Desert Vengeance

by Betty Webb

  Big Dude backed off. So did his pals.

  The fear in Inez’ eyes diminished but didn’t go away. “Who the hell are you?” she asked, jutting out her chin in a show of fierce. Living with a druggie teaches a girl that kind of skill.

  “Someone your mom hired because she’s worried about you.”

  “She needs to mind her own business. I’m of age now, and she can’t tell me what I can or can’t do. I’m living my own life.”

  “How’s that working out for you?”

  She turned away, but not before I could see her blush.

  “Look, Inez, your mother’s been around more than you realize, and because of that, she can spot trouble a mile away. Your boyfriend, Glen?”

  “Ex-boyfriend,” she muttered, still turned away.

  “My office ran a check on him and he’s been arrested four times on burglary charges.”

  “He was framed.”

  “Four times?” I slipped my handgun back into its pocket holster. “Let me make a suggestion. It’s just a suggestion, mind you, because you’re right, you’re an adult and neither I nor your mom can make you do anything you don’t want to do. If you don’t like what I have to offer, I’ll just drive away.”

  When she faced me, the fear had been replaced by a flash of hope. “What kind of offer you talking about?”

  “That you get in my Jeep and let me drop you off at your mom’s. Once you go inside, I’ll wait for a half hour, and if you decide for any reason that you don’t want to stay, I’ll drive you anywhere you want to go. Even back here.”

  She snuck a glance at Big Dude, still lurking under the depot’s overhang and eying her greedily. “You promise? Anywhere?”

  “Promise. If you have another druggie boyfriend in mind, I’ll take you to him, too.”

  She looked down at the ground and muttered something like, “…all a bunch of assholes.” Then she looked up and said, “Okay.”

  ***

  On the way to Yolanda’s house, Inez opened up. “I’m pregnant. That’s why I left. She’s such a prude she’d kill me if she ever found out.”

  I’d guessed about the pregnancy; so had Yolanda. “Pregnancy is a hard condition to hide, but nah, she’s not going to kill you. That’s against the law, and as you’ve noticed, your mom is very law-abiding these days.”

  After a few moments of silence, she said, “What do you mean, these days?”

  I gave her a smile. “I think you and your mom need to talk. You know, woman-to-woman. All about guys and stuff, starting with your dad.”

  “He’s dead.” She looked forlorn.

  “There’s ‘dead’ and there’s ‘dead.’ Talk to your mother, Inez. You’d be surprised how much you two have in common. And I happen to know she likes babies.”

  ***

  An hour later I entered the air-conditioned comfort of Desert Investigations.

  “How’d it go?” Jimmy asked, his face tense.

  “Mother and child reunion, just like the Simon and Garfunkel song. Everybody hugging, bawling, the whole bit. Girl’s gonna stay and they’re out shopping for baby clothes as we speak.”

  “That’s good news.” But the worried expression didn’t go away.

  “Why the long face, then, Almost Brother?”

  “We got a call while you were gone. From Nicole Beltran. The attorney.”

  My happy face disappeared. “Debbie’s been arrested.”

  He nodded. “Something about a problem with an alibi. According to Beltran, Ms. Margules might not have been where she said she was at the time of Norma Wycoff’s murder. There’s more, but you’d better call and get it directly from her. Beltran, I mean, since Ms. Margules can’t exactly get to a phone now, having already used her one-call privilege.”

  I took a deep breath. “Jimmy, those names you said you’d…”

  “Already on it. Getting them might take me a couple of days. Sealed records and all that.”

  Somehow I refrained from putting my head in my hands. “Two days is a long time when you’re sitting in a jail cell.”

  “Been there, done that, didn’t even get a lousy tee shirt.”

  When I returned Nicole’s call, she told me why Debbie’s alibi didn’t hold water, she hadn’t been where she’d said she’d been the night before or the morning of Norma Wycoff’s murder. No one had seen her the night of Brian Wycoff’s torture/murder, either. After voicing my disbelief, I told Nicole what I might be able to do.

  In response, she said, “Since I’m an officer of the court, I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that.”

  “Pretend away. With Debbie locked up, what’s going to happen to her B&B?”

  “I’m on vacation, and I’d planned to check into at one of those nice Sedona resorts after we’d finished our get-together at the Oasis, but hell, I might as well stay on and take care of the place for her.” She didn’t sound happy. “I’m not much of a cook, though. Maybe you…?”

  Despite the seriousness of the situation I had to chuckle. “I don’t think Debbie’s guests would enjoy instant ramen for breakfast. Can’t Jacklyn help?” Not that the gun-slinging biker chick had seemed any more domestic than myself.

  “She had to go back to Phoenix, remember? I called her with the update and she said she’ll try to get someone to cover her shifts for her, but didn’t sound optimistic. If I’m careful maybe I can keep from poisoning the guests.”

  On that note we ended the call.

  ***

  Jimmy and I had been working quietly together for a couple of hours when the office door opened and a monsoon of rage blew in. Frank Gunnerston, he with the “runaway” wife.

  “Where’s my wife!?” he thundered.

  “As far away from you as she can get,” I answered, opening the desk drawer where I kept my .38.

  Gunnerston was so worked up he didn’t notice. “I paid you good money to find her!”

  “Which we did.”

  “Then give me her address! I paid for it!”

  “As I have told you on several occasions, Mr. Gunnerston, the fact that she has taken out an Order of Protection against you mitigates your situation. You should have told us about that. But tell you what I’ll do. I’ll accept half the amount due and we’ll call it even.”

  “You’re not getting a dime, bitch. In fact, I’m gonna sue you for withholding of services!”

  Frank Gunnerston just missed being handsome. His height and big build made him resemble a linebacker, but there was a brutish cast to his deep-set eyes that his sloping forehead did nothing to relieve. From a distance, he still looked pretty good, though.

  But right now he was in my face.

  Jimmy stood, his hands clenched. “Back off, buddy.”

  Gunnerston sneered. “Fuck you, Indian.”

  Realizing what could happen next, in one swift move I plucked my .38 out of the drawer and cocked it. “Listen to the man.”

  A .38 revolver isn’t a big gun, but when it’s aimed at your balls, you pay attention. Not being totally stupid, Gunnerston raised his hands and stepped back.

  “I only want what I paid for.”

  “You’re not getting it, which is why I’m agreeing to settle for half the fee billed. Now go home and cool off.”

  “I meant it when I said I’ll sue!”

  “See you in court, Frank.”

  Jimmy didn’t sit back down until Gunnerston left. While he’s a gentle man, he can be a terror with his fists. Gunnerston didn’t know how lucky he was I’d pulled the gun and diffused the situation before Jimmy broke his jaw.

  I winked at Jimmy. “That was fun.”

  “For you, maybe.” His fists were still clenched. “Please don’t tell me you’re actually going to settle for fifty percent.”

  “Not anymore. Now I’m holding out for the full amount, and if he doesn�
��t cough it up, I’ll sue his ass and get the entire amount plus court costs.”

  I hate bullies.

  Of course, there were different types of bullies. Among them were the straight-out, hard-voiced kind, frequently paired with ever-ready fists; then there were the silken, whisper-soft people who got their way by use of manipulation. I don’t know which was worse: the brutes or the sneaks. But I try not to think about bullies too much. They gave me bad dreams.

  Such as the one I had that night…

  ***

  It was Sunday, and Abraham had called everyone together. We gathered in the meadow, near the fire ring, eager to hear his next teaching. Pure in his white robe, smiling gently, his voice was soft as an angel’s as he shared his latest Revelation.

  “God spoke to me last night.”

  “Glory be!” our friends shouted. So did my mother and I. My father remained silent.

  “God told me what we must do to remain in his favor.”

  “Glory be!” we shouted again.

  “What did First Abraham do?” he asked.

  Confused faces. When the Bibles had been taken away, only Abraham’s was left. Our Abraham. The only man who knew the true nature of God, the only man who could be trusted to truthfully interpret that confusing holy book. Unlike the rest of us, Abraham understood its every passage.

  Still the gentle smile. “First Abraham knew there could be no salvation without obeying God’s word. Every word! First Abraham walked that difficult path, and he found salvation. Therefore we—as people of God—must walk that path, no matter how difficult.”

  “Glory be!”

  My father frowned. He alone of all the other men had refused to obey Abraham’s last Revelation. “We need to get out of here,” he whispered to my mother.

  “He didn’t mean it,” she whispered back. “He’s just testing us.”

  As Abraham talked, my father continued, “You’re wrong, Helen. Yesterday he ordered Jonas to turn his wife over to him. You know how he’s been looking at Sylvia.”

  My mother laughed. “Sylvia’s beautiful. No wonder Abraham’s been looking.”

  “He did more than look last night.”

  “You need to stop listening to rumors.” Her smile was almost the same as Our Abraham’s.

  But that night Abraham sent for my mother.

  Chapter Seventeen

  By noon the next day, Jimmy announced he had broken into the old Maricopa County criminal court system and found the names of the children on the Wycoff witness list. Not only that, but he’d run a follow-up check on them and knew where they were now. The printout he handed me was almost three inches high. I would have been happier about this break, but I was too shaken up by last night’s dream—last night’s memory, actually.

  “You feeling okay, Lena? I thought you’d be thrilled.” He was looking worried again. I wished he would stop that.

  “I’m feeling hunky-dory.” I couldn’t get the memory of my mother’s tears out of my head. Abraham had sent for her.

  “If you want, I’ll do the interviews.”

  Jimmy’s offer gave me the first smile of the day. He hated what we called “street work,” preferring the insularity of his keyboard. “I can handle it, Almost Brother.”

  “Hmm.”

  “Really. I’m fine.”

  He stared at me for what seemed forever, then said, “Tell you what. You look like you need a break, so before you start working your way through that printout—and it’s an unhappy one, I assure you—why don’t you come out to the Rez with me for lunch? I barbequed a big fat chicken last evening and made this huge garbanzo bean salad. It’s more than I can eat, and it looks like you could use the protein. You’ve been living on nothing but ramen again, haven’t you?”

  “What’s wrong with ramen?”

  “Lack of nutrition, for one.” He stood up. “C’mon. The drive there and back won’t take much longer than getting served at one of the restaurants around here, and I can assure you the food’s every bit as good. Better, even.”

  “Barbeque, did you say?” Unhappy as I was, I hadn’t been able to eat breakfast, and my stomach was growling.

  “Braised with my famous secret sauce.”

  ***

  Fifteen minutes later, I was sitting in Jimmy’s trailer facing a plate of food that would have intimidated a professional wrestler. As a recording of R. Carlos Nakai’s flute songs played in the background, he served me half a chicken, a cilantro-spiced garbanzo bean salad with avocado chunks and red onion, and a whopping glass of iced tea. Yes, Jimmy was right. The food overshadowed the offerings of any Scottsdale restaurant.

  So did the ambiance. While others might love white linen and crystal chandeliers, I preferred Jimmy’s taste in décor. The carpet in his trailer matched the color of the mesas surrounding the Rez, and Pima-patterned pillows livened up a butternut leather sofa. He had built the coffee table himself out of saguaro cactus spines, studding them with errant pieces of turquoise. It wasn’t furniture, it was art.

  But the cabinetry in the kitchen area remained his masterpiece. The cupboards were covered with his paintings of the old Pima gods: Earth Doctor, the father-god who created the world; Elder Brother, who after defeating Earth Doctor in battle, had sent him into hiding in a labyrinth beneath the desert; and Spider Woman, who had tried in vain to make peace between the two.

  “You could make a small fortune selling stuff like this,” I said, gobbling down another forkful of salad.

  “Oh, I do okay.”

  No lie there. As a full partner in Desert Investigations, he could have bought himself a nice house in Scottsdale, but preferred living on the Rez near his large extended family. Although raised by a white adoptive family in Utah after the deaths of both his parents, he had found a deeper peace here among his tribal roots.

  I swallowed, picked up what was left of a drumstick and began to gnaw.

  Jimmy had been right about something else, too. Being out here on the Rez again diminished the horror of last night’s dream. During the drive over in his pickup, we’d seen a small herd of javelina trotting through the underbrush, along with another rare sigh: a female coyote loping a dry wash with two adolescent pups trailing behind. The sound of traffic had been replaced with the songs of cactus wrens and the whistles of red-tailed hawks. Plus, it was cooler out here. Well, that’s what happens when you don’t cover Nature with cement and asphalt.

  Drumstick finished, I asked, “What’s for dessert?”

  “Prickly pear ice cream. Made it myself.”

  I must have gained ten pounds on that meal, but I didn’t care. The ice cream, which he served with a cinnamon stick plunged through the double scoop, hit new heights of flavor, and when I finished, I heaved a happy sigh.

  “Feeling better now?” he asked, refusing my help in clearing up.

  “Yes, yes, and another yes. By the way, what’s with all that building material you have piled out in back?”

  He gave me a cagey smile. “I’ll show you when I’m done.”

  Jimmy was always building something, whether a small kiva to be used for communing with the gods, or a computer lab add-on to his Airstream. It would be interesting to see what was coming next.

  ***

  A half hour later, back at Desert Investigations, where I—fortified by good food and even better companionship—read my way through Jimmy’s printout. The thick pages detailed the tormented lives of the other foster children who, along with me, had been slated to testify against the Wycoffs. Out of the six other kids who had agreed to testify against Papa Brian, two were dead.

  Five years earlier Errol Bidley shot himself in the abandoned south Phoenix warehouse where he’d been squatting, and just last year Molly Arness had hung herself off the Mill Avenue Bridge. That left Tamara Clemson, who was currently serving a five-year sentence in Perryville Pri
son for multiple DUIs, one that had ended with the vehicular homicide of a four-year-old boy; Gayle Mitter, who’d moved to Los Angeles, where she’d been arrested twice for prostitution and once for the possession of illegal substances; Casey Starr—original name Fairfield—who now owned a company named Cyber-Sec; and Magda Pierce, nee Wallace, a flight attendant for Canyon Airlines.

  Out of the seven of us, only the last two had wound up with normal lives. Three, if I counted myself, but given my dreams, “normal” is not the best word to describe me.

  Not liking what I was about to do, I jumped into my Jeep and set off for the nearest Wycoff victim: Magda Wallace Pierce, at 203561 Bluebird Circle, in the Arcadia District. With luck, she would be home. If not, I would try again tomorrow.

  The Arcadia District is the least Phoenix of all Phoenix neighborhoods. With its older homes, lush green lawns and towering trees, it could have been any nice Midwestern suburb. Only every now and then did faux Territorial or Mediterranean architecture intrude upon the fantasy.

  As I neared Magda’s house, a coy Cape Cod knockoff, a woman wearing a flight attendant’s uniform drove by me in a white Honda Accord. I pulled over to the curb and waited, allowing her time to park her car in the garage and enter the house. Women—especially women with a history of being sexually attacked—don’t like strangers approaching them on the street, so I decided to give her ten minutes to do whatever she needed to do: put away groceries if she’d shopped on the way home; pee, if she’d been sipping bottled water all the way from Sky Harbor Airport.

  Time up, I exited the Jeep and rang her doorbell.

  After a long look through the door’s peephole, the door opened revealing a still-attractive brunette in her forties, wearing a sharply tailored blue jacket and slacks. She gave me a smile that didn’t reach her eyes.

  “Hello, there! What may I do for you?”

  Coffee? Tea? Peanuts?

  I had rehearsed my speech, such as it was, on the drive over, so I was as ready as a person could be for having the temerity to bring up the worst time in someone’s life. “Hello, back.” I smiled, too, but hoped mine look more sincere. “I’m a private investigator…” here I pulled out my ID, “and I’d like to talk to you about someone you once knew. It’s very important.”