Obsidian Butterfly - Laurell K. Hamilton [16]
“Gee, Edward,” I said, as he opened the back hatch, “what have you been doing to this poor whatever it is. I’ve never seen a car so dirty.”
“This is a Hummer, and cost more than most people’s houses.” He raised the hatch and started putting my bags inside. I offered him my carry-on, and when I was close could smell that new car smell, which explained why the carpeting in back was still nearly pristine.
“If it costs that much, then why doesn’t it rate better care?” I asked.
He took the carry-on and put it on the new carpet. “I bought it because it could go over almost any terrain in almost any weather. If I didn’t want it to get dirty, I’d have bought something else.” He slammed the hatch shut.
“How can Ted afford something like this?”
“Actually, Ted makes a fine living off varmint hunting.”
“Not this good,” I said, “not off of bounty hunting.”
“How do you know what a bounty hunter makes?” he asked, peering around the filthy car at me.
He had a point. “I guess I don’t.”
“Most people don’t know what a bounty hunter makes so I can get away with some purchases that might be out of Ted’s price range.” He walked around the car toward the driver’s side, only the top of his white hat showing above the mud-caked roof.
I tried the passenger side door, and it opened. It took a little bit of work to climb into the seat, and I was glad I wasn’t wearing a skirt. One nice thing about working with Edward was that he wouldn’t expect me to wear business attire. It was jeans and Nikes for this trip.
The only business thing I was wearing was the black jacket slung over my cotton shirt and jeans. The jacket was to hide the gun, nothing more. “What are the gun laws like in New Mexico?”
Edward started the car and glanced at me. “Why?”
I put on my seatbelt. Evidently, we were in a hurry. “I want to know if I can ditch the jacket and wear my gun naked, or whether I’m going to have to hide the gun for the entire trip.”
His lips twitched. “New Mexico lets you carry as long as it’s not concealed. Concealed carry without a permit is illegal.”
“Let me test my understanding. I can wear the gun in full view of everyone with or without a carry permit, but if I put a jacket over it, concealing it, and don’t have a carry permit, it’s illegal?”
The twitch turned into a smile. “That’s right.”
“Western state gun laws are always so interesting,” I said, but I started sliding out of the jacket. You can wiggle out of almost anything while remaining seatbelted in a car. Since I always wear a seatbelt, I’d had a lot of practice.
“But the police may still stop you if they see you walking around armed. Just make sure you’re not here to kill anybody.” He half smiled when he said the last.
“So I can carry as long as it’s not concealed, but not really, not without getting questioned by the police.”
“And you can’t carry a gun of any kind, even unloaded, into a bar.”
“I don’t drink. I think I can avoid the bars.”
A wire fence edged the road he pulled onto, but did nothing to take away the flat, flat distances and the strange black mountains. “What are the mountains called?”
“Sangre del Cristo—the blood of Christ,” he said. I looked at him to see if he was kidding. Of course, he wasn’t. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why call them the blood of Christ?”
“I don’t know.”
“How long has Ted lived out here?”
“Almost four years,” he said.
“And you don’t know why the mountains are named Sangre del Christo? Do you have no curiosity?”
“Not about things that don’t affect the job.”
He didn’t say, a job, but the job. I thought it was odd phrasing. “What if this monster that we’re hunting is some kind of local bugaboo? Knowing why the mountains are named what they’re named may mean nothing, or it may have to do with a legend, a story, a hint about some great blood bath in the past. There are very localized monsters, Edward, things that only come above ground every century or so like really long-lived