farmers’ Market isn’t going to cure.”

“Hey, I’m knocking myself out trying to be a friend. The least you can do is humor me.”

*  *  *

The Farmers’ Market was near the old train station, past the tracks, in an open area the city had recently purchased called the Rail Yard. Farmers drove their loaded pickups in and parked in spaces they’d been assigned. Some set up tables and put up awnings. Others just sold from the back of their trucks. There were taste samples of everything from pies to salsa. A bluegrass band played in a corner. Somebody dressed up as a clown wandered through the crowd.

“See, it’s not so bad,” the sergeant said.

Romero walked listlessly past stands of cider, herbal remedies, free-range chicken, and sunflower sprouts. In a detached way, he had to admit, “Yeah, not so bad.” All the years he’d worked for the police department, he’d never been here—another example of how he’d let his life pass him by. But instead of motivating him to learn from his mistakes, his regret only made him more depressed.

“How about some of these little pies?” the sergeant’s wife asked. “You can keep them in the freezer and heat one up when you feel like it. They’re only one or two servings, so you won’t have any leftovers.”

“Sure,” Romero said, not caring. “Why not?” His dejected gaze drifted over the crowd.

“What kind?”

“Excuse me?”

“What kind? Peach or butter pecan?”

“It doesn’t matter. Choose some for me.”

His gaze settled on a stand that offered religious icons made out of corn husks layered over carved wood: Madonnas, manger scenes, and crosses. The skillfully formed images were painted and covered with a protective layer of varnish. It was a traditional Hispanic folk art, but what caught Romero’s attention wasn’t the attractiveness of the images but rather that an Anglo instead of a Hispanic was selling them as if he’d made them.

“This apple pie looks good, too,” the sergeant’s wife said.

“Fine.” Assessing the tall, thin, sandy-haired man selling the icons, Romero added, “I know that guy from somewhere.”

“What?” the sergeant’s wife asked.

“Nothing. I’ll be back in a second to get the pies.” Romero made his way through the crowd. The young man’s fair hair was extremely short. His thin face emphasized his cheekbones, making him look as if he’d been fasting. He had an aesthetic quality similar to that on the faces of the icons he was selling. Not that he looked ill. The opposite. His tan skin glowed.

His voice, too, seemed familiar. As Romero approached, he heard the reedy gentle tone with which the young man explained to a customer the intricate care with which the icons were created.

Romero waited until the customer walked off with her purchase.

“Yes, sir?”

“I know you from somewhere, but I just can’t seem to place you.”

“I wish I could help you, but I don’t think we’ve met.”

Romero noticed the small crystal that hung from a woven cord on the young man’s neck. It had a hint of pale blue in it, as if borrowing some of the blue in the young man’s eyes. “Maybe you’re right. It’s just that you seem so awfully—”

Movement to his right distracted him, a young man carrying a large basket of tomatoes from a pickup truck and setting it next to baskets of cucumbers, peppers, squash, carrots, and other vegetables on a stand next to this one.

But more than the movement distracted him. The young man was tall and thin, with short sandy hair and a lean aesthetic face. He had clear blue eyes that seemed to lend some of their color to the small crystal hanging from his neck. He wore faded jeans and a white T-shirt, the same as the young man to whom Romero had been talking. The white of the shirt emphasized his glowing tan.

“You
are
right,” Romero told the first man. “We haven’t met. Your brother’s the one I met.”

The newcomer looked puzzled.

“It’s true, isn’t it?” Romero asked. “The two of you are brothers? That’s why I got confused. But I still can’t remember where—”

“Luke Parsons.” The newcomer extended his hand.

“Gabe Romero.”

The young man’s forearm was sinewy, his handshake firm.

Romero needed all of his discipline and training not to react, his mind reeling as he remembered. Luke Parsons? Christ, this was the man he had spoken to the night his son had been killed and his life had fallen apart. To distract himself from his memories, he had come to this market, only to find someone who reminded him of what he was desperately trying to forget.

“And this is my brother Mark.”

“Hello.”

“Say, are you feeling all right?”

“Why? What do you—”

“You turned pale all of a sudden.”

“It’s nothing. I just haven’t been eating well lately.”

“Then you ought to try this.” Luke Parsons pointed toward a small bottle filled with brown liquid.

Romero narrowed his eyes. “What is it?”

“Home-grown echinacea. If you’ve got a virus, this’ll take care of you. Boosts your immune system.”

“Thanks but—”

“When you feel how dramatically it picks you up—”

“You make it sound like drugs.”

“God’s drug. Nothing false. If it doesn’t improve your well-being, we’ll give you a refund.”

“There you are,” Romero’s sergeant said. “I’ve been looking all over for you.” He noticed the bottle in Romero’s hand. “What’s
that?”

“Something called home-grown …” The word eluded him.

“Echinacea,” Luke Parsons said.

“Sure,” the sergeant’s wife said. “I use it when we get colds. Boosts the immune system. Works like a charm. Lord, these tomatoes look wonderful.”

As she started buying, Luke told Romero, “When your appetite’s off, it can mean your body needs to be detoxified. These cabbage, broccoli, and cauliflower are good for that. Completely organic. No chemicals of any kind ever went near them. And you might try
this.”
He handed Romero a small bottle of white liquid.

“Milk thistle,” the sergeant’s wife said, glancing at the bottle while selecting green peppers. “Cleans out the liver.”

“Where on earth did you learn about this stuff?” the sergeant asked.

“Rosa down the street got interested in herbal remedies,” she answered as the three of them crossed the train tracks carrying sacks of vegetables. “Hey, this is Santa Fe, the world’s capital of alternate medicines and New Age religions. If you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.”

“Yeah, those crystals around their necks. They’re New Agers for sure,” Romero said. “Did you notice their belts were made of hemp? No leather. Nothing from animals.”

“No fried chicken and take-out burgers for those guys.” The sergeant gave Romero a pointed look. “They’re as healthy as can be.”

“All right, okay, I get it.”

“Just make sure you eat your greens.”

*  *  *

The odd part was that he actually did start feeling better. Physically, at least. His emotions were still as bleak as midnight, but as one of the self-help books he’d read had said, “One way to heal yourself is from the body to the soul.” The echinacea (ten drops in a glass of water, the typed directions said) tasted bitter. The milk thistle tasted worse. The salads didn’t fill him up. He still craved a pepperoni pizza. But he had to admit, the vegetables at the Farmers’ Market were as good as any he’d come across. No surprise. The only vegetables he’d eaten before came from a supermarket, where they’d sat for God knew how long, and that didn’t count all the time they’d been in a truck on the way to the store. They’d probably been picked before they were ready so they wouldn’t ripen until they reached the supermarket, and then there was the issue of how many pesticides and herbicides they’d been doused with. He remembered a radio call-in show that had talked about poisons in food. The program had dealt with similar problems in the environment and—

Romero shivered.

That program had been the one he’d listened to in his car the night he’d been waiting for the shoes to drop and his son had been killed.

Screw it. If I’m going to feel this bad, I’m going to eat what I want.

It took him only fifteen minutes to drive in from El Dorado and get a big take-out order of ribs, fries, cole slaw, and plenty of barbecue sauce. He never ate in restaurants anymore. Too many people knew him. He couldn’t muster the energy for small talk. Another fifteen minutes and he was back at home, watching a lawyer show, drinking beer, gnawing on ribs.

He was sick before the ten o’clock news.

“I swear, I’m keeping to my diet. Hey, don’t look at me like that. I admit I had a couple of relapses, but I learned my lesson. I’ve never eaten more wholesome food in my life.”

“Fifteen pounds. That health club I joined really sweats the weight off.”

*  *  *

“Hi, Mark.”

The tall, thin, sandy-haired young man behind the vegetables looked puzzled at him.

“What’s wrong?” Romero asked. “I’ve been coming to this market every Saturday for the past six weeks. You don’t recognize me by now?”

“You’ve confused me with my brother.” The man had blue eyes, a hint of their color in the crystal around his neck. Jeans, a white T-shirt, a glowing tan, and the thin-faced, high-cheekboned aesthetic look of a saint.

“Well, I know you’re not Luke. I’m sure I’d recognize
him.”

“My name is John.” His tone was formal.

“Pleased to meet you. I’m Gabe Romero. Nobody told me there were
three
brothers.”

“Actually—”

“Wait a minute. Let me guess. If there’s a Mark, Luke, and John, there’s got to be a Matthew, right? I bet there are
four
of you.”

John’s lips parted slightly, as if he wasn’t accustomed to smiling. “Very good.”

“No big deal. It’s my business to deduce things,” Romero joked.

“Oh? And what business is—” John straightened, his blue eyes as cold as a star, watching Luke come through the crowd. “You were told not to leave the stand.”

“I’m sorry. I had to go to the bathroom.”

“You should have gone before we started out.”

“I did. But I can’t help it if—”

“That’s right. You can’t help me if you’re not here. We’re almost out of squash. Bring another basket.”

“I’m really sorry. It won’t happen again.”

Luke glanced self-consciously at Romero, then back at his brother, and went to get the squash.

“Are you planning to buy something?” John asked.

You don’t exactly win friends and influence people, do you? Romero thought. “Yeah, I’ll take a couple of those squash. I guess with the early frost that’s predicted, these’ll be the last of the tomatoes and peppers, huh?”