Desert Heat (12 page)

~*~

Mike
dismounted and handed his reins to Mallory.

As
much as he didn’t want to believe his gut, it told him she was right. This
didn’t look right. He looked in the Jeep and saw a jacket, boots and a bottle
of water that had been left open. No one familiar with the desert left water
sitting around to evaporate—not even in February. Maybe an out-of-state tourist
had wandered off and got lost.

He
didn’t buy it.

The
highway was less than half a mile away, and the ranch a bit further in the
opposite direction. If the guy passed the ranch the Salt River would’ve fenced
him in. If he went toward the highway, he’d end up in Mesa. The other way was a
little different, but anyone with any brains would see they were headed toward
the mountains.

Walking
around to the back of the Jeep, Mike saw an Arizona license plate. Whoever
owned the vehicle was from the state, if not the area. He reached in and opened
the glove box. A plastic folder and a screwdriver were the only items. He
picked up the folder and looked through it. Along with a current insurance
card, there was registration for the Jeep registered to Wendell A. Wallace.
Nobody Mike knew. He replaced the items and looked at Mallory. She’d stayed
mounted. Her big doe eyes were wide, her lips tight. She held the saddle horn
with her good hand, and even from a few feet away he could see her white
knuckles.

 
“Someone you know?” Her voice trembled. She
was really shook up.

 
“No.” He shut the glove box and moved away.

She
pointed. “Look.”

He
glanced where she pointed. An old shovel lay in the sand, its point still half
stuck in the ground. Mike walked closer and his skin prickled. He was picking
up some bad vibes.
Nonsense.
The last couple of days
had been rough and he was tired. He bent to pick up the shovel and that’s when
he saw the shoe.

Buried in the sand, a few feet from the shovel, only part of the
side stuck out of the dirt.
He swallowed hard and straightened. He moved
another step. A foot up from the shoe, he glimpsed denim. It looked like a pair
of jeans, but he couldn’t be sure. As his gaze swept across the area, he
spotted skin.
Fingers.
Dirty, broken
nails.

He
jerked.

It
hit him.

The
hand was attached to a body.
A dead body.

 
“Mallory,” he said in a tight voice, “you were
right. There’s someone here.”

He
heard her scramble to dismount, tie the horses and run to his side. He didn’t
take his eyes off the hand. It was if he stared at it long enough, he could
make his brain believe it. Three days, two dead bodies. She grabbed his sleeve.

 
“Oh my God.”

 
“Yeah.”
He rubbed a
hand over his eyes. “We better get somebody out here.”

 
“Who?
The sheriff?”

 
“Yeah.”

Like
him, she couldn’t quit staring. “I knew something was wrong. I felt it.”

 
“Yeah, me too.”
He
reached in his pocket and dialed 911. After explaining, and giving directions,
he hung up. “They’ll be here soon.”

 
“Who do you think he is?” She backed away.
“And what do you think happened to him?”

Mike
looked at her. Her eyes were wide and wary in a pasty white face. She looked
terrified.
Of him?
Did she think he had something to
do with this? He wasn’t a killer. Couldn’t she see that? After the last couple
of days who could guess what she thought of
him.
She
thought he tricked her into going into the desert, among other things. He had
to admit he hadn’t made the best impression. But if she suspected him of
killing someone, he had serious problems.

 
“I have no idea.”

 
Flashing lights lit up the early evening sky.

In
a minute, two four-wheel-drive Blazers, followed by an ambulance, all with the
Maricopa County insignia on the doors, bounced up the wash.

Mike
straightened. It was going to be a long night.

Chapter
Twelve

Mike
watched a female deputy cordon off the sight, then snap photos around the body
and the Jeep. Two big men leaned against the ambulance and waited to be
summoned to help with the body. Mallory stood near Mike. He wanted to put his
arm around her, but he knew the action wouldn’t be welcomed.

Sheriff
Bodine
placed his fists on his hips and spit in the
sand. “Who found him?”

 
“I did.” Mike looked him in the eye. “I went
to take a glance at that shovel over there. That’s when I spotted the shoe. I
saw the jeans, then the hand.”

 
“What were you doing out here?” The sheriff
directed his attention toward Mallory. He dug a pen and small notebook out of
his shirt pocket.

 
She stepped forward. “I was riding on the road
up there,” she pointed, “and I noticed something red in the bushes. I couldn’t
tell what it was, so I came down here. Something spooked me and I went for
help.”

 
“What do you mean ‘something spooked you’? Did
you see someone?” The sheriff made a note,
then
stared
at her through almost-black mirrored sunglasses.

 
“No. There wasn’t anyone around. Not that I
saw anyway. I don’t know what bothered me.
Just a feeling.
The horse was
creeped
out, too.” She rubbed her arms
with her hands.

 
“Where were you?” Sheriff
Bodine
asked Mike.

 
“I live at The Jumping Cholla, just over the
hill. I was there when Miss James initially found this guy. She went riding
alone, and I grew concerned when she was gone for quite a while. I came to look
for her. She told me about what she’d seen and wanted to take another look.
That’s when we found him.”

“You
said ‘him’? You know something I should know?” Sheriff
Bodine
made a note.

 
“I looked in the glove box for I.D.,” Mike
said. “There’s a registration and insurance cards in there with the name
Wendell Wallace on them. I assume they belong to this guy.”

 
“Take a look.”
Bodine
told his deputy and tipped his head toward the Jeep.

She
leapt to obey. In a second she came back carrying the plastic folder and handed
them to
Bodine
with white gloved hands. “Do you want
me to uncover the corpse now, sir?”

 
“In a minute.”
Bodine
opened the folder and scanned the documents inside.
He handed them to the deputy. “Run these.”

She
dashed to her Blazer and picked up the two-way radio. She returned in a few
minutes with a frown. “Wendell A. Wallace, sir.
Single white
male.
Age twenty-seven.
Missing since January two of
this year.
The mother put out a missing person’s report on January four.
He told her he was going to Apache Junction, then to the desert to check a site
and never returned.”

 
“What kind of site?”
Bodine
asked.

 
“Buried treasure, sir.”
The deputy didn’t blink. “He worked part time at a nursing home.
Spent every spare minute looking for lost treasure.
He
scored a couple small hits. It was in the news last year.”

 
“Dig up the body. Let’s see what we’ve got,”
Sheriff
Bodine
ordered.

The
deputy motioned to the EMTs and they joined her at the site.

The
sheriff, Mike and Mallory watched as the deputy and EMTs began to dig with
small hand-held spades. First, the feet appeared. The body wore an expensive
brand of high-top athletic shoes. Unless this woman had very big feet, these
belonged to a man. Moving up, the legs were unveiled next. By the shape, Mike
knew they were male.

Mallory
swayed and he put a hand on her shoulder.

The
trio dug more.

Back pockets.
No logo.
Then a plain brown
belt.
This guy hadn’t been dressed to impress. He’d been in work
clothes. Slowly, a pale blue work shirt came into view. Slim waist widened into
wide shoulders. No doubt about it. This was a man. He rested on his stomach,
arms splayed out, hands spread as if to break a fall. No watch and no wedding
ring.
 

The
deputy wavered and looked up at
Bodine
with
questioning eyes. He jerked his head. “Finish it.”

She
took a breath Mike heard two feet away and continued. As the sand lifted, a
dark stain covered the collar.
Blood.

Mike
wanted to look away.

He
couldn’t.

He
turned his head to see Mallory and she had a deer-in-the-headlights look—big,
staring eyes, slightly flared nostrils, pinched lips.
Probably
much like his own expression.
One of the EMTs grunted and Mike turned
his head that way. They had finished.

The
first thing Mike noticed was the amount of blood. Gallons of it had spread from
the back of the dead man’s head and flowed into the ground under him, staining
it black. Mike had to assume the poor bastard had once had a head. He no longer
did. Somebody had bashed him with something so strong his skull and brain
exploded like a smashed watermelon.

Mallory
gagged. She turned and ran for the nearby
palo
verdes
. The sound of her retching carried over the still
air. The female deputy looked green around the gills herself before she
staggered to her feet and fled to the bushes.

Mike’s
own stomach churned and he forced himself not to puke along with the girls.

The
two EMTs didn’t seem fazed, nor did Sheriff
Bodine
.
They looked at the body with detached, clinical expressions. Mike tried to copy
their attitude but failed miserably. He knew he looked like a sick dog. He felt
like one.

 
“Take some film,”
Bodine
told the blonde deputy as she came back. He waved two fingers between the EMTs.
“And you two turn him over when she’s done.”

Flashbulbs
lit up the dying light. When the deputy had taken enough shots to satisfy
Bodine
, he nodded at the EMTs and they flipped the dead man
to his back.

If
the rear of his head was terrible, the front was worse. His face was
indistinguishable under a thick coating of dried, black blood. Under it, his
open eyes stared at them and his mouth was frozen in an O. His shirt, stained
almost purple, from neck to stomach, stuck to his bloated body.

Mike
had seen enough. He turned away and walked over to Mallory. She stood by the
horses, her hand on Zorro’s neck. “You okay?”

She
shook her head and didn’t speak.

 
“Try to stay strong. We’ll be able to leave shortly.”

Her
gaze was riveted on the body as the EMTs rolled him onto a sheet, wrapped him,
and carried him to the back of the ambulance and stored him there. They jumped
in and pulled away without lights.

 
“The only place I’m going is to a hotel, then
back to Vegas.”

Before
Mike could reply, the sheriff joined them. “Looks like you discovered Wendell
Wallace. We won’t know for sure until we run fingerprints. We found a driver’s
license in his pocket, and it’s probably the right guy, but I want to be positive
before I call it.”

Mike
waited without comment.

 
“Do you have any idea what this Wallace might
be looking for out here? This is quite a ways from Apache Junction.
About fifty miles from where he was headed.
That’s more than
a little swerve.
Quite a detour.”
Bodine
spat again.

 
“I told you I don’t have a clue,” Mike said.
What was
Bodine
driving at?

 
“This is your property, right?”
Bodine
swivelled
his head.
“How far?”

Mike
pointed.
“To the highway this way, the Salt River the other.
The road you came in on is the south border.” He hooked a thumb over his
shoulder. “And the north side goes about a mile that way. I’m surrounded by
public lands beyond that.”

 
“Would you be one of the fellows that
environmental bunch is trying to put out of business? What’s your name again?”

 
“Mike Malone, and yes, the SRPL has gotten a
judge to issue
and
injunction which keeps me from
operating. We go to court in June.” Mike tried to keep the bitterness from his
voice and failed.

 
“You have any physical run-ins with any of
that bunch?” The sheriff’s voice took a hard edge.

 
“No. I heard they shredded all of the rafts at
the River Adventures place up the road, but so far they haven’t done any
vandalism other than sticking a bunch of signs outside my gate.” Mike matched
the sheriff’s tone. “If you’re implying I had something to do with this guy
being out here you’re way off base.”

 
“I’m not saying anything,”
Bodine
declared.
“Just asking questions.
Now get your shorts
unbunched
. You ever have any treasure hunters on your
place?”

Mike
hesitated. The minute he mentioned Skeeter, the whole investigation was going
to turn.
Two gold chasers dead in a month on his land.
Odd, but not impossible.
There couldn’t be a
connection between the two, could there? Hundreds of people traipsed all over
the desert grasping for lost gold and buried treasure without being killed for
their trouble. Skeeter had been old and sick. No one had killed him.

 
“One.
Skee
–
 
I
mean Gary James. He was a desert rat.
A full-time
treasure hunter.
Once in a while he dropped in and stayed a day or two.
Then he went about his business. I didn’t know much. He didn’t share a lot, and
I didn’t pry.”

 
“I want to interview him. Where can I find
him?”
Bodine
reached for his little notebook.

 
“He died a few days ago,” Mallory said.

The
sheriff scratched his ear. “That’s mighty inconvenient. Any idea what happened
to him?”

 
“He passed from natural causes,” Mallory said.
“At least that’s what the coroner believes. But she is going to do an autopsy
on Friday.”

 
“What’s your interest in this?”
Bodine
wrote something down.

 
“He was my father. I came here to bury him.”

 
“Sorry, Miss.” He tipped his head to her,
then
turned back to all business with Mike. “Have you ever
heard of any treasure on your place? Is there any way this Wallace could’ve
found something and been killed for his trouble?”

Mike
shifted. He had a choice to make. He had to confess. Mallory would hate him
when he did. At this point she wasn’t far from it. He drew in a long breath. “I
think there’s a possibility that her dad believed that.” Keeping his eyes
firmly on
Bodine’s
, he said, “Skeeter had a map with
my ranch marked on it.”

At
Mallory’s sharp, indrawn breath he faced her. “Yes, I took it. I looked it over
and put it back in your purse this morning while you went to the ladies’ room
in Tortilla Flat.”

 
“If you did that,
who
was in my room this morning?” Clearly she thought he was still lying.

 
“I don’t know.”

 
“Could you two sort this out on your own
time?”
Bodine
waved an impatient hand. “I have a dead
body on my hands. He was a gold chaser. Somebody else died who was also a
treasure hunter. They both kicked the bucket on your ranch. That leads me to
believe someone thinks there’s a pot of gold stashed somewhere and they’re
willing to kill for it.”

 
“That’s absurd.” Mike crossed his arms over
his chest. “First of all, I’ve lived here since I was a teenager and I know
this land like the back of my hand. If there were any treasure, I’d know about
it. Secondly, if there was some kind of windfall wouldn’t I have dug it out by
now to pay my legal fees?”

 
“Maybe you just found out.” Sheriff
Bodine
raised his brows. He nodded toward the spot where
they’d found Wallace.
“Along with him and this Skeeter
fellow.
Maybe you killed them both to keep it for yourself.”

 
“I didn’t.” Mike felt his world spinning out
of control. How had he gone from helping out a needy friend to being accused of
murdering him? Mallory looked at him like he was a bug.
Something
to be stepped on.

 
“I want to get a look at this map,”
Bodine
said. “Where is it?”

 
“In my purse at the ranch.”
Mallory glared at Mike. “At least I think it is.”

 
Sheriff
Bodine
motioned toward his deputy. “Find somebody to take their
horses
home. Get me the results on forensics ASAP. I’m going to escort Mr. Malone and
Miss James to The Jumping Cholla Resort. I have some questions I want answers
to.”

~*~

Mallory
handed over the crumpled paper.

The
sheriff took it and studied it for a long time. Finally he looked up. “Where’d you
get this?”

 
“The coroner gave it to me. She found it sewed
inside
Skeeter’s
pant leg, along with a vial of gold
dust.” She passed that to him, too. “
Here.
”