Then, who?
Father Ignacio and I were both studying, writing about the Penitentes. That’s all we had in common. He knew much more than I did. He had more resources . . . Resources! Could there be a clue in the two resources he told me to bring together for my book? Could that be why my book was stolen? Or why someone had tried to kill me, as they had killed Father Medina? What did the tract by Padre Martínez have to do with any of this? And what was that other name, the man’s name I had written down? I tried to fathom this, and the information that Christine Salazar had inadvertently given me—that there was an investigation into stolen icons. Could Santiago Suazo have been involved in the theft of those icons? Was that where he was getting all that money? I had heard that religious icons sold for huge sums on the black art market.
A high, shrill whistle sliced through the quiet night. It made an eerie shrieking sound that seemed to find my spinal column and travel right down the stem from neck to tailbone, jangling every nerve. I started, felt a jolt of fear surge through me. Redhead drew up from the grass and flared her nostrils. Then I recognized the sound. It was the
pito
! It was a
pitero
playing his flute! I grabbed my rifle with the night scope that Kerry had loaned me, threw the mare’s reins over her neck, jumped up and mounted her bareback, and kicked my heels gently into her sides. We tore off in the direction of the whistle.
I guided Redhead back through the woods, aiming for the Boscaje morada, certain that the procession had originated there. Just short of the thickest growth, I stopped the horse and dismounted. I tied her reins to a branch and made my way forward again on foot, carrying my rifle. I heard the raspy metallic whir of the
matraca
in the distance—a wooden instrument similar to an old-fashioned party noisemaker. I approached the edge of the meadow where I had hidden last week. The pito whistled shrilly again, to my right. I followed the sound through the trees; I did not have to go far. Above me, higher up the slope, a small procession was in progress.
I looked through the night scope on the rifle. A body was being dragged by two men, each holding one of his arms over a shoulder. I drew back in alarm, then looked again through the scope. As I studied the scene, I saw that it was not a body, but an Hermano who had been doing penance and was now unconscious from the self-inflicted torture. His lolling head was covered with a black cloth bag. His feet were bare. His back was torn and bleeding, and a cold cloud of steam rose from his wounds. The seat of his white cotton pants was black with the blood draining from his back.
Behind this trio came three more Hermanos. One carried a large crucifix in one hand as he steadily plodded, head down. Another whirled the matraca with one hand as he dragged the blood-soaked whip that had probably been used by the unconscious Penitente in the other. The third, farthest behind, was the pitero. He was an old man, thin and bony in his long black robelike coat and black pants. His blue-white hair stuck out like thick thatch over a black bandanna he had tied across his forehead.
The moon, nearly full and directly overhead, illuminated the cavalcade like a spotlight as they marched up the slope and across the meadow, leaving a wide silver trail in the frost-covered grass. They approached the morada, where, once again, two men armed with rifles stood outside. One of the sentries opened the door and leaned out of the way as they dragged the unconscious Penitente through. The door slamming after them sounded like a muffled shot echoing across the meadow grass, breaking like waves on the silent shore of the cold, still night.
I watched for ten or fifteen minutes, but nothing else happened. The two
hermanos vigilantes
pulled blankets around their shoulders and hunkered against the adobe walls on either side of the morada door. They looked to be settling in for the night. I headed back to my camp to do the same.
When I got back to my campsite, the tiny, downlike hairs on my forearms seemed to be standing up and reaching out like sensors to detect any danger. I slid off Redhead’s back, still holding my rifle in one hand. I looped her reins over a branch and stood stock-still as I scanned the area. A tingling sensation ran down my shoulders and gave me gooseflesh on my arms. Had my gear been moved? Was that where I left my backpack? The saddlebags? Or was I just unnerved by the grim scene I had just witnessed?
The moon had climbed higher and I could see all the way down the slope to the draw, where the crevice in the earth made a black shadow. If someone had been in my camp, they could be hiding in there, or behind those cottonwoods, or even farther up the slope from me, in the denser thicket of junipers and piñons. I heard a noise behind me, raised my rifle to my shoulder, and whirled around, wondering at the same time where I should go for cover.
“Jamaica? It’s me!” He was coming through the low growth of some sage scrub on his way down from the forested land above my camp—the same way I had just come.
“Kerry! What are you doing? You’re lucky I didn’t shoot!”
He took long steps down the slope and reached my camp before I finished speaking. “Easy there. Hold on. I just came over to check on you and found you gone and your horse’s saddle and your gear still here. I was worried. I thought you might have headed up toward that morada by Boscaje, so I went back through there looking for you.” I noticed he was carrying a rifle, too.
“We must have barely missed one another. I just came back from there. I saw a small procession. That’s why I left camp—I heard the pito.”
“Yeah. I heard it, too. Eerie sounding, isn’t it? I’ve heard that before. It really travels across the mountains, and sometimes it echoes. The first time I heard it was over in the Mora Valley, and I thought it was a wild animal cry or a woman shrieking. It nearly drove me crazy. I tried to follow the sound, but it seemed to move all over, and the way it echoed, I couldn’t tell if I was after the sound or its twin. I finally gave it up. So, you’re okay?” He dusted off his jeans.
“I’m okay. I just had the strangest feeling.” I looked around my camp area again. “I thought we weren’t going to meet up until morning.”
“Yeah, well, I don’t know. I just thought I ought to see how you were doing over here.” He fidgeted with a tiny nest of cedar needles that had attached themselves to the cuff of his coat. “I keep forgetting to ask—how’s your . . . where you fell off your horse? You seem like you’re all better.” He looked at me and grinned, his hat brim casting a moon shadow across his eyes.
“Oh, that.” I blushed. “Yes, all better, thanks. And I forgot to ask you: how was your trip to Santa Fe?”
“It was good. There’s a gallery there that carries some of my photographs. I sold two last month. So I dropped off two more and picked up a nice little check. Helps pay for my equipment, printing and framing, stuff like that. Hey, that reminds me.” He reached into his coat pocket and held up something. “This should work for that memory card you found.” He moved in closer and turned slightly so the moonlight would shine on the item in his hand. “You plug that card in this slot here, see?”
I nodded my head.
“Then you plug this end into the port on a computer. It should open up on your computer’s desktop like another drive. If there are any photos on that memory card, you’ll be able to open that drive and see them.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the device from him and holding it up to examine it more closely. “I’ll have to try that the next time I’m in the office. I don’t have a computer myself, but maybe I can use the one there that I do my reports on.”
“Good. Now, come on and let’s get a fire built, what do you say? It’s cold tonight.”
We worked together and quickly built a fire. While Kerry nurtured the first flames, I once again unrolled my extra horse blanket and spread it on the ground. I brought my bedroll over to use as a back cushion, sat down on the horse blanket, and offered him a seat beside me. He sat down beside me and then stretched out his legs and leaned back, one elbow on the bedroll, his arm so near it was touching my side. I could smell that scent of his. I leaned back, turned onto my side to face him, and put my elbow right beside his on the bedroll. “Did you move any of my stuff?” I asked.
“No, I didn’t move anything. Why?”
“You didn’t move my backpack, or those saddlebags over there?”
“No. I didn’t touch anything. I just saw you had left your things. I worried, especially when I saw the saddle. I went right off in the direction I thought you’d gone. I was concerned about you.” His face was twisting, as if he were lying about something.
“Why are you all of a sudden so worried about me?” I asked. Our eyes met.
He broke into a wide smile and shook his head slightly. “You know, he asked me not to let you know this, but being right here next to you and looking into your face, I can’t lie to you . . .”
I interrupted. “Roy. The Boss asked you to check on me.”
He closed his lips, but there was still a boyish grin that couldn’t be reined in. “He did. And I said I would. And here I am.”
I didn’t say anything. Part of me felt annoyed that these two men didn’t think I could take care of myself. And another part was grateful right now that I wasn’t alone.
Kerry reached across his chest and took my chin in his hand. He turned my face toward him. His hand felt warm. His eyes reflected the fledgling firelight. “I wanted to come. I would have found some excuse to check on you anyway. I wanted to see you as soon as I could. This just gave me a reason to see you before we exchanged reports in the morning.” He released his hold on my chin, but did not take his hand away. Instead, he began gently stroking my cheek with the backs of his bent fingers.
It had a strangely calming effect. I closed my eyes for a moment and felt his tender touch. I exhaled and let tension slip out on my breath. I opened my eyes and looked into his. “I’m glad you came. But I can take care of myself. This is my job. This is what I do, and I do it all the time. Nobody has to check on me.”
He continued touching my cheek, brushing wisps of my hair back from my face. He didn’t say anything, and his eyes never left mine.
“I have something I want to say.”
He grinned. Now he was making small strokes with his thumb on my jawline and in front of my ear. “I’m listening.”
“If I have ever done anything to hurt you or offend you, I hope you will forgive me.”
His grin broadened into a big smile. “I forgive you for being so perfect and for making my heart beat wildly.” He reached for my hand and pressed it to his chest.
I held my palm against his coat, and Kerry pressed his hand on top of mine, as if to gather me into his heart. But it was my own heart that I felt beating wildly—it felt like a large bird fluttering its wings in my chest.
Kerry’s hand moved to my shoulder and pulled me toward him. I could feel the warmth of his face moving toward mine. I turned my head slightly and touched my lips to his. His hand traced my shoulder to the nape of my neck and he pulled my face closer to his, his other arm opening as he pulled me into the warm cave of his chest and shoulder.
It was just a kiss. Nothing more. But when our lips met, I felt a current of euphoria move through me and my mind became a void through which only pleasure passed, everything else forgotten except for those lips, his hand, his chest and shoulder, his arm, the smell of him, the warmth of his skin, the taste of his lips. One kiss.
I gently pulled away. “We shouldn’t be doing this now,” I said.
He sat up straight and then quickly got to his feet. “Maybe not now,” he said. “But we should definitely be doing this.” He took a long look at me, his eyes brimming with excitement. “I’ll see you in the morning.”
After Kerry left camp, I got up and stroked Redhead’s face and gave her a cold piece of carrot that was in my coat pocket. I picked up my rifle and took it back to my seat by the fire.
26
The Bruja
The next morning, before I went home, I drove to Agua Azuela. I hoped Regan could help me figure out what the Penitentes had to do with all the other strange events that had been occurring. But, once again, Regan was not at home. When I got to her house, I saw that her Toyota was not in the garage, so I backed down the drive, turned around, and drove back across the bridge over the rio. At the intersection between the bridge and the road, I stopped to check for traffic. Ahead and to the left of me, several cars were parked in the wide dirt turnout in front of the ancient church. Regan’s Toyota was among them. The local villagers were probably conducting their lay services in place of mass. I pulled my Jeep across the road and drove to the back of the lot near the arroyo, thinking I might snooze in my car until the service was over and then see if I could talk with Regan. But as I started to settle back in my seat, I remembered the old woman who had approached me in the churchyard after mass, insisting I come for tea.
“Why not?” I said aloud. I would go visit her and have a cup of tea while I waited for my friend.
The old woman’s strange instructions proved to be precise. After I rounded the boulder with the hand on it, I climbed up the goat path on the south slope of the mountain, and above me a few hundred yards I could see a brush arbor and an adobe casita. As she had predicted, the crone who had demanded an audience two days ago after mass was waiting for me on the
portal
. We had not set a date, nor had I agreed even to come, but nonetheless, she seemed to be expecting me. She waved a dish towel in her hand, motioning for me to approach. The path was steep and the morning sun was just rising over the other side of the canyon. Frost on the sage scrub sparkled like thousands of stars.
“Come! Come! I made you tea,” she said, again waving the dish towel as I stepped onto the
portal.
She trundled through the doorway of the adobe, and I followed. The opening was small and I had to stoop to enter her one-room dwelling. A table, crudely made from a slab of wood, with deep scars and four crooked limbs for legs stood in the center of the room, and two similar slab-and-stick chairs were placed on opposite sides of it. There was no other furniture.