Finally, I asked, “Sure there's nothing you could do?"
"The answer's still the same. Sorry, can't help you."
"Can't, not won't?” My words slipped out. She gave me another appraising look but said nothing, so I added, “I also want you to know that it's my policy when I look for someone and find them, I don't tell the client until after the person they're looking for says they want to be found. Understand? I would never put someone in harm's way. Anyway, you have my card. Nice meeting you."
"Goodbye,” she said.
* * * *
The next morning, I took a quick beach walk, showered off the sand, and put on my cat-burglar outfit, black wool slacks and black cashmere sweatshirt, because the day was overcast and almost chilly. Then I pulled on a matching pair of black Keds and walked to the farmer's market for some produce. When I got back, I dialed the number Ruth Holloway had given me one more time—after about ten attempts the night before—and let it ring on my speaker phone as I filled my veggie crispers. If someone answered, I could report that the “lady preacher” had not been forthcoming and that I had thus discharged all professional services agreed to and good luck to her.
But there was no answer, no machine, and no particular surprise. As far as I was concerned, that closed the case that never was.
Five minutes later, my phone rang.
"Lane Terry? This is Marcella Perkins from The Little Church on the Hill.” Her voice sounded weak and a little slurred. “I need to see you right away."
I checked my watch. “What's it about? I'm at home, in South Laguna,” I said. “You want me to meet you at the church?"
"I'm not at the church. I'm at Hoag."
As in Hoag Hospital. “Is everything okay?"
"I'll be fine,” she said, grunting with probable discomfort. “I need to see you, but they're keeping me here a couple of days for observation. I took a fall and hit my head."
"Oh, no. Sorry to hear that."
"Would it be convenient for you to come right away?"
It wasn't, but she hadn't impressed me as someone who played games. “Look, I'll come as soon as I can. If traffic isn't too bad I should make it in about forty-five minutes."
She gave me a room number, and we hung up.
Though I was uneasy not knowing what she wanted, I assumed that something was wrong. Traffic was heavy but moving, and I motored up Pacific Coast Highway making good time, my Honda wheezing up the hill to the hospital with its admirable Japanese spirit of endurance. As I took the elevator up and saw my reflection, I realized I was dressed for a funeral.
Marcella Perkins was in a semiprivate room with someone who slept the whole time I was there. Marcella's bed had a big flower arrangement next to it, on one of those wheelie tables where they put a plastic pitcher, a cup, and a little spittoon. When I walked in, she opened her eyes and smiled like a survivor. She had a black eye and a split lip. The bandages that wrapped around just above her ears left her gray hair sticking comically out the top, but it wasn't funny at all. More bandages wound down her right forearm and hand. The index and middle fingers were splinted and wrapped together.
A fall down the stairs it wasn't, but I played along politely.
"I'm so sorry about your accident,” I said. “What do the docs tell you?"
Her painful little smile widened. “Of course they don't tell you a thing. ‘Wait and see,’ they say. Even though they claim I don't have a concussion, they want me to stay so we can all wait and see together. It may be they think I'll sue them, as if I would! In any case, I'm okay, and I'm not lonely. I called you for a reason."
I let my face ask the question.
"I didn't really fall,” she explained without the slightest air of drama. “A man came just after you left. He said he was Megan's father. You can see what he did. When I wouldn't tell him anything, he punched me a couple of times, hit me with a telephone, and took off with my purse. I found it just outside the door. All he took was some cash and my address book."
"Well, you're sure calm enough about it,” I said, trying not to imagine being beaten. “Marcella, he did that to you and you didn't call nine-one-one?"
"I did. I knew I needed medical attention."
"Yeah, but what about the cops?"
"I didn't want to report it. Still don't.” She had a finality about her statement that made it pointless to ask why. Maybe she thought he'd come back and finish the job if she did report it, given what she'd said about the address book.
I felt the pounding pulse of imagination in my ears when she said, “I want to hire you to take a message to someone for me."
* * * *
I headed out toward the desert in the persona of a crusty old prospector with a map to a hidden mine. Marcella couldn't write, so she'd had to tell me how to draw the map, which was of the inland desert northeast of San Diego a few miles from Warner Springs, according to her estimation. She had been there only once, she said, “so some of the details might be off.” I wondered if that meant I'd just have to knock at derelict trailers until I found the one without a serial killer in it. Or if I took a wrong turn south, I might end up in Mexico, be taken for a drug mule or a journalist, and never be heard from again. Sometimes you just have to slap yourself for having thoughts like that.
It was getting dark, and it was my own fault that I'd gotten stuck in getaway traffic in Orange County. I went out of my way to save time, but instead the highway was choked with high-end cars, SUVs, and monster trucks with aggressive drivers heading home with very poor manners. I got off as soon as I could, but Marcella's map didn't direct me to do anything specific before I crossed into San Diego County. In fact, her map stank, but it wasn't her fault that Holloway had stolen her address book. Her little map was all I had to go on, because my regular state map left out the really small roads, and since I had no route numbers and no address, even a GPS would have been useless. On the plus side, I had a certain blind confidence, and I wanted to help Marcella. As I was leaving, I'd tried to talk her into reporting the crime, but if she didn't, I'd do it myself as soon as I got back. What kind of animal beats up a sweet little old bear-lady minister?
As I shot straight south on a middling desert highway with few cars swishing by, my cell phone played a few bars of the Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. It was Ron, his voice breaking up with a poor signal, telling me that the Texas car was registered to Naomi Conkling of Brownsville.
I asked, “Any relation to the Conklings?"
"Yes, ma'am. That would be the sister of Gary Conkling. He's now a long-term guest at the Leavenworth Marriott."
"Omigod,” I said. “Guess I owe you one—"
For a few seconds the speaker sent out crunchy noises. I waited, and Ron came back in at “—paid up. You ready to let me take you to dinner, though?"
"Sounds great,” I said slowly and clearly. “Why don't you bring along Tiffany and the baby?"
"You go messing with Conkling's friends and relations, you're [crunch, crunch] need my help."
"I'll keep it in mind. Give my love to your family."
He either hung up or the call got dropped.
Out here in the boonies, it was already quite dark, country dark. The road was right out of Atmosphere 101 in set design. It was increasingly foggy, like a translucent scrim, layered and billowing. The hill-and-dale two-lane road I'd turned onto at the end of the middling highway, as instructed, dated from before they leveled land to build roads, I guessed. It was like a little roller coaster with near-zero visibility. There were almost no cars out there, fortunately for me, because even the center line was hard to see and easy to cross, and the shoulder didn't even amount to a place to pull over and cringe. I kept it in second gear and crept up and down, up and down, getting queasier by the minute. Marcella had said to watch for a certain small unpaved turnoff “just after the one Shell station out there,” and I had to thank the owner for having terrific lights on, because I never would have seen it otherwise. I felt so appreciative that I topped up m
y gas tank and asked the attendant in his little glass box if he knew where the geologists were.
"Geologists,” he said blankly. Not a good sign.
I tried a different tack. “There's supposed to be a mobile home around here somewhere where some rock collectors or prospectors stay."
"I don't know. Trailer up the next road, though."
I sighed. “Do you have a public phone?"
"Sure do. Clean bathrooms, too, especially the ladies'. Take care of it myself."
I didn't dignify that with comment, and phoned the hospital, where the call got routed to voicemail. Presumably Marcella was sleeping or something. I left a message telling her where I was, tucked away the gas credit-card receipt, and went looking for the turnoff.
Even though I didn't have far to go, the fog made it seem like leagues. I could barely make out a small metal sign at the next turning, actually got out of the car and walked around and looked. It read “Western State University Geological Research Station,” with a stylized university seal superimposed over what looked like a pile of rocks or some mountains. An arrow pointed down the side road. I got back in the Honda and crept along a few hundred feet uphill in first gear until I saw a light up ahead. I turned in at a driveway with a surprisingly large parking area and could just make out a trailer like you see on construction sites, next to it a double-wide mobile home, and in front of that, a white Chevy pickup truck. I parked next to it, got out, and found out that it had license plates identifying it as the property of the State of California, and walked to the trailer, since it seemed to have a dim light inside. I couldn't see in through the blinds but climbed up the wooden ramp to the door and knocked.
The door squeaked open and a fortyish guy with a beard, a receding hairline, and glasses he was sliding onto his nose came out onto the porch looking spooked. He wore a T-shirt and a pair of khaki shorts. I took it he didn't get a lot of night visitors.
"Sorry to bother you,” I said and, taking a likely stab, went on, “Professor—"
"Weibold,” he finished.
"Sorry to disturb you, but I had to come in person. Your aunt Marcella sent me here to see Megan."
He really looked uncomfortable. “I haven't heard anything from her about this."
I smiled sheer harmlessness and tucked a naive little lock of hair behind my ear, the one without the row of piercings, which remained covered. “I'm a licensed investigator,” I said, holding up my ID wallet, which he glanced at but didn't take. “You can call Marcella at Hoag Hospital and ask her if you like."
His distrustful expression leapt to fear. “What's she doing there?"
"Why don't I come in and tell you?"
He stood to one side and let me in.
I took a quick look around. The office was anonymous in furnishings of laminate tables, file cabinets, and Scotchgarded upholstered chairs and sofa. But on the shelves, books shared space with various rocks, arrowheads, and petrified bones. The weapons and animal skulls lent a certain creepiness to the otherwise unremarkable decor.
Dr. Weibold, obviously an introvert, avoided eye contact as he waved me to a chair and asked if I'd like some coffee. I said thanks, I would, and that I'd also like to make a phone call. He said, “Help yourself to the phone and then come on over to the residence and I'll have your coffee ready. I'll let Megan know you're here."
Either he didn't get many visitors or he was a really nice man.
I checked Hoag. Still no Marcella. Thinking she might have left a message, I checked my voicemail—to find a message from Ron Walker.
"Lane, I'm hoping you check home because I couldn't get you on the cell, and I really gotta warn ya about those assholes you're dealing with. I checked with my sources, and it looks like they're major leaguers, gun dealers, part of a militia of wack-jobs who like shooting at illegals coming over the border. I believe you may be dealing with Conkling's other sister Ruth and his brother-in-law Levi. Their surname is Halliday, and you said they were going by Holloway. Sorry to tell you, sweetie, but there's a fugitive warrant out on Levi. He bought a small arsenal from a gun dealer who happened to be working as a confidential informant for the ATF. The feds blew the bust and our boy got away, but not before he shot and wounded the dealer. The guy's in protective custody until they can have him testify against Levi, but first they have to find Levi. Stay away from it, Lane, and call me the minute you get this. Where are you, anyway? Why haven't you been answering your house or cell?"
My machine played another message, from Sean, wondering the same thing.
I stood there and stared at a petrified carnivore skull.
I'd have to call back later, because the danger made talking to Megan more urgent. I had to take care of that, and then head back through the desert fog with a vow to stay away for good.
I knocked lightly and let myself into the double-wide, hearing an intermittently noisy espresso machine. In a lull between the hissing and screeching, Professor Weibold puttered until the fragrant brew was in cups, then went down the hall and came out with Megan, looking much as I remembered except for the lack of makeup and some weight loss. She was barefoot, dressed in obviously borrowed men's clothes, another pair of khaki shorts—how did these people keep from freezing out here?—and an oversized T-shirt commemorating a science leadership conference in 1998.
I stuck out my hand, which she regarded warily for a split second before grabbing it and shaking it hard.
Before either of us could say anything, the professor broke his silence. “This is the person Marcella sent.” Frothing milk now, he went back to topping the cups and putting them onto saucers with spoons in a practiced ritual.
I introduced myself and said, “Megan, I have some things to tell you. Is this a good time?” If it wasn't, I couldn't exactly come back later, but I was trying to give her a little chance at control.
"I don't know. It depends on what you want. How come Marcella didn't come with you?"
I softly told her that Marcella was in the hospital, and why. Her eyes filled with tears, and sounding like a little girl, she matched my soft voice and asked, “Is she going to be okay?"
I nodded.
She stifled a sob that was trying to break the surface and, almost to herself, said, “Oh, Jesus, he's going to find me and then he's going to kill me."
I murmured, “Your father doesn't know where you are. Can you sit down and we'll try to work out a game plan?"
She nodded and turned to the reluctant keeper of her safe house. “Jerry, is it okay if we take our coffee over to the office so we don't bother you?"
"That's okay; I was just going myself. I have some data to work on for my Monday report.” At least the guy could take a hint. He served our coffee, taking his outside with him with an almost apologetic smile. Could be he didn't want to know the details, even if he didn't mind doing a favor for his aunt.
Megan went back quickly to put on some shoes and a windbreaker—did she think she was going somewhere? If I took her with me, it would be too risky, unless we went straight to the closest cops. I didn't even know where that was. She might be better off staying here. Before I made any decisions, I needed to get her story.
We had a few sips of coffee before she took a deep breath and looked as though she was going to tell me something she was reluctant to tell, but when she spoke, her voice was calm. “I met you before, in Laguna. You gave me money."
I smiled. “I didn't think you'd remember me. I'm Lane Terry."
"My real name's Megan Halliday, but I want people to call me just Megan. I'm not proud of my father's name.” I nodded in sympathy, and she asked, “Do you know anything about the Protectors of the Blood?"
"Not a whole lot.” I had heard that they were a racist armed group that splintered off from some religious survivalist cult, but I wanted to say as little as possible so she'd open up.
"My father's been the leader ever since my uncle Gary went to prison. His name's Levi Halliday. When I got away from home, I kind of had a chance to go san
e. I never went to school. When I would try and ask questions, my father would beat on me until I stopped. But I couldn't stop. I guess I'm stubborn. That's what Marcella says.” She paused. “I'm confused and I'm stubborn."
"Sometimes stubborn can be good,” I said. I could tell it wasn't easy for her. I'm sure I didn't have that much nerve when I was her age. Seventeen seemed like long ago.
"Marcella helped me a lot,” she went on, hugging her knees as she hunkered into a corner of the sofa. “When I first came to her I was traveling with a couple of other street kids, a boy and a girl, about a year ago. I ran away because my dad killed Jesse."
"Was he your boyfriend?"
"Jesse's my brother. Was. He got away with it because they were down by the border and our dad shot him and got rid of his body. Everyone in that little town is afraid of him, so he thinks he can do whatever he wants to women and kids.” She looked at me, then back down, and now I could really see the child there, rocking with her arms wrapped around her tight, like a closed bud, as though to keep herself from flying apart. I had a sense I needed to keep her talking.
"So he got away with it?"
"Yeah, that's right. Nobody said anything. Jesse wasn't strong enough to be a man, that's what he thought. He didn't like guns, and he didn't learn what my father tried to teach him. My father really thought he was going to be leading an army of Protectors, and our big brother, when he gets out of the Marines, he'll be next in line. But Jesse, when he got big enough, would have to be his backup lieutenant to take over the Protectors later on. He wanted both his sons to follow in his footsteps. He called Jesse a faggot and hit him a lot. He hit all of us."
Then she suggested another cup of coffee. “I can do it now. That machine was so complicated to learn."
"I wouldn't even try,” I fibbed. I wondered if she needed a little break. When she'd delivered our refills, she stretched, walked over to the window, lifted a slat to look outside, murmuring, “Quiet as a tomb,” then came back to the sofa. She lifted her little cup, then set it down again.
EQMM, May 2009 Page 2