The Desert Waits

by J. Carson Black

  Caroline added, “Alex, you doing anything for lunch? Let’s go to Burger King—you can tell me all about your trip.”

  Caroline didn’t shave her legs for the entire semester. And it was Caroline who encouraged Alex to pick her own name and have it changed legally. She chose Alexandria for the Egyptian city where she’d spent several memorable days with her parents the year before. Caroline quickly shortened it to Alex.

  They hadn’t seen each other in fifteen years, since their last year of high school. Even though their fervent declarations of friendship had deteriorated to a Christmas card once a year, their parting was still fresh in her mind. When Alex moved to Arizona with her parents the summer of her senior year, they’d made a pact that if one of them needed help, the other would come.

  Caroline’s call had come at a weak moment. Alex’s divorce would be final next week. She’d been knocking around her rock house in the Tucson Mountains, unable to concentrate on anything but the hollowness in the pit of her stomach. In truth, she welcomed the distraction. Seeing Caroline again was something to do, something else to think about besides work, which hadn’t been the salve she’d hoped for. And she had to admit she was curious. Although Caroline Arnet was popular in high school— particularly with the boys—she had come from a poor family. The unspoken label white trash had dogged her throughout her school years. Now she was famous. Had fame changed her?

  Caroline had sounded truly rattled. As Alex listened to her voice, she pictured the waif-like creature who had become one of Hollywood’s biggest box office draws. Caroline, whose fragility had always reminded Alex of a wild deer. “I need you, Alex. You’re so smart. You’ll figure out what to do.”

  Alex stared at her appointment book. The page was blank, except for a listlessly scrawled note at the top, “Photograph beetles,” followed by a question mark. “I can make it tomorrow,” she said.

  “How about today? Please?”

  Alex paused. There wasn’t anything keeping her from going, she realized. She had to mail off some slides to Ranger Rick and cash a check. That was the extent of her day. The drive to the border would take her two hours. “All right,” she said at last. “I’ll be there this afternoon. It’ll probably be late.”

  “Oh God, Alex, thank you! I’ll see you when you get here.”

  When Alex put down the phone, she realized there was another reason for her to go, something that would justify her trip down there. She’d read somewhere recently that a jaguarundi had been sighted in the Cascabels.

  Impossible, Alex had thought at the time. There hadn’t been a confirmed sighting of the small wild cat in Arizona since 1938, when a rancher spotted what he thought to be a jaguarundi in the Huachuca Mountains east of here.

  But she was looking for an excuse, and this one was as good as any. She leafed through the wildlife magazines in her office and found the reference to the jaguarundi an hour later at the bottom of the stack.

  “The habitat of the jaguarundi, ocelot, and margay cat have diminished substantially, although there has been a report of an animal resembling the jaguarundi in the Cascabel Mountains in southern Arizona.”

  It wasn’t much to go on. Alex was surprised at the stirring of excitement deep in her gut.

  After packing her Jeep with everything she’d need for a night shoot, she made a stop at the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. There she bought the jar of cat urine, which now resided in the honor bar between the smoked oysters and the champagne.

  On her way back to her room from dinner, Alex stopped at the desk. Caroline had returned from her shoot, the desk clerk told her, but she’d left specific instructions not to be disturbed. So much for urgency.

  Two

  Caroline Arnet, who reportedly garnered a record 12 million dollars for last year’s megaflop Linked Hearts, will only receive 7.5 million for her role in Jagged Impact, poor baby.

  —Claudia Crane, Regie Lawrence Show

  The room phone yodeled on the bedside table, jarring Alex out of sleep. She picked it up on the second ring, groggy and feeling vaguely out of place.

  “Alex.” It took her a moment to realize the voice belonged to Caroline. Annoyed, she glanced at the clock radio—a couple of minutes past midnight. “Caroline, what …”

  “Someone’s been in my room. I was … attacked.” The drowsiness in which she’d been swaddled fell away at Caroline’s words.

  Alex sat up, her heart hammering. “Attacked?”

  “Can you come now? Room—”

  “I know the number. I’ll be right there.” Alex dressed hurriedly, her mind racing. What happened? Was Caroline hurt?

  The guest rooms not housed in the main building opened onto a large courtyard, hacienda-style. Pulse pounding, she followed the walkway around to Caroline’s room. Black shadows from the bougainvillea overhanging the portal roof trembled on the worn flagstones and dappled the whitewashed wall.

  Caroline opened the door. Alex was struck again by how tiny she was. Her hair, pale and baby-fine as a dandelion, was tousled in short, loose curls against her head. She was boyishly thin, the delicate tracery of veins showing through a complexion as transparent as bone china. Shadows bruised the skin under her eyes. She wore a navy tank top emblazoned with the Harley Davidson logo, black jeans, and Doc Martens lace-up boots. Waving Alex inside, she strode to one of the suite’s chairs and sat down, drawing her knees up and clasping her hands around them. “Close the door. I don’t want anyone to know about this.”

  Alex hadn’t expected a tearful reunion. Neither of them was the touchy-feely type. She was, however, surprised that Caroline assumed their relationship would immediately drop back into the familiar groove. Guru and student, priest and acolyte.

  Again she felt that puzzling void open up in her soul and wondered why seeing Caroline made her unaccountably sad.

  Scanning the room, she felt a combination of relief and annoyance. She saw no signs of violence. A bouquet of American Beauty roses blushed like wine-dark velvet against the white plaster walls. Even the Navajo rugs on the hardwood floors were lined up neatly in the walkway between the bed and the dresser. Caroline, in her biker-tough gear, didn’t look like a victim.

  “What’s going on? Why don’t you want anyone to know?”

  Caroline rubbed at her forehead, her Virginia Slims cigarette poking out between her second and third fingers. “I don’t want him to know he scared me. I don’t want him to get the upper hand.”

  “Who don’t you want to get the upper hand?”

  “Him. The guy who’s been bothering me.”

  The sense of unreality Alex had felt when she’d first seen the Hotel Sonora settled in to stay. She sat down in the wing chair opposite Caroline. That was when she noticed the broken shell on the chain around her friend’s neck and felt a stab of guilt. “Let’s start from the beginning. Who’s been bothering you? What happened?”

  Caroline took a long drag of her cigarette. She looked perfectly normal, except that Alex could see that her hand shook. She must have come to some decision because she stood up abruptly, crushed out her cigarette, and walked to the dresser.

  She picked up a pile of greeting cards and thrust them into Alex’s hands.

  There were five in all. Two were “thinking of you” cards, and the other three were comic in theme, including a birthday card. Alex shivered as she read the messages:

  Your smile makes my day.

  I think of you every day and every night. Do you ever think of me?

  You looked at me today. I could tell you feel the same way I do.

  Your beauty amazes me. I’m the luckiest guy in the world.

  The birthday card showed a rakish Snoopy blowing out birthday candles. Alex found the juxtaposition of the cartoon character and the inside message chilling: Wait until you see what I’m planning for your birthday! Signed “Uncle Wiggly.”

  Caroline was watching for her reaction, her green eyes haunted.

  “Who’s Uncle Wiggly?”

  She shr
ugged. “I don’t know. So what do you think?”

  The word stalker leaped to mind. “Have you gone to the police?”

  Caroline hugged herself She didn’t look well. “I told you I don’t want him to think he’s getting to me.”

  “But he attacked you!”

  “He didn’t do anything really. Nothing … bad.”

  “Nothing bad? He broke in here, didn’t he?”

  “It isn’t like he raped me or anything.”

  “What did he do?”

  She shrugged again, and Alex saw in that small movement the intimation that she didn’t care much. Or that she was pretending she didn’t care. Because her childhood was so rough, Caroline had always dealt with problems by acting tough. She reminded Alex of a threatened kitten whose fur stands on end to make it appear larger. “He just touched me. I got in and I was tired—the scene we shot today was a bitch—so I decided I’d just unwind a little and go to bed.” She fiddled with the scarab ring on her finger, unwilling to say more.

  “And?” prompted Alex.

  Caroline sighed. “He must have been in here already. He grabbed me, threw a pillowcase over my head, and tied my wrists together. He said if I was quiet, if I did what he wanted, he wouldn’t hurt me. He didn’t rape me,” she added hurriedly. “He didn’t do much at all. Just made me sit on the bed and ... ran his hands all over me.” She shuddered. “Just kind of stroked my skin. He didn’t even take my clothes off. He kept saying he didn’t want to hurt me, just wanted me to care about him. See? He wouldn’t even take off my clothes. That would show how much he respected me. Then he told me to lie down on the bed. If I moved, he’d stab me. After awhile, when I didn’t hear anything, I moved a little bit. That was when I realized there was a draft in here. I could tell he was gone.”

  It didn’t take long for Caroline to wriggle out of the wrist restraints, strips torn from a hotel towel. When she pulled the pillowcase off her head, she saw the window was open slightly, the curtains belling in the breeze.

  Alex walked over to the casement windows. They opened inward like French doors, with central locks that were old and sticky. There were no screens. The scent of rain wafted in, unfiltered. Alex stared at the storm clouds, which had been flung apart like pieces of an exploded balloon, black tatters against a star-spangled sky. The full moon illuminated a sloping lawn and a dark pool. All the charm of Old Mexico. And about as much security.

  “He left me this.” Caroline pointed to a sheet of lined notepaper, folded in perfect thirds.

  “Did you touch it?”

  “Of course.”

  “What did it say?”

  “You can see for yourself.”

  Alex walked to the phone.

  “What are you doing?” Panic edged Caroline’s voice.

  “I’m calling the police.”

  “You can’t!”

  “There’s been a crime, Caro. Do you really think if you ignore it, the danger will go away?”

  “He’ll know he’s rattled me.”

  “That’s right. He can think about that in jail.”

  “I can’t prove anything. I’m not even sure who it is.”

  “But you can guess, right?”

  Caroline’s look was ambivalent.

  “Did you recognize his voice?”

  “He whispered. It sounded kind of like a fake whisper, like he was trying to make his voice sound higher.”

  “Come on, Caroline. It’s time you talked to the police.”

  Again, the shrug. “If you think I should.” She crossed to the window and drew the curtains back, opened the window. “It’s beautiful out there.” Inhaling, she closed her eyes. “It smells so good. I’ve got an idea,” she said, turning to Alex. “After we talk to the police, let’s go outside. I’ve got a bottle of Cuervo Gold. We could sit outside and talk, just like old times.”

  Alex didn’t remember any old times that involved tequila. They’d managed to kill a bottle of Boones Farm one night their junior year, which had pretty much kept Alex from touching any kind of wine for years.

  “I’ll talk to the police if you promise we’ll do that.”

  “Deal.”

  Caroline went into the bathroom to gather glasses. Alex heard the mini-bar door open and close. “I know I bought a lime.”

  It was as though nothing had happened. Caroline had always been impulsive, but this turnabout scared Alex. Why wasn’t she taking this seriously? There had been enough stories in the news to justify full-fledged terror. A guy likes a woman. She doesn’t return his ardor. He stalks her, and then he kills her.

  Alex was tempted to look at the note on the bed, but knew there might still be fingerprints. She’d done some investigative work during her three years at the Forest Service; leaving things alone came as second nature.

  “I’ll be out in a minute,” Caroline called from the bathroom. “Just make yourself at home.” She sounded like the perfect hostess.

  And a perfect stranger.

  Alex sniffed at the roses, enjoyed in spite of herself their musky scent. The card was stuck between the tines of a clear plastic fork. “Happy Birthday, Darling. Wish I could be there. Ted.”

  Caroline had signed her Christmas cards from Caroline and Ted. Ted was her husband.

  Sitting in plain sight beside the bouquet was an oblong velvet box, the kind that held jewelry.

  Caroline emerged from the bathroom. “I forgot, I have shot glasses. What do you say we don’t wait for the cops? We can start now.”

  Fifteen minutes later, there was a knock on the door. When Alex answered, she wondered if she had inadvertently dropped into the middle of a made-for-TV thriller. Deputy McCutcheon was right out of central casting. He was the sheriff whose small town was suddenly beset by evil forces. The terrorized heroine would distrust him initially, but about two-thirds of the way through the story, they would forge a partnership based on mutual respect and ungovernable lust. They would persevere, sending the fiendish stalker/killer to jail or to hell. The only thing that marred the picture was the fact that Nick McCutcheon was the deputy, not the boss.

  She decided she wouldn’t hold it against him. Until she saw Deputy McCutcheon, she’d never understood what one tall drink of water meant.

  He entered, removing his hat in the time-honored tradition of rural respect. He shook back the scythe of brown hair that had fallen across his forehead from its central part. “Are you Caroline Arnet?”

  “Uh no.” Alex’s voice was as rusty as the wheels on a century-old ore car.

  “I am,” said Caroline. Alex could tell she took it as a personal affront that the deputy hadn’t recognized her.

  His mustache was brown, too; a good thick one that drooped a fraction on either side of his mouth, echoing the laugh creases that bracketed them. Long cheekbones, strong jawline. He was tanned from hours in the sun. Laugh lines netted sharpshooter eyes that held more than a trace of world-weariness.

  His dark, olive jacket fit his loose-limbed movements. The collar was fake-fur—just like in the movie starring Valerie what’s-her-name—and cowboy boots peeked out from under his straight-edged uniform trousers. But it was his presence that made it all fit together, his deep, quiet, rough-edged voice and unhurried calmness. No self-consciousness here. She could tell from his wry smile that he had read her thoughts the moment she opened the door. He knew very well his effect on women.

  Deputy McCutcheon went over the same ground that Alex had. She wasn’t aware of the moment she first realized Caroline was hiding something. The sly thought had already sneaked into her mind by the time she heard Caroline say she didn’t know any Uncle Wiggly. Alex was damn sure it was a lie. McCutcheon seemed to take her story at face value, or at least he gave that impression. It was hard to tell what was going on behind those eyes.

  “This the note?” he asked, crossing to the bed. He took his pen and spread the letter open. Caroline remained cross-legged in her chair, her eyes narrowed against the smoke of her cigarette. Painfully aware
of the deputy’s proximity, Alex bent to read the letter.

  She inhaled sharply. The note’s menace chilled her to the core.

  I thought you wanted me to touch you. I came here tonight to show you how good it could he, but I could tell you thought I was repulsive. Now all our birthday plans are spoiled. My only question is why did you lead me on? You will pay for that. I’m still going to give you a birthday gift, but I can guarantee you won’t like it.

  Uncle Wiggly

  Deputy McCutcheon straightened up. “You found this note after he left?” he asked Caroline.

  She nodded, her eyes haunted.

  “He signed it Uncle Wiggly again. You have no idea who that is?”

  “No,” she said with vehemence.

  Alex watched her as she spoke. There it was, the fear. She looked like a deer frozen in the headlights.

  “Have you noticed anyone watching you? Anyone acting peculiar?”

  Caroline shrugged. “It’s a movie crew. Everybody acts peculiar.” She laughed, her voice edgy.

  “Anything unusual. Even if it didn’t seem like much at the time.”

  “There are a couple of guys I flirt with. But they’re my buddies. They wouldn’t do anything like that.”

  “What are their names?”

  She gave him three. “But they’re great guys. They wouldn’t do this.”

  Deputy McCutcheon’s gaze locked with Caroline’s. For a moment, Alex thought she would say something. Clearly she wanted to. But the moment passed.

  “When’s your birthday?”

  “Tomorrow.” She glanced at the clock. “Today.”

  “He talks about ‘our plans.’ You sure you don’t know what that means?”

  Caroline stabbed her cigarette into the ashtray. “How the hell am I supposed to know what’s going on in that wacko’s mind?” Alex wasn’t imagining her friend’s resistance. Caro was scared out of her wits, but she wasn’t going to help.

  “Anyone else you can think of who might be attracted to you?”

  “Oh, there’s Booker,” she said with a dismissive wave. “Booker Purlie. The assistant to the property master. He has a crush on me, but he’s harmless.”