Legends. Cuentos de la gente. The bruja could take the form of the animal, an owl or coyote.
Sonny sighed and went to Lorenza. He sat across from her and she took his hands in hers. She closed her eyes, and for a long time she just sat there, holding his hands. When she opened her eyes, she asked, “Do you know what a limpieza is?”
Rita had told Sonny about the cleansing ceremony.
“To cleanse …”
“A spirit has gotten into your soul. It has to be cleaned away.”
“Spirit?” Sonny said. The stories of souls moving around were cuentos the old people told. Stories to scare the children on late-winter nights. To pass the time. Did Lorenza believe?
“Gloria’s alma. The limpieza would clean it away.”
“If her soul is in me,” he questioned, “why would I want it cleansed away?”
“You loved her.”
Sonny nodded. “She was the first woman I loved.”
“No matter how much we love the person, when they die the soul must move on. The soul is on a journey, seeking its own light, its own clarity.”
Ah, she did know don Eliseo’s philosophy, or something close to it. The soul had to leave, to become a Señora de la Luz. But for some reason Gloria’s soul didn’t want to continue on its natural journey. It had fastened to him.
“Does she want revenge?” Sonny asked.
Lorenza nodded. “The soul has a reason for refusing to move on. It’s in you, and that’s what’s troubling you. It could get worse.…”
Why would Gloria diminish him? She had been the one to teach him love. He would give anything to have her alive. But something had sapped his strength last night, creating a sense of growing depression, fatigue, not thinking straight. He wanted to find Gloria’s murderers, and he had nothing to go on. A sense of hopelessness haunted him. And he hadn’t been able to get it up with Rita. How could it get worse?
“Maybe I should do this limpieza,” he said and stood.
“It’s up to you,” she replied. “It takes a few hours.”
Did he doubt her? Is that why he was hesitating?
“You decide,” she said. “The old curanderas and sobadoras knew how to release the susto, release the souls of the dead. I’ve studied their ways, and I think I can help you.”
Sonny was still hesitating when Lorenza spoke again. “There is a strong animal spirit acting against you,” she said. “In the old teachings, the nagual is the animal energy of a person. We all have it. Someone is using their animal energy against you.”
“How do you know?”
“I can see it,” she whispered.
Raven, Sonny thought. That’s the animal Lorenza is seeing. Or the animals that had killed Gloria. Human animals.
“The light oozing from you is so clear. You are being cut into, drained, and only because you have your own strength within are you able to keep going. It feels to me like you are a brujo within, a powerful but kind shaman, but one without training. You have not yet recognized your own power.”
Sonny was embarrassed by what Lorenza was saying, and he felt uncomfortable still at the thought of a limpieza, even if she and Rita were right about Gloria’s spirit.
“Soon as I have time, I’ll make an appointment,” he said.
She walked him to the door. Sonny felt an urge to say something, but he couldn’t think of anything that didn’t sound banal.
“Thanks for the café,” he said finally.
“De nada,” Lorenza replied. “Before you go, come with me.” She walked toward the bosque where they had seen the coyotes.
She walked softly, so silently she didn’t stir the dry grasses of the path. Where the coyotes had stood, she pointed. On the soft sand lay the faint outline of the coyotes’ prints. They followed the tracks into a densely shaded Russian olive grove. She stopped and searched carefully until she spied what she was after: fine strands of coyote fur caught on a thorn.
She gathered the few hairs and held them up for Sonny to see, then turned to inspect the path again, as if looking for coyote nails or a tooth an old coyote might have lost on the river trail. Above the canopy of shade the sunlight was bright, warm. A drone of cicadas filled the green bosque; otherwise the place was silent. She took a small leather pouch tied at her belt, put the coyote hairs in it, and handed it to Sonny.
“Keep it safe,” she said.
Sonny took it, nodded, slipped the bag into his shirt pocket.
He followed her back to her house, feeling for the first time that he was being watched. But they were alone except for a crow calling from its perch on the top of a dry branch of a gnarled cottonwood tree.
“Go away, diablo!” Lorenza cried out. “We’re not afraid of you!”
The big bird lifted from the branch, crying angrily as it flew, circling the clearing, then disappearing over the treetops. Sonny remembered the large crow rising from the pine tree at Raven’s compound. He looked at Lorenza, but she had already turned up the path toward the house.
Suddenly chilled, Sonny felt for the pouch in his shirt pocket, resting over his heart.
19
As Sonny drove south on Río Grande, he thought of Morino. I gotta get to Morino. He knows something; that’s why he went to see Dominic. Gotta get to him.… And Raven. Though he’s not going anywhere now that Naranjo’s got him in jail in Estancia.
On impulse, he picked up his cellular and dialed Tamara. “You’re in the neighborhood, darling,” she answered. “What a wonderful coincidence. I was just thinking of you. Of course you can come. I am alone; I will expect you.”
Okay, he would go see the mysterious lady. If anyone could help him get to Morino, it was Tamara.
The clear, dry heat of the day rose from the earth like the heat waves from volcanic magma. Humidity, 7 percent. The earth was seething with heat. He looked east toward the wrinkled face of Sandia Crest. The mountain was a dull, blue outline. He couldn’t see the contours of the foothills or the canyons. Above him the blue bowl of the sky was dull, empty of clouds. Days like this, the paisanos dreamed of the Taos mountains, cool streams, green pine trees swaying in the breeze, cold beer.
Weatherman Morgan had forecast a few thundershowers over the northern Sangre de Cristo Mountains, but nothing for Alburquerque. A few clouds were gathering over Rio Arriba, but nothing so far for Rio Abajo.
Akira Morino had shown up in the city a year ago. He fell in love with the place and began to make plans to bring a big microprocessing plant into the state. The latest in liquid-crystal display panels, he told the Chamber of Commerce. Panels so lightweight they could be carried around the house and hung on refrigerators or vanity mirrors. A plant on the cutting edge of the industry, so advanced it would put Alburquerque on the map.
But Intel beat him to the punch, pouring billions into a gigantic expansion in Rio Rancho. The Intel Pentium chip was destined to run every computer in the world, and Morino’s plans were sidetracked. Still, he stayed on, courting the business community, persuading, full of confidence and bravado, and promising to deliver the plant. He would, he insisted, move the computer age into the home in ways previously unimagined.
The Japanese build small computers, Sonny thought, because the islands of Japan are small. Landscape dictates character. But here we have lots of space. We don’t need to walk around with a computer in our hip pocket. Forget that small is good. Give me big! Big trucks, big women, big horses, big mountains to climb!
Ah, dreams.
The old Southwest was dead, or dying, taken over by Californicators living the Santa Fe style and staying in touch through fax machines. The once reclusive Villa de la Santa Fe had been “discovered” in the eighties. For those with money it became a place to escape to, a place for a second home for the LA crowd, a place to build new fantasies.
The new Southwest was dancing to the high-tech tune. Morino swore he could put together the Japanese financial backing, and Marisa Martinez, the mayor, worked on putting together the bond and land package th
e city would offer him. If she could push the plan through the city council, it would win the mayoral race for her.
But Gloria’s gruesome murder had shocked the city and soured business and politics. The idea of a cult had been picked up by the national news, CNN had run a story on the murder, and it had spread to the international headlines. The news stories concentrated on the horror of the case, playing up the role of a cult and highlighting the failure of the police to find those responsible.
The business interests wanted the case over with, hushed if need be. It wasn’t good for business, and what wasn’t good for business wasn’t good for city hall.
Walter Johnson, the retired Country Club banker whom many had predicted couldn’t garner enough votes for a run-off election, was now suddenly a front-runner. He was running on a “put the criminals in jail” platform and arguing the city needed a return to good old-fashioned family values, hard work, and the plain old business incentive of profit. He would fire Sam Garcia as police chief and replace him with someone who was tough on crime. It was familiar political rhetoric, but it still played well. Gang violence had come to the city in the past few years, graffiti spread, and now the city was gripped by a paralysis precipitated by the murder.
And Akira Morino had to know something about it.
Sonny turned off Río Grande onto the long, graveled driveway that led to Tamara’s home. The grand old house was one of the oldest estates on Río Grande Boulevard. Built just before World War II, it was big and rambling, a failed attempt at a southern mansion on the Río Grande, Greek revival architecture that had turned Gothic. Set against the river bosque and surrounded by large trees, it was a dark and mysterious house. Although the grounds were immaculate, it had an aura of being deserted.
Sonny parked in front, got out, and wiped his forehead. Chingao, it was hot, but at least here a few weak currents of air from the river wafted through the hot air. He sniffed, distinguishing the smells that came from the wild bosque: skunk and traces of coyote scent floated in the still, dry air. The fragrance of flowering Russian olives. A trace of rain.
Yes, there it was, barely perceptible, but filtering in the breeze that came from the south. It was midday, and it wasn’t dew or river coolness, it was a scent of rain. Overhead, mottled cottage-cheese clouds began to move in from the west, and with them the possibility of the first rain.
Sonny smiled. Maybe not the late-summer monsoon season of daily afternoon showers, but a good June rain. He knew the moods of the city swung to the moods of the weather. The desert people of the high, arid Río Grande plateau were like horny toads, they could go a long time without rain, but they paid the price. The dry electricity in the air created a tension within, a fiery disposition that put nerves on edge. There were more family arguments, more traffic accidents, more drinking bouts, more shootings, more graffiti splashed on vacant walls, and more anxious cops. People looked more often to the west in search of rain clouds. They grew envious as the nightly weather reports reported summer thunderstorms gathering over the northern mountains of Santa Fe and Taos.
Any trace of rain will do, Sonny thought as he pulled the rope on the bell at the door, a shiny ship’s bell from an old Mississippi riverboat. Even a little shower to settle the dust, settle the destructive mood in the air.
“Darling, I’m so glad to see you,” Tamara said with a smile when she opened the door. She held his hands and let him kiss her cheek. She wore an exquisite gold brocade robe that molded to the curves of her body. Pale but exotic, enticing as always, Sonny thought, admiring her sleek figure.
“You should visit me more often,” she said as she led him into the expansive living area with a huge fireplace. The den was a museum, full of old paintings, Navajo rugs from the turn of the century, shelves full of pottery, santos.
“Please,” she said, motioning to the large leather sofa. “May I offer you a drink?” A decanter of red wine and two glasses sat on the red cedar coffee table.
She poured before Sonny could say it was too early. “There is no housekeeper today, so I have you all to myself.” She handed him the drink.
Sonny drank. The taste was dry, somewhat bitter.
“Peyote,” she said with a wink, explaining the taste, and held up her glass in a toast. “To us.”
“Salud,” Sonny said, and sipped again.
“It quenches the thirst,” she said.
She wore her long black hair pulled back tight, fastened with a gold clip. Her bright red lipstick glowed in sharp contrast to her pale complexion.
“Now tell me, to what do I owe this visit?” She drew closer, looking into his eyes, her breath warm on his face.
“I need a favor.”
“Ah, Sonny, you mean you came only for a favor. How cruel of you.”
“I—”
“Don’t explain,” she teased. “I understand. This very morning I awakened to thoughts of you. I must have known you were coming. You know why?”
Sonny shook his head.
“It is because you and I are old souls. Yes, we have lived many lives, we have known each other in past lives, and so we were destined to meet in this one. Our souls communicate with each other, and our bodies are the vehicles to transport us,” she said, her dark eyes glittering, her perfume enveloping him.
“Where?”
“Into that moment of illumination when two like souls meet. Then we can truly peer into our past. There is a reason for us to meet,” she whispered.
“Hey, I thought it was the man who made the move—”
She tossed back her head and laughed.
“Oh, you are so innocent. So caught up in your cultural ways. Darling”—she smiled and reached out to touch his hand—“you must put away those old ways, which only drag you down. We are special souls, Sonny; we have led special lives in the past. We can see into those lives by sharing the vital energy of our bodies, our auras.” She paused and smiled. Her cool fingers caressed his cheeks.
“I can teach you how to connect to your past lives.…”
“And what would I see in my past?”
“The illumination of your past brings clarity. Understanding who you have been gives you energy to use in this life. The moment of looking into the past is a moment of immortality. You can never die, don’t you see.”
Illumination, Sonny thought. She offers her body and a glimpse into clarity. I can become a Señor of Light. She doesn’t meditate like don Eliseo in the morning sun, she gets there through a good old-fashioned fuck.
She put her lips to his. He felt the flicker of her tongue on his lips. His own arousal surprised him, because he thought since he couldn’t do it with Rita, the problem was going to last. But here he was, feeling the need to get it on with Tamara.
“I want you to make love to me,” she said.
Sonny felt an ache. He wanted her, he admitted, surprised; somehow he needed her to get past the emptiness he felt inside.
“And Anthony Pájaro? I thought you two were—”
“Dear Sonny. How innocent you are. Anthony came to me a year ago. He asked me to help him. I do not want to get mixed up in politics, but I can’t stand by and do nothing while the Earth is destroyed! I helped him raise money, that is all. It is no coincidence the three of us have come together. A greater fate has brought us here. “We are three of a kind, you, me, and Anthony. You must understand that.”
“I came to ask a favor,” Sonny said, drawing back.
“Ah, back to that. You have only to ask.” She smiled, pressing her hands around his.
“I need to talk to Morino, but I can’t get through to him. Can you set something up for me?”
Tamara laughed. “Is that all you ask for? That can be arranged, Sonny.”
She leaned forward and kissed him again, and this time Sonny didn’t resist. He responded, tasting the wine on her lips, a warm surge of arousal.
She moaned and whispered, “Make love to me. I promise you a journey into a world you have not seen.”
S
he rose and led him down the hall into her bedroom. It was a large spacious room in the back of the house. The round bed occupied the center of the room; beyond that Sonny spied the large sunken tub.
“This is the Sun Room,” she said. “A room devoted to love.”
“The tent of a desert princess.”
“Yes. To make love here is to understand there is only one way into the past. Clarity lies only in the past lives. Most make love for the moment, satisfying the need of the present. But for me physical love has other purposes. It is a way into the past.”
“And there?”
“You know who you were. You know your destiny. Everything becomes clear. You are young again.”
“No.” Sonny heard don Eliseo’s voice from the shadows of the room.
“Why?” Sonny asked him.
“It is momentary.”
“It doesn’t last.”
“Smart kid.”
“But it’s sure good while it lasts.” Sonny smiled.
“No seas pendejo,” the old man said.
“You are laughing at me,” Tamara said.
“No, I was thinking of an old friend.”
“Rita?”
“Her, too.”
“I do not mind that she is your lover. You can come and see me when you desire. Love me once, and I know you will return.”
“Probably so.” Sonny nodded. He glanced again at the room, the inviting bed, then turned and kissed Tamara on the cheek. “I have to go. Will you help me reach Morino?”
She sighed, then smiled.
“Yes, I will call Mr. Morino. Come. I will see you out.”
She led him to the door, holding his arm and speaking. “I know souls like ours must meet and unite. The day will come when you will realize that passion and lust are all the same. But there are some of us who can tap the potency of past lives and illuminate the lustful moment. I will wait for you.”