A Dead Red Miracle

by R. P. Dahlke

  "You think she shouldn't be driving?" I asked.

  "Your dad's getting in his Jeep. He'll follow her home."

  "That's nice of him," I said.

  Caleb wasn't much of a drinker. A beer or two once a week was more his speed, so I remarked on the two glasses he drank.

  "I've never tasted anything quite like it," he said. "Not too much tannin and that little bit of sparkle was a nice touch. I wonder how she makes it?"

  My eyebrows went up in surprise. "Since when have you become a wine connoisseur?"

  He grinned and kissed me. "Just another level to the marvelous man you married. But thanks for cutting me off when you did or I'd be wearing a bad hangover tomorrow morning. So what do you think about Gabby's take on Naomi White?"

  "If she shot her husband, why pay us to find his killer?"

  Caleb shrugged. "Just because she's paying you doesn't mean she actually expects you to succeed."

  I couldn't help feeling the old fear of defeat edging in on me. "Not you too? Everyone in this county seems to think we couldn't possibly know anything about investigating, much less be able to solve this case."

  He reached over and hugged my shoulders. "I do, your dad does, and Modesto's police chief sure remembers what you did for him. He'll vouch for you any time you need it."

  "I guess I just hate to think that Ian purposely did not mention his sister."

  "Ian Tom has only been back in Arizona for eight years and he may not know everything about his sister's history with her husband. But if the evidence points to her, we'll deal with it."

  "I haven't told you the names on that list yet, have I?"

  "I figured you would when you were ready," he said, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

  "Wade Hamilton, Jesse Jefferson and I know it sounds crazy," I said, waiting for the outburst, "Andy Sokolov is the third person."

  Caleb's back stiffened. "Say again?"

  I was getting a headache, maybe a migraine, and I hadn't had one in years. I rubbed my forehead, trying to ease into the subject of Caleb's best friend and mayor of Wishbone.

  "If it's any consolation, Pearlie thinks the sheriff may be aiming his sights on a political career, so nabbing a killer who is a respectable member of Wishbone's society would be quite the coup, wouldn't it?"

  "I have to trust that there's a reason why Ian gave you these names. Besides shooting a man in the back and then covering it up, Ian's offered you some leads to follow. Have you come up with anything yet?"

  "We've just started to look, but five years ago Wade Hamilton hired Ron Barbour to uncover who was stealing cars off his lot. The car thief was a kid he had washing cars."

  "But what?"

  "As far as Pearlie is concerned, his worst offense was accepting those two old junkers we use for surveillance, but the most damning evidence of Ron's corruption were his expense receipts. His receipts don't match his report."

  "You're saying he lied in the report to keep his pal in the clear?"

  "And perjured himself on the witness stand. We're also thinking Ron made the deal and kept Wade's secret, but then later tried to squeeze him for more money."

  "And got himself killed for his efforts? The kid went to prison. Is he out now?"

  "He's out on parole," I said, "employed at a wrecking yard in Benson and keeping his nose clean."

  "Do you want me to talk to him?"

  "Pearlie or I will do that."

  "Who's next?"

  "Jesse Jefferson."

  "Jesse? Dammit, Lalla, I have Rotary breakfast with him once a month. We've been to his church. He's one of the nicest people I know."

  "Ian didn't say he wasn't. He only said to look for money problems."

  "Oh, all right," he said with a wave of his hand. "Then let's get the elephant out of the closet and in the room, shall we? What's Andy's secret?"

  I looked at my feet, dreading the outcome of this conversation. Either way, it wasn't going to end well.

  "Ian could be wrong," I said.

  "For Chris' sake, Lalla, what's Andy supposed to have done? Kiddy porn?"

  I blanched.

  "Oh Jesus!" he said, collapsing onto a kitchen chair.

  "There were only two words after Andy's name, child pornography."

  Caleb simply shook his head, staring at me as if I were an alien creature. "If I didn't have so much respect for Ian Tom, I'd suspect Pearlie was right thinking about a political agenda. Dammit. If it turns out his lead was from some jealous rumor monger I'll personally kick his ass."

  Hoping to divert his attention away from this dreadful subject, I asked, "Did you feed Hoover already?"

  "I did," he said, tightly. "I would never betray a pal."

  Sick at heart, I went to bed while Caleb stayed up, the living room light and TV on, better to think about what I'd just told him.

  The other side of our bed remained cold and empty until my restless sleep was interrupted by a phone call from county search and rescue. "We have a lost Alzheimer's patient," the caller from the sheriff's office said. "Karen Paquette is out of town and we need an air scent dog. Bring Hoover."

  .

  Chapter Thirteen:

  Our search and rescue team had been out for most of the night in search of an elderly native American Alzheimer's patient.

  I looked up to see the Milky Way lighting a brilliant path across the sky, the result of yesterday's rain scrubbing the ever present dust out of the atmosphere.

  I tugged at the neck of my padded jacket in an attempt to keep the cold out. That nagging feeling was back, the one that said this search and rescue for an Apache wasn't going to go well. But then it had been a long night and the last of my reserves were just about shot.

  He had wandered away from his daughter's home, about five miles from the tiny hamlet named after the rugged and remote Dragoon Mountains.

  We were told only the basics, that he wasn't one to miss a meal and never left the house after dark and that she'd searched on her own, then enlisted neighbors and finally admitting defeat, called 9-1-1.

  When Hoover found the man's trail, I had to lean back to keep his stride in check.

  "Slow down boy," I said, the leash in my hand a taut line between us.

  If I couldn't keep him under control, the dog could easily bound away and out of sight. Soon he had us trotting in a southerly direction, down through an empty arroyo and up again, trailing six footsore men in our wake.

  "Crap," I said. "He's headed for the Cochise Stronghold." This was where Cochise and his legendary band of Chiricahua Apache played hide and seek with the American Cavalry and if Hoover's nose was right, it was also where an old Apache was making his last stand.

  With sunlight firing the tips of the pinnacles above us, Steve pointed out a well traveled animal path. "It'll be easier going now," he said.

  We stopped to reconnoiter with the team to the west of us. Sloshing the contents of his thermos around, Steve shoved it into my hands. "Drink up."

  I tried to wave him off, but he wouldn't take no for an answer. "Don't be a ninny. This is high desert and even on the coldest day you can still get dehydrated."

  What he wasn't saying was that I needed to follow orders. I smiled my thanks and gulped down the last of his lukewarm tea.

  While Hoover worked the trail, Steve gave us a history lesson. "Outstanding runners, the Apache. Deep chested, and except for Cochise who was reported to be six feet tall, no more'n a few inches over five feet. The Apache toughened their boys by having them throw rocks at each other."

  "That sounds harsh," someone said.

  "It was duck or die," Steve said. "Rocks and then bows and arrows. They also trained them to run with a mouthful of water. That's without spilling or swallowing for up to four miles."

  "I could use a beer," Bob said.

  Someone behind him snorted.

  Steve raised his voice over the laughter. "Lalla might want to hear this, you know. As I was saying, they could cover sixty miles on foot, raiding for cat
tle. It's been said they never took much to horses. They stole 'em, used them to herd the cattle home, then ate them. "

  "Injuns," Bob said, "don't talk much as I recall. What'd the daughter say about the old man? He's some kind of shaman, or is that a witch doctor?"

  "I guess we'll find out soon enough," Steve said.

  This time when Bob groaned, I had to agree with him. The desert before us was a whole lot of cold and rough terrain with enough mesquite to tear off chunks of skin if one were clumsy. Add jumping cholla to the painful stickers and you had an uncomfortable trip.

  Hoover surprised me by taking a jog to the east where he kept to a faint trail glimmering lightly against an otherwise sullen landscape.

  Steve grunted in relief. "He found a shortcut? Then we'll follow."

  Too cold and tired to comment, we picked up our feet, hunched our shoulders against the morning cold and followed the single track as it wound up into the mountains. The sky was now empty of everything but one lone star in the west and the land below us seemed to spread out for miles. A half-hour later, we were face-to-face with the domineering cliffs, their craggy faces still deep in shadow.

  "Hear that?" I asked.

  Bob jerked his head up, cupped his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. "Donkey and a cow bell a couple of miles away but…"

  Steve waived us to be quiet.

  I pointed up at the cliffs. "It sounds like someone is drumming," I said. "Think that's him up there? That's good, right, Steve?"

  "Yeah, great. He's entertaining himself while he waits for someone to come get him."

  "Up there? How're we gonna get him down off that cliff?" Bob asked.

  "Not as hard as it looks," Steve said. "The trail is there. Just follow the path to the left and around the rocks. We'll find him."

  "Look," Bob said, pointing up the mountain. "Is-is he dancing?"

  I followed his pointing finger. I wouldn’t have thought there was room for a man to walk around, but from where I stood he looked to be dancing on a pinnacle. An illusion, a trick of light and oddly magical.

  The cold was causing my hands to shake so I stuck them back into my pockets to warm them. Heights didn't bother me. It reminded me of flying… well, sort of. A nice enclosed cockpit wasn't a mountain top.

  "Should we let him know we're here?" I asked.

  "Oh, I'd say he knows." Steve said, turning to our crew.

  Steve called the EMTs to put the local hospital on stand by for a helicopter. "Okay. Lalla, me and Bob will go up. If his daughter is right and the ol' boy has dementia, we may have our hands full for an extraction."

  Steve zipped up his vest and readjusted the weight in his backpack. "All set, Lalla?"

  "Yes," I said, patting the items on my belt and checking again the extra batteries for my radio, the repetition soothing my jittery nerves.

  "Then let's get to it." Steve took off, blending into the shadows. I had to jog to keep up. The man was almost sixty, he'd been out here most of the night and he still had the energy to leave the rest of us in the dust. Maybe it was the adrenaline, knowing that our search was almost over. All we had to do was get him off the ledge, down the cliff, get the EMTs to check him over and get him home again.

  Steve loped up the trail with us hard on his heels. As we went higher, the going got tougher. Boulders birthed rocks and rocks became slippery shale that made the uphill climb treacherous. I slipped and fell to my knees, cursing at the sharp rocks tearing at my skin. Bob stopped to pull me to my feet and I thanked him, but he just laughed. "I'm sure you'll be able to return the favor someday."

  Steve waited for us at a trailhead where a ledge cantilevered over an outcropping of huge boulder. Above us, we heard the old man's shuffling feet keeping time to a drum.

  I tilted my head, "What's he singing… is that−?"

  Bob chuckled. "Jesus Loves Me? Sure sounds like it. He must've been in Bible school at one time."

  Steve shushed us. "We're right under him," he whispered. The drum was now silent but in a weak and reedy voice he started singing the second stanza.

  "I think it's best if I go alone," Steve said. "See if I can talk him down. If that doesn't work, I'll come back and we'll split up, take him on both sides."

  And if it came to it, the EMTs would sedate him.

  Steve ran up the path and disappeared.

  I looked down at the valley below. I could hear the team, their voices even at this distance as clear as if I were standing next to them. Of course, the old man heard us coming.

  Above us, a voice called. "Hiya!"

  We looked up to see a pair of bright black eyes glittering with an unseen light. The elfish, wrinkled face split into a wide grin.

  I didn't know how to respond. "Shouldn't Steve be at the ledge by now?"

  Bob nudged me. "Say something. It'll distract him until Steve can grab him from behind."

  "I'm not so sure about this… what if we spook him?"

  "Can't hurt, and he seems interested in you."

  The old man's face turned from me to Bob, apparently very interested in our conversation.

  Bob tilted his head up and waved. The old man waved back.

  "See? He likes you. Go on, say something."

  "Me? He waved at you. And what if he doesn't know any English besides the words to Jesus Loves Me?"

  "Come on, it'll help Steve."

  I blew on cold, fisted hands, looked up at the face peering over the ledge. "Uh. Hi there."

  He laughed, said something that must have been in his native language and withdrew his head.

  "Crap," I said. "I didn't get what he said."

  "Apache. I know a little Navajo, but not Apache."

  "Wait," I said grabbing Bob's sleeve. "I hear Steve's voice. He's talking to him."

  I leaned back, turned on my flashlight and aimed the beam upward.

  Bob swatted at the pebbles and feathers cascading onto our helmets. "What the…. ?"

  Steve appeared, the light striking him in the face. He threw up his hand, the yellow patch of the Cochise County Search and Rescue Team glinting in the beam. Alarmed that he appeared to be about to go over the ledge, I called to him. "Steve!"

  A feather helicoptered down to land on my upturned face. "What the hell is going on?"

  "I don't know," Bob said, "but something's wrong. I think we better get up there and find out."

  Voices above us rose and fell in argument. Steve consoling, cajoling, the other protesting and suddenly the morning sun burst over the rim of the mountains.

  "There!" I said pointing to the silhouetted figure. He was in a brightly beaded and feathered costume but before I could remark on it to Bob, the old man raised his arms over his head and sang. The song, in spite of being in his native language, was enough to give me goose bumps. It was a plaintive cry, but I had no idea if it was for help, or justice or just to make it rain. He stopped for a moment as if to admire the view over the valley, or perhaps he was seeing far into another time.

  But then he spread his arms wide, bent his knees, yelled something I couldn't quite hear and leaped into the air.

  Feathers did nothing to hold back gravity and his headlong race for the valley floor was quickly met with a violent end. His body bounced once, rolled and finally came to rest against a boulder.

  For a few seconds our team stood silent, shock and dismay on their upturned faces until someone yelled and they ran to see if there was any life left in the man to rescue.

  .

  Chapter Fourteen:

  "I don't know, Caleb," I said, pulling off my dusty hiking boots. "I know it isn't rational, but I could've sworn he said something as he leaped off that ledge and I can't stop thinking that I should've been able to understand it."

  Caleb moved one of my pillows from my side of the bed and tucked it behind his back. "I sincerely doubt that you or anyone else could've understood him. He was speaking Apache, wasn't he?"

  "I suppose so. But I recognized the words to Jesus Loves Me."

&
nbsp; "And Steve had no indication that the old guy was going to jump?"

  "No. He said he handed the old man his jacket because he was shivering. Later, Steve figured it was just a ruse to distract him and leap off that cliff. Steve feels terrible about it. We all do."

  Caleb reached out and pulled me off balance, one boot still dangling from my foot. I fell onto his chest and felt his arms tighten around me.

  "It could've been a lot worse," he said, warming my ear with a light kiss.

  Caleb would know, since he'd spent the last twenty-three years in law enforcement. First as a deputy, then as sheriff of Stanislaus County in California and now as police chief of Wishbone, Arizona.

  "I need a shower," I said, without the energy to back it up.

  "Me too," he said, sitting upright with me still encased in his arms. That's what comes of daily exercise in a gym. Me, I just traipse up and down hills all night looking for lost Alzheimer patients.

  "Shower?" he asked, nibbling on my dusty ear.

  "You're that desperate?"

  "No. But I happen to know you're that easy," he said, pulling me out of bed and into the shower.

  I have to say, he did a good job of scrubbing my back and the rest of me, and by the time he tucked me into bed and left for work, I felt very clean, very tired and very, very happy.

  I was dreaming. It had to be a dream because I was hearing organ music. Hard to hear under water. Water? I looked up. A blue sky. "I could get used to blue sky," my dad said. He should be at his place now. What was he doing, looking down at me as I sat on the bottom of the ocean? The watery image above shifted and morphed into someone else. His face ducked under the water, his black eyes blinked open. He started to speak and drew in a mouthful of water. Choking, he promptly removed his head.

  I woke myself up wondering why I could talk under water and he couldn't.

  Rolling out of bed, I decided the dream was the result of sleeping late, something I had originally thought of as a decadent luxury that I would indulge in every chance I got. Retired from the aero-ag business meant I was no longer at the beck and call of irritable farmers who expected their crops to be cleared of pests at a moment's notice. I could sleep in as long as I liked. Read or eat crackers and peanut butter in bed. That illusion was quickly snatched away with the day-to-day workload Pearlie and I signed on with Ron Barbour.