The Sunshine Solution: A Digger Doyle Mystery

CHAPTER 1

The fuzzy black-and-white picture showed a young teen, face wasted and body rail thin, pulling away from an older man. The man was tall, well-dressed, Hispanic. He looked as though he was trying to drag her down the street. The flier headline screamed, Saturday night on Central Avenue: Orlando Garcia likes them young. Is this the man we want running our state?

Orlando Garcia stared at the flier his aide had handed to him. She said she found it on her lawn that morning. His stomach churned. There had already been the rumors, the attack ads. He’d fought those off, but piece by piece they’d cut at his credibility. He knew now that the moment people saw this picture his political future would be over.

It didn’t matter that the photo was not what it seemed, that he was not harming the girl but trying to stop her from another drug overdose. None of that would make any difference now. He wished he could make it disappear, undo its existence on this earth, roll back the clock. But one shredded flier made no difference. There were probably hundreds of fliers out there by now, and thousands of eyes would see them—HAD already seen them. That was how the political game worked. Your opponents would seek out a tiny vulnerability, something meant as a good deed in a dark world, and they would forge it into a deadly weapon. He could try to fight back, but he would always see the doubt in people’s eyes. He’d seen that happen before to other candidates. You never got over a smear like that. It was over, everything he’d worked for.

He squeezed his eyes shut and felt dizzy, as if he stood at the edge of a cliff, hearing the voice inside his head praying to a god he no longer believed in to deliver him.

There would of course be no deliverance. When Orlando opened his eyes, the pieces of the poster still littered the floor; what had happened, had happened. He could see no way out. He’d failed them: his family, his supporters. He sat down at his desk, found a notepad sent to him in thanks for his contributions to helping the homeless, and wrote a note to his wife, pleading for her understanding. He wrote a note to his son and daughter, begging them to look after their mother. Then he went out to the garage, got in his car, backed out without looking, drove out of the city, and onto to the freeway, speeding south through a night sharp with stars, heading toward the canyon. Yes, that would be the place.

CHAPTER 2

Twenty Years Later

Snow had begun to fall shortly after two that afternoon—light, feathery flakes that floated teasingly through the sharp, thin, high-altitude air. Chris Lovington entered the Roundhouse, the seat of New Mexico’s part-time legislature, which looked uncannily like a Spanish bullring, and was often the scene of verbal bloodletting. He stopped in the lobby and showed his ID card to the security guard, who checked the appointment book and frowned, Hmm, the Governor doesn’t usually see people up there.

I know, Lovington nodded, but he specifically asked me to meet him there. The guard shrugged. Well, I guess he’s the boss around here.

Lovington looked at his watch and opted to take the stairs rather than ride the elevator up to the fourth floor. He was apprehensive about the meeting, curious why the governor had asked for him, and puzzled as to why the meeting would be held in a room usually reserved for high-level discussions or critical announcements. When he reached the top floor, he expected to run into an aide who would announce him, but there was no one around. He knocked on the dark wooden door and waited; breath shaky, heart fluttering. A moment later a voice summoned him, and he entered.

Governor Joe Sheridan stood on the far side of a vast table. There were no lights on in the room and his face was ghostly pale in the low afternoon light. He was well over six feet tall, with irongrey hair smoothed back over his scalp, deep-set eyes, and a long straight nose. Snide online Tweets sometimes called him professorial and today he looked the part, dressed in a gray tweed jacket over an oatmeal-colored V-neck sweater.

He pulled out a chair and motioned for Lovington to take a seat next to him. They sat silently, Lovington keeping his eyes on the polished surface of the table. Sheridan cleared his throat. Thank you for coming at such short notice, Chris. I hope I didn’t inconvenience you. I know things can sometimes be hectic on a Friday afternoon. His voice was deep and formal like that of an old-time newscaster.

Lovington shrugged. No problem. My assistant Andy Whitaker can handle anything, and if he can’t, he can always call me.

Sheridan nodded slowly. The skin around his deep-set eyes was dark and his lips were stretched tight, as if he were suppressing inner pain. Lovington knew Sheridan was in his late fifties. Today he looked much older.

I’ll get to the point quickly, he said, I asked you here today because I’m going to be making an important announcement on Monday. He paused and looked directly at Lovington. I’ve decided not to run for a second term.

Lovington’s jaw dropped. Sheridan was popular and his poll numbers were good, the election was months away, and campaigning had barely started. Anyone in his right mind might say Why this?

I know it’s a surprise, Chris. Sheridan paused briefly as if gathering energy. But I’ve had some news recently that’s made this decision inevitable. He sighed. The murmur of air leaking from his lungs was like a slowly deflating bicycle tire. Lovington said nothing, waiting for the sound of Sheridan’s lungs to re-inflate enough to fuel his next words.

About three weeks ago my wife noticed some unusual pain. She’d been experiencing pain for a while. She always thought it was indigestion or something minor. But this time the pain was so severe she could barely stand. She went in for tests and a tumor was found on the liver….

Oh, it’s not…?

It is cancer, and I don’t think I need to spell it out for you. There are of course options for treatment, but she probably doesn’t have long.

Joe, I’m, so sorry, I ….

Sheridan held up a hand to ward off any further commiseration from Lovington. I know, Chris, and thank you for your thoughts. Martha and I have been married thirty-three years. That sounds like a long time, but when you know your time is limited, there is never enough time. That’s why I decided not to run. I want to be there for her as much as I can. I think you understand that from your own experience.

Lovington understood the reference only too well. He had lost his wife three years before to a brain aneurysm. They’d been married almost twenty-two years. Sheridan was peering at him now, and he sensed that another shoe was about to drop. He braced.

That’s one of the reasons I asked you here today, Sheridan went on, I want you to know that I have been watching you as we’ve worked together during my term. I’ve been impressed by your integrity and your conscientiousness.

Joe, I … Lovington interrupted.

Sheridan held up his hand again. I know. I know you had some questionable issues in your past. There was some ugly stuff, but the Chris Lovington I’ve gotten to know is not that guy. As State Land Commissioner you have a lot of responsibility. You’re overseeing millions of acres, making sure the leases on those lands benefit our schools and colleges. I see how seriously you take your duties. I know you’re under a lot of pressure from the oil and gas guys; especially because the state can make so much money from exploiting those resources. But since I’ve been governor, my major concerns have been water and climate. The hotter it gets and the more wildfires we have, and the poorer our state will become. I’m thinking about the long-term, and I think you get that.

Lovington nodded. He wasn’t sure where the conversation was headed but he felt deep sympathy for Sheridan. The man had always impressed him.

Anyway, the other reason I invited you here today is that I wanted to ask you to run for governor in my place. I think we share some of the same goals, especially when it comes to the environment. I’ve heard the way you talk about renewable energy. We need more of that, and that’s why I believe you are the right person to carry on my legacy.

Lovington sank back into his chair. Relief flowed over him. Sheridan knew about his past, but he was willing to trust him. Still, he could never have imagined this. I, uh, I don’t know, he stuttered. This is, uh, unexpected. What about Sylvia?

Sylvia Sanchez, the Lieutenant Governor, who frequently appeared in evening news broadcasts, seemed the most obvious choice.

Sheridan shrugged. Yes. I suppose everyone would think that, but I don’t have the same confidence in her. My sense is she would take New Mexico in a very different direction and that would not be good for the land. So…well, I’ll give you the weekend to think about it. Martha and I have managed to keep things quiet up to now, but it’s going to get out. I’m planning to make a statement to the media this coming Monday afternoon. If you agree, I will use the opportunity to announce that I will be endorsing you for governor. So, I’d like your answer before then. Okay?

Lovington knew the conversation was over. Sheridan had made up his mind. Now it was up to him. He stood up, thanked the governor, and left the room quickly, heart pounding.

Once outside the building, he stood for a moment staring at the street with its white dusting of snow. He looked at his watch and noticed it was just after four o’clock. It was Friday. The old guilt stirred within him, the dull ache of it had grown worse since Christine died. Shame. Deeds that could not be undone. He walked out to the street and turned left on Old Santa Fe Trail, heading for the Plaza. Because of the snow and the traffic, it took him longer than expected. It was nearly four-thirty by the time he reached the cathedral.

Entering the building, he saw that it was almost empty, with only a handful of tourists. They wouldn’t notice him. Standing for a moment just inside the door, he let the familiar stillness settle over him like a comforting wrap. His feet took him towards the dark wooden structure where he could make his confession. Lovington was not Catholic, but he had discovered that this ritual soothed him more than any therapist’s words. He saw no light glowing above the door, which meant it was available. He entered and knelt in front of the fretwork screen, shielded from the world, where his words would be heard in secrecy and safety. Bless me Father, for I have sinned.

CHAPTER 3

Five Months Later

Thin air is cold at high altitudes, and nights without clouds are the coldest, leaving the dry earth exposed to the vastness of a dark sky pierced with innumerable stars. Chaco Canyon is such a place. There, the walls of an ancient civilization stand empty and silent in a desert baked by the relentless sun. The ancient Puebloan peoples aligned the walls precisely so the first rays of the rising sun at the summer solstice would stab through the darkness in a dagger of light.

The air was frigid, but the campsites were not aligned to celestial rules. Former reporter Elizabeth Doyle, whom everyone called Digger, and her fiancée Maria Ortiz were asleep in the campground at Chaco Canyon Historical Park. Light seeped gently into their tent, signaling the approach of dawn. Digger stirred, burrowing her face into the curve between Maria’s shoulder and her chin. Maria snuggled her body closer, and they stayed that way for a little while, sharing their warmth as the day began to unfold. They had made the one-hundred-mile trip from Albuquerque the evening before. It should have taken them about three hours, but even in Maria’s aging RAV4, the last thirteen miles over the washboard dirt road felt like forever. They arrived at the campground just before sunset, in time to set up their tent and heat the pizza slices they’d brought.

The trip was a pre-wedding gift from Digger’s new boss, Julia Montoya, Secretary of the Department of Cultural Affairs. Digger’s brow furrowed when Montoya made the offer. The department supported cultural activities and organizations and museums throughout the state, but Chaco Canyon was not its responsibility. Moreover, June was not the best time for a visit to Chaco Canyon. The place was known for glacial temperatures at night and blazing heat during the day. Still, the idea of getting away from family and friends, and the endless pressure of Maria’s political campaign was appealing.

I’ll check with my fiancée but I’m sure she’d love to go. That’s very kind of you, Digger said.

That’s settled then, Montoya nodded, looking at her agenda. Could you go on Monday? She asked it casually as if it were an afterthought. But there was nothing casual in her expression—or her wardrobe. Julia Montoya was a small woman, maybe five foot three, with impeccably cut mahogany brown hair, piercing dark eyes, perfect nails, and expensive outfits. Something about Montoya’s expression—that’s settled then—made her immediately cautious.

So, is this an actual work trip? She’d asked it cautiously.

Not officially, no, Montoya said briskly. But there is something I’d like you to do while you’re there. There’s an event scheduled for Tuesday afternoon. The State Land Commissioner is expected to announce a new solar power project. I’d like you to attend as an observer and report to me afterward. I would like to keep an eye on these developments. We can discuss them later.

There was a pause in their discussion. Digger stared at her boss, trying to read her face. Why, she wondered, would he be willing to travel all the way to Chaco Canyon to announce this project? Tourists and historians loved the place, but the State Land Commissioner?

Aloud she said, Why isn’t the Commissioner making the announcement in Santa Fe?

Montoya’s slim eyebrows knitted. I suppose he is trying to appeal to the environmental groups that oppose oil and gas exploration in that area. So, you will go?

Digger decided not to ask any further questions. Despite her suspicions, Montoya might be right. Someone was always protesting about drilling near Chaco, so choosing the location for an announcement about solar energy made sense.

Okay, she said, We could arrive early and explore the canyon before the presentation.

Very good, Montoya said, looking at her agenda. I’ll arrange everything.

The news conference was scheduled for some time in the afternoon, so after a quick breakfast they drove the short distance to the Visitors Center, where Digger introduced herself and checked on the time of the event. Then they set off on the Una Vida trail. At that hour of the morning, the air was still cool and fresh, the sun still low in the morning sky—no sounds except the crunch of their hiking boots on the sandy trail, and now and then a distant bird call. The canyon rose in a sheer wall on their right, its surface etched with geometric shapes and stick-figure images, the petroglyphs.

They went back to where they’d parked the car and drove on, continuing to the start of another network of trails. They hiked without talking, appreciating the morning air and the quiet, until they saw the curved walls of Chetro Ketl, and beyond that, the iconic Pueblo Bonito. Digger stopped, taking in the vastness of the place, the age-old ruins, the massive rocks. Above them, the sky arced deep blue above the sandstone cliffs; below, the land stretched out in greenish grey, dotted with the creosote bushes and cacti that could grow in such dry conditions.

As she stood gazing at the ruins, she felt her heart pound. This was why she had come back to New Mexico. Yes, she could have chosen to go to Houston when the newspaper where she worked closed. Her old colleague Tim had gone to work for the Chronicle. She missed being a reporter, but there was nothing like the beauty of Chaco to be found in Texas. This place had allowed a unique community to flourish for hundreds of years until it withered and left only these ruins.

Maria reached out and took her hand. Come on, let’s go inside.

The women spent half an hour exploring the complex before continuing the trail toward Pueblo Bonito. They walked softly on the sandy path as if they otherwise might disturb the long-departed inhabitants. When they reached the ruins, Digger pressed her forehead against one of the old stone walls, feeling the rough surface worn by time. What were the beliefs that drove the builders to haul stone and timber miles across the desert by hand? How had they lived, sustained life, and worshiped?

It was late morning when Maria and Digger emerged from the shelter of the walls, and they immediately felt the crushing heat. The sun was nearing its zenith. It had taken longer than they thought to explore the ruins of the ancient community. Digger stared at her near-empty water bottle. If they headed back to the campground now, they’d have time to have lunch and change before the presentation. She had no desire to go but it would be too hot to continue hiking and she’d told Montoya she would do it. The whole idea of holding a press conference way out here was nuts.

They were almost to the trailhead when they heard a voice that sounded more animal than human. A figure appeared from behind one of the ruined walls. A man with wind-tossed hair and a scraggly beard, wearing nothing but a pair of faded cut-off jeans, was walking toward them. Despite the harsh sun, his eyes were fiercely focused on the two women.

Should we run? Maria whispered.

The man waved a hand at the ruined walls. Vanity of vanities! This was a great civilization, but they did not heed the warnings. Beware the fires of hell! The engines of death are everywhere!

Digger put an arm around Maria and steered her away. As soon as they reached the trail, they broke into a run and raced back to the car. Arriving at the Visitors Center drenched with sweat, they stumbled inside and found a park ranger. It took Digger a few moments before she could gather enough breath to speak.

There’s a guy out there! He’s wandering around shouting crazy stuff.

The park ranger smiled and nodded. I see you’ve met Cedric. Yup, he’s our most regular visitor. He freaks people out, but he won’t hurt you.

Maria frowned, unconvinced. He’s kinda creepy. Why do you let him wander around?

The ranger laughed. I don’t make the rules. This place is supposed to be open to all. I’ll go find him and drive him back to his shack. You guys need water?

We’re good. We’re on our way back to the campsite. We have to get ready for the presentation this afternoon.

Oh. The big wigs from Santa Fe. Gotcha.

The ranger waved as they left the building and headed back to the campsite to change and eat lunch. By the time they’d returned to the Visitors Center, the meeting room had already been set up for the event. Shades had been drawn over the windows, creating a semi-dark atmosphere. A large screen covered most of one wall. A dozen or so people seated directly in front of it—all of them outfitted like park employees. The screen glowed with a huge picture of Pueblo Bonito, while sinister music filled the room. The picture morphed into an aerial view of a nearly empty lake, with the water level just a series of puddles in a sea of mud flats. A man’s deep voice intoned,

Do we want to be like the ancient civilization of Chaco Canyon and disappear? That could happen. Our summers are getting hotter, wildfires are destroying our forests, and we are running out of water. Our state is in crisis. It is time to wake up to the realities of our climate emergency and take serious action.

The picture abruptly changed to a massive solar array: rows of iridescent blue panels shimmering in a desert landscape. A man appeared from behind the screen and stood to one side of it. Good afternoon, everyone. I am Chris Lovington, the State Land Commissioner. He smiled as his eyes swept the room. I suppose you’re wondering why I asked everyone to come all the way here to Chaco Canyon instead of holding a press conference in my office in Santa Fe. It’s because I wanted you all to take in the majestic beauty of this place and to ask yourselves why it was abandoned. And while you’re still thinking about that now, I want to show you what we can all do to avoid a fate like that.

He pointed at the image of the solar array. For decades, he continued, New Mexico has been dependent on revenues from the oil and gas industry. Our electricity comes from burning coal. But we have another resource—one that can put us ahead. We can be a leader in solar energy.

As Lovington spoke those words, the screen went blank and the blinds slowly rose, until the room was filled with softly filtered light. Lovington beamed at the audience, his toothbrush mustache twitching with energy, eyes prominent behind round wire-rimmed glasses that glinted when the sun caught them. Digger had read about this guy a few months back when Governor Sheridan had announced he wouldn’t seek reelection but would endorse Lovington to run in his place.

Lovington radiated an upbeat spirit as he spoke to the small audience. But Digger realized he was intending his speech for a larger audience. She noticed a man with video equipment at the back of the room. As Lovington’s speech wore on, she guessed he was going to use the presentation as part of his campaign.

I have a vision for our future, Lovington concluded. A future where the sun, not fossil fuels, will power our state. New Mexico is rich in an all-important resource: sunshine!

He paused to give his audience time to react. When the clapping stopped, he went into his spiel. So, I’m proposing a project that’s going to mean jobs—and I mean a lot of jobs—for our state. It’s a project that’s going to make us proud. He paused, looking around the room to confirm the small waves of further applause.

Digger