“A place like that costs money. I wonder what they needed it for? Seems to.me a four-car garage is quite a lot for a couple of old Indians who raise a little stock and collect junk for resale.”
“So?”
“Could be more than meets the eye. Did you check the mileage on the van?”
“I did.” He flipped the pages on his notebook. “Fifty-one thousand, two hundred eighty-eight miles.”
Raglan’s eyes went toward his car. Suddenly he wanted to be seated in it, driving back to the condo. “A lot of mileage for an old couple, even with that other man around.”
“I thought of that.”
“Think about it some more. Are you driving back to town? I’m spooky about this place. I want to get back where there are people.”
“All right. Let’s stop by Eden Foster’s place. She’s not far off your route if you’re driving back to Durango. She heard you were around and asked if you’d drop by.”
“Who is Eden Foster?”
“Somebody to know if you live around here. She’s interested and she’s active, if you know what I mean. Used to teach in some eastern university. Moved out to Santa Fe, and then she decided she liked it better here, so she bought out a dealer over on the highway and she sells Indian art, paintings, jewelry, and rugs. Only the best.”
They had reached the cars. Gallagher paused, looking back toward the mesa. “Raglan? I wouldn’t mention those tracks if I were you. No need to get a lot of crazy rumors started.”
“You’re right, of course.”
“And that white van? It may not have been the same one. I’d bet there’s two dozen white vans between here and Tamarron, and we’ve no evidence the man who entered your place has any connection with the one outside the cafe.
“If folks started putting this together we’d have all sorts of rumors going around, just when all that was sort of quieting down.”
“What do you mean by ‘all that’?”
Gallagher hesitated. “There’s been talk, over the years. It’s easy for somebody to disappear out yonder. When it happens, it always revives every old story they’ve ever heard. There’s talk of witchcraft, too. Most of the Indians won’t talk about it, but the belief is there. Most of them can point out a witch or two, but don’t think it is just the Indians. Most of the whites who’ve lived here any length of time hesitate when you ask, and then just shrug it off. They won’t admit they believe, and maybe they don’t, but they don’t disbelieve, either.”
Chief was standing off a little, his head up, nose in the wind. “What is it, Chief? Something wrong?”
The dog came closer, but looked back again toward Erik’s shelter. “I think it’s Kawasi,” Mike said. “He’s worried.”
“You lead off,” Gallagher said, “I’ll follow.”
Mike Raglan motioned Chief into the car, then got in himself. As he drove off he said, “I’m wondering, too, Chief. Why did she go off like that? Why did she run away?”
When they reached the highway, Gallagher pulled alongside. “We’ll go to Eden’s. Make it by lunch,” he said. “She sets a good table.”
Gallagher pulled on by and Mike followed, the big dog filling the seat beside him.
“Looks like we’re in trouble, Chief. Gallagher’s a good man but he’s got a job to do, and right now he has two missing people and a burned-out cafe, and I’m the only connecting link. All I have to offer is a cock-and-bull story that in his place I wouldn’t buy for a minute.”
Chief offered no comment, not a growl, a whine, or a yawn. He simply kept his eyes on the road.
“Just the same, Chief, I’d like to know more about that garage. No reason why they shouldn’t have it if they want it, but what do they use it for? Does somebody find it convenient as a place to leave cars when they are not being used?”
Up ahead, Gallagher slowed, then turned right off the highway onto a gravel road that led around a small hill, pulling up in a gravel parking area before a two-story house built of native stone. There was a wide veranda, and to the right of the house a wide green lawn, several beautiful old trees, and a lot of flowers. Before Mike had a chance to do more than notice them, Gallagher was going up the steps. Raglan followed as the door opened.
Eden Foster was a stunning woman. She was slender and dark with large gray eyes. She was wearing a beige blouse and slacks, and a turquoise necklace. “Gallagher! You’re just in time for lunch!”
“Don’t you think I know it?” He turned slightly. “Mike Raglan, this is Eden Foster.”.
Their eyes met and he was suddenly wary. He could not have said why. She was beautiful, with a lovely smile, and a warm handshake to greet him. “Come in, won’t you?”
Inside, it was dark and cool, Navajo rugs on the floor and a couple of very fine ones on the walls. There were many shelves of books. Mike noticed three of his own, and near them two books by Evans-Wentz and one by Eliade.
The breakfast room to which they were shown was cool, fronted by glass with a fine view of the garden he had glimpsed. She glanced over her shoulder. “You’ll forgive me, I hope? I asked Gallagher to bring you if he could. I did not want to miss a chance to meet one of my favorite authors.”
“Thanks, but I am not really a writer. It just happens that I’ve written a couple of books.”
“Nevertheless, you’re an interesting man and most of them just pass through. Good company is hard to find when one lives so far from everything.”
She turned toward what was evidently a kitchen door. “Mary? You may serve now, if you will. You’re younger than I expected. From your books I would have thought you older.”
“It’s the light in here,” Raglan said. “It’s deceiving.”
Mary was a Navajo girl with large dark eyes. She brought a tray with sandwiches, and a bowl of celery stalks, olives, and spears of cucumber. For a moment, as she turned to go, she was standing behind Eden Foster, and Mary looked directly at him, her face expressionless.
Eden turned her attention to Gallagher, asking about his wife, his children, and his garden, in that order. Mike listened, ate a celery stick, and looked out the window, but he was thinking.
What was it about her? She was beautiful, and had a figure a man could dream about, so why had he become suddenly suspicious? What was it about her that bothered him?
She turned to him then. “And you, Mr. Raglan? Will you be with us long?”
“Call me Mike. When you call me Mr. Raglan, I start to look around to see if my father is here.” He paused. “No, I shan’t be around long.”
“A new book?”
He shrugged. “Visiting.” He glanced at her. “The books are incidental, written when I have leisure, but this is just a visit to a friend.”
“A friend,” Gallagher said, “who is building a house over in the desert.”
Raglan looked at the garden. He had not come to talk, but to listen. Had Gallagher brought him here simply to meet a neighbor or was there more involved?
Eden Foster sat opposite him, and poured coffee. She looked up at him. “That would be Erik Hokart, I expect? I know of no one else building over that way.”
It was a large desert, he thought, and there must be others who were building. “He’s a friend of mine,” he said.
“I wonder if his wife would want a home out there. Women usually like to be close to other women.”
“He’s a single man,” Gallagher said. “Likes to be alone. Isn’t that right, Mike?”
“He has a lot to think about.” But then, so they would not think Erik too alone, Mike added, “He’s a very important man to a lot of people. You can bet the government knows where he is.”
Eden’s large gray eyes met his. “Is he so important, then?”
“To them, he is.” Did Mike notice a little frown around her eyes, he wondered, or was he being overly suspicious? “There are people in the Pentagon who would consider him a national treasure.”
That might be stretching it a bit but not very much. He took a sandwich from the tray. “Beautiful flowers,” he commented. “They add so much to a place. And I like to see the marigolds there.”
Eden Foster glanced toward the garden. “Marigolds?”
“They help to keep insects away,” Raglan said.
“I wouldn’t know. Mary takes care of the garden.” She turned her attention to Gallagher. “You must invite Mr. Hokart to come over. I should like to meet him.”
“He’s not around,” Gallagher said. “We’d like to talk to him, too.”