Thirty-Three

Marcy wanted to know what Walter Fager was up to.

Montclaire followed him and Bronkowski to the Mexican dive on Airport Road. She got out of her car and walked by the cantina’s front window. Fager was talking with detectives Lewis and Aragon, and a fat slob she didn’t recognize. She called Marcy and was told to stick with Fager when the meeting ended.

His Mercedes turned onto Cerrillos toward downtown. When he pulled into his office lot, she continued into the alley where she could watch his car. Fager and Bronkowski were loading a video camera and a case of plastic water bottles into the trunk. They got back in the car. She caught him on Paseo de Peralta and followed him to the hills, where he had a house.

She couldn’t stay close on empty residential streets. She swung around his block and came up on his house from the other direction. The Mercedes was in his gravel drive. She parked in the driveway of a neighbor who appeared to be away from home. Twenty minutes later Fager came out dressed, for the first time in her memory, in something other than pinstripes. He wore jeans, heavy boots, and a Carhartt jacket. Bronkowski appeared with two knapsacks. She ducked out of sight. She heard a noisy diesel engine, tires on gravel, then the quieter sound of a car on a paved road. She counted to ten then followed.

They drove through Santa Fe, south on Cerrillos, and pulled into a Hertz office. Parked in the lot of an adjacent business, she watched them at the counter. They came out and headed to the back of the lot. Soon, a Grand Cherokee rolled by with Bronkowski at the wheel and Fager riding shotgun.

She was glad she had nearly a full tank as the Grand Cherokee continued south onto the interstate. At Albuquerque she checked in with Thornton. Marcy sounded nervous and told her not to lose them. When they emerged on the south side of the city, the rugged pyramid of Ladron Peak came into view. She knew where they were heading and why.

She began to worry about keeping the tail without being seen as traffic thinned. She dropped back. At the Bernardo exit she saw light glinting off a vehicle on the dirt road leading to Ladron Peak. The road bent back on itself after it crossed a deep arroyo. The Grand Cherokee appeared at the head of a rooster tail of dust thrown up by its wheels. She left the interstate and hit the gas.

Montclaire drove a BMW 3 Series rear-wheel-drive coupe. She remembered the road to Geronimo’s place. It got worse with every mile. Ruts jerked her car from side to side. A few miles later she got stuck in sand washed across the road.

She got out. Her spike heels sank. The tires were buried to their hubcaps. The plume of dust from the Grand Cherokee grew small in the distance. She had no water, no food. The wind cut through her shirt and she had only a thin leather jacket in the back seat.

The sound of a chugging motor approached. A 1960s flare-side Ford pickup rolled down the slope toward her. She saw the outline of a cowboy hat and a rifle rack through the windshield. The truck braked and a weathered Hispanic man got down.

“Two pretty ladies on my ranch in two days. This one has hair.”

She was ready to throw that hair over her shoulder, cock a hip, and turn on the charm to get this old man to use the winch on the front of his truck to pull her out, or drive her into the nearest town, if that’s what it took. His eyes were telling her she looked pretty damn good standing in tights next to her German car, the wind pushing her blouse between her breasts.

Instead she asked, “This woman without hair? Was she about this tall?” and held her hand at shoulder height.

Montclaire raised her eyes to the rearview mirror and waved to the old man in the pickup on her rear bumper. He flashed his lights to say goodbye then fell back as he slowed to turn around. Her tires reached hardtop. The interstate was just ahead. She stopped at a cell tower and called Marcy.

“Get the biggest retainer Cody can pay.”

Together they saw how the pieces fit. The meeting at the Mexican restaurant, Fager and Bronkowski heading straight for Cody’s ranch, Aragon orchestrating it all, accomplishing more on suspension than she could have gotten done with Dewey Nobles in the way, where they could reach her.

Marcy told her to get her own Jeep and video camera, a sleeping bag, and enough food for a couple days. She was returning to Cody’s place.

“I don’t feel comfortable being out there alone.”

“You won’t be lonely,” Marcy said. “Every cop in the state is headed your way.”