It seemed weird, doing such prosaic work when everything at home was so crazy, but it was also calming, in a way, and it kept her from dwelling on the events of the previous night and the impossible situation in which she now found herself.
On her desk was the stack of books and monographs Oscar had given her, the raw material of his curriculum. She was convinced there was a connection between those atrocities of the past and the violence that had happened at her house, though the exact linkage remained elusive.
Soon she wouldn’t need to worry about it anymore. Soon the house would no longer be theirs, and someone else would inherit all of the responsibilities.
But could she do that, in good conscience? Could she fob off the house on some unsuspecting sucker when she knew the horrors it contained?
She began sorting through Oscar’s materials, finding several monographs and one book that she had not yet read. There was work still to be done on her few pending cases, and she knew that should be her priority, but it wouldn’t hurt to take a short break and … look. Glancing over at the clock, she decided to give herself a half hour, and she picked up the book, flipped to the back and started scanning through the index, thinking that there were probably a lot of details that even the most exhaustive historical accounts left out.
Twenty-six
1855
Kit Carson dismounted from his horse, filled with a satisfying sense of accomplishment. He looked around at the cluster of adobe buildings, wooden corrals and barns. He had heard of this village but had not thought he would find it, as, to his knowledge, it existed on no map. Both as a scout and an Indian agent, he had come across rumors of a community built where the land was cursed, where murder and death were the consequences of occupation and where, over the years, countless massacres had taken place. It had seemed to him that such a location would be of invaluable strategic importance. If it was charted and known, enemy combatants could be led to this site, assured of imminent destruction. But he had come to believe that this place was merely a myth, a folktale created to frighten travelers in the territory, and it was only last week, when he ran into Utah Pete by the Rio Grande, that he discovered that San Jardine did indeed exist. Pete gave directions, even drew him a map, and, along with the other Utes camping along the river, insisted that the Mexicans who populated the village needed to be exterminated.
Kit’s own wife was Mexican, so he wasn’t necessarily disposed to agree with such a sentiment, but in order to obtain the directions to this place, he gave his word as a government agent that he would assess the situation, and he had brought with him a couple of Ute soldiers and a raft of volunteers. It was a small concession to make if the rumors about the location turned out to be true.
The volunteers had remained behind at the camp this afternoon, but the Utes were with him, and when he glanced over at their faces, he could see they were scared. He, too, felt an uneasiness here, but it was more than made up for by the feeling of triumph he experienced. That very uneasiness, in fact, was behind the triumph, for it indicated to him that the stories he had heard over the years were most likely accurate.
The three of them tied their horses to a post and walked down the single street. San Jardine looked like one of a dozen other villages he had come across in his travels, rather typical for this area, in fact, with its single store and bar, its collection of small, poor homes and its outlying farms.
The only feature that made it different was what stood at the far end of town, the one building he had avoided looking at, and the reason he had come.
A man carrying a rifle stopped to question him, obviously the person in charge of whatever passed for law hereabouts. The man spoke no English, but Kit’s Spanish was good, and he explained who he was and why he was here. At first, the man denied that there was anything unusual about the village and told Kit that his information was mistaken. If there was such a place as he described, San Jardine was not it. But when Kit asked what the building was that lay at the end of the street, and why no homes or farms or other buildings stood anywhere near it, the man broke down, admitting that that land was malo, bad. His reticence turned into effusiveness, and he explained that everyone in the village shunned that area, neither went there nor spoke of it, and that avoidance of the site came naturally to even children and animals.
Word had it that, fifty years ago, there’d been a church on the spot, and that it had been destroyed by a band of marauders, one of a historical procession that had decimated the population of what had at one time been a thriving community.
Kit looked to the end of the street. Even a church couldn’t change the nature of that land, and this to him was a powerful realization.
Why had people remained here? Kit asked. Why hadn’t all of the families left and moved elsewhere?
The man had no answer, and somehow that seemed the most disturbing thing of all.
There had been no one on the street when he’d arrived, but behind the man to whom he’d been talking, other men with guns had gathered. Kit had the impression that they’d heard the topic of discussion and come out to make sure that he did not try to walk to the end of the street. They seemed fearful of the small building there, as of a primitive god, and bent on keeping people away so as not to rile the forces within.
Kit spoke to the Ute soldiers to either side of him in their own language, and they pulled out their guns and got a bead on the head honcho before them.
“Now I am going to inspect that location,” Kit announced to the villagers, “and I do not wish to be impeded. Do I make myself clear? If any attempt is made to stop me, my men will immediately start firing. They are expert soldiers and will be able to kill several of you before you are able to kill them.”
The man who’d been talking to him looked angry and frightened at the same time. But he lowered his weapon and lowered his head, allowing Kit and the Utes to pass. The other men dispersed, leaving the street, going back into their homes. In moments, the street was clear. The village might as well have been abandoned.
Kit looked over at the Utes. Once again, he saw the fear on their faces. He felt it, too, and the air grew colder as the sun hid behind a cloud. A shadow fell over the land.
They walked past the store. The village, he saw now, was bigger than he had originally thought. Its size was deceptive, because it was shaped like a horseshoe, spread out and back, leaving a short center, everything built away from and around that small structure at the end of the street. He still was not sure what that building could be, but as he approached, as he grew close, he saw that it was a ramshackle cabin, windowless, with a tattered cloth hung over its rough doorway. Smoke seeped out from around the cloth’s edges, smelling of lives, smelling of death, and behind the smoke was an eerie light, a colorless glow that was unlike anything he had ever seen.
He stopped several lengths in front of it. The street had ended, and he was standing before an overgrown patch of brush-covered ground. A narrow footpath led through the scrub and to the cabin door.
As brave as he was, he found himself afraid to enter the cabin.
Something lived in there.
The tattered cloth billowed in an unfelt breeze, and the glow behind the creeping smoke flickered. For the first time in his life, his urge was to turn tail and run, to get away from this village as quickly as he could. But that meant only that this place did have power, that the stories he had heard were true, and he would be forfeiting his duty as an agent of the government if he did not follow through, enter that building and find out whether that power could be used to promote the interests of the United States.