Read Online Short Cut to Santa Fe by Medora Sale - Free Book Online Page B

Archway’s “Mysticism and Magic” tour—their third most popular specialized tour, after “The Desert Blooms” and “Arts of the Indigenous Peoples”—should have come from the officers investigating the death of a half-naked, unidentified man, found shortly after 6 p.m. in a gully in the desert west of Santa Fe. And if Norbert Jones hadn’t been on three days’ leave in Phoenix to attend his son’s wedding, he would have recognized the body as his friend Bert Samson, longtime regular driver for the Archway people. As it was, the slow process of identification had been set in motion, and the Albuquerque detachment of state troopers was waiting to see what it turned up.
    The hysterical telephone call from the Rogers at 8 p.m. might also have set them looking for the bus earlier, if Samantha Rogers had been more coherent and precise when she reported the disappearance of her children.
    The hotel had had a hellish night. The night clerk and the maître d’ had been celebrating some obscure event in one of their lives, and by dinnertime they were incapable of standing upright. Joe Rogers took the desk and Samantha the dining room. Then the chef walked out of the kitchen before seven, yelling that if they thought they knew so much more about food than he did, then they could cook their own dinners. The sous-chef—a rather grand title for someone who, in this small establishment, was basically the salad maker—was in tears. Whenever she had taken over before, the menu had been carefully tailored to her lack of skills and Samantha had helped. Samantha dashed between the dining room and the chef’s room, exerting her charm alternately on the annoyed and hungry guests and the furious chef. Without ever discovering who had questioned his capabilities and driven him from his post, she managed to cajole him into putting on his apron and hat, and taking up his duties. At this point she looked at her watch. It was seven-thirty.
    The bus would have dropped the children off thirty minutes ago. She shrieked at her husband and tore out to her car. She reached the intersection in record time. No children were waiting. Night was closing in, thick and black, as it does on a moonless night in the country. She sat in the car, tears coursing down her cheeks, trying to imagine what they would have done when they discovered that she was not there, waiting for them. It had happened once before that she had been two or three minutes late, and when she arrived, they had already set out, panic-stricken, in the direction of the hotel. She had given them a lecture on following orders and having faith in their parents; they had been upset enough that they wouldn’t do that again. Surely not. Would they have accepted a ride with someone? Her stomach tensed at the thought. Could they be hiding in the ditch, or under some brush, frightened, as an alternative to striking out on their own? She got out of the car and called their names, over and over again, hopelessly into the blackness. Why in hell hadn’t she had a car phone installed in the station wagon? She needed to call the police; she needed to talk to Joe. But how could she leave here in case they were somewhere around? She drove back to the hotel.
    It was Joe who suggested that they call Charlie Broca at the airport and ask if the children had arrived and caught the bus. Charlie stared at the telephone in absolute horror. “Your kids?” he asked at last.
    â€œYeah, Charlie, our kids. Did they come off the plane?”
    â€œSure,” he said. “They come off the plane all right. I saw them.”
    â€œOkay. Did they get on the bus? The Archway bus?”
    â€œHell, Joe, what else would they do? Anyways, they sure as hell weren’t there when I locked up, that’s for sure.” He laughed a forced, hollow laugh. “Is anything wrong?”
    â€œNot so far,” said Joe, sounding sick with worry,