Our story thus far: A sniper has killed a customer at the Black Shadow Gallery on Canyon Road. Gallery owner Gloria Singleton is left alone to pick up the pieces when she is kidnapped.

John Grant wondered what all the fuss was about. This morning he had fielded more calls than that time a woman backed into a farolito and caught her faux fur on fire.

Did people think he would let them down? As president of the Canyon Road Gallery Association, he had dodged more bullets than Billy the Kid.

He wasn’t about to let one dead Texan and a stolen painting at a second-rate gallery put a blemish on Santa Fe’s own miracle mile.

The consummate protectionist, John had quickly gone to work once news trickled in that there had been a shoot­ing up the road. The first call went to the police chief, an important link in the association’s chain. Reminders had been made about the association’s support; the new Hummer that the department so proudly displayed on festival days; the precarious relationship between the mayor and certain narcotics detectives.

Those at the scene were urged to wrap up their investigation in record time. The detectives had even seized upon the idea, planted by John, that the shooting was simply an unfortunate drug-related incident — unfortunate in the fact that it had happened on Canyon Road. The Texan perhaps was someone with a less than impeccable background, John hinted.

Officers were pressured to follow up on contacts in Rio Arriba County, and many fled the scene with sirens blaring.

That wasn’t John’s ideal way of having police leave Canyon Road — he could do without that kind of attention — but one that would have to do.
The media was a different story.

Reporters wanted to linger, gather their own bits of evidence. The television cameras were troublesome, and some­one had even shown up calling himself a Web reporter, videotaping the yellow tape and the officers coming in and out of the gallery. Citizen journalists, John thought. What a bunch of bunk.

John quickly corralled the gallery’s flaky owner, Gloria, and insisted that she reconstruct the events of the day to indi­vidual reporters. Although she refused an on-camera interview to the sickly sweet Anita Corazón, Gloria’s panicked recounting of the day had surprisingly done the trick. Journalists nowadays were after sound bites more than truth, and the one-on-one interviews had paci­fied the docile press. How many papers would copyright their exclusive stories, John wondered with a grin.

The reporters had even allowed him a few words, and he found it surpris­ingly easy to introduce the right talking points, something he had picked up at the latest Republican strategy meet­ing: Rising drug rate; corruption in the Democratic-controlled state govern­ment; not enough money for protection; the fragility of the tourist industry. Some good might come out of this after all, he thought.

He had left Gloria alone to clean up the shattered glass, right her knick­knacks and get on with business. The Canyon Road show must go on, he told her: Tragedy does not stop commerce.

He reminded her of the president’s simi­lar message after the terrorist attacks.

Back at his own office, John allowed himself time to ruminate. This was his favorite time of the day. The fading sun­light cast adobe-shaped shadows onto the narrow road. He watched tourists walk hesitantly on the crumbling side­walk; another group hurried to the other side to avoid a passing car. A man and a woman stopped to look at a bronze sculpture. If he tried hard enough, he could hear the chatting diners at El Farol grow louder as the sangria worked its magic. Was that piñon in the air, he wondered? John made a mental note to remind gallery owners to burn more incense.

In his hands he held the letter his secretary, Sylvia, had handed him not an hour earlier. He read it again, and then crushed it as he gazed out to see two wild-eyed cyclists headed the wrong way down the road, narrowly missing the lumbering tourists. The letter was short, concise, and the silly words stuck with him: “The coyote howls loudest at dusk, but sometimes his cries mimic those of the rabbit. This is only the beginning.”

A photocopied letter, the ranting of a madman. How many other gallery own­ers had received the same copy, John wondered. Perhaps it was time after all to bump up the cost of the association’s protection. He smiled to himself as he considered his next steps, picking up his cell phone to make a call.


A short distance from John’s office, another man looked down Canyon Road from his vantage point under El Farol’s portal. He watched the same tourists stumble along the road, a confused look on their faces as they caught sight of the bar, pondering the patrons engrossed in what appeared to be heady conversa­tion. The cowboy sipped his sangria and fiddled with an old coin on the table. He smiled for the first time in a long while, beckoning the waiter to refill his glass with the purple elixir. Life is good for some, he thought, draining the last of his drink. For others, not so good.

At a St. Vinnie’s hospital bed, Kate Brown heard the distinct ringing of her cell phone. The phone was somewhere, she thought, as she groggily awoke from a medicated slumber. Where was she? She forced herself awake, look­ing around at her sterile environment.

White, too much white, she thought, and then the events of the day caught up with her. She heard the shot again, saw the man stumble and fall as the bul­let struck its mark, saw the blood pool beside the man’s big fur cap on Gloria’s hardwood floor, heard the screams of the skinny woman. Why had she blacked out, she wondered?

Kate rubbed her neck, moving her hand up to the side of her head, right where she felt sure the bullet had passed. Saved again by a big old bear, she thought, this time a Texas brown bear. Kate smiled to herself as she jumped from the bed and searched for the squawking Razr.

“What?” Kate snapped as she opened the phone, knowing instinctively who was commanding her attention. She listened intently for a few minutes, took a deep breath. “It’s under control,” she said, and snapped the phone shut.

Now somewhere, Kate thought mov­ing about the hospital room, there’s got to be some clothes around here. She had only 10 minutes to get herself together, and no one was going to stop her now.

She had a score to settle.

Not too far away, Gloria awoke and found herself in a darkened room, duct tape still over her mouth. She had a headache, that was for sure, and her wrists felt raw, as if she had been bound. She rubbed them to ease their hurt.

She, too, tried to retrace the steps that brought her to this room. She could only recall a reporter lingering in her gal­lery, wondering why he hadn’t left. She remembered he was talking to her, guid­ing her outside onto her portal, where early that day she had shooed away a homeless woman. There was a flash — a white van? — and a hand over her mouth. Then darkness.

The room now filled with a bright­ness that hurt Gloria’s eyes. She covered them quickly then opened them slowly, as they became accustomed to the light.

She squinted at the person in the door­way.

“Silly old thing,” the shape told her.

“Why you keep that tape on your face?”

Gloria reached up to block the hands from approaching her, but she was too slow. In an instant the tape was ripped away and Gloria found herself yelping from the pain. She now saw that the shape was that of the old woman who had been on her portal. She had thought the woman was dead.

“Scream all you will,” the old one said, cutting the room’s light. “No one can hear you now. Come eat.”

With the pain subsiding, Gloria watched the woman waddle slowly away from her. The old woman wore thick layers of blankets and her head appeared covered with a shawl. Beyond the door she could see a larger room, a fire in the kiva burning brightly. She could make out a rustic table to the left of the kiva’s banco. Something was steaming from a bowl on the table.

Gloria considered her options. Her clothes were ripped, but still intact. That was a good thing. She was now barefoot, her beloved heels missing.

That was a bad thing. She ached, but didn’t feel as if anything was broken. She did feel a pang of hunger. How long had she been in this cramped room?

She slowly arose, stretching muscles, easing her body back to life. She breathed deeply, finding her breath and the source of strength. She was a sen­tient being, connected to the Earth. She was stronger than her present circum­stances; she was more than her body, she was a part of the All.
Gloria took a few cautious steps from the cramped room to the kiva’s light.

With each step, she surrounded herself with the universe’s protection, feel­ing her confidence regain. A plan was developing quickly and she knew she would succeed: She would eat, pretend she was a frightened little girl and then overpower the old woman to freedom.

Kate would be so pleased of her cun­ningness.

She moved toward the table, looking for the woman in the shadows of the old adobe. The pain had been replaced by her sense of power. Maybe she would throw the hot food on the old woman, Gloria considered as she reached the table.

It was then that Gloria saw the yellow eyes in the shadows of the room. The woman was gone, but in her place was the coyote that had moved from Gloria’s peripheral vision, from her dreams, into the present reality. And the coyote, Gloria considered, didn’t appear to be friendly. In fact, it appeared to be the exact opposite.

The coyote gave a low growl as Gloria sensed her vigor vanish. She felt herself crawling back into her soul’s dark hole as the beast moved toward her, show­ing its teeth as it growled. Those teeth as long and sharp as the bear that once attacked her, so long ago.

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HELP WRITE THIS STORY

This mystery is being written with the help of readers like you. The first chap­ter was written at the Tony Hillerman Writer’s Conference, Focus on Mystery in November. Subsequent monthly chap­ters have been inspired by readers’ sug­gestions. Send your plot twist or tidbit to: bswan@sfnewmexican.com.

Previous chapters are available online at: www.freenewmexican.com/mystery.

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