by Hester Young
“Last I checked, Teresa was headed west, not south.”
“Then what are you doing here?” I glance at her sideways. “I thought you came looking for her.”
“Figured it might be good to stop by the office while she was out. See what turned up.”
I don’t ask her to elaborate; whatever she had planned, I’m better off maintaining my ignorance. “I can show you what I found in there.” I fish the package of Rohypnol out of my purse. Toss it into her lap. “That was in a box of Donna’s things.”
Pam studies the package a few seconds, turning it around in her hands with her usual indecipherable expression. “We’d better find Micky,” she says. “If Teresa’s really got her, that kid’s on her way to dead.” She reaches over to open the glove box. Inside, I see a stack of square devices that look like GPS systems, each with a different colored sticker on the back.
“Grab the one with the red dot,” Pam tells me. “That’s Teresa.”
“Are you serious?” I can’t help but laugh, a thin, shaky sound, as I remove the device and plug its cord into the cigarette lighter. “You’ve been tracking Teresa?”
“Not just Teresa.” Pam mounts the square on her dashboard. “I told you, I’ve been keeping an eye on things.”
I wonder who the other colored dots belong to, which additional persons of interest Pam’s been watching, but I don’t ask. Her obsession with illegal surveillance equipment may be the only chance we have.
Pam punches a couple buttons and the screen lights up. “We’ll find Teresa. As long as she hasn’t switched vehicles, we’ve got her.”
“You’re crazy,” I say with admiration.
“Completely crazy,” she agrees. “Maybe crazy enough to find Micky. Let’s just hope she’s alive.”
Thirty
According to the locator, Teresa’s vehicle is traveling on the outskirts of the city on a long and winding road through the mountains called Gates Pass.
“We’re lucky the satellites caught that,” Pam says, cutting boldly into traffic. “You can’t count on the reception out there. Which direction is she headed? In or out of the city?”
“Um . . .” I study the dot on the map, trying to trace its movement. “Out, I think?”
“Not too many folks out that way,” Pam remarks. “Looks like she wants some privacy.” Her eyes are bright and incredibly alert, and I can’t help wondering if she’s had anything to drink today. “I’d say Mother Teresa’s out there looking for a dump site. That’s good.”
I feel like throwing up. “How exactly is that good?”
“She’s had the kid for, what? An hour? If she’s leaving town, then she hasn’t disposed of the body yet, and that’s a piece of luck.” Pam accelerates rapidly and just catches the last of a yellow light before she turns. “Maybe she’s having second thoughts. Or running into logistical issues. Either way, Micky’s probably still alive.”
“You think there’s a chance Micky might already be dead?”
“Not if Teresa has any brains. You don’t want to drive around with a dead kid in the back of your car. If something goes wrong and you get caught, you’re better off with an abduction charge than first-degree murder. She’s a smooth one, Teresa. She could probably talk her way out of abduction.”
Pam’s focus and preternatural calm leave me wondering about her. A child’s life hangs in the balance, and yet she remains levelheaded, logical. Is this just years of police work kicking in, allowing her to detach? Or is part of her enjoying this? God only knows how many times she must have envisioned a confrontation with Donna’s killer in the past few weeks. Maybe this is what she’s wanted all along. A hunt.
“How far are we from Gates Pass?”
Pam considers. “I’d say she’s got a fifteen-, twenty-minute jump on us.”
“That’s not so much.”
“It’s enough if she’s got her spot all picked out. She’s heading into the desert. It wouldn’t take long.”
“I don’t think she’s planned this.” I won’t let myself believe in the worst. “Teresa heard about Micky remembering things completely by accident. She’s flying by the seat of her pants here.”
“Hope so,” Pam says. “That’s when they screw up.”
Suddenly the map goes blank. The little dot that represented Teresa’s car vanishes. A message flashes across the screen. Searching for signal.
I draw in a sharp breath. “What happened?”
“Bad reception. That, or she found the transmitter.”
But the light blinks back on a minute later. Still Gates Pass, just farther down the road. “There she is!” We’re still in business.
I pick up my phone and try to call Noah again. He’s still not answering. Maybe he’s caught up in police questioning. Or else he’s extricated himself somehow, stands banging on Pam’s door, convinced that she’s got Micky. I send him a quick text: Don’t waste time looking for Pam. Teresa has Micky & I think she killed D&J. Trying to find her. Please call. I don’t tell him that I’m with Pam this very moment. It would sound a bit schizophrenic, considering that I just convinced him Pam was Micky’s abductor. I don’t know how seriously Noah will take anything I say at this point.
In the meantime, Pam flies through traffic, clipping through side streets until she hits Speedway Boulevard. Auto shops, Mexican drive-through restaurants, dive bars, a billboard for a male strip club, heating and air-conditioning repair—all the signs of the city soon begin to thin. We’re headed for the mountains.
As the road ventures into less populated territory, the desert springs up around us, saguaros and trees and shrubs and cacti of various shapes and sizes all reclaiming their territory. The road climbs gently upward to a higher altitude. We pass a few small streets leading off to developments, expensive homes nestled just outside the city with what have to be incredible views. But I can’t think about real estate right now.
“She’s on Kinney Road,” I announce.
“Headed north or south?”
“North. She’s going north.”
“Parkland,” Pam says with satisfaction. “Saguaro National Park. You leave a body out there, the rangers will notice the buzzards pretty quick. She’s got no idea what she’s doing.”
I give a little cry of dismay when I see the map blink out. “We lost her again! The whole thing is down.”
“It’s us,” Pam says. “We’re in the mountains.”
And it’s true. All around us now, standing taller and taller against the horizon, craggy rock looms. The sun hangs low in the sky, imbuing the stone formations with a shadowy orange, and on the sloped, rugged hills, a saguaro forest flourishes, the kind that Noah would be sighing over. We race past a pair of scenic viewing areas, where a few cars have stopped to catch the sunset. I keep an eye out for Teresa’s white Range Rover but spot nothing.
“Hang on,” Pam says as we round a bend in the road. “This is going to get interesting.”
Before us, the mountain road barrels suddenly and steeply downward. There are no guardrails, nothing to stop our vehicle from plummeting off the side of the cliff except for Pam’s driving skills, which, given her choice to accelerate, now strike me as less than sterling.
“What the hell are you doing?!” I grab the door to brace myself.
“Trying to catch up!” Pam answers, and then we’re going down, so fast that the world around me slows, and what should be a blur of rock and road and falling sunlight appears with astonishing clarity, sharp as a series of photographs in my mind’s eye.
The car hooks right at a curve in the road, and I see, in one split second, the valley stretched out below us, the arms of the distant saguaros reaching up as if preparing to field our flaming, mangled wreck. I tilt my body toward the center of the car, convinced that any misplaced weight will send us hurtling off the edge. Then the sun hits us, shattering my vision with its f
inal burst of light, searing my retinas with its explosive gold.
At least I won’t see us die, I think, and we descend into the glowing valley. The car hits a series of hills, but Pam doesn’t let up. My stomach lurches as we catch air, fly weightless, land with a jolt, and speed on toward the next dip, the next curve.
It ends as abruptly as it began. “Kinney Road,” Pam says, coming to a half stop before she turns north. “Any reception yet?”
In our frantic flight down the mountain, I forgot about the locator. The map is back, I see, Teresa’s car hovering in place a few miles ahead of us.
“She’s stopped,” I say. “She must have pulled over. Oh my God, Pam, hurry.”
Pam hits the gas. I press my hands to the dashboard, peering into the horizon, searching for some sign of Teresa’s vehicle. The road twists and dips through desert land, allowing me limited visibility. We’re close. Nearly there, if only Micky can hang on a little longer.
The dot on the screen begins to move again.
“You think you can run from me, Terry-girl?” Pam croons. “Oh, no. Pammy’s gonna find you.”
I try to tune out Pam’s creepy use of third person. She’s all that I have, and I don’t want to absorb the full extent of her crazy right now. “Would you slow down? She could’ve left Micky on the side of the road somewhere, and I won’t see her if you’re zooming by.”
“If she left Micky somewhere, it’s already too late,” Pam says. “We’re going after Teresa. You’re in or you’re out.”
I wonder if I’ve made a mistake. Pam has her own agenda here, one that may have nothing to do with Micky. I hesitate. Do I get out of the car? Wander along the road, looking for suspicious tire tracks, hoping against hope that something leads me to Micky before the dark extinguishes any hope of finding her? Or do I stick this out a while longer with a woman whose mental condition is becoming increasingly questionable? A quick glance back at the locator, and I have my answer.
“She’s veering off the road! Some side loop a few miles ahead.”
Now Pam slows down, her body tense and awaiting instruction like a hunting dog. “Tell me where. Tell me when I’m getting close.”
The sun has dipped below the horizon, and the bourbon-toned shadows deepen. Soon, Teresa will slip through our fingers, take refuge in the night. I direct Pam down the unpaved loop Teresa has turned onto, my eyes analyzing every shape and color in the surrounding land, training on any motion. Pam flips on her headlights, trying to fight back the dusk.
If it were any later, any darker, I would miss it entirely: a pale strip peeking out from a cluster of distant saguaros.
“There, on our left! Stop!”
Pam can’t possibly see what I’m talking about, but she operates on blind faith. Her brakes squeal, and she swerves wildly off the road, crashing through some desert shrubs before she comes to a halt. Together, we survey the terrain.
Teresa’s vehicle sits parked about fifty yards away, a pale, metallic phantom amongst the sparse and spiky desert.
I jump out the passenger side, ready to run and search for Micky, but Pam stops me. “Wait until I say. We don’t know how ugly this will get.” She draws her gun and approaches the Range Rover with a grim, purposeful stride.
I stand by Pam’s car, watch as Teresa steps out of her vehicle. Though her brow is furrowed with concern, she certainly doesn’t look like someone whose plans to do away with a six-year-old have just been interrupted. “Pam?” Her gaze drops to the weapon in the other woman’s hand. “What’s going on? What are you doing here?”
“Where’s Micky?” Pam demands. “Is she with you?”
Teresa doesn’t seem to have heard the question. “My God, would you put that down? I really don’t think you need to point that at me.”
“I really think I do,” Pam says pleasantly. “Charlie!” She motions to me with her index finger, satisfied that Teresa’s not putting up a fight. “Check the backseat of her car.”
I jog over to the Range Rover. The doors are locked, but I shine the flashlight on my phone into the tinted rear windows. I can just make out some file folders, a laptop bag, a sweatshirt, old food wrappers—Teresa is not as neat and tidy as she presents herself—but there’s no sign of Micky.
“She’s not in the backseat.”
Teresa appears mystified by my search. “Have the two of you lost your minds? Why on earth would I have Micky?”
“Check the trunk,” Pam says.
“It’s locked,” I remind her.
Pam glares at Teresa. “How about you open that for us?”
Teresa fishes her keychain out of her pocket, fingers trembling as she searches for the right button. Finally, her car beeps. “Have a look around, and then please leave me alone,” she says. “I don’t know what you two are doing here, but waving a gun at someone is not the way to make friends.”
I rummage through the trunk, working through layers of reusable shopping bags, gym clothes, a stack of books and DVDs.
I turn to Pam. “Micky’s not back here. What do we do?”
“Where is she?” Pam takes a few steps closer to Teresa. “Where the hell is Micky?”
“How on earth would I know?” Teresa asks. “I hardly know her! You think I’d go skipping off to the desert with her in the middle of the night? Really, Pam! Do you hear yourself? You’re not making any sense!”
“Is she dead?”
“Who?”
Pam slaps her across the face, hard. “Is Micky dead?”
Teresa falls to her knees, cradling her cheek with her hand. “You’re scaring me,” she whispers.
Pam is scaring me, too. What if we’re wrong? What if Teresa’s not responsible for Micky’s disappearance, and we’re wasting precious time, serving up nothing more than a lawsuit and possible assault charges?
Pam removes something from her pocket, tosses it to the ground where Teresa kneels. “Tell me what this is.” She watches as Teresa fumbles with the box, removes a sheet of tablets.
“Pills?” Teresa looks up at me helplessly. “Are these pills? It’s too dark. I can’t read the label.”
“Charlotte found this in your office.”
“With Donna’s things,” I add quickly. “That box you left me.”
“Oh.” Teresa hesitates. “Those pills. I found them in Donna’s desk when I was cleaning out her things.”
“Why didn’t you bring them to the police?” I ask.
“I have an organization to protect,” Teresa says. “Those pills would hardly make for good publicity. Take them, if you think they’re important. I don’t know why Donna had them.”
“Those weren’t her pills, and you know it.” Pam spits out her words. “You think you can throw them in a box and pass them off as hers? Use Charlotte to hand them in to the police and make Donna look bad? Those weren’t Donna’s. I know Donna. I know her.”
“Charlotte!” Teresa appeals to me now. “This woman is threatening me with a gun. Would you please call for help? And maybe check the trunk of her car while you’re at it.”
Her words send a nasty little shiver down my spine. I couldn’t have been that wrong about Pam. Could I?
Pam seems to sense my doubt. “Teresa’s right,” she says, suddenly calm. “We need to get someone out here before I lose my cool. Let me talk to Vargas.” She holds out her hand. “Give me your phone, Cates. We’ll get this sorted.”
I know, the second her callused hand closes around my cell phone, that she’s not making that call. Instead, Pam gives me a scornful glance and chucks my phone under her car. “Teresa’s getting to you,” she tells me reproachfully. “Snap out of it. We’re not playing by the rules here, got that? We’re doing things my way. Donna was your mother. This is for you, too.”
She turns back to Teresa, her voice as hard as Tucson rock. “You tried to dose Donna, didn’t you? That’s
what the Rohypnol was for. You’re a little woman, you’re not up for a fight. Slip her a few roofies, that would’ve made your job easier, wouldn’t it?”
“This isn’t going to make things right, Pam.” Teresa’s begging now. “Please let me go. Please. I don’t know where Micky is. I don’t know.”
Pam punches the side of her SUV, leaving a dent. “Don’t stand there lying to me, you little bitch. There was Rohypnol in that apartment, and you’re the one who left it there. Maybe it was meant for Donna, and she wouldn’t take it. Maybe you were trying to get Jasmine out of the way. I don’t know why, but I know those pills are yours.”
“Pam . . .” I don’t know how to stop this. Don’t know how we’ve gone so far off the rails.
“I’m willing to bet you gave Micky something, too,” Pam says, circling her. “Got her from Vonda’s house and slipped her something, is that what happened? That would keep her from causing you any trouble, wouldn’t it?”
Teresa is too intent on bargaining to respond. “You’re distraught,” she says, “and that’s perfectly understandable. It’s hard to lose someone. But you know I wouldn’t hurt a child, you know—”
Before I know what she’s doing, Pam has pointed her gun directly at Teresa’s head. “The next lie that leaves your mouth will have you eating bullets,” she says.
No one’s going to find us, I realize. We’re on our own, just like Pam wanted. This is her victory. This is her revenge. But I’m not sure she has the right person, not sure her own twisted mind hasn’t bent the truth into something it can handle.
Can I stand by and watch her kill an innocent person? Or a guilty one, for that matter?
“Put the gun away, Pam,” I plead, now properly terrified. “We came here to find Micky, and you’re not helping.”
“Are you really falling for her bullshit?” Pam whirls on me in disgust. “Come on, Charlotte. What do you think she’s doing out here in the desert?”
