The Homecoming

by Alan Russell

  “Elle?”

  “That’s what Dickie Rath called his niece. Sometimes he called her Double L.”

  The name was not too dissimilar from Stella, thought Cheever. He gestured toward the restaurant and said, “Why don’t we talk inside?”

  “Fine by me,” said Beto.

  The sign at the door read CASH ONLY. As they stepped inside, Cheever was surprised to see that most of the seats at the bar were already taken. Everyone seated looked to be having a liquid lunch; everyone seated was also north of eighty years old. Ben Franklin was right, thought Cheever. There were a lot more old drunks than old doctors.

  On prominent display at the bar was a pile of cans for sale. According to the labels, the cans contained fish assholes. The bartender, who was about as old as his clientele, seemed to know Beto and acknowledged him with a smile and wave.

  The two men took seats at a table. “You live around here?” asked Cheever.

  “Brawley,” Beto said, “but I’m always coming through here on business.”

  “What business is that?”

  “I drive a rig. And I’ve got some rentals here and there.”

  “What originally brought you to this area?”

  “I can credit the state of California.”

  “Calipatria?” asked Cheever.

  Beto nodded. Calipatria was a state prison.

  “What for?”

  “Grand theft auto and possession of a controlled substance.”

  “Most former cons don’t extend a helping hand to the police. Why did you?”

  “I figured I better get ahead of the shitstorm.”

  “What shitstorm is that?”

  “The shitstorm that’s sure to happen when a congressman’s daughter turns up after being missing for years. I want to go on record right now as saying I didn’t know the girl was kidnapped.”

  Cheever nodded. Self-preservation was a great motivator.

  From behind the bar the bartender called out to them: “You two eating? Cookie just showed up.”

  “His wife’s the cook,” said Beto. “From experience I’d go with the patty melt or the cheeseburger.”

  “I’ll have the patty melt with onion rings and a Coke,” Cheever said.

  Beto called to the bartender, and as he spoke, he signaled with his fingers, almost like a baseball catcher. “Two patty melts, two onion rings, one Coke, and one Bud,” he yelled.

  The bartender relayed the order to the unseen “Cookie,” then turned back to Beto and asked, “No pickle juice?”

  “Not this time,” said Beto.

  Cheever’s upturned eyebrows asked the question.

  “It’s a great hangover cure,” explained Beto.

  “Better than fish assholes?”

  That got a smirk out of Beto. “You see all those dollars hanging up on the wall behind the bar?”

  Cheever nodded. He had wondered about the hundreds and hundreds of dollars that lined the wall.

  “Tourists think it’s good luck to write their name and where they’re from on a dollar bill, and then have it tacked up on the wall.”

  “This doesn’t exactly look like a tourist spot.”

  “Maybe that’s why it is,” said Beto. “This place draws tourists from around the world.”

  “What’s the attraction?”

  “Where else can you get a buzz a couple of hundred feet below sea level? How low can you go? This is it.”

  “And what better way to remember that experience than by buying a can of fish assholes?”

  “Every man cave should have one for a conversation piece.”

  “If you say so,” said Cheever.

  One of the drinkers at the bar left his drink long enough to drop some change into the jukebox, and Patsy Cline began singing “Crazy.” Cheever thought it was an appropriate song and sentiment for his investigation.

  “Tell me about Dickie Rath,” he said, “and about Elle.”

  “I can’t tell you much, because I don’t know much. In fact, I’d be surprised if anyone around here could tell you much about him. He was a desert rat who kept to himself. Rath said he needed the quiet to hear God talking. I think he fancied himself a prophet.”

  “And what was it he prophesized?”

  “He said the Second Coming of Christ would reveal that he was an alien, just as were all the spirit beings mentioned in the Bible. He also said that heaven could be found in space. I think that’s the main reason he chose to live here. From what he said, on most nights he was out stargazing.”

  Cheever had camped in the desert on several occasions. What he remembered most was the night sky, and how the stars had seemed so vibrant and close. It was almost like you could reach out and touch them.

  Had Stella spent years looking at the stars? Had she been taught that Christ was an alien, as were the angels?

  Diaz leaned in a little closer, and then spoke in a low voice to make sure he wasn’t overheard. “One time Rath was a little less tight-lipped with me than usual, and he quoted Jesus, saying, ‘Did not Christ say, if your right eye offends you, then pluck it out?’ From what I could gather, he apparently took those words to heart.”

  “He plucked out his eye?”

  Diaz whispered, “It wasn’t his eye that offended him. It was his impure thoughts. So he cut open his nut sack and removed one of his balls.”

  Cheever flinched. “It sounds like he was mentally ill.”

  “You think?” said Diaz, not hiding his smirk.

  “You haven’t told me how you came to know Rath.”

  Diaz shifted a little in his seat. “We had an arrangement,” he said. “I own some undeveloped land a few miles from here. It’s a spot about a mile from the main road. I allowed Rath to camp there.”

  “He was your tenant?”

  “Not in the legal sense,” said Diaz. “Every year Rath gave me what we called a ‘love offering.’”

  “And how much was this ‘love offering’?”

  “This last year it was eighteen hundred dollars.”

  “And what did Rath get for that?”

  “As much silence as he wanted.”

  “Does your camp come with electricity or water?”

  “There are no connections for any of that, but Rath didn’t seem to notice. He set up some solar panels, and ran his lighting off those. And he had this solar cooker he seemed proud of. He said when the sun was shining he could boil water in ten minutes.”

  “Where did he get the water?”

  “There’s a hot spring on the land. The spring isn’t very big—you can’t bathe in it or anything—but it supplied him with enough water for his needs. He even set up one of those solar showers.”

  “When did Rath first settle here?”

  Diaz thought about that. “It was around six or seven years ago.”

  “Was Elle with him then?”

  He shook his head. “She turned up later. Rath said she was his niece.”

  “No one questioned him?”

  “Like I said, he kept to himself and was pretty self-contained. There probably weren’t even a handful of people who knew about the girl.”

  “Elle didn’t go to school?”

  “Rath homeschooled her, or that’s what he said. I only saw the girl a few times, but whenever I did, her nose was always in some book.”

  “Describe her,” said Cheever.

  Diaz’s description sounded enough like Stella that Cheever pulled out his phone. “Is this the girl?” he asked.

  After a few seconds of staring at the picture, Diaz nodded. “That’s Elle,” he said.

  “No question in your mind?”

  “None,” he said.

  Their beverages were delivered to their table. Diaz took a big pull from his beer and wiped away a frothy mustache.

  “When was the last time you saw Rath and the girl?” asked Cheever.

  “It was three or four months ago.”

  “When did you notice they were gone?”

  “It was
just a few weeks back,” he said. “His love offering for the year was overdue. That’s when I found the Airstream was gone.”

  “Describe the Airstream.”

  “It was one of those older, shiny ones that look like a spaceship.”

  Cheever felt a prickle along his spine at the mention of a spaceship. Could the Airstream have been Stella’s spaceship? Had she hidden away from the sun during the day, and then emerged in the evening to look out at the heavens? Did that explain her pallor?

  “So, six or seven years ago, Rath shows up here, and then he lives under the radar all that time. And sometime during his stay, his niece came to live with him?”

  “He’s the one who said she was his niece.”

  “And Rath had no friends or family in the area?”

  “None I knew about.”

  “How did he support himself?”

  “I think he got a monthly check from the government, but I don’t know the details.”

  “What kind of vehicle did he drive?”

  “His fifth wheeler died not long after he settled in with the Airstream,” said Diaz. “He was always working to get it running again. I guess he finally did. But on those rare occasions when he left his homestead, he drove a dirt bike.”

  Their burgers and onion rings were brought to the table, and both men began eating. Cheever thought about what he’d been told, and between bites asked, “Who else around here would know Rath?”

  “You got the mini-mart next door to here,” said Diaz. “I imagine he had to have made himself known there. But for most services like getting gas or doing any banking, he would have gone to Brawley or Salton City.”

  The detective thought about Rath’s life. It didn’t sound like an easy existence. He’d lived in a camper in a spot that was harsh and inhospitable and secluded, all so that he might hear God. And God had told him to emasculate himself.

  “Hard work being a prophet,” said Cheever.

  Diaz agreed. “It’s not for pussies.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  “The Airstream was right about here.”

  Diaz indicated a spot that was somewhat sheltered by an outcropping of rocks. Cheever examined the sandy dirt. The ground showed indentations from something heavy.

  “You never took any pictures?” asked Cheever.

  “I never saw the need. And I’m sure Rath wouldn’t have liked it if I had.”

  “Where’s the hot spring?”

  Diaz pointed. “It’s about a hundred yards that way.”

  Cheever began walking in that direction, his eyes moving right to left, searching the ground. There were some partial shoe prints, and Cheever took a few pictures, but he knew that even if he put a request for a criminalist through the proper channels, it was unlikely he could get the Imperial County authorities to send out someone to gather trace evidence. This wasn’t a crime scene. This was more like the case of a cop with a wild hair trying to get answers to something that didn’t mean anything to anyone except him.

  The hot spring proved to be more of a seep than a desert oasis, with a trickle of water leaching out into a depression in the ravine.

  “Rath had some special pots he used,” said Diaz, “and a makeshift filtration system. He said on a good day he could get as much as five gallons.”

  Cheever nodded, but his attention was on the surrounding area. There was a trail along the ravine that he was guessing human feet had helped to form. Cheever followed the wash, then scrambled up to a ridge. The elevation wasn’t very high, but in a flat desert, the slight rise stood out, and afforded the best view in the area.

  A big rock was positioned in the middle of the rise. Someone had to have brought the stone there. It was the right size to sit on. Not far from the seat was another human-made formation. Someone had been particular about gathering rocks and placing them in a very specific sequence. It took Cheever a few seconds to realize he was looking at a depiction of the solar system. The colors and sizes of the rocks represented the sun and the eight planets. Pluto hadn’t made the cut. Cheever took some more pictures. While he was clicking away, from the corner of his eye he saw a glint in the sky. He shaded his eyes with his hand and looked upward, trying to make out whatever had caught his attention, but didn’t see anything.

  “What are you looking for?” asked Diaz.

  “A UFO,” said Cheever.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  Froke had always hoped a high-profile client would land in his lap. Even though he was only a few years into his job, he was already tired of being little more than a highly paid pharmacist, writing out scripts for depression and anxiety. Managed care wanted Band-Aids, not insights, dispensed. But now he wondered if Stella Pierce was a case of beware of what you wish for.

  Few people knew he was treating the congressman’s daughter, and maybe that was a good thing. During his internship, Froke had worked with psychopathic murderers who hadn’t scared him as much as Scarecrow did.

  At that moment, Froke assumed Scarecrow was listening in on his session with Stella. He couldn’t go anyplace these days without wondering if he was being monitored.

  “So tomorrow’s the big day,” said Froke.

  “I suppose so,” said Stella.

  He pretended to write down something; what he was really doing was checking his notes from the night before. Froke had to make sure he covered the curriculum that had been given to him. One of the talking points was Stella’s going back to school.

  “It’s normal to be anxious,” he said.

  Stella nodded. She wasn’t much of a talker, even though Froke had her parents convinced that she opened up to him during their sessions.

  “That’s why I think it makes sense for you to start on a regimen of antianxiety and antidepression medication,” he said.

  Scarecrow and company wanted Froke to convince Stella to start taking meds. What he wasn’t telling her was that in addition to antianxiety medication and antidepressants, his overseers wanted him to prescribe antipsychotics as well. None of those meds were called for—in fact, they were contraindicated—but Froke was doing his best to be a good salesman even though Stella had so far resisted his pitch.

  “My parents tell me you’ve been trying to convince them of the same thing,” she said.

  “I believe your situation will improve with some prescribed medications.”

  “What situation is that?” she asked.

  “I suspect you’re depressed but not even conscious of that,” he said. “I don’t want you falling down into a deep, dark hole, so I’m looking to have you get ahead of that.”

  “If I fall down that hole,” said Stella, “I can understand your wanting to put me on medication, but not before.”

  Froke didn’t like a kid challenging his prognosis, even though she was absolutely right. “That isn’t the only reason for the meds. You need to understand that you are presenting with a delusional disorder.”

  “How is it you are so certain of that?” she asked.

  He pretended exasperation as he pointed to the sky. “Some astronomers believe there are one hundred billion galaxies in the universe,” he said. “That means there are ten billion galaxies in the observable universe. The key word there is observable. That’s the universe we’ve been able to see. And in each of those galaxies there are about one hundred billion stars. In the Milky Way alone there are one hundred billion planets. That makes our own little planet insignificant, doesn’t it?”

  Stella knew what was coming next: Froke would ask her why she imagined that of the billions of people on the planet, she had been singled out. But she tried to derail his train of thought.

  “Earth is not insignificant,” she said. “It’s special.”

  “Why is it special?”

  “If you saw it from out there, you would know.”

  “You mean if I was in some spacecraft looking at it, as opposed to some other planet?”

  “Yes.”

  Froke shook his head. “That sounds rather
simplistic. If I had a magical spacecraft and could go anywhere in the universe I wanted, it stands to reason that I would encounter planets of unsurpassed beauty and see sights I couldn’t even imagine.”

  “Yes,” Stella said, suddenly enthused.

  “Well, if that’s the case, why is this planet special?”

  “Of all the planets that have been seeded, none has the potential to be so great, and none has the potential to be so terrible.”

  The words didn’t sound like those of a kid. Froke wondered whether the speech had been rehearsed. “That’s quite the sentiment,” he said.

  “That is what the Travelers believe,” she admitted.

  “Explain to me about this notion of seeding,” he said.

  “Long, long ago the Travelers facilitated conditions on the planet to make an abundance of life possible.”

  “So the Travelers are our ancestors?”

  “Not really.”

  “But I thought they seeded the planet.”

  “They did, but not in their image. They offered ingredients appropriate to this planet that helped foster life.”

  “And have they done this with other planets?”

  “Yes.”

  “How many?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “If the Travelers did this thing so long ago, then they would have to be an incredibly advanced race.”

  “They are.”

  “They must be like gods.”

  “No.”

  “No? But in the time since they first seeded Earth, their technology must have progressed to an almost unimaginable degree.”

  “While they have advanced technologically, their journey has been more of an inward one.”

  “If their journey has been an inward one,” he said, “then what are they doing traveling around space?”

  “That is what Travelers do.”

  “Do the Travelers have a home planet?”

  “They did at one time. Now space is their home.”

  “And what they essentially do is go around checking on the planets they seeded?”

  “That is only one aspect of their travels.”

  “What else do they do?”

  “They study and explore and visit.”