Rhodes looked steadily at me. “Maybe.”
I held out the hand-sketched map Keith Randel had given me. He gave it one quick glance.
“Where’d you get this?” he demanded.
“Is it Willie’s mine?” I countered, pulling my hand back so he couldn’t snatch the small piece of paper.
“Where’d you get it?”
“Let’s just say, a mutual friend. Willie left it with him and told him this is where he’d be.”
“That sounds about right,” he conceded. “Musta been somebody he really trusted. He took me up there once but never would give me anything in writing. I kept telling him he better register the claim. He said he did, but I wasn’t ever sure about that. Willie was the kind who wanted the riches but didn’t want to handle any paperwork.”
“So the mine really does exist,” I said.
“Oh, yes. Like I say, he took me there once, showed me that little map once, too. Guess that’s why it startled me that you had it. I know Willie drew it.”
“If he wanted to hide out, do you think that’s where he’d go?”
“Makes sense to me—if he could get up there. It’s pretty rugged. We didn’t have an easy time of it fifteen years ago, when we was both a bit younger. Last time I saw Willie he was slowin’ down. Don’t know as he could make that hike any more.
“You ever been up in the Superstitions?” he asked, giving me a sharp look. “No? Well, that land is rough. And that map—here, let me show you somethin’.”
I held out the map again. He pointed a gnarled finger, tracing a dotted line Willie had drawn.
“This here’s Willie’s trail. Now, it ain’t any real trail, mind you. Best as I remember you gotta aim yourself from one landmark to the next. Like this—this’d be a giant saguaro. This here—this’d be a rock cairn. Stuff like that. Follow ’em into the hills till you hit a pretty deep wash. That’s the wiggly line he’s got here. ’Long the side of that wash is where the mine entrance is. Now don’t expect to just see it—it’s gonna be hidden real good. But if Willie did make it up there, you oughta see signs of him, footprints and all. Willie’s a decent prospector but he ain’t no Indian. Ain’t worth shit at hidin’ his own tracks.”
“Mr. Rhodes, you’ve really been a big help,” I told him as we stood to leave. “Would you let me know if you hear anything from Willie? Here’s my card. His family is really worried.”
“Family, huh. Would that be that daughter in Albuquerque, what’s her name?”
“Dorothy?”
“Yeah, that’s the one. Don’t know as Willie would really want to be found by that one.”
He caught my expression.
“You’re not too surprised, either, are you? I never met her myself, but Willie tells me she’s tryin’ to start running his life, bossing him around. He didn’t want no part of it. I don’t know as I oughta turn him over to her.”
“Look, I know exactly what you mean about Dorothy—the pushy part, I mean. She hired me to locate him for a family reunion. The reunion’s over now, but there are still family members who are worried about him. His granddaughter, Melanie, for one.” I rolled up the two maps. “I may not be able to convince him to go back, and I certainly can’t make him see Dorothy. But I’d like to be able to assure the family that he’s alive and well. Think you could help me with that?”
He scuffed a weathered boot against the carpet. “Long as you don’t make him go back. I’ll let you know if I hear from him.”
Drake, Rusty and I headed back to the car. “I notice you didn’t exactly promise not to take Willie back to Albuquerque.”
“But I did say I wouldn’t turn him over to Dorothy. I know that’s probably some kind of a breach, since she’s paying me, but I can’t be party to the dirty tricks she’s playing with his will. On the other hand,” I said as we pulled out onto the street, “Willie is still wanted for questioning by the sheriff in White Oaks. I can’t exactly ignore that.”
We returned to our motel and stretched out for a short rest. When I dialed Paul’s number again he was home so we made plans to meet for dinner at seven.
The restaurant was one of those ‘family dining’ places where kids eat free. Paul would have probably chosen something more upscale, since it was our treat, but the kids insisted and I’d learned long ago that Paul’s kids usually got their way.
We met them out front and I registered quick impressions of the group I hadn’t seen in almost a year. The two kids had each added an inch or two of growth, Lorraine had added another ten pounds to her post-childbirth middle, and Paul had added a few gray hairs.
I introduced Drake all around—Paul’s family hadn’t made it to our quick wedding in October. Lorraine lowered her eyes coquettishly and eight-year-old Annie latched onto his hand, developing an instant crush. Paul gave Drake a smile that didn’t quite extend to his eyes, and it struck me that he was jealous. Paul’s desk job high in the Bank of America building didn’t hold much glamour compared to Drake’s days at the controls of his helicopter. Drake immediately put him at ease, though, with a compliment on the beefy new SUV Paul drove. My brother launched into the story of the great deal he’d gotten on it.
Inside, we settled around a large table and browsed the menu. We were just receiving our salads when Drake’s cell phone rang.
“Uh-oh, this can’t be good,” he said, pulling it off his belt. “Drake Langston.”
I shushed Paul’s two kids when it became apparent that neither of their parents would do it.
"Times i0Yes, Mike,” Drake continued, “how are you? Yes, I’m available. Uh-huh. Okay, let me get some details.” He pulled a small notepad from his shirt pocket and began writing rapidly.
So much for our having a few days off together, I thought. Okay, to be fair, I was the one who talked him into coming along on my job rather than taking some pure vacation time. I stabbed a chunk of lettuce and swirled it in honey-mustard dressing.
“Sorry,” Drake apologized to the group. “I don’t like to take calls at the table.”
“Another job?” I asked.
“A fire near Heber. At least that’s in Arizona, not too far away.” He clipped the phone back to his belt and stuffed the notes into his pocket. “Got to head down there first thing in the morning.”
Both kids perked up at the mention of fire, something I might have worried about if they’d been mine, so Drake entertained everyone with a few stories of forest fires he’d worked. By nine o’clock we’d returned to our hotel where we snuggled together tightly, knowing we were facing a lot more nights apart now.
Chapter 13
I blew Drake a kiss in the gray early morning light as the JetRanger lifted off from its spot on the tarmac at the Mesa airport. The little details were now mine to deal with, getting Rusty and myself back to Albuquerque, turning in the rented car, handling Drake’s business in his absence. But what I really wanted to do was to follow my leads on Willie McBride.
Drake had issued all kinds of cautions to me about not heading off alone into the mountains, about heat stroke, snake bites, and cactus. Knowing he couldn’t actually forbid me to go, he’d just tried his best to make it sound too nasty to deal with. I knew immediately that I’d go anyway.
Rusty trotted along beside me and I opened the back door of the rented sedan for him.
“Okay, kid. What’s next?” I pulled my maps of the Superstitions from under the seat. Drake was right in everything he’d said—it wouldn’t do to get myself lost out there unprepared. I drove back to the hotel to work out my strategy.
I’d brought a small backpack from home, thinking it was just the right size for a picnic lunch for three. Now it would serve as a day trip kit for two. Into it went the maps, a compass, flashlight, sunscreen, snakebite kit (yes, we did own one), lip balm, thr ee Power Bars, a large plastic zipper bag of dog food, and two bottles of water. On top of it all, I added the portable GPS, which Drake had forgotten to take with him. I hoped he wouldn’t need it on his job, but I
needed it for mine. From my purse I took some money and my cell phone, and added my driver’s license, just in case someone had to identify me later.
I dressed in cotton slacks and shirt and tied a light jacket around my waist. Another canteen of water would go over my shoulder. I made sure Rusty drank all the water he wanted in the room before we headed out to the car. On the way out we would stop somewhere and stoke up on a high protein breakfast.
All this preparation might make an observer think I’m a real outdoors person but let me assure you that isn’t the case. Although I was pretty rough and tumble as a kid, my adult life experience as an accountant hasn’t exactly required it and, in general, I’d rather visit the dentist than the sun, the bugs, and the snakes. It’s only a result of my marriage to Mr. Preparedness that I’ve learned that it pays to face the great outdoors in a ready state.
The sun was still fairly low in the east, the air temperature a pleasant seventy-something, when we parked the car at the trail head. Rusty bounded from the car, excited to be doing something he considered fun for a change. I looped the canteen over my shoulder and took the maps, compass, and GPS from the backpack before slipping my arms through the straps. I booted up the GPS and waited until it fixed on our position. I programmed our current spot as a waypoint, then clipped the instrument to my waistband. Now, in theory, no matter where I might end up on the face of the earth, I could find my way back to this car. That is, if the batteries held out.
The trail was wide and smooth and Rusty roamed ahead, exploring rabbit smells, veering back to check on my progress from time to time. According to the scale on the map it looked like I’d go about a mile on marked trail before reaching the point where I’d need to start following Willie’s sketch. The morning air smelled of sage and something very herbal. I took deep breaths of it, taking the time to notice a couple of landmarks once I was out of sight of the car.
Weaver’s Needle rose in the distance ahead of me, a craggy upward-jutting rock that must have acted as a beacon for explorers of the area from the earliest times. On either side of us, canyon walls rose gradually, the hillsides dotted with cactus, from the fluffy-looking chainfruit cholla to majestic saguaros with their arms reaching toward the sky. Soon, the trail began a steady climb, narrowing at a series of switchbacks. My legs were speaking to me about the unaccustomed stretching. Rusty began to stick a bit closer.
I stopped at a small rise and consulted the map again. The marker I was looking for on Willie’s map consisted of a dead saguaro skeleton with five rocks at its base. I scanned ahead but didn’t see it. I drank some water from the canteen and offered Rusty some in a plastic cup. He took a couple of deep slurps and turned away.
“Hey, can’t waste water out here,” I scolded. “Finish this.”
He looked at the cup again but clearly wasn’t interested.
“Okay, but I’m only carrying this for you a little way.” He kept trotting up the trail. “Hey, I’m not your slave, you know.” My shout didn’t carry much weight with him. I glanced again at the water in the cup, then tossed it with a splash on the ground. So there.
I stashed the cup in my pack and hiked on, hoping I’d see the marker before I went too far out of my way. Three sharp turns and another hundred feet in elevation and I found it. There on my right stood what appeared to be half a saguaro cactus. The top had fallen completely away and the base was pretty rotten. The once-majestic arms were now reedy-looking appendages, some pointing skyward, others fallen at haphazard angles. Sure enough, at the base were five reddish rocks, close enough in color and size, and placed at even intervals around the large cactus, that they couldn’t have just been there by chance.
“Okay!” I shouted to Rusty. He stopped at his spot higher up the trail and turned to me. I nodded toward the turnoff and he bounded back.
A barely-visible track traced its way through the desert terrain. I checked my map to see what kind of marker we would be looking for next. It looked like it would be a wooden sign, something probably “borrowed” from a Forest Service trail, battered and lying on the ground. Unfortunately, Willie’s map scale wasn’t nearly as precise as that on the topo map so I’d need to keep my eyes peeled and do a lot of guesswork.
I pulled out the compass and checked my heading. If Willie’s perspective was right I’d need to go due east for at least a half-mile then make a turn to the north. I glanced again at the pitiful track before me. There was nothing so defined as a path, not a footprint in sight. It was more like a wide space between plants. With eyes on the ground I started to follow it, thankful that I’d worn slacks instead of shorts as the woody branches of sage scraped against my legs.
About two hundred yards off the main trail I thought I’d lost it. A rock outcropping crossed my path and I couldn’t see whether I was supposed to go around it or over the rocks. I decided to climb up and see if I could pick up the trail by seeing it from above. Rusty looked at me curiously as I began the climb, being careful not to reach over any ledge without checking it visually first. Rattlesnakes aren’t normally aggressive but a person can certainly startle them out of a nice sunny nap and get a fatal bite in return. My feet fumbled a couple of times on the round rocks but soon I had a vantage point twenty or thirty feet higher than the path I’d been on. I scanned the surrounding area and spotted the trail easily, winding through the desert beyond the outcropping.
Rather than attempt to descend over the round boulders below me I backtracked to the path and rounded the outcropping, catching Willie’s path again on the east side. The sun was now directly overhead and I stopped to smooth sunscreen on my face and bare arms. Rusty trotted along as we headed east once more.
I nearly missed the downed-sign marker. Expecting it to be right along the path, I only caught it because of a fleck of white paint that still clung to it. It caught the sun at just the right angle to flash like a tiny mirror at me. The sign lay ten or twelve feet away from the path, on my right. I needed to turn left to the north. I paused to double check the map. It was drawn the opposite way and would have been an easy assumption to make a wrong turn. But my destination was clearly shown to the north.
An airplane droned overhead, a single engine thing that sounded like a bumblebee on steroids. I watched it head toward the city, disappearing behind the hills in just a few minutes. The silence that followed reminded me just how alone I was out here. Other than Rusty and a few jackrabbits, I hadn’t seen another living creature all morning. It warned me that, although I felt confident that I could find my way back, no one else knew where I was. A tiny breeze raised goosebumps on my arms and I rubbed to make them go away.
“Okay,” I said to Rusty, mainly to hear the sound of a human voice. “Let’s get going.”
He chuffed in agreement and followed my lead. Heading north again, I realized that the sun was now well past center. A glance at my watch told me it was already two o’clock. We obviously weren’t going to make it to the mine and back in one day, as I’d hoped. And getting back to the car was something I didn’t relish attempting in the dark.
Desert temperatures drop dramatically after sunset. It isn’t at all uncommon to lose thirty degrees or more overnight, and I didn’t think my light cotton clothing was going to work if it hit forty. I stopped and looked again at the map.
“Hold up a second, bud,” I called to Rusty.
Even allowing for differences in scale, I’d guess we still had at least two hours to go before we’d come to the mine. If we could find it easily, which Rocky Rhodes had told me we wouldn’t, and if Willie was there and agreeable to giving us a warm place to spend the night. Those were some pretty big ifs. I may be foolhardy at times but common sense told me we better use our remaining daylight to get back to shelter.
“You know, I think this is about enough hiking for one day,” I told the dog, trying to sound like I was happy about it. “We better head back now.”
One nice thing about being a dog is that you aren’t too goal oriented in matters other than food
. Rusty gleefully turned around when I did and trotted back the way we’d come. He clearly didn’t feel any of the disappointment I did at abandoning our mission. We reached the car at six, just as the glowing orange ball of sun hit the western horizon. I slipped the small backpack and my other equipment into the back seat and jammed my arms into the sleeves of my jacket.
“Told you it would be getting cool pretty soon,” I said to the dog. “Besides, I’m starving. Ready for some dinner?”
Dinner is one of Rusty’s magic words. His ears perked and his front legs bounced off the ground, spinning him in circles of joy.
“Let’s get back to the hotel,” I suggested.
All the way down the trail I’d wrestled with the problem of how I’d make it to the mine without running into the same problem, lack of time. I’d either have to find a quicker mode of travel, such as a horse, or prepare to stay out overnight. Neither idea had loads of appeal so I filed them away until I could relieve my dusty, hungry condition.
I knew once I reached the comfort of my hotel room I wouldn’t want to go out again so I pulled into the drive-thru at a Kentucky Fried Chicken and got myself a boxed chicken dinner to go. Rigor mortis was starting to set in on my dead-tired muscles and it was somewhat stiffly that I pulled myself out of the car and headed toward my room. This physical effort stuff is excruciating.
In the room I set out a bowl of tasty doggie nuggets for Rusty but he was having none of it as long as there was fried chicken in the room. Unable to decide whether I’d feel better if I ate first or showered first, I decided to get him off my trail by getting the food out of the way. I switched on the TV set and pulled my dinner from the box. Peeling a few select strips of meat off the bones, I set them aside for Rusty and proceeded to devour my portion.
Afterward, I tore up the chicken meat and added it to his bowl, sticking the remains of the meal in the wastebasket and deciding that container would be safer out of the dog’s reach. I put the basket on the high closet shelf and started peeling off clothes. When I came out of the shower Rusty was sitting in front of the closet door, staring at it wistfully.
Reunions Can Be Murder: The Seventh Charlie Parker Mystery Page 12