Ariel's Crossing - Bradford Morrow [150]
“Mr. Montoya, no need for guns. We’re not here to harm you.”
Marcos started down. This is how you get your ass slain, he thought.
“We’re doing fine, then. We’re not here to harm you, either.”
Ariel was shocked by how swiftly the climate had changed. She backed away from Delfino several unconscious paces. Marcos set the deed and its accompanying claim, sealed in a plastic sleeve, on the tan earth. As he turned to rejoin the others, Jim Carpenter advised him, in a gentle voice, “Your mother’s concerned about your welfare. You know that none of whatever you’re all up to here is worth people getting hurt over.”
“So what’s my mother’s name?”
“Sarah Montoya. All right?”
“What did she say?”
“What do you think she said?”
Delfino was calling him.
“And what about your girlfriend?”
“You mean Mary?”
“I thought her name was Ariel,” nodding upward.
“What about her?”
“Aren’t you concerned for her welfare?”
“I’m concerned, sure. About everybody’s welfare. And while we’re talking, you should know there’s probably another person out here. He’s sick and needs medical attention. The woman with us is his daughter. She’s looking for him and doesn’t have anything to do with evictions or land claims or any of this other problem. His name’s Kip Calder. He’s a Vietnam vet. He—”
Jim thought about whether to divulge what he knew and decided to hold his cards. “I’ll put a search and rescue out on him right away,” and did so in Marcos’s presence, raising the VHF radio earnestly to his head and ordering the rescue, though without ever pushing the transmit switch. “Let her know we’re on top of it.”
Delfino waited impatient and silenced by the vision of this colloquy out of earshot. Marcos began his walk back up the sere knoll. Ariel felt suddenly ridiculous in her dress.
“Hey, Marcos. What do you want us to tell your mother?”
“Tell her everything’s fine.”
“You want me to lie to her?”
Marcos turned around and said, “You’ve got all the equipment. Patch her through to me and I’ll tell her myself.”
“I’ll see what I can do, chief. Let’s just don’t forget who’s causing the problem and who’s trying to help resolve it.”
“Don’t call me chief.”
Hang tough, zip the lip, stay cool to rule. Jim ran several choice expletives through his mind as he watched Marcos hike away. He didn’t much like having to stoop to retrieve the pathetic documentation provided by these neophyte fanatics. The kid seemed levelheaded, though, had to admit. Probably loves the codger. Once Marcos was out of hearing range, he reported what transpired. Projection was, all agreed, a minor standoff of brief duration, to be kept from the media. Nobody liked the old fart’s shotgun, including, seemingly, the perpetrators themselves. Who knew if it was even loaded? Hardly mattered since they had to proceed as if it were. The girl was entangled in somebody else’s fracas and would probably be the weak link. Would have to work on that. Last analysis: What they had here was an elderly local with the same damn gripe they’d heard before. Some folks just won’t give up their private past for the common future.
Jess remembered an afternoon so buried in the past that she might have questioned whether it really happened had she not borne to this day a scar that verified it did. A sandy beach at Montauk with her new family. Sweet sincere Brice and little munchkin Ariel, then five years old. The waves cascading gently to shore and just as gently receding. Brice, in that faded dorky plaid swimsuit he mistakenly considered hip, had carried his laughing daughter into the green waves, while Jessica herself lay on a towel watching these chancy creatures. She’d slept the night before wrapped in her husband’s arms and with her daughter nestled in hers, in the seaside motel bed, breathing