As he would tell Deputies Packard and Bearcat later: “Something told me ‘Don’t knock on Ben’s door.’” Something also told him not to step onto the porch, where a board might squeak under his boot. After a life of close calls, the lawman had learned to pay attention to Something. He crept up to a side window and peered in, realized he was looking into the parlor, directly over Ben Silver’s desk. He didn’t see the old man. Or anything that seemed out of the ordinary.
Until the girl rose up from behind the desk.
The sheriff was almost as startled as Sarah Frank when she saw the shadowy silhouette of a man at the window.
But not quite.
With a shriek, the girl instinctively flung the baseball bat at the glass.
Popper cursed and ducked. The curse came off quick enough, but not the duck. He saw the Louisville Slugger shatter the glass just sixty-two milliseconds before it connected with his forehead, clipped off his brand-new, county-issue flat-brimmed hat. He landed flat on his back. The hard-skulled man had taken worse hits, and was stunned for only a few seconds. When he managed to get onto a pair of wobbly legs, Popper’s top priority was picking up his hat, checking the damage, returning the handsome lid to where it belonged. “Ouch!” The sheriff winced, rubbed at the place above his left eye where a lump would soon form. When the lawman took a second look through the broken window, he didn’t expect to see her. As he would tell his deputies: “While I was laid out like a pole-axed mule, lookin’ up at nothin’ but wild blue yonder and a cloud shaped like a nineteen-forty-nine Studebaker—I heard the back door slam.”
Popper proceeded to brush a few fragments of glass off his shirt. Crazy kid—what the hell was that all about? He marched around to the back of the house to find out. The girl was already out of sight. He peered at the Gap, with all its shadows and sandstone boulders and stunted trees. It was that Sarah-what’s-her-name who’s staying with Marilee and that Harper bum. When I see that silly girl, I’ll sure give her a good talking-to. She could’ve killed me with that danged baseball bat! He returned to the scene of the near-miss, started to pick up the wooden club, but some cop instinct made him hesitate. He squatted, had a close look at the bat. There were bloody fingerprints on the wood. He drew a deep breath, yelled through the window. “Ben—you okay?”
Silence was the eloquent response.
Sheriff Popper entered by the back door, crossed through the kitchen, into the parlor, found Ben Silver on the floor by the desk. The old man’s nose had been bashed flat, there was blood all over his face, and it had pooled in his eyes. Ben’s left boot was on the floor by his knee. God in heaven—what’s happened here? He knelt for a closer look. The collar on Ben’s white linen shirt had been ripped open, two buttons were missing. He found a light pulse under the jawbone. Well, at least he’s alive. He yelled again. “Ben! Can you hear me?”
Astonishingly, the old man’s right eye opened. The orb was looking past Ned Popper, at something the sheriff could not see. Not even if he had turned his head.
Encouraged by the anger blooming in Ben’s eyeball, the sheriff grinned. “Hey, you hard-headed old bastard—I’m glad you’re still with us.” What’s happened here is plain as the smashed nose on your face but I got to ask the question. “Ben—who was it that lowered the boom on you?”
Silver’s mouth opened, his lungs rattled. “Hit me…tried to fight but…it don’t matter…it’s gone…” He made a small gurgling sound, then: “Sarah…Sarah Frank—she’s got it.”
The sheriff lost the grin. “Sarah’s got what?”
Slowly, slowly, the anger wilted away. Ben Silver’s mouth was silenced forever. His eye remained wide open, as if staring in infinite wonder at the unseen.
Chapter Eleven
A Discreet Inquiry
Sheriff Ned Popper put one foot on the massive slab of sandstone that served as a doorstep, rapped his knuckles on the door. One. Two. Three. On the count of four, he heard a clop-clopping across the hardwood floor. The white porcelain knob turned, the clop-clopper cracked the door—just enough for one of her eyes to peer through. Recognizing the face, Marilee unhooked the chain, opened the door wide. Dressed in faded jeans and a man’s western-style white shirt with pearl buttons, the Papago woman clutched a wet dishrag in her hand. “Hell’s bells, Ned—what happened to you?”
The lawman gingerly touched a finger to the gauze patch he had applied to the lump on his forehead. “Aw, nothin’ I won’t get over.”
Her lips made a small O, which was also the next word out of her mouth. “Oh, don’t need to tell me—let me guess. It’s Al, ain’t it? I bet he got in another fight over at the Gimpy Dog Saloon, and you had to break it up.” She squeezed the dishrag until dirty water dripped on the doorsill. “Did my idiot boyfriend whack you with a beer bottle?”
“No, Al didn’t whack me with no bottle.”
“Has somebody killed him?” Behind the frown, there was the faintest hint of hope.
Despite the dull pain that threatened to pop off the top of his head, Ned Popper grinned. “Not so far as I know.” But if somebody did, it’d be a benefit to the community. He looked past her into the gloomy interior of the low-rent dwelling. “If you ain’t too busy, could I come in for a minute?”
“Sure you can, Ned.” As she stepped aside to let the man into her small parlor, a cloud passed over Marilee’s round face. “Oh, my God—is it Sarah?” She put a hand over her mouth, as if to keep the question from coming out—mumbled through her fingers. “Has she been hit by a car or somethin’?”
“No, she ain’t been hit by no car.” Without waiting for an invitation to sit, the sheriff eased his lean frame onto a hideous green couch. He removed his hat, turned it in his hands. “I understand you took Ben Silver over to the clinic this morning.”
Oh, then it’s Ben. Relieved, Marilee plopped into a chair. “Yeah, I did. But we was only there for a few minutes. All the doctors was put on emergency call because of that pileup on the interstate.” Trying to look like she cared, she asked the obvious question. “Has something happened to Ben?” I bet he’s died from pure orneriness.
The sheriff’s eyes narrowed as he picked a clinging skunkweed burr off his knee. “When you took Ben home, did he seem to be all right?”
Unnerved by the grim look on Ned Popper’s weatherworn face, Marilee nodded. “Sure he was.”
The lawman put the burr into a blue glass ashtray. “When you dropped him off at his house, did you notice whether there was anybody else around?”
Marilee looked at the dishrag in her hands. “I didn’t exactly take him to his front door.” Feeling more than a little foolish, the Papago woman proceeded to explain how she and Ben had had “some words,” how she had “let him off a ways down the lane from his house.” Having completed this highly sanitized account of the confrontation, she said: “What’s happened to Ben, Sheriff? Was that long walk too much for that old man—did he have a heart attack or somethin’?”
Ned Popper was staring down the dark hallway. “Does Sarah still do chores for Ben?”
Beginning to feel miffed that her questions were so pointedly ignored, she nodded.
She’s about to clam up on me. “Look, Marilee—I have to ask you these questions—that’s what I get paid to do. But at the moment, it wouldn’t be proper for me to tell you why.” He leaned forward, looked her straight in the eye. “You understand what I’m saying?”
“Yeah. I guess so.” She exhaled a great sigh, got up from her chair. “I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
The sheriff made another probe. “If Sarah went over to see Ben this morning, maybe she could help me some.”
Having surrendered, Marilee waved the dishrag like a white flag. “No, she didn’t. My little cousin always tells me when she’s goin’ over to Ben’s place. And besides, she knew I was hauling him to the clinic for his doctor’s appointment.” Seeing his oddly blank stare, she explained: “There wouldn’t be any good reason for Sarah to go over to Ben’s house when s
he knew he wouldn’t be at home—now would there?”
“No, I guess not.” No good reason.
She followed his second glance at the hallway. “I don’t know where she is—out prowling around somewhere with that cat, I expect.”
“Well, thank you, Marilee. I guess I’d best be getting along.” Popper got to his feet, felt a sudden throbbing where the baseball bat had raised a purple lump. He closed his eyes until the pain subsided, then headed toward the front door. He put on his hat, reached for the doorknob, then—as if it was an afterthought: “Where does the girl sleep?”
“She’s got a little room in the back.” Marilee arched a thickly penciled eyebrow. “Why?”
The lawman hesitated. “Well, Sarah’s a quiet child. She might’ve come in the back door while we was talking. Maybe she’s back there reading a comic book.”
“Sarah don’t read comic books.”
“When I was a kid, I read Superman. And Little Lulu, cover to cover.”
Marilee smirked at the old geezer. “An’ I bet your family didn’t even have a TV.”
“Matter of fact, they didn’t.” Popper removed his hat, put on his most amiable smile. “Before I go, let’s make sure Sarah’s not in her room.” He reached in his pocket, consulted a gold-plated Hamilton pocket watch. “If I could have a couple of words with the girl, it would save me another trip back here.” But in thirty minutes flat, I’ll have a warrant to search this house from one end to the other.
Marilee shrugged. “She ain’t here, but come and see for yourself.”
He followed her down the hall.
The former pantry was barely able to accommodate a small cot, a pink chest of drawers that looked more like a cardboard toy than proper furniture.
The woman stared. “Well—that’s funny.”
Pretending to be barely interested, the sheriff did not ask what was funny. He knew Marilee would tell him.
She did. “Just look at that—her schoolbooks are stacked up on the chest. She always keeps her books in her backpack. But her backpack’s gone.” Marilee began to open drawers. “Well, I just don’t believe this.”
“What’s that, Marilee?”
“Some of her clothes are gone!” Seeing the lawman’s blush, she set her jaw, made a fist. “Ned Popper, if you don’t want another lump on your gourd-head, you’d better tell me right now—what’s happened to Sarah?”
The sheriff tried to shrug off her belligerent stare.
The woman held her breath until she thought she might faint. “Do you think Sarah has run away from home?”
Nodding at the stack of abandoned schoolbooks, he said: “Kinda looks like it, Marilee.” He waited for her to say it.
She did. “Then you’ve got to find her!”
It’s times like this I hate this damn job. Ned Popper cleared his throat. “Have you got a picture of the kid—one you could loan me for a couple a days?”
Chapter Twelve
To Fly Away
Sarah Frank ran through hatchet gap like a wild-eyed deer, numb with fear, often stumbling, sometimes falling, but never, ever looking back.
Delighted to participate in such exhilarating sport, Mr. Zig-Zag began by trotting along at her heels; as she slowed, he chose to lead the race.
The skinny girl dared not imagine who might be behind her, but always before her—as if etched on her retinas—was the bloody image of Mr. Silver’s face. As a chill wind whipped her skirt, it seemed as if she might never emerge from the dismal fissure in the Big Lizard’s spine. When Sarah caught sight of a dazzle of daylight, and saw the slender thread of paved highway neatly dividing the settlement of Tonapah Flats, she fell against a piñon snag, gasped for half-strangled breaths, felt the hurtful hammering in her chest.
My heart’s going to stop.
From somewhere above her, came the raucous caw-caw of an impertinent raven.
I’m going to fall over on the ground and die.
Sarah Frank imagined that stray dogs and gaunt coyotes would gnaw the flesh off her bones; sand beetles and grub worms would consume what was left. She closed her eyes, waited for that little window to open in the darkness. On those occasions when it presented itself, the rectangular opening provided her with a view of tomorrow; but she expected no tomorrows. This time, she believed, it would give her a glimpse of the other side. She might see Mommy and Daddy; hoped they would not be angry with her.
What Sarah saw was Nothing. It seemed as if she was about to slip away into its infinite embrace. Indeed, Darkness reached out to touch her, hold her, enfold her—smother out the flickering flame of life, gather her into that endless gloom…
But through the window, a tiny wriggling speck of light—some bright thing swimming in the night? It grew, unfolded, blossomed. Rainbow colors. Coming closer. It was a fish. Not a very large fish. But in the flicker of a silken fin, it swallowed up the vast ocean of Nothing.
The girl-child’s morbid premonition had been somewhat premature.
The black-and-white cat adjusted his miniature motor to medium-purr, rubbed a furry shoulder against her leg.
This optimistic statement had a remarkably soothing effect on the recipient of the gift. Sarah’s breaths and heartbeats began to slow. The realization was startling: I’m not going to die. She pushed fingertips against her temples, tried to press away the fear. But I can’t just stand here—I’ve got to work out a plan. When she opened her eyes, the first thing they focused on was something still far away—a pickup parked in front of her cousin’s home. It was Sheriff Popper’s truck. I’d better find a place for me and Mr. Zig-Zag to hide.
Minutes later, she had retrieved her concealed backpack, was hurrying along the rocky bottom of the Little Sandy. Though the midday sun was on her back and the day was warm, the girl could not stop shivering. With an unnerving suddenness, her knees became so wobbly that it seemed her frail legs might finally fail her. Sarah found a shady spot under a thick stand of sickly willows, and crouched there to rest. It was abundantly clear that Mr. Zig-Zag did not realize the gravity of the situation—he took the opportunity to chase after a yellow butterfly. After the aged cat had given up the hunt, she had a finger-shaking, face-to-face encounter with her pet, explained the hard facts of life. Her dire warnings terminated thusly: “…so you’ve got to be very, very careful, or we’ll both end up dead!” The animal seemed to be appropriately sobered by the stern words, but perhaps he was merely running out of steam.
Sarah shared a portion of her food with her companion, then curled up with the cat clutched close to her chest. The hours passed ever so slowly. Nervous little naps came and went with puffy gusts of dust-laden wind. When she finally opened her eyes to see the sun settling onto a pinkish-blue horizon, the girl abandoned her hiding place. She resumed her walk along the dry wash; the cat—quite contented with his unpredictable life—ambled along behind. As the serpentine dry stream made a loop toward the rear side of the Dairy Queen, the girl who had felled the sheriff climbed the bank of the Little Sandy, crossed a trash-strewn alley, approached the building with the wary instinct of a hunted fox. Passing through clusters of tumbleweed, she concealed herself behind an odorous green Dumpster.
A Chevy low-rider parked out front of the Dairy Queen thump-thumped with vulgar gangster-rap. Merle Haggard’s lonesome wail floated up from a rusty old pickup.
Fat black flies buzzed around Sarah’s head, a horrid mix of stale-food smells made her stomach churn. Leaving the concealment provided by the Dumpster, she slipped along in the eastern shadows of the cinder block structure, gazed across the highway at the Greyhound bus station, which was a small, square building between the Pancho’s Cantina and the Pizza Hut. A Trailways bus was puffing black diesel smoke. A uniformed driver was loading large cardboard boxes in a luggage compartment. Best of all, the destination sign over the front window said DENVER! This is our chance. She reached for the cat.
But wait—pulling up slowly through the easterly shadow of the big bus, was a low-slung black-and-
white sedan. As it came into the light, Sarah could see Tate Packard’s face behind the steering wheel. When he seemed to look directly at the spot where she was standing, Sarah’s heart almost stopped. But the deputy evidently did not spot the terrified runaway. He was responding to a call on his radio, and in lulls between the roar of passing cars and trucks, Sarah could make out a few words.
“Roger that dispatch…no sign of…setting up a roadblock…”
There was a whuff-whuffing as an owl passed overhead. Sarah looked up at the gathering twilight, wished very hard. If I had wings, I would fly away to some secret place where nobody could ever hurt me or Mr. Zig-Zag. She closed her eyes, hoped, wished ever so hard—but the power of flight was denied her. Having had many bitter disappointments, she was not surprised. The fugitive retreated back into the dry wash, away from the noisome rush of motorized society. As she plodded along toward the darkening horizon, a pale yellow moon cast Sarah’s crisp shadow on the sands. It suddenly occurred to the girl that she was not real. I am a shadow. If the moon goes behind a cloud…I’ll fade away and be nothing. She would have been quite satisfied to enter a state of nonbeing.
But there was no cloud for the moon to go behind.
And so, the shadow-girl kept putting one foot in front of the other. The dry wash was wider now, and there was more sand than rocks.
Not far ahead, she saw a pickup throw up a cloud of alkali dust as it crossed her path. Sarah knew that was Tulane Road, a gravel lane that intersected the paved highway at the Shamrock gas station. Instantly, she had an idea, and thought it only right to share it with Mr. Zig-Zag. She scooped up the aged cat, whispered into his ear. “I know a good place where we can stay for a little while.”
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