by Olive Balla
“But where can the girl go? Seems she’d be pretty easy to spot.”
“You’re forgetting the box of hair color Mort found in her suitcase. That hamburger-joint woman told him her hair was brown. And eye color’s easy enough to hide behind sun shades.” Margo took a deep breath, a thoughtful look on her face. “She has no intention of getting caught or she’d have gone to the police by now. That means we still have time to find her.”
“She’s having to live rough. Either that or someone’s already grabbed her.” Cleg licked his lips. “A cute little kid like that, she could wind up in some Sultan’s harem.”
Margo whirled on her husband. “And there it is. You’ve probably spent hours slobbering all over yourself at the thought of having a harem.” She stepped toward Cleg, a look on her face he recognized all too well. “You’d better watch it, Flabbo, or you’ll have to start reading your comic books through your fly.”
Cleg cringed and a cold sweat popped out along his upper lip. He held his hands up in a pleading motion. “Now, now, Butter Cake, you know you’re the only one for me.”
As quickly as her temper had flared, Margo’s mood changed, and she grew thoughtful. “Mort said no one at either the Belen or Los Lunas train stations said they’d seen her.”
Like a lamb unexpectedly reprieved from slaughter, Cleg perked up. “Maybe she caught sight of him looking for her and skedaddled. Or maybe she waited for him to leave then went back.”
Ignoring her husband, Margo paced and muttered to herself, “Cross country, that’d be the smart way to go. And she’s plenty smart. But once she finds out her dear sister’s still alive, all hell’s going to break loose.” She tapped her cheek with an index finger. “If I were old man Ross, where would I hide a pile of money? Or maybe it’s gold bars and jewels. Digger said he Googled it, and there are millions of dollars in lost treasure in various places all over New Mexico.”
“How bad can it get…with the police, I mean?”
“You’re like a broken record. Stop blathering on about the police.”
“But we’ve not done anything illegal. Not yet, anyways.”
Margo glared at her spouse. “Keeping her away from her only surviving family member? Maybe not technically illegal, but some people might frown on that kind of behavior. And who knows what some vote-hungry elected official might decide to call it?”
Cleg gulped, the sound loud enough to be heard across the room.
Suddenly, Margo jerked her head up and smacked her forehead with the palm of her hand. She hurried to the lamp stand by the sofa, picked up her purse and retrieved the pickup keys. “Hustle, Tubby.” She tossed the keys at her spouse.
Never a quick study, Cleg blankly watched the keys’ flight as they hit his belly then bounced onto the floor. Wheezing, he bent to retrieve the projectiles. “Where’re we going, Peaches?”
“Since the kid still believes her sister’s dead, she’ll want money for a fancy funeral.”
“Aw, that’s nice. Don’t you think that’s nice?”
Margo shot a look of contempt at her spouse. “Focus, Big-Brains. It’s been right in front of us all along, she’ll have to go back to the farm to get some of the treasure for a funeral and headstone.” She strode toward the front door. “Move it or stay here and rot.”
Cleg hoisted himself out of his easy chair. Clutching the keys, he grabbed his oxygen tank and hurried after his wife.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
After spending a cold night trying to sleep under a pile of leaves and branches, Jillie dusted herself off as best she could and hurried to the just-opening train station in Los Lunas. Taking care not to look directly at the other passengers, she hunched her shoulders and hurried to the back of the car. Surprised when no one gave her more than a glance, she breathed a deep sigh of relief and tried to review her plans.
But her brain refused to stay focused. After a miserable night, the warm air in the train combined with the rhythmic clackety-clackety of its wheels lulled her to sleep. It was pure luck that she’d awakened as they pulled into the Belen station.
She forced herself to walk from the comfortable train into the cold morning air. At first, her teeth chattered. But the walk to the Elliotts’ warmed her a bit, and she reached the house at a little before six.
Surprised to see light shining through the downstairs windows so early in the morning, she crouched behind a thick juniper bush just as the front door was thrown open hard enough to knock a hole in the sheet rock behind it. As if chased by wolves, Margo dashed out of the house. With the bottom of her coat flapping, thin legs pumping, and feet pounding the driveway’s packed dirt, she headed for the pickup.
Jillie’s heartbeat shot sky high. Making herself as small as she could, she peered through the bush’s thick, scale-like fronds.
“Wait up, Jelly Bean.” Cleg lumbered out of the house and scrambled after his wife, his face a dark shade of purple.
Screeching threats over her shoulder, Margo hopped into the passenger’s seat of their pickup as Cleg struggled to hoist himself into the driver’s seat.
Dirt jetted from behind spinning wheels. Dust rose into a cloud, and pebbles tinked against metal as the pickup peeled down the drive.
The whole time Jillie lived there, she’d never seen Margo or Cleg move so fast or rise so early. But the good news was their absence meant she could do a thorough search of the house and grounds and re-stock her food stores.
When the sounds of the pickup’s engine grew distant, Jillie hurried toward the house’s still-open front door. Beginning downstairs, she worked her way through the kitchen, the dining room, the pantry, and the living room. She started upstairs, the familiar feelings of nausea creeping up her throat at the thought of going into her old room—Digger’s room, guarded by Digger’s ashes.
After one glance at the chest of drawers to ensure a second urn hadn’t been added, she hurried across the hall to Cleg and Margo’s room. With shaking hands, she pushed their door open.
The air that greeted her made the rest of the house seem like a meadow of blooming wildflowers. Trying not to gag, Jillie stepped into the room, quickly scanned it, then hustled out.
“Yay,” she murmured. “I’m glad you’re not here yet, Beth. But don’t worry, I won’t go anywhere without you.”
She re-positioned her backpack and headed toward the well-stocked pantry. Cans of little sausages, crackers, canned cheese, peanut butter crackers and other snacks called to her, and her stomach growled.
Although her empty stomach told her to take everything edible she could get her hands on, it seemed wise not to tip Margo off that she’d been there. She dropped her selected items into her backpack and headed for the basement, where she spent so many miserable hours doing laundry.
While waiting for the laundry to wash and dry, she’d scouted every inch of the place. Even before she ran away, she’d determined the basement would be a handy means of gaining access to the house.
Once down the creaky stairs, she headed straight for one of the two windows that opened out onto the backyard. Until she got Beth’s ashes home, she’d most likely be in and out of the house regularly, and an unlocked window in the basement seemed the perfect solution, especially since not once the whole time she’d lived there had Margo or Cleg come downstairs.
She dragged a short step ladder underneath the selected window and climbed high enough to reach the clasp. After several tugs, the corroded mechanism gave way, and she pushed the window open. She clenched her teeth when the hinges squealed loud enough to be heard in the next county then stepped down from the ladder and hurried to a metal shelf against one wall.
Ancient, rusted cans of different sizes, their paper labels splotched with gray and white paint drips, lay scattered among cans of engine oil and half-empty bottles. Relieved to find the WD-40 where she remembered, Jillie grabbed the can of lubricant and returned to the window.
After spraying a thick coating on every moving part, she repeatedly opened and
closed the window until it made no sound. Then she returned the can to its spot on the shelf.
With a sense that time was against her, she hurried upstairs to the front door. Cautiously, she poked her head far enough through the door to scan for telltale plumes of approaching dust. Relieved to see the coast was clear, she headed to the shed.
But the nearer she drew to the tiny building, the more her shoulders sagged. With its rotting roof and boarded-up door window, the place would have become home to all sorts of creatures.
The wooden door stood slightly ajar, its green paint peeling like old scabs. An open lock hung from a metal u-bolt attached to the jamb.
Surprised to find how easily and soundlessly the door opened, Jillie stepped inside. She stood still, waiting for her eyes to get used to the darkness.
Odors of rotted wood and who-knew-how-many-generations of mice mingled with the chemical smells of bug spray and fertilizer. Metal implements, most of which were so rusted as to be unusable, had been carelessly thrown on the floor. Several empty burlap bags lay strewn about.
A large metal toolbox had been shoved against one wall, its chrome exterior splotched with rust. Of the kind commonly seen in the backs of pickup trucks across New Mexico, the box stood about two feet high and was long enough to fit snugly behind a pickup’s cab.
An oily patch described a semi-circle in the dirt at one end of the box, like something inside had leaked out. Countless footprints in the dust meant someone had been walking around, but no telling when.
Jillie sat on the toolbox and opened her bag of food. Commanding herself to eat exactly one third, she returned the rest to her backpack.
The early morning air grew cooler, it’s faintly metallic smell hinting at the possibility of snow. The burlap sacks caught her eye.
She gathered the bags into a pile, coughing at the plume of disturbed dust. Lumpy bags couldn’t be called the fanciest mattress, but at least they’d keep her off the floor.
Satisfied with her improvised sleeping arrangement, Jillie sat on the toolbox and pulled her water bottle from her backpack. She had just taken a sip when the crunch of tires on gravel signaled someone’s arrival.
Jillie tiptoed to the door and peered through a tiny gap between the door and its frame as Cleg’s pickup pulled up the drive. Pickup doors opened then slammed, punctuated by the sound of Margo’s angry voice.
“How could you forget to bring a shovel, Butt-breath.”
“You didn’t tell me—”
“Am I supposed to think of everything? Go on, go get the shovel.”
Jillie’s stomach flipped and she barely breathed.
“I’m sorry, Sugar Lips,” Cleg whined. “The shovel’s been busted for years. I’ve kept meaning to get another one, but I haven’t—”
“We’ll stop and buy one on the way. That’s coming out of your allowance, by the way. And we’re going to need the flashlight.”
Cleg ambled toward the house while Margo stood by the truck mumbling to herself. When her husband hadn’t returned within a few minutes, she let fly a curse word and strode into the house.
Her teeth chattering and toes numb from the cold, Jillie brought her coat up around her chin and hugged Mickey tightly against her chest. Had she made a mistake leaving Dix and Lil’s? Maybe Dix would have gotten Beth’s ashes for her. But then again, maybe Lil would have called the police on her.
Jillie wasn’t sure of what happened to runaways who were found, but she was pretty sure getting caught would keep her from seeing to Beth’s ashes.
Reassuring herself she’d made the right decision, she nestled into the burlap bags and closed her eyes. With Mickey’s thick fur warming her neck, she fell asleep.
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Having left a message for his boss explaining his need to take a day off, David climbed into his car and headed for the hospital in Albuquerque where Beth Ross was recuperating. He’d considered calling rather than taking the time to make the twenty-minute trip, but he needed to follow up on his aunt Lil’s suggestion that Aunt Dix might have driven there hoping to find the little girl.
Beyond that, he needed to question the older sister Beth. It’d been his experience that people often remembered or said things face-to-face they didn’t think of on the phone. And if he was lucky, his aunt Dix had figured the same thing.
That Aunt Dix hadn’t gone home the night before wasn’t as frightening as the fact that she’d not called her sister. To David’s knowledge, the two of them had never let more than a day pass without at least touching base. And the highway between Los Lunas and Interstate Twenty-Five was infamous as a dangerous road anytime, let alone at night. Sadly, a T-shirt imprinted with I survived Highway 47 was gaining in popularity among the locals.
Forcing himself to drive slowly, David scanned both sides of the road for skid marks that would indicate a vehicle out of control.
As the miles crept past, he cursed himself for ignoring the mental klaxon of his subconscious mind trying to get his attention the night before. He’d known something was wrong during dinner, dammit. He should have pressed his aunts until they came clean, but he’d been too selfish, too focused on his own discomfort.
A detective of six years, he’d gone into law enforcement with lofty ideals and a desire to make a difference in the world. While he’d committed his life to protect those who couldn’t protect themselves, he’d had no idea what that commitment would cost him psychologically, emotionally, and even spiritually.
Over time, his proximity to the horrors humans visited on each other had re-shaped the filter through which he saw life, making him jaded and suspicious. He’d been amazed to find that even as perpetrators gave full reign to their selfishness and absolute lack of conscience, they rationalized their behavior, no matter how twisted. The one homicidal maniac he’d helped apprehend had tried to convince a jury he only killed the ones who asked for it.
But his twin aunts had always seemed disconnected from the world in which he worked. While their style of dealing with each other messed with his mind, they’d been his safe-haven in a world of chaos. He’d taken them for granted, assumed they’d live forever. Even as he watched them age and the realization dawned that he’d need to be ready to care for them at some point, he’d assumed that day was still far off.
David’s breath caught as his headlights picked up black skid marks that ran off the highway toward the elm tree-choked ditch at its side. His mind flashing to scenes of horrific car crashes he’d witnessed, he pulled onto the shoulder. After jamming his gearshift into park, he pulled a flashlight from his glove compartment, jumped from his vehicle, and headed toward the ditch.
Chapter Thirty
When Dix’s headlights picked up the Albuquerque city limit sign, it was as if two dangling wires in her brain suddenly connected and fired up a previously unconsidered possibility. Jillie hadn’t shown the foggiest understanding of either the length of time or the process involved in having a body autopsied then released to the family for funeral arrangements. In fact, she’d not only been convinced the Elliotts were going to have Beth cremated soon, she was certain that Margo woman would take the ashes to her house.
While it was possible Jillie would make her way back to the Ross farm to hide out and be close to her parents, Dix had never seen anyone more determined to finish a job. She’d not go home without her sister’s ashes.
Jillie had said the Elliotts lived south of Belen, just off the road to Mountainair. It’d mean hours of walking for a child, but only an hour or so if she took the train. And Dix could be there within thirty minutes.
She’d find Jillie. Then, by George, she’d take that child to her sister.
Hopefully, none of the Elliott tribe would try to interfere. Although non-violent by nature as well as ideology, Dix had four decades earlier learned a few self-protective moves while an intern at the state mental hospital. And in her subsequent vocation as a marriage and family therapist, she’d had more than one occasion to stare down an abu
sive client.
Confidence in her ability to deflect an attack while doing no harm to the attacker flooded Dix’s sternum. She whipped her car onto the next exit, took the overpass, turned left again, then merged onto Interstate I-25 south.
Senior citizen she may be, but she was a long way from useless.
Chapter Thirty-One
Relief poured over David like a Tahitian waterfall as he inspected the skid marks heading off the road. No wrecked vehicle in the ditch meant the marks could have been made days ago. He unclenched his teeth, and the pain in his jaws subsided.
That Aunt Dix hadn’t called him for help in finding the little girl meant his conversation during dinner had frightened her. And he couldn’t blame her for not trusting him after the dire warnings he’d given.
It was possible she’d wanted to call but had been unable to find a phone in lieu of the one she left at home. But it was also possible she’d gotten herself into a situation where she was prevented from calling. And David had been in law enforcement too long to off-handedly dismiss the latter.
He took a deep breath through his nose and blew it out through his mouth. For the next several minutes, he reviewed his conversation with his aunt Lil.
If the Ross girl thought her sister was dead and going to be autopsied then cremated, where would she go? Did she have friends who’d pick her up and give her a place to stay? Or were there other relatives she’d call for help? Did the family own any property other than the farm, someplace where she could hide out?
David pounded his hand on the steering wheel and tried to put himself inside his aunt Dix’s brain. After several attempts, he finally admitted that he had no clue. In the absence of more information, he could drive around in endless circles, chasing his own tail.
His lips tight, he jammed the gearshift into drive, whipped the car back onto the highway, and sped toward the hospital.
Chapter Thirty-Two