Reluctant Runaway

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

Desi fell into step with Brent.

  The young man gave her a lopsided grin. “My mother-in-law is one lady who can take care of herself, even against a kachina dancer.”

  “Kachina dancer?”

  “Zuni medicine man. That’s what Karen’s father is. Or was until he married white and got strung out on drugs.” Brent stopped beside the porch.

  Desi looked into the young man’s solemn eyes. “I sense more to the story.”

  Brent disentangled his son’s fist from his hair. The baby chortled and grabbed another wad. “After he and Jo split, Pete went back to the old ways. He can’t stand me. Says I lured his daughter from her heritage with this Jesus talk. He’d like to get his hands on Adam and make sure none of us ever sees him again. Just disappear into the desert.”

  Desi frowned. “That’s pretty hard to believe with our sophisticated search methods.”

  “Tell that to the families of the kids on the cartons.” He jerked his head in the direction Max had gone with the milk.

  “You’ve got me there. So Cheama is using Karen’s disappearance as an excuse to say Adam’s in danger?”

  “It’s more complicated than that. He claims the spirits have told him that Adam is the focus of battle in the unseen realm and will be destroyed unless protected by the ancient arts of the Zuni shaman. He believes it, too.”

  Desi looked at the ground. “He might be a little right.”

  “Ouch!” Brent pulled his son’s fist out of his hair and kissed the dimpled knuckles. “What do you mean? I thought you were a Christian.”

  “I’m not saying Adam needs a shaman’s protection, but he should be taken out of harm’s way If something’s up that Pete knows about, Karen might have known it, too. If she left on her own, her love for you and the baby may have been her motive. I know what a parent will do if he thinks his child is in danger. Not many months ago, my father died doing what he thought was best to protect me.”

  Brent’s brows lifted. “But what could be so scary that a mother would leave her child?”

  “I have no idea, but it’s as likely as any of the other unproven theories floating around.”

  Max poked her head out the door. “Are you ever comin’ to the table? I’m starved.”

  Desi laughed. “Good to hear those words out of you, woman. You’re too skinny. Enjoy your sister’s cooking tonight, because tomorrow you fly back to Boston with Adam. Your kids need you, and your mom will be tickled silly to get her hands on another baby.”

  Max stepped outside. “No way, Jose! My sister needs me.”

  Brent handed Adam up to her. “Jo needs you to look after Karen’s baby. I need you to do that. If the police hadn’t told me not to leave town, I’d take Adam myself.”

  The infant went after Max’s hair, toothless grin on his face. Max disengaged his fingers and looked from Brent to Desi. “What about our plans to drop in on the ministry headquarters?”

  “I’ll do it. In fact, if it’ll help your family and tie off a loose end, I’ll even figure out a way to talk to this Snake Bonney without diving into some biker den.”

  “You’re kidding, right?” Brent stared at her like she’d lost every marble in her head.

  Max laughed. “Desiree Jacobs never kids about helpin’ people she cares about. I’d say the hairy unwashed better watch out. She’ll have ‘em shaved and bathed before she’s through.” She headed inside.

  “Thanks for the vote of confidence. I think.” Desi followed Max into the house.

  ‘Anytime, lady.”

  Making up the rear, Brent gave a tentative chuckle. “Oh, I see. You two are kidding.”

  “Nope.” Desi clamped her lips shut. Me and my big mouth. How was she supposed to keep her word to Tony? And she needed to talk to Pete Cheama, too. Her beloved FBI agent would have a fit. Still, she really only promised to stay away from Hamilton Gordon. Not a word about Reverend Romlin or anyone else.

  Too bad she made that promise about Gordon. She was aching to know what the man meant by “shared history.” On second thought, he was an unconvicted criminal entrenched in a pseudo-Christian cult. What could be good about sharing history with him?

  Desi took her place at the kitchen table and smiled as the enchiladas were passed around. She glanced at Max eating like she’d never seen food before. Good for her.

  Many enchiladas later, Max yawned and pushed her plate away. “Early to bed tonight.”

  “Me, too.” Desi got up. “Let’s get these dishes done.”

  Jo smiled. “Not you two. Shoo! Brent and I have it covered. I’ll even waive the serious discussion until tomorrow.”

  Desi didn’t argue, and Max trailed behind her to the great room. Desi got her laptop out. “No shut-eye until I download the report from the Denver office on the museum theft.”

  “I’ll get you that street address for Inner Witness Ministries.” Max’s laptop appeared.

  They both logged in using Jo’s wireless connection. The room fell silent except for the clinking of dishes from the kitchen.

  “That’s funny.” Max looked up from her screen.

  Desi tore her attention from the report that was anything but amusing. “What’s funny?”

  “No problem findin’ a fancy website for the ministry complete with street address, but I can’t find a home address for Reverend Romlin—and I know tricks to get that information.”

  Desi chuckled. “The man’s homeless?”

  “I doubt it, but he knows how to keep his private information off the web, and that takes doin’. I did find this.” Max turned her screen toward Desi.

  The page was crude and colorless, like a prototype site. No graphics or photos, a little bare-bones text about the ministry but nothing they didn’t already know.

  “Look here.” Max pointed. “A different address than on the other site. I checked to see if Inner Witness still owns this property, and they do.”

  “Give me both addresses, but I’m more interested in visiting the less public place.”

  “You got it.” Max stifled a yawn.

  “Hit the hay, girl. But tomorrow do me a favor and scrounge around for a connection between HJ Securities and Gordon Corp. I’d like to know how I drew Gordon’s attention.”

  “I’m on it.” Max grinned and handed Desi a slip of paper with the addresses. She wandered toward the bedroom. “You comin’? You’ve got to be as wiped out as I am.”

  “In a few minutes.” Desi went back to the report from the Denver office.

  Her heart beat an angry tattoo. Whoever robbed the museum had outstanding computer skills—and inside help. The security system hadn’t merely been shut down, but fried to a crisp by a malicious virus that could only have been introduced to the control computer via an infected disk from inside the secure room. The night guard didn’t have access. He prowled hallways, peered in the windows of locked display room doors, and probably snoozed in the lobby with his feet up on the receptionist’s counter. But someone who worked in the museum during the day could have collected the necessary thumbprint and voice activation code.

  Desi read on. Ah, a thief got careless with glass in the display area, and left blood near the artifact case. Should be a good clue for the authorities. She scanned the document further and gasped. No wonder the police suspected Brent and/or Karen of complicity in the theft!

  In addition to the digital print reader, the computer control room was also secured by voice recognition software. Brent spent most of the day before the break-in recording interviews with museum staff for his thesis, including the curator and the administrator—the two voices that opened the door if the right words were spoken. But how would Brent know the code words to splice together? No doubt that was the unanswered question that kept him from being arrested.

  Was the young man as dishonest as his brother? Desi hadn’t thought so this afternoon, but now? She shook her head. She wasn’t ready to convict him on circumstantial evidence.

  Karen also worked for a few hours the day prior to t
he theft. Her supervisor said she gave the young woman the new punch code to get in the front door so she could open up the next day. But the museum never opened. The theft was discovered in the early morning when a patrol car stopped by on regular rounds and couldn’t raise the guard. Unless the guard was tricked into opening the door, the thieves would have needed the front door code before they could get to the computer room. If Karen played a part in the theft, was she an accomplice, or was she snatched and forced to reveal the code and then murdered?

  Brent’s fears for his wife were well-founded. Unless, of course, Karen ran away to serve a cult. Not an attractive alternative, but better than being dead. Heart heavy, Desi shut down her laptop. Tomorrow might be a good day for answers. And she wouldn’t even ruffle Tony’s feathers.

  How much trouble could she get into just checking out a ministry hole-in-the-wall?

  Desi drifted awake. Light showed around the edges of lavender curtains. Morning, finally.

  She’d awakened at 2 a.m. and 4 a.m. from dreams of Jabba the Hutt with a Darth Vader voice chasing her through a room full of blue-eyed babies. Each time she woke up, Jabba was about to catch her because the babies floated all over the place like they were weightless, crying and grabbing her hair.

  Stupid dream. Symptom of an overtired brain.

  Desi’s gaze traveled around the room. So this was the bedroom Karen had as a girl. Jo must not have changed much since her daughter moved out.

  A desk sat near the window with a shelf over it. A dream catcher hung from a corner of the shelf, and a couple of odd-looking wooden dolls gazed down at Desi. Max said they were kachinas, representing spirits honored in tribal ceremonies. Strange critters with distorted faces. Other than that, the room was pretty much teen-rebel stock decor—heavy metal band posters, a dusty lava lamp on the dresser, and a jarring color scheme of red, black, and shock me purple.

  Desi rolled onto her back and stretched. The big toe on her right foot gave a twinge. Someone stirred and sighed, and Desi turned her head. Tousled red curls covered the pillow of the twin bed next to hers.

  Max was going home today. Without her! What had she been thinking?

  Okay, so it was a good idea for Max to take Adam and do a Houdini. But Desi’s synapses hadn’t been firing on all cylinders when she volunteered to visit with a media minister and a motorcycle thug on her own. Talk about opposite walks of life.

  She closed her eyes. Another round with Jabba the Hutt didn’t sound too bad.

  “Psst! You awake?”

  Desi looked over at Max, who propped herself up on one elbow.

  “Go home with me. You don’t have to interview people about some cockamamie spin-off on Christianity And you sure don’t need to talk to some dude named Snake.” Max wrinkled her nose. “If we can dig into Ham Gordon from the Internet, we can research this Inner Witness thing the same way … from Boston.”

  Desi laughed. “Thanks, Max. You clarified my need to stick around. We don’t rely on Internet research when we work with a client. We do personal interviews.”

  “You’re not working for a client.”

  “Sure am. You and your family. But I’m not requiring a contract or a fee.”

  Max put her bare feet on the braided rug. “Stubborn woman.” She stretched.

  Desi rolled out of bed. “I’ve had to learn to stand my ground against a certain smart-mouthed Texan.”

  “Oh, hardy-har-har.” Max chucked her pillow.

  Desi grabbed the soft mound and flung it back.

  Max lunged to her feet. “Pillow fight!”

  Laughing, Desi put her arm up, and a pillow whomped her shoulder.

  “Hey! You two are having way too much fun in my house.” Jo stood in the doorway, smiling. “I’ve got breakfast ready. And we need to talk over these plans of yours.”

  Desi changed out of her pajamas into business-casual pants and top and then ran a brush through her hair. Max threw on jeans and a T-shirt.

  “On to the grub.” She led the way into the great room.

  Desi ran a stockinged foot across the cool floor. “Your sister has beautiful tile work. And these mosaics on the walls.” She touched a star made out of tile chips that repeated itself at hip height around the perimeter of the room. “Gorgeous. Mexican influence.”

  “Anything Hispanic is common in Albuquerque, but Jo did the mosaics. She’s quite the artist. Commissioned work, nothing commercial.”

  “Really! Maybe she’ll do a piece for me.”

  Max laughed. “Always on the lookout for choice art.”

  “You got it. I had no idea you had an artist in the family.” Desi sniffed. “Jo could make a living as a cook, too. Let me guess. Tex-Mex omelets like you make.”

  “Yeah. But Jo’s may have more zing than you’re used to.”

  “My taste buds are revving up already.”

  They sat at the trestle table, and Desi watched Jo slide omelets onto plates at the counter. The woman glanced up, but said nothing. Still looking peaked. But then, her daughter was still missing.

  Desi’s gaze strayed to the black pockmarks that peppered a mosaic on the far wall. No wonder Pete knew Jo meant business.

  His stated purpose for coming after the baby had a noble ring, but was he serious about Adam being in danger or just taking advantage of circumstances for his personal agenda? Why did he think Adam might be a target? Easy to claim “the spirits told me.” More likely he had indications from natural sources.

  Did that mean he knew what led to Karen’s disappearance? If so, why didn’t he give the information to the authorities? Or maybe he had Karen and was trying to get his hands on his grandson, too. But if he took Karen, why didn’t he grab Adam at the same time? Mother and child were alone in the house at the time of the disappearance.

  Way too many unanswered questions, and only one way to get answers: Ask!

  “Earth to Desi.” Max’s fingers snapped in front of her face.

  Desi looked up. “Just thinking.”

  Jo set plates of steaming eggs laced with ham, cheese, and peppers before them. “Want to share those thoughts?” She sat down.

  “I need to ask questions about all these interesting characters that keep popping up in this mess—your ex-husband, this Snake fellow, and the Reverend Archer Romlin.”

  Jo frowned. “Reverend Romlin doesn’t belong in the same group as those other two.”

  Defensive reaction. Interesting. Desi smiled and picked up her fork. “Everything’s on hold until after I eat this.” Her stomach growled. “Pass the salsa.”

  Fifteen minutes later, she laid her fork on the empty plate. “Okay Q & A time. Are you up for it, Jo?”

  The woman wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I’ve changed my mind. I don’t think you or Max should get involved.” She glanced at her sister. “I mean, it’s enough that you’re willing to take Adam for a while.” She turned toward Desi. “You should go with her. I do want my daughter back, but I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

  Desi laughed. “Max said sort of the same thing this morning. Is this a reverse psychology ploy? Because the more you try to talk me out of it, the more I think I need to chat with some people. Maybe find out things they wouldn’t tell a cop.”

  Jo shook her head. “You haven’t heard then? It was on the news last night.”

  Max sat forward. “We went to bed before the news came on. What happened?”

  “The guard that was injured in the robbery went into convulsions and died.”

  Desi rocked back, breath leaving her lungs. “That’s awful.”

  “Head wounds can be that way sometimes.” Max shook her head.

  Desi looked from one woman to the other. “The death escalates the seriousness of the museum theft. Anyone involved could be looking at murder charges.”

  Jo’s face quivered. “I know, but I don’t want to think about it. Karen can’t be a part of this. She wouldn’t!”

  Desi glanced away A few months ago, she would have sworn that
her father would never be mixed up in a theft ring, yet he was. But for reasons no one would have guessed in a gazillion years. Maybe Karen had good reasons, too. Or maybe her disappearance was unconnected to the theft. No one had proven anything. Maybe it was time someone did.

  Was she supposed to be that someone?

  Tony would pull an ogre face. Max and Jo thought so one minute, then wanted to hang back the next. She’d put the brakes on, too, but the more she learned about Karen, the more something tugged at her to find the girl. Overwrought emotions or a prompting from the Holy Spirit? Whatever the Reverend Romlin taught on the subject—and she intended to look into that—God did often lead by an inner witness. A red-light/green-light knowing in the heart.

  She’d take a few cautious steps and trust that He’d show her if she was on the right track.

  “You’re stayin’.’ “ Max wrinkled her nose. “I see the decision on your face.”

  “And you’re going.”

  Max sighed. “I guess that’s the way things have to be.”

  “I’ll get these dishes cleared up.” Jo stood. “And take Max and Adam to the airport. The flight leaves in a couple of hours.”

  “Will you go by where Brent and Karen live?” Desi stood up with her dirty plate. “I’d like to ride along. I need to ask Brent a few more questions.”

  “Sorry” Jo followed Desi to the sink. “Brent’s dropping Adam off on the way to work.” She set a fistful of silverware in the sink and looked at her watch. “Should be here any minute.”

  “How about I ride to the airport with you anyway? You can tell me about Inner Witness and if Karen—”

  The cordless phone on the counter shrilled. Jo snatched it up and turned her back on Desi.

  “It’s for you.” Jo thrust the phone at her.

  Desi took it, questioning the woman with her eyes. Jo shrugged and stepped away to join Max, who was rinsing dishes. Must have stomped a sore toe asking about the Inner Witness and Karen in the same breath.

  “Hello?”

  “Is this Desiree Jacobs?”

  “Speaking.”

  “I’m Ivan Spellman, administrator at the New Mexico Museum of Art and Anthropology. You called here yesterday?”