Jemez Spring (15 page)

The darkness of Raven's troubled soul only desired to return to the nothingness of the cosmic sea. The Zero before all zeros. The terrorist conspiracy had spread and Raven was using it to accomplish his goal. Chaos. Eternal strife. The bending of the light of the sun and the universal energy unto the final destruction. Apocalypse. Radioactive fires burning flesh and bone, cadavers with blistered skin walking the wasteland. A moaning of the last humans could be heard in the shrill winds that swept across the desolation.

Sonny shivered. Damn, a spring day in the Jemez, people going about their business, a time to fish the pools for trout that slept there all winter, the acequias gurgling with water that soon would rush through the canals into the fields, awakening the buds in dormant apple trees, apricot blossoms filling the air with the aroma of lust. Florella, the virgin of spring, was ready to bust the buds open.

Yes, it was the season of healthy lust, Eve enticing Adam with an apricot, or a pear, or a Mexican mango, or an apple grown in the jemez valley, sweet fruits of paradise bursting with mouth-watering juices.

But Adam wasn't biting her apple. Que pasa?

Está chingado, Sonny cursed, like us.

Raven's every move was calculated to suck Sonny into the maelstrom, and in the process win the Zia medallion. Now he had called Sonny to the mountain, but the battle wasn't really there. As always, it had to be in the dream world where Raven lived, an unconscious realm laden with ancient images.

Had Raven chosen Jemez Springs because Sonny and Rita had a house by the river? They could hear the river song on summer nights, watch the galaxies move across the sky, the seasons of the moon, make love to the movement of stars and planets, make love to the music of the spheres.

That life was simple, as life should be simple, but not for Raven's kind. Terrorists thrived on chaos, and somehow the doomsday message, “The world is ending! The world is ending!” resonated with those marginalized by greedy men whose only alchemical formula served to turn every material object into money. It wasn't just the Al Qaeda terrorists who promised paradise. The banks and transnational corporations were all promising everyone a slice of ill-gotten pie. Pie baked from the labors of the poor, the undocumented, Latinos seeking work in cold, cold northern climes.

Raven traveled in the heart. He was always near, tracking in Sonny's dream. He was one of the subterranean images of the dream, a character in that dark soup. Every heart carried love, but every heart could also seethe with primal lust and violence; there was no denying that. In the deoxyribonucleic acid of every cell there also slept a third but invisible coiled strand. Call it chaos. Those frightening, unexplainable images that arose even in the most peaceful sleep made the dreamer wonder what was real and what was illusion, what was heaven and what was hell.

But why blow up the Jemez Mountains?

The water, the old man said. The hidden waters. Destroy the life-giving waters, and you destroy the dream of the Zia Stone. Create a new, unnatural volcano and fear returns to rule.

You here?

Hey, I wouldn't miss seeing Raven's newest act.

What do you think?

If it weren't serious it would make me laugh. He's really gone bananas. Se le fueron las cabras.

Is there time?

Sí, there's time. If you can find Raven. He's going to give it up, but not till he has his fun.

The chopper rose like, a mad rufous hummingbird, feisty and full of chatter. Turbulence lingered on the mountaintop, the dying breath of a leprous wind that scattered a few impoverished clouds over the caldera. Clouds stringy as a bullsnake whip, clouds to make a philosopher wonder if it was the wind whipping the clouds or the clouds whipping the wind.

Crack the whip, Sonny thought, as a chain of the boys and girls, fifth graders at Adobe Acres, joined hands in the school yard at recess and the lead boy, always Chango, monkey boy who lived over at Kinney Brick and could whip even eighth graders, began to run and pull the line, like a rattlesnake unwinding, faster and faster until the line cracked and the smallest squirt at the end of the line, the rattler, was catapulted into the air, landing in the torito-goatheadstrewn dirt. Blood and guts.

The morning had turned bitter. A spring wind howled after the night's scant rain. The serpent head of the fleeing clouds hovered over the caldera, the vagina of the mountain, casting its evil eye, el mal ojo, over the mountain. The cloud's dark face pregnant with anger, eyes and mouth spewing acid, spitting from venomous lips not the rain that blesses but the pollution of the world that swept up into the sky and came down as poison. A cloud with a hateful look that did not come from the heart of heaven but came from the demon world, the very world made by man, its luminous hair flaring around its sickly face.

It shouldn't be like this. The Cloud People come with gentle rain that enters the dry earth like a man might wet the welcoming thighs of his beloved, a soft caressing so sure and full of love that even the earth groans in peaceful response, as the woman moans to take the gift of seed.

Birthing was for spring. But today the world was balanced on a fulcrum, teetering on the edge of its own destruction, and even the clouds protested the wind's fury, a Poseidon of the desert.

Sonny remembered summer clouds over the mountain, huge billowing white buffalo clouds that rose and rose, until in a stampede the thunder shower let loose its bolts of lightning, a rumbling thunder that rolled across the valley like Rip Van Winkle's bowling balls, and sheets of blue rain that splattered the earth and ran wild in rivulets. The cumulus of summer, welcomed by the people of the mountain and the people of the Jemez Valley.

Love during a thunderstorm was tumultuous like that, with sperm and ovum blending into the sweet aroma that rose from the wet earth, the heavenly joy of Rita's face, those moments of climax in which her face radiated with love as she received his thrust, like swollen sunrays breaking through clouds after the blessed rain.

Someday the white buffalo clouds would return and break the drought on the land of Egypt. Someday the white buffalo would return to the plains, and the dancing would begin anew. The sun would once again be merciful.

The chopper rose and buzzed over a line of sickly pine trees, trees hurting from the drought and the parasites sucking at their green blood.

No good, Sonny thought. Ominous. No hard rains to break the drought that had consumed the state for the past seven years. Need Moses. Need someone to strike dead the pharaoh of drought. These summers past when little rain fell the cicadas had munched the valley pastures into stubble, left the apple trees bare, run rampant through corn and calabacitas, laying waste to the land of the ancestors.

There was hope. Somewhere on the mountain's flanks, somewhere in a dark canyon that led into the womb of the great lady, on a scarred volcanic boulder was etched the ancient symbol of life, the Zia Stone with its secret message, the meaning of life as it had been given to the old people, a hieroglyph so potent that sometimes at night, deep in dream, Sonny could feel its throbbing heart.

Raven thinks I found the Zia Stone.

The Zia Stone and the medallion are connected, the old man said. They complement each other.

So why here?

I think the cops wanted you out of the way. They don't want you to meet with the Indians in Algodones. People know you, Sonny. You could really help the cause. Dominic wants to break the back of that group.

The land and the water have always been up for grabs. The struggle continues.

Yes, the old man said, and you're in the way. You know Raven's ways and what he's capable of doing.

“Get a load of—” the pilot shouted and pointed down.

The chopper had been following the highway back to Jemez Springs.

Sonny leaned to look out the window. On the highway below them a truck was traveling at full speed. On the bed of the pickup sat two men armed with rifles. Bear and his boys?

“I thought the highway was closed?”

“Get closer!” Augie shouted, patting the pilot on the shoulder.

The pilot nodded and suddenly tilted on the chopper sideways. Sonny's door flew open, his seatbelt slipped away, and he felt Augie's push. With a gasp he tumbled out of the chopper. The rush of air hit him like runaway bronco. He reached out and grabbed the landing bars. For precious moments he dangled, tightening his grip on the bars.

He heard someone call his name. Holding tight he looked up into Augie's grinning face. The chopper straightened out and zoomed down the canyon, overtaking the truck below.

He heard the zing of a gunshot and saw a window explode. Whoever was in the truck was firing at them. Were they firing at him or at the chopper?

Hanging in the air Sonny felt a premonition of death. A waking dream unlike any other. He was flying, the cold air rushing past him, and he knew he couldn't hold on much longer. But he was flying, like an eagle, like a feathered serpent. Exhilaration and adrenaline pumped through his body. This was it, death. He would drop in free fall, enjoy a few seconds to reflect on his life, then smash into the road below. Like the dead snake on the road.

“Sawnnny!” the voice called his name.

He looked up and saw Augie holding out his hand.

“Take my hand!”

Sonny hesitated, then reached up, grabbed hold, and Augie pulled. Both men strained until Sonny could put his feet on the landing gear and push himself through the door.

“Damn!” the pilot shouted. “You okay?”

An exhausted and panting Sonny Baca nodded. He looked at Augie. Another bullet whizzed past as the pilot steered the chopper just over the tree line.

“I tried to grab you!” Augie shouted.

Or push me, Sonny thought. He had felt Augie's hands on his back as he went out the door. If he pushed why did he haul me up? Did the truck on the road have anything to do with it? Witnesses?

Below them the truck pulled off onto a dirt road and disappeared under the ponderosa pines.

Augie reached for the seatbelt and pushed it into lock. Then he pulled on it and it slid out.

“Damn, Joe!” he shouted at the pilot. “You gotta fix this damn thing! It's not locking!” He turned to Sonny. “You're lucky to be alive. Those guys meant to kill you.”

Don't think so, thought Sonny. Bear and his boys were good shots. They wouldn't have missed. He wondered if he should thank Augie or smack him in the face.

The chopper zoomed over Battleship Rock, then over the village, like a dragonfly skimming over still waters it dropped into the valley, over the thin river where a stingy spring runoff trickled, over the tops of budding cottonwoods and elms, settling finally with a thump where they had taken off.

“Houston, Lola has landed!” the pilot said and gave them the thumbs-up signal. “Sorry the tour included getting shot at.” He looked at Sonny and grinned. “I'll have that door fixed.”

“Yeah,” Sonny muttered.

“Good luck on defusing the bomb. Me, I'm just going to head down to Mexico. Watch the world blow itself apart from the beaches of Mazatlan. La perla del Pacífico.”

“Hang glide on the beach,” Sonny said. “Watch out for frayed ropes. You might drop out of the sky.”

“Yeah,” the pilot replied.

“I bet you a five-dollar bill those sonsofbitches were those Green Indians Naomi hangs out with,” Augie said as they walked away from the chopper. “The highway's closed. How the hell did they get through?”

“Ask them,” Sonny replied. He was in no mood to discuss things with Augie. “I'm outta here.”

“Watch your back, Sonny. If they tried once they might try again.”

“What are you going to do about Naomi?”

“Let her go. For now. Or do you mean—Okay, so I made a move on her. Tried to score. Don't mean nothing. She's too goddamn independent.”

“What about the governor?”

“He had the hots for her too, but she wasn't interested.”

Sonny shrugged. “And the professors?”

“I don't give a damn about them. They can't hurt a fly. What do they do? Read books. Write books. It's the fucking Al Qaeda I'm going to burn. If his mother ever sees him again he's lucky. We're at war, you know.”

“The FBI wants him.”

“Yeah, but before I turn him over I'm going to get what's coming to me.” He paused. “I'm in trouble, Sonny. The governor was murdered on my watch. If I don't get this guy to confess, my name is mud. Look, if you hang around you can help.”

“I'm through helping,” Sonny said, and he turned around and walked away.

“Have it your way,” Augie called after him. He smiled and turned to meet the news media, which were pressing forward like the Red Sea closing on Pharaoh's boys. A bombardment of questions met him.

“I know you've all been waiting for an explanation,” Augie said, holding up his hands. “All I can tell you at this time is that we have a homicide—” He glanced after Sonny. “We haven't yet identified the body—”

Lying through his teeth, Sonny thought, as he got into his truck. He grabbed the steering wheel and tightened his grip until his knuckles turned white. Till now, he had controlled his anger and the sense of impotence that came from seeing himself dangling from the helicopter. He had trusted Augie and that had been a mistake. It could have been his last mistake.

“Son of a bitch,” he cursed silently. Augie used to be a nice guy; now there was too much war talk in his system. But why lie to the news media? Wait for forensics to do a positive ID? No, he was covering his ass until he got the okay from those he had called his superiors.

Maybe the governor was caught up in Frank Dominic's plan. There were millions to be made if the state decided to allow Dominic to buy up water rights.

Maybe it was an internal political battle that killed the governor.

And was it Bear and his boys in the pickup? Was Augie really chasing them? The Al Qaeda conspiracy was just a cover-up. Augie was the governor's personal guard, and whatever the governor knew, Augie knew.