The Desert Waits

by J. Carson Black

  There was no card. But she’d gotten the message.

  Yellow roses. For jealousy.

  Who was he jealous of? The only men she’d talked to were Ted Lang and Nick McCutcheon.

  The idea that she was interested in Ted Lang was ludicrous.

  And Ted, even at his most bizarre, was grief-stricken over his dead wife. But Nick ...

  Admit it. You’re attracted to him. Capable and strong, he was the kind of man women dreamed about. Being in his proximity made her heart race. All the more reason to avoid him. She’d felt the same way about Brian, and look where that had gotten her. She didn’t like being vulnerable.

  The roses, she knew, weren’t from Nick McCutcheon.

  She picked up the phone and started to punch out the sheriff’s office number, then slammed the phone down in the cradle.

  The cat looked up with frightened green eyes. “Sorry,” Alex said, surprised at how plaintive her voice was.

  Alex knew how it would look. Calling Nick again, running to him with every little fear, no matter how unfounded. He knew how he affected women, must know she was attracted to him. He probably thought she was using any excuse to see him.

  Besides, what good had Nick McCutcheon and the sheriff done for her so far? They’d been wrong every step of the way. Hell, they still thought Caroline’s death was an accident.

  She didn’t like this feeling. This helplessness, this victim mindset.

  Alex had always valued her independence, the fact that she could do what was still considered a man’s job. She could go anywhere. She’d spent dozens of nights out alone in the wilderness. She’d faced downpours, snow, blistering heat. Hiked miles, honing her body into a knife blade, carrying heavy camera equipment, climbing precarious heights. Faced bears, rattlesnakes, the odd angry rancher.

  And yet these yellow roses sent her into a tailspin.

  She thought of the gun and how Booker hadn’t had the courage to do the dirty work himself She sensed that deep inside he was a scared little rabbit.

  If it was Booker. It might be someone else, you never know, it might not be Booker at all.

  Alex swallowed back her fear. Before she could talk herself out of it, she got up and stuffed the pepper spray can into her pocket. She’d be damned if she’d call Nick McCutcheon out on another wild goose chase. She’d handle it herself.

  Eleven

  As we leave you tonight, photographs from the set of Caroline Arnet’s last picture, Jagged Impact.

  —Hard Copy

  As she walked over to the Jagged Impact vehicles, Alex’s uneasiness deepened to foreboding. Maybe this wasn’t such a good idea. It was getting dark and there didn’t seem to be anybody around.

  The motor homes and trailers were parked side by side like RVs on a sales lot, so the only one she could clearly see was the first one. The dusky light gleamed softly on its white aluminum panels. Stylistic letters ran across its side: JAGGED IMPACT.

  Alex paused in the road, her heart thumping. She had no idea which trailer belonged to Booker Purlie, and she didn’t want to start knocking on doors.

  Maybe it was a moot point. Maybe they were still out shooting.

  The quiet was unsettling. A bug boomeranged past her ear, startling her into dropping her Mace.

  She picked the canister up and held it away from her at eye level. Depressed the button for a practice run. Good; it worked.

  Coyotes sent up a clamor in the hills, running prey to earth. Their shrill voices rose higher and higher like a violin at the top of its range, jangling her nerves. What was she afraid of? That little guy? He probably wasn’t even here. Steeling herself, she started for the first trailer.

  She’d almost reached it when a shout came from behind her, accompanied by running footsteps.

  “Alex! Is that you?”

  Ted. Annoyance flashed briefly through her, then she realized that his presence might be a good thing. Full dark was only a few minutes away, and no one else was around.

  “You going for a walk?”

  “No, I’m going to see Booker.”

  Ted looked uncertain. “I think he’s gone.”

  “Maybe, but I thought I’d go see for myself.”

  Ted fell into step with her. “You sound really grim. Is he bothering you?”

  “You could say that.”

  “You’re going to confront him?”

  “Actually, I just wanted to see for myself if he was there.”

  “Let me guess. The sheriff’s office thinks you’re crying wolf.”

  Her own thoughts spoken out loud made her seem paranoid. “I really don’t think that’s it,” she protested. “I get the impression they don’t have much manpower, and I don’t want them making the trip if he’s not around.”

  “But you think he’s here.”

  “He sent me flowers.”

  Ted understood immediately. “It’s amazing how something so inherently harmless can terrify. But that’s what stalkers do. They control their victims, make them feel this tall.”

  “You seem to know a lot about it,” Alex said as they walked on.

  “Caroline and I were planning to produce a film about a stalker—she would have been the victim who fought back. Kind of like Sleeping with the Enemy, only much more frightening. The script’s based on a true story. I’ve got a copy in my room.” It was a broad hint.

  “I don’t think—”

  “We were keeping it quiet, but it’s a moot point now. With Caroline dead, the picture won’t get made.”

  Even though she realized she was stalling, Alex couldn’t help but ask, “What did you learn about stalkers?”

  “Just that they’re obsessed. They want to control the victim, make her belong to them.”

  She’d heard the same thing on a talk show. She tuned Ted’s annoying monotone out, thinking about Booker Purlie. What would she say to him?

  “... If I can’t have her, nobody else can. Scary. Lawmakers are finally catching on, though. There are a lot of states passing anti-stalking legislation. I think Booker’s trailer is on the end.”

  As they walked along the row of RVs, Ted explained that Jagged Impact was a union shoot, which meant that on location, the company put up the cast and crew at a hotel and catered all their meals. But the Hotel Sonora was an older hotel and didn’t have enough rooms, so the production company had provided trailers for some members of the crew. They looked brand new.

  “Here it is,” Ted said, pausing outside a twenty-foot Layton parked beside a tamarisk tree. “Doesn’t look like anyone’s home.”

  The trailer was dark. Alex sensed a staleness about it, like a house that hasn’t been lived in for some time. The dusty louvered windows were cranked shut, and pink-and-gray patterned curtains had been pulled to. The wind picked up; a tamarisk limb groaned against the trailer’s roof

  Ted tried the door. “Well, I’ll be damned! It’s unlocked.” He pushed the door open; it creaked on its hinges.

  “Ted!” Alex said as Ted peered into the murky interior. “That’s breaking and entering.”

  “Maybe we can find out where he went.”

  “We should call the sheriff.”

  “What for? They couldn’t search this trailer by law. If they did, anything they found would be thrown out. Illegal search and seizure.”

  “Deputy McCutcheon told me they were getting a warrant.”

  “When was that?”

  “Yesterday.”

  Ted shrugged. “Doesn’t look to me like they’re serious.”

  He’d put his finger on the problem, the thing that bothered Alex most. She thought of that pompous ass Kyle Johnson. He didn’t take Caroline’s death seriously. He didn’t take her seriously.

  And he’d probably dismissed her as a hysterical female.

  Ted reached in and flipped on the light. “Come on. We’ll just take a quick look around, see if he’s been here. If there’s anything incriminating, we’ll go to the sheriff, and then they will get a warrant. We can do what
they can’t. They’ll thank us.”

  Ted’s confidence emboldened Alex. Despite her misgivings, she followed him into the trailer. This was not the time to split hairs. Booker Purlie might be out to kill her.

  The air in the trailer was stuffy. It smelled sour from being closed up in the desert heat. The low-voltage light was too dim to see much; Ted flicked on several more.

  “Look at these pictures.” Ted stared in awe at the publicity photographs—eight-by-ten glossies—tacked to every available space. A sea of famous faces stared down at them, everyone from Kevin Costner to Monty Hall.

  The place was a mess. The dinette near the front window was awash in papers. Ted picked up one, handed it to Alex. It was computer-generated, printed up on a dot matrix printer. Booker Purlie, Star Maker. A 1-900 number printed in purple at the bottom.

  Ted moved around the trailer as if it were his, opening cupboards, closets, the refrigerator, making offhand remarks. “You’d think he’d have a fly swatter.” “Guy sure likes cheese. Colby, Monterey Jack, Swiss, even Velveeta—maybe besides being a prop man, he’s a lobbyist for the dairy industry.”

  There wasn’t much room in the trailer, and Alex was aware of the proximity of Ted’s body to hers when he squeezed past her.

  The small sink was piled high with crusty dishes. Flies buzzed around. Underlying the sour air was another odor, rank like a wild-animal smell. Almost skunky. Rotting food? Or the half empty bottle of Heineken on the counter?

  A fly droned around her face, clung to her hair.

  “I had no idea what a weirdo this guy was.” Ted said from the vicinity of the bunk beds in the back. “His sheets are like little kid’s sheets—broncos and cowboys. None too clean either.”

  Alex turned in the direction of his voice and accidentally knocked a large atlas off the dinette table. She picked it up. It was still open to the page on Mexico. A tiny speck in the ocean off the very tip of Mexico’s shrimp tail was circled in red ink. Written next to the circle were the words: The Compound!! The falling atlas exposed the Popular Mechanics magazine underneath. The issue, dated June 1984, featured a homemade experimental gyrocopter on the cover. An arrow pointed to the machine. Round, childish letters: “Need approx. 3000. Smaller ones for kids. Ask about discount.”

  She stared at the writing. A chill wind ripped through her despite the oven-like closeness of the trailer. She couldn’t be sure, but it looked like the writing on the cards.

  “Compound?” Ted appeared at her elbow. “Sounds pretty paranoid to me, like one of those right-wing militias. Hole up on an island in Mexico with an arsenal big enough to blow us all to kingdom come ... ” He reached past her and lifted the magazine, brushing her arm. “Gyrocopters? Three thousand gyrocopters? What’s going on with this guy?”

  “The handwriting on the card I got—”

  “Card? You mean as in greeting card? Like Caroline’s? The same handwriting?” He put his hands on her shoulders, forced her to look at him. His face was grim, his eyes serious. He wasn’t an amiable clown now. “Jesus, Alex, why didn’t you tell me? Have you called the sheriff?”

  The hollow wind inside increased. At last, someone else understood the implications of the card. Someone who didn’t shrug and tell her there was nothing they could do, their hands were tied.

  But Ted’s alarm didn’t comfort her. It only served to scare her more. Maybe because his reaction forced her to take the danger seriously.

  “I don’t believe this,” Ted said. “The cops are sitting on their hands and this guy is terrorizing you!” He paced the tiny aisle, his face taut with anger. Ran his fingers through his hair, stared with anguish at the signed photo of Caroline above the refrigerator. “He killed Caroline!” he said fiercely. “No doubt in my mind. The question is, what are we going to do about it?”

  Another fly zoomed at Alex. She slapped it away. “Go to the sheriff—”

  “Like they’ve been a big help! That’s what I’ve been telling you, Alex. They don’t give a damn. This guy took my wife from me and I’m supposed to just pick up my ball and go home? Pretend it never happened?” He slammed his fist against the paneled wall. The trailer shuddered as if it knew it had been physically assaulted.

  “You know? I didn’t really appreciate her until now. When it’s too late to do anything about it.”

  Alex stifled the nasty little voice in her head, the one that said he didn’t seem to appreciate her at Luther’s the other night. But he’d been upset. Upset people sometimes struck out at anyone in their path, and Luther was far from blameless.

  “I get so angry when I think of what we could have had together. It was my fault—going off on location when she needed me, thinking of my own career first when hers was starting to fade ... ” He laughed bitterly. “You ever see A Star is Born? The Judy Garland version? Only it was the other way around. Caroline was scared to death of becoming a failure. It shook her to her foundations. She would never have cheated on me otherwise.” He stopped, looked sheepish. “There I go again, feeling sorry for myself. I don’t know, Alex, it looks like he’s really gone. Let me use the bathroom and we’ll be on our way. Had about five cups of coffee waiting for this guy from People who never showed up.”

  Something he said struck her as odd, but she didn’t have time to figure out what it was because that was the moment he pulled open the door to the bathroom.

  Later, she’d remember the door swinging out toward her, the flies swarming out on a billowing breath of evil.

  Ted stopped as if he’d hit a wall, blinked, backed away.

  Alex caught a glimpse of something swollen—sausages?— that looked to be bursting from their casings.

  Incongruously, she thought of the cheese in the refrigerator. Was Booker hanging sausage links in his shower?

  And then she realized they weren’t sausages but fingers.

  The smell poured out of the enclosed space in a noxious cloud.

  Booker Purlie was jackknifed into the little shower, the heels of his workboots braced against the floor. Inexorably, Alex’s gaze traveled from his workboots up the straight, blue-jeaned legs (so tiny!) to the “Surf’s Up!” muscle shirt to Booker’s face, hanging down. His bulging eyes were fixed on his boots; and his nose, lips, and chin were a color somewhere between eggplant and liver.

  He hung by the neck from a western belt looped around the shower nozzle. He looked as if he’d just leaned against the wall to catch his breath—as if he were too tired to move—his hands hanging down at his sides.

  “You don’t want to look,” Ted said, clamping a hand over her eyes. He pressed her against him, almost smothering her with his hand. She felt her own panic building, hating to be restrained and helpless.

  “Let me go!” She broke free and steadied herself by holding on to the door frame.

  She’d seen death many times in the animal world, should have recognized the smell.

  Alex was aware of Ted flinging open the door to the trailer, the night rushing in. He grabbed at her arm. “You don’t want to look at this. Please, Alex.”

  But she stood transfixed, unable to look away from the poor gargoyle face.

  She had to take a breath, and that did it.

  The smell and Ted’s insistent prodding drove her out into the darkness, but not before she saw Caroline’s photo lying near the drain of the shower stall, red crayon slashed across her face. It said, “If I didn’t do something, it would happen again.”

  Twelve

  “DEATH OF AN AMERICAN ICON” above black-and-white close-up photo of Caroline Arnet

  —TIME Magazine cover

  Nick McCutcheon drove down Devil’s Hearth Road beyond Del Walker’s house, reflecting that he was getting tired of responding to the old man’s petty annoyances.

  This time it was vehicles driving past his house at all hours of the night, raising dust and driving the dog crazy.

  Nick’s mind wasn’t on his work. He was still stewing over the fact that Judge England had decided against the sea
rch warrant. The idea of Booker Purlie terrorizing Alex gave him a sick feeling in his gut.

  His only relief came from his certainty that Booker Purlie had died.

  A Bronco with a light-bar rounded the curve in front of him. Doug Childers, looking for illegals. Childers, whom Nick had always pegged as lazy, surprised him by spending most of his time out of the office since he’d been transferred to the Palo Duro substation. He was “onto something big,” an organized ring that smuggled Mexican nationals across the border. He chased after illegals as if they were the Holy Grail. But he’d yet to make an arrest.

  Apparently, Doug had Sheriff Johnson’s blessing, despite the fact that they should have handed everything over to the Border Patrol.

  in a regular sheriff’s department, Doug wouldn’t have had such a free rein. Even though the sheriff’s job was an elected position and a sheriff could run his department anyway he liked, most sheriff’s offices used the .same hierarchy as the police departments. The sheriff at the top, followed by the ranks of undersheriff, major, captain, lieutenant, sergeant; the deputies were on the bottom. But in Sheriff Johnson’s department, there was only the sheriff and his deputies. The policy was supposed to be one of equality, sort of like King Arthur’s Round Table, with Kyle Johnson as the titular head, but in actuality, it didn’t work out that way. Everyone knew there was one boss, and all the deputies reported to him. If Nick had been required to report to his immediate superior, and so on up the line, there would have been more accountability. This way, Kyle Johnson’s power went unchecked. He knew what every one of his deputies was doing.

  He could punish some and reward others.

  Nick pulled over to the side of the road, expecting Childers to stop. Since the deputy was coming from the direction of the border, he might have seen the vehicles Del was complaining about.

  To his surprise, the deputy kept driving, looking straight ahead. The expression on his narrow face was intense and his weak chin tilted at a stubborn angle.

  Ignoring him.

  Nick wasn’t surprised. They’d never gotten along, and even a few hours in close proximity was uncomfortable in the extreme.