by Susan Slater
“I wish I knew.” Dan shook his head in puzzlement. No immediate explanation jumped to mind. But the start of an idea was just sparking somewhere in the recesses. What if Emily was a “mule”? Maybe Emily made the deposit and Amber took it from there. Delivered money? Picked up drugs? Depositing drugs or money beside the silver baby spoon and wedding set for Amber to…to do what? Drugs made sense. It wasn’t farfetched. In fact, it made perfect sense—out here, off the beaten path. Still, it was dangerous work. Amber should have stuck with talking dirty in the middle of the afternoon. But how did Amber get into the safe deposit box? Maybe the bank president…?
He thanked Stephanie, waved good-bye to Sheriff Howard, got in the Cherokee and sat there thinking. What if ol’ Lawrence Woods was involved? There it was again, another “what if.” And what did that leave him with? He dug out his keys. He couldn’t put off going back to the apartment forever. He started the Cherokee and made a U-turn.
***
Inactivity was crazy-making. Dan went over his notes. Took Simon for a walk, went over his notes again. Could the death—he needed to amend that to murder—of the bank president and the part-time worker be connected? If he didn’t know that Amber had set him up, the answer might have been “no.” But she was a player. Former player. But how much had she known? Had she been paid to look the other way when Emily visited the family box? And what did she see then? Was she on the same page as Lawrence? Somehow in cahoots? Whatever her level of knowledge, someone saw the need to silence her.
So where did Elaine fit in? What could she know? What could she have seen? Had she been silenced too? Somehow, maybe out of the sheer need to survive and not give into any worst-case scenario, he refused to believe that. She was alive and she was out there somewhere—somewhere in a part of the country that boasted an average of less than one person per square mile. Proverbial needle in the haystack.
He whistled for Simon, opened the Cherokee’s back door and then slipped behind the wheel—and just sat there.
“Where to?” He watched the dog in the rearview cock both ears. “Think we should go back out and look around?” This time there was a woof and a shake of the head that sprayed saliva across the back of the driver’s seat. “Okay, back to the wilds.”
Maybe it wasn’t that he expected to find something and more like this was the last place that he knew Elaine had been and there was comfort in that. Whatever, he let Simon out and walked the trail once again from the burned outline of the car, back through the brush, down the arroyo, up the dry bed, back up the side following the ATV tracks and back to the Cherokee.
Nothing. Nothing he hadn’t seen before and no epiphany. It was a long shot but as long as he was out here, he might as well see if ol’ Buster saw or heard anything. He was less than a mile north and west. It wasn’t out of the question that someone might have noticed something. A burning car would have been noticeable at a distance further than that. He had no idea if Buster had ranch hands that stayed late in the evening but guessed there might be. It was improbable that he worked that sized spread 24/7 all by himself.
The gate was unlocked and Dan let himself in. At the end of the drive this time there wasn’t a man with a shotgun, just one furiously barking Chihuahua…with a rhinestone tiara.
“Bitsy. Get in here.” Penny Kennedy stood at the edge of the porch.
“What a nice surprise. What brings you all the way out here?” She deftly leaned down and scooped up Bitsy.
At least this Penny was the one he remembered. Eye makeup and straightened hair must be reserved for bank visits. “I’d like to talk with the doc.” Dan explained the events of the last twenty hours leaving out the dead girl in the Mercedes. But mentioned the car fire. Dan had purposefully left out the part about an ATV, too.
“Oh my. That lovely Ms. Linden. And you think she may have gone for help and gotten lost? Or worse? Oh dear, it’s so dangerous out here.
Animals…” She looked up, “I’m so sorry. I know Doc Jenkins will just be beside himself to think it happened on his property. He was away over the weekend. I don’t expect him back before tomorrow.”
“Were you here on Friday?”
“I only worked until mid-day and then came back this morning. I don’t work much during the week—only weekends. I do filing and correspondence for Dr. Jenkins. This is my little mad money job. I don’t like to leave mother alone for very long.”
“What about ranch hands? Is there a full crew here today?”
“Oh, my goodness, no. The boys live as far away as Albuquerque. They’re out of here Friday afternoons by two.”
“So, no one was here late last Friday and no workers are here today?”
“No, the place is quite deserted.”
“Thanks for your time. I’ll catch up with the doc first of the week.” Dan turned to go, then paused, “How is your mother?”
“She’s been better this week. Of course, finding the necklace just gave her a new lease on life. That necklace is her life if you know what I mean. And that sweet Mr. Woods, God rest his soul, was a dear to cover for her.”
“I’m glad things worked out.” No wonder the town didn’t need a newspaper—Woods was already news before lunchtime. He idly wondered who of the curbside spectators was the town crier. No mention of murder. That must be under wraps. “I’ll keep in touch.”
“Please let us know about Ms. Linden. Mr. Mahoney, I know this is going to have a happy ending. I can just see the two of you in Ireland, come spring. An Irish spring.” A trill of laughter, and a wave.
She was still waving in that somewhat simplistic, chipper way that she had even after he’d turned the Cherokee around and headed back toward the highway.
Chapter Thirteen
Two figures in bulky hazmat suits complete with hoses connected to wheezing air pumps mounted on their backs pushed open the door. No ray of sunshine streamed in over their shoulders. Must be night. Again. Elaine shifted her weight to the side that didn’t hurt which was a toss-up, both hips felt bruised and stiff. And her right ankle throbbed. Wherever she was, it was humid and cold. Humidity? In New Mexico? Must be some temperature controlled building…amend that to closet. She only had the luxury of seeing around the edge of the blindfold—but the walls seemed close. Maybe a ten by ten space.
Then it struck her. She was in a walk-in cooler of sorts—the sound of the heavy door thudding into place, bolt locks noisily sliding across when her captors left, the clammy metal walls. And the sound of a generator that came on now and then and refreshed her air supply. She only knew the cooler opened to the outside because she had seen sunshine frame the doorway. Yesterday? Maybe only this morning—she had no way of knowing. At least both of her captors carried flashlights or that was her guess as beams of light skirted the edges of the blindfold.
The first white suit leaned over her and prodded the area around her ankle while the other stood behind her and pointed a beam of light at the area. She hadn’t meant to cry out but the pain was swift and blinding. She must have twisted her ankle. She remembered leaving the car to get Bitsy, but the rest was a blank. White-suit applied what was probably a bag of ice, and not too gently lifted her leg to rest on a pillow. Elaine willed herself to pay attention. Was this a woman? The shadows seemed to outline one smaller or shorter person and one taller one. The person closest to her was now ripping gauze. A long string of it was tucked under the turned back cuff of the white suit and between the latex gloves and the cuff, Elaine could just make out a tattoo. Something very black, maybe the image of a tree trunk…there was no way to see more without giving away that she could see at all. Impossible to tell what they had in store for her. Should she feel heartened that if they patched her up, they probably weren’t going to kill her ? Not yet, anyway. Maybe they were just saving her for something.
She also smelled food and her stomach did a somersault. How long had it been since she’d eaten? White-su
it untied the straps around her wrists but didn’t touch the blindfold. Neither did she. She sat there rubbing first one wrist and then the other waiting until the person closest to her had secured the bag of ice to her ankle with strips of gauze. Finally both shuffled to the door and left, slipping the bar into place from the outside.
Tentatively she untied the knot behind her head. The generator whirred on and a single light bulb suspended from a cord in the middle of the tiny room began to glow. Elaine looked around. Her luggage was stacked against the closest wall. There was a porcelain pot in the far corner. She thought her grandmother would have called it a slop bucket, ten feet away was a covered tray and six one-gallon plastic bottles of water. The bathroom and dining area seemed a little close together. A blanket and a narrow, rolled cotton mattress completed the furnishings. Spare. No, bleak was more like it. Tears threatened to spill over her lower lids; she blinked and willed herself to have strength. Giving into feeling sorry for herself wouldn’t get her anywhere.
On the first attempt at standing, her right ankle refused to hold any weight. She sat back sharply on the floor and gasped with the sudden searing pain. Was she going to faint? She willed herself to stay alert and didn’t move until the dizziness passed. She gingerly untied the gauze strips holding the ice pack in place and let the bag fall to the floor. Her ankle looked badly bruised but possibly that was the extent of her injuries. A test circle to the right and then to the left hurt but proved nothing was broken. Maybe not even badly sprained. This was good news but only if she thought she could get away. And that seemed hopeless.
So, first things first, she crawled to the tray of food. A stack of sandwiches, a dozen in all, each individually wrapped from a convenience store—with contents like ham, ham and cheese, tuna salad—well, there was one she wouldn’t eat. Two unopened bags of chips, a jar of peanut butter, six pop-top cans of soup and a box of Raisin Bran. No utensils. No condiments. She reached for a sandwich, a ham and cheese on rye. Safer than the tuna salad but the rye was a little too dry. And who knew where they’d been or how long they’d gone without refrigeration.
But why so much food? Unless…she put the sandwich down…this was it. What she was looking at was the allotted stores for whatever period of time her lockup would entail. So, like those miners who survived in a Chilean mine, should she eat half a teaspoon of food a day…just in case she didn’t get rescued for some time? And shouldn’t there be some relief in knowing her captors weren’t coming back? Or were they still there and just ignoring her? She put the sandwich back in its plastic tray and pulled the cellophane in place. The severity of her situation quashed her appetite. How long could she survive? Who would know where to look because just plain where was she?
***
Saturday night, twenty-four hours in, he called Jason. No, he didn’t need to come out. His mother would not want him to miss classes. He’d keep him in the loop and call with the least bit of new information…police suspected car problems and then becoming disoriented walking for help—looked like she tried to take a short-cut through a wooded area. No, no evidence of foul play…got a full complement of law enforcement working on it. No, there wasn’t anything he could do. Dan would call the minute anything changed.
Dan hung up feeling like a coward. But how do you tell a kid the truth? That you’re scared shitless his mother’s dead? Burned car, possible injuries…not things you throw out lightly. And you add a rollover and the murder of a bank president and temp employee—it took some strong-arm persuading and a few fibs to keep Jason away with what little information he did give him. And he could only hope it was the right thing to do—the thing Elaine would have wanted.
By Sunday morning he knew he had to do something or go crazy. Inactivity was torture. Thirty-two hours and no news. Absolutely nothing. On the positive side there were no new burned cars or bodies. Clay called him from the lab with the definitive news that the young woman was, indeed, Amber Medger. Amber, nineteen, a whole life ahead of her. What did she know to die so brutally?
***
He knew if he expected the sheriff to keep him in the loop, he better contribute to that loop himself. The info wasn’t all going to slide downhill in one direction. It wasn’t that Dan was keeping secrets—Emily’s odd preoccupation with viewing family keepsakes or Amber’s possibly setting him up might not be considered trade-worthy but he’d bet the sheriff didn’t have much more. Something might be better than nothing. And he needed to know what he was doing to find Elaine. He’d give him a call.
He wasn’t sure he’d ever really understood—empathized with maybe was a better term—the vacant stares, the abject pain etched around mouths and eyes, the begging for help on TV when a loved one had disappeared with cries of “Please, call. Tell us what you know. Help us find Cindy, Carol, Tammy, Emma, Sofia…” Reporters gathering around, the questions—is there a person of interest? Do you suspect the husband, son, boyfriend, next door neighbor? And it always came back to: what will you do? How will you cope? What would you like to say to your loved one’s captors? What would you like to say to your loved one?
How did these people go home? Make their beds, open the fridge, turn on the stove, put dinner on the table? How could you go about your life if you’d lost a part of yourself? How was he going about his life? His cell vibrated in his shirt pocket.
“You were right.” Sheriff Howard didn’t bother with “hello.” “Got some fresh prints off of those empty boxes—running ’em through the system now. Prints and some kind of residue in one of the boxes that’s on its way to the lab. Got a deputy hand-carrying it. But the feds are back involved. The demise of the bank prez was on their territory. So to speak. That puts me back in charge of what’s happening locally. One murder and one missing person.” A clearing of the throat and a softer tone, “I thought you might like to do a fly-over with me. I got volunteers and mounted deputies doing a fine-comb of the area looking for any trace of Ms. Linden. Nothing yet. But when you can’t find anything on the ground, taking to the air sometimes works. Meet me in Las Vegas in an hour. Airstrip south side of town.”
Perfect. A capital idea. He quickly walked Simon and put him back in the room. “Sorry, pal. I know this is getting old. But it won’t be for long.” God, he hoped he wasn’t lying.
***
Sheriff Howard was standing beside a Bell 206 and it looked like he was the pilot. “Used to do this for a news team out of Albuquerque. Every once in awhile the state lets me borrow one of theirs. I’ve decided they think it makes up for being undermanned. I don’t complain. You take perks where you can get ’em out here.”
They took off flying south above trees, past Glorietta before turning right and making a wide circle, then continuing east and a little south.
“Not sure what we’re going to be able to see but it saves us a lot of useless ground searches. You don’t strike me as someone who enjoys spending all day in the saddle.”
Dan nodded. The summer in Tatum had given him more hours astride a horse than he’d care to duplicate. He shifted in his seat just remembering the stiffness, then took the binoculars handed him to scour the terrain below. Trees, trees, and more trees rose up to greet them. The forest was dense with an end of year over growth that obscured paths. But the color was phenomenal—dark green interspersed with golden Aspen and touches of red scrub oak.
“Pretty out here. But I take it this isn’t home?”
Dan shook his head, “Chicago.” He waited but that seemed to be the extent of the pilot’s interest. “What are we looking for?”
“Anything. Anything that catches your eye; anything out of place.”
“I got a feeling in this remote area you might run across a certain cash crop being cultivated?”
“Yeah, and that’s when I need backup. Those boys don’t take kindly to losing a couple million dollars of hard work.”
“How often do you find a crop?”
“Couple times a year. But most of the growing has moved inside—I’ve seen some cracker jack set ups under lights. Much less time from planting to harvest. ‘Course there are more meth labs than anything else out this way. Cheap, easy drug to make. In the old days I-25 was known as the cocaine corridor. Shipments came up from Centro America. Columbia, mostly. Now that’s sharing the spotlight with the homemade.”
Drugs. A little bell was going off somewhere in his brain. He had a feeling he’d been right about Amber and Emily. Big money to be had. Might be a reason to check a safe deposit box nine times in three months. His idea of Emily as mule with Amber in on the action made sense. A little pick up and distribute, collect and hand off money. But that didn’t explain the tunnel. It was obvious that Emily was able to walk in the front door of the bank and do business—didn’t seem to be a reason to be covert. Was Amber an accomplice? Was that why she was expendable? But what was making him think the two were connected? That the tunnel had anything to do with drugs? Guess he had to start somewhere. And he didn’t know that they weren’t.
“What’s that?” A glimmer of something shiny. “To the right.” Dan aimed the binoculars. Whatever he saw seemed to quickly disappear but as Sheriff Howard circled, both could see trampled grass, a couple white garbage bags, and what looked like a collapsed tent. “Hunters?”
“Shouldn’t be. All this is private land. I think you met the owner. Buster? Ol’ Doc Jenkins?”
“This is his land?”
“Far as the eye can see, as they say. Some of it’s government grant land because of the chickens, but the doc owns a fair piece.”
“And no one hunts on his land?”
“Never have. Doesn’t mix with what he’s trying to do—providing specialized plantings of native grasses. And re-introducing the endangered prairie grouse. Last thing he needs is people camping in the area and maybe grabbing a chicken meal on the hoof.”
