The Desert Waits

by J. Carson Black

  Involuntarily her gaze followed his to the lamp. Whatever vibrations it had caused, they were gone now. It was just a lamp of cheap stamped tin, perforated in a pattern of holes that would let the light through when the lamp was switched on. “No, thanks.”

  Shaken, she walked out of the store.

  The group was way up the street. Shari was haggling over a black-velvet painting of Elvis.

  Alex tried to put the incident out of her mind, but it was unsettling. Why had the lamp scared her like that? Was it just some synapse in her brain misfiring, creating something that wasn’t real?

  “You okay, Alex?” Lute asked. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

  “I think everything’s catching up with me.

  Lute’s gaze was sympathetic. “Yeah, it’s been a rough week for all of us.”

  They ate lunch at EI Sombrero, the best restaurant in Palo Duro. The inside was like a cavern, except for the picture windows and balcony overlooking the street. The ceilings were vaulted like a cathedral, the walls salmon pink, dominated by wall-niches bearing statuettes of the Our Lady of Guadalupe. The trademark gold halo radiating out from the blue-robed figure looked more like fish fins than the sun rays they were supposed to be.

  “I see that statue everywhere,” Shari said. “Who is it?”

  “The Virgin Mary,” Alex explained. “She appeared to a peasant in Mexico a couple of centuries ago, asking him to build a shrine on the spot. When he asked for proof to show the bishop, she opened her robe and hundreds of roses spilled out on the ground.”

  “Wow.”

  Candles and chandeliers filled the place with flickering golden light. They ordered a pitcher of margaritas, but Alex had a Bohemia beer instead. She debated getting the pollo mole, chicken in a chocolate-based bean sauce, but settled on the tacos, Sonoran style—sans cheese and tomatoes, garnished instead with cabbage and radishes. The meat tasted faintly of cinnamon and was mixed with chopped potatoes. The deep-fried taco shells were out of this world.

  A photographer in a tuxedo came around with an ancient Polaroid Land camera and snapped a photo, then charged them an outrageous fee. Next they were serenaded by El Show de Gilbert Chavez, a better than average norteño band which performed northern Sonoran polka music. One of them played an accordion encrusted with tiny diamond-shaped mirrors, the same stuff that refracted light from those round balls that used to hang from the ceilings in discos.

  It quickly became evident that Luther had over-imbibed. He wanted to buy some Kahlua, so they went into a liquor store. He tripped on the chipped tile floor and knocked over some bottles of Oso Negro. A crowd gathered, realized who he was, and inundated him with requests for autographs. It took almost a half hour before they could extract themselves. Lute paid for the broken bottles and led them farther up the street.

  “Maybe we should head back,” Alex said worriedly.

  “I’m okay,” he insisted. He stopped at the cross street where a flop-eared burro was hitched to a cart. A sign beside the burro said “Photo—$5.00.” The price had gone up since Alex had last been to the border.

  “Come on, Lute. We gotta get going,” Jonas said.

  “He’s a mess,” muttered Latte as they walked on. This from a woman whose name, roughly translated, meant steamed milk.

  “Caroline’s death hit him pretty hard,” Alex replied because a response seemed expected.

  “It should. He’s the one who shot her.”

  “By accident.”

  “Yeah right.”

  “You two don’t like each other very much,” Alex observed.

  Latte looked sour. “Lute has a wife. Did he tell you that?”

  “You don’t think I’m—”

  “No, of course not. I know he just asked you along today because you were a friend of Caroline’s.”

  Thanks for the backhanded compliment, Alex thought.

  “He loved Caroline. In fact, I think he loved her enough to kill her.”

  Alex wondered if she’d heard correctly. “He might have pulled the trigger, but it was Booker Purlie—”

  “Let’s get out of the sun.” Latte led her into the nearest shop, pretending interest in the onyx polar bear figurines on a cluttered table. “Jonas told me to keep my mouth shut, but I was around Caroline a lot, and when she drank tequila, she’d confide in people. She was always confiding in me. Did you know she was an old-movie nut?”

  “She always liked them when we were kids.”

  “Yeah, she was a real romantic, that girl was.” Latte took out a cigarette and lit it, motioning away an approaching vendor. “Just looking, señor. Caroline couldn’t face the future. She knew she was going to die; it was just a matter of time.”

  Latte’s matter-of-fact statement brought it all home to Alex. She saw Caroline in her mind’s eye again—the bony shoulders, the shadows under the eyes. Not fashionably thin but gaunt. Latte was right. Eventually, HIV would have turned into AIDS. There was no other outcome, at least for the moment.

  “She was always talking about that old movie Dark Victory. You know, the one where Bette Davis has a brain tumor and dies without a hair out of place? Well, girlfriend, there was never a vainer person than Caroline. She couldn’t stand the thought of wasting away, getting lesions, and dying such a horrible death. She saw what happened to Nureyev. That gorgeous body.” She shuddered. “I heard her once telling Luther she wanted him to see to it that she didn’t live when it got bad.”

  “What did Luther say?”

  “No way. That’s what she said, but I happen to know he helped her draw up a living will.”

  “You think he meant to shoot her?”

  “I don’t know. Probably not. But she asked him to. She wanted to die, that’s for sure.”

  “But she was terrified of the stalker.”

  Latte narrowed her beautiful golden eyes. “Was she terrified of the stalker or of just plain dying? I think she was scared of dying, and at the same time, she wanted to opt out.”

  “You can’t know that.”

  “No. All I know is she’s hurt everybody she ever came in contact with. Luther wasn’t my choice for Letitia, but they got along okay, until he met Caroline.”

  “Letitia?”

  “Letitia’s his wife. She’s also my sister.”

  As they walked back toward the car, Luther got it into his head to go to the morgue and see if he could get them to release Caroline’s body. Nothing anyone said could persuade him otherwise.

  They reached the white building on a narrow side street. The sign on the door said CERRADO. Closed. Luther pounded on the door and, when he got no answer, walked around to the back.

  A Cadillac hearse stood in the alley behind double doors. Luther knocked again. A face appeared at a window covered with mesh, disappeared just as quickly.

  “Let me in!” shouted Luther.

  “Lute, let’s get out of here,” Jonas said, grabbing his arm.

  “She’s in there, Jonas. All alone.” Tears ran down his face.

  “This won’t help anything. You’ll only get arrested for disturbing the peace.”

  Luther sat on the curb, head in his hands. “Why won’t they let her go?” He pounded his thigh. “Why?”

  Latte, standing behind Alex, said quietly, “He’s got two little kids. A girl and a boy, and all he cares about is a dead woman.”

  “Come on, Lute,” Jonas said, helping the giant action-adventure star to his feet. Luther van Cleeve looked bewildered, ponderous.

  On the drive back, Alex tried to reconcile Latte’s revelations with the gentle, reasonable man she’d come to like. Grieving lover or faithless husband?

  Or both?

  Love, it increasingly seemed, was all a matter of perspective.

  Rollie Watkins trotted back to his truck.

  That was close. He’d been so careful up until now. How was he supposed to know the wildlife photographer would turn up in Mexico?

  He’d been looking at the stuffed iguana—wanting to
buy it, but wondering whether he should risk the hefty fine he’d get if he got caught taking it over the border—when he heard the commotion. And there she was, one aisle over. She’d knocked over one of those metal lamps. He could tell she was badly shaken, far more than she should be. Those lamps looked all banged up brand new! An extra ding wouldn’t hurt.

  She didn’t see him and he didn’t linger. He sure didn’t want to run into her again on the trail. That would be too much of a coincidence. He had a feeling she was the type who was aware of her surroundings all the time—it went with her job.

  He’d have to be more careful.

  Sixteen

  “I first met Caroline Arnet eight years ago at Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors; she was valiantly trying to keep a triple scoop chocolate-mint ice cream cone from dripping on her clothes.”

  —first chapter of FALLEN ANGEL: THE CAROLINE ARNET STORY, by Ted Lang.

  Michael Goodrich, weatherman for the NBC Tucson affiliate’s Eyewitness News, had forecast an unseasonal May thunderstorm a couple of days ago, pointing to a low over California that was about to dip down into Arizona.

  Even on the trip back from Mexico, Alex found it hard to believe. There were only a couple of chalk scribbles in the impossibly blue sky, harmless high clouds. But by evening, a white cataract had covered the sun and the wind picked up. Alex was awakened at three in the morning by lightning and thunder.

  Bambi/Queenie had crawled under the covers and was stretched out beneath the blanket toward the foot of the bed like a baby about to be born. It amazed Alex that one small cat could take up an entire king-sized bed.

  “If I’m having this much trouble adjusting to a cat, it’s lucky Brian and I never had kids.”

  At the thought of Brian, she felt a pang of longing. It didn’t last as long or go as deep as it used to; it only drilled through a little bit of bone.

  The storm wouldn’t interfere with her shoot; she’d planned to leave the blind one more day anyway. Fortunately, what little equipment she’d left there was waterproof, although the tent would be sodden. Alex lay in bed, but the lashing wind and drumming rain made it hard to sleep. What if there were a flash flood that swept everything away?

  Alex was awakened again at 7:00 a.m. by the phone.

  At Nick McCutcheon’s voice, her heart did a little dance. Even though she knew it was police business.

  “Can you come in today sometime? There’s something I’d like to talk about.”

  “I can be there anytime. I’m not doing anything today.”

  “How about late this morning, say, eleven?” When she agreed, he added, “See you then,” and disconnected.

  When Alex arrived at the tan mobile home that served as the sheriff’s substation, the rain still fell intermittently, pushed around by clouds. Barney Fife answered her knock.

  “I’m here to see Deputy McCutcheon.”

  “He’s over at the A&W.” He motioned across the street to the bright-orange root beer stand.

  Alex pulled in beside the Bronco and rolled down her window.

  He motioned to the tray attached to his truck door. “You want a cheeseburger?”

  Alex got into the passenger-side of the Bronco and accepted the burger wrapped in orange paper. They were smaller than she remembered.

  “How about a root beer?” He motioned to the waitress and her ordered for Alex. Alex was pleasantly surprised by the old-fashioned glass mug holding icy root beer with a foamy head.

  “Good, huh?” he asked her.

  What was good was looking at this guy. Doggone if sitting in Deputy McCutcheon’s close proximity didn’t send a thrill through her stomach like hitting bottom on a roller coaster ride. She’d been around Luther, a big star, and yet he didn’t pack half the punch this rural deputy did.

  “How’s the jaguarundi hunt going?” he asked her.

  “I wouldn’t call it a hunt.” Alex was still trying to decide whether it was McCutcheon’s looks that sent her around the bend or his quiet confidence. She had a feeling he was lifeboat material.

  “Search, then.” He folded back a piece of grease-blotched orange paper and took another bite out of his cheeseburger. He caught a drip on the edge of the paper. Good looks and lightning reflexes too!

  “Not much going on at the moment.”

  He leveled his gaze on her. “You don’t like to talk about it, do you?”

  “It’s not a good idea to broadcast something like this. If there really is a jaguarundi in that canyon and word got out, every great white hunter in the good ol’ US of A would be out here trying to bag it.”

  “Yeah, I thought as much.”

  “So why am I here?”

  “I’m using my authority as an officer of the law to get you to have lunch with me. I figured it was an offer you couldn’t refuse.”

  “You have that much trouble asking women out?”

  “Only serious-minded wildlife photographers.” He finished his burger and crumpled up the paper, proffered the fries.

  “I shouldn’t be eating this stuff,” Alex said as she took one. She was seriously going to have to stop eating junk. “That’s really why you asked me here today?”

  “Partly.” He rested his hand on the steering wheel. It was a strong, tanned hand, lightly coated with dark hairs. No wedding ring—that was good.

  Nick McCutcheon’s next words blew her serene mood to bits. “I don’t think you should let your guard down just yet.”

  Alarmed, Alex put her cheeseburger down on the paper bag in her lap. “What do you mean?”

  “I’m not saying Booker Purlie didn’t stalk Caroline. Or you.”

  “He did,” Alex said fiercely.

  “But there are some things that don’t add up.” “What doesn’t add up?”

  Nick McCutcheon hesitated. She could tell he didn’t want to tell her much. He still didn’t trust her. Did he think she killed Caroline?

  “Look. If it concerns me, I want to know what’s going on.”

  “There’s a possibility Booker’s death wasn’t a suicide.”

  “Possibility?”

  “It looked to me like there were signs of a struggle. It could just be that when he hanged himself, he panicked and tried to pull the noose off. Scratched himself”

  “But you said it was a painless way to die.”

  “It could be he changed his mind. Or someone helped him.”

  “Why would anyone want to kill Booker?” she asked. But in the next breath, she answered her own question. “You think someone planted that note, made him a scapegoat because he was crazy anyway.” Fear ripped through her like a sudden wind. This couldn’t be happening. The nightmare was over, done with, finished.

  “It’s a theory.”

  “If you saw him, the way he looked at me. It was spooky as hell.” She took a deep breath, “Booker was crazy. You saw the stuff he had in his trailer. The gyrocopters, the island—”

  “Schizophrenics are rarely dangerous.”

  “Rarely doesn’t mean never.”

  “There’s nothing I’ve found in his personal effects that even hints he was obsessed with Caroline.”

  “Maybe he didn’t write it down.”

  “He kept a detailed diary.”

  Alex could not let go. Caroline’s killer was dead, and she could get on with her life. “There has to be some kind of explanation.”

  “Have you ever heard of Uncle Wiggly before?”

  “No. Not until I saw it written on those cards.”

  “So it wasn’t something from your childhood?”

  “I don’t think so.” Her stomach tightened. “You really think it wasn’t Booker?”

  “I don’t know what to believe. Everything points to him, except for three little things.”

  Alex waited. When he didn’t elaborate, she said, “You drag me over here with a vague warning that Booker wasn’t Caroline’s killer, but you don’t tell me what you’re basing it on. What three little things?”

  Nick looked straight
ahead. “One, Caroline insisted on shooting that scene—the scene where she’s shot to death—on her birthday. She told Grey Sullivan her astrologer told her it would be good luck. Ironic, huh?

  “Two, Booker didn’t mention anything in his diary about being in love with Caroline.”

  “Maybe he didn’t want to put it in writing.”

  “He wrote about everything else under the sun. And three, the scratches on his neck.”

  “Which you said could have happened when he changed his mind.”

  “Why don’t you go back to Tucson for a few days until I’ve had a chance to see the autopsy report and see if I was right. Some of those scratches might have belonged to someone else— someone fighting him.”

  She thought of the jaguarundi, how close she was to capturing it on film. “I can’t.”

  “You can come back in a week, when we know for sure Booker Purlie committed suicide.”

  Alex knew that secrets had a way of getting out. Maybelle Deering had asked her about the jaguarundi, and that article was sure to interest someone. Sooner or later—probably sooner— someone else would be coming down to look for the rare cat. She already had photographic proof the jaguarundi was in the canyon, and she was this close to taking the photograph which would make her career.

  She was dead certain that Booker Purlie had killed Caroline. It was a good sign that Nick McCutcheon wasn’t asleep at the switch, that he was cautiously following all leads, but it didn’ change her core belief that the killer was already dead. “I can’t do that,” she repeated.

  He sighed. “I didn’t think you would. You got a gun?”

  “I don’t believe in guns.”

  “As in, you don’t believe in fairies? They sure as hell exist, and if Caroline’s killer’s still out there, you can bet he has one.”

  “I have pepper spray and a hunting knife. I can take care of myself”

  “People are more dangerous than animals.”

  “I know that. I’ll be careful.”

  He let it drop. “Did you know she had HIV?”

  “How did you find out?”

  “Autopsy report. We’re finally getting something out of Mexico. I think Ted’s lawyers are beginning to grease the wheels.” He glanced in the rearview mirror. Alex followed his gaze and saw Deputy Fife pull out of the substation parking lot. “Friday night I’m going to a fundraiser at the Elks Club in New Year. Would you like to go?”