by Ian Ballard
Emilia looked out the living room window, but again saw nothing but darkness. Switching off the TV, she walked over to the door of the study, figuring there was no harm in turning off the light. For a moment she hesitated, as if the handle might be scalding hot and burn her. Then, she pushed the door open and stepped inside. Just as she was about to flip off the light, she noticed a dark blue object lying on the desk. It was small and rectangular—a document of some sort. A passport. That’s what it was.
Emilia thought again about Gary's admonishment to stay out of there, but her curiosity—was that the word?—was too great. She had to see whose it was and find out what it was doing there. She stepped over and picked it up.
As she flipped it open, her heart skipped a beat. A photo of Gary Allan Glattmann was staring her in the face.
What did it mean? He would have needed his passport to cross into Mexico, and a second time to get back in.
But it was here.
As she moved to set the passport down, she noticed that Gary's wallet was also on the desk. Suspicion had relieved her of her scruples and hesitations, and the next moment the wallet was in her hand. She flipped it open. Another set of Gary's eyes glared up at her.
She shuddered and almost threw the wallet down.
But she was overreacting, wasn't she?
She told herself to calm down and think. Just think for a minute without jumping to any weird conclusions.
So he hadn't taken his passport, or his wallet, or his license. He didn't have any ID on him, so he couldn't have made it into Mexico. And if he'd left it all behind, didn't that mean he wasn't planning on going there in the first place?
She tried to think of any way to explain it. Had there been some hush-hush agreement with the two workers to deliver them someplace else? No, that wouldn't make sense. If they were headed somewhere in the US, there would have been no need to smuggle them—and she'd clearly seen the two men getting into the hidden compartment earlier. And he hadn't forgotten his ID, or else he'd have come back for it. The border was fifteen minutes away and they'd been gone two hours now.
Again, the tail lights flashed in her mind.
Jesus, were they still in the corner of the ranch?
*
Every time Raul felt his eyelids drooping, he'd give himself a pinch. He'd made up his mind to stay awake. As long as it took till the truck came back. His father was awake too. Blue moonlight from the window framed his restless silhouette. Sometimes he'd cough or shift about, but he didn't speak a word to Raul, as though not wanting to acknowledge being part of this uneasy vigil.
The other eight hands were fast asleep. Except for a soft chorus of snores, the bunkhouse was silent. Eventually, his father too was nodding off, as his chin sunk inch by inch toward his chest. Raul, however, kept his gaze fixed on the hills to the west—at the spot where the truck had dipped out of sight two hours before. With no exits on that side of the ranch and no other routes to follow, it stood to reason that it had to reappear at some point.
What Raul would gain by glimpsing the truck's return was unclear. Certainly, it would tell him nothing about what had been going on in the back corner of the property. Nor would it tell him if the two men were safe. And yet sleep was clearly not an option.
Just then Raul became aware of a faint and far-off sound. The high-pitched hum of an engine that was gradually growing louder. He rose and crept to the window, scanning the darkness—his heart was beating hard. Expecting the Ford's headlights would come into view any instant.
He waited, but still no headlights appeared.
And yet the hum of the engine grew steadily louder.
Raul turned and squatted down next to his father's bunk. “Papi,” he whispered. “Papi, wake up.”
His father gave a grunt and opened his eyes. “Qué pasa?”
“Over there,” Raul said, pointing out the window, “it's them.”
His father peered out and seemed to study the darkness. “I don't see anything.”
“But can you hear it?”
His father cocked his head. “The engine. But where's it coming from?”
“Somewhere to the left,” Raul whispered. “Maybe they're over by the main house.”
“But why can't we see them?”
Raul hesitated. “I think they’re driving with the lights off.”
A moment later, his father rose and joined him at the open window. The motor grew louder still, then finally cut out altogether.
“It sounds like they just parked in front of the house,” Raul said.
His father said nothing, but he turned away from the window and started putting on his blue jeans.
“Qué pasa, Papi?” Raul asked.
“Get dressed,” his father said.
“What are we going to do?”
For a moment his father didn't answer, as if lost in thought. Finally, he spoke. “We're gonna go find out what's so damn interesting in that back corner.”
27
Mustang, OK
I leave Juárez around noon and cross the border back into Texas. In El Paso, I rent a Honda Accord and leave the Explorer behind, figuring the black Bureau vehicle might attract unwanted attention to this clandestine excursion. I drive all day and get into Mustang around 10 p.m.
The first thing I notice is how steeped the town is in Indian references and memorabilia. On this block alone there's the Squaw Motel, the Dakota Diner, and the Sitting Bull Laundromat. The gas station where I stop sells moccasin boots and papoose key rings. There's also a quaint antiquatedness to the town. Like everything's fifteen or twenty years out of date. The gas pump has plastic numbers that scroll by as you fill up. Inside, they sell twelve-ounce cans of Coke for fifty-five cents. And I keep seeing short metal garbage cans in people's yards, just like the kind my foster family back in Baltimore had when I was sixteen years old.
I eventually check into the cozy and unassuming Comanche Motel, just east of town, not far from Lisa's apartment. I register under an assumed name, Arturo Espinoza, pay in cash, and turn in for the night.
The next morning, I get up and pay a visit to the Mustang Police Station to see the file on Lisa’s disappearance. I have to flash my badge to the cop on duty, which I'm not thrilled about, but there's no way around it. Consistent with the NCIC database, the file has Lisa reported missing on Tuesday, January 2—sixteen days ago. She went to work that morning at the Bethesda Women’s Shelter in Oklahoma City—her nine-to-five. Then, at eight o’clock, she arrived on time for her shift at the Cadillac Bar and Grill in Mustang, where she worked three nights a week.
According to the report, at 10:30 p.m., Lisa went out for a smoke break and never came back. Around this time, witnesses saw her talking to someone in the parking lot seated behind the wheel of a late-model red Ford truck. No one was able to provide a description of the driver. Lisa’s purse, along with its contents, was found on the ground not far from where the red Ford was seen. That's the extent of the physical and eye-witness evidence. Despite extensive interviews with friends and relatives, there are currently no suspects, and there have been no further developments.
The next item on the agenda is a search of Lisa’s apartment. I want to see if there's anything the police overlooked, being that they were unaware of the case's connection to the Ropes' investigation. The visit, however, will be more prudently undertaken after sunset. Having a few hours to kill, I return to the Comanche Motel and watch TV while nervously twiddling my thumbs.
Around 11 p.m., I pull the Accord into a visitor’s parking spot at the Pinehurst Apartments and cut the engine. Apartment 284 is the single-bedroom apartment where Lisa was living alone at the time she disappeared. My indiscretions up to this point have amounted to piddling ethical violations. The worst they could have done would have been to fire me and shower me with shameful looks while I was escorted out of the building. What I’m about to do, on the other hand, is either breaking and entering or burglary, depending on what they decide to call it, and could get
me locked up for five-to-ten in the local monkey house.
But I only bring this up as an observation. I used to be a stickler to the last dot and decimal place. Today, a felony is just a footnote here. Even if this were punishable by death, I don't know that it would change my course. I guess what I'm saying is that I'm committed to this. To solving this one, come hell or high water. To crossing as many lines as I need to cross to find this guy and put him away. Now was that a threat or a promise? Or maybe just a pep talk.
From where I’m parked, I can see Lisa’s apartment. It's up on the second level, and it looks like one of her two neighbors is home. My plan is to wait a bit until everyone’s turned in for the night. The real risk of arrest is small. If someone calls the police, I’ll just flash my badge and talk my way out of it. I even wore my suit to increase my credibility in just such a contingency.
Which raises the question—am I a burglar impersonating an agent, or an agent moonlighting as a burglar?
I look at myself in the rearview mirror and realize it's been a while since I shaved. My eyes look tired and bloodshot. Overall, a little rough around the edges. After giving my reflection a disappointed scowl, I step out of the car and walk up the stairs leading to apartment 284.
When I reach the door, I stand there listening. The neighbor to the right is still up, watching TV—so I'd better keep it down. Next to the door are two large windows. Both have screens in them and are pushed up a few inches from the sills. With my pocket knife, I cut four slashes along the perimeter of the closer screen, which allows me to tear it out, leaving only the empty aluminum frame.
In the window of the apartment on the left, a disapproving Siamese cat sits watching me. I slide the window all the way up and feel around till I grasp the cord that raises the mini blinds. They go quietly up. Next, I cautiously insert my right leg, in the process knocking over a small potted cactus perched on the sill. It falls to the floor with a carpeted thud.
A moment later, I’m inside. I consider using the flashlight I’ve brought with me, but decide that the roving beams would be more suspicious than just turning on the lights. After a moment of fumbling around on the wall and accidentally groping a coat rack, I find the switch and flip it on.
I need a moment to take in the strange spectacle before me. The room, which is otherwise conventionally furnished, is chock-full on almost every nook, and shelf, and end table, and bookcase, with an astonishing panoply of lamps. Lamps of every size and shape, color, and design. Desk lamps, standing lamps, frilly antique lamps, art deco lamps. There's even a neon Corona sign above the TV and a string of Christmas lights strung across the ceiling. The lamps are all wired somehow to the main overhead switch, and the room blazes with an elaborate and dazzling radiance.
I flip off the living room light and the display instantly darkens. I then switch on the light in the kitchen, which is less extravagant, but more suited to my covert purposes. The lamp motif is fascinating because, as far as I know, this wasn't a hobby of Lisa's way back when, or at least it hadn't manifested itself so conspicuously. The only parallel that comes to mind is that she used to sleep with a nightlight on or sometimes with the TV going.
As I continue looking around, I realize what’s missing. So far there's nothing to suggest that a child lives here. No toys, Legos, or lunch pails whatsoever. If there was indeed a youngster in residence, he or she was certainly keeping a low profile. Though I suppose the child could be in the father’s custody.
I make my way to Lisa’s bedroom where, turning on the light, I find myself confronting another throng of lamps. If anything, their density is greater in this second room, with lamps covering the entire floor except for a narrow path running from the door to the bed to the closet. Apart from the lamps, the room's sparsely furnished. There’s an unmade double bed, a desk with a laptop on it, a closet full of brightly colored clothes, and a small dresser. In the closet, there’s a plastic laundry bin overflowing with rumpled garments. A single piano key sock has spilled out on the floor.
Likewise no trace of a kiddo here.
Maneuvering through the thicket of lamps, I step over to the desk, which is cluttered with personal effects. In addition to the laptop, there's a makeup compact, an asthma inhaler, a pair of pink Ray-Bans, an empty pack of Virginia Slims, an iPod, and three strands of red licorice. In the top drawer of the desk, I find two orange prescription drug bottles both made out to Lisa, both with pills in them. One is for Xanax, which I believe is an anti-anxiety drug, and one's for Wellbutrin, which can be used to treat either depression or anxiety. The drawer also contains a glass one-hit pot pipe and an Altoids mint container with several nuggets of marijuana inside.
On the floor under the desk there's a lint roller. I smile as I pick it up and my mind is instantly aglow with nostalgic flickerings. . . .
Lisa, when she worked at the DA's office, would often complain how her scruffy, Toto-like dog (of which there'd been a picture displayed on her desk) relentlessly shed on her. More than once, I'd stumbled on her in the break room vigorously rolling a device like this one over the curves and thoroughfares of her garments, trying to rid herself of the unwanted fur. Its presence here may mean she never lost affection for this breed of follically challenged pooch. Who knows—it may even be the same roller that she’s been using all these years to clean up after the same dog.
I set the lint roller back down on the floor.
Extending above the desk is a hutch with two shelves. On the lower shelf are two photographs, unframed and lying face up on the wooden surface. In the first photo, Lisa appears as a gangly, preteen girl. She’s wearing Mickey Mouse ears and her face is painted with giant whiskers. A smiling blonde woman holds her hand. This is Jaci, Lisa's mom. I met her twice back when Lisa and I were dating. I now notice that part of the picture is missing. A section of the photo to the left of Lisa’s shoulder has been neatly cut away, as if with scissors. A brawny forearm and hand enter the picture from the deleted zone. Lisa's small hand holds tight to the clipped appendage, which, I would guess, belongs to Lisa's father. I never met him—he was out of the picture by the time we got together—but I gathered Lisa wasn’t too fond of him. Not sure why. I check the back of the photo, but nothing's written there.
The second photo features a paunchy middle-aged man with red hair, a somewhat younger woman of tall and stout proportions, and an eight- or nine-year-old girl. All three are clad in overalls and other outlandishly rustic attire, as if they were cast members of the show Hee Haw. To wit, there's a haystack in the background and the man is holding a pitchfork. The year ’08 is inscribed in golden numerals in the bottom left corner. Clearly, this is a family—but whose I couldn't say.
I flip the photo over. Handwritten in feminine cursive on the back are the words Danielle, age 8. I flip it back and study the young girl’s face for a minute or two. She could be Lisa's child, I suppose. Indeed, she's the only candidate so far. She could also be a niece or a cousin of Lisa's. Or these people could just be friends of Lisa's from any number of contexts. It seems notable that the photo only identifies the child. That may suggest that Lisa was more closely acquainted with her than with the two adults. After a moment's study, I'm convinced I recognize a number of Lisa’s features in the young girl's face. Her blue eyes, narrow nose and sharp chin are all clearly evident, notwithstanding the girl's black hair, fuller lips, and darker complexion. The fact that this was one of only two photos Lisa kept on her desk suggests the child was someone very significant. After a moment’s hesitation, I grab it and stick it in my back pocket.
I turn and scan the room for anything I might have missed. At the foot of Lisa’s bed, there's a small, black suitcase. I pick it up and see there’s a travel tag around the handle which gives the address of this apartment. The “if lost contact” line lists Jaci Walters, Lisa’s mother, along with a phone number. I unzip the bag and go through its contents. There’s a four- or five-day supply of clothes, a cosmetics bag, and—taking up about a third of the bag's spa
ce—a decrepit-looking Teddy bear.
Wonder why she was taking it with her on a trip?
I pick it up. The ancient toy—perhaps a relic from Lisa's own childhood—has seen better days. There's a hole in the animal's stomach where traces of stuffing peek out, while the buttons that once served as its eyes are no more, with only a pair of white cross stitches remaining to mark the spots. Around the bear's neck there's a big red bow with—I just notice—a little card attached.
I open the card and read what's written there:
Dear Danielle,
Happy 10th Birthday!
I’m so excited to meet you
and to get to be part of your
life!
Love,
Lisa
28
El Paso, 1992
Emilia heard the sound of the truck pulling up in front of the house. She rushed out of the study, closed the door, and hurried back over to the couch in the living room.
Car doors, softly shutting. Voices speaking in hushed tones. Emilia flipped the TV on and pretended she was watching—an infomercial about a set of steak knives. A man in a chef's hat effortlessly sliced a soda can in half. The handle jiggled and Gary appeared in the open doorway. Tad and Luke shuffled up behind him. A look of surprise crossed Gary's face when he saw Emilia and for a split-second he balked.