Desert Angel

by Charlie Price

  Angel ignored the baking heat, the shadows of birds flying above her, because something was wrong. It took her another mile or so to catch it. She hadn’t brushed her footprints. She looked over her shoulder. Sooner or later Scotty would track her.

  “Tortoises, pretty easy. You know their prowl, find their marks, circle till you run into one.” At the kitchen table, wearing gloves, rubbing scent on a snare chain, he’d cut his eyes at her, sensing her interest. “Eagles, though, pretty tricky. Guerrilla war. Got to be patient. High ground, rotten deer. Got to pop a net on them soon as they land.” He had turned his head to look at her fully. “Those, you got to be willing to wait. Got to cover every detail.”

  She had seen it in his eyes. Tortoise or bird, her time was coming.

  So she knew Scotty would come back, make a last check, but maybe not today. He’d wait to see if anybody was going to sniff around the burn. He’d probably glass the place from a distance. If it was clear, he’d go in and poke through the wreck, looking for her bones. When he didn’t find them, he’d come after her.

  She glanced at the sky. Sure. Like it was going to rain. No, her tracks would still be there, around the ruins, heading out along the trail. She had a head start so she needed to reach the pavement before he caught up. Then he wouldn’t know if she’d gone east or west or hitched. If she had water she’d make it for sure. Without it …

  She covered her head with her jacket and walked faster.

  5

  Angel’s tongue was swollen, her throat raw. She had fallen a couple of times, had gravel in her palms, grit in her mouth. Reaching the pavement was a relief but it was rough, no easier to walk on than the sand. Though she was dizzy, not sure she was seeing right, it looked like a house in a clump of scrub trees close ahead. She plodded toward it, made it to the porch, caught a toe on the steps, and limped to the door. She leaned against the wall and pushed the screen open.

  An old woman sitting on a plastic-covered couch looked up from her sewing. Frowned. Stubbed out her cigarette. “¡Mijo!” The screech was like metal on metal.

  Angel wasn’t sure what to do, what to say. Help? Pretty obvious. She sat on the cool linoleum floor and closed her eyes.

  A new pain flashed and roused her. Scotty!

  The old woman was poking her with a cane. “¡Levántase!”

  Angel shielded her face with an arm.

  “Up.” The woman lifted the cane again.

  “Okay. Okay.” Angel rolled away and got to her knees. “Water?” Her voice was raspy. “¿Agua?”

  The woman shooed her as if an animal had entered the house by mistake.

  “Abuela. Momentito.”

  Angel turned to the voice from the front door. A boy? An old man? She couldn’t make sense of him.

  “Sólo sed.” The man continued speaking to the gray-haired woman as he came inside. “Agua, water. Nada más.” The man, small, bent, had his hands in front of him, placating the woman.

  Angel watched, uncertain. She made an effort to stand, but the dizziness returned. She slid a few feet to a large chair and propped herself against it.

  The man gave Angel a nod, took the old woman’s elbow, and whispered something as he walked her back to the couch.

  Looking past him, the woman squinted at Angel like the girl was a demon.

  The little man caught the old woman’s eye and held up a single finger. Wait.

  The woman sighed and picked up her sewing. Found the threaded needle and fitted a thimble to her finger. The man went through an open doorway to the next room and returned shortly with a clay jug of water.

  Angel drank till she felt sick, wiped her chin with her arm. “Thanks,” she said. Her mother had shown her Spanish in a Mexican guidebook but she wasn’t comfortable trying it.

  “You are hurt.”

  Angel shook her head.

  “You are lost?”

  Angel glanced at the old woman, who continued mending, giving no sign of listening. What would happen if she told part of it? Would he believe her? Would he call the sheriff? If he didn’t, what could he possibly do? Scotty would swat him like a bug.

  “Your carro?”

  Angel closed her eyes.

  “You run.” The man’s voice was soothing. “You wish help?”

  Angel had heard that before. Social workers. You couldn’t believe anybody.

  “You rest. Okay.”

  Angel looked at the man carefully. He was guessing. But he was speaking her thoughts. What did he want from her?

  “Hey, Tío, Abuela. A man is looking for his daughter.”

  6

  Angel turned to see a teenage boy holding the screen open. Thick black hair, khaki work pants, UCLA T-shirt. Clean. Only then did she pick up the sound, the low rumble behind him.

  The older man was up immediately, moving toward the door. “Tell him no, no hemos visto.”

  The young man was looking at Angel.

  “¡Aya, Matteo! ¡Dile! Tell him! We don’t see.” The old man reached the threshold and blocked the view outside.

  “You don’t see what?” Scotty. Somewhere beyond the door.

  Angel was on her feet, slipping and scrambling through the doorway to the far room. A kitchen. Small fridge, double-burner hot plate, chipped sink, square table set with clay-colored plates, three chairs. If there was a pantry she didn’t see it. No crawl hole to the ceiling. But there was another space. Mudroom. She ran through and flew out the screen door. No! She dived back and grabbed it before it slammed.

  The rear area had a makeshift corral with a stunted heifer, a few goats, and a pig lying in the dirt at the far end. To one side, a broken coop. To the other, a shed big enough for a stall and a workbench. Scotty would search both. Angel forced herself to keep looking. An outhouse. She’d never fit down the hole. At the edge of the place a dilapidated car sat on rims. The trunk? But he’d check it. She turned back to the house. Propane tank at the corner. Roof? No way up. The water she’d gulped was coming back on her. She wheeled. Corral. She could lie behind the pig.

  “Angel, sweetie, time to come home.” Close, kitchen at least.

  Out of time. A surge of panic brought bitter fluid to the back of her throat. She sprinted for the shed, circled it, and crawled into the corral to lie as close as she could to the pig without disturbing it. She heard the back screen open.

  “Well, nice spread.” Scotty. Friendly as could be. “Got some good animals there,” he said. “We didn’t have a chance to get our stock going.”

  Whoever was with him didn’t reply.

  “Mind if I see how you did your little barn there? Think I want to do mine the same way.”

  Angel kept her head down but she could hear the footsteps. She couldn’t remember if the stall shed had a window facing the corral. Sounded like Scotty and someone following him went inside the shed for a minute or so and came back out.

  “That a Pontiac? I used to have one of those.”

  She heard him walk past the corral toward the old car, heard it groan when he leaned on it to look in, heard the trunk hinge grind open and the clack when he closed it.

  “Good one, huh? They give out, you still hate to let ’em go.”

  She heard his steps come back toward the corral. Then silence. Somebody’s boot creaked.

  “Goat milk? Make cheese?”

  Whoever was with him remained quiet.

  “Well, thanks. Mighty neighborly.” He cleared his throat. “You see my daughter, keep her safe. Keeps running away, one of these times she’s gonna get hurt. Hitch with some nut. I told you I got a reward for her? A thousand dollars. You or your family find her and it’s yours.”

  Maybe whoever was with Scotty nodded. She heard steps receding but not the sound of the screen. They could be walking around the house to the drive. She stayed put till she heard the faint engine noise, heard it move away, heard it speed up and go through gears heading west toward Hot Springs.

  The pig shivered and snorted, dreaming, Angel thought. She rubbed th
e bristly skin along its shoulder and back. Felt like kissing it thanks. Shook her head. The princess and the pig. She carefully rolled away, scooched under the lowest corral rail, and stood. The yard was smaller than she remembered. All dirt. And in the middle boot prints going in different directions and her size-six tennie marks in a ragged line from the rear door toward the back of the shed. Her tracks. The bolt of fear was like a seizure, spewing water and bile up from her stomach into the dirt at her feet.

  Angel was bent over, hands on knees, hoping to ease the burning in her throat when she heard the screen door. Abuela. Standing in the opening, watching. The old woman used her cane to negotiate the step, came forward holding a wet dish towel. She washed Angel’s face and walked her back inside.

  7

  Matteo leaned against the sink, shaking his head and frowning while Angel sat at the kitchen table with Tío and Abuela. Tío rubbed his hand through his hair. Angel kept her head bowed, but her knee had started jittering and she stuck her hands under the table to hide picking at her hangnails. Abuela was looking at her so intently Angel could feel her skin growing warmer.

  The old woman had started with the short blond hair, matted and singed. Angel stopped herself from reaching up to comb it with her fingers. Abuela tilted slightly to better see the cuts on Angel’s forehead, the reddened burns on cheek and nostril. She took in the stains on Angel’s torn jacket before returning to Angel’s face. She focused on Angel’s eyes and read them like tea leaves.

  “Why didn’t you tell him?” Matteo challenged. “Her father. It’s her family to work out.”

  Tío shook his head.

  “You’re always telling me la familia es todo. We can’t do nothing with her,” Matteo insisted.

  Abuela silenced him with a look.

  Matteo lowered his eyes, rubbed the instep of one boot against the back of his other leg.

  “Not father,” Abuela said. “Son differentes.”

  “He’s not my father,” Angel said, speaking for the first time since Scotty left.

  Tío turned to her. Spoke softly but firmly. “You run from him. Okay. He is gone. After dark, you go. No police,” he said. “We…” He looked away to find the right words. Gave up. Tapped the table for emphasis. “No police here.”

  “¿Piensas que él lo sepa?” the grandmother asked Angel.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “You think he knows?” Matteo translated impatiently. “Knows what? ¿Que?”

  “That I’m here?” Angel didn’t need to think. She nodded, not meeting anyone’s eyes. “I know he does.” In the following silence she wasn’t sure they believed her. “He’s a hunter.” She spoke slowly and looked at Abuela, hoping to be understood.

  “Un cazador,” Tío translated.

  Abuela closed her eyes and crossed herself.

  * * *

  MATTEO PULLED A STOOL OUT OF THE MUDROOM and joined them at the table. Time to make a plan. The family waited, everyone looking down at the place where the plate would be if this were a meal. It was on Angel to speak first.

  What could she say? She wasn’t used to talking. At all. To anyone. Her mother had told her a hundred times. Don’t say nothing. What we do is nobody’s business. So maybe she could keep them out of it.

  “Do you have a phone?”

  Matteo snorted. Tío shook his head.

  Okay. There was really no choice. Scotty was out there. Watching. If she left, he’d take her. But if she stayed … he could torch this place. Or sneak in and— Angel stopped herself, couldn’t stand to imagine what Scotty might do to this family.

  “I have to go.” Angel kept her voice steady, but her eyes were busy searching the kitchen counters for a weapon. Would they give her a knife?

  “I’ll walk her to Ramón’s,” Matteo said. “He can drop her at the police on his way to work.”

  “Walk her…?” Tío was frowning at the idea.

  “Okay, I’ll wait till Celina comes home and drive her to Ramón’s.”

  “Celina?” Angel asked.

  “My sister,” Matteo said, sounding irritated at having to explain. “Works in town.”

  “The man watches?” Tío asked.

  “This house?” Angel nodded.

  “¿Él hizo esto?” Abuela asked. “Man, did? All?” She was pointing at Angel’s wounds.

  “Yes,” Angel said. A surge of shame rushed through her. Her fault. She should have seen this coming. Should have done something. Made her mom leave. Killed Scotty in his sleep. Run—

  Tío interrupted her thoughts. “He will hurt everyone?” he asked, moving his eyes to include Matteo and Abuela.

  “Yes,” Angel said, swallowing back tears.

  Tío stood and left the room. Came back with a small rifle and put it on the floor next to him as he sat.

  Angel pitied him. Next to Scotty’s high-powered rifles with scopes, Tío’s gun was a toy.

  Matteo’s eyes had widened. “So I’ll get her out of here,” he said, pushing up from the table. “Out the back. Off the road. Be at Ramón’s in fifteen minutes.”

  “And if Ramón’s not home?” Tío was shaking his head. “If this man sees you and does something?… Sit.”

  “La iglesia,” Abuela said. “Church. All.”

  Matteo snorted again. Angel grimaced. It was too late for church years ago. Tío narrowed his eyes at Abuela, as if that would help him see what she was thinking.

  “Church,” Abuela repeated. “Tan pronto a que vuelve Celina.”

  Angel looked to Tío.

  “Soon Celina come, we all go to church,” he said, picking up the rifle and standing.

  8

  When the elderly Ford sedan rattled into the drive, Abuela hobbled out the front door followed by Tío, then Angel, then Matteo. Tío carried the rifle inconspicuously at his side. The young woman driving looked surprised and started to open her door, but Abuela shook her head, made her way to the passenger side, and climbed in front. Tío opened the rear door and crawled in first. Angel and Matteo followed.

  “Church,” Tío said. “A la iglesia, ahorita.”

  “What … who—”

  “¡Ándale, Celina! Now!”

  While the car rolled back onto Dillon Road, the passengers scanned both directions looking for the camo pickup. The two-lane and the surrounding desert flats appeared empty. They missed the vehicle tucked behind mesquite three hundred yards west, missed the brief glint of raised binoculars.

  * * *

  WHILE CELINA DROVE TOWARD HOT SPRINGS, Angel looked for landmarks in case she had to flee the car. Right. The desert flats were crisscrossed by hundreds of identical shallow washes cut by runoff from the rare thunderstorms. Houses were farther apart than she remembered. There were no stores, no businesses, and the miles sped by with numbing sameness.

  * * *

  CHURCH. This was the old woman’s idea of a plan? Angel only went along because she thought there might be a phone to call police or a chance to run again without Scotty seeing her. Angel had never given religion much thought, but it wasn’t like God or prayer had ever helped anything. If there was a god, he was for other people. Scotty was an ugly man. Maybe worse, but similar to several men her mom had hooked up with. Not the devil. There was nothing supernatural in Angel’s world. Nothing was to blame for her mother’s death but persistent stupidity. Angel tried to stay with her anger but she missed her mom with an ache that not even rage could cover. She coughed to stifle an involuntary sob.

  After several minutes Celina made a right on a dirt road at the edge of town and skirted the settlement until she reached a whitewashed adobe building with a square steeple. In front, a weathered wooden sign said SANTUARIO DE LA VIRGEN DE GUADALUPE. The gravel parking lot was full of dusty cars and dented pickups. Angel could see families climbing the short steps to an open front door, the older women in dark dresses and shawls, the men in white shirts with cowboy hats or baseball caps.

  Abuela drew a scarf out of her bag, put it on, and handed one
to Celina. Tío and Matteo wore button shirts and straw hats. Though her jeans would blend in, Angel had nothing large enough to cover her short blond hair. She hated to stand out in a crowd but this was such a dumb idea anyway, it could hardly get any worse.

  Once inside she followed Tío to a rough pew in a row near the back, far from the altar. Abuela stayed at the door talking with Celina and several other women. A middle-aged man in a black shirt and white collar stood by the pulpit talking with a young couple holding a baby. Angel closed her eyes and listened to the soft buzz of conversation in the room. Sanctuary. She took a deep breath and enjoyed a rare moment of safety. Scotty would never come in here.

  She must have dozed. When someone jostled her awake, she saw the priest and the young couple had now been joined by four gray-haired people. She imagined they were discussing a thing for the baby, a christening, probably. Jostled again, she turned to find Abuela shaking her shoulder.

  “Put. Esta camisa.” The old woman held out a large white snap-button cowboy shirt. A stocky square-faced man standing in a T-shirt beside Abuela looked like he might have just taken it off.

  Angel looked at Abuela to see if she meant it. The old woman poked the shirt at her again and the stocky man nodded. Angel felt a wave of dizziness. This was crazy. Did she have to wear white for this church or were they giving her clothes like she was a homeless person? Angel didn’t want a scene. She began to take off her jacket.

  Abuela stopped her. “No … encima.”

  “Over,” the man said. “Leave your jacket.”

  Angel gave up trying to make sense of this and pulled on the garment. Like wearing a sheet. She rolled the sleeves up to hand level.

  A boy came up behind Abuela and handed her some khaki pants.

  Abuela reached them to Angel. “Pantalones.”

  Angel couldn’t believe what she was hearing. She braced against the idea and looked around to see who was watching. Though she was in a crowd, everyone including Tío and Matteo was staring straight ahead. What the—