June 1929. KiMo Theater, Albuquerque, New Mexico
Luis paused at the top of the staircase and looked down the dark hallway to where a window formed a grey rectangle against the night. Halfway down on the right, a dim yellow glow identified his destination. He walked to the door, then took a deep breath and stood with his shoulders back and chin tucked. He knocked on the door in the pattern he’d been given, turned the knob and stepped inside, closing the door behind him.
A single green-shaded lamp on a desk at the back of the room cast the only light in the office. He could just make out a sandy-haired man in a suit sitting behind the desk. A dark-haired man in a straight-backed wooden chair facing the desk twisted around to look at him.
“Right on time, Luis,” said the man behind the desk. “Pull up a chair.”
Luis set a chair in front of the desk and stood at attention beside it. The man in the other chair leaned over and held out his hand. Luis shook it.
“Javier Martinez, National Park Service Law Enforcement,” the man said. He wore a plaid shirt, jeans, and cowboy boots, just as Luis did.
The man behind the desk stood and reached across it. Luis shook his hand as well. “Robert Simmons, Bureau of Prohibition on loan to the NPS.” He grinned. “Just call me Bob, and” — he waved at the chair — “have a seat.”
Luis waited until Bob had resumed his seat before seating himself. He sat upright, not touching the back of the chair.
“Any trouble finding this place?” Bob asked.
Luis shook his head. “No, sir, everyone knows where the KiMo is.”
“They tell you what this is about?”
Luis nodded, “Yes, sir. They said it has to do with the looting of ancient artifacts going on at the national parks around here.” He straightened. “I volunteered for this assignment because they aren’t just old pots they are stealing. They are stealing our heritage, our history.” He looked toward Javier. “Don’t you agree?”
“I do.” Javier nodded. “Those artifacts belong to all of the Pueblo people.”
“To say nothing of it being a federal crime,” Bob interjected. “That’s where I come in.” He looked toward Javier. “You want to take it from here?”
Javier nodded and turned toward Luis. “We got a tip that a middleman working for a known dealer in stolen art in Chicago is on one of the three-day Fred Harvey Indian Detours. It’s the perfect cover. The Detours go to most of the pueblos around here and nearly everyone purchases pottery from the Indians at the pueblos. No one will question another tourist buying another pot.” He looked at Bob. “Your turn. You know more about the MO than I do.”
Bob grinned. “What we’ve been told is that the middleman meets up with the seller at the pueblos and makes the purchases. The seller usually turns over the smaller items immediately. Larger ones, they make arrangements for the transfer at a later time and place. Our informant says that the seller for Santo Domingo is currently otherwise occupied — ”
“In jail,” Javier interrupted, answering Luis’ puzzled look. “Drunk and disorderly.”
“That’s why you’re here,” Bob continued. “You’ll go undercover as the seller—”
“But,” Luis continued to look puzzled, “won’t the middleman know that I’m not the seller?”
“No,” Javier responded again. “From what we’ve been told, who the seller is all depends on what is for sale and where it came from. The middleman never knows for certain who the seller will be or even if there will be one at a given pueblo.” He shrugged. “Sometimes the seller is working for someone else, sometimes for himself, so the middleman just makes himself available and waits to be approached.”
Luis nodded and looked thoughtful.
“They tell us you know the pueblo?” Bob asked.
“Yes, sir,” Luis nodded rapidly. “I have cousins there. I visited them when we were younger.”
“Good. Then no one will wonder what you’re doing there.”
“Oh,” Luis shook his head. “I’ll make sure that no one sees me. I know how to sneak in and the best places to hide.”
Javier grinned.
“I’ll bet you do,” Bob responded, “but that’s not necessary. Your job is just to make contact with the agent, take the payment, and set up a meeting later to collect the item. Agent Martinez and I will be at that meeting and take things from there.”
Luis jumped up and held out his hand. “I understand. I won’t disappoint you, sir.”
Bob remained seated, with a wry smile on his face. “Don’t you want to know when the Detour reaches Santo Domingo? And where the meeting will be set?”
“Oh,” Luis blushed and sat down suddenly. “Of course. I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just call me Bob. The Detour will be at Santo Domingo on Sunday morning. They’ll be spending that night at the Alvarado hotel here. Tell him to meet us in the lobby at …” he paused as if considering.
“At midnight, sir?” Luis asked.
“Sure, at midnight. Why not?” Bob held out his hand. “We’ll see you at the Alvarado on Sunday night at midnight.”
Luis jumped up and pumped Bob’s hand. He turned and clasped Javier’s. “I’ll be there and so will he!” He turned and tripped over the leg of his chair, then rushed to the door and left.
***
Bob looked at Javier after the door closed and raised an eyebrow. “Are they sure about him? He’s pretty hepped up.”
“You remember your first assignment. You were just like that. Everyone is.” Javier shrugged. “Besides, he was the only volunteer with any connection to the pueblo. He’ll be fine as long as he follows orders.”
Bob looked skeptical. “Yeah, well, let’s hope he follows orders.”
***
Luis turned off the headlights of his pick-up as he left the road to approach the pueblo from the rear. The moon’s radiance turned the junipers and chamisa into black, two-dimensional silhouettes against the backdrop of the blocky, flat-roofed pueblo ahead of him. Grasses and sagebrush showed pale in the silver light.
Shifting into second gear, he allowed the truck to crawl over the rough terrain to within a few hundred yards of the pueblo. He parked behind a large juniper that shielded the truck from view from the pueblo. Setting his cowboy hat on the seat, he slipped out of the cab and carefully closed the door to avoid making any unnatural noise that would alert a light sleeper. In the distance, coyotes greeted each other with short, sharp yips and a few coughing barks. Probably planning some mischief or the other, but they sounded too far away to be a concern.
He crouched and ran lightly toward the pueblo, dodging quickly from juniper to juniper and chamisa to chamisa. He flattened himself against the back wall of the two-story building, slid to his left until he reached the corner and peered around. The stuttering hoot of a great horned owl caused him to jump slightly. He smiled to himself and shook his head. Nothing to be worried about there, either, despite the eerieness of the cry. He wasn’t one of those who believed that the owl was a harbinger of death, except, of course, to the small creatures that were its prey.
Seeing no light or movement, he stealthily slid around the corner and along the side of the building, keeping his back to wall. He held his breath as a dark shape waddled out of the plaza toward the open desert, then released it slowly as the animal continued past him, the wide streak of white down its back declaring its identity. Finally, a good omen. He waited until the skunk was far enough away not to be frightened by any movement of his.
Looking around the corner to the terraced front of the building, he saw that the ladder to the second story was propped against the wall between an open window and a closed door. He breathed a sigh of relief that he wouldn’t have to climb in front of the window or try to move the ladder. He lifted his right foot and bent his knee, to remove his boot, then stopped. Climbing the ladder quietly would be easier in his stocking feet, but he’d have to carry the boots up with him, so he’d only have one hand free. And if someone did hear him, he’d have to run through the scrub bootless. Better not risk it.
He passed under the window at a crouch, then stood and listened for any sound from the room. Hearing nothing, he tested the ladder to be sure it was stable, then stepped lightly on the first rung. The slight creak of the wood sounded like a shot in the quiet of the night, but there was no response from the pueblo. He stepped from rung to rung, pausing between each to listen. Taking a deep breath, he calmed his rapidly beating heart before stepping off of the ladder, then tiptoed carefully across the few yards of the first-story roof that formed the terrace for the second and climbed the ladder to the flat roof of the second story.
Arriving at the top, he lay flat on his belly in a corner of the parapet that ran around the roof. The only perceptible sounds were the usual chirping of insects and the occasional rustle of wind in the junipers. The owl hooted again, closer this time, hunting for its dinner. He raised his head just enough to see over the parapet. To the front, he had a clear view of the central plaza, with its circular underground kivas, ladders protruding from their entrances, and the rounded domes of adobe hornos, firewood piled next to them. Looking forward, he could just make out the road leading into the plaza. To his right, he could see the expanse of the open desert. He knew without looking down the side of the building that it was a straight drop to the ground, two stories below. A dark shadow moved across the plaza, as a cloud scudded in front of the moon.
He was in a good position. In the morning, he’d be able to see the HarveyCars arrive and any Detourist leave the party in search of a seller. He’d have to watch for his chance to get down from the roof, but everyone would be focused on the HarveyCars and the Detourists. The women would be selling their pottery and the men their jewelry, the ones who weren’t standing guard over the kivas to keep the strangers out. The Couriers would be helping the Detourists to negotiate prices, while the drivers snuck off for a smoke. No one would notice one more Indian hanging around.
He rolled over on his back and folded his arms beneath his head, his elbow just touching the parapet to his left. Might as well get comfortable. He’d be here a while. It had been years since he’d seen the thick band of glimmering stars that white people called the Milky Way. It was easy to see why some Pueblo people believed it was the path that the souls of the dead follow into the next life. He hunted for and found the stars that defined the Big Dipper, high in the northern sky. Try as he might, he was never able to see the bear that white people said it encompassed.
His eyes closed almost of their own accord and he drifted off to sleep. The yipping of coyotes and the hoots of owls gradually invaded his dreams. He watched as a dark shape shrouded the moon. Unlike the cloud, it did not move away. Rather, it grew slowly larger and, as it approached, he could feel the breeze created by great wings flapping silently in the air above him. Two massive feet with long, curving talons reached toward his face. He shouted and waved his arms, trying to drive it away. Rolling to his right, he saw several pairs of red eyes gleaming at him and could feel hot breath on his face. He rolled quickly to his left, protecting his head with his arms. He had to get off this roof. He jumped to his feet in panic, then sensed rather than saw the coyotes leap toward him. Stumbling backwards, he awoke as he felt the adobe of the parapet crack and crumble under his heels. As he plunged off the roof, his last sight was of the shining Spirit Path.
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