The Desert Waits

by J. Carson Black

  The cat sat at the edge of the bed, her ears pricked and a ridge of fur running down her back like a Mohawk haircut. She growled, a high, mewling sound. Jumped down and darted under the bed.

  The lawn mower’s engine cut off mid-throttle outside her door. The silence was empty and somehow malevolent.

  Footsteps shuffled on flagstone. A fist banged on the door, rattling it on its hinges.

  Morbidly curious, Alex slipped out of bed and crept to the window beside the door. Her heart slammed against her rib cage; darkness jabbed at her vision like a manic boxer. She parted the drapes slightly and craned her neck to see who was there. Her eyes caught the edge of a figure, more a dark presence than a shape.

  A pattering sound came from beneath the window. Alex looked down and saw two blue-tick hounds standing on the flagstones, their tails waving slowly.

  The shape stepped back, shoes gritting on stone. He was digging into his pockets.

  Keys jangled.

  Did he have a key to her door? Her heart was going wild now, like a panicked cat clawing its way up her throat. She stepped back.

  Dial 911.

  The phone seemed impossibly far away.

  The key slid into the lock.

  The knob turned slowly.

  Alex tried to swallow, but she was paralyzed. Her skin felt as if it had shrunk on her body.

  Her throat hurt. Every part of her body ached, and stifling fear sat on her chest and made it impossible for her to move.

  The door creaked open. The figure was silhouetted against the starry night, tall and menacing.

  I’m dreaming this. This can’t be happening.

  A dog yawned; it came out as a whine.

  The man’s face was shaded by an ARIZONA FEEDS cap. A bouquet of roses dangled from one hand. He stepped forward, his work boots hollow on the floorboards.

  “What do you want?” Alex’s throat hurt so badly she could barely speak.

  He said nothing. Just kept coming.

  He was almost to her when the adrenaline kicked in. She ducked, pelted past him. He grabbed for her and missed. She ran for the doorway, the rectangle of lesser darkness. Banged her hip against a dresser, hit the door jamb with her palms.

  Her throat ... oh God her throat!

  A heavy hand clamped on her shoulder, pulled her around, and she looked into eyes as cold and hard as peach pits. He reached for her burning throat—

  She shot upright in bed.

  No one was holding her by the neck. No one was in the room. Still not sure she’d been dreaming, Alex held perfectly still, listening. All she heard was a cricket cheeping in the bathroom.

  Wide awake, she glanced at the clock. Almost four in the morning. She went to the window and looked out. The courtyard drowsed under an indifferent moon and a smattering of stars. Alex strained her eyes against the darkness, trying to discern the various shadows from one another. The place seemed empty. She swallowed, and her throat burned. So did her forehead.

  I had a bad dream, she thought. A bad dream about Rollie Watkins and his dogs. I’m coming down with something, some bug, and it must have affected my dreams.

  Rollie Watkins wasn’t around tonight. At least not as far as she could see.

  She sat down on the bed, glanced at the phone. She could have called Nick, but she wouldn’t. She took the backpack out of her closet and put the Mace can under her pillow.

  Checked the bolts, the chain.

  She couldn’t sleep after that, but read the rest of the night, the light from her bedside lamp staving off the hungering dark.

  Twenty-two

  “UTA Congratulates Ted Lang, hailed by Sprocket Magazine as Hollywood’s Hottest New Producer, on his feature film FILTHY LUCRE, and looks forward to a long and fruitful relationship.”

  —quote from a full-page ad in Variety taken out by Ted Lang

  “You never know which Ted you’re talking to on any given day,” Maybelle Deering said. “I figured that out the first time I met him. He can tie a regular person in knots without half trying.” She shook her head. “Poor Rollie. How could anyone think he was a child-killer?”

  “Ted—”

  “Ted’s an idiot. Rollie’s a second cousin of mine. He’s lived in Alabama all his life, and up to last year, he was married to the same woman for twelve years. I think we’d all know if he was in prison, don’t you? And as far as I know, he’s been Rollie Watkins all his life.”

  Alex blew her nose again, feeling miserable. Her sore throat had turned into a full-blown cold. “Sorry,” she said as Maybelle set down the room service tray next to her bed. Hot chicken noodle soup compliments of the Hotel Sonora.

  “Well, you didn’t know. That sure is a bad cold. You’d better rest easy for a while, stay out of that canyon. It’s freezing there at night.”

  Maybelle had dropped in to see if Alex had developed the jaguarundi photograph yet. She’d ooed and ahhed at length over every line, every shading of light on the cat ... the one bright spot in Alex’s day. “How’d you know I’d be here today?” Alex asked her.

  “I’ve got my spies. It pays to own the hotel. Heard you were feeling punk and I thought this soup would cheer you up. And I’ve been driving myself crazy wondering what that photo would be like. I take it you won’t be going out for more, though, at least not today.”

  Alex’s bones ached. “I’m a real baby when it comes to colds. I’m here for the duration.” She tried to keep the self-pity out of her voice, but it was hard. Looked as though she’d be spending a few more nights here at least, and that would cost. Last night she’d gone to the desk clerk and told him she’d be paying for her room from now on. Thank God she had plastic.

  Even though she was disgusted with herself, Alex was secretly relieved that Ted hadn’t taken her up on her offer to pay for the last week, because she couldn’t afford it.

  Never divorce a divorce lawyer. Luckily, the rock house in Tucson was in her parents’ name or she’d be living in an apartment and washing her clothes at a laundromat.

  “Just as well you aren’t going out today,” Maybelle said. “Looks like we’re in for a thunderstorm. You going to head home, now you’ve got that photo?”

  “I’d like to get more,” Alex said, omitting that she wanted to get a photograph of the kittens. “How did you get into wildlife rehabilitation?”

  “I’ve always had a love affair with animals, particularly wild ones. People I can take or leave, mostly leave, but I took to animals early on. The senator was a big game hunter, but he also contributed a lot to conservation, particularly zoos. Used to take me with him. I remember the day I saw a snow leopard in Washington, DC. Took one look at that leopard and couldn’t think of anything else.”

  Senator Maurice Deering, liberal Democrat and big game hunter, who had represented Arizona in the United States Congress for at least forty years. As Alex recalled, he’d died at the ripe old age of ninety. He must have sired Maybelle later in life.

  Maybelle continued. “Predators intrigue me. The big cats, wolves, raptors—even coyotes.” The lines in her face softened with fondness, at odds with her subject matter. “A predator is a killing machine. Lean and mean. They do this world a great service, cutting down the animal populations. If I come back in another life, I’d want to be a peregrine falcon. Fastest creature on earth.”

  Alex smiled inwardly as Maybelle Peering waxed nostalgic on the virtues of predators. She looked a bit like a predator herself in her Australian cowboy hat with its one curled brim, work shirt, jeans, and a necklace of feathers around her neck. She was an American original, no doubt about it.

  “I guess I’d better get going. I’ve been threatening to inspect this place from top to bottom for a while now, and I think the staff’s beginning to think I’m just blowing hot air. You need anything else?”

  “No thanks.”

  “I see you and the cat came to some arrangement,” she said, nodding to the other end of the couch. “Gotta name for it yet?”

  “Gy
psy’s her latest incarnation.”

  “You oughta do what I do. Every dog I’ve ever owned was called Spot. Easy to remember and worked out just fine until I got more than one. Now when I call Spot, all five of ‘em come running.”

  Kyle Johnson’s Lexus sat in the parking lot of the Palo Duro substation when Nick returned from an early-morning call. Nick swallowed his bile and stepped into the mobile home, deciding he would speak in a calm, reasonable voice when he asked to see the autopsy report on Booker Purlie.

  Johnson wasn’t there. Mildly relieved but feeling put off, Nick called dispatch. “Why’s the sheriff down here, Lupita?”

  “He said he was going to lunch with Doug.”

  Going to lunch with Doug. Figured. Nepotism was alive and well in the Gilpin County Sheriff’s office. He was probably pumping Doug for information on Nick’s campaign.

  He’d guessed right about Deputy Doug’s flu bug. It wasn’t even the twenty-four-hour variety. When Nick had returned from Tucson yesterday, Doug was eating Mexican food from Rosa’s Cantina and chasing it with Pacifico beer.

  Nick had the clerk connect him with Alex’s room.

  “I’ve got a cold,” she said plaintively.

  Nick debated telling her about Booker’s murder. He didn’t want to alarm her any more than was necessary, particularly because he didn’t really have a handle on what was going on. “Your door locked?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Don’t let anybody in.”

  “Deputy Fife—I mean Childers—must have told you then.”

  “Told me what?”

  “I asked him to tell you I called. I got a message from Uncle Wiggly.”

  Nick sat down, pen at the ready. “Tell me everything.”

  When Alex finished her story, she asked him if he believed Maybelle was telling the truth about Rollie.

  “I don’t see her lying about something like that. It’s easy enough to check out. You want me to come by later?”

  “You’d only catch my cold.” I think I’ll take a nap anyway.”

  “Lock your door.”

  When he’d hung up the phone, he called the Hotel Sonora. He was lucky enough to reach Maybelle, and she confirmed what she’d told Alex. No one named Peter Scott had ever worked there. She couldn’t even remember anyone with a similar name. And Rollie Watkins had lived in Alabama up to a year ago, when he and his wife had split up.

  Nick thumped his pencil eraser on the desk, thinking. Maybe Ted Lang could shed a little light on the subject.

  The hotel connected him to Ted’s room.

  “Hello?”

  “Ted Lang?”

  “Who may I ask is calling?”

  Nick stifled his impatience. “Nick McCutcheon with the Gilnin County Sheriff’s office.”

  “He’s not here right now.”

  Nick could swear the guy sounded like Ted. “Who’s this?”

  “Peter Wannamaker. His agent. Can I take a message?”

  “Just tell him I want to talk to him as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll be sure to give him the message.” A click and then a dial tone.

  Absently, Nick stared out at the sheriff’s white-and-gold Lexus, trying to twist a Rubik’s Cube of answers into the right order. He had lots of pieces, but they didn’t fit together.

  He pulled out a legal pad, doodled on it for a while before forcing himself to get down to business. He was a great one for lists, and so he wrote down everything he could think of:

  Plane crash prop gun

  Ocelots, parrots, Crocker place Uncle Wiggly = Peter Scott? Abandoned truck, campershell Booker Purlie’s murder greeting cards

  He thought for a moment and added:

  prescription pills—Barry and Lana, D-Day—Caroline’s birthday suicide? Attitude change

  He erased “prop gun” from the top list and added it to the second under prescription pills, then added the names:

  Ted Lang

  Booker Purlie

  Luther van Cleeve

  Elvis Bardeaux

  Barry Dolan

  Lana Deane

  Alex

  Peter Scott

  Doug Childers

  His pencil paused at Ted’s name, preparatory to scratching it out. Ted had been listed on a flight out from Rome the day before Caroline was killed, and on a connecting flight from New York. But there was no way of knowing if he’d actually been on those flights.

  He left Luther on the list, too, but crossed out Booker Purlie and Alex.

  He went over what people had told him. As recently as a month ago, Caroline had been desperately trying to push the production of Jagged Impact to its conclusion in time for her thirtieth birthday. Nick was sure she’d planned to commit suicide on that date, maybe because dying on her birthday was more dramatic.

  But there had been another change in her. More recent. As if a weight had been lifted. Carefree, cavorting in the desert on her ATV. Acceptance? Often, suicides were serene once they made up their minds to kill themselves.

  Yet when Alex met her the night before her birthday, Caroline was scared. Terrified. Of the cards, the flowers, the notes.

  Which was it? Was his first guess right and she really had decided to live after all? And someone—someone she’d already confided in—hadn’t liked the change in plan?

  The wind picked up, rattled the trailer door.

  Nick had talked to Grey Sullivan, Alex Cafarelli, Luther van Cleeve, Ted Lang, Barry Dolan, and countless cast and crew members, searching for the answer which still eluded him. Not one of them had mentioned a defining moment, a turning point, one concrete reason to cause Caroline’s change of heart. Maybe there hadn’t been one. Maybe she just couldn’t go through with it. It might be as simple as that.

  His thoughts drifted back to Mike Camacho. Nick had always believed that if Mike had gotten past the danger point, his life would have been full, happy, and productive. Mike’s death was preventable. Somebody—a parent, a teacher, a friend, or maybe all of them—had dropped the ball. But now, he wondered ...

  Could anyone have stopped Mike Camacho from killing himself?

  Nick would never know.

  Just as he’d never know if Caroline Arnet would have chosen life over death if she’d had the chance.

  Outside, the sky had darkened to a blue-black glower. Looked like Kyle Johnson’s shiny new car would get a rinse.

  Impulsively, he added Kyle Johnson’s name to the list. Why did he cover up Booker Purlie’s murder? Because he wanted the case closed and Booker was the perfect scapegoat? Johnson could grab headlines and take the credit for solving Caroline’s murder without a messy little detail like another murder throwing a spanner in the works.

  There was plenty of reason to keep Booker’s death a suicide, but if it ever came out, Sheriff Johnson’s career would be destroyed. Why would he risk that?

  Thunder grumbled in the distance. The first raindrops hit Johnson’s Lexus. Nick scanned the list and made a few minor adjustments. Sat back and studied it. Glanced out the window.

  Abruptly, he felt a looseness in his vitals, the stirring of excitement he always experienced when he was close to some kind of revelation.

  Adrenaline flowing, he yanked the trailer door open and strode purposefully down the steps through the driving rain to his cruiser.

  Alex awoke in the early afternoon. Her head was congested and she was bored. She turned on the television, but the programming was all talk shows featuring inbred deviants who had finally gotten their moment in the sun after a lifetime of scratching a living in Grunion Flats or Frog Holler. An expertly coiffed host, no doubt holding a bachelor’s degree in communications, hung on every illiterate word. Alex clicked through the channels: devil worship, Men Who Don’t Respect Women and Women Who Lap it Up, and cross-dressing daycare workers. These days, you didn’t have to be Stephen Hawking to find a forum.

  Alex thought of Caroline and her very real pain, how she had struggled to keep her victimization out of the medi
a. These people flaunted it.

  Outside, the sky turned the color of eggplant. Thunder grumbled. The meteorologist on the news explained that it was way too early for the monsoon season, that the weather pattern was all wrong for a legitimate thunderstorm, but Alex couldn’t tell the difference. It looked pretty darn serious to her. She pawed on the bedside table for a Kleenex and her hand touched contact paper. Ted’s script for the thriller Caroline was going to do next. He’d left it under her door, along with a note saying he was sorry. He didn’t specify which gaffe he was sorry for—his pathological lying, or cheating on his dead wife.

  Lightning strobed through the room. The rain started. First a little, then a lot. It pounded the pavement outside, turning the flagstones liver-colored, hammering the bougainvillea, and sending papery, rose-hued blossoms cartwheeling onto the pool’s surface, now teeming with bubbles. On the hill beyond the slippery red-tile roofs, saguaros poked into the grainy air, swelling as they absorbed rainwater into their firm, green flesh.

  The script was called Deadly Delusions. As the story opened, a well-known, beautiful romance writer was nearly killed by a taxicab in New York City, the first of a string of accidents after receiving letters from a deranged fan. The stalker’s threats became increasingly bizarre.

  The smell of wet creosote drifted in through the open window along with a steady hiss. Curling-up weather. Gypsy climbed into the hollow made by the blanket over Alex’s lap. The story was a spooky parallel to Caroline’s. Alex found it ironic that this was the movie Caroline had planned to star in next.

  A third of the way through the script, the irony turned to something more sinister.

  This couldn’t be a coincidence. Alex turned back to the title page. The screen writer, William Scott Peters, was no one she knew, but the dialogue had the Ted Lang stamp. Brady Bunch Life. He’d probably taken charge of the rewrite.

  At another time, in another place, Alex would have laughed out loud. Ted had managed to make evil seem mundane. But in this creaky old hotel, with the rain whispering doubts into her ear and Booker Purlie’s death mask still fresh in her mind, the banality of Ted’s project added another dimension to her mood: horror.