A Light in the Desert

by Anne Montgomery

  “I’m a little tired, Jason. Can we rest for a few minutes?”

  “Sure.” Ramm motioned toward a soft, shaded spot beneath a palo verde tree, delicate, yellow-green leaves masking thorns running the length of every branch. He dropped to the ground cross-legged and held out his hand to help her. Dog returned, breathing heavily, sans rabbit, and nudged between them. A lizard skittered through the sand leaving minute markings that resembled cuneiform.

  Ramm pointed to a blue butterfly—tiny wings glimmering like foil—perched on a golden wildflower that had forced its way through a miniscule crack in a flat piece of mottled rhyolite. A refreshing breeze, the first cool hint following the doggedly hot summer months, pushed at the palo verde, and created an undulating pattern on the sand.

  Kelly broke the quiet between them. “What happened after you ran out of the church?”

  Ramm hesitated. A calm had come over him. There was peace here with her. A fragile vacuity. As if his past deeds had drained out of him. He wanted to stay very still in the hope the horrors would not return.

  Kelly turned her face up to him.

  He stared back. “After the church? Things got very strange.”

  Ramm bolted into the street. Harsh Jerusalem sunlight startled him after the musty darkness of the church. He ran without thinking, turned down the narrow alleys. Then, out of breath, he stood beneath a long stone archway. At the end of the tunnel, shielded from the bright daylight, he pressed his forehead to the cool, pitted stone. He felt like he was disappearing—not his physical being, but the part that made him who he was. He struggled to hold on, but questions kept sounding. What had he done to benefit anyone? What positive contribution had he made? Was he someone the world really needed?

  Approaching voices alarmed him, but Ramm was unable to turn from the coolness of the wall. He recognized many of the Hebrew words; enough to sense the men were having an enthusiastic argument on a miniscule point in the Torah.

  They were speaking softly now, to him. Could they help in some way? Gently, they turned him from the stone. He faced two bearded, black-frocked Hasidim, polite concern in their dark eyes.

  Ramm was touched by their compassion, but then he recognized the face. His senses snapped back, he recalled following the man to the cafe and remembered the plan.

  Slowly, surreptitiously, Ramm reached for the concealed blade. He would have to kill them quickly.

  The Hasidim, one on each side, helped him walk through the archway. His mind raced. Ramm calculated the act and his avenue of escape. Then he sensed a presence behind him, but saw no one. Sunlight loomed ahead. Ramm released his grip on the knife and ripped his arms from the men, toppling one onto the uneven cobblestones. He stood rooted to the ground, unable to run.

  The target faced him, showing no fear. “Let me help you, sir,” the old man said in heavily accented English. He edged closer to Ramm, arms extended, palms up.

  Two Israeli soldiers approached, Uzi submachine guns slung loosely across their backs.

  “Come. You need to rest,” the target insisted. “We will help you.” He nodded toward the soldiers, who had been talking and laughing when they entered the archway, but who were now approaching quietly.

  The target reached out and took Ramm’s hand in a grasp that was cool and surprisingly strong for one so old. Then Ramm felt the warmth flowing into him again. It ran like thick honey up his arm. He was tempted to pull away, but soon the sensation moved into his shoulder, up his neck, down into his chest. The warmth filled him, and smothered the thickly layered pain that had burned within him for so long.

  In Ramm’s telling of the story, he did not refer to the man as his target, had intentionally left out any mention of his real purpose in Jerusalem.

  “Why were you afraid of the old man?” Kelly carefully removed a small ball of cholla needles from Dog’s dense fur.

  “I’m not exactly sure.”

  “Maybe you were sick. Sometimes I get the flu, and it makes me feel really bad, and I get frightened. And if I’m really sick, sometimes I get confused.”

  “Yeah. And that’s exactly what the police thought.”

  “We saw him a few moments ago at the altar,” one of the Israeli police officers said to the old Hasid who was still holding Ramm by the hand. “He was up there with Mary.”

  “Ah, it is strange how this happens.” The man nodded. He looked at Ramm, who was no longer struggling to get away, who now had an otherworldly expression of complete serenity.

  “We will send him where we send all the others,” the police officer said. “He’ll be fine in a few weeks.”

  Ramm, gently guided by the policemen, was led out of the stone archway into the brilliant light of the Jerusalem afternoon. The old man and his friend parted ways with them when the road intersected a narrow alleyway.

  “Be well,” the target called. His brown eyes met Ramm’s before he turned the corner and disappeared.

  A short time later, Ramm was handed over to a soft-spoken woman in a complex that had once been an Arab village. The stone houses of Kfar Shaul were surrounded by a wall that also enclosed sprawling gardens and hundreds of fruit trees. Crabapple, pomegranate, and fig joined a riotous array of flowers perfuming the air. Outside the wall, and beyond the twisting garden pathways of what was probably the most exotic psychiatric hospital in the world, was a drab, industrialized section of Jerusalem.

  Ramm was escorted to an impeccably clean, sunny room with white wooden shutters on the windows. A nubby white spread covered the bed. An oil painting of daffodils and Queen Anne’s lace hung over a bureau. A different woman appeared with two large white towels and a washcloth.

  “Sir, I’ve drawn a warm bath for you,” she said in accented English. “Please take as long as you’d like. There are fresh, clean clothes you can change into. You can leave what you’re wearing on the bed. We will lock up your valuables and have your clothes washed. And, when you’re ready, the doctor will see you.”

  The woman, an Arab with beautiful dark hair and almond-colored skin, smiled and left him alone in the room.

  Ramm stepped into the sunlight that streamed through the window. He could see the gardens below and the colorless, utilitarian warehouses beyond the walls. He opened the shutters and reached to the sill, wanting to lift the window, so he could smell the perfumed air he’d noticed when he arrived. It was bolted shut.

  Sitting on the bed, Ramm slowly removed his clothes. When he was naked, he placed his knife and the soft leather belt bearing his money and passports on top of the pile. Then he rose, walked into the bathroom, and eased himself into the steaming bath.

  Two hours later, Ramm was escorted to a different room.

  “I am Dr. Yair Bar El. Who are you?” The doctor waited for an answer.

  Ramm turned to him. “Don’t you know who I am?” he said softly.

  Bar El smiled. “I think you should tell me.”

  Ramm found it difficult to speak. A small part of him fought what was happening. He walked to the window in the comfortable, well-appointed room that was Bar El’s office.

  “It’s beautiful here. Peaceful.” Something deep within him noted that the first-floor room did not have the windows bolted shut.

  Bar El observed the man before him, then spoke in a calm measured tone. “Normally, my patients come in with their identities established: the real ones and the ones their psychosis has imposed upon them. But you are traveling with numerous sets of identification papers, and no friends or relatives, concerned about the nature of your strange behavior, have come for you. There are also other issues: the matter of the knife and the large amount of cash you are carrying, money in large denominations and various types of international currency.”

  Ramm stared out the window and did not respond.

  “If you don’t wish to tell me your name or anything about yourself, then you leave me no choice but to talk about myself.” The doctor settled into one of a pair of brown leather, wingback chairs. “I was born in Buenos
Aires. Since 1982, I have specialized in treating people who are suffering as you are now.”

  Ramm turned to face Bar El. “What makes you think I’m suffering?”

  The doctor smiled. “You have an affliction we call the Jerusalem Syndrome.”

  When Ramm didn’t respond, Bar El continued. “We get almost forty cases a year. Most of them come from North America. The vast majority are fundamentalist Protestants. By your accent, you are American. Are you Pentecostal, as well? Perhaps you were traveling with a group from somewhere in the United States?”

  Ramm smiled sadly, then suddenly had a moment of complete clarity. “Doctor, I need to leave here. I have a job to finish.”

  “What type of job?”

  Images attacked him. Ramm saw his hands wrench a young Vietcong’s neck, cracking the vertebrae in one quick jerk. Through the sight of an automatic rifle, he watched blood sprout from the forehead of a Nicaraguan rebel leader. Wielding a knife, he sliced across a beautiful woman’s pale throat, her eyes staring in disbelief as he dropped her twitching body into the dark river below.

  A spasm wrenched the visions away. Ramm gazed into the garden. “I’m here to save mankind. When may I leave?”

  Two days later, Ramm met with Bar El again.

  “The medication you’ve been taking is called Haloperidol,” the doctor explained. “It’s an antipsychotic drug and, given time, it will cure you completely. Now, do you think you’re ready to tell me who you are? Someone is probably worried that they haven’t heard from you. We do have the police checking all missing person’s reports.”

  Fear surged through Ramm.

  When Bar El received no answer, he placed his pad and pen on the desk. “Let’s go for a walk. I’d like you to meet some of the others who are staying with us.”

  Ramm accompanied Bar El on the path that wound among the limestone buildings, through scented gardens, past burbling fountains that played gentle, soothing music. They saw a woman grieving, her face drawn in sadness. Bar El stopped to speak with her.

  Ramm recognized Mary from the church, though she seemed to have no memory of their meeting.

  “She says she’s the Virgin Mary,” Bar El explained.

  A man appeared, blond, wild-eyed, hands on his hips as he talked to no one. “Plead my cause, O Lord, with those who strive with me! Fight against those who fight against me!”

  Bar El patted the man on the shoulder, but he continued his recitation of Psalm 35, ignoring the doctor.

  “King David.” Bar El stared at Ramm.

  As they made their way through the gardens of Kfar Shaul, Ramm was introduced to three Marys, a King David, two Gods, one man who claimed to be Satan, and three Messiahs, all of whom believed they were Jesus Christ come to save the world.

  34

  “COOPER!” The police radio on the Blazer’s dash blared.

  “Buddy, what’s up?”

  “Get back out to the wreck site. The FBI folks have some information that might help you with the kidnapping. Check in with a guy named Pat Sanders.”

  “Thanks, will do.”

  Kate watched the headstones of the Pioneer Cemetery slide by. “I still can’t figure out how they got away with keeping the girl out of school all these years.”

  “Kids are always slipping through the cracks. And it’s not just in rural places like this.” Cooper waved his hand. “I saw plenty of children, some homeless, some not, who never got an education or medical care right in the middle of Phoenix. Understaffing is rampant at Child Protective Services. Those people have caseloads way over the national average, and kids get lost all the time.”

  “I guess you’re right. And when you’re dealing with a parent who doesn’t want the kid to go to school—or even go out in public—what are you going to do?”

  “And let’s remember, here in Arizona, which we sometimes refer to as the Mississippi of the West, people are always trying to eliminate taxes. That makes our social services situation even worse.” Cooper drove north past the rows of withered palms.

  “What’s with the trees?” Kate gestured toward the pitiful looking plants.

  “Those have been here for years. You’d think a good monsoon wind would have blown them down by now. They were going to plant them around the Hotel Modesti. That’s the dilapidated building we just passed. It’s where the hot springs used to be. Quite famous in its day.”

  “You mean people came out here to take the waters? I think that’s the old expression.”

  The last of the desiccated palms disappeared from view.

  “Yep, there was a health resort right here. The water was supposedly good for everything from skin problems to stomach ailments. They even had a masseur who worked on the guests.”

  “Just being away from the usual grind probably made them feel better,” Kate said. “And a massage. That can never hurt.”

  “At your service, anytime.” Cooper grinned.

  Kate rolled her eyes. “You know what I mean. There’s nothing sexual about a good massage.”

  “Of course, there isn’t.” Cooper feigned hurt. “You totally misunderstood.”

  “Right. Anyway, what happened to the springs?”

  “They dried up.” He turned onto Hyder Road. “Though it might be hard to believe looking at it now, this area used to be one of the most fertile valleys in the state. But too much crop irrigation, grazing livestock, and the building of the Coolidge and Roosevelt dams destroyed the water table. And when the springs disappeared, people stopped coming.”

  Kate examined the passing landscape: scraggly saguaros, twisted stumps of long-dead trees, and rangy mesquite and creosote scattered among the mounds of dark basalt. It was hard to believe this had once been a verdant paradise.

  The Blazer pulled to a stop just outside the white FBI tent. Cooper and Kate got out and walked inside. A meeting was in progress.

  “All right. Stay on it, everybody. Something’s gotta break.” The man in front of the group, Pat Sanders, turned to some papers on a table before him.

  The agents rose from their seats and moved toward the door. After they were gone, Cooper and Kate approached.

  “Agent Sanders. I’m Deputy Cooper. This is Kate Butler. I was told you have some information on the kidnapping that might be useful to our investigation.”

  “Cooper? Yea. Right. I do.” He walked to a table that was covered with a topographical map of the area. He picked up a notebook. “We interviewed just about everyone on the train. Of course, initially, we didn’t know anyone was missing. But we contacted the passengers and crew again, and found some people you might want to talk to.”

  “Who?” Kate asked.

  Cooper shot her a warning glance.

  Sanders smiled at Kate, not the least bit offended by her impatience. Had he realized she was a reporter, he might have thought differently. “Let’s sit. Coffee?”

  When the three of them gripped Styrofoam cups, sipping hot coffee in various shades and sweetness, Sanders continued. “Several people recall seeing a tall man. We don’t think he was a passenger. They told us he came out of the desert and climbed onto the train. Most people were frightened and trying to get off. That’s why they remember him. They said he appeared to be looking for something.”

  “Or someone,” Cooper said.

  “He deliberately moved past people who were asking for help. He was seen in several cars, always methodically searching. A nurse, Gretchen Howell, out of Albuquerque, described him as Caucasian, tall, thin but muscular. She thinks his eyes were light blue, but it was dark.”

  “Hair?” Kate asked.

  “Sandy blond. No facial hair,” Sanders answered.

  “Do you think he might have something to do with the wreck?” Cooper asked.

  “Don’t know about that,” the FBI man said. “But we’ve eliminated the only other suspects we found. Just two guys out here drinking around a campfire when it happened. They came over to check it out, but panicked and ran. Thought this might be a crime s
cene. One’s on parole. Made him nervous. We caught up with them later. They’re clean.”

  “So that leaves us with the tall man.” Cooper tapped his finger on the table. “Is there any way to tie him to Kelly Garcia?”

  “Glad you asked.” Sanders consulted his note pad. “Here it is. Kid out of Tucson. Jimmy Collins. Student. University of Arizona. Said he saw the man and helped him get an injured girl out of one of the railcars that was on its side in the wash. He thought the girl looked Hispanic. He wasn’t entirely sure. But he said she was very pregnant.”

  “Bingo.” Cooper looked at Kate.

  “Collins told us the girl was unconscious and that the guy ran off with her cradled in his arms.”

  35

  A CRASHING SOUND startled Kate and Cooper, drawing their attention to the FBI tent’s opening, and abruptly ended the conversation. Only Sanders didn’t seem surprised.

  “What was that?” Kate asked.

  “Come on,” the FBI agent said. “I’ll show you.”

  The huge crane stuck high into the cloudless desert sky, cables swinging empty in the cool breeze.

  “One down. Three to go.” Sanders pointed at the railroad car that had just been positioned on the track.

  They watched as a dozen agents streamed into the wash to scan the area below where the car had rested just moments before. Working their way through the area, they sifted through debris; tagging and bagging anything they found that might prove to be evidence.

  As Cooper, Kate, and Sanders observed from the hillside, another man approached holding a manila envelope.

  “Thanks.” Sanders dismissed the agent and opened the package.

  Cooper and Kate peeked over and saw the words Operation Splitrail on top of the first page. As Sanders perused the information, Cooper and Kate observed the workers as they hooked one of the prostrate cars to the crane’s cables.

  Sanders sighed audibly.

  “Anything new?” Cooper kept his eyes on the activity in the wash.