Minor in Possession (7 page)

Burton Joe's private meeting with Karen and the kids seemed to have had a salutary effect on both Karen and Kelly. I don't know what he told my daughter. Maybe he spilled the beans about Michelle Owens' condition. At any rate, I was back in their good graces for the time being. As we left the room for mid-afternoon break, Kelly caught up with me by the door and gave me a quick hug, one I returned gratefully.

It was still raining outside. Sunny goddamned Arizona.

We hurried to the dining room for coffee and iced tea. With a mixture of sadness and relief I noticed that Jennifer Rothman wasn't back on the
couch beside the fireplace. With any kind of luck, her parents had taken her home.

Bringing my coffee with me, I went out on the front patio to watch the falling rain. While standing there, I glanced curiously down the trail toward my darkened cabin, trying to ascertain whether or not the Yavapai County Sheriff's department had completed its search. There was nothing to see one way or the other, no sign of life or investigative activity. The lights in the cabin were off, and no vehicles of any kind were visible in front of or behind it.

Before we could reconvene in our various groups, Calvin Crenshaw rang the dinner bell and summoned everyone back to the dining room. Once more in a time of crisis Louise Crenshaw was not in evidence, and once more Calvin was thrust into the limelight.

“We've just had a call from Yavapai County Flood Control,” he said quickly, once the group was silent. “The river's expected to crest at one and a half feet over flood. We need volunteers to help sandbag the Rojases' mobile home. Otherwise it could be washed off its footings.”

Which is how, in the last few hours of daylight on the day Joey Rothman died, I found myself, along with several other able-bodied volunteers from Ironwood Ranch's collection of misfits, slogging knee-deep through icy water and mud filling sandbags with shovels full of wet sand, and heaving the bags in a stack along the base of Shorty and Dolores Rojas' double-wide mobile home.

It was cold, backbreaking, hard labor, but it was also exhilarating to be out in the open again, to be exerting physical effort, to be using muscles I'd forgotten I owned for a change instead of sitting around endlessly talking. When we finished the job, it was almost time for dinner. There was just enough time to grab a quick shower before rushing off to dinner and the in-town AA and Al-Anon meetings that make up Ironwood Ranch's unvaried Tuesday night and Thursday night agenda.

Hurrying back to the cabin, I paused on the porch long enough to strip off my wet shoes and make sure there was no crime scene tape that would still keep me from entering. Seeing none, I slipped inside, shedding dripping shirt and jacket as I went.

The cabin, the last one in the row, was farthest away from the main ranch house. It was also a long way from the hot water heater. Consequently, it usually took some time to coax a reluctant stream of hot water out of the shower head.

Bearing this in mind, I stepped into the bathroom long enough to turn on the faucet and begin warming the water before I went back out to empty my pockets at the dresser. I did all this without bothering to turn on a light. With my pockets empty, I stripped off my sodden pants and tossed them on the floor somewhere in the general direction of the outside door.

And that's when I heard the snake. Even over
the rush of water in the shower, the chilling sound of the rattlesnake's rattle was unmistakable.

With a sinking clutch in my gut I recognized it as a sound I had learned from watching hundreds of Saturday afternoon serials and westerns as a kid, first at the old Baghdad Theater and later at the Bay in Ballard. When I threw the pants toward the door, I must have unintentionally scored a direct hit.

I froze, squinting my eyes at the murky darkness. Fortunately, the pissed-off rattlesnake continued to sound its ominous warning. I was exceedingly grateful it did so. Armed with infrared sensors, the snake knew my every movement, all the while remaining totally invisible to me. If the rattling ever stopped, I'd have no way of knowing where he was.

Waves of goose bumps surged up and down my legs. My pulse pounded in my temples. I listened desperately over the noisy rushing of my own blood, trying to pinpoint the exact location of that bone-chilling rattle.

It had to be coming from somewhere near the door. If that was the case, I was lucky as hell that I hadn't stepped on the damn thing when I came inside. But now I was trapped. And in the dark. Not only was the snake beside the door, so was the light switch.

Holding my breath, I took one cautious step backward, dreading the feeling of snake's fangs sinking deep into the naked flesh of my leg or ankle. When nothing happened, I tried another
step. The rattle stopped for only for a moment, then it began again in what seemed like a slightly different position.

I took another backward step, wondering how far it could possibly be—not inches, not feet, but miles—before I reached the relative safety of the bathroom.

Two more cautious steps and I felt the welcome cool of the tiled bathroom floor beneath my feet. Sick with relief, I sprang backward and slammed the door shut. Quickly I turned on the light and then looked down at what seemed suddenly to be an immense crack beneath the door. It may have been irrational, but all the same, I plugged it with a bath towel just in case the snake might be able to squash itself flat and somehow squeeze under the door to come after me.

While I stood there shaking with relief and resting my head on the door, I watched the towel for any sign of movement. Seeing none, I finally pulled myself together enough to turn off the water and take stock of the situation. The ringing of the last-call dinner bell greeted my ears. By now everyone would have gone up to the dining room except for a few flood-fighting stragglers like me who might possibly still be showering.

I tried to think. I may have been safe in the bathroom, but it was a hollow victory at best. I was still trapped. I still couldn't get out. Yelling wouldn't help. Once they left for dinner and the meetings, no other clients would be within earshot
for hours. The trip into Wickenburg usually lasted until around ten, unless…

A sudden thought spilled over me like a bucket of icy water. Unless they noticed I was missing and sent someone to find me.

What if they sent Kelly or Scott? I thought with my heart sinking. What if one of my own unsuspecting kids walked directly into the snake? I wouldn't be able to see them coming in time, wouldn't be able to warn them.

I had to get out! Somehow I had to do it, but I'd be damned if I was going to open that bathroom door.

I looked at the shower. A combination tub and shower. Five feet above the bottom of the tub was a window, a discreet frosted jalousie window. Small, and tough to get to, but maybe I could make it work.

Adrenaline is wonderful. It surged through me, giving me a strength I didn't know I had. I'm reminded of the five-foot-two grandmother from Tulsa, Oklahoma, who single-handedly lifted a 327-cubic-inch GMC engine off her husband's legs when it fell on him in their garage. That dame didn't have anything on me.

Wrapping my hands in towels, I opened the window and managed to punch out the three tiers of glass. Then, amazed that I was able to do it, I pried the window frame loose from its moorings. I tried yelling for help through the open window, but as I had expected, it was useless. By then every last straggler had gone to the dining room.
The Rojas mobile home was much closer at hand than the ranch house, but yelling for Shorty wouldn't work either. The roaring of the bloated river blanked out every other sound.

Standing there with my escape hatch open, I realized suddenly that I had another serious problem—I was buck naked. All my clothes were in the other room along with the snake.

Public opinion and shards of broken glass were nothing compared to my dread of the snake, which I imagined was lying in wait, lurking there just outside the bathroom door.

Casting my fate to the winds, I gathered one more towel, tossed it out the window in front of me in hopes it would protect my bare feet from the broken glass. Then, standing on tiptoe on the edge of the tub, I clambered up the wall and wiggled my bare butt out the window.

Thank God I didn't get stuck.

S
horty Rojas seemed a little surprised when I turned up on his doorstep wearing nothing but a towel and an off-the-shoulder smile. Unperturbed by my tale of the snake, he gave me a bathrobe and a pair of rubber thongs. The robe, a shocking pink chenille, evidently belonged to Dolores and came close to wrapping around me twice. The thongs, blue rubber dime store jobs, were definitely Shorty's. They were wide enough for my feet, but my heels hung off the back end by a good inch and a half.

I wanted him to exhibit some visible reaction when I told him about the snake. I wanted him to act like it was something out of the ordinary, for him to be more upset, but Shorty Rojas wasn't the excitable type.

“Happens every time we have a flood,” he said with a shrug. “Them snakes hole up in the bank along the river. When high water gets to 'em, they go looking for someplace warm and dry. What'd you do, leave your door open? Hang on a minute. I'll go get my snake stick and a burlap bag.”

He pulled a much-used Stetson down from a hook on the wall near the door and shoved it on his head.

“You mean this kind of thing happens often?” I asked.

Shorty didn't answer. When he returned to the door, instead of packing a gun, which was what I wanted and expected, he was carrying a gunnysack and a stick the size of a cane with a leather noose hanging off the bottom end.

“What the hell are you going to do with that thing?” I demanded.

Shorty looked down at the stick. A leather thong ran up one side of the stick. He slipped it up and down, tightening and loosening the noose. “I'm gonna catch me a snake,” he said impassively. “Take it back outside where it belongs and let it loose.”

“You mean you're not going to kill it?”

“No, I'm not going to kill it.” He sounded offended, not only by the question but by the implied stupidity behind it. “If every snake in this danged world disappeared off the face of the earth tomorrow, we'd all be overrun with varmints in two shakes of a lamb's tail.”

With a derisive snort and a shake of his head, Shorty Rojas headed up the trail. Chastened, I followed meekly behind.

“Where is it?” he asked over his shoulder as we trudged along.

“I never turned on the lights so I didn't actually see it,” I admitted, “but it's somewhere right near
the door. At least that's what it sounded like when I left.”

“If the snake's by the door, how'd you get out without getting bit?”

“I climbed out the bathroom window.”

He stopped in the glow of a yard light and looked up at me, consternation written on his face. “Out the window, no shit? Musta been a tight fit.”

“I broke out the glass.”

“I see,” he said, and continued on.

Feeling like a cowardly jackass, I stayed outside, hovering nervously on the rim of the porch while Shorty cracked open the door, switched on the light, and peered inside.

“See him?” I asked.

“Nope. Not yet. Probably slipped under a bed or into the closet, looking for someplace to hide, I reckon. You stay outside,” Shorty added. “I've got boots on. You don't.”

Carefully he slipped inside the cabin, easing the door shut behind him. I stood outside, gazing forlornly in at the window while he searched the cabin for the snake. For several anxious minutes I was afraid he wouldn't find the snake at all, that people hearing the story would assume I had made the whole thing up in a fit of alcohol-withdrawal-induced paranoia.

But then, much to my relief, I saw Shorty struggling with the stick inside the closet. A few minutes later he returned to the door and opened it. Behind Shorty, I saw the empty snake stick leaning against the wall beside the open closet
door. In one triumphant hand Shorty held a writhing burlap bag.

I recoiled from the bag in alarm. “Don't worry,” Shorty said reassuringly. “It can't hurt you now. Come on in and get some clothes on.” Holding the bag well away from his body, he tied the neck of it in a solid knot, shaking it once to be sure it would hold.

Gingerly I stepped in over the threshold, warily watching the bag, but also looking around the room for any further sign of danger. “What if there's another one?” I asked. “Is that possible?”

“I suppose,” Shorty replied. “Possible, but not likely, especially since this one here's a pet.”

“A pet?” I couldn't believe my ears. “Are you kidding? I thought you said it came from the riverbank.”

“Not this one. It's somebody's pet snake all right, one that got loose somehow. And not very long ago, either, from the looks of it.”

“How the hell do you know that? What's he doing, wearing a dog tag?”

I had given up all hope of taking a shower. Instead, I went to the closet to get some clothes, pulling everything to one side and examining every corner of the closet before I took down my shirt and trousers. In the process I noticed that all of Joey Rothman's belongings had been removed, not only from the closet but from the rest of the cabin as well. It was as though someone had come through the place and erased every trace of his occupancy.

Shorty set the wriggling bag down near the door and walked into the bathroom, where he examined the broken window. “How come you didn't take the glass out?” he asked.

“Pardon me?”

“The glass, how come you broke it? Those panes just sit in the frame, you know. They lift right out.”

“You could have fooled me,” I told him with a nervous laugh. “I must not have been thinking too straight. That snake scared the living shit right out of me.”

Shorty retrieved his stick from beside the closet and set it near the bag while the snake rattled ominously. Even muffled by the burlap bag, the sound was enough to make my skin crawl. But Shorty didn't seem remotely disturbed. If anything, he seemed to be struggling to suppress a grin.

“What the hell's so damned funny?” I demanded.

“Him too,” Shorty answered, allowing himself a discreet smile.

“What do you mean?”

“Look over there,” he said, pointing. “See that mess there under the corner of the bed?”

I looked where he pointed and was rewarded with the sight of a small, stomach-turning mass of white fur and tiny tails.

“What the hell is that?”

“Snake's dinner—dead white mice,” Shorty answered. “He scared you, but you musta scared
him pretty good too. He barfed his guts out. You ever see any white mice in the wild, by the way?”

“You're saying I scared
him
?”

The idea of the snake being frightened of me was so laughable that I felt an almost hysterical chuckle welling in my throat. But Shorty Rojas wasn't laughing.

“You bet. Coiling up and striking is hard work for snakes. Bothers 'em. Upsets their digestive tracts, especially if they've just been fed.”

I wondered suddenly if Shorty was having a bit of old-fashioned cowboy fun with a tenderfoot city-slicker from Seattle, but there was no hint of amusement about him as he spoke. The smile no longer flickered around the corners of his mouth. The twinkle was gone from his eyes. He seemed dead serious.

“How do you happen to know so much about snakes?” I asked.

“My cousin's kid, Jaime. He went to the university and works in Tucson now at a place called the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum. He claims snakes are more scared of people than we are of them. He says that after a captive snake gets fed, it needs to be left alone and quiet until it has a chance to digest the meal, twenty-four hours or so anyway.”

Shorty was quiet. The snake rattled one more time as if to remind us that it was still present. Hurriedly, I pulled on a pair of socks and stuffed my feet into my other pair of shoes. I glanced in his direction and found Shorty staring at the
lumpy burlap bag, regarding it with a puzzled expression on his face.

“Even without the mice, I would have known,” he said.

“What do you mean?” I was back at the closet pulling out a sports jacket. I was cold, much colder than the temperature in the room warranted.

“It's the wrong kind of snake,” he answered. “We have diamondbacks around here, and some Mohave rattlers. Even a few speckled, but this here's charcoal gray with no markings whatsoever. I'd say it's an Arizona black from up around the Mogollon Rim. I can't remember seeing one of them around here before, not ever.”

“If it's somebody's goddamned pet snake, what the hell was it doing in my cabin?”

For the first time the full implication of the snake being a “pet snake” hit me. If somebody had planted it in my room, then that somebody had tried to kill me with it as sure as I was standing there. Assault with a deadly weapon. A living deadly weapon.

I turned on my heel and stalked out the door, not even thinking now about the snake in the burlap bag as I walked by it. Someone had just tried to murder me. I wanted to know who the hell that person was.

“Where are you going?” Shorty asked, following me out onto the small porch.

“To call the sheriff. If somebody's trying to knock me off, I want a detective down here on the
double, taking prints and finding out what the hell is going on.”

“There's already been so much trouble today, with the boy and the flood—” Shorty began, but I cut him off.

“The flood's one thing, but believe me, Joey Rothman's murder and this snake are connected. Whoever killed Joey just tried to get me as well. I'm calling the sheriff.”

With that, I left Shorty there on the porch and bounded up the trail. At the door to the dining room I almost collided with people coming out. Not bothering to apologize, I stormed past them. Halfway down the administrative wing's hall I ran full tilt into Lucy Washington, who was coming from the opposite direction.

“What's got into you now?” she demanded, stopping in her tracks and barring my way with both hands on her hips. Her full lips ironed themselves into a cold, thin line. She was still packing a grudge from our previous encounter.

“To see Mrs. Crenshaw,” I answered.

“Like hell you are. She's not here and neither is the mister. What do you want?”

“To call the sheriff's department.”

She bared her teeth in a forced smile. “Oh, do tell. We're not going to go through all that again, are we, Mr. Beaumont?”

“We sure as hell are,” I muttered.

Instead of backing away from me, Lucy Washington stepped forward until the top of her head almost touched my chin. There was no getting
past her on either side. Lucy Washington was almost as wide as she was tall. Her ample breadth filled up the hallway.

“Now you listen to me, and you listen good. Mr. and Mrs. Crenshaw gave orders that they are not to be disturbed. Period. By you or anybody else. And if you pull the kind of stunt you did last night, if you go near a telephone without permission, I'm calling the cops myself. I'll have your ass thrown in jail. Understand?”

I tried to be reasonable. “Look,” I said. “Somebody put a snake in my room, a rattlesnake. Shorty Rojas just now got it out.”

Santa Lucia smiled. “Sure he did, and Jesus Christ himself is out in the kitchen helping Dolores Rojas wash all the dishes.”

Out of nowhere, Kelly appeared at my elbow. She was evidently ready to let bygones be bygones.

“Daddy, where were you? We got you a plateful of food, but if you don't come right now, there won't be time enough to eat before we have to leave for Wickenburg.”

“That's right,” Lucy Washington said, flashing me another smile, square-toothed and insincere. “You just do that, Mr. Beaumont. You go have yourself some dinner with your family and get yourself all calmed down. You'll feel better once you have something to eat.”

“What's the matter, Daddy?” Kelly asked. “This has been such a terrible day already, how could anything else go wrong?”

Santa Lucia had me right where she wanted me and she knew it. I wasn't about to say anything more about the snake in front of Kelly or Karen or Scott. It would have scared them to death.

“Nothing's the matter, honey,” Lucy said. “You take your daddy along with you, feed him his supper, and take him to the meeting. If I happen to talk to either Mr. or Mrs. Crenshaw, I'll let them know you want to talk to them. They might call in.”

Provoked but letting it pass, I turned and marched away with Kelly following close at my heels. Karen and Scott were still waiting at a table near the center of the almost deserted room. A plate full of cold roast beef and mashed potatoes sat at a clean place setting next to Scott. I wasn't hungry, and I didn't want to have to sit down and make some kind of phoney excuse or polite conversation. It was far easier to avoid the situation entirely.

Halfway across the room I stopped abruptly and turned around, catching Kelly by surprise. “I've got to go see somebody, Kelly. Thanks for getting my food, but I just can't eat right now. I'm not hungry.”

Hurt, she looked up into my eyes. “You can't? Daddy, tell me. What's the matter?”

“Nothing,” I said. “Everything's fine.”

Unfortunately, I've always been a terrible liar. Kelly knew it, saw through what I said, but I hurried away before she had a chance to call me on it. Once outside the ranch house, I half walked
half ran back down the muddy path to Shorty's mobile home. He was standing outside, hat pulled low on his forehead, smoking a cigarette, and peering through the inky darkness in the direction of the roiling flood.

“Still hasn't crested,” he said, looking up as I stopped next to him. “But I think we're going to be fine. Those sandbags will do the trick.”

“I didn't come to talk about the flood, Shorty. Where do the Crenshaws live?” I asked.

“In town. Why?”

“That damn nurse again, Lucy Washington. She won't let me near a phone to call the sheriff. What about you? Would you let me use yours?”