Night of Shadows (2 page)

"Don't be snide," she
retorted. "I'm in the middle of packing. I have to leave in the
morning."

"But you just got back. What
is it? Another business trip?"

He followed her into the bedroom,
where she began stuffing a few clothes into a suitcase. She quickly explained
what was going on.

"I can see your concern,"
he responded kindly. "But I don't see why you don't just leave this to the
authorities. They'll find her."

"Even if they do, she'll still
need me. Besides, I'd feel better if I met her husband face-to-face. There's
something funny about the way he was talking to me today…"

Perry perched gingerly on the side
of her bed. "You wouldn't expect the man to sound normal, what with his
wife missing. Besides — from what you've told me about your sister — she's
bound to be off somewhere on a lark."

Melinda diverted Perry by asking
him to perform some errands for her while she was gone — checking her post
office box, taking home any perishables from the refrigerator, letting some of
their mutual friends know where she had gone.

Her detailed instructions were
interrupted by the doorbell announcing the arrival of cold pizza. As Melinda
beckoned him to the table, Perry examined the fare with distaste as he
reluctantly sat down. Melinda picked up the cardboard package and stuffed it
into the microwave to re-heat. Then she poured two glasses of red wine.

"Sorry about the dinner."
She handed him his glass, then joined him at the table. "I was planning to
make that special Greek recipe you like so well."

Perry was a food critic for the
Atlanta morning newspaper, and she often accompanied him to different
restaurants targeted for his acrid criticism. She enjoyed the experiences for
the most part, but Perry's refined tastes and status made him a bit of a pain
at times.

He never hesitated to express
haughty displeasure if the food or service offended him. Unfortunately, his
fastidious habits spread to other aspects of his character. For instance, he
was obsessed with his appearance. He haunted health spas and visited salons for
regular hair styling. He insisted on dressing almost exclusively in tailored,
three-piece suits. He was dashingly handsome as a result.

Melinda was flattered that he found
her attractive enough to meet his meticulous standards. But sometimes his
expectations were a strain. He seemed to love her long, shiny dark hair piled
elaborately atop her head.

She spent considerable time in the
lady's room of places they visited to make sure that the mascara accenting her
large dark eyes remained unsmudged and that no hair had strayed out of place. Whatever
his faults were, however, Perry was a good friend, and she valued his company. She
was grateful that tonight he ate the pizza without complaint.

"Really, Melinda, I don't
understand why you think you have to do this," Perry repeated, as they
finished their meal. "That area of New Mexico is practically a wilderness.
You're a city girl. You'll never find your way around out there. And you won't
be helping anyone."

"You're forgetting. I'm very
resourceful." Melinda swooped the dirty utensils off the table, and piled
them into the dishwasher. "So stop trying to turn this discussion into a
debate. The decision is made. What I need most from you right now is your
support."

Perry stood and walked over to her.
He reached out, as if to touch her. But his hand paused in mid-air at her
no-nonsense look. Their friendship had its limits. And so far Melinda never had
allowed their relationship to cross over a certain boundary.

Perry held up his hands in
surrender. "Okay, okay — I can see your mind is made up. But you can at least
keep me posted. If you need me, I'll be here. You can count on me, you know. You
don't have to be so independent all the time."

He regarded her tenderly and
halfway expectantly, as though inviting her to respond. She lowered her eyelids
and looked away.

"I'll keep in touch," she
promised.

***

Melinda was lucky she had been able
to book a flight for so early the next morning. She had made her connection in
Albuquerque, and was on the last lap of her journey into southern New Mexico as
the 19-seater aircraft she was in revved up for takeoff.

It was an unsettling contrast to the
spacious 727 jet that had carried her from Atlanta. She gripped both arms of
the seat she was wedged in as the commuter plane edged toward the runway. It
was destined for Roswell, the largest city in the remote area where she was
bound. The noise from straining engines almost deafened her. Something in her
expression must have inspired the sympathetic look cast her way by the man
seated across the aisle.

"It's not nearly as bad as it
sounds," he said in a raised voice that competed with the roar. "These
little planes really are quite safe. We joke about 'em, though. We call this
outfit Treetop Airlines around these parts."

Melinda smiled crookedly as the
plane shuddered. She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds as her stomach
lurched with the takeoff.

"Is this your first trip to
Roswell, ma'am?" the stranger asked.

Reluctantly, she opened her eyes
and nodded "yes." Only two other passengers were aboard, a heavyset
man and a woman seated near the front. Melinda was grateful that the man who
had spoken to her at last pulled out a book and started reading. She was in no
mood for small talk.

She leaned closer to the window as
the plane skimmed the miles of New Mexico territory that revealed very few
cities, even fewer trees and rolling hills of brown cut by dry arroyos
sprinkled with yellow grass. In the distance, mountains jutted majestically
from the terrain.

She looked down at the long, dark
shadows cast as the rising sun remained slanted low on the horizon. Could it be
that Joan was down there somewhere? Lost? Kidnapped?

She then was stabbed with the
inevitable guilt.

When their parents were killed in a
car wreck six years ago, Joan had been only 14 years old. But Melinda, at 19,
already was enrolled in college in nearby Atlanta, which was about 150 miles
from their hometown of Leesburg, Georgia.

Melinda had none of the doubts that
seemed to plague the majority of her classmates. She knew exactly what she
wanted. She was a confident, straight-A student intent on a career in
advertising.

She had been devastated, of course,
over the death of her parents. But her grief was nothing compared to the
lingering sorrow experienced by her little sister. Joannie endured nothing but
upheaval. Their parents' will named Aunt Polly, the girls' only living
relative, as their guardian until they reached the age of 21.

Aunt Polly was a spinster,
accustomed to coping only with a few spoiled cats, until Joannie invaded her
household in Orlando, Florida. The austere life seemed to Joan like she was in
exile. She rebelled by making Aunt Polly's life as miserable as possible, which
resulted in continual punishment that kept her even more restricted to the
house. Joan often called with pleas for Melinda's help.

Melinda again could hear Joannie's
pleading voice as she begged her older sister to move out of the dormitory and
rent an apartment where she could move in and they could be together.

Melinda's reasons for refusing
sounded noble at the time. She convinced Joan that she needed Aunt Polly's
maturity and wisdom for guidance. But the truth was, Melinda feared a little
sister's presence might interfere with her studies as well as her social life. At
the memory, remorse stabbed at Melinda's heart.

Well, maybe she had let Joannie down
then. But she wasn't about to do it again.

She settled back in the seat, and
reviewed her plans. After the plane reached its destination, she would rent a
car. Then she would use Joan's map to find the McClure ranch. Even if the
brothers sent her away — which would be unspeakably rude — she still planned to
stay in the area. If necessary, she would rent a motel room in Ruidoso to
explore Joan's old haunts.

Secretly, Melinda hoped this
nonsense was the result of nothing more than a spat between husband and wife. She
tried to imagine Joan's triumphant return amid the commotion her sister
sometimes enjoyed creating. Melinda would be angry — oh yes. She would be as
angry as she had been the day Joan told her she had quit college.

Melinda had been so delighted the
year Joan graduated from high school and moved to Atlanta to attend the
university. Melinda had looked forward to re-establishing the old, close bond
she and her sister once shared. She also hoped that at last Joannie would have
a direction, something in which to invest her wayward energies.

But after only one semester, and
bad grades (Melinda suspected from too many parties), Joannie made her dramatic
announcement. She and two friends had concocted a grand scheme. They would
travel around the country and take on odd jobs to support themselves. Melinda
pictured Joannie as she had been the day of that confrontation, with her
anxious blue eyes, soft blonde hair and a defiant look that replaced her usual
eagerness to please her sister.

Melinda's word always had been law,
up until that moment. She just knew she could convince Joan that their parents
had wanted so much more for her. That's why they had established a trust fund
to provide enough money for college. But Melinda's indignation did no good. Joannie
then was 18, ready to assert her independence.

And when, only months later,
Joannie announced that she had married a man named Preston in some forsaken
area of New Mexico, Melinda was heartbroken. It had been too soon. She knew
that Joannie could not have matured so quickly.

The plane dropped into a fast
descent and jerked Melinda back to the present. She spotted the long runway
below as it rushed up to meet them, and caught her breath when the plane bumped
once, then vibrated from end to end. A high-pitched rumble indicated the brakes
had been applied.

When the small turboprop at last
taxied to a halt, Melinda stood and staggered through the narrow aisle. As she
made her way down the portable steps outside, she was greeted with a blast of
heat from a searing sun. She jerked her hand from the hot metal railing, then
walked into the small air terminal building. There, she gratefully breathed in
the refrigerated air and stood for a moment looking around at the scattered
seats and ticket booths.

Melinda was uncertain about her
next move. It still was not too late to notify Preston that she was here. She
could insist that he drive to Roswell and pick her up. She paused, eyeing the
public telephone wistfully. Then, remembering the warning in Joan's strange
letter, she turned away and instead strode over to a small booth to make
arrangements for a rental car.

She plunked down her credit card for
the required fee, collected her luggage, and marched through the airport.

As she threaded her way through the
parking lot to find her car, she ran into her companion from the plane. He was
following along behind her, apparently intent on finding his own vehicle.

"I hope you have a good
stay," he said pleasantly. "Where you headed? To see the
sights?"

"Oh, not really." She
tried to keep her voice friendly yet coolly distant. One never knew about
strangers. "It's a strictly business matter. I need to visit Sacramento
Ranch. Have you ever heard of it?"

By that time, Melinda had spotted
the white foreign compact described to her and paused with the key poised to
unlock the door.

The man was frowning now. "I
know where it is. But, lady, you'll never make it in that. We've had some rough
weather these past few days. The back roads are torn up by all the flooding."

Melinda's fist tightened around the
keys. "You can't mean that!"

"I'm sorry, ma'am. You just
can't get there right now in a car — at least, not that car. Or in any of the
cars they rent around here. Until they get the roads fixed back up, you might
need a four-wheel drive. At the very least, you need a pickup."

He squinted up at the sky at a
squadron of dark clouds gathering in the distance. "In fact, I'd advise
you not to go at all. This is a bad time of year. We've been having a lot of
afternoon storms."

He paused, interrupting his gloomy
forecast. "You're not from around here, are you?"

"No."

"I thought so from the accent. Southern,
isn't it?"

Melinda thought this an interesting
observation from someone with such a marked drawl.

"Anyhow," he continued. "A
desert thunderstorm is none too pleasant. If you have to go, I suggest you find
someone to take you."

Despite her misgivings about
strangers, Melinda found herself eyeing him hopefully. He shook his head with a
slow, apologetic grin.

"I wish I could help, really. But
I have a farm near here, and I have some urgent business of my own I need to
tend to."

Finally, she found her voice. "But
surely I could rent something somewhere?"

"Well...Gosh. I don't know. My
brother-in-law has an old truck he's been trying to sell. It don't look like
much, but it runs good. That's about all I can say for it. I'm sure he'd rent
it to you..."