Desert Cut

by Betty Webb

  I had a ready answer. “Maybe she did, but no one heard her.” I described my visit to the Wahab’s house the evening before, and the music blasting out of Aziza’s bedroom. The Nile wasn’t that much quieter, I noted. Over the loud conversations of a room full of customers, Middle Eastern music played on the restaurant’s sound system. In other circumstances, I might have enjoyed the friendly din.

  Remembering how shy the older Wahab girl had seemed, I said, “Aziza sounds a lot more outgoing than Shalimar.” I raised my voice as a quartet of diners near us began to laugh uproariously.

  The noise didn’t bother Peggy. “God, yes. Shalimar, is shy and very restrained. I’m not sure she has many friends to speak of, at least few at school. Aziza’s just the opposite. She makes friends everywhere she goes, and she’s so smart a lot of them are years older than she is.”

  The laughter died down and I was able to speak in a more normal voice. “Did Aziza have any black friends?”

  “Plenty. We have a small Somali and Ethiopian population and most of them have kids. They attend prayer services on Fridays with the other Muslims. You’ll see them standing around outside the Unitarian Church where they meet, some of them in tribal dress. It’s very colorful.”

  When I told her that Duane Tucker said he’d seen someone who looked like Aziza talking to a dark girl who might have been Precious Doe, she grimaced. “Oh, geez. Duane. There’s a hat full of trouble. He used to hang around my kid sister until Dad ran him off. Half the time the guy’s non compos mentis, if you get my meaning, so don’t put too much stock in anything he says. But I’ll say this about Duane. If he’s a child molester, I’m a Swede. He likes them young, but not that young.”

  A conclusion I’d reached myself. “The victims were around seven years old, unless you count the last one.”

  Both women shot me startled looks. “What are you talking about?” Martha Green asked.

  “You haven’t heard?”

  The librarian shook her head. “I’ve stopped watching the news. Too depressing. I get up, eat breakfast, go straight to the library.”

  For her part, Peggy offered, “I was out late last night with one of the search parties, and I overslept this morning. By the time I hauled myself out of bed, I didn’t even have time for breakfast, let alone the news.”

  I started to explain. “A girl named Nicole Hall…”

  “Not Nicole!” Peggy looked distraught.

  Several Nile patrons turned to stare, including our elderly waitress, who had just arrived with our meals. No, not just waitress. Her name tag announced: ASENATH NOUR, MANAGER. Eyeing Peggy carefully, she asked. “Are you all right, Miss Binder?”

  Peggy gave her a wan smile. “Thanks, Mrs. Nour. I just learned something disturbing about one of my former students.”

  “Ah, yes,” Mrs. Nour said, sympathetically. “Children can break your heart, but Allah be praised, I have been fortunate in mine.” With a glance at Peggy’s slightly trembling hands, she added, “Today I suggest Seven-Up for your drink, not tea. It appears you need no more caffeine.”

  When Mrs. Nour went to fetch Peggy some Seven-Up, I eyed the teacher with curiosity. “I thought Nicole was home-schooled.”

  Peggy picked up her napkin, fumbled with it for a second, then placed it in her lap, making no move toward her sandwich. “I taught her from first grade until she entered middle school. She’s a sweet girl, one of my favorite-ever students. I used to have high hopes for her. Please don’t tell me something’s happened to her, too.”

  I did my best to reassure her by saying that so far, the girl was suspected of simply being a runaway. Then I remembered something. “Didn’t you say you teach advanced students?”

  She finally took a nibble from her pita sandwich, but with an expression of regret, put it down. “Guess I’m not hungry, after all. Yes, I teach the advanced class, which is how I wound up with Tujin and Aziza. Nicole, too, because believe me, that girl’s as smart as they come. But as she grew older, she became a real handful. That’s why I wasn’t surprised when…” She hesitated.

  “When what?” I urged.

  Mrs. Nour arrived with a Seven-Up. After thanking her, Peggy drank half the glass, then with a nervous gesture, tucked her hair behind her silver-studded ears. “It happened when Nicole was fourteen. She ran away from home and was gone for a couple of days. Nobody knows where she was during that time, but she eventually turned up at her boyfriend’s house.”

  “A boyfriend?” Why hadn’t Reverend Hall given me that bit of information?

  “She and Raymundo Mendoza had known each other since first grade, and you know the way these things go. She was pretty, he was gorgeous, and their hormones were raging. But as it turned out, she ran away because she’d skipped her period and knew that if she was pregnant, her parents would have a fit.”

  Another item Reverend Hall had neglected to mention. “And was she pregnant?”

  “Yes.”

  “At fourteen?” My already dark feelings about Hall grew darker. “Whose baby was it?”

  Peggy must have guessed where my thoughts were heading because she didn’t let me complete the question. “The baby, a girl, was Raymundo’s. He admitted it. As for Reverend Hall, while I’m no fan of his or that weird Freedom Temple, in all the time I taught Nicole, I never saw any indication of abuse, sexual or otherwise. She was well fed, and wore clean, if somewhat dowdy, clothes. There were no ‘she-fell-down’ bruises, either, and that’s something I’m always on the alert for. You can never tell with parents, can you?”

  Taking our silence for agreement, she continued, “Nicole’s middle school teachers said the same thing, that they never saw any reason to suspect abuse. But back to the pregnancy. Raymundo and his family wanted to raise the baby, but Hal shipped Nicole off to an aunt in Idaho or Montana or someplace like that, and the baby was put up for adoption. The Mendozas were beside themselves and even made noises about contesting the adoption—after all, the baby was their granddaughter—but by the time Nicole returned to Los Perdidos, they’d decided not to break the adoptive parents’ hearts.”

  “Raymundo himself could have contested it.”

  “He was only fourteen, remember. Anyway, Reverend Hall pulled Nicole out of public school, and that was the end of that. Since then, on occasion I’ve seen the poor kid around town with her parents, but she’s different now. It was like she’d always blazed with light, then someone turned off the switch.”

  A pregnant teenager, a powerless boyfriend, and an out-of-state adoption agency—the same old sad story. “Losing your first love and then your baby would be traumatic,” I told Peggy.

  She nodded. “If you ask me, I’d say her very soul was damaged.”

  I had no rejoinder for that. “Does Raymundo’s family live near by?”

  “Sure. The Mendozas are descended from one of Los Perdidos’ founding families.” She gave me a half-humorous, half-bitter smile. “In fact, they like to brag that one of their ancestors shot one of my ancestors. Anyway, they own a pottery business at the edge of town and live right behind it. If Nicole did run away, and I hope that’s all this is, she’d head straight there. Especially now that Raymundo’s graduated.”

  “I thought he was only sixteen.”

  “Yes, but he’s as bright as Nicole and was able to skip a couple of grades. He’s working at the shop with his mother until he starts U of A this fall on a full-ride scholarship.”

  I thought for a moment. When Nicole ran away the first time and turned up at Raymundo’s house, his father turned her over to the authorities. If she was as smart as Peggy said she was, she wouldn’t repeat the same mistake. Still, I needed to find out what was what. By now, Raymundo might have resources of his own.

  Before I attacked my shish kabob, I asked Peggy one final question. “Is there any possibility that Nicole knows Aziza Wahab?”

  She shrugged. “Nicole was friendly with Shalimar, her older sister, but as for knowing Aziza, I can’t say. I guess it’s possibl
e their paths crossed, but I doubt if Nicole and Shalimar had any sleep-overs or anything like that. The Wahabs aren’t the type, and neither are the Halls. Since that pregnancy business a couple of years ago, Nicole’s father keeps her pretty much under wraps.”

  I was sliding meat off the skewer when she added, “Come to think of it, Nicole did know Tujin Rafik, that Iraqi girl who disappeared.”

  I put my fork down. “How?”

  “When Nicole was around ten, we used her as a tutor in our Peer Program, where kids help kids. She drilled some of the immigrant girls on their reading, and Tujin was one of them. They were pretty close, and when Tujin disappeared, she took it so hard her father kept her home from school for a few days. When she returned, the school provided what counseling our budget would allow, which admittedly wasn’t much, and she seemed to get over it. At least she stopped crying all the time.”

  There it was. A connection between the runaway Nicole and one of the missing girls.

  Chapter Twelve

  As soon as we finished our lunch, I paid the tab over Martha’s and Peggy’s protests and drove to Mendoza’s Mexican Pottery.

  The store, only a few minute’s drive from the Nile Restaurant, was a large one, stocking not only pots of all shapes, sizes, and colors, but also Navajo rugs and groupings of hand-carved Mexican furniture. Among them I recognized the night stands in the Lazy M’s guest cottage and the large coffee table in Selma’s living room.

  As I approached the counter, where several smartly-dressed customers stood filling out forms, I saw a sign announcing “SÍ! WE SHIP!” Another sign said that they were delighted to accept American Express, Visa, MasterCard, and out-of-state checks. Situated as it was on the tourist trail to Tombstone, Mendoza’s was doing a brisk business.

  I waited until the customers were taken care of, then asked the middle-aged Hispanic woman running the register where I might find Raymundo. In unaccented English, she told me he was in the storage area out back, and how about a nice Navajo rug today? They’d just received a special shipment from their supplier in Window Rock. “We have a wonderful selection, including Teec Nos Pos, Two Gray Hills, and Raised Edge. And, of course, the usual Yeibichai. Commercial but lovely, and priced just right.”

  Shopping sometimes lifted my spirits and I’d seen a beautiful red-and-black Klagetoh that would partner nicely with the Two Gray Hills rug I already owned, so after hauling it from the large pile it crowned, I handed over my Visa.

  As she rang me up, I filled out a shipping label. Shipping arrangements completed, I stepped out to the storage yard, where a handsome young man who strongly resembled the woman at the counter was rolling a large terra cotta pot across the cement floor. He was Nicole’s age, sixteen, but his height and muscular physique made him appear much older.

  “Raymundo?”

  He turned around and threw me a dazzling smile that didn’t quite overcome the worried expression in his eyes. “How may I help you, ma’am? Are you looking for natural terra cotta like this or something more colorful?”

  “Neither. I want to talk to you about Nicole Hall.”

  The smile disappeared. “Don’t know where she’s at.”

  “But you know she’s run away.”

  He glanced around to make certain no customers were near by. “You a social worker or something?”

  I showed him my I.D. card.

  Disbelief showed on his face. “Oh, c’mon. I can’t believe that toxic father of hers went and hired a private detective! Don’t take this wrong, but even if he did, he’d hire a guy. Reverend Hall doesn’t believe girls have enough brains to come in out of the rain. Sorry. I mean women.” Someone in his family, probably his sales-conscious mother, had tutored him on political correctness.

  “I don’t work for Nicole’s father, Raymundo. I don’t even like him.”

  After giving me a piercing look, he nodded. “Okay. I believe you. But if you’re not working for Hall, why’re you here? Somebody else hire you? The sheriff, maybe?” He vented a snort of laughter.

  “I’m the person who found Precious Doe.”

  “Oh. The dead girl.” He swallowed hard. “That must have been rough.”

  “It was. And now two more girls have disappeared. Aziza Wahab and Nicole.”

  His eyes shifted. “I don’t know anything about that other kid, but you don’t have to worry about Nicole.”

  Teenagers can be so transparent. “And I don’t have to worry about her because…?”

  “Because she’s all right. I’ve just got a feeling.”

  Like hell he had a feeling; he knew. I pulled the cell phone out of my carry-all, flipped it open, and pretended to punch in a number.

  “Who are you calling?” Raymundo cried.

  “The sheriff, of course. Since you won’t tell me, you can tell him.”

  He reached out his hand and grabbed my wrist. A lot of strength there. “Nicole’s safe. She called right after she took off, but wouldn’t tell me where she was. All I know is that she said she’d contact me later. She had to do something first.”

  I closed the cell but didn’t put it away. “When was this?”

  “Yesterday, some time after eight. We’d just closed.”

  Reverend Hall had told me his wife didn’t discover the girl was missing until this morning. Upon reflection, I remembered how much noise the gravel parking lot outside the parsonage made when cars crunched along it, so Nicole’s departure hadn’t been silent. Why had her parents waited until the morning to call the sheriff? Under ordinary conditions, I would have questioned Hall about this discrepancy, and at the same time, tell him his daughter had contacted a friend and was safe. But this situation appeared far from ordinary. Hall seemed more concerned for his missing car than his missing daughter.

  “Did she say how long it would take, to do whatever it was?”

  Raymundo shook his head. “Naw. When I tried to talk her into coming over here, she hung up on me.”

  “You and Nicole had a baby together, right?”

  His face turned defiant. “Everybody knows about that.”

  “And the baby was adopted out.”

  “Ancient history.” Sullen, now.

  Time to unsettle him further. “How did you feel about losing your baby, Raymundo?”

  “How do you think I felt?” He was as disdainful as only a sixteen-year-old can be.

  I pushed again. “That first time Nicole ran away, she vanished for a couple of days before turning up at your house. Don’t tell me you didn’t know where she was during that time.”

  His eyes shifted to the terra cotta pot. He leaned over and with a fingernail, flicked off specks of dirt. “Nope. I didn’t.”

  He was smart, but a bad liar. “Maybe I won’t phone the sheriff.” I watched him relax. “Instead, I’ll just go talk to your mother, tell her you know where Nicole is, and that you’re hampering a police investigation.”

  He straightened up, his face pale. “All right, but you’ve got to promise not to tell anyone else. I don’t want to get them in trouble.”

  “If whoever she’s staying with has a record of endangering kids, I can’t do that.”

  “Endangering kids? They save them!” He glanced toward the shop where his mother was working with another customer. “Follow me. I want to make sure my mother doesn’t hear what I’m about to tell you.”

  With that, he opened a wooden gate and stepped onto a brick path which led toward a tidy adobe. La Casa Mendoza. To the side of the house, under a lush ironwood tree, stood a picnic table. No one seemed to be around. Presumably the younger Mendozas were in school, the older ones at work.

  He waited until we’d settled ourselves at the picnic table before saying anything else. “That other time she ran off, she borrowed a friend’s cell and called me right away. She hadn’t told her parents yet about the baby because she was afraid what her father might do if he found out she’d been sneaking out her window at night to meet me down by the riv…well, at our regular meeting pl
ace. I swiped my father’s truck and picked her up. I drove her, well, I drove her some place.”

  Driving around at fourteen, he’d been lucky not to get picked up by the cops, but where Nicole was concerned, he didn’t seem to worry about what was legal and what was not. I thought his admission might be all the information he was willing to give, but he added, “There’s this ranch, a big secret, but some of the guys at school know about it, kind of a safe haven for kids in really bad trouble. I mean, really bad, not just shoplifting or stuff. I figured this thing with the baby was really bad, so that’s where we went.”

  When he ducked his head in embarrassment, he didn’t seem so mature any more. “She stayed with them two days then started feeling guilty, so she called me and had me pick her up. I didn’t know what else to do, so I took her to my house and asked my father if she could live with us and we’d all raise the baby.”

  I told him I knew the rest, that her father had immediately called Reverend Hall. Any responsible parent would.

  “Pop screwed up.” His voice was bitter. “The next day Reverend Hall shipped her off to Idaho and when she got back, it was all over between us. I’d go to where we used to meet and wait there for hours, but she pretty much stopped showing up. When she did, she wouldn’t let me anywhere near her. She never even called me again until yesterday.”

  “Raymundo, where’s that ‘safe house?’ ”

  Hope lit his face. “Do you think she’s there?”

  There was a strong possibility, and I told him so. I dug into my carry-all and brought out a notebook and pen. “Write down the address and phone number.”

  “I never knew the phone number, and the address won’t do you any good, ‘cause it’s way out in the boonies the other side of Sierra Vista.” But he drew a map and jotted down the directions. “When you get there, don’t tell them who told you, okay? And don’t tell anyone else. Swear you won’t! They help people, not hurt them.”