For pain must enter into its glorified life of memory before it can turn into compassion.
― George Eliot
Cici ground her back molars together when Gordon once again refused to let her into her family’s hacienda. They’d been going round this circle for hours.
“But my father asked me to go in and—” she began.
“Not until we have a better handle on who the person is and why he was here,” Gordon said.
“If you’d let me look around, I could tell you if something’s missing.”
Gordon raised his eyebrows. “I thought you said you didn’t know your father still owned this place.”
Cici scowled. “True. But I’m the one who lived in the house last.”
“When did you live here?”
She stared at the large front porch with its sturdy pillars and viga-planked ceiling. Her mother used to keep a ristra next to the wind chime, which used to sing a soft melody that greeted Cici each morning on her way out the door to school.
“Growing up.”
“That was a long time ago,” Gordon said, his tone dismissive.
“My father said I should—”
But Gordon cut her off. “Why don’t you go home now? I need to focus on my investigation.”
Devon cast Cici an exasperated look. After a long moment that she used to regain her composure, Cici asked Mrs. Sanchez to take her home.
“And be available should I need to talk with you again,” Gordon called over his shoulder from the doorway of her house.
Fine. Her father’s house, but still.
Once home, Cici stepped out of the car and invited Mrs. Sanchez in, hoping to discuss her concerns with the older woman, but Mrs. Sanchez shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I have some more phone calls to make.”
“Please don’t stir up trouble on my account,” Cici said.
Mrs. Sanchez continued to stare out the front windshield, her hands firm on the steering wheel. With a sigh of defeat, Cici headed up her porch steps and into her house.
On the plus side, Gordon hadn’t called her yet. But neither had Sam.
Cici searched the news online, hoping for some clue as to who the dead person was found in the acequia.
She frowned. Twice now the acequia had come up in the past week—and with that thought came a resolve in her belly.
A resolve to go to the acequia that ran behind her family’s property. Gordon wouldn’t like her there and might well try to slap some charge on her if he found out. Why would her business card be there? And why had Roland Palmero been there—in the spot just behind her family’s home? He didn’t even live in that part of town. With each passing moment, the need to see the area for herself grew stronger—a compulsion she simply couldn’t resist.
She’d promised Sam she wouldn’t ride her Harley until her foot was out of the boot. Technically, that wouldn’t happen until she visited the doctor in another few weeks. She ran her lower lip between her teeth, trying to decide how best to handle the situation.
Rodolfo and Mona lifted their heads from their paws where they lay, side by side, in one large dog bed—the other abandoned on the opposite side of the room. Cici smiled when she noted Devon’s cruiser in her driveway.
She opened her door as soon as the young officer climbed onto her porch.
“How you holding up, Rev?” he asked.
She shrugged. “I’ll be okay. I’m worried about you, though.”
“Don’t be. I’m okay. In fact, I’m off my shift now, courtesy of Agent Gordon.”
Cici clutched her elbows and weighed her options. “Would you be willing to take me to the Acequia Madre, Devon?”
He looked startled. “Do you think that’s a good idea?”
She inhaled slowly. “To play nice with Agent Gordon? No. In fact, I think he’ll be angry when he finds out.”
Devon narrowed his eyes. “If he finds out, Rev.”
“I don’t want to get you in trouble, but, yeah, I’d prefer him not to know about this trip.”
He considered her. “I don’t think the chief will mind. I can let him know, a CYA for both of us.”
A faint smile teased her lips. “Solid plan.” She hesitated. “I need to get as close to the spot where they found the body as possible. I know you’re tired and just got back from there, but I feel like I need to go and see…whatever I can.”
“Grab your bag and whatever else you need. After we go there, I’ll take you back to the hospital to get your car.”
Cici did as he instructed while Devon scratched the dogs’ ears. They both closed their brown eyes, blissful at the attention.
“I’m ready.”
She settled back into the police cruiser, and Devon drove back up Paseo de Peralta, turning onto Canyon Road, one of the oldest in the city. It was clogged now with tourists, both in cars and on foot. He sighed but waited with the patience of a native, inching forward until he could turn onto the side street Cici requested.
“Mind if we get out? I want to walk this bit.”
Rolling to a stop, Devon pulled his keys from the ignition and exited the car with her. Maybe his blind faith in her was misplaced. What if she did know the dead man? What if she’d caused more suffering, like she had for the Bratva in Chaco? The wind whipped through Cici’s hair, and she shoved it back over her shoulder, holding it in place with her left hand as she marched along the soft, grassy bank of the narrow irrigation ditch known as the Acequia Madre—the mother ditch. From it, all the other tributaries flowed, though not as many as there used to be, as few of the homes here still had the large acreage that once made up the original land grants.
A heavy feeling slammed into her solar plexus two-thirds of the way to her family’s hacienda, and Cici gasped. She took another step but stuttered, her body aching as if she’d just plastered herself into a brick wall. With a soft groan she settled on her knees next to the bank.
And the vision washed over her, as if she’d immersed herself in the cold water rippling down the narrow confines of the hard-packed dirt trench, swamping her senses.
Peter Gurule was a handsome devil. Even in her vision, Cici could feel the pull of his charisma, the dashing, piratical charm of his smile, which was currently turned on someone in a bright yellow raincoat.
Peter’s hair was plastered to his head, water running in rivulets down his temples and chin.
“Wow,” he said. “I’m flattered, but I…I don’t think I’m your dashing knight.” His mouth quirked upward in a half grin, seeming to telegraph, No hard feelings. Glancing up at the sky, he said, “We need to get you home.”
“No,” said a soft voice. “I’m fine.”
“There’s no way I’m letting you run around out here in this weather.”
He motioned, and the person wrapped in yellow fell in step beside him. Neither of them spoke as they trudged down the street. Water squelched in their shoes, and they both shivered as the temperature dropped and the rain pounded against their clothes and exposed skin.
The other person in yellow didn’t speak, but the small fists clenched tight, either from the cold or strong emotion.
Peter stopped at a house about two blocks from where he’d been before. An adobe. No surprise there since that’s what most of Santa Fe was made of—or made to look like it was made of.
The person clomped up the three steps to the porch. Peter waited until the door opened. The person in yellow turned to wave. Thunder boomed across the sky, lighting up the entrance of the home behind the small figure. Something bright flashed as the door slid shut.
The vision shifted before Cici could get a clear view of the person’s face, and she was left with only the impression of a soft hand and a willowy body.