The Well - Book One of the Arizona Thriller Trilogy

by Sharon Sterling

  She turned to look at Kim, who had dressed in a flannel shirt and jeans and pulled her hair back in a pony tail. She wore not a speck of makeup. “And you, Kim, you are such a beautiful young woman. Didn’t I hear, a few years back, that you were going to California? To make movies?”

  “I…I had an offer. I did some modeling during my senior year in high school. The agency in Phoenix told my mom they had some inquiries from a casting director in Hollywood. An agent offered me a contract. He said he was sure he could get me some parts.”

  “Honey, why didn’t you do it, an opportunity like that?”

  “Because I guessed the kind of parts they had in mind for me. In grade B pictures, horror flicks, cheap westerns. Maybe they were even planning some X-rated stuff for me. I didn’t want to do that.”

  “You don’t know they wanted that, Kim,” said Crystal.

  “I think at best they’d want me to be a mannequin, like when I modeled, the beautiful Indian maiden who doesn’t say anything, just struts and poses. A freaking caricature of myself, of all Natives. A cheap stereotype!”

  “I’ve never understood that, Kim,” Crystal said. Why not? Why not become rich and famous, stereotype or not?”

  “Because I don’t think I have a right to exploit what I haven’t worked for or earned. I inherited this body and face.” She looked at the small pitcher of milk on the table and said, “It’s like being lactose intolerant.”

  Crystal shook her head, uncomprehending.

  “We’re not responsible for what we’re given. Here’s what I mean. For every generation until the last few, Native Americans didn’t have access to milk after they stopped nursing from their mothers so their stomachs didn’t evolve to digest milk when they were older. Mine doesn’t digest it, either.

  “It’s a nuisance for me not to be able to eat and drink dairy products, but I don’t judge and condemn myself for it. So why would I personalize and exploit my 'better' inherited traits? It’s the same thing. It is what it is, the good with the bad and all of it what Mother Nature intended.”

  ***

  On the evening of the training Allie would give, the turnout surprised her. At least twenty therapists, including several from her office, and other social services professionals filled the room.

  Most were locals but a few had come from as far away as Sedona and Flagstaff. About eighty percent were woman, the usual gender ratio for social service workers.

  Heidi and Betty were there, as much to lend support as to gain information, she thought. Since she had confided in Heidi about the ulterior motive for the training, Heidi had become her supporter and accomplice for outing Dr. V and his wife.

  She hadn’t expected that he would attend, but she and Heidi had persuaded Sherry to come. She sat in a row near the back of the room, wearing a business suit with a frilly red blouse beneath the jacket, one leg crossed over the other swinging in a languid rhythm. Allie thought she looked bored.

  The room filled, the audience settled in while Allie shuffled her three-by-five note cards, surprised at how nervous she felt. At four minutes after the scheduled start time, she adjusted the microphone to greet the audience and introduce herself. The microphone gave a few squawks of feedback, then settled down to its job.

  As she spoke, she noticed her self-consciousness yielded to her own interest in the subject and desire to do it justice. By the time she reached the mid-point of the talk, she felt confident and comfortable.

  She said, “Another consideration in professional ethics is dual relationships. When I was in school, one student thought dual relationships meant dating more than one person at a time.” She smiled and paused for laughter from the audience. “But that’s okay. A good example of a 'not okay' dual relationship would be to try to counsel a relative.

  “Dual relationships can be tricky because they often start with a desire to help people in as many ways as possible. For instance, suppose you have a client who is struggling financially, and who does housecleaning for a living. The thought naturally occurs that it would be of benefit to both of you if you hired her.”

  She smiled when she saw heads shaking 'no.' “That’s right. It can open up a whole can of worms about the quality of the work, about the worth of the work, payment for the work and about your personal space and privacy. On the other hand, suppose the client is a man who does great carpentry work and your front steps need replacing. Same thing. One rule is, if money has to change hands, other than their payment for your professional services, don’t even consider it. Instead, consider whether your boundaries or theirs will be tested or altered in any way. If so, just don’t go there.”

  She pushed her hair back from her face and reminded herself to stand up straighter. It was going better than she had hoped. The audience seemed attentive and respectful, with the possible exception of a few younger women texting on their cell phones. Even they were respectful enough to do it surreptitiously.

  “Now, some ethical and legal situations are cut and dried, like the ones I just mentioned. Other cases are more complex. A lot might depend on the rules in your agency, the ethical guidelines of your professional association, or just your own good judgment. Relationships between therapists and clients are the most clearly defined. Professional associations all say that a social or romantic relationship with a client is not appropriate until at least two years after the counseling is over. Preferably, never.

  “It’s the most obvious but also the most important part of any professional ethics training.” She paused for emphasis, willing the audience to hear and assimilate what she had to say next.

  “Don’t have sex with your clients. Don’t have romantic relationships with your clients. Don’t drift into a friendship with a client while you’re still their service provider or therapist. Maintain your boundaries.

  “I know we’ve all heard it a hundred times, but as long as we continue to read about law suits and people losing their licenses it bears repeating. Some of our clients have a deep pathology that causes them to be seductive and they can be very subtle in that process.

  “Drawing a firm boundary in relationships also applies to coworkers. It most certainly applies to relationships between supervisors and supervisees.”

  Heidi’s hand shot into the air.

  “Yes?”

  Heidi asked, “What about sexual harassment in the work place, or just, say, intimate relationships that are brewing in the office? What are the ethical boundaries there?”

  “Wow. That could be a different training. It’s not always easy to know when you’re starting to tread on dangerous ground in the office. I’m not saying that office romances are always out of bounds as long as both parties are willing and it’s not against your agency’s policy.

  “Here are some warning signs that you may be sliding into the danger zone in a relationship with a coworker or with a client.

  “First, never tell a client or coworker that he or she smells good. I know that sounds ridiculous, but body odor, whether it’s good or bad, is a very personal thing, a sensual thing.

  “Next, watch your PDA’s, your public displays of affection, even if it’s with your spouse. Glimpsing a bit of intimacy between you and another person can start a client or coworker thinking about you in a different way, maybe an inappropriate way.

  “And speaking of intimacy--maybe I don’t need to tell you to avoid romantic behaviors like touching coworkers or using terms of endearment when talking to them, even if you’re a person who usually calls people 'honey, sweetie' or 'dear'.”

  She paused for a second. The ubiquitous hum of an audience, the sounds of whispers, bottoms shifting in chairs, someone getting up to go to the rest room or take an important phone call had all but ceased. Good. It meant an increased level of attentiveness. They needed to hear what she was saying for two reasons.

  She continued, “If you don’t want a personal relationship, don’t give them your home telephone number. Oh, and very important--don’t talk about nudity or nakedn
ess, especially your own. Last, if you happen to have an erotic dream about a client or coworker, do not, I repeat do not tell them about it.”

  A grey haired man in the audience chuckled but an attractive young woman in the front row stared at Allie in horrified confusion or even embarrassment. Allie could read in her face the beginning suspicion that someone she trusted had manipulated her. She felt a rush of empathy for the woman. This is downright painful, she thought. It’s like reliving the experiences myself.

  She didn’t speak, but watched as several audience members turned to whisper a comment to the person next to them. She had both expected and dreaded this reaction. During a twenty second pause the undercurrent in the room, the buzz, continued and grew louder.

  One woman, then two, then three, turned to search out Sherry's face. She responded by planting her feet on the floor and tilting her chin upward to gaze at the ceiling, at the walls, anywhere but back at accusing eyes. Even from the front of the room, Allie could see her body language and expression speak discomfort. Ha! Guilty as charged, she thought.

  “That’s about it, folks. I hope this was helpful. Are there any questions?” Applause interrupted her and brought a smile of relief to her face. “I can answer questions now or if anyone would like to stay afterward and talk with me privately, I’d be glad to do that.”

  Sherry stood and made it out of the door before she had finished speaking. Wow, what a hasty retreat, she thought. Then some aphorism she had heard echoed in her mind, When your hidden cage of shameful deeds opens, guilt springs out to pursue you like a wild beast.

  Allie put one hand on the podium and saw with surprise it was shaking. She turned back to her audience. The face of the pretty young woman in the front row transformed with fury while she looked where Sherry had exited the room.

  A woman Allie recognized as a Child Protective Services worker walked toward Allie with her brows draw together in confusion. Another woman sat immobile in her chair, seemingly on the verge of tears, as most of the audience swept away around her in a tide of chatter.

  Still at the podium, Allie leaned on it for support as she shared their grief, anger and confusion. Beneath those emotions, bolstered by it, she felt vindicated.

  Chapter 10

  Kim and Crystal left Aunt Iva's house together. They exchanged glances of mutual relief, then both drew their coats closer. A cold front was moving in. Lowering clouds had begun to dust the world with snow. Crystal put her hands into the sleeves of her coat and hunched her shoulders against the chill. “We’ve got to find out what’s in that tool box.”

  “Maybe. If it’s the same tool box, and if there’s still something in it besides tools, after all these years. What I’ve got--what I think I’ve got-- is new and it shows his face.”

  “What do you mean, you think you’ve got?”

  “Crystal, the memory card is tiny, smaller than one of the corn flakes you had for breakfast this morning. I can’t find it but it could still be there, anywhere, stuck in a crack in the floor or something. I’m looking for it. We could send it anonymously, trust it would be enough to put him in with the rest of the perverts. It’s our best bet.”

  A shudder shook Crystal’s body, whether from the cold or thoughts of Upshall, Kim didn’t know. She grabbed her friend in a hug then looked into her face.

  “I’ll find it, Crystal. I’ll keep looking until I find it.”

  Back at the store, Kim and had just rung up an order of plumbing supplies for a do-it-your-self-er when her phone rang. Crystal again. “Kim, he’s out!”

  “When?”

  “I don’t know for sure. I called a minute ago and they said he was on the discharge list for today. They weren’t certain if he left already.”

  “If he comes looking for me on the res, he won’t find any welcome there. My brother would as soon shoot him as say hello.”

  Kim’s brother didn’t know her history with Upshall but disliked him because he sensed the extremity of his sister’s loathing for the man.

  The 'res' in Camp Verde consisted of three separate tracts of reservation land separated by several miles. The one near the center of town was tiny, one dead-end road lined by single-family homes amid a jungle of shrubs, vines and rose gardens, an overgrown oasis in the otherwise spare landscape of the town. Its ingress was also its egress, where a large building, the Native Community Center, stood guard.

  Any unfamiliar vehicle or stranger on foot coming in or out would not escape notice. This was the res where Kim had lived as a child, when Upshall knew her. Other tracts of tribal land to the north were larger and more rural. Kim now lived in the largest native community on the banks of the Verde River.

  Crystal dismissed Kim’s comment about her brother shooting Upshall while she considered the risk to her friend. “Maybe he doesn’t know where you live, but you can’t take that chance,” she said.

  “I know. I’ll go up to Flagstaff, to the hunting camp. The shack isn’t much, but I’ll make do. I don’t think anyone’s there now; they got their limit, the freezers are full.”

  Crystal knew about the camp in the ponderosa pine forest eleven miles south of Flagstaff and two miles east of Oak Creek Canyon in the Coconino National Forest. It was the base from which Kim and her relatives hunted deer and where they dressed the venison after a successful hunt.

  Crystal had gone there with Kim several times as a child. She had cried when she first saw what they did there, the open carcass of a large deer hanging from a tree, its spread-eagle cavity of naked, coral colored flesh and grey-white bone gaping obscenely.

  Now Crystal said, “I don't like to think of you alone in that place, Kim.” Her voice cracked. “How long can you hide there?”

  “Damn!” was the answer, as the prospect of becoming a fugitive for the foreseeable future hit home for Kim.

  “At least you can call me, Kim. Let me know you’re still alive. Every day.”

  “Sure, Crystal, as long as my phone holds out. There’s no electricity in the shack, but I have a charger in my car. I’ll do my best.”

  She left work by pleading sudden illness, and drove home to grab staple food items and a change of clothing. She stuffed the items in plastic grocery bags at random. Her backpack, sleeping bag and other camping gear were already in the back of the SUV.

  She took the fastest and most direct way to the camp, up I-17 to the exit at the small regional airport. Airport Road was a one mile stretch of blacktop that ended on the east at the tiny air field and on the west at the junction with 89-A toward Oak Creek Canyon.

  Located a hundred yards before that junction, nothing but a faint set of tire tracks through the ponderosa pine forest marked the dirt road to the camp.

  She turned the SUV left onto the track to the camp. Here at an elevation of seven thousand feet, the snow fell harder and faster, the air twenty degrees colder than in the valley. The tires of the SUV crackled on the track’s cover of pine needles newly dusted with snow.

  She slowed in caution, turned the windshield wipers on low and rolled the windows down an inch. No sounds but those she made. The roar and hum of the highway had faded to nothing and nothing was visible now but trees, walls and roof of trees. The floor was the narrow, needle and snow covered road in front of her. She entered silence and solitude that brought with it a semblance of peace antithetical to the sensory overload inflicted by the world she had left.

  The cabin came into view. Seconds later, she saw the round, black rump of a bear, distinct against the backdrop of snow and towering evergreens. No doubt it had been drawn by the lingering smell of deer blood. It appeared to be scavenging for any unburied remnants of that common prey of man and beast. She tapped the horn once, lightly. It turned to see her, the interloper, then ambled away with a rolling gait.

  She stopped the car in front of the shack and watched for almost half an hour to be sure the bear didn’t return and there were no others lurking in the area. She went to open the creaking door of the cabin.

  Di
m illumination from the open door and one south facing window showed two low and wide wooden shelves against the far wall that served as cots. Inset high in the north wall were shelves for food storage. A wood burning stove in the middle of the single room completed the furnishings. It was cold dark and desolate. She would be fine here.

  She went back to the SUV, intending to unload and then settle into the cabin but instead she half turned the key in the ignition, hit the play button on the control panel and allowed the sounds of flute and drum to enfold her. The notes were a natural accompaniment to the soughing of the wind in the pines muffled by the soundless fall of snow. She might have been drifting off to sleep when the phone rang, startling her. Jarred, she turned off the CD player to answer it.

  “Kim, he’s on his way there! You have to leave!”

  It shocked Kim into silence for a second. Then, “Crystal, I just got here. Besides, how could he know where I am?”

  “I don’t know, I really don’t, but he stopped at the gas station where your boyfriend, uh, your ex-boyfriend Ted, works. Ted doesn’t have your number any more, so he called me. He said Upshall asked about the weather in Flagstaff, road conditions. Then he asked if you were still driving the SUV that Ted fixed for you, with that white quarter panel that never got painted red. Why else would he want to know that?”

  “I don’t know Crystal. It could be coincidence. It could be for future reference or something. I just got here!”

  “You already said that. Ted didn’t like the way Upshall acted. He’s worried about you, too.”

  “Crystal, I have to go.” She pushed the off button of the phone and again the cool, forest-scented silence overtook her. Leaning back against the car’s headrest, she felt the cold begin to penetrate the floor boards and seep through the soles of her boots. Other than that she felt comfortable here in the driver’s seat of her car. Except for her thoughts.

  From the time Crystal returned the borrowed gun it had all seemed so clear, her mandate to act and the outcome of that action. Until now. Now things were so twisted. And wasn’t Crystal just overreacting again? Crystal did tend to overreact. If she heeded Crystal’s warning to leave the camp, she’d be running from a phantom, and with this weather.... It would be dark soon. Better to get into the cabin and start a fire for the night.