“You would think someone would have heard of her,” Kelly says. “But maybe they’re protecting her. Like people protect an old legend.”
Bridget begins to hum again. She likes the sound of a legend.
“Maybe,” Mills says.
They head back to the car and pile in. As Mills is pulling the door shut, he’s startled by a rap at the window. He looks up at a young man, probably midtwenties with curly brown hair and Clark Kent eyeglasses.
“Sorry I scared you,” the stranger says with a toothy grin. “I heard one of those ladies was looking for Priscilla Smith?”
“Yeah?” Mills says with hesitance.
“There’s a Priscilla who works at the Mountain View Diner. I don’t know her last name, but a lady named Priscilla waited on me yesterday.”
“About how old? You remember?”
“I don’t know,” the guy says, shaking his head. “Older, I guess. I put you at forty-something. So I’d say she was maybe sixty.”
Mills smiles. Always thought he looked younger. “You from out of town?” he asks.
“Yep,” the guy says, extending a hand. “Joey Waters. I came up from Tucson to help my girlfriend sell some jewelry.”
The men shake.
“Well, thank you, Joey. Mind pointing the way to this diner?”
Joey recites the directions.
It’s almost noon. The diner is buzzing. The three of them stand in the doorway searching nametags for Priscilla Smith. People are staring at them. Mills can feel it. A waitress, Peggy, approaches. “How many?” she asks. Her brassy hair is piled on top of her head, a hairnet keeping the whole ordeal in place.
“Oh, um, we weren’t really planning on eating,” Mills says.
She puts her hands on her hips. “Then what are you planning on? Cabaret?”
She laughs and snorts.
Mills looks at his wife and shrugs. Then he turns back to the waitress and says, “I’m sorry. We were just looking for somebody. Priscilla Smith. She works here?”
Peggy backs up. “Priscilla Smith?” she asks, straining to get the words out of her contorted mouth.
The diner goes quiet.
A man steps out from behind the counter and comes forward. He’s wearing a white shirt with a bolo tie. His pants stop just short of his ankles.
“Is there a problem here?” he asks.
Peggy steadies herself and says, “These people say they’re looking for Priscilla Smith.”
“Huh?” the man asks, turning to Mills. “We got ourselves a Priscilla Reynolds, but we don’t got no Priscilla Smith. You looking for that Priscilla? That Priscilla don’t go out much from what I hear. ’Cept to church. You wanna eat something?”
Mills smiles. “No, thanks. Sorry to bother you. We just really need to talk to Ms. Smith.”
Another waitress, Jean, pops into the mix. “The talk of the town is that old Priscilla’s turned to God now.”
Mills notes the sarcasm in the waitress’s voice.
“She in some kind of trouble again?” the man asks.
Mills says no, she’s in no trouble. “Can you tell me which church?” he asks.
The man shakes his head. So does Peggy. But Jean leans forward and says, “They’re all lined up next to each other. You might as well try ’em all. Go on over to Main Street. She’ll be the one with the long white hair and the ugly scar on her neck.”
Peggy laughs. “Jean, you’re so crude.”
“Oh, never mind that,” Jean insists. “She’s a good woman from what I hear. A little, I don’t know, different. But she’s old and sweet, I guess. I mean, despite what she’s done.”
The man orders them back to work, muttering something about hungry mouths to feed. As Mills ushers Kelly and Bridget from the diner, he’s aware of a town council of eyes following their exit.
As soon as Chase drops into the car, Gus looks away. Chase apologizes again, but Gus won’t acknowledge him. They’re out on Forty-Eighth Street, turning right, and Gus, his head resting against the window, says, “I think you should take me home.”
Chase laughs. “Aw, come on, Gus, man up, won’t you?”
Gus takes a deep breath and exhales coolly. “You know, I think you sort of killed the vibe back there with that stupid stunt.”
“Killed the vibe?” Chase snickers. “I guess I don’t get all this New Age shit.”
“No, I’m serious,” Gus tells him. “There are many ways you can interrupt the flow of a psychic, you know. Masquerading is one.”
Chase doesn’t respond.
“Like doing something that isn’t real,” Gus explains. “Or being someone who isn’t real. I work organically, Detective. When sources lie, misrepresent, distort, pretend, well, I can’t go anywhere. It preempts the vibe.”
Still, Chase says nothing.
“Bullshit distracts me,” Gus simplifies.
“How many times do I need to apologize for you to get your vibe back?” Chase asks.
“Why don’t we try another day?”
Chase slams the steering wheel. “No!”
Gus watches the man’s face fill with the flush of red. Chase turns toward him, his jaw clenched. “No, Parker, we have to do this today. You need to focus today. I’m not going another week without a lead.”
The man’s desperation is palpable. The tires squeal as he rounds corners. He grips the wheel as if he’s hanging on for dear life. Gus sees now the attraction between Chase and Bridget: craziness that creates chemistry. “Fine,” Gus tells him. “But I’m not scaling down Squaw Peak to get to that cave.”
Chase smiles. “Thatta boy! You don’t have to scale. We’ll just hike to the cliff above it.”
And so they do.
The sky is boasting its eternity today, cloudless and impossible to fathom; it’s a mirage without horizons, explored, but contemplating its infinity will make you crazy. Gus is in such a trance when Chase asks, “Do you sense anything from the cave down there?”
Gus looks briefly over the cliff and says, “No.” And then, suddenly, he adds, “Oh, yes.” And he sees the license plate. ILMD. And the white pickup in the parking lot. “Yes, he was here. He was definitely here.”
“The killer?”
“Theodore Smith,” Gus replies with a shudder. “That guy was here. I see his car.”
Chase nods, encouraging Gus for more.
“And I know the license plate. I-L-M-D. And—”
“Can you see his face? Do you know when he was here?”
“Shh!” Gus tells him. “I see him talking to a woman. She’s smiling. She’s wearing hiking boots, and she has a ponytail. And they go off together up a trail. They’ve just met. He’s asking her questions. Now they’re laughing. She leans against that rock over there.” Gus points. “And they’re talking for like an hour. But, no, I really can’t see their faces.”
Chase looks at him in awe. “This is incredible, Gus. Absolutely incredible. You’re seeing him in action.”
“Oh my God,” Gus whispers, sinking to his knees. He sifts dirt through his fingers.
Chase puts his hand on Gus’s shoulder. “You all right?”
“Now they’re right here. Right where we are. They’re studying the view. And Smith tells the girl, ‘You really are beautiful,’ and the girl is all aglow. And then Smith says, ‘How lucky am I to find you out here today,’ and the girl looks down, shy, and demure, then reaches for Smith’s hand. He’s telling her about the cave, but she shakes her head, no, ‘I won’t go down there,’ and he says, ‘Trust me,’ but she keeps shaking her head, and then he scrambles down the cliff to show her how easy it is and climbs back up and grabs her by the neck and kisses her.”
Chase pulls him to his feet. “You think this is really how it went down?”
“I’m seeing it right now.”
“Does she trust him?”
“She lets him kiss her, and she falls into him, and now he has her by the hand leading her slowly over the cliff. And now they’re gone, and they’re
on the ledge, and he leads her into the cave, and he squeezes her tight and kisses her. And she starts to pull off her sweatshirt and then, Jesus Christ, he slams her head into the side of the cave, and she falls, and now he’s on top of her, stuffing something in her mouth, and he pulls a knife out of his pocket. He just keeps knifing her. Oh, Jesus. She wants to scream, but she’s gagging. She’s sobbing. And she’s wriggling beneath him. And then she stops moving.”
“Stop,” Chase says.
Gus feels his eyes bulge, tastes the sweat running down his face. Again, he shudders.
“Are you okay?” Chase asks.
“I don’t know,” Gus tells him. “But that’s how it happened. It’s Theodore Smith, and he’s a big guy with a calm face. But his features are a blur. Everything happened so fast. I’m sorry.”
“Sorry?” Chase begs. “Are you kidding me? You’re brilliant. This is the best picture we have of how this killer operates. You need some water?”
Gus nods.
“I have some back in the car.”
Gus follows.
The churches aren’t exactly all on one street, but Mills figures the information was colloquial geography at best. Back on the main drag, they pass the First Congregational, and then a few blocks west they look down and see another church on South Marina. Up ahead there’s a Methodist church and what looks like another church behind it. He parks outside the Methodist, and he tells the women to wait. He goes in, sees that the service is over, and drifts to a courtyard where a few women are cleaning up snack tables.
“I’m so sorry to barge in like this, but I’m looking for someone who may be a member of your church,” Mills tells them.
One of the ladies wipes her hands clean and approaches him. “And you are?”
“Sorry. Alex Mills.”
“Hello, Alex. I’m Cecilia—”
“You’re not from around here,” the other woman interrupts. They’re probably sisters, with their dyed little bobs, their identical pearls, and their thin and spotted skin.
“I’m looking for Priscilla Smith.”
“Are you from the media? She won’t talk to the media,” Cecilia says.
“Are you a friend of hers?” Mills ask.
“Please don’t bother her,” the woman insists.
“But I’m not a reporter,” he explains. “Actually, I’m an off-duty detective.”
The other woman comes forward and grabs Cecilia’s elbow. “I’m sorry we can’t help you,” she says.
They’re about to turn away, but Mills says, “She’s not in any kind of trouble. I can assure you. I just need her help with something. Could you call her for me?”
Cecilia looks down at her feet, avoiding Mills’s eyes. “I’m sorry. We’re really not close friends. She’s been keeping to herself mostly.”
“And we don’t have her phone number,” the other woman adds.
“Okay, thank you,” Mills says. “So sorry to bother you.”
As he is walking from the courtyard, Cecilia’s companion calls after him. “Priscilla is a Presbyterian. Maybe you should go look there.”
When he’s back in the car, Kelly is asking Bridget about drug and alcohol abuse. Bridget is saying she’s never really had a problem with either.
“Maybe you’re stronger than you think,” Kelly tells her.
“No. I’m not stronger than I think. I’m a nutcase.”
Mills lets them talk as he punches in “Presbyterian” and “Prescott” into Google Maps. The church is about seven miles to the south, a maze of surface roads to get there. “I found her church,” he tells the women.
“I’m a total nutcase,” Bridget says. “Aren’t I, Alex?”
“Yes. You are.”
“You see . . .” she says to Kelly. “Even your husband agrees.”
“My husband is on a mission.”
The mission takes about ten minutes and a mind-boggling series of lefts and rights and one U-turn because Mills missed a street. He looks in the rearview mirror and sees that Bridget is drifting off to sleep, and he’s relaxed to know that even momentarily she’s off the grid. Whether or not the woman is certifiably insane, she is a drain.
“Are you nervous?” Kelly whispers.
“Why would I be nervous?”
“Well I don’t know. I guess the prospect of getting a good lead would be making you edgy.”
“Not edgy,” he says emphatically. “I’m stoked. I feel some of the mojo coming back.”
She leans over and kisses him.
There are still a dozen cars or more in the parking lot of the Presbyterian church. It’s a modest building surrounded by scattered pines. The climate here is different, cooler, crisper, Arizona’s version of autumn. “Come with me,” he tells his wife. “I think I upset the ladies at the other church. Maybe a woman’s touch will help.”
“What do we do about her?” Kelly asks, pointing to the sleeping cargo in the back seat.
“Let her rest,” he says.
They hold hands and walk to the front of the church. Inside, the vestibule is quiet. They wander down a hallway to the left where sunlight is drenching the corridor through high-arched windows. They duck into the sanctuary, a plain, handsome room unencumbered by hefty religious ornaments. The service is over, but two middle-aged men remain, one collecting pamphlets, the other sweeping the floor.
“Can I help you?” the sweeper asks as he brings his broom to a stop.
“I hope so,” Mills replies. “We’re looking for Priscilla Smith.”
The guy, bald and stocky, doesn’t flinch. “Oh, I think she’s back in the kitchen with the ladies. Would you like me to get her?”
“Please.”
“Your name?”
“I’m sorry. It’s Alex Mills. Detective Alex Mills.”
The man nods politely and says, “It’ll just be a minute.” He then moves his broom to the front of the sanctuary where he disappears behind a side door.
Mills ushers his wife into a pew, and they sit and wait. She strokes his hand. Neither of them are churchgoers. Mills has always felt sufficiently blessed in his life. A minute has passed. And another. The silence rings in his ears.
Gus is not surprised to find the south side of Camelback, particularly the ledge and the cave where Lindsey Drake was murdered, abandoned on this Sunday at noon. The teenage vampires of the valley don’t come out until nightfall, and he senses that even they have avoided the cave since the woman’s body was discovered. Gus and Chase stand in the blinding sunlight; it’s not fiercely hot, but there isn’t a stir of wind.
“Quiet up here,” Chase says.
“No distractions. And that’s good, because I know we’re on the trail of this killer,” Gus replies. He looks away from Chase, to the ground, to the trail of a murder, to the invisible footprints of a psychopath. “He’s been with us ever since I saw him at the Peak.”
“What? Is he haunting you?”
Gus shakes his head. “No. But it’s like he’s hacked our GPS, spiritually speaking. He knew where we were heading.”
Gus is sure of it. It’s not a hunch. It’s a fact. And it both emboldens Gus and scares him shitless because it means that Smith is close, and that he’s a danger to both of them.
“Funny,” Chase says and then follows Gus into the cave.
Gus leans on the wall opposite the murderer’s petroglyph. He imagines himself in miniature, meandering through the grooves of the carving, following the trails, brushing up against the rough edges. He sees the artist’s tools in a blue pouch. And then a big hand grasping a chisel, and the chisel is coming after Gus, just missing, going after him, chasing him down through the excavation of rock. Gus starts to swerve. But then he feels the ground below him, the real ground, the ground of the cave, and he catches his balance and says, “Much ado about nothing.”
“Huh?” Chase asks.
“Just an expression,” Gus says. “I was having a vision that was all about me and nothing about Lindsey Drake.”
“What about you?”
Gus tosses his head. “I don’t know for sure. But I think this confirms that Theodore Smith knows who I am and has, in fact, been following me, staking out my house.”
“I don’t get that,” Chase says. “Why would he be following you?”
“If the guy’s going to get caught, he wants to get caught on his own terms, not on mine. He’s a control freak. You’re the profiler. You should know that.”
Chase clears his throat. “Of course I know that. There’s nothing psychic about it. Murder very often is about control.”
“Yeah, but this guy’s an expert. He’s orchestrating the beginning, the middle, and the end.”
Chase kicks the dirt and says nothing.
Gus turns to the mouth of the cave and sees a broiling wave; it looks like a mushroom cloud of heat rising from a long desert roadway. And then comes a rush of cold air. The result is that he gets swept up in the suction of a cyclone, swirling above the crime scene, and from here he can see everything. He can see the man lead Lindsey Drake up onto the ledge. He can see him spanning his arms across the view. The woman smiles, admiring the scene, and she walks farther along the ledge where the view becomes even wider, grander; the man follows and says something, and she shakes her head. She snaps some pictures.
“They didn’t meet here,” he tells Chase.
“Right. We figured that.”
Still, Gus is hovering, Chase’s voice below him, and he watches as the suspect indicates the cave, as Lindsey Drake eagerly joins him for a look inside. And then that pouch of tools falls to the ground, the killer having removed a chisel. And he starts to carve into the rock. And he chisels feverishly. Then the woman says something. The man stops, turns around, and all Gus can see is the man’s furious mouth, the teeth of a demon, and the woman shuddering, cowering.
“Wow,” Gus says. “He starts carving this one before he’s even attacked her.”
“What?”
“The image is a blueprint of her death, not a remnant.”
“You mean—”
“I mean, he carved his petroglyph, and then he killed her,” Gus affirms. “I’m coming down now.”
“Coming down?”
“Never mind,” Gus says as he whirls back to the floor of the cave. Once he feels his feet on the ground again, he starts waving his hands. “She’s in the corner over there begging him to stop, telling him he’s defacing the mountain. And he’s here right up against the wall carving like crazy. I see the back of his head. And I see his shoulders tighten up, and he tells her to shut the fuck up, and she says, ‘I’m outta here,’ and he says, ‘No, you’re not,’ and as she moves to the front of the cave he spins around and slaps her in the face. Then, with one arm across her chest, he knocks her to the ground. He gags her, then plunges the knife into her chest. The rest is the same. The knife, the blade, the silent screaming, the same.”
Desert Remains Page 34
