The Doomsday Girl

by Dave Stanton

  For the next hour I drove south through the Great Basin Desert. The name implies low altitude and hot temperatures, but most of the elevation is over four thousand feet, and it was twelve degrees Fahrenheit in Coaldale, where the highway turned east. From there it was a straight line into the heart of the high desert. We climbed a thousand feet to where black sagebrush clung to rocky slopes topped by bitterbrush and Pinyon pine. Then we came off the grade onto a massive plain scabbed with patches of shadscale. As we descended, I could see the road led due east, the strip of pavement becoming thinner and then disappearing into the horizon. I laid into the gas and drove at a hundred miles an hour for the next thirty minutes, until speed limit signs marked the outskirts of Tonopah.

  The highway gave way to the main drag, and we slowed, looking for a restaurant. Beyond the small collection of hotels and shops, three distinct pyramid-shaped buttes preceded a ridgeline scarred by strip mining. We passed the old Mizpah Hotel and the Clubhouse Saloon, then doubled back and parked at the town brewery. It was a large, single story building, but there were only two cars in the parking lot, and I wasn’t sure if it was open.

  “How many people live in a place like this?” Melanie asked.

  “Couple thousand, maybe,” I said. “It’s part of Nevada’s silver mining history. Mostly caters to tourists now.”

  “Makes me think of cowboy movies.”

  We got out of my truck. The outside air was dry and bitter cold. I suspected the joint’s entrance might be locked, but the door swung open. We went into a cavernous, dimly lit room, where a man wearing a white chef’s hat and a waitress sat at a long bar.

  “Kitchen open?” I asked. The chef nodded as we took a table. The waitress brought us menus, we ordered quickly, and then Melanie stood.

  “Excuse me, I’m going to use the ladies room,” she said, walking toward the back of the place.

  I sat and gazed wistfully at the beer taps behind the bar, then I dialed Cody Gibbons, but he didn’t answer. I hadn’t spoken to Cody much since our vacation in Mexico last October. He had made the arrangements after we’d finished a difficult case, professing that we deserved “rest and relaxation.” That was a hard point to argue, so Candi and I had traveled with him and his sometimes girlfriend, Heidi Ho, down to the southern tip of the Baja Peninsula. The resort was nicer than I expected, the weather perfect, and I found the Mexican food and tequila to my liking. Cody was charming and ebullient, and our dinners were festive events that went late into the evening. After three days I felt my head decompress. I took to strolling on the beach in the mornings, the Sea of Cortez lapping at my feet, the sun warming my skin. My mind would go blank, and I would just walk and enjoy the natural elements.

  Then, on the fourth day, we pulled our rental car into a gas station outside of San Jose Del Cabo. We were immediately surrounded by a dozen attendants, some wearing white shirts with petrol company logos, and some dressed only in T-shirts. They spoke loudly and one made a pretense of washing the windshield and another insisted on pumping the gas. But as soon as the gas began flowing, I saw the pump meter wasn’t on.

  Cody and I stood outside the car while Candi and Heidi Ho waited in the rear seat. Once the tank was full, the man who pumped the gas said, “one thousand pesos, señor.”

  I looked at the sign advertising the cost per gallon and did a quick calculation. “You’re charging us double,” I said in Spanish.

  “It’s for the service. The service is not included in the price,” he replied, waving at the sign.

  “I’ll give you six hundred pesos. And that’s being generous,” I said.

  Another man stepped forward at that moment. At around 5’10” and 175 pounds, he was the largest in the group. When he spoke his lips curled and his eyes were flat.

  “It’s one thousand pesos, señor. It’s not negotiable.”

  “Really?” I said.

  “What’d he say?” Cody asked.

  “They’re trying to charge us double for the gas. It’s a scam.”

  “No shit?” Cody said. Cody went to the man and peered down at him. “Tell you what, muchacho. Take your punk-ass gaffle and hit the bricks. Comprende?”

  The man looked up at Cody, and if he was concerned about giving away seven inches and 125 pounds, he didn’t show it. I also doubted he understood exactly what Cody said, but I guessed he understood enough of it.

  “One thousand pesos, or you’re breaking the law,” he said to me. The other attendants, some who obviously did not work at the gas station, were watching silently. A few of the bolder moved closer to us.

  Cody glanced at me and I said, “He wants us to pay up.” My inclination was to hand over five hundred pesos, then simply get in the car and drive away. But that would be to ignore everything that made Cody who he was.

  Cody stepped forward, fitted his huge paws around the man’s neck, and lifted him off the ground. The man gasped and punched ineffectually at Cody’s arms. A younger guy rushed forward, but I stopped him with a stiff arm to the chest.

  “Okay, there, pendejo, here’s the deal,” Cody said. “Under normal circumstances, I’d slap the shit out of you. But you get a free pass since I’m on vacation and teaching religion to scum like you is something I get paid to do. So consider this your lucky day.”

  The man couldn’t breathe and his face turned tomato red as he clutched at Cody’s arms. Cody held him there for a long moment, then threw him into two of the nearest attendants. They all went down in a heap.

  I gave a folded stack of pesos to an attendant. “Five hundred, amigo,” I said. “Adios.”

  As we drove back to our resort, I hoped this minor occurrence wouldn’t disrupt the tranquility of our trip. If Cody and I had been alone, it certainly wouldn’t have. But to assume our women would let it go was probably wishful thinking. Candi had never seen Cody in action before, and I suspected she would view his behavior as irresponsible and dangerous.

  But after a few pointed questions in the privacy of our room, Candi seemed quite willing to discount the event. She even seemed a bit titillated by Cody’s antics. In the eighteen months Candi and I had lived together, she’d become more accepting of certain things related to my profession. It helped that her father was a lawman in Houston.

  Heidi Ho, on the other hand, apparently was not amused. She was sullen at dinner that evening, and would barely look at Cody. I did my best to humor her, but it grew increasingly awkward. I finally gave up after Candi pinched my leg. When the waiter came around, I ordered a double shot of tequila.

  At eleven that night, after Candi nodded off, I met Cody at the outdoor bar overlooking the ocean. It was warm and the long beach was deserted and moonlight glinted off the breakers. The sound of waves washing over the shoreline was steady and almost hypnotic. We sat looking at the sea and drank and laughed and reminisced until the bar closed. The afternoon altercation seemed to carry no more gravity than a domestic chore, and we never brought it up. As for his girlfriend, Cody only tilted his brow and said, “Ah, you know, women.”

  I felt great affection for Cody that early morning as I walked back to my room. Cody had saved my life twice, and I couldn’t imagine a more loyal friend. At times I felt concern for him, because he possessed certain attributes that prevented him from having normal, stable relationships, and I think he knew this. I also think he understood that his carefree recklessness was hardwired, and he accepted the fact that most women would never understand him. If that bothered him, he didn’t speak of it. It certainly didn’t stop him from womanizing.

  Cody was always happiest when he was working, and the more sordid and violent the case, the better. Like me, he hated criminals who preyed on defenseless victims. He also enjoyed seeing the bad guys suffer for their sins and was sometimes a little excessive to this end. But to paint Cody Gibbons as an avenging thug would discount the traits that make him a great investigator. Cody’s street smarts were both intuitive and learned. A mellow work week for him in San Jose involved assorted interacti
ons with conmen, identity thieves, burglars, prostitutes, pimps, frybrains, hypecases, meth meltdowns, and low level gangbangers. But he made his real money putting the cleats to rapists, pedophiles, kidnappers, cartel members, and Mafiosos.

  I knew of Cody’s background, and I probably knew him better than anyone. Still, I couldn’t always understand his motivations. Regardless, I’d long ago forgiven his extreme measures. Anything less on my part would have precluded our friendship.

  The next morning, Cody texted me and said he and Heidi Ho were on their way to the airport. She felt it best to cut their vacation short.

  ******

  It had been almost fifteen minutes since Melanie went to the ladies room. The waitress left our plates at the table and I almost got up and went to the check on her. Then the bathroom door swung open.

  Melanie had put on high heels and strutted with a pronounced swing of her hips. She now wore bright red lipstick and had applied a garish amount of eye shadow and mascara. Her shirt buttons were undone to reveal her cleavage, and when she sat I could smell her perfume.

  “Hi there,” she said.

  “What?”

  “Do you have a cigarette?” She leaned forward and rested her eyes on mine.

  “No,” I stammered. I became aware my mouth was open as if in mid-syllable, and my head was cocked to the side. I sat back and created more room between us.

  “Damn,” she said. “How about a drink, then? I’d like a martini.”

  “What… what’s the deal, Melanie?”

  “You’re not getting anywhere with me if you can’t remember my name. It’s Sasha.”

  I stared at her in disbelief. “No, it’s Melanie,” I said.

  She rolled her eyes and looked around the empty room. “This place is deadsville. How about we find somewhere there’s some action?”

  “Are you serious?”

  She shot me a dismissive glance and stood and walked to where the barman was playing with his smartphone. I froze for a second, then rose and followed her.

  “Hey, you,” she said. “You got a nightclub nearby?”

  The bartender stared at her dumbly. “A nightclub?”

  I waved at him and shook my head. “Come on, our food’s getting cold. Let’s eat.” I put my hand on her arm and she leaned into me.

  “If you want to dine me first, that’ll work.”

  We returned to the table, and she crossed her legs and poked at her salad. I took a few bites off my sandwich and watched her eat. She took small bites and used her silverware in a dainty manner. She caught me staring at her and put down her fork. “God, I didn’t even have time to do my nails,” she said, holding up her hand. “You’re not much for conversation, are you?”

  “Depends who I’m talking to,” I said.

  “Nothing wrong with the strong, silent type, I guess.”

  “Would you excuse me for a minute?”

  “Don’t leave me alone too long. I might stray if you’re not careful.”

  “Be right back,” I replied. I walked to the far corner of the room and stood near the door to the kitchen. Watching her from behind, I called the number for the McDermotts. The phone rang and rang and finally went to voice mail. “Shit,” I muttered. I ran my hand through my hair and wondered who else I could call.

  Melanie turned to look at me, and I started back to the table.

  “I was hoping you’d bring me a drink,” she said as I sat.

  “I don’t think that’s a good idea. You’ve had a serious head injury.”

  “My head’s just fine. So is the rest of me, don’t you think?” She turned and struck a pose, shoulders back, her chest forward. She ran her finger along the exposed portion of one breast.

  “We should eat up and hit the road,” I said.

  “What’s the hurry? There’s a hotel right down the street.” She pursed her lips and winked.

  “We’ve got a long drive. Finish your salad.”

  “Do you mind if I pay you a compliment?” she said. “I love those big arms you have, the way the vein runs up your biceps. It’s very sexy.”

  I pinched the bridge of my nose and looked at Melanie. She raised her eyebrows and touched her upper lip with her tongue.

  “Do you happen to have the phone number for your doctor in Las Vegas?” I asked.

  “You are such a stick in the mud.”

  “Sorry about that. How about the phone number?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, but Vegas sounds great. Let’s go there.”

  I concentrated on my food, then caught the waitress’s eye and waved my credit card at her. She brought the bill, and I waited for Melanie to finish eating. When we stood to leave, she put her arm around my waist. I peeled her fingers from my belt loop and held her hand and led her like a rambunctious child to my truck.

  “Put your seat belt on, please,” I said, pulling out of the lot. She had reached over with her left hand and I could feel her fingernails on my jeans. I squinted into the sunlight and hit the gas. We were more than four hours from Cedar City. There were only a few ghost towns along the 230 remaining miles to the Utah border. In a minute Tonopah was a spec in the rearview mirror and I was accelerating into the stark desert.

  Thankfully, within five minutes Melanie was asleep again. I stole a glance at her, and her face looked sad beneath her exaggerated makeup. I wondered what she might be dreaming of, if anything. I also wondered about the extent of her brain injury, and if it was causing some sort of delayed psychosis. My only knowledge of multiple personality disorder was from a college psychology class over ten years ago. I had a vague recollection that multiple personalities were a coping mechanism to deal with something too painful to accept. But could multiple personalities be brought on by a blow to the head?

  Either way, something was seriously haywire in Melanie. I considered rerouting and driving straight to Las Vegas to get her to a hospital. We were about ninety minutes from Junction 93 south, which would take us there. It would be shorter than driving to Cedar City.

  Melanie stayed asleep as we passed through the ghost town of Warm Springs. A few minutes later I saw the green sign declaring Nevada 375 as the Extraterrestrial Highway. Ahead was the tiny hamlet of Rachel, which is at the center of what’s commonly known as Area 51. I drove past an OPEN RANGE sign warning drivers to beware of cattle on the road. On the sign was a drawing of a flying saucer over a cow.

  My phone rang and Melanie stirred. I saw it was a return call from the McDermotts. I answered and said, “Hold on a minute.” Then I hit the brakes and pulled onto a thin coating of snow on the shoulder. To either side of me, the frost-covered plains stretched for miles.

  I grabbed my coat and stepped outside. It had gotten colder, even though we were now many miles south of Tonopah.

  “Walter?” I said.

  “Yes. Is this Dan?”

  “Yeah. Listen, about your daughter.”

  “Is everything okay? Where are you?”

  “Out in the middle of Nevada. I have a few questions about Melanie.”

  “Of course. Go ahead.”

  “Since she regained consciousness, has her personality seemed normal to you?”

  “Her personality? Why, yes, I suppose it’s been normal, all things considered. She’s been through something horrible, you understand.”

  “I know that. Have you noticed anything different about her, like multiple personalities?”

  “She’s had her ups and downs,” he said. “She’s been depressed at times, which I consider normal. She’s grieving for her husband, and is very worried over her daughter, but multiple personalities? I think not.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. Why are you asking this? Is Melanie acting oddly?”

  I looked in my truck and saw Melanie had folded down the passenger-side visor so she could look at herself in the inset mirror.

  “Yeah, she seems sad, then very matter of fact, and then…”

  “Yes?”

 
“We stopped to eat, and she went in the bathroom and came out with a ton of makeup on. She told me her name was Sasha and started coming on to me and suggested we go to a hotel room.”

  “What?” His voice had gone up a notch.

  “It really threw me, Walter. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anything like it.”

  Walter sputtered a bit, then finally said, “Can I speak with her?”

  “Hold on.” Melanie was removing the makeup around her eyes with cotton balls. I got back in the cab and handed her my phone. “It’s your dad, Melanie,” I said.

  “Oh. Okay.” She took one more swipe at her eyes before jamming the blackened cotton balls in a small plastic bag.

  I started my truck and pulled back onto the highway. Melanie’s conversation with her father consisted mostly of her repeating that she was fine and lasted only a minute before she handed me the phone.

  “She sounds okay,” Walter said. “But Lillian and I will contact her neurologist and ask about what you said.”

  “Please do. I wasn’t exaggerating. Also, can you text me the contact info for her doctors?”

  “Sure, but hopefully you’ll not need to contact them,” he said.

  “Hopefully not,” I replied.

  CHAPTER 4

  I drove with a heavy foot, reeling in the miles, but the afternoon felt like it had no end. The road was occasionally interrupted by a sweeping turn or two, for no reason I could fathom other than to avoid some unseen variance in the terrain. Nameless brown ridges rose and fell in the distance, and the shadow of my truck appeared before us as the sun finally dropped. Melanie asked that we stop in the ghost town of Crystal Springs, but I stayed hard on the gas for another half hour until we reached a dot on the map called Caliente. It was four p.m. and I looked for a likely restroom, passed a few closed restaurants, then stopped at a tiny bar named the Hide Away Club.

  Melanie had been quiet since lunch. Her face was free of makeup and the freckles on her cheekbones made her look younger than she was. When she walked into the cold sunlight, her expression suggested nothing but vulnerability and innocence. She’d removed her heels and was again wearing her pink trail shoes.