The Salt Maiden (Leisure Romantic Suspense)

by Colleen Thompson

  She threw up a hand, anger sparking in her green eyes. “Whoa, there, cowboy. Angie has her problems, but purposeful dishonesty’s never been one of them. If anything it’s the opposite. It’s her penchant for blurting out the brutal truth that’s gotten her into trouble in the past. Besides, who would she be lying to in the pages of a journal she kept hidden? Herself?”

  He thought about it as he swallowed another mouthful before conceding, “You’ve got a point there, and I’m sorry. I was out of line to talk that way about your sister. It’s just that—”

  “If you’d ever met her,” Dana told him, “you’d understand there’s a whole lot more to Angie than chemical dependency and a history of hell-raising. She’s smart, Jay, and she’s talented, and for all the trouble she’s caused me, I still miss her—every bit as much as I’m sure you miss your uncle.”

  He nodded stiffly, wishing again that he had been a better nephew.

  “But I’m still wondering,” she said, “if he ever figured out my sister was looking for that cash.”

  “If there was even money—which I’m not saying I believe—what if Angie found it? Maybe she stole it and ran off to Aruba or wherever, and that’s why no one’s heard from her.”

  Dana blew across the surface of her coffee, and the sight of her pursed lips filled Jay with sharp regret.

  “Angie wouldn’t leave her loom behind,” she said.

  “She could buy a hell of a lot of looms with that money, if it was as much as she implied. Drugs, too, and whatever she was drinking.”

  “But that loom meant something to her. It was her one constant, the only thing I knew she’d never hock. She told me that some old curandero put some kind of mojo on it, cast a spell so it could never turn against her. She believed in all that stuff. She loved it. Besides, Angie doesn’t give a rat’s rump about money. The trust fund I told you about earlier, the one that pays us each a monthly stipend—she’s due to get the balance before the year is up. And it’s…it’s substantial money by most people’s standards, a couple of million plus. Maybe more by now, I don’t know. I haven’t really kept up with my statements.”

  Jay had known Dana’s family had money, but not that she and Angie were both rich in their own right. He’d slept with a millionaire. An heiress. But instead of cheering him, the thought felt wrong. After all, who was he but some screwed-up Dallas PD reject, a man who’d fouled up in the army so badly he’d gotten his men killed, then couldn’t even handle—

  “Whenever she’s gotten into trouble, my mother’s always bailed her out,” Dana went on, “and so have I, on occasion.”

  Jay sucked in a deep breath, tried to focus his mind on her point.

  “So if this money’s real, and if your sister wouldn’t steal it for her own sake”—he heard the skepticism in his own voice; saw Dana glower at it. Clearly sex on the RV’s table had moved beyond the realm of possibility—“what the hell are you saying about my uncle?”

  “I’m saying that a lot of men would kill to keep that kind of money. Especially a guy who’s crossed the line to get it in the first place.”

  “So first you’re accusing him of being dirty, and now you’re calling him a killer.” Jay’s anger hammered flat each word. “Guess it’s a good thing you weren’t available to do his eulogy. Too busy back in Houston, living rich, while your sister scraped by like some kind of two-bit crack whore—”

  “Stop. Right there. Right now.” She pointed at him, making it an order.

  “And who’s to say your sister’s way of getting to that money wasn’t to set fire to her so-called ‘lover’ in his bed?”

  “But Angie’d never hurt a—”

  “That ‘never’ slices both ways, Dana. If you expect me to consider your theory about a sheriff well-known for his honesty, you can at least open yourself to the chance that your sister’s not the victim in all this.”

  Dana stared at him. “Last night. Last night I thought you were someone different.”

  “If you thought I was someone different from a lawman, then I’m sorry. I…I can’t let my relationship with my uncle affect my investigation. Any more than I can let what happened between us…”

  When she nodded he let the rest go.

  “So what’s next?” she asked to end the unwieldy silence. “Do you want me to help you pry up this wood flooring?”

  Jay felt a muscle twitch beside his mouth. Though he still meant to do it himself, her suggestion grated.

  “That’ll have to wait,” he told her. “Right now it’s more important to get a look around the Webb place, see if your evening visitor left anything behind. Wallace’s meeting me out there at seven, so I need to grab some breakfast and get moving. I’ve got a couple extra honey-oat muffins if you want ’em. Mrs. Lockett bakes ’em, and they’re pretty good.”

  “Okay, and then I’ll follow you out to the adobe.”

  He hesitated before saying, “I don’t think so, Dana.”

  “Look—if it’s about this…disagreement, we’re both adults. We should be able to put aside our differences and do what needs to be—”

  “It’s not that. I just think it would be better if you stay here, out of sight.”

  “If I’m not with you, how will you and Wallace know where to look? Max’s the only other witness, and he’s not much of a talker.”

  “Just give me a description of the area and let me take care of it. It’ll be a lot of walking on that bad leg, and the terrain around there’s dangerous. You could meet up with tarantulas or scorpions, maybe another snake. Or you might get heatstroke. Stay here and keep Max company—I’m leaving him at home today.”

  Yesterday morning at the courthouse the normally well-behaved dog had knocked over a trash can, torn up the contents, and left a steaming tribute outside of Estelle’s office. Estelle had raised such a hue and cry that, after cleaning up the evidence, Jay figured he had better keep canis non grata out of sight for a few days.

  “You don’t want me around,” she guessed. “Or are you really worried your deputy will see us and put two and two together about what happened here last night?” A light flush stole over her, but she didn’t look away.

  He reached out on an impulse, meaning to caress the curve of her cheek, but she turned her head to avoid the contact.

  “I’m not ashamed,” he told her, a truth he tainted by adding, “and I’m not sorry, either.”

  “Then prove it,” she challenged. “We’ll ride there together.”

  As the Suburban parted the Red Sea of desert stillness, a deeper silence welled between its occupants.

  Dana wished she’d taken her own vehicle. At least then she wouldn’t be trapped in this pocket of awkwardness, unwilling to speak of what had happened last night and unable to pretend that it meant nothing to her.

  She wished that she could take it back, that she’d insisted upon sleeping on the floor last night—or even driving back to Pecos to rent a hotel room. Because she couldn’t stop worrying whether she had pushed him too far, and wondering whether Angie’s accusations would put an end to their relationship.

  What relationship? As a light breeze snaked ribbons of dust across the road before them, Dana gave herself a mental kick, then recalled a detail she’d let slip.

  The key. Digging into her shorts pocket, she said, “I forgot to show you what I found with the journal.”

  She pulled it free, letting it dangle on its deep blue necklace. When he glanced over, she explained, “The yarn’s from Angie’s tapestry, but I don’t know what the key’s for. It’s not to her car, and I didn’t see another lock around there.”

  “Except the one you pried off the door,” he reminded her.

  “But this can’t be to your lock,” she said. “It was left inside the wall.”

  He looked over again before staring past the gyrations of the idiotically smiling hula girl toward the rutted dirt road. A small desert cottontail looked up from where it had been nibbling the sparse grasses at the margin, then raised its
tail like a white flag as it zigzagged toward the shelter of scraggly tarbush. Silhouetted against the morning sky, a dark-winged hunter changed course but was too far off to pose a threat.

  “Looks to me like a key to the same kind of padlock,” he said. “But I can’t think of where I’ve seen another…”

  She waited for him to continue before quickly losing patience. “What?”

  He shook his head. “It’s just a hunch, but we’re going to make a little detour.”

  Though he didn’t explain further, Dana’s heart picked up speed when he radioed his deputy to tell him he was making a stop to check the salt-dome access road.

  “Do you remember that part in Angie’s journal about the Salt Woman and her womb?” she asked excitedly when Jay replaced the radio’s handset. “There’s really a cavern, isn’t there? A salt cavern somewhere past the ‘round breasts’ of the domes? West of them, maybe?”

  “I never heard of any cavern,” he said. “But this land is known for keeping secrets, so I wouldn’t rule it out.”

  As they turned onto an even rougher dirt road, Dana caught a flash at the corner of her eye. Glancing behind them, she was distracted by the sight of the hawk tucking in its wings and dropping well beyond the dust of the suburban’s passage.

  When it rose again its flight was burdened by the weight of the young rabbit dangling limp beneath its claws.

  To the uninitiated, the Chihuahuan Desert’s basins appeared as flat and unbroken as the surface of a windless sea. But the Hunter had learned its creosote-lined ridges and its deeply carved arroyos. He knew the hidden places prowled by coyotes and bobcats, and even an occasional mountain lion ranging down out of the foothills.

  He knew because during the past two months he had become one with the predators that stalked these arid lands. Not out of choice, but because she had driven him to it—his wicked Angelina.

  While he chewed the strip of raw flesh from his last kill, his memory marked out the best spots to linger in the shade to wait out the murderous afternoon sun. As well as the places where a good pair of field glasses could reward a watcher with a glimmer from a windshield miles distant.

  As the breeze shifted, it streamed across the cavern’s gaping mouth behind him, dragging a mournful echo from the depths below.

  Untroubled by its lament, he raised his binoculars to follow the movement of the new sheriff’s Suburban across a rural ranch road some twenty miles away. He watched for a long time as the SUV drew nearer, but still he couldn’t discern whether it was carrying one occupant or two.

  Swearing under his breath, he willed the image to come clearer. Willed Jay Eversole to be alone.

  Because that would mean that he’d left Dana Vanover at his place. That she would be unarmed and alone while the lawman wasted hours searching the area around the abandoned Webb ranch.

  But instead of continuing in the direction of the dry lake, Eversole slowed and took the turnoff that would lead him to the salt domes, the very access road the Hunter had used the night before.

  He crossed a stony wash and trudged up a rocky outcrop to a spot that overlooked the locked gate. Squatting low so as to remain unnoticed, he watched from that vantage point as the sheriff climbed out of his vehicle.

  Moments later, he was joined by a second figure, smaller, with a flutter of wheat-gold hair. He recognized the woman. The same woman the Hunter would have taken down last night, if he had had surprise on his side.

  The pair approached the gate and apparently unlocked it, for the sheriff pushed it open with a creaking sound that carried on the wind.

  The Hunter didn’t wait around to track their progress further. Instead he trotted off to get his rifle and find the perfect cover, the perfect spot from which to make his kill.

  Chapter Eleven

  He comes to me by night, on the heels of the Salt Woman’s visitations.

  As hard and hurried as he ever was, he is a selfish lover, often rough, skirting the edges of raw violence.

  He’s pissed off I have come again.

  Even more pissed when I come first.

  Because, as unevolved as it seems,

  his animal rutting turns me on at some elemental level.

  No matter how I protest and wish it wasn’t so.

  Has the goddess sent him as a warning, Or a way to pass this endless night of my withdrawal?

  —Entry nine, March (illegible)

  Angie’s sobriety journal

  As Jay used binoculars to survey the hillside rising from the end of the access road, Dana shaded her vision and looked, too, until the windblown sand forced her to turn away. As she wiped her watering eyes, she listened intently but registered nothing but silence.

  “Where are you, Angie?” she asked through gritted teeth.

  Jay gave her a bare nod of understanding before returning his attention to the land.

  Lifeless, lonely, and far too vast to search on foot, it rose gently, shielding what she imagined as a limitless expanse. If the cavern wasn’t somewhere in sight, the two of them could search for weeks—for years—and never find it.

  Despair billowing inside her, Dana turned back toward the Suburban, then cocked her head at a faint sound. It was only a dry hiss: coarse grains blown over rocks and rattling through desiccated creosote as brown and barren as the sun-bleached soil.

  “Where are all the cactus?” she asked, realizing this area was missing the friendly forms that desert travelers expected. Organ-pipe, saguaro, barrel cactus with their bright flowers. Even a stand of prickly pear would be a welcome patch of green amid the scraggly scrub.

  “Too dry and too salty for most of ’em,” Jay said before glancing down around their feet. After walking a few paces to the left, he pointed out a pile of small, fissured gray rocks. “Here’s your cactus.”

  She moved closer and bent forward, then lifted her fluttering hair away to look. “That’s the best you can do? A dead one?”

  “Oh, it’s alive, just waiting for a rain to perk it up and help it put out big, pink blossoms. They call this one living rock. There’s a resurrection plant, too—and if you’re not careful you’ll pick up some hitchhikers: seedpods from the devil’s claw and half a dozen thorny relatives. Life’s tough as all hell out here. Yet it hangs on against all odds.”

  His words fanned the embers of a hope that somehow so had Angie. But before Dana could say as much, another sound intruded on the quiet. The hollow tone reminded her of childhood, when she and her sister would drive their mother crazy blowing across the glass tops of old-fashioned soda bottles. Only this note droned far deeper, as if the vessel held not eight ounces but untold thousands.

  “Hear that?” she asked, half convinced she was dredging up the note from memory.

  But Jay’s stance told her he was listening, too, his head turned toward the hill’s right side.

  “Sounds like the wind’s blowing across an opening or between some rocks,” he said. “But let’s not read too much into it even if we do find something. There are lots of little caves around here, and most of ’em…”

  But Dana was already scrambling uphill like a mountain goat, heading toward a spot that she had at first taken for a band of shadow. The harder she looked, the more she imagined it was a hole of some sort, perhaps the same cavern Angie had mentioned in her journal.

  “Slow down,” Jay called from behind her. “You’ll break an ankle in those sandals.”

  But Dana couldn’t slow down, not with the low tone growing deeper and more ominous with each step. It drew her like a siren’s song, her skin prickling with the conviction that this was the place where her sister, like the living rock, lay waiting for a signal to spring forth and flourish. This was the battleground where Nikki’s life would be won.

  Dana ignored the throbbing of her healing leg, the burning of the dry air in her lungs. Jay’s footsteps closed in, his boots sending pebbles clattering downhill.

  Blood thrumming with exertion, she approached a mouthlike opening. Larger than it h
ad looked from below, perhaps twelve feet wide and four and a half feet high at the tallest, it seemed to frown at her as she drew level with it. As they watched, a pair of cave swallows swooped out past a dangling spider, their beaks snapping at a host of tiny insects.

  “Stop.” Jay forced the issue, grasping her arm. The shadowed void returned his word an instant later, but was too black to offer up its secrets.

  “Let go of me.” She panted and cupped a hand around her mouth. “Angie. Angie!”

  The shouted word reverberated in the emptiness around them, echoing not only from the cave but from the rocky slope itself. No other sound came back to them; even the wind had fallen silent.

  “She has to be around here,” Dana insisted.

  “She was.” He pointed downward, where Dana would have stepped.

  Dried petals lay at their feet, along with feathers weighted down by pebbles in a pattern far too regular to be explained by random chance, a subtle mosaic that underscored the mouth from one corner to the other. At the center of it sat a skull, clearly canine. And probably coyote, considering the scabrous patch of clinging hairs.

  Though the sun shone warm at her back, a sick chill rippled along her sides. “I’ve seen…I’ve seen this somewhere before.”

  He nodded. “Near the adobe. There are a couple of old graves, and I’m pretty sure your sister marked them this way. Looks like something somebody like Angie—I mean an artist—would’ve done.”

  As Dana stared, it came to her: “That same pattern’s in her star field, the one she was weaving in the tapestry. This is Angie’s place, my sister’s. This is where she went.”

  She pulled away from him, or tried to, but Jay’s grip tightened.

  “Those petals have been here a long time, but someone’s come since your sister.” He gestured toward the ground beneath the opening’s tallest point. “See that? It’s disturbed there—and that looks like a footprint.”