by Betty Webb
After nuking a Ramen noodle dinner, I settled on the sofa and stared at the wall, afraid to turn on the TV and risk hearing the news. Music, perhaps? Some blues by John Lee Hooker or Gatehouse Brown might be nice, but a glance at my CD collection revealed a tall stack of discs gathering dust without benefit of their jewel cases. I would have to clean them first, which meant that my skittery mind might fasten on subjects better left alone.
I wandered over to my book case, but nothing piqued my interest among the shelves of already-read mystery novels sandwiched between well-thumbed volumes of Southwestern history. Deciding a good movie might calm my nerves, I picked up the Scottsdale Journal and paged past the news section to Arts & Entertainment. Nothing interested me among the teen slasher flicks or—Scottsdale being Scottsdale—foreign films with subtitles. I hate subtitles.
Next, I tried calling Warren, but his voice mail told me that while he appreciated my call, he wasn’t in right now, but if I left my name and number, he would get back to me as soon as possible. I didn’t. If he was out and about with some Hollywood starlet, it was none of my business, just as what I did with my free time was none of his. Not that I ever did anything. Flying in the face of reason, I was a one-man woman.
Given my restless mood, the idea of hanging around the apartment wasn’t all that attractive, so I went into the bedroom and changed into a pair of sweats. I had promised my orthopedic surgeon to go easy on the pavement pounding for a while, but right now, a re-injured hip seemed preferable to an emotional meltdown. Running settled my mind.
After transferring my .38 into its specially-designed fanny pack, I locked up and bounded down the stairs two at a time. Once on the sidewalk, I faced a decision: head east toward the Green Belt, a miles-long, path-lined arroyo that flooded every monsoon season, or south toward Papago Park, the unlandscaped piece of desert that divided Scottsdale from Phoenix. Opting for the park, I turned right on Scottsdale Road and began cutting my way through the tourists.
The park was nearby, so it didn’t take me long to get there, even after stopping to assist a sunburned couple who, speaking with Brooklyn accents, asked where they might see some Indians. Amused, I gave them directions to Casino Arizona, a mile away. “Indians all over the place,” I told them, “They’ll be happy to show you how the new slots work.” Feeling only slightly guilty, I jogged away.
The centerpiece of Papago Park is the Buttes, rough sandstone mesas erupting from the flat desert floor. Just as I entered the thousand-acre park, the Buttes caught the last rays of the sun and glowed with gaudy flashes of mauve and red. I jogged in place for a while, watching the show. Once the sun slipped behind the Phoenix skyscrapers to the west, the Buttes returned to their usual dull red, so I moved on.
For a while, other runners shared the trail, but they turned onto the wide path that ended at the south parking lot. Fleeing my sense of dis-ease, I took the more isolated path. It was one of my favorite routes, but not without danger, since this unmanicured section of the park served as home to various species of wildlife, none of them friendly. Coyote, javelina, snakes, and scorpions considered the high brush their own turf, so I wasn’t too startled when I passed a sandstone outcropping and flushed an angry javelina from a creosote thicket. Mama Javelina, trailed by four squealing youngsters.
I froze.
Javelina are ferociously protective, quick to fight for their young. Whatever they fought usually lost, because a charge from even a small javelina could knock you off your feet. If you didn’t regain your feet before they charged again, you might lose your intestines to their sharp tusks.
This particular javelina seemed more irritable than most. Maybe she’d had a bad day at the office, maybe Saturn was in her Pisces, or maybe her boyfriend was dating another javelina. Whatever the reason, she lowered her head and moved in front of her brood. When I took a test step back, she snorted and pawed the ground like a Brahma bull.
Then she started to circle.
Since the chances of outrunning Mama Javelina were nil, I froze again. Hardly daring to breathe, I waited while she checked me out. As I stood there the twilight faded, leaving us in growing darkness. And yet she continued to walk around me, grumbling to herself while her oblivious babies rooted for grubs in the nearby sagebrush.
If worse came to worse, I could use the .38 in my fanny pack, but the revolver was there to defend me from two-legged demons, not four-legged ones, if you could call a protective mother a demon. If more of them existed, little girls would never get shot in the face or dumped in the desert.
With that stray thought, the image of the girl in the Dragoons returned, and even the very present danger of the circling javelina couldn’t chase her face away. A wave of grief, palpable as the sandy trail under my feet, swept the fear from me.
Then something changed. Perhaps the girl’s ghostly presence somehow communicated itself to Mama Javelina, because she stopped circling and gazed into my eyes.
I gazed back.
She grunted, pawed the ground.
I kept my gaze steady.
After what seemed like forever, the pawing stopped. Her eyes left mine, settled on her children. With a final grunt, Mama Javelina gathered her babies together and herded them down the trail.
I waited until they disappeared behind a butte, then turned around and jogged home.
***
Main Street was deserted when I reached my apartment, and so was my voice mail. Hip hurting but mind still haunted, I decided to organize my CD collection. For the next hour I cleaned discs, returned them to their proper cases, and filed them alphabetically by performer. That accomplished, I wandered into the bedroom and began straightening out my closet.
Since I don’t own many clothes—one all-purpose black dress, one pants suit bought off the sales rack at Nordstrom’s, and several pairs of black jeans and black tops—it didn’t take long before I felt at loose ends again. Frustrated, I started vacuuming dust bunnies from under my bed but halfway through, struck pay dirt in the form of an old David Morrell novel I had never finished.
Confident that Morrell’s grisly visions would keep my mind off my own, I tugged the book out and began to read. But fictional killers can only do so much to calm a troubled mind. Somewhere after one o’clock, I fell asleep…
…and woke up on the white bus. The white bus that rocketed along a dark Phoenix street, the white bus filled with singing people whose voices almost, but not quite, drowned out my mother’s screams…
…the white bus where my mother held the gun against my forehead…
…the white bus where the gun went off and I fell away into the street…
There was something different about the dream this time. My sleeping self studied the small body on the pavement and discovered that the injured child was, for once, not me.
She was a different girl, a dark, tiny thing so beautiful she made my heart ache. As she lay bleeding on the street, she looked up at me, her eyes filled with the terrible knowledge that she was dying. Her lips formed two words, but the people on the bus sang so loudly that I couldn’t hear.
The girl’s lips moved again. This time, all the way down through the years, I heard.
“Help me,” she whispered.
Then my own bullet came for me and I fell into the street beside her.
Chapter Four
When I drove into Los Perdidos late the next afternoon, five days after finding that sad little body, tension filled the air. A woman leaving a children’s used clothing store clutched her toddler tightly, her eyes darting like a feral animal’s. Scant inches in front, two older children held hands, the same anxiety on their faces.
In contrast to their fear, Avery’s annoyed expression when I walked into the sheriff’s office appeared normal. “Can’t say I’m glad to see you again, Ms. Jones.”
He hunched over a deputy’s desk, going through some papers. The deputy looked no friendlier than his boss. They both wanted me to go away, but I couldn’t, not if I ever wanted to sleep
again. Nearby, I heard the dispatcher calling out codes over the squawks of squad car radios. From a bulletin board on the far wall, the child known as Precious Doe gazed down at me. I stared at the photograph in silence for a moment, then drew out the article I’d clipped from the Scottsdale Journal.
“You haven’t been able to I.D. this girl yet, Sheriff,” I said to Avery, trying to squelch my own annoyance. “Maybe I can help with the legwork.”
Not even glancing at the clipping, he said, “I have plenty of men in the field so we don’t need any help. At least not from any Scottsdale private detective.” He was obviously one of those people who thought all we ever did in Scottsdale was lounge around resort swimming pools, courting melanoma.
“I’m sorry you feel that way, Sheriff, but now that I’m here, I plan to make myself useful. Anything I find out, I’ll share. Okay?”
“I told you, we’re fine.”
The deputy, not quite as tall or weather-browned as the sheriff, spoke for the first time. “Otherwise we’d be thrilled to pieces by your offer of help.”
“Jim. Go easy,” Avery warned.
The deputy humphed and went back to shuffling paperwork.
The sheriff studied me. When he finally spoke, it was with the easy confidence of a man used to being obeyed. “We can handle the investigation, so why don’t you play nice and go on home?”
“No can do.” I would never forget the wind rippling through the child’s white wrappings, the growls of the coyote as it scurried away.
Time to share some knowledge. “If the girl was an illegal, like most people seem to think, her family could be a thousand miles away working in some sweatshop. Or, and this is what I suspect, she might not have been an illegal after all. This morning I had my partner do some checking on past crimes in Cochise County and he found something interesting.”
It has always amazed me how quickly handsome men can turn ugly, but Avery accomplished just that. His mouth hardened into a dangerous line. “We’re done here.”
I stood my ground. “A couple of months before 9/11, a little girl named Tujin Rafik went missing from Los Perdidos. Her family had recently immigrated here from northern Iraq to work at that insecticide plant. You were new on the job then, and maybe not as sharp as you are now. The night she didn’t come home from school, you released a statement that she probably just ran away, since you’d been told that with her language difficulties and all, she was having trouble in school. I’ll bet you regret that statement now.”
No answer.
Taking his silence for agreement, I continued. “After Tujin had been missing for several days without a sighting, you realized you’d screwed up big time and initiated a house-to-house search. You never found her.”
Jimmy had shown me a picture of the girl printed in the Cochise County Observer at the time of her disappearance. The expression on Tujin’s face hinted at a difficult life. I’d never seen such sad eyes.
The sheriff wasn’t impressed. “That partner of yours ought to try out for a job down here. If he can stand the pace.”
I ignored the barb. “Tujin Rafik was seven when she disappeared. Precious Doe looked around seven, too.” Seven. The same age I’d been when…Best to keep my mind off that terrible memory.
“What does the age matter?” Avery was determined to give nothing away.
“Come on, Sheriff. Everybody in law enforcement knows that most child molesters have individual preferences for certain age groups. Looks like you’ve got one who likes seven-year-olds.”
“Maybe.”
I finished summoning up the Tujin Rafik case. “Several months after Tujin disappeared, those planes flew into the World Trade Center. A couple of months after that, her family returned to Iraq.”
His eyes flickered. “Can you blame them?”
“Usually with these child disappearances, the parents stay in the same house until it falls down around their ears, hoping the missing kid will eventually find his or her way home.”
A bitter laugh. “Oh, come on, Ms. Jones. You know as well as I do that the mood toward anyone who appeared Muslim turned pretty ugly after 9/11. A lot of Middle Easterners got roughed up, even killed. Some of ours split for Phoenix, where they wouldn’t stand out quite so much. A few, like the Rafiks, returned to their home countries. They were just part of the general exodus.”
I didn’t buy it. “Let’s see if I have this straight. Several years ago, an Iraqi child went missing from your area, and this past weekend we found a dead girl of about the same age who just happens to be black. That makes two girls, two minorities, both around seven years old. I’ve been doing some thinking about the white cloth on Precious Doe, and I’m no longer sure it was just some anonymous wrapping or shroud. Maybe it was tribal dress. You not only have a sizeable Mideastern community here in Los Perdidos, you also have a lot of Africans, all lured by the jobs at the insecticide plant.”
Avery answered quickly. “Nice theory, but after 9/11, the traditionals were the first to leave town. By and large, the Africans who stayed turned more Western than Wyatt Earp. They hang out at the library and volunteer during Los Perdidos Apache Days. As for their dress, most of them wear tee shirts and jeans, just like you.”
The American stewpot, with various nationalities blending merrily away, if the sheriff was to be believed. But one young girl was dead, another missing and presumed dead. I didn’t believe in coincidences, and told him so, finishing with another question. “Have you contacted the FBI?”
“Of course, and they have the investigation well in hand.” He didn’t sound like he believed it. He checked his watch. “Well, it’s been real, Ms. Jones, but I have to get to work. Do us all a big favor and go home.”
With that, he retreated into his private office and closed the door.
His deputy gave me an I-told-you-so smile.
***
Motels with empty rooms being as rare as helpful sheriffs in Los Perdidos, I’d booked myself into a guest ranch two miles out of town. As the Jeep sped along the highway paralleling the San Pedro River, tall cottonwoods threw deep shadows on the asphalt, making it difficult to find the turnoff to the Lazy M Ranch. Just as I began to worry, I saw an unmarked, narrow dirt track.
On one side of the road, a herd of Black Angus grazed contentedly behind barbed wire, while on the other side, the San Pedro River looped its lazy way to Mexico. In the distance, the Dragoon Mountains humped up from the desert floor, their summits lit with gold from the rapidly disappearing sun.
The ranch house emerged from a stand of towering cottonwoods. A relic of Arizona’s territorial days, it was built of whitewashed adobe brick, topped by a red tile roof bristling with chimneys. When I stepped from my Jeep, a stiff wind from the river raised goose bumps on my uncovered arms. Nights grew cold at this elevation, especially in winter, so old ranch houses like these generally had more than one working fireplace. To my relief, a propane tank near the side of the house hinted that modern comforts were also available.
A brown-haired woman waited for me in a glider on the porch, a cell phone at her ear, her feet tucked under as she swung back and forth. Middle-aged, she wore ragged jeans and a purple sweater that wasn’t in much better shape. Spotting me, she ended her call and uncurled herself from the glider. Dirty, down-at-the-heel boots encased her narrow feet.
“Selma Mann?” I asked, stepping out of the Jeep.
“That’s me.” As she shook my hand, I noticed that her nails were unmanicured and her palms covered in calluses. This woman actually worked her ranch.
“Welcome to the Lazy M,” she said. “That’s quite some vehicle you have there, sort of a traveling petroglyph.”
My sandstone-colored 1945 Jeep, which I’d rescued from its pink-painted days with a desert tour company, was covered with Pima Indian symbols. On the driver’s side, Earth Doctor, the father-god who had created First World, surveyed his children: Elder Brother, Coyote, Snake, and Eagle. Splashed across the Jeep’s hood was the labyrinth where Ear
th Doctor sought refuge after being overthrown in a power struggle. Along the passenger-side door rose the waves which destroyed First World. Sly Coyote rode the waves in his reed boat while Night Singing Bird and Sky Hawk clung to the sky with sharp talons.
I smiled. “People seem to like it.”
She chuckled. “I doubt if Sheriff Avery does. Los Perdidos has grown a lot in the past few years, but not enough that we’ve learned to mind our own business. I know you’re the one who found that child’s body, and why you’re back. By the way, we don’t have any other guests right now, so it should be nice and quiet. Most people just come down for the weekend, bump around on the horses for awhile, then go home thinking they’ve experienced the Western life.”
She laughed again. “Say, you hungry? The ranch hands have all been fed, we eat early out here, but I kept something in the warming oven for you.”
Due to my hypermetabolism, I’m always hungry, but contented myself with a nod. When she led me inside, I found a living room crowded with furniture so authentic it might have been transported West in covered wagons. Family portraits in silver frames covered every polished table, but they didn’t capture my interest as much as the antique rifles bracketed on the rough adobe walls. Among them glistened several Winchester level action rifles, a Colt Lightening Express, a Rideout Trade Musket, a Springfield 45-70, even a German Short Yeager. Near them, framed and encased behind glass over the fireplace, hung a faded black-and-white wool square that might have once been a saddle blanket.
“The family story goes that it once belonged to Geronimo,” Selma explained. “He gave it to Ezra, my great-great-grandfather, who ran a trading post near Tombstone and who’d always treated him and his band with respect. The blanket’s a ragged old thing, but I keep it up there just in case the story’s true.” Her face took on a thoughtful expression. “You know, Cochise was every bit as great a warrior, but Geronimo wound up with the lion’s share of fame. You’ve probably noticed that half the businesses in Los Perdidos are named after him.”
