Short Cut to Santa Fe (12 page)

“Who knows? I think he's in the homicide division, or branch or whatever they call it there—but I'm not positive—and his name is John. I'm sure of that.”

“That's it? John? No last name?”

“Dammit,” said Kate, “how am I supposed to know?” She pushed her hair off her face with an irritated gesture and turned to look out the window. “How do you put this gracefully? That I've been so sick and miserable lately, that I spent so much time while Harriet was staying with me moaning about my own problems,” she said finally, “that I hardly noticed anything she said? The only reason I remember he's a cop is because we had a fight about it. It's awful, but it's true.”

“But you know her name.”

“Of course I know her name. I don't go around inviting strangers to stay with me. It's Harriet Jeffries. Here, I've even got her address somewhere, and her phone number.” She reached into the canvas bag and pulled out a thick black book with a leather cover. “My life,” she explained. “It used to have all my appointments in it, when I was working. And it has all my contacts—that way, no matter where I am, I can get onto people.” As she spoke, she was flipping pages. “Here. Copy it down. And it's probably his address, too, since they seem to be living together.”

“What was she doing in a van with Missouri plates?”

“She flew to Kansas City and rented the van. She was taking pictures there and in Kansas, for some project on industrial architecture, and needed a van because she carries a lot of equipment. When she got to the Colorado border she kept on going to visit me in Denver.”

“I'd better call all this in,” said Rodriguez.

“Be my guest,” said Kate. “The phone's right there.” As she pointed at it she could feel her hands trembling. She pulled them back, crossed her arms protectively over her chest, and tucked her hands under her arms. The headache, which should have been receding by now, was growing in intensity, to explosive proportions.

But instead of telephoning, Rodriguez continued to watch her with observant eyes. “Do you always sleep with a bottle of Scotch beside your bed?” he said at last.

“Yes,” said Kate. “I find it comforting. All right? Or is there some law against it?”

“No—no law against it.” He got up and walked over to the small cabinet beside the bed. He picked up the round plastic container and read the label. Slowly and carefully, as if he couldn't believe what it said. “How long have you been taking these things?”

“Since I got out of the hospital,” said Kate.

“And when was that?”

“Not that long ago,” she said. He was towering over her by now, the pills held accusingly in his hand. “All right. It was three—well, almost four months ago. And I think I'll take a couple now, if you don't mind. My shoulder hurts.”

“I'll bet it does. And your head. Does that hurt, too?”

She didn't answer.

“And your stomach? And damn near everywhere else in your body? Except maybe for your big toe? Or does even that hurt?”

Tears of anger and self-pity welled up in her eyes. Furious, she turned her head away.

“You know what you are, lady? You're an addict. You are addicted to these goddamn things. Do you know what you're suffering from? Withdrawal. Not pain from a glamorous gunshot wound, but withdrawal. Just like any crack addict rolling around in the alley. And do you know where you're going to be very soon? Dead. Because I assume that when life gets a little too much for you, every few hours, you wash down a couple of these damn things with a large Scotch, don't you? And every day it's going to take less and less to bring you to that edge, and one day your hand will slip a little, and you'll pour too much Scotch into that glass and you'll be dead.” His face had turned pale with fury as he talked. “Who in hell prescribed this many tablets for you?”

“My doctor,” said Kate. The fight was draining out of her.

“Your doctor. Your own doctor. When did you last take any?”

“Last night,” she said. “Before I went to bed.”

“When did you last eat?”

“This morning. I had breakfast.” She was beginning to hate this man. “What right do you—”

“I don't believe you. What did you have for breakfast?”

“Coffee and a cherry Danish,” she said. Just thinking about it made her feel queasy.

He tucked her pills into his breast pocket, buttoned the flap, and reached down into the waste basket. He opened up the paper bag and inspected its contents. “Evidence,” he said. “One Danish, slightly nibbled at. That's not eating. Unless you're a mouse. You eat yesterday?”

“Of course I ate yesterday,” she said.

“When? What?”

There was a very long pause. “I don't feel very well,” said Kate. “I'm cold.” She pushed herself to her feet, and her head swam with dizziness.

“Of course you are,” said Rodriguez. Without another word he picked her up and placed her carefully on the bed. He opened a cupboard on the other side of the room, pulled out a brightly patterned blanket, and tucked it around her. Then he disappeared into the bathroom with the Scotch bottle. With a combination of resignation and terror, Kate listened to the gurgle of one large bottle of Teacher's going down the drain. She closed her eyes, and in spite of the crashing inside her skull, drifted off into a light sleep. A voice reached her from far away. “I'll just call in.”

Karen Johnson told her story in short gasps, seated on a chunky suitcase, drinking a plastic cup of water in small mouthfuls, as directed. Harriet knelt in front of her with Mrs. Green's first-aid kit, cleaning off her feet with wet-wipes, and applying Band-Aids over the cuts and broken blisters. “I have socks and sneakers in the bus,” she said, when Harriet had finished. “I'll be fine if we have to walk.”

The session was interrupted by another shout from the road up the mountain. Striding along in chinos and long-sleeved shirt, with a hat tied on her head by a flowery scarf, and wearing running shoes, was Teresa Suarez. She had a small backpack and a sweatshirt tied around her waist.

“Where have you been?” asked Mrs. Green.

“Exploring,” said Teresa. “I was hoping to find signs of civilization closer than twenty miles if I went that way.”

“And did you?” asked John.

“There's nothing in that direction for better than ten miles, except mountain and mesa, and then the valley. I followed the road thinking it might curve back toward Santa Fe,” she said, as soon as she settled down in the group. “I did run into people, by the way. During the night. I came by while they were getting a plane ready to take off from the mesa. Then just as I raised my arms to hail the pilot, reason intervened.” She tapped her forehead. “I mean who has a little landing field out in the middle of nowhere? And why? I figured these people were not into rescuing stranded travelers. Maybe they were the good guys, but I didn't want to find out the hard way. If I did wrong, I'm sorry, but I've developed a powerful aversion to being shot at.” She stopped in her narrative to swallow, and then take off her hat and mop the sweat from her face.

“We have water,” said Harriet, handing her a cup. “Lots. Go ahead.”

“Thanks. So do I,” said Teresa, but drinking anyway. “That's why I thought I'd have a go at contacting the rest of the world. I had water and some dried fruit and nuts and a flashlight, so I figured I was as well-equipped as anyone. As soon as the Brothers Karamazov crept away in the night, I gathered up my hiking gear and headed out.”

“Did you see anything else?” asked John, persistently.

“Just what the bear saw. The other side of the mountain. The road stops being a road at the point where it branches into the mesa. I would imagine that some enterprising soul has turned a logging or hunting or something trail into access for a tiny landing field—the purpose of a completely hidden landing field in the middle of nowhere is another question. Anyway, past the mesa, the trail gets too narrow for a vehicle. I followed it for another hour, but it didn't really go anywhere. At the rate I was walking, and considering how rough the terrain was, that hour probably represented an additional two and a half to three miles. I found a small stream, and so I drank the water I'd brought with me and filled my canteen. I have purifying tablets with me as well,” she added. “I went on a bit, in case the stream was a harbinger of greater things to come—but no. I didn't see anything, and I didn't hear anything either. Except woodsy-type sounds—you know, birds and things. So I turned around and came back.” She paused. “And that's my report. It's faster and easier to go back the way we came.” She stood up and stretched. “I must get some stuff out of my travel bag.”

“What's wrong with the van?” she said quietly, drifting over to John. “I expected everyone to be long gone by the time I got back.”

“Tires are flat,” said Sanders, turning to accompany her to the bus.

“Is that all?”

“I know. But if we cram everyone in it, the tires will disintegrate at once, I think. And that means we'd soon be without functioning brakes or steering. Also we have to back out of here for God knows how many miles before we can turn around, assuming we can get out of that pothole and on our way—backward—without tumbling into the canyon.”

“Then don't take everyone.”

“I thought of that, of course. But I'd assumed that someone would have stumbled across us by now, and I didn't want to break up the group any more than it was already. They have to be looking for us.”

There was a thump at the steps of the bus and Jennifer Nicholls appeared. “It's Diana,” she said, apparently too preoccupied to notice the return of Teresa Suarez. “She's much worse. I don't think she's going to be able to last many more hours without access to intravenous. Isn't there something we can do?”

“Come over here,” said John, nodding in the direction of the rest of the passengers. Reluctantly, glancing back at the bus, torn between conflicting imperatives, Jennifer walked away from her responsibility and over to the group. They had shifted their positions from the sun to the shade as the day warmed up, and she shivered. The dry wind was still blowing. It was too hot in the sun; too cold out of it. Everyone looked red-eyed and weary and discouraged, as if the promises of daylight had been broken, and hope was drifting away.

“Explain your problem,” said John.

Jennifer did, as briefly as she could. She looked desperately tired and acutely miserable.

“There is a solution,” said John. “As many of you know, the van is drivable after a fashion even though its tires are gone. It'll kill the wheels and probably wreck the transmission, but not all at once. It would get us close to help, I think, before going down on its knees.”

“Backing out?” asked Rick Kelleher. “It was the first thing that occurred to me, too, but it seemed a bit tricky, especially for the first half-mile or so.”

“I didn't even suggest it,” said John, “because I honestly believe that if we pile every one of us in it and try to drive away, no one could steer it down to a spot where we can turn it around.”

“The worst problem is going to be getting it out of the pothole,” said Kelleher.

“Without going over the side,” added Harriet. “Look—if I can get positioned in a somewhat safer location before we try to load people on, then we can take some out, can't we?”

“You're not doing it,” said John flatly.

“Why not? I weigh a lot less than you do, I'm not unreasonably nervous about heights, and I'm used to driving that cow.”

“Not without tires, you aren't.”

“So who else has taken lessons on vans without tires? Anyone else doing it is figuring out for the first time how loose the steering is on that damn thing. I know. I've driven it over a thousand miles.”

“She has a point there,” said Kelleher.

“Maybe we could winch it back—” John started.

“Sure we could. If we had a winch, and a tow truck—or maybe even just a rope. Anybody got a rope?” There was silence. “There you are. I'm driving it back.” Harriet walked over to look at the situation more closely. The pothole that the front right tire sat in was just as deep as it had looked at first light, but its edges were considerably softer and less defined than she feared. The front left tire was entirely too close to the edge of the cliff; if she had stopped three inches farther on last night, they might have gone over. That was not something to think about. But no one could push them from the front of the van without the risk of losing his footing and going over. The only cheerful note was that both rear wheels seemed to be on relatively solid surfaces.

“Front- or rear-wheel drive?” said a voice beside her. She jumped. It was Rick Kelleher again.

“Basically rear, with automatic four-wheel drive on top,” said Harriet. “It's worked pretty well so far, but I haven't really put it through any vicious tests yet.”

“Then at least you have a chance of getting out of here.”

“Of course I do. But first of all I think we should divide up the food and water,” she said loudly. “In case it takes longer than we thought. How much is there in the bus?”

That, at least, had the effect of removing everyone's attention from her tires. Karen shouldered her way past the instant experts, and with a screwdriver in hand, undid a plate that revealed an upended two gallon jug, almost empty. “It's one of the few things they managed to teach me,” she said. “How to change the water jugs.” She swung out the jug and handed it to John. “Go fill it.”

Harriet removed a box of crackers and six apples from the stores in the van, looked around for someplace to put them, and then impatiently stuffed them into the pockets of her many-pocketed photographic jacket, designed to hold four by five film holders, extra batteries, small cameras, spare lenses, and all the rest of the awkward and fragile tools of her trade. She hauled out the cooler and the bag of groceries and carried them back to the group by the bus.