Then She Vanished

Thirteen

Borrego Valley Airport is a small flat patch of ground surrounded by desert. A few low buildings, one of them a restaurant, one a fueling station, and some hangars for rent. I taxied off the rough asphalt runway, Hall Pass II’s engine grumbling as if disappointed to be back on earth again so soon after leaving Sacramento.

For a moment I stood in the shade of the restaurant. It was already 91 degrees, and not quite noon. The airport and the town of Borrego Springs are surrounded by Anza-Borrego Desert State Park, the largest in the state and one of California’s wildest places — mountain lions, bighorn sheep, abundant reptiles, birds, eye-popping wildflowers, and desert-dwelling arachnids, including scorpions. Virgil Strait probably spent his vacations here. From my shade I looked out at the wide horizon, pale mountains rising west and east, a green splash of distant palms against them, a wash of orange wildflowers on white sand.

My rental car was waiting and the Bighorn Motel was easy to find. It was old enough to qualify as old-fashioned but not quite old enough to be desirably retro. Which meant a three-sided horseshoe of separate bungalows built around a central swimming pool and the parking spots. The sun-faded sign was pocked by rust.

The hillside behind the motel was scarred by mounds of mine tailings and open pits blockaded by rusty chain link, and dotted with homes built into the boulders. Homes of rock and wood, recessed against the elements. If it wasn’t for the sun on the window glass I might not have known what I was looking at, so well did the buildings match the hills.

The hum of air conditioners greeted me when I got out of the car. It was near the end of the wildflower season, but the motel looked busy. Kids and young parents in the pool. Desert all around. Isolated homes in the shimmering distance.

The office was a squat stucco block with a canvas awning over a recessed entryway. There were blinds behind the glass front door and the windows, and an intercom built into the alcove wall. A small camera was recessed into the upper left corner of the entryway. The office door was locked.

A young man stood in the entryway, curtly talking to the box. He was having trouble with his A/C and wanted some help, like now. A woman’s voice asked for his room number, and said that maintenance would be there soon.

“Great day for the A/C to fail,” he said on his way past me.

I pushed the Talk button, gave my name and asked to see Mr. Broadman.

“I’m sorry, he’s not available at this time.”

“May I come in?”

“Why?”

“I have something important to discuss with him.”

“He’s not available. At this time.”

“I was in the war with him. I’d like to leave him my name and numbers.”

“Just put a business card in the mail slot. It’s the way we do it.”

“No, it’s not the way I do it. I told you this was important. Please open the door.”

I held my PI license up toward the little camera. Legally, of course, it gives me no powers whatsoever, but not everybody knows this. It looks intimidating to some.

I heard another voice from inside, a man’s voice, but I couldn’t make out the words.

“I suppose that is okay,” she said.

The power dead bolt clanged open and I went in. The lobby was cool but poorly lit. Small, nowhere to sit, just a high counter on which a variety of desert-activities brochures stood tilted up in a box. A small calendar in a stand and a dish of plastic-wrapped mints. Behind the counter was a door, closed, and a large windowed cabinet featuring desert animals preserved by taxidermy and arranged with care: a tiny owl, a small fox, a bobcat, a covey of Gambel’s quail — mom, dad, young.

The desk clerk was a young woman in her mid-twenties, with tired brown eyes and thinning white hair. Her dress was tan, cut loosely like a smock. She wore a mini-mic clipped to one shoulder strap. Her name plate said Cassy. She looked like people I’d known who were undergoing chemotherapy. Pale, braced, and accepting. She said that Mr. Broadman wasn’t in, and there were no rooms available.

She stepped back into an inner shadow and the man’s voice I’d heard a moment ago came through a speaker over the closed door behind Cassy. Above the speaker was another camera, aimed right at me.

“How can I help you, Mr. Ford?” His voice was soft and unhurried.

“I’m a PI working with Assemblyman Dalton Strait. I’d appreciate just a few minutes of your time.”

“Are you affiliated with any media or news organization, traditional or online?”

“I am not.”

“Please give me a few minutes to prepare. Make yourself comfortable, Mr. Ford. Cassy, you may offer him a cold water.”

She bent to a mini-refrigerator and set a plastic bottle on the counter.

“Thanks, Cassy. Exactly how does someone get comfortable here?”

“It’s just an expression.”

“I see the motel is full, or almost.”

“Wildflowers. They’re mostly gone by now, but… excuse me.”

She turned and went through the door behind her, closing it firmly. But not before I glimpsed the room beyond: a slant of sunlight through cracked blinds, a plaid stuffed chair with a coffee table in front of it and an IV drip station waiting in a corner behind them.

I shot an annoyed look to the camera over the closed door. Sipped the water and riffled the tops of the Anza-Borrego brochures. I’d hiked in the park but never seen a bighorn sheep in the wild. A long few minutes went by. Strange being watched but maybe not watched. Better when you know.

“Mr. Ford, I’m sorry for the wait. Please exit the lobby and go right to bungalow six, at the end of the first row. The door is open.”

I took another look at Cassy’s closed door, then pushed outside, blinds banging on the glass. Took my time to room six. A maintenance man with a big red toolbox waited outside room twelve. Gave me a nod.

Six was cracked open and I knocked.

The same soft, patient voice: “Come in.”