Desert Redemption

by Betty Webb

  “Edith, may I come in?”

  “Who’s stopping ya?”

  I weaseled my way around the partly open door, only to be met by a blond blur. I cringed back against the trailer’s tin wall.

  “Ha!” Edith snorted. Evidently, her health hadn’t improved since an earlier case we’d discussed, because she was still wearing a cannula in her nose, still dragging around an oxygen tank. “You’re scared of Pit Bull.”

  “Last time I was here he slobbered all over my new black jeans. I had to wash them, and you know how much I hate laundromats.” I had hardly finished my sentence when Pit Bull launched himself at me again, dewlaps dripping. There being no escape, I let the toothless hound gum me from ankle to knee. Once he’d wetted down my jeans, he gave a satisfied huff and staggered off to the corner.

  “Sit down, Ms. Detective. Take a load off.”

  As I lowered myself into an afghan-covered chair, I thought it might be easier to simply throw these jeans away. My hatred of laundromats had never died, but the washer/dryer install Jimmy planned for the new house wouldn’t happen for another month.

  “Where’s Kyle’s birth mother living these days?” I asked.

  “Nowhere you or the cops are gonna find out. She needs more grief like that chair you’re sitting on needs more dog hair.”

  “Kyle and Ali have run away and word is, they’re headed for her house.”

  “House?” She cackled. “In your dreams.”

  “Or whatever squat she’s staying in.”

  Although old and frail, Edith Daggett had plenty of fight left in her, and was quick to use it in what she believed was a threat to her nearest and dearest, despite their police records. “Why the hell should I tell you anything?”

  “Because it was my investigation that got Kyle released from juvie.”

  She scratched at her left nostril, where the cannula irritated her. While she did, Pit Bull emitted a loud fart.

  “This trouble Kyle’s in, is it bad?” Edith asked.

  “It will be if he and Ali run into the wrong people.” Such as his crack-addicted mother, and whatever new acquaintance she might have added to her retinue of users and usees. Although I try to give people—especially mothers—a break when they screw up, the break-cutting ends when they re-offend. Kyle’s mother had tried to kill him twice, so as far as I was concerned, she’d earned my undying enmity.

  “You gotta understand, I feel for that girl.”

  “Ali?”

  “Miss Little Rich Bitch?” she snorted. “She can go hang, for all I care. My concern’s for my niece.”

  “I’m worried about her, too.” Worried that she might try to kill Kyle for the third time.

  Edith gave me a sly look. “I know what you’re thinking, but she’s better now.”

  The stench from Pit Bull’s fart finally reached me. Waving it away, I said, “I’m happy to hear that.”

  “She’s off the stuff she was using and has turned things around.”

  “Sounds like she might have been to rehab, then.” Kanati, maybe? On second thought, no. Jimmy had done some further research on Kanati, reinforcing my suspicion that their “spiritual growth” program targeted the wealthy, not the down-and-out. One week there cost several thousand dollars, and in the case of longer stays, property transfers were not uncommon.

  Edith wiggled her cannula around until she found a more comfortable place. “Tricia Ann’s been in rehab several times, but this last one stuck.”

  “Good news.”

  “If I tell ya where she is, you can’t let her know you heard it from me.”

  I raised my right hand. “Scout’s honor.”

  “No Girl Scout troop would ever take you.”

  “They wouldn’t take either of us.”

  She liked that. Grinning a gray-dentured grin, she said, “Shadow Hills Mobile Home Park, Glendale. Not far from Luke Air Force Base. She’s at space two-forty-two.”

  I stood up. “It’s been a pleasure doing business with you again.” Turning toward the mound of yellow fluff in the corner, I added, “You, too, Pit Bull.”

  He farted his reply.

  The October sun was low in the sky when I reached the Glendale trailer park where Tricia Ann Gibbs lived. Despite my hopes, no white Hyundai was in evidence among a collection of battered pickup trucks and elderly sedans. I knocked on the door anyway, dreading this first meeting with a woman whose history revealed more tragedy than I wanted to be reminded of. At the age of fourteen, her mother’s live-in boyfriend had raped her; the product of the rape was Kyle. When the boyfriend was ultimately released from prison, Tricia Ann’s mother took him back.

  The first time Tricia Ann had tried to kill her son was just after his homebirth in a filthy apartment. She had wrapped the umbilical cord around his neck and pulled it tight before her mother stopped her. The second time was during Kyle’s third birthday party, when she’d given him a glass of chocolate milk containing drain cleaner. Only at that point had Child Protective Services stepped in and removed him from the home.

  While I waited for this wannabe child killer to answer the door, I surveyed the grounds. The mobile home park was in better shape than Edith Daggett’s, which surprised me. Tall eucalyptus trees shaded the trailers, and there was even a water-spewing fountain in the small greenbelt that ran through the middle of the park. The trailers were less dilapidated, too—some looked almost new.

  While I stood there wondering how Tricia Ann could afford her improved digs, the trailer door opened. The neatly dressed woman who stood there had Kyle’s dark blue eyes and his thick black hair, but not his innocence. “Hi! So glad to see you!” Her big smile was a tip-off that she’d been expecting someone else. A new dealer?

  I flashed my ID. “Tricia Ann Gibbs?”

  Her smile faded. “And you’re here because?”

  “I want to talk to you about your son.”

  The expression on her face reflected a world of hurt. “Kyle isn’t my son anymore.”

  “Correct. You lost your parental rights the second time you tried to kill him.”

  She flinched, but didn’t deny it. At least that was something. “Kyle’s run away,” I told her, “and I figure there’s a good chance he ran to you first.”

  “So?”

  “So where is he?”

  It took a moment for her to answer that one, but when she did, her voice was devoid of emotion. “I told him to go back home, that I couldn’t help him, that it was all I could do to help myself.”

  “Help yourself. You mean rehab style?”

  “Twelve Step style.”

  I noticed she hadn’t told me to get lost nor invited me in, just stood there blocking the doorway as if shielding me from who or what was inside. The reason became self-evident when a small child’s gurgling laugh sounded from inside the trailer.

  Alarmed, I asked, “You had another child?”

  She shook her head. “Giving birth to Kyle, it…I can’t have children anymore.”

  “Then who’s in there?”

  “Is it any business of yours?”

  “A child’s welfare is the business of every responsible citizen.” I hated the self-righteous way that sounded, but it was also the truth. Too many children are injured every day because people don’t want to be told to mind their own business. As if any expectation of privacy mattered when a child’s welfare was concerned.

  “Meaning I’m not a responsible citizen?” Tricia Ann’s voice took on a hard edge, revealing the kind of woman she actually was.

  So I shoved her aside and barged into the trailer. Let her charge me with unlawful entry; I didn’t care. Whatever child she had in there needed to be in protective custody. As I grew accustomed to the darker interior, I lifted my phone from my tote, prepared to call 9-1-1.

  Instead, I found myself in the middle
of a child-friendly Narcotics Anonymous meeting.

  “Oh, won’t you please come in?” one of the women said, sarcasm heavy in her voice. She was in the process of passing out what appeared to be a meetings list.

  “Uh…”

  Tricia Ann put a hand on my arm. Her fingernails were clean, unpolished but well cared-for. “Let’s continue this conversation outside.”

  As I followed her out, I heard the beginning of the Serenity Prayer. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change…”

  She led me over to a nearby picnic table. “You should have called before dropping by.”

  “A funny thing happens when I call ahead. People disappear.”

  “My disappearing days are over.”

  Having heard this sort of thing many times before, I tried not to let my cynicism show. “How long have you been clean?”

  “Nine months.”

  The length of a pregnancy, the rigors of which would never be thrust upon her again. A blessing for some, a heartache for others. “Tell me more about Kyle and Ali’s visit.”

  We sat underneath two paloverde trees, their bare limbs offering only intermittent shade. No matter. Octobers in the Valley are mild, though this late in the day the temperature had fallen into the brisk sixties. As we talked, a group of starlings roosting in one of the trees squawked their own conversation. It sounded friendlier than ours.

  “I told Kyle I wouldn’t discuss what they told me with anyone,” Tricia Ann said.

  “Sounds like you’re prepared to do nothing while two fifteen-year-olds are driving around out there, neither of them with a driver’s license, neither of them knowing diddly-squat about the ugliness that can happen to two attractive runaways. Get real, Tricia Ann. We live in a world where sex traffickers lurk on every corner and behind every friggin’ cactus. And in case you’ve already forgotten, the last part of that prayer your friends were saying includes, ‘the courage to change the things I can…’”

  “…and the wisdom to know the difference,” she finished.

  “Well, this is something you can change, so I suggest you do a little work on the ‘wisdom’ part.”

  She didn’t say anything for a while, just stared at the sign in front of a nearby iron gate, which announced, CHILDREN NOT ALLOWED IN POOL AREA WITHOUT SUPERVISION. She wasn’t quite thirty, but out here in the late afternoon light she looked fifty. Living la vida loca will do that to a woman.

  “Tricia Ann?” I prodded.

  Tearing her eyes away from the sign, she finally spoke. “The way you put it, my choice is between breaking a promise to Kyle or…”

  “Or keeping him alive.”

  Another long silence. Just when I was ready to give up on her, she blurted, “They’re headed south.”

  “South? Such as South Phoenix? Tucson? Yuma?”

  Before she could answer, an enormous roar from above made us duck our heads in fright; it sounded as if the entire sky was tearing apart. Before my heart charged into full panic mode, I identified the source of the noise: six F/A-18 Hornets streaking across the sky in tight formation. Then I remembered hearing that Luke Air Force Base, less than a mile from the trailer park, was hosting an air show this coming weekend. The jets making that terrific noise were the U.S. Navy’s Blue Angels practicing for the show.

  “It’s not always that loud around here,” Tricia Ann said apologetically. “Just an F-35A or some other fighter jet every now and then. The Blue Angels, they fly low.”

  “You know aircraft?” For some reason, her knowledge surprised me.

  “Living around here, you soon learn.”

  The busy Air Force base and its low-flying aircraft explained why she’d probably received a good deal on her trailer rental. When planes are almost landing in your backyard, landlords tend to be reasonable. “As I was asking before I was interrupted, what exactly do you mean by ‘south’?”

  “I’m not sure, but it might be Nogales. They were talking about camping out for a while—they had all this camping stuff with them—then maybe crossing the border to get married in Mexico. Kyle said they’ve got enough money to rent a little house down there, buy a couple of horses, and go for sunset rides on the beach.”

  Oh, the unformed brains of fifteen-year-olds. Scientists tell us that the prefrontal cortex, the reasoning part of the brain, doesn’t fully form until people reach their twenties. Up until that time, teens live on impulse alone, heedless of whatever consequences may apply.

  “Didn’t you try to talk them out of it? Hell, there’s not even any beach in Nogales. It’s miles inland.”

  “I talked until my throat was sore. They wouldn’t listen.”

  “How about calling Kyle’s new parents? That didn’t occur to you? They’re worried sick.”

  “I thought about calling, but in the end, I just gave the kids some money.” She looked down at the ground, but not before I saw the flush on her face.

  Scientists also tell us that prolonged, heavy drug use can damage an adult’s prefrontal cortex, returning an adult to an almost teenage state. Here was the perfect example.

  But at least, thanks to the god of the Serenity Prayer, she was trying to grow up.

  35 years earlier

  Some of the children are weeping. Helen is all cried out.

  The old mine is lit by torches and incense fills the air as Abraham sweeps by, followed by his acolytes. He wears his priestly robes this night, and the light of God shines on him.

  “Those who follow the Lord, draw nigh!” Abraham commands, his voice that of the angels.

  Liam, holding baby Jamie, tries to comfort Helen, but she has been shocked into silence by last night’s rape and can no longer speak. Or move.

  Her daughter Christina leaves her side and moves forward with the rest of Abraham’s flock. She wants to watch the fancy ceremony Abraham has prepared for them. Abraham’s oldest son is dressed in nothing but a breechclout and is lying on a stone altar. His smile is the empty smile of someone on drugs. The rest of the group—everyone except Helen and Liam—smiles. Abraham’s smile is the brightest of all.

  “How do we show our love for the Lord?” Abraham asks.

  “By following His commands!” choruses the flock.

  “Does the Lord command sacrifice?”

  The flock responds, “The Lord commands sacrifice!”

  “What does the Lord command us to sacrifice?”

  “Our firstborn!”

  Helen hears her husband’s tortured groan before it is drowned out by the voices of the hundred-strong flock. “We do as the Lord bids us!”

  Only then does Helen notice the knife in Abraham’s upraised hand. Before she can force her mouth to move, to shriek a warning, he plunges the knife into his son’s chest.

  “Great are the works of the Lord!” Abraham cries, as blood rolls down the side of the altar to pool on the mine’s dirt floor.

  “Great are the works of the Lord!” the flock responds.

  Confused, Christina runs back to her mother. “I don’t understand, Mommy. Why did Abraham do that? And why isn’t Isaac getting up?”

  Getting no answer from Helen, the child—curious, always too curious—turns to her father and asks the same questions.

  But Liam can’t answer because of the blood in his mouth.

  Chapter Eight

  The horses hadn’t been treated to a good long ride for more than a week, so Saturday morning, before we resumed work on the house, Jimmy and I saddled up and braved the murky light on the trail paralleling the Beeline Highway. Adila celebrated the occasion by throwing in a few bucks before finally settling down to a gentle canter. Big Boy, thrilled to be out of the corral, followed gamely, but the tranquil pinto skipped the bucking part.

  “How far do you want to ride?” Jimmy asked when Big Boy caught up to us. “All the way
to the McDowell foothills?”

  Nowhere near the place I’d found Reservation Woman, I thought. “Just along the canal. We’ve still got the house to worry about, remember. Two rooms left. And plumbing.”

  Adila, having bucked the kinks out of her system, cantered along peacefully with Big Boy while the rising sun rolled a sheet of golden light across the desert’s grays and browns. Every now and then we came upon a rock covered in graffiti. Yes, there are taggers on the Rez, but their artwork leans toward the traditional: spray-painted pictographs of Earth Doctor, Elder Brother, and Spider Woman—images less disturbing than gang signs.

  Mother Nature’s wild citizens, wilder even than the local teens, greeted the day’s glory with joy and trepidation. Ground squirrels, jackrabbits, and deer mice scurried between various kinds of cacti, while a chorale of birds sang from mesquite and ironwood trees. In the lightening sky above, a bald eagle drifted along a thermal, deciding which scurrying creature to kill first. As we approached the canal, a small band of wild horses galloped along, oblivious of the life-and-death drama about to happen. Just as we arrived at the canal bank, the eagle struck. After a dust-raising flurry, it rose again, carrying away a struggling jackrabbit.

  It happened too close for Adila’s comfort, and she shied to the left, almost bumping us all into the canal.

  “I thought you said she’d settled down,” Jimmy groused.

  It took me a while to bring my mare under control, but once I did, I threw him a dirty look. “This is what we get for not riding every day.”

  “Pretty hard to work a full-time job, build a house, entertain the cats, and keep the horses exercised.”

  “Especially when each succeeding day is shorter than the last.”

  “We can do something about that, Lena.”

  His serious tone made me suspicious. “Like what?”

  “You don’t have to go to the office every day. A lot of the stuff we do, you can do from home.”