by Sylvia Nobel
I splashed to the surface, coughing and choking. Was this the greatest irony or what? Five minutes ago I’d been praying for water and now I was chest-deep in it. Rain water from the monsoons. Unbelievable. Shrieking like a mad woman I cavorted and splashed around like a child in a wading pool. After pausing a few seconds to ponder the consequences of it being either stagnant or contaminated, I threw caution to the wind and dipped my head to drink like a parched horse at a waterhole.
When my thirst was satisfied the next order of business was to get the hell out of there. If I stood on the rim of the bucket I’d still be several feet shy of the entrance. It appeared that my only route to safety was to scale the series of cables attached to the top of the aging head frame still hunched over the mine. Not a happy thought, but what choice did I have?
I grabbed the cables, but could not resist a quick glimpse down to where I’d lain only moments before. The boards were gone. “My God,” I whispered in horrified awe. I looked away. No point dwelling on it now. With freedom as my beacon, I hoisted myself up the remaining few feet and crawled out into the late afternoon sunlight. I collapsed on my stomach, wheezing for breath. Self-congratulations appeared to be in order. Not only had I escaped unscathed from the ordeal, I’d managed to survive my first serious asthma attack in over a year without the benefit of either inhaler or medication. The hot Arizona desert was working its magic.
For I don’t know how long, I lay there, holding fast to the earth, savoring its dusky-sweet smell, reconnecting my soul to it. Everything appeared starkly beautiful. Rocks. Cactus. Sky. Sun. Even the little speckled beetle crawling over my fingers. I lifted my face, treasuring the wind’s warm caress. Never, ever again would I take anything for granted.
It was probably the after effects of the adrenaline boost, but it seemed to take gargantuan effort to push to my feet. My initial elation dwindled as I turned in a slow circle, searching the horizon for recognizable landmarks. Nothing looked familiar. Where was I? Had I crawled out of that damned hole just to die of thirst and exposure? Surely, God could not be that cruel. I looked at my watch. It was almost six o’clock. Duncan could return with Audrey any time now. A pang of urgency jolted me. How on earth was I going to get back in time to warn her if I didn’t know if I was north, south, east or west of Morgan’s Folly? And how far would I get without water?
Another irony. There was plenty of water in the ore bucket. If I stayed put, chances were I would survive until help arrived, but if I set off across the desert on foot not having a clue which direction to choose...? I left the thought unfinished as I studied the immediate area scattered with shards of broken glass, splintered wood and bent aluminum cans.
With no other options before me, I gathered up some cans, swallowed my fear and descended into the mouth of the mine once again. I filled two of the containers and, after tucking them in my waistband, climbed the cables again to deposit them at the top. I did this several more times until I was wincing with shoulder pain and too overcome by fatigue to dare venture down again. I slumped to the ground, breathing hard. These precious ounces would have to sustain me against the unforgiving miles I would now have to navigate.
I scanned the distance once more seeing no evident signs of civilization save a row of transmission towers. My eyes followed the wires undulating above the arid landscape like giant silver spider webs until they vanished into southern horizon. I had a strong hunch that Archie and his cohort hadn’t transported me too far from Weaverville. Otherwise, their strategy to make it appear that I’d simply strolled away and taken a header into the mineshaft would never fly.
The mental picture of my triumphant return to Morgan’s Folly coupled with the captivating image of Archie being handcuffed and hauled off to jail gave me the impetus to get to my feet once more. Which direction should I choose?
My gaze settled on a rocky outcropping that resembled a giant brown toad wearing a Mexican sombrero. It didn’t seem all that far away and from the top I might be able to get my bearings. With a deep sigh, I gathered up as many cans as I could carry and, relying solely on intuition, set out across the desert.
Chapter 28
My good intentions to conserve water quickly wilted as I trudged through knee-high chaparral and desert broom dotted with yucca and prickly pear. The air, heavy with humidity from the unrealized storm, pressed down on me like a hot compress shrink-wrapping my jeans and shirt to my body. The blowtorch winds that accompanied my every step dried my mouth to the consistency of chalk. How was it possible to be so thirsty when it seemed I’d just consumed a lake full of water? And how could the pile of rocks that had looked so close still look miles away?
Squinting under the merciless sun, I grew more lightheaded by the minute. Aware that dehydration was taking its toll, I wrestled with the idea of turning back. Instead, I steeled my resolve and plodded onward in a dreamy daze. By the time I finally reached the base of the outcropping, my energy level was rapidly approaching zero. Weak with relief, I stumbled into a blessed patch of shade beneath a rocky shelf and, after carefully balancing the two remaining water cans on a flat stone, collapsed in a heap on the ground.
My ears hummed from the sudden head rush while the mountains in the distance seemed to pulsate eerily with each erratic heartbeat. I closed my eyes and after a few minutes my heart palpitations subsided. With a groan, I rolled onto my back and stared upward to assess the climb. In my feeble state the task looked impossible but somehow I had to marshal enough energy to scale this mammoth pile of boulders. “Get up and get your ass in gear,” I said aloud, reminding myself of Audrey’s peril.
The mental kick got me to my feet and after deciding that my remaining water would be safer left behind, I swallowed a few sips of the now warm, brackish water and began the arduous climb.
Panting, sweating, and sporting three ragged fingernails, I finally dragged myself to the top. The first thing I caught sight of was the familiar mass of Thunder Peak in the distance and relief poured through me.
I hauled myself up the remaining few feet and lay spread-eagled on the hot, uneven surface like a lizard sunning itself. When I finally gathered enough strength to sit up, I perused the landscape. Using the steepled crown of Thunder Peak as a benchmark to pinpoint southwest and the spiny ridge of the Dragoons as north, that meant the approximate distance to Morgan’s Folly was at least ten miles. My heart sank. There was no way, no way on earth I could make it that far by sundown. I squelched my disappointment. No time to dwell on negativity.
My eyes roamed over the jumble of honey-colored hills to my left. If my calculations were correct, Weaverville should be directly behind them. It was sheer torture to envision the red and white thermos tucked behind the passenger seat in my car. I could only pray my abductors hadn’t decided to ditch the car someplace else. I stared at my watch, hesitating. I had better be right because I’d already wasted half my water and more than an hour walking in the wrong direction.
After clambering to the bottom again, I permitted myself the luxury of resting a few more minutes before setting out across the desert floor again. The knowledge that I was no longer lost buoyed my spirits and gave me a small measure of confidence—at least for a while.
But as the sun forged its fiery path towards the horizon my stamina was in the toilet. The incessant pain from the blisters on my heels made each step an agonizing challenge and I was firmly convinced that if and when I got myself out of this mess every square inch of skin on my wind-scalded face would peel off.
Protectively, I clutched my last can of water and trod onward towards tawny hills, that still looked light-years away. It would have been easy to feel sorry for myself at that point but then I sharply reminded myself of the promises I’d made only hours ago. “I will not give up,” I choked through gritted teeth. “I will survive this. I will find my car. And then I’ll drive back to the house and stop Dayln Morgan before she can...”
I let the rest of the horrifying thought slide and concentrated on putting one foo
t in front of the other while trying to ignore my blinding thirst. But, little by little, my thoughts backtracked to the puzzling events of the past week and as before they led me to the last thing I remembered before Archie’s attack. I’d been on my knees reading the dates on the graves of Rita Morgan’s unborn babies. I’d gotten to the last one and then...nothing. Whatever it was had vanished into the swirling vortex of trauma-induced amnesia. I was certain the memory was significant, but try as I might I could not retrieve it.
Totally absorbed in my own world, I pulled up short and stared in shock at the gaping hole that suddenly yawned before me. Another abandoned unmarked vertical shaft. “Jeeezus,” I breathed aloud. There was no fence. No warning signs. With extreme care, I skirted the sandy perimeter and decided I’d better snap out of my stupor and pay closer attention. I had no desire to repeat the horror of this afternoon. Or worse.
By the time I reached the squat hills, long evening shadows reached towards the surrounding mountain ranges. Crowned with clouds mounded like pink cotton candy, the rocky peaks below glistened in brilliant shades of ochre and sienna while the purple shadows tucked themselves into deep crevices to await nightfall.
The exertion of scaling the incline just about did me in but when I finally stumbled over the crest I let out a wheezy holler. Tears flooded my eyes when I spotted my little blue Volvo snuggled beneath the tree right where I’d left it.
I half-ran, half-slid downhill, zigzagging madly among the gravestones. I raced through the gate with a grateful shudder, relieved that I would not be joining these long buried souls. With trembling hands, I dug the keys from my jeans and unlocked the car door. The trapped heat hit my face like a blast furnace, but everything inside looked wonderfully normal. I grabbed the thermos from behind the passenger seat, tipped it up and unceremoniously drank from the spout. Amazingly, the water was fairly cool and I was sure nothing in my life would ever taste that good again. I fell into the seat and revved the engine. The clock on the dashboard told the tale. Twenty minutes until eight. Was I too late?
I gunned the car down the dirt road. Only when I reached the main highway did I falter. Why hadn’t I taken the time to revisit the graves? It might have triggered the forgotten memory. Half of me wanted to turn the car around but the sensible half won out. Whatever information lay there would do me little good if Audrey was already in the clutches of her obviously deranged sister.
That thought alone provoked a pang of near panic and I floored the gas pedal, recklessly breaking any number of speed and safety laws as I drove like one possessed back towards Morgan’s Folly. For once, I wished that a sheriff’s deputy would appear, but the road was devoid of traffic with the exception of one hapless driver who happened along just as I careened around a hairpin curve straddling the center line. The look of horror frozen on the poor man’s face as I swerved to the right and rocketed past him sent me into a fit of hysterical giggling. It wasn’t really funny but I could not stop myself.
Familiar sights jumped into view and icy fear coiled in my gut when I spotted the steep driveway. Oh, my God. Had I made it in time? I hung a sharp left and blasted the car up the incline just as the sun slid behind the jagged horns of Devil’s Hill into a molten butterscotch sky.
I roared into the parking area and skidded to a stop. I threw the door open, sprinted up the walkway and burst into the kitchen, shouting, “Audrey! Audrey! Where are you?”
The spacious room was empty. Still calling her name, I slammed through the swinging doors and bolted across the breezeway to the old section of the house. I took the stairs two at a time and arrived in Audrey’s bedroom only to find it deserted and bearing no signs that she’d been there since this morning. With the exception of my tortured breathing and the steady ticking of the antique clock on Audrey’s dresser, there wasn’t another sound in the house. It was a hair past eight. I couldn’t believe it. Either I’d made it back before Duncan, or something was terribly wrong.
I hotfooted it back down the stairs stopping in my bedroom only long enough to peel off my sand-filled sneakers. And peel was the operative word. The pain of disengaging my socks from the raw silver dollar sized blisters on my heels made my eyes water. I toed into a pair of thongs and started for the door when I caught sight of my reflection in the full-length mirror. It stopped me cold. I hardly recognized myself. My clothes were torn and filthy. And my hair—unruly in the best of circumstances, framed my scarlet face like a flame-colored dandelion. I looked like something out of a freak show. The urge to shed my clothes, soak in a foamy tub of bubbles and slather a soothing ointment on my burnt skin was almost overwhelming, but it would have to wait until I determined Audrey’s whereabouts. I returned to the kitchen, this time shouting Marta’s name. No answer. Where was everyone? It was my plan to search the grounds, but first things first. I grabbed the water pitcher from the refrigerator and drank until the unexpected jangle of the phone shattered the silence. For a long second I stared dumbfounded as if it were some alien contraption before snatching the receiver from the hook. Please let it be Audrey. “Yes?” I shouted expectantly.
A short pause and then a puzzled, “Ah...I need to talk to Kendall O’Dell.”
The familiar voice sent a surge of joy zinging through me. “Ginger! It’s me.”
“Sugar? Your voice sounds kind of weird.”
I coughed and cleared my throat. Where to start? “Let’s just say I’ve had better days.”
“What in blazes is going on? I been getting a stupid busy signal for hours.”
“The phones got knocked out in the storm last night.”
“Oh. Well, any hoot, I talked to Phil over at the pharmacy again, and it turns out you guessed right.”
“About what?”
“You know. About suspecting that handyman of yours might be taking something different than the drug I was telling you about last night.”
“What is it?”
“Phil says it might be...hmmmm, let’s see here. I can’t read my own stupid writing. Oh, yeah, now I ain’t exactly positive I’m pronouncing it correctly, but he says it could be something called Deca-durabolin.”
I drew a total blank. “Okay. What’s that?”
She giggled. “Phil said if this guy’s taking as high a dose of the stuff as you say, then he’s most likely got himself a real serious male potency problem.”
Her explanation wasn’t registering at all. “Ginger,” I said, striving for patience, “tell me what Deca-durabolin is.”
“Testosterone.”
“Testosterone?” I echoed, incredulous. “Now why in the world...”
A sharp gasp from behind startled me. Marta stood in the doorway gawking at me in open-mouthed astonishment. Keenly aware of my disheveled appearance, I couldn’t blame her.
“Miss O’Dell!” she cried, dropping the basket of laundry at her feet. “You come back so soon?” She looked me up and down like she could hardly believe her eyes.
So soon? My mind lurched in a hundred different directions. “I just now got here. Is Audrey back yet?”
Her look of total bewilderment baffled me. “Mr. Duncan brings her only a short time ago, but then she goes out again in a big, big hurry.”
“Why?”
“To be with you.”
Now it was my turn to stare. “With me? Why would you think that?”
“You did not call for her on the telephone?”
“No, I did not.” Ginger was still yapping away in my ear, but I was electrified by Marta’s look of anxious intensity.
“But...but...the woman who calls...says she is you. She is in very much trouble and Miss Audrey must hurry to the mine to help...”
Little hammers of fear pounded at my temples. “What mine?”
“The Defiance.”
Oh, shit. Oh, shit. “Marta, that wasn’t me! What do you mean she left? How did she leave?”
“She drives the big car...”
“What? You know she has epilepsy. Why would you let her do that?”
Marta pressed a finger to trembling lips. “She tells me it is okay...because you teach her.”
“Oh, Jesus.”
“Kendall! Kendall!” Ginger screeched in my ear. “For pity’s sake, what’s going on? You ain’t been listening to a word I been saying...”
Cold with dread, my mind reeling in total chaos, I cut her short. “Ginger, I’ve got to go right now.”
“Hold your horses for two seconds. You know that second thingamajiggy in Colorado you asked me about? Well, Brian finally found some stuff about it on the Internet. It’s called the Berdache Society and well, you just ain’t going to believe this but...”
As I listened to her explanation, the fresh winds of truth blew through my tired brain. The stunning revelation triggered the forgotten vision of the infant’s gravesite at the Weaversville cemetery. The date on the little cross, jumped into sharp relief. Rita’s last baby had died in August. August! “Holy cow,” I breathed, absently hanging up on Ginger. I bolted for the door shouting to Marta, “Call the sheriff! Now! Tell him to meet me at the Defiance.”
In a flash, I was in my car and speeding down the driveway. “You idiot! You stupid, stupid idiot!” I raged as tears of frustration blurred my eyes. If I hadn’t encouraged her, Audrey would never have driven alone to the mine, never have fallen into this carefully laid trap. And it would be my fault. “Goddamn it!” I shrieked, pounding the wheel. “Goddamn me!”
Sick with guilt and fear, my thoughts bouncing around like Ping-Pong balls, I hurled down the highway taking the curves so fast I almost overshot the mine road. Tires squealing, I braked, wrenched the car sharply right and fishtailed into the turn. With the scarlet remains of the sunset flashing between the pines, I skimmed along the uneven road, painfully aware that my carefully constructed theory about Grady’s tormentor had been wrong. One hundred percent dead wrong. Why hadn’t I caught on earlier? The mellow voice, the sparse facial hair, the baggy clothes, the ever-present photo chromic lenses—the insider’s knowledge that Audrey whose birth month was October, could not possibly be Rita Morgan’s child. So then, who was this frail young imposter who bore such a strong resemblance to Grady Morgan? Wait a minute. My mind back flipped to the contents of the anonymous phone message made to Haston and Jesse. ‘Don’t be fooled,’ the woman had warned. ‘Ask the doctor, he knows the truth.’ When I combined that with the menacing whisper in my ear just hours ago insinuating my interference with destiny, the foggy picture suddenly crystallized.