21

More than a millennium earlier, Indians had mined turquoise from the Cerrillos Hills south of Santa Fe. They held the blue-green gem sacred for its powers to bestow a long and happy life and exported tons of it, even as far as to the hands of Montezuma. The route southward from the mines toward Mexico became known as the Turquoise Trail. It was this road that Sam and Antonio Pomodoro traveled now.

“What would you think about taking a drive?” Sam had suggested, once they’d escaped Sombra’s. “I could do with a little break. Some fresh air. And it seems that Johanna owned a turquoise mine….”

Pomodoro had been game, enthusiastic, in fact.

And so they found themselves heading out into land that grew progressively flatter and drier and more desolate. Here and there little hills, cerrillos, popped up like solitary mushrooms. This was the same landscape where Sam, driving up from Albuquerque, had thought Death bided his time.

Now Pomodoro pointed toward a huge volcanic outcropping off to the right. Just there, according to Lo’s directions, was the turnoff onto a narrow paved county road. Behind the craggy outcropping, they passed a lonely pink adobe ranch. Beyond that, the road curved, then seemed to disappear.

“Looks like we’re running out of blacktop,” Sam said. Gravel spun up from their tires.

This was good, she thought, getting out into the country, away from the smell of smoke and death. And she was so glad to have company. Thank God for the kindness of strangers. Thank God for Jesus and Lo—and Pomodoro. Where would she be without them?

Pomodoro felt her glance and smiled. Suddenly Sam found herself blurting, “They declared Johanna’s death a suicide, you know. The police told me just before you called.”

“I can’t believe that!” Pomodoro stomped involuntarily on the accelerator, and the black Jeep lurched. “Suicide? Not Johanna, surely.”

“Pills and alcohol, that’s what they claim. They said there were empties of both in her room.”

Pomodoro eased off the gas. Then he reached for Sam’s hand and squeezed it tight. “I am so sorry.”

“Thank you. And thanks for not believing them. I don’t. They can say what they want; that doesn’t make it true.”

“Then what do you think?”

“I’m not sure. I certainly have a lot of questions. And I’m not going to stop asking until they’re all answered.”

Pomodoro nodded silently. Then he said, “That could take some time.”

“I know. And I do have family obligations. But this is one also.”

“I’d certainly say so. I certainly would.”

Pomodoro’s hand continued to rest atop Sam’s. And for a moment, she thought of Harry. Sweet Harry. She did wish he were here. Then she found herself telling Pomodoro about the missing scrapbooks, the fire, her suspicions of Vigil.

“Very puzzling,” said Pomodoro. “Most upsetting too. And, you say you still haven’t found this locket of Johanna’s?”

“No. It could be with her things that the police impounded at the crime scene. Maybe, if you don’t mind, we could stop by and pick them up on our way back into town.”

“Of course. Whatever I can do to be of help.”

“You’re very kind.” Then Sam turned back to the directions. “We were to make two long turns, and we’ve done that. Then we go past the marker to Rancho Maravilloso. Stuart Wonder’s retreat.”

“Do you know Wonder?”

“No, I haven’t met him. But I sat by his wife on my flight from New Orleans.”

“Really? What a coincidence.”

“No coincidences in Santa Fe. Isn’t that what they say?”

“Do you believe that?”

“I don’t know. So much has happened in the brief time I’ve been here I don’t know what to think anymore.”

Rounding the next curve, they found themselves at the ranch’s gate. Sited just back from the road, Rancho Maravilloso was a re-creation of the main street of a Western town of more than a century earlier. There was a bank, a saloon, a dry goods store, a Chinese laundry, a ghost house—maybe twenty buildings in all—plus a barn, a stable, a blacksmith shop.

“Well, this is something, isn’t it?” said Sam. “Under different circumstances, I wouldn’t mind visiting.”

“Maybe you can do that. Do you want to get out now, take a look around?”

“No, let’s go on toward the mine. It shouldn’t be far.”

And sure enough, a half-mile further, Sam pointed out a red gate that was marked on the map. “Yes, and there’s the cattle crossing. We’re here.”

Pomodoro pulled off onto a dirt-and-gravel washboard road. They drove a rough quarter mile to the red gate and parked off to the side, though the difference between road and not-road was marginal. There were no habitations, as far as they could see, with the exception of Rancho Maravilloso behind them. Miles of sparse scrub, tumbleweed, and greasewood ranged toward the Ortiz Mountains.

“I’ll get the padlock,” Sam offered, cramming on her sun hat and jumping from the Jeep. But the lock wouldn’t budge, even after three tries. Then Pomodoro got out and carefully logged the numbers as she recited them out, but still no luck.

Sam studied the rough map that Lo had sketched. “According to this, it’s only three-quarters, maybe a mile down this road. You see that hill straight in front of us? That’s here on the map.” She tapped the spot. “There is the entrance to the mine. What say we leave the car here, climb the fence, and walk?”

“Why not?”

Once over the gate, they trudged slowly down the dusty road. The heat and the altitude made the going tough. After fifty yards, they were both panting.

Sam said, “Don’t you think it’s strange, Johanna buying a mine? It’s not like having a summer cabin or a fishing camp. Something you could really enjoy.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Pomodoro answered. “Johanna was always quirky. It was part of her charm. She could have owned a rice paddy outside Bangkok, I wouldn’t have been surprised.”

“I guess you’re right. Even when I was small, I realized Johanna was different from my friends’ mothers. So full of high spirits, and she painted. But we always idolize our parents, don’t we? When we’re children, we think they’re gods, even if they’re deeply flawed. Like my father…” Sam paused.

Pomodoro waited.

“My father was a drunk. A binger,” she explained. “When I was a little kid, I thought it was perfectly normal that he would go along for months being quite wonderful, and then he’d go off on a toot. He’d drink everything that wasn’t locked up. Then he and Johanna would fight. They had some doozies: stomping up and down stairs, screaming behind locked doors, throwing china. The whole nine yards.”

“Really? Who threw the china?” Pomodoro asked.

“Johanna mostly. When she was angry, she could destroy some crockery, big time.” Sam stopped and wiped her brow on an arm.

“So she was violent,” Pomodoro said.

Sam stopped dead in the dirt. “Violent? What do you mean?”

Pomodoro blinked. “Throwing china? That sounds violent to me.”

“I’ve never thought of it that way. I guess I excused her because she was provoked. When I drank, I was such a jerk I’m surprised people didn’t lob whole china cabinets at me.”

“I disagree. I don’t think there’s ever any excuse for that kind of behavior.” Pomodoro’s voice was cold, tamped down.

Sam was taken aback. “Have I said something to upset you? I just meant that drunks can be so obnoxious that I can understand if other people sometimes overreact.”

“No.” Pomodoro shook his head fiercely. “I don’t think they should.”

Sam was growing increasingly uncomfortable. There was something going on with Antonio Pomodoro that she didn’t understand. “Maybe we should change the subject.”

“You’re right. I’m the one who’s overreacting now.” He smiled sheepishly and grazed her hand with a fingertip. “Please forgive me. I’m thinking of my own family, not yours.”

“It’s okay, really. You don’t have to explain.”

“No, no, I want to. You see, when I was a kid, my parents fought all the time. And my mother, well, she was very excitable, and she’d get carried away. She was a good woman, but sometimes… Anyway, when I was fourteen, they were having this big row—my dad was a drinker, like yours, and he’d come home soused—and she was mad, and she picked up something, a silver pitcher, I think, and hit him in the head. She’d hit him before, but this time, he collapsed and died.”

“Oh, Antonio, no!”

“I’m afraid it’s true.”

“I am so sorry. That’s a terrible story.”

“I know. I really loved my old man. He had his faults, but I loved him.”

“I loved my dad too. And Johanna. I miss them both, terribly.”

They stood there for a long moment, under the blazing sun, their eyes shining with tears. Then Sam tapped his shoulder. “Let’s see the mine and then go back into town and grab some lunch. Suddenly I’m starving. What do you think?”

*

The tall tan hill looked no different from any of the others around—barren, sparsely dotted with chamiso and scrub—except for a dark opening in its side, framed with rough wood. The mouth of the mine looked exactly as it had in the photograph on Johanna’s desk.

Sam reached the entrance first. “Come on,” she called to Pomodoro trailing behind. “What are you doing?”

He stood trying to balance on one foot. “Just a minute. I’ve got a pebble in my shoe.”

Sam turned, then stepped inside the doorway and looked down a dark narrow tunnel that began just beyond where she stood. The temperature dropped immediately. It was impossible to make out much detail in the blackness, especially after the brilliant sunshine, but it looked as if the rock walls and floor were slick with damp.

She stepped out again and walked back into the white heat toward Pomodoro, then reached for the water bottle strapped to his shoulder. After a long drink, she said, “Lo told me that Johanna had cocktail parties inside. Can you imagine?”

“I didn’t know she ever had parties, but…” Before he finished his sentence, something raced across the ground between them and the mine shaft. Something gray-beige and swift.

Sam jumped back, startled. “What was that?”

“Nothing. A dog.” Pomodoro straightened up and reached for her arm.

“No,” Sam said, suddenly uneasy. She squinted out across the brush and chamiso. “I don’t think it was a dog. It was a coyote.”

“Whatever; it’s gone now. Shall we?” He dropped a hand to the small of her back.

But Sam wouldn’t budge. “Nope,” she said. “We can’t do it.”

“What are you talking about?”

“It’s not safe.”

She recalled Jesus’s words: If Mr. Coyote crosses your path, you’ve got to sprinkle corn pollen or cornmeal in his footprints before you can go on. If you don’t, it is certain you will die soon.

Pomodoro smiled indulgently. “You don’t believe that. You don’t strike me as a superstitious woman.”

“Well, given my luck the past few days, I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Pomodoro’s smile faded. “But we drove all the way out here. I can’t believe you want to turn around now when we’re only a few yards from the mine.”

“Maybe seeing it wasn’t the point. Maybe the drive was. You know, the journey? Besides, we can do this another day.”

“But we’re here now.”

“I just can’t do it, Antonio. Call me crazy, but I can’t.” She turned and looked back down the deserted road. She didn’t see the coyote now. In fact, nothing moved for miles. There’d been no cars in Rancho Maravilloso’s yard. This was such desolate country anything could happen out here and no one would know. She turned and patted Pomodoro on the shoulder. “Tell you what, let’s run by police headquarters and pick up Johanna’s things, and then I’ll buy you that lunch.”