Acknowledgements

Given the time and self-induced agony it takes to write a book, I need a lot of support. First I’d like to thank my writing group. I simply could not do it without them. Our group has varied in composition over the years, but I’d like to thank current members Ken Kuhlken, Barbara Hopfinger, Barbara Gardner, Lynn Kennedy, and Maynard Kartvedt, all with unerring instincts and the literary integrity to call it the way they see it. I’d also like to thank Gene Riehl, whose sense of story is without peer, A. Craig Blakey, whose editing skills are without equal, and Gary Stuart, whose philosophical insights I enjoy. Thank you Kahryn Nix, Judy Hamilton and Rick Shaughnessy. Thank you, Mo Knop, my copy editor. And of course, my wife Sue, who has the unfortunate position of sounding board-in-chief for endless iterations of my Latest, Greatest Idea.

Chapter 1

Cochiti Pueblo Police Officer Peter Romero’s two-week search for Rachel Quintana had ended the wrong way. She was dead. The sixteen-year-old lay half on the bed, kneeling with chest on the mattress, head turned to the side, forearms pinned beneath her stomach. Dried vomit that looked like partially digested mushrooms stained the sheet and floor. No one should have to die this way, especially Rachel.

He had watched Rachel toddle, skip, and run. He flashed a picture of her trying somersaults as a three-year-old. He’d always imagined that if he and Costancia had been blessed with a daughter, she would’ve been as sweet as Rachel.

He wanted to put a fist through the trailer’s walls. Sanity stepped in and demanded he gain control and do what a cop was supposed to do. He closed his eyes, exhaled.

The room was unfurnished except for a barracks bed, a chair, and side table. Food wrappers and cans, beer and soda, littered the floor and table. Maybe a week’s worth of trash. Stains in the middle of the bed were probably from sex. What would her parents say?

He touched the nape of her neck, jerked back his hand. She felt so cold. Marbling and a green cast had appeared on skin that once glowed like washed copper.

Rachel, the image of her mother, had been rail thin. Now, bloating had stretched her jeans and white top. A tattoo, roses maybe, showed where the shirt had pulled up and exposed her lower back. He wanted to cover her, show love and respect, but preserving the scene was the professional thing to do. He shook his head and pressed a handkerchief to his nostrils. He’d never get used to that smell. And it was Rachel.

He’d dated her mother, Adelina, in high school. Dating was an understatement. It hit hard when she’d married someone else. Thinking about it caused pain in his chest. Still.

Now, he’d have to tell Adelina the last thing a mother wanted to hear. Gravel caught in his throat. He coughed it away and averted his eyes from the body. He concentrated on the immediate scene, tried to quash a need for revenge boiling in his gut.

There was nothing else to do but wait. The whole jurisdiction thing infuriated. Serious reservation crime belonged to the FBI, and despite the fact he’d had FBI training, he could play no role in its investigation. He hurried outside, picked up a rock, threw it as far as he could. He snatched up another one, looked for something to hurt, caught himself, and dropped it. Pacing back and forth seemed useless, but it was better than going back in.

The August sun provided some relief from the fetid trailer, a singlewide deserted at the southwestern edge of the reservation. He head-jerked his braid from one shoulder to another. Sweat cooled his neck. A blast of wind, hot enough to melt dirt, whirled trash around the yard. Dust devils danced between the trailer and the Cerrillos Hills to the southwest where a windshield flashed from an area with few roads. Romero took notice, then sat on a log, rubbed his face. What kind of a job awarded hard work with such horrible consequences?

He forced himself to calm down by examining the crime scene in his mind inch by inch. There were no signs of violence in the room and no visible trauma to the body. First glance said drug overdose, and it shamed him that Rachel was not the first pueblo teen to die from drugs. What went on here? Love turned ugly? Drugs for sex? Not Rachel. Please.

Relief came at the sight of the dust plume rising to the north. Had to be Special Agent Jean Reel of the FBI’s Albuquerque Field Office. He’d worked with Jean before, when she’d pulled his fat out of the fire in an incident where he’d killed a dirty cop. He twisted and stretched his neck. It was time to cool down, be professional.

Reel braked in front of the trailer and waited long enough for the dirt to drift away before stepping out. She wore a light-colored suit, silk blouse, and heels that made her legs look sexy. She was a rose in a man’s world, a looker, yes, but Jean was all business. She possessed enough Indian blood to make her likeable, and more than enough integrity to make her downright admirable.

He sucked in, stood, flipped his braid from shoulder to back and said, “Got a deceased, teenage female in the trailer. Been there four days, a week, maybe. No signs of struggle or trauma, but death was not natural, that much I’m sure. I checked the immediate area. Foot and tire prints are too old to help. Her–” Deceased, teenage female. Trying to keep it professional wasn’t working.

“You knew her.”

“Watched her grow.”

“I’m so sorry, Peter. Give your feelings some time, but you know I need everything you can tell me, her background, family, boyfriends. You know what I want.” She headed for the trailer door. “I got it now. My team’s two minutes behind. Thank you, and Peter, you know I’m truly sorry.”

“Okay for me to inform the parents?” He held out his palms, thought it looked too much like begging, and dropped his arms.

She turned. “You can, but I still have to talk to them. God, I hate that part.”

“I’ll see them right away.”

“And I’ll keep you informed,” she said.

“Right.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Peter, I can imagine how you must feel, but I know you well enough to warn you to stay away from this case. It’s mine, now.”

Reel was a rose, all right, but her stem was steel and her thorns were barbed wire. He tried a smile, knew it failed. “Sure.”

She disappeared into the trailer.

Dismissed. Just like that. Stay off the case. Rachel’s death. “Right.”

Chapter 2

On the drive to the Quintana home, Romero dredged up memories of the last time he’d worked with Reel. The effort pulsed in his temples. He’d gone to Arizona to investigate the discovery of some ancient pots stolen from the reservation. The thief, a wacko anthropology professor, had murdered Cousin Sal and others. But that wasn’t the crazy part. Romero remembered killing the man, but wasn’t sure just how. Questions welled like spring water, but answers came up dry.

The Quintana house was like most in the older part of the pueblo, a stand-alone, rectangular, one-story stucco the color of mud with a couple of windows on each side. Weathered pine vigas supporting the flat roof stuck out from opposite walls. Except for the electric wires hanging between the house and poles that lined the street, the village looked every bit its seven hundred years. A horno in the back, Anglos called them beehive ovens, looked collapsed.

Romero parked his 1953 two-door tricked Willys Jeep behind Vicente Quintana’s rusty Chevy pickup and prepared himself. An image of Rachel’s face, young and alive, gazed at him from the windshield. Reporting the death of a child was the most anguishing duty a cop could have. No telling how the parents would react. No telling how he’d react. He inhaled, blinked away Rachel’s vision, and slid out of the Jeep. He walked to the door on boots of lead and knocked.

Rachel’s mother answered. His heart skipped, a surprise because he’d shoved aside feelings for her years ago. Adelina placed a hand over her mouth as soon as she saw Romero’s face. “Oh, no.”

“I’m sorry. It’s bad news.”

Adelina’s eyes rolled up and she slumped like wet bread. Romero grabbed her by the arm, helped her to the living room couch. Her shoulders heaved as she sobbed. He searched for words that would not come. He stood, shifting weight from one leg to the other and avoided her eyes by gazing at the wall behind her. Old photographs of young men in Army and Marine Corps uniforms hung on the wall above the sofa. In their day, Romero’s forebears had served with these men.

“How?” Rachel’s mother asked. Her hands muffled her voice.

“FBI is at the scene now.” Sand packed his throat. He coughed.

Rachel’s father, Vicente, must have heard them talking because he walked in from the back, turned on his heels, and hurried out. Romero heard the man’s footsteps on the wood floor as he rushed around. He returned with a snapshot of a young man in a frame. “That’s her boyfriend, what’s his name, Marcus Suina. You find him, you find what happened to her.”

Romero took the picture although he already had one. Nineteen. Good-looking kid with dark hair and eyes. He’d searched for him along with Rachel. Marcus had a record. Minor stuff. Possession. Pot, mostly. Psilocybin, too, come to think of it. “I’ll find him and see what he knows.”

“Talkin’ won’t do no good. Done enough goddamn talkin’, ” Vicente said. The man smelled like booze, probably trading emotion for the bottle. No surprise. Romero stepped back. Vicente, a bantam with quick fists, had a rep.

“Vicente,” Adelina said. Her chin quivered.

Adelina was such a gentle soul and life had just handed her the ultimate blow. Now she had to deal with a drunken husband.

“We talked to Rachel. We talked to him.” Vicente looked at his wife, but directed his comments to Romero. “These kids today don’t give a goddamn about nothin’ ‘cept drugs. If you was doing your job, this wouldn’t a’ happened,” he said.

Quintana moved too close, jacking up Romero’s heart rate. Ever since he’d been discharged from the Air Force for drug use, Vicente had an edge to him and was known to lash out without warning.

“Drugs are everywhere, and you ain’t doin’ nothin’ about it, Romero.”

Romero held up a palm. “Easy, Vicente. Calm down, man. This ain’t no time for accusations.” Romero had given no details on his theory of the cause of death. No way in hell would he divulge that kind of speculation to bereaved parents. COD is for the medical examiner to decide and report. “You think this is a drug-related death?”

“The fuck you think it is? It’s time for you to get off yer ass and do something about these kids and drugs.” Vicente’s neck veined blue like a roadmap. “You better get out a’ here and find that kid before I do.”

“Vicente,” Adelina said, eyes wide.

Romero planted both feet. The man knew too much. “Better ease off on the threats, Vicente. And tell me how you know–”

“Get out and it ain’t no threat.”

# # #

Marcus Suina’s only relative, Esteban Chavez, lived in Agua Fria north of the reservation on NM Highway 599. Romero motored north, thinking it understandable that Vicente had become so upset. The loss of a child was more than most parents could handle. He took air in slowly. It was less frustrating to pay attention to the road.

Chavez lived in a nondescript lap-sided manufactured home on State Route 588 near Morning Drive. Many of the homes in the area were in need of paint, and maybe a junk sale, judging from the yards. Chavez was out front pulling grocery bags from the back of his pickup.

When Romero introduced himself, Chavez squinted, and then frowned.

“I’m looking for Marcus.”

“I haven’t seen him for two weeks.” Chavez lifted the grocery bags and headed for the door.

“Have any idea where he is?”

“Me and him don’t talk much,” Chavez said over his shoulder. “Hang on.” Chavez took the groceries into the home.

Romero waited.

Chavez returned for more bags from the truck and said, “Look, he was a teenager going through a tough time, his parents killed and all. Marcus dressed Goth, stuck pins in his nose and ears, the whole thing. Hell, wasn’t that long ago I was a teen, but you just couldn’t talk to him. Damn near punched him out whenever he said anything.”

“Do you know where he hung out?”

“No, but when he was home, he stayed in his room. Never heard nothin’ goin’ on in there.”

“Know who his friends were?”

“No.”

“Ever bring friends, girlfriends?”

“He got a girl? Never mentioned one. Like I said, we didn’t talk much.”

“Anything you can tell me from his past.”

“Yeah, he was a cute little guy when he was young. That’s all I remember.” Chavez hunched his shoulders. “Look, I know I ain’t been a good parent, but I just got this new job in Los Alamos and it’s a long commute. I got real bad hours, and you know, I wasn’t really ready for him movin’ in, but when my sister died in that wreck last year, I had no choice. Wasn’t any family but me. What was I supposed to do?”

How can you answer a question like that? Romero headed for home.

# # #

Romero hugged his wife. “You heard about Rachel?” He laid his car keys on the countertop.

“Yes,” she said. She’d been crying. News travels fast in the pueblo. “The poor thing. I feel just terrible. She was such a sweet girl.”

Costancia had known Rachel too, but she said no more. They’d developed a working agreement: no police business outside the home office, and certainly not in her kitchen.

“Are you okay, Peter?”

Costancia always seemed to know his true feelings. “Sure,” he said, masking the lie with a smile.

She gave an understanding look and changed the subject. “Sebastian called,” Costancia said.

“Great.” Romero pinched the bridge of his nose.

Sebastian Urina was head of the Ku-sha’l Society, whose members painted up as black and white-striped dancing clowns. Urina, old and ailing to hear him tell it, had put Romero in charge of a group of men whose main ceremonial duty was to enliven pueblo dances with absurd, often obscene, antics. Romero had selected the dancers, built the team, developed a good routine that would pass as PG in front of an audience, and rehearsed them until they were ready for the Inter-Tribal Ceremonial dance competition in Gallup, Monday.

“Monday. Damn. Two days,” he said.

Costancia made busy at the stove.

Romero stepped into his office. When Junior had left for college five years ago, Romero had taken over his son’s bedroom and conducted his administrative work, police and personal, from it.

Romero slumped in his chair and tried to clear his head. All preparations for the Ceremonial had been made. Well, not all. “Shit. I missed the meeting.” He’d asked the group to gather for final coordination of travel and shipping arrangements, but today’s events overrode everything else. Visions of Rachel lying in that foul trailer deflated any interest in a meeting. Sebastian would be in a pissy mood anyway.

He was about to call the San Bernalillo County Sheriff to see what they knew about Marcus Suina when the phone rang.

“Peter. Vicente’s took a gun. He’s gone after Marcus.” It was Adelina Quintana. “I begged him. He said he was going to kill Marcus because the police would never do anything. I tried to stop him. He’s been drinking all day. You know how he gets.”

“What can you tell me about Marcus?” He’d asked the same questions when Rachel had been reported missing. By asking again, he hoped something overlooked, forgotten, or withheld, would surface.

“I can’t tell you much more than I have, those two kept everything to themselves. Rachel and I argued, the secrecy and all, but when I met him he seemed like a nice boy. Peter, I just can’t believe he’s capable of hurting anyone.” Her voice cracked.

“Anything you can remember about Marcus would help.”

“He is just a typical teenager, shy, unsure, didn’t say much. Actually, really sweet despite the Goth dress and pins through the skin. He brought me flowers. He lost his parents–”

“Yes, I know. He ever say anything about where he hung out?”

“Sometimes in Santa Fe, I think.”

Most every kid in the pueblo ventured there at one time or another to gawk at tourists. “Any place specific?”

“No, never heard of one.”

“He say what his interests are or name friends?”

“No.”

“What did he talk about?”

“Never talked much around me, but when he did, he was always sweet.” Her voice cracked and she took short breaths. “Vicente is just hot headed, he’s not a bad man.”

He’d known Vicente before Adelina married him. Even back then, the bastard had a mean streak. “Just tell me what you can about Marcus.”

She began to cry, again. His neck and face heated. Despite the years, he’d never fully dismissed his affection for her.

“You know I have no jurisdiction off the reservation.”

“Please,” she said between sobs.

Adelina just lost a daughter, could soon have a husband in prison, if Vicente got his way. That made it hard to say no. “Let me see what I can do.” He asked her for Vicente’s vehicle license number and cradled the phone. “I’m going out,” Romero said to his wife.

“But, dinner’s almost ready,” Costancia said from the kitchen.

“Gotta find Vicente Quintana, talk some sense into him. Shouldn’t take long.”

She peeked around the corner. “Isn’t Rachel’s death an FBI case? What would Agent Reel say about this?”

“Jean said stay off her case. Finding Vicente is a different thing. No jurisdiction in a crime that hasn’t happened.”

“Didn’t we have discussions about this?”

“What?”

“I know how extra hard this is for you. I know how you felt about Rachel, she was a wonderful girl, but you gave your word to stay out of trouble.”

Romero puffed. “Vicente’s gonna shoot that boy, he finds him. What do you expect me to do?”

“Call the sheriff, like you’re supposed to,” she said before disappearing into the kitchen. Then she came back. “First it’s finding Rachel’s boyfriend, then it’s finding Vicente. Soon it will be something else. You never know when to stop, Peter, and someone always gets hurt.” She turned, walked back to the kitchen. The sound of pans slapping on the stove drove her point home.

“Adelina asked me to find Vicente,” he said, wishing he could swallow the words as soon as they came.

“Call the sheriff.” Her reply rolled into the office on a cloud of ice.

“Vicente is a hothead. Somebody’s gonna get hurt,” he said.

More banging. “Why do I even bother talking to you?”

Rachel’s death upset Costancia, too, and that made her unwilling to listen to reason. Silence was the smartest response he could think of. He headed for the door but the ring of the office line stopped him short. He picked up and said, “Romero.”

“You’re dead, motherfucker.”

Chapter 3

The caller clicked off. Romero stared at the handset trying to place the voice. He’d received a fair share of threatening calls over his twenty years as a policeman, calls from people he’d arrested, those he’d helped convict, parolees, drunks, their relatives, friends, and nut cases. Sometimes kids. Once, he’d tracked down a persistent heckler who, over the years, qualified in most of those categories.

Crank calls were part of the job description and not often worth the time it took to trace them. But this call was different. Something in the tone of the caller’s voice settled in the back of his shoulders. This call was worth tracing, but it would have to be later.

He slipped out of the house not wanting to antagonize Costancia further. She didn’t deserve it. As he walked to the Jeep, he stuffed his hands into his jeans to ease the tension walking up his arms to his shoulders. He had to find Vicente before the grieving father did something terrible and permanent.

Slipping behind the wheel, he remembered an axiom from his Marine MP days. If you know nothing new, start with what you do know. Vicente had little information about Rachel’s missing boyfriend and most likely would not be able to find him, but that was nothing to take to the bank. Vicente used to hang out in a dive in Peña Blanca. Peña Blanca meant white rock. Simple enough, but without the tilde, it meant white sorrow or white pain, an appropriate name, considering Rachel’s death.

He twisted the ignition and the engine exploded to life. The only good thing about today was the growl of the Jeep’s 327 Chevy bend eight mill. The rumbling pipes resonated through his chest, vibrated his aching neck. As a teen, he’d built the ride from junk. Sitting in the driver’s seat always made things right. The fat BFG tires glued the Jeep to the road. He headed south on Highway 22.

A hand-painted sign that said “Bar” marked the place. The building, lapped plywood siding with metal roof, slumped by the side of the highway between Sparkling Moolah and Arroyo Layba roads. Across the way, a rock crusher at a gravel pit spewed grit all over customers’ pickups. Romero parked a block north to avoid the dust.

Inside, a one-tap bar and stools crowded one side of the room. On the other, six tables framed a dead jukebox. A Coors ad glowed behind the counter, a Miller sign lit the opposite wall. The place smelled of wet ashtrays, stale beer, and urine. He’d had his first drink here, and the place hadn’t changed much since. Drinkers hunched over bottles as if protecting treasure. Cigarette smoke hazed out the details and watered Romero’s eyes. It wasn’t much past six o’clock, but one customer had collapsed face down on the bar.

“Thought you gave up drinkin’, Romero,” the bartender said.

The last drink, going on twelve months now, had been shoved down his throat during a bar fight with some bikers in Arizona, a learning opportunity that caused him to quit. “Seen Vicente Quintana?”

“Nope.”

“Any idea where he is?”

“Nope.”

“Anybody here seen Vicente?”

Someone grunted. Another belched. The rest ignored the question. It was understandable. People who knew Vicente Quintana kept their distance. Romero walked over to the bar and pulled the sleeping man’s head back by his braid. “You seen Vicente?”

“Wha’, who?”

“Your brother.”

“Naw.”

“Where’s he hang when he’s not here?”

“Fuck you, Romero, I ain’t his mama.” The man elbow-jabbed but Romero sidestepped and let go. The brother’s head thumped on the counter and stayed.

“Vicente’s gonna hurt a kid if I don’t stop him. Anybody know something, call me,” Romero said to the room. The drinkers paid no attention. He stepped out to a chorus of horselaughs. A beer bottle shattered off the doorframe above his shoulder. Romero looked back, flipped a bird, and said, “I’m here to serve.” Another round of laughs followed him down the road.

As he walked toward the Willys, Romero could see that the passenger’s side windshield had been punched through, giving the damaged Jeep the look of a wounded child with a hollow eye. He clenched his jaw. He’d dealt with vandals before, but these assholes were the lowest.

He drove homeward, left the rock on the seat where it had landed, wondered if the vandalism had a purpose, and hoped it was not Vicente’s doing.

# # #

When he walked into the house he could hear Costancia crying. He rushed to the kitchen. “You okay?” He flashed the crank call and busted window.

“It’s William,” Costancia said through sobs. “He’s been arrested.” She stood by the wall phone. Tears had puffed her eyes.

“What?” William was Costancia’s older brother and a Santa Fe police officer.

“I just got off the phone with Joseph. He says William’s arraignment is Monday.” Joseph, her younger brother, was a decorated police officer in Taos.

Romero’s jaw dropped. “What are the charges?”

“Something about conspiracy, drug possession, color of authority, oh, I don’t really know.” She sniffed. “It just can’t be. It just can’t be right.” She dried her eyes.

For a moment she seemed lost in thought. “Peter, you have to find out what’s going on. These charges. It’s not like him.”

If two brothers could occupy opposite ends of the personality scale, these two did. Joseph Cordero continued exemplary police work after a car wreck that cost him a year in rehab. He was fit, smart, and energetic. Pudgy brother William worked patrol in Santa Fe, but not too hard. In the past, when Romero had asked William for assistance, it was always rendered with great reluctance and at a high cost in return favors. “You know I got no juice up there. With your brother in jail, Santa Fe PD won’t give me the time of day.”

Her black eyes burned right through him. “If you have time for Adelina Quintana, you have time for William.” She hurried out of the kitchen into the bedroom and slammed the door. He heard it lock. Costancia was not a jealous woman. Her anguish was doing the talking.

“Long as you put it that way,” he said, soft enough she couldn’t hear. He shuffled into his office and sat at the desk, rested his face behind his palms. Costancia was upset, not like herself. She needed comforting and kind words, but she needed to cool off a little, too. They could talk then and make peace. He would tell her how sorry he was; tell how much he loved her. Soon.

He checked his cell phone for messages, noted the low battery and plugged the phone to its charger. The police landline rang. Now what? “Romero.”

“Peter, I got a call from Marcus.” It was Adelina.

At least Vicente hadn’t found him. “He’s okay?” It surprised him that he said it in a hushed voice.

“He says he doesn’t know what happened to Rachel. Says she got real sick. He went for help but his car broke down. When he walked back she was dead. Peter, he’s so frightened. That’s why he ran. He’s just a child.”

That was so like Adelina, giving her heart to anyone who needed it. He cleared his throat. “Does he know why Rachel got sick?”

“He asked me not to say.”

“This is no time for secrets.” Romero could hear sobbing, soft but from deep inside.

She sniffed. “Mushrooms. He wouldn’t tell me where he got them.”

No surprise. It seemed psilocybin, called caps, shrooms, mujercitas, or hombrecitos on the street, had become the reservation’s drug of choice. “Adelina, look. The FBI’s on the case. Mushrooms are not normally fatal. Let the investigation take its course. I know the investigator. She’s good people and she’ll do it right. Listen, did Marcus say where he was?”

“No.” Her voice came in a whimper.

“Has Vicente come home?”

“No.” Anger pushed the words. “You’ve got to find him, Peter.”

“I’ll keep trying.” He hung up.

Another ring. Dammit. “Romero.”

“You owe me,” said Jean Reel. “I want my report.”

“Oh man, I’m sorry. I’ll get right on it.” He glanced at the wall clock. It showed eight-thirty.

“You know Marcus Suina?”

He hesitated. “Rachel’s boyfriend. He was with her when she died.”

“Just how in hell you know that?”

“Just got off the phone with Rachel’s mother. The boy called her.”

“What’d I tell you about meddling in this case? I said you could inform the parents, not–”

Reel hid a Cherokee war club beneath her professional demeanor. “Calm down, Jean. She called me.”

“Does she know where Marcus is?”

“No.”

She paused. “Do you?”

Her tone caused him to imagine her crawling through the line to strangle him. “No.” Not yet.

“Screw with me, Romero, there will be consequences.” She hung up.

“Whew! Glad I’m on your good side,” he said to the handset.

Jean would contact the phone company to locate the origin of Marcus’s call after she got a subpoena. He could get information from the carrier faster because he had a Marine buddy that worked in the Albuquerque regional operations center. A call revealed, as luck would have it, the contact wouldn’t be at work until morning, another twelve hours. Damn.

He dialed Joseph Cordero to see if he had any more information on his brother William’s situation. As the phone rang, he considered driving the forty miles to Santa Fe to talk with William but visiting hours had long passed. SFPD might extend cop courtesy and bend the rules, but it wouldn’t hurt the jerk to stew until morning. The phone passed to voice mail and he asked for a call back. For sure, Joseph was in Santa Fe arranging bail and had switched off his cell. If he had a brother, he’d want one like Joseph.

He switched on the PC to work on Jean’s report. The PC hummed for a few seconds then popped into the blue screen of death. He rebooted, got the same result.

“Of course.” He squeezed the bridge of his nose with two fingers as the machine cycled through start up until it delivered another blue glow. “Where’s a nerd when you need one?” He slapped a hand on the desk. Jean’s report would have to wait.

He checked his watch. There were a few dive bars in White Rock and La Cienega to check before closing time. Vicente was not getting more sober, and Marcus not any safer, but it was important to make peace with Costancia, first. He pushed away from the desk and stepped outside to clear his head and calm down.

The low sun layered cauliflower clouds in blue, purple, and red, and stained stray tufts in pink. This was the time of day he loved most. Twilight made this land magical, but the temperature was still high and he hoped the desert night would provide some relief. The day had cranked him up, but the night spoke to him like a mother, soothed him. He exhaled.

He stepped back into the house, tried the bedroom doorknob. It was locked. “Honey, I’ll check on William, be back in a couple of hours.” He waited for an answer. When none came, he shrugged and walked outside.

In the driveway, he noticed the Jeep rode low and he moved closer. All four tires were flat. “Aw, shit.”

Nasty phone call, busted window, dead computer, and flat tires. “Gotta be a trend here,” he said.

He squatted to get a better look at the tires. At least the jerk had let the air out by unscrewing the valve core and not by slashing the tires. Decent of him. Smart, too. Romero might have heard the tires pop if they’d been punctured, but a valve hiss was not audible through adobe walls.

He’d been harassed before, mostly kids, and mostly pranks, but this was not funny.

Romero scanned the yard, walked around to the back of the house. Shadows stretched through the brush, but nothing seemed out of the ordinary. He returned to the front, waited, and then made his way around back to the storage shed. He turned on a light and rummaged around vowing to clean the damn place out soon. He pulled out a toolbox, compressor, hose and extension cord.

He backed out, turned, and jumped out of his skin. “Ahh!”

“Looks like you got a problem.” A thin man stood in front of him, a man hard of muscle, with a boxer’s broken nose, and long, greasy hair. In the light from the shed, the stranger’s sweat-stained Browns ball cap tilted back gave him a crude look, his busted teeth a carnivorous one.

“Who are you?” Romero asked.

“Name’s Ellis.”

The sun had departed the reservation, as should all strangers. “Why are you here at this hour, Mr. Ellis?”

The man smiled. “Like I said, you got a problem.”

Romero felt arms grab from behind and crush. He tried to jerk away, but his captor squeezed harder. Someone slipped a bag over his head. Lightning shot through the bag and everything faded away.

Chapter 4

Someone beat drums in Romero’s head. The burlap covering his face was damp with horse piss, and what little air he could inhale smelled of ammonia and stung his throat and nose. Gravel struck the undercarriage like machine gun fire, meaning the vehicle, which rode like a pickup, traveled at high speed. He rolled around the bed like loose lumber and tried to protect his head, but his limbs felt taped. Each lurch of the vehicle launched him upward, and then dropped him onto what had to be tire chains rattling about the deck.

The vehicle skidded to a stop on gravel. Someone jerked the tailgate open. Hands grabbed legs, pulled, and lifted him to large shoulders like a sack. Footsteps, three men, crunched through gravel, then onto a porch, wood from the sound, then into a building. A strong man dropped him hard onto a chair. Two men taped his legs and chest to it.

Someone pulled the hood off, allowing air that drew cool and thin. The place smelled musty. He blinked into focus. Moonlight sliced the dark from a slit in a curtain. Romero caught a glimpse of a flat top mesa a few miles off. Spiked silhouettes of ponderosa crowded its upper rim. The mesa glowed blue against the night sky, an effect Romero had heard about but had never seen before. The glimmer identified the butte as Urraca Mesa.

A single bulb from the ceiling clicked on. It lit the center of the room and shadowed its corners. He noticed some chairs and a couch. Two of the men stood to the side, their faces in shade. Ellis positioned himself in front, staring down at Romero like he was for sale. The ceiling light washed Ellis’s face to bare skull. Horses nickered somewhere outside.

Romero looked Ellis up and down. “Never did get an answer,” he said.

“The fuck you talking about?” Ellis asked.

“I asked you what you were you doing on the reservation so late?”

Ellis pushed a boot into Romero’s chest and knocked him over. He landed with a thump, the chair rails hard against his spine. The other men pulled him and the seat upright.

“Why don’t I ask the questions, here?” Ellis asked, leaning in. “Get too smart, injun, I just kill your ass. Understand?”

Romero turned his head. “Back off. You stink, man.”

Someone in the shadows snickered.

Ellis leaned back, delivered a slap that blurred Romero’s vision. “No need to get insulting ‘cause you and I got the same thing in mind.” He stood back. “Both of us want Vicente Quintana. You and me.” He pointed at Romero, thumbed himself.

Romero stared at Ellis. No way he had anything in common with this thug. “And, you know what I have in mind?”

“Man watches long enough, he learns things.”

“So?”

“So, you can save me a lotta work and help reduce my expenses. I’m a businessman, know what I’m sayin’?”

“What’s your business have to do with me?”

“Well now, Quintana don’t pay his bills, and I’m new to the area and people I talk to don’t seem to, you know, confide. I bet they’ll confide in you. Besides, who can find an injun don’t want to be found? Another injun, right?” He held his hands up, slapped them to his sides.

“Go figure,” Romero said.

“You find him, you’re happy. Hand him over to me, I’m happy. Everybody’s happy.”

Is this guy an idiot? “How’s that gonna make me happy?”

“You’re a family man. As for myself, I’m not, but I do know what makes a family man happy. ”

“You touch– ”

Ellis leaned in again, breath like old whiskey bottles. “The way I see it, you ain’t in no position to bargain. Take Vicente’s wife, Adelina. She won’t be happy I fuck her and my boys fuck her. Well, she might be happy for awhile, but you know how women get after you fuck ‘em too long.”

The background men laughed.

“Then I’d have to kill her because she’s not happy. I want everybody to be happy. I got feelings, too. Same’s true for your wife, Costancia, you understand? I hate to see people unhappy.”

The fact that Ellis knew the names of Adelina and Costancia sent shivers across his back.

“I’m always thinking of other people.” Ellis grinned.

More laughter.

“That’s right, I’m a giver.” Ellis leaned back and roared, composed himself, chuckled. He waved over the men in the dark. “Oh, pardon my manners. Had fun on my mind. Come out here, boys, meet Mr. Romero.”

The two men stepped into view.

One wore loose, baggy pants, low in the way of gang bangers. The man sported prison neck and arm tats on a short, thick frame. His shaved head and dark eyes glistened in the overhead light.

Ellis showed brown teeth. “Little one’s Jo Sue. Sounds like his momma was confused, don’t it? Don’t tease him about the name, though, ‘cause he’s got what they call anger management issues.”

Jo Sue smiled, exposed a lot of gold. “Hola.”

“Big one there’s Orlo. Orlo sounds like some kind’a disease, don’t it?”

Orlo stood six-three, three hundred pounds or more, not much fat. An eyebrow ridge dominated the giant’s face. He wore coveralls like a dirt farmer, seemed to be missing a neck and brains. His grin pushed a chill through Romero’s rib cage. Jo Sue impressed Romero as a thug who would hurt you and not care, but Orlo would hurt you and not know it.

Ellis caught Romero’s inspection. “Quite a pair, huh? Now what do you say, Mr. Romero, we got a contract?”

“Contract?”

“You deliver Vicente, I disappear.”

“What’s to keep me from getting help, or going to the police?” Or getting even?

“I make this deal too hard to understand, Romero?”

“What’s my guarantee you’ll live up to your end?”

Ellis put a hand to his chin, glanced upward. “Hmm. Let’s see. I know. We’ll shake on it.”

Jo Sue, Orlo, and Ellis broke into laughter and kept laughing as Orlo bagged Romero’s head, untaped him from the chair, carried him out of the cabin and threw him into the back of the vehicle. Someone dumped the snow chains on top of him. “So’s he won’t get damaged’ during the trip, sabes?” Jo Sue said. More laughter.

Before Jo Sue closed the doors, he whispered to Romero, “Hey, sorry about that windshield, vato. Nice ‘53. Might look better low-low with wire D’s and hydros. Me entiendes?” The door slammed and locked.