LONELY TRAIL TO PERDITION

By Patricia Harrington

The gray light of dawn seeped into the canyon, casting shadows on the cliff's walls.

I was cold from my all-night vigil but unwilling to leave—not yet.

Whoever said the desert was always hot had a fool for a counselor, as my English teacher Mrs. Dodge used to say. She had been wiser and kinder than my mother, who'd dispensed bad advice and cutting insults from an alcoholic haze.

I shook my head to clear it. My mind was playing tricks, again, dredging up old memories.

A harsh wind swirled through openings between the stacked boulders, buffeting me on my perch. Long ago, the Joshua Tree National Monument Park had been an ocean, until the continent shifted. Then the ocean dried up and the monolithic monuments surrounding me were left scattered over a quarter-million acres of dry land.

I rose stiffly from the ledge and took a last look down. These trips were my attempt to find a Holy Grail, an elusive cup of redemption.

Over the last three years, I'd made the trip many times at dusk, usually on Fridays. Each time I risked stepping on a rattler or falling into a crevasse like the one below me. The spot was remote and desolate. If that happened, no one would ever find my body.

***

It took me an hour to pick my way down to my DeSoto and another forty-five minutes to drive into Twentynine Palms. The town is the year-round home to a few old homesteaders and a whole lot of Marines from the nearby base. The base has swelled in numbers since the Korean War ended. Twentynine Palms also has its share of bikers holing up from the law, plus some dedicated cactus poachers who live on the town's edge. A few stubborn prospectors still look for gold in the San Jacinto Mountains . Most of the town's merchants and rental agents make their money during the winter months. That's when the town grows with folks who come to cure their ailments in the desert's dry air. Wanda Weinstein started out as one of those. Now she and her husband Allie make Twentynine Palms their year-round home. It takes Allie only a couple of hours to drive to Hollywood , where he's a songwriter for MGM.

I expected to see Allie at the Smoketree Café that morning. We were among the regulars. It was Saturday, so the café would be busy. Allie's too old and too rich to put on airs or care what people think of him hanging out at breakfast with me, Kasey Hanrahan, a woman half his age. I wasn't old or rich, and I didn't care either what people thought. Allie and I generally sat in the same booth, reading our newspapers while we ate, shielded from the talk about weather. The regulars chewed on about the L.A. Rams like their breakfast bacon.

Allie was sitting in our booth by the front window when I arrived, and he motioned me over. I nodded at Esther behind the counter, and said, “The usual.” Then I slid into the seat across from Allie. He had a plate of scrambled eggs in front of him and an opened newspaper by his elbow. His face, gray as slate under his tan.

“You feeling okay?” I asked.

Allie gave his newspaper a shake and stared at it. I wondered if he'd read something alarming. He said in a low voice, “Just listen, Kasey. Don't say anything.”

I studied him and then looked out the window. “What's wrong?”

“Billy's been kidnapped,” he whispered.

For a moment, my heart stopped beating, stilled by a too-familiar fear.

“What! How?”

“Wanda was returning home with our grandson from her weekly shopping. Two masked men had blocked the turnoff road to our house. She had to stop. One of the men grabbed Billy and threw him into the backseat of his car. The other one said that they had the house under watch and if we called the cops or called in the FBI, they'd know and kill Billy.”

Allie and Wanda had taken in Billy after his parents were killed in a car accident. The older Weinsteins were the only family the four-year-old had now. The anguish on Allie's face brought back a rush of emotions.

I opened my napkin and put it on my lap, keeping my head down. “Call the police, anyhow—and the FBI. They don't have to come out to your house.”

Allie blinked and shook his head. “No. The kidnappers might be able to listen in to our phone conversations, or they might be following me. I can't risk Billy's life.”

“What do they want? Money? How much?”

“Two hundred-and-fifty thousand. I have to go into L.A. to get the cash from my bank. I have until noon Monday to have the money. The kidnapper said that he'd call Sunday night and let us know where to leave the ransom and where to find Billy.”

Esther brought my order over. I looked at the pancakes as if they were a strange form of life.

A tear slid down Allie's cheek. He didn't wipe it away. “The man said that if we told anybody, anyone at all, they would kill Billy.”

“You're telling me now. Do you think that's safe to do?” I resisted the urge to turn and see if anyone was watching us. But a stranger would stand out among the café's morning regulars. Then again, the kidnappers might not be strangers.

The thought chilled.

“How can I help?” I asked, shoving down a growing sense of helplessness.

Allie poked at his eggs with his fork. “I know you've been through this. Sheriff Adams told me about Lizabeth . . .”

I stared out the window again. I hadn't tried to keep what happened to Lizabeth a secret, but I hadn't flaunted it, either. Her kidnapping happened in San Bernadino. The trail ended in Twentynine Palms, where I moved after her funeral.

“Please,” Allie said. “You wouldn't raise any suspicions because you're one of the townspeople. You've been out to my house before, and if you were to drop by, that wouldn't be out of the ordinary. You could check around, and let us know what you find.”

“I'm an insurance claims adjuster, not a private investigator.”

“You're all we have.”

***

A little over forty-eight hours. Life or death . . . probably death.

The creeps who'd snatched Billy wouldn't hang on to a scared, four-year-old for long. They'd arrange a drop-off place for the ransom and give out a phony location to find Billy. My gut told me he wouldn't be there. He'd heard the kidnappers' voices and may have glimpsed their faces after he was grabbed and they'd taken off their masks. The odds were that the kidnappers would dump Billy off in an isolated part of the desert, leaving him to die a slow, painful death—if he wasn't already dead. But not until they had their money. Billy alive was their ticket to the brass ring. I told Allie to insist on talking to his grandson over the phone before agreeing to the ransom drop-off time and place.

There were no guarantees that the kidnappers would keep the boy alive.

There was only a forlorn hope.

After I left the Smoketree Café, I went to the office that I shared with Dusty Prusser, part-time bill collector and full-time connoisseur of hard-bodied young Marines. She wasn't in—probably wouldn't be—probably sleeping over with her latest collectible. Dusty was fun to be around, lots of laughs and kicks. But there were none of those this morning. Billy's kidnapping had intensified an old anguish that was as cold as a grave and grainy from dried tears.

I took out a yellow-lined pad and pen. Making a list would get me focused. It made sense to do some discreet inquiring. The town was small enough that a stranger asking questions would stand out like a blinking stoplight, of which Twentynine Palms had none. The main street was Highway 62 that ran westward from L.A.

I jotted down what Allie had learned from Wanda and his phone conversation with the kidnapper:

Kidnappers –Two men in ski masks. The one who gave Wanda orders had a strong voice and didn't sound old. The other one didn't talk, but grabbed Billy. Heavyset, about 200 pounds, had a paunch. Beer belly? Both wore old jeans and dark windbreakers. The spokesman's hands were tan with big veins. The car, maybe an old model Hudson , dark blue.

Note –The kidnappers had to have known of Wanda's routine on Fridays. Know the Weinsteins had Billy. The Weinsteins had kept it low key about having the child. Wasn't mentioned in the newspapers, at least that I knew of.

House being watched – Are the kidnappers lying about that to keep Allie from calling police or FBI? If true, then the kidnappers are probably locals. A stranger hanging around would be spotted, arouse interest/suspicion.

Kidnapper a hostile/greedy relative? – I'd met a cousin of Allie's once. Seemed mild mannered and well off. Both Allie and Wanda came from wealthy Connecticut families. Neither one had mentioned any strained family relationships. Besides, any relatives would still be viewed as strangers in the area.

Other possibilities

Young Marine caretaker couple, Johnny and Susan Rivers – The couple lived in a cottage on Allie's place. They helped maintain the grounds and house during Johnny's off-duty hours in lieu of rent.

Housekeeper – Maria Sanchez – She did the heavy housework at the Weinsteins on a weekly basis. She had a couple of kids and struggled to make a living. Definitely needy for money.

I studied the list—it didn't offer much motivation or a starting point, and I needed both. I took out my address book and flipped to the “As.” It was a long shot, but maybe Lew Archer could help. He was a PI out of Santa Theresa with a well-earned reputation for handling difficult family situations. I had met him when I was helping Susan Fletcher. Her estranged husband had taken off with their little girl. That case hadn't ended happily. All I could be in the end was a hand-holder, someone who'd been through the same thing.

I'd promised Allie that I wouldn't bring in outside help, and I wouldn't. This was just a call to pick Lew's brain and get advice on a direction that wouldn't take me in circles. Time was an enemy right now. I picked up the phone and dialed.

“Lew! I'm glad to catch you in. It's Kasey Hanrahan.”

“Been a while,” he replied.

I knew what Lew was thinking but not saying. It was a bittersweet when we parted. We'd done our best and our best wasn't good enough. I didn't waste time on pleasantries, but got down to the problem, explaining the situation and running down my meager list of possible suspects.

“Kasey, even if I could come out and nose around without alerting the kidnappers, I can't. I'm working a case and due at the airport in a couple of hours. I'm flying to Toronto .” Lew paused, and I let the silence on the line drift. “I do have an idea. It's kind of a long shot. But you said you needed to have someone to bounce off your ideas, get feedback. I know a guy staying near Twentynine Palms, recuperating from a kind of a breakdown. He's too intelligent for his own damn good and incredibly perceptive about human nature. He's a university professor.”

An image floated up of a spindly guy in horn-rimmed glasses, wearing Bermuda shorts and no tan. I groaned inwardly.

“I know what you're probably thinking. But this man's unusual, very sensitive and logical. He recently had an incident with his teenage daughter . . . thought she'd been kidnapped, but it turned out that she'd had a psychotic break and had run away. He coordinated the private investigators he hired and worked with the police. His daughter's okay now, but the whole situation took a toll on him. He's on sick leave from the university.”

Lew waited for my response, giving me a chance to digest what he'd said. A daughter and she's okay. Alive. A wave of bitterness hit me, and I shoved memories away that threatened to parade again. Instead, I pictured Allie's anguished face.

“What's this guy's name?” I asked. “Where is he staying?”

“Ross Macdonald. Well, actually, his real name is Kenneth Millar, but he goes by Macdonald. It's a pen name he uses. I just talked to him yesterday. He's at the Yucca Valley Inn. I'll call and let him know you'll be in touch. If he says yes, he'll help. You can trust him. Absolutely.”

How much help could a nervous-Nellie academic be? I didn't want to bother finding out; but I owed Allie the effort.

Before I left the office, I rechecked my possible suspects list and added “bikers,” and the local ne'er-do-wells, the Halstons. They were a loose family group made up of mean men and worn-out women whose parents must have been first cousins. They supported their lifestyle with low-level thievery and cactus poaching. Kidnapping didn't seem their style. But I wouldn't rule it out.

The quickest line between two points—and finding Billy's kidnappers—was a straight one, so I decided to work my list of suspects, and where they lived or hung out. If I worked from east to west, I'd finish up at the Halstons' place in the foothills outside of town. I didn't have to move from my desk, though, to call Sam Billings. If you want to know the real scuttlebutt on a base, you talk to a gunny sergeant. Sam would help me get the scoop on the Marine couple acting as the Weinsteins' caretakers. Sam and I had had a few pleasant exchanges with no need for commitment on either side. He ran the Disbursing Office that paid the ten thousand or so Marines on the base. He ran the office with the undisputed power of a corporate CEO.

When I reached him, he sounded chipper and glad to hear my voice.

“Sam, I need a favor.”

“Oh? I don't know how soon I can get away.”

“Don't inflate that big head of yours any more than it is. I need to know about a Corporal Johnny Rivers. He lives and works after duty hours on the Weinsteins' place.”

“What exactly do you want to know?”

“Is he having money problems, going to the Red Cross for hardship help—that kind of stuff? Is he a troublemaker? Run with a bad group?”

“Why do I have the feeling you want the info yesterday. Well, give me ten,” Sam said, and hung up. No request for further explanation.

That's what I liked about the man: to the point and no lingering small talk.

My next call was to Sheriff Dan Gordon. After asking about his wife's health, I said, “Dan, I'm working on a claim. Wonder if you can help me.”

“Sure, Sweetheart.” Dan was old enough to be my father and acted like I was a wayward daughter that needed a protective eye. As sheriff of Morongo Valley , Dan had been though the whole scene with Lizabeth. He'd found her body in the desert and felt he owed me for not bringing my daughter back alive.

Dan's office was in Twentynine Palms, and not much escaped his notice.

“What's the scoop on the bikers? Are they camping out at Squaw Hill like always?”

“A few stragglers, maybe. Most won't be here until the rally begins next month. Then they'll come in and all hell will break loose between them and the jarheads. Gawd. I'm getting too old for this job!”

I couldn't help but laugh. The only way Dan was going to retire was feet first.

“What are you up to, Kasey? Do I want to know?”

“It's connected to a claim I'm working on.”

“Sure,” he said, coating the word with skepticism. “Well, we have some of the old timers, burned out on mescaline, keeping to themselves. No one new hanging around that I'm aware of.”

“That's reassuring to know—or at least eliminating.”

“Hell, Kasey. I don't like the sound of that. What are you up to?” he asked, again.

“Don't worry, Dan. I'm staying out of trouble.” Before he could get a word in, I added, “Give my best to Donna,” and hung up.

I had gathered my things, locked my desk drawer and was almost out the door when the phone rang. It was Sam. “Here's the info on Rivers. He's squeaky clean. Nice wife, doesn't play around on her. Comes from a well-to-do family that raised a fit when he joined the Marines to prove his independence. He's on temporary duty with the Air Wing in Santa Ana . Been there for the last two weeks. Wife's staying with her parents while he's gone. The kid has a Good Conduct Medal and made corporal in two years.”

Promotions came hard in the Marines. Sam's last comment meant that Rivers had shown promise for advancement.

“Anything else you need to know?” Sam asked.

“Nope, not now. If you find out more, though, call me. You've been a big help—as always.” I smiled for my own benefit.

Sam chuckled. “Glad I could oblige.”

***

On my way to the Yucca Valley Inn, I stopped at the town's small cemetery. There was no grass there, just sand, some century cactus plants and a few faded artificial flowers on graves. I could tell Mary Pinchot had been there. Her family was buried in the cemetery, and she'd taken on the task of keeping it tidy. She always raked patterns in the sand like abstract paintings around the gravesites and rock-lined paths.

I kneeled by Lizabeth's grave and traced the dates of her birth and death on the stone marker. She had been four years and ten months old when she died.

“Hello, Honey,” I murmured. “If you're looking down, please help me to get my friend's grandson home safely. Tell Billy's guardian angel to watch over him.”

I didn't expect an answer or to feel Lizabeth's presence. Her silence was God's punishment for a sin I couldn't reverse. At least I had given up the burden of hating and cursing her father. He was dead, too. Greg had crashed into a tree, high on dope and driving ninety miles an hour—but only after he'd told me what he'd done.

I was eighteen when I fell hard for Greg, who was as handsome and spoiled as they come. He depended upon his good looks to feed his ego, and his daddy's inheritance to feed his bad habits. It took me six years to accept the fact that he had no spine and no smarts, just a smooth line and an appetite for pretty women and drugs. That's when I divorced Greg. The court gave me sole custody of Lizabeth, and Greg couldn't stand the idea. He wanted her just to hurt me. He paid a drifter who'd done part-time work for him to kidnap Lizabeth. Greg planned to take Lizabeth with him and move out of the country. He knew I wouldn't have the resources to fight him or get her back. But the kidnapper turned greedy and demanded a ransom from Greg before he'd hand over Lizabeth. Greg got scared and refused; he didn't want anything to do with the mess he'd created. The kidnapper was stuck with a kid he didn't want, so he snuffed out Lizabeth's life and dumped her in the desert.

After Greg died, the detectives on the case followed all their leads, but they led to dead ends. Finally, the cops gave up trying to find Lizabeth's kidnapper.

But not me.

***

I made two more stops before calling on Ross Macdonald at the motel.

The first was at the R & N Store Grocery and Gas Station located on the highway at the edge of town. It was where folks dropped in for milk and gas, and for the locals, gossip. Martha Branson, who ran the place, looked as old as the store's weathered shingles. She didn't take guff from anyone and had eyes as sharp and observant as a desert hawk. Any strangers in town planning to eat, smoke, drink or chew tobacco would probably stop at the R & N to buy their goods. For sure, she'd remember them.

When I walked in, I nodded. “How's business been?”

“Too damn slow. Need to get all those consumptive folks here for the coming winter so's they can dry out their lungs. Then I'd do me some good business.”

I laughed. “No strangers passing through, loading up on supplies? No big spenders stopping to buy a case of your overpriced beer.”

“Don't I wish. And it's a week before payday. Even those young Gyrenes are staying put. They have to be broke, if they can't afford a tank of gas to get into L.A. for a hell-raising weekend.”

“Hmm. I thought I heard a new biker crowd had rolled in to town.”

“Not so's I noticed. And they always stop here to stock up. Maybe it's a bad rumor. Probably that Elsie Jonas mouthing off without putting her brain into gear.”

I'd found out what I wanted to know and put a package of Twinkies and a Pepsi on the counter and paid for them. As I left the store, Martha sat back on her stool and opened a movie fan magazine with Yul Brynner and Deborah Kerr on the cover.

Back in my car, I took out my suspect list and circled the word “bikers” and then drew an arrow to the bottom of the page—but not off it. I'd had two confirmations that there wasn't any increased biker activity in town. However, that didn't rule out some of the holed-up regulars.

My last stop before reaching the Yucca Valley Inn was at Maria Sanchez's. She lived in a small trailer park set behind the only drive-in movie theater in Twentynine Palms. Actually, the drive-in was a converted barn, completely open at both ends. You could watch Gary Cooper and see the moon rise over his shoulder

Maria's twin girls were playing in front of their trailer when I pulled up.

“Hola! Little Maria y Consuelo. Es su madre en la casa ?”

Little Maria turned and hollered for her mother, who came to the screen door and opened it. She flashed a warm smile at me and walked over.

“Hi, Maria. I'm sorry to bother you, but I have a friend who's going to rent her house. She needs it cleaned before her renters move in. I know you're working for the Weinsteins, but are you available for other house cleaning jobs?”

Maria raised her hands. “Oh, no! The niñas and I leave tomorrow for Mexico .” Maria lowered her voice and glanced at her daughters playing nearby. “Their grandmother, mi madre , she's very ill and needs me.”

“I'm sorry to hear that.” A wave of guilt rolled over me. I'd lied to Maria and now I'd learned about her bad news. I felt even worse because I knew that I was going to ask more questions and tell another fib. “What will the Weinsteins do? Have they interviewed—hired—someone else to help them with the house?”

Maria shook her head. “No. The senora said she would take care of things until I came back. She so nice.”

“It must be harder on her now, what with her health and having their grandson to take care of, too.”

“Oh, that little Willy Billy. He's a good boy.”

I smiled. “You like him, then? He's not a spoiled brat, a niño no bueno .”

“No, no! Little Maria likes him and plays with him.”

It was hard to imagine Maria participating in a plot to kidnap the boy, so I tried a different tack.

“I heard that the Weinsteins are having some work done on the house. Have the contractors or workers started there? That would make more of a mess for you—and for Mrs. Weinstein.”

Maria frowned and shook her head. “No, that is not so.” She made a face and gestured with her fingers opening and closing. “Too many tongues talk and don't tell the truth.”

“There haven't been any strangers coming around to talk to the Weinsteins or look at the place?”

A piercing cry from Consuelo caught her mother's attention. Maria said quickly, “No. There has been no one like that.” Then she went over to the two girls, who were both tugging on a red bucket. A stream of scolding Spanish from Maria stopped their tug-of-war. She shooed the girls toward the trailer and looked back at me apologetically. I didn't think staying would get me more information, so I thanked Maria, wished her, a safe trip and left.

***

I knocked on the motel door and when it opened, I took a step back. Ross Macdonald stood in front of me. There was nothing of the prissy academic about him, except perhaps for the intelligence reflected in his face. He was six feet tall, had a lean, athletic build and was probably in his mid-forties. What struck me the most about him were his eyes. They were an intense violet-blue color and very guarded.

I took off my sunglasses and returned his steady gaze. An unspoken acknowledgment seemed to pass between us: here is another soul in pain. The moment passed, and we put on our neutral faces.

Macdonald held out his hand. “Kasey Hanrahan, I presume. I've been expecting you.”

He suggested that we talk over ice tea in the motel's coffee shop. After we were seated, he relayed what Lew had told him about the kidnapping. “I'm not even sure how I could be of help to you,” he said.

“Me, either. Maybe if you'd just listen to what I've found out, you could tell me if my reasoning is logical. Am I missing something? There's so little time. I keep thinking that I should tell the authorities about the kidnapping.”

“You feel you have to honor the grandfather's request not to tell them?” Macdonald watched me struggle to answer.

“Yes. He begged me. What if I tell, and the police show up, or the kidnappers see a lot of activity in town, panic and . . . and do something awful with the child? I couldn't bear that responsibility. It would kill me.”

Or I'd kill myself.

Macdonald nodded and then reached for the list that I'd lain on the table. “Explain your thinking and whatever else you've found out.”

He scanned and read while I added what I'd found out from my phone calls and talks with Martha and Maria. “The bottom line is that six hours have passed since Allie confided in me.” I shrugged. “I can check out these local suspects, but if someone from outside our community has orchestrated the kidnapping, I have no way to find that out.”

“What do you plan to do next?”

“I'm going to go out to the bikers' camp and then to the Halstons. I glanced at my watch and then out the café window. “It's going to hit a hundred or better this afternoon. I won't go out there until about five. Only tourists try to run around in the heat of the day.”

“May I come? Would you like me to accompany you?”

I looked out the window, not at Macdonald. Staring into his eyes was too uncomfortable. I didn't want him to see my naked doubts. After a moment, I said, “Yes.”

Outside the café, I pointed to his polished leather loafers. “You didn't by chance bring some other shoes, maybe hiking boots?”

Macdonald looked down at his feet and then at me with a pleasant smile. “These don't fit in here, do they?”

“Nope. I'll pick you up at four-thirty. Wear your worst jeans and an old shirt. Bring a windbreaker. It'll be cold after the sun's down, though I hope we won't be out that late.” I glanced to the east and saw the dark thunderclouds hanging low on the San Jacintos. “I think it's raining in the mountains. We'll have to watch out for flash floods in some of the washes we'll be crossing.”

I didn't go straight home after leaving Macdonald, but stopped by the Grunt ‘n' Groan Bar. It was too early for the jarheads, the “grunts,” and just right for the town's boozers, who were well on their way to a good drunk. I signaled to Athelyn, the barmaid, and she came over to my table.

“What's up, Hon?” she asked. In my worst days after Lizabeth's funeral, I'd spent a lot of time in the Grunt. Athelyn had kept me out of trouble, making sure I got home safely at night. She wasn't old enough to be my mother, but she'd acted like one.

“Just doing some checking about a phony insurance claim. Have you heard anybody bragging about coming into a bundle of money?”

She laughed and wiped my table with her towel. “Honey, it ain't money they brag about being a big bundle.”

I grinned. “Seriously.”

She sat down and blew out a breath. “Who-ee. It's gonna be a long shift. My feet are killing me already.” She leaned back and idly wiped the table again. “The only one I can think of is that snake-eyed Jed Halston. Said something last week about how he was going to hit the ‘mother lode, pretty damn soon.'”

I took out a twenty-dollar bill from my purse and laid it on the table. I couldn't afford it, but then again, decided I could. Maybe, I'd just hit the mother lode, courtesy of Athelyn. “Thanks. You're a peach,” I said, patting her hand.

By four o'clock, I'd showered, had a fitful nap and dressed for stomping around in the desert. I also had taken out my .38 from under the loose floorboard in my bedroom and stashed it in my jacket pocket.

I picked up Macdonald in my Chevy pickup that looked like a pinto pony: white with brown spots—rusty ones. But it ran fine, had good tires and had gotten me out of some bad patches. I also had a Winchester 30-30 strapped to the rack in the cab's back window.

Macdonald had changed into Levi's and a wrinkled shirt, open at the throat. He didn't look like a tourist, except for his “new” tan. He had a beat-up baseball cap pulled low over his eyes and the start of a five o'clock shadow. He'd also changed his shoes to a pair of hiking boots.

He jerked his head toward the rifle after he got in the truck. “Is this part of your preparations for a friendly talk?”

“It's handy for varmints.” I didn't tell him about the Smith & Wesson .38 in the jacket, hanging by my shoulder.

The bikers' camp at Squaw Creek was a mix of shacks and a few tents set on a plateau above an arroyo. Creosote bushes surrounded the place, and a few scraggly pines provided some shade. There were only four bikes, all Harleys, parked under a tent with its flap open.

We rolled to a stop about forty feet from the nearest shack. I turned to Macdonald. “You stand by your door, ready to move fast. I'll do all the talking.”

I left the motor running and Macdonald leaning against the pickup. “Hello, the camp,” I called out. “Anyone home?”

Only the insects buzzing in the bushes broke the silence around us. I waited for a couple of minutes and then called again. Finally, a tattooed biker with a rolled red bandana wound around his head and wearing a black leather vest over his bare chest appeared around the corner of one of the shacks. He stood with his thumbs hooked in his belt. “What'cha want?”

“I'm Kasey Hanrahan, an insurance claims adjuster. Looking for a biker by the name of Charlie O. Think he witnessed an accident in Riverside , and I'm trying to find him.”

It was a lame story, but the only one I could think of.

“Never heard of him.”

“Maybe I have the wrong name. Description I have is that he's about six feet tall, big belly.”

“What's with you, lady?” He looked down at his own hairy belly. “That could fit a whole lot of bikers.”

I took a couple steps closer and stopped, keeping a good distance still between us. “I don't think the man I'm looking for is one of the old timers—regulars—here. Are any new folks stopping over?”

The biker broke out with a menacing grin that sent me backpedaling. “I don't know what you're up to, lady, but you've got about two seconds to be on your way. And take that piece of white toast with you,” he said, jabbing a finger in Macdonald's direction.

We made it in thirty seconds, not two.

“That was an interesting exercise,” Macdonald said.

“Unproductive.” I turned to a local radio station and set the volume low. I wanted to check on whether there were any flash flood reports.

“What is your assessment of the bikers?” Macdonald asked. “ Do you think they're the kidnappers?”

I shook my head. “It doesn't feel right. They make enough money off drugs. Why would they go for a high-risk crime like kidnapping, and doing one so close to their camp? What do you think?”

“The Hell's Angels tend to be run like a hierarchal corporation,” Macdonald said. “No one would undertake a kidnapping without authorization from the top. Kidnapping a child is a risky enterprise with potentially diminishing returns. The odds are that the Angels' board of directors wouldn't go for such a venture.”

I glanced at Macdonald. “You mean it'd be a dumb move.”

“That sums it up.”

We followed a winding road that climbed steeply as we approached the Halstons' place. I turned off the radio and kept the windows open. When the road dipped into a wash, I slowed and checked both ways, listening before crossing over. Sometimes you could hear the water coming before seeing it.

Macdonald looked out his side window and then at me.

“People have drowned crossing these washes,” I explained. “They don't realize the power of the water as it rushes from high ground.”

The Halstons' place had been a gold miner's camp built close to the old Dirty Sock gold mine. Rumor had it that the Halstons stored hot goods and illegal drugs in the mine's old shafts. Most of the camp's buildings had fallen down or been used for firewood. All that remained was a kind of main house, a barn and a small outbuilding. I stopped on the road below the house, so that we could check it out from a distance.

“I don't see any vehicles parked in front,” Macdonald said.

“Maybe the men are in town getting tanked up. But then where are their women?”

“Gone home to their mothers?” Macdonald smiled, clearly pleased with his comeback.

I flashed him a quick look. “They probably wish they could. At any rate, we'll have to be careful. Jed Halston is mean, and if he's been drinking, then there's no accounting for how he might react. He has a half-brother and an uncle who live with him, and they're just about as bad.”

I put the pickup into gear and jerked my head in the direction of the rifle behind me. “Know how to use one of those?”

“I was in the Navy, not the Marines. But I know you point and shoot.”

“It's half-cocked and loaded with eight rounds. It can't go off until you pull the trigger. Then like you said, point and shoot.”

Macdonald and I had decided to use a variation of my insurance claim investigation story. He'd be a fellow adjuster representing the Maryland Casualty and Indemnity Company.

I tapped on the horn a couple of times to alert the Halstons that we were pulling onto their property. If they had bothered to look out the front window, they'd know we were coming. But I wasn't taking any chances. Suddenly appearing on their front porch wasn't a good idea. Jed might meet us with a loaded shotgun and hollering to “get off his property.”

After I parked, I honked lightly again. There was no sign of life. I grabbed my jacket and slipped my keys into the pocket with the .38. “Let's stroll around. If a Halston shows up, we'll tell him that we were just trying to find someone home. We'll leave the rifle, but it'll be there if we need it.”

I rapped on the front door of the house that hadn't seen a paintbrush since the Depression. We walked around the house and looked in windows with half-drawn shades and curtains. The barn was on a rise behind the house, and the yard was littered with rusting parts of mining equipment and a beater car with no seats. There was nothing in the barn but musty odor.

Macdonald had put on his windbreaker, and I'd zipped up my jacket. A cool breeze scuffed up bits of debris lying about and made some loose saltbrush do cartwheels. Shadows from the foothills had crept down, forcing the sunlight to retreat and bringing on dusk. We walked farther up the hill behind the barn to a small outbuilding, a shed. It had a padlock on the door and a boarded-up window.

We could see, even in the fading light, that the lock was shiny and new.

“Do you think . . .?” I murmured.

Macdonald put a restraining hand on my arm and motioned toward the window. The galvanized nails in the slats covering it were shiny, too.

We looked at each other.

I pressed my ear against the window. No sound came from inside.

“Billy,” I whispered, “Are you in there?” I glanced around, and then said louder. “Billy Weinstein are you there? Can you hear me?”

Macdonald and I strained to hear any sign of life from inside. I thought I heard some movement, but then nothing.

I turned to Macdonald. “What do we do? We've got to get inside. It could be Billy. It has to be him,” I added, wanting it to be so.

“We'd be breaking and entering,” Macdonald said. “If the Halstons come home and catch us, they'd have provocation to shoot us.”

“We can't leave. If Billy's inside there, we have to get him out before the Halstons come back. They might move him . . . or do something worse. Besides, Sheriff Dan doesn't even know that there's been a kidnapping. We'd have to convince him to come out, and what if we're wrong? Then I've betrayed Allie's trust.”

Macdonald looked torn—he'd never had to make a decision like this in his classroom. Neither had I—in a classroom or anywhere else.

“Look,” I said, “You don't have to be a part of this. Here are the keys to the pickup. Go back to it and have the motor running. If the Halstons show up before I make it back to the pickup, say you're lost and that you were just turning around to get back on the road. I'll hide in the hills and spend the night there. I can make my way back to the highway in the morning. You pick me up at sunup. No one will be out on the road at that time.”

Macdonald started to protest and then stopped. “You're right. If the boy is inside and we don't get him away before the Halstons come back, you take him into the hills with you. I'll go for help.”

Macdonald trotted down the hill, and I searched for something to pry off the window's slats. If Billy wasn't inside, maybe I could nail the slats back in place and not raise suspicion. I had to settle, however, for a pump handle, heavy enough to break off the padlock.

I heard the pickup's motor and sighed with relief. Macdonald was okay.

I ran back to the shed and whispered through the door. “Billy, it's me, Kasey Hanrahan, your grandparents' friend. I'm going to break the lock and get you out.” Two hard whacks and the door sagged open. It was dark inside. “Billy. Are you there?”

A sound like a kitten mewing came from the corner. I crept inside the shed, hand outstretched, and stumbled over a huddled form. Billy lay in a fetal position, his mouth taped, his feet and hands bound.

I picked him up and cradled him, stroking his hair and forehead. “I'm getting you out of here. We have to hurry,” I said. “I'll take the tape off as soon as you're safe in my truck.” I carried him out of the shed and started down the hill.

Macdonald had left the pickup and come to meet me, the rifle under his arm. He'd left the pickup running with both doors open. He met me half way and took Billy in his arms. I took the rifle and slung it over my shoulder. We were ten yards from the pickup when a shot rang out, kicking up the sand near us. Macdonald started sprinting, and I slipped my rifle around and got off a round in the direction of the shooter. Then I dropped to the ground. I saw Macdonald reach the pickup, throw Billy inside and jump in behind him. Another shot rang out, hitting the pickup's tailgate, making sparks fly. I dashed for better cover.

“Go, go, go! Get out of here,” I yelled, and let off two more rounds at the shooter, before running and diving behind a tall clump of brittlebush. I burrowed low in the sand.

Macdonald gunned the motor, and the pickup careened onto the road, the doors swinging shut as he swerved from side-to-side and then out of sight.

“You not getting away, bitch. Sticking your nose where it don't belong.” Jed Halston's voice cracked with rage, and he fired twice at me.

My heart hammered and mind raced, looking for a way out, thankful that I was armed and that Sam had taken me along for target practice.

How many shots had Halston fired . . . four, five? How many did he have left? How many did I?

I doubted that Halston was carrying extra ammo, and I was going to make damn sure he didn't get any from the house. At least his brother and uncle weren't home. But what if they came back now?

Two more shots thudded close by, and I shot back. If Halston's rifle was a 30.06, he should be out of bullets. He was hiding behind a piece of machinery by the barn. He must have come from the east where the old mine was. I fired twice at Halston, and then ran and rolled under the beater car. When I peeked out, I saw him scrambling up the hill.

“Gotcha,” I said, and stood up. Carefully zeroing in on his back, I felt a surge of righteous vengeance as I pulled the trigger. The hammer clicked on an empty chamber.

Furious, I threw down the rifle and pulled out my .38 and took off after Halston. He was panting and grunted as he disappeared over the top of the hill.

“You son-of-a-bitch,” I screamed. “I won't let you get away . . . I won't!” A dam of pain and anger broke within me, and I sobbed. “Murderer, murderer, murderer!” I couldn't stop the hate and poison streaming from my mouth. When I reached the crest of the hill, I saw Halston slipping and sliding toward the edge of a drop-off. I raised my gun, hands trembling; my shot missed him. Halston looked over his shoulder before he lowered himself over the rim, and I screamed again, “You murdered my baby.”

Halston's eyes were wide, pleading with fear, just like Lizabeth's kidnapper had before he fell into the crevasse.

I stumbled down the sand and shale and looked over the edge. In the fading light, I could see Halston halfway down the side of a steep gully, standing on a narrow rock outcropping, his hands braced against the wall behind him. Turbulent, dirty water rushed through the gully's channel, sweeping away everything in its path. The water's roar was like the thundering hooves of a stampede.

I knew I was a good shot, if I could steady my hands. I pictured shooting at Halston, coming close to him, bullets chipping at the rocks rock by his feet, forcing him to jump into the frenzied water. He'd never survive, and when his battered body was found, there would be no bullet wounds in it, though I'd have killed him as surely as if I'd shot him.

Suddenly, my legs began to tremble and my body shook violently. I slumped to my knees, sobbing. I turned my face to the sky, dimly aware of the sprinkling of bright stars and the sliver of the moon with its shy smile. I crooned a favorite nursery rhyme of Lizabeth's, “The cat's in the cradle . . .”

“Oh, my sweet daughter. You're never coming back!” I sobbed.

I looked down at Halston, trying to shield himself from my line of sight.

“Where's the justice,” I cried. No answer came from the heavens. Then slowly, my heart responded: There is none in this imperfect world. I knew then that I couldn't perpetuate the wrongs already done.

I lowered my gun, and the evening's breeze touched me with a soft caress.