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By Root 2206 0

stopped associating it with the shoes. Granted, at the time he’d been certain that he’d stopped the wrong vehicle. He didn’t have a reason to take the huge step of suspecting that Luke Parsons had anything to do with the murders of Susan Crowell and her fiancé. Nonetheless, he had told the investigation team about that night the previous year, and they had checked Luke out as thoroughly as possible. He and his three brothers lived with their father on a farm in the Rio Grande gorge north of Dillon. They were hard workers, kept to themselves, and stayed out of trouble.

Seeing the truck pass, Romero didn’t have a reason to make it stop, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t follow it. He pulled onto Old Pecos Drive and kept the truck’s taillights in view as it headed into town. It turned right at the state capitol building and proceeded along Paseo de Peralta until on the other side of town it steered into an Allsup’s gas station.

Romero chose a pump near the pickup truck, got out of his Jeep, and pretended to be surprised by the man next to him.

“Luke, it’s Gabe Romero. How are you?”

Then he was surprised, realizing his mistake. This wasn’t Luke.

‘"John? I didn’t recognize you.”

The tall, thin, sandy-haired, somber-eyed young man assessed him. He lowered his eyes to the holstered pistol on Romero’s hip. Romero had never worn it to the Farmers’ Market. “I didn’t realize you were a police officer.”

“Does it matter?”

“Only that it’s reassuring to know my vegetables are safe when you’re around.” John’s stem features took the humor out of the joke.

“Or your moss rocks.” Romero pointed toward the back of the truck. “Been selling them over on that country road by the Interstate? That’s usually Luke’s job.”

“Well, he has other things to do.”

“Yeah, now that I think of it, I haven’t seen him at the market lately.”

“Excuse me. It’s been a long day. It’s a long drive back.”

“You bet. I didn’t mean to keep you.”

Luke wasn’t at the Farmer’s Market the next Saturday or the final one the week after that.

Late October. There’d been a killing frost the night before, and in the morning there was snow in the mountains. Since the Farmers’ Market was closed for the year and Romero had his Saturday free, he thought, Why don’t I take a little drive?

The sunlight was cold, crisp, and clear as Romero headed north along Highway 285. He crested the hill near the modernistic Sante Fe Opera House and descended from the juniper-and-piñon-dotted slopes of town into a multicolored desert, its draws and mesas stretching dramatically away toward white-capped mountains on each side. No wonder Hollywood made so many westerns here, he thought. He passed the Camel Rock Indian casino and the Cities of Gold Indian casino, reaching what had once been another eternal construction project, the huge interchange that led west to Los Alamos.

But instead of heading toward the atomic city, he continued north, passing through Espanola, and now the landscape changed again, the hills on each side coming closer, the narrow highway passing between the ridges of the Rio Grande gorge, WATCH OUT FOR FALLING ROCK,

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a sign said. Yeah, I intend to watch out, he thought. On his left, partially screened by leafless trees, was the legendary Rio Grande, narrow, taking its time in the fall, gliding around curves, bubbling over boulders. On the far side of the river was Embudo Station, an old stagecoach stop the historic buildings of which had been converted into a microbrewery and a restaurant.

He passed it, heading farther north, and now the gorge began to widen. Farms and vineyards appeared on both sides of the road, where silt from melting during the Ice Age had made the soil rich. He stopped in Dillon, took care that his handgun was concealed by his zipped-up windbreaker, and asked at the general store if anybody knew where he could find the Parsons farm.

Fifteen minutes later, he had the directions he wanted. But instead of going directly to the farm, he drove to a scenic view outside town and waited for a state police car to pull up beside him. During the morning