CARLOS TAKES MY truck, and Ava and I drive one of her tribal police SUVs. We take I-10 to I-25 and head north through New Mexico, talking very little. There isn’t any uncomfortableness between us—at least as far as I can tell—but Ava isn’t a particularly talkative person. We discuss the cases some, both the eagle feather case and Marta Rivera’s situation, but otherwise we ride in silence.
I call Ryan Logan to update him on our whereabouts. I also inquire to make sure that Fiona Martinez wasn’t among the women at the warehouse or the brothels. I already know the answer, since in my heart I’m confident the eagle feather victims are part of a different case, but I need to make sure. He listens professionally, but when I ask him if there’s any news about Marta Rivera, he says, “Why don’t you and your pals keep looking into those eagle feathers and let us worry about the trafficking victims.” He says this with an air of superiority that raises my blood pressure, as if he and his men are doing the important work and the three of us are off on some wild goose chase.
I try to convince myself that a whole battalion of law enforcement officials are looking for Marta and that I should feel confident that they’ll find her. I feel myself torn between two cases. I know this case is important, but I also wish I could be searching for Marta.
Outside the window, the New Mexico countryside rolls by: brown hills dappled with sagebrush, rocky buttes rising from the earth, vast swaths of land without a human structure in sight besides telephone poles and electrical towers. The sky is blue from horizon to horizon without an ounce of humidity to dull the brilliant hue.
We stop for the night in Santa Fe, getting separate rooms at a hotel near the plaza. After a short break, we meet up and find a restaurant with a balcony overlooking the town square. The adobe buildings are full of art galleries and restaurants, and the area is bustling with tourists. A shaded walkway is full of Native American artisans sitting on rugs, selling jewelry and crafts.
New Mexico has its own style of food—different from traditional Mexican or the Tex-Mex I’m used to—and I enjoy my bowl of green chile stew, a side of enchiladas, and especially the sopapillas and honey served after the meal.
Bored with our lack of conversation—I might be the strong silent type by some standards, but Ava takes it to another level—I ask my companion how she met Marcos. She explains that she’s known him since she was in high school, but they only started dating when she returned to the Pueblo to start working for the tribal police.
“How long has he been driving a truck?” I ask.
“Five years or so,” she says. “He’s always been a bit of a loner, so it suits him.”
Trying not to come across like I’m prying into her personal business, I gently ask how she likes him being on the road so much.
“It works for us,” she says. “I work long hours. He works long hours. When we do manage to get free time together, we make the most of it. We’re thankful for what we get.”
“That’s a healthy way of looking at it,” I say. “My relationships always seem to fail because we can only focus on the time we don’t spend together instead of the time we do.”
“What about that bartender?” she asks. “How’s that going?”
I shrug. “It’s all a bit up in the air.”
“What’s with her professor?” she asks, and can’t hide her smile.
We both laugh out loud, thinking of Neil Stephenson and his pretentious demeanor.
“I think he’s got the hots for Megan,” I say.
Ava makes a face telling me that she disagrees.
“What?” I ask.
“I think she might have the wrong skin color,” Ava says.
Thinking of his love of Native American literature and the way he followed Ava around like a puppy the other night, I realize she might be onto something.
“Either way,” Ava says, “I’m pretty sure you don’t have anything to worry about. That girl only has eyes for you.”
“Thanks,” I say. “That reminds me, I probably should call her and tell her I can’t stop by the bar tonight.”
I excuse myself and find a secluded spot on the balcony, looking down on the plaza. The sun is sinking, and a band is setting up on a gazebo in the middle of the lawn.
“Hey,” Megan says when she answers. “Sorry we missed each other last night.”
I remember that I didn’t take her call because I was talking to Willow.
Megan tells me she’s got the night off and was going to spend it working on her dissertation, but if I want to hang out, she’d set her computer and books aside.
“Bad news,” I say. “I’m in Santa Fe.”
“Over by Galveston?”
“No, no. Up by Albuquerque.”
“Oh, lucky you. I love Santa Fe.”
“I wish you were here with me,” I say, as the band starts to play an interesting folk-rock mix, with a woman with a beautiful vocal range singing in Spanish.
I picture Megan and me down on the lawn, dancing to the music. Then I think about what Ava said about focusing on the time you get to spend with the person you care about, not the time you spend away.
“I’ll be back in El Paso in a few days,” I say. “How about we go out then?”
“Rory Yates,” she says in a playfully coquettish tone, “are you asking me out on a date?”
“Yes, I am.”
“I’m glad you can’t see my face right now, because I’m blushing.”
This makes me smile.
As we chat, my phone beeps. I have an incoming call from Willow.
“Do you need to get that?” Megan says. “Is it anything important?”
“No,” I say.
This time I ignore the call from Willow.