Fire in Broken Water

by Lakota Grace

  “Are you crazy?” Ray pushed me down. “Sit here for a moment while I locate the shutoff valve for the gas.” He disappeared around the corner of the house.

  I shook my head to clear the fumes. What happened wasn't an accident. This was a deadly message that I was getting too close. I shifted back into cop mode. Everyone became an enemy until proven innocent, including Ray.

  How did he happen to be so near when I called for help? Did niece Alana return to Mexico because Gil was threatening to expose her? Ray could have killed Gil Streicker to protect her. Maybe Ray lied about no arsenic in the barn. He didn’t look like a killer, but you couldn’t trust anyone when—

  Stop it! I halted my paranoid thinking with effort. This man rescued me, for Pete's sake.

  The arsenic bottle was critical. If the surface held fingerprints, they’d be a clue to the person who used it last. Putting a handkerchief over my nose and holding my breath, I lurched into the lab.

  Swaying on unsteady feet, I approached the counter where I’d abandoned the glass bottle in my panicked need to escape. The counter was empty. The bottle had vanished.

  There was noise at the outside door and I whirled. Marguerite stood there staring at me.

  “Well, come out here,” she ordered. “I’m certainly not going into that smelly room.”

  She touched the shattered door frame gingerly with a red lacquered nail as I moved past her into the yard.

  “You broke this door, Peg Quincy,” she said. “Heinrich will be furious.”

  I almost died, and she was worried about what she’d tell her father? I’d had enough of these crazy people for one afternoon. Someone in this household had swiped that bottle of arsenic, and I’d find out who soon enough.

  “Send the bill to the sheriff’s office,” I muttered and left.

  ***

  For an hour I drove the back roads aimlessly, a rooster tail of dust following me like a shroud. I had no destination—I just knew I needed time and space away from the dysfunction of the Spine Ranch. Gradually my head cleared and the toxic exposure subsided to a throbbing headache behind my left temple.

  I stopped at the top of a hill for good reception and checked my cell phone messages. The most recent one was from the sheriff's headquarters, sent minutes ago.

  I patched through to our dispatcher Melda. “What's up?”

  “We need an officer out at Montezuma's Well. Standard fender bender.”

  Taking names and writing reports would be a good distraction right now.

  I claimed the call. “Estimated time of arrival, five minutes.”

  When I pulled into the parking lot, the cause of the accident was clear. A pickup truck backing out of his parking space had rammed into the side of a mega-RV pulling into the lot. Both drivers were out of their vehicles and circling like professional wrestlers looking for the first takedown.

  “Back up, both of you,” I said, inserting myself between them.

  Technically, the pickup guy deserved a ticket, but they were both at fault. The pickup driver should have been checking his rearview mirror, but the RV guy had pulled in too fast and wasn't watching for backup lights.

  “Anyone injured?”

  The RV guy said he was fine, and that, of course, they’d exchanged information.

  Of course. Nevertheless, tension crackled in the air like lightning before a storm. Time to separate potential combatants. The pickup driver wasn’t leaving until the RV moved, anyway, so I directed him to wait by his vehicle while I scribbled an accident report.

  Then, I pulled the RV driver aside to hear his tale first. I listened patiently to why he was in the right, recited my standard speech about being a courteous, defensive driver. I handed him a copy of the accident report. “I'm not going to cite you, but be more careful in the future. Have a good day.”

  Shepherd would have approved of my cool cop stance.

  The RV pulled away from the pickup with a crunch of splintered metal and disappeared down the road in a cloud of diesel fumes. Pickup guy was next.

  He started swearing as soon as I approached.

  I cut him short. “Sir, you should have been checking that rearview mirror the whole time you were backing up. An RV's a big target to miss.”

  He muttered a bit, unwilling to accept his share of the blame.

  Okay by me. His choice, to ruin a good afternoon with bad temper. I gave him a copy of the accident report, offered the same olive branch of no citation, and the same cautionary warning about defensive driving.

  The pickup driver shoved the warning notice in his shirt pocket, turned without a word and got back in his vehicle. But I noticed he checked both ways and backed up at a sedate pace. Didn't hit the gas until he was well down the road, away from the parking lot and possible cop pursuit.

  I’d seen another driver react the same way not too long ago. A driver that had died. I put that memory out of my mind with difficulty. I couldn’t fix the past. I couldn’t even change the future if I saw it coming.

  I purchased a bottle of water at the ranger station and hiked up to the top of the ridge that lipped Montezuma's Well. A catclaw acacia provided shade and an errant breeze hit my face. I took a slug of water and watched a small lizard do pushups on the pockmarked limestone ledge.

  Today at the Spine Ranch, I'd poked my nose where it didn't belong and caught it in a twisting, painful trap. I’d given in to my need for closure, trespassing and causing the destruction of property. I'd be more cautious in future dealings with the Spine household.

  I rose and followed a marked trail around the rim of the crater until it descended to Wet Beaver Creek, some 500 feet below. The running water splashed over rocks, tossing sparkles into the air. In the deep shade of the sycamore and ash trees near the water, the air turned moist, some twenty degrees cooler than on top of the hillside.

  A small irrigation ditch paralleled the path, finding its way down to the creek. The sides of the ditch were moss-encrusted, deepening the water's color. I traced the origin of the ditch to the rock face of the hill surrounding Montezuma’s Well. There, a spume of water exploded from the center of the rock. Yellow columbines and wild fern crowded its edges, creating an unexpected oasis in the desert heat.

  A park ranger rose from a stone wall where she'd been sitting. “Hello. You get those folks sorted out in the parking lot?”

  “You the one called it in?”

  She nodded. “Most complaints we can field, but when tempers flare we're under orders to bring in the heavy guns.” She smiled. “That's you.”

  “Peaceful here, though,” I observed. “Where's the water coming from? An artesian spring?”

  “That's the drainage from Montezuma Well. Underwater springs fill the pond and this natural passage siphons the overflow into Wet Beaver Creek. The Yavapai Apaches call this the place of broken water.”

  “Fits,” I said.

  “Time I hike back to the station,” the ranger said. “We're about to close for the day. Thanks for handling that trouble.” Her footsteps echoed for a moment against the rock walls and then faded.

  Three mallard ducks circled in an eddy of the creek, as a red-winged dragonfly kissed the back of my hand and then vanished. A black-and-white Phoebe hovered over the water, then returned to the same rock perch in a characteristic back-and-forth pattern. In a way, my life with its chaos and conflict echoed that pendulum of existence.

  The quiet here was almost hypnotic, lulling me into a sense of peace that I couldn’t afford. I rose to my feet and dusted off my back. Then I hitched my belt gear into place to start the short, steep climb to the top of the crater to return to the parking lot.

  As I reached the top of the crater hill, a bullet whined, ricocheting off the rock ledge. Then a sycamore branch above me cracked, broken leaves raining down in a green shower.

  I dropped to the ground and drew my revolver. Someone was shooting live ammo, and I was the target!

  Chapter 31

  I was on my own. Likely the ranger
was already on her way home by now. And this area was a no-cell-tower zone, one of many that dotted the valley. No way to call in reinforcements. The pavement of the path dug into my knee. I shifted to get more comfortable.

  Another shot rang out. A rock chip splintered out of the boulder next to my head, cutting into my forehead like a razor’s edge. Blood streamed down my face, and I wiped at it to clear my vision.

  Scrabbling on hands and knees, I crept behind a boulder. Not total cover, but the rock concealed most of me. I shuffled my legs back and forth to camouflage them under twigs and dry leaves. No sense in presenting any larger target than I had to.

  A fly crawled across my sweaty forearm and I brushed it away. The head wound continued to bleed, patterning the rocks with red. I pressed my sleeve to the wound to staunch the flow. I’d need to attend to it soon. Already the first sting had grown to a throbbing beat.

  Then, above me on the trail, gravel clattered down like hail hitting a slate roof. Was the shooter leaving? I rose cautiously, tired of waiting.

  Another shot whined close to my head. I ducked and returned the fire, aiming high as a warning. “Police officer,” I shouted. “Throw down your weapon.”

  Instead, person rose to their feet on the hill, a rifle in hand. Then the human silhouette disappeared beyond the edge of the crater heading toward the now-closed ranger station.

  I gave chase, but the person loped in an awkward gait and made the parking lot before I could stop him. As the person reached the two lone cars, his body caught in an errant beam of light from the setting sun. Khaki pants, blue plaid shirt, and on his head a hat—a pink hat just like Hank Battle wore.

  The person jumped into his vehicle, backed up with an uneven squeal of tires and disappeared down the access road. I slowed my plunge downhill to an unsteady walk. I’d lost him for now, but I knew where he lived. He’d be heading home to Serena.

  I stopped at my car and pulled a first aid kit and a spare shirt out of the trunk. Then I staggered to the women’s restroom and pushed open the door. Other than a black widow spider camped in one corner, I was alone. Just as well, because I didn’t want to be scaring the tourists. I must look like a war refugee.

  I stripped off my bloodstained uniform shirt and the T-shirt underneath. Balling the T-shirt into a washcloth, I held it under the dripping water faucet. The cold water stung as I washed the blood away and I held the bloody cloth under the water to rinse it.

  To the side of the sink was a hand-lettered sign: “Non-potable water. Contains arsenic.” Great. I could choose between death by lockjaw infection or death by poison.

  I peered into the wavy metal mirror over the sink and touched my forehead. I’d need stitches, probably. It would make an interesting conversation starter on future dates— if I made it that far.

  I disinfected the slash wound as best I could and pressed a gauze pad against it. The cotton immediately turned bright red. Swearing, I dug two more pads out of the first aid kit to replace the sopping one. I pressed tight. That seemed to help. Then I ripped a piece of adhesive tape from the roll and wrapped it around my head over the gauze pads. The adhesive would be a bugger to get out of my hair, but at least it held the bandage firm.

  I put on the extra shirt and dumped all the bloody rags in the trash. Then I walked back to my car and loaded the first aid kit back in the trunk. I’d have to call the ranger in the morning and tell her what happened. After the altercation following the parking-lot accident, I didn’t want her worried about fights at Montezuma’s Well. I still had the injured body, somewhat intact.

  The patrol car hit sixty on the dirt road to the Battle's farm, skimming the tops of the washboards. When the rear wheel fishtailed dangerously near the side of the road, I slowed reluctantly. No point in totaling the car. I knew my destination and who would be waiting for me when I got there.

  ***

  My head ached under the primitive bandage I'd fashioned, and I was out of patience. I screeched to a halt in front of Serena Battle’s porch, sending a cloud of dust billowing against the side of the house.

  No sign of activity at Hank’s trailer, so I pounded up the house front steps and hammered on the door. It was time Serena realized that Hank was not just brain-injured; he was dangerous.

  “Open up.”

  I didn't add “in the name of the law” even though I felt like it. Somebody needed to be held accountable, and if it wasn't Hank then it damn well could be his sister.

  “Open up!” I shouted again.

  The door opened and Serena looked out, puzzled. “What's wrong? What happened to your head?”

  Her words poured cold water on my rage. The only danger prowling about was my own temper.

  “I need to talk to your brother.”

  “Hank's asleep.”

  “Let me in.”

  She braced against the door, responding with stubbornness. “I can’t do that.”

  “Then you come out here.”

  She stepped out the door and touched my arm. “Sit over here on this bench, and tell me why you’re here.”

  “Hank just shot at me, minutes ago at Montezuma’s Well. I have to arrest him.”

  Serena looked at me blankly. “He couldn't have done that. He's been here all afternoon.”

  “I don't believe you.”

  “Someone stole Hank’s favorite hat, the pink one, down at the grocery store. He was inconsolable. I tried to talk to him, reason with him, but you know how he can get.” In the filtered light on the porch, she touched a growing bruise on her arm.

  We were both battle veterans at this point. But that didn’t mean Hank hadn’t assaulted me. Such an attack seemed likely, even.

  Serena shook her head. “You don’t understand. I finally quieted him down and fixed him some root beer—that’s his favorite. I promised him I'd go help him look for his hat when he was finished.”

  “And?” I wasn’t seeing the connection.

  “I slipped a sedative into the drink. Here, see.”

  She rose and opened the door. Hank lay on the sofa, snoring noisily. An empty soda bottle was tipped over nearby.

  She spoke softly. “Peg, he couldn't have been the one who shot at you. He's been there for hours, just like that. I've been sitting here waiting for him to wake up. When he does, I’ve arranged to take him to a locked facility for evaluation.” The tears streamed down her cheeks.

  I hugged her and we both cried some. I'd been wrong, and I acknowledged that to Serena. Then I said my goodbyes and walked to my car.

  Serena faced a life decision ahead, dealing with Hank’s disability. But if her brother hadn't shot at me, who had?

  ***

  As I returned to my car, my cell rang. It was Ned Jamison, my buddy in Tennessee.

  “Peg, where have you been? I've left word all over for you to call me.”

  Probably lost in the batch of unreturned messages on my cell, forgotten when I dealt with the accident at Montezuma’s Well. At least he was persistent.

  “Think I've found something.” His voice pitched higher with excitement.

  “Wait a minute while I get something to write on.” I dug in the glovebox for a notebook. “Go ahead.”

  “Something stuck in my mind when you asked for help. I had to go digging in some dusty local papers but...”

  “Spill it!”

  “Okay, your Fancy Morgan is likely a person called Frances Morgenstern. There was a big flap in a small town near Manchester, Tennessee about five years ago. That’s the place where the Bates Casket Company has its headquarters.

  “Frances lived with her aging parents. First, the mother died of heart complications. Then the father had a stroke that left him paralyzed on one side. Frances cared for him, too, round the clock for three years until he died. The County Coroner put his cause of death as heart attack. Saw no need to go further than that. The old man had lived past his prime.”

  “So?” It was a tragic story, but not unknown, as ailing parents leaned on family members f
or final care.

  “Well Frances asked for the old man to be cremated, but the funeral home made a mistake and buried him instead. The daughter was livid. She demanded that they dig him up and do it right. Made a little too much noise about it, and the sheriff got curious. He ordered a stay on the cremation, asked for an autopsy. Turned out the old man was poisoned. Probably the mother, too, only that body had been cremated and the ashes scattered in parts unknown.”

  “And the poison they found in the old man?” I asked, even though I already knew the answer.

  “Arsenic.”

  “Did they arrest Frances?”

  “No. By then she'd disappeared. They put out an all-points alert, but she just vanished. Not heard from since.”

  Until now, I thought. “One final question, Ned. Did you call a place called Spine Ranch looking for me?”

  “Yeah. Your assistant, one—” There was a rattle of paper as he searched his notes. “—Ben Yazzie told me that's where you were. I left a voice mail to have you call me.”

  And the Tennessee area code would have been on the caller ID for Fancy to see and intercept.

  “When did you call?” I asked.

  “As soon as I fired up the computer, about ten our time this morning.”

  Which had to be eight by Fancy's watch. She'd lured me out to the ranch, been there waiting for me all the time. When Ray rescued me at the chemistry lab, she tried again at Montezuma’s Well. I had a good idea who had stolen Hank Battle’s hat.

  Ned must have noted my silence. “Did I do something wrong? Sorry, Peg, if I blew your cover.”

  “Don't worry about it. I'll take it from here.”

  I rang off and sat for a moment. Then I cranked the engine and drove to the main road, accelerating each mile. I clenched the steering wheel with both hands and pushed the pedal to the floor.

  Would I reach the Spine Ranch before Frances Morgenstern vanished once again?

  Chapter 32

  It was near dusk when I approached the Spine mansion. Only one car was in the parking area as I pulled up. I walked over to the vehicle and touched the hood. Still warm. I paused there a moment.