an hour and sent me in the proper direction to buy a ticket. Santa Fe is one of the few state capitals without a major airport, I'd read somewhere.
While we were heading north on I-25, somewhere among lengthening shadows in the vicinity of Sandia Peak, Frakir tightened slightly upon my wrist and released the pressure a moment later. Again. Then once again. I glanced quickly about the small bus, seeking the danger against which I had just been warned.
I was seated in the rear of the vehicle. Up near the front was a middle-aged couple, speaking with Texas accents, wearing an ostentatious quantity of turquoise and silver jewelry; near the middle were three older women, talking about things back in New York; across the aisle from them was a young couple, very absorbed in each other; two young men with tennis racquets sat diagonally to the rear of them, talking about college; behind them was a nun, reading. I looked out the window again and saw nothing particularly threatening on the highway or near it. I did not want to draw to myself the attention that any location practices would involve either.
So I spoke a single word in Thari as I rubbed my wrist, and the warnings ceased. Even though the rest of the ride was uneventful, it bothered me, though an occasional false warning was possible just because of the nature of nervous systems. As I watched red shale and red and yellow earth streak by, bridged arroyos, viewed distant mountains and nearer slopes dotted with piÔon, I wondered. S? Is S back there somewhere, somehow, watching, waiting? And if so, why? Couldn't we just sit down and talk about it over a couple of beers? Maybe it was based on some sort of misunderstanding.
I'd a feeling it was not a misunderstanding. But I'd settle for just knowing what was going on, even if nothing were resolved. I'd even pay for the beers.
The light of the setting sun touched flashes of brightness from streaks of snow in the Sangre de Cristos as we pulled into town; shadows slid across gray-green slopes; most of the buildings in sight were stuccoed. It felt about ten degrees cooler when I stepped down from the bus in front of the Hilton than it had when I'd boarded in Albuquerque. But then, I' d gained about two thousand feet in altitude and it was an hour and a quarter further along in the direction of evening.
I registered and found my room. I tried phoning Luke, but there was no answer. I showered then and changed into my spare outfit. Rang his room once more then, but still no answer. I was getting hungry and I'd hoped to have dinner with him.
I decided to find the bar and nurse a beer for a while, then try again.
I hoped he didn't have a heavy date.
A Mr. Brazda, whom I approached in the lobby and asked for directions, turned out to be the manager. He asked about my room, we exchanged a few pleasantries and he showed me the corridor leading off to the lounge. I started in that direction, but didn't quite make it.
'Merle! What the hell are you doing here?' came a familiar voice.
I turned and regarded Luke, who had, just entered the lobby. Sweaty and smiling, he was wearing dusty fatigues and boots, a fatigue cap, and a few streaks of grime. We shook hands and I said, 'I wanted to talk to you.' Then: 'What'd you do, enlist in something?'
'No, I've been off hiking in the Pecos all day,' he answered. 'I always do that when I'm out this way. It's great.
'I'll have to try it sometime,' I said. 'Now it seems it's my turn to buy dinner.'
'You're right,' he answered. 'Let me catch a shower and change clothes.
I'll meet you in the bar in fifteen, twenty minutes. Okay?'
'Right. See you.'
I headed up the corridor and located the place. It was medium-sized, dim, cool and relatively crowded, divided into two widely connected rooms, with low, comfortable-looking chairs and small tables.
A young couple was just abandoning a corner table off to my left, drinks in hand, to follow a waitress into the adjacent dining room. I took the table. A little later a cocktail waitress came by, and I ordered a beer.
Sitting there, several minutes later, sipping, and letting my mind drift over the perversely plotted events of the past several days, I realized that one of the place's passing figures had failed to pass. It had come to a halt at my side-just far enough to the rear to register only as a dark peripheral presence.
It spoke softly: 'Excuse me. May I ask you a question?'
I turned my head, to behold a short, thin man of Spanish appearance, his hair and mustache flecked with gray. He was sufficiently well dressed and groomed to seem a local business type. I noted a chipped front tooth when he smiled so briefly-just a twitch-as to indicate nervousness.
'My name's Dan Martinez,' he said, not offering to shake hands. He glanced at the chair across from me. 'Could I sit down a minute?'
'What's this about? If you're selling something, I'm not interested. I'm waiting for somebody and- ‘
He shook his head.
'No, nothing like that. I'know you're waiting for someone - a Mr. Lucas Raynard. It involves him, actually '
I gestured at the chair.
'Okay. Sit down and ask your question.'
He did so, clasping his hands and placing them on the table between us.
He leaned forward.
'I overheard you talking in the lobby,' he began, 'and I got the impression you knew him fairly well. Would you mind telling me for about how long you've known him?'
'If that's all you want to know,' I answered, 'for about eight years. We went to college together, and we worked for the same company for several years after that.'
'Grand Design,' he stated, 'the San Francisco computer firm. Didn't know him before college, huh?'
'It seems you already know quite a bit,' I said. 'What did you want, anyway? Are you some kind of cop?'
'No,' he said, 'nothing like that. I assure you I'm not trying to get your friend into trouble. I am simply trying to save myself some. Let me just ask you-‘
I shook my head.
'No more freebies,' I told him. 'I don't care to talk to strangers about my friends without some pretty good reasons.'
He unclasped his hands and spread them wide.
'I'm not being underhanded,' he said, 'when I know you'll tell him about it. In fact, I want you to. He knows me. I want him to know I'm asking around about him, okay? It'll actually be to his benefit. Hell, I'm even asking - a friend, aren't I? Someone who might be willing to lie to help him out. And I just need a couple simple facts-'
'And I just need one simple reason: why do you want this information?'
He sighed. 'Okay,' he said. 'He offered me - tentatively, mind you – a very interesting investment opportunity. It would involve a large sum of money. There is an element of risk, as in most ventures involving new companies in a highly competitive area, but the possible returns do make it tempting.'
I nodded.
'And you want to know whether he's honest.'
He chuckled.
'I don't really care whether he's honest,' he said. 'My only concern is whether he can deliver a product with no strings on it.'
Something about the way this man talked reminded me of someone. I tried, but couldn't recall who it was:
'Ah,' I said, taking a sip of beer. 'I'm slow today. Sorry. Of course this deal involves computers.'
'Of course.'
'You want to know whether his present employer can nail him if he goes into business out here with whatever he's bringing with him.'
'In a word, yes.'
'I give up,' I said. 'It would take a better man than me to answer that. Intellectual properties represent a tricky area of the law. I don't know what he's selling and I don't know where it comes from-he gets around a lot. But even if I did know, I have no idea what your legal position would be.
