A Light in the Desert

by Anne Montgomery

  “Not a whole lot. We’ve had almost a hundred agents scouring every inch of land within several miles of here, looking for anything that might give us a clue as to who did this. But we haven’t come up with a single footprint, tire track, soda can, or anything that might have been left behind by the creep. Or creeps, as the case may be.”

  Kate examined the investigation below, some agents on their hands and knees as they inched across the sand. “Is that unusual?”

  “It is. Militia types are not usually real meticulous,” Sanders explained. “On top of that, they typically want credit for their actions.”

  “You’re convinced this is a militia crime? Some kind of domestic terrorism?” Cooper asked.

  “The letter certainly points that way. Though I’ve never heard of the Sons of Gestapo.”

  “Neither have I.” Cooper turned to Sanders. “Do you think we could get a copy of the letter, to see if we can come up with a local connection?”

  “Sure. I’ll have one copied for you. You’re more familiar with the people out here. You’d be doing us a favor. By the way, we’re expecting some help from our linguistics specialists in Washington. They’re studying the grammar, syntax, spelling, vocabulary. That kind of thing. They should be able to tell us something about the writer’s personality, beliefs, and background by studying the words that were used.”

  “It’s the motive I’m curious about,” Kate said as the crane slowly righted one of the fallen railcars. “I mean, why do this? Why derail a train? Why this train? Why here?”

  Cooper answered. “Well, there’s no one around here for long stretches of time. That’s a plus, I guess, if you’re planning a derailment.”

  “And did the girl have something to do with it? Where was she going eight-months pregnant? Maybe there’s a disgruntled lover involved.” Kate shook her head.

  Cooper watched the silver crane lift a car slowly into the air. “Eduardo Garcia fathered the child. That’s the stepfather. Obviously, the mother, Miranda, was upset about it. But she was on the train, too.”

  “Something isn’t right here,” Sanders said. “But one thing is certain. The guy who planned this knew exactly what he was doing. He had the right equipment, and knew exactly what hardware to remove and where. Even how to reconnect the signal wires.”

  “A disgruntled railroad employee?” Kate asked.

  “Wouldn’t surprise me in the least,” Saunders said. “We’re running a check on current and former Southern Pacific employees right now. Anyone who’s been fired or quit in the last five years.”

  “Anyone like that living out here, Coop?”

  The railcar dangled silently, looking like a toy at the end of a child’s pull rope.

  “Nope. Can’t think of anyone offhand. By the way, have you had much action on the toll-free number?” Cooper asked Sanders.

  “Hardly any. We established the hot line as soon as the news broke. In the first twenty-four hours, we only got a hundred and thirty calls. And remember, about ninety-nine percent of them are bogus.”

  “Seems like a lot of calls to me,” Cooper said.

  “During the same period after the Oklahoma City bombing, we got about three thousand.”

  “I see your point. Then again, that was a city. This is …”

  “Nowhere,” Sanders said. “No offense.”

  “None taken. We’ll check around with the locals. See what we can find.”

  “I’d appreciate that,” Sanders said. “Come on. I’ll get you a copy of the letter.”

  Kate opted to wait and observe the action in the wash. She watched as the railcar dropped solidly onto the track, saw the workers give the thumbs up to the crane operator. She wished she could go down and get her hands dirty with the agents sifting through the debris, searching for clues.

  Cooper jogged back. “Look at that,” he said, checking his watch. “Almost quitting time.”

  She had successfully stalled Cooper about dinner. But her time was up. Kate didn’t want to go home. There was nothing there. Even Freddy, her beloved mongrel put down six months earlier at fourteen, was gone.

  “You cooking?” she asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  36

  A CHILLED BREEZE WASHED over Kelly. She hugged herself. The cotton dress was thin and in need of washing.

  “You’re cold.” Ramm rose from his seat beneath the palo verde, reached down, grasped her small hand, and helped Kelly to her feet. They began the short hike back to the cabin.

  “So, were you ill?” Kelly asked as they negotiated the dirt path.

  “I suppose Dr. Bar El would say so.” He looked away and saw a bank of dark clouds building on the horizon.

  “Are you sick now?”

  Ramm rubbed one hand across the light-colored stubble that covered his jaw. “I’m not sure.”

  They continued the walk to the cabin in silence.

  Later that evening, Kelly reclined on the couch dressed in a maroon and gold Arizona State University sweatshirt and a matching pair of pants. The outfit was too large for her, so she had rolled the waist over several times and cuffed the legs. Though the clothes appeared ungainly, they were warm, comfortable, and clean.

  Ramm entered the room with a tray bearing a pot of hot tea, two cups, and a plate of homemade chocolate chip cookies direct from the freezer.

  “These would be very good with ice cream,” Kelly said, after biting into one of the cookies. “My favorite is mint chocolate chip.”

  “Sorry, no ice cream. But I’ll see what I can do. First, though, we need to get you some clothes.” Ramm eyed her ensemble.

  “My suitcase was on the train. All my things were in it. Do you think I might get it back?” Her father’s Silver Star had been packed into the front zipper pocket.

  “We’ll see if we can find it.”

  Kelly sipped her tea. Her eyes kept wandering to the sprightly creature that danced across the front of the sweatshirt. “Who is this?” She pointed at the happy looking demon.

  Ramm smiled. “That’s Sparky, the Arizona State Sun Devil. He’s the university’s mascot.”

  “A mascot?”

  “A symbol. One that belongs to a school. When people see the Sun Devil, it makes them think of Arizona State. A mascot is usually part of the school’s sports program.”

  Kelly appeared to mull this information over. She reached for another cookie.

  “Does this mascot, this Sun Devil, do anything?”

  “Well, there’s a man who gets dressed in a red-colored costume with horns and a tail and a pitchfork. He runs around at games, making people laugh, and getting the fans to cheer for their team. But, generally, mascots are just symbols.”

  Kelly nodded her head. “Like Jesus.”

  “What do you mean?” Ramm asked, taken aback by her response.

  “Jesus is the symbol of the Catholic Church. It bothered me when I first saw him at Mass. He looked so sad hanging on the cross. All those thorns sticking in his head. My papa said he was the symbol of the church.”

  Ramm didn’t know how to respond.

  “And before Jesus died, he went around doing things to make people happy. Like healing the sick. Papa told me he even brought dead people back to life.” Kelly sat back, sipping her tea, apparently content with her correlation.

  “I see what you mean.” Ramm scratched his head. How might the Pope react to such a statement? The leader of the Catholic Church had once spoken at Sun Devil Stadium, but only after a heated debate about the university’s mascot. Finally, it was agreed that the cartoon devil—whose visage appeared on the stadium turf and the scoreboard—would be covered so as not to offend the pontiff and his party.

  “Now, tell me about a university.” Kelly poured herself another cup of tea from the blue and white dragon pot.

  “It’s a school. A very large school with lots of students.”

  “I’ve never been to any school.”

  For the first time since meeting Kelly, Ramm detected a h
int of self-pity in her voice. “I don’t see any reason why you couldn’t go to school. Maybe, after the baby is born, we can work something out.”

  She looked at him. “Does that mean I will be staying here with you?”

  The question hung between them. Ramm felt a sudden surge of guilt. Elect Sun must certainly be frantic with worry. How could he treat her this way after the kindness she had shown him? Miranda might even be worried about the girl, though he doubted it. Why wasn’t he willing to let the girl go?

  “I don’t know what we should do,” he said.

  “I don’t either.”

  Kelly slept in the giant sweat suit. Ramm pulled the quilt over her bulging belly and tucked her into his bed. When was she due? He promised himself he would contact the Children first thing in the morning. Not only to assuage his guilt over causing them to worry, but also to have Elect Peter available to help the girl through the birth, in case there was no time to get her to a medical facility.

  Carrying sheets, a pillow, and a star-pattern quilt, he left to make his bed on the couch.

  “Jason.” Kelly called as he was closing the door. “How long were you in that hospital in Jerusalem?”

  “Only about five days.” He answered without looking at her.

  “Good.” She patted the side of the bed, giving Dog permission to join her. The animal hopped up, turned around twice, and snuggled in beside her. “You must have been okay if the doctor let you out.”

  Ramm turned to leave, but paused in the doorway. “He didn’t let me out, Kelly. I escaped.”

  The fire had disintegrated to burning embers, but Ramm had neither the energy nor the desire to get up and throw on another log. He kept thinking about the others being treated at Kfar Shaul. The Mary convinced she was perpetually pregnant, unable to deliver her make-believe baby, fearing the world was too evil a place for God’s child. The Jesus who repeatedly called the Israeli police to report nonbelievers. And the Canadian who wept constantly because no one believed he was Sampson.

  Ramm had researched the Jerusalem Syndrome in an effort to understand the condition and why it plagued him. Most of the afflicted had histories of psychiatric disorders. The vast majority of those without previous psychiatric problems were Protestants from fundamentalist homes mainly in rural sections of the United States and in Scandinavia. These people, who spent large amounts of time reading the Bible, had no system of saints or a papacy to stand between them and God. Their rituals were designed to get the believer face-to-face with the Creator, and their religious energies became concentrated on the imaginary celestial Jerusalem and the spiritual Jesus Christ. Doctors theorized that when faced with the real Jerusalem, filled with shopping malls, traffic jams, and modern businesses—a picture horribly contrary to their preconceived notion of the city—they were stricken by an acute psychotic reaction.

  Most of the afflicted who had suffered no prior psychiatric disorders, recovered with the help of medication and rest and returned home too embarrassed to mention what had happened to them in the Holy City. The ones with preexisting mental conditions were not cured so easily, but were, for the most part, harmless. On rare occasions, however, the disorder proved to be dangerous. The most infamous person stricken with the syndrome was David Koresh, who recognized what he believed to be his own divinity on a visit to Jerusalem in the summer of 1983. Ultimately, Koresh and his Branch Davidian followers were killed in a standoff with federal authorities in Waco, Texas in 1993.

  37

  “IT’S NOT EXACTLY what I expected,” Kate admitted after a brief tour of the house.

  Cooper crossed his arms firmly over his chest. “All cops are slobs? Their main source of nutrition is provided by Dunkin’ Donuts? And they couldn’t find a hamper with a magnifying glass? Is that it? My goodness, Ms. Butler. I never thought you’d be one to indulge in stereotypes.”

  “Well, no. I don’t, generally. But you have to admit the Waterford Crystal collection is a little out of the ordinary.”

  “Why? I think it’s tastefully done. Just six pieces and a set of Colleen pattern highball glasses.” He opened the doors of the antique barrister bookcase that housed the expensive glass. “And two pieces were gifts.”

  Kate giggled, which she hadn’t done in a long time. “I was wondering how you’d buy this stuff on a cop’s salary. Sure you weren’t taking a little something under the table? Skimming a drug bust or two to keep yourself in … Waterford?” Kate burst out laughing.

  “What’s so funny?”

  “Nothing, Coop. I think I’m just tired, and you kind of surprise me.” Kate stepped closer to inspect the sparkling and, she noted, dust-free collection. “Where’d you get this?” She ran her hand down an exquisitely cut vase on the top shelf.

  “You have a very good eye, Kate. That’s the most valuable piece I’ve got. And my favorite. It was a gift from an old girlfriend. An attorney.”

  “I’m impressed.”

  “That I dated an attorney or that she spent a lot of money on me?”

  “Honestly? Both.”

  “Gee, thanks.” Cooper turned and walked across the living room. “Give me a minute. I need to check and see what I’ve got available for dinner. Didn’t know I’d be having company.” He stopped and grinned at Kate. “Can I get you a beverage? I do have a nice chardonnay already chilled.”

  Kate couldn’t help herself. She burst out laughing. “That would be lovely.”

  “Oh, I get it.” Cooper made a show of scratching his belly. “How’s about a can a Bud, baby? Feel better now?”

  “Wine would be delightful.”

  While Cooper busied himself with the food, Kate took the opportunity to make a closer inspection of the interior of his home. The structure was originally built around the turn of the century, an adobe construction that had grown and changed over the years. A stunning stone fireplace, built from blue-green copper-bearing minerals like chrysocolla and malachite, filled one corner from floor to ceiling. The walls, bricks of sun-dried earth and straw, were covered with Native American weavings. A few pieces of what looked like very old pottery were interspersed with obviously contemporary creations that Kate could see were picked for their complimentary colors and odd shapes. A brightly colored rug lay across the ruddy Mexican tile floor. A collection of turn-of-the-century, sepia-tone photographs depicting pioneer life and set in un-matching frames hung above an oak credenza. The spacious couch, filled with hand woven, southwestern-design pillows, faced the fireplace. Resting in front of the couch was a glass-top coffee table constructed from an ornamental wrought iron gate.

  Kate sank into the couch, marveling at the effort it must have taken to choose and place each object so perfectly in the room. She thought of the mess in her house.

  A scratching sound distracted her. Then a thump.

  Kate scanned the room. Another thump drew her to a back wall and a dog door. The flap pushed open, revealing the head and front legs of the biggest desert tortoise she’d ever seen.

  “Cooper!” She jumped from the comfort of the couch.

  “What?” He entered the room holding a tray with a plate of warm Brie, a small baguette, and a spray of purple grapes. Cooper followed Kate’s gaze and watched the animal plop over the three-inch lip onto the floor.

  Kate, eyebrows raised, looked at her host.

  “His name is Ralph.” Cooper placed the tray on the coffee table.

  “You have a pet … tortoise?”

  “Ralph is not my pet.” Cooper sliced the bread and slathered on some warm cheese. He handed the appetizer to Kate. “Hold on. I’ll be right back with the wine.”

  “What do you mean he’s not your pet?” Kate watched the animal trudge across the floor. She noticed the tortoise was missing a hind leg.

  “He just lives here.” Cooper called from the kitchen. “He is free to come and go in the yard. I found him hit by a car out on Route 8. I took him to the vet and they amputated his leg. I kept him confined until he healed. He can’t be released b
ack into the wild, so we are room- mates.”

  “And you put in a dog door for a turtle?” Kate grinned.

  “Of course not.” Cooper returned with two white wine glasses and an ice bucket that was holding an open bottle of chardonnay. “Do you think I’m a boob? The cat door is for the cat.”

  “You also have a cat?”

  “Why would I have a cat door and not a cat?”

  “Because they don’t sell turtle doors?” Kate offered as he poured the wine.

  “Wiseass. I happen to have a calico cat who is probably at this very moment harassing some poor gecko and biting off its legs one at a time so she can play with it while it spins round and round. Or maybe she’s sleeping.”

  “I heard they’re pretty good at that.” Kate sipped her wine enjoying the fruity tang of apples and pears.

  “It is what they do best. Cats sleep about eighteen hours a day. That’s why I intend to come back as somebody’s pampered puss. I’m sure you’ll meet Martha later when she feels the time is right.”

  Cooper clinked his wine glass to hers. “You know you’re supposed to wait for the toast, Butler. What are you, a barbarian?”

  The tortoise, which had now crossed the floor, stood poised with both front legs on Cooper’s foot, head straining upward.

  “I’m no turtle expert, but I think he’s begging,” Kate said.

  “Tortoise, Kate, not a turtle.” Cooper handed Ralph a grape, which the animal took in its mouth. “That’s all you get, Ralphie. So make it last.”

  “Who the hell are you?” Kate didn’t know Cooper at all.

  “Too much fruit in his diet isn’t good for him,” he answered, ignoring her question. “I’ll miss Ralph.”

  “Where’s he going?”

  “He’ll be in hibernation over the winter. He has a burrow out back under the creosote bushes by the rocks. I won’t see him again until spring.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss.” Kate said with mock sincerity.

  38

  KATE, SHOWERED AND DRESSED, was glad she always had the foresight to keep extra clothes in the truck. When she was still in TV, Kate was never sure where she might be at the end of the day, but now that packed bag wedged behind the front seat was simply a habit she couldn’t seem to break.