internationally.
So the governor had a liaison. He claimed he went for the baths to get rid of stress, but did he really go to visit a woman?
None of my business, Sonny thought.
I donât like this, the old man said. He had been quiet, perhaps mulling over Sonnyâs motive. Now he spoke of caution.
Ravenâs threatening to blow up the mountain, Sonny replied. You want me to stay home and do nothing. Ravenâs up there, waiting. Thatâs what Fox meant with his allusion to the Bible. Fox knows.
The old man said nothing. Sonny was lying to himself.
Look, Sonny continued. We know even a small explosion can change the course of the underground water. That hot mineral water worked magic for me. I canât turn my back on the mountain.
Heâll be waiting.
So what! Heâs always waiting. Letâs end it today.
Thatâs what you really want, isnât it?
Yes!
Itâs not that easy.
Itâs him or me.
And you think I can help?
Youâre my trump.
Youâre wrong, Sonny. Youâre not thinking straight. Thereâs not a thing I can do.
4
Sonny listened to his scanner. The state police had closed Highway 4 between Jemez Springs and Los Alamos, citing a jackknifed gypsum-carrying truck blocking the road. The news media didnât buy it. Too many government cover-ups had made the newshounds wary. Sonny guessed that SWAT teams from Kirtland and Los Alamos were already on the mountain.
But not a word about the governor.
The Bath House didnât open till ten, and it was still early in the morning. Did that mean the governor was in the tub all night? Not discovered till morning? And where was Augie when the gov drew his last breath?
Fear death by drowning. Sonny remembered his close encounter in the river when he was twelve. Swept under by a treacherous current, he had swallowed a lot of water before he could grab hold of cottonwood roots along the bank and crawl out. He had been under long enough to feel the fingers of dissolution working in the water, long enough to hear the sirenâs call.
A plaintive cry, the wind sweeping past the open window, filled the cab of the truck, reminding him the river was full of spirits. La Llorona and her son El Coco walked the dark pathways of the river forest. She cried for all the children the river had carried away.
Sonny shivered, turned the radio off, and looked toward the blue Jemez. The day was hazy, with ribbed clouds still drifting eastward, the tail end of last nightâs weather front.
Long ago the Nuevomexicanos had lived on the mountain, pastores grazing sheep in the high pastures. They settled the San Diego Land Grant and learned to be vecinos with the Jemez Pueblo people. With time, more lovers of the mountain made their way up the river valley and the canyons to call the place their home. Men and women who liked to make it on their own, full of independent zeal, pilgrims whose reward was the sound of the breeze sailing through the trees. But even tough mountain men and women got lonely. Sooner or later they came down from the mountain to Jemez Springs, to church, or the library, or to the cantina. Sooner or later everybody got lonely.
Was the governorâs wife a lonely woman? Sonny had met her once or twice. He couldnât remember what she looked like. And perhaps it wasnât other peopleâs loneliness gnawing at his heart, it was his own sense of being alone. His need to avenge the death of Ritaâs child had driven him against the wall. Only getting Raven would bring respite.
He remembered he had promised to call his mother. He took the phone and scrolled to her name. Her phone rang and she answered.
âHi, momââ
âSonny, where are you?â
âIâm on my way to the cabin.â
âHow are you feeling?â
âIâm good. Just had breakfast with Ritaââ
âThat woman is incredible. So, have you set a date?â
âMaybe weâll get the
So the governor had a liaison. He claimed he went for the baths to get rid of stress, but did he really go to visit a woman?
None of my business, Sonny thought.
I donât like this, the old man said. He had been quiet, perhaps mulling over Sonnyâs motive. Now he spoke of caution.
Ravenâs threatening to blow up the mountain, Sonny replied. You want me to stay home and do nothing. Ravenâs up there, waiting. Thatâs what Fox meant with his allusion to the Bible. Fox knows.
The old man said nothing. Sonny was lying to himself.
Look, Sonny continued. We know even a small explosion can change the course of the underground water. That hot mineral water worked magic for me. I canât turn my back on the mountain.
Heâll be waiting.
So what! Heâs always waiting. Letâs end it today.
Thatâs what you really want, isnât it?
Yes!
Itâs not that easy.
Itâs him or me.
And you think I can help?
Youâre my trump.
Youâre wrong, Sonny. Youâre not thinking straight. Thereâs not a thing I can do.
4
Sonny listened to his scanner. The state police had closed Highway 4 between Jemez Springs and Los Alamos, citing a jackknifed gypsum-carrying truck blocking the road. The news media didnât buy it. Too many government cover-ups had made the newshounds wary. Sonny guessed that SWAT teams from Kirtland and Los Alamos were already on the mountain.
But not a word about the governor.
The Bath House didnât open till ten, and it was still early in the morning. Did that mean the governor was in the tub all night? Not discovered till morning? And where was Augie when the gov drew his last breath?
Fear death by drowning. Sonny remembered his close encounter in the river when he was twelve. Swept under by a treacherous current, he had swallowed a lot of water before he could grab hold of cottonwood roots along the bank and crawl out. He had been under long enough to feel the fingers of dissolution working in the water, long enough to hear the sirenâs call.
A plaintive cry, the wind sweeping past the open window, filled the cab of the truck, reminding him the river was full of spirits. La Llorona and her son El Coco walked the dark pathways of the river forest. She cried for all the children the river had carried away.
Sonny shivered, turned the radio off, and looked toward the blue Jemez. The day was hazy, with ribbed clouds still drifting eastward, the tail end of last nightâs weather front.
Long ago the Nuevomexicanos had lived on the mountain, pastores grazing sheep in the high pastures. They settled the San Diego Land Grant and learned to be vecinos with the Jemez Pueblo people. With time, more lovers of the mountain made their way up the river valley and the canyons to call the place their home. Men and women who liked to make it on their own, full of independent zeal, pilgrims whose reward was the sound of the breeze sailing through the trees. But even tough mountain men and women got lonely. Sooner or later they came down from the mountain to Jemez Springs, to church, or the library, or to the cantina. Sooner or later everybody got lonely.
Was the governorâs wife a lonely woman? Sonny had met her once or twice. He couldnât remember what she looked like. And perhaps it wasnât other peopleâs loneliness gnawing at his heart, it was his own sense of being alone. His need to avenge the death of Ritaâs child had driven him against the wall. Only getting Raven would bring respite.
He remembered he had promised to call his mother. He took the phone and scrolled to her name. Her phone rang and she answered.
âHi, momââ
âSonny, where are you?â
âIâm on my way to the cabin.â
âHow are you feeling?â
âIâm good. Just had breakfast with Ritaââ
âThat woman is incredible. So, have you set a date?â
âMaybe weâll get the
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