Exit Row (12 page)

T
HE
C
AMPBELL FAMILY
vacation was progressing as their vacations always did—a fact Ed never seemed to remember when he was ensconced in his study in the deep Minnesota winter, making plans.

“Come on, Dad. Not another ghost town!”

“Yeah. We're never gonna get to the Grand Canyon.”

Ed pushed up his glasses and stared in wonder at the abandoned buildings. “Sure we are. That's on next week's schedule. This will be the last one for today. And then we'll find a nice motel with a pool.”

He hadn't plotted out this trip to have the best parts over in five minutes. Marysville was supposed to be exceptional. “Amy, you tell us about this one.”

His daughter rolled her eyes as her mother handed over the copy of
Lost Mines of Colorado
. “I don't even know where we are!”

Ed flipped up the hinged sunglass lenses on his bifocals and peered over the seat to look at the guide. “It should be under Marysville. Or Baldy Mountain.
There.
”

The two younger boys ghost-punched each other as their sister skimmed the text.

“Gold was discovered here in 1866,” Amy announced. “Something new and different. They had a newspaper, a drugstore, one church, and three dance halls.”

“No feed store?” Ed asked genially, ignoring her tone.

“It doesn't say.”

“With a population of over five thousand? They most likely did.”

“Oh, this is interesting.” She began to read aloud. “ ‘After a while, Marysville residents began to whisper about travelers who stopped overnight at Kearney's Log Inn and were never seen again. Travelers who arrived at Questa raved about the meat they had been served. But it wasn't until Mrs. Kearney—' ”

“Amy, I don't think this is something we need to hear.” The legend of cannibalism was coming back to him now. “What does it say about total mining wealth produced?”

She was ready for him. “Over four million dollars. ‘But it wasn't until Mrs. Kearney arrived in M-ville claiming that her husband had robbed and killed sixteen travelers, and eaten two of her children who annoyed him' ”—Amy turned a significant gaze on her brothers—“ ‘that authorities were persuaded to—' ”

“You're making that part up,” Timmy cried.

“Am not. Anyway,” she started to skim the text before her father could snatch back the book. “They put him on trial, but people were too scared to convict him, so a posse dragged him out of jail and hanged him at night. And you know what?”

Ed sighed. “What?”

“They sent his skeleton to the Smithsonian.”

Ed's wife laughed. “They must have wanted to analyze the protein content.”

“Give me the book!” Ed held out his hand to Amy.

“Why can't we get out?” the younger boy whined. “You never let us get out.”

“Don't you want to learn something about what you're seeing first?”

“No!” Both back car doors opened, and the children pushed free.

“A lot of the wood from these buildings was burned by residents during harsh winters,” Ed told his wife sadly.

“There's still a lot of the town left.”

“I know, but it's not what it was. In 1936, they tunneled right through Baldy Mountain looking for the mother lode. They never found it.”

“You're sure it's safe for them to be poking around in there?”

“They know better than to touch anything.” But it gave him the excuse not to delay his pleasure any longer. Picking up his camera, Ed visually restored windows, chimneys, and hitching posts, and peopled the streets with miners and farmers. He imagined an earlier version of himself as a parson in a string tie. Here was history in the raw, a town untouched by archeologists.

At the end of the main street, he turned the corner and saw the remains of a tall brick building with an ornamental plaster facade of ears of corn. Beyond it was the white church he was interested in. He was surprised to see wooden sawhorses like police barriers arranged across the dusty road in front of both buildings. What was going on?

As he hesitated, his younger son came running to meet him. “Daddy, that church made Tim
sick
.”

“I thought I told you never to go inside!” It was the structures that needed protection, not his children.

“We didn't. We just snuck around to the back.”

Ed moved closer as Amy came out of a side alley and joined them. A sweet, putrid smell drifted toward them on the dry air.

“Mr. Kearney's been at it again,” Amy said. “And Tim upchucked.”

“He threw up? Where
is
he?”

“I'm here.” Tim appeared suddenly, looking greenish. “Dad, there are
people
in that church.”

“Are you okay?” He put his hand on Tim's shoulder. “Go back to the car and take it easy. All of you.”

Ed had come across these New Age gatherings before. The white wooden church was almost intact, after all. That explained the sawhorses and the two vehicles parked outside, a large black truck with a design on the door and a vintage pink-and-white Cadillac. Probably they were burning some kind of horrible incense that upset Tim's stomach. Ed hoped it wasn't meant to cover the stench of animals being sacrificed.

Before the children could leave, the door of the truck pushed open and a young man stepped out. He had a bland, open face and was dressed neatly in jeans, but his holster and gun made Ed feel uneasy.

Still, his voice was good-natured. “Can I help y'all with something?”

“Oh, no. We're just poking around.”

“You have permission?”

“Permission? No . . . ”

“This is private property.” The blue eyes were a little chalky now. “The owners don't want people on the property. Liability and all that. You break a leg, y'know?”

“Oh, but we wouldn't sue anyone. Can't I just take a few pictures?”

But the man was slowly shaking his head no, pendulum style. The way he seemed to be enjoying the situation made Ed more uncomfortable. Why hadn't the guidebook said anything about needing permission?

“Are you having some kind of meeting inside?”

“Something like that.”

“Where do I get permission?”

“Not sure.”

“Okay, we'll go. But I'll be back. Come on, kids.”

“You have a nice day now,” the man called to their backs. It sounded as if he were hoping for something else.

“T
HERE
'
S SOMETHING ABOUT
being out here that makes you see things in a different way,” Dominick said. He and Fiona were leaving the tiny town of Chimayo and climbing into the mountains again. To their left, the cliffs in the distance looked like abandoned dwellings. With a lyricism she hadn't known existed in him, Dominick had insisted they take the scenic road to Taos and had rhapsodized ever since.

“There's a whole different look out here,” he continued, lifting his hands from the wheel to outline it. “All these orange buildings and flat roofs. Who knew there was anything like this in America? You start seeing details like carvings and—what did you call them?—vigas?”

Fiona nodded. He must be one of those people who could compartmentalize the different parts of their lives so that one thing did not spill over and color anything else. Dominick's worry about his daughter could be kept in one place while he enjoyed what he was seeing. It was true that Fiona had stopped checking her phone every few minutes—there had been nothing from Lee since that one message and her flurry of frantic responses—but she was seeing the world through a gray scrim.

“You don't seem very worried about your daughter.”

He looked over, picking up the criticism in her voice. “What worries me is Coral in Mexico, with all the crime you hear about. I'm worried her mother might not send her home. Who knows where Eve's head is these days.”

“But you're not worried about the plane? I know, I know.” She held up a hand. “You don't think anything happened.”

They were passing a tiny cemetery by the side of the road. White wooden crosses were crudely painted with black names and hung with artificial flowers and rosaries. A hot-pink plastic rabbit with a buck-toothed grin stood on one grave mound.

Death was everywhere.

Every few minutes she checked the side-view mirror. Leaving Santa Fe, there had been a black sedan behind them for several miles, but once they were on Route 84 it had disappeared. But she had already told Will Dunlea they were headed for Taos.

Dominick pointed out a small corrugated-roofed house, its plaster walls painted a garish pink, and marveled, “Can you imagine something like that on Long Island?”

“No, but it's okay out here. People use whatever's available.”

“Even junk.”

You've been servicing McMansions too long.

They passed through a series of tiny towns—Oja Sarco, Las Trampas, Chamisal—names Fiona didn't bother to translate to herself. The homes here were mostly trailers and one-story brick boxes, a few with stuffed chairs out front. No niceties of indoor-outdoor furniture.

The road began to wind through the mountains again, through green alpine meadows that made her think of New England. Gradually, fields of yellow and white flowers and stalky pines gave way to hillsides of fat green junipers.

“I could live out here.” Dominick glanced at his hands on the steering wheel as if to judge whether they would work as well in New Mexico. “At least for part of the year. If Eve wants to be out here, it could work.”

What about the power mower?
“How long have you been married?”

“Married?” He slowed for a blinking light. “Twelve years. Eve's my second wife.”

Ah. “But you're separated now?”

“No!” He turned from the wheel, his ruddy face outraged. “What makes you think that?”

“I thought she lived out here.”

“Just temporarily.”

“Oh.”
Sounds like you two need to have a conversation.

“She's an artist, you know? She says she needs the light.”

Then they were coming into Taos, passing through an area of big-box stores, headed for the older section of galleries and inns. Dominick turned right and followed the signs to the Pueblo. “The inn's owner was telling me that real adobe—not just plaster painted dark red—has to be resurfaced every year or so. And because the flat roofs get destroyed by standing water, that's a major industry too.”

Was he thinking of changing professions?

“I think this is real adobe,” Fiona said, pointing at the buildings as they stopped at a gate house.

“Oh, I'm sure.”

“No photographs in the chapel.” The young man was stocky and solemn.

They assured him they would not take any.

There was an entrance fee of sixteen dollars per person, which shocked Fiona. Dominick handed over a credit card.

“Park over there.” The attendant handed an instruction sheet to Dominick, who passed it on to Fiona. She studied the rules governing their visit. They were advised to stay within the Pueblo walls and not wade in the water or pet any dogs.

“This is amazing,” Dominick said enthusiastically as they crossed the dusty ground. He gestured appreciatively at the adobe structures set in a horseshoe around the open plaza, dwellings recessed back into two or three stories. The doors and windows were rectangular cutouts, the walls punctuated by the round ends of vigas. The deep russet of the clay was broken occasionally by a green or turquoise wooden door frame. “Who knew there was something like this in America!”

Fiona tried to concentrate on the architecture and ignore her spreading feeling of desolation. Through the gray filter, all she could see was the grassless plaza, several skinny dogs lying in the dirt, and a sign that read, “Private—Keep Out!” “They don't have running water or electricity here,” she told Dominick. “It's against tribal regulations.”

“Thank God for
that.
Can you imagine TV antennas sticking out of these buildings?”

“No, but they're people too, wanting what everyone has. They aren't just here to look picturesque.”

“Maybe not, but they're making a buck off it.” He patted the pocket where his wallet was, and Fiona laughed.

“Let's try over there.” She pointed to an open doorway that had a sign, “Fry Bread,” taped outside. Tourists should be welcome.

As they stepped into the tiny room, dark in the corners where the sunlight did not reach, Fiona noticed that canned goods, strings of silver necklaces, and children's handmade moccasins were also for sale. Near the door was an old-fashioned red metal Pepsi cooler. A woman in a navy cotton shift with a sailor collar looked up from a newspaper and smiled.

“Hi. Can we have two fry breads, please?” Fiona asked. She watched as the woman stood up and dropped twin circles of dough onto a griddle. The bread soon puffed into fragrant pillows. When the woman slid the bread onto white paper plates, she set a clear plastic teddy bear filled with honey in front of them. Fiona drizzled some over her bread, then took a bite. “Wonderful!”

The woman ducked her head as if pleased.

“You wouldn't happen to know a Black Arrow family here, would you?”

The woman frowned. “No,” she said, drawing her answer out. “Not that name. I am Sylvia Black Hook.”

Black Hook, that was it. But Fiona could not think what to say next.

Dominick rescued her. “We're looking for a Black Arrow or Black Hook who was on a flight from Taos to Denver last Sunday.”

Fiona winced at what had to come next.

“Clayton?”

“It could be,” Dominick said. “My daughter was on that plane, and she got upset when she found she hadn't brought any money with her. He gave her ten dollars, which was a kind thing to do. I wanted to repay him.”

Fiona stared at him.

“Oh!” Sylvia Black Hook did not look at the bill he had placed on the counter. “I am pleased to know that he is generous.”

“He didn't tell you about it?” Fiona asked, forgetting that it had probably not happened.

The faintest cloud crossed the woman's face. “I have not heard from him yet. He went off to the university in Boulder. Jackson said Clayton got off the plane and found the bus for Boulder.”

“Who's Jackson?” Fiona worked to keep her voice steady.

“Jackson works on that plane. It was Clayton's first time to fly. I made sure that Jackson would be with him.” Her round face creased with remembered anxiety. “I told him, take the bus, take the bus, don't go so far from the ground. But he said, ‘No, Ma, it's time.' ” She reached behind her and pointed to an 8 x 10 graduation photo, held by a red clothespin to a wire of photographs. “Clayton.”

“He's so handsome,” Fiona said softly. With his clipped hair and engaging smile, Clayton looked like the kind of young man who
would
give ten dollars to a girl in need.

“He even got a scholarship!” Then she reached behind her and unpinned a smaller photo of two smiling young men. Fiona recognized the young one as Clayton. But the other, with his delicate mustache . . .

“Is that
Jackson
?”
Keep calm.
“And you saw him after Sunday's flight?”

Mrs. Black Hook gave her a puzzled look.

“It's just—he was on my flight down here Tuesday, and I thought I recognized him. Does he live around here?”

The woman smiled at her enthusiasm. “He lives off-Pueblo now. He and Amanda have a house on the Taos Pueblo Road.”

Fiona took a last bite of bread and turned to Dominick. She had found out what she wanted and needed to leave before she said something that would upset Clayton's mother.

Dominick got the message. Moving toward the door, he gave Mrs. Black Hook a warm smile. “Good luck to your boy in college.”

“Thank you. But why doesn't he call me?”

When they were out of earshot, Fiona exploded. “Shit, shit, shit! Why do these things have to happen? Life is hard enough for people, but when they try to do something to make it better, they get killed.”

“What are you talking about?” Dominick grabbed her arms tightly, and they faced off in the center of the square. “Why do you think he's dead? You're the most negative person I know. Maybe, just maybe, this Jackson did see Clayton get on the bus to college.”

“Maybe. Anyway, we have to find Jackson! He can tell us what happened to everyone.” The thought of an eyewitness, someone who could answer their questions, seemed like talking to someone who had died and come back with tales of the afterlife.

They started walking toward the parking area, but Dominick veered toward the adobe chapel, its steeple raised to the sky in a striking scalloped design. “Coral sent me a postcard of this. I want to take a look.”

Fiona tamped down her impatience and followed him. As they skirted the chapel, she saw they were heading for the small churchyard. At one end, sunken into the earth was a mission belfry, a metal bell still enclosed in the center of its cutout arch. A few of the graves had upright white slabs, but many more were simply marked by wooden crosses painted white, standing guard over mounds of earth. Here and there small blue flowers grew over them.

She and Dominick stared silently.