Harlen Campbell

Jennifer's
Weave
The Second Rainbow Porter Mystery By
Harlen Campbell
All of the characters in this book are fictitious
and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
is purely coincidental.
Copyright © 2008 by Harlen Campbell
Published by
Red Hand Productions
Santa Fe, New Mexico
and
TeleTale, a Story place
http://www.teletale.net
Jennifer's Weave
I
OBLIGATION
The envelope wedged above the lock on my front door warned me
I'd had a visitor. I spotted it the moment I drove onto the gravel between
my house and garage in the mountains above Placitas in central New
Mexico. I parked by the door and stood a few moments, listening to the
wind and looking at the envelope.
The sun had only two slender hands of blue sky left to fall before
dusk deepened the shadows beneath the pines. The air still held a trace of
the late-October sun's warmth, but the shadow near the house was chilly.
A jay chattered on the mountain behind me and a woodpecker hammered
at a tree down by the county road that leads to my property. I had no
sense of any presence but my own. Still, the part of my back between my
shoulder blades troubled me, the part that tingles when I'm feeling
vulnerable.
The envelope was yellow. The advertising on the outside told me
Jenny Murphy had probably won a million dollars, if only blah blah blah.
One end had been opened carefully. I shook out the contents. A key and
a dollar bill. A word was scrawled hastily in pencil on the bill with a
distinctive looping script that I recognized immediately. Jenny.
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That sent me dashing back to the car. The uneasy feeling grew
worse. Jenny was one of the five people who live on my road, the only
one I care about, say more than hello to, and the only one who knew what
a dollar bill, signed that way, meant to me.
For the last month or so, we've had a standing date for Sunday
dinner at my place. The groceries I'd picked up on my way home slid back
and forth on the seat beside me as I drove. I didn't know what Jenny had
tried to say with her dollar and her key, but they had bought my attention,
brought my heart to my throat. I pushed the car as fast as the twisting
road let me.
Her driveway began less than a mile south of mine on the same
poorly-maintained road. I reached it in under a minute, slid into a left turn
that showered the brush beside the road with gravel and left a cloud of
dust hanging in the air. Skidded to a stop by her front door, left the car
running, ran to the house.
Her door stood partly open and that stopped me. Jenny never locks
her door, but she always closes it. I pushed it open with the back of my
hand and called, "Jenny! Hello! Anyone here?"
The words echoed in the house. I stepped in. The door opened
directly into the front room. It was in good order. Her couch, chairs, and
loom were all in place, ready for sitting or weaving. The doorway opposite
me led to the kitchen. A corner of her dinette cut into the opening, along
with part of an overturned chair and a man's shoe on the Mexican tile
floor.
I called again. "Jenny! Hello? Jenny!"
She didn't answer. No one answered. I backed out, backed all the
way to the car. Turned off the engine and pulled my current favorite
handgun from the glove compartment and stepped back into the house
with greater confidence. I didn't bother to call out again, just made
straight for the kitchen with the pistol cupped in both hands and aimed
upward at a forty-five degree angle. Ready to point and shoot.
As I approached the kitchen, the shoe turned into a foot and part of
a leg encased in jeans. There was something dark under it that wasn't a
shadow, something sticky, and now I could hear the faint pounding of
drums, the soft beat of a guitar from the back of the house, and a louder,
nearer buzzing of flies.
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Jennifer's Weave
The thing on the floor could be ignored for the moment. The rest
of the room held places where a body might hide. I'd been there often
enough to know them all, and now I spun into the room, crouched low.
Both hands and the weapon drifted from one empty concealment to
another. Nothing lived in the room but the flies and me, and the flies were
too pleased with their good fortune to pay attention to larger issues.
I had an adrenaline rush going. That would have been good, but I'd
slept with Jenny, fed her, cared about her, and suspected my own
judgment. The adrenaline came as much from fear for her as from
excitement. I controlled myself, breathed with my mouth open so the
whistle of air wouldn't distract me. Listened to the house.
The radio played softly back in the bedroom wing, tuned to one of
the Spanish stations in Albuquerque. Not Jenny's normal station. Some
woman lamented a lost love with those lingering cries of anguish and loss
you hear south of the border. Aaiieee, mi carida, mi amor. My darling, my
love. My eyes wandered the kitchen, kept returning to the thing on the
floor.
It had been a man in his late thirties. He lay on his back with one leg
extended and the other cocked at a steep angle. His left arm was twisted
and that hand lay partly under his waist. The other arm stretched above
his head. His hand lay flat. The last two fingers curled. He looked like a
priest dismissing his congregation, but surprised, as though he had been
laid out unexpectedly. The immediate cause of death seemed to be a
butcher knife whose handle protruded upward from the angle between his
right collar bone and his neck.
In addition to brown shoes and faded jeans, he wore a blue and
white flannel shirt. The top buttons had been torn away, the shirt pulled
open to expose his chest. He wore no rings or jewelry other than a slender
chain and a gold crucifix that had slid up into the blood that pooled in the
hollow of his neck. His hair was black and so were his eyes under the
glaze that had settled on them. His skin was dark, swarthy, and his face
narrow. Tanned. Large eyes, open and blind now, wept red from their
corners. His jaw hung open and the blood that filled it had overflowed,
run down his cheeks and outlined his body before it thickened, skimmed
over. The pockets of his jeans had been pulled inside-out. Coins were
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scattered on the floor. Those nearest the body were also covered by the
man's blood.
He had been good-looking once. I took him for Mexican on at least
one side, maybe both. Someone's carida, someone's amor.
Something was wrong with the body, with the way it lay. I've seen
men dead by knife, mostly bayonet but also machete and street knives.
They tend to curl up around the wound in their last moments. This one
hadn't done that. It looked like he may have been unconscious when the
blade went in. And the blood had seeped rather than spattered. He had
been disabled, searched, and then someone had taken the time to find the
right knife, long enough, and the right entry point to reach deep into his
body, to find the large arteries, so that most of the blood would pool in his
lungs and chest cavity. It had been done well, and studying it sharpened
my anxiety over Jenny, over what I would find when I found her. I
stepped around the mess and into the hall.
Again, there was no sound but the radio. Louder. It came from the
guest room, the first door on the left. The master bedroom was on the
right. My gun came back up to firing position as I kicked at the door, saw
it bounce all the way to the wall, and then stepped through. The room was
in disarray. Clothes scattered on the floor and on the bed. But not all the
drawers in the chest were open. The room had not been searched.
Someone had packed hurriedly, left quickly. My unease faded but I didn't
drop my guard.
The master bathroom was empty. So were the hall bath and the
smaller bedroom, where the radio played. Neither of them was disordered,
exactly, but the bed had been used and not made, and a damp towel lay on
the floor in the bathroom. A small mound of clothes had been dumped
on the mattress. Men's clothes. Someone had been staying here, someone
Jenny hadn't mentioned to me. I snagged a pair of jeans and a flannel shirt
from the pile and held them up long enough to decide, based only on their
size and style, that the dead man had owned them.
The other bedroom was full of crap. Junk. Boxes and sacks and
bags of it, and if it wasn't exactly the way Jenny left it, only she would ever
know. I went back to the kitchen. Jenny's telephone was on the counter
beside the refrigerator. A large brown paper sack and a plastic grocery bag
sat beside it. The name on the paper bag didn't mean anything to me. It
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Jennifer's Weave
was full of yarn. The plastic sack came from the only market in Placitas.
It held a quart of white soup that had once been vanilla ice cream. I
touched it with the back of my hand. Room temperature. I picked up her
phone and pushed the redial button. The handset emitted a rapid series of
tones and then my own voice came over the line. My answering machine.
That was enough. I pushed a series of random numbers to erase the call,
then dialed the police emergency number.
Placitas is in Sandoval County, north of Albuquerque and well
outside the city limits. The sheriff's department and the state police both
responded to my call about the time the sun dipped below the horizon and
eased day into night. I didn't know the officers from the sheriff's
department, but one of the detectives from the state police was named
Andrew Martinez. We'd met before.
I was outside, standing in the shadows and repeating my story for
one of the deputies, when Martinez drove up in his personal vehicle, a
dark green Trans Am only a couple of years old. He sent a sour glance my
way, then walked past us into the house. He was in there for a long time,
long enough for the deputy to finish taking my story and copying my
name, Paul Porter, and address in Placitas from my driver's license to his
report. He had just handed the license back and begun trying to think of a
question that would make me break down and confess when Martinez
walked out and relieved him of the burden. "Why'd you do it, Rainbow?"
"It's my duty as a citizen," I said. "Always report bodies." I grinned
but my heart wasn't in it.
"Don't be an asshole. You know what I mean."
"You think I made that mess and then reported it?"
He relaxed a little, but not much. "You found it?"
"Yes."
He looked around the yard. "You live here?" He knew damned well
where I lived, but I told him anyway. It gave him an opportunity to ask his
next question and for me to get the lie out of the way.
"What were you doing here?"
"The owner asked me to look after the place while she was out of
town."
"And?" He waited. I gave him a break, repeated the rest of the
story, from the moment I skidded to a stop outside Jenny's door to the
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time the Sheriff's deputies arrived. It didn't take long. The only parts I left
out involved the envelope, the telephone, and the gun, now safely back in
my glove compartment. He thought it over for a few minutes, then asked,
"You searched the place?"
"Jenny might have been in there."
My voice got a little unsteady when I said her name. He noticed and
softened his tone a little. "That's the owner? Jenny?"
I nodded. "Jennifer Murphy."
He started writing. "Describe her."
"She's around thirty-six. Five-eight. She weighs about one-thirty.
Red hair, cut short and curled, like one of those old rag dolls. Blue eyes.
Some freckles, but not many. An oval kind of face. Good figure. A sense
of humor. She has a nice smile."
He stopped writing and stared at me. "That it?"
"She can't cook." I thought about what I'd said and added, "That's
about it."
He didn't bother to write down my last comment. "What is your
relationship with her?"
"We're neighbors."
"Friendly neighbors?" He emphasized friendly.
"On and off."
"When did you see her last?"
"A week ago. Last Sunday afternoon. We had dinner at my place."
"Is that when she asked you to look after her house?"
"No. That is a standing arrangement. She looked after mine too."
"So you had a key?"
"That's right, Martinez. I had a key."
"When did you use it last?"
"I never had to use it. She didn't much believe in locks."
He looked up at that. "So the deceased might have just walked in?"
"He might have."
"Who was he?"
"I never saw him before."
"Uh, huh." He took that for what it was worth and asked carefully,
"When did she leave town?"
"I don't know."
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Jennifer's Weave
"Look, Porter, I'm trying to determine whether she might have been
around when . . . ." He hesitated, nodded over his shoulder at the house.
"I know what you're trying to determine," I told him, "and the
answer stands. I have no idea when she left. Do you have a guess when
the guy was killed?"
"The medical examiner will let us know when he gets around to it."
"Or who he was?"
"Don't tell me you didn't search him."
"I didn't search him. I didn't figure the corpse was any of my
business."
Martinez snorted at that. He pushed it for the record. "Exactly what
business are you in, Mr. Porter."
I smiled at his sudden formality. "I'm still retired, Detective. And
you forgot to tell me who the deceased was."
"I did, didn't I? Do you know if this Jenny Murphy is married?"
"Divorced. Three times, I think."
"Family?"
"There was a kid somewhere."
"But she didn't have custody?"
"No, she didn't."
"Did she tell you where she was going?"
"No."
"When she spoke to you last," he consulted his notes, "last Sunday,
did she say anything about having trouble with anyone? Did she seem
worried about anything?"
"No. She seemed fine."
"Were there any other men in her life?"
That angered me. "How the hell would I know? If there were other
men, she kept them a secret."
He backed off. "Okay. Calm down. Who were her women
friends?"
"I don't know."
He shook his head at that. "You don't know a hell of a lot about
her," he said. "Are you sure you were friendly."
Again that accent on friendly. I didn't answer him directly because
he was right. There were a lot of things I didn't know about Jenny. Too
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many. I took one final stab at the corpse. "Look, Andy, how about telling
me who the body belonged to? It can't hurt anything. You know I won't
talk to the press, and I've been as helpful as I can."
He shook his head again. "Sorry, Porter. I can't do that." But he
dropped his arm enough to show the form on his clipboard, held it while I
read the name in the deceased field. John Murphy.
When I looked up, I saw a question in his eyes. "Are you sure you
don't remember where she was going? It would be nice if we didn't have
to look too hard. Or if she turned up at the station tomorrow, even with a
lawyer."
"I'm sure," I told him. But there was a question in my eyes, too.
"How long do you need me to stick around? And when can I lock up?"
"You can take off now. If I have any more questions, I'll stop by in
the morning. In the meantime, leave the key with me. I'll see the place is
locked."
I handed it to him and turned to go. He stopped me. "Porter . . . ?"
"Yeah?"
"This house won't just be locked. It'll be sealed. You know what
that means."
I nodded and left him to his business. The groceries for our aborted
dinner were still in my car. The most perishable of them, two pounds of
Mexican prawns, were still cool. As soon as I got home, I shoved them in
the freezer and brewed a pot of coffee, carried a cup out to the deck
behind my house.
It extends the full width of the house. The house itself is built on
the downhill side of the parking area, about three hundred feet below the
crest of a ridge on the northern end of the Sandia Mountains.
Sandia means watermelon in Spanish. The story is that the
mountains were named because they take the color of a watermelon's heart
at dusk, when the sun turns crimson over the western desert, the sky fades
to a soft purple, and the granite face of the thousand-foot cliffs glows like
freshly cut fruit.
That magic moment had passed while I waited for the cops outside
Jenny's house and thought about the crimson stain turning slowly brown
on her kitchen floor. What was left of the sun had moved west with the
terminator, into Arizona, and only a universe of stars lit the deck.
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Jennifer's Weave
A faint, cold breeze came from the northwest. I leaned into it, rested
my arms on the iron railing, cupped my hands around the heat of the
coffee. Thought about the name on Martinez's clipboard.
John Murphy. Bodies can darken when the blood trapped in the
capillaries under their skin coagulates. Sure. But that body never carried
any Irish blood. The name was a lie. I knew it and Martinez must know it.
The name behind the lie would be Garcia or Hernandez or Barelas, one of
the old names that came to this country with the conquistadors, half a
millennium ago. Martinez had probably copied the name from a driver's
license. It didn't matter where he got it. The name was damning. A body
named John Murphy in the kitchen of a woman named Jenny Murphy
focused suspicion. Martinez would never buy it as a coincidence. I didn't.
The coffee cooled quickly in the forty-degree temperature. I sipped
at it and stared over the rail, down fifteen feet into the darkness where my
cactus garden lay. It was mostly prickly pear down there, along with a few
yuccas. I'd planted stuff that would keep uninvited guests well away from
the back of the house. It was pretty in a spare way, and Jenny told me she
liked it once when we sat together here. We'd had a special kind of
relationship for a couple of months. It was special because we were
getting to be friends and doing it without sex.
Friendship was a luxury I rarely permitted myself. Like all luxuries, it
was expensive. Friendship carries obligations, creates a debt. You make
payments on it for the rest of your life. But it had seemed that I was ready
for the expense. I'd begun to look forward to the time we spent together.
As usual, there was a rat in the soup. The closer I grew to Jenny, the
more I thought of her sexually. She'd known, of course. They always do,
though they frequently pretend not to notice. But Jenny wasn't much of a
pretender.
We'd just finished an early dinner, a Mexican salad I'd thrown
together with lettuce, grilled chicken, and a dressing made of Poblano
peppers, diced tomatoes, onion and cilantro with a bit of olive oil. We'd
just opened our second bottle of Cabernet when she walked over to the
rail, leaned on it beside me, looked at the cactus below, and said, "They're
pretty, but they remind me of you."
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Harlen Campbell
It wasn't a comment I get. I'm blond and tall, with gray-green eyes,
but I'm not handsome. I've been used over the years, used hard, and it
shows. "You think I'm pretty?"
The day had been one of the hot ones in late July, hot even at seven
thousand feet, and full of dust from the pine trees. I wore a pair of
running shorts and nothing else. Jenny had on cut-off jeans and a blue top
that looked like she'd attacked an old tie-dyed tee shirt with dull scissors,
chopped away the sleeves and everything below her ribs. It was way too
hot, even in the tail of the afternoon, for shoes or brassieres or anything
else that might keep the air from our sticky skin.
She smiled briefly at my question. "Don't be ridiculous. The cactus
are pretty. It's the spines that remind me of you."
"Oh." I went back to leaning on the rail, ignoring the heat where our
shoulders clung together in the sun. We stood there, looking down at the
cactus, for a long time. I'd thought it was a comfortable silence, but Jenny
grew restless. She asked, "Why are you like that?"
"Prickly?" I smiled. "It's in the genes, I guess."
"Don't be an ass. You know what I mean. You're stand-offish.
You talk, but you don't say anything personal. You have never said
anything about your feelings for me. You stop by my place, invite me over
here, feed me. I wonder why. Can't you let yourself get close to anyone?"
"It's just trust."
"You don't trust me?"
"I don't trust me." My mouth was dry. I sipped at the wine. "An
echo of the war, that's all."
"An echo." She looked unconvinced. "More like an aftershock.
Well, at least you're still standing."
"It's no big deal. You must have had them too, and we're both still
standing."
She refilled her glass. "Yes, but I marry mine." Her smile was
subdued, but there was enough of it to smooth the lines on her forehead.
The topic made me uncomfortable. I tried closing it. "Big deal.
How long did your longest last? Three years?"
"Only two." Her eyes drifted west, toward the place the sun would
set. "You aren't being fair. You don't know what happened."
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Jennifer's Weave
We stood there quietly while I worked up an apology for the words
I'd thrown between us. "I'm sorry. But you don't know my story either."
She nodded and said okay. The lines were back on her face. I killed
my wine and went for the bottle, refilled both of our glasses. We emptied
them slowly while the sun edged closer to Mount Taylor, seventy miles
away, and then I filled them again. "Tell me," I said.
"About what?"
"The husbands."
"Ahh. That crowd." She swirled the wine in her glass, moved a little
away from me. "Why do you want to know?"
"Just trying to shorten my spines."
"Okay." She eyed the bottle, cleared her throat. "You better open
another one, Rainbow. And maybe we should sit down. This isn't my
favorite story."
I shrugged and went into the house. When I returned, she'd taken a
chair, pulled it away from the others. I took the hint, filled her glass and
sat down not too near her. Waited.
"When I was a girl," she began, "I wanted all the regular things. A
boyfriend who looked like Elvis. A house in the country. A career in the
movies. All that crap. In high school, my expectations grew more
reasonable. I wanted to marry Paul McCartney and have houses in New
York and London." She looked over at me and smiled. "Pretty silly,
huh?"
I grinned back at her. "Well, if you'd connected with either Presley
or McCartney, I'd probably have heard. And you wouldn't have wound up
in Placitas. What happened?"
"A boy, what else?" She sighed and reached for her glass. "Actually,
Tommy did look a little like Elvis. I met him before my senior year. My
father was a painting contractor in Santa Barbara and I worked in his
office that summer. Dad was trying to teach me something about
business. He wanted to get me ready for what he called the real world.
But I was bored and none of my friends had to work and I guess I felt a
little abused. Then he hired Tom Schuler and I got over that real quick.
"Tommy was going to UC Santa Barbara, studying to be an electrical
engineer. He worked as a painter that summer to save up tuition, and he
noticed me the first time he came in the office, while he was filling out his
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tax forms. After that, he came in a lot and we'd talk. After a couple of
weeks, he asked me out and Dad let me go because he wasn't always going
to be a painter. Not that Dad had anything against painters, but he said
they were all crazy from the fumes. I guess Tommy was acceptable
because he was going to college."
"You were married?"
Jenny nodded. "After graduation. We had a little girl a year later.
Sally Ann. I named her after my mother." She sipped at her wine, placed
the glass carefully on the deck. Wiped her lips delicately. "And then I went
crazy."
"You what?"
"I don't know how else to put it, Rainbow." The sun had set while
she spoke, and she continued her story in the dark. "Everything was
wonderful. Sally was so sweet. Tommy had just graduated, and he got a
job for a local company. He loved Sally. He came home every night,
played with her, talked to me. We bought a new car, a small one, but new.
We were looking for a house. Everything was perfect. Except I wasn't
perfect."
"What do you mean?"
"I started having thoughts. I started thinking that Tom was actually
trying to look like Elvis. When I remembered him during the day, it was
always when he was clipping his toenails or picking his nose. When he
played with Sally, I thought he was trying to steal her affection. If he
picked up his dirty socks, he was criticizing the way I kept house. If he
didn't, he was a slob. And it was the same with Sally. If she laughed when
he tickled her, she loved him and not me. The poor little thing couldn't
even dirty her diapers without setting me off. She couldn't laugh, she
couldn't cry without . . . without . . . I was like a bomb. I exploded at
everything."
She ran down, waited for me to say something, and I didn't know
what to say. I fumbled for words. "I've heard of something called postpartum depression--"
"I wasn't depressed," Jenny said sharply. "I was angry. Twenty-four
hours a day. I began to hate Tommy. Even Sally. But mostly I hated
myself. I hated my life. My body. Everything. I hated being a woman. I
even hated being human."
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I sat quietly in the dark, eventually asked, "What did you want?"
"I wanted wings. But I couldn't grow any. I wanted to just fly away,
rise up in the air and fly away until I couldn't see the world and even if I
fell I would just fall forever and never touch the earth again."
"Wings." I knew how it felt to hate being human, but I'd never
wanted wings. "How did it end?"
"I held on for another year." Her voice was toneless. "God damn it,
do you have any cigarettes?"
I went into the house and found a pack where I hid them from
myself. When I returned, she had refilled her glass. She took a smoke and
a light, drew deeply on it and said, "I haven't wanted one of these things
for years. Not since my last divorce. You want to know how it ended?
Stupidly, that's how. I got a job and had an affair and one night I just
looked Tom in the face and told him I was going to call a lawyer
tomorrow and packed a bag and walked out. I left him standing in Sally's
bedroom. He looked like a bomb had hit him."
"What happened to the baby?"
"He loved her. I left them both."
Her cigarette flared, swung red in the dark. I watched it for a few
seconds before asking the next question. "That affair, was it with your
second?"
"No. He was just an excuse. He was to make me feel so bad about
myself that I could go through with the divorce. Number two came four
years later. He was an artist. Well, he had the soul of an artist, anyway.
Unfortunately he didn't have any talent except for talking. Talking and
feeling. And selling. He could sell anything. I guess that was a talent."
"How long were you together?"
"Six months. I met him in El Paso. I'd started weaving by then. I
was living in Mesilla, a little village west of Las Cruces, down in the
southern part of the state. You know it?"
"I've been there."
She nodded. "I sold some of my stuff to tourist shops in El Paso
and I'd gone down to make a delivery. Juan was in one of them, trying to
sell the owners on his painting. But he couldn't paint for shit and they
weren't buying and he could tell it, so he started selling himself to me and I
was in a mood to buy what he was selling. That's all. We went out for
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drinks and wound up eating dinner in Juarez. After the bars closed, I
followed him to his apartment and spent the night. A couple weeks later,
he moved up to Mesilla and we started living together. We were married a
month after that. But he still couldn't sell his work, so he took a job
selling cars. And then it started over again."
"The thoughts?"
"The attitude, anyway. As soon as the marriage started looking
permanent, I began destroying it. Naturally, I didn't let things go on like I
had the first time. As soon as I recognized what was happening, I filed
and split. Less pain that way. Less pain all around."
"How did he take it?"
"Juan was a sweet man. I was surprised by how hurt he was. He
cried. He begged me not to leave. He told me he could change if I'd just
tell him how. But he couldn't change me, no matter how much he wanted,
and so in the end I had to be brutal. I just packed and left while he was at
work."
I shook my head in the dark. "But you tried again?"
"Yes. I was on the coast by that time, selling my stuff around Marin
County and to a few galleries in San Francisco. This was seven years after
Las Cruces, and I was doing pretty well. I met Sam at one of the galleries.
He was older, a real estate developer from Sausalito. A real wheeler and
dealer. He made a lot of money and spent it almost as fast as he made it,
but the good thing about him, the best thing from my point of view, was
that he was completely self-involved. He really didn't give a damn about
anyone else, and that made him perfect. The sex was good enough, and in
the mornings he went to work and didn't think about me until he got
home. There wasn't any need there, you see. At least, that's what I think it
was."
"What happened?"
"The son of a bitch had a heart attack."
"I don't understand."
"Suddenly he needed me."
"I see."
"Do you? I wish I did. I wish . . . well, I wish I were different. But
I'm not." She fell silent. Sighed and added, "There was more, of course.
After he got out of the hospital, he began hanging on me. He sat by the
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Jennifer's Weave
loom and stared at me while I worked. And he grew jealous. He screamed
at me, accused me of seeing other men. I got so nervous I couldn't work.
And when I did finish something, he tried to go with me when I showed
it. I wouldn't let him, of course, and he hired a man to follow me. I found
the check stubs."
Eventually, I asked, "You left him?"
"Like a shot."
"Was he Murphy?"
"What? Oh. No, that was my maiden name. I always took it back.
I don't know why. I never liked it."
I poured the last of the wine into my glass and leaned back, watched
the stars do their slow dance overhead. "What happened to the first one?
Tommy? And Sally?"
"I don't know." Jenny was almost whispering at that point. "I tried
calling once, years later, but they had moved. I just wanted to know how
my daughter was. That's all. I even called my parents. They had cut me
off when I left Tom. When my mother recognized my voice, she hung up.
I didn't try again."
Time passed. Jenny said, "She would be eighteen now."
I felt cold despite what was left of the day's heat. I stepped behind
her and put my hands on her shoulders, kneaded them. She leaned back
against me, lay her head against my belly, and whispered, "Why?"
"Because you're human," I said. "Because we're both human."
"We are, aren't we?" She stood then, turned, put her arms around
me and hugged me. Mine circled her and my hands rested on her shoulder
and the skin at her waist, just above her cut-offs. We stood like that in the
night for a while, sharing the simple human contact.
Then the rat in the soup began to stir. I smelled her. Sweat and
flowers. Her hair tickled my cheek and her breath cooled my neck and
suddenly I had an erection. It embarrassed me. I tried to pull away, but
she hugged me closer. Pushed her breasts against my chest. Moved her
knees in a way that left her pressed against me there. Dropped her hand,
cupped my cheek, squeezed.
I didn't want to do what I wanted to do. But then she sighed and I
gave up and kissed her ear, her neck. Bit at her shoulder and tasted her.
She gave me her lips and they were hungry. They tore at mine, tried to
─ 15 ─
Harlen Campbell
devour them, and I fended them off with my tongue at the same time I
held her buttocks and pulled her into me and she tore at my shorts,
pushed down on them, kicked her own off and away. She fell to her knees
and took hold of me, kissed me.
I grabbed her shirt, pulled it up and off and threw it after her pants
and then fell down onto her while she spread her legs and pulled me
further into her life.
I'd intended only comfort when I touched her, but what she
demanded and I gave that night was darker than comfort, more violent,
and more essential. We worked each other over well, over and over.
Once, in the middle of the thing, she looked up at me and said, "You're
sick. You know that?"
"Why sick?"
"To do this with me."
I kept doing it. "I'm just crazier than you are."
"Prove it." She was panting.
"How?"
She stuck her tongue in my ear. "Marry me."
"Sure. In hell."
She started laughing at that and then stopped, became very intent on
the business of giving and taking, and I lost myself when she started
groaning.
We rested under the stars, dozed a little, and when the moon came
up she came awake, yawned, and said it was getting late. I followed her to
the door to say goodnight. She pecked at my cheek, a surprisingly sisterly
kiss in view of what we'd done to each other in the last few hours. Then
she hugged me and whispered in my ear, "But no commitments, right?"
"You can bet your ass on that."
"I will." She hesitated a moment and then, a little awkwardly, asked,
"Rainbow? Do you think a person could change? I mean, if she really
tried?"
It was an easy question, but I didn't answer right away. Then I said,
softly, "No," and watched her step into the night. She'd walk home. It
was less than a mile, but she was walking through the forest, alone in the
dark. I liked that about her. A lot of women would have expected me to
walk them home.
─ 16 ─
Jennifer's Weave
That had been the first time I made love to Jenny. There had been
many other nights in the months that followed, but we both kept the
promise we made that night, and she never spoke of her husbands again.
Even now, three months after the conversation, I didn't like to think about
what she'd told me of them. I did, though, because there was a Mexican
named John Murphy in the morgue.
─ 17 ─
Harlen Campbell
II
A SHORT STORM
An acquaintance once told me I was crazy not to secure the access
routes to my house, but I can see only one good reason for installing the
gate and electrified fence, planting the tell-tales, mines and traps that he
recommended. They might keep the cops from knocking on my door at
five o'clock in the morning.
When I looked through the peephole and saw the state cop yawning
in the pre-dawn light, I yelled at him to give me a minute and stumbled off
to cover my skin and hide my pistol. Once I was decent and less
threatening, I opened the door and led him to the kitchen.
"What the hell do you want, Martinez? Do you know what time it
is? I had a late night."
He followed me in. "Tough, Cabrón. Mine isn't over yet."
"Tough, yourself." But he'd surprised me. Things must have gone
slower than I expected at Jenny's. I pulled a bottle of soda from the
refrigerator, drank from it, and then began making coffee while I thought
it over. "What do you want?"
"I thought I'd give you a chance to tell the truth about that
arrangement you had with the missing woman."
"She's still missing?"
He nodded and took a chair at the table. "Tell me about the key she
gave you."
─ 18 ─
Jennifer's Weave
He meant the one from the envelope, the one I'd left with him last
night. I sat opposite him, rubbed sleep from my eyes and sighed. "I don't
know. It's been in my drawer for months. Why?"
He tossed it on the table between us. "You ever use it?"
"Never had to. I told you last night. She doesn't lock her door.
What's the problem?"
"It doesn't work."
I picked it up, turned it over in my hand. "Maybe this is the wrong
key. Like I said, I never used it." I walked over to the counter, opened a
drawer at random and fumbled around in it. "Damn! This must be mine.
I don't see her key anywhere." I slipped the key in my pocket and turned
back to him. "I must have lost it."
Martinez looked like he was about to ask for it back, but in the end
he shrugged. "You remember anything more about those ex-husbands of
hers?"
"Not a thing."
"What about the knife?"
"The one in the body?" I tried to picture it but came up with
nothing useful. "Just a knife. Plastic handle. Black, maybe. Why?"
He smiled tiredly. "It came from one of those sets they advertise on
TV. They saw through a tin can and then show how it'll still slice a
tomato."
Or an artery. "I think Jenny had a set of those."
"Yeah. The knife in the deceased came out of her drawer."
"So?"
"So either your girlfriend did the killing or someone else just
happened to luck into the right drawer when he needed a weapon. That's
a generic he, by the way."
"And you're leaning toward the first possibility?"
"Why not? It simplifies things. I've got to find Murphy anyway."
"Uh, huh." I studied him. "You notice anything peculiar about the
body?"
"You mean the way it was spread out? Like maybe he was
unconscious when he was killed?"
─ 19 ─
Harlen Campbell
I nodded. "Jenny wouldn't have done that. She wouldn't have used
the knife unless she was fighting for her life. And if she'd knocked the guy
out, she'd have run. Anyway, I don't believe she was in town."
"Why not?"
"I haven't seen her since Sunday. She usually comes by every couple
of days when she's around. Or at least calls."
Martinez didn't think much of that argument. "When was the last
time you were over there?"
"I don't know. It's been a couple of weeks."
"Why so long?"
I shrugged. "She usually came here. There was no reason to go to
her place. She couldn't cook."
"So you wouldn't know if she'd been shacking up with someone?
An old husband, say?"
"No."
He stared at me. His eyes were flat, revealed nothing. "What I keep
thinking about, compadre, is you going over to your girlfriend's place,
finding her with that guy. The two of you macho bulls get in a fight. You
knock him out. She runs. You decide to take him out of her life
permanently. You know where she keeps her knives. You get one and do
the deed. Then you go looking for your lady. You can't find her and you
start thinking about covering your behind, so you go back over there,
discover the body, make your call, and come up with a bullshit story about
looking after her place while she's gone. That's what I keep thinking
about."
I yawned. The coffee was ready and I poured myself a cup. "You
have those kind of thoughts this early in the morning, Martinez, you'll lose
your faith in human nature. You want coffee?"
"No, thanks. It'll go easier if you confess. A jealous rage. You'd
only be looking at manslaughter."
"I'll pass on this one."
"There's another possibility," he said. "Say she didn't cut and run
when you started fighting. Where'd you put her body, Porter?"
That had crossed my mind too, of course. I hadn't wanted to think
about it. I hoped I wouldn't have to. I said, "Tell you what, genius, the
Medical Examiner is going to know when the guy died pretty soon. When
─ 20 ─
Jennifer's Weave
he tells you, ask me to account for my whereabouts at the time of death.
If you don't have anything else, I'm going back to bed."
He stood. "I'll do that, Porter. In the meantime, I'd take it real hard
if you left town without asking me."
I nodded, but when I closed the door behind him, I was sweating.
He hadn't asked about the ice cream and he should have, unless he
thought he knew the answer.
Jenny was one of those women who believe a well-rounded meal
includes dessert. I don't do desserts, so she'd made a habit of bringing
that essential when she came to dinner. Since she didn't cook, her
contribution was usually a quart of ice cream.
I carried my cup into the bathroom, took a quick shower, and then
sipped at the coffee while I shaved, dressed, and suddenly realized there
were other things Martinez hadn't mentioned.
John Murphy hadn't been an intruder. His name argued against it,
and the clothes in the guest room were his size. He'd slept in her guest
room yesterday and showered in her hall bath. And he'd been alive when
Jenny left to buy the ice cream, because the bed in the master bedroom
was made up. She always did that before leaving the house, but she
probably wouldn't have bothered if she'd found a dead man in her kitchen.
It did occur to me, of course, that she might not have slept in the
master bedroom, and that she may not have made the guest bed because it
was still occupied when she left. I dismissed that as unlikely. If she'd slept
with the dead man, she would probably have invited him into her bed.
Unless it was a spur of the moment thing, a sudden passion that carried
them both into the guest room. I hate ambiguity.
There was a tube of Rolaids on my dresser. I ate it for breakfast,
then drove into Placitas and bought a quart of ice cream. Carried it home
and set it on the counter to melt. Stepped outside and found the path to
Jenny's house.
The ridge we live on runs generally north and south, but it folds in
on itself in places. My house is on the northern end of the county road
that tracks the ridge. Jenny's is south of mine, but not close because I've
bought up the land that borders me. The shortest path between our
homes snakes up the side of the ridge, through the pines, cedars and
several stands of quaking aspen, and then drops again to her door.
─ 21 ─
Harlen Campbell
Mindful of Martinez's off-hand warning that the crime scene would
be sealed, I approached the house carefully. A new padlock secured the
door, along with a couple yards of the warning tape the police leave for
law-abiding citizens. I ignored it and found a window with a latch that
yielded to my pocket knife. The entry took no more than forty seconds,
and I found myself in the junk room.
The agent who'd sold her the house had probably called it a third
bedroom, but Jenny called it a junk room, and that's what it was.
Unopened boxes of paperbacks, clothes, and old dishes littered the floor.
Three broken chairs were stacked in the corner next to the closet. An old
loom, disassembled, leaned against a wall. Sacks and opened boxes,
mostly full of the thread she used in her weaving, were piled on the sealed
boxes. The door to the closet was open. Old coats and a few fancy
dresses jammed the rod in there. The shelf above the rod was also packed.
I stepped close enough to see what with and then stepped back shaking
my head. She'd been saving grocery bags and old egg cartons.
The police had apparently taken one look at the room and decided to
give it a pass. I respected their judgment and moved on. The rest of the
house was neat, if you didn't count the black smudges the fingerprint
experts had left everywhere. The guest room interested me most. I
started with it, being careful to touch nothing. I was just looking.
The technicians from the police criminalistics division would have
done microscopic examinations, chemical investigations, and those might
eventually tell them who killed John Murphy. That question was of no
interest to me. I wanted to find Jenny and the grosser patterns in the
house would suffice for that.
She had put two things in the envelope she left on my door. A key
and a dollar with her name on it. Martinez said the key didn't fit her door.
In my mind, that meant that it and anything that lay behind whatever door
it eventually opened was none of his business. And the dollar was
definitely for my eyes only, a one-word message: help.
Jenny had been incredulous when she learned what I do. "That's all
you take?" she demanded. "You risk your life for a dollar?"
"A dollar and all found," I'd said. "Don't forget the all found part."
She had shaken her head. "And you call it, what?, crisis
management? You aren't making any sense!"
─ 22 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Look at it this way. A man has a big problem. Maybe his life is in
danger. He's walked in on a situation, something illegal or even just
marginal, and somebody wants him dead. He comes to me and says,
'Look, I want out of this thing alive and I can't get out by myself.' So I
keep him alive by any means possible. The only thing I take of his is one
dollar. But if there's anything left on the table when the party is over, it's
mine."
"You're like a bodyguard."
"No. A bodyguard waits and reacts. I act."
She had cleared her throat. "This client should just go to the police."
"Maybe he isn't as clean as he'd like to be. Maybe he's afraid their
priorities might put catching the bad guys ahead of keeping him alive. Or
protecting something he loves. The cops enforce the law. Sometimes a
man just wants justice."
She stared at me. "I still don't understand the dollar. It isn't enough
to mean anything."
"It does two things. First, it shares responsibility. When a man
offers me his dollar, he invites me into his problem. When I take it, I step
into his corner, apply my talents on his behalf."
"And the second thing?"
"It also keeps me honest."
She'd thought about that for a long time before nodding. That
conversation had taken place two months ago, late on a very wet night. I'd
thought she'd forgotten it. The dollar in my wallet told me she hadn't. As
I stepped into her guest room, I wondered if she'd known even then that it
might someday be important to her.
The bed had been stripped. The police would test the sheets for
stains, hair, stuff to compare with samples from the body. They had
probably taken the suitcase and clothes I'd seen here yesterday too, just to
cross-check. They'd want proof that the man who slept in the bed and the
one who owned the clothes were the same man who'd died in the kitchen.
The handles on the chest of drawers had been dusted, but the drawers
were still in place. I slid one open with my thumb nail. It was empty.
The hall bath had been gone over very carefully. A pattern of clean
spots on the vanity suggested that some bottles, cologne?, and maybe a
─ 23 ─
Harlen Campbell
razor and can of shaving cream had once stood there. The man had
unpacked his toiletries but not his clothes. Why?
Jenny's bed had also been stripped and the sheets, but not the
blanket or bedspread, were missing. Again, the police would be looking
for stains and hair samples. I told myself it didn't matter whether they
found any or not. None of my business. I had the woman's dollar. Our
relationship had changed. It was easier to say than to believe.
In the kitchen, the outline and brown stain on the floor gave me
something to walk around. Flies still buzzed in the empty room. They'd
be working on the stain now that the main prize had been stolen. The
paper bag with its yarn and the quart of ice cream were missing. The
knives were missing from the drawer next to the sink.
Jenny had one of those coffee machines with a timer on it. The pot
was almost full. The timer had been set for nine-thirty in the morning.
Jenny didn't drink coffee in the morning. I looked around for a cup and
found two in the sink. Both had been rinsed out. Their handles and sides
had been dusted, but none of the smudges on them looked like
fingerprints to me. That was about it.
I looked everywhere I could think of without finding Jenny's private
papers. The cops must have taken them. Before I crawled back out the
window, I looked over the boxes in the junk room that were still sealed.
None of them was marked in any way that looked interesting. Just for the
hell of it, I toured the outside of the house before heading over the hill.
The ground was covered with footprints, but none stood out. They may
have all belonged to the cops.
The ice cream had gotten soupy around the edges when I got home,
but there was still a frozen glob in the middle. I made a fresh pot of
coffee and poured myself a cup, sat at the kitchen table and watched the
clock while the glob came up to room temperature. Sipped at my coffee
and thought about the cups in Jenny's sink.
She refused to drink the stuff in the morning. She claimed it made
her too hyper to get any work done during the day, so the coffee had been
for the dead man. The timer was set to start brewing at nine-thirty. I
hadn't checked the alarm on the clock radio in the guest room, but I was
willing to bet that it had been set for around nine-thirty.
─ 24 ─
Jennifer's Weave
So. Jenny had gotten up Sunday morning, never mind out of which
bed, and then, sometime before nine, she had set the timer on the coffee
machine and left the house. If she had left later than that, she would have
just turned the brewer on. Her guest was probably asleep when she left. If
he'd been awake, she would have turned the coffee on for him. Sometime
after she left, he woke up, took a shower, and left his towel on the floor.
Dressed. Then what?
Someone, presumably Murphy, drank the coffee. He could have
used two cups, one before showering and another later, but that didn't
make sense because both cups had been wiped. If the fingerprints on both
cups were Murphy's, there would have been no reason to wipe them. No,
one of those cups had been used by the killer. Someone who had shared a
cup of coffee with Murphy, some quiet conversation perhaps, and decided
to kill him between one sip and another. And then done it.
But why were both cups wiped clean? Had the killer somehow lost
track of which cup he used? That seemed pretty sloppy for someone who
had otherwise been efficient and methodical. Strange. And except for one
overturned chair, there was no sign of a struggle. Even stranger.
I shook my head and checked the ice cream. It was vanilla soup, but
still cool. It had been on the counter three hours. Add about an hour to
adjust for the coolness, subtract that from the time I charged to the rescue,
a few minutes after four p.m., and I had the approximate time Jenny
returned from the store. She had walked in her front door around noon
Sunday.
And discovered what? The body in the kitchen? Or an argument of
some sort with her guest, an argument that led to his death? That was the
possibility I couldn't accept. She might have fought with the man, maybe
even knocked him out, but she couldn't have then looked his unconscious
body over, decided she would need a knife with an eight-inch blade to
reach under his collar bone, down to the arteries deep in his chest, calmly
dug one from her drawer and then pushed it into the living meat, twisted it
just so, until his mouth filled with blood and his limbs stopped shaking. I
couldn't see her doing that. It required a degree of cold intention she'd
never had a chance to develop.
So assume the body was on the floor when she walked in. Then
what? She hadn't screamed, dropped her packages and called the police.
─ 25 ─
Harlen Campbell
Instead, she set her bags on the counter and dialed my number. When she
reached my answering machine, she hung up, threw some clothes in a
suitcase, and left the house. Left her front door wide open. Where had
she gone, and why?
Her first stop had probably been my house, but I was out buying
prawns for our dinner that evening. When I didn't answer her knock, she
wrote her name on a dollar bill, found an old envelope, stuck the bill and a
key in it, and wedged it above the lock on my door. Then disappeared.
That was a little over 24 hours ago.
I desperately wanted to know what Martinez had learned, beginning
with the time of death. I also wanted to know what the hell Jenny
expected me to do to earn her dollar. Make the problem go away, of
course, but how? And which problem? She may not have had the corpse
in mind.
The only facts I remembered that might have any bearing on the
missing woman were that Murphy was her maiden name, that she came
from Santa Barbara, and that her father had a painting business there. I
made sure my answering machine was on and drove into Albuquerque.
The idea was to find some Santa Barbara telephone books in the library,
try to locate her family, see if she'd run home.
It wasn't a good idea. None of the branches of the public library had
the right books. I spent a few minutes thinking of other ways to track
down Jenny's family and then decided the hell with it. There was no point
doing everything myself. I got the numbers of some private investigators
in Santa Barbara from information and made some calls. The first number
belonged to a big outfit and I gave them a pass. But the second number
was perfect. A one-woman office.
The owner, Sharon Coulter, had a pleasant if somewhat neutral
voice. She was an ex-cop, retired from the L.A. department. She didn't
say why and I didn't ask, but she wasn't busy and she was willing to tackle
a missing person. All she needed was the approximate year of Jenny's
birth and the fact that her father had been a painting contractor there.
Coulter thought she'd have the parents' telephone number in a
couple of hours, unless they'd moved out of town. I asked her to leave the
number on my answering machine. Before hanging up, I remembered
Jenny's last, failed call home.
─ 26 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"One other thing," I said. "There was a marriage that didn't last.
Jenny Murphy and Tom Schuler. I'm not sure of the spelling. And there
was a child, Sally Ann."
"Yes?"
"Find the records of the marriage and divorce. See if the husband
remarried and track down his present address."
There was a pause while she took notes. "Anything else?"
"If possible, locate the child. I'd like to know her current status."
"Where she's living, you mean?"
"Well, yes. But I'm more interested in how she is. What she's doing.
That sort of thing."
She hesitated. "What exactly is your interest in the girl?"
"Her mother wants to know. That's all."
That would take longer, but she'd do what she could. "It will cost
more," she added. "I'll have to do some sort of visual approach. There'll
be background work and--"
"Whatever it costs. Just do it."
That left me at loose ends. It was early afternoon. I called my
number and let my answering machine play back my messages. Jenny
hadn't tried to call, but Martinez left a number at the state police office in
Albuquerque. When I identified myself, he said, "It's show and tell time."
"You have a time of death?" I asked.
"They did the autopsy this morning, paisano. When can you get
down here?"
I hesitated. "You want me in person? Why don't you just ask what I
was doing at eleven o'clock Sunday morning?"
"Is that when you killed him?"
"Killed who?"
He laughed. "Just come in, Porter. I want to watch your face while
you lie to me."
Well, I wanted to watch his face while I lied to him, too, but I had
things to do first. We made an appointment for later that afternoon. I
told him it would give him time to get the rubber hoses ready. He said
they were always ready for guys like me. We hung up on that friendly note
and I found a locksmith on the way to the county records building. He
─ 27 ─
Harlen Campbell
looked at the key and verified that it would open a door, rather than a
padlock.
"A deadbolt," he said, "and probably a good one." He wouldn't be
any more specific than that.
There was no record of property owned by either Jenny or Jennifer
Murphy in Bernalillo County. Also no record of any property owned by
John Murphy. I drove up to the county seat for Sandoval County, where
Placitas was located. There I learned that Jennifer Murphy was the owner
of record of the land next to mine and that a mortgage had been recorded
against the property in favor of a bank in Missouri. Again, there was no
record of any property belonging to John Murphy. So much for that.
It was getting late, so I headed back to Albuquerque and found the
state police office. Ten minutes after I gave my name at the desk,
Martinez led me to an interrogation room. It wasn't luxurious: one
window, a smaller table, and two chairs. One wall had a mirror,
presumably so his buddies could watch me sweat. The table held two cups
and a carafe of coffee. When I saw them, I stuck my hands in my pockets
and kept them there.
Martinez was affable. He told me to take a seat, took the other chair,
poured himself some coffee, smiled and asked if I wanted a cup. I smiled,
shook my head, and kept my hands where he didn't want them.
"That guess was pretty close," he began, "but just for the hell of it,
why don't you tell me where you were yesterday."
"All of it?"
He nodded. I sighed and gave him the full rundown. Up at six, a
run from six to seven, breakfast and a shower between seven and eight,
screwed around the house until nine, drove into Albuquerque, drank
coffee and read the Sunday Times at a restaurant until after eleven, met
with Helene, the woman who manages some of my rentals, from eleventhirty until just before noon. Talked to a tenant who was a little short on
cash until about one. Lunch between one and two. Spent an hour goofing
off in a gourmet food store, picked up a couple pounds of fresh prawns,
some wild rice, squash, saffron and a few other staples. All of it easily
verified for a change. That doesn't happen often when I need an alibi.
─ 28 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"I reached Placitas around four and stopped at Jenny's place on the
way home," I added. "I didn't intend to. It was a spur of the moment
thing."
"Because you knew she was out of town?"
"Because I hadn't seen her for awhile and I thought she might be," I
corrected him.
He took a sip of his coffee, filled the extra cup for me. "She didn't
tell you she was leaving?" he asked.
"Come off it, Martinez. I answered that question this morning."
He checked his notes. "So you did. Are you sure you don't want to
change your story?"
"Yes."
"Would it surprise you to learn that she wasn't out of town? That
she was seen yesterday morning?"
"No."
"Why not?"
"Because of the ice cream, obviously."
"Oh, yes. The ice cream." He took another sip, asked, "Don't you
like coffee? I can get you something else."
"I'm not thirsty yet." I smiled at him. "Why don't you tell me about
the autopsy while we're waiting for me to get thirsty."
He laughed. "Am I so transparent?"
"The autopsy?"
"Okay. The deceased died because somebody stabbed him."
I let my eyes widen. "Wow. Forensic medicine is wonderful.
Imagine. He died because somebody stabbed him."
Martinez had stopped laughing. "What else do you want to know,
Porter?"
"A couple of things. Starting with did somebody hit him on the
head first."
"There was some blunt trauma to the skull."
"The back of it?"
He nodded. "The right rear."
"So you figure the killer was right handed?"
"Is Miss Murphy?"
"Yes." I didn't like admitting it. "What was he hit with?"
─ 29 ─
Harlen Campbell
"I don't have any idea. We didn't find a weapon."
"He was sapped?"
"There was significant damage to the skull in addition to the
hemorrhage. It had to be something heavy and hard."
"Like what?"
"A pipe. Maybe a gun barrel. The indentation was long and
rounded."
"You think the killer knocked the guy out, then stood there with a
gun in his hand and decided to look for a knife to finish the job? That
doesn't make any sense. Why not just pull the trigger?"
"It's not that simple," Martinez gave a tight little smile. "The blow to
the head would have caused death eventually and the stabbing didn't
follow immediately. The medical examiner said it looked like the deceased
bled internally for about twenty minutes before he was cut."
I looked at him in silence. "That's pretty cold."
"Yes. Pretty cold."
"It doesn't sound like a woman."
"There's women and then there's women. I don't know your
friend."
"She couldn't do that," I told him.
"You sure?"
I opened my mouth to say yes, but the words that came out were,
"Who was he?"
"The dead guy? His driver's license said John Murphy, from El
Paso."
"Get serious."
"You know better?"
"I know he wasn't named Murphy. Did you check out the license
with the Texas DMV?"
"Yeah. It was a fake."
I clapped my hands. "Let me guess. You're trying to run his prints.
You haven't gotten anywhere."
"Speaking of prints . . . ?" Martinez's eyes drifted toward my coffee
cup.
In a minute," I told him. "Tell me what time my alibi had to be good
for."
─ 30 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"You worried about it?"
"No."
"I didn't think so." He sighed. "The time we're interested in is
eleven o'clock, give or take half an hour. You were right on. How did you
figure it?"
"I timed how long it took a quart of ice cream to melt and then
guessed." I waited for a reaction. When he offered none, I added, "I
figure Jenny was there no earlier than twelve-thirty."
"You forgot something," he said. "Her front door was open. It was
pretty cool in that kitchen. I figure the ice cream went on the counter
between eleven and eleven-thirty."
I cursed. "You mentioned a wallet. Does that mean he wasn't
robbed?"
"There was plenty of cash on the body."
"Cash?" My eyebrows rose. "No credit cards?"
He didn't say anything. He just looked at the coffee cup. I looked at
it too. "You find a lot of prints there?" I asked.
"Four sets. His, hers, and two others."
"Okay." I picked up the cup with both hands, pressed my fingers
onto the ceramic. Set the cup down and, for good measure, gave him two
good palm prints on the table top as I stood. "You need anything else?"
"That should do for now," he said. "Keep in touch."
"You, too," I told him. "I want to know who John Murphy was."
"Buy yourself a subscription to the Journal," he told me. "This is a
police investigation. I don't need any damned crusaders messing it up."
"I'm just looking for a friend," I said mildly. "No law against that."
He snorted and I opened the door. "Porter?" He stopped me.
"Yeah?"
"When did you really know Murphy was still in town?"
"When you told me."
"Uh, huh. Well, if you find her, tell her to get her ass in here. Tell
her to bring a lawyer if she wants, but to come in."
"You said that already. I'll mention it if I see her. And here's
something you might keep in mind. Jenny never drank coffee in the
morning. It made her nervous."
"So?"
─ 31 ─
Harlen Campbell
"There were two cups in the sink."
"I saw them. So what?"
"Did you dust them?"
"Naturally. They'd been wiped."
"Jenny wouldn't have had any reason to wipe them. Her prints were
all over the house."
Martinez snapped his fingers. "Hey, by golly, that's right! The killer
would only have had a good reason to wipe those cups if his prints weren't
already in the house!"
I stared at him. He grinned and continued, "Or if he hadn't been in
the house for a couple of weeks. Like a certain friendly neighbor."
I shook my head slowly, asked the ceiling, "For this I pay taxes?
You've heard my story, officer. Check it out." As I closed the door, he
pulled an evidence bag from his pocket and reached for my cup.
No more than a sliver of daylight remained when I walked from the
building. My car was in the far corner of the lot. The wind came over my
shoulder, out of the north, and there was a chill in it that cut through my
shirt. The clouds overhead were small, but they were close together,
spreading out and moving fast. A band of clear sky still showed in the
west, centered on the half of the sun that hadn't yet dropped behind the
dead volcanoes on the horizon.
The yellow light had no warmth left in it and my shadow skittered
hundreds of feet across the cold pavement before it shivered away, lost
among the crisp edges of the night shift's vehicles. Small flurries of dust
and dead leaves chased me toward my car. I put the heater on high for the
drive up to Placitas, north into the coming fall storm.
The red light on my answering machine was winking when I locked
the door behind me and did my ritual tour of the house in the dark. A
quick double wink followed by a pause. The first call was from Sharon in
Santa Barbara. She left a request that I call when I got in, as long as it was
before ten. Eleven my time. The second caller had hung up after saying
my name with Jenny's voice. She sounded anxious, uncertain, but she
hadn't left a number.
Sharon answered on the second ring. She had found Jenny's birth
registered at one of the hospitals in Santa Barbara. November 1, 1957. All
Saints Day. Her birthday was just over a week away.
─ 32 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Her father and mother were Henry and Sally Murphy, both of Santa
Barbara. Henry was the sole proprietor of All-City Painting, a small
company that had served local contractors for the last thirty years. He had
a reputation as a reliable man. He ran a small crew, specialized in custom
work, and had settled comfortably into a niche that gave him a good living
without making him rich.
Sharon had probed delicately for any hint of trouble and found
none. Her contact, who seemed to know the man fairly well in business,
had been surprised when she asked about a daughter.
"There is just the son as far as I know," he'd told her. "Ed is a good
boy, but a little inexperienced. Ambitious, you know? Chomping at the
bit for the old man to retire so he can take his shot at expanding the
business."
Sharon hadn't pushed the question, but would be happy to look
further into the family background if I wanted to pay for it. On the other
matter, she had located a marriage certificate before the records offices
closed. Jennifer Ann Murphy married Thomas Schuler at Immaculate
Conception Catholic Church in Santa Barbara on May 23, 1975. She
would try to finish the investigation tomorrow. I complimented her on
the work she'd done so far and hung up.
It was six-thirty in Santa Barbara. Dinner time there and well past it
here. The prawns that had been fresh yesterday were rocks today. I
thawed a handful and grilled them with lemon butter and a tiny dash of
cayenne. Opened a bottle of Riesling. Set a place for one at the dining
room table. Noritake china in a blue on white pattern, Irish linen napkins,
and a crystal goblet. Things die so I can eat, and I like to treat them well.
Respect even for fish. That's my motto.
My dining room is on the back of the house. It has a large picture
window that looks out over the deck, a couple of short mountains, and the
Rio Grande Valley. On a clear day, I can see a hundred miles. It was dark
when dinner was ready. While I ate, I watched the wind chase a few lonely
snowflakes through the night and thought of all the things I didn't know
about Jennifer Murphy.
I'd believed I knew her well, but the things I'd been able to tell
Martinez were surface stuff. The color of her hair, her height, weight, and
─ 33 ─
Harlen Campbell
approximate age. That she had a nice smile and knew no more about food
than that it filled her belly and was a pain in the ass to prepare.
Despite that one conversation about her past, the night we seduced
each other, Coulter's report left me conscious of all the other things I
should have known about Jenny but had never bothered to ask. It
shouldn't have been enough for me to know what would make her cry out
during sex. There is more to a human being than that.
She had tried marriage three times. She had abandoned one child.
She wove things that trapped curving patterns of harsh, primary colors in a
background of softer pastels, things that people paid a lot of money to
hang on their walls.
The patterns seemed violent, full of unresolved conflict, but that
might just have been my perception. I tend to see violent pattern and
unresolved conflict everywhere. I'd never asked Jenny what the patterns,
much less the act of weaving them, meant to her. I'd never asked who
bought them, what she thought of the buyers, where she found her
materials, who she spent time with when she wasn't with me. I didn't even
know if she had friends. She was gone, fleeing the nastiness she'd
discovered on her kitchen floor. She came to me for willingness to do
what had to be done. Where had she gone for comfort?
When I found myself just staring out into the night, I gave up on
thinking. Opted for action. Washed the dishes. Made a call.
The woman who answered had a thin, uncertain voice. "Mrs.
Murphy?" I asked.
"Yes? Who's calling?"
I don't like to say my name. "I'm calling from New Mexico," I said.
"About your daughter, Jennifer."
A long pause. Then, tentatively: "I don't know what you're talking
about. I don't know anyone named Jennifer."
"This is Sally Murphy?"
"I don't know what you're talking about. Please don't call again."
She hung up.
I called again. Opened with, "Mrs. Murphy, your daughter may be in
trouble. Have the police contacted you? Do you know where she is?"
─ 34 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She hung up. I pushed the redial button. "Listen, I'm a friend of
Jenny's. I want to help her and I need to find her. I know that you are her
mother. I've seen her birth certific--"
She hung up. I pushed the redial button again, but the phone just
rang and rang. Eventually, I gave up. Apparently the woman didn't have a
daughter. Any more.
Well, there is always a back door. I called Sharon Coulter and asked
her to get me the name and number of Jenny's brother. She promised to
get back to me in the morning.
That was the last interesting telephone number I knew. I paced for a
while, sipped at the dregs of the bottle, and hoped another avenue would
present itself. Nothing came to me. The snow had stopped but the wind
was kicking up, rattling the windows. It made the house sound empty and
it made me nervous. The next time my wandering left me in the bedroom,
I stripped and took a long hot shower. That helped some, but not enough.
I was still nervous. I resumed my pacing, naked now. As I moved
through the house, scenes, flashes, episodes starring Jenny kept coming to
me. Never the right one.
It was there, something that would give me another insight into her
character if not her whereabouts. I just couldn't find it, and felt like a
caged cat. The storm outside didn't help. The windows were still shaking
and, when I looked out the window, there was snow again. Hard gray
stuff that whipped along parallel to the earth. Old crystals, long since
fallen, frantic to find a secure resting place. Desperation drove me out
onto the deck, into the wind and the stinging grit.
It was the first storm of the coming winter. The temperature had
dropped to near freezing, but the wind, which blew in my canyon from
first the north and then the east, made it seem much colder. The tiny
crystals of ice bit into my bare skin, spun away, raced into the dark. The
clouds hung low overhead, lower than the invisible ridge behind me, so
low that fingers of mist dropped from them and curled around the house,
gave it a quick, exploratory touch, and then dissolved into gray light or
retreated back into the moving ceiling that cradled the mountain top.
Goose bumps covered my body. I stood there as long as I could,
took deep breaths, felt the cold and the wind and the sharpness of the
night, made friends with it. When I stepped back into the house, the noise
─ 35 ─
Harlen Campbell
no longer bothered me. I turned off all the lights in the house and sat in
the dark with a snifter of brandy until the cold was gone from my skin,
remained only inside, where I was used to it. Then I went to bed.
There are places between sleep and wake that are neither one state
nor the other, points from which you can sometimes see real things that
are invisible when too much light bathes them. I found one of those
points in the middle watch of the night. I was aware of sleeping and then
realized that it was an illusion, that my eyes were open in the dark even
though I could see nothing, and what I'd imagined a dream was only a
memory.
Jenny, in this bed, a month or two ago, No, seven weeks almost
exactly. After sex, when she had opened herself again, unexpectedly. She
had reached down between my legs and cupped my testicles in her hand,
bounced them lightly as though weighing them, and asked, "Don't you
hate having these things hanging off you?"
"They've been useful," I'd replied.
She touched her breasts. "I hate these." Then she had lain back,
stared up at the ceiling. "God, I hate sex."
Consternation. Puzzlement. I rose onto my elbow, leaned over her.
"You don't enjoy it?" I caressed her belly. Lower.
She had lifted her hips, presented herself to my hand. "I love it. I
hate it." After a moment of concentration on what was happening to her
body, she whispered, "Sex isn't about orgasms. It's about children."
That stopped me. "You hate children?"
"What I hate is walking around trapped inside an animal that is
designed to breed and nurse. I'm a thinking being, damn it! I'm more
than just this."
She moved her hips, either told me what this was or urged me to
begin again. "Or I should be. I want to be."
She wanted. But she moved too, and that ambiguous message
moved me in the comfortable direction, toward the comforting position.
And later Jenny said, "You men are luckier than we are. You have
sex, but it isn't as big a part of your life. You do other things. Sex doesn't
dominate you. It doesn't eat up your years."
─ 36 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Don't bet on that," I had told her. But I had lain in the dark for a
long time that night. As I did again on this night, while I listened to the
wind.
─ 37 ─
Harlen Campbell
III
THREADS
The storm petered out sometime after midnight. The light coming
in my bedroom window was bright and clear. Outside, the western
horizon cut a jagged line across the hard blue sky. Traces of the thin snow
that I'd watched fall last night still hid in the shadows under the trees, but
it would be gone by noon. October, even the end of October, was too
early in the year for the stuff to stick.
My body wanted its morning run. I had a different agenda.
Martinez was looking for Jenny. Except for the lead to her family in Santa
Barbara, I had no better idea where to find her than he did and he had
more resources, so I left the search to him.
The key was on my mind. The body had been searched for
something. The key? The locksmith had assured me that it would open a
door, but my search of the tax records had located no property belonging
to Jenny, other than her house, and Martinez had told me the key didn't
unlock it. That left rentals. Fortunately, I own a piece of a woman who
does rentals.
Helene is both competent and practical. A short, slightly plump
woman in her early fifties with a pretty, oval face and black hair rapidly
turning gray, she keeps an office in a storefront in the northeast heights.
─ 38 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She has a broker's license and occasionally sells a property when a listing
drops in her lap, but her major business is property management. She
handles all of my rentals, both the commercial and residential properties.
She does the work well and I pay her a flat four thousand a month for the
service, about twice the standard commission for property management.
One reason I overpay her is so she won't take other clients. Another is the
odd jobs she'll do.
I drove into Albuquerque, grabbed a cup of coffee at the first fastfood joint off the freeway, and arrived at her office just before nine. She
wasn't happy to see me. She never is, unless she's having a problem with a
tenant. When I show up unannounced, it is usually with a request for
what she calls special services. Odd jobs. Today, a rental unit needed
finding.
She understood immediately what I wanted, and since it involved
only a little deception, nothing obviously illegal, she set to work with more
enthusiasm than I expected.
The job was simple. Albuquerque has hundreds of property
management companies, some large and some small. They all deal with
renters and, in order to protect themselves from the bad apples in the
rental pool, they have evolved an informal practice of trading information
about the tenants in their properties. Helene keeps a list of the people
who manage residential rentals, apartments and houses. She keeps another
list of the companies that manage commercial properties.
She began with the residential list and started calling, telling each of
them who she was and that they had been given as a reference by a Jenny
Murphy, who was trying to rent an apartment. The old unit could have
been rented either by Jenny or by her husband, John Murphy. Could they
verify that these people were indeed current tenants? What was their
payment history like? And by the way, what unit and address were they
renting?
No one questioned the request, and no one was surprised that they
had been listed as a current landlord by a total stranger. They'd all been in
exactly the same position themselves. People without a rental history
frequently make one up. People with a history of slow pay often make up
a current landlord and hope the reference won't be checked.
─ 39 ─
Harlen Campbell
The calling went slowly. I tried to help at first, but soon found that
Helene was getting far more cooperation, so I gave it up and let her work.
Shortly before lunch, her phone rang between calls. She listened for
a moment, then passed the receiver to me. I raised my eyebrows at that,
but she shrugged off the implied question. The caller hadn't identified
himself.
He didn't have to give a name to me, either. I recognized Martinez's
voice immediately. "How did you get this number?" I asked.
"It was easy. You doing anything important?"
"What do you want?"
"There's a man who wants to meet you. How soon can you get
here?"
Something in his tone made me wary. "Is this an order?"
"Call it a formal request," he said. "You're only ten minutes away.
We'll expect you at noon." He hung up.
I handed the receiver back to Helene, shook my head at her
questioning look, and headed for the door. Martinez knew where I was if
he knew the telephone number, and if he had an arrest in mind, he'd just
have walked in the door, probably with back-up.
Last night's snow flurries hadn't touched the land below six
thousand feet, so the roads in Albuquerque were clear even though the air
was brisk. I made good time on the drive to the state police office and
entered the parking lot a few minutes before noon. Sat in the car for ten
minutes just so Martinez and his guest wouldn't think I was too eager.
Neither of them said a word about the time when I walked in. I figured
that was a good sign, maybe.
Martinez was behind his desk, drumming his fingers and trying to
look bored. His dark eyes and broad face were empty of expression when
he glanced up at me. He didn't bother to stand, just grunted, "Glad you
could make it. Traffic must be terrible. This is Walt Thurmond. Special
Agent Walter Thurmond."
Thurmond had the chair opposite him. A tall, middle-aged man with
a thin face, closely cropped brown hair and a blue suit. He stood and
offered a hand. I shook it. The gesture meant nothing to either of us.
"We going down to the basement again?" I asked Martinez.
─ 40 ─
Jennifer's Weave
He made a face. "Your alibi checked out just fine. Not that it's
worth much."
"What do you mean?"
"Those two hours you spent reading the paper. The waitress
remembers you there, but she can't remember what time you left. She's
sure you were there at ten-thirty when she went on break, but that's all she
can do for you."
"I'm still a suspect?"
"Well, you haven't been cleared." He sighed. "You could,
theoretically, have driven to Placitas, taken five or ten minutes to do
Herdez, and still make it back to Albuquerque for your appointment."
"But? You don't have the cuffs out. Why?"
"Two reasons. First, that woman, Helene, said you showed no signs
of agitation when you showed up at her office at eleven-thirty. And
second, there is that twenty-minute gap between the time Herdez was hit
on the head and the time he was cut. No matter how I figure it, you
couldn't have done both. There simply wasn't time."
"So you like one person for both the blow and the knife?"
He shrugged. "Why complicate things?"
I relaxed a little, made a clean corner on the desk behind me and sat
on it. "Does this mean you've identified the owner of those extra prints?"
Martinez sent a quick look Thurmond's way before answering. "One
set is yours, but we knew you'd been there. The others are still
unidentified."
Thurmond must have felt we were getting too chummy. He gave me
a cold eye and started talking. "Paul Porter," he said. "Nickname
Rainbow. Sergeant, US Army. You did three tours in 'Nam, mustered out
through Oakland. You got an honorable discharge. I'm damned if I can
see why. You have an interesting history. Since your discharge, there have
been a couple of reports--"
I cut him off. "I'm an interesting guy. And by the way, that's exsergeant." I turned to Martinez. "Who is this bozo?"
"He's--"
Thurmond wasn't about to lose control so easily. "I am a special
agent of the Federal Bureau of Investigation," he said. "We have a couple
of questions."
─ 41 ─
Harlen Campbell
I studied him without much interest. "He show you any ID?" I
asked Martinez.
Thurmond said, "Now, just a damned minute . . . ," but I was
looking at Martinez and his outrage faded. Martinez watched me
curiously.
"Show me," I told Thurmond. He started to protest, then sighed
and flipped out a badge and card. I glanced at them briefly and handed
them back. I wouldn't have recognized fakes, but asking got under his
skin faster than he was getting under mine. "Okay, you're with the
Bureau," I told him. "So what?"
"They're interested in the case," Martinez told me.
"Why? It's just a local murder. Right?"
Thurmond took a deep breath and answered for Martinez. "Maybe
not. Maybe it's more."
"Maybe you'd better tell me what's going on," I told him.
"Don't you want to help?"
"Not much. Tell me why I should."
He cursed. "They warned me you'd be difficult."
"I'm a model citizen," I told him. "Ask Martinez. I gave him my
fingerprints practically before he asked. I suppose that's why you're here?"
He just looked at me. I waited, then said, "Look, Thurmond, if you
want something from me, you're going to have to trade for it."
"You act like you don't trust the government."
I gave that the laugh it deserved. "I worked for it once, remember?
Tell me what's going on."
He looked to Martinez for help. When Martinez gave him nothing,
Thurmond sighed again. "It was the prints that got us interested."
"The unidentified prints?"
He shook his head. "No, the set they took off the body. The ID
Martinez found on the body said it belonged to a John Murphy. It didn't."
"So what? Martinez already knew the ID was phony."
"The prints belonged to a man named Juan Herdez." He was
watching me carefully, looking for some flicker of recognition. It was easy
to disappoint him. I'd never heard of Herdez and said so.
He ignored me and said, "The most interesting thing about Herdez is
that he's dead."
─ 42 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"You're kidding."
"I mean that he was dead. He died two years ago in Juarez."
I whistled. "Neat trick."
"Yes." He was still watching me.
"Let me guess," I said. "Congress has widened your charter to
include investigation of resurrections."
He bit his lips. "Don't be an imbecile."
"Then it has to be something else. Something Herdez was up to
during his last incarnation."
Thurmond smiled like a man who knew something I didn't. He
admitted, "We were interested in him."
"Why?"
"A man was killed. An informer named Brian Arthur."
"By Herdez?"
"It looked like that at the time, but then Herdez was killed and we
closed the case. Naturally, when his prints showed up on this body, we reopened it."
Another killing? I glanced at Martinez. If he knew anything, he
wasn't giving it away. I turned back to the agent. "A knifing? Like
Herdez?"
He shook his head. "Arthur was shot, three times." He sniffed, "An
amateurish job, really."
"You're thinking of pinning that one on Jenny, too?" I asked. "A
knife this time and a gun last time? I thought killers, especially amateurs,
stuck to one M.O."
"Maybe she didn't have a gun this time," Thurmond said. "Anyway,
we don't see her for that killing. We think Herdez pulled the trigger, but
we find it peculiar that he died in her house. Using her name."
I found it peculiar too. The difference between us was that
Thurmond didn't know Jenny. She wasn't a killer. At least, she wasn't the
kind who could stick a knife in a man's neck and wriggle it around until
she found an artery. She might be the kind who could panic, point a gun
at a man who was threatening her, and squeeze the trigger until he
stopped. But lots of people are that kind of killer. Why single her out? I
smiled at Thurmond and asked, "What kind of business was your Brian
Arthur in?"
─ 43 ─
Harlen Campbell
But Thurmond was tired of playing games. He stood abruptly,
looked down on me. "Mr. Porter, have you or have you not ever heard of
Juan Herdez?"
"Not until you said the name."
"Had you ever seen him before you found his body?"
"Nope."
"How long have you known Jennifer Murphy?"
"A little over a year. I met her shortly after she bought the land next
to me. I've only known her well for three or four months."
"Do you know the source of her income?"
"She was a weaver. I think her stuff sold fairly well. Maybe she had
some alimony." I shrugged. "Her money was her business."
"Did she travel abroad very often?"
"Not with me."
"What about the coast? San Diego?"
"Not with me."
Thurmond tried on a command voice for size. "Don't be flip with
me, mister!"
I snickered to show him how impressed I was. "If you don't like the
answers, turkey, ask something I know. Jenny took trips. I don't know
where she went because I didn't go with her."
"So you're saying your involvement in this case is entirely
tangential?"
Tangential. That was a good word for it. I smiled up at him.
"Yup."
He stared into my face. Spoke seriously. "I may want to talk to you
again, Porter. Don't leave town without clearing it with Detective
Martinez." He strode from the room decisively.
Martinez was grinning at me. I smiled back. "Does this mean your
interest in the case is now entirely tangential?"
He shook his head. "The Bureau is merely observing our
investigation. For now."
"Uh, huh. I'll be relieved when they take over. Maybe we'll see some
progress."
"You think?"
─ 44 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"At least they aren't trying to pin the murder on Jenny. Whatever
happened at her place, it was more than a simple killing."
"Yes? Well, compadre, it interests me that Herdez chose Murphy for
his new name after he died that first time. And another thing interests me.
It seems that twelve years ago, Jennifer Murphy was married for a short
time to a man named Juan Herdez."
"Oh?" He'd gotten to that pretty quickly.
"You don't seem surprised."
"I'm flabbergasted. I can't think of anything to say."
He pressed it. "She didn't mention him?"
"She told me she'd been married three times," I said. "She said the
first was named Tommy, the second was named Juan, and she never gave
a name for the third. She also never told me Juan's last name."
"Or where she met him?"
"That was in El Paso, in some no-name art gallery. She was living in
Mesilla at the time. That's all I know. You're still thinking this was a crime
of passion?"
"I don't know what to think. Murphy's relationship with the
deceased bothers me, but it also bothers me that Thurmond walked in
waving a badge."
"So quickly, you mean."
His smile faded. "There is that."
"Did Thurmond tell you what pushed the Bureau's button?"
"He hinted that he was acting on a request from what he called a
sister agency."
That wasn't a thing I wanted to hear. My face felt a little numb.
"There's only one sister agency that isn't allowed to operate within our
borders."
He nodded. "There's only the one."
"But they aren't supposed to be getting along."
"Maybe they made up. But there's still the time factor. Those prints
went over the wire around noon yesterday. I have never met a bureaucrat
who could pass papers back and forth that fast. Especially between the
FBI and the C-I-fucking-A. I don't believe it."
"You think he lied."
─ 45 ─
Harlen Campbell
It wasn't a question. Martinez didn't bother to answer it. "This
interesting history of yours that Thurmond mentioned," he said. "Does it
give you any insight into what might be going on?"
There was no good way to answer that. "I could look into the
question."
"Without leaving town, of course." His eyes had drifted to his
window and his fingers began drumming on his desk.
"Of course. What else do you know about Juan Herdez?"
"Not a damned thing."
"What about this Brian Arthur? You know what he was doing for
the feds?"
Martinez shook his head. "I checked our records. Arthur was killed
in San Diego on May 12, two years ago. We got an APB on Herdez the
same day, and it was cancelled about a month later. June 20th."
"Let me guess. Herdez died on the twentieth. The first time."
"Wrong. He died on the nineteenth."
"Close enough." I thought about it a few moments, then asked,
"That APB for Herdez was issued immediately?"
"That's right."
"So they made him for the killing right away."
"Right away. Whatever the Bureau was up to, Herdez was involved
in it." He didn't look at me, but chose his words carefully. "You'll let me
know if you remember anything more?"
"Sure. If I remember anything important, I'll tell you. In the
meantime, you might take Jenny off your suspect list. You've got an
unidentified set of prints in her house, proof that she was away for most of
the morning, and a damned strong hint that at least one other party was
involved with Herdez."
"One other?"
"The agency has been known to do a little wet work. Or hire it
done."
"If she isn't a suspect, she's sure as hell a material witness," he said
flatly. "Either way, I want to talk to her."
I let him have the last word and left without asking if there was a
warrant out on her. I didn't want to know.
─ 46 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I can't stand indecisive people, so I drove decisively to my bank and
picked up a couple of thousand in walk-around money, then back to
Placitas. Packed a bag. Drove decisively to the airport, where I stood in
front of the ticket counter and tried to decide where to go. Tried to decide
what the hell I was trying to accomplish, period.
Jenny could be almost anywhere in the world. Her voice on my
answering machine meant nothing. But if anyone knew where she was,
her family probably did. People tend to run home when they're in trouble.
Of course, her mother said she had no daughter. If the rest of the family
shared that sentiment, Sharon Coulter was wasting her effort and my
money. If they didn't, I belonged in Santa Barbara.
And what was Jenny's problem? She wanted something, but I was
only assuming that it had to do with Herdez. Maybe the other dead man,
Brian Arthur, had been on her mind. Maybe she just wanted me to guard
a key that probably wasn't even hers. And that brought me to the other
possible destination.
Juan Herdez had met Jenny in El Paso. He'd died the first time in
Juarez, just across the river. In between, he'd married her in Las Cruces,
forty-odd miles north of those twin cities. The reason for his second
death might lie there. At least it was a place to start.
The only things I knew for sure about Herdez were that someone
hadn't liked him, that the FBI and possibly the CIA were interested in him,
that he'd once married the woman I was sleeping with, that he might have
been a killer. And he drank coffee in the morning.
Those were damned few facts. I could infer that he was involved in
something both inside and outside the U.S. borders, since the FBI acted
only here and the CIA acted only there. What would those two guardians
of the peace find mutually interesting? Not drugs. The DEA wasn't
involved. Terrorism, maybe? Assassination? It had to be something
political, something with a stateside connection. And Jenny was either
involved in it or Herdez had tried to involve her.
We'd talked a lot, but never about politics. She hadn't been
interested. Of course, she was a bit of an idealist. She worried, on and off,
about the environment, the ozone layer, overpopulation. But except for
taking birth control pills, she didn't involve herself with any of those
─ 47 ─
Harlen Campbell
problems. In fact, she seemed to avoid anything that didn't affect her
personally.
I'd thought she concentrated her efforts on the things she could
control. Her weaving. But apparently I had been wrong. She was the
most interesting mystery. I let that decide me and bought a ticket on the
next flight to Los Angeles.
By ten-thirty that night, California time, I'd picked up a rental car,
driven to Santa Barbara, and checked into a motel that offered a piece of
my favorite ocean with the room. That was about all it offered.
The girl at the registration desk was young, had long, sun-bleached
hair, and moved constantly to some music I couldn't hear. "Where's your
dining room?" I asked her.
She glanced over my shoulder. Three older women in pink waitress
uniforms were locking a set of double doors on a room full of tables. She
said, "Sorry."
"Where's the nearest restaurant?"
"Down the block, only they're closed."
"Damn it. Isn't anything open?"
"Sure, but they're hard to . . . I guess I could draw you a map? Or
something?"
I told her to forget it and carried my bag up to the room. The food
didn't matter. One meal a day is enough when there's an ocean. I spent
half an hour enjoying that amenity before I called my answering machine.
There were two messages waiting. The first was from Jenny, asking
why I was never home. She sounded both irritable and fearful, but again
she didn't leave a number or a message. The second was from Coulter,
who asked me to call as soon as possible.
She answered the phone with two questions. "Do you know what
time it is? Who the hell is this, anyway?"
"Yes. Porter."
"What? Oh! Sorry about that."
"Never mind. I like bitchy women. What have you got for me?"
She had names and addresses. Jennifer's brother, Edward, and his
address. The painting company's name and address. In addition, she had
confirmed the birth of a daughter, Sally Ann, eight months after Jenny's
marriage to Schuler. She hadn't found any record of the divorce yet and
─ 48 ─
Jennifer's Weave
hadn't located either Schuler or the daughter. "Maybe tomorrow," she
said.
I told her where I was staying before bringing up new business. I'd
done a little thinking on the plane. "Put Schuler and the kid on the back
burner," I told her. "I want you to head up north. There was a third
marriage and divorce, in either San Francisco or Marin County. I don't
have exact dates or a name for the husband, but you might start around six
years ago."
She digested that for a few seconds, then asked, "Third marriage?
How many more husbands does this woman have?"
"There was one husband between the two you know about. He's
dead at the moment. As far as I know, the one in Marin was the last."
Her voice hardened. "Dead at the moment? What the hell does that
mean?"
"He was dead once before. I'm betting this time will be permanent."
"Are you playing games with me?"
"I wish I were, Sharon. You have a problem?"
"No. You know anything about the Marin ex-husband that might
help me?"
"I understand he did land development. He was supposed to have
been pretty successful at it."
"Was?"
"He had a heart attack or stroke shortly before the divorce."
"Shortly before. I see." Her voice was flat, devoid of expression.
"Any other questions?"
"Yes. Why are you trying to find her?"
"What do you mean?"
"I'm hoping you don't plan to marry the woman."
I forced a laugh and hung up. Turned the television on and off
again. Went to bed, pounded the pillow for an hour and got up. Opened
the curtain, sat in the dark, and watched the moon paint a silver arrow on
the water.
According to Sharon, Jenny's daughter was born eight months after
she married Schuler. Jenny told me it was more than a year after the
marriage. She had apparently edited the facts a bit when she told me her
─ 49 ─
Harlen Campbell
story. Why would she do that? As I sat there, I fought an uneasy
suspicion that my curiosity had become too personal and faintly indecent.
Dawn hadn't come yet when my guts remembered it had been
twenty-four hours since they'd had any work to do. I walked down to the
lobby. Two waitresses were turning the dining room into a coffee shop,
but when I tried to enter, one pointed at her watch and waved me away. I
shook my head and drove over to the address Sharon had given me for
All-City Painting.
It was located in a commercial block on the outskirts of Santa
Barbara, well away from the expensive land nearer the beaches. The sign
above the small cinder block building could have used some attention
from one of the painters who sat in the idling pickups outside the chain
link fence that surrounded the building and the three white vans parked
beside it. I assumed they were waiting for the someone to unlock the
place. They all looked me over when I joined them on the graveled
parking lot, but none of them came over. We waited together in the gray
pre-dawn light until a new Cadillac pulled into the lot.
The men started climbing from their trucks, drifting toward the gate.
The man in the expensive car unlocked it and pushed it wide, then walked
back to the vehicle and stood beside it for a moment, staring at me. I gave
him a casual wave, then leaned back to wait. He lifted a shoulder, dropped
it, and drove into the lot, opened the building. It took him half an hour to
get his crews organized. When the last of the vans pulled out of the yard, I
went inside.
The boss was a squarely built man in his early thirties, just under six
feet tall, with brown eyes and short black hair. He was spooning coffee
into a filter paper when I entered the office.
"Ed Murphy?" I offered my hand on the off chance that shaking it
would put him at ease with me. Gave him my name and said, "I flew up
from Albuquerque to see you."
Shaking hands didn't increase his trust. "Albuquerque? My mother
mentioned getting some calls from there."
"That was me. I didn't mean to upset her, but I really need to find
your sister. I thought if you could help me, I wouldn't have to bother your
mother again."
─ 50 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"And if I won't help you, you are going to bother her." He'd picked
up the threat instantly. His tone was hostile.
"Jenny is in trouble. You don't want to see her hurt, do you?"
"If she's in trouble again, she probably brought it on herself." He
turned back to the coffee machine and finished putting it together as he
spoke. He added softly, "I'm sure someone else will be hurt worse than
she is."
"That's pretty harsh."
He faced me, met my eyes squarely. The coffee machine began
hiccuping. "That's the way it is. I'm sorry."
I studied him a second. "Do you know if she contacted your mother
recently?"
"She would never try to call our mother. Not after the last time.
Mom made it pretty clear how she feels about her. About what she did to
Tom and little Sally."
"But her own daughter?"
"Sally is our flesh and blood, too. She was Mom's namesake, and
after Jenny took off, my mother sort of raised her. She did all the babysitting while Tom worked. She bought her clothes, took her to school on
her first day, helped her pick out her prom dress."
The hostility had come back into his voice. "She tried to be a
mother to that little girl, to make up for what Jenny did to her."
"And she resented it?"
He stared at me. "Where the hell do you get off saying something
like that?" he demanded. "Look, there's a right way to behave and a wrong
way and Jenny took the wrong way. No matter how good your reasons
are, there are things you just don't do. One of them is you don't abandon
a little girl! Or your husband!"
The door opened behind me. I turned and saw an older version of
Edward Murphy. The man standing there had thirty years and fifty
pounds on his son, but the relationship was plain. His face was thinner,
but he had the same eyes, the same black hair, and the same line to his
chin. His voice was uncertain. "What's going on here?"
"This is the man who called Mom the night before last," Edward
told him.
I smiled and offered my hand. "Mr. Murphy? Pleased to meet you."
─ 51 ─
Harlen Campbell
He looked from it to me. I expected him to tell me to get out. He
said, "Is she hurt?"
His son said, "Dad!"
I said, "I don't know. Has she called home in the last couple of
days?"
He shook his head wordlessly and walked to one of the three desks
in the room, sat heavily behind it.
Ed looked at him for a few seconds, then began, "Dad, we
can't . . . ." His voice trailed off when his father put his elbows on his
desk, closed his eyes, rubbed his temples with the heels of his hands.
Shook his head.
"She's still my girl," his father growled. "No matter what your
mother says, no matter what Jenny did, she's still my girl. You have to
understand that."
He looked up at me. His face was a wound waiting to be reopened.
"What has she done now?"
"I don't think she did anything. But a man was killed in her house."
He blinked slowly. "I see. Are the police after her?"
"They want to talk to her for now, but if she doesn't turn up soon,
they'll issue a warrant. I want to find her first. I want to help her if I can."
"I see." He sighed. "What is your . . . ?"
"I'm a friend. She needs help. This has to be resolved. She
wouldn't kill anyone, but if she doesn't go to the police, they are going to
assume that she's guilty just because she's running."
"She's innocent." He sounded sure, but he was looking to his son.
Who turned away from him and started pouring coffee.
"When did she call last?" I directed the question to the room in
general.
Ed carried a cup to his father. He didn't offer me one. The old man
stared at his cup without touching it. He said, "My wife answers the
phone."
"So you don't know?"
"No."
"Who else would she have called? Tom Schuler?"
"No!" Ed answered sharply. "I told her that he's remarried. That he
wouldn't speak to her."
─ 52 ─
Jennifer's Weave
His father looked puzzled. "What? You didn't tell me."
"It was a couple of weeks ago." Ed sounded defensive. "I didn't
want to start anything with Mom. She just wanted to know if we'd heard
from that man in Marin."
"Why?"
"I don't know. There was some kind of trouble, I think." He
ignored his father, looked at me defiantly. "I told her we hadn't. And not
to call again."
"Who is the man in Marin?" I asked.
"Her second husband."
"Tell me his name. Where he lives."
He told me to go to hell. I looked at the father, but his eyes were
closed, his mind somewhere else. "I just want to help your sister. Why
won't you help me? What did she do that was so awful? People get
divorced all the time. A lot of divorces are more bitter than hers was. At
least you got to know her kid. What the hell did she do?"
"It wasn't what she did." He searched for words, but in the end he
could only say, "She was different. She always held herself apart. She
thought she was--"
"No!" His father exploded. His face was pale. "Not when she was
my little girl! She was the sweetest thing. She walked with me and held
onto my finger and--"
"Since I came along then!" The son spoke sharply. "That's the only
way I ever knew her! That's the way Mom said she always was!"
It seemed an old argument, one the old man always lost. He looked
away from his son, sat in silence for a few moments, and eventually asked
me, "This man who was killed, who was he?"
"His name was Juan Herdez. He was her second husband." Maybe
I shouldn't have spoken.
He looked at his son. "Did you know about this?"
Ed shrugged.
I asked, "Did you ever give her a chance to tell you?"
"She had a lifetime of chances," he told me. "I told you, she's
different."
"Different!" I made it sound like a curse. I asked the old man, "And
you went along with this?"
─ 53 ─
Harlen Campbell
"My wife." He said. "My son. My grandkids. My business. I'm . . .
connected."
I waited for him to add something I could understand. When he
didn't, I shrugged and started for the door. The father cleared his throat as
I reached it. He said, "Please, if you find her, tell her . . . ."
His voice trailed off. "What?" I asked.
He shrugged. Picked up his coffee. The black liquid in the cup
trembled. He said, "Nothing," and I let that stand as his final word for his
daughter.
I stopped on the way back to the motel and treated myself to the
coffee the Murphy's hadn't offered. I didn't think about them. I didn't
understand them and didn't know what to think. I felt sorry for Jenny. Of
course, I didn't understand her either.
Santa Barbara had nothing more to offer except a beach and enough
ocean to drown in. The dining room in the motel was closed when I
reached it, naturally. The desk man told me it would open for lunch at
eleven-thirty. I told him to check me out.
There was a commuter flight to San Francisco that arrived just
before lunch. They didn't serve food, but there was a phone on the back
of the seat in front of me. I used it to reserve a car at the airport and a
room at the St. Francis, then called Sharon's answering machine back in
Santa Barbara and told it where I could be reached. Then I waited and
made my stomach promises. By the time we touched down, I was in a
foul mood. The airport was crowded. I got out of it as quickly as
possible. The traffic on the freeway was terrible, but I didn't mind. I was
driving into a city that had more restaurants, and better restaurants, per
square mile than any city in the world except one.
A message was waiting at the St. Francis. Sharon. She said she'd
meet me at an address in Sausalito at one-thirty. There was time to make
the appointment if I skipped lunch. On the drive over the Golden Gate,
the traffic bothered the hell out of me.
The address was above the city or town or village or whatever
Sausalito called itself. The narrow road snaked up the hill between the bay
and the freeway. The trees and shrubs that lined it on both sides were
interrupted only by an occasional driveway, usually on the downhill side,
that led to a mansion. Well, at least a damned big house. You could
─ 54 ─
Jennifer's Weave
sometimes see bits of them through breaks in the greenery on the uphill
side of the road. Lots of wood or brick or pastel stucco with wide
expanses of glass. On the downhill side of the road, you looked over the
roofs of the houses and could see only the broad blue sweep of the bay,
the towers and hills of downtown San Francisco, the white triangles of the
hundreds, it seemed like thousands, of sailboats that scudded over the
water under a sky as delicate as a robin's egg. It was a view that made you
think that here, at least once, mankind had done something right.
The number Sharon left for me was painted on a wooden post
halfway up the hill. I ignored it. A hundred yards further an older
Japanese car, a Datsun I think, had been pulled as far off the road as
possible. The shrubs on the right completely blocked the passenger-side
doors. As I passed it, the driver and I eyed each other casually. She was a
blonde in her late twenties. I pulled over ahead of her and walked back.
"Mr. Porter?" Her eyes were cautious.
I nodded. "He at home?"
"He was an hour ago, and he hasn't left by the front door. Get in.
I'll give you a run-down. You want the short version or the long version?"
Sharon was a tall woman, five-eight or -nine, and had her seat
pushed all the way back. That left the back seat too tight for a grown man.
My knees would have kept me from moving my chin. I compromised by
sitting sideways with my legs out the door. She faced me over the back of
her seat. Her face was broad, with brown eyes under hair one shade
lighter than honey and those thin lines running from her nose to her
mouth that come from laughter or pain.
I said, "The short version. Just enough to talk to him about his exwife."
She nodded. "His name is Samuel Bryce Halliday. He's a native
Californian. I'd guess family money, though I didn't do a deep background
on him. He's a sportsman. Belongs to a hunting club and the NRA. He
got into real estate development fifteen or twenty years ago and did very
well."
"Women?"
"He played the field, but kept most of his money. After he met our
target, he settled down some. The story I hear is that he was pretty much
faithful to her after they married. He kept his pants zipped and put
─ 55 ─
Harlen Campbell
together some good-sized deals. I don't know exactly how much money
he's got, but he seems well-fixed."
"What about Murphy?" I asked.
She consulted a note book on the seat beside her, said, "When he
married Jennifer Murphy, she was a local artist, doing fairly well selling
hand-made cloth and hangings, tapestries, around the bay area. She had a
growing reputation. I saw several of her things at a place near North
Beach, over by the Cannery. They were beautiful. Anyway, neither of the
people I spoke to who knew them as a couple had anything to say against
her. At least, before he had a heart attack and she split. That was two
years ago."
"How long were they together?"
"They were married for sixteen months, but they lived together for
almost two years before that."
"Has anyone seen her recently?"
"Nobody I talked to. You can ask him."
"I will. Did you learn how she did in the divorce settle--"
"Close the door!" The command was urgent. Her attention had
been floating back and forth, from my face to the rear window, as she
spoke. I pulled my legs in and slammed the door in a single movement
that left me on my side, spread over the seat.
She turned forward and started the car. Spoke over her shoulder.
"He's leaving. You want to follow?"
"Hell, yes! Maybe he'll go to a restaurant." It was hard to talk from
that position, harder still after she put the car in gear and made an expert
U-turn across the narrow street. I rolled back and forth as she navigated
the sharp curves. Asked, after a couple of dizzy minutes, "What is he
driving, a Maserati?"
"A Porsche. I'm just trying to catch up." She spoke tightly.
"I thought he had a heart attack."
"Apparently he recovered." She wasn't paying much attention to me.
"The guy I talked to said he jogs, works out, watches his diet."
"Shit! He may be healthier than me." I got an eye above the seat
level long enough to catch the tail end of a silver Porsche disappearing
around the next curve. "Did he get back into business?"
─ 56 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Now that's strange." Her attention was on the road and she
answered absently. "Everybody expected him to, but he didn't. He travels
a lot. Enjoys life. But he's completely out of business. Maybe the heart
attack taught him a lesson."
We went over a bump that bounced my head off the roof and then
braked for a curve that bounced it off the back of the seat. "Sex?" I
gasped.
"I'm driving."
"Damn it!"
"It was a joke." She slowed. We were approaching the bay, where
the roads grew flatter and crowded with tourists. "That's another strange
thing. A guy that healthy, you'd think he'd go back to his old ways. But he
hasn't. Maybe the doctor took him off it."
"Maybe."
Ahead of us, Halliday's car abruptly turned into a parking lot.
Sharon missed the turn, but found a spot opening up half a block down
and across the street. She pulled an illegal U-turn, cut off a tourist who
saw it the same time she did, and slid smoothly into the slot. I crawled
out, waited while she locked the car, and we headed back toward the lot
Halliday had entered. She had a slight limp and favored her right hip. It
slowed her, but not much.
We found Halliday easily. He was sitting in the front window of a
restaurant, where he had a good view of the street. I looked at the sign.
THE VEGAN DELIGHT.
Sharon said, "What's wrong?"
"I was hungry."
"So eat."
"This is a turnip joint." I sent another promise south and took a
deep breath. "Let's do it."
"You want me to wait outside?"
"Sit in. You know most of the story anyway. Maybe you'll see
something I don't."
Halliday looked up as we approached his table. He was a trim,
strongly built man in his late forties. Six feet or so tall, maybe a hundred
and eighty pounds, with a square face and a full head of medium length
brown hair. Expensive clothes. What hostesses call a presentable man.
─ 57 ─
Harlen Campbell
When we stopped by his table, he asked, "Can I help you?" His tone
was reserved and his voice was firm, confident.
I introduced myself and asked if I could talk to him for a few
minutes about his wife. He said, "You've made a mistake. I'm not
married."
"Jenny Murphy. Your ex-wife." I took the chair next to him and
promised, "It won't take long."
Sharon moved smoothly to the chair opposite me, sandwiched him
between us. Halliday swung his head to her and then back to me. "Who's
she?"
"Sharon Coulter. She works for me," I said shortly. "When did you
see Jenny Murphy last?"
"Why should I tell you?"
"She's in trouble. I'm trying to help her out of it." I shrugged. "You
don't have to talk to me. You can get in touch with Andrew Martinez of
the New Mexico State Police. He's trying to find her too. It's your
choice."
"Jenny is missing?"
I nodded.
"What does this Martinez want with her?"
"A man was killed. He thinks she knows something about it."
"Or killed him?"
"Yes."
"I see." Sharon's presence troubled him. He looked at her, said,
"Porter here doesn't look like a cop. You do. Are you?"
She met his gaze, gave her head a narrow shake, and told him, "I'm a
private investigator from Santa Barbara. We're assisting with the
investigation."
I asked, "Do you know where she is?"
He sighed, closed the menu, turned back to me. "I haven't seen my
ex-wife in several months. It was early last August, the sixth, I think. She
was in town, delivering some stuff to Peter Langton's gallery. I was
looking at some prints when she came in. We had lunch together."
"Did she come to San Francisco often?"
"I wouldn't know." He picked up the menu, glanced at it, then
dropped it. "She didn't keep in touch. It was just an accident that we met
─ 58 ─
Jennifer's Weave
in August." He leaned toward me, put his elbows on the table, asked,
"Who was killed?"
"A man named Juan Herdez."
"No! Juan?"
"You knew him?"
He nodded. "Her second husband. The one before me."
"How did you know him?"
"He came through San Francisco sometimes. He traveled a lot."
That was the first I'd learned of the dead man. "Doing what?" I
asked.
"He was a fund-raiser for some charity down in Mexico. One of
those Save the Children groups, I think. I don't remember the name."
Halliday hesitated a moment before continuing. "Jenny made some
donations to it before we were married. I don't know how much. Or
why."
"How often did she see him?"
"Several times a year. I don't know." He'd picked up the salt shaker,
begun playing with it.
"Did she continue seeing him after you were married?"
"He came to the house a couple of times," Halliday admitted.
Sharon broke in. "Didn't that bother you? He was her ex-husband."
"What could I say?" he asked her. "The man was raising money for
orphans, for God's sake! If I said anything, I'd have looked like a jerk."
"Did you think they might still be involved?" When I asked the
question, Sharon looked at me. She had a question of her own, but she
didn't ask it yet.
"I didn't think so then. I still don't." He poured some salt on the
table, stirred it with a finger, added, "Juan still loved her, though."
"How do you know that?"
"He told me. Three or four weeks ago."
Sharon asked, "That bothered you?"
He shrugged, spoke to the salt. "Not as long as she didn't love him.
But what the hell, we were divorced anyway. Why should I care?"
I pushed my chair back, got ready to leave. I asked, "did she have
any friends here? Anyone she might go to if she were in trouble?"
─ 59 ─
Harlen Campbell
"I don't think she made friends," Halliday said. "Not like normal
people. She sort of adopted mine when we were married. I never even
met her family."
I thanked him and stood. Sharon stayed in her seat. She had
another question for him.
"Why did she leave you?"
"I've thought about that a lot," he said. "I'd just had a heart attack. I
got very dependent on her after they released me from the hospital. I
think she felt I was trying to force some kind of role on her, make her my
nurse or something." He cleared his throat. "I guess she didn't want to be
needed."
"What was the divorce settlement like?" Sharon asked.
"It was just a divorce. She didn't ask for anything except the money
she had when we got married." He gave a short, barking laugh. "My
friends tell me I got off cheap."
"Maybe you did." She smiled at him and stood, done with her
questions.
Halliday caught my eye. "If you see her, would you give her a
message?" he asked.
"What?"
"Tell her I don't need her anymore. Tell her it's safe to come back."
We walked back to the car more slowly than I'd have liked because
of Sharon's limp. She stopped halfway there. I thought the walk was
tiring her, but she only wanted to say something. "I don't think I like your
friend much."
"She's not so bad," I said. "You can't always believe a woman's exhusband."
"I believe him about that. He still cares for her."
I nodded, asked her, "What don't you believe him about?"
"I'm not sure. I don't think he knows where she is, but he was
nervous about something."
"I thought so too." I started toward the car again. She followed
slowly and I adjusted my pace to hers. I asked, "You recovering from
something, or is it none of my business?"
─ 60 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She kept her eyes on the street, glancing around with a cop's casual
interest. "I told you I was retired from the LAPD? It was with a
permanent disability."
"What happened?"
"I was responding to a robbery in progress call at a liquor store. I
got there too soon. The perp was making his getaway when I got out of
the squad car. He tried to run me down."
I didn't look at her. I didn't think she'd appreciate sympathy.
"Looks like he succeeded."
"Almost. I got off one shot."
"Hit him?"
She nodded, smiled grimly. "Just before he hit me. He was in the
hospital for three weeks. I was in for two months."
"What happened to him?"
"He plea bargained. As of last June, he was walking the street."
"You should have tried for a head shot."
"I did. I missed."
We finished the walk in silence. As she unlocked the car, she said, "I
didn't have to retire, you know. I could have stayed in."
"Why didn't you?"
"I can't type." She slid behind the wheel and looked over at me.
"Where now?"
"I'm starving. You want to find a restaurant with a phone? I haven't
checked my calls today."
"I could eat," she said. "As for the phone . . . ." She dug a cellular
out of her handbag and tossed it to me.
I hesitated. "It's going to be a long distance call."
"So I'll bill you. I'm working for you, remember?"
"Oh. Right." It hadn't felt like that for a minute. I dialed Placitas,
punched in the code that retrieved the messages from my answering
machine. The machine had recorded three from Martinez. His urgency
increased steadily. As I listened, my jaw tightened. I hung up and told
Sharon to cancel the restaurant.
"What's wrong?"
"Martinez has been calling me. Jenny Murphy's house burned last
night."
─ 61 ─
Harlen Campbell
IV
OTHER PARTIES
Sharon had only two questions on the drive back to Halliday's house
to pick up my rental. After I told her to find the gallery where Jenny had
met Halliday in August and try to locate any friends she might have had in
the Bay area through the owner, she asked, "You think she's here?"
"No."
"Why, then?"
"Because I don't know her as well as I thought I did. And I might
need to."
She digested that in silence, then asked, "What about the first
husband, Tom Schuler, and the daughter? You want me to pursue that?"
"Yes. Especially the daughter. Jenny needs to know how she turned
out. If she's all right."
She sighed. "Okay."
"What?"
"Nothing."
I pushed it. "Tell me, damn it."
She pulled up behind my rental and turned to me. "Maybe I don't
understand your relationship with this woman. Maybe it's none of my
business. But I have a bad feeling about it. That whatever your
relationship is, it isn't going to be good for you."
"You're right," I told her. "It's none of your business."
─ 62 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She looked away from me then and I thought about apologizing, but
I wasn't in the mood for it. Maybe it was the hunger.
The desk man at the St. Francis raised his eyebrows when I checked
out less than three hours after checking in. He asked if there was a
problem with the room. I told him no, but the food was unsatisfactory.
There was too damned little of it.
The next flight to Albuquerque had started boarding when I arrived
at the ticket counter. There was only one seat available on it, in first class.
I took it, thinking they might feed me. They offered, but I smelled them
coming and shook my head. I could have had all the drinks I wanted, but
I had a fire on my mind and alcohol is combustible.
As soon as we landed, I found a pay phone. When Martinez
answered, I said, "It's me. Porter."
"Damn it, I've been trying to reach you since midnight!" He
sounded angry. "Don't you ever listen to your messages?"
I wanted him to tell me what happened directly. "No," I said.
"What's up?"
"Murphy's house burned to the ground last night. The fire inspector
says it looks like arson. Where the hell are you?"
"At the airport. I just got in from San Francisco."
His voice got soft, cold. "Didn't I tell you not to leave town,
compadre?"
"Maybe it's a good thing I didn't listen," I told him. "You'd be
asking to look at my matches."
"Maybe." He was quiet for a moment, then asked, "You find her?"
"No. I'm going home," I told him. "We need to talk."
"So stop by."
"I've got a better idea. You hungry?"
The El Pinto was on the way to Placitas, sort of. Martinez was
waiting when I got there, full of questions. I ignored him, waved the
waitress over, ordered three Chalupas, two chile rellenos, three blue corn
enchiladas with the hot red chile and an egg on top, over easy. "And bring
me a guacamole salad and a beer. Bohemia. I want the salad and the beer
immediately." I tossed a five on her tray. "You understand? Immediately.
Bring the rest as soon as it comes off the stove. And bring a side dish of
the chile."
─ 63 ─
Harlen Campbell
She blinked and disappeared. Martinez stared at me. I reached for
the tostados and the salsa. He asked, "You always eat like this?"
"I've had a dry spell."
"You want to tell me about it?"
I shook my head. "Later. I don't like to talk with my mouth full.
Tell me about the fire."
He talked while I ate. The fire had been reported at eleven-fifteen
last night by one of the village residents who was on his patio, looking at
the stars, he said. The fire itself had not been directly visible, but it lit up
the whole side of the mountain. The villager thought he was reporting a
forest fire, and it took the volunteer fire department half an hour to locate
the blaze. By the time they found the house, the structure was completely
involved. They had limited their efforts to containing the fire, preventing
its spread to the trees nearby.
"How did you learn about it?"
He watched with fascination as I pushed the empty plate the
chalupas came on to one side and reached for the enchiladas. Poured the
extra chile over them and broke the yoke of the egg with my fork. "The
neighbors," he said. "I left my card with one of them in case they saw
Murphy around. You're giving me heartburn."
"You can't get heartburn. You're a Mexican, remember? So this
neighbor called when he heard the sirens?"
"Hispanic, cabrón. I got there about the time the roof collapsed. I
drove by your place to see if you wanted to come watch, but you weren't
home."
"I was in Santa Barbara, looking for her family." I forked a mound
of enchiladas into my mouth and made a noise at him.
He shuddered and started on the rest of the story. "It was dawn
before the fire died out. The firemen hadn't gotten too near the house, so
the footprints weren't destroyed." He saw my question while I was still
trying to swallow enough to ask it. "By the window to that last bedroom.
The one she kept her junk in. They went in that way. It looked like two
sets of prints. And by that time, there was an arson guy up from
Albuquerque. He won't know for sure until it cools down enough to go
through the ashes, of course, but he said that from the way the firemen
─ 64 ─
Jennifer's Weave
described the spread and the rooms that were involved first, he's pretty
sure it will turn out to be arson."
"Mmwhuh?"
"How the hell should I know why, Porter? We'd already been
through the house. Maybe somebody thought we missed a clue." He
rubbed his face and yawned. "Maybe we did."
I swallowed the last bite on my plate, licked the last bit of chile from
my fork, mopped the plate with a sopapilla, and waved at the waitress.
Martinez's jaw dropped. "You want dessert?"
"Nah. That stuff's fattening. Coffee." I looked at the detective.
"Aren't you hungry?"
"My friend, I may never eat again. And you've ruined red enchiladas
for me for the rest of my life."
I snorted. "You cops are too damned sensitive. You still figure
Jenny was involved?"
"I still want to talk to her."
"Isn't it obvious somebody is after her? The real killer, maybe?"
"Maybe," he said. "And maybe somebody is after her because she
killed their friend. I got to thinking this afternoon, in between thoughts
about you, that maybe the fire wasn't supposed to destroy evidence.
Maybe it was supposed to destroy something else in the house, something
of the owner's. Maybe it was supposed to destroy the owner."
That chilled me. "What do you mean?"
"When the arson squad goes through the ashes, maybe they're gonna
find some bones."
My stomach began to hurt. "You have any special reason for saying
that? Like somebody saw her there?"
"I'm a cop, like you said, asshole. Sensitive."
"Uh, huh. Maybe I should apologize. You going to tell me if they
find any bones?"
He looked me over. "I might mention it. Depending on what you
tell me."
So it looked like my turn at show and tell. I forgot about hiring
Sharon, since he didn't need to know that. Besides, I came off looking
better when he thought I did all the spadework on the west coast. I told
him about the interviews with Jenny's family, her marriages to Tom
─ 65 ─
Harlen Campbell
Schuler and Sam Halliday. The kid, Sally. The conversation with Halliday
at the turnip bar. Everything I learned on the trip, which didn't sound like
much even to me, once I started talking. The one thing I learned that was
important to him didn't make either of us happy, me in the telling or him
in the hearing.
"Charity work?" he said. "Herdez devoted his life to helping
orphans? That's what you're telling me?"
"That's what the man said."
"Shit!"
"Yeah. Makes it hard to understand why he died, doesn't it?"
"That isn't the only problem." He thought a moment, decided, "I
don't believe it."
"Neither do I, of course. The agency and the bureau have never
been all that interested in orphans."
He sipped at his water. "What about Murphy? She big on charity?"
"Not that I ever noticed, but Halliday said she used to make
donations before they got married, and he hinted she may have continued
them after the wedding."
"That sounds out of character. Her own kid . . . ."
His voice trailed off and I nodded. I'd been thinking the same thing.
But there were more immediate problems. "How bad did this fire hurt
you? You lose any evidence?"
"Who knows what was there? We can't go back to the scene again,
but we've got the pictures, the prints, the stuff we vacuumed out of the
rugs, his clothes and some of hers. It should be enough."
"You've got the body too."
The picture on the wall behind me suddenly fascinated him. My
stomach began hurting worse. I said, "What?"
"It's being released to his brother tomorrow."
"His brother?"
Martinez nodded slowly. "Antonio Herdez. He goes by Tony. He
came up from El Paso, said his brother was missing and he thought we
might have him. He identified the body last night."
"How did he find out about it?"
"He said he reads the newspapers."
"Was it reported in the El Paso paper?"
─ 66 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"I don't think so. Maybe he buys the Journal at his favorite news
stand. Except he doesn't look like the type that has a favorite news stand."
"You sweat him?"
That pissed him off. "God damn it! The guy's brother is dead!
What do you think? I asked him polite questions!"
"Okay. Okay." I waved a hand to cool him off. "What did he have
to say?"
"He hadn't seen his brother for a couple of months. He doesn't
know who he worked for. Juan didn't have an enemy in the world. In
other words, not a damned thing!" He fought his anger down.
"Anything else? Like where he lived?"
"He had an apartment in San Diego. The local cops are going to
open it as soon as they get a court order."
"You showed him his brother's personal effects?"
"Naturally. He couldn't tell if anything was missing."
"There should have been a key to the apartment. Unless you found
it." I eyed him carefully. "How about it, amigo? You holding anything
back?"
"Not that." He looked at me speculatively. "Tony wasn't exactly
helpful. Maybe someone else would have more luck with him."
I snorted. "Don't be ridiculous. I'm an Anglo."
"I'm a cop."
I shrugged. "Where's he staying?"
Martinez named one of the better hotels in the downtown area.
When I raised my eyebrows, he added, "He owns a restaurant supply
business in El Paso. It isn't a poor family."
"Another good reason for not sweating him?"
"Go to hell, Porter." He sounded tired. Stood to go.
I stopped him. "We're not done yet, Martinez."
"Oh?"
"You should have sweated him."
"Why, exactly?"
"Because his brother was already dead, remember?"
Martinez grinned down at me. "Sure, I remember. You want to
guess who identified Juan's body the first time?"
"You're kidding! What did he say about that?"
─ 67 ─
Harlen Campbell
"He made a mistake." Martinez shrugged. "The body was burned
pretty badly, so it's possible."
"So when did Juan show up again?"
"A year later. Tony claims he never told him where he'd been."
"But he didn't report his mistake?"
"He said he was embarrassed. And Juan seemed just as happy to be
dead." Martinez spread his hands and gave me a what-can-you-do look.
"He's dead now, anyway."
"You going to charge Tony?"
"It's out of my jurisdiction, Porter."
"Right." I waited for him to add something, but he just sat there. I
asked, "Is Thurmond still around?"
"He's around. He's got a buddy tagging along with him. They seem
to be concentrating on finding Murphy. I've run into them a couple of
times."
"He introduce you to his friend?"
"Some spook named Hickson. He had the right papers."
"You made any progress finding Jenny? Or have they?"
"I haven't and they ain't saying. But they're still looking." He
hesitated, added, "If you find her, I expect to see her in my office. Muy
pronto. You understand me?"
"I'll do what I have to do," I promised.
On that note, he walked out. I followed him and made two stops on
my way home. The first was for a bottle of antacid. The second was to
look at the remains of Jenny's house. My headlights threw a puddle of
yellow light across the flat black scar in the clearing where it had stood. I
rolled the window down enough to smell the wet ashes, but I didn't get
out. Just sat there for a few minutes, swigging Maalox and worrying about
things I couldn't seem to control.
It was shortly after seven and dark and cool when I arrived home.
There were no messages on my answering machine. I nursed the antacid
while I unpacked and left the shower door open while I cleaned up, just in
case Jenny called. I didn't want to miss her, but there were things to do.
Brothers to see. I couldn't hang around waiting for a call that might not
come. Eventually, I changed the message on the machine, told any callers
I'd be back after midnight. Then I drove into Albuquerque.
─ 68 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Tony Herdez agreed, after some hesitation, to meet me in his hotel
bar. He showed up within five minutes of my call and stood in the
doorway looking around uncertainly. He was a big man who spent a lot of
time and money on himself. His black hair was styled, his clothes the
latest fashion. The shoes on his feet were expensive and imported. His
nails were manicured and I suspected I'd find his toes had been pedicured,
if I cared to investigate.
I'd taken a booth for the privacy, not that we'd need it. Everyone
else in the place was like Tony. They were all talking and no one was
listening.
I waved. When he saw me, he tossed his shoulders so his jacket
would fall perfectly, rubbed a hand over his head to smooth any stray hair,
and walked over. No, he ambled over. I shook his hand and offered him
a drink. He took a Chivas and seven-up. I could have guessed. I went to
the bar for the drink myself to give him a chance to get comfortable. I
wanted him to feel he was on his own turf. I made the drink a double.
When I set the scotch and seven in front of him, Herdez flashed a
guarded smile. Perfect teeth, of course. He asked, "What can I do for
you, Mr. Porter?"
"Call me Rainbow." I returned his smile without hope of matching
it. "I hate to intrude on your grief, Tony, but I'm afraid I have to. I'm
trying to find the man who killed your brother."
"Juan?" His smile disappeared. "You don't look like a cop."
"I'm not. I'm working on Jenny Murphy's behalf."
"Never heard of her. Sorry." He tossed off his drink, started to slide
from the booth.
I grabbed his arm. "She was his wife. They were married in Las
Cruces. Your brother loved her and you knew her. Don't blow me off,
Tony. Don't blow Jenny off. Don't turn your back on someone Juan
loved."
He looked into my eyes for a long moment. Then his gaze drifted
uneasily around the bar. It lingered only a second on a waitress's legs
before completing the circuit, but she saw his look and hurried over. I
ordered him another scotch and said, "Give me a few minutes, Tony. For
Juan's sake."
He swallowed and said, "She divorced Juan."
─ 69 ─
Harlen Campbell
"She didn't kill him," I told him. "Maybe they weren't right for each
other, but she wouldn't have killed him. You know that, don't you?"
He nodded slowly. "You say you're a friend of hers?"
"Maybe her best friend in Albuquerque."
"You got any identification?"
I handed him my wallet with the driver's license showing, but he
seemed more interested in the rest of it. I asked, "What are you looking
for?"
He shrugged, smiled a little sheepishly.
Then I understood. "There are some other people on the case," I
said carefully. "Maybe you know who I mean?"
"Maybe." He was nervous.
"I'm not with them."
"How do I know that?"
"Maybe you just have to trust me, Tony. But think about this.
Those guys don't give a shit about Jenny and I do. You can tell that, can't
you?"
He met my eyes again. Said, "I guess."
"I don't know where she is. Do you?"
"No."
"Do you have any idea who she might go to for help? Who would
hide her?"
He shook his head. "I haven't seen her for years. She and Juan used
to come over to our house when they were together, but I don't know
what she's been up to since then."
I stared at him. "Then that leaves your brother. Do you know why
anybody would want to kill him?"
The waitress arrived with his drink. He took a long swallow,
watched her walk away. "No."
"I heard that he worked for some organization in Mexico. Collected
money for them."
That alarmed him. "So? That ain't, isn't, illegal."
"But think about it. If Juan was killed for some reason that came out
of Mexico, the cops aren't ever going to find his killer. Not ever."
His eyes held mine. "What about you? What makes you different?"
His voice begged for the answer he could live with.
─ 70 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"I would go into Mexico," I told him, "for Jenny."
"And for my brother?"
"Isn't it the same thing?" I asked softly.
He studied his drink. Sipped it. "I don't know, man. Maybe it is.
Maybe not. Maybe it's those other guys."
I watched him carefully. "There's no difference."
"You'd take them on?"
"I would take on the devil, my friend," I told him. "This is a thing I
agreed to do, and I'm going to do it. Tell me the name of the people Juan
worked for."
He shot a quick glance at my face. Crossed himself and whispered,
"The PPN."
"PPN? What does it mean?"
"I don't know. I just heard him say those letters one time at my
house. He was on the telephone. Long distance. I checked later. It was a
call to Chihuahua. When he saw that I'd heard him, he got real mad. He
yelled at me in front of my wife. In front of Grace! That wasn't right.
And later he took me aside, warned me against those guys."
"He was afraid of them?"
Tony stared into his glass, spoke to it. "Not for himself, I don't
think. But maybe for me."
"When was this?"
"A couple of years ago. Just after . . . ."
I could only think of one thing that happened a couple of years ago.
"After he died?"
Tony nodded. Took a long drink. "That was a hard thing to do,
man. Looking at that body. Saying it was my brother. It had been burned
pretty bad. The face was almost gone."
"Why did you do it?"
He looked surprised. "Juan asked me to. He said it was very
important. He was my brother, so I did it. Of course I did it."
"But he didn't say why?"
"He just said it was important."
"Who did the body belong to?"
"Juan said it was some drunk that got in a fight with the wrong guys
and got knifed. They put his body in an old car and burned it."
─ 71 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Where was Juan working then?"
He hesitated, looked around for the waitress, pointed to his glass.
Held up a finger for one more. "I don't know," he said. "He'd been with
some company over in San Diego. It was called ARMACO, I think. But
he'd just been fired or something. That was about the time he started
working for . . . them."
"The PPN?"
He nodded.
I asked softly, "Do you still have that telephone bill, Tony? The one
with the call to Chihuahua?"
"I can probably find it. Why?"
"I'm going down there. I'm going to call it."
"Oh." He looked around for the waitress with his next drink.
"I'll call you in El Paso," I told him. "Give me your number."
He gave it. The waitress brought his drink and he finished it in one
long gulp. I told him, "You are going to pick up your brother tomorrow
and have his body sent down to El Paso. Then there will be the funeral.
I'll call before you bury him."
He nodded into the empty glass and started looking around again. I
left him there, hurried back to Placitas to check my messages. A car
followed me all the way from the freeway. It may have followed me from
the hotel. There was too much traffic to be sure where it picked me up.
In fact, I wasn't positive I had a tail until it followed me onto the county
road that led to my place, fell way back, and finally disappeared somewhere
around the cut-off to Jenny's house. Her land, now.
Her place was only a minute from mine by car. The path that
connected our back doors twists over a low ridge, winds through the
forest. It wouldn't be easy to follow at night, not for a man unfamiliar
with it. If the one who followed me intended a surprise visit, I had twenty
minutes to prepare a suitable welcome.
As soon as I was in the house, I called a man I know in Placitas who
keeps dogs. He answered his phone with a grunt.
"It's me, Bebe. Porter." I told him.
"Whattaya want?"
"Tina, for a couple of days."
He grunted again. "When?"
─ 72 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Now. Ten minutes?"
He made another noise and hung up. The deal had been made in
less than thirty seconds. I like Bebe. He looks like a bear and talks like
one. He doesn't clutter up his conversation with a lot of how-are-you
crap.
The evening was cool if you were going for a short walk. If you had
hunting in mind, it was cold. I traded my light jacket for a heavy coat, my
street shoes for boots, and my wallet for a ten millimeter automatic. Then
I locked the house and dropped the gun in my coat pocket, slipped into
the woods, up the path that led toward Jenny's.
My house disappeared less than thirty seconds after I began
climbing. Part of the moon was visible high in the western sky. It
flickered between the trunks and branches of the pines that towered over
the path. Its cold light came blue-white off the stones on the path,
tarnished silver off the needles on the pines, and turned the mottled white
boles of the aspen groves the same ghostly gray as my breath.
Night in the forest is quieter than day. The jays and the
woodpeckers had retreated with the sun. Only an owl called, much further
into the woods. Only that and my footsteps, crunching last year's dried
needles on the path. And the air whistling in my throat.
The place I wanted to reach was near the top of the ridge, but closer
to my place than Jenny's. A hollow between two clumps of scrub oak, it
had a clear view of about fifty feet of the path. A fallen tree opened a
piece of the sky. The trunk lay in front of the hollow, made an almost
perfect natural ambush. I'd long since perfected nature's only oversight by
chopping three or four strategic branches, opened the field of fire. Just in
case.
When I neared it, I stepped off the path, worked my way through a
series of cautious approaches that ended in a low crawl. Ten minutes after
I left my front door, I crouched in the shadows behind the dead pine. The
path below me and slightly to my left was clear, but heavily shadowed.
The night was still quiet, though an engine growled somewhere in the
distance. I made myself comfortable. Listened.
The engine came closer, passed me between four and five hundred
yards downhill. It sounded like a light truck with a bad muffler. I pulled
the gun from my coat, lay it on the ground near my right hand. The metal
─ 73 ─
Harlen Campbell
was cold. The truck turned into my driveway, strained toward the house.
Up the trail, a faint burst of static. Far below me, back toward my house,
the truck engine cut off. I concentrated on the trail.
Nothing happened for perhaps thirty seconds. I heard another burst
of static, quickly muted. Then, at the far end of the short section of the
trail I could see, a shadow changed shape. Moved. Did it again. I
watched as two figures approached me. They moved and paused together.
No coordination, no I-cover-your-ass, you-cover-mine. But they both
moved well, took advantage of cover, one better than the other, and both
were fast for men on a strange path in the dark.
They came within ten feet of me before the path turned them away,
out of sight. A patch of moonlight there showed me faces: Thurmond and
a stranger his age. It was the stranger who moved better and who seemed
to lead.
Below us a door slammed on the truck. Bebe's voice, low and harsh,
gave a command. A dog barked once. The door slammed again and the
engine started, revved and faded when the clutch was released.
My visitors stopped. Thurmond's buddy whispered, "What the fuck?
Hold on, lemme see what's going on."
Thurmond said, "I heard a dog." He sounded anxious.
His companion didn't answer. He was busy with his radio, making
static and soft noises. Eventually he said, "They don't know. It sounded
like he ordered a broad."
"The Murphy woman, you think?"
The other man was silent for a few moments. Then he said slowly,
"I dunno. We'll have to check it out."
Their footsteps moved down the path toward my house. I slipped
out of hiding and continued up the trail, moved as quickly as I could in the
dark. Five minutes later, I stepped into the clearing where Jenny's house
had stood. Except for a beige sedan, it was empty. I walked around the
car. Government plates. I found a convenient bush and waited behind it.
They showed up about half an hour later. It was easy to hear them
coming. Thurmond's curses carried well in the dark. "I told you I heard a
goddam dog! Goddam agency cowboys, always grandstanding! You think
nobody else--"
His friend was limping. "Shut up."
─ 74 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"--knows how to conduct a fucking surveillance!"
"I said shut up!"
"What's the big deal about seeing his house anyway?"
"I told you! He called someone named Baby and asked for a woman
named Tina. It could have been a code." The voice was grim. "That son
of a bitch Martinez should have told us he had a dog!"
They reached the car. Thurmond fumbled with his keys. I stepped
out from the bushes with the weapon hanging casually from my hand.
"Can I catch a ride with you boys?"
They froze. After a few seconds, the buddy cursed. Thurmond
asked, "What are you doing here, Porter?"
"The lady asked me to look after her property. How about that lift?"
I walked toward them. Said, "Get in front, both of you."
They both eyed the weapon in my hand. It wasn't pointed at them,
but they were conscious of it. They got in the car. I took the back seat.
Thurmond cleared his throat. "Where to?"
"My place."
He started the engine, put it in gear. We rode in silence. As we
turned up my drive, the cowboy asked casually, "What do you have in
mind?"
I didn't answer. The dog, a nasty looking Rottweiler with a mouth
full of teeth met the car as it edged into the parking area. Paced it until it
stopped, then took a position between the car and the house. Every
muscle in her body was taut. I couldn't hear the growling until I rolled my
window down. Then it was low and continuous.
"Callate, Muchacha!" I said. "Tina! Sit! That's a good girl." The
dog relaxed a little, but not much. We still had her attention.
Thurmond said, "Tina?" He turned to his companion. "The dog's
name is Tina."
"Shut up."
I climbed from the car. Pocketed the gun. "Come on."
Thurmond and the other man opened their doors slowly. Their eyes
were on the dog and their hands were ready to slam their doors again. I
turned my back on them, opened the house and went in. They followed
me reluctantly. Tina followed them.
─ 75 ─
Harlen Campbell
There was a bottle of club soda in the refrigerator. I poured myself a
glass without offering anything to my guests. They were getting all of my
hospitality they were going to. I said, "Welcome to my house. Look
around if you want to."
Thurmond hesitated. His companion stared at me and said, "No,
thanks."
"I thought you wanted to look around, Ben?" Thurmond twisted
the knife a bit.
"If this son of a bitch is offering, there's nothing here." Ben was an
inch or so shorter than Walter Thurmond. His hair was black and a little
longer, but still conservatively cut. He seemed to prefer slacks and a jacket
without a tie. His cheeks were paler and his eyes were slitted, but that was
just anger. Otherwise, the two men had been cut from the same cloth.
I spoke to the one I didn't know. "Mind showing me who you are?"
He gave me an unfriendly look and said, "Ben Hickson."
"No. Show me."
Reluctantly, he dug out a little leather case and handed it over. The
card in it repeated the name he'd offered. It had been issued by the
Central Intelligence Agency. I passed it back, commented, "You're a little
out of your jurisdiction, aren't you?"
"I'm on official business."
"Crap. You're riding on Thurmond's coat tails." I turned to the man
from the bureau. "What the hell are you two doing?"
He pursed his lips. "We're searching for Miss Murphy."
"Why?"
"That's our business."
I smiled. "Okay, Walt. Have it your way. Are you getting close?"
He didn't answer. I looked to Hickson, but he was busy trying to
peek into the living room. I sighed. "If I see her, I'll ask her to call you. I
don't suppose either of you is carrying a business card?"
That was the sort of question organization men are always ready for.
They each dug out a card and handed it over. Thurmond said, helpfully,
"You can reach me at this number any time," when he gave me his.
I stuck them in my shirt pocket like there was a chance Jenny might
see them and said goodbye. They looked at each other, then shrugged and
headed for the door. Stopped there and waited for me.
─ 76 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"What?" I asked.
Hickson said, "The dog?"
"Tina doesn't bite."
"I know better, damn it! Call off the fucking dog!"
I'd had enough fun with him anyway. I called Tina to heel while the
feds made an anxious escape. Once they were in their car, I put her back
on guard, locked the door, and checked the answering machine. It wasn't
blinking. I dialed a man I know who is serious about security. When he
answered, I asked, "You want to talk to me?"
It took him ten seconds to say, "No," and hang up.
So my phone was tapped. I unplugged it and shorted the jack with a
wad of aluminum foil. That cut my only line to Jenny, but it also
guaranteed that the phone company would take the number out of service.
No one would be able to call me. And the feds wouldn't be able to use
that new service, caller ID, to record the numbers of all the people who
weren't calling.
My stomach had had a couple of hours to work on the enchiladas
and had quit complaining. It felt a lot better about the world than I did,
and that didn't seem right. I poured a triple shot of Wild Turkey and
walked out on the deck to look at the stars and think about how lonesome
I was without my only connection to civilization.
They were winter stars, hard and bright.
The only part of civilization I missed was Jenny, and she probably
wasn't as civilized as I'd thought. Still, it would be nice to talk to her. Ask
her what the hell was going on.
The sound of a door slamming woke me at six the next morning. I
looked out the window. Bebe was out there with food and water for the
dog. I took that as a wake-up call, pulled on a pair of jeans and wandered
into the kitchen, began my own breakfast. A green chile omelette.
My business for the day was in Albuquerque. I tossed my answering
machine in the car. As I passed Jenny's drive, a truck pulling a trailer with
a front-end loader on it was making the turn. I followed it and found the
area crowded. Cars and trucks from two different fire departments. Men
with shovels, brooms, and a couple kinds of equipment I didn't recognize
were working among the charred timbers and ashes. Martinez was there
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Harlen Campbell
too, hanging around in the background. I left them to their work and
went on to mine.
When Helene arrived at her office, I was waiting in the lot. She held
the door for me. I went straight to the phone, dialed the man who hadn't
wanted to talk to me last night. He still didn't want to talk. I told Helene
to lock up and go home, to make her calls from there. I also told her to
substitute Juan Herdez for Jenny Murphy. And to try her luck in El Paso
if Albuquerque didn't pan out.
She bit her lips, nodded shortly, and started turning off the lights she
had just turned on.
That left me at loose ends. Juan Herdez would begin his last trip
home sometime in the afternoon. The funeral might be as early as Friday,
but the family probably would schedule it for the weekend. They would
need time to notify his friends and out-of-town members of the family.
That meant I had two days to do what Martinez had failed to accomplish
in four.
The trip to California had convinced me that Jenny hadn't run to her
family when trouble hit. Her first husband had remarried, and it didn't
seem likely that she had run to her last. That left the Albuquerque area.
She had to be here.
I needed a safe telephone badly, so I rented a room from Howard
Johnson. My answering machine plugged into the hotel's telephone outlet
with only minimal electrical work. After my security guru placed a call to
Sharon's number in Santa Barbara and confirmed that her line was clear, I
left my machine's number with her machine and drove a couple of miles
before I started looking for a fast food joint with a pay phone.
Martinez wasn't in his office, of course. I read the number to the
man who answered and asked him to forward it as soon as possible.
Bought a paper and a cup of coffee. It took the detective over an hour to
call back. Once I recognized his voice, I asked, "Where isn't Murphy?"
He said, "Shit, Porter. I dunno where she is. You're supposed to be
finding her, remember?"
"I asked where she isn't. Where have you looked?"
"Lots of places. You know your phone's out?"
"I wondered why you haven't been calling. Murphy?"
"I hear you had visitors last night."
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Jennifer's Weave
"They weren't any more talkative than you are, Martinez. Tell me
about Jenny."
"When did you get a dog?"
"The pooch is just a loaner. I'm not sure I'm a dog person. What
were you saying about Murphy?"
He laughed. "Thurmond isn't a dog lover either. At least not
anymore. What did those two want from you?"
"They wanted Murphy, detective. So do I. So do you. Come on,
give me a hint. If I find her, I promise I'll call you before I call the Hardy
boys."
He sighed. "I don't have any idea where she is. We've been to every
gallery in the area. The ones that sold her stuff were mostly tourist places
in Old Town and up in Santa Fe. They don't know where she is and they
don't know who her friends are. We checked out the other weavers, both
here and in Santa Fe. Some of them know her, but nobody knows her
well. Not one of them has seen her or had any idea who else to call. We
talked to her neighbors. Only one of them knew her well enough to be
interesting and he won't tell us a damned thing."
"Maybe he doesn't like cops. Are you having fun this morning?"
He asked, cautiously, "What do you mean?"
"Did you find any bones?"
"No."
"Anything interesting?"
"Maybe. Somebody tossed the joint before it was torched."
I tried to keep my interest theoretical. "What do you mean?"
"She had a kind of storage room. Buncha crap in it. Boxes that
hadn't been opened in years. We didn't bother with it. Somebody did."
"How the hell can you tell that after a fire?"
"Papers don't burn very well when they're packed together," he said.
"These were scattered, like the boxes had been dumped. Also, that's
where the fire started. The arson guy found traces of an accelerant there."
"What kind?"
"Does it matter?"
When I said no, he decided to answer. "Kerosene. He has to get it
verified by the lab, but he said it smelled like kerosene."
"Smelled. After that fire. Right." I thanked him and said goodbye.
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Harlen Campbell
"Hold on," he said. "I want you in touch. When are you getting
your phone fixed?"
"That depends, Martinez. What would you do if you thought
somebody had bugged your telephone illegally?"
"Call the cops, of course."
"That's what I thought."
I threw away the paper and wasted the rest of the morning staring
out the window. Then I drove to Old Town and bought myself a steak
and a whiskey at the High Noon, sat between those cool old adobe walls
and wasted another hour. Eventually, I decided there was nothing to do
but follow in Martinez's footsteps and began making the rounds.
His men had been thorough. I found three shops in Old Town that
sold Jenny's work and two more in the heights. They gave me a couple of
leads in Santa Fe, and when I called up there I got more names of people
who bought and sold her stuff. She had lived and worked in Mesilla, two
hundred and fifty miles south, and I called there too, spoke with women in
gift shops and even the bartender at the El Patio about her.
At the same time, I began a list of her suppliers, the places she
bought parts for her loom, her yarn and dyes. The people I spoke to were
invariably friendly and helpful. Concerned by the tragedy that had come
into her life. Eager to get her back to work. But all of my driving around,
my smiling and explaining, ultimately bought me nothing.
Dozens, maybe hundreds, of people in central New Mexico knew
Jennifer Murphy by name, knew the part of her mind and heart she wove
into the hangings, tapestries, and bolts of cloth that passed through their
hands. In one way, each of them knew her better than I, but in the final
analysis, I didn't find even one who knew her mind, much less her heart.
Each had spent hours with her, discussed the techniques she used, the
patterns she selected, the dyes and yarns, even the sources of her
inspiration. Not one of them knew the number of her marriages. Not one
knew of the child she had thrown away.
The search was both futile and depressing. The depressing part got
to me early. The futility built gradually over the afternoon and the
following morning. By lunchtime, I'd had it. I found a bartender with a
friendly face and let him pour me a double Turkey on the rocks. The
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Jennifer's Weave
bronze label, not the sissy stuff. I chased it with two or three cigarettes
while I counted my shortcomings.
I'd realized in Santa Barbara how little I knew of Jenny, how little
traffic the bridge that connected us actually carried. I'd touched her life
only companionably, sexually. And out of all those I spoke to about her,
not one had come as close as I had.
It wasn't that she had nothing to give. The complexity of her
designs, the strength so clearly evident in her work, spoke eloquently of a
passionate and complicated human being. One who gave away nothing
outside her art, who reserved all of herself to herself, fought merciless
internal battles with private demons, battles where the only outward sign
of the interior carnage dribbled onto the fabrics that were the whole
canvas of her life.
The most depressing thought of all came when I realized that the
bridge had carried no more traffic her way than it had mine. It was not my
most satisfying examination of conscience. In the end, I just agreed with
myself that I was a self-centered son of a bitch and went back to the
problem at hand.
The state police had located hundreds of people who knew Jenny or
knew of her, yet they hadn't found her. They'd either missed something or
she was no longer in the area. That was a possibility, of course, but the
only other area I could think of was California, and her family's reaction
made me doubt that she ran home.
So I was missing something too, but what? I ran over what I'd seen
when I found Herdez. Body, knife, radio, coffee cups, ice cream, yarn.
Wool yarn. Where had that come from?
It had been in a paper grocery bag. Receipt in the bag? I hadn't seen
one. And there was something about the yarn. I tried to visualize it, but
without success. Just some colored threads all wound up in . . . skeins.
But the colors were drab. No, subdued. And something else was wrong.
The skeins. They weren't wrapped right. Why? What was wrong? It
wouldn't come to me.
When a second drink didn't help, I drove to the nearest craft store
and stood in front of the shelves where the yarn was displayed. Then it
became obvious. The stuff in the bag on Jenny's counter didn't have
brand names, pre-printed labels, any of that stuff.
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Harlen Campbell
I rewarded myself with a hamburger, then drove to my answering
machine's hotel room and checked my messages. There was only one,
from Sharon Coulter. She was back in Santa Barbara. She said she hadn't
made any progress locating Murphy, but there was some excitement in her
voice. She asked me to call her after six that evening. Five hours, allowing
for the time difference. I shrugged and dialed a man I didn't want to talk
to.
─ 82 ─
Jennifer's Weave
V
JENNIFER
"What do you want now?" Martinez's telephone style left a lot to be
desired, but maybe that was because he knew who he was talking to.
"Jenny Murphy," I told him, "same as always."
"So?"
"I've been all over town. Everyone I spoke to has already talked to
you or one of your men. I'm looking for new territory."
"So?"
"So I need some help, Martinez. I'm a citizen. You're a public
servant. Naturally I thought of you."
He didn't even bother to laugh. Maybe I heard a sigh. "What's on
your mind, Porter?"
"That bag on her counter. The one with the yarn in it. Where did it
come from?"
"You're still following me." He sounded tired. "It came from a
grocery in Cuba. You ever been there?"
"Of course." Cuba is a small town on Highway 44 north of
Albuquerque. Near three or four different Indian reservations. Sheep.
Wool. Yarn. Natural dyes, which look drab compared to artificial colors.
"I talked to the manager on Tuesday. He didn't know Murphy, and
neither did any of his clerks. They don't even sell yarn. More important,
they haven't used that kind of paper sack for nearly a year."
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Harlen Campbell
"What?"
"That's what I said, Porter. But then I went over the photos of the
crime scene again. You remember that back bedroom of hers?"
The junk room. "What about it?"
"It was full of crap. Boxes. Egg cartons. Piles of old grocery bags.
And some of them were from the same market in Cuba."
"Well, hell."
"That yarn could have come from anywhere," Martinez added. "It
could even have come out of her back room. It isn't a lead."
"It's all I've got."
"So run with it, but if you find her, I want to know immediately.
And that isn't just a polite request anymore, my friend. As of this
morning, there is a warrant out for the arrest of Jennifer Murphy."
The phone pressed so tightly against my head that my ear hurt. "On
what grounds, Detective?"
"On the grounds that even if she didn't kill Herdez she sure as hell
saw the body and failed to report it. On the grounds that her knife was in
his neck. And you know something, Porter? I think she put it there."
"She couldn't have done that." I couldn't think of anything else to
say.
"You forgotten to tell me something, compadre? You going to alibi
the lady?"
"No."
"Then she could have done it."
"Not Jenny."
"Give me some evidence."
What could I tell him? That she couldn't have killed her ex-husband
because she didn't care enough about anyone to commit murder? That
she abandoned every attachment she ever made? I spoke heavily. "If I see
her, I'll tell her to come in."
His voice became suddenly formal. "That isn't good enough
anymore, Mr. Porter. If you even suspect you know the lady's
whereabouts, you will report it to the nearest law enforcement agency.
The penalties for harboring a fugitive are severe."
"Right." I hung up on that note, tried to rub the tension from my
neck. Then I went out to the car and headed north.
─ 84 ─
Jennifer's Weave
For the first fifteen minutes of the drive, I felt like I was going home.
In Bernalillo, I took the Placitas exit, but turned left instead of right,
picked up Highway 44 north, and began the slow climb toward the
continental divide, the backbone of the continent.
The land around me was high desert, sand and decomposed granite,
covered with a sparse overlay of sage and desert grasses that, pushed by
winter's approach, varied in color from grayish green to pale straw. The
highway cut across the rise between the Rio Grande valley and the Jemez
River, then followed its channel north across the Santa Ana and Zia
reservations to San Ysidro. There it picked up the dry bed of the Rio
Salado Arroyo between cliffs layered of yellow, red, black, and white stone.
I drove north through deep time, geologic time.
The long dark line of Mesa Prieta slipped behind me on my left, the
heavy mass of the Jemez mountains on my right. Far to the west, across
the ancient Ojo Del Espiritu Santo Grant, Cabezon Peak penetrated the
earth like a heavy black finger poked out of a giant's grave. And then
disappeared shortly before the highway dipped beneath the overhang of
Mesa San Luis and paralleled the dusty Rio Puerco into Cuba. The wind
had recovered from Monday night's effort and gusted from the northeast,
drove an occasional tumbleweed across the pavement, shook the car.
I didn't push the speed limit much, ten or fifteen miles per hour.
The trip took just over an hour from the Placitas exit, and all the way there
I juggled times in my head. If Jenny left home at nine a.m. last Sunday,
which was probably a little late, she could easily have made it to Cuba and
back by eleven-thirty. Just in time to kill Herdez. I didn't believe it, but I
couldn't help thinking it. After all, you don't have to care about a man to
kill him. That was the flaw in my best argument for her innocence.
Sometimes a killing takes no passion at all. Sometimes it's just a matter of
convenience, and I had no idea whether Jenny found Juan Herdez
inconvenient.
Murder wasn't all I stewed over on the drive north. I also wondered
what I'd do if I found her. Ignore the cop's poorly-veiled threat? Turn her
in? I didn't know. Martinez represented the law, but law has never moved
me much. Justice drives me harder.
The manager of the market in Cuba, Eddie Sanchez, was short and
badly overweight. He hadn't remembered anything about Jenny since he
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Harlen Campbell
spoke to Martinez on Tuesday. That was okay. Unlike the cop, I hadn't
expected him to know her. I only asked the question because it would
have been stupid not to. The question I really wanted answered took him
by surprise.
"Do any of your clerks weave? Or embroider or knit? Anything like
that?"
He blinked. "Why? I mean, no, but why?"
I gave him a smile I hoped looked confident. "Do you know anyone
in town who does? Your wife, maybe? Or your mother?"
"No. Well, Mom does a little sewing."
"Could I talk to her? Use your phone?"
He looked puzzled, but he led me to his office and dialed for me,
hung around only long enough to make sure I spoke respectfully to his
mother. She had a thin voice with a heavier accent than Eddie's and she
owned a sewing machine. She didn't weave or knit, but she understood
my questions and remembered that one of the women in her sodality
group at the local catholic church, Emma Vigil, had been interested in
weaving in her youth.
I called Emma. She'd sold her loom twenty years ago, but she
retained her interest in crafts and knew a lady named Rosa who still did
some weaving.
Rosa had a suggestion for me. Barbara Yazzie, who lived twelve
miles south and maybe seven miles west of Highway 44, up a series of
unimproved roads that weren't even on the map. Barbara kept sheep,
dyed their wool in the old way, spun it into yarn and sold it to weavers
across the state. Her place was hard to find, but Rosa gave me directions.
I thanked her and waved to Eddie on my way out.
South was the wrong direction. Every mile I drove brought me
closer to Jenny's house, put her earliest return last Sunday closer to the
time of Herdez's death. I began to hope I wouldn't find her with the
Yazzie woman.
Twelve miles south of Cuba, a graveled dirt road cut off the
pavement on my right and crossed the deep arroyo of the Rio Puerco on a
one-lane steel bridge. I followed it west, back north, then west again. The
gravel disappeared. A few miles later, a cut-off degenerated into a pair of
ruts that twisted through the gray landscape, and I began to suspect Rosa's
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Jennifer's Weave
directions would strand me among the sage and the ball-like junipers that
dotted the rolling plain, hugged the slopes of the mesas. A line of wooden
poles carried three strands of wire through the emptiness with a forlorn
sort of determination, and I followed them, matched their spirit, under a
flat gray sky that stretched from horizon to horizon.
And then I topped a low ridge and saw Jenny's old blue van parked
in front of a faded single-wide trailer. It sat next to a pen and sheep cote,
hidden in the late afternoon shadow of a jumble of red sandstone that may
have been a small mesa a few million years ago. The poles dropped a line
to the house and continued their westward march. I followed the line and
parked beside the van.
Jenny, at least, would be nervous. I didn't want to surprise her, so I
honked my horn and waited beside the car where she could see me and see
that I was alone. A curtain fluttered in one of the windows near a small
redwood stoop, and a minute later Jenny came out, pulling on a sheepskin
coat. An older Navajo woman stood in the door, muffled in velvet skirts
and a woolen blanket, and watched silently as she walked slowly toward
me.
The wind came from behind, pressed my thin windbreaker against
my back, pushed dust and lonely flakes of dirty snow past us. The red in
Jenny's hair picked up highlights from the broken rock that loomed over
the house. She approached hesitantly at first, but when I opened my arms
she ran and hugged herself into them. The woman on the stoop shrugged
then and closed the door on us.
Jenny lay her cheek against my chest and said, softly, "Where the hell
have you been, you son of a bitch? I was scared."
"You're hard to find, Jenny." I shivered. And held on to her
warmth until she released me. She took my hand and we walked, side by
side, slowly toward the pen. The sheep in it, thirty or forty of them, stirred
warily as we neared, crowded the wire on the opposite side of their pen,
retreated from us and the cold wind.
She said nothing at first, then asked, "What's happening?"
"You tell me." She didn't answer. I asked, "What are you doing out
here?"
"I didn't have anywhere else to go. After I left the envelope on your
door, I started to leave and then I started shaking. There was no one else,
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Harlen Campbell
you see. Of all the people I knew, I didn't know anyone I could take that
kind of problem to. They were all acquaintances. Not friends. Eventually
I decided on Barbara."
She was shaking again. I asked, "What did you tell her?"
"That a man was chasing me. A boyfriend."
I remembered Yazzie's look. "Me?"
She nodded. "I'm sorry."
I shrugged. It wasn't the worst role I'd played. "You could have
stayed at my place."
She shook her head. "I didn't know when you'd get back. Who
might find the . . . him. Who might come to your house, asking questions.
And besides . . . ." She wound down.
"It was too close?"
"Yes."
The sheep stirred uneasily in their pen. I asked, "You knew he was
dead?"
She shuddered. "There was blood in his eyes. He wasn't breathing."
"Did you kill him?"
She glanced sharply at me, then spoke to the sheep. "He was dead
when I got there."
The sheep interested me too. I swallowed, asked, "What was he
doing there?"
"Hiding. He was afraid."
"Of what? Who?"
"He wouldn't say. Are they looking for me?"
"Who?"
"The police."
"There's a warrant out." I turned to her. "You should turn yourself
in."
She didn't look at me. "No."
"Why not?"
"Don't you know about the fire?"
"Yes. The man working the case, a state cop named Martinez, told
me about it. I stopped at your place on my way home last night. To see
it."
─ 88 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She cleared her throat. "The paper said it . . . my house . . . was
totally . . . ."
"There's nothing left but ashes."
She nodded slowly. "Do they know what started it?"
"It was arson. They don't know why. Do you?"
"Maybe. Juan had something. I don't know what, but the man after
him wanted it and so he hid it. He didn't tell me where."
"The key?" She knew which one I meant. The one in the envelope.
"I think so."
"Did you take it off his body?"
She made a face. "I couldn't have. He gave me it."
"Do you know what it opens?"
"No."
"Okay." I shivered. The wind was kicking up, blowing our hair over
our faces. "What do you want me to do about this mess?"
She said what they all say. "Make it go away."
I bit my lip. "You won't go to the cops? They could protect you."
"They'll put me in jail. I'll stay here."
"Right. They'll find you."
"How?"
"I found you. They aren't stupid. And if they find you here, they
might arrest your friend. She's harboring a fugitive, even if she doesn't
know it. Do you want to risk that?"
"Of course not."
"Then turn yourself in."
"No! I'll go somewhere else."
"Where?"
She shrugged hopelessly.
I put a hand on her shoulder. Said, "I know a place," and answered
the second question I'd posed myself on the drive to Cuba.
She kissed my check, left a cold spot on it. "I'll get my things."
"You can't leave your van. Barbara would be in more trouble if the
cops found it here than if they found you here."
"So I'll follow you."
"No. You can't take it with you, either. It would be noticed. You'll
have to hide the van and meet me later. I'll think of a way." I got her
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Harlen Campbell
telephone number and left with a promise to call when things were
arranged.
The drive to Placitas took an hour and fifteen minutes. I stopped
only long enough to throw a couple of blankets and a pillow in my trunk,
then went on to the hotel in Albuquerque. Walked over to the Owl Cafe
for a couple of green chile cheeseburgers and a Mexican beer, a Corona.
At six-thirty, I returned to the hotel room and called my security expert to
make sure the line was still clear. Then I started dialing Sharon Coulter.
She'd asked me to call after six, her time. That would be seven in
Albuquerque, so I was early. I called every five minutes. She answered at
five minutes past the hour.
"Coulter Investigations." She sounded out of breath.
"It's me."
"Mr. Porter. You're right on time."
"Call me Rainbow. Things have been happening here. What have
you got?"
"Just a minute." I listened to some background noise while she
dropped things. I must have caught her just as she came in. Papers
rustled. She said, "I pulled a blank at the gallery in San Francisco, so I
came back here and started on the first husband and the kid. I found
them. They're still here in--"
"Good." I interrupted her. "How would you like to report in
person?"
"You want me to come there? Just to tell you about Schuler?"
"Not exactly. You ever do any baby-sitting?"
"You found her? Where?"
"It's a long story. I'll tell you if you'll come."
She thought about it a moment, then asked, "Why me?"
"Things are unsettled here."
"And . . . ?"
"And when that punk ran you down, you tried for a head shot."
"I see. And you say things are unsettled. That sounds like an
understatement." I heard her take a deep breath, release it. "Are there any
questions I don't want to ask?"
"Just the obvious one. You'll come?"
"Tonight?"
─ 90 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"ASAP."
She laughed suddenly. "Why the hell not? I've been too damned
bored here. Meet the next plane, Porter."
"Count on it. And dress warm." I hung up smiling and used the
room for something besides a phone booth for the first time. Took a
shower.
Around nine, I checked the airlines. The first flight Sharon could
possibly have made would arrive at ten-thirty. I called the number Jenny
had given me. Barbara Yazzie answered and put her on immediately. I
told her to come in at eleven, then called Tony in El Paso about the
funeral.
Sharon's flight landed ten minutes behind schedule. As she limped
through the gate, I had some doubts about the wisdom of selecting her to
watch over Jenny. I reminded myself that she'd stayed cool while the car
that crippled her bore down, and that if she'd missed her shot at the driver
I might not even have taken it.
She carried a small bag in her left hand and swung her right leg
grimly with each step. I fell in beside her. "You don't look good."
"And I worked so hard on my make-up. Thanks a lot."
I looked her over. The only make-up on her face was a trace of
lipstick. "You did a terrific job," I told her. "A lot of women wouldn't
have made the effort. I meant your leg."
She smiled tightly. "It's that damned sitting. My hip stiffens up. I'll
be fine in a couple of minutes."
"You check anything?"
"I barely had time to pack. Anyway, you looked like a man who'd
have anything I really needed."
"Yeah." I grinned at her. "You married to that bag?"
"If you're offering to carry it, be my guest."
It weighed no more than twenty pounds, and she hadn't had any idea
how long she was packing for. That is the kind of woman I like to travel
with.
I'd parked in the short-term lot as much because it was covered,
protected from the continuing snow flurries, as because it was close. We
made it to the car in five minutes. As promised, her leg loosened up on
the walk. By the time she slid into the passenger's seat, her grimace had
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Harlen Campbell
relaxed into a smile. I pulled out of the lot and made a circle, came to a
stop by the curb in front of the American Airlines ticket counter.
"Now what?" she asked.
"We wait. It should only be a few minutes. Have you eaten?"
"No. Are we waiting for Murphy? I thought you had her tucked
away."
"She's putting her van in storage now. I want to keep it off the
streets."
"I see." She leaned back in her seat. After a few minutes, she asked,
"You're thinking of the fire?"
"And the killing. And that thing you don't want to know about.
Somebody is either after her or after something she had. Did I tell you
about the key?"
When she said no, I started at the beginning, told her the whole
story. Except that I glossed over the dollar bill. And didn't mention the
thing she didn't want to know, the warrant Martinez had out for Jenny.
When I finished, she said only, "What a can of worms. Are you sure
Hickson is with the CIA?"
"Martinez seems to buy it."
"Uh, huh."
"Tell me something, Sharon. Why did you come when I asked you?"
"You look like you need mothering." She said it with a straight face.
I laughed. She added, "Of course, I need the work, too. But the biggest
draw was Jenny."
That was the last thing I expected. "Why?"
"I told you I found her first husband. He's a decent man. I saw the
girl, too. She seems to be okay. A nice-looking kid. Anyway, when I
spoke to Schuler, I asked him directly if he'd heard from Jenny. It seemed
like the best approach, given the urgency of this thing."
"What did he say?"
"When he heard she was in trouble, that she had been trying to find
him, he broke down."
"What do you mean, broke down?"
"He started fucking shaking, that's what I mean! He had to leave the
damned room!" She spoke angrily, fell silent for a few moments, then
added slowly, "Her third husband, Halliday, wants her back even after she
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Jennifer's Weave
deserted him when he had that heart attack. The first husband cried like a
baby when he heard her name, almost twenty goddamn years after she
abandoned him and her own daughter. The one in the middle took her
name after he faked his own death, and then he died on her kitchen floor.
Then there's you. You're not exactly a romantic, if I'm any judge of men,
but you're running all over the western half of the country trying to get her
out of trouble. That's why I came when you called, Porter. I want to see
what she's got."
"Call me Rainbow. You're curious, in other words."
"Curious!" She snorted. "I may kill her myself."
"Well, you're about to get your chance."
A shuttle from one of the private parking lots pulled up behind us.
We watched as Jenny got off carrying a suitcase. She walked toward the
airport door. When the shuttle pulled away, she turned around and headed
for my car.
"You take the back seat," I told Sharon.
She made a face and said, "Naturally."
I pulled the automatic from the glove compartment and tossed it on
the seat beside her. "Here's the thing you were sure I'd have."
"Thanks." She dropped it in her purse and we opened our doors,
stepped out into the cold wind.
Jenny stopped when she saw I wasn't alone. "Who's she?"
I introduced them and added, "Sharon is the investigator I hired to
look for you on the coast."
"You didn't tell me about that."
"There are lots of things I haven't told you, Jenny. There are things I
don't know yet. Sharon hasn't made her report, and you can probably
think of something to tell us. Now, let's get going."
She stood her ground. "I don't want her. Just you."
I asked, "Why? She already knows as much about you as I do."
Sharon looked Jenny up and down, then turned to me. Her
expression was hard to read in the cold light. "It's okay," she said. "I can
bow out."
"It isn't okay." I faced Jenny. "I brought Miss Coulter here because
we need her. If you have a problem with her, I'll listen to it, but it better
be damned good, Jenny. You brought me into this mess and then you just
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Harlen Campbell
disappeared. Left me with a dollar and a key that doesn't open any door in
Albuquerque. Since then, I've looked for you, dodged the cops, played
silly games with the FBI and the CIA, flown to the coast and back. I'm
not in a mood for any more bullshit. If you have a problem with Coulter,
tell me about it. Otherwise, get in the goddamn car!"
I'd started to get angry about half way through the speech, and by
the time I finished, I was glaring at her. She looked at my face, swallowed,
and decided to brave it. "She won't understand me."
"That's bullshit." I grabbed her bag, tossed it in the back seat and
held the door while Sharon crawled in. Then I opened the passenger's
door and just stared at Jenny until she gave in. Before I slammed the door
on her, I said, "She's got a better chance of understanding you than I do,
Jenny. I don't understand you at all."
It took a few minutes to get on the freeway north. We passed them
in silence, and then Jenny spoke. "Tell me."
"About what?"
"Start with her." A short nod toward the back seat.
"When I couldn't find you in Albuquerque, I had to dig a little. I
didn't have time to do it myself, so I hired Sharon."
"She knows about me?"
"Everything I know. Well, almost everything."
"And about Juan?"
"Damn it, Jenny, I don't know about Juan. Why don't you tell us."
She hesitated, glanced over her shoulder. Swallowed some words
and asked, "What do you want to know?"
"Start with the big question. Who killed him?"
"I don't know. Juan said a man was after him, that he wanted
something Juan had."
"And you don't know what it was?"
"He wouldn't tell me. He said it was better that way." She hesitated,
continued, "He had a briefcase with him when he arrived, but it
disappeared a couple of days later."
"What did it look like?"
She didn't have to think about that. "It was new. Brown, like
calfskin, and shiny. One of the boxy kind. You know, rigid?"
"You never opened it?"
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Jennifer's Weave
"He never gave me a chance. We were together most of the time. I
went into town to make a delivery Saturday afternoon. It was gone when I
came back."
Sharon stirred in the back seat. I looked in the rear-view mirror.
Her face floated in the dark, lit only by the flickering of the headlights of
the cars heading south. She asked, "Why did he come to you?"
Jenny didn't answer until I nudged her. Then she said, "He trusted
me, I guess. I don't know."
"Is that why he was using your name?"
"What? He was using my name?"
"The driver's license on the body was in the name of John Murphy,"
I said. "You didn't know that?"
"No. Why would he do that?" She sounded bewildered.
"He faked his own death a couple of years ago. Did you know that?"
She just shook her head.
Sharon asked, "How often did you see him?"
"A couple of times a year. Less. Just when we ran into each other.
He used to call me sometimes, but . . . . How could I know he changed his
name? He just said Hi, Jenny, and I said Hello, Juan." She turned and
faced the back seat. "How could I have known?"
Sharon said, "Why would he pick your name? That's what bothers
me."
"It bothers me too," Jenny said softly.
"Was he still in love with you?"
"Maybe. Yes. I don't know why."
I saw Sharon's head shake in the mirror. I asked, "What kind of
work did he do?"
"He was collected money for a charity. They worked with Indian
kids, I think."
"The PPN?"
Her tone was sharp. "Where did you hear that name?"
"From his brother. Tell me about the PPN."
"Tony? He's here?"
"He was. He identified the body. The PPN?"
"It's a charity, but it's also political." She spoke reluctantly.
"Halliday said you contributed to it regularly."
─ 95 ─
Harlen Campbell
"You spoke to Sam too? Why?"
The green sign over the freeway that marked the Placitas exit
appeared through the thickening snow. I slowed and took it. "We were
trying to find you. We thought you might have gone there to hide. We
talked to a lot of people in California, Jenny. What's the big deal?"
She sat silently for a few miles. The storm was gathering intensity,
and our lights turned the snowflakes ahead of us into fireflies that swept
up over the hood of the car and disappeared. She asked, "Who? Who else
did you talk to?"
A turn-off on the left led into one of the new subdivisions between
the freeway and the village of Placitas. I took it and parked on a dark,
quiet street.
"I talked to your mother on the phone and to your father and
brother in Santa Barbara," I turned off the engine and faced Jenny. "Then
I flew up to San Francisco and Sharon and I talked to Halliday in Sausalito.
Sharon also talked to some gallery owners in San Francisco and to your
first husband back in Santa Barbara. That about covers it, doesn't it?"
In the back seat, Sharon nodded. Jenny looked at her with a hungry
expression. "You saw Tom? And my . . . and Sally?"
"Yes."
"Is she . . . ," Jenny lowered her eyes, "I mean, did she look happy?"
"I didn't talk to her, but she looks good. She looks a lot like you.
She's in college. I saw her coming out of a classroom. She was walking
with two girl friends. They were laughing. Yes, I think she looked happy."
Sharon watched Jenny curiously. So did I.
"You said you spoke to Tom?" She kept her eyes on her hands, her
hands in her lap.
"Yes."
Jenny spoke so softly that Sharon had to lean forward to hear her.
"And his wife? Did you see her?"
"He isn't married," Sharon said. "I searched the records. As far as I
can tell, he never remarried."
Her head came up when she heard that. "But my brother told me-That son of a bitch!"
"What difference does it make?" I asked.
─ 96 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She shook her head. Her eyes were full. "None," she said. "No
difference at all."
"You're still in love with him."
"No!" She swallowed, looked away from me. "It's just that-- I've
made such a mess of things. That's all."
"Uh, huh. Get out."
"What?"
"We're going to my place. Both Martinez and the feds have been
there looking for you. I don't think they'll come back, but if they do,
they'll find Sharon. She'll play my out-of-town girlfriend. That should
work, as long as no one sees two women arrive. And that means you're
going to ride the rest of the way in the trunk."
Jenny nodded wordlessly and opened her door. The wind pushed a
burst of white confetti into the car. I walked around and opened the trunk
for her, spread the blankets, and helped her in.
Sharon had moved to the front seat when I finished. As I put the
car in gear, she pulled up the collar of her coat and asked, "Is it far?"
"A few miles."
She shivered. "I thought you lived in the desert."
"This is the desert in October."
"I thought it would be warmer." She hesitated, then asked, "What
do you think? About her?"
I answered with more confidence than I felt. "She didn't kill
Herdez."
"Maybe not. She seems reluctant to talk about him, though. Why is
that?"
"She has other things on her mind," I said shortly.
"I noticed. Why the interest in Schuler? She divorced him almost
twenty years ago."
"It isn't him. It's her daughter."
"Don't kid yourself. It's him."
There was no point in arguing with her. We were almost through
the straggle of old houses that lined the state road, made up the village of
Placitas. I turned onto the road to my house and glanced over at Sharon.
The flurries had steadied and her face hung, pale and unforgiving, in the
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Harlen Campbell
light they reflected back into the car. I asked, "Are you okay with this?
Watching over Jenny?"
"I signed on for it."
The snow had begun to stick. My tires spun a bit on the road. The
car slid sideways. I straightened it. Sharon asked, "Where the hell do you
live, Porter? The Himalayas?"
"We're almost there."
"If I see a log cabin, I'm going back to California."
"It's not that primitive." I turned into my driveway. It was steeper
than the road had been, and we slithered around some more before
reaching the parking area. She braced herself against the dash and cursed.
I smiled and backed up to my door. Tina paced us. I climbed out and
stood for a few seconds, breathing deeply.
Sharon opened her door, jerked it closed quickly when Tina growled
threateningly. I scratched her ears. "Callate, Tina. Amigas! Be quiet!
These are friends!"
Then I waved Sharon out and led Tina into the night, made a quick
circle of the house. The snow dropped straight down from the sky.
Somewhere during the drive, it had grown into great fluffs of popcorn.
The only light was a diffuse gray glow from the low clouds: the lights of
Albuquerque, fifteen miles south. The night was silent, beautiful. I found
no sign of visitors, but I was slow coming back.
Sharon stamped her feet in front of the door. "Get a move on,
Porter! I'm freezing, and you're going to have a stiff in your trunk."
"Keep your pants on, Coulter," I told her. "Jenny's tough. Besides, I
put some blankets in there for her."
Something banged inside the trunk. It sounded like kicking. I
muttered a few words about patience and appreciation of beauty and got a
move on.
Once the house was open and Sharon and the bags were inside, I
opened the trunk. Jenny kicked at me, hissed something about showing
me tough that contained a lot of ess words, and scrambled into the house.
She could take care of the furnace and lights, so I moved the car into the
garage and stopped at the wood pile.
When I walked in, they were huddled in the living room. Jenny had
raided my linen closet and they each wore a heavy wool blanket. It really
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Jennifer's Weave
wasn't cold in the house, but they both glared until I had a fire going.
They stood in front of it, rubbing their hands and muttering. I watched
the show for a few minutes, then went into the kitchen shaking my head.
Filled the kettle and started it. Pulled the rest of the prawns from the
freezer and put them in a colander under running water. Started a pot of
rice.
When the kettle whistled, I poured a double brandy into two coffee
cups, added a tablespoon of honey and a slice of lemon to each, filled
them with boiling water, carried them to the fire. The women had moved
the couch up to it and pulled off their shoes. Four bare feet were propped
on the stone hearth. They weren't exactly sitting side by side, but they
were closer than I'd thought they'd be. Jenny tasted her drink and
smacked her lips.
Sharon sipped, looked at me and nodded. I held out my hand. She
looked from it to my face, and then the blanket that covered her parted
and my automatic came out, butt first. She said, "Going somewhere?"
"For a walk, after I finish dinner."
"You're cooking? I figured a mountain man like you would send the
wimminfolk to the kitchen. Pop a top and turn on the tee-vee."
"Murphy can't cook and I don't know you well enough to let you in
my kitchen."
She looked at Jenny and said, "You can't cook?"
Jenny put a finger to her lips and said, "Sssh."
I left them to their silliness and returned to the kitchen. The prawns
were going to be a problem. There were only twelve left. I could stretch
them with the rice, but it looked like I would have to fake a dessert or send
everyone to bed hungry.
The cupboard wasn't exactly bare, but I had to get creative. In the
end, I sautéed the prawns with butter, lemon, thin slices of red and green
peppers, a bit of cilantro, and then flamed the result with a triple-shot of
tequila. For dessert, I made some dessert crepes, rolled them around
scoops of the vanilla ice cream I'd experimented with four days ago,
sautéed a half-pint of blackberries in butter, thickened it with cornstarch,
powdered sugar and a handful of chocolate chips, added a bit of cognac,
and lit it. When I spooned the result over the crepes and dusted them
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Harlen Campbell
with more of the powdered sugar, there was enough to keep the women
from starving.
We had cognac and coffee in front of the fire after dinner. Outside,
the snow continued to fall. It lay an inch thick on the deck.
Sharon sighed and settled back on her end of the couch, propped
her feet on the hearth. I had the other end of the couch. Jenny sat
between us, looking troubled. She said, "I still don't understand why you
called Sharon. I could stay here with you."
"I won't be here."
That troubled her. "Where are you going?"
"They bury Herdez Saturday. In El Paso."
"You're going to the funeral?"
I nodded. "I'm leaving tomorrow, around noon. I'll talk to Tony
tomorrow night and maybe the rest of the family after they drop the box."
She shuddered. "When are you coming back?"
"Probably not right away."
"I'm going with you."
"No, you're not."
"I'm going to the funeral. I owe him that much."
"It's too risky, Jenny. Martinez will be watching the airport."
"Think of a way. I'm going."
"Shit." I stared at the fire for a few long minutes, then said, "I
suppose we could drive."
Sharon looked incredulous. "You can't be serious! There isn't any
need for it, and you're going to increase the chance of something going
wrong!"
I ignored her and asked Jenny, "Tell us about Herdez."
"What do you want to know?"
"When did he arrive? What was he running from?"
"He showed up late Thursday night. Exactly one week ago. He told
me a man was after him, wanted him dead, and asked if he could stay with
me for a few days. I couldn't say no." She looked at me and added, "I
wanted to, but I couldn't. Not if he was in danger."
"Why did he come to you?" Sharon asked.
"I don't know. He's always had a thing for me." Jenny shrugged.
"It was a nuisance."
─ 100 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Is that why he used your name?"
"I told you, I didn't know about that."
"And you didn't know he'd faked his own death?"
"No."
"That was two years ago last May," I said. "Do you know what he
was doing at that time?"
"The same as now. He was a fund-raiser for the PPN."
"And you gave him money? Even after you married Halliday?"
Jenny nodded. "We both did."
That surprised me. "Halliday too? Why would he do that?"
"Jesus, Porter! It was for orphans! Don't you ever give anything to
charity?"
"I've never given money to the ex-husband of a woman I was living
with," I said roughly. "It sounds to me like Halliday was buying Herdez
off."
"Maybe he was," Sharon suggested quietly. "Maybe the donations
were his way of being part of the relationship between them? Maybe he
was trying to confirm Juan's role as a fund-raiser to kind of push his role as
an ex-lover into the background?"
That sounded too subtle to me. I asked Jenny, "Was Halliday a
jealous man?"
"After his heart attack. I told you about the detective he hired to
follow me."
"Was he especially jealous of Herdez?"
"He was jealous of everyone. That was one of the reasons I couldn't
stay with him."
That and the fact that they suddenly had a two-way relationship.
There was no point in pursuing it. I said, "Tony told me he was working
for some outfit called ARMACO. Do you know anything about that?"
She hesitated, looked out the window, finally shook her head. "No.
Nothing."
Sharon said, "She's lying."
"I know." I looked at Jenny, "Why?"
She watched the snow fall. Eventually, I said, "Okay. Whoever
killed him knew he was in your house. How?"
She shrugged again. "Maybe he was followed."
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Harlen Campbell
"Maybe." I waited for her to add something, anything. When she
remained silent, I asked, "Did he go out alone anytime between Thursday
night and Sunday? Or use the phone?"
Jenny looked back at me and said, "He just hung around the house,
looking worried, all day Friday. That night we had an argument. I told
him he'd either have to tell me what was going on or leave. That was
when he told me he had something that this man wanted, would kill him
to get. He didn't say what it was, but I was sure it was in his briefcase. He
said it belonged to the PPN and he would be safe if he could just get it
back to them, but he didn't know how. That's when I told him about you,
about what you do. I wanted to call you right away, but Juan said he
wanted to think about it first."
"You should have called anyway," I told her.
"Maybe, but I thought he would be safe at my place. Anyway, the
next morning he said he'd talk to you, so we walked over. You weren't
here."
I felt defensive for no good reason. "I was in Albuquerque. What
did you do then?"
"I wanted to leave a note. Juan was afraid someone would see it. I
told him we could leave it inside, but he'd had time to change his mind by
then. He said he'd solve his problem himself. I told him that wasn't good
enough, that he could either accept some help or get out. He said fine,
he'd leave if I felt that way. He asked if he could wait until morning. I felt
so bad about kicking him out that I said okay."
Sharon interrupted my next question. "How did he get to your
place," she asked.
Jenny looked surprised. "He drove, of course."
Sharon looked at me. "What happened to the car?"
"I don't know," I told her. "It wasn't there when I found the body.
Martinez should know about this. What was the make and model?"
"It was just a car," Jenny said. "White. American. New. It was
there when I discovered his . . . him. What does it mean?"
"It means you were very lucky," Sharon told her. I met her eyes over
Jenny's head. She looked as worried as I felt.
"Whoever killed Herdez was still around when you showed up." I
asked, "Did you go through the house?"
─ 102 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"A little." Jenny sounded shaken. "I packed a bag and then spent a
few seconds looking for that damned briefcase. But then I thought I
heard a noise. I just ran."
"The case was gone?"
"I hadn't seen it since we got back from your house, Rainbow,"
Jenny said. "I made a delivery in Albuquerque that afternoon. I was gone
three or four hours, and when I got back, Juan told me he'd found a way
to get the briefcase back to the PPN."
Sharon said, "That must be when they picked him up."
I nodded and asked Jenny, "Did you believe him?"
"I was suspicious."
"Why?"
"Because of the key, of course. After dinner, he gave me the key and
asked me to hold it for him for a few days."
That damned key again. I wondered if Helene had had any more
luck locating the door it opened. "Herdez didn't tell you what the key
opened?"
"No."
"Did he take it off his key ring?"
"No, it was loose in his pocket."
"Well, if he only had three hours to rent a place and pick up the key,
it has to be somewhere close. Probably in Albuquerque. Did he use any
aliases besides John Murphy?"
"Damn it, Rainbow, I didn't even know he was using that one!"
"Yeah." We were going in circles. I said, "Tell us about Sunday
morning. What time you left, where you went, who you talked to, and
when you came back. And what you saw there."
She tucked her feet under her and leaned back on the sofa with her
eyes closed. "I left a little after eight and drove straight to Barbara's. I ate
breakfast with her and picked out the yarn I wanted and then I drove back
home. I stopped in Bernalillo for the ice cream and then I went home."
It sounded like she had gone over the story in her mind so often that
she'd memorized it. "When did you get home?"
"I don't know exactly. Sometime after eleven."
Sharon said, "That must have been a long breakfast."
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Harlen Campbell
"It wasn't." Jenny looked at her angrily. "It took time to select the
wool. And we talked about what I wanted next time. The colors and
weight."
"Do you know what time he died?" I asked her.
"No."
"The medical examiner said the knife went in between ten-thirty and
eleven-thirty. This means you don't have an alibi. You know that?"
She looked at me blankly and said, "Knife? What knife?"
Sharon sat bolt upright, stared down at Jenny. I stared too. "The
knife that killed Herdez," I said softly. "The knife in his neck. Your
knife."
"There wasn't any knife," she said.
"What did he look like?"
"I told you. His eyes were full of blood. He wasn't breathing. He
just-- I looked at him and I wanted to throw up. My hands were full, so I
set the bags on the counter and started to look at him, but I couldn't get
close. I couldn't make myself-- Do you mean . . . ?"
Sharon walked to the window and stared into the storm. I asked,
"What did you do then?"
"I tried to call you, damn it! I got your damned machine and I
panicked! I threw some stuff in a bag and I got the hell out of there! Do
you mean . . . ?"
Over by the window, Sharon said, "He must have been in the house.
The killer was still in the house."
Jenny whispered, "Juan was still alive? I could have saved him?" She
gagged and bolted for the bathroom.
Sharon watched me for a moment. I ignored her and the retching.
Eventually she shrugged and walked slowly down the hall. I sat on the
couch, stared into the fire and thought about the timing. I didn't like it.
When the women returned ten minutes later, Jenny looked pale and
Sharon looked noncommittal. I couldn't think of anything to say to either
of them, so I picked up the automatic and went looking for my boots.
"Where are you going?" They asked it at the same time.
"On another tour of the property. I want to make sure no one is
hiding in the bushes."
Jenny said, "I want to come."
─ 104 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"No."
"I want to see my house. What's left of it."
"Damn it, no!"
She started putting on her boots. Sharon and I looked at each other,
and then she reached for her shoes. "I might as well come too," she said.
I looked out the window. The snow was still falling. It would cover
any footprints we made. I said, "Let me look around first. And find some
decent coats."
The tour took less than fifteen minutes. Tina kept me company, and
her lack of interest in anything but me reassured me that we were alone for
the present. She wanted to play, and I threw her a couple of snowballs to
fetch. She chased them happily, but she was frustrated when she never
found them. Sometimes I felt that way myself.
Jenny and Sharon were waiting by the door when I finished my
rounds. Jenny wore her own coat and had found one of my old overcoats
for Sharon. I got a flashlight from the kitchen and led the way up the
mountain.
Snow had buried the path, but Jenny and I knew it so well that we
had no trouble. Sharon floundered along in our footsteps. She was
limping again, breathing heavily. The altitude seemed to bother her, even
though we were only around the seven thousand foot level.
The falling snow deadened sound. Only the occasional soft thump
that came when an overburdened branch dumped a load of snow broke
the stillness. Jenny tried to talk but I waved her to silence, whispered that
we needed to hear more than to be heard.
Enough light leaked through the trees that the flashlight wasn't
necessary. We moved up the hill single-file. It was almost warm until we
topped the crest and came out of the shadow the mountain made in the
wind. Then it was very cold and we moved downhill quickly, without our
earlier caution. It didn't matter. That side of the mountain was so cold
that I was confident the bogeymen were far away.
The wind chill dropped the temperature into the teens, and our
necks were packed with snow by the time we reached the clearing where
Jenny's house had stood. I scouted the perimeter carefully before waving
Jenny forward.
─ 105 ─
Harlen Campbell
Sharon huddled on my downwind side. Her teeth chattered. She
leaned against me, stood on her toes to put her lips near my ear, quavered,
"You p-p-people are out of your f-f-fucking minds!"
I wrapped an arm around her body and admitted, "It is a little brisk
tonight."
She hit me.
We watched Jenny together. The site had been well-scraped by the
arson team. Debris was piled in white mounds around the concrete slab.
She walked out onto the empty place and stood there for a while, then
went over to one of the piles, picked something up, turned it over in her
hand, slung it into the trees.
She walked back, passed us without a word, and continued up the
hill alone. We followed her. Sharon stayed under my arm until we topped
the crest and the wind died. By the time we reached the house, Jenny had
slowed her pace and walked beside us, but she still didn't say anything.
The fire needed another log. When I got back with it, Jenny had
found the brandy and poured them each a snifter. They were back on the
couch, feet on the hearth. I tossed the wood in the fireplace and poked it
until it caught, then poured myself a drink and joined them.
Sharon sipped at her drink and said, "You know, a good lawyer
might get her out of this. Martinez doesn't have anything solid against her.
He has other suspects, and he doesn't know about Herdez's missing car."
"With the story she's telling?" I asked. "The D. A. wouldn't give a
shit about the missing car. Jenny's the only one who ever saw it, and those
other suspects are all federal employees."
"What about the PPN? The missing briefcase?"
"Could we prove the briefcase ever existed? And as far as we know,
the PPN is just a charity."
"Still, a good lawyer might create enough doubt in a jury's mind to
get her off."
I shrugged and glanced at Jenny. "What about it?"
"Not while he's out there."
"He?"
"The man who killed Juan, damn it! The man who burned my
fucking house!"
─ 106 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"All right." I sighed. "Tell me about the PPN again. Tony seemed
afraid of them."
"It's just a political party."
"You ever meet any of the people?"
She shook her head. "Just Juan. He told me what they stand for."
"You donated money to them," Sharon said. "Why?"
"What's wrong with donating to a charity?" She sounded defensive.
"You're not the type," Sharon said flatly. "Why did you get
involved?"
Jenny glared at her for a moment, then shrugged. "It was because of
Juan. After I left him, he sort of came apart. He followed me to San
Francisco and kept trying to get me to go back to him. I finally talked him
into trying college. He enrolled at the university in El Paso, but it didn't
work. He kept writing me. Then he decided to spend a year in Mexico.
He went to find his roots, but something happened down there. He was
caught up in the poverty and corruption. He was in a demonstration and
they arrested him. He spent a couple of months in jail before they cut him
loose, and when he came back to the states, he was different. He still
wrote me, but they weren't love letters anymore. He'd found something
that meant more to him than I did. And that's why I gave him the
money."
I didn't understand her, but Sharon did. "You were reinforcing his
faith," she said, "so that he wouldn't bother you anymore."
"That's right."
It sounded stupid to me. "Why didn't you just tell him to go to
hell?"
"That didn't work. He couldn't leave me alone."
"But--" I started to say more.
Sharon interrupted me with a look. "Halliday was the same way,"
she pointed out. "He couldn't remember my last name, and yet he called
every agency in Santa Barbara looking for me. He reached me just before I
left for the airport. He wanted to know if we'd found Jenny, if you'd given
her his message."
Jenny asked, "What message?"
"He said he didn't need you anymore," I told her. "He wanted you
to know it was safe to come back."
─ 107 ─
Harlen Campbell
She shook her head. "Why me?"
"It beats the hell out of me."
She tossed down the last of her brandy, stood and grinned sourly.
"Thanks a lot, Rainbow. On that note, I'm going to bed."
Sharon and I watched her walk from the room. She entered the
master bedroom and closed the door behind her. That answered one
question that had been on my mind, but the more immediate one was still
open. I turned to Sharon. "Do you understand it?"
She returned my look expressionlessly. "You're the man," she said.
"What is it about her that gets your hormones flowing?"
I shook my head and finished my drink. "It beats the hell out of me.
But whatever it is, I don't think it has anything to do with love. Or sex, for
that matter."
I grabbed Sharon's bag, showed her the second bedroom, and
pointed out the facilities. The only bath in the house, between the
bedrooms, opens into each of them. The door was closed and the shower
was running behind it. I explained the arrangement and the protocol:
knock before entering if surprises bother you.
She nodded and I left her alone, walked around the house turning
off lights. Stood at the glass door that opened onto the deck, watching
snow fall. There were almost three inches out there now, but it looked to
be slowing down and the cloud cover was lifting.
Sharon had a point about Jenny. She attracted me, but I hadn't
noticed the effect she'd had on the other men she'd shared bits and pieces
of her life with. It took another woman to point it out, to ask the question
I couldn't answer. What the hell did she have? She was pretty, but better
looking women had been in that bed. She was smart, but not that smart;
talented, but talent isn't that big a turn-on. In fact, it wasn't even being
excited by her that kept me thinking about her. Whatever the source of
her attraction, it began somewhere above my waist and below my eyes.
Territory that didn't include any sex organs I knew about.
When the shower stopped running, I went to the bedroom and
stripped. Jenny came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around
her. I took over the shower and spent my usual six minutes luxuriating
under the stream of hot water. When I opened the shower door, she was
brushing her hair in front of the mirror. I watched her while I toweled
─ 108 ─
Jennifer's Weave
myself off. She was slender, had deep red hair, almost auburn, there and
there. Darker there. A slender figure, but with a bit of tummy below her
belly button. Wide hips to frame it. Nice legs. Breasts no more than a
handful each. The pink border around her nipples was wide, the nipples
themselves large and firm when I excited her, but otherwise low. She had
high cheekbones under blue eyes, a broad forehead, a few freckles on her
face, more dusted across her shoulders and the higher part of her breasts.
She watched me look at her while she worked on her hair. Her face
told me nothing of her thoughts. I stepped behind her, reached under her
uplifted arms and cupped her breasts in my hands, pulled a little, so that
her back lay against me. She stopped the brush, stood there while I held
her, and our eyes locked on each other in the mirror. She still said nothing
and I didn't move, just held her.
I suppose it might be possible for a man to stand naked, holding a
naked woman, and not get an erection. A saint might do it, if he'd just
gotten laid. I was no saint, and I was horny. I trapped her nipples
between my fingers, squeezed gently, ran my hand slowly down the front
of her.
Jenny smiled at my reflection just a little. Then she shook her head
and started working the brush again. I shrugged and went into the
bedroom, into the bed. Rolled toward the window and waited for sleep.
When she slipped in beside me, she kept her distance on the
mattress. Her breathing was irregular. I watched a wall I couldn't see.
After awhile, she cleared her throat and whispered, "You're awake."
"Yes."
"It's just that so much has happened."
"I understand that."
In the bathroom, the shower came on. We listened to it for a few
minutes and then Jenny repeated, "So much has happened."
It sounded like she wanted to tell me something. I asked, "Juan's
death?"
"That too."
"Uh, huh." I waited for a good time but none came, so I asked
anyway. "Did you sleep with him?"
"Not the first night. Or the second. But he was so scared."
"He needed you."
─ 109 ─
Harlen Campbell
"In spite of that."
"And you didn't kill him."
"Don't be an ass. I said goodbye."
"Okay." I lay on my back with my eyes wide open, thinking about
Juan Herdez. About the fact that Jenny's goodbye had come the night
before he died.
She must have been having her own thoughts. She said, "Oh, hell!"
Rolled over to me, threw her right leg over my hand and my leg, bit my ear
and then put her tongue in it. I tried to move my hand, but she had
trapped it. I turned my head and found her mouth. We kissed.
She crawled on top of me and then I could move my hand. I found
her breasts. She kissed me again, bit my neck, reached between us and
arranged things, slid down onto me. I cupped her cheeks, felt her, felt
myself in her.
She began moaning softly. Worked herself up and down on me. I
matched her rhythm, but the dead man was in bed with us. She may not
have felt him there, but I did. He lay just out of reach, in the long warm
space Jenny had left when she came to me.
She, meanwhile, grew louder, louder than she'd ever been with me,
and I thrust up into her, feigning passion. Covered her lips with my own
to quiet her noises in the quiet after the shower stopped. And then I
opened my eyes, looked at hers where they lay behind lids squeezed shut in
her passion, and saw what she was doing. More important, I saw suddenly
what she felt as she did it, as she let go and cried out and bit down into the
skin on my neck. And that did it.
I rolled over on top of her, covered her, and lost myself in her.
Pounded into her. She gasped and recovered herself, hesitated for a few
seconds without losing our rhythm, and lost herself again. Bit down on
me again, clamped onto me down there, relaxed, whimpered and then
groaned and, at the end, almost bellowed.
We coasted slowly to a stop. Our lips locked together and her arms
and legs wrapped around me and my arms, one around her shoulders and
one beneath her cheeks, cradled and cupped her while the last of our
passion drained into the sheets. Until only the tenderness remained.
─ 110 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Then she stirred and pushed at me. I fell away, went to lie where the
ghost had lain. With my eyes wide open, I fitted myself into his shape and
waited for understanding to come. As usual, understanding failed me.
After an hour or so of staring at the invisible ceiling above me, long
after Jenny's breath had deepened, after she began to snore softly, like a
kitten purrs, I lifted the covers and padded quietly into the kitchen, pulled
the bottle of Martell's from my cupboard, took a hit directly from the
bottle, and carried it into the living room. To the window, where I looked
out over the valley of the Rio Grande.
The clouds had begun to fragment and stars peered down at me
from the blackness between them, sharp as icepicks. The moon was up
there somewhere too, and the freshly-fallen snow lay over the trees and the
land below me like a sheet, or a shroud.
I took another hit from the bottle, thought about what I'd just made.
Not just sex and not love. Not the usual kind of love, anyway. I
remembered how Jenny had looked in the bathroom mirror, with my
hands on her. The picture excited me, but that wasn't what still pulled me
toward the bed. I didn't know what pulled me. I knew why I fought it.
Behind me, a delicate female cough. I glanced over my shoulder,
then looked back out the window. "Did we keep you awake?"
"You made it hard to get to sleep, anyway." Sharon's voice was
quiet.
Now that I knew she was there, I could see her reflection in the dark
window. She lay on the couch in a white calf-length nightgown. I hadn't
seen her and she'd been quiet enough that I wouldn't have heard her even
if my attention hadn't been engaged. I said, "Sorry about that."
"You figure it out yet?"
"No."
"Why are you out here?"
"Trying to figure it out."
She waited. When I said nothing more, she said, "It's like that, is it?"
I swallowed, told her, "I can recognize a goodbye when I hear one.
Or get one."
"I'm sorry, Rainbow."
"Get some sleep. We have to leave early."
"Yeah. Goodnight."
─ 111 ─
Harlen Campbell
She looked at me for a moment, started to approach me, and then
shook herself and faded down the hall to her bed. I stood in the half-light
with the bottle in my hand and thought about tasting it again.
Technically, that would have been okay. One of my principles is
never to get drunk, except alone and secure. But, strangely, I no longer
felt alone, and so I crawled back in beside Jenny, who cuddled against me
in her sleep for my body's warmth. Just before I drifted off, I realized that
I'd been naked out there by the window, under the moon. It had been
kind of Sharon not to notice. On the other hand, she had called me
Rainbow for the first time. Maybe I'd been more naked than I knew.
─ 112 ─
Jennifer's Weave
VI
ON THE BORDER
I rose well before dawn and found Sharon nursing a cup of coffee
on the couch. "Are you still up?"
She smiled. "I'm up again. I forgot how much I love the mountains.
Except for the cold, of course."
"It will warm up before Christmas."
"Then what?"
"Then it gets cold again. Come. I'll show you something." I led her
into the kitchen, stood her in front of the window over the sink. We
waited. False dawn turned the shadows gray.
"What?"
"Just wait."
Ten minutes later they came. A buck, an eight pointer, followed by
four does and two fawns. They came down the path we'd walked last
night and paused at the clearing. Moved slowly, gingerly, across it.
Inserted their hooves delicately into the snow. Their breath steamed in the
cold air, and then they were gone.
"My God."
I smiled. "Yes."
"Where are they going?"
"Down into the valley to steal some food. Earlier in the year, it
would be apples from the orchards. This late, they're probably after
fodder put out for the horses."
─ 113 ─
Harlen Campbell
We returned to the window over the deck. Dawn brought a
crystalline day to the mountains. Four inches of snow blanketed the pines
on the low mountain opposite my house, and the land beyond, all the way
to the horizon, halfway to Arizona, glowed where the sun hit it. The
clouds had fled in the night and the turquoise sky lent a faint blue cast to
the white land. An army of tiny icicles hung from the overhang of the
roof above the deck. The shadow of the mountain crept slowly toward us
as the sun rose behind the house.
Half an hour passed. The icicles sparkled and began to drip. Sharon
shook her head. "It's so bright here! I thought it would be gloomy, but
it's too bright to sleep. And it's beautiful. So blue."
"You have the Pacific," I told her. "This sky is my ocean."
She said, "I could love it."
"What do you want for breakfast?"
"Anything."
"Wake Jenny. Dress while I cook. We leave in an hour."
El Paso lay two hundred and eighty miles to the south. We covered
ninety of them and reached Socorro before nine o'clock. The last of the
snow cover disappeared in there and the temperature climbed slowly into
the sixties as we followed the Rio Grande south. By the time we stopped
in Las Cruces for lunch the wind had swung around to the south, up from
Mexico, and the thermometer touched seventy. The sun was painfully
bright.
Sharon's hip had tightened up during the drive. She walked slowly
when we entered the restaurant. As we climbed back into the car, she
paused and asked, "Is it always like this?"
Jenny said, "Most of the year. It's hotter in summer, of course."
"Why did you leave?"
"To get away from Juan."
Mention of the dead man killed the conversation. We drove the
remaining forty-five miles to El Paso in silence and rented two adjoining
rooms at a motel on the west side, one in my name and one in Sharon's.
Jenny had a fit when I dropped her bag in Sharon's room. "I don't
need a baby-sitter," she told me. "I can take care of myself."
"I can't be in two places at once."
"Then I'll stay with you."
─ 114 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I shook my head. "You attract too much attention. If the cops find
you with me, we'll both be in the slammer. I won't be able to help you at
all."
That shut her up until I started to leave. She asked, "Where are you
going?"
"To see Herdez's brother."
"I want to come."
"Why?"
"We were family for a little while." She paused a moment, then
added, "I want to tell him and Grace that . . . that it wasn't my fault, I
guess. And that I'm sorry it happened."
"He doesn't think you did it," I said, "but I'll tell him. Maybe you
can see him at the funeral."
"You won't try to keep me away from that?"
"Only if there are strangers around."
On that note, I nodded to Sharon and walked out. A call to Tony's
number reached a woman with a soft, subdued voice who told me he had
gone to work and gave me the address. His restaurant supply company
was located in a large building that looked like a warehouse with a small
office tacked on as an afterthought.
A black wreath hung on the office door. Inside, three women and
two men sat at metal desks. The men were both on their telephones,
talking to customers. Two of the women fed stacks of orders to computer
terminals. The third was either a secretary or an office manager. She
asked if she could help me.
"Anthony Herdez?"
The other women stopped typing. The men spoke more softly. The
secretary's voice was hushed. "Mr. Herdez has canceled all his
appointments today. There has been a death in the family. I'm sorry."
"He's expecting me. Tell him Mr. Porter is here."
She hesitated, then spoke softly into her phone. A door opened in
the back wall next to a window covered by venetian blinds and he waved
at me. Every eye in the room watched me walk back to his office.
Tony Herdez looked tired. His desk was made of the same metal as
those used by his employees. His welcoming smile didn't quite reach his
─ 115 ─
Harlen Campbell
eyes and the hand he offered had little strength in it. He said, "I'm glad
you could make it."
"Did you find that number for me?"
He pushed a sheet of paper across his desk. "I made a copy of the
bill. Are you really going down there?"
"I said I would." I glanced at the paper. The only long distance call
on it was to the number in Mexico. "Did you talk to anyone else in the
family about this?"
"My mother and my sister. Mom said he'd made a couple of calls to
Chihuahua from her house. The bill hasn't come yet, of course, but I
checked with the phone company. They were to the same number."
"When did he make the calls from your mother's house?"
Herdez answered listlessly. "Last week. Juan stayed with her the
first part of the week. One of the calls was Monday and the other was on
Wednesday. He left Thursday morning."
"Was his visit expected? Did he come to El Paso often?"
He shrugged. "Not often. Mom didn't tell me he was coming, and
she would have if she'd expected him. She would have invited everyone
for dinner. She would have made a little party."
"But she didn't?"
"No."
"Did she say what he was doing in town?"
"He told her it was a business trip." Herdez scrubbed at his face
with both hands. "He asked her not to tell anyone he was here."
That surprised me. "Not even family? Not even you?"
"That's right. Not even me." He held my eyes for a moment.
"Things were different between us after he asked me to do . . . what I did
for him. And then when I heard him on the phone that time and he
shouted at me, well, he was still my brother, but it wasn't the same."
"All you heard was the initials? PPN?"
"He was laughing when I walked into the room. It was some joke
about how much they owed him."
"It was the PPN that owed him? Not someone else?"
"That's how it sounded."
"And you never heard of it before?"
"Never."
─ 116 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I waited a few moments, then said slowly, "I heard from someone
that it was a charity. A political organization, but also a charity. Does that
sound possible to you?"
"Jenny? You found Jenny?" When I didn't answer, he said, "I
dunno, man. For years, the only political organization down there was the
PRI. The others were suppressed, you know? Maybe a charity would have
been okay, but it doesn't sound right. And besides . . . ."
The end of his sentence trailed off. I finished it for him. "That was
when you did him the favor. Helped him die the first time."
"That's it. How could a charity owe him something for dying? It
doesn't make any sense."
"What did your mother say about that?" I asked.
"It almost killed her." He closed his eyes against the memory of her
pain. "I wanted to warn her, to tell her that it was a lie, a fake, but Juan
wouldn't let me. He said she wouldn't act right. That nobody would
believe he was dead if she didn't believe it."
When he looked at me again, his eyes were wet. He said, "I wouldn't
ever do that again. It was wrong."
I didn't argue with him. "Did you remember anything more about
that company in San Diego? ARMACO? The one he worked for before
the PPN?"
"No. I'm sorry."
"Who was his boss there?"
He rubbed his forehead. "I don't know. Art, maybe?"
"Is there anything else? Anything I should know?"
"Not that I can think." He stood, hesitated. "You coming to the
funeral?"
"Maybe." I cleared my throat. "Someone wanted me to tell you how
sorry she is. She wants you to know that she didn't have anything to do
with what happened to Juan, that she cared about him even if things didn't
work out. That she feels for your family."
Herdez nodded without saying anything. I added, "She wants to
know if it would hurt anyone if she came to the funeral."
He looked troubled. "I don't know. Mom is, well, she was pretty
unhappy about the divorce. She's a good Catholic and she blamed Jenny
for the break-up. On top of that, Juan was pretty unhappy for years. He
─ 117 ─
Harlen Campbell
really loved her, you know? I think . . . maybe the Mass. But not the
cemetery. We should bury him alone. It wouldn't be right if she was there
when we said goodbye to him."
"Okay." I shook his hand and ran the gauntlet in his outer office,
then drove to the main bridge over the border and walked into Juarez.
Wealth and poverty walk side by side down Avenida Juarez, and that
was the most striking difference between El Paso and Juarez. The streets
on the American side were devoted to the automobile, empty of people.
But once I'd joined the parade of day workers and tourists, men and
women out to make a buck or spend one, and stepped into Mexico, I was
surrounded by humanity. Freshly shaven businessmen and hungry boys
peddling gum and shoeshines competed for my attention, shared the
sidewalk with pimps and secretaries, dealers and priests, cab drivers and
police informants. The street felt more dangerous, but also more human.
I kept my eyes open as I walked south on Avenida Juarez, past the bars,
strip joints, pharmacies and booths that sold leather goods, pottery,
serapes, and liquor.
The third man who approached me looked like he'd do. He leaned
against a wall near the American Bar, and as I passed, he said casually,
"Girl, señor? Pretty girl? Ver' young?"
He was middle-aged and hungry, but not too hungry. His clothes
were good, but not too good. A fresh white shirt, dark slacks, spit
polished boots. His hair had been cut recently and his face was smoothly
shaven. The ring on his little finger was gold, but the stone probably
wasn't a diamond. He'd want some help upgrading it. I stopped beside
him, helped him hold up the building, and pulled a hand from my pocket.
Showed him a corner of a bill with a couple of zeroes on it. "I have a
special problem, my friend. How's your English?"
His eyes shot from the bill to my face, then darted up and down the
street -- a wolf's quick check for other predators. "I speak the English ver'
excellent, señor!"
He closed the gap between us to a proprietary inch. "What kinda
special problem you got? You want a boy? Something to smoke?"
"More special than that. You have a name, friend?"
"Call me Fronk. What kinda problem? Police problem, maybe?"
He'd grown tenser.
─ 118 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Not that special, Frank. You have a car?"
He started selling himself. The hundred I'd flashed had his full
attention. "Sure, man. I got a Cadillac. Ver' special car for hombre with
special problem. Where you wanna go?"
"Let's take a ride while I tell you about it."
He looked me over carefully, weighed the looks of me against the bill
in my pocket, and then shrugged. Led me down a cross street, three
blocks west. His special car turned out to be a twelve-year-old Seville
parked in front of a whorehouse called the Lanterna Verde, the Green
Lantern Club. Frank tossed a coin to the kid leaning against it and
unlocked a door for me.
Once we were out of the worst of the border traffic, moving east on
16th of September Street, I told Frank about the trouble my brother had
gotten into down in Chihuahua. "He's a good kid," I said, "but a little soft
in the head, you know? Somebody tells him a story about helping the
orphans, the poor people, and he can't help himself. He's got to get
involved. My mother says he should be a priest instead of a student.
That's why she don't understand how he got himself arrested. She says all
he did was give some money to the orphans. And now I've gotta go down
there and help him out. It's a family thing, you understand?"
"Family, sure!" Frank nodded vigorously. "But what you want here
in Juarez? Chihuahua is many miles from here. I can't take you down
there. It's too far, man. Anyway, I got plenty of business here, you
know?"
"I don't wanna go down there and do something stupid, Frank. My
brother told Mom that he just gave some money for the orphans and he
got arrested. That doesn't make any sense to me. I want to know who he
gave the money to, what kind of hombres he got mixed up with. He gave
our madre this telephone number, and that's all I know, so I need
somebody to call it, somebody who speaks Spanish good, not like a gringo.
Somebody smart enough to ask the right questions and find out who these
guys are that got my little brother arrested."
Frank frowned as he dodged a bus, leaned on his horn, shouted
Chinga! out the window. The frown was for me, not the bus. "This
brother of yours, he's in the jail, right?"
"That's right."
─ 119 ─
Harlen Campbell
"So how come he can make all these calls on the telephono to his
mama?"
"I sent him some money for the policia."
"Ah." That explained it. "So all you want is this favor, for me to
make this telephone call?"
When I nodded, he shook his head. "I dunno, man. You showed
me a lotta dollars. I think maybe there is more."
"The money is for asking the right questions, Frank. I'm thinking
about my brother. I can't be thinking about dollars too. You
understand?"
"I guess." He spun the wheel. "We'll go to my place."
Frank's house was like his car, poor but optimistic. It sat on a small
lot near, but not quite in, a slum on the east side of the city. His wife met
him at the door in a green housecoat. Her eyes widened and the frown
between her carefully plucked eyebrows deepened when she saw me. She
said nothing when we entered, just stepped aside. He gave a sharp glance
at the plastic playpen on the linoleum in the middle of the living room
floor and she turned hurriedly, scooped a child from it, and left the room.
As she fled, the kid, a girl around three years old with carefully brushed
black hair and tiny gold crosses in her ears, stared at me with wide eyes
over her mother's shoulder.
The telephone was on a corner table between a couch and a plastic
chair. It was one of the old, black, rotary dial machines. Frank sat next to
it and I handed him a slip of paper with the number Tony gave me. He
looked at the paper, then at me. "What you wan' me to find out, amigo?"
"The street address. Who the number belongs to. If it really is some
kind of charity, get the name. Try to find out who is running it. If they
are taking donations and what the money goes for. Anything else you can
think of." He nodded and kept looking at me. I reached in my pocket,
dropped a hundred on the table, and he dialed.
While Frank spoke, I wandered around the room. There was a
television in one corner, an old model with a thin metal case with a plastic
veneer that simulated some kind of dark wood. A statue of Our Lady of
Guadalupe stood on top of the television between two candle holders. An
open door led to the kitchen, to a small stove and a white Formica dinette.
The place smelled of fried hamburger and chile peppers.
─ 120 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Frank began scribbling on the paper I'd given him while he talked.
His daughter walked into the room and stared at me until her mother came
for her, then smiled over her mother's shoulder on her way out. I winked
at her and the smile disappeared.
Frank hung up, looked worried. "I dunno, man. I got what you
wanted. The address anyway, and the name of the people there, but
something didn't feel right, you know? The guy I talked to didn't care
nothing about getting any money. He was more interested in who I was."
"Who did you talk to?"
"At first, just the girl who answered the phone. I asked to speak to
el directór and got a man named Ramón something. He didn't tell me his
name, but I heard it when the girl called him."
"Did you get the name of the organization?"
"Sure. It's called Ayuda por los Indios, but it didn't sound like they
had no Indians working for them."
"What kind of Indians do they have in Chihuahua?"
He knew the answer to that. "Tarahumaras. Very poor. They need
help, all right, but I dunno if that Ramón hombre is giving it to them."
He was telling me about what I'd expected to hear. I asked, "So you
think something funny is going on?"
"I dunno." He hesitated. "I tell you what, Mister Special Problem, I
got a cousin who moved down there. If you want . . . ?"
I dropped a second hundred and he dialed again. This time, the
conversation lasted longer. Most of it seemed to involve updating each
other on family gossip, but toward the end Frank's voice rose sharply
several times. He hung up looking subdued and ran his fingers through
his hair.
"I think maybe you got a special problem after all, man."
"Tell me."
He shot a quick glance toward the door his wife had used. "In the
car."
Once we were on our way to the bridge, Frank swallowed and said,
"I think this problem of your brother's is more special than you thought."
"What do you mean?"
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Harlen Campbell
He hesitated. "My cousin told me, maybe that Ramón guy wasn't
running no regular charity. He said they got big problems with la policia,
man. He said they was good people to stay away from."
"They're doing something illegal? Drugs?"
"Ah, shit!" He drove in silence for a few minutes, then said, "This is
Mexico, my fren'. You goddamn gringos don't understand that. I say
illegal and you think of the drugs, but what you don't understand, down
here it is politics that is the most illegal, the most special goddamn
problem. You got it too goddamn easy up north."
He swerved around a bus, almost took out a young woman pushing
a baby carriage, and honked a disinterested threat at her. "If that brother
of yours gave money to that Ramón, then I think the best thing is, you go
down there and talk to the policia. You find a capitán who is simpatico,
friendly, you understand?, and you make a donation. No matter how big a
donation he asks for, you make it. And then you get that goddamn
brother home to his mama. You tell him, stay the hell out of Mexico,
man!"
"But maybe I have to talk to Ramón. What did your cousin say
about this political party?"
He gave me a slow glance. His Cadillac drifted toward the next lane.
The Chevy using it at the moment honked long and loud. It's driver
accompanied the horn with a gesture. Frank jerked the wheel. "This
brother of yours, he got a name?"
"John," I said. "John Murphy."
He shook his head angrily. "I don't think so, señor."
I put another bill on the seat between us and asked him, "You love
the PRI so much, Frank?"
He glanced down at the seat but he was still shaking his head. "You
saw my little niña, my little Susanna? She's what I love, señor. I don't
want her growing up without no papa."
"You already made the call," I said softly. "Take the money, Frank.
Buy Susanna a pretty dress. Tell me the name behind the charity."
He braked violently. I looked out the window and saw the bridge
back to El Paso. He scooped up the bill, crumpled it and shoved it in his
pocket. "There's your way home, gringo!" he said. "You stay away from
that focking Partido del Pueblo Nuevo. And stay the hell away from me!"
─ 122 ─
Jennifer's Weave
It took longer to cross the bridge going north than it had coming
south even though most of the traffic was against me. U.S. Customs was
partly to blame, but it was mostly dissatisfaction that slowed me down. I'd
wanted more than I got, as usual.
Jenny was more than usually upset when she opened her door. She
spat, "Where the hell have you been? It's been over five hours!"
"I had people to see," I said mildly.
Sharon was at the table, dealing herself a hand of solitaire. I took the
chair opposite her. Jenny wouldn't let it go. "People? Besides Tony?
Who?"
"I crossed the border and found a man willing to call Chihuahua for
me. It turns out that PPN stands for Partido del Pueblo Nuevo, the New
People's Party. I don't know what they stand for, but they're running
some kind of a mission in Chihuahua. Helping the Indians, they say."
"Oh." Jenny went quiet.
Sharon had forgotten the deck in her hands. She looked a question
at me and so I told them about Frank and the call he'd made. Jenny
seemed to be listening, but she was thinking about something else. When
I finished the story, she said, "You think there's more to it. Why?"
"Because Herdez is dead."
Sharon asked, "You're going down there?"
I nodded. "Maybe I can stir something up."
"What's the point?" Jenny asked. She walked to the window and
stared out at the city. She looked as good as she ever had, but I felt empty.
She didn't arouse a single unequivocal emotion. Because I knew her
better? That was crap. I understood her less than ever.
When I turned back to Sharon, she was watching me with the same
intensity I'd given Jenny. I ignored it. "Juan had something of theirs. I'd
like to know what it was. I'd also like to know how badly they want it
back. Would they kill him for it?"
She frowned. "You suspect the PPN?"
"Someone killed Herdez." I sighed. "We don't know what the PPN
is up to, but they're definitely political. Maybe they're into assassination.
Maybe Herdez was involved."
"When are you leaving?"
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Harlen Campbell
"After the funeral. Speaking of which, even one redhead in that
church would be one too many." I tossed my keys to Sharon. "You
women want to do something about that?"
Jenny looked in the mirror, touched her hair. "You think the police
will be there?"
"El Paso is out of Martinez's jurisdiction. He isn't likely to come
over the border. I was thinking about the others."
Sharon shot me a quick glance. "Thurmond and Hickson?"
"Them. And maybe others. There's still a killer running around."
Jenny followed Sharon without complaining. I went next door and
used the shower, then lay down to wait for them. A knock woke me a
couple of hours later. I opened the door between our rooms and faced a
redhead. Stared. It was Jenny, but it wasn't.
"What happened? I mean, why?"
Sharon smiled at my look. "If someone expects a redhead, we
should supply a redhead. You like?"
I nodded, but told her, "This might not be a good idea."
"It might be a damned good idea."
"Maybe." Jenny stood in the background. She had become a
brunette. Her blue eyes went well with black hair. Her smile was tentative
and I returned it tentatively. I wasn't happy about Sharon's dye job, but it
was done. "You ready for dinner?"
They nodded in unison. We ate at a restaurant on Mesa Street. The
food was decent, but I felt uncomfortable during the meal. I kept starting
a comment to Jenny, suddenly realizing that I'd spoken to Sharon. They
both thought my confusion was hilarious. When I tired of amusing them,
I drove back to the hotel and dumped them in Sharon's room.
The services for Juan Herdez began at ten o'clock Saturday morning
with a Mass at Immaculate Conception church. We arrived a few minutes
early and sat in the parking lot, watched the mourners congregate on the
steps. Tony stood halfway up the steps with a blonde a few years younger
than him. He greeted people as they arrived, shook hands, forced smiles.
He seemed distant, somehow. The blonde fussed over a boy of about
twelve who seemed uncomfortable with the attention he was getting, but
she sent frequent, worried glances at Herdez.
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Jennifer's Weave
"His wife," Jenny murmured. "Grace. The boy is John. He was
named after Juan."
Sharon nodded. "Who are the others?"
She meant the women at the top of the steps. They stood like
shadows against the closed half of the doorway. The mourners paused
there longer than they had with Tony, and they traded hugs instead of
handshakes. The one on the right was in her fifties, fairly trim, with a
square face, black hair pulled into a tight bun. Imagine a ghost with rouge
and lipstick. The woman beside her held her arm tightly, as though to
support her. Or herself.
"His mother and sister," Jenny said. "Angela and Connie."
"Where are their men?"
"Juan's father died years ago. I think Connie is divorced."
"How well do you get along with them?" I asked.
"Connie and I got along okay." Jenny shrugged. "I wasn't part of
the family for very long. I don't know how either of them feels about me
now."
Sharon picked up on her omission. "His mother didn't like you?"
Jenny licked her lips. "I don't do well with mothers."
I asked, "Which of them would Juan have been most likely to
confide in?"
"His mother, of course, but he wouldn't have told her about
anything that wasn't legal, if that's what you're thinking."
It had been. I looked over the rapidly thinning crowd, asked, "What
about friends? Do you see anyone he might have confided in? About
what he was doing in Mexico?"
She shook her head. "Only his family."
The bells began ringing, announced the beginning of the service.
Jenny took a deep breath and opened her door.
By the time I'd gotten Sharon out of the car, she was halfway to the
steps. Juan's family watched her approach in silence. The mother turned
away, entered the church. Her daughter started to follow, then apparently
changed her mind and waited beside Tony.
Sharon was walking slowly, looking around. I tried to hurry her
along. She shook her head sharply, said, "Wait!" She dug a pair of dark
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Harlen Campbell
glasses from her purse and put them on, then looked pointedly over my
shoulder and whispered, "Don't turn around."
Jenny reached the church door, spoke briefly to Tony and his sister.
She shook Tony's hand and gave Connie and Grace a brief hug.
Sharon stumbled, leaned against me for support, walked slowly
toward the church. She whispered, "Give me your keys."
I dropped them in her hand. She folded it tightly around the key
ring. I touched her chin, moved her head until I could see the lot behind
me reflected in her dark glasses. Two men were crossing the street toward
us. Thurmond and Hickson. I ignored them, led Sharon slowly up the
steps. Jenny had disappeared into the church. Tony and his sister were
still on the steps. They both looked confused.
Tony shook my hand. "I'm glad you could come." He turned to his
sister. "This is the man I told you about." His eyes returned to the
redhead on my arm.
"My friend, Sharon," I said softly. Connie glanced from Sharon into
the church, looked puzzled. Thurmond and Hickson reached the foot of
the stairs.
"Let's go in," I said.
He nodded. The four of us started for the door. Behind us,
Thurmond called out, "Porter! Murphy! Just a minute!"
The others walked on. I stopped in the doorway, blocked it. Faced
Thurmond. "What do you want?"
He confronted me. "Jennifer Murphy. Is that her with you?"
Hickson tried to slip around me. I stayed in his way. "You've got
the wrong woman. That's a friend of mine."
Hickson said, "Move, damn it!"
I said, "Cool it, asshole. This is a church." Then told Thurmond,
"Sit in the back if you want. I'll introduce you after Mass."
He gave me a cold look, then nodded and put his hand on Hickson's
shoulder. "Cover the rear. We'll wait."
Hickson looked angry, but he headed around the side of the church,
toward the Sacristy entrance. When I turned around, Sharon was halfway
down the center aisle. She had apparently stumbled next to a dark-haired
woman. She waited until I reached her and used my arm for support while
we found two seats. I squeezed her hand. It was empty.
─ 126 ─
Jennifer's Weave
The service involved a lot of kneeling, sitting, standing, singing. The
priest mixed Spanish and English in the prayers and hymns. He delivered
the sermon in English. He hadn't found any new comfort for the
survivors, but at least he had known the deceased, years ago. Juan had
been an altar boy and a nice kid. He was in a happier place now. The
priest guaranteed it. At the end, he raised his hand and dismissed us with
the same gesture I'd last seen on Jenny's kitchen floor.
The mourners filed out more quickly than they had entered the
church. Sharon and I joined the parade early. Jenny stared stonily ahead
as we passed. Her eyes were red and a little swollen.
Thurmond had an aisle seat in the last row of pews. He stood up as
we approached him and led us through the door. I looked around, saw
Hickson behind us. He had apparently entered through a side door
sometime after the service started. They had us bracketed. Thurmond,
apparently feeling confident, led the way off to one side of the parking lot,
toward my car.
I balked at that, stopped suddenly and maneuvered so he and
Hickson had their backs to the car. "What do you want, Thurmond?"
He focused on Sharon. "Jennifer Murphy?"
"Who are you? What do you want?" She sounded frightened.
Hickson said, "You're under arrest, Miss Murphy."
I shook my head at Thurmond. "You want to explain to this turkey
that El Paso is north of the border?"
He blinked, said, "Cool it, Hickson," and then turned to Sharon.
"You're under arrest, Miss Murphy. Does that satisfy you, Porter?"
"Not nearly." Over his shoulder, I watched Jenny pull my car out of
the parking lot. "I told you before the service that you had the wrong
woman. Show him, Sweetheart."
She dug into her purse, came out with a California license. As she
handed it over, she removed her sunglasses. He saw her name and looked
up sharply. "Sharon Coulter?"
Hickson was reading over his shoulder. He said, "According to
that, she's a blond."
"Women change hair color all the time," I said.
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Harlen Campbell
"Indeed they do," Thurmond looked furious. "But I wonder why
she picked red." He glared at Sharon. "What are you doing in El Paso,
Miss Coulter?"
"I'm visiting Rainbow." She made a face. "I don't like funerals
much, but he wanted to come."
"I suppose you're still looking for Murphy," Thurmond said to me.
I shrugged. "There was a possibility she'd show up."
"You have a thing for redheads." He glanced at Sharon. "I thought
you had a relationship with Murphy?"
"I got lonely," I told him. "As long as we're here, why don't you
answer a couple of questions?"
Hickson made a rude noise and walked away from us. Thurmond
asked, "What do you want to know?"
"Why were you so sure Herdez killed that man in San Diego two
years ago?"
"Brian Arthur? Because he had the motive and the opportunity."
"Tell me about his motive."
"He was protecting his ass. Trying to stay out of prison. How's that
for a motive?" He was getting impatient. "Stay out of it, Porter. It's
government business."
"Finding Jenny is my business, Thurmond. Why are you looking for
her? You wanted Herdez for a killing, but you just saw him buried. Why
are you still here?"
He ignored the question, warned me again to stay out of his way, and
started after Hickson. Sharon called him back. "Hey! Didn't you forget
something? My driver's license?"
He turned and threw it at her feet, then hurried away. She stooped
to pick it up. I was scanning the parking lot. Most of the cars were gone.
The mourners had followed the hearse toward the cemetery.
Thurmond and Hickson were thirty yards away, off to our left,
walking quickly toward their car. Another car, a white Ford, nosed around
the corner on our right and stopped. I stared at it, but I was thinking of a
ride to the cemetery.
Sharon followed my gaze. She said, "Uh, oh." Then I saw it and
jumped into her. Locked my arms around her and twisted as we fell so
that she landed on top of me.
─ 128 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I rolled onto her while she fumbled in her purse. Three shots
echoed down the street. Chips of stone from the facade of the church
showered us.
Sharon found what she was looking for, bucked her hips. I rolled
off her and she rolled onto me, straddled me with the automatic in her
hands trained on the Ford.
It's tires squealed. I grabbed the barrel of the pistol, pushed it
upward. Grunted, "No!" Twisted my head back so I could see the
government employees. They had hit the pavement, full length, and were
beginning to stand, to run toward the speeding car.
"Put the gun away, damn it!"
She looked down at me. Her eyes blazed. "It was my shot! God
damn you, you made me miss my shot!"
"Put it away! The feds!"
She closed her eyes, shuddered, and the weapon came away in my
hand. I shoved it into her purse. Looked up again. The civil servants
were standing in the street, staring after the car. Which was out of sight,
of course. They turned back to us and started running.
The pavement ground against the back of my head. Sharon still sat
on my hips. I jerked them, suddenly aware of my condition.
"Get off me."
She looked down at my face and suddenly smiled. "You do. You
have a thing for redheads!"
"Don't be stupid. Get off me." My excitement faded.
She laughed, then stood. By the time Thurmond and Hickson
arrived, I was on my feet beside her.
Hickson, breathless, demanded, "Did you see them? Did you get the
plate?"
"What? On that pickup that backfired?" I brushed the dust from
my pants.
"Backfire my ass! Those were shots!"
"Were they? I didn't think so." I played it as casually as I could.
Thurmond said, "If you thought it was a pickup backfiring, what
were you doing on the ground?"
"A reflex. That's all. Come on, Sharon. Let's get out of here."
Hickson said, "It wasn't a pickup."
─ 129 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Wasn't it? I didn't see it clearly." I looked at Sharon. "Did you?"
She stared at me for a moment, then shook her head. "It happened
so fast."
"Wait a minute! They were shooting at you!" Thurmond told her.
She said, "Don't be ridiculous."
He insisted. "They had to be. It was your hair. They mistook you
for Murphy."
She was still shaking her head, denying it.
I said, "Let's get out of here," again. Took her arm and started
walking.
Thurmond said, "Where's your car?"
I looked around, then told him, "We came with Linda Gallegos. She
must have left without us. Don't worry. We'll get a cab."
"Wait for the police. They'll want to know what you saw."
"You're calling the cops over a little noise?"
Hickson said, "Shit. Let them go."
We kept walking.
Once we turned the corner, Sharon started shaking. She covered it
by yelling at me. "Don't ever do that again! That was my shot!"
"It was at least fifty yards," I told her, "at a moving target. And there
were houses behind the target. You're pissed because of your hip."
She took a deep breath, then abruptly closed her mouth. There was
a dry cleaner open down the street. I used the phone there to call two
cabs. Sharon regained her temper while we waited. "Did you see the
shooter?"
"One guy. Black hair. That's all."
"That's what I remember too. He had a rifle of some kind."
"It was an AK-47."
"You're sure?"
"The sound is distinctive. You remember it. Yeah, I'm sure."
"Okay." She changed the subject. "Why didn't you want to report
the shooting?"
"It would only have held us up. I want to get out to the cemetery."
"What the hell is there?"
"Juan's mother."
"You think she knows something?"
─ 130 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"I have to ask. It would be stupid not to."
She hesitated, cleared her throat. Asked, "Where am I going?"
She meant why two cabs, of course. "You think he was shooting at
you?" I asked.
"I think he was shooting at Jenny."
"Then we've got to get her out of town. You collect her and head
for Placitas. Make sure nobody sees her enter the house. If anybody
comes by, you're alone there. The dog should help."
"Speaking of which?"
"Oh. Right." I gave her the commands Tina obeyed, told her how
to reach Tina's trainer, gave her the code for the answering machine in the
room at Howard Johnson's. The first cab pulled up. I stopped her as she
stepped toward it by grabbing her elbow. "Change your hair color as soon
as you get there."
She smiled grimly. "If I did that, the bad guys wouldn't know who
to shoot at."
"Right." I swallowed. "How much am I paying you, anyway?"
"Fifty an hour."
"Make it seventy."
"You do like redheads, don't you?" She winked and stepped into her
cab.
Mine came along ten minutes later. The driver knew exactly where
the cemetery was, but the graveside service was over when we arrived.
Most of the mourners had taken off. The hearse was gone. The limo that
had carried the family out was still waiting, however.
I walked toward the grave. Juan's box was still above ground, draped
with flowers. The family stood some distance away, talking quietly.
Several other small groups were scattered around. I ignored them.
Tony looked up as I approached. "You missed the service."
"Something happened." I pulled him off the side, told him about the
excitement. His mother, sister, and wife watched us curiously.
Herdez was pale. He looked over his shoulder, checked his family.
"Shooting," he whispered, "and the FBI? What the hell is going on, man?"
"Somebody wants Jenny dead."
He shook his head, looked bewildered. "This means Jenny is
innocent, doesn't it? Mom almost fainted when she saw her at the Mass."
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Harlen Campbell
"Would she talk to me?"
"I don't know, man. She saw you with Jenny."
"Tell her I'm after his killer. Tell her I'm flying to Chihuahua this
afternoon."
"Yeah?" He took a deep breath. "I'll ask her."
I walked over to the grave while he did his talking. Juan had an
expensive casket. It suddenly occurred to me that it was the second one
the family had bought him. I was still looking at it when Angela Herdez
came up, stood silently beside me looking at the casket.
"This must be very hard for you," I said. "I'm sorry to intrude."
"It is worse to lose a son than a husband. It was worse for me."
"Did you know, the first time, that he wasn't in the casket?"
"No." After a long time, she added. "Tony should have told me. He
broke my heart for nothing. Maybe it was practice for today."
"When did you learn?"
"Maybe a week later. After that FBI man stopped asking questions."
"Thurmond?"
She nodded. Her eyes never left the grave. "You know him?"
"He's still asking questions."
"He will stop again. Now that my little Juan, my Juanito, is dead."
"Maybe." I cleared my throat. "Tell me about Juan."
Her voice softened. "He was a good boy."
"Did he confide in you?"
"He told me everything. Everything!"
"About the PPN?"
She frowned. "I heard those letters from Tony. What I heard from
Juan was the story of this mission, the Ayuda por los Indios. It was
devoted to helping the poor Indians, the Tara--, Tama--"
"I know the ones. Did he tell you about the people who run the
mission?"
"Only his friend. Ray Villanueva."
"Tell me about Ray, then."
She sighed. Met my eyes for the first time. "Juan met him in
Mexico, the first time he went there when he was a student. I think they
met in a church. Juan was a great idealist. He always was, before he
married that . . . that woman. And then after, when he was finally over her
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Jennifer's Weave
once and for all, he got his ideals back and went down there and met Ray
and started helping him with the poor Indios."
"Why did he come back?"
"Why should he stay there?" she demanded. "There are many hands
in Mexico, but few tools. The important work was here, where there is
money to buy the tools. Juan came up here to raise the money. He was
doing the important work!"
"Was this before or after he worked for ARMACO in San Diego?"
She looked blank. "San Diego? Juan lived there, but he never
worked for anyone in San Diego."
"You're sure?"
"Positive, Mr. Porter. Juan never lied to me. He just lived there
because it was easy to raise money for the orphans. And it was near Los
Angeles. People are very generous in Los Angeles."
I thanked her and walked her back to her family. On the way, I
asked my last question. "How much money did you contribute to the
Indians?"
She made a thin line of her lips. "Nothing."
"Why?"
"Juan wouldn't let me. He said the work he was doing was a
contribution from the whole family."
"I'm sure he was right."
"He was wrong! And now that he is gone, I'm going to see that
those Indians get something. What I had set aside for Juan."
"Wait," I advised her. "Talk to Tony first."
He walked me back to the taxi. I told him what his mother had said,
asked him why he never mentioned Juan's job with ARMACO to her.
"He asked me not to," he said simply.
"How did you find out about it?"
"Sometimes I cashed checks for him. Paychecks."
"You're sure they were paychecks? They had stubs that showed all
the deductions?"
He looked suddenly grave. "No."
We said goodbye and the taxi ran me back to the motel. I had the
driver wait while I checked out. When I asked about Sharon and Jenny,
the desk man said my friends had left almost an hour ago.
─ 133 ─
Harlen Campbell
VII
A DEAD MAN'S GAME
Chihuahua is a high desert city just under one hour south of El Paso
by air. Its population pushes the one million mark hard. When I walked
out of the Mexican customs and immigration area shortly after four
o'clock that Saturday afternoon, it seemed that every one of the million
had a taxi parked and waiting just for me. I picked the driver who looked
least reputable and asked his fare to downtown. His estimate was
astronomical, even translated from Pesos to dollars. When I started to
walk away, he cut it in half. I offered him a third of that and we negotiated
from there. Three minutes later, my bag lay on his back seat and we were
on our way.
My driver's name was Roberto. The address Frank, the middle-class
pimp in Juarez, gave me for Juan's charity was on a short cross-street near
the university, 810 Calle Placido. The address I gave Roberto was two
numbers off, number 812.
It was not a wealthy neighborhood. Both sides of the block were
lined with three- or four-story apartments, offices and small shops. A
newsstand. Four drunks arguing in front of a cantina. A kiosk that sold
some kind of fried meat. The street was dusty, the gutters littered with
newspaper and crushed paper cups that advertised Pepsi or Fanta. The
cars parked there were either American or Volkswagen bugs or wagons,
but uniformly old. The bus that struggled down the street ahead of us was
badly overloaded, more efficient at generating clouds of black diesel smoke
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Jennifer's Weave
than at hauling its cargo forward a short block at a time. The sidewalks
were full of the young, the poor, and the jobless. Dogs with lowered
heads and ribs you could count.
Number 812 didn't exist. The building where it should have been
was number 810. At various times it had been a vegetable market, a bar, a
storefront church. The old signs overlay each other on the dirty window.
The lettering currently on top read Ayuda por los Indios, Indian Aid.
Roberto drove up and down the block twice. Slowly. He cursed in
frustration, turned to me angrily. "You got the right street for sure, señor?
That dam' numero 812 for sure ain't here!"
"The street is right. Maybe I got the number wrong." I was busy
trying to see through the window of 810.
"Who the hell a rich gringo wanta see on this dam' street?"
"A lawyer, un abogado. His name is Ray Villas."
"A dam' lawyer? Here?"
"Villas is a special lawyer." I winked at him like he should know
what that meant. He said, Aah, like he knew what it meant. I pointed to
the storefront. "Maybe his office is in there. Go check it out, por favór.
Ask for Ray Villas. Un abogado. See if they know him."
"I ain't no dam' errand boy, señor. Lemme get one a these dam'
kids."
"You expect a good tip, Roberto?"
"Be right back, señor."
I put a hand on his shoulder, squeezed a little. "When you get inside,
my friend, don't mention any dam' rich gringo to the people there. Tell
them you have a delivery. You understand?"
He looked at me for a few moments, nodded slowly, and left the cab
double-parked. I leaned back, listened to the cars behind me honk, then
edge past as their drivers glared and cursed. He was back in five minutes,
muttering under his breath. He put the car in gear, eased the traffic jam
that had developed behind us. "I tol' you, señor, there ain't no dam' lawyer
there!"
I slipped a ten out of my wallet, held it out. It disappeared. I said, "I
want to buy you a drink, Roberto. Take us someplace where we can talk."
"Hey, you bet!"
─ 135 ─
Harlen Campbell
He found a place to drink and talk within six blocks. We could have
done anything else we wanted there, too. No sooner had we walked into
the shadows behind the door of the Club Yasmín than we were
surrounded. Soft arms and heavy perfume. Loud music. Mi carida, mi
amore.
Roberto was trying for a little side money. I disappointed him,
chased the girls away, found a table away from curious ears. I couldn't do
anything about the eyes.
We each ordered beer. I paid and looked the driver over carefully.
"Tell me about it."
He took a long swallow and smacked his lips. "I tol' you already.
No dam' lawyers."
"No Ray Villas?" I asked.
"The girl at the front tol' me there was a guy named Ray Villanueva,
but he wasn't no lawyer. She didn't know nobody named Villas."
"Did you ask to talk to him?"
"I didn't have to. That dam' guy come out while I was arguing with
the girl. He tol' me he wasn't no lawyer himself."
"What did he look like?"
Roberto shot a puzzled look at me. "He was tall, skinny. He had
good clothes an' a little, how you call it?, una barba?, on his chin, like so."
He sketched a sharp, pointed beard.
"Was he young?"
"Sure. Maybe young like you, señor."
About forty, then. "Rich?"
"Good clothes, anyway." He shrugged. "The thing I saw right away,
he must have had bad skin when he was a kid. His cheeks had lots of
those scars. Real rough, you know?"
I nodded. "But the office wasn't for lawyers?"
"Hell, no. It was for those dam' Indios. I think they try to help
them, maybe give them money."
"You sure about that?"
"Maybe." He drank another third of his beer, looked around for a
waitress.
"I mean, are you sure that is all they do?"
─ 136 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Sure." He'd caught the eye of a girl wearing a blue satin cocktail
dress with matching shoes, high heels that didn't look like they fit very
well. He gestured for another round. I canceled the order with a sharp
shake of my head and put a hand on his shoulder again.
"Listen to me, amigo! You have an opportunity here to make some
money. You want that?"
"Money? Sure." He blinked at my hand. "How much?"
I showed him a hundred, put it away. He said, "Who do I gotta kill,
señor?" He wasn't smiling.
"For a start, quit trying to make money for these putas, these
whores."
"Sure. You got it."
He was waiting to hear the rest. I asked, "You own that taxi?"
"Sí, señor!"
"Then you help me. Be my driver for one or two days. I'll pay you
all the fares, plus good tips, and I'll pay you for your time. And when you
take me to the airport in a couple of days, I'll give you the hundred dollars
for a present. You interested?"
"Sí, señor!"
"Then tell me about the girl in that office."
"That girl? Why you wanna know? There is plenty girls right here."
He waved at the birds who perched at the bar, watched us with bright
interest.
I sighed. "You work for the policía, Roberto?"
He snorted and spat on the floor. "Them? No way, man!"
"Then maybe you should stop asking questions. It makes me very
nervous, you understand?" My hand was still on his arm. I let him feel the
pressure.
"She was just like these girls, only maybe not so pretty," he told me
quickly. "Big, how you say it? Tits? And she wasn't no whore."
"You think she would talk to you about her boss?"
"Hah. No way! She look at him like he owned her, you know?"
"Okay." I thought a minute, then said, "I think this Ray Villanueva is
the man I'm looking for. I want to talk to him, but first I want to know
something about him. Where he lives. Who visits him. You understand?"
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Harlen Campbell
"Sure, señor. No problem." He looked relieved that I hadn't asked
him to kill anyone yet. "Anything else?"
"Yeah. First, I want a place to stay, somewhere in the neighborhood.
It doesn't have to be nice and I don't care if you make a little commission,
but I don't want any questions."
"No problem. We go right away!" He sounded eager.
"Also, I want to buy something. Una pistola."
His face fell a foot. "You got a problem, señor. Those dam' pistols
are against the law. How about a nice knife? Maybe a Machete?"
When I shook my head, he sighed. "That's gonna cost you a buncha
dollars then."
"How much?"
"Maybe five hundred?"
We agreed on two hundred and he left me with the ladies at the bar.
I bought a couple of them drinks just to be friendly and we talked about
Roberto. They didn't like him for the same reason girls all over the world
don't like a man. He was cheap and ugly. Either trait alone would have
been okay, but not both together.
Two beers later, Roberto slid into the seat beside me and chased the
girls away. He pushed a paper sack into my lap under the table. I glanced
down. He'd brought me an old .25 caliber revolver. It would do. I
pocketed it. "Now let's find that hotel."
His third suggestion, the Casa Hidalgo, was satisfactory. My second
floor room was a little threadbare, but it was clean and had both a private
bath and a telephone. What mattered was that the telephone didn't go
through a switchboard. I sent Roberto out with instructions to hang
around Villanueva's office, try to follow him home. Then I dialed
Albuquerque for messages. There was only one on the answering
machine. Sharon, reporting from a pay phone in Albuquerque. They had
arrived safely and were going on to Placitas. I left the name of my hotel
and added that I'd located Villanueva and intended to see him that
evening.
Roberto called from the lobby an hour and a half later and sped off
as soon as I climbed into the cab. It was after seven. I asked, "What took
so long?"
─ 138 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"That dam' guy must like working," he said. "That chiquita, that girl
who answers the phones, she left a long time ago. I hung around, turning
down fares like crazy, until I was afraid he went out a back door, you
know?"
I took his hint, gave him a twenty to make up for all the fares he'd
turned down. "But he finally came out?"
"Sure." The bill slid into his pocket like a vagrant into a flophouse; it
had come to rest, but it hadn't found a home.
"You followed him?"
He laughed. "I done better than that, señor. I picked him up an'
drove him!"
That wasn't so good. "Did he recognize you?"
"Sure. He asked if I ever found that abogado, that lawyer, Villas. I
tol' him no, I took that dam' package back to where--"
"Cut the crap! Did you take Villanueva home?"
"No, señor." He stared through the windshield angrily.
"Then where the hell are we going, Roberto?"
"I figured you was hungry, señor. The Monte Verde is a nice place,
very expensive. Very good food."
I stared at him. I'd offended him by interrupting his story. I
apologized with a ten and asked him to tell the story his own way, but to
remember that I was an impatient man.
He nodded, smiling again. "Sure, man. Like I was telling, that dam'
Villanueva was hungry. I took him to a restaurant--"
"The Monte Verde?"
He looked hurt by my rudeness. Nodded. I told him he'd done well
and let him take his time with the rest of it. By the time we pulled up in
front of the restaurant, I'd learned exactly nothing. But Roberto was
content.
The dinner hour in Chihuahua was just beginning and the Monte
Verde had plenty of tables available. I used a five to steer the Maitre D'
toward one near a tall, skinny man with acne scars and a pointed little
beard. He'd found a pair of friends after Roberto dropped him off. Two
middle-aged Mexicans, dressed like rich Texans -- spotless white Stetsons
and spit-polished boots. They watched while I was seated, then ignored
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Harlen Campbell
me after I asked loudly, in English, of course, what kind of American beer
the bar stocked.
I ignored them as well. They were speaking too softly for me to
overhear anything, so I picked from the menu at random and told the
waiter I was in a hurry. The chef served an excellent beefsteak
Tampiqueno. It was a shame to drink it with American beer.
Villanueva and his friends were drinking coffee and discussing
dessert when I paid my tab and walked past them. Roberto flashed his
lights down the block when I stepped onto the sidewalk. His cab smelled
like tacos and beans. We waited another hour before Villanueva appeared
with the two men who had dined with him.
When he saw them, Roberto drew a hissing breath and cursed in
Spanish.
"What?" My hand found the puny little revolver.
"Those sons a' bitches," he spat out his window.
"You know them?"
"I know their dam' cousins! Federales. The national policía." He
spat again.
I looked them over more carefully. The thing in my hand was
suddenly a greater comfort, but the situation didn't make any sense.
Villanueva was supposed to be working for the PPN.
They shook hands and split up. The cops crossed the street.
Villanueva walked away from us and found a taxi at the next corner. We
followed him. "Stay way back," I cautioned Roberto. "He has already
seen you too often."
His cab headed for the downtown area. At first, I thought he was
returning to his office, but the taxi turned on Camino Bolivar and stopped
in front of an old house that had been converted into an apartment
building. I ducked as we passed Villanueva, paying off his driver. Roberto
turned around a block later and drove slowly back, parked in front of the
building. A light came on in a set of rooms on the front, ground floor.
Villanueva appeared briefly, drew his curtains.
Roberto had been unusually silent on the drive. We sat together for
a few minutes in the darkened cab, staring at the building, thinking our
own thoughts. Eventually, I said, "Tell me about these Indians, these
Tarahumaras that the charity is supposed to help."
─ 140 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"What's to say, señor?" He shrugged. "They are very poor, but there
are many poor people in Mexico. Even here, in a modern city like
Chihuahua, los pobres are everywhere."
"Are they organized? Do they like the PPN?"
He stiffened. Asked, "Is this political? You mixed up in some kind
of political bullshit?"
"Why?"
"I don' mind taking your dollars, señor, but I don' need no trouble.
And that dam' PPN ain't nothing but trouble."
"It's my trouble, not yours, Roberto. You're just driving a crazy
gringo around town."
"Dam' right!"
"Tell me about the PPN."
"I don' know nothing about it. There was some demonstrations,
many years ago. Sometimes you still see a poster, but the policía take them
down dam' fast."
"Are they revolutionaries? Revolucionarios?"
He answered reluctantly. "I dunno about that. You hear stories.
Maybe one of those dam' Indios shoot one of those dam' Federales, and
people talk about how it was the PPN. But I don' think so. Those Indios
are too poor to be revolucionarios. Where they gonna get any dam' guns?
The policía got all the dam' guns!"
"Verdad? Is it true?" I felt the weight in my pocket.
"Well, those Indios don' got any, that's for sure." He hesitated.
"What we sitting here for? You gonna go talk to that Villanueva?"
"Not tonight."
Roberto had lost some of his enthusiasm. On our way back to the
Casa Hidalgo, I revived it with a little cash and got his promise to return
the first thing in the morning, then spent an uneasy night on a mattress
that had known too many uneasy nights.
First thing Sunday morning meant just before noon to my driver. I'd
risen with the sun and spent the morning alternately cursing and prowling
the streets near the Casa Hidalgo for an open restaurant. Unsuccessfully.
Roberto arrived smelling like sour tequila and cheap cigarettes, like a
hundred dollar bill wouldn't get him into a whorehouse without a bath. I
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Harlen Campbell
exploded. He listened patiently until I ran down, then said, "You hungry,
right, señor? I know the place."
Hungry. Right. "What happened to you last night? You look like
shit."
"I got worry, my friend. Very, very worry. I don' like this PPN stuff.
Why you don' come with me to a nice place, pretty girl, good drinks? Be
smart?"
I shook my head and had him take me to breakfast, then sent him
home to shower and change while I ate. Sent him with a warning that he'd
seen his last tip if he wasn't back in an hour. He made it, just barely, and
we drove to the U.S. consulate. There I handed the business card Walter
Thurmond gave me to a very puzzled Junior Assistant Deputy Undersecretary, or something like that.
He was young, no more than twenty-five, but he was nobody's fool.
He checked the back of the card for clues to my real business, then began
with an apology. "I'm afraid the Consul isn't available, Mr. Thurmond.
Sunday, you know. Is this some kind of official business? We've never
seen anyone from the FBI here. Aren't you a little out of your
jurisdiction?"
"I'm on vacation." With a wink. "But I ran into a funny little
situation at my hotel. A guy solicited money from me for some charity run
by one of the local political parties. An outfit called the PPN. The New
People's Party. You ever heard of it?"
He was instantly out of his depth. "I think maybe we've heard of
them. Maybe I better call the Consul."
"I'm in a hurry, son. Just tell me about it."
"Well, I can't . . . I mean, we're supposed to report any contact
with--"
"I'm on vacation! I fill out reports every damned day at work, son.
I'm not going to fill out any more down here! If the consul or the
ambassador or whoever wants a report, he can damned well call me next
week, when I get back to work. My address and telephone number are on
the card, and you're welcome to keep it. In the meantime, why don't you
just tell me the unclassified stuff. Pretend we work for the same
government."
─ 142 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Well . . . ," He started slow, but once he got going it only took a
few questions to get everything I needed out of him. I was back in the cab
twenty minutes later, ignoring Roberto's monologue on the delights of the
city. The Consul may have had access to more information on the PPN,
but what the kid told me was enough.
It began around fifteen years ago, probably grew out of a
straightforward charity devoted to helping the poor of the city. That was a
period of rapid, devastating inflation. The poor grew in number and in
desperation. Some of the students at the local university became involved
and they politicized the organization. The PPN, the New People's Party,
had been organized about that time and it soon preempted the charitable
aspects of the organization.
At first, they were devoted to social issues. Poverty, hunger,
education, and so forth. They tried to work with the PRI, the official
government party that ran Mexico. They met with no success, and when
their protests and demonstrations became too embarrassing, they were
suppressed. Sometimes violently. People were beaten up and jailed. The
leadership made contact with radical members of other dissident groups,
went underground, retreated into the shadows. There were rumors of
plans for more violent action.
The original charity remained above ground and changed its rallying
point to the plight of the Tarahumaras, the poorest of the poor. It was
run locally by a man named Ramón Villanueva, a former student who had
been active from the old days. The consulate had no direct evidence that
he was still connected with the PPN, but it had plenty of suspicion. I was
strongly advised to stay away from him.
The kid I spoke with asked the name of the man who had solicited
the funds from me. I told him he was an American named John Murphy,
but that he looked like a Mexican to me. The kid had repeated his advice
as I left. Stay away from the PPN.
Roberto had been driving aimlessly around the city, running up the
meter, while I reviewed the conversation. I asked him, "Where do the
Tarahumaras live?"
He grinned, glad to have a direction. "Sure, señor! I show you right
away!" And drove me through a slum on the outskirts of the city. Dirt
road, really just a path. Sewage filled the ruts. Cardboard and plywood
─ 143 ─
Harlen Campbell
and canvas and mud shelters. Dogs that looked hungry, haunted, hunted,
and children more desperate still. One small boy pulled a wooden wagon
through the streets. He had a round head and high cheekbones, baggy
pants and a shirt that had been handed down so often it had lost all
relationship to its wearer, become just a community shirt. The wagon was
mounded high with refuse, picked-over garbage, and one of the braver or
hungrier dogs stalked it. The boy kept an eye on the dog, a stick in his
hand, as he pulled.
I'd been in worse places, places where the boy would have stalked
the dog. On the other hand, we weren't much more than a hundred miles
from the American border. I told Roberto to take me back to the Casa
Hidalgo. It was time to check my messages.
The woman behind the registration desk smiled broadly when I
walked through the door. "Aah, señor! Very good news. La señora está
aqui! Your wife has arrived!"
I looked around the lobby. "My wife? Where?"
"In your room, of course!" She was enjoying my confusion.
In my room. Where I'd hidden the damned gun because I couldn't
carry it into the consulate. "Of course. Thank you. She came alone?"
"Yes, señor."
I took the stairs up, stood well to the side of the door with my
pocket knife open but hidden. Knocked softly and said, "Telegrama,
señor."
"What? Rainbow, is that you?"
The knife went back in my pocket. "Open the door, Sharon."
She did, and stepped aside for me. My revolver dangled at her side.
No point in mentioning it. I'd have searched her room, too. "What
happened? Martinez?"
"No. She split."
"You're back down to fifty an hour."
"She seemed a little distracted at breakfast. She showered while I did
the dishes, and then it was my turn. When I finished dressing, she was
gone. I drove around and looked everywhere I could think, but . . . ." She
shrugged.
"Okay." I sat on the bed, rubbed my face. "What set her off? Did
you talk about anything special last night?"
─ 144 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Well, I told her about your message. Where you were. We talked
about Herdez and the funeral. The man who shot at us. The way those
two feds showed up. Lots of things. I took her over the day she found
the body again. The two days and three nights Herdez stayed with her. I
didn't learn anything new."
"Did she?"
"Not that I could tell."
"What was her mood?"
"Unhappy. Very unhappy. What would you expect?"
"That. Did anything happen this morning? What did you talk about
at breakfast?"
"The same things. And she wanted to know more about what we
found in California. She started asking about Halliday and that message of
his. I told her everything."
"Okay." I stared into space for a few moments. "Do you think she
could have gone back to Halliday?"
"I don't know, Rainbow. I can't figure her out. She could have gone
anywhere. She was very unhappy. This situation has really gotten to her."
"I think she has been unhappy for a long time. There has always
been something a little, well, sad about her. Something I wouldn't let
myself see."
Sharon waited for me to add something. When I didn't, she said, "I
don't understand how she got away so easily. I drove up and down every
road in Placitas. If she hitched out, she must have been lucky."
"Wait." I called Bebe, asked him the question. The answer was yes.
He had been feeding Tina when a woman came from the house and asked
for a ride into Albuquerque. He dropped her at the airport around eightthirty this morning. What? Oh, by the America West counter. Did he do
wrong? No.
I gave Sharon the bad news and the telephone. She used it while I
lay on the bed and stared at the ceiling. Twenty minutes later she hung up.
"There's no way to be sure without going back," she said. "Maybe if I
showed her picture around the counters . . . ?"
"No. If it comes to that, Martinez could do a better job. He has
manpower and authority. What's your guess?"
"Phoenix. But she could have gone anywhere from there."
─ 145 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Take a guess."
"Marin? Halliday wanted her back."
"Okay. Where wouldn't she go?"
This time Sharon was more positive. "Santa Barbara and El Paso.
Neither her father nor Herdez's brother has seen her. What about that
Indian woman in Cuba? The airport could have been a blind. Maybe she
just picked up her van and drove somewhere. The big question is why she
ran. This time."
"I know it. She had something to do or she was afraid of someone.
Either way, she hasn't told us everything she knows. And there is still the
question of why she won't go to the cops."
"She's guilty of something." Sharon had no doubt.
"Yes, but what? I don't think she killed Herdez. The only other
crime we know of is the shooting of Brian Arthur a couple of years ago,
and the feds seem sure Herdez did that."
Sharon asked, "What do you want me to do? Check out Halliday?"
I shook my head and stood. "Let's talk to Villanueva."
Roberto was nursing a beer in his cab in front of the hotel. He
looked hopeful when he saw a woman with me, then groaned when he
heard where we wanted to go. On the drive to Camino Bolivar, I told
Sharon about the men Villanueva had dined with last night and what I'd
learned about the PPN at the consulate earlier. She listened quietly, then
asked, "How do you want to play it? You think he'll be armed?"
"I don't think he'll be expecting anything, but I'll stand aside while
you do the knocking. You're less threatening." I passed her the revolver.
"In case you need to be a little threatening."
When he saw the gun change hands, Roberto groaned.
The apartment on Bolivar street had started life as a gracious threestory brick building set back from the street. It had been cut up, divided
into six apartments, two on each floor. Villanueva had number two, on
the right of the old foyer as we entered.
The foyer was large. A central staircase led upward from the highlypolished wood floor. The walls were white plaster. The building was
quiet. I took a position to the right of the door and waited while Sharon
knocked, waited, glanced at me, knocked again. The door opened and soft
─ 146 ─
Jennifer's Weave
music drifted through it. Something by Vivaldi, maybe. She edged
forward a little so that whoever answered wouldn't step out, see me.
A man's voice, deeper than I'd expected: "Que--" He paused,
reevaluated her dress. "Can I help you?"
He sounded uncertain but his accent was good, his tone upper-class,
educated. Sharon smiled into the doorway. "Señor Villanueva? I wonder
if I could speak with you for a few minutes? It's about a man named Juan
Herdez."
"Madre de--" The exclamation was bitten off. After a moment, he
asked, "Who are you?"
The strains of Vivaldi leaking through the open door were suddenly
muted. He had company. I tensed. Sharon smiled more broadly and gave
her name, added that she had flown all the way from California to see him.
"I'm very sorry, Señorita. I don't know this man."
The door started to close. She edged forward again, clutched her
purse. "Of course you do, Señor. He worked for you."
"You're mistaken. I'm very sorry."
The door pressed against her foot. The pistol appeared in her hand.
She said, "It's very important."
A voice I recognized came from inside the apartment. "Let her in."
That was enough. I stepped forward, hit the door hard with my left
hand, knocked it back into Villanueva's face. He staggered back. His
glasses hit the floor. His lip began to bleed. Sharon followed me into the
room, closed the door softly behind us.
I said, "Hello again, Jenny."
"Rainbow!"
Villanueva demanded, "Who is this man!"
He'd found a
handkerchief, pressed it against his mouth.
I said, "Sit down, Ray." Jenny stood near a stereo cabinet. I stared
at her. "What the hell game are you playing?"
She looked alarmed. "What do you mean?"
"What the hell are you doing here?" I was angry. I strode over to
her. "You asked for help, but it looks like you're playing your own game."
She retreated into a chair. "I had to find out if Ray was involved. I
had to."
"Why didn't you tell me about him?"
─ 147 ─
Harlen Campbell
"I didn't want you to know." She put her face in her hands, sobbed,
and that defeated my anger. I turned to Sharon, lifted the revolver from
her hand, stood in the center of the room, idly spinning the cylinder with
my thumb. Wondering what the hell I'd been doing. Why.
Behind me, Sharon said my name and brought me out of it. I looked
down at Villanueva on the couch in front of me. His lip had stopped
bleeding, but he stared at the pistol and he was trembling. I put it away.
"Tell me about Herdez. Now."
He dabbed at his mouth with the rag. "He was my friend."
"Does that mean you didn't kill him?"
"I didn't know he was dead until twenty minutes ago."
"You know it now. Who killed him?"
"I don't know."
"You have strange dinner companions for a member of the PPN," I
told him. "Did they do it? Or arrange it?"
He turned pale. Whispered, "Who do you mean?"
"The Federales."
Jenny screamed, leapt from her chair. "You bastard!" She went after
him. Sharon grabbed her, held her away from Villanueva, but she kept up
a steady stream of curses.
Villanueva looked horrified. "No! I never told them about him! I
swear!" Then he slumped and repeated, "Juan was my friend. He came to
me when he got in trouble."
"What do you mean?" I asked. "When he faked his death two years
ago? After he killed Brian Arthur?"
"Señor Arthur is dead? Two years ago?" He looked at me without
comprehension. "That can't be! He was . . . I mean, Juan saw him just last
month. How can he be dead?"
Jenny suddenly went quiet. She stared at him, fascinated. She shook
herself free of Sharon's restraint and picked up her handbag from a table.
Announced, to no one in particular, "I'm going home."
Sharon looked a question at me. I shrugged. "Where are you
staying?"
She named a hotel.
─ 148 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Go then. We'll meet you there in a couple of hours." I told Sharon
to see that she got a cab. She started to say something, realized what I
meant, and nodded slowly. They walked out together.
Villanueva watched them go with what looked like relief. I asked
him, "If you didn't mean Arthur's killing, what did you mean when you
said Herdez came to you when he got in trouble?"
He searched my face. "You aren't working for the Federales?"
"Isn't that your job?"
His face fell. He hid it in his hands. "It isn't one I asked for."
"They've got you on the string?"
He nodded. "They said they would ruin my father. He is a
businessman. Not political."
"How long?"
"Have I worked with the Federales?" He closed his eyes.
Confessed, "Almost two years."
"What do they want from you?"
"At first it was names. It isn't even that anymore. I gave them the
names I had to, but not all of them." He tried to salvage a little pride. "I
didn't name my friends. I never named Juan. But the steering committee .
. . ? I gave them those. I had to. Three men! And in return, they let me
run the mission. I can still do my work for the Indios. I do some good."
He was playing the scale game with himself, balancing good and evil.
Maybe he saw the bar swinging against him. His face had that look. Long,
thin, and empty. The eyes that peered over his acne-scarred cheeks were
wide and unfocused.
I found his glasses on the floor and handed them to him to hide the
weakness, the injury I saw there. "Tell me about that trouble Juan got
into."
He cleared his throat. "Do you know what he was doing for us? For
the PPN, I mean?"
I had an idea. "Guns?"
"Yes. Not many. Just for defense, you understand?"
Sharon came back in, took a seat and listened quietly. Villanueva
didn't seem to notice her. I asked him, "Tell me about Juan Herdez."
"He came to me a month ago. He was afraid he was being set up
again."
─ 149 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Again?"
"Once before, a couple of years ago, he was afraid. But that just
blew over, I guess. Nothing ever came of it."
"Maybe it didn't," I said, "but two years ago the Federales took over.
Two years ago Herdez killed Brian Arthur."
Villanueva shook his head. "Why do you keep saying that? This
hombre, this Brian Arthur, has been Juan's contact all along. He is the
man Juan was afraid of."
"He died in San Diego two years ago." My voice sounded harsh,
even to me. "The FBI issued an arrest warrant for Herdez for Arthur's
murder. He has to be dead."
"He can't be."
There was nothing to say to that. "What did Herdez want you to do
about this set-up?"
"Talk to my friends on the steering committee. See why they had
turned against him."
"Did you?"
"Yes. They didn't know anything about it. You have to understand,
I was never directly involved in what Juan did. I just ran my mission and
stayed out of it after . . . well, after we were released from the prison."
Prison? "What are you talking about?"
"How we met. Juan and I spent Christmas together in prison nine
years ago. He was traveling around Mexico after his divorce, investigating
his roots, he said, and he didn't like what he saw here. The poverty, the
oppression. There was a demonstration over the inflation and the cost of
bread. The policía took me because I helped organized it and they took
Juan because he was an American citizen. The rest of the people, they just
beat up. Juan and me, we went in a cell together for three months. We
got to be amigos. True friends. That's why I never betrayed his name. I
couldn't!"
He hadn't had to, but I didn't point that out. There was no point in
spoiling the man's one small act of resistance. "So Herdez had his own
contact with the PPN?"
Villanueva nodded. "He joined after we were released. He was
kicked out of Mexico, of course, but they needed people to help raise
money from the gringos. Juan was very good at that."
─ 150 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Tell me about the guns. How did that start?"
"I told you he met lots of people when he was raising the money.
One of them was Señor Arthur. He had a small company that shipped
machinery all over latin America, and he knew what was happening here.
He wanted to help. Juan told me that at first he just gave a little money,
but then there was another demonstration and two of our members were
killed. Arrested and then shot when they tried to escape."
"Except that they didn't try to escape?"
Villanueva smiled grimly. "Of course not. But someone on the
steering committee, I don't know who, got the idea that we needed
weapons to protect ourselves. They approached Juan and he talked to
Arthur and then the shipments started having a little something in them
besides the machines. It was self defense."
Sharon broke in. "The company was ARMACO?"
"Sí. Yes."
"How did Jenny get involved in this?"
He closed his eyes, sighed. "With the weapons, Juan had a bigger
problem. You can just walk a thousand dollars across the border. Even
ten thousand. If someone stops you, you're going shopping. But with the
weapons there are manifests, orders, other things. He needed someone he
could trust, you see, and he trusted this ex-wife of his."
"Why didn't he use someone from the PPN?"
"Why should they take the risk?" He smiled at her and shrugged.
"Jenny wasn't political. No one watched her or checked her at the border.
She was just a tourista."
Sharon looked from him to me. "Why would she do it?"
"Let's ask her. Unless you have more questions for Villanueva?"
"No."
Roberto was waiting at the curb, chewing aspirin and rubbing his
temples. He had driven Jenny to the same hotel she named for us, and he
took us there, but slowly. He winced every time anyone blew a horn at
him. That happened frequently.
When we asked for Jenny's room at the desk, the woman there
shook her head regretfully. "I'm very sorry, Señor. The lady checked out.
Perhaps you could catch her at the airport?"
─ 151 ─
Harlen Campbell
We ran back to the cab. Coaxed and threatened as much haste from
Roberto as he had in him. But it was a long drive to the airport and we
missed her.
─ 152 ─
Jennifer's Weave
VIII
SHARON
Only the international gates were empty. Crowds still drifted from
the counters to the local gates, from the gates to the baggage area. Sharon
walked over to a display of scheduled departures and came back shaking
her head.
"There isn't another flight out until tomorrow morning." She waved
at the empty gates. "At least she warned us this time. She said she was
going home."
"Whatever that means."
"Yes." She was trying to read my face. "What do you want to do
next?"
"I'm tired of chasing her." She nodded, still watching me. I asked,
"Are you hungry?"
"I haven't eaten since breakfast."
"Roberto knows a place. You mind a stop on the way?"
She made a face. "Where?"
"I thought of a question we didn't ask Villanueva."
We let Roberto find the apartment on Camino Bolivar at his own
pace. Villanueva had no smile for us when he opened his door. He sighed
and asked, "Do you still have that pistol, Señor?"
"It will stay in my pocket."
He opened his mouth to say something, then closed it and walked
away from the door. "I guess I don't care," he said. He found a chair and
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Harlen Campbell
sat heavily. "It is just that I get so tired of all these guns. All I ever wanted
was to help the Indios."
"What about your friend? Juan Herdez?"
He blinked slowly. "Juan is beyond my help now."
"And the woman? Is Jenny beyond help?"
He sighed. "Tell me what you want. I will do what I can."
"And then you'll call your friends. The Federales."
"I won't do that."
Sharon said, "Don't badger him."
"Okay." She could have it her way. I wasn't enjoying the
conversation anyway. "Tell me more about the shipments of guns. When
did they start?"
"About three years ago. A few months after the demonstration, after
Pablo and Ernesto were killed."
"And when was the last shipment?"
"Just this month. October 14th."
Eight days before Herdez died. "Are you positive?"
"Of the date?" The question surprised him. "I delivered the money
to him. Didn't I tell you that?"
"You said Jenny was the go-between."
"Until two years ago," he said. "Then she stopped and I received
orders to take over."
Sharon asked, "Why did she stop?"
"Juan told me she had become afraid."
"What frightened her?"
He lifted his hands, showed his palms, and shrugged. I said, "You
told us that crossing the border was dangerous. Why did you take the
risk?"
"They ordered me to."
"The Federales wanted the shipments to enter Mexico?"
A whisper: "Yes."
"Did Juan know?"
"He would never have agreed."
"But you agreed."
"In order to continue my work." It sounded like he was trying to
convince himself.
─ 154 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I let it go. "These shipments. Were they always the same? From the
very beginning?"
"At first they were small. A few pistols and some bullets. For the
last couple years they were bigger. Rifles. Grenades. Machine guns. And
we had to bring them over the border ourselves."
"That sounds like Herdez changed suppliers."
"He told me the change was because the shipments were bigger,"
Villanueva said. "They were harder to hide. Señor Arthur didn't dare
jeopardize his business."
I wondered whether his blindness was caused by stupidity or a
simple determination not to see. "You said you paid Herdez on the 14th?"
"Of course. For the last shipment. One hundred and thirty
thousand dollars. We counted the money together."
"How was it packaged?"
"It was in a shopping bag when I left it with him," he shrugged and
added, "Wrapped in one of those cheap blankets the tourists like. It was
convenient to carry it that way."
"Did he take it like that or transfer it to something else?"
"I have no idea, Señor. How could I?" He hesitated. "Does it
matter?"
"Money is a motive for murder and the money is missing." His kind
of innocence is hard for me to believe. "So he made a delivery and you
paid him. Did you bring the weapons back across the border with you?"
Villanueva shook his head. "They used another man for that. Juan
parked the truck and walked away from it. The other man drove it into
Mexico later. Once the shipment had been checked, I received a call and
met Juan with the money."
"Where? What was the port of entry?"
"In Ciudad Juarez, of course. The port closest to Chihuahua."
"Do you know the other man? His name?"
"Oh, yes. Tomás Velasquez. A good boy. He works for me helping
Los Indios sometimes."
"Boy?" Sharon asked.
"He is only twenty-three," he told her. "He is much as I was, years
ago, when all this started. An idealist."
"Does he know about the Federales?"
─ 155 ─
Harlen Campbell
Villanueva hung his head. "No, Señor. He is innocent."
"Besides this money, did Juan normally carry anything else?
Anything that might be valuable?"
He shook his head. "Nothing valuable. He had one of those little
notebooks to keep the record of his contributors, but that's all. Isn't the
money enough?"
It was, of course. A hundred and thirty thousand dollars was
enough to explain any killing. I looked at Sharon. She was staring at the
man without expression. "Do you have anything else?" I asked her.
She shook her head. "I'm ready to go."
When Roberto dropped us in front of the Monte Verde, the bar was
doing a brisk business and the dining room was beginning to fill. We
accepted a booth in the rear, ordered a bottle of Sauvignon blanc and
appetizers. A shrimp cocktail for Sharon, Ceviche for me. The wine
arrived first.
Sharon tossed hers down, held her empty glass out before the waiter
could move around to me. Once he was out of earshot, she leaned over
the table. "Porter, it's none of my business, but I've gotta ask you
something. How much is Murphy paying you?"
"One dollar."
"That's-- What?"
"You heard me."
"Jesus. You work cheap." She shook her head. "The fringe benefits
must be something special."
"What do you mean?"
She took another sip, licked her lips. "I watch her." She spoke
slowly. "Jenny is one of those women. I see them, sitting alone in a coffee
shop, minding their own business. Eating a roll, perhaps, or reading a
magazine. I stand there with my tray, looking around for a table, and the
place is crowded so there aren't many. But as I look around, I suddenly
notice that every man, every single damned man in the place, has casually
maneuvered himself so that he faces her. They aren't staring. They don't
even look at her, not obviously, but as they glance around the room, their
eyes linger on her for a second. Maybe only half a second. Then they go
on talking to their wives or their girlfriends as though nothing happened.
Maybe they don't even realize it themselves, but something did happen,
─ 156 ─
Jennifer's Weave
and the women with them know it. And just for a second, maybe only
half a second, they hate that woman and they hate themselves a little bit
too."
"Not me. I don't do that." I emptied my glass and refilled it, felt
oddly defensive and unsure of exactly what charge I was defending myself
against.
"You do it too, maybe more than most men." She took a deep
breath. "Forget it. I'm just telling you what kind of woman she is. I don't
know why she's that way. I've studied her, tried to figure it out. She isn't
beautiful. Hell, she isn't even very pretty! Her bottom is too big and her
thighs could be thinner. Her nose is a little crooked. Her breasts are on
the small side and she doesn't take care of her nails. But you notice her.
Even women notice her. We watch to see how she does it, what tricks she
uses. But there aren't any. It's frightening."
I frowned at her. "You hate Jenny?"
"No. You don't understand."
"Well, hell." There was no point in arguing. I checked out the
dining room. "Look around, Sharon."
She did, casually. Over half of the men in the room faced our table.
She shrugged. "It's the hair," she said. "They don't get that many
redheads down here."
"Sure." Our appetizers arrived. I ordered another bottle to help
wash them down and changed the subject. "What was your take on
Villanueva?"
She didn't have to think about it. "He should have been a priest."
"Well, he'd never have made a soldier. You think he told the truth
about his involvement with the PPN? And the Federales?"
"Why would he lie? He didn't come off very well in the story."
"He could have tossed us a pork chop to hide a ham."
She worked on her shrimp while she considered that, then shook her
head. "No. There are too many loose ends in his story. If he were hiding
something, he'd have offered us a prettier package."
"You mean Brian Arthur."
"And the time thing."
"All those coincidences two years ago." I nodded. The waiter
picked up our plates and brought the main course. Poached sole for her
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Harlen Campbell
and grouper for me. Another bottle. When he left, I counted the
coincidences. "Herdez faked his death and changed his name. Jenny
stopped acting as the go-between. Brian Arthur died in San Diego. The
Federales subverted the PPN. What have I missed?"
"The change in the size of the shipments?"
"Yeah. That's the thing that doesn't make any sense at all. Do you
understand it?"
"No."
We worked on the fish and the wine for a while, ordered flan for
desert. Then brandy and coffee. Sharon swirled the amber in her snifter
and re-opened the question that bothered her most. "You know Jenny.
Why do you think she did it?"
"Carried the money for Herdez, you mean?" It bothered me too. "I
don't know. Maybe she still loved him."
"No. She divorced him. I don't even think he loved her anymore. I
think it was more a kind of fascination. Like Halliday."
"You don't think Halliday still loves her?" That surprised me. "He
wants her back."
"She deserted him," Sharon pointed out, "after his heart attack. You
can't love someone who has done that to you."
I wasn't so sure. "There are many kinds of love."
"Do you think she went back to him?"
I closed my eyes to consider that. "Where else could she go? And
he has enough money to protect her."
She sipped her brandy and said nothing. I asked, "Why did you
come to Chihuahua, Sharon? You couldn't have known Jenny would turn
up here."
"I had to see you. I needed instructions. You're the man paying me,
damn it!"
"You never heard of a telephone?"
"You're sorry I came?"
"No." I looked her over. The dyed red hair. Except for her brown
eyes, she looked so much like Jenny that she made me uncomfortable.
Her eyes and her walk. "I'm not sorry. I just don't understand it, that's all.
Why did you really come?"
─ 158 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Because I don't understand you either." She met my gaze squarely.
"You remind me of a cop. I like that."
I laughed. "You aren't even close."
"I mean your attitude. You believe in something. I just haven't
figured out what yet."
"I believe in earning my dollar. And I believe it's time to go." I
finished my brandy. "You ready?"
She nodded and sat closer to me in the back seat of Roberto's taxi
than she strictly needed to. I didn't mind. As we climbed from the cab, I
leaned in and told Roberto we'd be leaving in the morning, that I wanted
him out front before eight. "That means no tequila tonight, understand?"
He nodded. "Eight o'clock, Señor."
When we walked into the lobby of the Casa Hidalgo, I pointed to the
desk. "Don't you need a room?"
She hesitated, then walked over and spoke to the man behind it. He
shook his head twice and she came back to me frowning. "They're booked
up. I'll have to find another hotel."
It was my turn to hesitate. Then offer: "You can bunk with me. If
you can trust a non-cop to keep his hands off you."
She flashed a tight smile. "That's my choice. Not yours."
"Whatever."
We took the elevator up. While she was in the shower, I dialed the
desk and told the man there that we'd just come in. "The lady with me
asked you a question when we were in the lobby. Do you mind telling me
what she asked?"
"Su esposa? Your wife?" He sounded surprised. "About the
zoological park, of course. She asked if it was open, Señor."
"Thanks."
I stared at the door to the bathroom until Sharon came out wearing a
short cotton night dress, more like a shift. Whatever it was that she envied
Jenny, it wouldn't have been her figure.
I took the second shift in the shower. When I came out in my boxer
shorts, she was on the bed. I turned off the light on the dresser. She saw
my back and said, "Oh! What happened?"
I touched it. The scar tissue began just above my waist on the right
side, disappeared under the waistband, ran on down and ended near my
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Harlen Campbell
hip. It had healed long ago and I rarely thought of it, except in situations
like this. "They said it was shrapnel. I thought it was a bullet at the time.
It doesn't bother me."
"Vietnam?"
"Yes. Up in I Corps, near the border."
The room was still faintly illuminated by a streetlight on the other
side of the curtain. I walked over to the bed. Sharon watched me
approach, quiet as a red-headed ghost. Moved to one side to make room
for me. I stretched out beside her and tried to keep to my side of the bed.
It wasn't easy. The depression in the center was like a black hole. It drew
us into itself. Beyond that, I had no idea what led Sharon to invite herself
into that bed and it bothered me.
Around midnight we were lying side by side. Only our shoulders
and hips touched. Sharon's ragged breathing told me she was having as
much trouble sleeping as I was. I asked, "What's the matter?"
"The same old thing." Her voice was soft, but there was an edge in
it.
"Tell me."
"When that bastard hit me. I close my eyes and I see that damned
car getting closer and closer. And his face, through the windshield."
"You saw his face?"
"Of course." She took a deep breath, released it. "What do you
think I was aiming at?"
"What did he look like?"
"He was just a young black kid. He looked scared. Even more than
I was."
"What bothers you? Seeing his face?"
"No." She shivered. "I keep thinking that all I needed was a quarter
of a second. A lousy quarter of a second."
"And you'd have had him?"
Her head moved the pillow. "I'd have had him."
"I wish you'd had it."
"Thanks." After a few minutes, she asked, "Can't you sleep?"
"I keep thinking about Jenny."
Sharon stiffened. "What about her?"
─ 160 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"She did have an opportunity to kill him, you know. He was alive
when she found him. All she lacked was a motive."
She relaxed. "So?"
"So, we don't understand any of her motives."
She was quiet for so long that I thought she had drifted off, and then
she said, "Forget it. Jenny didn't kill him. She has too much guts. If she
had a reason to want Herdez dead, she would have done it somewhere
else. Not in her own kitchen."
"Guts?"
"It would take a lot of guts to walk out on a man who'd just had a
heart attack. I couldn't have done it. I'd have stayed there and suffered."
"Okay."
She cleared her throat. "Tell me about her. About you and her."
I wouldn't have tried if the room had been lighter. I said, "She hated
her life, I think. She asked me once if I thought people could change what
they are."
"What did you tell her?"
"That I couldn't."
"I see." After a moment, she asked, "Do you love her?"
The darkness helped with that one, too. "No. But we were friends.
Are friends. We slept together when we needed someone. It was a . . . a
convenience. And sometimes a comfort."
"She needed comfort? I don't understand."
"Maybe that's the wrong word. I had the feeling that if I'd ever told
her I loved her, she'd have been gone in a flash. All she wanted from me
was some holding, some sex and some holding."
"You mean tenderness."
"No. Nothing like that. It was like, when we were in bed, I touched
the outside of her, made her hurt or feel good . . . it didn't matter which. I
was touching her outside and that somehow helped her define her inside,
reminded her of who she was. She was the thing that I couldn't touch.
Does that make sense?"
"No. What about you? Do you need to be reminded what you are?"
That was funny. "No."
"Well . . . ?" She waited. "Aren't you going to tell me why you got
involved with her?"
─ 161 ─
Harlen Campbell
"No."
We lay side by side in the shadowed room. Two drunks passed on
the sidewalk outside, laughed loudly about something a whore had done or
something they had done to her. My Spanish wasn't good enough to tell
which.
Once they passed, I said, "Sometimes I need company, that's all. I
think that's all." She responded with a gentle snore, but I could sleep then.
Sometimes it's easier to climb into bed with a woman than it is to get
out of bed the next morning. Even without sex, it wasn't like that with
Sharon. We woke up comfortable with each other, and when we shared
the bath, she didn't try to hide her scars and I didn't notice them.
After we dressed, I called El Paso to tie off the loose end there.
When Tony answered, I asked him if he'd seen his brother at any time
after the 14th. He hadn't.
"You said he spent the first part of the week before he died with
your mother, that he left her house Thursday morning?"
He sounded impatient. "What about it?"
"Was he carrying anything unusual? A shopping bag with a blanket
or serape in it, for instance?"
"I'll ask." His voice sounded tiny over the Mexican long distance
lines. "Give me ten minutes."
When I reached him again, he confirmed that Juan had spent the
three nights after the 14th with her. He hadn't met anyone that she knew
about, and he had seemed nervous. I hung up satisfied that Herdez was
accounted for between the time he made the delivery to Villanueva and
picked up the money and the time he arrived in Placitas. He wasn't
carrying a shopping bag, though. He was carrying a new briefcase. He'd
had it when he arrived and when he left. He hadn't opened it around her,
but I thought I knew what it contained.
Roberto showed up on time, a little less hung over than yesterday.
We treated him to breakfast on the way to the airport, then Sharon went in
to buy our tickets while I settled with him. He looked sorry to see me
leave, but he brightened considerably when I doubled the present I'd
promised him.
─ 162 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Sharon was waiting for me at the Aero California gate with two
tickets to L.A., connections on to Oakland. I looked at them, puzzled.
"You were going to check out the Arthur killing."
"There might be a better way."
During our layover in Los Angeles, she called the San Diego Police
Department and asked for homicide. It didn't take long to establish her
credentials. She just thanked the man who answered for the flowers the
department had sent while she was in the hospital after the armed robber
ran her down. He remembered her story and was helpful.
"The ID on Brian Arthur was positive," she told me when she hung
up. "His mother identified the body."
I thought of Herdez's brother and wasn't reassured until she added,
"The funeral was open casket. Everyone was there. Ex-wife, secretary,
girlfriend, tennis partner. On top of that, they checked his prints against
his service record. The man in the casket was Arthur."
"So who the hell was Herdez dealing with the last two years?"
"Villanueva must have been mistaken. Or lying."
"He reminded you of a priest."
"Don't remind me." She made a face. "Are you satisfied, or do you
want me to check out his company, ARMACO?"
"I don't see the point. There's no indication it was doing more than
a little ordinary arms smuggling." I smiled at her. "Let's find Jenny."
We got out of Oakland International around three, but it was after
four when we pulled up in front of Halliday's house in Sausalito. He
answered the door on my first knock. Sharon stood a little behind me and
he didn't see her immediately. He glared at me.
"You again? What do you want now?" But then he took in Sharon,
or at least the top of her head, and swung the door wide. "You found her!
Jenny?"
She stepped forward shaking her head. "Sorry."
"What's going on here? I thought . . . ? You haven't found her?"
He looked angry and confused at the same time.
"Found her and lost her again,"
"What do you mean, lost her? And why the . . . ." He nodded at
Sharon.
─ 163 ─
Harlen Campbell
"The hair? She was a decoy. Someone took a shot at us. He was
probably trying for Jenny. We found her with a friend in New Mexico.
We only had her for a day or two before she ran out again."
"Because of the shooting?"
"Maybe. But maybe not. She showed up in Chihuahua--"
"Mexico! What the hell is going on?"
I shook my head. "You want to talk about it inside?"
"What? Oh." He strode into the house. I followed him. Sharon
peeled off, headed for the bedroom wing.
Halliday glared at her back, then led me into a den that doubled as a
trophy room. Mounted heads covered the walls. A black bear. A brown
bear. A ten-point buck. Three or four kinds of cat. Antelope. He stood,
surrounded by things he'd killed, and looked at me angrily.
There was a lot of anger in him and having his house searched wasn't
cooling him off any. But the thing on his mind surprised me. "Did you
give her my message?"
"She got it. How about telling me why you sent it?"
"I want her back."
"The question is why, Halliday. Sharon looked into your past a bit.
You weren't obviously in love with Jenny, at least not before that heart
attack. What happened?"
"It doesn't matter anymore."
Sharon came into the room, shook her head at me and took a seat
near the glass wall that overlooked San Francisco. Behind her, the dying
light had faded to the color of old linen. The city across the bay glowed.
"It matters if you got jealous after that heart attack."
Halliday gave a hollow little laugh. "If I'd gotten jealous, it wouldn't
have been of Herdez. He was hanging around all the time we were
married."
"I know that. I don't understand why. Was he still in love with
her?"
"No!" He closed his eyes. "By that time, Herdez had fallen in love
with those damned Indian orphans. Jenny was just a . . . a fascination, I
guess you'd call it. He'd lost her a long time ago, and I don't think he
really understood why."
Sharon broke in. "Did you understand?"
─ 164 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"For the same reason I did, I suppose." He made a face, looked like
he tasted something bitter. "There was something wrong with her,
something that came from way back. Her childhood, maybe. It kept her
from giving herself to anyone, and that was a shame. She had so much to
give. But she just couldn't see it."
She asked softly, "That was your problem too?"
"Sure." He looked at me. "You ever been to the dog races? Where
they chase the little mechanical rabbit? We were like two greyhounds,
chasing something we could never catch. Maybe if either of us had caught
her, we would have realized there wasn't any meat there and gone on to
something else. But we never did, and after awhile the chase became an
obsession. We just ran and ran, and the harder we ran the faster Jenny
retreated."
"She isn't a damned rabbit!" I had to defend her. "She's a human
being!"
"Sure." He spread his hands. "I was just trying to give you an idea
what it was like. Maybe you were chasing her too?"
"Bullshit."
I walked over to the window, watched the city across the bay catch
fire, sparkle like a million diamonds. Behind me, Sharon cleared her
throat. "Before Jenny left us in Chihuahua, she said she was going home.
Do you have any idea what she meant by that?"
"Apparently she didn't mean here. Or me." His voice changed.
"What were you doing in Mexico?"
"Looking for a motive," she said.
"Did you find one?" He sounded tense.
"Money. He was carrying a hundred and thirty thousand dollars."
"That's it? You think he was killed just for some money?"
It was easy to remember that Halliday had inherited his and then
made a lot more. I asked, "How much did you give him?"
He suddenly looked cagey. "What makes you think I gave him
anything?"
"Jenny told us you made a few donations. Why make a secret of it?"
He surrendered the point. "No reason. It's true. I gave him money
now and then. Maybe a couple of thousand, over the years. Five or ten
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Harlen Campbell
thousand. My accountant could give you the exact figure. It was a charity.
Tax deductible, you know."
"Why?"
"That's easy. It kept him focused on the charity."
"Instead of on Jenny?"
"Yes."
"Okay." I stared at him. "You haven't seen her? Heard from her?"
He shook his head and said no in a tone that made it easy to believe
him. "Did she ever see him alone?"
He rubbed his chin, looked over my shoulder. "She might have. I
don't know."
The dead men were still on my mind. "About two years ago, a man
named Brian Arthur was killed in San Diego. Did you ever meet him?"
"No. Never." But his attention shifted from the view to my face.
"Did you notice anything unusual around that time?"
"Unusual? Hell, yes! I had a heart attack and my wife left me."
"Right."
We left him sitting in his empty house, staring at the lights of San
Francisco. In the car, Sharon asked me, "Where now? Santa Barbara?"
I nodded. "She called her brother at least once recently and he didn't
tell her father about it."
"Speaking of her father . . . ?"
"Yeah. We'll talk to him too. And her mother."
"And if they haven't seen her?"
"Then we go back to Albuquerque. Maybe Martinez has turned up
something."
The trip took five hours. We drove to San Francisco International,
caught a commuter flight to L.A., and then took Sharon's car north to
Santa Barbara. She spent the drive trying to fit the pieces together. She
liked the Federales or some combination of them and the unknown
members of the steering committee of the PPN for the killing. I didn't.
"What would they gain?" I asked her. "The money? They already
had that. It was their money in the first place, and besides, when Herdez
died their pipeline for weapons died with him."
"Yes, but that doesn't make any sense. Why would they need a
source of guns? You're talking about the Mexican government, Porter.
─ 166 ─
Jennifer's Weave
They can buy all the guns they want. They don't need to sneak them over
the border, fifty or a hundred at a time."
"Okay. If Herdez wasn't killed for the money and the guns didn't
matter to anyone, why was he killed?"
"Maybe they decided to shut down the operation?"
"Shut down Villanueva, you mean? Why? They had already coopted him."
"Maybe his conscience was bothering him. Maybe he was too
serious about the movement."
I shook my head. "You're the one he reminded of a priest," I told
her. "I can't buy that. Once the Federales had him in their pockets, they
had all of him. He didn't have the guts to double-cross them. Not even
for his precious Indios."
She obviously disagreed with me, but she kept it to herself. "Who
do you think did it then?"
"I can't get the dead man out of my mind."
"Herdez?"
"The other one. Brian Arthur. He was the source of the weapons
up until two years ago, but the flow didn't stop even after Herdez killed
him. If he did."
"You don't believe he's dead? I told you, I verified that."
"He's dead, all right. That doesn't mean Herdez shot him. Why
would he? Arthur was his source."
"You can buy weapons anywhere, Porter. You know that."
"Yes, but Arthur did more than just sell them. He shipped them too.
That would make him a lot harder to replace. No, we're missing
something. There has to be a third party involved. Somebody moved in
on the operation, took it over, maybe. And Herdez never told Villanueva
and the PPN about it."
"Why not?"
"Maybe he was part of it. Maybe he was afraid. Or maybe the
weapons were so important to him, to the movement, that he didn't dare
jeopardize the flow. That fits with what we know about him."
"This third party. You're thinking of Thurmond?"
"I don't know. He could be dirty."
─ 167 ─
Harlen Campbell
"I don't believe it. That would mean the agency guy, Hickson, was
involved too. And they were working too closely together. It had to be an
official operation, or they wouldn't have dared put out that APB for
Herdez after Brian Arthur was shot."
"So maybe they aren't dirty. Maybe the federal boys were playing the
same game as the Mexican cops, but on this side of the line."
"You mean that they might have turned Brian Arthur? He was an
FBI asset?"
"That would explain their involvement, but there's another
possibility. He could have been an agent. Maybe the CIA had some
reason for wanting to arm the PPN."
She rejected that immediately. "They'd never have involved the
Bureau. There's too much animosity between them."
"I suppose you're right."
"But they were definitely involved with Arthur, and that means
Herdez killed him after all."
"Probably." I sighed. "One thing is certain, though."
"Jenny knew about it."
"She had to," I said.
By that time, we were nearing Santa Barbara. She drove in silence
for a few minutes, then said softly, "I'm sorry, Rainbow."
"For what? It was obvious all along that she wasn't completely
innocent. She didn't call the cops when she found Herdez."
There must have been an edge in my voice. Sharon glanced over at
me. "You were hoping, though."
"Yes."
She pulled off the freeway. Parked in front of a small duplex in a
residential area near the beach. I asked, "Where are we?"
"My place. I want to call her brother. Maybe we can meet him
tonight."
That surprised me. "Why wouldn't we be able to?"
"Look at your watch. It's after ten!"
"We'll wake him. So what?"
"Do you usually get a lot of cooperation from people?"
"All right. We'll do it your way."
─ 168 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Her half of the duplex was small. A living room, two bedrooms, and
a kitchen. The front bedroom held a desk and two filing cabinets. A
telephone with an answering machine that blinked steadily.
"This is your office?"
She shook her head. "My home, such as it is. I rent a desk from an
attorney downtown. We share a secretary and receptionist. But this is
where I do most of my work."
"It's cozy."
"It's cramped, but it's all I can afford."
"I thought you had a pension?"
"I'm saving up. I'd like to buy my own place, but houses are too
damned expensive here. Maybe someday, if I can ever get out of
California." She turned impatient. "Do you know how to make coffee?"
I looked for her pot and cups while she listened to her messages. I
hadn't found them when she shouted my name. "Listen to this!"
It was Martinez's voice. He hemmed and hawed a bit, said he was
trying to reach a man named Paul Porter. "If you're the right Sharon
Coulter, I got your name from the man you met in El Paso," he said. "It's
urgent that I contact Paul Porter. If you know him, please ask him to call
as soon as possible."
He left two numbers. That worried me. No cop had ever given me
his home number before. I tried the station first, but he wasn't there. A
woman answered the second number. She sounded half asleep and
irritated, but she put Martinez on. He was even more irritated than she
had been. "What's up? Who is this?"
"Me. You called?"
"Where are you?"
"Santa Barbara. Have you found Jenny? Is she okay?"
"She's still missing. Your dog has been shot. It looks like someone
tried to break into your place. I want your ass back in Albuquerque!"
"I'll catch the first flight."
"I want you to stay here this time!"
"If I can, Martinez. How is she? Dead?"
"Still alive." He paused, asked, "You haven't found her?"
"I'm still looking. Did they get in? How did you learn about the
break-in?"
─ 169 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Somebody named Bebe found her this morning and reported it.
The house is still locked. What the hell are you doing in California again?"
"I'll tell you in the morning."
I hung up on his next question, dialed Bebe in Placitas. Tina was at a
veterinary hospital in the north valley. He sounded worried, but proud
too. "She got a piece of that mother that shot her," he told me. "Man, I
think she got a big piece of that mother! I just wish I could get my hands
on him!"
"Leave him to me."
I disconnected. Sharon stared at me. She had grown very quiet as I
spoke, listened intently to my half of the conversations. She mouthed,
"Jenny?"
"Tina. The dog was shot." I was furious. "I want the number at
Jenny's father's house! Now, damn it!"
She found the number in her notebook. I dialed it. There was no
answer. I slammed the phone down, opened the front door, stared into
the night. It was warm. I was warmer. Sharon came up behind me, put a
hand on my back. I shrugged it off. I wanted contact, but not comfort.
"Your house?" she asked. "Another fire?"
"A break-in. Attempted. What the fuck are we doing here? The
action is back in New Mexico!"
"Jenny isn't."
"We don't know where in hell she is. I'm going back."
"But if she went home . . . ?"
"You stay. Talk to her parents first thing in the morning. I'm going
back. The man I want is in Placitas. The son of a bitch is still looking for
something there."
"The money?"
"Probably, but he's going to find me." I took a deep breath, released
it slowly, forced my anger down into my belly where it would last longer,
where I could find it again. I said, "Let's assume Herdez was killed for the
money. Who knew about it?"
"The killer, obviously."
"Who else?"
She answered quickly. "Villanueva, but that doesn't mean he--"
─ 170 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"And who knows how it was packaged? Who knows about the
briefcase?"
"Jenny." That came out slowly, reluctantly. "But she never
mentioned money. She didn't know about it."
"Bullshit! She knew he was getting paid somehow."
"You don't think . . . ?"
I shook my head. "She carried the payments for two years without
stealing anything. No, she must have told someone. If you find her
tomorrow, ask her. In the meantime, I need a ride to the airport."
─ 171 ─
Harlen Campbell
IX
OPEN ENDINGS
The Boeing 737 crossed the dry wash of the Rio Puerco on its
descent into Albuquerque about mid-morning. The captain announced
that the temperature there was 43 degrees and that the visibility was an
even hundred miles. I looked out my window. There wasn't a cloud in the
sky and the southern horizon disappeared in a white haze somewhere
south of Socorro. He had seriously underestimated the visibility, but when
I walked out of the airport, I thought he may have been a little optimistic
on the temperature.
My first stop was Helene's office. She looked up when I entered,
then flipped another page in the telephone book on her desk. Her lips
made a thin line across the bottom of her face. She wasn't a happy
property manager.
I stopped just inside her door. "No luck?"
"If any of those people, Jenny Murphy or John Murphy or Juan
Herdez, ever rented an apartment or office in Albuquerque, they did it
under a different name. Or maybe they rented directly from an owner.
Either way, I'll never find it."
"Forget it then."
I walked out, ignored the slam of the yellow pages on the floor
behind me. The biggest mall in Albuquerque, Coronado Center, was less
than ten minutes away. I stopped at two stores there, then drove to
─ 172 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Placitas, parked halfway up my drive, and took the automatic from my
glove compartment for a walk.
The largest brown spot lay in an area of scuffed gravel near the front
door. Tina had lain there, waiting for me or Bebe or death, after she'd
taken the round. There was a smaller patch of blood by the door. A
splatter pattern on the wall. She'd probably stood there, guarding my
door, when she was shot. A thin, dribbling line connected the two
patches. Tina had fallen, stunned or waiting, and then moved to her final
position. The scuffing suggested she had made some sort of attack. Three
bloody boot prints suggested it had been successful.
I hoped she'd hurt the son of a bitch.
The rest of the property looked undisturbed, but I checked it out
carefully before I brought the car up and carried my purchases into the
house, arranged them on the kitchen table. A small black nylon backpack,
a gray overnight bag, and a brown leather briefcase.
The veterinary hospital was my next stop. Bebe hovered over Tina
protectively, like a great brown bear over an injured cub. He grinned when
he saw me. "Hey! Man, she's gonna make it!"
The dog lay on her left side. The bandages that began behind her
ears covered her neck and ended behind her forelegs. She breathed with
quick, shallow gasps. No hint of fluid in her lungs. Her eyes were closed.
"I saw where it happened. It looked like she hurt him."
"Tina got that mother good!"
"You're sure?"
He reached over and patted her flank tenderly. "Some of his pants
was still in her mouth, Man! She hurt him good."
"She was shot once?"
He nodded. "He almost missed her. The bullet went in the back of
her neck in front of her shoulder and under her skin. It came out behind
her leg."
"That doesn't sound too bad."
"Yeah." But he stopped smiling. Shook his head. "I don't know,
though. It might have ruined her."
"You think she'll be afraid of guns?"
"Maybe. I hope not."
─ 173 ─
Harlen Campbell
I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed. "She'll be okay, Bebe.
Tina's got a lot of heart."
"Yeah." Some confidence returned to his voice.
"Do they know what kind of gun it was?"
"Something big. The cops said maybe one of those Chinese assault
rifles."
"Okay." I gave his shoulder another squeeze. "You send me the
hospital bill, compadre. And don't worry. The guy who did this is going
to pay."
"I want to be there, man."
"You stay with Tina. I'll be there for you."
It was almost one o'clock, time for Sharon to arrive. I headed for
the airport and couldn't find her. I tried her number in Santa Barbara, but
there was no answer, so I bought a cup of coffee on the concourse and
watched the crowds flow by. She limped past me shortly after two. I fell
in beside her, lifted the carry-on from her hand.
"How did it go?"
She gave me a short glance and a tight smile. "About what I
expected. No Jenny."
It didn't surprise me either. "What was the hold-up? You miss your
flight?"
"I'll tell you in the car. What did Martinez have to say?"
"We'll go there now."
That brought her to a full stop. She looked me over carefully,
rubbed her hip. "You haven't seen him yet? Is that smart? He could put
out a material witness warrant on you too, you know."
"He won't."
"He's a friend of yours?"
"He's a cop." I laughed and got her moving again. "We aren't
exactly on the same side in this thing, but he knows I'll show up."
"You have a problem with the police?" She didn't seem surprised.
Just curious.
"We have philosophical differences. That presumption of innocence
thing, for one. Martinez has to give the bad guys a chance to prove they're
bad. I don't." We reached the car. I held the door for her, tossed her bag
in the trunk, and got on the road.
─ 174 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She was frowning. "You don't give them a chance?"
"Sure. One. But I take them at face value, too. You want an
example? A guy was stalking a friend of mine. Threatened to kill her. The
whole routine. The cops told her she could get an injunction, but they
couldn't do a thing until the guy did something. If he killed her, they'd try
to catch him. She wasn't reassured much and brought her problem to
me."
"What did you do?"
"I evaluated the threat. Then I neutralized it."
"How?"
"You don't want to know."
"I see." She spoke quietly. "One chance? That's all? What if you're
wrong?"
"Then I live with it," I said, "but that's the rule. One strike and
you're out. Look, you're the same way, Sharon. If you saw that kid
coming at you with his car again, would you wait to see if he intended to
hit you? Or would you make sure he couldn't?"
"That isn't fair." But she knew the answer. She might not like it, but
she knew.
I said, "Tell me about Santa Barbara."
She had some difficulty with the change of subject, but managed it.
"I saw all of them. I called her brother at home and told him I was going
over to his parents' house. When he couldn't talk me out of it, he met me
there at seven. They all denied having heard from her or seen her. None
of them knew where she was. I believed them."
"Then what took so long?"
"Her mother. Her father. There are . . . well, undercurrents in that
family. Jenny's father was broken up, but at the same time he was,
crippled, I guess. Like he was trying to figure out what he should be
feeling instead of just feeling it. Like he was looking to his wife for a hint.
And she! It was like she hated Jenny as much as she loved her. She wasn't
. . . she talked about her daughter as though she were reacting to someone
else. Talking about someone else."
Sharon shook her head. "I couldn't leave it there. I had to find out
what was going on."
"You're still trying to understand Jenny," I said.
─ 175 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Maybe I do now. A little." She looked at me. "Have you ever seen
her mother?"
"No."
"She's a natural blonde. A blue-eyed blonde."
I thought about that. "But . . . ?"
"Yes." Sharon cleared her throat. "I checked the county records.
Henry Murphy and Sally Rawlings were married on July 14th, 1957. Three
and a half months before the birth of their daughter. So I went to the high
school there. Sally Rawlings should have graduated with the class of '58.
She didn't. I dug up one of her old friends. It seems she fell in love with
an older man during her Junior year. She went a little crazy over him.
Dropped all her friends. Nobody saw her that summer. And then--"
"He dropped her."
"Yes."
We had reached the state police offices. We sat in the lot, thinking
about Sally Rawlings' last year in high school. I asked, "He was a redhead?
The lover?"
"Flaming red hair. According to my source."
"So every time Sally looked at Jenny, she saw--"
"--the man who dumped her." Sharon paused, took a deep breath,
and added, "It must have been hard on Jenny. Growing up, when her
mother looked at her like that."
After a while, I asked, "What about her father? I mean Henry?"
"The story is that he'd had a crush on Sally for years. He stepped in
when she needed a husband. Any male would have served as well."
"But his feelings for Jenny? They seemed real."
"Maybe when he looks at her, he sees his wife."
"Maybe." I wanted a cigarette. Whiskey. Something bad for me. I
opened the door. "Let's go in. Martinez has waited long enough."
He obviously felt so too. When he saw me, he said, "You're late,
asshole. You told me you'd be here this morning."
"I stopped to see the dog."
"Your priorities are screwed, Porter. Cops come before dogs."
"Your bite is worse, anyway. What have you got on my intruder?"
"He has a hole in his jeans." He noticed Sharon behind me. Did a
double take, then said, "Who's the lady? Jennifer Murphy?"
─ 176 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I introduced them, told him she'd been working for me in Santa
Barbara, trying to find Jenny. He made a face. "A private investigator?"
I gave her credibility a boost in case it ever mattered. "And an excop. Injured in the line of duty."
He nodded. Sighed. "Well, I suppose it was too much to hope that
you'd bring her in. What did you find in California?"
"Nothing." I stole a chair from the desk behind me and showed him
my poker face. "Did all that blood at my place come from the dog?"
"Who gives a shit about an attempted break-in? I've got a killer to
worry about."
"And you don't see a connection?"
"No," he said flatly. "Do you?"
Sharon found a seat on an empty desk and listened quietly. I studied
Martinez for a moment, then said, "Pretend Herdez was carrying a package
when he arrived at Murphy's, a package that disappeared the day before he
died."
"What was in it?"
"Suppose it was a big pile of cash."
"How big?"
"As big as your mortgage."
"Hah!" He put on his own poker face. "You found Murphy.
Where?"
"If I had her, Martinez, she'd be here. If I knew where she was, I'd
contact the nearest law enforcement agency. As a jerkwater cop once
pointed out to me, the penalties for harboring a fugitive are severe. Let's
go back to playing pretend."
He decided to give me a little rope. "Okay, paisano, there's a sack of
imaginary dollars. So what?"
"I think it's lost, Martinez. I think that if whoever killed Herdez had
found it, Jenny's house wouldn't have been burned. And I think that if
whoever burned Jenny's house had found it, the dog would still be
barking."
He thought about it. "I see a big problem, Porter."
"Why was the house burned?"
─ 177 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Right. If our perp had found the money, he might have torched the
place to hide the theft. But if he didn't find it, then he risked burning the
money. How big did you say my mortgage was?"
"A hundred and thirty thousand."
He whistled. "That's a lot of motive. Where did it come from?"
"Mexico. Herdez was doing a little smuggling."
"Shit! Drugs? No, the money was coming the wrong way, and I've
got cowboys from the FBI and the CIA riding me, but nobody from the
DEA. Guns?"
"Bingo. The man in San Diego that the FBI claims Herdez killed
two years ago, Brian Arthur, was the source until he died. Then somebody
else took over, apparently using Arthur's name." I studied him. "Does any
of this change your mind about Murphy?"
"That depends. How much of it can you prove?"
"Not a damned thing. I can name the man in Chihuahua who
received the weapons, but so what? You can't subpoena him, and anyway,
he's been compromised by the Federales and they aren't likely to let him
talk, even if he wanted to. I figure the FBI and the CIA know about it.
Arthur was probably killed because they turned him. You think they'll talk
to you?"
Martinez laughed at that without smiling. "Then it looks like your
girlfriend is screwed, Porter. You haven't brought me anything that'll clear
the case."
"Uh, huh." I kept my eyes on him. "Let's keep playing anyway.
Let's count the people who might care about a gun runner and a sack of
cash."
He shrugged and said, "Fine. You start."
"The man in Chihuahua. Ray Villanueva. Your turn."
"Easy." He smiled. "Jennifer Murphy."
"She wouldn't have burned her own house down, Martinez, but I'll
count her if you count Thurmond and Hickson."
That surprised him. "The feds? You think they're dirty?"
"They have an interest in both Arthur and Herdez. Neither you nor
I know what it is."
"Maybe not, compadre, but I'll lay ten to one that both of them can
account for their whereabouts the day Herdez went down."
─ 178 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Doesn't matter. Villanueva probably wasn't in town either. The
man who stuck Herdez was somebody's agent."
"Unless it was a woman who stuck him." He smiled at me.
Sharon had heard enough. She stood abruptly. "Come on,
Martinez, you aren't going to pin this on Murphy."
He frowned at her. "I don't pin things on people, Coulter. I gather
evidence and present it to the district attorney. You were a cop. You
know that."
"I also know that you decide what is worth presenting and what isn't.
If you don't tell the D. A. about this gun running angle, he'll go with
Murphy. If you do, he won't."
"What angle? All I've heard is speculation." He faced me. "It's time
to quit pretending, Porter. If you want Murphy out of the barrel, you've
got to give me someone to take her place."
"You've already got someone."
He looked at me with interest. "Yeah? Who?"
"The owner of that fourth set of prints."
"Hell, they could have come from a plumber or a TV repairman.
There are always unidentified prints. I want a body. Preferably with a
signed confession."
I stood. "You want a body, I'll get you one. Come on, Sharon."
We almost made it to the door before Martinez had second
thoughts. He called after us, "A live body, Porter."
I muttered something.
"What?"
"You'll take what you get."
In the car, Sharon asked what I'd been up to all morning.
"Canceling the search for the lock that key fits and visiting the dog."
I added, "I did a little shopping."
"You don't think the key is important?"
"It's worthless without the lock, and chasing that isn't getting us
anywhere. Helene is stumped, and if she can't find it, I'll never be able to."
"So you're giving up?"
I took the cut-off to Placitas. "I'm moving on, Sharon. I don't give
a damn what the key unlocks anymore. I want a body."
"Whose?"
─ 179 ─
Harlen Campbell
I shook my head. Sighed. "This damned thing is like a knot with
three ends. Jenny, Villanueva, and those jerks from the federal
government. We pick and we pick, but nothing comes loose. It's time to
try something else."
"An ax?"
"Finesse. You hungry?"
She stopped laughing when she saw my kitchen table. She stood just
inside the door and looked at it while I rummaged. My head was in the
freezer when she asked, "What's all this?"
"Move that stuff to the living room. You cook?"
"I can get around in a kitchen." She was holding the briefcase.
"What are you going to do with this?"
"Cut the knot." I put a couple of mixing bowls, flour, salt, and yeast
on the table. "We'll have potatoes and carrots. Can you peel?" I mixed
the yeast with a couple of cups of flour and started kneading.
"Can I peel? Jeez. Where's your paring knife? And what do you
mean, cut the knot?"
I showed her how to use the peeling knife and went back to the
dough. "There are three fish in the pond," I told her. "We're going to
drop three lines and see which fish bites which hook."
"Jenny, Villanueva, and the feds." She nodded. "I got that when you
talked to Martinez, but you also said there was only one guy operating
locally. How do you know that? And what the hell are you doing? Baking
bread? You know they sell that stuff at the supermarket?"
"They sell fluff." The dough went on the stove to rise. "The cops
said Tina was shot with an assault rifle, possibly an AK-47, and that's what
the turkey who fired at us in El Paso used. Also, the quality of the
shooting was the same. He missed us from a hundred yards at the funeral,
and he missed the dog at maybe twenty feet."
"So he's a lousy shot. Do you want me to slice these?"
"Give me those! Open some wine. Sauterne. I think he's just
inexperienced. He missed us because we were too far away and the dog
because it was too close. He didn't know that a bullet rises above your line
of sight. I think he was aiming for Tina's skull. The round passed just
above it and opened up her shoulder."
─ 180 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I cut the carrots into diamonds, cubed the potatoes, put them in
water over low heat, and started a basic dessert crêpe batter with brown
sugar, cinnamon and ginger. "What was Brian Arthur shot with?"
"An assault rifle. Possibly an AK-47." She answered reluctantly.
"But your killer didn't miss that time."
"How many rounds hit him? What kind of pattern?"
"I'll check." She headed for the telephone while I finished the
crêpes. When she walked back into the kitchen, she said, "He took three
slugs. The shooter cut a line from his liver to his lung. Got his heart on
the way."
"You see? One long burst, and the recoil pulled the barrel up as he
fired. That's inexperience."
I stuffed the crêpes with whipped cream, cream cheese, crushed
oranges, and a shot of Grand Marnier, dusted them with powdered sugar,
drizzled caramel over them, shoved them in the refrigerator. Formed the
dough into two loaves. Began cutting three chicken breasts into strips.
"The only incident that doesn't fit the pattern is the killing of
Herdez." The meat was soft and white and my knife slid through it easily.
Sharon watched, fascinated. "The coffee," she said. "If the killer had
showed up with an assault rifle, Herdez wouldn't have offered him coffee."
"Exactly."
The loaves went in the oven. I splashed a little sauterne over the
chicken and set it aside. Started to pour myself a glass, but Sharon had
been busy. I opened another bottle and treated myself. Quartered some
mushrooms.
"The way I see it, Herdez opened the door, recognized his killer,
and invited him in. They talked over coffee. Argued. The killer bounced
something, maybe a gun, off Herdez's head and started looking around.
Jenny interrupted him and he hid. After she ran, he came out of hiding,
realized Herdez was still alive, and finished the job."
"But Jenny had spooked him." Sharon finished the story. "As soon
as Herdez was dead, he ran. The question is, why didn't he kill her while
he had the chance?"
"You have a guess?"
"Maybe he couldn't. Maybe he knew her. Or loved her. That seems
pretty common."
─ 181 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Maybe he wanted her alive and running. She was damned
convenient. She led the cops away from him." The smell of baking bread
filled the kitchen. I drained the potatoes and carrots, buttered them, added
salt, pepper, freshly grated parmesan and put them under the broiler.
Sautéed the chicken in butter with garlic and a dash of cayenne. "We'll
have to ask him what was on his mind."
"You're going to bait him with that briefcase?"
"Sort of." The chicken began to brown. I added the mushrooms
and stood a moment, staring at the pan. "What do you think?" I asked.
"Maybe some artichoke hearts?"
"Damn it, Porter, you're killing me! When do we eat?"
"Yes. Artichoke hearts, but not too many." I drained half a jar and
added them, turned the heat up to high and poured in half a cup of
sauterne. Let it boil away while I stirred the good stuff off the bottom of
the pan.
"Only Jenny knew the money was in a briefcase," I said. "That's why
I bought the backpack and the overnight bag. We'll tell each of the parties
that we found the money and something else and that it's for sale, but we'll
tell each of them that it was packaged differently. Then we'll wait to see
what our killer comes looking for. Dinner will be ready in five minutes.
Can you set a table?"
"Can I set a table! Jesus, Porter! Insult me why don't you. Where's
your plates?"
"Over the sink."
She opened the cabinet. "Where's your everyday stuff?"
"That's all I've got, Sharon."
"Noritake? I suppose your forks are silver?"
I shrugged and added a cup of cream to the chicken. Told her to
hurry up. Started carrying food. The bread was hot and crusty. The
vegetables had finished nicely. The cream sauce coated the chicken with
mushrooms and artichoke hearts smoothly. The crêpes were chilled. We
were out of wine. I opened another bottle and we sat. Sharon started
shoveling, slurping and smacking. She seemed to like it.
"I like it," she said. "Advertising companies do the same thing."
"With artichokes?"
─ 182 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"What?" She ripped off a chunk of bread and mopped up the sauce
on her plate. "Oh! No, like you're doing with the bags, only they do it on
their marketing surveys. Responses are supposed to be anonymous, but
the surveys are each a little different. That way they can segregate the
responses by age, income, sex, that kind of stuff."
She refilled her wine and sipped it. "It's the same thing. Good idea,
Porter." She moved on to the dessert. Took a bite, nodded and pointed at
her plate. "This is good. What do you call it?"
"I don't know. Golden crepes? I never made them before."
"Oh. I like the plan." She emptied the bottle into her glass, drank
half of it, and leaned toward me on her elbows. Hiccuped. I watched her,
felt a little wary. Wondered what she was doing, and why. She asked,
"How are you going to deliver the messes. Messages?"
"I thought I'd use the telephone."
"Uh, huh. And jus' how are you gonna call Ginny? I mean Jenny?"
"All I can do is leave messages and hope she gets one of them."
Sharon blinked slowly. "You know what you are, Porter? You're
intillitating. Intimading. That's it! You're goddamn intimating. You
cook, take care of yourself, think of ever' damn thing. Whad'a you need a
woman for, anyway? Except that. Hell, I don' even know if you need a
woman for that. You didn't touch me in Chihuahua, and you could have.
And you know what else you are?" She giggled. "You're out of wine.
That's what."
"Be right back." I started a pot of coffee before opening another
bottle. When I returned, she had carried her glass into the living room and
stood by the door to the deck, looking out over the lights that blanketed
the valley. Her mood had changed. She said, "I'm drunk, Rainbow. You
know that?"
"I know." I refilled her glass. "Why?"
"Depreshed, maybe. That damned client of yours. Ours. She's
thrown so much away."
"Yes."
"You know why?"
"No."
"She's trying to throw herself away."
I shrugged. "Maybe."
─ 183 ─
Harlen Campbell
Sharon walked to the couch. Sat. Spilled a little wine on the floor.
"We gonna let her?"
"Do you think we can stop her?" I moved the glass from her hand
to the mantel.
"I dunno, Porter. Rainbow." She sighed and settled back. "Tell me
what you saw in her. Was she just a piece of ass? Good in bed?"
"No." I took her place at the window. Stared into the black mystery
beyond the lights in the valley. The dark glass reflected the couch behind
me and the redhead stretched out on it.
She closed her eyes. I spoke softly. "Maybe she was a way home. I
spend most of my life out there. In the dark. But Jenny was like an open
door. A well-lit room. And I came inside, sometimes, just to feel what it
was like. To see if I liked it."
The room was silent. I found a blanket and covered Sharon, then
poured myself a cup of coffee and picked up the telephone. The CIA
agent was the easiest to reach. His card was still in my pocket. When I
dialed the number on it, he picked up on the third ring.
"Hickson. Who's calling?"
"Porter. You remember me?"
"The maniac with the dog. What do you want?"
"I found something in the woods. It was on my property, but over
toward Murphy's place. A backpack. There was some money in it, along
with another item. I'm selling the other item. You interested?"
"What is it?"
"If you don't know, you aren't interested."
He hesitated. "How much?"
"The same figure that was in the backpack. In cash."
"That's ridiculous."
I hung up on him, stared at the phone for a few minutes. He hadn't
asked how much was in the pack. That surprised me, and I moved him up
a notch on the list in my head.
Ramón Villanueva was harder. It took three calls to find his home
number, but once I had him on the line, I fed him the same story I'd given
Hickson. With one exception. I told him I'd found a gray overnight bag.
He listened to me without interrupting, then said, "The money is
─ 184 ─
Jennifer's Weave
impossible, Mr. Porter. You are asking for something that belongs to the
Indios, money they need desperately. Do you understand that?"
"I still want it."
"But think, hombre! The notebook you found belongs to the Indios.
If it got into the wrong hands, it could be very bad for them. They are
already desperately poor! I must ask you to show some compassion. I beg
you to show some compassion!"
"You know the price."
I hung up and spent a few minutes thinking about what Villanueva
had told me. The missing item was a notebook. But what was in it?
Eventually, I shrugged and started calling Jenny's family. It took me two
tries to get past her mother, but I finally left the message with her father. I
told him about the brown leather briefcase I'd found and what I wanted
for it. He promised to pass the word if he saw her, but he didn't sound
optimistic. Just to cover the territory, I left the same message with her
brother, with Sam Halliday, and after some thought, with Barbara Yazzie,
the woman who hid her outside Cuba.
That pretty much covered the field. The attack could come at any
time, but I thought we were probably safe for the night. It would take
time to pass the word to whoever was on the spot, doing the shooting and
the killing. The danger would build slowly, reach a plateau sometime
tomorrow evening.
The coffee pot was empty. I started another, sat at the kitchen table
with the pistol in front of me, and waited. In the other room, Sharon lay
on the couch like a corpse. I spent a couple of hours laying odds on which
bag the killer would come for. Backpack or overnight bag. The briefcase
seemed least likely, if for no other reason than because I couldn't be sure
my message would even be delivered.
The hours after midnight passed slowly, as they always do. Around
three, Sharon began tossing. I got a glass of Alka-Seltzer down her, then
moved her to the guest room. Stripped her and tucked her in. Went back
to waiting. Got bored and spent the hours immediately before dawn
cleaning my M-16 and loading the magazine. Stripping the Glock, cleaning
and reloading it. Make work.
─ 185 ─
Harlen Campbell
I was coffeed out by sunrise. I fixed myself an omelette and took a
walk around the property, but I was careful to stay near the house. Then I
went back to sitting, waiting, watching. The phone rang just before eleven.
Martinez was annoyed, as usual. "What's this crap about a
backpack?"
"Hickson called you?"
"Thurmond. What's going on?"
Sharon came into the room wearing her short cotton nightgown.
She looked like she'd have been happier dead. "Why don't you come out?"
I asked Martinez. "There are some things we should talk about."
"Just tell me if you found Herdez's backpack."
"When can you get here?"
"I don't have time for games, Porter. You come in. And bring the
backpack."
"Sorry. It's my bedtime." I hung up on him.
Sharon rubbed her face and cursed. I asked, "You want breakfast?
Eggs?"
"Don't say that word again." She gagged. "You have coffee?"
I nodded. "Shower. Get dressed."
By the time she had her jeans and a pullover on, I'd made a fresh pot
with some bacon and toast. She picked at the food, then listened carefully
while I explained the calls I'd made and showed her some of the
peculiarities of the house. The bolt-hole cut into the floor of my closet.
She stuck her head down it far enough to spot the path through the cactus
that you could navigate if you kept low enough.
"You're expecting an attack?" she asked.
"Someone will come. I don't know if he'll come in shooting."
"Yeah. You have any aspirin?"
I showed her where it was and asked, "Are you okay? I need some
sleep."
"Get it. When do you think he'll come?"
"Tonight or tomorrow."
She nodded. "Do you think we'll get any warning?"
"I think he'll try to get me out of the house, but he may just call, try
to arrange an exchange."
That surprised her. "You think he'll pay for the bag?"
─ 186 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"No. He'll want me dead."
"Okay. Am I here?"
"I'm alone."
"Right. I won't answer the telephone."
She was pouring a second cup of coffee when I went to bed. I didn't
undress, just lay down and closed my eyes. When I opened them five
hours later, the room was much darker.
Sharon stood just inside the room, staring at me. My left arm had
curled around the M-16 as I slept, hugged it against my chest and my
cheek. It took me a couple of seconds to find the right decade of my life.
Sleeping with the weapon had thrown me off.
"What?"
"Martinez is here."
"Be right out."
She disappeared. I shook myself awake. Checked the safety on the
rifle. Sometime during my sleep I'd pushed it off. I used the bathroom,
splashed some water on my face, and walked out to talk to the cop.
He sat on the couch next to the overnight bag. The briefcase rested
casually on the coffee table in front of him. The backpack lay on a chair
opposite him. When I moved it to sit down, the weight surprised me. I
opened it. It was packed with newspaper, roughly cut into thirteen blocks,
each over an inch thick. The size of a bundle of hundred dollar bills. Ten
thousand dollars per. A spiral notebook covered them. Sharon had been
busy.
She carried a cup into the room and handed it to me. I closed the
pack and dropped it. Smiled at her. Said thanks.
Martinez had looked over my shoulder. "What the hell is going on?
You found that backpack?"
"I pretended to."
He thought about that. "You think it was Thurmond and the
Agency? Why?"
I shook my head. "I still don't know who it was. I just put out some
bait. What time did Thurmond call you?"
"Ten-thirty."
"I talked to Hickson around eleven last night."
─ 187 ─
Harlen Campbell
He looked at me expressionlessly for a few moments, then shook his
head and cursed. "The sons of bitches! I would have bet they weren't
dirty."
"Maybe they aren't. But at the very least, they're playing their own
game."
Sharon sat next to Martinez and added, "When I was with the
LAPD, the word was not to expect any cooperation from the FBI. They
wanted to hog the glory."
He glanced at her. "It's the same here. But then why did Thurmond
call me at all?"
She sipped at her cup. "He wants something from you."
"Okay. What?"
"Maybe he wants you to verify the authenticity of the bag? Or take it
out of circulation?"
"Maybe. So what do I tell him?"
I smiled. "That I refused to show you the backpack."
"Why wouldn't I just take it?"
"Why should you? I found it on my own property. You have no
evidence that it's connected with Herdez."
"Ah, shit." He stared at his hands, asked, "Who do you think it is?
Villanueva?"
"Him or the Federales. He's their man."
"And you think the FBI is trying to catch the Federales working our
side of the border?"
"That wouldn't explain the CIA involvement. I don't know what
game they're playing." I shook my head. "Who do you think it is?"
He rubbed his chin. Spoke slowly. "I think Murphy is going to
show up."
His single-mindedness surprised me. "Why? She had plenty of
opportunity to take the money before Herdez was killed."
"Maybe she didn't. Maybe he was watching it too closely. Maybe
she panicked after she killed him."
I looked at him. "You know something I don't?"
"The clerk at the market saw her pass around eleven that Sunday
morning. She was driving toward her house. She would have had time to
kill him."
─ 188 ─
Jennifer's Weave
Sharon closed her eyes, shook her head. "Not the knife," she said.
I didn't say anything.
Eventually, Martinez asked, "What's your plan, compadre? You just
going to hang out? Wait for someone to shoot you?"
"There should be some warning."
"Maybe." He sighed. "Well, I'll do a little more investigating at
Murphy's house tonight. Sift the ashes. I'll have an extra squad car with a
couple of uniforms in it, just in case. Give a call if anyone tries to move
you. We'll come running if we hear any shooting."
"Thanks."
I walked him to the door. He said, "Be careful. And remember, I
want a live body. The operative word is live."
"Sure."
When I returned to the living room, Sharon was rearranging the
bags. She didn't seem to want to talk. I asked, "How's your head?"
She shook it. Rubbed her temples. "Why didn't you tell Martinez
about the other bags?"
"He doesn't need to know. Besides, he might draw the wrong
conclusion."
"If our killer comes for the briefcase?"
"Yes."
"You'd let her get away with murder?"
"Nobody gets away with murder."
"I meant would you cover for her?"
"No." I sighed. "But I've got her dollar in my pocket. I'll listen to
her."
"Okay." She pressed her lips together. "I'm sorry about last night.
You still want me in on this?"
"Who else would bother to cut the newspaper into all those cute
little bundles? Not me."
She walked to the window. "It's beautiful here. Did I tell you I grew
up in the mountains?"
"No."
"Outside Denver. I miss them. I'm getting sick of California." She
paused. "I don't know why I drank so much. It isn't like me."
─ 189 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Second time jitters," I stood beside her. "You're like the new girl in
a cathouse. You've taken one trip to the back room, when that kid tried to
run you down, when you tried to kill him. You didn't like it. You know
what it's like to want to kill a man. You don't want to face it again."
"There's more to it." She started to lean against me, then pulled
away. "I'm mixed up. About Jenny. And you."
"You're curious about me." I searched the shadows. "It doesn't
matter. Sex is just part of the territory. Forget it. The important thing is
the fear, and you'll get over that when the action starts."
She looked at me with a half smile. "You're sure of that?"
"Positive."
"It doesn't bother you?"
"I've taken so many trips to the back room that I've gotten to like it."
She laughed then.
We spent an hour talking tactics and
contingencies. Agreed that if an attempt was made to decoy me from the
house, I'd have to go, but I'd turn around as soon as possible. She would
call Martinez, then drop through my bolt hole and cover the house from
outside. If the killer came without warning, I'd try to take him in the
house while she signaled Martinez. We rearranged the furniture a bit.
Picked our cover. Fixed a light supper. Turned off most of the lights.
Spent a lot of time not counting each other's trips to the windows.
The call came shortly after ten. The speaker sounded young and
nervous. "Señor Porter?"
"Yes?"
"You still have the . . . it?"
"Yes."
"At your casa, your house?"
"Yes."
"Ten minutes, Señor."
The line went dead. I jiggled the cradle a few times and got a dial
tone. I hung up, told Sharon, "He is on his way."
"Who?" She sounded anxious. "Could you tell?"
"No, but I'd bet Villanueva sent him. Or the Federales. It was a
Mexican. You ready?" When she nodded, I said, "Go, then."
She started toward my bedroom. I said, "Sharon?"
─ 190 ─
Jennifer's Weave
She stopped in the doorway, looked at me expectantly. The M-16
across her chest. "What?"
"I'm curious about you, too."
She smiled and disappeared. A few seconds later, I heard a thump as
the cover to the bolt-hole dropped back into place. I opened all the
windows in the house, turned off the remaining lights, carried the pistol to
the kitchen window, watched the tree line by the garage. Tried to spot
Sharon as she took cover there.
Waited.
More than ten minutes passed. A low rumble came through the
sliding glass door to the deck. A car on the gravel road below the house.
I'd never have heard it if the door hadn't been open. I stepped outside and
looked, but it must have been traveling without lights. I backed into the
house. Turned on one light, a table lamp in the living room. Looked
around.
The briefcase still lay on the coffee table. The backpack was on the
couch, near the lamp. The main thing, now, was the overnight bag. It
stood on the floor under the lamp. All were in plain sight, but they weren't
obviously connected with each other. I went down the hall, opened the
door to my bedroom and stretched out on the floor there. Only the top of
my head, enough for one eye, showed in the hall. I held the pistol by my
ear. My legs and arms were tight, cocked. Took deep breaths. I was in
the back room again. Excited. Comfortable.
Wheels rolled over the gravel outside the house, but there was no
light there. A long pause. He'd be waiting for another dog. A car door
closed. Footsteps. A knock, timid, and then the doorknob rattled.
The hall was dimly lit by the lamp in the living room. The light came
from my left. It changed as the front door opened slowly. I heard heavy
breathing. A muttered curse and then, "Señor Porter? Señor? I'm coming
in!" After a moment, the voice added, "I don't got a gun, Señor . . . ."
I said nothing.
A shadow eased across the end of the hall, favoring one leg. It was
preceded by the long, distinctive shape I remembered from southeast Asia.
An AK-47. I rose to my feet. Waited, counting seconds.
─ 191 ─
Harlen Campbell
Outside: five loud slams as Sharon fired a burst from the M-16. The
shots echoed down the canyon. From the living room, a moan. A curse
or a prayer.
I moved toward it.
The shadow dashed across the end of the hall. I was running by
then. Reached the end of the hall and spun to my right, toward the door.
Jammed the barrel of the Glock into the center of the shadow that stood
peering out into the night, searching for an enemy.
"Easy, amigo!"
The shadow gasped, dropped something. Its right arm rose slowly,
carried the rifle up with it, until the muzzle pointed at the sky. I reached
around and took it away, then eased the figure toward the kitchen with the
pistol. Found the light switch and flipped it. Looked at what I had.
A young man, barely into his twenties. Black hair. Wide eyes full of
tears. Long, straight nose. Handsome, but with a chin that trembled. A
boy.
I showed him some teeth. "Tomás Velasquez?"
He nodded slowly.
Irregular footsteps pounded across the gravel outside. I tightened by
finger on the trigger and glanced over his shoulder, but it was only Sharon,
joining the action. She burst in the door, stumbled and almost fell over
the briefcase.
I grabbed the boy's shoulder, spun him toward the living room, and
shoved.
"Watch him!"
She nodded, gestured with the M-16. "He had--"
"I know, damn it!"
I grabbed it and followed them into the living room. Set it carefully
on the table in front of the couch. In the distance, near Jenny's burnedout house, the sirens began their anxious cry.
─ 192 ─
Jennifer's Weave
X
TAPESTRY
Velasquez lay across the couch, his right leg stretched stiffly in front
of him. His jeans were torn over his thigh and what looked like part of an
old undershirt protruded from the hole. It was dirty, even if you didn't
count the dried blood. Tina had gotten him good. Bebe would be
pleased. But the boy? Whoever pulled his strings had not provided well
for him. He looked hungry and tired and frightened and desperate.
Sharon walked through the room behind me, turning on lights. The
wail of the approaching sirens grew louder. The boy's eyes darted
feverishly around the room and the trembling of his chin was more
marked. I slapped him to stop it, perhaps more strongly than necessary,
since I was remembering the dog. I snapped, "Why did you kill him?"
His head rolled, but the blow didn't stop what was happening to his
chin. Behind me, Sharon said, sharply, "Porter! Don't!"
Tomás looked confused. "Kill? Kill who, Señor? Your dog? I was
afraid of him."
"Not the damned dog! Herdez! Why did you kill Herdez?"
"Juan?" He began weeping. "I didn't kill nobody! I tried to kill you
and that one. But I missed."
I stared at him. He looked too frightened to lie, but I was confused
and raised my hand again anyway. "Who sent you? Who?"
─ 193 ─
Harlen Campbell
He hung his head. The sirens grew louder in the room. I repeated
the question. "Who? Villanueva? The PPN?"
Sharon stepped in front of me, pushed me back. Knelt and took his
hand. "Tell us, Tomás. Who sent you here?"
He looked at her and his face broke. He said, "It was that Señor
Arthur. They told me to do what he said." He tried to control himself.
His voice dropped to a whisper. "I never even shot a gun before. I
couldn't do it."
The sirens died in front of the house. Martinez burst into the room
with his gun drawn. When he saw Velasquez, he shouted, "Move away
from him, God damn it! Move! Now!"
I backed off with my hands away from my body. Sharon said, "He
didn't do it. He didn't kill Herdez."
I said, "We don't know that."
Velasquez sniffled. "I didn't know he was dead. We just went to
search the house. That was all. Please, we didn't kill nobody!"
Sharon sighed and stood, walked away from him.
"You were in the house?" Martinez asked.
"Sí. Yes. But we didn't kill nobody!"
"Who was with you?"
"That Señor Arthur." He looked around at us, searched our eyes for
some hint of belief.
Martinez crouched in front of him. "Tell us what happened."
"We went there, to that woman's house, to look for something. A
notebook. Señor Arthur said that it would hurt the movement, that Juan
was a, un traidor." He looked around for help with the word.
"A traitor," Martinez said. "So you went to kill him?"
He shook his head violently. "No! Only to find the book! It was
muy importante, very important."
"Did you go into the house together?"
"No, Señor. The woman's car was gone, so Señor Arthur told me to
go in alone and get the book. He waited in the car. I took the, that thing
you change the tires with, to open the door, but Juan, he opened the door
before I could use it, and when he saw me, he said to come in. I think he
was glad it was me that came for the book."
"That's when you killed him?"
─ 194 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"No. I told you, I didn't kill nobody." He spoke listlessly. "We had
the coffee at the table. I told him why I came. But he said that he wasn't
no traidor, no traitor. I told him it didn't matter, I had to have that book
anyway. He got very excited. He jumped up and shouted at me that he
wouldn't give it."
His voice dropped and his eyes widened. "He went to the counter
and opened a drawer. I saw that he was getting a knife. I got afraid. I
jumped up and hit him with the, with that tire thing. He fell down. I
looked for the book, but I couldn't find it. The woman came in and I hid
in a room full of junk until she ran away and then I ran away. That's all. I
didn't kill nobody."
Martinez stood and stared down at him. "Herdez was alive when
you left?"
"Sí."
"You didn't stab him?"
"Stab? Señor, he was gonna stab me!"
Martinez looked around. One of the uniforms he'd brought with
him stood by the door. The other was outside, running a check on the
plates of the car Velasquez had driven. He said, "You have the right to--"
I interrupted him. "Just a minute!" Stared at the boy. His eyes
remained hopeless. "You said the PPN ordered you to do what Señor
Arthur said?"
"Sí. They told me."
"Who told you? Ramón Villanueva?"
"No. It was Señor Ortega, from the steering committee. He told
me."
"When?"
"Maybe a month ago? It was the first day of this month. I'm sure of
that."
"You're sure Juan was alive when you left?"
He nodded.
"What happened then? Did you and Arthur leave right away?"
"No. Señor Arthur had put the car beside the house when he heard
the woman coming. He told me to finish looking for the book, but I
wouldn't go back into that house. He cursed at me but I wouldn't, so he
told me to take Juan's car and get the hell out. But I cried I didn't have the
─ 195 ─
Harlen Campbell
damned keys and he went inside and came out with them and threw them
at me. Then he went back to look for the book."
"So he might have killed Juan?"
"Ahh!" He took the idea in slowly. "He might have done that."
A bit of hope flickered in his eyes. It died when I turned away from
him.
It took them almost an hour to get them out of the house, to get the
car towed. Herdez's keys were still in the ignition. The tire iron was in the
trunk. Martinez looked at it with satisfaction, but he didn't touch it. He
did try to take the back-pack bag with him, but I stopped that. Told him
I'd paid forty dollars for the damned thing and he didn't need it anyway,
since Velasquez never touched it. Just before closing the door on him, I
asked, "About that warrant?"
"Consider it canceled. Tell her to come home."
"I don't know where she is."
"Sure." He didn't believe me.
Sharon was working on the dregs of the coffee when I returned. She
said, "He didn't do it."
"I know."
"So who did?"
"Brian Arthur. Who else?"
She stared at me. "But he's dead!"
"That's the problem." I looked at the pot. It was empty, but I didn't
want coffee anyway. I poured myself a snifter full of cognac. "One of the
problems."
"Give me some of that."
I passed it. She sipped. "Another is the briefcase?"
"Yes." My watch said midnight. Eleven on the coast. I picked up
the phone.
Maybe I woke Barbara Yazzie and maybe I didn't. It was impossible
to tell. Her voice was quiet, controlled. If she'd been asleep, she had sat in
her bed and waited for her composure to return before reaching for the
telephone, saying hello.
"Can I speak to Jennifer Murphy, please?"
"She's not here."
─ 196 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"This is Rainbow Porter. I left a message for her last night. Did you
give it to her?"
"I haven't seen her."
"Then I'm sorry I bothered you," I shook my head at Sharon, "but if
you do see her, will you give her another message? Tell her the trouble is
over. She can come home. Tell her to call me."
"If I see her."
I dialed Halliday next. He answered immediately. His voice made
me wonder what I'd interrupted. I asked, "Did you get a chance to pass
that message to Jenny?"
"Why? What's up?"
"The cops just picked up the killer. Have you seen her?"
"No. They got the killer?" He was right on the edge. "Tell me!"
"It was a Mexican kid named Velasquez." I described the night's
excitement, then asked again, "You didn't pass my message? Or tell
anyone else about it?"
"I told you! I haven't seen her! Where is Velasquez now? In jail?
Did he confess?"
"Not yet."
"Then you still have the . . . that thing? You're still trying to sell it?"
My hand tightened on the phone. "Why? Are you in the market?"
"No, of course not." He was even more nervous. "I'm just
wondering if you still want your message delivered."
"You know where she is?"
"I meant if I see her."
"Forget the message. Tell her she can come home now. It's all over.
The warrant has been canceled."
I hung up wondering what he was so uptight about. Sharon still had
the snifter. I reclaimed it and ignored the lipstick on the rim. She kicked
my foot. "Killer? Why did you tell him that?"
"It was easier than explaining. Would you try Jenny's mother? She
responds better to you. Anyway, I don't feel like trying to get past her."
She lifted an eyebrow at me, then shrugged and reached for the
phone. Five minutes later, she put it down. "They still don't know where
she is. And they didn't tell anyone about the briefcase."
"That's it, then. Unless . . . ." I called Chihuahua.
─ 197 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Señor Porter?" Villanueva sounded tired, empty. "How can I help
you? I still don't have that money. My people can't afford it."
"The item is no longer for sale," I told him. "The police caught the
killer. I called to ask if you've seen Jenny Murphy recently."
"Not since you were here." He spoke quickly. "They caught the
man who killed Juan? Who was it?"
"You know him. Tomás Velasquez."
"Tomás? No! Not Tomás!" Almost a wail. Like a man who'd just
suffered an unthinkable loss. He held the handset too close and his breath
came in long heavy gasps, made a white noise in my ear.
I must have looked surprised. Sharon slid onto the couch beside me,
pressed her head against mine. I turned the phone so she could hear
Villanueva's despair. I asked, "You are surprised? He was . . . important . .
. to you?"
"No. Yes. He was like a son. That's all. Only like a son." A few
seconds of silence. Then: "I must ask, Señor, if you told anyone else of
the, the offer you made."
"Yes."
"Who! I mean, please? Who?"
"Tell me something first. Did you tell Tomás about the offer?"
"Of course not! Please, you must tell me!"
Sharon had one arm around my shoulders, the other on my knee.
Her nails dug into my leg, tried to pass a warning. I said, "There are things
happening here that I don't understand, Ramón. You have to help me
understand them before I tell you what you want to know."
"What do you want?" His words came heavily over the wire.
"Who did Velasquez take his orders from?"
"He received his instructions directly from the steering committee."
"Not from you?"
"Never. He only worked with me when the committee had nothing
else for him. But that was the work he loved best. He . . . we were very
much alike. I told you that he reminded me of myself, many years ago."
"Did you ever meet Brian Arthur?"
"No, Señor. He was Juan's contact."
"Would Tomás have met him? Or worked with him?"
"If those were his instructions."
─ 198 ─
Jennifer's Weave
I took a deep breath. "Tomás told the police that he was with
Arthur when Juan was killed. Does that sound possible?"
"Only if . . . ," he hesitated, then finished, "Yes."
I thought a moment, then asked, "What happened on the first of this
month?"
"Nothing that I know of. Nothing important, anyway. There was a
message from Tomás. I passed it to the steering committee. That's all."
"What was in it?"
"I didn't open it, Señor. I swear."
"What was in it?"
He was silent for a long time, then groaned. "He had heard that
Juan was in communication with your Federales. Your FBI."
My heart felt cold. "Who told him that?"
"I don't know, Señor. It didn't say."
I wanted my hands on his throat. I squeezed the telephone. "So you
know who killed him. You knew it all along."
"Yes." A long silence. A whisper. "Yes. I killed my friend Juan. Is
that all, Señor?"
"Yes." Sharon reminded me of my promise with her nails. I added,
"I told Jenny's family about the message. And I told two men who work
for our government."
"Your government." His voice was flat, toneless.
"The CIA and the FBI."
"I see." The line was dead for a few seconds and then Villanueva
said slowly, "There is something you should know, Señor. This afternoon,
the three men on our steering committee, the men whose names I gave to
the Federales, were arrested."
Sharon gasped.
I said, "And . . . ?"
"On the way to the jail, they tried to overpower their guards. They
were not successful."
"They're dead?"
"Of course."
"But you are still free." I said it flatly.
"For the moment."
"Then you have something to think about," I hung up.
─ 199 ─
Harlen Campbell
Sharon took a deep breath. Lifted the snifter. "That poor man!"
"Maybe." I rescued the glass. "Maybe not."
"What do you mean?"
"Villanueva was compromised a long time ago."
"Oh." She shuddered. Then realized, "He knew what would happen
if he passed that message to the steering committee! He had to know!"
"Yeah." My mouth was dry. The brandy didn't help.
"Then, why?"
"I don't know. Maybe for his Indians."
She rubbed her face. Asked, "Who is Brian Arthur?"
"You don't know?"
She shook her head slowly.
"Ask yourself why Herdez was killed. Why his notebook is so
damned important. When it became important. And who was dealing
with the federal boys."
She looked at me for a few minutes. I worked on the snifter. Then
she punched my arm. "That son of a bitch!"
"We should confirm it," I said. "There's a question we need to ask
Jenny." I carried the glass over to the window, looked for the horizon. It
was lost in the night. Sharon joined me with a fresh snifter. She'd tired of
fighting for mine. I asked, "Where is she?"
"She went home?"
"Where's home?"
"Where the heart is. Where is her heart?"
I shrugged. "I thought it was here. In her work, her weaving. I
guess I don't know."
"Work isn't enough," Sharon murmured. "Who did she love?"
"She left everyone she ever loved."
"Still. You were sleeping with her. She must have told you, one way
or another."
I thought back over the times we'd been together. Back to our first
time, and what she said as she left me. "One time she asked if I thought a
person could change."
Sharon nodded. "You told her no."
"Maybe I was wrong. Maybe she didn't believe me." I walked over
to the phone, picked it up. "You have that number?"
─ 200 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"In my notes. Somewhere."
She dug it out and I dialed it. Woke the man in Santa Barbara. His
voice was fuzzy from sleep. I asked, "Tom Schuler?"
"Huh? Yes?"
"Could I speak to Jennifer Murphy please?"
"Who? I don't--"
No point letting him finish the lie. "Tell her Paul Porter is calling
from New Mexico."
He didn't cover the mouthpiece well enough. I heard muffled
voices. Bedroom sounds, full of the alarm that calls in the middle of the
night bring with them.
"Rainbow?" Her whisper was strained.
I checked my watch. It was after midnight in California. November
first. "Happy birthday, Jenny."
"What? Oh. Thank you." She spoke mechanically.
"It's over, Jenny. They caught the killer. You can come back."
"I don't want to."
"You have unfinished business here."
She misunderstood me. "It's over between us."
"I know that." I took a deep breath. "The man they caught is
Tomás Velasquez."
"Tomás? But why would he . . . ?"
"Someone told the PPN that Juan was an informer. That he was
working for the FBI. And maybe the CIA."
"Oh, no!"
"But he wasn't, was he? Brian Arthur was their man."
"Yes."
A trace of fear had crept into her voice. I let it go and asked, "Who
would have told them that?"
"I don't know."
"You saw Juan a month ago, didn't you? Around the first of
October?"
Again, she hesitated. Admitted, "He called me."
"What about?"
─ 201 ─
Harlen Campbell
"He . . . said he had something to ask me. He wanted to get back
together. He was . . . disillusioned, I think. With the, the things he was
doing."
"You knew about the gun running. You helped him. Why?"
"It was something I could do for him. Without, you know."
"Without being involved with him?"
"Yes."
"Did you know who supplied him for the last two years?"
"No."
"Villanueva said it was Brian Arthur."
"That's impossible."
"Because he was dead. But somebody was playing Arthur's part,
Jenny. Who took over after he was killed?"
"I don't know!"
"Who did Juan tell that he wanted you back?"
She whispered. "Sam. I'd better come."
"I'll see you tomorrow."
Just before I hung up, she said, "I won't stay with you. I'll get a
hotel."
"You don't want to get that close to the cops," I said. "Sharon is
here. You can bunk with her." I placed the phone in its cradle and looked
around for something to do.
Sharon watched me over the rim of her snifter. "Sam Halliday?"
I nodded.
"Can we prove it?"
"I don't know if we dare try."
"Why not?" She looked confused. "Velasquez would pick him from
a line-up. Did he know the real Arthur?"
"Of course not. Jenny was the go-between while Arthur was alive."
I paced. "But who killed Brian Arthur? Velasquez wasn't around then."
"Herdez? Thurmond was right?"
"I hope so."
I picked up the phone again, dialed Sausalito. He was still awake, still
sitting by the phone. The wait had done nothing for his state of mind.
His voice cracked when he answered. "Yes? Hello?"
"The notebook is still for sale, Halliday. You know the price."
─ 202 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"I see. Why . . . ?"
"I read it. That's why."
"Oh." The word was hopeless. "If I see Jenny, I'll tell her."
"The message is for you."
A long pause. An empty word. "Fine."
"Bring the money tomorrow."
"She wants it? Jenny wants it?"
"I want it." I hung up on him and turned to Sharon. "You still up
for playing Jenny?"
"He's seen me with red hair."
"He won't get that close."
When she nodded, I called Tom Schuler again, asked him to put
Jenny on. He said, "I can't. She just left."
"Can you stop her? Delay her for a day or two?"
"I told you, she just left. Should I come there?"
"No. There isn't a damned thing you could do here." I added,
"Besides, she needs you there. She needs a place to go home to."
He accepted that and I said goodbye. It was well after two o'clock. I
sent Sharon to bed and did the dishes before following her. I don't know
if she slept well. I didn't. Jenny had left Santa Barbara within half an hour
of our conversation and I didn't know why. I could think of only one
reason. She'd had a stop to make. It kept me pounding my pillow.
We both woke early. I needed a run to clear my head and Sharon
wanted one. She tried to keep up, but the altitude and her hip turned her
back after a mile. I ran on without her. She was favoring her hip badly
when I returned, but she had put together a breakfast. Coffee, toast,
bacon, scrambled eggs. It tasted pretty good.
We took turns in the shower. She left at nine for the airport. She'd
wait there for Jenny's flight, see that she got to the house safely. I spent
the time cleaning the weapons, trying to anticipate Halliday's move.
He was a different kind of animal than that poor Mexican boy he'd
used for his dirty work. Sharon had told me, the day I met her outside his
house, that he was a hunter. He knew weapons, how to stalk. How to
wait and shoot from cover. He'd killed at least once. Proved he had the
stomach for it. He wouldn't go down easily. But I was a hunter too, and
this ground belonged to me.
─ 203 ─
Harlen Campbell
If Jenny had caught the first flight out of L.A., they should have
returned by eleven at the latest. When noon rolled around and they still
hadn't shown up, I began to worry. Would they have stopped in
Albuquerque? For what? And Halliday had now had time to reach town.
Surely, he wouldn't try anything at the airport?
I rejected that. There were too many witnesses there. He would
want privacy and he would want me. He'd have to do it here. And he
believed the briefcase was here. For some reason, he had to have that. It
must contain something that would incriminate him. Of what? Juan's
murder? Or something else?
The telephone rang around one. The caller hung up when I said
hello. I cradled the phone, positive Halliday was in town. Waited some
more. My anxiety got the better of me. I called Martinez for lack of
anything better to do. Now that he had his body, he sounded almost
affable.
"What can I do for you, compadre?"
"I'm wondering if you took care of that warrant on Jenny?"
"First thing this morning, so send her in. I still want a statement."
"I don't have any idea where she is, but Sharon Coulter might
know." He didn't react to either of the names. If anything had happened
to them, it hadn't become a police matter. I asked, "Has Velasquez done
any more talking?"
"He tells a confused story. He's still claiming that Brian Arthur put
the knife in Herdez. By the way, thanks for putting the idea in his head.
He might have confessed last night if you hadn't done that."
"You're welcome. Maybe he's telling the truth. Maybe Arthur did
do it."
"Arthur's dead." He spoke sharply. "I double checked on that, and
it doesn't matter anyway."
"What do you mean?"
"The coroner's report said that the blow on the head would have
caused death eventually, remember? And Velasquez confessed to that,
before and after I read him his rights."
"Then you aren't interested in Arthur? What if you found the guy
who was using his name?"
─ 204 ─
Jennifer's Weave
His annoyance was easy to hear. "We have the killer, Porter!
Velasquez's prints matched the only unidentified set in the house. He
admitted he was there. He had a motive for doing the killing. The car he
was driving was rented by Herdez. There was an extra tire iron in his
trunk, and it has traces of the victim's hair and blood. And all that is on
top of his confession. At this point, the last thing I need is another
goddamn suspect!"
"That may not be your choice, Martinez. What do Thurmond and
Hickson have to say?"
"They're satisfied." His tone was flat, final.
"Why?" I couldn't believe it. "As long as Brian Arthur is free, the
pipeline is still open."
"The thing about a pipe is, it has two ends."
"Oh, shit." I let him get back to his paperwork and went back to
worrying.
The women showed up just before two. Jenny walked into the
house looking subdued, avoiding my eyes. Sharon followed her in,
favoring her hip and looking worried.
"What?"
"She was late. You'll never guess why."
I looked at Jenny. She stood by the door with a suitcase in her hand,
withstood my gaze for a few short moments, then walked her bag toward
the guest room. I shook my head and said, "She drove to Sausalito. What
happened?"
"She says he wasn't there."
I followed Jenny to the bedroom, found her unpacking, stuffing
clothes in the drawers Sharon hadn't already filled. "What the hell were
you thinking of?"
"I couldn't believe it." She concentrated on the clothes. "I had to
ask him."
"He's the killer."
She shrugged. "There's nothing I can do about it now. I'll talk to
him when he gets here."
"It won't do any good," Sharon told her. "He killed Juan over you.
Juan was going to try to get you back and he was afraid you'd go."
─ 205 ─
Harlen Campbell
"I don't love Sam. I never did. I'm going back with Tom. I'll make
him see that. When he understands, he'll leave me alone."
"Or he'll go after Tom."
Jenny looked stricken.
"Halliday is out of control now," I added, "but Sharon's wrong. He
didn't kill Juan just out of jealousy. That probably triggered it, but he had
other reasons, good business reasons, for killing him."
Sharon looked puzzled. "What do you mean?"
I asked Jenny, "What would Halliday's friends have thought about
the gun running? Would they have understood? Accepted it?"
"No."
"They'd have dropped him." I said. "When he didn't go back into
his old business, they decided that the heart attack had changed him. They
could accept that. But smuggling weapons is too risky for bankers and real
estate people. It was perfect for Halliday, though. He had the time, the
funds, and the connections to bankroll the operation. He took Arthur's
place, but he didn't dare let that come out. The thing is, the operation was
ready to fall apart. Juan sensed it. He was getting ready to bail out
himself."
"What do you mean, it was ready to fall apart?" Jenny asked.
"The FBI had already found the American side of the pipeline once,"
Sharon said.
"But Juan took care of that!"
"They were about to find it again. The only thing that slowed them
down was Juan's death. His fake death." I was impatient. "What Juan
didn't know was that the Federales had gotten to Ramón Villanueva. They
threatened his father and he caved. He gave them the names of the
steering committee. They've been running the PPN for almost two years."
Jenny closed her eyes. "No. Not Ramón." She shuddered. "Why
didn't they just arrest everyone?"
"Maybe because the pipeline was profitable," Sharon suggested.
"While the FBI screwed around, trying to learn who the new supplier was,
the Federales were re-selling the weapons."
"The important point," I said, "is that Halliday had to kill Herdez to
close his connection with the PPN. He hoped Velasquez would do the job
for him, but when he didn't, Halliday went in and finished the job himself.
─ 206 ─
Jennifer's Weave
His only problem then was that Herdez had something that would tie
Halliday to the operation and he couldn't find it."
"That was why my house was burned?"
I nodded. "He took a chance, broke in and searched again. When
he couldn't find anything, he burned the house and hoped the fire would
destroy it."
"You think he did it himself?" Sharon asked.
"Either that or he had Velasquez do it. I suppose we could get
Martinez to ask the kid, but he doesn't give a shit. He has the killer.
That's all he cares about."
"You're sure of that?"
I nodded. "I asked him. He has Velasquez. A second killer would
be inconvenient."
"Then what are we going to do?"
"Shove Halliday down his throat," I told her. "If we can find a way
to keep him quiet about the other thing."
"What other thing?" She looked suddenly lost.
"Brian Arthur's killing. You want to talk about that, Jenny?"
"No."
Sharon suddenly understood. "You! You were there!"
Jenny looked from her to me, then sat on the bed and hid her face in
her hands. "Juan said he had to talk to Brian. I drove him to the
warehouse, but he went in alone. I waited in the car. I heard shots, and
then Juan ran out with a rifle in his hand. I was scared. That's all. He
jumped in the car and I drove all the way back to Sausalito. I didn't know
what else to do."
She glanced up at us, then covered her face again. "I wanted to go to
the police, but then Sam had his heart attack. I tried to help him, but I
couldn't . . . stick it out. I left as soon as he got a little better, when he
started getting so jealous. And by that time, I'd gotten used to the idea
that I'd helped kill a . . . helped cover it up, anyway. I just couldn't go to
the police anymore. I just. I--" Her voice broke. She swallowed, then
finished, "Anyway, I would have had to turn Juan in."
Sharon looked at me, a sick expression on her face. "When did you
know about this?"
─ 207 ─
Harlen Campbell
"It got sort of obvious. I couldn't think of any really good reason for
her not to call the cops when she found Herdez dead."
"And you're going to cover for her."
"I can't. You know about it now."
She walked out of the room. I stared at Jenny until I couldn't take
her misery any longer, then went looking. Sharon was in the kitchen with
a glass in her hand. Water, by the looks of it. She said, "She didn't plan
the killing."
"No."
"And Herdez is dead. Justice has been served. In a way."
"Yes. In a way."
I waited, but she had nothing more to say about guilt. She stared out
the window at the tree line. Drank her water and carefully set the empty
glass in the sink. "When do you think Halliday will show?"
"Tonight. Maybe early in the morning. Dawn. He's used to hunting
animals. He'd think like that."
"You're wrong. He's out there now. I can feel it."
I looked over her shoulder. Saw nothing. "Maybe. I'll take a look
around."
"Check the phone first."
So I did. Held it up so she could hear the dial tone. Then I found
a .38 Police Special for Jenny. Sharon took the Glock and explained to her
about aiming at the biggest part of the target, the chest.
Jenny nodded but said, "I couldn't shoot Sam. He wouldn't hurt
me."
Sharon was exasperated. She said, "Try. He'll kill me if he gets a
chance."
I left the ethical dilemma to them and slipped outside, ran for the
tree line. The shadows under the pines were long, long and cold. They
still hid snow left over from last week's storm, and the dead needles
between the white patches gave softly, soundlessly, when I stepped on
them. The air was crisp and sweet, the sky still blue but fading into
evening's purple.
I made two circuits. The first time I stayed close to the house, just
inside the tree line. The second circuit was more distant. Two hundred
─ 208 ─
Jennifer's Weave
yards from the house. Up the path toward Jenny's, moving very carefully.
Across the county road and down it, maybe half a mile.
Once I was satisfied that the area was clear, I backed the car into the
garage to clear the field of fire around the house. By the time I returned,
the sun had abandoned the mountains completely and Jenny and Sharon
had settled their disagreement. In favor of pulling the trigger, I hoped, but
I didn't ask.
They were cooperating on a pot of spaghetti sauce. Jenny had
seniority of sorts in my kitchen, Sharon had taken the lead somehow. Or
received it as a gift. Jenny was moving on. As they simmered, seasoned,
tasted, adjusted the sauce, they stayed within careful reach of the
handguns.
I showered and dressed for a long, cold night.
Dark clothes,
layered. The spaghetti was ready when I was. They'd had almost an hour
to work on the tomato sauce, but it could have been catsup with a little
more sugar. It needed basil and garlic, among other things. Hell, it needed
tomatoes. Something that didn't come out of a can.
But I smiled appreciatively and let them talk as we ate. Tom Schuler
interested Sharon. She got Jenny started on him, then prompted her
occasionally with a quick question or remark.
He had apparently turned out just as Jenny knew he would. Kind,
thoughtful, and a good provider. He cared about their daughter. He even
welcomed Jenny back into his life. There was a kind of desperation in her
voice as she spoke of him, of the life she hoped to make. I didn't listen.
When Sharon asked about Sally, Jenny jumped for her purse, pulled
out a sheaf of photographs. A dark-headed little girl on her first tricycle,
pedaling single-mindedly, ignoring the camera. In her first communion
dress. In one of those short dresses and ballet slippers at a dance recital.
Class pictures from first grade through high school. Group pictures,
family pictures, from Thanksgivings and Christmases spread over the
years. In some of them, Schuler had sat with women, dates. Several of the
women appeared in two snapshots. None appeared in three. They tended
to be redheads. Jenny passed over those quickly and lingered over the
shots of Sally alone. Ignored her dinner as she passed the pictures around.
Stared like a hungry woman at the remains of a meal someone else had
eaten.
─ 209 ─
Harlen Campbell
Sharon started to pour herself a second glass of wine, but stopped
when I shook my head. "You're working tonight."
"We stand watch?"
I nodded. "You take the first. Wake me at nine. You can sleep
from nine to twelve, but I want you up then. I'm going to set up in the
trees beside the garage from midnight until he shows."
"You think he'll come at dawn?"
"Or just before."
Jenny put away her pictures reluctantly. "What about me?"
"Try to sleep now. Sharon will wake you. You'll both watch from
inside the house. Without lights. You can keep each other awake."
Sharon asked, "Did you find anything outside?"
"No."
"He's out there."
"Not yet. Soon."
Coffee. They followed me into the kitchen and watched as I started
a pot.
Sharon said, "You'll be waiting when he comes."
"That's right."
She turned off the light, looked through the dark window. "Are you
going to take him down?"
Jenny said, "No!"
I shook my head. "Just pull his teeth. If we can get him to hold still
long enough."
"And if we can't?"
"Then I'll do what has to be done. It shouldn't be necessary. He
wants that briefcase. If you can keep him out of the house, I can disarm
him. Then we can reason with the man."
Jenny said, "He isn't bad. Don't hurt him."
"He killed Juan."
I left the door open while I lay down. The women murmured softly.
Jenny began speaking of her plans again. I dozed. Woke to find Sharon
sitting on the bed beside me, her hand light on my chest.
"Time?" I asked.
"Just past nine. It's been quiet."
"Where's Sharon?"
─ 210 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"On my bed. She just lay down."
"Okay. Get some sleep."
She hesitated, glanced at the door. "Can I sleep here?"
"Of course."
I spent the next three hours in the dark, listening to the night. At
twelve, I dug out the first aid kit, put it on the coffee table, and checked
the phone. It was still working. Halliday hadn't arrived yet.
I woke Sharon as she'd woken me. Wondered if she'd enjoyed it.
Left Jenny to her and slipped out the door, circled the parking area, found
my spot.
The boulder that sheltered me lay just inside the tree line. My field
of fire included one side and the front of the garage, the front of the
house, the entire graveled clearing. The driveway entered the clearing on
my right, but it was hidden by several large junipers. The heavy brush
behind me covered my back.
There were no clouds to reflect the distant light from Albuquerque.
The moon had set. Only the stars lit the night, but there were a billion of
them up there. The Milky Way spread across the black sky like a broad
stain. The stone front of the house glowed dull silver in the night. The
only light there came from the kitchen: one tiny red eye where the coffee
pot sat on the counter across the room from the window. It winked on
and off when one of the women moved between me and it.
I waited, comfortable where I belonged. Guarding the perimeter.
Outside among the bad guys, looking in. I spent the hours thinking about
Halliday and his needs. The briefcase. Wherever it was. Behind the door
that damned key unlocked. Wherever that was.
And he needed silence. He'd come armed, but his weapon would be
silenced. Not that AK-47 that kept turning up. Its muzzle velocity was
too high. Each round would break the sound barrier, make a miniature
sonic boom on it's way home, so Halliday would come with something
small. An automatic, probably .32 caliber. Maybe a .38, but nothing larger
unless he was firing special loads. Not likely. He'd figure on leaving a
mess here, and he'd want no distinctive signature on it.
He would either come down the path from Jenny's place or up the
driveway. But if he came up the drive, he'd have to leave his car on the
road or risk letting me hear it. I figured he'd come from the left. Jenny's.
─ 211 ─
Harlen Campbell
I fought sleep, then took off my coat and shivered my way past it.
The sky grew subtly lighter and I grew more nervous. Where was he?
Look around. Think about moving. That's stupid. Stick with the
plan. Watch the house. Notice what isn't there. Haven't seen that little
red eye for a long time. Would Halliday cut the power? Maybe. The
telephone line for certain. Maybe the power. Why not?
And something else wasn't happening. The deer. My little herd.
They should have come down the path by now. I rolled onto my side,
peered toward the trail. He was up there somewhere.
Stick with the plan, shit. I rose to my knees, edged further into the
pine and juniper forest and moved south. Found the trail over the ridge
and climbed parallel to it for two hundred yards. Three hundred.
It was light enough for me to move easily, though Halliday might
have a problem. Except that he was a hunter. I checked the trail and
found no sign of him there. I should have.
The route the deer normally followed led down this path, crossed the
clearing by my house, followed my drive to the county road, and then
dropped through the woods to the orchards, pastures, salt licks in the
valley. Could they have sensed something blocking the trail further down?
Unlikely. But what if it had been blocked earlier, when they tried to
return from their evening feeding? If something alarmed them then, they
might have found another path. That meant Halliday had been around
since . . . my chest tightened. I turned and moved downhill quickly.
Ahead of me, glass shattered. A round slapped stone, sang away into
the woods. I began to run. Leapt down the path, half falling.
Fifty yards above the clearing, there was a break in the trees.
Through it, I saw Jenny walk out of the front door with her hands in the
air. I locked and loaded a round. Clicked the safety off. Ran.
She shouted, "You shot her, Sam! Damn you, you shot her!" The
trees closed in. I ran. Seconds passed. I burst into the clearing, saw the
back of Sam Halliday disappear through the front door. I bellowed and
charged.
He glanced over his shoulder, pushed Jenny ahead of him, pointed at
me. His hand flashed. I dropped, rolled, came up with the rifle on my
shoulder. But he was gone. I made straight for the door. My eyes darted
─ 212 ─
Jennifer's Weave
from it to the shattered kitchen window. Back again. I gasped for air,
slammed into the house beside the door. Then what?
The door was a dark tunnel with a gun at the end. I jumped across
it. No fire. I wished for a grenade, remembered Jenny, canceled the wish,
spun through the door. Waved the barrel of my M-16 wildly. On my
right, the kitchen was clear. No body on the floor. Nothing visible ahead
but a piece of the living room. If Sharon had been shot, where was she?
A trail of drops, black in the faint light, led from a large wet splash
on the kitchen floor, crossed the hall and disappeared into the bedroom
wing. She wasn't dead. And if Halliday had taken Jenny toward the
bedrooms, I'd probably be hearing gunshots. Rounds would be pouring
through the walls, carrying chunks of wallboard, splinters of wood and
shards of glass with them. But nothing. They had to be in the living
room, the hidden corner, by the coffee table and fireplace.
Only one thing to do.
I ran for it and jumped just as I reached the doorway. Tucked and
rolled, came to my knees facing the part of the room I couldn't see from
the door, the blind corner. My rifle searched for a target, found Halliday
standing with a small caliber automatic in one hand, the briefcase in the
other. His automatic centered on Jenny's head, and she stood directly
between us.
I fell to my right, trying for a clear shot around her. He cursed and
shoved her toward me. She stumbled, caught herself, and turned to her
left, stepped back into my line of fire. His too.
She screamed. "Sam! For God's sake, don't!"
He did, of course.
I think he was trying for me. The slug caught her somewhere in the
middle. She spun and fell toward me. Landed on the barrel of my rifle.
Halliday stood there for half a second. Began to tremble violently.
Said, "Oh, my God!" and ran before I cleared my barrel.
Sharon appeared in the hall for a second, turned without a word and
ran back toward the bedrooms. I jerked the rifle from under Jenny, fought
to my feet, and made it halfway to the front door before I decided I didn't
give a damn about Halliday just then.
A muffled THUMP came from my bedroom. I groaned and ran
back to Jenny, grabbed her shirt and jerked it up. The round had caught
─ 213 ─
Harlen Campbell
her under her ribs on the right side. It made a neat hole going in, but her
back was red and spongy. Ugly.
The first aid kit was still on the table. I slapped a pressure bandage
over the hole in her back and began taping it. Outside, an engine roared.
I grabbed the rifle and ran out onto the deck, hoped for a clear shot
as Halliday crossed the little piece of the county road that was visible from
the deck. But Sharon was out there on it already.
She'd hurt her hip again, maybe when she dropped through the bolthole in my closet. Maybe when she crawled through the cactus. She
limped down the center of the road, eighty yards below me. The engine
roared again, off to my right and directly ahead of her. She stopped,
crouched, held the Glock steady in front of her with both hands. Faced
the car's racing engine. Her head was red. Redder than her dyed hair.
And her blouse was red and her elbow dripped, but her hands never
wavered.
The Glock jerked upwards once. A single report echoed up the
canyon. She stepped to one side and a new blue Chevrolet slid past her,
the windshield milky. It drifted across the shoulder and slammed into the
trees. She turned, followed it with the pistol, then dropped her hand.
Dropped the gun. Crossed herself. Trudged slowly toward the steaming
wreck. She'd finally gotten her head shot.
─ 214 ─
Jennifer's Weave
XI
ZERO-SUM GAME
The trip to Presbyterian hospital in Albuquerque took less than
fifteen minutes. I slowed only once, as I passed Sharon. When she
pointed to her scalp and mouthed "glass" and waved me on, I hit the
throttle and didn't lift my foot until I saw the hospital exit. Jenny lay on
her back in the back seat, took ever shallower breaths, moaned softly until
she stopped moaning and waited for whatever was coming.
I'd made a lot of noise in the emergency room lobby, promoted a
gurney by stealing one and ramming it through the doors with Jenny
bleeding on it. Two nurses and a doctor took over then. I wrote the
admissions clerk a blank check and started annoying anyone wearing white,
green or pastel. Everyone was relieved when Martinez showed up three
hours later.
He put an arm around my shoulders and pulled me toward the
coffee machine. "How is she?"
"It nicked her kidney. Blew a hole out her back. She's going to live."
"That's good." He hesitated. "Is she conscious?"
"They say not."
"Who shot her?"
"Halliday. The guy you said wasn't involved."
"Get off my ass." He poured two Styrofoam cups, put one in my
hand. "I still don't have any proof he killed Herdez. Do you?"
─ 215 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Velasquez will identify him as the man he called Brian Arthur.
Jenny will testify that he shot her."
"That'll help."
I sipped the coffee. Stared at the cop. "What are you doing here?"
"Investigating. Placitas is turning into the homicide capitol of the
state."
"He's dead?" I hadn't been sure.
Martinez nodded. "Cleanest shot I ever saw. Got him right on the
tip of his nose. That Glock of hers makes a nasty exit wound. There
wasn't much holding the top of his head to the bottom."
"Don't get cute, Martinez. It was my gun."
"Sure, sure, but Coulter pulled the trigger, compadre. It looked like
she'd been practicing that shot her whole life."
"Yes." I wasn't interested.
"At least this one will be easy to clear. I talked to the D.A. He sees
it as a justifiable."
"Bravo." But I looked at him. "You didn't arrest her?"
"Coulter? No. She's still at your place. I got an ambulance out
when I saw all that blood, but she refused the ride. She wrapped a towel
around her head and chased the medics off."
"She ran it down for you?"
"Sure, but I'll want a statement from you, too. Stop by anytime
tomorrow. You can have tonight to get your stories straight."
I laughed at that. Martinez didn't smile. He said, "You figure you're
helping Murphy a lot, sitting here?"
"What do you mean?"
"Coulter. When I left she was scrubbing your floor. Working on the
blood."
"Oh." I looked at the double doors that had closed behind Jenny.
He was right. I started for the exit. He put a hand on my arm, held me a
moment.
"Funny thing about that guy she shot," he said. "There was a
briefcase in his car. Open. It was half full of bundles of newspaper, cut
up like bills. The rest of the bundles were scattered around the car, like
he'd thrown them. You know anything about that?"
I shook my head. "It sounds pretty strange."
─ 216 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Uh, huh. It reminded me of that backpack I saw at your place. The
one Velasquez supposedly came for. The hundred and thirty thousand
dollars? You remember that?"
I looked puzzled. "No."
"That's what I thought." He moved his hand. "See me tomorrow.
Both of you."
On the way out, I stopped at a pay phone and made the call Jenny
would have asked me to make if she'd been conscious.
Sharon was still working on the mess Jenny made when I got home.
On her hands and knees over the carpet in the living room, with a red rag
and a pot of red water. Her eyes were swollen and her nose was running.
She looked up when I walked in. Waited on her knees for the news.
"She's going to live." I pulled her to her feet. "Let's look at your
head."
"But . . . ?" She pointed at the floor.
"Forget the rug. It needed replacing anyway." I sat her on a kitchen
chair, gently unwrapped the towel from around her head. The worst of it
was one long cut over her right ear. Most of the blood had come from it,
but there were a number of smaller wounds. Tiny shards of wet glass
glittered in some of them. She still didn't want to go to the hospital. Said
she hated them. We compromised on an urgent care center.
Three hours later, her hair was a lot shorter. The bandages looked
like a turban. I told her she looked exotic. "Besides, this saves you a
bleach job. It'll come back in blond."
"I was going to leave it red." We had just finished lunch at the Cafe
de las Placitas and were lingering over drinks. Hot tea for her, warm
scotch for me.
"Don't. There's nothing prettier than a brown-eyed blonde."
She smiled at that. Probably meant it to be cynical, but it came out
pleased. "Damned men. Fickle. The prettiest woman is always the one
you're with."
Well, there was some truth to that, but I denied it earnestly. General
principals, defense of the sex, and all that. She asked, "What about
Jenny?"
"I told you what the doctors said. She'll be fine."
"I meant you and her." It came out a question.
─ 217 ─
Harlen Campbell
"We were just friends."
She sipped her tea. "We talked last night. While you were sleeping
and later, when you were outside, waiting for Halliday. She said your
relationship wasn't going anywhere."
Relationship? "That's why she went back to Schuler?"
"No." Sharon frowned. "She said she made a mistake a long time
ago and she had to fix it. Try to fix it."
"When she left him and her daughter?"
"I think that's what she meant, but I think it was long before that.
When she listened to her mother."
"I see." I watched her. Noncommittal, but then I don't have the
urge to fix those kind of things. "So you told her."
"About her mother? And the spring of '57? Yes."
"Okay." There was no point in asking how Jenny took it. I just
hoped it helped. I tossed back the last of the scotch. "Let's go. There are
things to do, and I need your help."
Three hours later, one man was on his way to Placitas to replace my
broken window, two others to repair the phone and power lines, and we
had selected new carpet. That was what I needed Sharon for. I have
terrible color sense. When left to myself, I pick colors for their contrast.
Black and silver. Red and white. I usually just let the salesman make the
selection, but I had a perfectly serviceable woman with me. Sharon made
suggestions until she made one I could live with and I ordered that, told
the salesman to do the whole house.
We drove to Placitas. Found the glazier busy. I put Sharon to bed,
cut out the stained parts of the carpet and trashed them. Swept up the
broken glass. Spackled the bullet holes in the drywall. Started dinner. The
menu was easy. Antipasto with sweet peppers, cherry tomatoes, a few
slices of pepperoni. And linguini with a red clam sauce. No dessert, of
course.
Sharon smiled frequently while she ate. Finally, I asked, "What?"
"You couldn't stand it, could you?"
"What do you mean?"
"That spaghetti we made last night. You just had to show me how
it's done."
─ 218 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"I don't know what you're talking about." I opened a bottle of
Chianti to divert her. Poured two glasses. "All the ingredients were here.
I just threw them together."
"But no cans, right?"
"Right. No cans."
She laughed at me, then made a toast. "To the end of it all. Juan
Herdez, may you rest in peace."
I drank with her, but added, "It isn't over yet, you know."
She thought about that. Said, "The key?"
I nodded. "That damned key." It was in my pocket. I'd been
moving it from one pair of pants to another for the last week and a half. I
put it on the table between us and we stared at it for awhile.
"The thing is," I said slowly, "he didn't have much chance to rent a
place in Albuquerque. Helene called every property manager she knows,
and she knows them all. She got nothing."
"Then he didn't rent."
"He could have brought it up from El Paso. Maybe even from
Juarez."
"You'll never find it there."
"No."
Sharon said, "After Herdez got to Jenny's, he only had one chance to
find an apartment or . . . what? House? You're sure it's a door key?"
"That's what the locksmith said." I picked it up, turned it over for
the thousandth time. It looked like every other key I'd ever seen. "The
only chance he had to get out on his own, according to Jenny, was the time
she made that delivery in Albuquerque on Friday. They were together the
only other time he left her house."
"That was the time she brought him to see you? The time you
weren't home?"
"Yes."
"Didn't she say something about telling him they could have waited
inside?"
Our eyes met. I said, "Oh, shit!" Walked over to my door, slid the
key into it. Turned it.
─ 219 ─
Harlen Campbell
The search took three hours. Inside everything. Under everything.
Behind everything. I was ready to start on the garage when Sharon called
my name. She was in the furnace closet, leaning against the back wall.
She couldn't reach it. I pulled it out from the six-inch space between
the furnace and the wall. A brown leather briefcase. Nearly new. We
opened it on the dining room table. Found thirteen bundles of hundred
dollar bills and a small plastic case.
Sharon looked at the money. Handled a bundle. Ten thousand
dollars. "Well, at least you can afford to pay me. Unless it belongs to
Jenny?"
"Don't be silly." I tossed her a second packet. "Is that enough?"
"It's too much."
"Call it hazardous duty pay. Herdez won't miss it. Neither will I."
"Well." She set them beside her plate. Pointed at the plastic case.
"What's that?"
"A notebook."
"What? Oh! One of those little computers. I thought it was--"
"So did I." I turned it on. It asked for a password.
Sharon stood behind me, watched with her hand resting on my
shoulder. "What do you suppose . . . ?"
"Easy." I typed in JENNY and the screen cleared.
The main program was a modified rolodex. A long file of names,
addresses, telephone numbers. Room for comments after each name. In
most cases, the comments consisted of dates and donations. I smiled.
"Let's see what Halliday was so desperate to hide."
We looked up his entry. The comment field said SEE ARTHUR,
BRIAN. The comments after Brian Arthur's name listed a series of
delivery dates, transfer points. The last entry was October 14th, Ciudad
Juarez.
Sharon squeezed my shoulder. "That's it, then. This would have
ruined him. What are you going to do with it? Give it to Martinez?"
"I'll decide tomorrow."
"Okay."
"It won't help anyone, you know."
"Not even Velasquez?"
"Not even him." I sent her to bed and started on the dishes.
─ 220 ─
Jennifer's Weave
The phone rang shortly after midnight, pulled me out of a sound
sleep. I fumbled it to my ear. "Hello?"
"Mr. Porter? Paul Porter?"
I didn't recognize the voice. "Who is this?"
"Tom. Tom Schuler."
I waited.
After a moment, he added, "I just wanted to let you know that Jenny
woke up a little while ago. She told me what . . . what you did. That you
saved her life. I wanted to thank you. And tell you that the doctors said
she was going to, to recover. Completely."
"That's good." I swallowed. Shook my head. "Did she ask you to
call me?"
"I'm calling on my own. She's . . . well, I wanted to thank you. For
calling me. Letting me know that Jenny, my . . . wife . . . had been hurt.
We both wanted to thank you."
"We?"
"Sally is here too."
"Has Jenny seen her?"
"Yes. She's with her now. She's still in intensive care, but they'll be
moving her soon. We'll have to leave then."
"I see." I cleared my throat. "It's good that Sally is there."
He hesitated, asked, "Will you come by tomorrow?"
"If I can."
I hung up. Sat on the edge of the bed with my eyes closed. That
was when I noticed the whimpering. I pulled on a pair of shorts and
stepped into Sharon's room.
She made the noise as she tossed her head back and forth. There
were no words in it, just pain. I sat on the bed, took her hand.
Whispered, "Sharon? It's okay. It's okay."
She didn't hear me. I leaned forward, put my cheek on hers,
whispered it again. She stiffened, jerked awake, struck out. Banged my
nose with her fist and knocked me off the bed. Sat up with wide eyes.
"Rainbow?"
"You were dreaming." I was bleeding, but what the hell. I was
getting new carpet anyway. "I tried to wake you. Gently."
─ 221 ─
Harlen Campbell
"Oh. I don't remember." She rubbed her face. "I'm sorry. What
did I say?"
"Nothing I could make out. You okay now?"
"I have a headache." She noticed my nose. "Did I do that?"
"Forget it. You want anything?"
"Aspirin. Maybe a cup of tea. I don't want to go back to sleep yet."
"I'll get it."
She followed me into the kitchen, sat at the table in her nightgown.
Asked, "What are you doing up? Did I wake you?"
I told her about Schuler's call from the hospital, that I'd called him
earlier to let him know Jenny was hurt.
"That was nice of you."
"It was the thing to do." With a shrug.
"Still, it was nice of you." She watched me carefully. Added, "I'm
sorry, Rainbow."
"You didn't break it. Anyway, the bleeding already stopped."
"That's not . . . forget it."
The kettle began whistling. I poured two cups, handed her one, sat
opposite her. "What was the dream?"
"I don't know. The car, probably."
"The one with the kid?"
She looked at her cup. "He looked like Halliday this time."
"Then you do remember."
She nodded.
"You had to do it."
"I know. It's just--"
"What?"
"I didn't like it."
"That's good. If you liked it, it would be harder to forget. Or
forgive."
She looked up sharply at that. "Myself, you mean? Forgive myself?"
"What other kind of forgiveness is there?"
"Yes." We sat together comfortably then. Two of the unforgiven,
sipping tea.
She cleared her throat. "I'm tired."
"Go to bed."
─ 222 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"I don't want to. Not alone."
"Join me. Just don't get any ideas."
It was like the night in Chihuahua. Better, it was like sharing the tea.
Sexless, but comfortable. Just before I drifted off, I patted her hip, the
bad one, and promised her, "The dreams will fade. Once you're back in
Santa Barbara."
She said, "Jenny is going back there. You know that."
"Of course."
"She's going to sell her land here. She told me so last night."
"So?"
"To me."
I made a noise in the dark.
She rolled toward me. "What did you say?"
"I said oh shit."
She laughed deep in her throat. "Don't take it like that."
Martinez called shortly after breakfast to remind me about the
statement he wanted. I took Sharon and the notebook computer with me.
She asked, "You decided to turn it in?"
"I decided not to."
"Why?"
"For the same reason that Martinez gave us last night to get our
stories straight. He doesn't want to know. He has his killer. Tomás
Velasquez. Oh, he might buy Halliday for the guy who stuck the knife in.
I doubt that he cares about that one way or another, but he doesn't want
any more complications in the case. He especially doesn't want any
complications that lead down to Mexico."
"I guess I can understand that." She picked the notebook up.
Opened it. "Why bring it then?"
"In case I hear anything that makes me want to complicate his life."
"What?"
"Did I tell you I asked Martinez to invite that clown from the FBI?
Thurmond?"
"No." She paused. "What do you expect him to tell us?"
"We'll see."
It took less than an hour to dictate my statement, get it transcribed,
and sign it. Then Martinez wanted Sharon to elaborate on the statement
─ 223 ─
Harlen Campbell
she made yesterday, after the shooting. When she returned, he was at his
desk, telling me about the status of his case. The matching fingerprints,
the hair and blood samples, the early confession.
"The D.A. expects to take it to the grand jury Monday," he said.
"We should have an indictment within the week."
"That's nice," I told him. "Where's Thurmond?"
"In the building somewhere." He looked at me. "Why did you want
him here, anyway?"
"Did you ever find out why he was so chummy with that spook,
Hickson?"
"I figured they were involved in the gun running. It isn't any of my
business." He lost most of his enthusiasm. "Listen carefully, Porter. I get
reports of activity down south sometimes. Thurmond gave me one today.
You know what it said?"
I waited.
"Around noon yesterday, two members of the Mexican Judicial
Police, the Federales, and their driver were ambushed outside the city.
They were all killed. The murders have been attributed to a small group of
criminals known as the PPN, the Partido del Pueblo Nuevo."
Sharon had taken a chair beside me. She looked at me but said
nothing. I said, "Oh?"
"The leader of the PPN was a man called Ramón Villanueva."
Sharon interrupted, "Did they catch him?"
Martinez shook his head. "He disappeared into the mountains. The
story is that he's joined a group of Indians. Tarahumaras. Apparently
they're fairly well armed.
The Federales expect to catch them
momentarily."
I laughed at that.
Martinez exploded. "He's a cop killer, damn it!"
"Did you ever notice," I asked Sharon, "how excited they get when
one of the fraternity goes down? They're paid to protect the public. The
old ladies and the kids. But what really gets them excited is when a man
with a gun and a badge takes the hit. Not the kids and old ladies they're
sworn to protect. One of the fraternity."
"You son of a bitch!" Martinez was glaring.
─ 224 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"Get Thurmond in here," I told him. "Then we'll get out of your
hair."
He grabbed his phone. We sat in silence until Thurmond walked in,
felt the tension in the room, and pursed his lips. "You wanted to see me?"
"I've got a couple of easy questions, Thurmond."
"Such as?"
"Brian Arthur and Juan Herdez. You learned about them two years
ago, just before Arthur was killed. How?"
He paused a moment, maybe to count the bureaucratic toes an
answer would step on, and then said, "We got a tip."
"Who got the tip? The Bureau? Not your buddy, Hickson?"
"That's right."
"Then it came from the States, not from the Mexican side."
"That is a reasonable assumption."
Reasonable assumption. I shook my head. "Who did the tip come
from?"
"Even if I knew--"
"--you couldn't tell me." I finished the line for him. "Do you know
where it came from?"
He said nothing.
"Would the San Francisco area be a reasonable assumption,
Thurmond? Sausalito, for instance?"
He nodded shortly. "That office received the call."
"Uh, huh. And then what did you do? Notify the Agency?"
"That would have been standard procedure, I suppose."
"That's when Hickson came into the game." I smiled at him. "Tell
me, when did the two of you geniuses bring the Federales into it?"
"I had nothing to do with that," he said quickly. "That was Ben's
idea."
"Of course." My grin was so wide that my cheeks hurt. "Did you
know that they subverted Ramón Villanueva? That he gave them the
names of the PPN's steering committee? That for the last year and a half
the Federales have been running the operation? That those three men on
the steering committee were arrested a couple of days ago? That they were
killed while attempting to escape?"
Thurmond stuttered, said no.
─ 225 ─
Harlen Campbell
Martinez looked at him and cursed.
I said, "Let's get out of here."
Once we were in the car, Sharon asked, "It was all Halliday's doing,
then? From the very beginning? Because he was jealous?"
"I think he tipped the feds out of jealousy. Maybe that, I mean the
stress, triggered his heart attack. But then Jenny left him anyway, and
when Herdez slipped the noose by faking his own death, Halliday saw an
opportunity to keep an eye on her old husband and make a few bucks on
the side. He stepped into Arthur's shoes. He had the capital, the time,
and plenty of business experience. He knew guns. He was a natural for
it."
She shook her head. I picked up the notebook and started paging
through the names.
"What are you doing?"
"Checking something." The program had a search function. I asked
it for all the names with 'steering' in the comment field. There were six of
them.
"Damn!"
"What?"
"How many names did Villanueva say he gave the Federales? The
ones on the steering committee? Three, wasn't it?"
"Yes."
"There are six here. Villanueva's and five others."
"No."
"He fed them the three weakest members of the committee." I
made a fist, hit the steering wheel. "The son of a bitch! All the time the
Federales thought they were running the PPN, Villanueva was running the
real organization behind their backs. And that explains why the numbers
increased."
"What do you mean?"
"It bothered me all along that the size of the arms shipments
increased after the Federales took over. They had no reason to increase
the shipments. They may have been making a few pesos on the deal, but
their main goal was to keep the channel open while Thurmond traced this
end of it."
Sharon looked confused. "Then why did they?"
─ 226 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"They didn't. Villanueva did. He diverted the overage before it
reached the Federales."
"That's how he armed his Indios!"
"Right." I started the car.
On the drive to the hospital Sharon erased the notebook, one entry
at a time. Just to make sure.
The information desk sat in the middle of the hospital's main lobby.
The woman behind it confirmed that Jennifer Murphy had been moved
from the Intensive Care Unit last night, after her condition was upgraded
from critical to serious. She could have visitors, but non-family members
were requested to stay no longer than fifteen minutes.
We took the elevator up and followed signs. Met a man carrying two
cups of coffee near the nurses' station. Dark-headed, dark brown eyes,
husky, unshaven. An inch or so under six foot. Thin slacks and a shortsleeved white shirt with a pocket full of pens. California clothes, engineer's
clothes. He heard Sharon ask for Jenny's room and the tense, exhausted
expression on his face cracked, revealed a hidden smile.
He said, "Porter? Paul Porter?"
"Rainbow."
He fumbled with the cups, so eager to grab my hand that he couldn't
think what to do with them. He wound up cradling the one in his right
hand between his left elbow and his body. He pumped my hand, winced,
grabbed the cup back. It left a dark stain on his shirt. "Tom Schuler," he
said. "Thank you! I'm glad . . . we're glad you came. Jenny told us
everything about you."
Not everything, I bet. I said, "Pleased to meet you, Tom."
I forgot he'd met Sharon in Santa Barbara and introduced them
again. She smiled politely and took the cup from him so he could shake
her hand. He thanked her too. It wasn't clear for what.
I asked, "How is she?"
"Better. Much better. Come see."
She had a private room, of course. After all, the admissions
department had a blank check in her file. The thin hospital blanket spread,
unwrinkled, over her body. A bag of clear fluid dripped steadily from a
metal stand into a plastic tube that ran into her arm.
─ 227 ─
Harlen Campbell
Her face was pale, almost ashen. Her eyes were closed, her breath
soft, masked by the regular beeping of the pump on the IV stand. I
stopped by the door and looked at the tumble of black her dyed hair made
on the white pillow case.
Sharon stepped past me, to the foot of the bed, and whispered,
"She's asleep?"
"She drifts in and out," Schuler said.
A long form stirred in the chair near the window. I hadn't noticed
the girl before. Schuler handed her one of the cups. Waved our way.
"Paul Porter and Sharon Coulter. This is my daughter, Sally. I
mean, our daughter."
She smiled, but it wasn't what you'd call an open smile. She held
something in reserve, like she wasn't sure what she was doing in the room
or what we were doing there. Either lost or possessive. Or both.
"Hello, Sally." Sharon took her hand for a moment. Said something
comforting. I nodded at the girl without moving from my post by the
door.
Jenny's eyes fluttered without opening. Her tongue probed her lips.
"Rainbow?"
"I'm here." Still without moving. My voice filled the room, pushed
everyone else's whispers into the corners.
She licked her lips again. Her eyes opened, found me, and closed.
She said softly, "He shot me."
"Yes." I didn't know what to say. "You shouldn't have gone
outside."
"You got him? Sam?"
I cleared my throat. Embarrassed, for some reason. "He's dead."
"Oh." She moved her fingers weakly, pulled me toward her. I
leaned over her. She said, "Water."
Sally stood quickly, beat her father to the glass, held it for her
mother. Who sipped and said thank you.
Sally patted her mother's hand.
Jenny said, "Rainbow. Thank you."
"Sharon did the honors."
"No." Her eyes began to water. "Thank you for calling Tom. And
Sally."
─ 228 ─
Jennifer's Weave
"That's what you wanted, isn't it?"
"Yes."
"Jenny?" My voice still seemed loud. I couldn't make it behave.
"Why didn't you tell us about the guns? Or about Brian Arthur?"
She blinked slowly. Whispered, "You asked me to turn myself in."
So softly I barely heard the words. "I'd have had to . . . give up . . . hope.
Of Sally . . . ." Her eyes closed again. She drifted into sleep.
Sharon stood. "We should go."
I nodded and followed her. When I looked back from the door,
Sally was on the bed, holding Jenny's hand and staring at her face with the
kind of look a hungry child might give a strange new fruit. She had her
mother's blue eyes and high cheekbones, her father's dark hair and firm
jaw. Schuler stood behind his daughter with one hand on her shoulder
and the other on his wife's knee.
My eyes lingered on Jenny's closed face. She looked like she
belonged with Sally. She didn't look like she belonged with Tom Schuler,
but she looked like she might, someday.
In the parking lot, I asked Sharon, "You hungry?"
"Let's go back to Placitas. You can cook."
"Okay."
The day was as good as they come. As we followed the road from
Placitas to my house, the sky seemed to bend down, to lean protectively
over us. Deep blue, like heavy old medicine glass.
On our left, the dry yellow land flowed away to the river, then
climbed steadily toward the white-capped purple mass of Mount Taylor
and the Continental Divide beyond it. The air rolled down the Sandias on
our right, cold and full of the scent of the tall pines that grew there.
Sharon rolled down her window, stuck an arm through it, and
looked past me toward the jagged horizon. "I'm going to like living here."
I said what I always say when I'm not sure what to say. Nothing.
But I smiled. Thought finally of the right words. "Just don't get too
close."
She looked at me, and after a moment she began to laugh. We were
both laughing when we passed the burned-out house and the scarred pine
tree where Sam Halliday had come to rest.
─ 229 ─