Desert Cut

by Betty Webb

  I fought down my excitement because the tip might turn out to be nothing. “Would you give me their address?”

  Avery’s face closed down. “They’re in the book.”

  Détente was canceled. Hostilities had resumed.

  ***

  As revealed by the tattered telephone directory I found hanging from a payphone outside a nearby Circle K, Dr. Kalil Wahab and family lived on Broken Arrow Avenue in an upscale area of town. The house probably wasn’t more than five years old, but was designed to look like a Territorial relic, with faux logs protruding from faux adobe and a faux ladder leading up to the roof. A satellite dish perched incongruously atop the tile roof.

  After my third knock, a dark-skinned man dressed in navy wool slacks and a pale blue cashmere sweater answered the door. The scent of something wonderful drifted out from the kitchen.

  “May I help you?” the man asked, in lightly-accented English.

  Dr. Wahab, I presumed. Not tall, but handsome, with a slim build, chocolate-colored eyes and short black hair.

  I introduced myself and explained my mission.

  He confirmed that he was, indeed, Dr. Wahab, then shook his head. “Our Aziza knows no such person, Miss Jones.”

  “She was seen talking to the girl.” Why reveal that my informant was one of the most disreputable men in town?

  Wahab started to shake his head again, then thought better of it. “Surely there has been a mistake, but perhaps you should come in while I ascertain the truth of this? I do not wish you to wait alone on our doorstep in the cold air.”

  The temperature hovered in the low sixties, but we do get spoiled up in Scottsdale. Grateful for his Middle Eastern courtesy, I stepped into a living room furnished with exquisite Persian rugs and high-end electronics. A large plasma television screen tuned to an Arab satellite TV station hung on the wall, while a scattering of Bose speakers, a Metronome Technologie CD player, a Game Boy, a Wii and other toys occupied the ebony entertainment center below. Despite what I had been led to believe, Apache Chemical paid well enough.

  In a nearby alcove, three boys of stair-stepped ages played Scrabble at an intricately-carved game table. The smallest, a boy of about eight, had put down ZOOSPORE, much to the annoyance of the others. At my entrance, they rose, nodded a polite hello, then resumed their game, but not before the oldest kicked Zoospore Boy’s ankle.

  “Kalil?” A beautiful woman wearing an ankle-length abayah muted the TV and placed the remote on a rosewood coffee table. This hospitable gesture revealed a greater racket. Thundering down the hallway came an avalanche of traditional Middle Eastern music backed by a dance beat, with the female singer’s voice raised in ululation. Aziza, rocking out to an Egyptian version of Beyoncé?

  Dr. Wahab said to the woman, “Quibilah, this woman has a question about Aziza.”

  Quibilah Wahab’s hushed beauty came as a welcome relief after the hapless Joleene, but concern filled her dark eyes as she stepped toward us. “Has she done something wrong?”

  Halfway through telling her the same thing I’d told her husband, Dr. Wahab interrupted, saying something in Arabic to his wife.

  She blinked. “Oh, Kalil, I do not think…”

  He interrupted again in more Arabic, and with a chagrined expression, Quibilah hurried out of the room.

  Extending a hand toward the crushed velvet sofa, Dr. Wahab said, “Please be comfortable, Miss Jones. I will now view this picture of which you speak.”

  When I sat down, I sank several inches into down-filled cushions. After recovering my balance, I rummaged through my carry-all, pulled out a flier, and handed it over. “This is the girl I’m talking about.”

  He studied the picture carefully. “I do not know this child.”

  “Your daughter might.”

  He shook his head. “Aziza knows only those people I wish her to know, and this dead girl, of whom I have heard much, does not belong to that select group. We Egyptians do not allow our children make their own friends or run loose in the streets to find trouble. We keep them close at home, near our hearts, and our eyes and ears!”

  Considering the high delinquency rate in the U.S., his was a sensible philosophy, but a disappointing one. “Are you sure she, or even perhaps one of your sons, hasn’t seen the girl around?”

  With a grunt, Dr. Wahab took the flier over to the boys, who after a brief look, all shook their heads.

  “You see?” he said, returning.

  Just then, a girl of around fifteen bearing a strong resemblance to Mrs. Wahab, and also wearing an elegant abayah, limped into the living room carrying a silver tray loaded with a full coffee service. Carefully, she placed the tray on the coffee table, then hobbled away without once meeting my eyes. Birth defect? Accident? Mrs. Wahab, who stood in the doorway watching her, nodded approval. With a tremulous smile, the teenager vanished into the kitchen. Her job of culinary supervision finished, Mrs. Wahab eased herself down on the sofa.

  Dr. Wahab gestured toward the tray. “Please try the coffee. Shalimar, our older daughter, whom you have just seen, brews it Egyptian style, not Starbuck’s. You will find a great deal of difference.”

  After only one sip of the diesel-strength brew, I felt adrenaline dancing through my veins. I took a larger sip. “Addictive!”

  Dr. Wahab inclined his head. “You see? Sometimes the ways you Americans consider foreign have much to be admired.”

  True, but I refused to be sidetracked. “Perhaps I might ask Aziza if she recognizes the girl?”

  He frowned. “Impossible. Aziza has a test tomorrow, so she may not receive visitors. In the old days, education was not considered necessary for girls, but as a modern man, I do allow her that privilege.”

  “My husband speaks wisely,” Quibilah put in. “My own degree is in mathematics. And Shalimar is already taking college-level courses. Not that it will make a difference.” She glanced toward the kitchen. Problems with Aziza’s older sister? From my own experience, I knew teenagers could be tough, especially the girls.

  Dr. Wahab gave his wife a doting smile but continued addressing his comments to me. “Like my sons, Aziza studies well with music, so I allow her that small pleasure, also. While it goes against my better judgement to interrupt her, you are anxious to discover this dead child’s true identity, so I will show her the flier. The girl appears to be only sleeping, so I do not believe viewing the picture will cause my daughter undue sorrow. If you would wait here, please?”

  With that, he disappeared down the hall.

  The Middle Eastern music boomed out twice as loud as before when Dr. Wahab opened the door to his daughter’s room. “Aziza!” he shouted. Then I heard an irritated spate of Arabic.

  “Oh, Daddy!” A young girl.

  After another gruff command from Dr. Wahab, the music lowered enough for me to hear murmurs of conversation, but as soon as he returned to the living room, the music rose to its previous level. Aziza would be lucky to reach the age of ten with her hearing intact.

  He handed the flier to me. “Aziza says she has never met this person.”

  Not liking other people to ask my questions for me, I remained dissatisfied. “Are you certain I can’t talk to her, just for a minute?”

  His tone was polite but firm. “I am sorry, but the answer remains no.”

  In the kitchen, the teenager had begun rattling pots and pans. “How about Shalimar? She might have seen the girl.”

  He said to his wife, “Quibilah, take the picture to Shalimar.”

  As Mrs. Wahab stood and held out her hand, I said hurriedly, “I would prefer to ask her myself, if you don’t mind.”

  Dr. Wahab shook his head. “Unlike Aziza, who becomes more American every day, our oldest daughter is uncomfortable in the presence of strangers.”

  Defeated, I handed the picture to Quibilah Wahab and watched her take it into the kitchen. She returned a moment later shaking her head. “Shalimar says no, Miss Jones.”

  “You see?” Dr. Wahab said, nodding at th
e flier. “Our daughters move within a strictly supervised circle of friends, and this poor girl was not among them. It is unfortunate that you have wasted your time with us since we have been of no help, but perhaps you would like more coffee to warm you against the cold night?”

  Although courtesy itself, he preferred to be in control. Fine. Tomorrow I would waylay Aziza and Shalimar on the way to school, show them the flier, and find out the truth.

  ***

  By the time I made it back to the Lazy M, the sun had lowered behind the cottonwoods. Eager to stretch my legs after spending so much time in the Jeep, I transferred my handgun into its fanny pack, slipped on a light jacket, and set off for a quiet stroll, hoping to find the ruins of the old Johnston farmstead Selma told me about.

  The banks of the San Pedro River were famed for their varieties of songbirds. Within a quarter mile I had identified—besides the usual modest cactus wrens and grackles—a gray-blue kingfisher, a bright yellow warbler, and several species of hummingbirds. The hummingbirds, some iridescent turquoise, some sporting rosy throats, siphoned nectar from late-blooming flowers, then flew into the dusk.

  Ahead of me, a startled jackrabbit hopped away and small lizards scurried deeper into the brush. Less nervous, a small, yellow-and-black gila monster sat unconcernedly on a rock, soaking up the last heat of the day.

  The evening produced a symphony of sound. Crickets chirped, dragonflies hummed, the river danced. Overhead, cottonwood leaves brushed softly together, stirred by a breeze scented with sage. As I continued my walk, twilight closed in, bringing with it the yips of a nearby coyote and the deep-throated squawks of a great blue heron.

  Reality trashed this bucolic dream when I rounded a stand of low-hanging willows and entered a clearing. Circling out from the ashy remains of a bonfire were a series of shelters constructed of plastic sheeting draped over low-hanging branches. Within the shelters, moth-eaten blankets and an assortment of mismatched toss pillows made up rough beds.

  At first the place appeared to be just another homeless encampment—the area near the Mexican border was littered with them—but as I poked through the makeshift tents, the magazines I discovered made me reconsider. Hot Rod. American Chopper. Cosmopolitan. Teen Graffiti. Investigating further, I found a shopping bag filled with empty beer cans and Hostess Twinkie wrappers, and a tin box hidden underneath a nearby pillow revealed a baggie half-filled with marijuana. Another tent held a small sack of fruit-flavored condoms.

  Now I knew what the town’s teens did for amusement. They snuck off to the river and behaved like teens the world over; they drank beer, smoked weed, and practiced their night moves. Not wanting to be present when the Youth of America showed up for their evening revelries, I hurried away.

  A quarter mile further on, I found the remains of the old Johnston farmstead. Nature had finished what Geronimo started, and a thick carpet of vines now covered the cabin’s charred foundation. I poked around for a few minutes, finding only a rusted tool too far gone to identify. In case it had belonged to the Johnstons, I left it where it had fallen.

  Several yards behind the cabin stood a grouping of grave markers, little more than rocks with inscriptions smoothed by time. But Los Perdidos had not forgotten the lost Johnstons. A contemporary granite obelisk rose behind the markers, the six victims’ names carved on its glossy surface.

  ELIAS JOHNSTON, 28

  MARTHA HOLMES JOHNSTON, 25

  ABEL JOHNSTON, 6

  SUZANNAH JOHNSTON, 5

  PETER JOHNSTON, 2

  LOUIZA JOHNSTON, 3 MONTHS

  Below the names, their epitaph read: MURDERED BY GERONIMO, 1881.

  ***

  Upon returning to the guesthouse and checking my messages, I found one from the sheriff. In a voice made strident by fury, he told me to get my ass over to the Wahab’s place before he sent his deputies out to drag me there.

  Dr. Kalil Wahab had just accused me of kidnapping his daughter.

  Chapter Nine

  The first thing Sheriff Avery did when I pulled up in front of the Wahab’s house was stare at my feet. “Sevens? Eights?”

  At five-eight, I’m not a short woman, but I am fine boned and my feet are accordingly small. “Seven-and-a-half, but what does the size of my feet have to do with Dr. Wahab’s accusation?”

  Between the time the sheriff left the message on my cell phone and my arrival here, he had brought his anger under control. Police radios squawked around him and deputies and crime techs muttered worriedly to each other as they carried bags of evidence from the house, but he stayed steady.

  “The footprints in the flower bed underneath the Wahab daughter’s window were at least nines, maybe even tens. Medium. Could be a man’s, could be a woman’s. My techs are taking casts.”

  “Aziza’s really gone, then?” I had not actually met the child, but remembered her girlish voice and spirited music. I tried not to remember the Iraqi girl who had vanished and was never found, or the coyote tugging at Precious Doe’s body. This was a time to hope, not grieve.

  “Looks like someone gained access through her bedroom window, then carried her away. Dr. Wahab claims it was you.” Avery watched for my reaction.

  “That’s bullshit and you know it.”

  He nodded. “As a matter of fact, I do. Not that I think you’re above breaking the law if it suits your purposes, but sneaking a little girl out of her window isn’t your style.”

  “So why did he make such an outrageous claim?”

  He sighed. “When people are upset, they don’t think very clearly. Or don’t you remember that from your own days on the force? Anyway, when his daughter disappeared, he thought back to your visit and must have decided that your insistence on seeing her was suspicious.”

  “Insistence” was hardly an accurate representation of our conversation, but I let it go. “Those footprints. Nines or tens, did you say? Mediums?”

  I reminded him that neither Floyd Polk or Duane Tucker were large men. As far as I was concerned, Duane did not fit the profile of a molester, but Polk was another child rape waiting to happen. The old man might somehow have managed to get his hands on a vehicle, too. Then again, even if he had wheels, why would he drive all the way into Los Perdidos and pick an upper-middle-class enclave for the scene of his crime? Molesters usually liked to nab their victims on the way to or from school.

  “I’m with you on that,” the sheriff said. “But I’ve sent deputies to both men’s places. Either of those bastards has that kid, we’ll find her.”

  Any good lawman would have done the same, but Polk’s shack was isolated, surrounded by miles of empty desert. If the old man had Aziza, she could be anywhere. As for Duane, there were a couple of reasons he was probably innocent of this particular crime.

  “Duane was home with his mother when I talked to him earlier,” I told Avery.

  “And she wouldn’t let her darling boy do anything nasty, right?”

  Actually, I didn’t think Joleene would, but not from altruism. For whatever reason, the woman hated cops, and anything that might draw their attention would send her into a frenzy. There was one more thing. If I was wrong about Duane and he had taken Aziza, he wouldn’t be stupid enough to hide the girl in his tiny trailer with all the nosy inhabitants of Geronimo’s Rest watching his every move, not to mention the bat-wielding Foo Fighter Man.

  Flashers from the cruisers flickered across the Wahab house. Along the street, neighbors assembled on their porches in tight knots, clutching their children to them in an outpouring of love and fear. I could only imagine how the Egyptians felt. Every window in their house blazed with light, as if they hoped all that wattage would reach out to their daughter like a beacon, guiding her home.

  As the sheriff turned away, I begged, “Please don’t go yet. Tell me how this went down, everything, step by step.”

  He halted, appeared to think about it for a moment, then said, “All right, Lena. After giving you such a rough time, it’s the least I can do. The family disc
overed Aziza missing right after supper. Dr. Wahab told us she was studying for a test, so as soon as she ate and helped her mother with the dishes, which was around seven o’clock, she went back to her room.”

  He took a breath, then continued. “About an hour later, when Mrs. Wahab opened the door to tell the kid to switch off the CD player and turn in for the night, she was gone. They tore the house apart searching for her, then did the same with the garage, but she was nowhere to be found. We’re now in the process of canvassing the neighborhood, but so far, no one’s admitting anything. And before you ask, yes, we’ve already issued an Amber Alert. Her name and description is already doing crawls on the bottom of TV sets across Arizona.”

  “Maybe Aziza snuck over to a friend’s house to play.” Children were prone to stunts like that. I told him about the time when I was a Scottsdale police officer and my unit had scoured the streets in search of a “kidnapped” boy found several hours later enjoying a forbidden game of Dungeons and Dragons at a friend’s house.

  “Let’s hope that’s all this turns out to be. I’d like to believe she climbed out that window on her own, but there was only one set of footprints, an adult’s.”

  “So someone definitely went in after her.”

  He started to answer, but suddenly a horrible sound from the Wahab residence tore at the night, the kind of sound you hear when a coyote captures its prey. Avery jerked his head around. “What the hell was that?”

  The sound came again. A woman. Keening.

  I’d heard women mourn like this over the bodies of children and lovers, but experience didn’t make the sound easier to bear.

  The sheriff and I both knew that if a missing child wasn’t recovered within the first twenty-four hours, the odds of her safe return dropped drastically, so after a hasty good-bye, I hurried to my Jeep and headed toward Polk’s. With the Jeep’s four-wheel drive, I could at least go into the desert and listen for a child’s cries.

  As it turned out, others had made the same decision. A caravan of trucks and four-wheelers sped along the dirt road leading to the shack, the beds of several pickups loaded with rifle-toting men. If they caught Polk with Aziza, I doubted they would attempt to take him alive. No fan of vigilante action, my real concern was that the mens’ rage might hinder their aim, causing them to accidentally shoot the child, too.