Chapter 2

THE JOSHUA TREE BAR IN ARROYO SECO isn't large or elaborate, but it is cool. The thick 'dobe walls account for that.

The woman sitting alone at the bar looked like a very cool chick. Not exactly a chick, either, once you gave her a second look. She could have been in her high thirties. But she definitely was not out of circulation.

She had rather an amazing figure, sleek and hard. Not a wasted pound, and yet the right curves hipwise and bustwise. Her face intrigued me. It had the look of far-off places and pulse-pounding music, wisdom and cunning, all molded into a pleasing though brittle montage.

That sounds silly, doesn't it? Yet that's the impression she gave me as she sat there, toying with a tall drink.

I slid to the stool next to her and tried to act nonchalant. "You wanted to see me?"

She took her time, half-turned on the bar-stool in a slow appraisal. Her eyes met mine. It was something like an electric shock.

No, I'm far from an impressionable kid, getting his first look at temptation in the opposite sex. But she had that kind of projected magnetism, in her look, in her tight, sultry smile.

"Yes, Mr. Hille. I passed the word around that it might be nice, talking to you."

"Are you an actress?"

"Not any more. You're in TV, so naturally you're thinking that I'm someone who'd like to get in front of a camera-your camera."

"That was my first impression."

"Nothing could be further from the truth."

Her eyes gave me the silent treatment and I had the sudden feeling that she didn't miss a thing; the color of my shirt buttons, or the mole just below my left ear. It's not a very big mole, but I'm positive that she caught it. She had that kind of eyes.

"Then what did you want to see me about?" I asked, giving her my best grin.

"I understand you're quite an authority on the local desert."

"You mean its flora and fauna?"

"Yes. And its dangers."

"There are several dangers. You might get lost and die of thirst and exposure. The sun might fry your brains. Or you could meet up with an obstreperous rattler-"

She didn't actually cringe, but I caught her reaction to the word. Something like a breeze over a body of water, a slight ripple. She was afraid of snakes, I'd bet my bottom dollar on that

"No danger from human traffic?"

"No danger."

Her eyes came back to my face. I decided they might be gray-green, or the opposite-green with flecks of gray. Something like some of the rocks one picks up in the canyons. Light reflection causes the picture to vary. But there was one thing about her eyes: they were steady in their gaze, quite frank. I got the impression that she had seen many things in her thirty-odd years, some good, some bad. Perhaps more bad than good.

"Would it be possible to purchase your time-say, for a week?"

"My time?"

"To serve as a guide?"

"I don't happen to be a guide, Miss Lopez." Then I wondered if I was addressing her properly. "It is Miss Lopez, isn't it?"

"Yes. Geri Lopez. May I call you Steve?"

"Of course!"

I motioned to a booth, ordered a refill for her drink and a bottle of beer for myself. Picking up the drinks, I followed her to" one of the wall stalls. "It's more comfortable here, and private."

She slid onto the hard board, I sat down beside her. The booth was narrow, there wasn't any room to spare with both of us on the same side. I could feel the warmth of her hip, against me.

"Now to get back to business," she said, smiling tightly. "I realize that you're not a guide, Steve. But I'm told that you know this particular desert, every rock and goat-bush."

"You've been listening to some exaggeration."

"I don't think so."

Her eyes were appraising me again. "I'll be very frank. I must go into the desert, the pothole country South and West of here. It's imperative. I've got to go in deep. I wouldn't want to try it without a competent guide."

"There are several registered guides, right here in Arroyo Seco."

"Men I could trust implicitedly?"

I thought that over. "I know two Indians, and an old rock-hound."

"I've checked. The Indians are out. Either of them could be bought for a bottle of whiskey. The old rock-hound is simply that-too old."

"I already have a job.-"

"I know. You're an executive. You're here with your side-kick, Ben Carazzo. A real fancy camp in Cougar Canyon."

"You've visited us, then?"

"Yes. You were away. And your charming junior partner, Mr. Carazzo, was quite busy, trying to make a Gila monster pick a fight with a gecko."

"Putting it on film, of course?"

"Of-course. But a very leisurely job, he assured me." She leaned closer. "He also assured me that time was of no essence, at the moment, to either of you. I think that Ben was very happy, talking to that Spanish chick who thought she was an actress."

That was news to me. I didn't know any Spanish chick had visited our camp. But it could be. Words get around in a hurry, once you set up cameras in some out of the way place. Well, I suppose Ben was entitled to a little relaxation, come to think of it.

"To get back to business," she said persuasively, "I am quite willing to pay if you'll serve as my guide."

I wasn't too much interested in the pay. Another thing was slowly but surely edging its way into my thinking. Why did she want to go into this particular bit of God-forsaken emptiness?

"You say a week? That's a lot of time.

"To follow the canyon through the pothole country?"

"Two days in, two days out."

"Providing we have good luck. And there are no mishaps."

"You think there might be mishaps?"

She shrugged. "Couldn't there be?"

"Of course. You could step on a scorpion, or even a side-winder. Or the shale could come down."

"Why are you always mentioning snakes?"

I looked at her eyes. There was revulsion there.

"Snakes are part and parcel of the desert. You realize that."

She shrugged. "Ugh! That would be the one thing to keep me out. Nothing else-heat, hardship, lack of water-bothers me. But snakes-"

"There wouldn't be much danger from snakes in the daytime."

Her eyes lifted eagerly. "What do you mean by that?"

"Contrary to popular opinions, you'll never find a rattler out sunning itself. They have no sweat glands, so they forage mostly at night or on cloudy days."

"Well, that one statement has taken a load off my mind."

"One more thing; why are you going into the desert, afoot?"

"Is there any other way?"

"Not through the pothole country. Unless you want to use a 'coptor."

"That's why we're going in afoot."

"But why?"

She glared at me. "You're persistent, aren't you?"

"Remember, it won't be easy or pleasant. If I'm to go in as your guide, I think I'm entitled to know why the safari is being made."

"I am looking for something," she said. "What I am seeking is very precious-to me, and me only. Outside of that, I can't tell you anything further."

I was wondering, suddenly, if she might be looking for the same thing I was. That was the one thing that might tempt me. But it seemed rather thin, just thinking about it and trying to relate the two of us, after the same thing.

I had other plans to go into the desert any day now, but with Nan Goodwin. We had something in common.

But Geri Lopez and I didn't have anything in common. Or did we? "I presume you draw the salary of an executive?"

"Something like that."

"How much in dollars and cents? Or is that too inquisitive?"

"No, my life is an open book-at least my financial life. Three hundred weekly, before taxes."

She smiled. "I'll raise the ante. If you will give me one week of your time, I'll pay four hundred. And I'll furnish the supplies, things like that."

I sat back and looked at her. At the moment something made her tick as loud as a two-dollar alarm clock. I wondered what it was. One missing airplane, perhaps? And if so, what connection did she have with the two men who had died on it? To my knowledge I had never before set eyes on her, physically, in a photo, on the TV screen or in a movie. If she had had any connection with my brother even her unusual name, Geri Lopez, would have rung a bell somewhere down the line.

Of course she could have changed her name. But I don't forget faces very easily. Hers was an unusual face. I was positive that if I'd seen her before, even some fleeting glimpse, I would have remembered.

"Well," she said at last, "when do we start?"

"I never make decisions in a hurry," I persisted firmly. "Meet me here tomorrow afternoon and it will be a frank yes or no."

Her hand suddenly was on my arm.

"Steve, you've got to help me!" she implored.

In that one sentence I detected a complete metamorphasis of character. The hard shell, the brilliancy, the aloofness, had vanished. She was, under all her varnish, a frightened woman. For some reason she had turned to me for help.

"Tomorrow," I said.

I slid out of the booth and walked out of the bar.

I had the feeling that her eyes were burning a hot spot between my shoulder blades. This woman was driven by a compulsion. But what was it?

We sat in the jeep, Nan and me, and talked about it a long, long time.

"Does the name, Geri Lopez, ring any kind of a bell in your memory?" I asked. , Nan was long in answering. "No, I'm afraid not."

"Give me one reason why this woman has a compulsion to explore this desert-the pothole country during the hottest month of the year?"

"I can think of only one thing-the plane."

I nodded. "That was my first reaction, too. But the more I think about it, the more vague this becomes."

"Then why is she going, Steve?"

I shrugged". "I wish I knew."

"Well, there-'s only one way to find out," Nan said at last, smiling rather grimly. "Be her guide."

"If I thought that she was going in to hunt for the plane, I'd gladly be her guide. On the other hand, if she's hunting for a long lost mine some old prospector told her about in his delirium, or something equally silly, then I'm not interested."

She was silent, studying my face.

"Nan," I said at last, "what is out there beyond the last pothole, besides a few Maricopa sheep herders?"

"Nothing, except two hermits."

"Two hermits?"

"Zeke and Zachary Collins, on Pinto Creek."

"How long have they lived there?"

"I'm not sure," Nan said. "I wouldn't trust myself near either one."

"You mean they're that kind of men?"

"Every Maricopa girl knows better than to get near the Collins brothers."

I reached forward, gave her a peck of a kiss.

"And that goes for you, too!"

Here it was again: recurrence of a longing that dominated me since the moment I had seen her at the pool. She was more than an acquaintance, a friend. Already I was planning my daily activities with her in mind. I felt myself thinking about her at the oddest moments, day and night. And right now, I even felt concerned about her personal safety.

We'd had one glorious evening together; because we had needed each other, we had been intimate. A physical desire, a satiation of that desire. Period.

"You're kidding yourself, old man!" my tiny green advisor whispered in my ear. "Already she's more to you than that, isn't she?"

I pulled her into my arms, held her close. I kissed her, and suddenly the kiss was more than an invitation to sex.

"Oh, Lordy!" I said, "wait until Ben hears about this!"

"Hears about what?"

"You and me."

Her eyes searched mine. "You wouldn't tell him-"

"How wonderful it was? No, I wouldn't tell him about that. I'd rather tell him about the crazy thing happening to me."

"Steve, don't kid or say meaningless words!"

"I'm not kidding." I kissed her, first on the lips, then all over her face down to that little hollow in her throat.

I pushed back, and held her at arms' length. And I couldn't help a chuckle-not at her, but at myself.

"Girls!" I said. "Hundreds of girls, Nan. Crazy girls, all ready to give their right arm for a chance before a camera. Girls ready to peel at the drop of a hat. I can press a button, and a dozen will be on tap. All beautiful girls, talented. All there, waiting, hoping. Take your pick. And then out here one lone girl, and all of the rest fade into the background-"

There was a strange quickening in her eyes, her smile. "What are you trying to say?"

"I don't really know, honey. I won't, admit that I'm falling in love with you. It's too crazy, it couldn't happen. But I won't say I'm not, either." I grasped her hands, held them tightly. "Honey, will you give me a rain check for a few days, let me think about this? Then I'll come back. If the bug still is biting, you'll know about it."

"Oh, Steve!" she said, mashing her lips to mine. "Steve, I'm dreaming. I'll wake up, and it will all be gone."

"I hope it isn't gone."

Her face sobered. "This Geri Lopez you're taking into the desert-"

"Is someone old enough to be your mother," I said. "Quit worrying your pretty little head."

I watched her walk down the canyon trail. I sat there, even after her figure was a diminutive speck. Then I got out the binoculars and watched her climb the steep trail to the mesa tableland where the Maricopa community was located.

"There goes your life!" the little green man said, pecking me on the ear as he usually does.

Well, he could be right!

I'll say one thing for Geri Lopez: she had stamina.

It was mid-afternoon of the first day, and in the sinks the sun, reflected off the cobalt heights, was wicked. Yet she never complained.

The hiking outfit she wore might be very chic-chic for some deb in the Bahamas, or a stroll along a beach, but it wasn't the right garb for the desert. I could see the sweat oozing through where the cloth was drawn too tightly. I turned at last and eyed her critically.

"You're ogling," she reminded me.

She had ogling merchandise, but at the moment I wasn't dwelling upon that fact.

"What are you wearing under the shirt and pants?"

"Wait a moment! Let's not get rude!"

"I'm dead serious," I said. "And I don't mean to be rude."

The quick flareup of anger died down in her face. "What's this all about?" she asked at last, more serious than angry.

"You're wearing too much clothing, for one thing."

"Nothing that can be expended."

I grinned. "You think not? One bra, one pair of panties."

Her face had a look that I couldn't at the moment quite determine. Possibly it was anger, flaring up again, or mere surprise.

"Are you kidding?"

"I am not kidding," I assured her. "The lower we get into the sinks, the hotter it will become. The only way to stand it is in loose, porous clothing."

Her eyes still were questioning. "What about yourself?"

I unbuttoned my shift, showing her there was nothing but bare chest under it. "And that goes for the trousers, too."

Suddenly she was chuckling. "What is this-a strip tease in the desert?"

"You can hide behind that outcropping, "T suggested. "But I'm serious about the extra clothes."

She still eyed me. "I believe you are," she said.

"With a single garment, loose-fitting, it's something like the thermo-glass window principle. Air cooled by the clothing will circulate between the garment and your bare flesh, provide some degree of protection against dehydration."

"Yes, doctor!" she said meekly.

She didn't go behind the outcropping, as I suggested. She stood there, and faced me.

Slowly but deliberately she unbuttoned her shirt. I got a glimpse of a bulging black bra, lacy and form-fitting. Then her hands worked backward and she unzipped the garment.

She was very adept at it. She worked one arm out of the shirt, held the khaki snug against her, slipped out of the bra strap, and got back into the shirt. All without allowing me to feast my eyes. She followed the same procedure with the other arm. And suddenly the bra was off. I got a flash of some very amazing cleavage, then she was unbuttoning the shirt.

I noticed something then that the shirt could never hide. She didn't need the bra to augment, but to tone down. She had protrusion-conical, pointed protrusion, no weak springs.

She held up the bit of silk. "What will I do with it?"

"It's too expensive to discard," I grinned. "It might even have a sentimental value. So we'll make a cache under a rock and pick it up on the way out."

"Better wait for the companion-piece," she said wryly.

"Okay." I turned my back, lit a cigarette. I had the feeling that she was daring me to turn around, as she pulled out of the hiking pants and got rid of her silkies. But I didn't. I wasn't sure just how long that shirt-tail was. Presently I heard her chuckle.

"You're very modest, Steve."

"This is a business trip, isn't it?"

"Business and pleasure. Or whatever you say."

I gave her a tight grin. "The safari is still young. We'll see."

She was an enigma. Or perhaps I hadn't pegged her right. At times she seemed human, kind, solicitous. Then the brittleness pushed through the good streak in her nature, and she seemed a different person. Perhaps she had a dual personality. I've known people like that.

She had taken advantage of a situation of my own making. But it had been for her own good. It could be that she misinterpreted it. And she had thrown it right back into my face by burying her modesty.

She handed me the silkies now, and I wrapped the apparel in a tight bundle. Ahead was a rock shelf that jutted out from the shale. It ran almost head high. I put the bits of silk atop the shelf, weighted them with rocks. From the trail no one would notice the strange cache. We could pick them up on the way back.

"Doesn't it get pretty cold on the desert at night?" she queried. "It does."

"I might need my unmentionables, don't you think?"

"We've got warm blankets," I assured her. She gave me a tight smile.

I reshouldered the packs and we got underway again. I pulled up, finally, to let her catch up. I noticed something now that I hadn't noticed before. She had a very disturbing jiggle as she walked.

The pace was telling, but I kept prodding on. Let her be the one to call it a day.

The sun was slicing the western horizon when she called to me.

"Steve!"

I pulled up, waiting for her to come up alongside.

"I've had it!" she admitted. "Where can we camp for the night?"

"Not here," I said, looking at the terrain. "We're on the floor of the sink, for one thing."

"Is that bad?"

"It isn't good."

"Don't beat about the bush, Steve!" she said, irritation in her voice. "What's bad about it?"

"We might have visitors."

"Crawling visitors?"

I nodded, and watched her face change. At the moment we were about half way across one of the famous sinks called potholes. The basalt walls ringed us, the desert floor seemed sunken to form this particular sink.

"Steve, we haven't seen a snake all day."

"Don't get optimistic," I said with purpose. "They're in the crags. They'll come out to forage at night."

"Where can we go to be safe?" It sounded like an entreaty.

I pointed. "There are numerous ledges along the basalt walls. Any one of the ledges will be comparatively safe."

Her face relaxed. "You had me about ready to scream!" she admitted, and wiped a tired hand over her eyes.

I raised the binoculars, made a wide sweep of the back-trail, then handed the glasses to her. "See that niche in the wall up ahead?"

"It's too narrow to crawl through."

"No, it isn't. If we can get there, I'm hoping to find water."

"Lead on."

"Do you think you can make it?"

"I can make it."

I noticed that she had unbuttoned the second button on her shirt. There was cleavage and a jiggle with each step she took.

She was thirty-eight, possibly more. But her figure belied her years. So far, all through the long day's trek, we had talked very little. I knew nothing about her.

Why were we here? It was so ridiculous it smacked of insanity.

But she didn't have to tell me. I was merely her guide.

Ahead of us loomed a high wall, seemingly the dead-end of a box canyon. But there was a niche there, I knew. And as we approached we saw it in its true perspective-a jagged split in the wall, wide enough for a trail.

Suddenly she jerked up, the expression on her tired face changed from dull fatigue to renewed interest.

"I remember this, Steve! It's been so long ago-" I waited for her to explain, but she didn't. That one sentence told me something: she had been over this trail before. "There's a spring in the rocks," she said. "Water, trickling down-"

But the spring had dried, we found. We stood there, looking at the mossy green of the wall, attesting to water and shade and moisture. But no water.

I unlimbered the pack shovel and dug in the sand at the base of the wall. After awhile the sand showed moisture. I dug some more, until I was in as deep as the handle on the shovel.

"There should be enough seepage by morning to fill the canteens," I said encouragingly.

"You mean we'll camp here?"

I pointed to the ledge, a natural outcropping about ten feet above the trail. "Up there."

We sat around the fire, strangely silent. Dusk had fallen now, and a chill was in the air. I unrolled the blankets, handed her one.

I had checked the shelf, inch by inch. I was quite certain there were no snakes.

Down in the sink, on our back trail, there was a sudden clattering of rocks.

"What was that?" she asked.

"Shale letting loose, sliding down."

She never answered, merely stared at the fire, her knees pulled up, under her chin. There was something pathetic about her, this fear of natural things that seemed so deeply ingrained.

Up on the rim a coyote howled, and she threw her cigarette into the fire with a sudden compulsive movement that showed her tenseness.

"Damn that coyote!" she said. And meant it. "Relax," I grinned. "It will be a hard day tomorrow."

"I can't relax!" she admitted at last. "I'm so tight I'm about ready to flip."

"I can't help you, unless you let me."

"Meaning?"

I moved closer to her, nursing carefully the tiny fire, for there was very little fuel available.

"You've been over this trail before," I said. "Evidently it wasn't a pleasure trek. Why don't you tell me about it?"

She sat there, stared at the fire. Her fists were clenched. I wasn't wrong in my first impression of her, back at the Joshua Tree bar: her face did have the look of far-off places, gypsy music, cunning and hatred. It was all there right at this moment, as she stared into the burning greasewood. And there was something else, too.

It could have been fear. Or some obnoxious thing that was a compulsion, tugging at her mind.

At last her eyes swung to mine.

"Anything I would say would only incriminate myself."

I reached forward, got one of her clenched hands in my own. "Geri, I still think you should tell me."

"I haven't told a soul for seventeen years." I felt her fingers stiffen, her grip in mine tightened. "All this time, day after day, it's been with me, prodding me. Yet I couldn't force myself to tell-"

I didn't say anything, just waited. The coyote sent up its mournful dirge again.

"Steve, if I tell you-"

"I'm not a priest, and neither am I a lawman."

"What does that mean?"

I grinned at her. "At the present you happen to be my client. I think that should cover it."

She shook her head. "I'm not too sure. When you hear what I am tempted to tell you-"

"You're still my client. I mean it."

She tugged at my hand, moved it until it lay against her breast. It seemed to be an unconscious action. I could feel the warm softness of her. I waited.

"Steve, do you remember the McNaughton case?" It rang a bell, but very dimly. "I'm not sure, Geri."

"It was a long time ago. John McNaughton was an oil man in southern California, rich and influential. While in Spain he married a girl whom the newspapers called his "barefoot gypsy".

I nodded. "Yes, I remember now. I was just a kid, but it's coming back now."

"He brought his golden gypsy back to his home on the coast. They had a child, seemed to be very happily married despite the difference between them. The child, a girl, was kidnapped when she was about two years old."

"It was something like the Lindbergh case," I said, interrupting. "Only in this instance, the baby was never found. Neither were the kidnappers ever apprehended."

"Yes," she said.

I waited. I could feel the tenseness of her.

"I helped kidnap that baby, Steve."

There it was! She had carried it around inside of her for long years. And at last, in the silence of this secluded place, she had told me-a stranger. She had revealed it to me in confidence.

"I have no alibi, other than one of desperation," she continued. "Thorne Rawlings, my husband, was a brilliant man. But he developed one weakness-drink. By the third year of our marriage he was a confirmed alcoholic. We didn't have a dime. And then he got this obsession-to make a bundle and get out of the country, away from it all. He thought that some new locale, some new land, would be a challenge."

Her face was stony now. She kept staring into the fire.

"He knew a Mexican woman out on the desert. We picked up the McNaughton baby from its crib and took it to this woman. He fully intended to re turn the child as soon as ransom negotiations were set up. But something went wrong, and we had to flee. There were road blocks everywhere, cops everywhere, the only thing left was the badlands."

She was crying softly now. I didn't try to touch her, or console her.

"Finally we had to leave the car, and we realized that the baby would die if we took it further into the desert. We saw this Indian community, then. I don't even know what tribe they belonged to. But we left the baby with an old man and his wife. I remember we had a lone fifty dollar bill. We gave them the fifty dollars and started running again, deeper into the badlands."

She sighed, as if the gesture might shift a weight from her shoulders.

"Thorne didn't make it," she continued. "The alcohol took its toll in the heat. I buried him in the sand, back there somewhere-"

She half-turned. Her hand gripped mine tighter.

"But I got to Arroyo Seco. And finally to New York with' a new name-Geri Lopez. And at last to London, and Paris-all over the world. I could sing, and there men-"

She stopped, there was agony in her eyes now.

"But Steve, I couldn't dance or sing it out of my mind: I couldn't forget it, in the height of gaiety. It's always been there to haunt me in the stdlness of the night, in the lonely hours." Her face was bitter. She shivered, and I'm sure that it wasn't from the chill. "Even in someone's arms the image was always there-that sweet little girl-"

"So you came back."

"I had to come back, Steve. Do you understand?"

I nodded. "It's pretty hopeless, don't you think?"

"I've got to know. Somewhere in that village, someone will tell me whether she's dead or alive."

"You don't even know the name of the man you left her with?"

"No! All I have is one feeble clue. The old man had a thumb missing on his left hand."

"How old was he?"

"He was very old, with a wrinkled face."

"He's probably long since dead."

"Yes, I've thought the same thing. But possibly someone in the village can give me a clue, tell me something."

"You don't even know if the village remains, Geri. Indians are nomadic, they follow the sheep." She didn't answer.

She was crying now. I saw her as a woman who had made an irreparable mistake and paid for it, over and over. I couldn't feel any sympathy. I kept thinking of the baby, its distressed parents. There is no excuse for kidnapping. In my book, it is the worst of crimes.

I didn't feel pity, but I did feel compassion. The fact that after all of these years she was forcing herself to return told me that deep under the brittleness she was still a woman-a woman capable of loving, caring.

I pulled her into my arms and held her tightly.

We rolled up in the blankets and stretched out. It was a temptation to roll over, pull her into my embrace, and give her the loving she needed at this moment.

The desire finally was greater than my resistance. I reached for her, then jerked up. Already she was asleep.