“Two years?” said the clerk. “Why didn’t you say? Except for the regulars, I can hardly remember two months or even two weeks ago. Two years? I’m sorry.”
Walter got the name of two others who worked there part time. Before leaving town he looked them up and got the same response. Nevertheless, he felt a twinge of satisfaction, a sense of professional pride standing outside this Pac-Mail store in, of all places, Las Vegas, New Mexico, knowing that the rifles that killed Christopher Hopman, Billy MacNeal, Floyd Ochs, and Pat Grath had passed this way. Perhaps, he thought, Leonard Martin had parked his SUV in the same spot where Walter’s rental car was now parked. He pictured Leonard opening the back of his SUV, sliding the boxes into the vehicle, and driving away. Walter had a very familiar itch, an adrenaline rush he often felt when he was near.
Snow covered the ground and blew across the road. He was looking for a land parcel northeast of Las Vegas and about a hundred miles from Santa Fe. It looked like wilderness on the map, and close up too. No villages, towns, or houses. No filling stations or bars. He drove on small roads, long stretches paved with barely visible sand, oiled to harden in winter. Within the last hour, a pickup truck passed him, but nothing else moved his way. Three cars came from the other direction. The desert here was hilly and spare, less overgrown than near Santa Fe. His Buick handled the snaky white roads nicely. He hadn’t thought to rent a four-wheel drive. Just as well. The Buick got all the traction it needed. He slowed, consulted the map that the attorney sent him, and turned left onto an unmarked road shown leading to the parcel owned by Evangelical Missions Inc. The car-width trail took him twisting in and around hills. Frequent sharp turns forced him to break. After ten minutes the cabin popped up ahead, as suddenly as the sun had set the day before as he drove north from Albuquerque. It was built into the side of a large hill, looking down on the road. Fifty feet in front of the cabin, the bumpy road stopped and widened, providing space for one car to stop and turn around. Walter parked and got out. The cabin door swung in. He saw a flash of white. Whoever was there had to have heard the Buick crunching ice-might have known he was coming a quarter mile away, or more. The door opened wider and Walter felt disappointment set in. A man emerged with a torso as strikingly muscled and as hard as a kid’s. The man who faced Walter did heavy work for a living. He wore a clean white T-shirt, old jeans, work boots. His close-cropped gray hair and creased, sun-dark skin put him in his forties. The man wore shades, but used his hand to shadow his eyes against the white, glaring sun and the snow. He scratched his chin beneath a tight black and gray speckled beard. There could have been a pistol tucked at his back. Walter did not think so. He wasn’t threatened now, but being closer might be different. Then, if intuition failed, Walter could only hope he’d get to the Glock in his coat pocket first.
“Evangelical Missions?” Walter shouted across the fifty feet.
“Yes it is. What can I do for you, sir?” He strained to be heard. Had the wind not been at his back, he would have been inaudible.
“I’m looking for Leonard Martin.”
“Leonard Mart ee nez? He left two weeks ago.”
“Where to?”
“I don’t know.”
“When will he be back?”
“Don’t know.” His soft voice carried the nervous regret of one who knew his place and wanted to give some kind of satisfaction. The measured rhythm of his speech suggested to Walter that he might be what is politely called “slow.” “I don’t hardly never see him. Never seen him but once or twice. He mostly has me come when he’s away. He has me work on the well pump. I like that.” He pointed west. “It works just fine now. He wants me to build him a fence. He lets me use the place if he’s not here. Honest, he does. I’m allowed.”
“Who are you?”
“Michael DelGrazo. I come by to work on the well pump and all.”
“My name is Walter Sherman. Some people in New York would like to talk with Mr. Mar-, Mr. Martinez. They want to talk about something very important. Will you tell Mr. Martinez I was here?” He covered the distance between them, reached inside his coat to the pocket of his shirt, produced a small, yellow sheet from an Inn of the Anastasia notepad. “Ask him to call this number to get in touch. Will you give him this?” Michael DelGrazo reached out and took the note in his hand. He looked at it for a long time.
“I’ll put the note on the table, but no telling when he’ll come back. Walter Sherman? From… New York?” He wrinkled his forehead, puzzling over the slip.
“No, I’m not the one from New York, but it’s okay. It’s all right there. Be sure not to lose it. Just see that he gets it, okay?” He watched Michael nod, all seriousness. Walter looked around, then said, “Use your bathroom?”
Michael said, “Sure,” and stood back from the door. Walter entered and Michael followed. “Over there.” The blinds were up. Sunlight streamed in. The air inside was clear and bright. Walter took in a spacious, plank-floor room, a tattered, brown fold-out couch, a bleached wooden table and two wooden chairs, a propane lamp on the table, and a fireplace in the corner, with scrub wood stacked beside it. Everything looked tidy and taken care of. He peered into a much smaller room, bedroll standing upright in one corner, thrift-shop bureau against the far wall, no pictures in either room. The place had electricity, but no sign of anything plugged in. Walter surveyed the narrow kitchen: propane stove, plate and cup in the sink, a few cans and boxes piled on the floor. “Where’s all the food?” he wondered. A big man has to eat a lot. Probably in the boxes, he figured.
Then Walter spent his time in the john and threw its small window open before he left. No sign at all of a gun or of Leonard Martin. Michael sat on the fold-out couch, now in a heavy, red-plaid jacket, nodding to himself, the hint of smile indicating a happy thought, looking like a blind man to Walter because of the sunglasses and the way he moved his head. Walter said, “Where’s your car? Don’t you need a car out here?”
Pleased to produce an answer at last, the friendly voice said, “Leonard took my car. I got a Toyota last year. My sister has one, said it’s a good car. Said he don’t want the truck for a real long ride. That’s how come I know he’s coming back. He left his truck and said I can drive it. Honest, he did. I’m allowed.” They walked around back and both of them looked at the SUV. Michael studied Walter’s face. Anxiously? For signs of disapproval?
“It don’t drive as good as the car. But you should get a four-wheel truck if you’re gonna drive around here.”
“Maybe I will. Thanks again.” They walked to the front, and Walter said, “I know Leonard’s got some problems with his health. How’s he feeling lately?”
“I don’t know. He’s awful fat. Fattest man I ever seen. Huffing and puffing. Huffing and puffing.” Michael’s grin became a full-throated laugh; he had all his teeth.
They shook hands in front of the house. The wind whipped. Michael, wearing a floppy felt cowboy hat to keep his head warm, still shivered, and said, “So long.” Walter turned after Michael did. Walking back to the car, he put the chances that Leonard might call at maybe a thousand to one. Still, there was nothing to lose. Walter thought about Michael DelGrazo, middle-aged yet hard as a rock. Walter too needed to get in shape, lose some weight. Perhaps he would get a workout tape. Walter pictured himself on a chinning bar looking out at the sea as his muscles hardened; saw the look on Ike’s friendly face when he walked into Billy’s sporting an eighteen-year-old’s abs. Driving away, he smiled at his own daydreams.
Walter had seen her paintings in books, and the Georgia O’Keeffe museum was within easy walking distance. After a bite at the Inn he went for a look. Distractions often helped when hunches were on the bubble, and plans needed thought. Someone had told him her work was symbolic; the flowers weren’t just flowers. He spent an hour among them, looking for the symbols. Someone also said a cigar is just a cigar. Walter could never remember who. He’d always wondered why that needed saying. A flower, he now suspected, might also be just a flower.