Short Cut to Santa Fe Read online

  Karen, twenty-three, nervous, and absolutely new at the job, felt she was guiding this tour under false pretenses. It was true that she was an embryonic archaeologist, and that was what Archway had advertised for at the student job center. Unfortunately, her field was underwater archaeology—not usually much in demand in the mountains—and she had left the rocky shores of Maine, many thousands of miles to the east, less than eight months ago. So far in her life, she had been on two wonderful diving expeditions off a tiny Greek island, but except for flying to Texas to begin graduate school, her out-of-state explorations in her native country had consisted of a few trips to Boston and one holiday in North Conway, New Hampshire. The result was someone who felt quite confident on the subject of Mediterranean classical pottery, but was ashamed at how poor her grasp was of the history, geography, or mystical sites of New Mexico. To her astonishment, however, the management of Archway Tours, Inc., seemed to feel that an underwater archaeology student was an archaeology student. Not only were all archaeologists interchangeable, but they were equally useful, except perhaps for minor differences in appearance and temperament.

  Karen was being paid five hundred dollars and her room and board to shepherd these eight passengers for the next ten days. Her job was to make sure that nothing—absolutely nothing—troubled their existences while she was in charge. And since she had just been thrown out of her miserable room over a matter of unpaid rent, and was facing a moneyless stretch until next September when her student grant came in, ten days’ room and board and five hundred bucks were not to be sneezed at. But she did have a distinct feeling that she didn’t know what she was supposed to be doing. And that nothing was happening the way she expected it to.

  First of all, the person heaving suitcases into the hold as though they were so many shovelfuls of dirt was not the driver of the bus. That shouldn’t have surprised her, she realized, since he was behaving more like a longshoreman than a bus driver. After telling him sharply—and to no effect—to treat the luggage with more care, she had climbed aboard to arrange the seating and discovered the actual driver, uniformed and in control, sitting behind the wheel. He had described the suitcase handler as the relief driver—of whose existence no one had warned her—and had pointed out rather menacingly that the jacket, gym bags, and tool kit tossed on the first pair of seats on the right-hand side belonged to them. Karen opened her mouth to object to this cavalier takeover of the best seats on the bus, looked at the surly face she was going to have to deal with for almost two weeks, and retreated in defeat.

  And the next passenger to board, a gray-haired woman with sharply observant eyes and a vague smile, declared that she intended to sit next to Karen in order to have someone interesting to talk to. “Rose Green,” she said, pointing to her name on Karen’s clipboard. “Silly name—but just imagine, I knew a Joe Garden when I was in school, and if I’d married him instead of Wilt Green—but never mind about that. I’m used to it now. I’m on this trip because my sister, Ruth, died and left me all the money her husband left her. Isn’t that strange? Carter was such an unpleasant man, too. What he wouldn’t say if he knew his money was paying for my holiday. My daughters—I have two daughters, Joy and Wendy—they said I had to do something fun with the money, but my son and his wife wanted to invest it all for me. . . . He’s a stockbroker, you see. But why should I invest it? I’m seventy-nine years old and everyone in my family dies from heart trouble before they’re eighty-five. Look at my sister, Ruth. Energetic as a six-year-old until the day she died and went just like that. Eighty-four. Anyway, they were so shocked when I told them that I went and booked this trip. I told the travel agent I wanted a comfortable, interesting tour, and I didn’t want to be half-dead from jet lag or run off my feet all the time, and he said this was the one. It was booked solid past June when I called last month and then they said they were putting on an extra tour in May, not advertised, to cope with the demand. They said they never take more than eight people and I liked the sound of that. I’m not sure it sounds like fun, exactly, but it’ll be more interesting than shopping.” As she spoke, Mrs. Rose Green was stowing her possessions above her head, under the seat, and in a net thoughtfully attached to the partition between passengers and driver.

  “Happy to have you with us, Mrs. Green,” said Karen weakly.

  A knot of four people were waiting to get by Karen, and as soon as she turned, the largest of the men pushed the rest out of the way and spread himself triumphantly across the double seat behind the relief bus driver. He threw his name at Karen as if it were a small dog biscuit, designed to keep her quiet for the moment. She checked him off and decided that she was not going to like Mr. Kevin Donovan.

  The rest of the passengers filed on more or less peacefully. A tall, elegant blonde slipped into the double seat across the aisle from Mr. Donovan and gave her name as Teresa Suarez. She didn’t look like a Teresa Suarez, thought Karen, but this was a day for the destruction of preconceived ideas. She looked more like a Diana Morris, who was also on the list. Then two couples, Brett and Jennifer Nicholls, and Richard and Suellen Kelleher, meekly filled in the next two seats. Finally, a small, dark-haired woman in her twenties, with intelligent dark eyes and a warm complexion, introduced herself as Diana Morris, and slipped into the last double seat on the left-hand side.

  “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” Karen Johnson began. “Welcome to ‘Mysticism and Magic in Old New Mexico.’ Archway Tours hopes that you have a very pleasant ten-day journey into a world that will stretch the boundaries for you. My name is Karen, and my job is to make sure that your visit to New Mexico is as pleasant as it can be.” A snigger from Mr. Donovan made her blush self-consciously. “Our first stop will be Taos. Since we’ll be there in less than two hours, we’ll be having dinner at our hotel, but in the meantime, your bus is equipped with a small galley, and as soon as we are under way, I will be serving drinks, coffee, tea, and snacks. The rest room is at the very back of the bus,” she added, on an anticlimactic note. “Behind the galley. Does anyone have any questions?” she asked, praying as fervently as she ever had in her life that the response would be negative. She had been lifted from a waiting list for the job only yesterday, the regular guide having failed to appear, been flown up to Santa Fe this morning on the company plane, and her training had been nominal, at best. Most of the background material on the tour had been handed to her an hour ago, and she had been planning on using this evening’s light schedule to digest it all.

  “I do,” said Donovan, with a leer. “Just how pleasant can we expect you to make the trip? And is it extra, or does it come with the godalmighty high price we’ve paid already?” He laughed and looked around him for the applause that he felt his wit deserved.

  Karen’s frosty look—much practiced—was one of her most effective skills; she was pleased to note that it seemed to dampen him slightly. Without a doubt, Mr. Donovan was a jerk. And drunk. She would make sure that damned little of the company’s free booze went in his direction.

  The hatch to the hold was slammed shut, and the surly-looking relief driver climbed into the bus. He moved his tool kit over and sat down next to the aisle. Surely the company didn’t send an emergency mechanic on every trip, thought Karen. Surely not. Or did you need a mechanic on a trip into a world that stretches the boundaries? And exactly what boundaries were going to be stretched? And how, not to say why? If the rest of the patter she had to memorize made as little sense as this, she was going to rewrite it. Maybe this job wasn’t going to be worth five hundred bucks and all you could eat.

  “Jesus, Gary,” said the relief driver. “Let’s git the hell outta here.”

  With a clash of the gears, Gary threw the idling bus out of neutral. It lurched forward at an astonishing rate of speed, barely negotiating the turn at the airport gate, and tore in the direction of the setting sun like a charging rhinoceros.

  “Isn’t Taos somewhere north of Santa Fe?” asked John.

&nb
sp; “Mmm,” said Harriet. “Definitely north, and somewhat to the east, I think.”

  “Then why do you suppose we’ve gone from driving straight into the sunset to heading south?”

  “To avoid all the crowded suburban roads running between the interstate and the airport? I really don’t know,” said Harriet irritably. Doubt was creeping into her voice as she spoke. “You know—longer but faster. There. Look—the bus is turning right up ahead. We’ll probably connect with the road to Taos any minute now. Why don’t you check the map and see if you can figure out where we are.”

  “I always get the impossible jobs. Why can’t I chase the bus, and you try to work out where we are?”

  “Because it would be tricky to change drivers in mid-stream, so to speak. And if we stop, we’ll lose them. They’re moving at a hell of a clip. I trust they know more about the location of radar traps and all that than we do. How are the kids doing? By the way—there’s food in the cooler right behind you. I’m famished. Did you eat on the plane?”

  “Are you kidding? I value my life and health more than that,” said Sanders. “How about you two?” he asked in a muffled voice as he searched through the cooler sitting between them on the seat. “Anyone feel like a sandwich? By some stroke of luck, we seem to have four sandwiches here—they all appear to be ham and cheese on dark bread with lettuce and pickles and stuff. In addition, there’s cheese, piles of fruit, and things to drink. Coke?” he asked, passing out the wrapped sandwiches. “Here. And in the paper bag at your feet is the world’s most enormous bag of cheezy things. Really, Harriet. I begin to doubt your taste and refinement. Also four boxes of crackers.”

  “I was hungry,” she said. “So I bought lots. Is it still cold?”

  “Very,” said John. “An extremely efficient cooler you have. Have a sandwich.” He unwrapped one and gave half to her.

  “Gorgeous. Hang on a minute, though, they’re speeding up again, and the road is getting worse. I hope you kids don’t get carsick.”

  A muffled chorus from behind declared their immunity from such childish ailments.

  And indeed, the van, admirable though it was for transporting large amounts of photographic equipment, was not designed for high-speed chases over bad roads, and at the moment it was rocking and bouncing like a small boat on a choppy sea. Suddenly, in a terrific crash of sound, the bus made a rapid right turn and disappeared from sight.

  There was a worried exclamation from behind.

  “I’m sorry,” said John, turning toward the backseat to hear better. “I didn’t quite catch what you were saying.”

  “We said that he’s turned the wrong way.” Caroline was speaking softly, as if she were afraid to voice her concerns out loud. “Our regular driver never goes this way.”

  “And he isn’t the regular driver?” asked John.

  “No. The regular driver’s Bert, and Lesley’s the regular guide on this kind of tour. Lesley does historic sites and Susie does desert flora and fauna. That’s plants and animals,” added Caroline politely, in case their traveling companions didn’t have a scientific bent. “Someone at Dallas said that Lesley was sick today, but Bert never gets sick. He always drives. He’s nice. We really like Bert.”

  Her brother nodded.

  “I hope he isn’t lost,” said Caroline. Her voice was carefully neutral. “I hope he drives past our road.”

  “Don’t be stupid, Car—of course he’ll go past our road. He’s just been heading around the city a different way.” Underneath his bravura tone Harriet heard the panic of a small child lost and far from home.

  “Okay—what if we don’t drive past your road?” interrupted Harriet. “Let’s consider the possibilities. What do we know? Two things. The bus driver is new, and the bus is leaving the city—or has left the city—via a route unfamiliar to you. In these situations one begins, always, with the worst-case scenario. The new driver is just taking what he thinks is the best and most rapid route to Taos. Let’s say it doesn’t intersect with your road. When we get to Taos, we call your parents, who will be very pleased to know you’re okay. Then we whisk you down to the hotel.”

  “Do you work for the CIA?” asked Stuart. “You sound a little like a CIA operative.”

  “Stuart asks everyone that,” said Caroline. “Our dad says he has a friend who works for the NSA, but he won’t tell us who it is, in case we drive him crazy.

  “Or her. We love spy stories,” added Caroline.

  Harriet shook her head. “I’m a photographer. Not nearly as exciting, is it?”

  “A news photographer?”

  “No. I only photograph buildings. But I have a good friend who’s a news photographer. She’s had pictures on the covers of Time and Newsweek,” she added. “Do you read magazines?”

  “Of course we do,” said Stuart. “Hey—what’s the bus doing now?” he asked.

  “I think it’s probably turned north,” said Harriet. “Toward Taos. Not a very good road.”

  Karen Johnson was in a quandary. Her instructions were to start serving drinks and snack trays—cheese, crackers, nuts, veggies, and two very small sandwich quarters—as soon as the driver was well on his way. She had somehow imagined that they would be gliding smoothly along a broad, well-tended road surface, instead of bucketing down a series of desperately bad secondary roads. Perhaps she should start with the food. It, at least, couldn’t spill. She extracted herself from the history of Rose Green’s late husband’s unhappy business ventures, to which she had been devoting perhaps a tenth of her attention, and headed unsteadily along the aisle to the galley. Coffee and tea were imprisoned in urns; there was a tiny sink and a burner, although she couldn’t imagine trying to cook anything under these conditions. She unlatched the door above the sink and discovered a refrigerated compartment with trays neatly stacked on wire shelving, close together. She counted them. Twelve. Eight passengers, two drivers, one guide. Eleven people on the bus. A wave of relief passed over her. If they had been expecting more passengers, they would have loaded more trays. She wedged herself into the corner, grabbed a tray, unwrapped it, and gave it to Diana Morris. “It’s a bit bumpy for drinks,” said Karen. “But there are things in cans that probably won’t spill.”

  “I think I’ll risk a soda,” said Diana. “Anything cold and wet.”

  The Nichollses declined both food and drink, and Karen’s spirits lifted. She was starving. Food had been in short supply in her life lately and she felt faint from hunger. She took the few steps back to the galley, put down the two trays she was carrying, ripped the plastic film off one, scooped up the two little sandwiches, and consumed them with the rapidity of a starving dog. They were astonishingly good. Smoked salmon on whole wheat bread, and some kind of exceptionally tasty pâté on thin rye. She was impressed. Perhaps this tour really was worth its exorbitant price. She grabbed a carrot, looked hungrily at the sandwiches on the second tray sitting in front of her, then, with heroic resolution, picked it up intact, added another tray for the other hand out of the refrigerated compartment, and headed back down the aisle.

  The Kellehers turned out to have notions about food. Suellen loathed fish of any kind, she explained to Karen, although she might eat the pâté if it weren’t too rich or too spicy. Karen suggested leaving the smoked salmon; Rick thought he might be able to eat it, although he didn’t particularly like the idea of hors d’oeuvres an hour or so before dinner. Suellen offered to share a tray instead of taking two; Rick pointed out that they had paid for two trays and might as well get them. Suellen countered with a proposal to take one now, and another a little later, if they were still hungry. Never had so much brainpower, thought Karen, been expended on such a useless topic. After all, in an hour or two, everyone was going to be sitting down to a huge meal. Prepaid. Taking matters into her own hands, she set a tray in front of each Kelleher, very firmly.

  The relief driver had been crouched over his to
ol kit, fiddling with something, with his back to the aisle. But the interminable discussion over the Kellehers’ snack trays had finally aroused his curiosity, and when Karen looked up, he was peering down the aisle to see what was going on. It was evident that something other than the snack tray imbroglio had captured his complete attention. He seemed to be staring past her, through the back window; then with a muttered word that Karen didn’t quite catch, he heaved himself out of his seat, grabbed onto the two uprights that marked the beginning of the aisle, crouched down, and said something directly into his co-worker’s ear.

  The sudden increase in speed startled them all. The Kellehers lost their dual snack trays on the first bump. Diana Morris’s cola can bounced onto the floor and rolled, dribbling dark liquid as it moved. “What in hell is going on?” said Kevin Donovan in a surprisingly clear and sober voice. He slid over to the aisle and tried to get a look at the road ahead, but he was hindered by the bulk of the relief driver and the fast-gathering dark. “What do you bastards think you’re doing?”

  “Deal with him, Wayne,” said the driver.

  “Shut up.” There was an edge of panic in the relief driver’s voice. “And sit down.” He swung himself around, achieving stability in the crazy lurching environment by looping an arm around the pole and wedging his feet against the steel dividers. With a wary eye on Donovan, he bent over to recover something from his seat; when he straightened up again, he was holding a huge and cumbersome weapon.

  The only noise to be heard was the bus bouncing over gravel—the only movement that of the passengers swaying in spite of themselves from the mad careening of the bus. Donovan was half in the aisle, hanging onto the back of the relief driver’s seat, staring down at his weapon; Suellen Kelleher had shrunk into her corner, with her husband protectively in place between her and the gunman. Teresa Suarez watched it all without expression. Someone behind her gasped.