Desert Rage

by Betty Webb

  “Are you Lena? If not, get away from my car.”

  An astute man, her husband. She was cranky.

  “Yep, I’m Lena. And you’re Valerie Redhorse, right?”

  Scowling, she said, “Ditto the yep. Let’s make this fast, okay? I’ve had a bad day.”

  “Busy?”

  “Yeah, not that I’m going to divulge the gory details. HIPAA rules. Anyway, I’ve already told the police everything I know about Dr. Cameron, which isn’t much. Here’s what I told the cops. He was an excellent doc. A great one, even. When he worked on a patient, bombs could have gone off around him and he wouldn’t notice, the man was that focused. No drug habit to speak of and I never saw him drunk. Don’t think he stepped out on his wife, either. With his focus, he had the opposite of a roving eye. But personally? He wasn’t friendly and he wasn’t chatty. Bit of a bastard, really, but most doctors are. Especially ER docs on a rough Saturday night, which we call ‘Gunshot Saturdays,’ God bless the NRA.”

  “No drug habit to speak of, you said?” Her phrasing sounded odd.

  A fierce grin. “Show me an ER doc who doesn’t need a little pick-me-up after being on duty four nights straight and I’ll show you a dumb-ass kid straight out of med school.” Seeing my expression, she cracked a weak smile. “Not to worry. NoDoz is the drug of choice around here. It’s right up there with black coffee and pizza.”

  My alarm disappeared. “Did you ever hear anyone threaten Dr. Cameron?”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “No angry gang members?”

  “Nope.”

  “No crazed, grieving kin after one of their loved ones died?”

  “Nope. You gotta understand, we don’t let relatives—or unshot or unstabbed gang members—into the working section of the ER They’d just clutter up the place, and what would be the point anyway? They’d either go into hysterics or faint, and then we’d have to attend to them, not the patient. That’s why we have a separate waiting room off to the side. Comfy place with lots of Kleenex. We keep that door closed so they won’t see the blood.”

  “If you keep the door closed, then you wouldn’t have heard them if they made threats.”

  “Got a point there, don’t you?” She actually laughed. Nurses. Hard as nails when they’re not grieving over some battered child. “Now, if you’re finished, I wanna get home. Dinner’s waiting, and Andrew’s a great cook.”

  “One more question.”

  She jangled her car keys. “Make it snappy.”

  “Do you know a Dr. Bosworth?”

  “Dr. Edwin Bosworth? Tall, dark, and handsome Bosworth?”

  “Sounds like the one.”

  “I work with him all the time. Another good doc, though not as good as Dr. Cameron. Nobody was as good as Cameron. What do you want to know about Bosworth?”

  “Ever hear any rumors about him and Mrs. Cameron?”

  Her earlier laughter was nothing in comparison to the belly laugh I heard now. When she finally calmed down, she said, through giggles, “Tell me another one. Bad day or not, I’m always up for a good joke.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  A final giggle as she unlocked her Buick and slid into the seat. “Nope, no rumors about Mrs. Cameron and Dr. Bosworth. Mainly ’cause he’s gay as a day in May.”

  Having gained nothing other than the elimination of one possible subject from my conversation with Jimmy’s cousin, I headed back to Scottsdale, the setting sun at my back. No matter the heat, this was the Valley’s most beautiful time of day. As I drove east along McDowell, the reflection of a rosy-orange sun bounced off the rear windows of the cars ahead of me, and once I’d made it to the red sandstone Papago Buttes, the glow was so intense the Buttes appeared to be on fire. Mounting the top of the hill, I saw Scottsdale spread out before me, washed in such a vibrant golden halo that it looked like the Promised Land.

  But beauty can do only so much for you. It can’t tone your muscles, and what with one thing and another, I needed a serious workout. I stopped by the motel for my gym bag, then drove over to L.A. Fitness. When I arrived, the machines were so crowded with nine-to-fivers wearing designer Spandex, I decided to take my chances at Fight Pro.

  Because of Fight Pro’s ongoing construction, parking opportunities were slim and it took several passes around what was left of the parking area before I found a spot at the far northwest corner, near a fenced-off empty lot. At least, during my cruise-around, I’d seen no sign of Big Black Hummer, which didn’t come as a surprise. Monster Woman tended to haunt the gym during the day, and in the evenings usually stayed home, probably to spend her time watching reruns of Pumping Iron and penning love letters to psychopaths on Death Row.

  Best laid plans of mice and men, and all that. I had been pounding the treadmill for fifteen minutes when Monster Woman stalked through the door. Because the treadmills were located near the back of the gym, she didn’t see me. That left two choices open: continue working out or leave immediately. I chose the first, knowing she seldom used the treadmills. Besides, I wasn’t about to let Monster Woman’s craziness run my life.

  But since I’m not crazy myself, as soon as I finished with the treadmill, I made a wide arc around the free-weights area where she had planted herself, and set my sights on the Nautilus machines. Making the best of the situation, I spent ten minutes on the abdominal, ten on the leg press, fifteen on the rowing torso, and finished with the back pull. Then I returned to the treadmills and ended my workout with a fifteen-minute sprint.

  Tired, sore, and happy, I showered quickly—secure in the fact that I’d seen Monster Woman leave the gym twenty minutes earlier—dressed, and headed back to my Jeep.

  Night had fallen during my workout, swallowing the golden glory of the Arizona sunset in its inky craw. Now a flickering, weak light from a sole tungsten lamp lengthened the cars’ shadows as I crossed the lot. I stayed alert, because even though Scottsdale has a low crime rate, you never know.

  I was just about to climb into my Jeep when a truck hit me from behind.

  When the fog cleared, I was lying on hot asphalt, staring up at Monster Woman. She was holding a rock. The back of my head felt wet and I smelled blood.

  “Get my Hummer towed, will you, bitch?”

  She must have seen me all along, and been out here waiting for me. In most cases when faced with physical threat, I try to talk the would-be assailant down, but I’d already been hit and the look on Monster Woman’s face proved she wasn’t in a listening mood. She was too intent on inflicting further damage.

  And here it came.

  After swinging a massive leg backwards, she kicked me in the face.

  Now, you don’t actually see stars after taking a hard blow to the head. What you see are little pinpoints of light against a dark red background. It looked nothing like the night sky, which hung above me, oblivious to what was going down in the parking lot of Scottsdale Fight Pro.

  Fortunately, Monster Woman was wearing workout shoes, not steel-toed boots, so the light show was brief. Since I’d seen the blow coming, I’d prepared for it by turning my head. Also by raising my arms. While the lights fancy-danced around my field of vision, I managed to grab onto her leg. Although burdened by my weight, she was still able to swing her leg back again, taking my whole body with her.

  The woman’s strength was amazing, but in a fight, more than strength and weight was involved. Skill and agility came into play, too, as well as the brand of dirty fighting taught in Krav Maga. So instead of struggling as she swung me back and forth, I just went with the flow and hugged her leg tighter.

  And bit.

  God bless strong genes and good dentists. Thanks to my own Dr. Sheffield’s skill, I was able to gnaw all the way through her leathery skin to the tough gristle inside. Disregarding her howls, I kept gnawing until she bent down to pull me away.

  Which is w
hat I was waiting for. I let go of her leg and with one hand, grabbed her long blond hair, and drew her closer. With my other hand, I poked her in the eye with a stiffened forefinger. The pain she’d felt before was nothing compared to what she felt now, and she staggered back, shrieking. I jumped to my feet.

  Ignoring my wet forefinger—vitreous humor? God, I hoped not—I flattened my hand, turned it to the side, and gave her a chop to the neck.

  She went down.

  But it wasn’t over yet. She reached up and snatched at me blindly, hoping to hook my leg and bring me down with her. If she got me between those massive thighs…

  I wouldn’t allow it. Instead, I drew my right fist back, leaned over, and smashed her in the nose. Only when her eyes rolled into her head and blood spurted all over me did I remember my heavy new turquoise ring.

  The Navajo version of brass knuckles.

  ***

  Ten minutes later I was filling out a police report as an ambulance carried Terry Jardine, aka Monster Woman, away. Before I got the chance to call the police myself, the commotion had alerted two sweaty accountants as they exited the gym, and they had performed that kind service for me.

  After I refused treatment, against everyone’s recommendation, the uniformed officers interviewed me.

  “You say she attacked you first?” the tall one asked. He was thin as a snake but had a genial personality. His name tag identified him as Bruce Leavitt. I didn’t know him, but I had once worked with his partner, a hard-ass little snip named Gwyneth Pronzini, whose ferocity made my old frenemy Detective Sylvie Perrins look like Tinker Bell.

  “Yes, she hit me from behind with that rock…” I gestured toward the offending mineral lying near my Jeep, “…as I was about to climb in my vehicle. If you check your records, you’ll find she’s out on bail after being charged with firebombing my office.”

  Pronzini turned to Leavitt. “That’ll be Desert Investigations. Over on Main Street. Arson guys have it.” To me, “What’d you do to Ms. Jardine to make her act like that?”

  “Had her car towed. She kept parking in our space.”

  “Definitely a major crime against humanity.” Like most female cops, including Sylvie, Pronzini had to act twice as tough to be taken half as seriously as the male of the species.

  I was about to say something cynical in return, but then something wet trickled down my back. When I raised my hand up to the wound, it came back red. Uh-oh.

  “I’m bleeding again.” I tried not to sound pathetic.

  “Didn’t we warn you not to refuse treatment?’ Pronzini said, outraged. “You lied to the EMTs, didn’t you, when you said you didn’t lose consciousness?”

  I shook my head before I remembered how much it hurt. “But I didn’t. Not totally, anyway. Just saw a few stars.”

  Leavitt stared at my hand, then my head. “She really needs to go to the hospital.”

  “Sure looks like it.” Pronzini turned her glare on me. “Lena, you smear any blood on our squad car, I’ll kill you myself. We just had it washed.”

  With that, they drove me over to Scottsdale-Osborn Hospital, which luckily, was only eight blocks away from the gym so I didn’t have to listen to Pronzini’s caterwauls too long. Once there, she shut up. Copious amounts of blood are great attention-getters from ER folk, so I was immediately separated from the bloodless but groaning herd and ushered into a curtained examination area. As per protocol, Pronzini and Leavitt trailed along. Once a nurse helped me onto a gurney, the two cops turned to go.

  But not before Pronzini got in a final zinger. “Oh, and you’d better get that blood around your mouth HIV-tested, too. Just in case.”

  ***

  An hour later, minus a little hair but the brand new owner of sixteen staples in my scalp, the ER released me with orders not to drive or operate heavy machinery for the next twenty-four hours. All hopped up on adrenalin, I ignored the doctor’s warning and hoofed it back to the gym, where I picked up my Jeep and drove to my motel. The adrenaline wore off as I was climbing the stairs. It was only with difficulty that I summoned enough strength to get through the door to my room.

  After latching the door behind me, I flopped across the bed in my bloody clothes, and fell into a deep, and thankfully, dreamless sleep.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  Boom. Boom. Boom.

  Cannon fire?

  No. Someone pounding on my motel door. For a while I tried to ignore the racket, but that’s hard to do when your head pounds along in time. Boom. Boom. Boom.

  I opened my eyes to narrow slits and found the room full of light. Wha…? A check of the digital clock on the nightstand informed me that it was only 9:04 a.m. Damn noisy hotel maids.

  “Go away!” I yelled, then wished I hadn’t. My head felt like blood would spurt from my ears any second.

  “Open this door, Lena, or I’ll break it down!”

  Jimmy.

  I knew the man well enough to know that once he decided to do something, he did it, so with a groan I rose from the bed, staggered to the door, unlocked it, then staggered over to the nightstand. Leaning against it for balance, I dry-swallowed one of the pain pills the ER doc had given me and lay back down.

  “It’s unlocked!” I yelled. More pain. I remembered reading that anything ingested took twenty minutes to get into the bloodstream. Maybe I’d be dead by then. Buoyed by that hope, I lay there and waited for the coming storm.

  It arrived in the guise of one furious Indian. “Why do I have to be alerted by the police that you’ve been hurt?”

  “Police? That would be…?”

  “Somebody named Gwyneth Pronzini, and she sounded pissed.”

  I didn’t bother to lift my head off the pillow. “Gwyn’s always pissed.”

  “Yeah, well, she called fifteen minutes ago and said you probably needed looking in on. Said she’d have called me earlier, but right after she and her partner dropped you off at the hospital, they were radioed about a missing three-year-old and looked for him all night. As soon as they found the kid sleeping in the backseat of a neighbor’s car, she got on the phone to me.”

  Here’s the thing about cops. They may hate each other, but in the end, they all stand together. Even when the cop is no longer a cop.

  “So here you are. Well, as you can see, I’m alive. You can leave now.” I put the pillow over my head, to either dull the sound of his voice or smother myself. Either way, it was a win-win.

  He snatched the pillow away. “You’re coming back to the trailer with me.”

  “No I’m not.”

  “Are too.”

  “No…”

  Strong arms heaved me off the bed and dope-walked me to the door.

  “I’ll yell ‘kidnap’.”

  “No you won’t.”

  “Will too.”

  “Won’t.”

  The problem with Jimmy is that he’s so often right. Not really wanting to get him in trouble, I didn’t yell, and he hustled me all the way down the stairs without anyone noticing. By the time he dragged me into his truck, I’d stopped struggling. I just wanted that pain pill to hurry up. It finally kicked in as we turned onto the gravel road that led to his trailer, and after that, I no longer cared about anything.

  ***

  Around one o’clock, the smell of something wonderful woke me up.

  “Lunch is served,” Jimmy said, pushing a bowl under my nose.

  “What’s that?”

  “Pima stew.”

  He turned on his heel and carried the bowl into the kitchen area. Led by the heavenly aroma, I followed, and found the table set for lunch for three.

  I asked, “Who’s joining us?”

  “Madeline. She’ll be here any minute. In fact, I think I hear her van coming down the road right now.” He cocked his head. “Yep. I’d recognize that rattle anywhere.”
r />   “How…?”

  “She called about twenty minutes ago, told me she’d been delivering some paintings to one of the Main Street galleries and decided to drop by our office. Then oops, she found nothing but a burnt-out shell where Desert Investigations used to be. Imagine that. Being the curious type, she went across the street to Cliffie’s gallery, and he told her what happened, so when her call to you rolled over to voice mail, she got on the phone to me. Why in the world didn’t you tell her about the firebomb?”

  I rubbed my head. It still hurt, although not as badly as before. “Didn’t want her to worry. You know how she is.”

  He frowned. “Well, now she’s gets to see you all beat up, with staples in your head. Good luck with that.”

  Outside, a car door slammed. Steps crunched on gravel. A polite tap-tap at the door.

  Jimmy liked Madeline, my former foster mother, so when he greeted her, his smile was genuine. “Welcome to my humble abode.”

  Her smile matched his as she took in the Pima designs painted across the cabinetry and said, “Not so humble. Love the art.” When she turned to me, her smile faded.

  “Why am I always the last to know, Lena?” Her long, dark hair, usually tied neatly behind in a low-slung ponytail, was in disarray, and the fine lines around her amber-colored eyes seemed more pronounced than ever.

  After repeating the excuse I’d given Jimmy, I added, “Besides, you were all the way down in Florence. There was no point in making you drive up here.”

  “Less than an hour’s drive, big deal. I’ve been going crazy ever since I saw what happened to your office. For a minute I thought…I thought…” She gulped. “Sweetie, how are you? You look like crap.”