much. It worries her mother. And Señor Tony is very unhappy with my presence here.”
In exasperation Charlie asked, “Are you willing to simply clear up any mystery about yourself? Why haven’t you already done it?”
“Señor, there is no mystery. From the beginning, I have stated what I desire—first to Don Carlos, then to anyone who asked.”
“And what is that?”
“To own the valley. When Don Carlos lies beside his mother, then I shall own the valley.”
For a long time, Charlie stared at him in silence, disbelieving. Finally, he said, “And you think Don Carlos will simply give it to you?”
“ Si .”
“Why?”
“I cannot say, señor. No man can truly say what is in the heart of another.”
Charlie felt the hairs on his arms stirring and turned to Constance. She was signaling. No more, not now. Not yet. Abruptly, he stood up. “We should go.”
“Thank you,” Constance said to Ramón. “We really should go now.”
He walked out with them. The night air was cold, the sky very clear, with more stars visible than they had ever seen in New York State. A crescent moon hung low in the eastern sky, its mountains clear, jagged. The gorgons were lost in shadows now. But the moon would sail on the sun path, Constance thought, and set over the highest pinnacle—and silver light would flow through the openings… .
“Good night, señor,” Ramón said softly, and left them.
They did not speak until they were in their room. “May we have coffee?” Constance asked Manuel. There were many more books to read, magazine articles to scan.
“It’s blackmail,” Charlie said with satisfaction when Manuel had vanished. “So what does he have on Don Carlos?”
Constance gave him a disapproving look. “That’s too simple.”
“Maybe. But I’ve found that the simplest explanation is usually the right one. He’s too damn sure of himself. It must be something pretty bad.”
She moved past him to stand at the window. She would have to be out at sunrise, she was thinking, when the sun would appear above the tumbled rocks of the stream and light up the gorgons with its first rays. Something nagged at her memory. They had looked up the rough waterway, not really a waterfall, but very steep, the water flashing in and out of the granite, now spilling down a few feet, to pour over rocks again. It was as if the sunlight, the moonlight had cut through the cliff, opened a path for the tumbling water. The memory that had tried to get through receded.
Manuel brought their coffee and they settled down to read. A little later, Charlie put down his book with disgust and started to complain, then saw that she was sleeping. He took her book from her lap; she roused only slightly and he took her by the hand to the bedroom, got her into bed. Almost instantly, she was sleeping soundly. He returned to his books.
He would poke around in the library and if he didn’t find something written about Wyandot by someone who had not idolized him, he would have to go to Denver, or somewhere, and search further. Wyandot and his past, that was the key, he felt certain. Blackmail. Find the leverage and confront both blackmailer and victim and then get the hell out of here. He nodded. And do it all fast.
The next morning, he woke up to find Constance’s bed empty. He started to get up, then lay down again, staring at the ceiling. She had gone out to look at the formations by sunrise, he knew. He waited, tense and unhappy, until she returned quietly, undressed, and got back in bed. He pretended to be asleep and in a short while he actually fell asleep again. Neither of them mentioned it that day.
She insisted on going to the gorgons again in the afternoon. “Take some books along,” she said in an offhand manner. “I want to explore and I may be a while.” She did not look at him when she said this. Today they planned to ride horses and eat sandwiches and not return until after sundown.
He had binoculars this time, and before
Learning to Kill: Stories