Reluctant Runaway

by Jill Elizabeth Nelson

  “None whatsoever. Of that we’re positive.”

  “What about someone else in the biker gang?”

  Ortiz paused with a wad of papers in her hand. “We haven’t had reason to pursue that angle, but the way things are going nowhere fast, I suppose we’d better.”

  Tony picked up the missing persons report on Desi and put it on top of Webb’s. He stared at Desi’s name on the impersonal document. His insides twisted. He cleared his throat and pulled out the accident sheet involving Pete Cheama’s pickup and fanned the three out like a hand of cards. “People are disappearing right and left. No way the events aren’t connected.”

  “That’s what we think. We’ve suspected that the Webb disappearance was connected to the museum theft, but given her involvement with Inner Witness, we’re willing to revisit the issue. Haven’t told Jo Cheama yet, though.” Ortiz gave a small chuckle. “Doesn’t pay to jump the gun when we’re still waiting for critical lab results that could prove the young woman guilty. She was an unhappy gal. Maybe she wanted quick bucks to get out of town. The black-market value on those artifacts is pretty high.”

  Ortiz’s phone sounded. She picked up and listened a few seconds then set the phone on the table and pressed the speaker button. “Say again? I didn’t catch all that.”

  “There is a package for you in the desert.” A man’s voice came through without inflection. “You will need to pick it up soon, or it may spoil.”

  Tony went still. A package that could spoil? Did the caller mean a body? He opened his mouth to ask.

  Ortiz held up a hand. “You’ll have to be more specific.”

  The voice gave directions to a location west of Albuquerque. Tony snatched up a pen and scribbled.

  “Got it.” Ortiz nodded at Tony. “Now how did you get my cell number?”

  “Found it in a purse. A dead man said to call.”

  “Who’s dead? Tell us where you are, and we’ll come get your statement.”

  The hiss of empty airspace. Tony gripped the back of a chair. Had they lost him?

  “Before he died, the man said to tell Desiree he was sorry. He lied to get her help. He doesn’t know where to find Sanctuary.”

  Tony grabbed the phone. “What do you know about Desiree Jacobs? Where is she?”

  A soft click left silence behind.

  Tony’s fingers fisted in his hair. “I can’t believe I blew that!”

  Ortiz took her phone. “It’s okay, Lucano. I’m pretty sure the guy was going to hang up anyway. Did he sound like the one who called you in Boston?”

  “Not at all. This caller was calm—controlled. Mine talked in gasps like he was hurt.”

  “Cheama?”

  Tony glanced at the accident report. “Timing fits.”

  “One mystery solved, a million to go.”

  “We can discuss this en route. How soon can we get a chopper?”

  “We? You’re supposed to have your rear pinned to a seat in the office.” Ortiz shook her head. “Guess that’s not going to happen.”

  “You guess right.”

  “Let’s go, then.” She led the way out of the conference room. “I’ll get ground backup on the road, in case we find trouble out there. Rhoades!” She called to her partner coming toward them up the hall. “Call Kirtland Air Force Base and have them start prepping a chopper. Lucano isn’t the only one who gets anonymous phone calls about strange locations in the desert.”

  Rhoades’s nostrils flared. “Sanctuary’s real?”

  “Lucano’s hoping for a live Desiree Jacobs. My money’s on a dead Cheama.”

  “We’ve got more than one dead guy coming back to haunt us.” He waved a sheet of paper. “Results on the prints found on the package of meth under Cheama’s truck seat. Under a piece of the tape, they found a print from a Florida-based con artist named Harold Duncan who’s been listed as dead for two years. Duncan’s specialty was romancing older women out of their life savings. The second set was from a thug named Leon Bender, who’s also supposed to be six feet under. None of the prints were Cheama’s.”

  Ortiz groaned. “What’s going on around here? A deceased felons convention? So either the drugs were planted by ghosts, or Cheama used gloves to handle a package given to him by two dead guys.”

  Tony started down the hall. “Let’s go get what’s waiting for us in the desert. We can call the Ghostbusters later. If Desi’s alive out there, with the heat she may not be for long.”

  Time’s up, cowboy. You didn’t show, so I gotta go. She must be getting light-headed with the heat, making wacky rhymes to herself.

  Desi took a sip of tepid water, the first she’d allowed herself since her decision to stay put. She stood up, hung the canteen strap over her shoulder, and focused on the big bush at the top of the ridge. That was south, the direction she needed to go. If she kept picking out landmarks to move toward, she ought to stay on course.

  She picked up the blanket and shook it, then stopped. Her purse! It was under the far end of the blanket the whole time. She snatched the bag and rummaged through the contents. Comb, compact, lipstick—no doubt mush inside that metal tube—pen, small notebook, billfold. She opened the billfold. Every credit card and all her cash were intact. The people who dumped her out here might be full of mean tricks, but they weren’t thieves.

  If they intended to leave her out here to die, why wouldn’t they take the cash at least? On the other hand, maybe they wanted her belongings to be found with her body to add credibility to an accidental death ruling. Aagh! She could go round and round about someone else’s motives and still not hit on the right one.

  She moved out, toting the canteen, her purse, and the blanket. The heat buffeted her. This was late September. What must the desert be like in high summer? The blanket dragged on her arm, but she needed it to drape over bushes to make shade when she stopped to rest. Firming her jaw, she trudged up the incline toward the top of the ridge. At least she was wearing comfortable loafers, and her slacks protected her legs.

  Desi’s breath came in pants by the time she reached the top of the ridge and peered down into the panorama beyond. Some panorama. She’d hoped to catch sight of a road or habitation. She gazed instead into a ruin of ancient civilization, home now to lizards and spiders. Bare traces of human influence on nature remained—part of a wall here, scattered stones there, and in the center, a depression that might have been a kiva. Not enough to fan the flames of interest in an archaeologist’s heart, much less in hers. The place offered no shelter, just more cholla and ocotillo to snag her progress.

  With a sigh, Desi worked her way down the slope and walked between dissolving lumps of man’s handiwork. Strange to think that hers might be the first human feet to tread here in centuries. This place belonged to the coyotes now. An odd sensation raised the hairs on her neck and arms. Unseen eyes followed her.

  Nonsense, girl! The heat’s addled your brain.

  She took a few more steps, and a wall of oppression halted her. She wasn’t welcome here. Clammy fingers worked their way up her body. Darkness fell on her mind as visible on the inside as the desert landscape on the outside. Her heart began to race. Fighting the urge to flee, she made herself walk on.

  Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with me. The Twenty-third Psalm played over and over in her head.

  She reached the center of the ruin, every limb trembling. Weak-kneed, she sank down onto remains of a wall. The depression in the soil that must have once been a kiva began a stone’s throw away. Shiny objects littered the area, but she could make no sense of them.

  They didn’t belong here. What should she do? Gather them up and take them with her?

  Unscrewing the cap from the canteen, she took a long pull, then another, and another. As if rising from a dark pit, her mind cleared and alarm grew. She’d stopped sweating. Her water conservation strategy had backfired. If she was already experiencing symptoms of heatstroke, she’d never make it to a ro
ad that wasn’t within eyeshot yet.

  She lunged to her feet with a cry. Beer cans! Someone used this place as a party pad. Civilization must be nearer than she thought. A laugh burst from her.

  She set her burdens down—the blanket, the canteen, the purse—and began to explore the area. Aha! A fire pit. Oh goody, cigarette butts. Large boot prints. Oh, and um … skimpy underwear half buried in the sand? A coed party then, but difficult to tell how long ago. The cans showed no sign of rust, but out here oxidation would be a slow process. Could have been months since someone last visited this location—since after the spring rains anyway.

  At the outer edge of the ruins, Desi stopped. If her dehydrated body had any tears to shed, they’d be falling now. Tire tracks! Not from four-wheeled vehicles. Whoever came here traveled on two wheels. Motorcycles then. Who cared! She’d take chariots and leap for joy. Well, she’d leap if that didn’t use too much energy. The tracks led off at an angle from the direction she’d intended to travel—a sure bet to take her to a paved highway.

  Desi whirled and hotfooted, literally, back to her supplies. She took another drink of water. Rations were low. She picked up the blanket then dropped it. This thing slowed her down, yet she’d need shade for her sizzling scalp sooner or later. It could be miles to the highway She dug her nail clipper out of her purse. A few snips in the fabric and she tore a wide strip off the end of the blanket. Then she ripped a narrower length for a tie and rigged a headdress.

  “Just call me Desi of Arabia.”

  The rest of the blanket she left draped over the wall. Hope encouraged her feet as she followed the tire impressions away from the dead village. One foot in front of another. Her steps slowed. Nothing but wilderness in every direction, and the tread marks had begun to fade.

  She glanced at her watch then took a closer look. Couldn’t be! Less than two hours had passed since she left her rock. Seemed like she’d been walking for ages, and her body felt ready to give out. So much for her belief that she kept herself in excellent physical condition. Must be the combination of elevation and the desert climate doing a number on her endurance.

  “C’mon, Des. You can make it. Can’t be far now.”

  The sound of her own voice helped her stuff worry to the back of her mind. She took another drink, and the moisture in the canteen barely sloshed as she screwed the cap tight.

  She staggered on. Ouch! Her toe rammed something hard—the same one she’d abused when she hung on that brick wall in DC—and she pitched forward. Uhn! The air left her body as she hit the packed earth, arms too weak to cushion her fall. She tasted sand in her mouth, and bitterness like the flavor of despair. Heat pressed up on her from the baked ground and crushed down from above.

  This must be what a clay pot felt like in the kiln.

  A deep drone teased her ears. She lifted up on her elbows. Now she was hearing things. The drone intensified. She squinted into the distance. Dust! The drone became a rumble of many engines. Desi dragged herself to her feet.

  Swaying, she watched motorcycles barrel closer.

  In the lead, a big man in black rode a massive chopper. A red headband circled a mop of ruddy hair that streamed behind him, mixed with the hairs of his bushy auburn beard. The chopper skidded to a halt mere feet away.

  Clouds of dust whirled around Desi. Coughing, she closed her eyes. Grains pelted her skin. She hugged herself and ducked her head. The thunder grew to a crescendo and then ratcheted down to a steady roar.

  Spitting grit, Desi opened her eyes, and her heart shuddered to a standstill.

  At least a dozen hairy men on big hogs surrounded her.

  Fifteen

  Tieless and in his shirtsleeves, Tony paced an office at Kirtland Air Force Base. He finished his call to Boston and looked at his watch. Two hours waiting for a helicopter to become available. Unbelievable!

  Most of the choppers were out on maneuvers, a few sat in the repair shop, and one was toting some bigwig to a conference. The report of a mysterious package in the desert wasn’t priority to anyone but him. He could have driven to the location by now, except Ortiz said the directions were vague enough to require air reconnaissance over a significant chunk of ground.

  The Hispanic agent hustled into the room. “One of the copters is back from maneuvers. They’re refueling. Let’s go.”

  Tony bounded ahead of her. Outside, the rotors were running on the refueled whirlybird. The pilot motioned for them to climb aboard. Ducking against the wind from the blades, Tony complied, followed by Ortiz. They buckled in and put on their headsets. She gave the pilot the general coordinates, and they lifted off.

  Tony keyed his headset to talk to Ortiz. “The ground team all set?”

  “They’ve been cooling their heels at Laguna Pueblo. Correction, their heels are quite warm by now, waiting for our instructions. Did you find out anything in your call to Boston?”

  “Just that Polanski, my second-in-command, has everything under control, and Hajimoto, who’s been digging into Reverend Romlin’s background, says there are suspicious circumstances surrounding the man’s credentials. He thinks Romlin isn’t the preacher’s real name. May not even be a licensed minister.”

  Ortiz chuckled. “And this should surprise us why? Do you think he might be another dead guy come back to life?”

  “Why not? Seems to be a trend. Haj is looking into that angle. Interesting twist from the usual trick of a live person taking a dead person’s identity. Anything new at your end?”

  “Rhoades called. He had more lab results. The unknown vehicle tire marks and bits of chrome we found at the scene of Cheama’s accident come from a semi cab—the same model used by Gordon Corp truckers. The semi forced the pickup off the road.”

  Tony smirked. “Maybe Cheama was getting too close to exposing the bootlegging operation in his hunt for his daughter, and they framed him. The pieces fit if we assume that he was my anonymous caller about Bill Winston.”

  Ortiz nodded. “At last, a corner of the picture that doesn’t look like a Picasso.”

  “You and Desi should get along great.”

  “Oh, we do … mostly. She wasn’t too happy with me for being unavailable yesterday.”

  “Sounds like her. She’s terrible at waiting.” His heart contracted. Des, hang tight I’m on my way. Tony looked down and watched the city pass beneath them. “How long until we reach the search perimeter?”

  “Twenty minutes or so.”

  Tony settled back for the longest third of an hour he’d ever endured.

  Desi stared into the flat gray eyes of the lead motorcyclist. He wore a black denim shirt with the sleeves ripped off and the seams hanging ragged. His bronzed arms were a rolling terrain of muscle and tattoos. A massive pewter cross dangled from his neck on a leather cord. A sliver of tattoo peeked from his shirt neck.

  Was she face-to-face with the infamous Snake Bonney? He wasn’t as big as she’d first thought, charging down on her like that. But he was no pip-squeak either. She’d be no match for him by himself, much less with the gang of hard-faced clones around him. She swallowed—or started to, but she couldn’t find a drop of saliva.

  A hard grin split the leader’s reddish beard. “You lost?” His voice resembled his motorcycle’s rumble.

  “Out for a walk.” Her words came out a croak. “Headed back to the road. The way you—” cough—”came.” She coughed again and then took a quick sip from the canteen. “See?” She held up the water container. “I’m prepared.”

  He pointed at her headdress. “You’re far out.”

  Desi blinked. Far-out? This guy wasn’t old enough to be a seventies reject. Must be some kind of Sonny Barger hero emulation. Of course, the founder of the Hell’s Angels was decades older now, like the rest of the world, and probably didn’t talk that way anymore either. Not a good time to point that out, but … Okay, she was thinking goofy things to keep from panicking.

  “I’ll be on my way now Bye.” She stepped forward.

  The cycles
revved, and the leader drove in front of her—close enough that she could feel his breath. His muscular leg, clad in black jeans, brushed against hers. Desi shuddered.

  He grinned again. “I said you’re too far out to think about walking back. We can give you a lift to town … after the party Beer. Burgers. Weed. And we know how to treat a lady. Don’t we, boys?” He laughed, and his gang echoed.

  Desi stepped back. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t have time. I’m looking for someone … er, someone’s looking for me.” Please let that be true.

  “Get on.” He jerked his head toward the seat behind him.

  What could she say? She was willing to bet that no wasn’t in this guy’s vocabulary. She swept her eyes over the hedge of growling bikes. There had to be an opening. Some direction she could run.

  Get real, girl! Outrun motorcycles when she was struggling to walk a minute ago? Desi’s heart pounded. Yeah, but she didn’t have about a gallon of adrenaline going for her then.

  Her gaze locked with the massive biker to the right of his leader. If Red Beard’s muscles were hills, this guy’s were mountains. His dead stare seared her. He licked his lips.

  The adrenaline leaked out her feet. Her knees went weak, and she buckled forward.

  Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit—

  All went dark.

  “We’re closing in on the area,” Ortiz said into Tony’s headset. “We’ll start at a central point and work outward in concentric circles.” She handed him a pair of binoculars.

  “Sounds good to me.” His gaze devoured the broken and desolate terrain below. Scattered homesteads showed a faint shade of green among the brown. Maybe Desi made it to one of those. The encouraging self-talk fell flat in his mind. She would have called him.

  The chopper reached a place where Tony saw no more signs of habitation. They began to circle slow and low. Through the binoculars, Tony spotted plenty of life—lizards and snakes, scurrying rodents. Nothing resembling a person or even an inanimate package.

  Des, you’re out here. I feel you. Why can’t I find you?