Tavish wanted to run. To scream. To faint. To give in to the panic attack that welled up inside her. Not now! If you pass out and fall, you’ll drown in the ankle-deep water—the same water drifting around the rotting corpse in front of you. And Marley will die.
She lifted her finger to gnaw on a nail, then dropped her hand to her side. Deal with it.
Reluctantly she moved closer to see if he’d died like John Coyote—stabbed in the chest. She could see no sign of a knife. Moving closer still, she spotted a likely answer. The side of his skull looked misshapen. He’d been bashed in the head. Like me.
That was it. The illusive memory. She’d been struck from behind as she was about to get into her truck. They must have bashed poor Marley as well and driven both of them to this site—knowing that the rain in that narrow arroyo would form a flash flood and finish her off. She’d been very lucky that the flood hadn’t occurred during the night when she was still unconscious. That had probably been the plan, and no one would think she’d been murdered. They’d believe she died in a terrible accident.
Whoever was behind this was diabolically smart. The massive shooting that killed Dusty Rhodes would be blamed on Antifa. Both Kevin and she would have been found after the flood with head injuries consistent with being hurtled down a canyon by raging waters.
More memories returned. The note from John. The money.
She stepped away from the dead man. Wait. Wouldn’t police figure out Kevin died from the blow to the head instead of drowning? Of course, he could have smashed his head almost immediately when the wall of water struck him, but to be really thorough, he should have water in his lungs—
Missing shower curtain.
She’d assumed they used the shower curtain in his home, and maybe they did, but what if they had bashed him on the head in the living room, then taken him to the bathroom and held his head underwater?
She gagged, her stomach threatening to dry heave. “What am I doing?” she whispered. “I’m standing here worried about the forensic evidence on Kevin, and if I don’t start walking, I’ll be just as dead as he is.”
But he deserves to be investigated.
Looking around, she tried to formulate a plan. If she had pencil and paper, she could leave a note. She’d have to create something that would be clear of the water. Moving upstream, she picked up a floating twig. Then another. And another. Some hearty tufts of grass swirled in the slight current. She pulled a few of them up.
Balancing the dog on her shoulder, she used the grass as twine and tied the sticks together. Breathing through her mouth, she moved to the bush above Kevin’s body. She’d use the branches in the shrub to form letters.
She tried not to look at what was left of Kevin. Even breathing through her mouth, the stench was palpable.
She finished and stepped away. Hopefully someone would read it. It’s the best I can do. For now.
Slogging sideways away from the dead man—she didn’t want to walk directly downstream from his body—she continued to move. Jab, jab. Forward. Pause. Jab, jab. Forward. Pause. She kept her eyes on the flow of water. Marley’s wet cords dripped uncomfortably down her back. Her drying clothes were stiff where her blood had congealed.
The pain in her leg and head, the gouges on her stomach from the rusty metal in Dusty Rhodes’s trailer, plus Marley’s weight were getting unbearable. She stopped and took stock of the landscape. Behind her was the arroyo. Stretching ahead were rock outcroppings, sagebrush, tufts of grasses, and junipers.
A log protruded from the water nearby, looking like a good place to sit down and rest. It did seem to move a bit with the water swirling around it. No, not swirling. Undulating.
She drew nearer.
It was covered in scorpions.
Adrenaline shot through her system. She gave up on the stick and limped away as fast as she could, wanting to beat at her clothing to be sure none had crawled up her leg.
What if I don’t get help? What if I die out here? People died in the desert all the time. And New Mexico had vast unpopulated areas.
Don’t think like that. People have survived far worse than this. She could still walk, albeit slowly. And think. And reason. The worst was behind her.
Eventually she ran out of adrenaline and slowed down. Her head hurt. Her leg pounded. Her shoulders and neck ached where Marley rested. She pushed on. Without knowing where she was, all she could do was follow the water away from the canyon, away from the body, away from the scorpions.
The water was scarcely an inch deep, though still opaque. Without her stick to feel for holes, she looked for ground emerging from the water.
The earth finally leveled and became hard packed. She’d walked about a mile before she realized the hard surface was a road. A paved road under the mud. She could actually see the asphalt in places.
A paved road meant people.
The sun briefly peeked through the clouds directly overhead. The heat felt good for a moment, but soon raging thirst took over. She moved her tongue around in her mouth, trying to work up some spit.
The floodwater was completely off the road, but a few puddles had formed nearby. Water. The same water that had probably washed over Kevin’s rotting corpse.
She kept walking. The sun disappeared in the east, but she had no idea where the flood had driven her. She could be on some secondary road leading to Bucksnort, Arizona.
Her steps grew shorter. She concentrated on the road, placing one foot, then the other, in front of her. Her eyelids were sandpaper scraping at her eyes. If I sit down, I’ll never get up. I will die. That thought didn’t bother her. Dying was easy. A black nothingness. The pain would be over and she’d be free—
Marley will die.
One foot, then the other. Keep walking.
A different sound from the rustling sage and yucca shoved into her brain. She looked up. Off in the distance, headlights appeared. Thank you, God. Was that how you prayed? The Bible Ezekiel gave her was missing, as was her crystal. No matter. She would replace them. For now she was going to be rescued.
But what if it was the same people who’d knocked her out and stuck her in the arroyo? They could be returning to see their handiwork.
She stopped walking and stared at the growing headlights.
Hide? Flag them down?
Maybe hope for the best and prepare for the worst. She turned in a slow circle, looking for a stick or rock. A likely looking candidate for defense was nearby.
Approaching gingerly, she checked for snakes or resting scorpions. She finally nudged the rock with her shoe. Nothing slithered or crept out.
The lights were very near. She lifted the rock and held it behind her back, still holding Marley’s legs with her other hand. She moved to the driver’s side of the road.
A late-eighties burgundy Jeep Grand Wagoneer, complete with wood side panels, stopped. The window lowered and a man in his sixties leaned out. “Well, ma’am, we came out to exercise Maggie here”—he patted the steering wheel—“and check on the flood. It looks as if you had firsthand experience with it.” He spoke with a deep Southern drawl.
Tavish let the rock drop. She tried to keep her cooked-pasta legs from collapsing. “Do you think you could give us a ride?”
“Us?” He glanced behind her.
“My dog and me.”
The man looked at whoever was sitting beside him. “Whatcha say, son? Good deed for the day?”
“Unless you’re fixin’ to leave this lady and her hound out here on their own,” a voice with an equally deep accent answered.
The driver jumped from the car.
Tavish jerked backward.
“Oh, now, I’m sorry about that.” He opened the rear passenger door. “Didn’t mean to startle you none. I’m George. This here’s my son, Chad.”
“I’m . . .” Don’t say your name. You’re supposed to be dead. People talk. “Um, Taylor. And this is my dog, ah, Puli . . . Puli Ann.” That was remarkably stupid. She slid into the seat and carefully lowered her dog into her lap. Marley looked even worse.
Chad leaned over the seat. “Your dog looks kinda dead.” Chad looked like his father, handsome in a strong-jawed way, but Chad’s hair was thick and black, unlike his father’s Billy Graham–like snowy locks.
“She needs a vet. We got caught by the storm in that canyon over there.”
“Is she in shock?” George asked.
“I don’t know. How do you check?”
George leaned into the car so he could see her. “Pull her lip up and let me see her gums.”
Tavish carefully lifted Marley’s lip. Her gums were pale pink.
“Yep. We need to get her some help.” George stepped into the car and started the engine. “Where’s your vehicle?”
I’m terrible at lying. “My . . . friends must have driven off with it.”
“Not much for friends.” George reached over and gave a little tap on his son’s shoulder.
“Sure they weren’t relatives?” His son tapped him back, then looked at Tavish. “Where ya fixin’ to get to?”
“Albuquerque, but really, anyplace that has a phone.” And just who am I going to call?
“Albuquerque?” George asked. “Now that’s what I’m talkin’ about.” Another tap.
“Sure,” Chad said to Tavish. “If you don’t mind a couple of Tar Heels and this here old Wagoneer, we’ll get ya to Albuquerque.”
Tavish wanted to cry, then hug both of them.
They turned around carefully and headed east. Without asking, Chad handed her a plastic bottle of water. She tried not to bolt it down. Once it was empty, she asked, “You’re Tar Heels? That means you’re from North Carolina?” She didn’t want them to question her any further. “Tell me, what brings you to New Mexico?”
“I moved out here to drive truck. Found it to be sweet cherry pie. Far away from them leafers. And that’s what I’m talking about. Hey, Chad?” Tap.
Tavish stared at the older man. “Excuse me?”
Chad turned so she could see his grin. “Translation: Dad moved out to get a job as a long-haul truck driver. He liked what he found, because this place doesn’t have all the out-of-state tourists who drive around during peak leaf season. The road would be jammed on the Blue Ridge Parkway. Right, Dad?” Tap.
The two men chuckled at their exchange, then continued to talk about New Mexico, the weather, car repairs, and flash flooding, punctuating every couple of sentences with a light tap on each other’s shoulders. They didn’t seem to mind when Tavish didn’t join in.
“Where in Albuquerque were you heading?” Chad asked her.
Where indeed? Not home. Ezekiel had offered her refuge, but she didn’t want to involve him. Kevin helped her and he was now lying under a bush feeding the vultures. She’d put poor Marley and Sawyer in danger too. For a moment she’d allowed herself to think she and Sawyer might have something special between them.
Shoulda, coulda, woulda. No use thinking about it.
Marley lay motionless in her lap. Tavish stroked the fur away from the Puli’s eyes, then gently scratched behind the dog’s ears. “Stay with me, Marley,” she whispered.
What was the name of the veterinary hospital that had put Marley’s microchip in? Something with Mountain in it. Mountainside? Sandia Mountain? Mountain View. They would recognize the dog. And no one knew John was dead. Marley would be treated and Tavish could lie—tell them the owner would be coming for the dog. That would buy her time to figure out what to do next. “Mountain View Veterinary Hospital.”
“Address?” Chad asked.
“I . . . don’t remember.”
“Not to worry. I’ll look it up on my phone.” Chad’s thumbs flew as he typed the name. “Okay, got it. It’s not in a great part of town.”
“Right. Yeah. That’s the one.”
After another half hour, they pulled up in front of a white-painted building with a fiberglass horse on the roof. The sign on the door noted the practice was closed but had an emergency number posted.
“Should I call that number?” Chad asked.
“Please.”
He dialed. “Hi, yeah, we’re parked outside y’all’s pet hospital. We have an emergency . . . Don’t know, let me get the dog’s mama.” He handed his cell to Tavish.
“This is Dr. Anne. What’s your dog’s emergency?”
“She . . . hit her head. We got caught in a flash flood. She’s unconscious.”
“What kind of dog and how old?”
“I’m not sure on her age. You put her microchip in so you should have her records.”
“Your name and the dog’s name?”
Oh great. What name did John bring her in under? Coyote? Begay? “She’s actually owned by . . . John Coyote. Marley.”
“Oh no, poor Marley!” Dr. Anne clicked her tongue. “I’ll be right there. I do need to tell you that there is an additional after-hours fee.”
“Don’t worry.” Tavish stroked the prone dog. “It will be paid.” One way or another.
She disconnected and handed the cell back.
“I thought you said the dog’s name was Puli Ann,” Chad said.
Tavish didn’t know what to say.
“Well, girl,” George said, “I don’t rightly know exactly what your story is, but you need to be careful. You’re looking mighty banged up, and I somehow don’t think it was your friends who drove off and left you.”
“Thank you. I will.”
Dr. Anne—Anne Barrett, DVM, according to the name painted on the door—proved to be a tiny woman with a small-town, fresh-scrubbed face and serious eyes. She’d apparently entered the hospital from the rear and was now motioning Tavish to come in through the front door.
“Looks like the doctor-lady’s here.” George got out of the car and opened the back door. “I hope your little dog gets fixed up. And you find your way home safely.”
Tavish got out, holding the limp Marley in her arms. “Thank you, George, Chad. I think you saved our lives.” She started to move past him, but he put a hand on her arm.
“Miz Taylor, and I know that’s not your name, you take care of yourself. Whoever did this to you and your dog meant business. You need to stay out of sight and talk to the police. Promise you’ll do that?”
Tavish swallowed. “I promise I’ll stay out of sight. I can’t promise anything else.”
“Good ’nuff. God bless you.” He kissed her forehead as if giving a benediction, then released her arm.
She hurried to the waiting vet, but paused at the door to wave good-bye to the two men. The street was empty.
Dr. Anne took Marley and hustled her through the lobby, past the exam room, and into a treatment area. A thirtysomething, wiry woman in jeans and a smock strolled in just as Dr. Anne rolled out a small blanket and placed it on a wire rack over a tub. “Good. You’re just in time. Get an IV line in and let’s get an X-ray.” Tavish stepped back as the two women smoothly worked around the dog.
“Is Marley going to live?” The lump in Tavish’s throat made it hard to speak.
Lifting one ear tip from the stethoscope she had pressed to Marley’s chest, Dr. Anne said, “Hopefully. The next twenty-four hours will tell.” She looked closely at Tavish’s face. “Restroom’s through there.”
Tavish tried not to run. She made it just in time to the toilet, where she was violently sick. Once the nausea passed, she ran cold water and rinsed her face. There would be no peace until she discovered who did this. And no justice. The police wouldn’t help. Her mother could be one of the guilty ones. It was up to her. Alone.
She could barely recognize her image in the mirror. Dirt smeared down her face. Mud had dried in her hair, matting down sections. Her T-shirt was filthy and torn. She looked like a deranged homeless person.
Homeless.
The perfect disguise.
She stepped from the bathroom.
Dr. Anne and the technician were at the X-ray machine, with Marley sprawled on the table underneath. They’d started an IV drip on the dog.
“May I ask, when you put the microchip into the dog, what happens?”
The technician answered, “A number is embedded in a chip the size of a thin grain of rice. It’s injected SubQ. This number can be read with a scanner made by the same company. The owner registers the number and contact information with the company.”
“Shall we call you if there are any changes with Marley?” the vet asked.
“Call? Um, I was hoping I could just wait . . .”
Dr. Anne faced her. “You can’t wait here. Go home, take a hot shower, and get some rest. We’ll do all we can for your little friend. She’s a tough dog, but she’s badly hurt and in shock. And quite frankly, you look rode-hard-put-away-dead yourself.”
“But . . .” Her voice came out a squeak. She tried again, but couldn’t speak around the massive lump in her throat.
Dr. Anne walked to the door and opened it. “Go home. We’ll call.”
“I’ll call you,” she managed to say. Dr. Anne closed and locked the door behind her.
A wrenching sob escaped before Tavish could clamp her jaw shut. She felt as if someone had filled her insides with lead. Her legs gave way and she sank to the sidewalk. Putting her hands over her mouth, she tried to still the moans. Stop it! Stop it! Oh, Marley, why does this hurt so much? Tears scalded her cheeks and hands.
Her groans eventually subsided. She wrapped her arms around herself and rocked.
She had no idea how long she sat there, feeling raw. Gradually the burning, aching hurt was replaced with a single thought.
Revenge.
Someone had hurt—maybe even killed—Marley. They’d tried to kill her. Twice. Kevin, Dusty, and John were dead. How many others? She was tired of running, hiding, cowering. Whoever was behind all this was about to regret they’d ever heard of Evelyn Yvonne McTavish.