Short Cut to Santa Fe (3 page)

A uniformed man was hurrying about the room, snatching up bags and putting them on a trolley, muttering, “Archway Tours, miss? Sir?” and adding to the frantic, uneasy air of the whole operation.

It occurred to her that there must be someone in that building who might know how late John's plane was likely to be. Harriet kept well back until the man with the baggage came sweeping through with his load; the group began to straggle along after him. Impatiently, she moved forward toward the waiting room. “Excuse me,” she said firmly as she tried to push her way past a large, brown-haired man with sulky eyes who had the air of an athlete beginning to run to fat and booze. “I'm trying to get in, if you don't mind.”

“You the person who's taking pictures of everyone?” he said. “What goddamn business is it of yours who's on this tour?”

“I'm not,” said Harriet crisply. “I'm taking pictures of the planes and the buildings. I could not be less interested in the people getting on that bus if I tried.”

“For God's sake, Brett, watch where you're going.” The sharp, annoyed voice seemed to come from nowhere. “Let the woman get inside.”

Brett muttered something that might even have been an apology and stepped aside. The disembodied voice had come from a woman who had been hidden by his bulk, brown-haired, freckled, and thin, with sharp blue eyes and a basic expression like a lost and hungry kitten.

Beyond her, Harriet could see a child in jeans, a man in uniform, and a tall, thin man wearing a beige raincoat and a tired, uncertain expression. John. Her heart lurched; she forgot her annoyance and the frustrations of the day. Harriet raced over and flung herself at him. “My God, but it's good to see you again,” she said finally, loosening her grip. “But why were you on that plane? It looks like a charter for a tour.”

“That's the choice. Charter or buy your own plane. Most scheduled flights land in Albuquerque. You didn't know that, did you? But your word is my command. You said you'd meet me at Santa Fe, and Santa Fe it was. Never mind, it was an experience and you look terrific,” he murmured. “And smell—mmm. Tangerine soap, grapefruit shampoo, with an overlay of sweat, road dust, and—I know. Garlic. You have no idea how sexy it is.”

“You're so romantic, John. And I'm sorry. It never occurred to me you'd have trouble getting a flight into here. I didn't even check.”

A soft voice interrupted her. “Excuse me, ma'am. Could you—”

Harriet turned and saw the skinny child in jeans. She had long, lank, dirty blond hair and a long, very serious face, and looked to be about eleven. Her pale blue eyes were growing alarmingly large and moist, and her pale cheeks were beginning to blotch slightly. “What can we do for you?” asked Harriet quickly, crouching down slightly to adjust to the difference in height.

“Are you with the tour?” she asked. “Because I can't find our luggage and I can't find my brother either, and we have to catch the bus or we won't be able to get home. My mother is supposed to pick us up—” She paused, unable to go on.

“No problem,” said John efficiently. “I think I saw your brother on the plane. What's his name? And just to keep it official, how old?”

“Same age as me,” she said. “Eleven. We're twins. I'm Caroline. He's Stuart.”

“That's easy. We'll have him for you in a second.” And he was gone.

“Is he—” She looked worried.

“He's a policeman,” said Harriet. “You couldn't have picked a better person to ask.” She saw him emerge from the men's room, shake his head, and start for the door that led to the landing field. Meanwhile the area had emptied of extraneous humanity. “Are you on this tour?” asked Harriet.

“Oh no,” said Caroline. “But our parents know Mr. Andreas. He owns the tour company. Mum and Dad run a hotel near Taos and Mr. Andreas is one of their biggest customers. He's nice,” she added doubtfully. “I guess. We don't know him very well. Stuart and me, I mean. Anyway, if there's room on the plane from Dallas he lets us catch a ride. And then Bert, he's the bus driver, takes us to where our road is. He drops us off at the intersection and Mum comes and picks us up. Otherwise she'd have to drive all the way to Albuquerque and back to bring us home and that isn't very convenient. It's already a long way from our place to the road.”

Harriet could hear the self-justifying voice that Caroline was unconsciously imitating. If she were mother to this pleasant child, she thought, she wouldn't leave her to find her way on her own to an intersection on the highway, and there to wait to be picked up. But still—who knows what sort of difficult life the woman might lead? “Were you visiting people in Dallas?” she asked, desperately trying to keep up a conversation to hold those imminent tears back.

“Oh no,” said Caroline. “We live near Dallas with Aunt Jan. It's because of school, you see. We go to school there and we come home a lot for the weekends. We've been doing it since September,” she added. “It's sort of fun traveling. And Aunt Jan is nice.” She looked a little doubtful, as if “fun” were too strong a word to describe the situation.

“I see,” said Harriet. “Where does the bus go after it leaves your place?” she asked, looking impatiently around for John. She was running out of topics.

“To Taos. I don't know where it goes after that.”

“That's where we're going tonight,” said Harriet. “And I hope it doesn't take us as long to drive up there as it took me to get down here. I'd like to arrive before dark if I can.”

“Then follow us,” said Caroline. “Bert knows a really fast way to get onto the road north from here. Otherwise you have to—”

“Yes, I know. The long way. That's how I came in. It sounds like a very good—”

She was interrupted by an excited burst of conversation behind her. Coming in the door from the landing field was a man in a captain's uniform, his hand resting lightly on the shoulder of a boy who could only be the twin brother of the grave Caroline. John stalked behind them carrying two suitcases.

“I found him discussing the finer points of aircraft design with the captain. He had picked up the luggage and left it just outside the door when he went to investigate.”

“Stuart, the bus is going to leave without us,” said Caroline, “if you don't hurry up. Thank you for finding my brother, sir,” she added graciously, turned and ran, just in time to see the bus driver climb aboard, close the door, and pull away from the curb.

In the hot, dry, sand-and-rock-filled gully at the foot of a tree-covered mountain, a crow was first on the scene, investigating a heap of pallid flesh, lying face down, dressed in navy-blue socks, striped boxer shorts, and a white T-shirt. He screeched and flapped his wings. The passenger in a pickup truck traveling along the road above the gully, a young, sturdy blonde, was pointing out things of interest to distract her tired and hungry toddler. “See, sugar,” she cooed, “there's a big, black crow down there, and he's— Oh, Jesus. Billy,” she went on, trying to keep her voice as steady as she could. “Sweetheart, I think you'd better stop. There's something down there ought to be seen to.”

He caught the tone under her cautious words and brought the truck screeching to a halt on the shoulder.

Her eyes narrowed in disgust as she got a closer look. “There's nothing down there,” she cooed once more at her baby. “Look, darling, up there. It's an airplane. Look up in the sky. A great big airplane. Not down there. The nasty old crow's gone. There's nothing to see. Look up in the sky.”

“Looks like someone killed him for his clothes and money,” said the state trooper, staring at the partially clad corpse. He pointed at the bloody depression in the back of the head. “Knocked him out and undressed him and just dumped him off of the road. Left him to die. Look at that—you can tell where the poor bastard tried to crawl for help. Take a look around. Maybe we'll see what he used to hit him with and save everyone a lot of time.”

“Pretty risky,” said his partner, shaking his head. “What if he'd survived? Then he could describe the guy who hit him.”

“Probably thought he was dead. It's not that easy to tell, sometimes. That's why people get buried alive,” he added with relish. “Anyway, you get bashed on the head hard enough, you don't remember much. That must've been what happened to you,” he snickered, poking his partner in the ribs.

“Yeah, well, thanks a hell of a lot,” said the partner, looking a bit green.

“Probably stole his car, too. A hitchhiker, I'd say. We'll check on hitchhikers. That's it for now,” he said loudly. “I'd like to thank you folks for stopping and contacting us. Ginny, Billy. And say hello to your ma for me, Ginny. We know how to find you and we'll be in touch if we need to.” The young couple and their baby climbed back into their pickup. The crow watched from a distance, sitting disconsolately on a bare branch.

“Damn,” said Harriet. “How could they do that? They could have waited thirty seconds for us.”

But John was no longer standing beside her. He was on the other side of the room, deep in conversation with a sour-looking individual. “And thank you so very much for all
your
help,” he was saying in a voice thick with sarcasm. “In that case, we might as well take the children ourselves and drop them off.”

The answer was inaudible.

“Do you know your intersection when you see it?” he asked.

“I do,” said a very white-faced Stuart. “And I'm sorry—”

“No time for apologies,” said Sanders. “Just follow that bus.”

The four of them ran as fast as they could, weighed down with one huge suitcase and two gym bags, and scrambled into the van.

The assistant airport manager watched them disappear down the road. A twinge of guilt, quickly replaced by anger, caused his forehead to tighten. He shrugged and prepared to finish up for the night.

Harriet slung the gym bags in the backseat, the children scrambled in after them, and by the time John had the suitcase in back and the door on the passenger side closed, they were moving down the long approach road from the airport. “Which way do we turn up here?” she asked.

“I'm not sure,” said Caroline nervously, “but— There it is. Its got its left-turn light on.”

“Then left it is,” said Harriet.

“I hope this isn't out of your way,” said Caroline. The cares of the world seemed to be piled on her thin shoulders.

“That bus goes to Taos and so do we,” said Harriet. “And you said the driver knows the fastest route to Taos. So it can't be out of our way, can it?” They had reached the intersection and Harriet squeaked in between a car and a truck to make one of the world's fastest left turns. “Buckle your seat belts and prepare for warp drive, Lieutenant.”

The children giggled and Harriet flew down the road after the dark blue shape ahead.

“It's not that I'm nosy,” said Harriet, once the gap between them and the bus was narrow enough to keep it in sight, “but what did you put into that suitcase? Granite blocks? Light artillery? It weighs a ton.”

“Only following orders,” said John. “Warm clothes for the mountains, light for the desert. I brought an extra pair of jeans and a sweatshirt. The rest of the space is filled up with your heavy sweater. After all, I wouldn't want you to get cold.”

“All right—one point for you. How did you know we'd need heavy sweaters?”

“Research, my beloved Harriet. Research and inquiry. It's the foundation of all great police work. Not your line at all.”

“Research? You?”

“Using my highly developed detecting skills, I called a travel agent and asked what the mean temperature was in Taos in early May. She told me to bring a sweater.”

“Smartass,” murmured Harriet, ducking his fake punch. He turned it into a condescending pat on the head. “It's been pure hell not having anyone around to fight with.”

“What about your friend, Kate?”

“At the moment, she's too neurotic to fight. Or too drunk. You can have a very solemn and serious discussion with her—usually about Kate's world view or Kate's problems—or you can put her to bed. Those are the choices. She's at a rather self-absorptive point in her life right now. Did I tell you she'll be meeting us in Taos?” added Harriet, with enormous casualness.

“You intimated something of the sort. Delicately. Sounds interesting,” he said.

“Do you mind?” Anxiety clutched at her again. “I'm sorry—I got cornered—trapped into inviting her. I can call her tonight and tell her it's impossible for us—”

“Harriet, darling—what's wrong with you? What in God's name are you apologizing for?” John shifted around in his seat and studied her taut shoulders and unhappy expression. “When did you ever worry about dumping me into the middle of your neurotic—or unneurotic—friends? I'm a grown-up, Harriet. Don't worry about me.”

“I don't know what's wrong with me.” She pushed the hair off her face with nervous fingers. “All day I've been suffering from a sense of impending doom. Every time I approached a curve on my way down here, I had a vision of a huge truck thundering along the road the wrong way, in my lane, coming straight at my front bumper. There are a lot of curves in that road, too.” She tried to laugh, unsuccessfully. “It kept me busy. And in between, I'd imagine that your plane had crashed into a mountain, or that I'd get to the airport so late that you'd given up and caught the first flight home.”

“You were wrong. I don't fly on planes that crash, and I would have waited all night if I had to. I wouldn't have been very happy about it, but I would have waited.” John gave her a reassuring squeeze of the shoulders. “Anyway, I'm relieved. I thought you'd turned into one of those creatures who hover, wringing her hands and worrying about what I think. And then apologizing for everything that goes wrong. I don't think I could stand that.”

“Clown.” This time the laugh was real, and the anxiety faded off into the distance. “Anyway, Kate will probably behave herself around you. She is, after all, an intelligent and rational woman. She doesn't normally wander around like the ancient mariner, grabbing total strangers and pouring her life story into their unwilling ears. She's simply been using me as an echo chamber,” said Harriet firmly. “A therapeutic device.”

“You don't sound very convinced. But it doesn't matter. Kate and I probably have more in common than you realize. We'll sit around boozing, exchanging horror stories, and showing each other our scars. By the way, is that blue thing that's making the left turn ahead the bus we're following?”

Karen Johnson, the guide for the Archway Tours “Mysticism and Magic in Old New Mexico” special package, watched her clientele handing over their heavier pieces of luggage and heading toward their places. She exuded something less than the cheerful enthusiasm people on such an expensive holiday ought to be able to expect from the help. At the moment, she was staring with a perplexed frown at a note paper—clipped to the annotated passenger list. “Karen,” it said, “the kids are nonpaying passengers. Be nice, but don't waste too much time on them. They won't expect it.”

What kids? She had eight passengers on her list. There were eight passengers and two male employees of the tour company on the ground outside. Inside the airport, as far as she could see, a family was gathering itself together—a man, his wife, and one child. In fact, the man seemed to have been on the flight with the rest of her passengers, but was definitely not part of her group. Maybe the note was supposed to go on someone else's passenger list.

Karen, twenty-three, nervous, and absolutely new at the job, felt she was guiding this tour under false pretenses. It was true that she was an embryonic archaeologist, and that was what Archway had advertised for at the student job center. Unfortunately, her field was underwater archaeology—not usually much in demand in the mountains—and she had left the rocky shores of Maine, many thousands of miles to the east, less than eight months ago. So far in her life, she had been on two wonderful diving expeditions off a tiny Greek island, but except for flying to Texas to begin graduate school, her out-of-state explorations in her native country had consisted of a few trips to Boston and one holiday in North Conway, New Hampshire. The result was someone who felt quite confident on the subject of Mediterranean classical pottery, but was ashamed at how poor her grasp was of the history, geography, or mystical sites of New Mexico. To her astonishment, however, the management of Archway Tours, Inc., seemed to feel that an underwater archaeology student was an archaeology student. Not only were all archaeologists interchangeable, but they were equally useful, except perhaps for minor differences in appearance and temperament.

Karen was being paid five hundred dollars and her room and board to shepherd these eight passengers for the next ten days. Her job was to make sure that nothing—absolutely nothing—troubled their existences while she was in charge. And since she had just been thrown out of her miserable room over a matter of unpaid rent, and was facing a moneyless stretch until next September when her student grant came in, ten days' room and board and five hundred bucks were not to be sneezed at. But she did have a distinct feeling that she didn't know what she was supposed to be doing. And that nothing was happening the way she expected it to.

First of all, the person heaving suitcases into the hold as though they were so many shovelfuls of dirt was not the driver of the bus. That shouldn't have surprised her, she realized, since he was behaving more like a longshoreman than a bus driver. After telling him sharply—and to no effect—to treat the luggage with more care, she had climbed aboard to arrange the seating and discovered the actual driver, uniformed and in control, sitting behind the wheel. He had described the suitcase handler as the relief driver—of whose existence no one had warned her—and had pointed out rather menacingly that the jacket, gym bags, and tool kit tossed on the first pair of seats on the right-hand side belonged to them. Karen opened her mouth to object to this cavalier takeover of the best seats on the bus, looked at the surly face she was going to have to deal with for almost two weeks, and retreated in defeat.

And the next passenger to board, a gray-haired woman with sharply observant eyes and a vague smile, declared that she intended to sit next to Karen in order to have someone interesting to talk to. “Rose Green,” she said, pointing to her name on Karen's clipboard. “Silly name—but just imagine, I knew a Joe Garden when I was in school, and if I'd married him instead of Wilt Green—but never mind about that. I'm used to it now. I'm on this trip because my sister, Ruth, died and left me all the money her husband left her. Isn't that strange? Carter was such an unpleasant man, too. What he wouldn't say if he knew his money was paying for my holiday. My daughters—I have two daughters, Joy and Wendy—they said I had to do something fun with the money, but my son and his wife wanted to invest it all for me. . . . He's a stockbroker, you see. But why should I invest it? I'm seventy-nine years old and everyone in my family dies from heart trouble before they're eighty-five. Look at my sister, Ruth. Energetic as a six-year-old until the day she died and went just like that. Eighty-four. Anyway, they were so shocked when I told them that I went and booked this trip. I told the travel agent I wanted a comfortable, interesting tour, and I didn't want to be half-dead from jet lag or run off my feet all the time, and he said this was the one. It was booked solid past June when I called last month and then they said they were putting on an extra tour in May, not advertised, to cope with the demand. They said they never take more than eight people and I liked the sound of that. I'm not sure it sounds like fun, exactly, but it'll be more interesting than shopping.” As she spoke, Mrs. Rose Green was stowing her possessions above her head, under the seat, and in a net thoughtfully attached to the partition between passengers and driver.

“Happy to have you with us, Mrs. Green,” said Karen weakly.

A knot of four people were waiting to get by Karen, and as soon as she turned, the largest of the men pushed the rest out of the way and spread himself triumphantly across the double seat behind the relief bus driver. He threw his name at Karen as if it were a small dog biscuit, designed to keep her quiet for the moment. She checked him off and decided that she was not going to like Mr. Kevin Donovan.

The rest of the passengers filed on more or less peacefully. A tall, elegant blonde slipped into the double seat across the aisle from Mr. Donovan and gave her name as Teresa Suarez. She didn't look like a Teresa Suarez, thought Karen, but this was a day for the destruction of preconceived ideas. She looked more like a Diana Morris, who was also on the list. Then two couples, Brett and Jennifer Nicholls, and Richard and Suellen Kelleher, meekly filled in the next two seats. Finally, a small, dark-haired woman in her twenties, with intelligent dark eyes and a warm complexion, introduced herself as Diana Morris, and slipped into the last double seat on the left-hand side.

“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Karen Johnson began. “Welcome to ‘Mysticism and Magic in Old New Mexico.' Archway Tours hopes that you have a very pleasant ten-day journey into a world that will stretch the boundaries for you. My name is Karen, and my job is to make sure that your visit to New Mexico is as pleasant as it can be.” A snigger from Mr. Donovan made her blush self-consciously. “Our first stop will be Taos. Since we'll be there in less than two hours, we'll be having dinner at our hotel, but in the meantime, your bus is equipped with a small galley, and as soon as we are under way, I will be serving drinks, coffee, tea, and snacks. The rest room is at the very back of the bus,” she added, on an anticlimactic note. “Behind the galley. Does anyone have any questions?” she asked, praying as fervently as she ever had in her life that the response would be negative. She had been lifted from a waiting list for the job only yesterday, the regular guide having failed to appear, been flown up to Santa Fe this morning on the company plane, and her training had been nominal, at best. Most of the background material on the tour had been handed to her an hour ago, and she had been planning on using this evening's light schedule to digest it all.

“I do,” said Donovan, with a leer. “Just how pleasant can we expect you to make the trip? And is it extra, or does it come with the godalmighty high price we've paid already?” He laughed and looked around him for the applause that he felt his wit deserved.

Karen's frosty look—much practiced—was one of her most effective skills; she was pleased to note that it seemed to dampen him slightly. Without a doubt, Mr. Donovan was a jerk. And drunk. She would make sure that damned little of the company's free booze went in his direction.