The monster would come in and ramble on with obscenities and nonsense. He always wore a full leather mask. His voice was crazed. She had never heard that voice before. Who was the monster? He wants my skin?
Her eyes fell back to her clothes and she remembered. Is it possible her second phone was still in her cargo pants? She hadn’t heard it ring. It wouldn’t ring. She only used it for personal calls and always kept it turned off when on the job. She tilted her head to the other side and pursed her dry lips.
It may be her only chance. And she was so weak.
MY FATHER RETURNED IN MY dreams. I think I understood him this time, or at least some of his messages. He was upset I second-guessed my opening of the Tucson store. And he told me it was time. “You have it all, and now go back to what counts.”
The dream exhausted me rather than encouraged me. Go back where? You are pleased with the Tucson store, but you think I should move back to Beverly Hills? Dad? Dad?
Chapter 62
Nashville
THE SUMMER MONSOON HIT Tucson and the surrounding desert with its glorious fury of bucket-dumping warm rain, but it was not so glorious to Shirley. She missed her connecting flight out of DFW. Then again, by the time she got to Dallas, they were under weather delays, as well.
With the time change, she checked into her room at the Union Station Hotel in Nashville well after eight. She ordered room service, confirmed her morning appointment, took a hot bath, and then let the bed swallow her body and her soul, with mounds of papers and a humming laptop nearby.
A few minutes before eight the next morning, she pulled up the long drive to the estate of William Brandt. A retired entrepreneur, Shirley already knew he was a Jack-of-all-Trades that had made his fortune in real estate.
The almost eighty-year-old was spry and fit and full of wit, greeting her from his expansive veranda.
“We have a few tenets here in this part of Tennessee. We have money, privacy, and more than one saddle in the stables. We see no evil, hear no evil, and speak no evil. And folks keep to themselves and that don’t necessarily make them bad folks.
“That all out on the table, I remember that egg-head of a neighbor like it was yesterday. Arrogant young doctor wannabe.”
“I take it he wasn’t such a great neighbor?” Shirley asked.
“Sonuvabitch came in here liked he owned the whole damn town. Little twit. Med school, shmed-school. How the hell he married that sweet young thing, I’ll never know, but I know he went and killed her.”
“Mr. Brandt—”
“Oh, I know. I have a bad mouth, but my friends call me Bill. Call me Bill.”
“Bill, are you telling me he was married?”
“These days I guess you never know, but they acted like it.”
“Why do you think he may have killed her?”
“She went missing.”
“But maybe they just got married too young and she couldn’t own up to her mistake. Like you alluded to, maybe it wasn’t a marriage made in heaven.”
“Mistake it was,” he ranted. “Coincidence, they all said, that my finest Shire, my grand and giant of a horse—they said it was a coincidence that she disappeared that same night, but then, in due time, something smelled atrocious. Right out there.” He pointed to the far back line of his property.
“I’m not aware of any extraneous reports.”
“Of course you aren’t, because the damn idiots didn’t believe me. Let’s take a walk.”
We did walk the distance of a football field leveled in green pasture. We passed by an old barn, still wearing its pride with two young Stallions in front.
Brandt pointed to a line of huge Boxwood and Hicks Yew bushes that declared the property line. “That jerk lived right over there. Bad boy, he was.
“I was right here. Digging around for some spring cleaning, cutting back branches. I was wondering if I’d ever see my Shire again; knowing I never would.
“I think I saw the flies first. Or heard them, but then this god-awful smell took over. Now I’m an old buzzard and I’ve smelled my fair share of shit, but this took the prize.”
He lowered his head, maybe in embarrassment. Maybe not.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but it’s the gospel truth. All of it. That was some day and some stench. I’ll never forget it.”
“What did you do, Bill?”
“I thought about just bulldozing over things, but then I got to thinking about that missing girl and my missing horse and it got the best of me. I called the police.”
The old man took a deep breath and Shirley realized he wasn’t as spry as he pretended to be.
She nudged gingerly, “And?”
“And they told me it was nothing, but horse guts. That nothing meant the world to me.”
Chapter 63
The Summer Haven of Mt. Lemmon
A PERFECT DAY ENGAGED Gage’s artistic muse. It was 105 in the city and that was Gage’s limit on heat. He headed up toward Mt. Lemmon where he had planned his plein-air painting day. The town known as Summerhaven was so named for a reason. The drive up would pass through several ecological units. He’d start at the base with the towering saguaros, enter a level of scrub oak, and finally, at the summit, reach the groves of Quaking Aspens and cathedrals of Ponderosa Pines. And all the way, with rapid height in altitude, were the magnificent vistas.
Gage’s mind wandered. He had been in Tucson long enough to know that Winterhaven was a different scene. A small community that gathered at Christmas to outdo the Griswalds and their Christmas Vacation. A festival of lights and horse carriages full of delighted children and parents, and good will to all. Summerhaven was just a different season and a different location—a rather convenient escalation into elevation that would take you out of the extreme summer desert heat.
He pulled into the parking lot of the ski lifts. Two of them. They reminded him of what he had seen of black-and-white photographs of what was Vail, about forty years ago or more. Not Vail, Arizona, of course. Colorado. In other words the lifts were rather archaic, but doable, and they still ran in the summer months for hikers and tourists.
Gage managed to load his easel, canvass, and oils onto the lift. Easier then skis and poles and the freezing cold, he thought.
It was after four before he’d found his perfect site. On the lift up he’d already observed three white tailed deer, a couple wild turkeys, and a fabulous spotting of a coati mundi and his crazy antics. This would be a perfect afternoon. The monsoon, with its level of humidity and equalized dew point, would promise a gorgeous sunset. If rains did come then so be it. That was the thrill and the challenge of the plein-air artist.
The summer sun would not set for hours. Whatever he accomplished, he would be hiking down the trek with all of his tools because the lifts wouldn’t be running. His heaviest gear was a six-pack of Coronas, so he’d be sure to lighten that load.
Gage sketched the rich scenery full of surprising mountainous terrain and endless vistas. A few hikers encroached on his self-proclaimed territory, and all respected his privacy.
A perfect afternoon; so it seemed.
Before darkness, Gage picked up his gear, strapped the wet canvas onto his back to protect it like a newborn child, and navigated the rather gentle slopes toward his car at the basin. He would take any fall before he injured his child, but the descent was both swift and magnificent. And in the spirit of the art, if leaves or sands or such fell across the fresh dapples of oil paints, he would decide what to remove and what to preserve.
Mt. Lemmon Highway is no highway. Rather, it’s notorious for closing down for its already short ski season when the snow makes it impassible, but for-residents-only. Barriers provide minimal safety from the huge drop-offs. Even in summer, many a car had plummeted off the road where there were no barriers or the barriers simply gave in to the force of an oncoming vehicle. Plenty of people had died, falling to their deaths, when they were safely pulled over, but the group’s photographer had asked someone to back up jus
t a little. Poof. They were gone. Not Kodak moments.
Gage had imbibed on four beers, but over hours, and with plenty of sunflower embedded crackers and gruyere cheese to take away any buzz, he didn’t doubt his ability to navigate safely down Mt. Lemmon Highway and re-enter the city.
As an artist, Gage knew the most magnificent turn on the road was Windy Point, where the wind of the years had beaten and carved out pillars of rock that stood out now like sentries overlooking the valley that was all of Tucson. The sky became an ocean at certain points, because you didn’t see anything else below you.
Not even nearing Windy Point, Gage realized an idiotic driver followed too close behind him. Ridiculous. Passing was dangerous and mostly illegal, but there was no other traffic to speak of, so Gage pulled over onto one of the many pullouts. Maybe it was a medical emergency.
The black SUV whizzed past him. Gage said a little adieu and returned to the road. He’d take his time and enjoy the journey down into the city with the twists and turns of the road. Beautiful. He didn’t notice that the SUV had also pulled out, behind him, and was now on his tail again.
The car behind him turned on the high beams. Gage was blinded, but for the moment he spied the black vehicle and he flipped his rearview mirror upward.
The SUV behind him snaked up at an alarming rate of speed. And then it tried to pass him. Gage focused on his driving. Getting home safe. Getting home to Sterling, even if he was staying in the guest room. Or dog house. He acquiesced to the other driver. His speed slowed and he pulled over to another safe pullout on the road.
Okay. That was weird, Gage thought. He waited. He watched his clock. He waited almost five minutes and then proceeded down Mt. Lemmon.
The black SUV. Behind him again! He tried to pass him. Again. Gage wasn’t about to entertain any road rally. He slowed down. And the car, rather than passing him, crashed into the back of the driver’s side. If Gage yielded further left, he would careen down the mountain to a certain death.
He held firm onto the wheel and with his Bluetooth, called 911. Then he called Detective Taylor. Spitting out a stream of consciousness that made no sense, he told Taylor it was a black SUV and the driver wanted him, and only him, to plummet off the cliff.
Gage came upon a Forest Ranger vehicle and put on his emergency flashers. The SUV slowed and the vehicle fell behind and disappeared in Gage’s rearview mirror.
Could it have turned around on that section of the road? Getting through on the other side was even more treacherous. Gage didn’t know. He didn’t care. He gave a description to the ranger who would never be able to catch up to the guy, he thought.
Back in his car, Gage took a deep breath. Who would want to target him and try and run him off the road and over a cliff toward a certain death? Did he see the driver? Anything about him? He had an artist’s eyes for details. He saw something.
Chapter 64
Maybe Three & Maybe Six & for Sure, One
GAGE STORMED INTO THE house, his house that he hadn’t officially moved back into. Sterling and Harry, the Earl of Éclair, were nestled under one of their outdoor patios closest to his studio.
“What is it?” I said. I could read his panic. Or anger. I wasn’t sure which.
“What it is is someone tried to run me off the road. And not just any road. They chose Mt. Lemmon.” He didn’t yell. He muttered. He held his shoulders tight and kept blinking his eyes.
“Around Windy Point. The perfect place for a car to careen off the cliffs, wouldn’t you think?” he said with a sharp voice.
“Gage. Maybe he was only trying to pass you, or maybe he was drunk.”
“No. He waited for me, Sterling. He hunted me down more than once. He was after me.”
I shook my head. Who would want Gage dead at the bottom of a cliff? “No one would go after you, but you have to call the police.”
“I already did. I got hold of Detective Taylor. I can read people, Sterling, even on the phone. He was only mildly interested until I told him it was a black SUV. He’s on his way here. Now.”
“I don’t understand,” I stammered.
“Think about it, Babe. Taylor was hammering me for driving a dark SUV that might be involved in the shooting at your store. Something’s up. Something big.”
“Let me get you some wine,” I said.
“You know. We didn’t plan that I’d move back in this fast. I have a canvas I want to bring into my studio. If that’s okay. Maybe you should go out for coffee. Stay out of this.”
I knew that would be Gage. Caring about his art as a way of sloughing off the fear I could see registered on his face. In his way, trying to protect me.
“Of course. And then take the guest room. We agreed, Gage. I put on fresh linens. Fresh towels in the bathroom. I want you here. And I want to be here for you when Taylor arrives.”
I wanted to tell him to crawl into bed with me. Our bed. Spooning sounded so damn good. Instead, there I stood, helpless. Rather than wine, I would put on a pot of coffee and we would wait for Taylor to arrive.
TAYLOR WAS QUICK AND to the point. “Did anyone know about your outing to Mt. Lemmon. This plain air thing you’re talking about.”
“Plein-air,” Gage corrected. “And no. No one knows my schedule.”
“Seems a little like happenstance rather than target, then,” Taylor said. “One crazy driver on the mountain.”
“Wait!” Gage yelled. “It was broadcast. Where I’d be. A radio interview I did. I mentioned it. I was so excited and eager, I definitely mentioned it.”
Taylor’s head swept his forehead, as if trying to wipe away grit and grime that wasn’t there. “You mentioned the place and the date of your outing, whatever you call it?”
“Yup. And the time. Sunset.”
Gage was visibly shaking. I pulled out the bottle of Merlot and was surprised that Taylor shoved his coffee cup away in anticipation of something better.
“I’m off duty,” he said, “and I’m damn wired and tired. Tell me about this vehicle that may have been after you.”
“No may there. He was after me!”
“Did you get a plate number? What do you have for me?” Taylor asked, with an authoritarian voice that would calm Gage instantly.
“I couldn’t see anything. The guy drove so fast.”
“It was a guy?”
“I’m doing your detective work, but yes, it was a guy. I’m sure of that. And it was a late-model black SUV. Now it’s my turn. You didn’t seem to give a rat’s ass about my call until I mentioned the vehicle. What gives, Detective?”
“Just one more question. The vehicle. Was it a two-tone?
“I wasn’t looking at the paint job, Detective. I had a road to stay on. And what if it was?”
“At a certain point coincidences don’t add up. It seems that we have one bad ass driver of a black two-tone SUV. Could be we have three bad guys. Could be we have six, but for sure we have one.”
Chapter 65
A Horse is a Horse. Of Course.
MARCUS HAD WORK to do. Big work. He had to ditch a vehicle he loved because of the damage to the front-end and side. He’d have to be careful where he sold it. Tucson was way too small a town. Stupid! What was he thinking? The garage. For now he’d stow it in his garage.
His only thoughts were that he wanted his White Goddess all to himself. He might need Sacrum to help him out with this sticky situation with evidence on his property.
SHIRLEY SQUEALED INTO HER cell phone, “I’m going to faint, Steve. I think I have something concrete.”
“Thank God,” Taylor said. “I’m up to my eyeballs in black SUV sightings. Go on, girlfriend.”
She cleared her throat, “Marcus Armstrong lived on a sprawling horse property here in Nashville with a female resident, one Emily Johnston. They presented themselves as a married couple, or at least the neighbors thought so, but they’re no records of it. Eight year ago, while here, she up and disappeared. And when interviewed, Armstrong told the authorities t
hat the Johnson woman left town with her lesbian lover. She didn’t want to face her family and friends with this revelation.”
“Okay. You have a guy that’s unlucky in love, twice fold. So unlucky his women leave him. It’s no crime.”
“Yes, but listen to me! The neighbor’s horse went missing at exactly the same time. You have read that case file there in Tucson, right?”
“Oh, I’ve read it. Armstrong’s wife vanished. And took her horse with her.”
“The neighbor here called in the police to report a stolen horse, but a couple weeks later he had them back out when he found something at the edge of his property. It was identified as horse guts. No carcass to speak of. No head. No legs or tail. Just the guts and a few bones. They…they…they—”
“Shirley, slow down! Breathe.”
An audible deep breath. “Two missing women and two missing horses. Armstrong has horses out there on Reddington Pass, and here’s where The Z comes in. Zoey remembered being out at that ranch. She was called in to clean up the remains of some dead animal. I think she told me she wasn’t sure what it was, but figured it was a bobcat or two. I don’t think she saw anything much in solid matter.”
Taylor thumbed through the report. “Here it is. Zoey was called in to clean up unidentified animal remains in the barn. Police deduced the animal or animals must have gotten locked in the barn, gotten spooked, and went after each other.”
“I don’t think that outbuilding is called a barn, Steve. It’s a massive stable.”
“Thanks, Ms. English, but in the report Zoey called it a barn. That’s official.”
“But why no head? Or tail? Legs? Something that would identify it?”
“Also begs the question why any evidence of any crime would have been left behind like that, especially since Armstrong is the one who called in the missing person report. Unfortunately I know the responding officer that took the report. He died a couple years back.”
Evil Cries Page 17
