Jasmine

by Bene, Jennifer

  Carmen nods, and I glance over to catch the pensive gaze that comes over her face. “Yeah. I know what you mean.”

  I reflect on the subtext within that statement, and then tune their conversation out as they go on once again about football. I watch as the barren landscape rolls past us, remembering Carmen’s words: ‘Don’t let the appearance of wide-open spaces and nothingness fool you. Secrets can stay hidden here for a long, long time…’ The truth to that statement is becoming more and more apparent as time goes on, and if I’d questioned earlier how one young woman could have been swallowed up and disappeared in all the vast nothing that is this land, I no longer do now.

  I feel the truck slowing before I see the road that takes off to our right. There’s been no indication of it coming up, but suddenly there’s an oddly incongruous green street sign on a pole sticking up in the middle of nowhere. As Clint slows to make the turn, I catch the lettering: Co. Rd. 143. The road we take is still paved, but it’s obvious that whatever maintenance Dallam County has for their infrastructure, this road does not rate highly on the list. The edges are worn and crumbling, and the cracks spiderweb the surface in endless patterns.

  I can count the number of buildings I’ve seen since we left Stockdale on one hand, aside from tiny wood or concrete structures that are obviously service related. How long could a body be hidden in one before someone found it?

  Clint and Carmen have stopped talking, and he’s scanning both sides of the road intently. Despite the condition of the pavement, he’s not driving as fast as he could, and I start to take note of the area we’re passing through.

  “Are we close?” Carmen asks, searching outside as we roll along.

  “It’s been a while since I came out this way.” His head continues its back-and-forth pattern. “But I’m pretty sure we ain’t too far.”

  Another five miles pass by, and the strain of looking at what seems endless repetition is greater than I’d expect. We’re on the downside of a hill we’ve just crested when Clint slams on the brakes, bringing us to an abrupt halt. Before I can say anything he’s craned his neck around over his shoulder, looking back while he reverses the truck. We head up the hill where we’ve just come from, and I stay silent, looking around for whatever has caught his attention. We pull over the top until just a short ways on the other side he brakes hard again, and we stop, the motor idling.

  “There.” He points out my side of the cab, and I follow his finger.

  It takes a second, but I see what he’s noticed. Off in the distance, nestled in the vee of two other slight rises, are the outlines of a pair of buildings in the afternoon sun. It’s hard to see clearly, but it looks to be a house and a barn. From our vantage point it’s hard to tell, but one thing is clear; this is not the location that Sloane Finley took her picture. I don’t even need to glance at the print to know that.

  “This isn’t where she took the picture.” I don’t say it accusingly, simply a statement of fact. Clint nods, taking it as such.

  “Yep. There should be a dirt road taking off a bit further…” He sighs and puts the truck in drive again. We continue on, moving over two more gentle rises, and this time I see the break in the fence line the same time Clint does. Before we get to it, he slows and brings the truck to a stop.

  “There.” He points to the buildings which are closer now, but still far enough away that the details are indistinct. We’re at the base of a gentle rolling hill, and the buildings are off in the distance, plopped dead center of a flat plain that lies between the rolling land.

  “Carmen, can I see the picture?”

  She hands it back to me silently. I glance down at it, and then look back up.

  “This is them, but she took it out there.” I point beyond the fenceline into the field that stretches toward where the buildings are.

  Clint nods. “She had to have parked her car, then hopped the fence and walked out there.” He shakes his head, as if he can’t quite believe what she’d done.

  I look around us. The fence line is practically right by the pavement’s edge, and it seems hard to believe Sloane Finley, no matter how dumb and naïve she may have been, would have simply parked her car in the middle of the road to run out and take her picture.

  “There must be a spot where she pulled off. That break in the fence line up there?” I point toward it.

  “I suppose.” Clint presses his lips together tight, thinking. “Must have been, because there ain’t any other road I can think of near here, and damn sure no turnouts.” He glances over at me. “As you can see, this ain’t exactly tourist country.”

  “Clearly.” My response is as dry as the land around us.

  Clint puts the truck in gear, and we slowly advance until we come to the opening in the fence. It is a gate, blocking a dirt road that takes off angling away from the county road. Clint pulls into the small open area between the pavement and the gate, straddling a cattle guard that is set into the ground, barely visible. What was once a ditch beneath it is now filled with dirt, tumbleweeds, and windblown detritus. No one has maintained this in quite some time. He shuts off the motor, and we climb out into the Texas October afternoon.

  The sun is trending toward the horizon, but it’s still warm enough outside that the air-conditioned interior of the truck is something I miss. Moving up to the gate, I notice it’s a simple affair. A piece of rebar stuck into a worn hole dead center of a cement plug is all that keeps it closed. No locks. The top of the rebar is bent over at a ninety-degree angle to create a handle, and I watch as Clint moves to grab it. He pulls on it with one arm, and the way his muscles strain I can tell the tension on it is surprising, given its age. He gives it a firm tug, and then it pops free, letting him shove the ancient, rusted gate out of the way. Clint stares at it for a moment before he turns to look back at Carmen and me.

  “She didn’t do that. What you just did.” I glance around me. “This is where she may have parked, but she didn’t go through this gate.

  “Probably not,” Clint agrees. “Doesn’t look like that gate’s been moved in a long while.”

  “She stopped here, took her phone, and headed out…” I point further into the field beyond the fence. “There. Come on, I want to take a look.”

  We climb back into the Bronco, and Clint drives through, but throws the truck back into park on the other side. He slips out and puts the gate back into place before rejoining us in the cab. “Don’t know if there’s cattle out here or not,” he explains.

  I nod and look down the road that stretches in front of us. It’s a simple path, two tracks worn into the dirt. The lines are still visible, but the grass has grown back into place trying to erase them. It’s obvious that it isn’t used often, only enough to keep the wind, weather, and grass from obliterating it entirely.

  We drive maybe another thousand yards, SUV bouncing all the way, and Clint slowly brings the car to a halt. He points out the window to an area just beyond the soft dirt edge of the road. “I’d say probably just out there.”

  I look out, then back down at the picture. “Yep. She parked her car, hopped the fence, walked out there and took her picture.” I gaze at the gently sloping ground that stretches toward the buildings ahead of us. “And then disappeared forever.”

  I glance into the rearview mirror at Clint, noticing how his eyes harden at my words. He says nothing, but turns to face forward, and the truck begins to move once more.

  As we get closer to the buildings, it’s easy to see that no one has lived here in a long time. A very long time. The house is a shell, the barn even more so. And while it is apparent that no one has lived here, it’s also apparent that people have been here since it fell apart. As Clint pulls up into the overgrown area that was once a drive, I catch sight of markings that have been made on the house in spray paint. Black-and-white symbols that resemble the graffiti and gang signs that pepper LA like scars. And while they are similar, these do look different somehow. Clint stops the truck and shuts off the motor. Carmen cl
imbs out first before either of the two of us, and she’s moving with a purpose. Clint watches her for a moment, and then scrambles out himself.

  “Ma’am… Carmen!” he calls out to her, moving to catch up before she makes it to the dilapidated porch of the building. “Y’all need to be careful ’round this. Place is barely standing on its own, and there's—”

  She spins to him, and the look on her face cuts him off as she points a finger behind her towards the house. “You know what those markings are?”

  Clint’s eyes narrow, and he nods. “I do.”

  I come up to them just as Carmen turns back around. “What is it, Carmen?”

  She looks back at me, and then points to the white markings I noticed earlier. “It’s a drug drop. Place to pick up and drop off on neutral ground.”

  I know what she means by the term, because we’ve got them around LA as well, but this shack of a house doesn’t seem all that convenient.

  “Have you been here?” She glances at Clint.

  “Hadn’t made it here yet. Didn’t know I needed to come here, or…” He trails off with a bitter look on his face.

  “You’ve been searching for her,” I say, because I can read it on him plain as day.

  “Well, ain’t that what you wanted us to do?” he snaps.

  Carmen takes a step toward the house, then stops and turns back to us. “Clint.” Her voice is soft, calm, but intense. “How many abandoned places like this are there in Dallam County?”

  Clint purses his lips, glancing between her and I before answering. “’Bout seventy-five. Maybe a hundred if you add in sheds and barns, stuff like that.”

  “Jesus.” The word slips out before I can stop it.

  Clint runs a hand through his sandy hair. “I made a list of every one we knew about or could find on the maps. I been checking ’em out whenever I have a chance. I ain’t found nothing, but I still keep looking.”

  “How can there be that many?”

  Clint shrugs. “Sheriff Braddock could tell you the whole story, but much as I know back after the war a lot of people came out here to live. Started up little ranches and stuff. Then things changed. Got to be being a little rancher was a lot of work for not a lot of money. Young folks decided not to take up ranching, and moved on. Places like this”—he motions to the house in front of us—“were abandoned either after the older folk moved on, or died, or the banks foreclosed on them. Bigger ranchers like the Hartleys, the Dalharts, XIT, the Christiansens… they came in and bought up the land and property from the banks. All they really wanted was the land, so they just left the buildings be. Costs too much to come in and tear ’em down when either a fire, a tornado, or time’ll take care of it on its own.”

  We all stand in silence as that info sinks in. Carmen breaks our reverie, motioning to me. “Let’s take a look inside.”

  She turns and begins marching up to the house, moving gingerly onto the porch, then toward the front doorway that gapes like an open wound. Clint and I follow, and as we step up onto the creaking floorboards, Carmen ducks inside.

  “Just be careful, m— Carmen. Like I said, won’t take nothing but a gust of wind to bring this whole place down.”

  We duck through the doorway and into the gutted interior of the house. Inside are a few other markings and random bits and pieces of trash that confirm what Carmen and Clint have discussed. Crumpled, empty plastic water bottles, the discarded wrapper from a loaf of bread. In one corner of the room there’s a pile of blankets that’s been spread out in a crude imitation of a bed. I move to it, and when I look down, I see a discarded condom crumpled in the dust.

  Well, at least they were being safe.

  “God…” Carmen’s voice has gone soft, almost a whisper, as if the sound itself could bring the roof down upon us. “There’s no telling if she might have been in here, or one of the hundred other places you’ve been looking at. It’s been far too long by now.”

  I can only nod, because she’s right. Any chance that there might have been of this place giving up a clue whether Sloane Finley had been here has long since passed. But equally as disturbing is the idea that there are ninety-nine more places just like this out there. And during the weeks and months since Sloane’s disappearance, a single deputy has been the only person doing anything to check them out, and he still hasn’t been able to make his way through them all.

  ‘Secrets can stay hidden here for a long, long time…’

  “Come on. Let’s get out of here.” I turn and make my way towards the door, leaving the bleakness of this place behind. We gather by the truck, and stand in silence. Carmen glances toward the west, and I do too. It’s grown late in the afternoon, and the sun is edging closer to the horizon.

  “We’re not going to make the Christiansen place today,” she says finally, blowing out a gust of air as she glances at her watch. “It’s coming up on four-thirty. We’ve got a forty-five minutes to an hour drive back to Stockdale, and then another two hours to Amarillo. That gets us home, best case scenario… 7:30, more likely 8 o’clock or later.” She looks over at me. “I’ll do whatever you want, but I suggest we call it a day and come back out tomorrow.”

  I could be an ass and demand we head to the Christiansen place now, but Carmen has reason to want to get back to Amarillo, and though a part of me doesn’t want to make the drive back out here, there’s no point in making her suffer for my desire to be away from this place as quickly as I can. It’s all a waste of time and resources anyways, as I’ve always known. Today has just hammered that fact home, as tomorrow will no doubt do too.

  “Yeah.” I glance over at her, nod, and then look at the sun dipping toward the horizon. “How could I pass up the chance to spend one more day in this wonderland?”

  Carmen gives me a frown, eyes narrowed, while Clint turns away with a look that is both a touch offended and embarrassed.

  “No offense, Clint.”

  “Sure,” he grumbles.

  I look to Carmen, catch the scolding in her gaze, and give a slight hitch of my shoulders. “Besides, it’ll burn one more day of Whitmann’s resources, and I’m sure that’ll put me in Dave’s good graces.”

  Carmen rolls her eyes, while Clint looks confused. I chuckle and reach for the truck door. “Come on. Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  On the way back to Stockdale, Carmen and Clint pick up with their football conversation, while I contemplate how I’m going to rip a certain Detective Ressner and the bulk of the LAPD Vice Division a new asshole when I get back home. We’re on the main highway, within miles of Stockdale when I hear Carmen chuckle.

  “Hold on, Clint. I’m betting this is my boss checking up on me.” I glance up to see her pull her cellphone out, raising it to her ear.

  “Agent Rodriguez here.”

  I look back down as she listens, thinking about how to phrase the term ‘completely moronic group of nutsucking single-celled creatures’ in polite words when the sound of Carmen’s voice jerks my head upward.

  “How? How did it happen?” Carmen’s voice is tense, a bit louder than before, and I stare at the back of her head. She’s got her cell glued to her ear, eyes boring holes into the dash of the Bronco. Whatever discussion she’s having, it’s obviously strained. I watch as Clint glances over at her, and then catch his eyes looking back at me in the rearview mirror.

  “No. I’m just outside of Stockdale.” Her voice is tight, very tight, and there is something definitely wrong.

  “North. In Dallam County.” There is a pause. “Two hours once I get going.” I look at the fingers around her cell, and they’re clenched white. We’re just coming into the edge of town, and Clint doesn’t slow down to match the speed limit.

  “Yes. Yes, I will. Thank you.” Carmen ends the call and shoves the phone back into her pocket. Her body is tense, coiled tight. Something bad has happened.

  “Carmen, what is it? What’s going on?”

  She swivels to look back at me, and her mouth is a thin line, tension stre
tching the skin of her face. “When we get back to the station we need to leave immediately, Mason. Immediately.” She turns her head, looking forward, scanning ahead of the vehicle as if she can find a portal to get us their quicker. Clint reaches over silently and turns the lights on, and the Ford picks up speed.

  “Carmen. What the hell is going on?” I ask when she stays silent.

  Her jaw is set, and while irritation rolls off her in waves, her voice remains even. “My wife’s been in an accident. She’s in the hospital.” She turns to look back at me, and while everything else about her is coolly professional, tension notwithstanding, her eyes are bleak, and I see pain there. Pain that is raw, and real. The same pain I saw in Trish Tucker’s face when she asked me to find Sloane Finley, except multiplied by a thousand. “And we are leaving. Now.”

  It only takes a few minutes for Clint to race through the streets of Stockdale, and we sit in silence until he pulls up to the station. The reflection of red, blue, red, blue off the cinderblock walls bathes everything nearby in carnival lighting, including us. Clint hits the switch, killing the lights, but Braddock has obviously seen them. He comes out of the front door, followed by another deputy I haven’t seen before.

  “What’s going on?” Braddock’s voice is concerned as he looks between the three of us while we pile out of the cab. I ignore him, instead reaching for Carmen as she turns to head for the white Suburban sitting where we’d parked it this morning.

  “Carmen.”

  She turns around, staring at me, and her mouth is setting into a rigid line that I know says she’s girding for a fight I do not want to have. She ranks me here, and if push comes to shove I’m going to do what she says. But I’m not ready to leave yet, and my window of opportunity is going to slam shut fast unless we can work this out.

  “Mason. Now.”

  “Yes. Now.” I make a gentle motion with my hand. “I want you to go. Right now. I’ll stay here and figure this out. You just go.”