The Laura Cardinal Novels (59 page)

After disconnecting, she sat on the bed and said to the room, “Am I being overly sensitive?”

But there was no answer. Frank Entwistle must be out haunting somebody else.

Jillian North did not return Laura’s call, so she tried again. This time a young woman answered, her voice breathless. “Hello?”

As if she were hoping for something—or some
one
.

Laura burst her bubble. “This is Laura Cardinal—”

“I was just about to call you.”

Laura didn’t believe that for a minute.

“Do I know you?” Jillian asked. “Your name sounds familiar, but …”

Laura identified herself and asked if she could speak to Shana.

“Shana? She’s not here.”

“Is she out somewhere? Is there some way I can reach her?”

“Uh, no.” Laura could hear the girl’s mind racing for here. “She’s not here. I could give you her number in Williams.”

“I thought she was staying with you.”

There was a pause. Laura got the impression that Jillian North wasn’t used to lying. “She’s not here. In Las Conchas, I mean.” Warming to it. “I don’t know where she is, you should check with her parents in Williams.”

“When was the last time you heard from her?”

“I don’t know … Would you mind if I called you back? I’m waiting for an important phone call.”

She hung up.

Now Laura knew for sure why Jillian hadn’t returned her call. Shana was staying with her, and Shana didn’t want Laura to know where she was.

When you had a friend who was a bad liar, that kind of strategy could backfire.

As soon as her wheels hit the
Bosque Escondido
—Spanish for “the hidden forest”—Laura’s heart sped up with anticipation.

In a few minutes she’d know for sure that everything was all right between them. Tom would still be her lover, the man she knew, tall and strong and quiet, and he would fold her into his arms and kiss the top of her head the way he liked to do.

“Hey, Bird,” he’d say. “I missed you.”

A few more minutes and all her fears would blow away as if they had never been.

She drove through the desert, glad to see the saguaro cactus and mesquite and prickly pear, the spidery branches of the creosote bushes, a busy tapestry of shapes against the pale moon-blanched ground.

Ahead to the right she saw the glow of the luminarias ranged along the high wall surrounding the Spanish Moon Cantina. The Spanish Moon was where the ranch guests ate Mexican food and drank margaritas, sore from a day’s ride out on the horses Tom cared for.

She came to a fork in the graded dirt road. To the right were the cantina, the main ranch house, and the newer
casitas
for the guests. The road to the left meandered through the desert, visiting a sprinkling of houses where the ranch workers lived. Laura stayed here rent-free. A friend of the ranch’s owner, Laura provided a law enforcement presence—including directing traffic and providing security at the weddings.

She drove down into the shallow, sandy impression made by the Agua Verde Wash. During the monsoon rains in the summer, the wash would run swift and deep—so deep it would leave her stranded at home anywhere from ten minutes to a couple of hours until the water receded. Her car windows open, she felt the cool dankness of the wash and the shadows of the mesquites interlocking overhead. Up ahead was the white-washed house, a lot like the Mexican row houses in the downtown Tucson barrios, except here it stood alone. Almost as if it had been sawed off on one end and cast adrift among the mesquites.

As she was coming out of the wash, a pair of bright green-gold eyes glowed in her headlights: Mama Bobcat crossing the lane. The bobcat turned her head to look at Laura before casually continuing across, walking as if she were wearing big furry bedroom slippers.

Laura parked, opened the iron gate, and walked up on the brick paving of the porch, worn by almost a century of boots.

No lights.

The place closed up.

Damn.

Laura glanced at the clock for what seemed like the hundredth time. Almost twelve thirty. Tom got up early, like she did. He had to feed the horses. That was something he had to do every day, no matter what the weather.

She’d come in through the darkened house, feeling her way to the light switch. There was no note on the kitchen table, none on the refrigerator, or her pillow, or her desk. The answering machine light was blinking. She played it back and heard her own voice, surprised at how tentative she sounded.

As if she were waiting for a boulder to fall on her head.

She’d never sounded like that before, had she?

Laura took a shower. By then, Tom would be back.

But he didn’t come back. She readied herself for bed, even slipped in under the covers and turned out the light. But she got tired of listening for the scrape of a shoe on the worn brick, the rattle of a key in the door, so she turned on the television. HBO was playing
The Sixth Sense
. She watched for a while, but she’d seen it before and couldn’t concentrate on the story, turned it off just as the ghost of the little girl handed Haley Joel Osment the box with the videotape in it.

Laura removed her nightshirt and pulled on jeans and a clean shirt. She pocketed the key and walked down the road to the Spanish Moon, taking the horse trail that meandered over by the corrals. Tom’s truck and trailer were gone. That could mean anything, but it came as a shock to her.

What’s the matter with me
?

She realized she had no solid evidence to go on that anything was amiss. Just this feeling in her gut. And she’d discovered that sometimes the feeling in her gut could be wrong. So she might as well relax, have a drink at the cantina, and enjoy this beautiful moonlit night.

The Spanish Moon Cantina was built some time in the twenties, Laura guessed. The plaster had receded with age and the weather, so that the adobe bricks stood out in relief. Mina said she’d like to stucco it over “before it melts down like a Fudgsicle,” but liked the look—it gave the place an authentic feel.

Laura went through the cantina and outside to a table near the old outdoor bar. The bar looked as if it predated the cantina, scrap wood hammered together to create an enclosed area where the corralled bartender served drinks on a low counter lined with bar stools. Rusty signs were nailed to the old wooden bar, advertising products like Phillip Morris cigarettes and Barq’s soda. Old picnic tables were scattered around the clearing. Laura chose one closest to a copse of mesquite trees. Other than a middle-aged couple absorbed in each other, Laura was the only patron here.

Mina, five feet tall and built like a battleship, sailed out in her gypsy skirt. Frizzy gray-blonde hair and round wire-rimmed glasses dominated her face. She set down chips and salsa for Laura and stood over her, her motherly figure somehow comforting, exuding the confidence that everything was all right now that Mina was here.

“You want the usual? We’ve got something new if you’d like to try it. Yellowtail, from Australia. Merlot or cab sav.”

Laura ordered the cabernet.

Mina remained. “What’s got you looking so down in the dumps?”

“Just this case.”

“Right. Just this case.” Mina had trouble radar that would not quit.

Laura said, “Two college kids shot to death while they were sleeping in a tent. They’d just gotten married.”

“That’s bad, all right, but you can handle it. Too bad you didn’t come earlier so you could have a good meal. The kitchen’s closed now so you’ll have to settle for chips.” She swept away the menu and set sail for the cantina door, came back a few minutes later with the Yellowtail cabernet. Laura felt like knocking it back fast, like tequila and lime, but made herself sip it. Again, Mina remained. “You hear about the hiker?”

“What hiker?”

“Some girl got herself lost in the Rincons. Been gone two days now. Tom’s out looking for her now.”

“He is?” That was why his truck and trailer were gone. “How long has he been out?”

“Since early this morning. They’ve got Search and Rescue all over the place. Ron Bransky? The sheriff’s deputy? He asked Tom to help. He knows the area like the back of his hand.”

Mystery solved. So Tom was out looking for a lost hiker. Now all Laura wanted to do was drink her wine and enjoy the moonlight.

But Mina stood there, implacable. Mina thought that every employee on the ranch needed to listen to her take on things. In her mind, they were all her children and she could tell them what to do. She dispensed advice freely, and her pronouncements rang with absolute conviction, giving you the impression that she knew more about you than you could ever hope to know about yourself. “What you need is a man,” she’d say. Or, “Your problem is, you’re too shy. You need to get out more, see some people.”

Now she cocked her head at Laura. Movement behind her eyes; Laura could almost hear the gears grinding.

“Thanks, Mina. I’ve had a long drive so think I’d like to just have this wine and—”

“You look like hell,” Mina said flatly.

“Well, thanks. I really like hearing that.”

“You been sleeping well?”

“I’m fine.”

“No you’re not. Something’s bothering you. Ever since that thing at the warehouse. It’s not natural to bounce back from something like that. Tom being good to you?”

“Of course he is.”

Mina looked dubious. “Well, something’s going on. I can tell from your aura.”

“I’m okay,” Laura said. But the flickering candle in the cheap little net-covered bowl on the table seemed to intrude on her vision on the right side. Her eye felt watery, but when she reached up to wipe her eyes, there were no tears. Just a shimmering brightness wavering at the edge of her vision. Strange.

Mina leaning forward, scrutinizing her. “You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

Mina sniffed. “One of these days, you’re going to accept help when it’s offered.”Then she walked over to the other table.

Lights blinking at the edge of her right eye. The strangest sensation. Laura closed her eyes, but the lights kept jiggling and flashing.

Something like this had happened to her before. Once at a motel when she was investigating the Musicman case, and once on the plane back from Florida. But both times it went away, so she just forgot about it.

She took a gulp of wine, felt its warmth coursing down—comfort. She closed her eyes against the watery light, and willed it to go away this time, too.

By the time she got back to her house, her vision was fine.

Had
to be stress-related.

The wine made her drowsy. She fell asleep and woke up to an empty bed. Tom must still be out looking for the hiker. Now that she knew where he was, she was fine with it. He didn’t leave her a note because he didn’t know she was coming back. That simple.

She walked into the alcove between the bedroom and kitchen where she kept her home computer, turned it on, then continued on to the kitchen and made herself some coffee and toast. On the Google homepage she typed, “+vision problems +lights.”

A slew of articles came up. Laura felt a tightness in her chest as she read the descriptions—diabetic retinopathy, macular degeneration, detached retina, migraine, blindness,
brain tumor
.

Scaring herself.

She logged off. It was just stress. She’d had a scare with Jamie Cottle, the way he slipped into the car so fast, catching her off guard.

Seeing her death just before he pulled out those papers.

Something every cop lived with—every
smart
cop, anyway. You never knew when you left the house if you would be coming back.

But Laura knew she was jumpier than usual, and Mina was right about her lack of sleep. When your job depended on alertness, that wasn’t good.

Maybe Frank Entwistle was right. Maybe she did live in a glass house.

She heard scuffling on the roof. The bobcat kittens, playing again. They were getting big. Hector, the guy who looked after the houses, was worried about the wiring, that the cats might be tearing it up.

The wiring in the house is fine, she thought.
It’s
my
wiring that’s out of whack.

Laura turned the local TV news on while she got ready for work. She had grown up with TV and was used to having it on in the background when she was doing something else—a habit. She hardly heard it.

But today she was listening for news of the hiker. Ironing a pair of blue slacks—she had seven pairs of navy and black pantsuits hanging in her closet—she heard the promo, a blond female anchor with a perky voice: “The hiker lost in the Rincon mountains has been found.”

Laura set the iron upright and sat down on the bed, watching the television.

When the segment came up right after the break, she was surprised to see it was night. Harsh camera lights spotlighted a young woman, a bit scraped-up and dirty, walking with assistance. Tom Lightfoot holding her arm, his attention on her.

She leaned on him. Exhausted, no doubt. The voice-over saying she had been located around ten o’clock last night.

The camera seemed to linger on the girl, probably all of twenty-five years old. And drop-dead beautiful, despite the smudge on her chin and the glazed look in her eyes. She had wavy black hair that made Laura think of Polynesian dancers, and an exquisite face. And that face was tilted up at the hero of the day, Tom Lightfoot, capable and strong, his shoulders wide enough to carry the world, and he was looking back at her as if he’d discovered something rare and expensive in a handful of dirt. His hand guiding her, as he had guided Laura through doorways when they went places together.

Then he looked into the camera and Laura saw a smile she had never seen before. As if he couldn’t believe his own good luck.

Ten o’clock at night.

This had happened at ten o’clock at night and now it was morning and he still wasn’t here. Maybe he had gone to the hospital with her.

It wasn’t her imagination. He
had
put her off, sexually. He was losing interest. Seeing the way he looked at that beautiful girl, she felt something dissolve in her chest.