Desert Cut

by Betty Webb

  If Polk had her, which was far from certain.

  By the time I reached his place, a pair of tense deputies were stuffing a shaking Polk into the rear seat of their cruiser, which was already surrounded by a group of men baying for his blood. Fortunately, they turned out to be relatively law-abiding, so when the deputies ordered them to stand down, they did.

  “We’ve searched the cabin and she’s not there,” one deputy shouted to the crowd. “Now, please, folks, if you want to help, split up and comb the surrounding area. Keep the noise down so you can hear her if she calls out.” They weren’t worried about the men trampling over clues. Right now they were more interested in finding the girl than prosecuting her abductor.

  Grumbling, the crowd edged away enough to allow the patrol cruiser to ease onto the road. Then the men, and a few determined-looking women among them, duly piled into their vehicles and headed into the desert.

  After fetching a canteen and flashlight I kept in the Jeep’s tool box next to a battery-powered police scanner and other tools of the P.I. trade, I started my own search on foot. Not that the more deliberate pace made any difference in the end.

  The night stretched long and fruitless. The desert, so open during the day, is secretive when the glaring sun goes down. Even with the beam of my flashlight and the faint glimmers of lights from other searchers, the deep arroyos yielded nothing. Yet I refused to give up. Propelled by the memory of Quibilah Wahab’s screams, I stumbled along in the darkness, every now and then calling, “Aziza! If you can hear me, shout! I’m here to take you home!”

  Nothing. Always nothing.

  When the sun finally rose, I had covered an area slightly more than a half-mile square, shining my flashlight into creosote thickets, between boulders, and crawling down into ravines. The only thing I found was the body of a dead javelina being eaten by a coyote. At least it wasn’t a little girl.

  As the first rays of the sun glimmered across the tin roof of Polk’s distant shack and another fleet of searchers arrived, I gave up. Some of the people who had been out there all night did, too, and as we hobbled back to our cars, we shared exhausted glances. When we reached the road, the one deputy remaining pointed to his radio and gave a slow shake of his head. Apparently Sheriff Avery’s men had not been successful, either.

  Wherever Aziza Wahab was now, she was beyond our help.

  ***

  By eight o’clock I was in Los Perdidos, footsore and heart-sore. On the way to grab a couple of hour’s sleep at the guest ranch, I stopped by Avery’s office. The dark circles under his eyes proved that he hadn’t slept all night, either.

  “Polk swears he didn’t take the girl,” he said, “and you know what? I believe him. He’s not acting self-righteous like molesters usually do, just scared. Somehow I can’t see him hitchhiking into town, kidnapping the kid, then hitchhiking back without somebody noticing. Just in case, we’re putting his picture on TV at noon. And our boy Duane? Yet another alibi tighter than a crab’s ass. Your visit upset him so much that as soon as you left, the creep drove down to Happy’s Cantina and started downing tequila. You have quite the effect on men, don’t you, Lena? The guy was butt-bouncing drunk when we showed up.”

  Not only was Avery still using my first name, but he was sharing information again. Next thing you know, he’d deputize me. But this was no time to celebrate the lessening of hostilities. “He might have snatched Aziza on the way to Happy’s.”

  “Timeline doesn’t fit. Lester Lundstrom, his next door neighbor? He has two little girls, so he keeps a close eye on Duane’s movements. He told us that our boy took off at seven twenty-five, and he’s sure of the time because he was watching the local wrap-up on Headline News. Five minutes later, Duane was down at Happy’s. The bartender knows that because ESPN had just begun a bottom-of-the-hour segment on that Vegas fight where the heavyweight was killed.”

  That’s modern life for you. Everyone tells time by what’s on TV.

  Avery wasn’t finished. “I sent some deputies out to organize the searchers. Here in town, I’ve got more going door-to-door. I promise you, if that kid’s within ten miles of Los Perdidos, we’ll find her.”

  His face didn’t match the optimism of his words. Like me, he was probably thinking of the desert, the river, the mountains, a silent van speeding along I-10—all the hidden places a child might disappear into and never be found.

  “How are the Wahabs doing?” I asked.

  “The father’s bearing up, the mother’s under sedation.”

  There was nothing more I could do, so I headed toward to the Lazy M. Staggering through the day with a numbed mind wouldn’t help the missing child. When I reached the guest cottage, I didn’t even bother with a shower, just fell across the bed fully clothed in the dusty jeans and tee shirt I’d worn throughout the night’s futile search. Before sleep claimed me, my cell phone rang. I thought briefly about switching it off, but just as quickly changed my mind. The caller might be the sheriff with news of Aziza. Not bothering to glance at the display, I answered.

  It was Angelique Grey, in Beverly Hills. “Sorry to call so early, Lena, but we’ve got an emergency here.”

  I groaned. Hollywood’s idea of an emergency wasn’t the same as mine, especially now. “Angel, I can’t…”

  Over my protest, she continued, “Yes, I know I told you that arriving on Friday would be all right, but the situation’s beyond insane. Last night I had dinner with Brad Speerstra and the other producers and the kid’s crazy mother and she…”

  “Angel, not…”

  “It was like something out of an old Peter Sellers comedy, only so not funny. Everyone was smiling as if there wasn’t anything wrong and that bringing her on board was the greatest idea since cheek implants, but she’s the world’s biggest pain, and she’s going to be on set all the time. You wouldn’t believe, I mean, really not believe! She actually said…”

  “Angel, shut up!” I yelled.

  That got her attention. “What?”

  Before she started in again, I told her about Aziza’s disappearance, and concluded with, “As soon as I get some sleep, I’m rejoining the search party.”

  Never an insensitive woman, she realized that the rest of the world didn’t turn upon Hollywood’s axis. “That poor child. How old did you say she was? Seven? That’s about the same age as the girl you and Warren found, isn’t it?”

  “Correct.”

  She fell silent, obviously pondering this, then spoke in a more reasonable tone. “It’s a tragedy, but surely the officials out there are doing everything they can. And you said yourself that there’s a big search party combing the area. What difference will one person make?”

  Although her logic made sense, sense wasn’t the only thing that counted in this world. “At least I’m doing something. Look, Angel, I promised I’d fly out tomorrow and I will. Hold on until then.” All this fuss about a dumb television show was so insignificant it would be funny if I were in a laughing mood. “If you see Warren before I talk to him, give him my…” Give him my best? Too lukewarm. My love? Too strong, especially in light of our last conversation. “Tell him I said hello.”

  I ended the call and turned off the cell. Angel was nothing if not persistent, but Desert Eagle’s script problems no longer mattered to me.

  Before lying back down, I rummaged through my carry-all and pulled out one of the fliers with Precious Doe’s death photograph. I propped it up on the bedside lamp next to the picture of Tujin Rafik. Now the two children would be the first thing I saw in the morning, the last thing I saw at night.

  Sad-eyed Tujin, who had been missing for years, was silent. But Precious Doe asked, DO YOU KNOW ME?

  ***

  After a short nap that made me feel more groggy than refreshed, I showered, changed into clean clothes, and drove to the sheriff’s office. Except for the dispatcher and a deputy handling the phones, the place appeared deserted. Empty coffee cups sat on the desks and cigarettes butts littered the carpeting, many of
them right under the NO SMOKING sign. On the bulletin board, another picture had joined that of Precious Doe: Aziza. Her hijab accented dark-lashed brown eyes, a sculpted nose, and a wide smile. At seven, she hovered on the edge of her mother’s beauty.

  Seven. The age when so many terrible things might happen to a little girl.

  I shook the memory of my own childhood away and headed toward the rear, where I found Avery in his office, slumped over his desk. The place was half-buried in paper, with printouts slopping across the floor and every other available surface.

  “What do you want now, Ms. Jones?” he asked, raising his weary head.

  The return to formalities worried me. “I’m here to help, Sheriff. If you’ll let me.”

  He shook his head slowly. “I’ve done some thinking about that, and the answer’s no. What with Dr. Wahab’s accusation, you’ve become part of the problem. Besides, another girl’s gone missing.”

  “What?!” Surely I hadn’t heard right.

  His eyes were so sunken they looked like a one-hundred-year-old man’s. “The call came in right after you left the Wahab’s house. Her name is Nicole Hall and she’s sixteen. Her family lives just the other side of the Lazy M Ranch. This morning her parents found her bedroom window open—sound familiar?—and she was gone. So was one of the family cars.”

  My fear for the girl lessened. “Does she have a boyfriend?”

  “Not currently. Her father’s the Reverend Daniel Hall, who runs Freedom Temple. He’s stricter than Dr. Wahab, which is saying a lot.”

  A teenager. A strict father. A missing car. You didn’t have to be a genius to figure that one out. But I’m not much on coincidence, and two young girls disappearing at the same time bothered me. “What’s being done?”

  “I’ve pulled men in from Benson, Tombstone, Bisbee, even Sierra Vista. Before you say anything else, let’s go outside. I want some fresh air.” He pushed his chair away from his desk

  Curious, I followed him out into the “fresh” air, where the exhaust of automobiles headed for the day shift at Apache Chemical overwhelmed the more subtle perfume of the desert. After glancing up and down the street, he said, “Things are getting worse here, and your situation with the Wahabs just adds to the general deterioration. That’s why I’m telling you again, go home.”

  Whatever I’d been expecting, it wasn’t this. Angered, I snapped, “Worried about reelection, are you?”

  “That was uncalled for, Ms. Jones. I’ve been busy trying to hold things together while you’ve been running around the county getting people even more riled up. Now, don’t start a fight you’re bound to lose. Get in my way and I’ll lock you up.”

  “For what?”

  “Interfering with a police investigation.” With that, he spun on his heel and went back inside.

  I stood there a moment, trying to figure out my next move. Going home was out of the question, but in a way, Avery was right. So far, I’d accomplished nothing other than putting certain people on their guard. Yet with one girl dead and two more missing, I couldn’t bring myself to walk away.

  Not and live with myself, I couldn’t.

  Chapter Ten

  When I returned to the guest ranch, I found Selma Mann in a paddock, working with a recalcitrant Appaloosa colt. She wanted to saddle it, it didn’t want to be saddled. A few ranch hands sat on the fence’s top rail, grinning at the spectacle. She finally got the saddle on, although the colt wasn’t pleased. Leaving him alone to contemplate this new addition to his life, she walked over to the rail.

  “Horses. Can’t live with them, can’t live without them.” She brushed dust off her face, then her shirt. “Say, there’s a FedEx package waiting for you inside the cottage. Sent from a Beverly Hills address. I signed for it and put it on your bed.”

  The latest Desert Eagle script, no doubt. Oh, joy. I would have to read the thing before leaving for L.A. the next morning. But not now. There was a reason I’d returned to the ranch before heading to Freedom Temple. A fifth-generation Arizonan, Selma knew about everyone local, living or dead.

  “What can you tell me about Reverend Hall?” I asked. “Sheriff Avery says he lives nearby.”

  She grimaced. “Yeah, a quarter mile down the road. The parsonage’s in the rear. Why? Is he implicated in Aziza Wahab’s disappearance? It’s been all over the news this morning. Hall’s a major asshole, but I never heard he had issues with kids, if you know what I mean.”

  I did. After the Catholic Church’s sex abuse scandal, ministers of all denominations had come under increasing scrutiny, some with good reason. Power corrupts, and spiritual power was no exception. I remained shocked, however, at hearing Selma refer to a man of the cloth as “a major asshole.” Harsh words, even in these disrespectful times. Maybe she just had a thing about religion. Lots of people did.

  “Nothing like that,” I assured her. “His daughter’s disappeared, too. The sheriff’s hoping she just ran away.”

  Shock replaced the grimace. “Nicole? Disappeared? It’s happened before, but I’m concerned about the timing. There was that Iraqi girl a few years ago, then Precious Doe, then Aziza Wahab, and now Nicole. It’s terrible!”

  There’s terrible, and then there’s terrible. At sixteen, Nicole Hall was almost ten years older than Tujin, Aziza, and Precious Doe. Yes, most pedophiles did specialize in one particular age group, but not always. The timing of the teenager’s disappearance worried me, too. Less than a four-hour drive away, in the border town of Juarez, Mexico, hundreds of young women had disappeared over the past decade. A few mutilated bodies had been found in the desert, but most victims remained lost, the perps unknown. Had Juarez’s serial killer, growing bored with grown women, moved to Los Perdidos? Had he begun preying upon children, killing an older girl every now and then as a refresher course?

  Then I remembered that one of the Hall’s cars was missing, which made it almost certain Nicole was a runaway, but it wouldn’t hurt to make sure.

  “Maybe I should pay the Reverend a visit,” I told Selma, curious to see her reaction.

  She snorted, sounding just like the Appaloosa. “Good luck.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’ll see.” Shaking her head, she went back into the paddock and tried to horse-whisper a colt that wanted nothing to do with it.

  ***

  Freedom Temple was an unprepossessing cinder block building, its whitewashed walls unrelieved by decorations of any kind, not even a cross. The signboard in front announced services at nine a.m. and six p.m. every Sunday; seven p.m. every Wednesday. The Women For Freedom study group met at eleven Monday and Thursday. Today. A political group? I’d always believed religion and politics made a dangerous mix. Checking my watch, I found it was already ten-thirty, which meant that I’d have to conduct this interview in record time.

  The driveway wound around the church and ended at a gravel parking lot separating it from the parsonage. The small house was no more attractive than the church, just a plain wooden structure with a deep eave jutting over a slightly raised cement pad that passed for a porch. There were no shutters, no flower boxes, none of those friendly, human touches normally seen at rectories. Except for the lacy tracings of cottonwoods against the sky at the rear of the house, the entire property was composed of sharp, stern angles.

  The Jeep crunched across the gravel until I braked next to a ten-year-old Taurus that was a candidate for the wrecking yard. After climbing out, I approached the house, but before I reached the porch, the door opened and a tall man peered out. White teeth flashed.

  “May I help you?” His voice was as melodious as a good Shakespearean actor’s, and as mannered as a bad one’s. He started to add something, then halted, an expression of shock crossing his face. But it disappeared quickly and the phony smile returned.

  “Excuse me for staring, dear. That scar on your forehead. A car accident?”

  I phonied a smile back. “An old bullet wound, and no accident.” While he digested this, I studied
his too-perfectly chiseled features. He would have been handsome except for the coldness of his blue eyes.

  “Did you receive counseling, dear? If not, perhaps I can help. Freedom Temple is happy to offer those services, for a sliding fee, of course.” He didn’t invite me in, just stepped onto the porch, closing the door behind him.

  “No counseling necessary, Reverend. I’m here to ask a few questions about your daughter.”

  His smile faded when he noticed my Jeep. In the bright morning light, the Pima Indian signs that decorated it from bumper to bumper fairly glowed. “That’s not one of Sheriff Avery’s vehicles.”

  I was getting tired of standing at the bottom of the steps, and wanted to hurry this along, but I dutifully handed up my card.

  He gave it a quick glance. “You drove all the way down here from Scottsdale to investigate Nicole’s disappearance? Oh, I don’t think so.”

  Stretching the truth until it howled, I said, “I’m helping the sheriff with another missing girl case. Aziza Wahab.”

  Raised eyebrows. “What does she have to do with Nicole?”

  “Probably nothing. Look, my questions will only take a minute and after that, you can get on with your day. Otherwise, Sheriff Avery might have to question you himself.”

  He didn’t like that. “Get it over with, then.” Still no invitation to enter the parsonage. Maybe his wife was lying on the floor, drunk.

  “Is it true Nicole’s run away before?”

  “Many times.” His frosty calmness stood in direct contrast to the grief experienced by the Wahabs the night before.

  “How is Mrs. Hall holding up?”

  He seemed taken aback by my question. “Olivia? She accepts all her trials, of course.”

  All her trials. What an odd phrasing. I decided that I needed to see Olivia Hall, too, but for that I had to get inside the parsonage. “May I come in, Reverend? I hate standing around in parking lots.”