by J. A. Jance
Flushing with embarrassment, Angie collected their glasses. “Out,” she ordered. “Time to go.”
Still grumbling, the two old men helped one another off their respective stools and shuffled toward the door. They shared a basement room in an old, moldering rooming house two buildings up the street, so Angie knew they were in no danger of driving a car. At the door, Archie turned around and shook an admonishing finger in Dennis Hacker’s direction.
“Remember,” he warned, “don’t you go carrying her off. Angie’s ours. We saw her first.”
Once they were out, Angie pushed the door shut and locked it behind them.
“I think they like you,” Dennis Hacker said.
Angie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I guess they do,” she agreed.
Still nursing his coffee, Dennis Hacker waited while Angie finished her closing time chores, washing the last of the glasses and ashtrays and sweeping the floor. She took her time-far longer than she needed-but at last there was nothing left to do.
“Are you ready, then?” Dennis Hacker asked.
“I have to change.”
She disappeared into the back room and returned a few minutes later wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt.
“You look great,” Dennis said. “We’d better go. Those hummingbirds will be up bright and early.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Angie Kellogg had seen Hummers in news broadcasts about the Gulf War, only they had been called Humvees back then. Lately she had even seen a few television commercials about them, but she had never seen one in real life, and she had certainly never expected to ride in one.
Once Dennis Hacker helped her climb inside, she was surprised by how spacious it was. Between her bucket seat and the driver’s was a wide flat expanse of tan leather that was almost as big as her kitchen table. Climbing in himself, Dennis caught her looking across the space between them. “That’s the air-conditioning unit,” he explained. “Behind that’s the drivetrain. That’s what makes Hummers so hard to tip over.”
“Right,” Angie said, not letting on that the word drivetrain was a total mystery to her.
Dennis turned the key and the engine growled to life. Angie thought it felt like being inside some huge animal-like being swallowed by a tiger, maybe.
“The ride isn’t all that wonderful on the highway,” Hacker continued, as he expertly maneuvered the vehicle out of what Angie thought was far too small a parking place. “But it’s great for the kind of work I do and for getting around in the backcountry.” He paused and looked questioningly at Angie. “You’re sure it’s all right to leave your car here on the street like this? It wouldn’t be any trouble to drop it off at your house.”
Angie wasn’t at all sure she wanted Dennis Hacker to know where she lived. “Oh, no,” she said lightly. “It’ll be fine right here.”
As they drove out of town, Dennis kept up an easy line of patter, telling Angie about his five years of working almost exclusively with parrots and reintroducing them to former habitats in the Southwest.
“The parrots are usually fine,” he told her. “It’s people who cause problems. That’s where I am now, over in the Peloncillos. Before I bring in any birds, I have to negotiate a peace treaty with the local ranchers and the environmentalists both. The odd thing about the Peloncillos is that it seems to be one of the few places in Arizona where those two opposing sides are starting to work together. Just because they evidently have a jaguar or two down there now, though, doesn’t mean they’ll let my parrots in.”
“What could the ranchers possibly have against a few parrots?” Angie asked.
Hacker shrugged. “There’s always the concern that as soon as the birds show up, someone will pull some endangered species stunt that will also endanger the ranchers’ time-honored grazing rights. Believe me,” he added, “when cowmen and tree huggers go to war, it’s easy for a guy like me to get caught in the middle and end up wearing a bullet in my chest.”
“A real bullet?” Angie asked nervously.
Dennis Hacker’s answering smile didn’t hold much humor. “Unfortunately, yes.”
He went on to tell Angie how his grandmother’s interest in birds had been passed on to him. Leaning back in the upright seat, Angie was happy to listen. Only when Dennis Hacker’s story ran down and he began to ask questions about her own background did Angie Kellogg grow uneasy once more.
“Where did you go to school?” he asked.
She knew this incredibly intelligent man had attended Cambridge University in England before coming to the United States and picking up graduate degrees in zoology from both Stanford and UCLA. Angie was a high school dropout. Since leaving school, what education she had achieved had come through reading books.
“Ann Arbor,” she said.
“What did you study?”
Angie lost it then. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. “Education,” she managed finally.
“Why are you a barmaid, then?” he asked.
“I tried teaching but I didn’t like it,” she said lamely.
She was relieved when the conversation wandered back to birds once more, with Dennis telling her about the wonderful displays at the Arizona/Sonora Desert Museum up in Tucson, especially the hummingbird compound. “It’s a shame you haven’t been there yet. Maybe that’s where we should go next. I’d love to take you.”
With lightning flickering far to the south, they left Douglas on what Dennis explained was the Old Geronimo Trail. “That’s where he surrendered, you know,” Dennis told her.
“Where who surrendered?”
“Geronimo,” he said. “That famous old Apache chief. He surrendered in Skeleton Canyon, just down the mountain from where we’ll be watching the hummingbirds.”
Dennis Hacker’s travelogue continued as they drove east. Angie was feeling at ease when the Hummer turned off one dirt road, bounced past something that looked like a walled-in cemetery, and came to rest beside a small, two-wheeled camper/trailer.
“What’s this?” she asked suddenly wary as Dennis switched the motor.
“Home sweet home for the next little while,” he answered cheerfully. “Come on in. It’s time for breakfast.”
“But I thought we were going on a picnic,” Angie objected. They were miles into the wilderness. Since leaving Douglas an hour earlier they hadn’t seen a single other vehicle. Dennis Hacker seemed nice enough, but the idea of going into this house with him alone…
He came around to Angie’s side of the Hummer, opened the door, and then held out a hand to help her down. “There’s plenty of time for us to eat before we head up the mountain. Besides, I can fix a much better breakfast here than I can over a campfire. It also means we won’t have to carry food and cooking utensils in our packs. Come on.”
Hacker’s gentlemanly gesture of extending his hand didn’t leave Angie much choice. Feeling trapped and scared and wishing she hadn’t come, she allowed herself to be led toward the trailer. There was no telling what he could do to her alone out here in the wilderness like this. Angie Kellogg had been with some pretty scary guys in her days as a hooker, but she had always been on her own turf in the city. If one of the johns or a pimp came after her there, all she’d had to do was run outside, screaming for help and knowing that, eventually, help would come. Here there was no one. If Hacker turned on her, what would she do?
Angie looked longingly back at the road, back the way they’d just come, but Dennis Hacker didn’t relinquish her hand. “That’s Cottonwood Creek Cemetery over there,” he said, leading her forward. “It’s an interesting place, but there’s not much to see in the dark. I’ll take you there later, after we come down the mountain. Here’s the step. Be careful.”
Opening the door with one hand, he guided her up a wooden stair. “Stay right here until I turn on the light.”
The light turned out to be a butane-fueled light fixture that hung over a tiny kitchen table. “Sit,” he told her. “As you can see, this place is
too small for two people to stand at once, so if you’ll sit and supervise, I’ll cook.”
Angie eased herself into the little breakfast nook and peered around. The place was indeed tiny, but it was also neat as a pin. As she sat down, she caught a glimpse of a well-made bed in a loft tucked up over a built-in desk. The paneled walls glowed warm and golden in the softly hissing light.
“How do bacon and eggs sound?” he was asking. “And do you prefer coffee or tea? I’ve become Americanized enough that I drink coffee most of the time, but I still like to have a nice cup of tea first thing in the morning.”
“Tea will be fine,” Angie managed.
Watching as he bustled around the trailer-getting out pots and pans, setting a pot of water to boil-Angie noticed that Dennis was so tall he had to stand with his neck bent to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling. “Doesn’t that bother you?” she asked. “Having to hold your head that way?”
He shrugged. “I’m used to it. In order to get a higher ceiling, I would have had to go for a bigger caravan-”
“Caravan,” Angie interrupted with a frown. “What’s that?”
Hacker stopped peeling potatoes long enough to grin at her. “Sorry. I mean trailer. That’s what you Yanks call them. This one happens to suit me. The short wheelbase makes it possible for me to take it almost anywhere I want to go.”
Within minutes, Angie was enjoying the delicious aroma of frying bacon and sipping strong, hot tea from a beautifully delicate bone china cup and saucer. The pattern on the cup showed a long-legged blue bird standing, regal and serene, among exquisitely painted pink and orange flowers. When her bacon, eggs, and hash browns (homemade, from scratch) showed up a little later, the food was arranged on matching and equally beautiful crane-decorated plates. The silverware was a mismatched jumble, but the dishes themselves were elegant and beautiful.
“Where did you get this wonderful china?” Angie asked.
Dennis Hacker smiled. “It’s called Kutani Crane,” he told her. “It’s Wedgwood. The set was a gift from my grandmother. Sort of a congratulatory gift for getting this job. It meant I didn’t have to go back home and sign up to work in my father’s shipping business.”
“Your grandmother must have chosen that pattern because she knew you liked birds,” Angie said. “That was thoughtful of her.”
Dennis laughed out loud. “No,” he said. “Grandmum chose it because she likes birds. Remember who got me interested in birds in the first place. Come on now. Eat up. It’s getting late. We’ll need to hit the trail pretty soon. I’ll just leave the dishes in the sink and do them when we get back.”
They were almost ready to leave when a phone rang. “A phone?” Angie asked in surprise when she heard it ringing.
Dennis nodded apologetically. “Sorry,” he said. “Speak of the devil. That’s probably Grandmother right now. She’s never quite gotten the hang of the time change. She usually rings up early Sunday mornings before I go out to take care of the birds. She likes to keep tabs on me.”
Angie tried not to listen as Dennis chatted with his grandmother. The idea of someone calling all the way from England to visit on the phone with someone sitting in a camper parked in the middle of nowhere in the Arizona desert seemed strange to her. But then, the things Angie Kellogg did would probably seem strange to most other people, too.
While Dennis was busy talking, Angie contented herself with examining an old framed but faded photo hanging on the wall between the table and the desk. In brown and sepia-tinged tones, it showed an endless line of hundreds of men dressed in heavy winter gear and loaded with huge packs climbing what appeared to be an almost vertical snow-covered mountain.
“My great-grandfather took that,” Dennis explained when he got off the phone. “It’s called Climbing Chilcoot Pass.” He took the picture off the wall and handed it over to Angie so she could examine it more closely.
“Where’s Chilcoot Pass?” she asked.
“Alaska. These guys were all part of the Klondike Gold Rush. The shortest way to get from the States to the gold in Yukon Territory was over this mountain pass from Skagway, then down Lake Bennett and the Yukon River both.”
“They look like ants,” Angie said. “How come they’re all carrying so much stuff?”
“The Canadian authorities were worried that the miners were totally unprepared for the hardships of a Yukon winter. They didn’t want half of them dying of hunger, so they sent Mounties out to patrol the border and make sure no one crossed into Canada without at least a year’s worth of supplies-literally, a ton of supplies per man. That’s what these guys are doing-hauling their supplies up and over the mountains in hopes of striking it rich.”
“Did he?” Angie asked, handing the picture back. “Your great-grandfather, I mean. Did he strike it rich?”
“In a manner of speaking, he did,” Dennis said. “He’d always been something of a black sheep-an adventurer. Over the years, this particular picture has actually made him famous in some quarters. But the Yukon got to him in the process, made him a believer. He lost all of his grubstake and most of his toes before he finally wrote home and asked for help. His father paid for his return passage to England. In exchange, he had to shape up and go into the family business the way everyone thought he should have done in the first place.”
Dennis stopped and glanced at his watch. “Come on now,” he said. “It is getting late.”
Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten into a pale gray. Once again, Dennis handed Angie up into the vehicle, closing the door behind her the way a gentleman might treat a lady or like someone handling one of those delicate bone china cups back inside the trailer.
For Angie, who had never before experienced that kind of treatment, it was a strange sensation. It made her feel all funny-both good and bad at the same time-as though she didn’t quite deserve it. Still, she was gratified to realize that, despite all her worries beforehand, nothing at all had happened. She and Dennis Hacker had eaten breakfast together and enjoyed it. The food had been delicious and the conversation fun. He hadn’t made a pass at her. Hadn’t tried to get her into bed. In fact, there hadn’t been a single off-color remark. In her whole life, Angie Kellogg never remembered having quite such a wonderful time.
“With all this cloud cover, it should be a glorious sunrise,” Dennis told her. “And just wait till you see all those hummingbirds. They’re unbelievable.”
The red Miata convertible came screaming down Highway 80, ignoring the speed signs, almost missing the curve. Joanna, merging into traffic from the downtown area of Old Bisbee, switched on her lights and siren and fell in behind the other car.
In actual fact, that part of Highway 80 was inside the Bisbee city limits and, as such, outside the jurisdiction of the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Since this was a dream, however, jurisdictional boundaries didn’t apply. In real life, Sheriff Joanna Brady had never once made a traffic stop, but in the dream landscape, that didn’t matter, either.
“Pull over,” she announced in a voice that reverberated as though being broadcast through a huge megaphone. “Pull over and step out of your vehicle.”
Ignoring the order, the driver of the Miata shot forward, racing down the grade onto the long flat stretch of highway that runs along the edge of Lavender Pit. Generations of speeding drivers have given that part of Highway 80 the unofficial name of Citation Avenue. The driver of the speeding convertible seemed determined to do her part to help maintain the legend, but Joanna wasn’t about to be outdone. This was hot pursuit, and she was determined to pull over the speeding motorist.
With Joanna’s Crown Victoria right on the Miata’s back bumper, they raced down through the back side of Lowell and then onto the traffic circle. Around and around they went, time and again. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the Miata simply stopped. As Joanna approached the vehicle, weapon in hand, the driver’s side door popped open and a woman stepped out. She was tall and blond, wearing a miniskirt and a pair of impossibl
y high heels.
“Hands on your head,” Joanna ordered.
“You can’t do this to me, Joanna Brady,” Rowena Sharp Bonham screeched. “You can’t pull me over like a common criminal. I won’t stand for it. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”
“Yes, you were,” Joanna told her calmly. “You were cheating.”
She woke up then, laughing. For a moment she was disoriented by waking up outside the house rather than in her own bedroom, but that momentary jar gave way to a feeling of well-being. Mourning doves cooed their early morning wake-up calls. Across the Sulphur Springs Valley, dawn was tinging the sky a vivid orange. But something was different.
For weeks now, clouds had drifted up from the south each afternoon, bringing with them the tantalizing promise of much-needed rain. By morning they would retreat back into the interior of Mexico without leaving behind a trace of moisture. This time, though, the clouds were still there, billowing up in tall, puffy columns above the far horizon. From miles away across the thirsty desert came the welcome scent of an approaching storm.
Joanna had grown to adulthood with a desert dweller’s unbridled delight in the prospect of a summer rainstorm. What she wanted to do more than anything that morning was to sit on her porch and watch the storm build. She wanted to track the wind and surging clouds of dust as they marched across the desert just ahead of the rain. She wanted to sit back and watch jagged flashes of lightning electrify the entire sky, and to listen to the rolling drums of thunder, but first, she wanted to make a pot of coffee and read the Sunday paper. In order to do that, she’d have to collect the paper from the tube down by the cattle guard.
She went inside. The house had been dreadfully hot when she came home the night before. To counteract the heat, she had left the swamp cooler running all night long. Overnight, both indoor and outdoor temperatures had dropped enough that now the house seemed almost chilly. The first thing she did was switch off the cooler. As soon as she did so, she was startled by how quiet it was. Far too quiet.