Reluctant Runaway (18 page)

Rhoades’s nostrils flared. “Sanctuary’s real?”

“Lucano’s hoping for a live Desiree Jacobs. My money’s on a dead Cheama.”

“We’ve got more than one dead guy coming back to haunt us.” He waved a sheet of paper. “Results on the prints found on the package of meth under Cheama’s truck seat. Under a piece of the tape, they found a print from a Florida-based con artist named Harold Duncan who’s been listed as dead for two years. Duncan’s specialty was romancing older women out of their life savings. The second set was from a thug named Leon Bender, who’s also supposed to be six feet under. None of the prints were Cheama’s.”

Ortiz groaned. “What’s going on around here? A deceased felons convention? So either the drugs were planted by ghosts, or Cheama used gloves to handle a package given to him by two dead guys.”

Tony started down the hall. “Let’s go get what’s waiting for us in the desert. We can call the Ghostbusters later. If Desi’s alive out there, with the heat she may not be for long.”

Time’s up, cowboy. You didn’t show, so I gotta go
. She must be getting light-headed with the heat, making wacky rhymes to herself.

Desi took a sip of tepid water, the first she’d allowed herself since her decision to stay put. She stood up, hung the canteen strap over her shoulder, and focused on the big bush at the top of the ridge. That was south, the direction she needed to go. If she kept picking out landmarks to move toward, she ought to stay on course.

She picked up the blanket and shook it, then stopped. Her purse! It was under the far end of the blanket the whole time. She snatched the bag and rummaged through the contents. Comb, compact, lipstick—no doubt mush inside that metal tube—pen, small notebook, billfold. She opened the billfold.
Every credit card and all her cash were intact. The people who dumped her out here might be full of mean tricks, but they weren’t thieves.

If they intended to leave her out here to die, why wouldn’t they take the cash at least? On the other hand, maybe they wanted her belongings to be found with her body to add credibility to an accidental death ruling.
Aagh!
She could go round and round about someone else’s motives and still not hit on the right one.

She moved out, toting the canteen, her purse, and the blanket. The heat buffeted her. This was late September. What must the desert be like in high summer? The blanket dragged on her arm, but she needed it to drape over bushes to make shade when she stopped to rest. Firming her jaw, she trudged up the incline toward the top of the ridge. At least she was wearing comfortable loafers, and her slacks protected her legs.

Desi’s breath came in pants by the time she reached the top of the ridge and peered down into the panorama beyond. Some panorama. She’d hoped to catch sight of a road or habitation. She gazed instead into a ruin of ancient civilization, home now to lizards and spiders. Bare traces of human influence on nature remained—part of a wall here, scattered stones there, and in the center, a depression that might have been a kiva. Not enough to fan the flames of interest in an archaeologist’s heart, much less in hers. The place offered no shelter, just more cholla and ocotillo to snag her progress.

With a sigh, Desi worked her way down the slope and walked between dissolving lumps of man’s handiwork. Strange to think that hers might be the first human feet to tread here in centuries. This place belonged to the coyotes now. An odd sensation raised the hairs on her neck and arms. Unseen eyes followed her.

Nonsense, girl! The heat’s addled your brain
.

She took a few more steps, and a wall of oppression halted her. She wasn’t welcome here. Clammy fingers worked their way up her body. Darkness fell on her mind as visible on the inside as the desert landscape on the outside. Her heart began to race. Fighting the urge to flee, she made herself walk on.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil, for Thou art with
me. The Twenty-third Psalm played over and over in her head.

She reached the center of the ruin, every limb trembling. Weak-kneed, she sank down onto remains of a wall. The depression in the soil that must have once been a kiva began a stone’s throw away. Shiny objects littered the area, but she could make no sense of them.

They didn’t belong here. What should she do? Gather them up and take them with her?

Unscrewing the cap from the canteen, she took a long pull, then another, and another. As if rising from a dark pit, her mind cleared and alarm grew. She’d stopped sweating. Her water conservation strategy had backfired. If she was already experiencing symptoms of heatstroke, she’d never make it to a road that wasn’t within eyeshot yet.

She lunged to her feet with a cry. Beer cans! Someone used this place as a party pad. Civilization must be nearer than she thought. A laugh burst from her.

She set her burdens down—the blanket, the canteen, the purse—and began to explore the area. Aha! A fire pit. Oh goody, cigarette butts. Large boot prints. Oh, and um … skimpy underwear half buried in the sand? A coed party then, but difficult to tell how long ago. The cans showed no sign of rust, but out here oxidation would be a slow process. Could have been months since someone last visited this location—since after the spring rains anyway.

At the outer edge of the ruins, Desi stopped. If her dehydrated body had any tears to shed, they’d be falling now. Tire tracks! Not from four-wheeled vehicles. Whoever came here traveled on two wheels. Motorcycles then. Who cared! She’d take chariots and leap for joy. Well, she’d leap if that didn’t use too much energy. The tracks led off at an angle from the direction she’d intended to travel—a sure bet to take her to a paved highway.

Desi whirled and hotfooted, literally, back to her supplies. She took another drink of water. Rations were low. She picked up the blanket then dropped it. This thing slowed her down, yet she’d need shade for her sizzling scalp sooner or later. It could be miles to the highway She dug her nail clipper out of her purse. A few snips in the fabric and she tore a wide strip off the end of the blanket. Then she ripped a narrower length for a tie and rigged a headdress.

“Just call me Desi of Arabia.”

The rest of the blanket she left draped over the wall. Hope encouraged her feet as she followed the tire impressions away from the dead village. One foot in front of another. Her steps slowed. Nothing but wilderness in every direction, and the tread marks had begun to fade.

She glanced at her watch then took a closer look. Couldn’t be! Less than two hours had passed since she left her rock. Seemed like she’d been walking for ages, and her body felt ready to give out. So much for her belief that she kept herself in excellent physical condition. Must be the combination of elevation and the desert climate doing a number on her endurance.

“C’mon, Des. You can make it. Can’t be far now.”

The sound of her own voice helped her stuff worry to the back of her mind.
She
took another drink, and the moisture in the canteen barely sloshed as she screwed the cap tight.

She staggered on.
Ouch!
Her toe rammed something hard—the same one she’d abused when she hung on that brick wall in DC—and she pitched forward.
Uhn!
The air left her body as she hit the packed earth, arms too weak to cushion her fall. She tasted sand in her mouth, and bitterness like the flavor of despair. Heat pressed up on her from the baked ground and crushed down from above.

This must be what a clay pot felt like in the kiln.

A deep drone teased her ears. She lifted up on her elbows. Now she was hearing things. The drone intensified. She squinted into the distance. Dust! The drone became a rumble of many engines. Desi dragged herself to her feet.

Swaying, she watched motorcycles barrel closer.

In the lead, a big man in black rode a massive chopper. A red headband circled a mop of ruddy hair that streamed behind him, mixed with the hairs of his bushy auburn beard. The chopper skidded to a halt mere feet away.

Clouds of dust whirled around Desi. Coughing, she closed her eyes. Grains pelted her skin. She hugged herself and ducked her head. The thunder grew to a crescendo and then ratcheted down to a steady roar.

Spitting grit, Desi opened her eyes, and her heart shuddered to a standstill.

At least a dozen hairy men on big hogs surrounded her.

Fifteen
 

T
ieless and in his shirtsleeves, Tony paced an office at Kirtland Air Force Base. He finished his call to Boston and looked at his watch. Two hours waiting for a helicopter to become available. Unbelievable!

Most of the choppers were out on maneuvers, a few sat in the repair shop, and one was toting some bigwig to a conference. The report of a mysterious
package
in the desert wasn’t priority to anyone but him. He could have driven to the location by now, except Ortiz said the directions were vague enough to require air reconnaissance over a significant chunk of ground.

The Hispanic agent hustled into the room. “One of the copters is back from maneuvers. They’re refueling. Let’s go.”

Tony bounded ahead of her. Outside, the rotors were running on the refueled whirlybird. The pilot motioned for them to climb aboard. Ducking against the wind from the blades, Tony complied, followed by Ortiz. They buckled in and put on their headsets. She gave the pilot the general coordinates, and they lifted off.

Tony keyed his headset to talk to Ortiz. “The ground team all set?”

“They’ve been cooling their heels at Laguna Pueblo. Correction, their heels are quite warm by now, waiting for our instructions. Did you find out anything in your call to Boston?”

“Just that Polanski, my second-in-command, has everything under control, and Hajimoto, who’s been digging into Reverend Romlin’s background, says there are suspicious circumstances surrounding the man’s credentials. He thinks Romlin isn’t the preacher’s real name. May not even be a licensed minister.”

Ortiz chuckled. “And this should surprise us why? Do you think he might be another dead guy come back to life?”

“Why not? Seems to be a trend. Haj is looking into that angle. Interesting twist from the usual trick of a live person taking a dead person’s identity. Anything new at your end?”

“Rhoades called. He had more lab results. The unknown vehicle tire marks and bits of chrome we found at the scene of Cheama’s accident come from a semi cab—the same model used by Gordon Corp truckers. The semi forced the pickup off the road.”

Tony smirked. “Maybe Cheama was getting too close to exposing the bootlegging operation in his hunt for his daughter, and they framed him. The pieces fit if we assume that he was my anonymous caller about Bill Winston.”

Ortiz nodded. “At last, a corner of the picture that doesn’t look like a Picasso.”

“You and Desi should get along great.”

“Oh, we do … mostly. She wasn’t too happy with me for being unavailable yesterday.”

“Sounds like her. She’s terrible at waiting.” His heart contracted. Des,
hang tight I’m on my way
. Tony looked down and watched the city pass beneath them. “How long until we reach the search perimeter?”

“Twenty minutes or so.”

Tony settled back for the longest third of an hour he’d ever endured.

Desi stared into the flat gray eyes of the lead motorcyclist. He wore a black denim shirt with the sleeves ripped off and the seams hanging ragged. His bronzed arms were a rolling terrain of muscle and tattoos. A massive pewter cross dangled from his neck on a leather cord. A sliver of tattoo peeked from his shirt neck.

Was she face-to-face with the infamous Snake Bonney? He wasn’t as big as she’d first thought, charging down on her like that. But he was no pip-squeak either. She’d be no match for him by himself, much less with the gang of hard-faced clones around him. She swallowed—or started to, but she couldn’t find a drop of saliva.

A hard grin split the leader’s reddish beard. “You lost?” His voice resembled his motorcycle’s rumble.

“Out for a walk.” Her words came out a croak. “Headed back to the road. The way you—”
cough
—”came.” She coughed again and then took a quick sip from the canteen. “See?” She held up the water container. “I’m prepared.”

He pointed at her headdress. “You’re far out.”

Desi blinked. Far-out? This guy wasn’t old enough to be a seventies reject. Must be some kind of Sonny Barger hero emulation. Of course, the founder of the Hell’s Angels was decades older now, like the rest of the world, and probably didn’t talk that way anymore either. Not a good time to point that out, but … Okay, she was thinking goofy things to keep from panicking.

“I’ll be on my way now Bye.” She stepped forward.

The cycles revved, and the leader drove in front of her—close enough that she could feel his breath. His muscular leg, clad in black jeans, brushed against hers. Desi shuddered.

He grinned again. “I said you’re too far out to think about walking back. We can give you a lift to town … after the party
Beer. Burgers. Weed. And we know how to treat a lady. Don’t we, boys?” He laughed, and his gang echoed.

Desi stepped back. “Thanks for the offer, but I don’t have time. I’m looking for someone … er, someone’s looking for me.”
Please let that be true
.

“Get on.” He jerked his head toward the seat behind him.

What could she say? She was willing to bet that
no
wasn’t in this guy’s vocabulary. She swept her eyes over the hedge of growling bikes. There had to be an opening. Some direction she could run.

Get real, girl!
Outrun motorcycles when she was struggling to walk a minute ago? Desi’s heart pounded. Yeah, but she didn’t have about a gallon of adrenaline going for her then.

Her gaze locked with the massive biker to the right of his leader. If Red Beard’s muscles were hills, this guy’s were mountains. His dead stare seared her. He licked his lips.

The adrenaline leaked out her feet. Her knees went weak, and she buckled forward.

Father, into Thy hands I commend my spirit—

All went dark.

“We’re closing in on the area,” Ortiz said into Tony’s headset. “We’ll start at a central point and work outward in concentric circles.” She handed him a pair of binoculars.

“Sounds good to me.” His gaze devoured the broken and desolate terrain below. Scattered homesteads showed a faint shade of green among the brown. Maybe Desi made it to one of those. The encouraging self-talk fell flat in his mind. She would have called him.

The chopper reached a place where Tony saw no more signs of habitation. They began to circle slow and low. Through the
binoculars, Tony spotted plenty of life—lizards and snakes, scurrying rodents. Nothing resembling a person or even an inanimate package.

Des,
you’re out here. I feel you. Why can’t I find you?

“There!”

Ortiz gasped. “Break my eardrums already.”

“Put the bird down.”

“You got it. But don’t yell again.”

The chopper settled on a flat spot near the ruins of an ancient village. Tony hopped out and ran through the dust cloud churned up by the rotor blades. He reached the swatch of unnatural color among the crumbling stones and snatched it up.

“Indian blanket.” Ortiz came up behind him. “Could have been left out here any time.”

Tony thrust the article at her. “This is fresh. No sign of fading, and look—an end has been clipped then ripped.”

“You’re right.” Ortiz studied the tear. “Recently, too, or we’d see more unraveling.” She shook her head. “But it still doesn’t mean the blanket has anything to do with Desiree Jacobs.”

“But this does.” Tony bent and picked up the shiny tube that had been hidden under the blanket. “Desi’s favorite shade and brand of lipstick.”

“Then where is she?”

“We need to find out—and fast! I have a feeling we’re running out of time.”

Desi choked against the water splashing her face. Some of it went down her throat. She gagged. Not water. Beer. She gasped and sat up. Or tried to. Arms held her. She opened her eyes and stared into a hairy face.

Red Beard! If that Barbary pirate had lived in this age, he
would have enjoyed being an outlaw biker. Desi struggled, and the sweaty arms released her. She scooted away, panting.

“Sorry” Red Beard stood up, towering over her. “We don’t do water. Beer was all we had to wake you up. This canteen is about empty.” He handed it to her.

She grabbed the container and struggled to her feet. He was right. Almost nothing drinkable left, and he said she had a long way yet to reach civilization.

Red Beard remounted his bike. “Climb on. You’ve been in the sun too long.”

Her options had narrowed to one: Do as the man said. She slung her canteen around her neck, hooked her purse around her arm, and swung her leg over the bike. She maintained a few precious inches of distance from the driver. The bike lunged forward. She yelped and grabbed the solid body in front of her. His denims hadn’t been washed in recent history, but so what? Beat doing a backflip off a flying motorcycle.

And fly they did. Half the time the wheels were airborne over dips and hollows. The wind tore the scrap of blanket from her head. She lifted her face, and the streaming air washed over her. A sense of buoyant freedom rose inside her. If she closed her eyes, she could pretend she clung to Tony.

Not really. Tony never smelled like this, and he didn’t have a beer belly. But at least she could pretend to pretend. If she were with him, the ride would be exhilarating.

She had no idea how long they rode or which direction. Not toward the exposed ruins she’d found earlier. Potential landmarks flew by too fast to make note of them, and her forward vision was obscured by Red Beard’s broad back, but she thought a chalky-colored butte drew closer.

After a while, they entered the shade of the tower of rock, and the sun lost some of its power. With the butte soaring over
them, they slowed. Dust boiled as they braked to a halt. Desi coughed and squinted.

Where had they taken her?

She slipped off the bike, staggered, and righted herself. This shaded area was about ten degrees cooler than under the baking sun, but still warm. Others had arrived ahead of their group. Some were women clad in everything from ragged T-shirts and holey jeans to crop tops and cutoffs. The men with Red Beard hooted crude suggestions. The women grinned and waggled their hips, but the looks they gave Desi put her in the category of a new species of bug.

Some of the early arrivals had set up camp chairs and folding tables. Cases of assorted booze were stacked on the ground. About a hundred paces away sat a Range Rover and several four-wheelers. Desi’s heart quickened. A little
Grand Theft Auto
would be in order.

Red Beard tugged her toward a small adobe hut minus door and windows. The blank holes seemed to gaze out with sorrow on what had become of it in its crumbling old age. They went inside, and the temperature cooled further.

Amidst laughter and coarse joking, bikers set out kegs and plastic glasses on a rickety table in the middle of the room. The table was the lone piece of furniture except for a large chest in the corner. Mountain Man came in with two canvas lawn chairs. These guys traveled with all the comforts of home. Red Beard took one of the chairs and patted the seat of the other one for Desi. Mountain Man scowled and stomped out.

Must be his chair the leader gave away.

Desi plopped down, too drained to care that she was sitting next to a man who might decide to rape her before the night was out or that she’d made a very large enemy through no fault of her own. She touched her face. Sticky from dried beer and caked with dirt.

“You’ve got nice hair.” Red Beard fingered a strand. “Real soft.”

She pulled away. “I don’t know what kind of bimbos you’re used to dealing with, but if you expect me to fall for your charms because you complimented my hair, you’re in for a long wait. In fact, if you try anything out of line, you’ll have a fight on your hands.”

His eyes widened then he threw his head back and bellowed a laugh. The cross bounced against the hollow of his throat. He patted her knee. “As much fun as that sounds, Kitten, I’m more interested in washing the dust from my throat.”

One of his men handed him a foamy cup. The server winked at her and walked away.

Kitten!
Red Beard dubbed her with some wimpy pet name that equated with
helpless plaything?
He’d forgotten that kittens grew into cats with sharp claws and the ability to slip away at a moment’s notice. If only her energy level exceeded kitten-strength. But a good front never hurt.