Thunderhead

“No thanks.”

The detective folded the stick into his own mouth and began to chew, muscles in his jaw and neck working slowly. The irregular form of the La Fonda Hotel loomed on his right. Then they passed the plaza and the Palace of the Governors, Indians selling jewelry under the portal, the sunlight glinting off the polished silver and turquoise.

“Am I going to need a lawyer?” Skip asked.

Martinez chewed his gum diligently. “I don’t think so,” he said, “’Course, you’re welcome to one if you want.”

The car moved past the library and pulled around behind the old police building. Several Dumpsters sat in front, filled with broken pieces of drywall.

“Renovating,” Martinez explained as they entered a lobby draped in plastic. The lieutenant stopped at a desk and took a folder offered by a uniformed woman. He led Skip along a hallway smelling of paint, down a flight of stairs. Opening a scratched door, he ushered Skip in. Beyond lay a bare room, devoid of furniture except for three wooden chairs, a desk, and a dark mirror.

Skip had never been in such a place before, but he’d seen enough television to instantly recognize its purpose. “This looks like some kind of interrogation room,” he said.

“It is.” Martinez took a seat with a protest of wood. He laid the folder on the table and offered Skip a chair. Then he pointed to the ceiling. Skip glanced up to see a lens, pointed almost insolently at him. “We’re going to videotape you. Okay?”

“Do I have a choice?”

“Yes. If you say no, the interview will be over, and you’ll be free to go.”

“Great,” said Skip, starting to get up.

“Of course, then we’d have to subpoena you, and you’d spend money on that lawyer. Right now, you’re not a suspect. So why don’t you just relax and answer a few questions? If at any time you want a lawyer or want to terminate the interview, you can. How does that sound?”

“Did you say suspect?” Skip asked.

“Yes.” Martinez looked at him with uninformative black eyes. Skip realized the man was waiting for an answer.

“Okay,” he said, sighing mightily. “Roll ’em.”

Martinez nodded to someone behind the one-way glass, then turned back to Skip. “Please state your name, address, and birthdate.” They rapidly went through the preliminaries. Then Martinez asked:

“Are you the owner of an abandoned ranch house beyond Fox Run, address Rural Route Sixteen, Box Twelve, Santa Fe, New Mexico?”

“Yes. My sister and I own it together.”

“And your sister is Nora Waterford Kelly?”

“That’s right.”

“And what are the whereabouts of your sister at the moment?”

“She’s on an archaeological expedition to Utah.”

Martinez nodded. “When did she leave?”

“Three days ago. She won’t be back for a couple of weeks, at least.” Once again, Skip began to stand. “Does this have to do with her?”

Martinez make a suppressing motion with one palm. “Your parents are both deceased, correct?”

Skip nodded.

“And you are currently employed at the Santa Fe Archaeological Institute.”

“I was until you showed up.”

Martinez smiled. “And how long have you been employed by the Institute?”

“I told you in the car. This was my first day.”

Martinez nodded again, more slowly this time. “And prior to today, where were you employed?”

“I’ve been job hunting.”

“I see. And when were you last employed?”

“Never. Not since I graduated from college last year, anyway.”

“Do you know a Teresa Gonzales?”

Skip licked his lips. “Yeah. I know Teresa. She was our neighbor out at the ranch.”

“When did you last see Teresa?”

“God, I don’t know. Ten months ago, maybe eleven. Shortly after I graduated.”

“How about your sister? When did she last see Ms. Gonzales?”

Skip shifted in his chair. “Let’s see. A couple of days ago, I think. She helped Nora out at the ranch.”

“You mean Nora, your sister?” Martinez asked. “Helped her how?”

Skip hesitated. “She was attacked,” he said slowly.

Martinez’s neck muscles stopped working for a moment. “Care to tell me about it?”

“Teresa used to call my sister when she heard noises at the old place. Vandals, kids, that kind of stuff. Lately there’s been a lot of messing around over there; she’s called my sister several times. Nora went over about a week ago. Said she was attacked. Teresa heard the racket, came over with a shotgun, scared them off.”

“Did she say anything more? A description of the attackers?”

“Nora said . . .” Skip thought for a moment. “Nora said it was two people. Two people, dressed up as animals.” He decided not to mention the letter. Whatever was going on here didn’t need any more complications.

“Why didn’t she come to us?” Martinez asked at last.

“Can’t say for sure. Going to the police really isn’t her style. She always wants to do everything for herself. I think she was concerned it might delay her expedition.”

Martinez seemed to ponder something. “Mr. Kelly,” he began again. “Can you account for your whereabouts over the last forty-eight hours?”

Skip stopped short. Then he sat back, took a deep breath. “Except for showing up at the Institute this morning, I was at my apartment all weekend.”

Martinez consulted a piece of paper. “2113 Calle de Sebastian, number two-B?”

“Yes.”

“And did you see anybody during that time?”

Skip swallowed. “Larry, at Eldorado Liquors, saw me Saturday afternoon. My sister phoned me late Saturday night.”

“Anybody else?”

“Well, my neighbor called me three or four times.”

“Your neighbor?”

“Yeah. Reg Freiburg, in the apartment next door. Doesn’t like loud music.”

Martinez sat back, ru

Suddenly, Skip’s body felt strangely heavy. “Teresa?”

Martinez nodded. “Every Sunday afternoon, she gets a delivery of feed for the farm animals. Last Sunday, she didn’t answer the door. The man noticed the animals hadn’t been fed, and that her dog was locked in the house. When she still didn’t answer the next morning, he got worried and called us.”

“Oh, my God.” Skip shook his head. “Teresa. I can’t believe it.”

The lieutenant shifted in his chair, eyes on Skip. “When we went out there, we found her bed unmade, clothes set out. The dog was terrified. It looked like something had gotten her up in the middle of the night. But there was no sign of her on the property, so we decided to visit the neighboring ranches. Your place was our first stop.” He took a slow breath. “We saw movement inside. Turned out to be dogs, fighting over something.” He stopped, pursed his lips.

But Skip barely heard this. He was thinking of Teresa, trying to remember the last time he’d seen her. He and Nora had gone out to the house to pick up a few things to decorate her apartment. Teresa had been outside in her yard, seen them, and waved her enthusiastic wave. He could see her still, jogging down the path to their house, brown careless hair flapping and dancing in the breeze.

Then his eyes fell upon the single folder lying in the center of the desk. GONZALES, T. was written along one side. The glossy edge of a black-and-white picture peeked from beneath one corner of the folder. Automatically, he reached out for it.

“I wouldn’t,” Martinez said. But he made no move to stop him. Skip lifted the edge, exposing the photograph; then froze in horror.

Teresa was lying on her back, one leg across the other, left hand thrown up as if to catch an errant football. At least, Skip thought it was Teresa, because he recognized the room as their old kitchen: his mother’s ancient stove stood in the top right-hand corner of the picture.

Teresa herself was less recognizable. Her mouth was open, but the cheeks were missing. Through gaps in the ruined flesh, teeth fillings gleamed hollowly in the light of the camera’s flash. Even in the black-and-white photograph, Skip saw that the skin was an u