The Gorgon Field (3 page)

“You just don’t realize what happened tonight,” she said after taking a long drink. “Father doesn’t usually see strangers at all. He doesn’t ask them to dinner. He doesn’t introduce them to Ramón. And he doesn’t take a backseat and watch others engage in conversation. Skoal!” She drank again, then added, “And Ramón was as gabby as a schoolgirl. Another first. He said more to you tonight than he’s ever said to me.”

Manuel came back with coffee and Deborah finished her drink and stood up. “Tomorrow when you wake up, just ring for breakfast. That’s what we all do. No one but the managers and people like that eat in the dining room. Wander to your heart’s content and I’ll see you around noon and give you the grand tour. Okay?”

As soon as she was gone, Charlie turned to Constance. “He was warning you loud and clear,” he said.

“I know.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I think we’re keeping order in the cosmos,” she said thoughtfully. “And I think it’s better that way. Now for those books.”

They had asked Deborah for everything in the house about her father, the history of the area, geology, whatever there was available. Deborah had furnished a dozen books at least. Reluctantly Charlie put his drink aside and poured coffee for himself. It would be a while before they got to bed.

It was nearly two hours later when Constance closed her book with a snap and saw that Charlie was regarding her with brooding eyes.

“Wow,” he said softly.

“The biography?”

“Yeah. Want me to paraphrase the early years?” At her nod, he took a deep breath and started. “Tom Wyandot had a falling-out with his family, a good, established English family of lawyers back in Virginia. He headed west, looked for gold in California and Mexico, got married to a Mexican woman, had a son, Carl. He heard there was a lot of gold still in Colorado and headed for the mountains with his wife, Carl, two Mexican men, an Indian guide, and the wife of one of the men. At some point, a gang of outlaws got on their trail and the Indian brought the party to the valley to hide. A few nights later, the outlaws made a sneak attack and killed everyone but Tom Wyandot and the child, Carl. Tom managed to hide them among the formations. The next day, he buried the rest of the group, including his wife, and he and the boy started out on foot, forty miles to Pueblo, with no supplies, horses, anything else. They got there almost dead. Carl was five.”

Constance’s eyes were distant, unfocused. He knew she was visualizing the scenes; he continued. “For the next eight years, Tom prowled the mountains, sometimes taking Carl, sometimes alone. Then he died, and it’s a little unclear just how. Carl was with him on one of their rambles, and Carl returned alone. He said his father had fallen over a cliff. He led a search party to the location and they recovered the body, buried him in Pueblo, and Carl took off. He turns up next a year later in Texas, where he struck it rich in oil.”

Constance pulled herself back with a sigh. “Oh, dear,” she murmured. “Carl bought the valley in 1930. He started construction in 1940.” She frowned. “I wonder just when he located the valley again.”

“Me, too. But right now, what I’m thinking is that my body seems to believe it’s way past bedtime. It won’t have any truck with clocks.”

“The idea is to bake yourself first and then jump into the lake,” Constance said the next day, surveying the sauna with approval.

“No way. You have any idea of the temperature of the lake?”

“I know, but it’ll have to do. There just isn’t any snow around.”

“That isn’t exactly what I meant,” he said acidly.

“Oh?” Her look of innocence was a parody; they both laughed. “I’m not kidding, you’ll really be surprised. You’ll love it.”

They wandered on. Swimming pool, steam room, gymnasium, Jacuzzi, a boathouse with canoes and rowboats… One of the other buildings held offices; another was like a motel, with its own coffee shop. There were other outbuildings for machinery and maintenance equipment, garages, and a hangar. The helicopter, Charlie remembered. It was impossible to estimate the size of the staff. They kept catching glimpses of servants—the males in black trousers and white shirts, the females in gaily patterned dresses or skirts and blouses. They introduced themselves to several of the men Deborah had called the managers, all in sports clothes, all looking as if they were wearing invisible gray suits.

“It’s a whole damn city,” Charlie complained. They had left the main complex and were walking along a path that was leading them to a grove of cottonwood trees. Ahead were several cottages, well separated, very private. They stopped. Ramón was coming toward them.

“Good morning,” Constance called to him. “What a lovely morning!”

He nodded. “Good morning. I intended to find you, to invite you to dinner in my house. It would give me honor.”

Charlie felt a flash of irritation when Constance agreed without even glancing toward him. He would have said yes also, but usually they consulted silently, swiftly. And why was Ramón making it easy? he wondered glumly. He knew damn well they were there to investigate him. Ramón bowed slightly and went back the way he had come, and they turned to go the other way. Charlie’s uneasiness increased when it occurred to him that Ramón had stalled their unannounced visit very neatly.

When Deborah met them at noon, she had a Jeep waiting to take them to the gorgons. The first stop was at a fenced area at the far end of the meadow. Inside the fence, smooth white river stones had been laid in a mound. A bronze plaque had been placed there. There were the names: Beatrix Wyandot, Pablo and Maria Marquesa, Juan Moreno, and Julio Tallchief. Under them was the inscription: MASSACRED JULY 12, 1906.

“Father left space for his grave,” Deborah said. “He’s to be buried there alongside his mother. Then no one else.”

This was the widest part of the valley, two miles across. The mountains rose very steeply on both sides in unscalable cliffs at this end, exactly as if a solid mass of granite had been pulled open to reveal the sandstone formations. They started fifty yards from the graves.

Constance studied the columns and pillars; when Deborah started to talk again, Constance moved away from the sound of her voice. She had read about the formations. The largest of them was 180 feet high, with a diameter of 48 feet. The pillars soared into the brilliant blue sky with serene majesty. They appeared even redder than they had at a distance. The rubble around the bases was red sand, with silvery sagebrush here and there. Larger pieces had fallen off, had piled up in some places like roots pushing out of the ground. She had the feeling that the formations had not been left by the erosion of the surrounding land, but that they were growing out of the earth, rising of their own will, reaching for the sky. The silence was complete here. No wind stirred the sage or blew the sand; nothing moved.

There was a right way; there was a wrong way. She took a step, then another, another. She retreated, went a different way. She was thinking of nothing, not able to identify what it was she felt, something new, something compelling. Another step. The feeling grew stronger. For a moment, she held an image of a bird following a migratory pattern; it slipped away. Another step.

Suddenly, Charlie’s hand was on her arm, shaking her. “For God’s sake, Constance!”

Then the sun was beating down on her head, too hot in this airless place, and she glanced about almost indifferently. “I was just on my way back,” she said.

“Did you hear me calling you?”

“I was thinking.”

“You didn’t hear a thing. You were like a sleepwalker.” She took his hand and started to walk. “Well, I’m awake now, and starved. Is it lunchtime yet?”

Charlie’s eyes remained troubled all afternoon and she did not know what to say, what to tell him, how to explain what she had done. She had wandered all the way back through the gorgons to the opposite side, a mile and a half at least, and if he had not actually seen her, she might still be wandering, because she had not heard him, had not even thought of him. She felt that she had entered a dream world where time was not allowed—that she had found a problem to solve, and the problem could not be stated; the solution, even if found, could never be explained.

Late in the afternoon, Constance coaxed Charlie into the sauna with her and then into the lake, and he was as surprised as she had known he would be, and as delighted. They discovered the immense tub in their suite was large enough for two people. They made love languorously and slept for nearly an hour. A good day, all things considered, he decided when they went to Ramón’s cottage for dinner. It had not escaped his attention that Constance had timed things in order to be free to stand outside and watch the sunset flame the gorgons.

Tonight, Ramón told them, they, would have peasant food. He had cooked dinner—a pork stew with cactus and tomatillos and plantains. It was delicious.

They sipped thick Mexican coffee in contentment. Throughout dinner, they had talked about food, Mexican food, how it differed from one section of the country to another, how it differed from Central and South American food. Ramón talked charmingly about childhood in Mexico, the festivals, the feasts.

Lazily, Charlie said, “You may know peasant food, but you’re not a peasant. Where did you go to school?”

Ramón shrugged. “Many places. University of Mexico, UCLA, the Sorbonne. I am afraid I was not a good student.

I seldom attended regular classes. Eventually, each school discovered this and invited me to go away.”

“You used the libraries a lot, I expect,” Charlie said almost indifferently.

“Yes. Señor, it is understood that you may want to ask me questions.”

“Did Mrs. Rice tell you she hired us?”

“No, señor. Don Carlos told me this.”

“Did he also tell you why?”

“The little girl, Lori, saw something that frightened her very much. It worries her mother. And Señor Tony is very unhappy with my presence here.”

In exasperation Charlie asked, “Are you willing to simply clear up any mystery about yourself? Why haven’t you already done it?”

“Señor, there is no mystery. From the beginning, I have stated what I desire—first to Don Carlos, then to anyone who asked.”

“And what is that?”

“To own the valley. When Don Carlos lies beside his mother, then I shall own the valley.”

For a long time, Charlie stared at him in silence, disbelieving. Finally, he said, “And you think Don Carlos will simply give it to you?”

“
Si
.”

“Why?”

“I cannot say, señor. No man can truly say what is in the heart of another.”

Charlie felt the hairs on his arms stirring and turned to Constance. She was signaling. No more, not now. Not yet. Abruptly, he stood up. “We should go.”

“Thank you,” Constance said to Ramón. “We really should go now.”

He walked out with them. The night air was cold, the sky very clear, with more stars visible than they had ever seen in New York State. A crescent moon hung low in the eastern sky, its mountains clear, jagged. The gorgons were lost in shadows now. But the moon would sail on the sun path, Constance thought, and set over the highest pinnacle—and silver light would flow through the openings… .

“Good night, señor,” Ramón said softly, and left them.

They did not speak until they were in their room. “May we have coffee?” Constance asked Manuel. There were many more books to read, magazine articles to scan.

“It’s blackmail,” Charlie said with satisfaction when Manuel had vanished. “So what does he have on Don Carlos?”

Constance gave him a disapproving look. “That’s too simple.”

“Maybe. But I’ve found that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. He’s too damn sure of himself. It must be something pretty bad.”

She moved past him to stand at the window. She would have to be out at sunrise, she was thinking, when the sun would appear above the tumbled rocks of the stream and light up the gorgons with its first rays. Something nagged at her memory. They had looked up the rough waterway, not really a waterfall, but very steep, the water flashing in and out of the granite, now spilling down a few feet, to pour over rocks again. It was as if the sunlight, the moonlight had cut through the cliff, opened a path for the tumbling water. The memory that had tried to get through receded.

Manuel brought their coffee and they settled down to read. A little later, Charlie put down his book with disgust and started to complain, then saw that she was sleeping. He took her book from her lap; she roused only slightly and he took her by the hand to the bedroom, got her into bed. Almost instantly, she was sleeping soundly. He returned to his books.

He would poke around in the library and if he didn’t find something written about Wyandot by someone who had not idolized him, he would have to go to Denver, or somewhere, and search further. Wyandot and his past, that was the key, he felt certain. Blackmail. Find the leverage and confront both blackmailer and victim and then get the hell out of here. He nodded. And do it all fast.

The next morning, he woke up to find Constance’s bed empty. He started to get up, then lay down again, staring at the ceiling. She had gone out to look at the formations by sunrise, he knew. He waited, tense and unhappy, until she returned quietly, undressed, and got back in bed. He pretended to be asleep and in a short while he actually fell asleep again. Neither of them mentioned it that day.

She insisted on going to the gorgons again in the afternoon. “Take some books along,” she said in an offhand manner. “I want to explore and I may be a while.” She did not look at him when she said this. Today they planned to ride horses and eat sandwiches and not return until after sundown.

He had binoculars this time, and before the afternoon ended, he found himself bird-watching. Almost angrily, he got to his feet and started to walk among the gorgons, looking for Constance. She had been gone for nearly two hours. Abruptly, he stopped, even more angrily. She had asked him to wait, not come after her. He glanced about at the formations; it was like being in a red sandstone forest, with the trunks of stone trees all around him casting long black shadows, all pointing together at the other end of the valley, pointing at the spillway the stream had cut. It was too damn quiet in here. He found his way out and stood in the shade, looking at the entire valley lying before him. The late sun turned the cascade into a molten stream. He was too distant to see its motion; it looked like a vein of gold in the cliffs. He raised the binoculars and examined the valley slowly, then even more slowly studied the spillway. He swore softly and sat down in the shade to wait for Constance and think.