by Betty Webb
“The Women For Freedom will be here soon.”
“Yes, I know. They’re meeting in a half hour.” To force the issue, I placed my foot on the bottom step. Now he would either have to allow me access or the two of us would share a three-foot-wide section of concrete.
Gracelessly, he gave in. “Really, Ms. Jones, the parlor is rather untidy.”
I gave him what I hoped was a non-threatening smile. “If it’s good enough for the Women For Freedom, it’s good enough for me.”
To my admittedly non-discerning eye, the parlor didn’t appear untidy, just naked. It boasted no rugs, no flowers, no lovingly crocheted doilies, and still no crosses in sight. Cheap linoleum covered the floor, and a long table testified to the room’s sometimes use as a banquet hall. A half-dozen worn upholstered chairs and two equally worn sofas hugged the walls, which were decorated with photographs of various churches. Curious, I approached for a closer look.
In a photograph so old it had faded to sepia, a teenage version of Reverend Hall stood in front of an ornate church door, next to a grim older man wearing a cassock. His father? Probably, since the resemblance between the two was strong. In another faded picture, this one color, a slightly older Hall stood among a group of ethnically-diverse people near a white bus, with chaparral-sprinkled mountains rising in the background. Other photographs showed him posed in front of a series of churches, chief among them an elegant seaside edifice with a hint of ocean twinkling through Monterey pines.
Most were humbler postings. A wood-planked church nearly eclipsed by oaks draped in Spanish moss; a bare bones church in the middle of a rocky field, and a mud-and-wattle hut in a village surrounded by goats and dark children in African dress. Unlike the bleak cinder block the reverend now served, each managed to present a stoic dignity.
“You have five minutes,” Hall said, closing the parlor door behind me. Once we both settled into sagging chairs, he made a great show of checking his watch.
No time for guard-lowering pleasantries, then. “Okay, Reverend. I’ll be brief. Did anything unusual happen last night?”
“No.”
“Did your daughter act unhappy lately?”
“Nicole was always unhappy.” For all his emotion, he might have been talking about the scuffed linoleum.
I had run across cold men like him before but their frigidity hadn’t annoyed me nearly as much. Some other element seemed to be at work here. “What was bothering her?”
“She was sixteen. That’s enough, isn’t it?”
Having a father like you probably doesn’t help, either, I wanted to say, but with only four minutes remaining, I didn’t want to spend them trading insults. “Was she active in your church?”
His eyes weren’t just cold, they were mean. “Of course.”
On the other side of a door at the far end of the room, someone began to make coffee. Mrs. Hall? The aroma seeped into the room and due to my near-sleepless night, I could barely restrain myself from falling on my knees and begging for a cup.
The reverend stood up. “If that’s all, I’ll see you to the door.”
I stayed put. “When did you notice Nicole was missing, Reverend?”
He sat back down with ill-concealed impatience. “Not until this morning. When my wife went to wake her, she found her gone, along with her clothes and our new car. I called the sheriff and gave him the license plate number. Do you want that?”
“It would help.”
He checked his watch again. “Buick LeSabre, dark green, Arizona plate MFK 762. Freedom Temple bumper sticker.”
I wrote it down. “Description, please.”
“I already gave it to you. Dark green Buick LeSabre.”
“No, I meant a description of Nicole. Tall? Short? Thin? Plump? Hair color? Any identifying birthmarks, scars, tattoos or piercings?” I added the last to shake him out of his cold calm.
His eyes became slits. “Certainly not!”
I softened my approach to throw him even further off-balance. “Probably due to your good influence. By the way, Reverend, may I see some photographs of her?” He had so many of himself plastered all over the walls, surely dozens of his daughter were stashed somewhere in the parsonage’s private quarters.
Wrong.
“My faith isn’t into self-glorification,” he said, apparently forgetting his own pictures. “I gave Sheriff Avery the only photograph we have, taken at Los Perdidos Elementary when Nicole was twelve. She’s taller now but looks pretty much the same. Long brown hair, brown eyes, pale complexion, about your height. Bigger-boned, though.”
I wrote that down on my notepad. “Braces?”
“As I said before, our faith concentrates on the inner self, not the exterior.”
This from a man whom I suspected had undergone considerable cosmetic surgery. Those pearly whites were capped, too. “What faith is that?” I asked, while writing, NO BRACES.
“Non-denominational.”
“Protestant,” I muttered, writing it down.
He shook his head. “Non-denominational.”
Raising my eyebrows, I gestured with my pen toward the photographs. Crosses were clearly visible on all the church buildings, including the African hut. He had once been a missionary, and not for the First Church of Satan.
“I’ve moved on.”
To what? Some religion he’d invented all by himself? Arizona was filled with nutso cults, but with only two more minutes left on the clock, I didn’t have time to explore his beliefs, and I doubted I’d be thrilled with them, anyway. “Do you have any idea where Nicole might have gone? The names of friends who might be hiding her?”
“None of our friends would be so foolish.”
Remembering that gathering place near the river, I said, “Most teens have friends their parents don’t know.”
“Not Nicole. We’ve been home-schooling her for the past two years.”
I was about to point out that home-schooling needn’t isolate a child, but just then a side door opened and a tall wraith of a woman stepped hesitantly toward us. She might have been pretty once, but her hair had faded to an unattractive gray almost the same color as her eyes, and her height was diminished by rounded shoulders. The dress she wore, a dowdy print that had seen too many washings, sagged on her as if she had recently lost weight. Dots of flour sprinkled her frayed apron.
“Daniel? I heard voices,” she said, almost inaudibly. Her eyes were as pale as her husband’s, but unlike his, they were rimmed in red. At least someone in this household mourned Nicole’s disappearance.
Irritation flickered across Hall’s face. “Didn’t I tell you to stay in the kitchen?”
“But I wanted to…”
“Don’t argue with me, Olivia.” He didn’t raise his voice. He didn’t need to.
“I’m sorry, Daniel.” She exited, closing the door softly behind her.
Her departure made up my mind. I saw no kidnapping here, only a rebellious teen desperate to escape her bully of a father.
The bully rose to his feet. “Your five minutes are up.”
Realizing there was nothing to be gained by arguing, I rose too. Hall marched me to the door. Before he opened it, he took my hand.
“You need counseling, Miss Jones. That scar harkens back to a troubled past. While we were talking, I noticed that you are somewhere in your thirties—am I right?—yet you wear no wedding ring. Perhaps I can help with whatever is keeping you from maturing into a true woman. Counseling women is my specialty.”
I wouldn’t let him counsel me for a stubbed toe. Not caring if he noticed, I pulled my hand away and wiped it on my jeans.
He was so intent on delivering his message that he didn’t catch it. “Women like you try to get through life alone, which is always a mistake. Women simply aren’t capable of living a normal life without a man’s wise oversight. Independence in a woman is the root of all evil. Why, look at what happened in the Garden of Eden when Eve decided to act on her own. Mankind has been paying for it ever since
!”
I knew a little bit about the Bible, myself. “Adam wasn’t at all culpable, Reverend?”
“Adam was blinded by love, Miss Jones. Women and their unholy desires will do that to a man. That’s why they need to be controlled.”
Unholy desires? Eager to leave, I opened the door. Seeing that I was about to escape, he said one final thing, but in my rush to get away, I wasn’t certain I’d heard him right.
“Control women and you control the world.”
In the parking lot, a group of women were walking toward the parsonage, several of them wearing the kind of cowled white robes I’d seen on Trappist monks. The Women For Freedom? Most were fairly young, in their twenties or thirties. With one exception, a fragile redhead with a lost expression, none were even remotely attractive. Like all hucksters, the Reverend knew how to target an audience.
As I crossed the parking lot to the Jeep, I glanced behind me and saw him with his arms spread, a movie-star smile on his face, all traces of his former coldness vanished. The overt bully replaced by a slick manipulator.
A mile down the highway, I pulled into a rest area and checked my messages: one from my partner at Desert Investigations, and one from Martha Green, the librarian who had been so helpful the day before. No calls from Warren. Deciding to worry about him later, I returned Martha Green’s call first. She whispered into the phone so she wouldn’t disturb the library patrons, but I had no trouble hearing her, even with the traffic rushing by.
“Can you meet me for lunch at the Nile Restaurant, on the south end of town?” She asked. “The elementary school’s only holding a half-session today, and Peggy Binder’s anxious to talk to you.”
It took me a moment to remember that Binder had taught Tujin Rafik, the first child to disappear from Los Perdidos. Believing Tujin had been taken by the same person who killed Precious Doe and kidnapped Aziza, I agreed, and we made a date for noon.
Then I called my partner and discovered that Jimmy wanted to join me in Los Perdidos. “Lena, I’ve been watching the local feed on CNN. One dead child and two more missing? Why don’t I pack my laptop and continue these background checks down there? It sounds like you need all the help you can get.” His voice softened. “Besides, I’m worried about you.”
I missed his company, but he needed to stay in Scottsdale. “Jimmy, you’re more useful up there. Those background checks you’re doing for Southwest MicroSystems will pay the rent for the next six months.”
“The money from your TV show’s already paid it for the next two years. Besides, I’m portable.”
Unsettled as I was after my visit with Reverend Hall, I had to smile. “MicroSystems feels more secure knowing you’re within badgering distance. But there is something you can do for me. Run a check on a Reverend Daniel Hall, leader of a Los Perdidos church called Freedom Temple.”
“Non-denominational?”
“And how.”
“Don’t like him, eh?” We had been partners so long he could read me through the phone.
“You might say that. His daughter vanished last night.”
“Another missing girl?” he all but yelled. “Lena, you’re in danger. You need to come home. Or at least let me join you down there and give you some protection.”
“Calm down, Jimmy. The girl’s sixteen and probably just a runaway—the family car’s gone—but Hall was so creepy I want him and his church checked out. Get what you can on Mrs. Hall, too. Something there doesn’t add up.” Like two pale-eyed parents having a brown-eyed child.
“I’ll call as soon as I find out anything, but are you sure you don’t want me there?”
“I’m sure.” Knowing that I shouldn’t ask my next question didn’t keep me from asking, “By the way, how’s things with what’s-her-name?”
“Lydianna?”
I didn’t even like her name. It sounded too contrived. “Yeah. The gal you met at the pow-wow.”
“You asked the same question yesterday.”
I forced a laugh. “Maybe, but you move pretty fast.”
“Compared to you, a snail moves fast.”
“Do you mean Warren? C’mon, that’s not my fault. He lives in L.A., so we can only see each other every now and then.” We’d spent what, six weekends together since we’d met last spring? Half the time when I flew into L.A. for the Desert Eagle script meetings, he was so busy with his own projects that he didn’t have time to see me. Or at least, that’s what he said.
“How about Dusty?” Jimmy reminded me.
“That’s different.” Dusty, who cowboyed on a dude ranch north of Scottsdale, had been my first real love, but his bad habits—booze, gambling, and women—kept me from making a commitment until that relationship blew up in my face. What sane person moved fast with a man like that?
Jimmy spoke into my silence. “Let’s make a deal. You won’t ask about my love life and I won’t ask about yours.”
Now I felt hurt. “You make it sound like I’m always poking my nose into your business.”
He laughed.
“Okay,” I said, chastened. “No more questions. About women, anyway.” But I reserved the right to ask if he’d seen any good date movies recently. Or ate dinner at some candle-lit restaurant.
He must have known the way my mind was working, because he spoke quickly. “I’ll talk to you tomorrow. In the meantime, you take care. Los Perdidos sounds about as safe as a nest of rattlesnakes.”
Swearing I would watch out for myself, I hung up.
By the end of the day, I had broken my promise.
Chapter Eleven
When I strode into the Geronimo Lounge, I saw Clive Berklee, my elderly informant, sipping slowly at a Molson’s while he worked a crossword puzzle.
“It’s not Sunday,” I said, sliding into the chair across from him.
“I’m pretending it is.” He drained the rest of his glass, then called to the bartender, “Another beer. And put it on the blonde’s tab.”
“You’ll need to work for that.”
He called to the bartender again. “Make that three Molson’s, but keep two on ice.” Then, to me, “Whatcha want?”
“Your nephew, the one who assists the medical examiner. Where can I find him?”
“Herschel? At the hospital. He works all the time except for Sundays, and sometimes even then. Why? You wantin’ a date?”
“Funny man. All I want is his home address. I want to talk, not go to the prom.”
He grinned. “You’re pretty funny yourself.” Before I responded, he tore off a strip of newsprint and wrote down the information. “It’s in that new tract on the east end of town, where all the houses look alike. He works nights, so don’t go waking him up until around three or he’ll tear your head off, then mine.”
We bantered until it was time for me to meet Martha Green for lunch at the Nile Restaurant, a tiny but crowded Middle Eastern place that came as a relief from the town’s ubiquitous fast food joints. When I entered, I smelled the tang of mysterious spices. The gleaming copper hookahs and pots that shone down from shelves high on the burgundy-colored walls were considerably more attractive than prints of Ronald McDonald.
“Nice choice,” I said to Martha, after finding her at a table with the woman I took to be Tujin Rafik’s teacher. Peggy Binder was a dark, attractive brunette well into her forties, and as soon as we ordered from an elderly waitress—shish kabob for me with a couscous side, pita sandwiches for the others—I asked her how well she knew the first missing girl.
“As well as most teachers know their students,” Peggy answered. “She was sweet but shy. The family was in the first wave of immigrants to work at the chemical plant, and some of them had trouble fitting in. Tujin especially.”
“Any particular reason why?” As other diners came in, the noise level in the restaurant rose.
“She felt self-conscious about her clothing. Her family was very traditional and refused to let her wear Western dress. You know how girls are, they want the latest fads, no matter
how ridiculous.”
Following up on the inconsistencies in the Observer newspaper article, I asked, “Was she having trouble in school? Her father was quoted as saying she did because her language skills were poor.”
When Peggy shook her head, a wisp of glossy black hair fell across her cheek. As her fingers pushed it back, I saw a large, silver-and-turquoise ring that matched her earrings and bracelets. Studying her more carefully, I noted the bronze skin, high cheekbones, and narrow nose. Her vowels weren’t quite as soft and broad as a Navajo’s.
Apache. Perhaps a descendant of Geronimo’s band. Today they sold insurance, ran casinos, and taught Iraqi immigrants.
“Poor language skills?” Peggy remained oblivious to my musings on the strange pathways of societal evolution. “Ridiculous. Tujin’s English was as good as the other children’s, better than most, actually. Like a lot of my English-as-second-language students, she took more care with her grammar than the average American does. As for having trouble in school, she was a solid B student.”
So Tujin’s father had lied to the sheriff. I would have pondered this development further, but the next thing Peggy came as a shock.
“Speaking of missing girls, are you aware that Aziza Wahab is one of my students? And that her sister, Shalimar, used to be, too?”
Martha and I both stared at her. “I didn’t know that,” the librarian said.
Peggy nodded. “They were both in my Advanced Learners Class. I called Sheriff Avery this morning and told him how alarming it was that two of my students were missing. Each one a minority, too, like Precious Doe.”
She went on to say that while Los Perdidos was an open-minded town, as Arizona towns went, it didn’t mean there were no pockets of racism among its populace. “The more traditional the immigrants appear, the bigger targets they make for assaults.”
“Aziza’s parents seemed pretty assimilated to me,” I said, remembering the electronic gear in their living room, the boys playing Scrabble.
Peggy shrugged. “They’ve been here six years and they’re pretty well assimilated, although Mrs. Wahab and the girls still wear the hijab. Look, something else has been bothering me. Aziza’s very attuned to her environment, so I can’t believe she just sat there passively while someone came through her window and snatched her. she would have fought back, or at the very least, screamed her lungs out.”
