At least he’d made up his mind: he was going to tell Augustino. The captain wanted something on Anna Weiss, and Joe would give it to him.

The house groaned, or was it the sound of himself? The kiva he’d fallen into had nothing on this. He dug in his pocket for another cigarette.

The door swung open. Dull, blinding sun filled the room, and in the doorway stood a phantom.

“Rudy?”

“Who?” Joe shielded his eyes.

“Mrs. Quist. Joe? That’s you?” The wraith stepped in and became a tiny lady in a white Lana Turner suit, turban and sunglasses. “You’re the last person I thought I’d see here.”

“You and me both.” He could see how wrinkled his khakis were, the butts on the floor.

“Pots, Joe. This is always my first stop.”

“I’ll get out of your way.” He heaved himself off the bed. His shoes were still on. As soon as he finished opening the carton of pots on the table for Mrs. Quist, he stumbled outside to the pump. Her Hudson was parked alongside the jeep.

Morning had come and gone. Around Santiago rose thin columns of black smoke because the noon stillness was a good time for firing pots. In the backyard across the road, Sophie Reyes tended a fire of pine, cedar and bits of two-by-fours piled around a milk carrier filled with pots. She picked up a piece of wood that seemed to be nothing but flame and put it where the fire seemed sparse. When an ember rolled free, she swept it back into the fire with a brush of yucca stalks. She held a soot-blackened tin sheet to block any unwanted breeze. Everything she did the same as Dolores. Dolores and Sophie had been sisters, and Sophie had the same helmet of black-and-gray hair, wore the same traditional one-shoulder dress, smudged apron, Montgomery Ward shoes.

Ben Reyes came out a screen door into the yard. His braids hung around a puckered, leathery face. He wore no shirt, only a vest, kilt, pants and moccasins. Usually his contribution to Sophie’s work was to sit in a chair and sort feathers. Today he was head to head with another doddering ancient with a walking stick.