Wild Penance

He eyed me suspiciously and didn’t answer.

“If I’ve ever done anything to hurt you or offend you, I’d like for you to forgive me.”

Roy screwed up his face, as if he’d encountered a bad smell. “What in the hell are you talking about?”

“Nothing.” I started to close the door.

“Is this about you showing your ass all over the county on Saturday night?”

I took a deep breath and blew it out. “Never mind.”

“It’s none of my business what you do in your time off,” Roy said. “But you could have had your lights put out instead of that other gal. That’s the part that worries me.”

As I was heading back out the front of the building, Rosa hung up the phone. She motioned me over to the front counter and asked, “I didn’t get a chance to talk to you when you came in before. How was your reunion with your brother?”

“My brother?”

“Oh, no, I hope I didn’t spoil it.”

“Rosa, I don’t know what you’re talking about. I don’t have a brother.”

“You mean you… you mean, you don’t-? Tell me the truth now, Jamaica. You don’t have a brother?”

“I don’t have a brother. I’m an only child.”

“Ay-ay-ay!” she squealed. “This man called on Friday and said he was your brother. He wanted me to tell him where you live. I told him I don’t know where you live. He said he was just back from overseas in the service.”

“What did he sound like?”

“I don’t know. He sounded like an Anglo, like you. I didn’t tell him anything, Jamaica. I promise. I don’t know where you live, and Roy wasn’t here. You know, all you got for an address is a rural carrier box.”

“What did he say when you told him you didn’t know?”

“He just said, ‘Thank you very much, I’ll find her,’ and then he hung up. He sounded like a nice man. But, ay! That don’t sound so good, a man trying to find out where you live and saying he’s your brother, when you don’t have a brother!”

25

Just a Kiss

That night, after I’d ridden the fence line in my section, I returned to the base camp that I had established a few days before. I gathered some wood and kindling and put them near the circle of stones I had set up for a fire. I took my saddlebags off of Redhead and then removed her saddle and blanket. I got a curry comb out of my kit and started brushing her down. Not only did this give me a chance to clean the horse so chafing didn’t occur under her tack, but it helped create a bond between Redhead and me that carried over into handling and riding. Without this, I might not have been able to manage a stubborn mare like her. Redhead did not communicate with me as she sometimes did by nibbling at my arms or hat, flipping her head or tail, or even nodding her head and whinnying and blustering. Instead she made funny snorting sounds as she kept busy pulling at some dry grass. These little appreciative snuffles kept rhythm as I brushed the bits of duff and dirt from her coat, telling me that Redhead was enjoying this attention immensely. An occasional quivering at the withers gave me clues as to when I was working a particularly good-feeling spot.

In the quiet night, my mind began to worry over the puzzling set of circumstances that had occurred over the past five or six days. Someone stabbed Father Ignacio, crucified him, and threw him over the gorge bridge. What a gruesome and horrific deed! Three men I had never seen before stole my book. Why? How did they know about it? Who was the driver who came to get Father Ignacio when we met, and could he be involved in all this? What about the Lexus that followed me from Santa Fe after I’d been to the library? The library! The librarian knew I was researching the Penitentes. What was that problem she said she’d had with my library card? Could that have had something to do with the car following me? Or was that whole thing with the car tailing me just a coincidence? Should I have told Jerry Padilla about the Lexus? Did someone really try to kill me and injure Nora instead? Somehow, all of this had to tie together. In the pit of my belly, I could feel an ooze of fear begin rising. I bit my lip and held back the anxiety, brushing Redhead’s rump and running the curry comb through the tail as best I could.

The air was sharply cold. I pulled up the collar on my coat and buttoned the top button. There was little wind, only a faint breeze. Coyotes whined and yipped occasionally, and the cottonwoods down in the draw made a sound like sheets of rough paper being rubbed together when the breeze picked up.

I stood at Redhead’s side, facing her tail, then ran my hand down her leg to the fetlock. She was well trained and responded to this by picking up her foot so that I could examine it and pick out any rocks that might cause stone bruises. As I checked the mare’s feet, I mulled over the only thing that my book, the icons, and Father Ignacio had in common-the Penitentes. The brotherhood was a group of lay brothers-peace loving, humble, and charitable-whose only violent acts were against themselves in penance as they emulated the suffering of their Savior. Although they had been known to throw rocks at uninvited observers during their ceremonies, tales about their “stoning” others to death, as Regan had feared might happen to her and her friend when they were children, or the reata that Jerry Padilla had mentioned, had never been substantiated. The Penitentes’ most earnest wish was to be left alone.

What if they wanted me to leave them alone? I had tried to talk to some villagers who lived near shrines and moradas I had mapped and sketched. Maybe I had unknowingly approached hermanos vigilantes. My questions, taking notes, and drawing their shrines might have been seen as an intrusion. Even so, surely they would not have resorted to murder to deter me.

And what about Father Ignacio? Los Hermanos would never kill a priest. They were staunch Catholics and members of their local parishes as well as the local morada. Imagine the penance for murder, especially murder of a priest! No, I couldn’t believe the Penitentes were responsible for Father Ignacio’s death.

Then, who?

Father Ignacio and I were both studying, writing about the Penitentes. That’s all we had in common. He knew much more than I did. He had more resources… Resources! Could there be a clue in the two resources he told me to bring together for my book? Could that be why my book was stolen? Or why someone had tried to kill me, as they had killed Father Medina? What did the tract by Padre Martinez have to do with any of this? And what was that other name, the man’s name I had written down? I tried to fathom this, and the information that Christine Salazar had inadvertently given me-that there was an investigation into stolen icons. Could Santiago Suazo have been involved in the theft of those icons? Was that where he was getting all that money? I had heard that religious icons sold for huge sums on the black art market.

A high, shrill whistle sliced through the quiet night. It made an eerie shrieking sound that seemed to find my spinal column and travel right down the stem from neck to tailbone, jangling every nerve. I started, felt a jolt of fear surge through me. Redhead drew up from the grass and flared her nostrils. Then I recognized the sound. It was the pito! It was a pitero playing his flute! I grabbed my rifle with the night scope that Kerry had loaned me, threw the mare’s reins over her neck, jumped up and mounted her bareback, and kicked my heels gently into her sides. We tore off in the direction of the whistle.

I guided Redhead back through the woods, aiming for the Boscaje morada, certain that the procession had originated there. Just short of the thickest growth, I stopped the horse and dismounted. I tied her reins to a branch and made my way forward again on foot, carrying my rifle. I heard the raspy metallic whir of the matraca in the distance-a wooden instrument similar to an old-fashioned party noisemaker. I approached the edge of the meadow where I had hidden last week. The pito whistled shrilly again, to my right. I followed the sound through the trees; I did not have to go far. Above me, higher up the slope, a small procession was in progress.

I looked through the night scope on the rifle. A body was being dragged by two men, each holding one of his arms over a shoulder. I drew back in alarm, then looked again through the scope. As I studied the scene, I saw that it was not a body, but an Hermano who had been doing penance and was now unconscious from the self-inflicted