by J. R. Rain
“Just have a few routine questions about Willie Clarke.”
Her gaze intensified. “I’m not supposed to be talking to you, Mr. Knighthorse. I could get fired.”
“I know,” I said. “Which is why we are meeting secretly in a coffee shop, and why I am bribing you with coffee. I promise to make this quick.”
She inhaled deeply. Held it for a few seconds and then let it out. The mother of all sighs. “How can I help you?”
Our drinks came, with two complimentary biscottis. The old gal winked at us and shuffled off in a springy sort of way.
“Could you describe your first meeting with Willie Clarke?”
She shrugged. “It was about two months ago. He just showed up out of the blue one day asking about the mummy.”
“What did Jarred think of that?”
“Jarred didn’t like it. Or him.”
“Why?”
“I can’t say for sure. I can only speculate.”
“Speculate away.”
“Jarred’s trying to make a name for himself in Rawhide. He purposely staked out Rawhide because very little has been written on it. He calls the town an untapped vein.”
“Fitting for a mining town.”
“Yeah, he thinks he’s pretty clever.”
“So Jarred didn’t exactly roll out the welcoming wagon for Willie.”
“Exactly. Jarred was just plain rude. Willie was just doing his job. Which, I might add, was an impossible task. I mean, how many historians before him have looked into Sylvester’s identity?”
“A million?”
She grinned. “Okay, maybe not that many, but there have been a lot.”
“Maybe it takes a detective.”
“Someone like you?”
“Stranger things have happened.”
“I’ll believe it when I see it. Anyway, Jarred doesn’t own Rawhide, and he certainly doesn’t own its history. Willie had a valid reason for being here. After all, the man who now owns Sylvester hired him. And all Willie wanted was to be shown the site where Sly was originally discovered. Against Jarred’s wishes, I agreed to help Willie.”
“How did that sit with Jarred?”
“Oh, he was furious. But I didn’t care. Willie was sweet. And harmless. I mean, he really didn’t know what he was doing out here. He was barely out of graduate school. Hardly makes him a qualified historian, and certainly no threat to Jarred.”
“Tell me about the trip with Willie.”
She did. She met Willie in Rawhide on a Saturday morning, her day off. They were just about to head out into the desert when Jarred showed up out of the blue and insisted on joining them.
“Insisted?” I asked.
“He wouldn’t have it any other way, and told me in private that he didn’t know if Willie’s intentions were honorable or not. What a load of crap that was.” She actually snorted, which was very unbecoming of her. “Willie was nothing but sweet.”
“Was Jarred jealous?”
“I don’t know. If so, he never showed much interest in me before.”
“Maybe he’s blind.”
“Thank you, Mr. Knighthorse. But to be honest, at the time, Jarred seemed to be on something. He was jittery, excited, as if he was amped on a half dozen espressos.”
“So what happened next?”
She shrugged. “Jarred insisted I go alone with him in his truck. Willie was to follow us.”
“There wasn’t enough room in Jarred’s truck for the three of you?”
“Sure, if we all sat together. But Jarred thought Willie would be uncomfortable.”
“Okay,” I said. “Go on.”
“We drove out to the site, with Willie following behind us in his own truck.” She paused and leaned forward, leveling her considerable gaze on considerable me. “Get this: once we arrive, Jarred suddenly changes his tune. Now he couldn’t be more helpful.”
“What do you mean?”
“Now he’s answering all of Willie’s questions. Laughing, joking, having a good time.”
“Why?”
“I dunno. Maybe he was finally coming around. After all, Willie was easy to like.”
I thought about this. While I thought about this, I drank from my Diet Pepsi, which had been sweating profusely, condensation pooling on the Formica table.
“Did anything unusual happen?” I asked, reaching for something, anything. “Anything out of the ordinary?”
She shook her head. “Not that I can think of.”
I continued reaching.
“Did Jarred ever leave the two of you for any reason?” I asked. “Was he ever alone?”
She thought about that.
“Why do you ask?”
“Because I can’t think of anything else.”
That seemed to satisfy her. She sipped on her coffee and suddenly started nodding. “Yes, actually. He was alone.”
Bingo.
“Tell me about it.”
She did. It happened just after they arrived in the desert. Willie had come prepared, of course, with bottled water and sunscreen, etc. But Jarred, apparently making a last minute decision to head out into the desert, had not. In fact, he was completely unprepared. So halfway down the trail, the town historian went back up to fetch some of Willie’s water from the truck.
“Willie’s water?” I said.
“That sounds funny, huh.”
“Yes,” I said, but ever the professional, I continued on. “And Willie gave Jarred the keys to his own truck?”
“Yes.”
“Where the extra water was?”
“Yes.”
“And Jarred went alone?”
“Yes.”
“How long was Jarred gone?”
She thought some more. “As long as it takes to hike halfway up the trail and back down again. We were at the site by the time Jarred came back.”
I had been on that same trail. In fact, I had been shot at on that same trail. Altogether, it was about a half mile straight down a narrow rocky path. I mentally calculated how much time it would take to climb halfway back up and then down again.
“Thirty minutes?”
She shrugged. “He might have been gone a little longer. Maybe forty-five minutes or more. Willie and I were nearly done examining the site by the time Jarred returned.”
Fifteen minutes unexplained. Long enough to sabotage a vehicle?
I said, “And when he returns he’s suddenly helpful and friendly.”
“It was the strangest thing. But yeah, he’s answering questions and offering information.”
“Quite a change.”
“Yes, I was happy to see it,” she said. “Finally, he was being nice.”
“So then the three of you leave in separate vehicles.”
“Yes.”
“Except you and Jarred made it back to Rawhide and Willie doesn’t.”
She sucked in some air. Tears rapidly filled the corners of her eyes. The wetness amplified her eyes and made them look bigger than they were.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” Her voice cracked. “When we left, I looked back a few times to make sure he was following us.” Tears were coming freely down her face. She had caught the attention of some people in the shop. She continued, “At some point we lost him. Because when I looked again, he was gone.”
“Where were you when you lost him?”
“On Burning Woman Road. We rounded a bend and suddenly he wasn’t there.”
Burning Woman was the single lane road that eventually connected to the I-15. A very long stretch of highway. Very long and very lonely.
She continued through her sobs. “I thought maybe he had pulled over to make a phone call, or turned around to go back to the site on his own.” She shrugged. “Or maybe he knew of another way out of there. I’m not exactly sure where Burning Woman heads off to.”
“So what did you do when you saw he was gone?”
“I told Jarred to go back.”
&nb
sp; “And did he?”
“No.”
“Why?”
“He said Willie was fine, that he had probably gone another way home, and that we had things to do at the museum.”
“I thought you said you had a day off.”
She nodded. “Jarred said we had a shipment come in last night, and he wanted me to catalogue it for display later in the week.”
“Hardly pressing.”
“Nothing at the museum could be considered pressing.”
“Did you see Willie with a cell phone?”
“No, but he had called earlier to let me know he was running a little late.”
“Did he call you while driving?”
She nodded again. “He was just heading off I-15 toward Rawhide.”
“Do you still have his cell number?”
She reached and opened her purse and removed her wallet, from which she removed a white business card. The cell number was hand-printed on the back of it. She handed it to me. “I know what you’re thinking, Mr. Knighthorse.”
“What’s that?”
“If Willie had had his cell phone, why didn’t he call for help.”
I smiled encouragingly. Go on, my smile said.
She continued, “And if his cell phone had worked earlier in the desert it probably would have worked from Burning Woman, too.”
I let her keep talking. She seemed to be on a roll.
“So the question is: what happened to his cell phone?”
“The million dollar question,” I said.
Chapter Forty
After my meeting with Patricia, I bought myself a 12-pack of Bud and checked into the Desert Moon Motel near Barstow’s big outlet mall, which, coincidentally, had prices similar to regular malls.
The motel room was ordinary, although this one came with a bonus double bed and a lot of stuffy air. Now forced to make a decision, I stood in front of the double beds, thinking. Finally, with the air conditioner only managing to sputter semi-cool air, I opted for the bed closest to the window.
Once settled, I had Domino’s deliver a large cheeseburger pizza. I found a college football game and drank much of the beer and eventually ate the whole pizza, tossing the empty box on the carpet between the two beds, along with the empty beer cans. Gluttony at its best. The game droned on. I drank on. Cindy called a few times and each time I tried to hide the fact that I had beer breath, until I remembered she was a hundred miles away. Still, I think she knew, although she didn’t say anything.
Just watching the game was making my leg hurt. So I turned it off and limped across the room and over to the window and looked out across the black expanse of desert. The motel was on the fringes of town. I cranked open the window. A hot wind touched my sweating face. The wind was infused with sage and desert lavender and probably muskrat turds. I pulled up a chair, put my feet up on the windowsill and cracked open another beer.
I awoke the next morning in the same straight-back chair with the window open and the air conditioner chugging away, still holding a half-full can of beer.
So I finished the beer, looked at my watch. It was just before 9:00 AM. The Rawhide museum opened at 10:00. I had just enough time for a McDonald’s McGriddle!
I found Jarred’s address in the Barstow phone book. He lived in a condominium off of Somerset Street, in what would be considered downtown Barstow. At half past ten, I parked across the street.
My windows were down and my shades were on. The day was blistering. Heat waves rose off my hood. There was another sausage McGriddle in the bag for the ride home. I could hardly wait. Hope it didn’t spoil in the heat. A chance I was willing to take.
I stepped out into the heat, opened my trunk and returned to my front seat with a plastic case. From the case, I lifted out what locksmiths call a pick gun. Next, I pulled on some latex gloves.
With the pick gun in hand, I got out of the car again and crossed the street. The sidewalks were empty. People were at work or indoors with their AC’s running.
On the bottom floor, I found the unit I was looking for and knocked.
I listened, my senses alive and crackling. I could have heard a desert muskrat scratch its balls.
Nothing. No desert muskrats and no yipping dog, either.
Good.
Nowadays, pick guns are the way to go for any locksmith. They operate on the laws of physics: action verses reaction, using the transfer of energy to compromise most locks. At the door, I slipped a slim needle into the keyhole and pulled the pick gun trigger, releasing the internal hammer, which caused the needle to snap upward, throwing the top pins away from the bottom pins. Now I adjusted the thumbwheel, then the tension wrench—and heard a satisfying click.
I turned the doorknob and stepped inside.
Chapter Forty-one
The condo was stifling, and very still, which led me to believe it was empty. I clicked the door shut behind me, turned, and found myself standing in the living room. A massive mahogany entertainment center was to my immediate right. There was an old couch in front of me, and the kitchen was to my left. Sweat immediately trickled down my sides. The air was thick and hard to breathe. I considered opening the freezer door and sticking my head inside.
Nervous excitement fluttered in my stomach. I wasn’t entirely sure what I was looking for, but finding Willie’s cell phone would be a start.
The living room was cluttered with fast food wrappers. Hell, there were fast food wrappers on top of fast food wrappers. In New York, rats would have had a field day in here. But out here in the desert, the remains of his meals had gone to a regiment of ants.
I stepped over the trail of ants and headed to the first bedroom. The room itself was a disaster, clothes everywhere. Ironically, the hamper was empty. Jarred must have been a lousy shot. The bed was so unmade it appeared to have never been made. Three of the five drawers in his dresser were empty. The other two were full of socks and boxers. I looked under the bed. More clothes.
Next was the adjoining bathroom. The light and fan were both still on, and the air was thick with mildew, despite the fan. Water pooled in the center of the bathroom floor. Five or six colognes lined the cabinet below the mirror; three of them toppled over on their sides. The lower half of the mirror was filmy with dried water spots. Shaving scum lined the sink bowl. On the other side of the mirror was a rusted fingernail clipper, Band-aides and wrinkle cream. Maybe it was a man’s wrinkle cream.
The second bedroom was used as an office, and apparently it was Jarred’s Holy of Holies. Utterly immaculate. Hell, it even looked freshly vacuumed. His computer was on a desk in one corner of the room. I considered going through his computer files, but doubted I would find the cell phone there. Piles of research books were stacked next to his printer, along with dozens of manila folders. A trashcan next to the desk was filled to overflowing with wadded paper. I un-wadded a few. These appeared to be false starts to the history he was writing on Rawhide. From what I could tell, he had a fair command of the English language, although he used too many commas for my taste. I opened the cupboard above his computer desk. It was mostly empty, other than a small pile of blank CD-ROMs ready to be burned.
I left the study and went back through the kitchen and out through the sliding glass door to the backyard. It wasn’t a real backyard. It was a condo backyard, with just enough dirt and grass to give the impression of a backyard. Parallel brick fences ran from the sides of the condo to an attached building. I crossed the yard in three strides and stepped into the semi-attached garage.
I flipped a light switch, and a dusty bulb over the doorway sputtered to life.
The garage was mostly empty, apparently primarily used to house Jarred’s truck. There was a washer and a dryer and a folded up ping-pong table. The table was covered with cobwebs. Damn waste. Next to the ping-pong table was a dartboard bristling with plastic red and yellow fletches. Boxes were stacked here and there.
I decided to check the boxes stacked here, rather than there, and within minutes
sweat was dripping steadily from my brow and I felt as if I were being slowly cooked to death in this sweat box of a garage. I imagined my corpse being found hours from now, baked to perfection.
Most of the boxes were filled with books. Others were home to black widow spiders. I shuddered. Enough with the spiders, already. I stood there in the garage, hands on hips, wondering if I was barking up the wrong Joshua tree.
Maybe Willie Clarke really did run out of gas. And maybe Jarred had nothing to do with it.
Maybe.
I needed a better plan. There were too many boxes. And certainly too many spiders. If Jarred had indeed sabotaged Willie’s truck, how would he have done it?
Standing in the middle of the garage, I closed my eyes. Sweat trickled down my spine. Hell, sweat trickled down everywhere.
I pictured Jarred heading back up to Willie’s truck. Pictured Jarred using the keys to unlock Willie’s truck door. Pictured Jarred stealing the bottles of water and cell phone. Pictured Jarred using a siphon hose, sucking on one end, getting the gas flowing, and nervously standing there in the desert while the precious fuel pumped out. Pictured Jarred using some of the water from the bottles to clean out the siphon hose. Pictured Jarred putting the empty bottles and the hose and a cell phone into a...what?
I opened my eyes.
A gym bag. At least, that’s what I would have used.
I would have ditched the gym bag in the desert, but Jarred had Patricia with him. So the gym bag probably went home with him. Where it has stayed because the last thing Jarred expected was a search of his home.
I scanned the garage again. There, on some plastic storage shelves in the far corner, was a red gym bag.
I sucked in some air and, mentally preparing myself for the possibility of more black widows, crossed the length of the garage, pulled down the gym bag. I set it on some boxes and opened it.
Inside were two empty one-gallon bottles of Arrowhead water, a five-foot length of garden hose cut on both ends, and a cell phone. I flipped open the cell phone, turned it on, waited. Music chimed. It still had one bar of battery power left.
Using my own phone, I dialed Willie Clark’s number. My finger shook while I dialed. When finished, I pressed send. More shaking. I sucked in some hot air, waited.
