Short Cut to Santa Fe Page 5

Then everything happened at once. Donovan yelled, “Put that thing away, you fucking idiot.” The bus lurched violently to the right. Arms grabbed Karen from behind and toppled her to the floor. There was a burst of gunfire, agonizingly loud in that confined space. Hot air exploded beside her head and she heard a startled “oof” from behind. By now she was flat on her face on the carpeting that ran between the seats of the Archway Tour bus, bouncing painfully on the hard surface.

  Dizzy and confused, she lifted her head, knowing only that she had to be on her feet. She was in charge. That was her job. But the scene in front of her made no sense. Kevin Donovan was kneeling with his feet sticking out into the aisle, his torso flat down on his seat, very still. Ahead of him, the relief driver waved his weapon back and forth, in harmony with the swaying of the bus. Donovan raised his head, looked back at the relief driver, and began very slowly to resume his sitting position. How could either one of them have thrown her to the floor with so much violence? And as far as she could tell, she hadn’t been hit by a burst of gunfire. Then the sound of distressed breathing reached her and she turned her head to look.

  Diana Morris was crawling on her hands and knees toward the back of the bus. The pool of blood she’d left behind her was soaking into the carpeting. More dripped from her as she struggled. Karen scrambled along the aisle in a hunched position, picking up bruises as she was flung against the metal sides of the seats, until she was beside the wounded woman. “Where are you hurt?” Diana Morris fell over on her side, her hand pointing down at a huge, bleeding wound in her thigh.

  “You could have killed us all, waving that gun around,” said an incisive voice. It was Mrs. Green. An invigorated Mrs. Green. “You’ve certainly hurt that young woman. We can’t leave her like that. Here—just a moment.” She reached into a capacious bag that was slung in the net in front of her and produced a plastic case with a red cross emblazoned on it. Then, rummaging farther, she pulled out a plastic bag containing a number of pastel scarves. “I’ll just make her a bandage—”

  “No. I’ll take care of her.” This was a new voice, controlled and calm. “Get out of my way, Brett, will you?”

  “The hell you will.” His voice was strained. “Stay where you are.”

  “Brett—don’t be a fool. Let me out. Unless there’s someone else in the bus who knows what he’s doing?” Silence. “Right. I’m a nurse and I’ve seen my share of gunshot wounds. Now let me out.”

  Jennifer Nicholls’s husband seemed to have turned to stone. She sighed and crawled past him into the aisle. “Excuse me,” she said to Mrs. Green, “but if that’s a first-aid kit—”

  “There’s one in the galley, too,” said Karen.

  “Good. I can use both.”

  “What in hell do you think you’re doing?” The man with the weapon seemed to gather his wits together again at last.

  “I’m keeping this woman from dying. If I were you, I wouldn’t try to stop me, not unless you’d like to face a charge of first-degree murder.”

  “Huh?”

  “As it stands, you fired that gun because the bus lurched. But if you stop me from helping her, and she dies, you’ll have murdered her.”

  “Is that true? Can he get away with calling it an accident?” whispered Karen as she knelt down beside Diana Morris with the second medical kit.

  “Shit, baby—I don’t know,” whispered Jennifer in return. “And with any luck, neither does he. Open that thing up, will you?”

  The bus felt as if it were gaining momentum in spite of the fact that it still seemed to be climbing. Karen’s fingers were struggling unsuccessfully with the clever device that kept the kit safe from small children, when an alarmed voice boomed over the noise of the engine and of wheels racing over rocks and gravel. “Shit, Gary, look out!”

  The driver hit the brakes, the bus skidded on the loose surface and came to an abrupt halt, nose in to a very steep slope.

  “What is going on?” said Harriet. “The bus has disappeared. Just like that.”

  “Don’t be silly. It can’t have disappeared. It’s turned off somewhere up there.”

  “Into what? In case it had escaped your notice, on your right we have what you might call an upward precipice. A cliff. The steep side of a mountain. It would be a clever bus that drove up that thing.”

  “Then there must be a break in it, with a road. Slow down, Harriet. We’ll miss it.”

  “I can’t see why we want to find it. If one thing is clear, it’s that the lousy bus is more lost than we are. I don’t believe in a rapid short cut that goes straight up a mountain. Jesus! There it is.” Harriet brought the van screeching to a halt and then began to reverse.

  “I thought we didn’t want to find it,” said John. “I call your attitude a trifle inconsistent.”

  “We might as well try it for a mile or so,” said Harriet. “If a bus can make it, then this thing can, too.”

  It turned out to be a narrow canyon with a very rough track running along it, its entrance half-hidden by brush. “Not the best-marked road, but what the hell,” she said, putting the van into forward and heading into the blackness ahead.

  Chapter 4

  Kate Grosvenor pulled into the gravel drive of the motel with a deep sigh. What aberration of mind or spirit had forced her into her car and made her drive all the way down here? Just to spend a couple of days with a chance professional acquaintance and her fascist cop boyfriend? Because no matter what Harriet might think, all cops were fascists under their skins, even the ones who went around giving talks on community involvement and minority rights and all that sort of shit. Besides, she hurt. Everywhere. Last night’s Scotch—its grip unsoftened by a kindly lunchtime haze—was still exploding in her temples. Her shoulder throbbed, her arms were trembling, her neck and back were stiff and sore from the unaccustomed driving. Her body had turned into an alien entity, screaming for anesthetizing drink and pills. At least she hadn’t been stupid enough to dope herself while she was driving; but after all this time she was unable to deny the desperation in her need.

  The motel was very Taos. Adobe, with units scattered around a grassy courtyard, sheltering under broad cottonwoods backed by towering pines. She stepped out of the car and shivered in the chill wind. Inside the dark little office, she rang the bell on the counter with an impatient slap of her hand and called out: “Grosvenor. Kate Grosvenor. Two rooms.”

  “Hi, Ms. Grosvenor.” The proprietor appeared around the curtain that shielded his living quarters from the public. “Rooms twelve and fourteen.” He pushed the inevitable little chunk of cardboard at her.

  She began to fill out the bare details of her existence—how many thousand times had she done that—and stopped, as always, to check her license plate number. “My friends arrive yet?” she asked.

  “Not yet, Ms. Grosvenor. You want me to call when they come in?”

  “Sure. Thanks.” Her mouth stretched in a smile she didn’t feel and she picked up the key.

  The room was rustic, heavy with rough wood furniture. It was also damp and chilly, but supplied with both a heater and fireplace and abundant quantities of wood. It wasn’t “great country inns of the world” elegantly rustic, merely comfortable and solid. Under normal conditions—whatever they were—it was the sort of place she liked, one that numbed her pain, lulling her with memories of a childhood in the mountains.

  She dumped her suitcase on the bed, turned on the heater to take the damp out of the air, and collapsed in the big, soft chair in front of the empty hearth. Where in hell were Harriet and her fascist friend? She had expected them to be here, expected them to drag her resentfully out of her lassitude and misery, to force her out to a restaurant to eat, and, in short, to make her decisions for her. She had been fully prepared to be irritated and angry and uncooperative. Not to be alone. It was almost nine o’clock and they hadn’t dragged their asses up from Santa Fe yet. She’d give them thirt
y more minutes to get here, and then forget about them. She stared into the dark fireplace, exhaustion and despair keeping her immobile, preventing her from taking the bottle of Scotch from her suitcase, the painkillers from her bag. It hadn’t been clever of her to make the drive in one day, just because she always used to and only a wimp—even injured—would do it in two. In spite of the throbbing in her head, and the throbbing in her shoulder, Kate dozed off, soothed by the smell of pine and the cool air and the strange quiet.

  “Thank God we’ve stopped,” said Jennifer Nicholls briskly. “Makes it a bit easier. Open up the other first-aid kit, would you? I need more gauze. As much as you can get me.” As she spoke, she kept on working at a rate that astonished Karen. Using the cheap, tiny scissors from Mrs. Green’s kit, she had already cut and ripped away the material from the area of the wound, mopped up the blood, and swabbed the surrounding skin with disinfecting pads while Karen struggled to open the first-aid kit supplied by the tour company. “Quick,” said the nurse. “Those things on the right-hand side are what I need. Come on, she’s bled enough already.”

  Karen fumbled through the supplies, trying to figure out which things she wanted; Jennifer ripped out several pads and pressed them into the wound. “Give me your hand,” she said, grabbing it and cleaning her fingertips off with a disinfecting pad. “There—now press down gently right here while I see what else we’ve got.” There was a gasp from the woman on the floor as Karen’s fingers settled on the mass of gauze pads. “Gently,” Jennifer repeated. “You’re only keeping those things in place. Not wrestling her to the floor.” The nurse sat back on her heels and looked at the wounded woman. “We’ll have to roll her on her side,” she said at last. “That’s an exit wound we’re dealing with.”

  “It’s bleeding,” said Karen, as she watched the gauze darken and felt the blood ooze up between her fingers.

  “I know. Just a minute.” She settled more pads under Karen’s fingers and looked over at Mrs. Green. “I need those scarves,” she said, grabbing them and tying them over the collection of gauze on Diana Morris’s leg. “We’re going to turn you on your side,” said Jennifer briskly. “It’ll probably hurt like hell, but there’s nothing for it.”

  Ms. Morris’s olive skin had turned to gray, but she nodded and allowed herself to be turned.

  “Two rounds,” said Jennifer Nicholls. “One is still in there, one we dealt with.” Karen glanced down and turned her eyes rapidly away. She could see nothing but blood and Jennifer’s rapidly moving hands. She had been swabbing quickly as she spoke and setting pads on the cleaned area, taping them down with the inadequate materials in the kit. “Give me the rest of those scarves,” she said, and began to wrap the leg firmly. “You’ll do for a while, sweetheart,” she said to the woman on the floor. “And, by God, do you have guts.”

  Up at the front of the bus, the two drivers were whispering vehemently together. While Jennifer was still speaking, the lights flickered and went out.

  The bus had turned onto a track, rocky and very narrow, that climbed steeply up the side of the mountain. Darkness had rolled in around them, unalleviated by the glow of cities or the pale emanations from clouds. Their headlights stabbed the night like a flashlight probing into black water. There was no moon. Harriet abandoned her usual driving style to crawl along the ruts ahead, feeling her way through the darkness.

  “This is brutal,” she said. “All we need to improve the situation is a bit of fog.”

  “Doesn’t seem to be the place for fog, somehow,” said John mildly. “May I ask why we are doing this? I’m not trying to criticize . . .”

  “At the moment,” said Harriet, in a waspish tone, but keeping her voice down. There was no point in alarming the twins needlessly. “At the moment, as I said, we’re doing this because we’re not sure that we would survive an attempt to turn around. Originally, we were acting on girlish impulse and curiosity. And stupidity, if you insist. Any more questions? As soon as I find a place where it is possible to reverse direction without hurtling down a hillside, I shall. Believe me. Because I doubt very much if the bus has really found a wonderful short cut to Taos. I can’t imagine what they’re doing on this road.”

  “They’re lost?”

  “Possibly,” said Harriet and dropped her voice again. “Either that or trying to avoid us.” The track shifted direction again and Harriet followed; brush scraped against the paintwork; the right wheel dropped into a hole. “Well—we’ve found the bus,” she said brightly, and brought the van to a halt. Their headlights lit up a symmetrical pattern ahead: bus angling off to the right; road curving away to the left, with the rear end of the bus blocking their way completely. Harriet sighed and switched off headlights and ignition. “Now what?” she said. “This could be awkward. Definitely awkward.”

  The bus appeared to be in worse trouble than they were. Its left headlight lit up a steep slope only inches away; its right headlight seemed to be buried in something. “Stupid bastard plowed right into the side of the mountain,” muttered John. “Did you bring a flashlight with you? For some reason, I neglected to pack my full kit, not realizing that we were going to be roughing it in the bush, New Mexico style.”

  “Don’t be snotty,” said Harriet. “Of course I have a flashlight. Two flashlights, actually. You want the big one?” As she began to open the door, John leaned over and closed it again.

  “I wouldn’t climb out on your side without checking the terrain,” he said. “Let me get the flashlight. Where is it?”

  “In the red knapsack, on top,” said Harriet. She peered out through the open window into the darkness to her left.

  At that point the lights that had been gleaming softly inside the bus went out. And the remaining headlight. A huge pillow of smothering darkness descended on the scene.

  Harriet stared out the side window, trying to adjust her vision to the dark. It became more and more obvious that there was no warm reddish earth beside her, with its contrasting humps of brush and weed. The van had stopped perilously close to the edge, beyond which there lay only the impenetrable blackness of nothing. She undid her seat belt and moved carefully over to the other door.

  “Are you awake back there?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said a tentative voice. “Are we lost?”

  “More like slightly off course,” said Harriet cheerfully. “Nothing serious. I have a pile of maps in here and all that. But the bus seems to have gotten stuck up there. Why don’t you curl up and go to sleep? I’ll move that cooler out of your way. We’re going up to see if we can help at all.”

  There was a heavy, frantic pause. “We’d rather come with you,” said Stuart. “It’s not that we’re scared to stay alone or anything, but we’d rather come with you.”

  “Sure,” said Harriet. “Come along. Get out this side of the van. The other side leads to a steepish hill. John? Where did you get to?” she asked.

  A light flashed on and off, close to the front fender of the van. “Over here,” said John. His voice was loud in the silence.

  “We’re coming with you,” said Harriet. “Why aren’t you using the flashlight?”

  “Batteries are low. Anyway, wouldn’t it be better if you . . .” He stopped. The memory of a hundred quarrels on the subject of his overprotective nature sprang unbidden into his brain and he shook his head. It didn’t look as if the bus was badly damaged, but if there had been injuries, Harriet’s skilled hands and clear head would be very useful. And they couldn’t leave the kids behind to be scared out of their wits. “Okay. Let’s go.”

  They padded quietly along, using their feet to keep them on the track, turning on the flashlight only to check from time to time. When they reached the dark hulk of the bus, they followed it along the right-hand side, up to the front door. “I wonder where they hide the latches on these little things. I’m more used to standard-sized municipal buses,” said John, running his hand along the side of t
he door.

  Suddenly the door swung open and lights glowed on each side of the steps. They afforded just enough illumination to make it clear to John and Harriet that they were facing, not a grateful survivor of a bus crash, but a semiautomatic weapon that wavered uncertainly between them. “Back off,” said a voice that sounded very local. “And git the hell outta here.”

  “You can’t let ’em go, Wayne,” said another voice in the darkness. It sounded almost bored.

  “Why not, Gary?”

  “Because if they’re the ones who’ve been following us . . .”

  “Oh, yeah. Inside,” said Wayne. “Right now. Both of you. And turn that fucking light off. The kids, too. In you get.”

  The first intimation that something had gone wrong with Archway’s “Mysticism and Magic” tour—their third most popular specialized tour, after “The Desert Blooms” and “Arts of the Indigenous Peoples”—should have come from the officers investigating the death of a half-naked, unidentified man, found shortly after 6 p.m. in a gully in the desert west of Santa Fe. And if Norbert Jones hadn’t been on three days’ leave in Phoenix to attend his son’s wedding, he would have recognized the body as his friend Bert Samson, longtime regular driver for the Archway people. As it was, the slow process of identification had been set in motion, and the Albuquerque detachment of state troopers was waiting to see what it turned up.

  The hysterical telephone call from the Rogers at 8 p.m. might also have set them looking for the bus earlier, if Samantha Rogers had been more coherent and precise when she reported the disappearance of her children.

  The hotel had had a hellish night. The night clerk and the maître d’ had been celebrating some obscure event in one of their lives, and by dinnertime they were incapable of standing upright. Joe Rogers took the desk and Samantha the dining room. Then the chef walked out of the kitchen before seven, yelling that if they thought they knew so much more about food than he did, then they could cook their own dinners. The sous-chef—a rather grand title for someone who, in this small establishment, was basically the salad maker—was in tears. Whenever she had taken over before, the menu had been carefully tailored to her lack of skills and Samantha had helped. Samantha dashed between the dining room and the chef’s room, exerting her charm alternately on the annoyed and hungry guests and the furious chef. Without ever discovering who had questioned his capabilities and driven him from his post, she managed to cajole him into putting on his apron and hat, and taking up his duties. At this point she looked at her watch. It was seven-thirty.