by Lakota Grace
A silver rescue basket glinted in the sun as the climbers strapped the kid in, and then lowered him to the desert floor. There, a second team casket-carried the stretcher toward a cleared space near the parking lot. A few moments later, the waiting copter rose with its cargo safely aboard.
The rescue was accomplished, while Rory was still shooing tourists! He reminded himself that a search-and-rescue operated as a team. You didn't always get the glamorous point position. He straightened his shoulders. Next rescue, he’d make sure he got there sooner.
Still hours left in the afternoon. Was there time to climb to the top of Bell Rock? He’d heard tales about the vortexes but never experienced one. Maybe today was the day. He took a slug of water, stowed the binoculars and started the climb up Bell Rock.
The rock was sandy, but his rigorous scuba training made easy work of the first gentle slopes of rock. Nothing difficult like the granite dells around Prescott, but rather, these were a pink, crumbly sandstone, with enough snags of shaggy-bark juniper to pull himself upward to another level.
High above at the capstone was the thin edge of muted gray of Ft. Apache dolomite limestone, the “bathtub ring” that defined the upper sediment layers on the cliffs surrounding Sedona. On Bell Rock, the white stone was only ten feet deep but widened to a layer over a hundred feet thick at the far end of the Verde Valley.
Prickly pear cacti were budding out, and Rory avoided a strawberry hedgehog blooming in a vivid deep-rose display. A red-tailed hawk cried out above him.
Here on the east side of Bell Rock, the distracting traffic noise from Highway 179 stilled. As he climbed, the vista spread out below: Rabbit Ears, Twin Buttes with the elephant head silhouette from this side, Baby Bell flattened and small on the meadow and beyond that, the Vista Parking Lot.
The breeze freshened as he climbed, drying the sweat on his forearms, and his long leg muscles stretched with each ridge of ascent. Suddenly the quiet was broken by chattering British tourists on the level above him.
“Here's exactly what we need,” the leader, a heavy-set woman with mouse-brown hair and a sturdy walking stick declared. She waved at him.
“Sir, over here. Would you take our picture, please?”
The group posed against the red rock, and Rory snapped pictures as they passed him smartphones to take the I-been-there shots.
Then amid scattered laughter and hugs—and the ample exchange of greenbacks for their guide—the women retreated downhill, using the five-point crab descent—arms, legs, and backside—for the steeper levels. The quiet returned as their chatter departed.
Rory looked up to see their guide still perched on the rock ledge above him.
“You leaving, too?” she asked.
Rory gave her an assessing look. A striking young woman with a dusty turquoise tank top and slim shorts outlining smooth muscular legs.
“I thought I might climb higher,” Rory said. “Experience the vortex, you know.”
“I can show you the way—for a price.” She held out a hand. “My name’s Silver. What’s yours?”
Moonlight Madness
~ 12 ~
Pegasus
I arrived fifteen minutes early at Shepherd’s small guesthouse in Cottonwood. If we hurried this pie making thing along, I’d still be able to make my moonrise date with Wolf Brandeis.
I banged the screen door open with my bag of supplies: eggs, lemons, sugar, flour, shortening. Had I forgotten anything? The cornstarch! I fumbled around in the paper sack—no, there it was.
I hollered at Shepherd and he answered from the kitchen where the oven made the place toasty. On the counter were a huge marble slab and a wooden rolling pin, tapered to narrow on both ends.
“What’s this stone thing? A counter isn't good enough for you?” I asked, dropping the supplies on the table.
“Nope. Need the coldness of the marble to stretch the gluten in the pie dough.” He peered at me over his half-rim glasses. “You taking notes?”
“What for?” This I couldn't see happening again in a million years.
“Never mind. You brought the lemons—organic like I asked? Good. You scrape off the rind with this while I roll out the dough. We need three tablespoons. Get cracking.”
While I made little curls of yellow that piled up on the plate, Shepherd pulled the dough ball from the refrigerator.
“I mixed this ahead of time. I’ll take the supplies you brought and replenish what we used.”
Worked for me. Anything that completed this pie making faster got me back home before moonrise.
Using the rolling pin, Shepherd had a roughly circular shape in minutes which he draped over the pin and centered on the pie pan. Then, he carved the remaining scraps into abstract shapes and placed them on a cookie sheet.
“This is for us,” he explained. “Nothing better than pie crispies sprinkled with sugar and cinnamon. Now for the filling.”
He took my peel scrapings, sugar, and cornstarch—to thicken it, he said—and added lemon juice. With a chef's expert touch he cracked eggs—three—using a single hand and put yolks in and reserved the whites for the meringue.
He handed me a wooden spoon. “Stir.”
Within minutes the mixture boiled and transformed into a thick, yellow pudding. The lemon juice and zest tickled my nose, and I sneezed.
The timer dinged. Shepherd put on potholder gloves and pulled out the pie crust and the crispies. An aroma of cinnamon dusted the air, and I reached for a scrap of the sugared pie crispies.
“Careful,” he cautioned. “Let them cool.”
He poured the lemony filling into the pie shell, straightening it up to the edges with the back of a spoon. Then he dumped the egg whites into his standard Hobart mixer. As the blades beat with a high-pitched whine, he added a tiny bit of cream of tartar—aids in setting, he said.
I nodded knowingly.
Shepherd added a capful of vanilla and several tablespoons of sugar to the whites. He spread them on the surface and then returned the pie to the oven for the final browning.
Then he piled the crispies on a plate and put them on the table.
“Coffee?” he asked.
Between mouthfuls of crispies drenched in sugar and cinnamon, we talked about my financial worries, and Rory’s defection to the dark side, and why this suicide verdict bothered me.
“Andy’s wife, Beatrix, is totally convinced he didn’t kill himself,” I said reaching for another crispie.
“That one's mine.” Shepherd’s grab was faster than mine was.
How could I argue? He'd made the whole batch. But he was getting ahead of me. I ate three little ones to even the score. The buttery crust crumbled in my hand, and I licked sugar crumbs off my fingers.
“Beatrix says Henry Fisher was physically abusive to his second wife,” I said. “Maybe to Andy, too.”
“A lot of that goes unreported. But beating on the kid when he was young doesn't make the old man a killer now.”
“I know. But I promised Beatrix that I'd investigate.” I told him the assertion Fisher had made that someone was watching the conversation he had with Andy. I confessed my devil’s bargain with Grady so I could get into HAP.
“A waste of good baking, if you ask me,” he observed.
At that point, the timer dinged and Shepherd pulled out a magnificent pie, dots of liquid sugar decorating the meringue peaks like foam on an ocean wave. Picture perfect. But even better was the small dish that followed. Shepherd had made a sampler for us.
We lifted forks to break through the meringue to the filling below. It was tangy and sweet at the same time, unlike any lemon pie I'd ever bought at a grocery store. Magnificent! I could see why Grady would break park regulations to get her hands on this.
The old grandfather clock in Shepherd’s living room chimed the hour. Eight o'clock. I took one last bite of the pie filling and rose.
“Sorry, I've got to run.”
“But you just arrived.” Then Shepherd asked, “Is it important?
”
When I nodded, he said, “Then we’ll talk another time.”
He helped me wrap the still-warm pie in a towel for the ride home. And as I left his house, he squeezed my shoulder.
“Things will sort themselves out, Peg. I have faith in you.”
Tomorrow I'd give the pie to Grady, check out the House of Apache Fires to be sure there was nothing to Beatrix's claim of misdeed, and gain closure for my non-paying client. I couldn’t afford to work for free, not even if Shepherd made good on his promise of throwing part-time work in my direction.
But tonight, the moon rose along with my anticipation about the new guy in my life.
***
Wolf Brandeis sat on the porch swing waiting for me, my hound Reckless at his feet. My mind spun for a moment. Surely I had left the coonhound inside the house? Maybe Reckless had learned a new trick, nosing open a half-shut door. I'd have to be more careful.
Wolf rose in an easy movement as I walked up the steps, pie in hand.
He lifted the dish out of my hands. “Let me hold it so you can go in.”
Following me into the cabin, he placed the pie on the counter and leaned against the wall.
I dropped to the floor on one knee to ruffle the coonhound's soft ears and got a kiss for my efforts.
Wolf pointed to the refrigerator. “House door was open, so I put the beer in to cool.”
I stifled my irritation at having somebody in my house without permission. But it was my own fault if I'd left the door unlocked. And a cold beer would be nice. It had been a long day.
I pulled two out and let him screw off the tops. We clicked bottles in a celebration of day’s end.
I was covered with flour from the pie making and needed to change. Walking into the bedroom, I grabbed a pair of jeans and a blue plaid shirt. Wolf had followed me to the doorway, and there was an awkward moment as we both looked around. The old Victorian claw-foot tub sat forlornly amongst the open studs and bare wood flooring of the new bathroom, offering no visual protection.
“Come on, pup,” Wolf said. “Lets you and me head back to the porch and let the lady do what she needs to do.”
I chanced a look behind me. Wolf was gazing down the gulch, his back to the door. I quickly changed into the casual outfit.
I elected the barefoot look to show off the new polish job on my toenails, a bright orange. It matched the neon atomic orange of Rory Stevens' Hummer, and I thrust that image out of my mind with a guilty flash. It wasn't like Rory and I were committed to each other. Not exactly. And I hadn't seen much of him recently.
I freed my long red hair and gave it a perfunctory brush. The static raised the ends in the dry desert air and I wet my fingers to smooth one errant curl. A touch of lipstick and I was ready to face whatever the moonrise might promise. I took another drink from the bottle. It was Oak Creek Ale—he'd chosen my favorite—and I headed onto the porch.
Wolf rose from the swing, towering above my own six-foot height. He had to be a good four inches taller than me, with an athlete's quiet movement. The barest hint of winter forest aftershave and a touch of a strong hand greeted me.
“Sit,” he invited, waving toward the bench. “You're just in time for the show.”
The notch of the gulch pointed east, outlining the valley spreading below us. The crickets halted their song, and in the distance, a horned owl cried once. There was the faintest edge of golden yellow, then shadows spread across the yard as the moon rose.
It was a perfect globe of full-moon light, framing the red rock formations on the far side of the valley with sharp edges. A night-blooming willow perfumed the air with a brush of desert perfume.
“Wow!” I exclaimed.
“She's something, all right.” He clinked the neck of his bottle to my own. “Here's celebrating two beautiful ladies.”
The heat of his body radiated in the cooling night air, and I leaned closer, casual like. He took another drink from his beer and I did the same thing and pretty soon we were sitting in companionable silence, shoulders touching.
Something metallic bumped the side of my hip and I pulled back.
“Sorry, let me move that.”
Wolf opened his belt buckle, slid the leather through a knife scabbard and then re-fixed his belt.
The scabbard remained in his hand, and I reached for it. “What's this?”
The K-Bar knife had an unusual handle. I twisted the shaft in the moonlight, seeking to identify it.
“Let me show you.” He struck a match against the side of his boot, and in the flare, the handle shone a brilliant blue of polished stone.
“Lapis lazuli? Where did you get it?”
He took the knife from me and set it carefully on the porch floor.
“My unit had them made in Afghanistan when I was on tour there. My lucky piece. I always wear it.”
“Then,” I hazarded a guess, “you must have known Andy Fisher. He had a knife that looked like this one.”
“Andy was one of my best friends. We watched out for each other in combat. When we were there and then after we got back.” A muscle in his jaw twitched.
“You know he's dead.”
“Beatrix told me.”
“She thinks it wasn't suicide,” I said. “What's your take on that?”
“He was depressed, that was for sure. But if some bastard killed him, I'll be settling that score.”
The moonlight caught the edge of one canine tooth. He turned feral, ancient. A shiver ran down my back. Wolf meant what he said.
“But hey, let's not ruin this lovely evening with gloomy talk.” He squeezed my hand. “What about that pie you made?”
Perhaps I was mesmerized by the surroundings or the shimmering image of the handsome man beside me, but I rose without a murmur and headed for the kitchen. The thought of Grady ran briefly through my mind, but I squelched it. I'd figure something else to give her. I cut big slabs of pie, grabbed utensils and carried them back to the porch.
Wolf took one bite, waved his fork in the air, and danced a two-step in front of me. “I've died and gone to heaven. Where did you learn to cook like this?”
Then he set down the dish and, with a gentle hand, touched my hair. His fingers brushed my earlobe, and it burned with fire. Ever so slowly, his hand cradled the back of my head and drew me closer, his lips brushing mine.
I started to say something, but his finger caressed my lips.
“Shhh.”
Then he drew me close into an embrace that promised much, much more. A long kiss.
A buzz started and then exploded into a cacophony of sound as my cell phone vibrated in my pocket.
“Leave it,” Wolf whispered.
But I retrieved it and glanced at the ID. Sighing, I pulled away from him.
“I gotta take this. When the sheriff’s department calls, I need to respond.”
I tried to ignore the disappointment on his face as I gathered the information on the car accident they reported to me: Time, place, number of victims. I turned to explain to Wolf, but he left the porch without a word.
Shrugging into my work uniform, I grabbed my Family Liaison kit and strode out the door. Before I even reached the Jetta, Wolf’s pickup flew down the road in a cloud of dust He didn’t bother to say goodbye.
An Expensive Shower
~ 13 ~
Silver
After the hike at Bell Rock, Rory dropped Silver in the Village of Oak Creek, to wait for her shop-ride courtesy car. Her Lexus was in the shop for a tune-up, she told him but should be done soon.
After he drove off, she strolled across the street to an Italian Restaurant, choosing to eat alone tonight. She didn’t yet have sleeping arrangements lined up for the evening, and Rory asked too many questions.
Never a good idea to get involved with a mark. It only led to trouble. But was Rory a mark? He was smart and funny. Too smart. Given enough opportunity, he might start to understand her, to know her. And that was not safe, not part of the plan. She'd dropped he
r guard with him on Bell Rock, but it wouldn't happen again.
After a quick meal, Silver stopped a lady with a mop-dog. She didn't like dogs, especially the big ones protecting their own turf. Even one this little slobbered on her running shoes. She'd have to wash them off when she got to her sleeping place.
“What time do you have?” she asked the woman.
“A little before ten.”
Too late to catch a city bus, and anyway, Silver hadn't seen any buses running out this far. The trouble with a small town. In LA no matter when it was, she'd have only a fifteen-minute wait. Hitchhiking, it would have to be then.
She let the heavily chromed pickup truck pass. Not a good prospect. Guys that duded up their trucks had proved to be trouble in the past.
The next car along was a family sedan, Arkansas plates, with an older couple in the front seat. Silver stuck out her thumb, and they stopped. She had her story ready. Tonight she was Susan, going cross-country to—she caught the John 3:16 quote on their bumper sticker—attend a church rally in Memphis, just stopping here to see her ailing sister.
The couple insisted on sharing their homemade turkey sandwiches with her and pressed a ten into her hand as they let her off a quarter of a mile from Robbyn Fisher’s gated community.
Silver hiked up the hill, her too-full stomach complaining. First the spaghetti dinner and then the sandwich. Had sharing their meal to rapport-build for the ten dollar bill been worth it? She felt sick and darted behind a big Ponderosa pine to vomit up the meals. Ah, better.
Wiping her mouth with her hand, Silver climbed until she was a hundred feet above the house. She perched on a red rock, still warm from the day's sunshine, waiting for the lights to go dark below her. Then she waited another half hour for good measure.
Finally, she let herself into the Fisher residence with the purloined key. Her ankle felt sticky from the dog's slobber. She shuddered. A shower was next.
Sometimes in these large houses, the guest quarters were segregated from the main quarters. A full moon shone through the immense living room windows, and beyond them, glinted off the chrome faucets in a huge kitchen.