Anacacho, An Allie Armington Mystery

by Louise Gaylord

  “Coming right up. More ice tea, ma’am?”

  I nod, still chewing on that same bite, afraid to reveal how shaken I am, knowing that if our eyes meet, there will be trouble.

  After Bruce brings the milk and splashes more tea in my glass, the sheriff says, “What are your plans for the rest of the afternoon?”

  “Guess I’ll head for Susie’s. No point in sitting in that dreary motel room with a dead air conditioner.”

  “I bet they’ll be happy to see you. Nothing like sharing good news with friends.” He finishes the end of his hamburger, downs the last of his milk and stands. “I’ll catch the tab. Nice to find somebody that likes Bruce’s burgers as much as I do.”

  I’m too flustered to wave the banner for political correctness, so I do the ladylike thing and say, “Thank you, Sheriff.”

  His voice comes softly from above me. “How ’bout making it Bill?”

  I don’t look up. I’m afraid I’ll betray myself. “I can do that if you call me Allie.”

  “Allie.” It’s almost a croon. “I’d like that a lot.” His hand finds my shoulder, then falls away.

  I hold my breath until the door jingles shut, then relax against the cushion, relieved to have made it through another close encounter.

  At the motel, I move to another cottage, then change into jeans and boots. The new accommodation is positively frigid compared to my former digs, and I’m sorely tempted to fall on the bed and pass out for a couple of hours. If my mission weren’t quite so serious, I would.

  I step into the heat, then remember my Beretta, retrieve it from the bottom of my fold-over, and slip it into an inside pocket of my light twill vest.

  It’s almost three by the time I arrive at the Dardens’. They are sitting on the east porch, holding empty glasses, a Champagne bottle jammed in a galvanized water pail between them.

  Del stands as I mount the steps. “We’ve been celebrating. Join us?”

  There doesn’t seem to be any background ruckus and I ask, “What have you done with the kids?”

  He laughs. “It’s their night in town with Susie’s mom and dad. Only Little Allie’s home, so come help us celebrate.”

  “I’d like that, but what I’d like better is the loan of a horse.” His grin dies. “What for?”

  I slip into the chair my host scoots into the group, and lie. “I thought a ride might relax me.”

  “In this heat? Hell, Allie, you must already be sunstruck.”

  I wonder why Del seems to be stonewalling me and counter with, “It doesn’t seem that hot.”

  Susie chimes in. “That’s because we’re under trees and on a hill. It’s almost ten degrees cooler up here than down at the barn.” She points to the champagne. “C’mon, Allie, help us celebrate. We’re going to be rich.”

  Del settles next to his wife. “Get Allie a glass, will you, Suze?” When she disappears, his demeanor changes. “That mountain is no place for you to be right now.”

  I shiver. Is Del in this, too? I study him, searching for anything that will make a liar out of me. But it’s in his face. Did he take Reena to the hideaway for a tryst? Did they argue? Did he slit his “true love’s” throat and leave her to die? I think back to Susie’s tale of the cocaine and Del’s reaction. I read it as surprise, now I realize it was shock. His wife was opening the biggest can of worms in Uvalde County.

  I have to get out of here.

  A small voice inside my head whispers, Cool it, and my attorney mode kicks in.

  “Mountain?” Then I let the light dawn. “Oh, you mean the hideaway? That’s much too far from here. Besides,” I lie, “I have a dinner date with the sheriff if he gets off in time.”

  His wariness dissolves. “You and Cotton? Sharing dinner? I’m sure glad to hear you say that. It’s not safe to be roaming around by yourself while those people are still at large.”

  Del’s right. It certainly wouldn’t be safe, now that I’ve telegraphed my intentions. I curse myself for being so mouthy. Fortunately, Susie’s return saves the day. I gladly take the glass of champagne and sip. No use to seem in a hurry.

  Precious minutes slide by as we finish the bubbly and exchange idle chatter until I’m saved by my namesake’s squeal.

  When Susie rises and starts toward the door, I stand. “Thanks for the drink. I know you two have things to do, so I’ll head on back to town and wait for Bill.”

  Susie gives me a quick hug, then hurries toward the baby’s cries.

  Del guides me down the steps, in an unnecessary show of chivalry. When he helps me into the car, he says, “I’m telling you. Don’t even think of going up there.”

  He means business. What happened to my old buddy? What if Del is in on this?

  “I’m going back to Houston as soon as Reena’s buried.”

  “Take my advice. Don’t wait for the funeral. I don’t think there will be one.” With that he turns and walks away, leaving me trembling and speechless.

  It’s a little after four when I pull away. In my rearview mirror I see Del climb to meet Susie at the top of the steps. They hug. It’s the last glimpse I have of my two friends before I make the turn in their drive.

  The Anacacho station wagon is much too visible for my purposes, so I turn onto the road heading for the hangar and park on the far side. Hopefully, no one will be able to spot the car before I can put my plan into action.

  Actually, it was Susie’s description of her walk from her house to the ranch that gave me the idea. Her mention of the swale between the properties is the perfect way to get to the Darden barn without being seen.

  As I walk, flashes of past conversations filled with half-truths and Paul’s last words echo. I don’t want to believe that Del is involved in what seems like a major drug distribution setup. For the first time since her death, I curse Reena for introducing drugs to Paul and luring Del back into her treacherous web.

  Regardless of Del’s warning, my mission is to find Paul and the only place for me to look is on the mountain. If Paul isn’t there, I don’t know what I’ll do next. Pack my bags and head for Houston? Or stay?

  I’ve never been in the Dardens’ barn before. The musty mélange of hay and oats, mixed with the pungent ammonia of fresh manure, brings back childhood memories.

  I spend some time to locate the tack and then choose a horse that seems fairly gentle. Susie has often mentioned how well the boys ride, so I figure there must be a start-up mount for the toddler. After checking all five horses in their stalls, I pick a wide-backed sorrel.

  “Mr. No-Name” is carved over the entry to his home. When I call his name sotto voce, he sends back a low whinny and takes some oats from my open palm.

  I’ve made an excellent choice. He almost helps me put the bridle on, stands patiently while I tighten the cinch beneath his soft belly, then nuzzles me gently as I pause to listen for approaching footsteps.

  Not a sound, but I can’t afford to be caught this far into the plan, so I walk him almost a half-mile, before I swing my leg over his back, then urge him toward the mountains.

  Chapter 15

  IT ISN’T DIFFICULT to pick up the trail to Paul’s hideaway, since the path has been well-traveled over the years.

  It’s past four when I reach the last fork in the trail and recall Paul’s, “Just remember, right is wrong and left is right.”

  After tethering Mr. No-Name to a nearby mesquite, I make my way through the narrow cut and up the trail. Halfway to the top I realize that I’m a sitting duck. Anyone could pick me off with a single shot from any number of locations. I clutch the pocket of my vest. The gun is exactly where I put it. That makes me feel better.

  Though the climb is steep, I’m not particularly out of breath, but because I can’t hear any sounds other than my footsteps and my breathing when I walk, I stop every few steps to listen. So far, my stops have netted only the breeze whispering through the rocks.

  I don’t know whether to be disappointed or elated when I arrive at the summit. Not a soul t
o be seen. I strain to see the lean-to, then remember I won’t be able to see the platform until I approach from the south.

  Now sure no one is here, I pick up my stride. One brief check of the area and I’ll retrace my steps, pick up Mr. No-Name and be back at the Dardens’ barn well before dark.

  The moan stops me short. I hurry forward to see Paul curled on his side. He is bound and gagged. The terror in his eyes sends my hand for the Beretta stashed in my jacket pocket just as the lights go out.

  The pain is excruciating. I peer into darkness, then realize I’m blindfolded and my mouth has been taped shut. I’m lying on my side, arms tied behind me, legs trussed. My head feels like a poleax is buried in the back of it.

  The horror in Paul’s face still burns front and center in my brain. I hear voices and struggle to concentrate on the conversation, but the deafening throb in my head takes precedence.

  A male voice says, “Are we going to take her with us?”

  “Don’t ask me. I’m not calling the shots.” It’s Fanny. Why am I not surprised?

  “What do we do with her when she comes to?” the man asks.

  “I don’t think we have to worry about her for a while. You were very efficient with your rifle butt. She’s going to have a helluva headache.”

  “Serves the snoopy bitch right.”

  I feel weight settle next to me as a hand pushes my face into the mattress and it’s all I can do not to scream from the pain.

  It’s the man. “Not much blood.” His hand slides down my back, then across my rear. I struggle not to flinch. “I want this one, Fan. That okay with you?”

  “Dammit, Luke, let’s get the business part of this deal done, first. Then, as far as I’m concerned you can do whatever you want.”

  He squeezes my buttock, then tries to slide his hand between my legs and whines, “I want first dibs, Sis. Just promise me that.” Fanny is Luke’s sister? Anything to take my mind off the thundering ache. I try to reconstruct the events. Did Fanny meet Paul, set him up, then send Luke to the ranch? Or did Luke size up the deteriorating relationship between Paul and Reena and call his sister?

  Fanny must be standing above me. Her words are muted. “I’d hold off on that. No point in stirring things up.”

  Luke jams his hand farther between my legs, then moves it back and forth. “But she likes it. I know she does.”

  “I said, hold off.”

  Their voices are drowned by the whine of an approaching helicopter.

  The motor finally dies, giving me a little relief.

  Minutes pass, then there are more footsteps and whispers.

  I hear Luke say, “I did what I had to do, dammit. Somebody should have been on her tail. You should have kept her away from here.”

  I listen for a reply, but my head is splitting. I’ve never felt such pain. Never imagined I could be alive and hurt so badly. A firm hand touches my forehead, then I smell the familiar smoky aftershave. It’s Bill.

  “Too late now to do anything about it. What’s wrong with Carpenter?”

  Fanny laughs. “Coming down from Mister Brown isn’t as much fun as losing the glow from Mister Snow.”

  Smack, junk, brown sugar, horse, and skunk roll through my mind, all street names for heroin. I think back to January. No visible tracks then. His symptoms were those of a cocaine abuser.

  Bill’s accusation interrupts my thoughts. “You shot Carpenter with heroin?”

  “A real big dose. One more and he’s bye-bye,” Luke says. “I say we put a bullet in her, then kill Carpenter and he gets the blame.” “No can do, Luke. We can’t leave her here. That’s too dangerous for the operation.”

  Fanny sounds close. “Whatever you say. You’re the boss.”

  I feel Bill examine the back of my head. His hands are gentle. He pats my shoulder, then says, “I’ll take care of her.”

  He rolls me over, then lifts me. “Do what you want with Carpenter. He’s already dead meat.” He stops. “They’ll be here in less than an hour, so whatever you do, do it pronto.”

  Chapter 16

  VOICES. TOO FAR AWAY. Can’t hear what they’re saying. Where am I? I don’t know. Where have I been? I can’t remember.

  “Allie? Can you hear me? It’s Dad.” Someone’s holding my hand. I feel clean. The sheets seem smooth beneath me. Why do I smell rubbing alcohol? I should get ready for work, but it’s still too dark to get out of bed.

  The voice is deep. “Your daughter suffered a pretty severe concussion complicated by a subdural hematoma. The pressure’s been relieved. Shouldn’t be too long before she comes out of it.”

  A finger pries open my right lid and a bright light pierces the darkness.

  “See how quickly the pupil responds?” Deep Voice says. “That’s a very good sign.”

  “Allie? I’m Doctor Dirk Knight, your neurologist. Can you squeeze my hand?”

  A hand squeezes. I want to squeeze back. But how? I don’t know how. I can’t remember.

  “Try hard, Allie, I know you can do it.” Can I?

  I must, because I hear Dad’s, “That’s my girl.”

  The hand squeezes again and Deep Voice says, “That’s great, Allie, but I’d like a repeat.”

  “So would I.” That’s my voice. A little croaky, but definitely mine.

  Deep Voice comes into focus. He’s a huge man with buzz-cut red hair and so many freckles he looks like he has a rash. I can see my reflection in his owlish glasses. I’m just short of a mummy with a football helmet of bandages.

  “How long have I been out?”

  He flips open my chart. “Not sure exactly. You were unconscious when they found you outside the Laredo ER late Friday night. Your ID was in your jeans pocket.”

  “And today is?” “Wednesday.”

  Dad peers over the doctor’s shoulder. “The police called your apartment manager, who contacted us. We thought Houston had the best medical facilities.”

  When the doctor leaves, Dad settles beside me. “Thank God you’re all right. We were so worried. Angela has called at least twice a day.”

  I am just about to ask about my mother when the door flies open and I hear her voice. “They said she’s awake.”

  My mother’s tear-stained face comes into view as cool, quivering hands cover my cheeks. “Oh, Allie, we were so afraid we were going to lose you. Thank heavens you’re okay, because I couldn’t have made it through another funeral.”

  “How’s this?” Dr. Knight is above me, checking my pupillary reaction for the third time this morning, and for the third time this morning the probing light ratchets the dull ache to a pile-driving pound.

  “Same as before,” I groan. I jam my eyes shut, hoping the usual dizziness and nausea will remain at bay.

  “Mmmm.”

  I hear him leaf through my chart and I crack one lid. The room isn’t spinning. A good sign. The clock on the wall reads just past eleven. I should have my appetite up to speed by the time they deal out the lunches.

  Today is my first day up and though I was a little dizzy, I managed to shower. There’s a large shaved spot at the back of my head where they drilled through my skull to drain the hematoma. For the first time in a week, I feel like I might have a chance to rejoin the human race.

  “Good news.” Knight slaps shut the chart, then settles next to my bed. “Despite the lingering pain and your inability to recall recent events, the concussion you sustained is healing nicely.”

  I feel the back of my head. Not as bad as I thought. Thank heaven for thick hair.

  When I don’t answer, he goes on. “As I said yesterday when I was removing your bandages, this memory loss is not unusual, so don’t worry too much about that now. Give yourself some time—a couple of months usually does the trick.”

  He studies me for a while, then says, “Still no idea of what happened?”

  My throat clamps shut. Damn him. He just said not to worry—that it would take some time to remember. Why does he ask something in the very next breath I know
nothing about? I glare back at him, hating him for asking, hating myself for not remembering.

  At first I was afraid I had lost everything. Well, not everything, because I immediately recognized my parents. And my past life through high school was completely intact.

  Bit by bit, some of the rest has fallen in place. I’m still a competent law practitioner who once shared some long, nice kisses with Duncan.

  I know Susie and Del married after Reena dumped him and they have lots of boys. That Reena and Paul live on a huge spread down the road from them. But there are so many blank spots.

  Knight presses on. “You don’t recall making a second trip to Uvalde to attend your friend’s funeral?”

  To hear about Reena’s death is still shocking, but I shake my head. “No. I know Reena’s dead only because my parents brought me the article in the paper. She was murdered.”

  I take a deep breath, but the throat and chest are still engaged. It’s panic. I know all the signs. The thought that those months may be lost forever scares me senseless.

  Knight probes again. “Do you remember getting to Uvalde?” Though Duncan told me I met Reena for lunch at Rudi’s the previous January, then flew home with her for the Martin Luther King Holiday, I struggle to think of anything connected to Uvalde. Nothing comes but more panic symptoms accompanied by intense uneasiness. Hard as I try, I remember nothing. Now it’s mid-May. I’ve lost four whole months.

  “Nice town, Uvalde. Real pretty courthouse.” Knight’s trying to nudge me along, but it’s all a blank.

  I give him a baleful look. “If you say so.”

  The room is starting to spin. There goes lunch.

  He must read me, because he pats my hand and stands. “Try to get some sleep. Rest is the best medicine.” He’s almost out the door when he turns. “Might want to make a few plans. If tomorrow and Friday go well, we’ll be releasing you Saturday. Too bad your parents couldn’t stay.”

  I rush to cover. “Dad has a big trial coming up.”

  In truth my mother’s growing litany of small complaints was driving us crazy. Sitting in a hospital or a motel room was such a bore. The cat needed tending. The plants were probably already dead.