Worst Case Scenario, page 7
The endless highway was mostly deserted. Bishop drove over ten miles before seeing the first car. A late model, white Cadillac Escalade had pulled to the right shoulder of the road with its emergency flashers blinking. A middle-aged woman stood beside it, looking at the flat tire on the left rear. Her long hair and loose-fitting dress flapped in the stiff breeze. Bishop pulled behind the Cadillac, put on his emergency flashers, and got out. It then became apparent she was a bit older than middle age. She’d had some work done. Kinda busty and tall. Her long golden hair and pink cotton dress blowing in the breeze reminded him of a television commercial for some woman’s perfume.
She released an appreciative sigh, “Thank you for stopping. Could you please let me use your phone—I forgot mine at home.”
He eyed the tire and looked back at her. “What else is wrong except the flat?”
“That’s all.”
“How about I just fix it, and you can be on your way.”
Her expression took on a sweet mother-like look. “You are so kind. Thank you.”
Bishop took off his khaki shirt, leaving just his tee-shirt and jeans to get dirty. The woman stood on the roadside slightly behind him and watched with her arms crossed. She eyed him while twisting her hair like a young girl, humming some tune Bishop didn’t know. He finished the job in twenty minutes and was startled by her stare. It wasn’t at all natural. Her eyes had a strange distant expression. She strolled up while he wiped his hands with a shop rag he’d found in the back of the Cadillac.
“I really appreciate you.”
She startled him by put both her hands on his right bicep. They were ice cold.
“I don’t even know your name, I’m Minerva McFadden.”
Bishop finished wiping his hands and shook hers. “Troy Bishop—glad I could help.” He nodded at her car. “I would think that Cadillac has OnStar.”
She waved the idea away. “Oh, that thing hasn’t worked for months.”
She made Bishop a little nervous. Strangers who touched him always did. He had the feeling. That sensation he got when things didn’t add up. Time to get out of here. “Well, if there’s nothing else… “
She moved closer, and a broad smile encased her face before saying, “Would you like to come to a party this weekend?”
Her eyes had a hungry look. Like a used car salesman gets after seeing a clean trade-in roll onto the lot. The strange, wide smile worried him.
She’d caught him off guard, and he stammered, “I’m just passing through. You know, vacation. Maybe do a little hiking.”
“Perfect,” she exclaimed, “our ranch is near Gallinas Peak. Best hiking in the area. Here’s my card—I’ll tell the people at the front gate to expect you. Just show them this, come around one o’clock on Saturday.”
Bishop reluctantly took the card and stuffed it in his pocket, he’d toss it later. Anything to get rid of her.
She gave him another pleasant smile and lightly touched his arm again with those cold fingers. “You’d fit in just fine at the party. Most of the people are boring—been seeing them for years. But…” She leaned closer and lowered her voice.
Bishop had to fight the urge to back away.
“I think you’re an interesting person,” she said. “My husband collects interesting people.” Without waiting for an answer, she whirled toward her vehicle, let out a giggle, and slid behind the wheel. She pulled onto the highway and was gone before he could get back to his SUV.
Well, that was weird. Bishop rechecked the map. The area she spoke of, Gallinas Peak, was off this highway. He continued south and never saw the Cadillac again. She must have been flying. As he approached the small town of Corona, there were signs for Gallinas Peak. Small town was an understatement. The place was nothing but a few shops, a motel, and a gas station—almost a ghost town. More abandoned buildings than occupied ones. The plethora of railroad tracks and equipment was its most prominent feature. Looked like the rail transfer station there was long ago abandoned. A town used up and forgotten with time in a painted, deserted desert.
Bishop almost turned left on Highway 247. That would take him into the heart of Lincoln County, to a desolate no man’s land, but his curiosity got the best of him. Instead, he followed the signs for Gallinas Peak down a gravel road. After about five miles, there was a sprawling ranch on the left. It extended for about a mile from the road into the wood line at the base of the mountain. Over the entrance to the place, a sign read McFadden Ranch. There was a guard shack with a couple of people inside.
Bishop studied the place—looked more like a small town than a ranch. Numerous barns, sheds, and whole neighborhoods of tiny, well-kept homes. The side of the mountain showed signs from a past fire. About halfway from the base, the façade of a huge house tucked into the rock’s face looked down on the town. Reminded Bishop of a heavy gun emplacement in the side of a cliff. Weird woman—weird house.
Blackened skeletons of once mighty trees littered the side of the mountain along with new growth pines. Burnt stumps, some twenty feet tall, stood beside downed trees piled in heaps on top of each other—all charred. The place had an eerie quality. Who would live in such a setting?
“Minerva McFadden and her husband, the man who collects interesting people,” Bishop said out loud.
An old, tan, doublewide trailer house sat directly across the road from the sprawling ranch entrance. A large tin-covered patio shielded the entrance to the front door. The rust streaks on the tin had caused small holes, sending dozens of tiny rays of light onto the wooden floor and several dozen plants below. Most of the trailer’s paint had been sandblasted off from the harsh environment. The trailer looked like it might crumble in another good wind. An ancient, pale green Dodge pickup sat beside it, baking in the New Mexico sun. It had lots of dents and signs someone had once brush painted it in places with a darker shade of green. Bishop pulled into the driveway of the trailer house to turn around.
Bishop followed the gravel road back to Corona and turned right. He needed to make a decision here. Keep going or stop for the night in Corona. Since he didn’t have a destination and hadn’t eaten lunch, Corona was as good as any to stay. A sign pointed to the right; it read GALLINAS ROAD. Bishop pulled onto the road leading to Gallinas Peak summit to turn around and head back to Corona. He gazed at the late afternoon sky. Still plenty of daylight left. He wanted to get a look at the top of the peak. Might be worth hiking one day. This road looked like the fastest way to the top. It might give him a nice view.
One additional fact Carpenter related still nagged at Bishop. The OST scout vehicle had a magnetic jamming device attached near the roof antennas. Must have been attached before the attack. But when? How? Had someone in the Office of Secure Transportation broken bad? Or, did the theft of the trooper uniform and patrol car have more to do with it? Still more questions than answers.
Following the park signs, Bishop drove the winding road through heavy forest. The fire had not reached this side of the mountain, and the views were spectacular on the way up. Bright sunlight filtered through the giant Ponderosa Pines, and the sweet smell of clean air welcomed him. The 8,200-feet elevation cooled the afternoon temperatures, and Bishop rolled up the car window and drove another mile and a half before getting to the top.
Parking, he marveled at the view. He walked to the edge of the peak and gazed into the distance. It sat on the fringe of the mountains and plains. The top of the summit had tall, scattered pines slowly swaying in the light breeze. Absolute quietness. A fire lookout tower stood with a small, wooden, red house at its base. Bishop gazed at the tower. Had no idea those old things were still in use, but this one appeared well maintained. That would be the place to get a nice view. Better ask permission first. He swiveled his head in all directions, not a soul in sight—not even a car. He ambled to the house and was about to knock when the soft sound of running water from the rear of the home caught his attention. He knocked on the front door anyway, but no one answered. After several knocks, he skirted around the left side of the house and walked toward the back and the sound of running water.
Just as he turned the corner, he stopped cold. The young naked woman stood in the flow of water from the shower nozzle attached to the back wall of the house. She held a bar of soap at her side and didn’t seem to notice him.
Uh-oh, wrong time. Bishop quietly backed out of sight around the corner before she saw him. He meandered toward his SUV but stopped halfway. He turned his head back toward the rear of the house and mentally went over what he’d just seen. Something looked wrong—or more to the point—something wasn’t right. He shook off the feeling and walked back to his car. As he opened the door, he glanced back at the house again. The feeling rushed through him once more. Going back to get another look at the beauty was wrong on several levels, but he had to know, even at the risk of being labeled a creepy guy. He walked back to the corner and peeked around to see if what he remembered was correct.
She stood still as a statue. The woman, frozen in form, hadn’t moved an inch since he’d first spied her. He tried figuring it out. Her medium-length black hair wasn’t even wet. She held the soap in a tight, white-knuckled grip, rigid as if made of stone as streams of water flowed down her chest, thighs, and legs. Her slender body stood erect, and her eyes looked straight ahead. The cool water caused goosebumps to decorate her smooth, olive skin.
Bishop’s boot accidentally bumped the corner of the house. His curiosity almost caused him to step from around the corner, but she must have heard the bump. She slowly turned her head and caught his gaze. She slowly shook her head but didn’t speak. Her fearful eyes darted to the lower left, her lips and chin trembled, and her ashen complexion confused him. He followed the downward motion of her eyes to the edge of the concrete pad used as the base for the shower. No more than a foot from her left leg was a giant rattlesnake. Its large head and eyes stayed fixed on her—its tongue whipping in and out, tasting the air. It was coiled and ready to strike. Her brown, teary eyes pleaded for help.
Bishop didn’t dare approach any closer. Staying out of sight was his best option. If the snake got spooked, it might go into defensive mode and attack the closest target. He eased back to the corner and ducked behind it while reaching for the pistol in his back waistband. Using the corner as a bench rest, he took careful aim. The woman’s eyes widened at seeing the gun. She stood between the snake and him, blocking his direct line of fire. The viper’s head weaved slowly to the left and right—mesmerized by the falling shower water splattering on the concrete. When it swerved to its left, it showed itself for a split second. Timing would be everything. Bishop cocked the weapon, took a deep breath, let half out, and waited.
The shot startled the young woman, and she screamed and jumped, dropping the soap. She jerked her head toward the headless snake lying beside her, grabbed the towel hanging from a hook, and darted a few feet in Bishop’s direction. She wrapped the towel around her petite body, and a blush rushed up her neck, while trying to cover her nakedness. She stared at Bishop, who’d stepped from around the corner.
A shiver coursed through her. “I hate those things,” she whispered.
“Yeah, me, too,” he replied and slid the weapon back into the waistband holster.
She glanced again at the snake as if to assure herself it was really dead before stepping back to get a better look at Bishop. From the high cheekbones and skin tone, she had lots of Native American blood. The clear, green eyes gave her the face of a glamour model. She eyed him up and down and smiled.
“Well, since you’ve seen me naked and saved my life, I should introduce myself. I’m Cora Ballenger.” She held the towel tight with one hand and extended the other.
He shook the outstretched hand. “Troy Bishop, nice to meet you.”
She glanced back toward the snake one last time, and another visible shiver rushed through her. She turned to Bishop. Her head tilted and nose wrinkled. “You always carry a gun?”
He shrugged and matter-of-factly said, “Most of the time.”
The flippant answer made her smile. “Why are you here?”
Since she appeared to like the first, Bishop decided on another flippant answer. “Heard there was a damsel in distress.”
A tiny smile cracked her lips. Her eyes glistened sensually, the white teeth set against her light brown skin. Studying her expression, Bishop had no idea what response his silly answer might engender. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until she spoke.
“Well, you were right on time.” She took a couple of steps toward the back sliding glass door, keeping the towel tight against her body. Opening it, she turned. “Are you coming in, or just planning to stand there?”
Bishop followed her into the small living room. The house smelled good, something baking. It reminded Bishop, again he’d missed lunch.
“I won’t be but a minute.” She disappeared into a back room, and the door closed.
In Bishop’s line of work, he seldom had what most people consider a typical day, which only proved the point. How the hell did he end up standing in a stranger’s house waiting for her to get dressed?
Cora removed the towel and looked at her naked body in the full-length mirror. She raked her black hair away from her face and frowned. How did she end up with a gun-carrying stranger in her living room?
The snake thing had rattled her a lot more than she’d let on. But she didn’t cry. She vowed to never cry again—showed weakness. She’d played it cool and figured if she invited Bishop inside, that would prove she wasn’t afraid of anything—snake or stranger. But Cora was afraid. She was scared of so many things happening around her. Scared of what her future would be. Now, to further complicate her life, this guy strolls up. Her luck with guys was dismal. Didn’t want or need another relationship.
She had a plan. A quick grin crossed her lips. She quickly dressed in jeans and a navy turtleneck sweater. She checked her hair and face, decided against anything but some lip gloss, and slipped on a pair of running shoes. Tying them, she couldn’t stop thinking about the man in her living room. She’d never been saved before—it felt good. He was handsome and had intense eyes. She liked his eyes. This wasn’t like her to invite a stranger into her world, but after what he’d done, what choice did she have? Well, she did have a choice. She’d go out there right now, thank him again, and show him the door. She had her hand on the doorknob when she stopped. But showing him the door wasn’t what she wanted. She wanted to get to know him a little better. Could she be that starved for attention that an exciting stranger who made a lucky shot could make her feel this way? The short answer was yes.
Her grandfather always said everything happens for a reason. It might be a good reason or a bad reason, but destiny ruled our lives, according to him. Of course, he was full-blood Apache, not like her. He believed more in the old ways. He expected her for dinner tonight. That could be her excuse with Bishop—how to get rid of him. She had dinner plans, and he had to leave. Yeah, that would work. A distraught feeling coursed through her, a feeling of doubt. She’d just play it by ear with Bishop and see how it went. But she’d keep the dinner excuse in her back pocket, just in case she needed it.
Bishop walked around the small living room, examining paintings, photos, and a pine cone collection on the end table. The pictures were of vistas in the area. Sunrises, sunsets, and the desert blooming in spring. They were nice, but something was missing. Something about the shade of colors, brushstroke, and light gave them a lonely closed-end feel. Like the artist was sad, or lonely, or both.
The tiny house’s furnishings had pretty much the same look as his hotel room back in Albuquerque. The late afternoon sun filtered through the thin curtains and cast its rays across a well-worn, multicolored, Native American blanket laying over the back of the old sofa, giving it a splash of color. The smell from the recently used fireplace still lingered in the air—a cozy well-lived-in house with lots of memories. The kind of place someone could live comfortably and simply, well away from the troubles of the outside world.
The bedroom door creaked, and she walked out. She flashed a shy grin, rubbed her palms down the legs of her jeans, and strolled to his side.
“These paintings are pretty good. Did you do them?”
She moved closer. “No, my grandfather.”
He turned her way, and she unconsciously took a quick step back. Her face held apprehension, and she rubbed her hands on the sides of her jeans again. Probably time for him to leave. Overstaying a visit could lead to trouble. Besides, he was hungry and needed to check into the hotel in Corona.
“I should be moving along.” He walked to the front door. Just as he opened it, she stopped him.
“No, wait.” She licked her lips and shifted from one foot to the other.
“Yes?” When he looked into her eyes, he thought he saw something. He didn’t know what, but she was struggling to make a decision.
She bit her lower lip and blurted out, “Would you join me for dinner? It’s almost ready.” She stood very still, holding her hands in front like a nervous young child on her first day of school. Her clenched jaw confused him. It was like she wanted him to stay but struggled with the decision she’d made.
