And then she was gone, leaving me alone with the computer and a maelstrom of thoughts that positively made my head spin. I had to focus on the task at hand, though. And right now that task was tracking down a serial killer who was lurking somewhere out there in the mythical underworld of the Hohokam.
I plugged my USB drive into the computer and began downloading the information as I scrolled through it. There were several different types of map. From the simple two-dimensional topographical to the three-dimensional digital elevation models and everything in between. While both would undoubtedly help in my search, it was the ancillary material that was of the utmost importance. Landsat 7, a polar, sun-synchronously orbiting satellite controlled by a joint effort between the USGS and NASA, was equipped with specialized instrumentation that allowed it to provide more than mere superficial imaging. The ground-penetrating radar was capable of mapping up to sixty feet beneath the surface with surprising accuracy, while the magnetometer analyzed and mapped the composition of the strata based on discrete magnetic properties distinct to every kind of soil and rock. In essence, one showed you where to find the underground cave you were looking for; the other showed you where to dig in order to reach your destination via the route of least resistance.
A cursory glance essentially proved my theory. The mountains were pretty much riddled with subterranean formations, while the open desert was essentially solid earth beneath the sand. It wasn’t much, but it was nice to finally be right about something.
I pulled the storage device and slipped it back into my pocket. I could download the maps onto my laptop without arousing any suspicion and further evaluate them away from prying eyes.
But first, there were a couple of people I needed to track down.
I exited the research room and walked straight toward the front door. The librarian was busy helping people at the main counter while a girl I assumed to be her student aide unpacked her backpack and clipped on her name badge.
I stopped in the foyer and stared up above the front door toward the pinnacle of the vaulted ceiling. Nestled into the inverted V was a round textile woven on a loom by hands that had undoubtedly turned to dust long ago. It was created in the yellows and reds and browns of the Sonoran sands themselves. A red stick figure stood in the mouth of a large circular maze that reminded me of those old plastic party favors you had to tilt to guide the miniature BB into the slot in the center.
I’itoi. Elder Brother. We meet at last.
I glanced back to find the librarian watching me. She smiled and nodded.
I returned the gesture and pushed through the glass doors into dry air that felt as though it had been superheated in a blast furnace.
TWENTY-FIVE
Chief Antone’s car wasn’t in the lot at the station when I arrived, so I sat across the street and waited for a few minutes. I watched Louis of the plastic cup working at the closer of the two desks and a woman I assumed to be Olivia manning the phones at the front counter while several people I didn’t know milled around the lobby. They both looked harried, but that was the status quo at every police station around the world. The difference was written in the impotent expressions on their faces and the way they repeatedly glanced at their watches. They had expected some sort of help that had yet to arrive. I figured the chief had probably belatedly heard about the craziness of the previous night and was out at the crime scene now. He was undoubtedly pretty upset with me for not passing along the news as soon as I heard it. As far as I was concerned, that made us even. I had a few choice words to share with him about the research he had done that could have been extremely beneficial to me had he not kept it to himself. And I wanted to know why he had done so. He was hiding something and I intended to find out what it was.
I figured I had some time to kill before the chief returned, so I decided I would pay a call on my good old Uncle Roman. This whole I’itoi thing wasn’t sitting right with me. It could be entirely coincidental, but I’m sure I’ve made my views on that subject perfectly clear. Somehow that myth was connected to this case and the Coyote had made sure to point it out at every turn with the metaphorical recreation of the ascension of the Hohokam from the underworld and the petroglyphs. And who had led them but one mischievous creator god they affectionately referred to as Elder Brother.
Roman was sitting out on the porch, smoking, when I turned down his driveway. I pulled in right behind his truck, leaned across the seat, and popped the passenger side door for him without waiting for the cloud of dust to settle.
“Let’s go for a ride,” I said.
Roman walked straight to the car and climbed in, his face devoid of expression. He had a bottle of Coors Light in his hand, despite the early hour. He didn’t say a word. He just closed the door and reclined the seat so that he had room for his long legs. His braids had begun to fray and the skin on his face had noticeably paled. I recognized stress when I saw it.
I also recognized guilt.
I headed back down the driveway and turned right, away from Sells.
“How long have you known?”
He was silent for a long moment before he finally spoke.
“I didn’t know. Not for sure anyway.”
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I was hoping I was wrong. You know? He’s my son.”
I waited for him to elaborate, but he said nothing more. Not for another five miles or so down the gravel road into the open desert. There was a little white cross staked to the side of the road. The flowers strung around it were withered and desiccated.
“Turn right here.”
I didn’t have to ask why. We both knew where we were going.
I slowed and turned onto some sandy ruts that hardly qualified as a road. I could see the foot-shaped impressions in the matted brown grass of the center stripe where walkers had jumped over the ruts to avoid leaving clear prints. A stratified butte stood off to my left in the distance, a constant reminder of a long gone age when this land of sand and sun had been under the sea. The western horizon was ridged with the Ajo Mountain Range where Randall had led me to the second crime scene. In between, there was a whole lot of nothing. Pitchfork saguaros. A ribbon of mesquites and naked cottonwoods marked the passing of a vaporized stream. A ridge like the vertebrae of a skeletal snake from which cacti and yellow palo verdes grew. A glimmer ahead and to my left; a reflection of the sun from the manmade object I was sure was my destination.
I watched it grow larger as we neared until it took form from the sand. It was a formerly white mobile home painted a mottled reddish-brown with dust. There were tumbleweeds tangled in the skirt. Piles of rocks marked where animals had tried to tunnel under it. The wooden front porch leaned toward the stairs leading up to it. An old television antenna dangled over the side by its wires. I could faintly see orange curtains through the dust on the windows.
I coasted to a stop twenty feet from the front porch and waited for the dust to wash over the car from behind. We sat in silence with the engine idling. I studied the trailer home while he stared blankly out the passenger side window.
“We used to live here together. Once upon a time. Just the two of us. Seems like so long ago now. I haven’t been out here in probably close to a year.”
“He lives here alone now?”
“Last I knew, anyway. Ever since my parents died and I moved into their house.”
“Where did he live before that?”
“Had a place in Why for a while. Another in Sells. Did a spell down in Lukeville. Across the border in Sonoyta. I don’t know exactly what he was looking for, but he never did find it.”
“Why didn’t things work out with the Border Patrol?”