by Sylvia Nobel
“Mostly. Them people will work for practically nothing and end up sending most of it back home to Mexico.” He paused and reached inside the cab to turn the key, adding, “You couldn’t pay me enough to work in a place like that.” He went around behind my car, and then came back shaking his head. “How’d you manage to get yourself in such a fix, little lady?”
I told him the circumstances of the accident and he clicked his tongue sympathetically. “I don’t see the doc in town too often, but when I do, he’s always driving like a house afire. I’ve seen him more than once down there at the Rattlesnake and he was always half in the bag.”
His remark reminded me of the night I’d tried to talk to Dr. Price at the fund-raiser. He’d obviously been totally plowed, and his behavior fit the alcoholic personality. Maybe he’d been coming home from a bender this morning and that’s why he hadn’t stopped. It didn’t excuse what he’d done, and the implication was ironic. An alcoholic psychiatrist spent his days treating the mentally ill?
Bud’s voice broke into my thoughts. “Ruben, he’s the fellow who tends bar, says the doc’s been so out of it a couple of times, he’s had to call the sheriff to drive him back out here.”
Well, wasn’t that interesting? I started to ask him another question but conversation was drowned out by the roar of the winch. Gratefully, I watched my Volvo pulled from the deep sand. When the engine noise stopped, I asked, “Tell me something. Where do the people live who work at the hospital? I hardly ever see any traffic along this road.”
“I guess some of them live on the grounds. A couple of times a weeks they switch shifts. Somebody in one of them white vans drives them into town.”
“Yeah, I see those vans all the time.”
Bud unhooked the chain and gave me a wry smile. “Most of them stick to their own kind. They got their own little community down there south of the tracks. The driver drops them off and then picks up supplies at one of those warehouses catawampus to the auto parts store.”
I smiled to myself. Bud was an absolute treasure trove of information, but, not only was I running out of time, I felt like I was about to melt into my shoes.
“There you go, little lady,” he said, slowly wiping his hands on a filthy cloth. “I guess that’ll about do it for you.” He pulled a clip board from the truck and scribbled out the bill.
While I rummaged in my purse for the checkbook, my mind sorted through a myriad of facts. I remembered the odd feeling I’d had on my first visit to Serenity House; the sight of that sinister fence, and the fright I’d felt when the dogs had rushed at me.
“I don’t guess Tess Delgado ever had any trouble,” Bud said, “but I’d watch yourself if I was you.”
“What do you mean?” I asked, accepting the bill he handed me.
“I don’t think I’d feel none too safe living so close to a nut house. Did you hear about that maniac who got loose a few years back?”
I told him I had but he proceeded to repeat the story anyway. By the number of gruesome, preposterous details he relayed, I suspected that the story had been embellished by the townsfolk far beyond the original event.
“I appreciate your concern, but, so far, I’ve had more problems with gigantic insects than I have with mental patients.”
He laughed and said, “I know what you mean. I never did run into any trouble that whole time. Hell, I never worried as much about the loonies as I did them damn vicious dogs they got roaming all over the place.”
A glance at my watch told me I had to end the conversation. I thanked him warmly while handing him a check. He waited till I started the engine and we waved good-bye to each other as I drove off. Thank goodness he’d come. I heaved a sigh of relief and noted with satisfaction that, barring any more problems, I’d reach my appointment right on time.
Heading toward town, I thought about what Bud had said about never getting inside Serenity House. What about relatives of the patients? How did they get in? There was something very, very odd about Dr. Price and I intended to find out why he’d left me there in the dust.
22
The weather wasn’t the only thing different that day. To my surprise, Claudia Phillips greeted me at the door of the shelter wearing a friendly smile that completely transformed her normally forbidding face. She chatted pleasantly for a few minutes about the humid weather, my outfit, which certainly wasn’t anything spectacular, and the continuing Gold Dust Day events.
After inviting me inside, we got down to business. No real names were to be used, and no photos without permission. I agreed.
Each of the five tiny bedrooms contained two sagging twin beds, a battered dresser, and an ancient black and white television set. In one room, two girls lay sleeping, in another, a girl was painting her toenails while her companion stared vacantly at the TV.
The small kitchen looked worn, but tidy. A couple of young women, one sporting a rooster’s comb of spiked orange hair and the other, obviously a bleached blonde, sat at the kitchen table smoking and playing cards. I smiled, but they glared at me with street-smart eyes, hard with suspicion.
Claudia informed me that each girl was required to cook her own meals and wash the dishes. The girls also did their own laundry which permitted the shelter to keep hired help to a minimum. The young Hispanic girl I’d seen on my first visit was busy dusting. She threw me a shy smile which I returned while Claudia crisply announced that no drugs of any kind were permitted inside the house and male visitors were strictly prohibited.
I made note of all the rules as she led me to a small sitting room and introduced me to a girl called Jenny. What an angelic face! Petite and frail, with wavy shoulder length blonde hair, she looked pretty enough to grace the cover of any teen magazine. To me, she didn’t look like a typical runaway. But then what was typical? The steely-eyed girls in the kitchen fit more into the picture I’d conjured up, and so had the hardened girl I’d picked up my first day in Arizona. But this girl…like a small child, she huddled against the armrest of the tattered couch clutching a ragged teddy bear tightly to her chest.
I took a chair directly across from her and nodded to Claudia who then excused herself and slipped from the room. It was a relief to know she wouldn’t be monitoring every question I asked.
“Hello, Jenny,” I said softly.
She lifted her chin and stared back at me with eyes as blue as the bachelor buttons that used to grow each April under the weeping willow tree in our yard back home. Instead of echoing the joy and beauty of spring, her eyes reflected the harsh, cruel tragedies of life.
“My real name’s not Jenny, you know,” she said, her voice flat.
I gave her an encouraging grin. “I’ll use whatever name you want me to.”
She shrugged and looked out the window. “It’s as good as any.”
“Miss Phillips explained to you why I’m here?”
She hugged the bear tighter. “Yeah. She says you want to know why I’m a runner. That’s what they call someone like me you know. A runner.”
“How many times have you run away from home?”
“Ten, twelve, I don’t know. But I’ll tell you something, this time I’m not going back. They’ll never find me. Never in a million years..”
Claudia had told me she was only fifteen but judging by her grim expression, it was obvious this girl had experienced more adversity in her short life than most people could even begin to imagine.
At first she refused to talk about her past at all, preferring to prattle on about various movie stars, her eventual destination of Los Angeles, and her hopes and dreams of being rich and famous someday. Apparently this was the fantasy that got her out of bed each morning.
“So, you don’t think your parents are concerned about you?” I tried to imagine what my own parents would have thought if I had run away. They would have been frantic with worry.
At that, her eyes glazed over. Nervously, she picked at the teddy bear’s ears. “My old lady doesn’t give a shit what happens to me.”
>
“Why do you say that?”
“She says I’m bad news, that’s why. Since the day I was born, I been nothing but trouble.” She hesitated, then said softly, “She’d be happy if I was dead.”
That jarred me. “Why would she wish that?”
Her lips curled into a bitter smile. She set the bear aside and extended her wrists toward me. Ugly, jagged scars tracked both. A sick feeling invaded my stomach. “You know what she said to me when she came to my room down at the county hospital?
I shook my head.
“She said, ‘You stinking brat. How the hell are we going to come up with the cash to pay these goddamn hospital bills?’” Jenny giggled and a devilish gleam lit those magnificent eyes. “You know what I did then?”
“What?”
“I bit her. I grabbed her hand and bit it so hard, she screamed like one of the ladies in those slasher movies. I can still remember the taste of her blood in my mouth,” she said, running her tongue over her lips. “It tasted like…real salty, you know? I almost bit her finger clean off before the nurses came and pulled her away.” A far away look entered her eyes and she whispered, “Wish I had.”
I suppressed a shiver of revulsion and asked what happened next. “They stuck me in the psycho ward at the state hospital for a month. The shrinks gave me all sorts of tests to see if I was like totally whacko, you know,” she said matter-of-factly twirling her finger around her temple. “They pumped me full of all kinds of drugs and stuff. Later I got shipped off again. My foster parents were real assholes. But I showed them. Soon as their backs were turned, I split. I would’ve got away, you know, but I got grabbed for shoplifting.”
“What did you take?”
She shook her head in disbelief. “A box of cupcakes.
A stupid little box of cupcakes and I end up in the can. The cops called Ma and she hauled me home. But, no way was I staying there.” She gave me a sour smile. “I totally hate her. I hate her so much I hope she croaks.” She uttered the last part through clenched teeth.
“Why do you hate her so much?”
“Because.”
“Because, why?”
She looked away from me and I could see her swallowing hard. A small spasm shook her. For several minutes we sat in silence, then she turned back to me. Her eyes were dull and lifeless. “When you were little, did you ever have a pretty yellow dress?”
Puzzled by her question, I thought a moment and then said, “Well, yes, I had one. It had little flowers on it.”
A serene smile settled on her face and she said in a dreamy voice, “I had one once. It was so, so beautiful. Lace. It had some lace on the pocket, I remember. I think I was only four, but I remember it real, real well.”
Something was happening. She sounded and looked a lot like someone under hypnosis—detached, concise, unemotional.
“Did your mother do something to the dress you loved?”
She looked blank. “Ma? No. But, my stepdad did.”
My skin was beginning to crawl. “Your stepdad?”
“He took it, you know. He took it off of me so I could never find it again. There was blood on it. I cried and cried and he promised he’d buy me a bunch more dresses.”
“Did he?”
“Yeah. He bought me real pretty panties too and said he’d buy me lots of things if I’d just be nice to him. He said I was the prettiest girl in the whole world, and he took bunches and bunches of pictures of me. He said it was real fun to play with me just like I was his little doll…” Her voice broke suddenly and her face hardened into a mask of anger.
“He told me never to tell. Never to tell. Never to tell…and I didn’t for a long, long time. But then, one day I did tell. I told my grandma. She went and told Ma and you know what? After my grandma left, she started beating on me.” She rubbed her arms as if she could still feel the pain. “She said I was a lying little bitch and never did anything about it.”
Rage sickened me. No wonder she’d run. All the statistics and reports I’d read hardly prepared me for the horror of this girl’s poignant confession.
Dry-eyed, she picked up the fuzzy bear, held it close to her, and slowly rocked back and forth, humming to herself. The scene moved me so much, I blinked back tears, tears this girl no longer had. How could anyone so mistreat another human being? A defenseless child, no less? Disgust and loathing for her parents formed a hard lump in my throat.
“How did you end up here in Castle Valley, Jenny?”
“Hitched a ride. This was as far as he was going.”
“I see. And how did you find the Desert Harbor Shelter?”
“The sheriff brought me here.”
That made my pulse skip. “Really? What happened?”
“Nothing much. I was sleeping outside the library and I guess someone called him to complain. He wasn’t mad or nothin’ and he brought me straight here.”
“I see. And has Miss Phillips been helpful?”
“Oh yeah. She’s real nice. Gave me these clothes, lots of food and she’s even giving me bus fare cause I’m leaving for L.A. Thursday, you know.”
“How long have you been here?”
“I don’t know. Five or six days. But I’m not staying.” Her eyes brightened. “I gotta go someplace with some action. You know, where I can get a job and make a bunch of money. Maybe I’ll be a model or be in a movie. I sure can’t stay here. This place is like totally dead.”
My heart twinged with pity for the pathetic girl. Her whimsical dreams of becoming a movie actress were so naive. The tough, gang-ridden streets of Los Angeles would probably chew her up and spit out the pieces.
“Thank you for sharing your story with me, Jenny.” She gave me a sad smile, declining to be photographed. “I can’t take any chances on them ever finding me.”
I told her I understood and left. Her heartbreaking story had left me feeling hollow.
Several of the other girls agreed to photos and I made sure they were all backlit or had their faces averted. With my wide angle lens, I was able to capture the essence of the bare rooms, emphasizing their empty lives with little hope for a bright future.
Each girl had her own horror story. As I scribbled copious notes, their appalling tales of violence, including sexual, drug and alcohol abuse, prostitution, attempted suicides, abortions, and time spent in and out of jail and juvenile facilities, shook me to the core. I couldn’t wait to get back to the office and begin writing my series. My first installment would come out in tomorrow’s edition, and with a feeling of tense anticipation, I knew the article would be powerful, thought provoking, and I hoped, something quite different for readers of the Castle Valley Sun.
Five of the eight girls informed me they were leaving on Thursday. Three of them were bound for Los Angeles, one for Las Vegas and one had decided to return home to Phoenix.
“So, Ms. O’Dell,” Claudia said smoothly as she ushered me toward the front door. “I trust you got all the information you’ll be needing for your article?”
“It was very enlightening. I appreciate the fact that you thought it over and decided to let me come.” I waited a second to see if she’d mention the fact that she’d been pressured to grant the interview, but she said nothing.
I flipped my notebook open. “If you have a minute, I wanted to ask you just a few questions, you know a little more about your background and qualifications in this field.”
A guarded expression crept into those incredible violet eyes. I knew she was going to look at her watch and she didn’t disappoint me. “I don’t wish to be rude, but you have taken up a great deal of my day.”
“So I guess you and Roy Hollingsworth work pretty closely together regarding these girls, huh?”
“I’m not sure I understand your question.”
“I’m told that instead of locking these girls up for loitering or panhandling, or worse, he brings them to you.”
“On occasion.”
“That’s great. Really great. So, where did you work befor
e you came to Castle Valley?”
“If I’m not mistaken, your story will be centered around the lives of these unfortunate young women, not me. I feel I’ve been more than cooperative, and I’m sure you have more than enough material. Right now I’m very late for an appointment and I really haven’t the time to speak with you any further.” She swung the front door open.
“Well, perhaps I could call you. I just need a little more background on you, something to add some local flavor if you will. I believe you replaced a woman by the name of Violet Mendoza. She’d been dead less than a week when you came. How did you know the position was open?”
Was that alarm mirrored in her eyes? I stood with my pen poised over my notes while she smoothed her sleek hair. “I already gave you quite a bit of information on our first meeting, did I not?”
“Yes…but…not about you personally.”
She seemed to be struggling with herself, and when she finally spoke her voice was flat. “My schooling was at the University of Arizona in Tucson, I worked in a small shelter there and also at one in Phoenix. Unfortunately, they were both closed due to lack of funds.” The phone in her office rang. “You’ll have to excuse me,” she said quickly. “I really must go now.”
Summarily dismissed once again, I mentally thanked Eric a second time as I climbed into my car. Not only did I have the makings of a dynamite story, but when Roy Hollingsworth read my piece, it should serve to shadow my activities as far as my investigation concerning John Dexter.
Front and center in my mind was the fact that I still needed to find the toxicology reports on those two girls. With a growing certainty, I felt more convinced than ever that the reports weren’t misfiled. They had been deliberately removed from the folders. But had Roy destroyed them? If not, were they still somewhere in his office? A wild, bizarre, and surely dangerous plan was taking shape in the back of my head. Somehow, I had to get into the office and see if I could find them. Just how I was going to accomplish that daunting task, I hadn’t figured out yet.
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