Warning: Work in Progress!
Desert Rose
Part One: The Middle
"Tell me something," Johnny Gage said, forcing the words past the lump in his throat. He adjusted his arm, which hung in a dirty white sling. "Do you think my partner's dead?"
The tall, stocky man beside him didn't answer right away. The two of them stood in the small, windowless conference room of the San Bernardino County sheriff's office, staring at the maps pinned on the wall. New search circles in blue, cleared areas in green, a big "X" marking the spot where Roy DeSoto had last been seen. Notes, tips and questions about the investigation covered the chalkboard by the door. The air conditioner rattled and forced out tepid air, recirculating the smells of coffee, sweat, old pizza and stale cigarette smoke. Johnny's companion shifted from foot to foot and squeezed a rubber ball between the thick fingers of his right hand.
"I don't know," Sheriff Porter admitted. The ball went from his right hand to his left and back again. One of the deputies had told Johnny that Porter was trying to quit smoking. The sheriff's weather-beaten face pulled together with a grimace as he added, "I think, if he was alive, we'd have heard from him."
The words settled heavily in Johnny's chest. For perhaps the dozenth time that day he thought Where are you, Roy? No answer came. ESP worked only for Edgar Cayce. Roy had vanished from the Big Bear wildfire exactly seven days earlier, prompting a mammoth search that had turned up very few clues. As much as he hated to admit it, as much as the thought left him cold and depressed, Johnny was beginning to fear his partner dead.
The walls and ceiling started closing in on him. He needed fresh air, sunshine and the open road. He needed to find Roy but, failing that, he needed somewhere to scream or yell or punch something.
"I'm going back out there," Johnny said. "I'll call you later."
The sheriff walked with him to the lobby. "How's Mrs. DeSoto doing?"
"As well as can be expected," Johnny said. How good could any fireman's wife do when her husband was missing? They spoke on the phone two or three times a day, encouraging and comforting each other. Of course he'll turn up. I'm sure he's okay. Only once, when the kids weren't around, had Joanne started crying. Standing in dank-smelling phone booth, Johnny had been unable to do anything more than grip the receiver as tightly as he could. It wouldn't have been very helpful for him to start bawling in the glare and dust of a gas station parking lot.
"I'm not quitting on this." The ball went into Porter's pocket for a minute as the large man gripped Johnny's shoulder. "You make sure she knows that."
Johnny nodded, but didn't trust his voice to stay steady enough to reply.
He pushed past the glass doors into the scorching afternoon. Barstow was still and quiet in the afternoon heat. The desert air sucked moisture and energy right out of him. Sleepless nights, constant worrying and the pain in his broken arm hadn't helped, either. He fumbled for his sunglasses and car keys. His watch told him it was lunch time, but he didn't feel hungry. He stood debating his next course of action - drive back toward Big Bear or Victorville? Find a church and pray, or find a bar and drink to Roy's memory? So tired.
Three skinny, dusty kids walked up the sidewalk, the oldest of them a teenage girl in a blue print dress. Johnny stepped aside to let them pass into the station. He headed for his Land Rover, slid into the driver's seat and rested his head against the steering wheel.
Where are you, Roy?
Roy had been on a slope above Baldwin Lake and Route 18, working with a crew digging fire lines. Johnny had been basking at home in the air-conditioning, victim of a fall three weeks earlier that had left him with a busted left wing. Teddy Williams, a hoseman from Riverside, had seen a white pick-up truck stop and park on the northbound shoulder of the highway. Rick Holder, also from Riverside, had seen Roy talking to the driver. Only after a call came in for paramedic assistance over at the base camp and Roy failed to show did anyone realize he'd gone missing.
Kidnapped by the pickup driver? Who would kidnap a firefighter, and why? Johnny couldn't figure that one out. Maybe the truck was a red herring, and Roy had somehow become injured and lost in the hills. Five SAR teams and sixty volunteer firemen had turned up nothing, though. Not even a blackened corpse. Roy's picture had been posted all over Big Bear City, but no one had reported seeing him. Wherever Roy was, Johnny felt sure he was nowhere near where he'd vanished.
The truck had to be the answer. Roy had either volunteered to go with the driver or been taken against his will. To where? Route 18 sketched its way twenty miles north to Lucerne and the dry lake, nothing much to see up there. Flat, dry, monotonous desert, most of it, notwithstanding the natural beauty of rock formations and desert flora. No sign of Roy DeSoto. No trace of what had happened to Johnny's best friend and partner.
Seven days.
Roy had to be dead.
No. He wouldn't think that way. He would hold hope as long as he could, and then keep holding it out, and if people thought Johnny Gage was a stubborn man before this tragedy, they had no damned idea of what stubborn really meant.
Driving with a broken arm was burdensome but not impossible. Johnny turned the ignition and swung out of the parking lot onto Barstow's main street, part of the old Route 66. Johnny didn't think much of Barstow as a place to live--too isolated and small for him, not enough single women--but the town had a funky sort of atmosphere that elevated it beyond just a gas-and-food stop for drivers heading up to Vegas. The blue-collar citizenry had been helpful as could be to him. The grizzled old man at the Terrible Herbst wouldn't take Johnny's money for gas, and the girls at the Bun Boy had loaded him up with free coffee. Maybe he'd stop there for a quick fill of caffeine. As Johnny went to take a right, he saw Sheriff Porter pop out of the station and wave his hands wildly. Johnny slammed on the brakes and made a sharp u-turn. The sound of squealing rubber filled the air.
"We know where he is!" Porter yelled.
Johnny threw the Land Rover into neutral, yanked up the emergency brake and sprinted up into the station. Harry, the dispatcher behind the main counter, was giving orders over the radio. Porter was yelling into the phone. Two of the kids Johnny had passed - twin boys, he noticed now - sat in plastic chairs, kicking their dirty sneakers against the chair legs. The girl in the blue print dress stood at the counter with something gold beside her hand.
Roy's badge.
Johnny's heart, which had been beating double-time since the parking lot, twisted in his chest. "Where'd you get that?" He snatched it up and clutched it like a talisman. "Where's my partner?"
She gazed at him steadily, her eyes wide and sad. She couldn't have been any older than fourteen or fifteen, but had the sharp, pinched features of someone who didn't always have a lot to eat. Her mousy brown hair, pulled into a loose ponytail, contained little bits of tangled twig.
"I repeat--past the Skyline and five miles north down the old wash road," Harry said into his microphone. "Desert Rose's place."
"We're on our way now," Porter snapped into the phone before slamming down the receiver. He grabbed his hat from the counter. "Maylene, you stay here. Harry, you call Shirley and make sure these kids get some food and clean clothes."
"I want to go," the girl said, lifting her chin. "Take me."
"No." Porter was already halfway out the door. "Gage, you drive yourself."
"Where are we going? Where is he?" Johnny asked, following the sheriff back into the glare of the hot afternoon.
Porter said, "Just follow me. It's about ten miles from here, and the road gets tricky, so be careful."
Johnny needed no more explanations. Porter hit his sirens and lights to clear them through the intersections and Johnny followed close behind, his hands slick with sweat, his brain whirling with the possibilities. Where had the girl gotten Roy's badge? Was Roy alive or dead? Had to be alive, had to be, had to be. Porter crossed the Union Pacific train tracks, swung out onto Route 15 North and went offroad a few miles later at a large drive-in theater. Johnny tailgated him the entire way. Porter hadn't been kidding about the road, which was nothing more than an old narrow wash dotted by occasional trailer homes and abandoned vehicles. The Land Rover shook and shuddered as Johnny tried to keep pace. Dust choked him, and the dazzle of sunlight through the windshield nearly blinded his eyes, but he barely noticed.
We're coming, Roy. It's almost over.
Porter pulled to a stop several jarring miles later. The bleached trailer sitting at the bottom of a gully, an old thirty-footer, was barely discernible from the road. Judging by the accumulation of junk cars, dead brush and rusting metal around it, the trailer hadn't been moved in several years. A makeshift carport had fallen in on itself and a broken fence showed where a garden had once stood. The place had a desolate, deserted air about it, and Johnny heard only the buzzing of flies and the sounds of the two cars cooling down behind him.
"Who lives here?" Johnny asked, his voice low.
"Rose Hardy. Those were her kids back at the station." Porter pulled his pistol. "Stay here while I check out the place."
Johnny wanted to argue, but common sense held back his tongue and feet. He couldn't help Roy if he got injured himself. He watched Porter inch down the slope and cross the ground to the trailer. The large sheriff stood to the side and banged on the door.
"Rose! Rose, it's Tom Porter! You in there?"
Johnny listened hard but heard nothing. The stillness worried him. He wondered how hot it was in that trailer. Porter tried the handle, and the door swung open with a creak and a groan. The sheriff covered his nose with one hand, obviously bothered by a smell, and disappeared inside.
One second, two seconds, three seconds, four . . . he held his breath in worry. Twenty seconds dragged by, each exquisitely painful. This was the moment Johnny had been waiting for, the point he'd been driving toward for seven days. His life, and the lives of Roy's family, might never be the same again once they found out what was in that trailer.
Porter reappeared, his gun holstered, and swung his arms.
Johnny dashed across the open ground. The stench and darkness inside the trailer stopped him as surely as a brick wall, and he had to stop momentarily to orient himself. Not totally dark, no, but after the outside glare he couldn't make out much. More junk. Old furniture. Piles of newspapers and cardboard. A fire trap for sure, he thought, even as the rank odors of urine, vomit and death twisted his stomach. The boxed-up heat made him woozy.
"Your partner's over there," Porter said, his voice grim. "He's alive. She's not."
Johnny forced himself on wobbly knees past a lopsided table toward the kitchenette. Roy lay on the floor beside the sink, curled on his side, dressed only in boxer shorts and a sweat-soaked L.A. Dodgers T-shirt. Silver bands encircled both ankles, but Johnny didn't have time to examine them. He put his fingers against his partner's hot neck to check on the carotid pulse, but his fingers were shaking so badly he couldn't feel anything for a minute.
"Roy?" he asked. He put more strength and force into his voice. "Roy? Can you hear me?"
Silence. As Johnny's eyes grew accustomed to the dimness, he put his hand flat on Roy's chest and felt a reassuring rise and fall. He felt quickly for injuries to the head, neck, arms, thighs and shins. No obvious breaks, just a small bump behind his right ear and dozen ugly bruises or scrapes on his extremities. But his ankles--Christ. The ankle shackles were connected to each other by eighteen inches of steel links, and another length of chain threaded through them to the main drain under the sink. His partner had been manacled like a prisoner or dog. The sweeping relief he'd felt--Roy's alive!-- crashed away, replaced by fury and fear.
"Son of a bitch," he growled, and wrapped his fingers around the links. A few experimental tugs produced no effect.
The younger paramedic turned to Porter and said, "We're going to need bolt-cutters to get him out of here."
Porter nodded grimly. "There should be something on the squad."
"There are a couple of gym bags in my Rover," Johnny said. "Can you get them? And respond an ambulance."
The sheriff went to retrieve Johnny's supplies. The clatter of his footsteps almost obscured the low, weak words beneath Johnny as his partner stirred.
"No ambulance," Roy muttered.
Johnny wasn't sure if he'd heard or imagined the sounds. He firmly cupped Roy's face. "Hey, Roy, you with me?"
"No ambulance," Roy repeated. Blue eyes cracked open. Bloodshot irises, but the pupils looked equal in size. "Just . . . you. Johnny."
"Don't argue with me," Johnny said. The weight lifting off his shoulders made him almost dizzy. The universe had turned out to be fair after all, life would go on, they would put this horrible mess behind them. He tried to hold onto his frustration and relief, but they flooded out with his next words. "I've been looking for you for a week, you know that? And now that I find you, you're going to be uncooperative? I don't think so. Tell me where it hurts."
"No ambulance," Roy said stubbornly. "I'm not . . . going. I'm okay. Just hot."
"Yeah, I know. This place is an oven." Johnny reached up past piles of dirty, cruddy dishes and tried the faucet in the sink. The sling hampered him, and he tore it off. The faucet sputtered and spat out a few rusty drops before hissing air.
Roy moved beneath him, trying to sit up. Johnny didn't think that was an exceptionally good idea. "Stay still," he urged, putting his hand's on Roy's shoulders. His partner flinched as if expecting to get hit, and Johnny pulled back a few inches.
"I'm fine," Roy insisted with a tight expression. "Stop fussing."
The older paramedic leaned back against the cabinets and drew his knees up toward his chest. Johnny scrutinized him closely. Roy had a sunburn on his face, but looked ghastly pale beneath it. His clothes were dirty and sweat-stained, and he smelled ripe from head to toe. He had more patches of sunburn on his arms and legs, and scrapes and bruises that looked on the verge of infection. The way he sat, slightly hunched to the side, hinted at more aches and pain.
"You're dehydrated," Johnny said firmly. "You need some fluids in you, and probably some X-rays, and painkillers--"
Roy's gaze locked on him. "You do it," he said, a plea and order both. How could someone sound so helpless and resolute at the same time? "I can't go to the hospital. I'm refusing all medical assistance. You got that?"
"All right, calm down." Johnny indicated the shackles. "Is there a key for those?"
Roy bit his lower lip. "I think she threw it out the window."
"You hold on. I'll take a look--"
"No!" Roy's hand shot out and gripped Johnny's arm. "Don't go."
The vehemence and underlying panic surprised Johnny. "Okay, okay," he soothed. "I'll stay here. No problem."
Porter returned with the gym bags. One held the medical supplies Johnny had fallen into the habit of carting around with him during the years--a stethoscope, BP cuff, bandages, gauze, ointments, alcohol and iodine swipes, even a stray nasal canula. Some of the stuff had come from the squad, more from Dixie at Rampart, the rest from a medical supply store near his apartment. He also carried angio caths he wasn't authorized to use without a doctor's supervision, and a few bags of NS and LR. Ever since he'd had to treat himself for snakebite, he thought it a good idea to be prepared for just about anything.
"There's a key for these somewhere," Johnny told Porter. "She threw it out the window. Can you look?"
"I'll find it," Porter said, and left the two of them alone in the hot prison of the trailer.
Painfully aware of Roy's earlier reaction to being touched, Johnny asked, "Can I take your BP?"
"No hospital," Roy repeated firmly. "Promise."
Johnny hesitated, then nodded. He'd break his vow if he had to, but for the moment he was treading on unsteady ground and wanted his partner's cooperation.
Roy searched his expression, maybe looking for signs of dishonesty, but finally offered up his right arm. He looked past Johnny to the far end of the trailer. The stench of blood and decay was impossible to ignore, although Johnny found some solace in breathing solely through his mouth. He pumped up the cuff and read the results. Ninety over sixty, lower than Roy's usual BP. His pulse and respiration weren't bad. He felt hot and sweaty to the touch, at risk for heat prostration, but there seemed to be nothing else wrong with him. Then again, paramedics were often as bad as doctors when it came to diagnosing themselves, and Johnny was anything but an impartial observer.
"You've got a bump on your head," Johnny said, unzipping the second bag. Junk food, mostly, with bottles of soda and fizzy lemonade, a change of clothes, some shaving gear, a washcloth and towel swiped from some motel room. "You dizzy? Nauseous? You know the drill."
Roy touched behind his ear. "It's a couple days old," he said dismissively. "Do you have any aspirin?"
"You sure about the hospital, Roy? Because if you're lying to me, and there's something wrong--"
"I swear I don't need a hospital." Roy crossed his arms and tucked his hands under his armpits. "I don't want anyone poking and prodding, okay? I don't want any strangers writing things down, no medical charts, nothing."
Johnny felt a not-unfamiliar pull between his responsibilities as a paramedic and the support he wanted to give his best friend. For better or worse, he went with the latter.
"Okay," he said. "I get it. Maybe later you'll let Brackett or Early take a look? They're not strangers."
Roy ducked his head. "Maybe."
They would have to settle for that. Johnny soaked the towel with the NS and draped it around Roy's neck. The heat really was incredible, even with the door open. He popped open a lemonade for Roy to drink, and supervised the first few sips. Roy drank steadily but didn't gulp. Two powdery aspirin came next, and Johnny saw Roy's hand shaking as he lifted them to his mouth.
"Just a little delayed reaction," Roy admitted, catching Johnny's worried gaze and looking sheepish. He shifted uncomfortably and the chains rattled on the floor.
"We're going to have you out of here in just a little while," Johnny promised, examining the cuffs again. Dried blood, some broken skin, but hopefully no damage to tendons or ligaments beneath. He forced lightness in his tone. "How's a nice cold shower sound? Joanne's fried chicken, a few beers?"
Roy lifted his head. "How is she?"
"She's worried sick about you. Everyone is."
"I don't know what I'm going to tell her about this."
The truth, Johnny almost said. The truth was usually the best option. But there were some things men didn't like to talk about, and Roy could be notoriously silent when he wanted to be.
"You want to tell me what happened?" Johnny asked.
Roy looked back toward the end of the trailer and shook his head. Not yet, then. Johnny remembered the corpse. He walked over and saw a woman sprawled on the floor with a shotgun beside her. Most of her head was gone. Blood, bone and brain stained the wall behind her, a sickening tapestry of death.
Jesus. Had Roy watched that happen? Johnny's fists clenched and unclenched at his sides. He saw the Barstow Rescue Squad pull up outside, along with another cruiser and the requested ambulance.
"Who's here?" Roy asked, his voice rising toward panic. "I don't want people to see me like this, Johnny."
"I know," Johnny soothed. He returned to his partner's side and dropped down to the floor beside him. "It's okay. I'm not leaving you. It'll take two seconds to cut through those cuffs, and then we'll get the hell out of here."
Roy calmed down a little at the promise, but the haunted look didn't diminish. Two Barstow firefighters appeared in the doorway. Johnny had met them during the searches, but he couldn't remember their names. "Hey, guys," Johnny said. "We need your help a little."
"We're at your disposal." The first man dropped his gear near the door and scooted in to take a look. If he thought it odd to find a half-dressed man chained to the sink, not a trace of his thoughts appeared in his expression. "You're Roy DeSoto, huh? Jim Cody. That's Timmy Clark."
"Hell of a way to meet," Clark said from where he'd bent over Rose Harry's corpse.
"Yeah." Roy's voice sounded hoarse and he wouldn't look directly at either of the newcomers.
Johnny indicated the empty lemonade bottle in Roy's left hand. "You think you can drink another of those?" he asked, partly to get more fluids into his partner, mostly to distract him. "Want to try some food? You hungry?"
"Just the lemonade," Roy murmured. Johnny popped a new one open and one for himself. His shirt had already soaked through with perspiration. He watched Cody rummage around under the sink and examine the manacles. Roy inched back a little to give him more room for working. He pressed back against Johnny, maybe seeking support, and Johnny gladly provided it.
"I'm just going to cut these off," Cody said, as Clark handed over a pair of twenty-four inch bolt cutters. "It'll take two seconds. Just try not to move."
Roy's right hand clutched Johnny's leg. Johnny covered it with his own, holding tight.
"Hold it," Porter said from the doorway. "I found the key."
Cody undid the shackles, which fell away with a clatter. Roy sighed and drew his ankles up to rub at both of them. Johnny used the soaked washcloth to clean the blood away.
"The ambulance is outside," Cody said. "How's a nice cushy ride to the ER sound?"
Roy looked at Johnny.
"I'll take care of him," Johnny said, carefully seeing to the wounds. "Tell them thanks but no thanks."
"You're sure about that?" Clark sounded doubtful.
"We're sure," Johnny replied.
"We're all glad you're okay," Cody said, patting Roy's leg. Johnny pretended not to notice Roy's small flinch. The Barstow firefighter stood and looked down at the corpse.
"She was always a crazy broad," he said. "But who knew she was this crazy?"
"Thanks, guys," Johnny said, eager to get them out of the trailer. "Do me a favor, hold everyone off, okay? I'll yell if we need more help."
Cody nodded sympathetically. When they were alone, Johnny took a closer look at the dark rings that had cut into Roy's skin. A little swelling in the feet, but not too bad, all things considered. Johnny quickly but carefully smeared on some antiobiotic cream and wrapped the ankles with gauze.
"Think you can walk?"
"Yeah. But if you think I'm going out there in my underwear, you're crazy, Junior."
The attempt at humor should have made Johnny feel better, but it didn't. He tried to return the spirit of it with, "Don't want to flash the locals, huh?"
Roy's half-smile faded. "My clothes should be somewhere around here. I want to wear them."
"Okay, let me look. Drink more, will you? You're still down a couple of quarts."
It took a few minutes of sorting through the clutter for Johnny to uncover Roy's uniform, coat and boots. When he returned to his partner's side, he found Roy had already pulled off the grimy Dodgers T-shirt. He had long red marks on his chest that looked like fingernail scratches, and dark hickeys along his collarbone. Johnny ignored them and got him into his shirt, careful to leave half the buttons undone. Roy wouldn't strip off the boxers, but instead let Johnny slide the pants up his legs. Socks came next, then the unlaced boots.
"You sure about this?" Johnny asked, helping Roy stand, supporting him against a moment of swaying. "Me, I'd take the gurney ride."
"No, you wouldn't," Roy said grimly. "Let's go."
They stepped out of the trailer. Roy covered his eyes with his hand, and Johnny found it equally hard to see. The ambulance hadn't left yet, nor had Cody and Clark in their squad truck. Porter, standing by a rotted picnic table, had given in to his addiction and was dragging on a cigarette. He ditched it into the dirt.
"I'm Sheriff Porter," he said in his gravelly voice. "Think you can tell us what happened here? We can sit in my car, I've got the air-conditioning going. Or we can go back to the station, and you can give your wife a call from there."
Johnny saw uncertainty flash over Roy's face. "Let's just do it in the car."
Roy could walk, but not quickly. Johnny kept closely at his side, ready to catch him if his knees gave out. The slope to the road took a few minutes, and by the end of it Roy had started to sway. Johnny got him into the back seat and a cocoon of cold air. The older paramedic rested with his head thrown back, panting shallowly through his mouth.
"Don't say it," he warned. "I'm not going."
"Stubborn as a mule," Johnny growled.
Cody tapped on the window. Johnny rolled it down.
"I've got a cooler full of root beer and ice cubes," the paramedic offered. "How's that sound?"
"Yeah, thanks. That sounds great," Johnny said.
Roy didn't want any root beer, but he took a cup of ice cubes and began methodically crunching on them. Porter slid into the front seat and turned around to face the two paramedics.
"Just tell me what happened in your own words," he said.
Roy studied the depths of his plastic cup. "What day is it?"
"Wednesday," Johnny supplied, a lump in his throat.
"Oh," Roy said. "I kind of thought it was longer."
Johnny said, "We don't have to do this now - "
"It's okay," Roy answered. He didn't look up. "We were building a fire line when this woman drove up in a pick up-truck. Rose. She said she needed medical help for her baby, that he was really sick. I told her I was a paramedic and asked her where the baby was. She pulled a gun out and told me if I didn't go with her, she'd kill me."
Johnny tried to imagine what he would have done, given the same choice. He would have gotten into the truck. Nobody could outrun a bullet.
"I got in," Roy said. "She drove me up here. The baby was already dead. Had been for awhile. But she couldn't see that."
Porter looked up from his notepad. "I didn't even know she'd been pregnant. Where's the baby's body?"
"Buried in the back," Roy said. He fished in his cup for an ice cube and popped it into his mouth. Johnny thought his voice was curiously flat, considering the horror of what he'd seen and gone through. "She made me dig the grave. Just beyond the stack of tires. It was a little boy."
Johnny looked out the car window at the wide expanse of desert. The brightness stung his eyes.
"She kept the gun on me most of the time, or the shackles. Didn't want me to leave. Said she'd hurt the kids if I tried to escape. She wanted a man around the place, someone to work hard, take care of her. She was really nuts. I tried to get Maylene--she's the oldest--to go for help, but she wouldn't until this morning. Did they find you? Are they okay?"
"They're fine," Porter assured him. "What else happened his morning?"
"When Rose realized the kids were gone she killed herself. I tried to talk her out of it, but it wasn't any good."
Roy stopped talking. Johnny could see the hand tremors returning.
"I think we'd better wrap this up," Johnny said. He knew Roy had to be glossing over several important details in his story, but none of them mattered at the moment. "I want to get him out of here."
"Desert Rose has been a source of concern for a lot of years," Porter said, "but I never thought she'd do anything like this. I'm sorry you got all caught up in it."
"What's going to happen to Maylene and the boys?" Roy asked.
"We'll find him them some foster homes," Porter said. "She brought us your badge, saved your life. Tough kid."Johnny thought it would have been nicer if she'd brought the badge in, say, seven days previously. If she'd found a way to cut short this whole mess. But he pushed the uncharitable thought aside. He got Roy back to his Land Rover, picked up his bags and had a quick side conference with the sheriff.
"There's not going to be any question about this, is there?" Johnny asked.
"Hell, no. It's an obvious suicide. As for the rest of it . . . only three of us and the kids saw what went on in there. The press isn't going to get a hold of any of that."
The press. Lurid headlines. Newspaper reporters. Johnny understood, then, a little bit of why Roy was adamant against going to the hospital.
"You going to head back to L.A.?" Porter asked. "What I got is fine, but he's going to have to sign a statement later."
"I'll give you a call tomorrow." Johnny shook his hand. "Thanks for all your help."
Porter spat into the dust. "Hell of a thing. At least your partner's alive."
Cody hauled a bright red cooler over to Johnny's Land Rover. "You take this," he said. "You need it more than we do."
"Thanks," Johnny said. The gesture touched him. "I'll see you get it back."
He slid the cooler into the back seat and settled into the driver's seat. Elation surged through him - alive, alive! - but it was tempered almost immediately by one look at Roy, who had leaned back in his seat with his eyes closed. His color had improved a little, but the bruises stood out in stark relief in the bright daylight.
"Conspiring against me, junior?"
"Conspiring about what's best for you," Johnny admitted. "How you doing?"
"I'm really tired."
"You'll be snug in your bed in--" Johnny checked his watch. "Three hours. Two if I don't get pulled over for speeding. You want to call Joanne from the police station, or just find a pay phone?"
"Just start driving and keep going," Roy said, his eyes still closed. "The more distance between us and this place, the better."
Johnny was happy to oblige. The road back to the drive-in was a bumpy nightmare, but once they hit the open highway, Roy started dozing off and on. With his broken arm awkwardly cradling the steering wheel, Johnny reached over and felt for his pulse. Strong and steady. The desert scenery whizzed by outside, and he was all too happy to say goodbye to the harsh landscape as the road turned south toward San Bernadino.
"You can put the radio on," Roy mumbled after they'd gone about twenty miles.
"You want it on?"
Roy shifted so that he was facing out the passenger window. He had started chewing ice cubes again. "Yeah."
Johnny knew his partner didn't like rock'n'roll, so he twisted the knob until he found an oldies station out of San Bernardino. Perry Como, Englebert Humperdink, guys like that. The Land Rover didn't have an air-conditioner, but the rush of wind through the windows kept the air moving and the temperature dropped as they approached the Angeles National Forest.
"I've got to stop for gas," Johnny said as they approached Cajon Junction. No lie. He also wanted to see if his partner was up to eating anything. Joanne needed to be called, and Captain Stanley and the guys, too. It was a work day for Station 51, and Johnny had taken sick days to participate in the search. He pulled into the first gas station he found and had the attendant fill up. Roy used the restroom and came back looking a little cleaner, with tight lines around his mouth and eyes.
"Can we call Joanne?" he asked.
"Sure." Johnny gathered his purchases--apple juice in clear bottles, two tuna sandwiches, a bag of potato chips--and followed Roy out back to the phone mounted back near the garage bay.
"Here's some change." Johnny produced a fistful of coins.
Roy lifted the receiver and started to dial. After five digits, he hung up. Both hands scrubbed at his face, and he turned a bleak expression to Johnny.
"Will you tell her first?" he asked.
Johnny didn't like the sound of that. Why was Roy so hesitant about talking to his own wife? But he did as requested, dialing the numbers in quick succession.
"Hello?" Joanne picked up on the first ring.
"It's okay," Johnny said, his gaze on Roy's face. "We found him. He's right here."
"Oh, Johnny--" For a moment, all he heard was Joanne crying.
"Let me talk to her." Roy took the receiver. He lifted it to his ear and croaked out, "Hi, honey."
Johnny couldn't bear to intrude on the couple's privacy. He went back to the Rover and waited. The apple juice went down easily, and the tuna fish tasted pretty good as well. Roy spent five minutes on the phone and came to the Land Rover with red, puffy eyes. Johnny handed him the juice and food and they sat in silence for ten minutes, watching traffic on the highway.
"She wouldn't stop crying," Roy said finally. Half the sandwich was still in his lap, but the juice was empty.
"Did you tell her we'll be home soon?"
"No," Roy said. "I told her you were taking me to the hospital and I'd call her from there."
Johnny felt his jaw drop open. "What's wrong? You feeling worse? Damn it, you should have said something--"
"We're not going to the hospital," Roy said. "Just find a motel, okay? I can't go home tonight, Johnny. I need some time to clean up, to get some sleep, before I have to face Joanne, the kids, the guys, the neighbors, the newspapers--I can't do it. Don't ask me to do it."
Johnny fumbled for a counter-argument. "Don't you think it would be easier with Joanne to help you?"
"She's going to ask a lot of questions." Roy pinched the bridge of his nose. "She's going to see the scratches."
"Roy, I don't think that's a good idea."
"Just do it, okay? I'm asking you. I can't go home just yet."
Johnny stared out the windshield for a full thirty seconds. Holing up in some roadside motel seemed completely out of character for Roy DeSoto. But then again, he'd been through a week of hell, and who could predict what even the most devoted husband and father would want after an ordeal such as that?
"It's against my better judgment," Johnny said, "but I'll do it, if you really want to."
Another twenty miles down the road, Johnny found a mom-and-pop motel off the highway in Fontana. It looked clean and safe enough on the outside, with twelve units clustered around a small parking lot. He brushed aside Roy's offer to pay for separate accommodations and instead registered them into a room not far from the lobby. The furniture inside hadn't been fashionable in at least a decade and the rug had gone threadbare in spots, but the there was a color TV in the corner and the bathroom smelled and looked clean. Roy sprawled on one of the beds while Johnny put the window a/c on high and grabbed his bags from the car.
"You've got to let me treat those cuts of yours," Johnny said in his best no-nonsense voice.
"I want to take a shower first," Roy said. "You got any spare clothes?"
"Nothing that smells good," Johnny admitted. He hadn't been back to his apartment in three days. The milk would have curdled, the plants started to wither. Taking a shower sounded like a mighty attractive idea. "I saw a store across the street, though. Want me to pick you up some things?"
"That would be great." Roy bunched the pillow beneath his head. "I'll pay you back."
"Quit worrying about the money," Johnny said. "What are you going to do while I'm gone?"
"Shower?" Roy asked, sounding a little amused.
"No, you're not. I don't trust you're steady enough on your feet. Promise me you'll stay put right where you are, and I'll be back in fifteen minutes."
Roy closed his eyes. "I promise."
The five-and-dime carried a good selection of clothes. Johnny took an educated guess at Roy's sizes and bought him a pair of khakis, a white cotton shirt, underwear, socks and sandals. He also picked up a few more medical supplies. A fried chicken shack next door drew him with enticing aromas and it was a full half hour before he found himself carting the clothes, a bag of food and a six-pack of beer back to the motel room. He entered to find the TV blaring loudly and the bathroom door closed.
He turned the TV down low and knocked on the door. "Roy?"
"What?"
"You okay in there?"
A hesitation. "No. Come on in."
Johnny edged the door open. Roy sat on the floor near the tub, soaking wet with only a towel around his hips. The mirror had fogged up from steam. The first aid supplies had been scattered in a mess on the floor.
"I told you not to try that," Johnny said, irritated.
Roy shivered. "You took more than fifteen minutes. I got tired of waiting."
Johnny draped a second towel over Roy's shoulders and crouched down. The towel couldn't cover the wounds Roy had been trying to hide - deep red gouges and bluish bruises near his groin. Johnny looked up and found his partner's face in a deep flush.
"She did a number on you, huh?" Johnny asked quietly.
A slight nod for an answer.
Johnny didn't want to ask his next questions. Roy had been through enough already. But he had to know.
"Any other injuries down there to worry about?" he quizzed, trying to sound casual, actively avoiding thoughts of tearing, bruising, penetration or perforation. Had that psycho sodomized him, forced him to have intercourse, done any other violent, devastating deed? "Any blood in your urine, pain, stuff like that?"
Roy shook his head miserably.
"Come on, let's find someplace more comfortable than the floor," Johnny proposed.
He got Roy up and over to the bed. Being a paramedic had taught him a certain amount of detachment over the years, and he slipped gratefully into professionalism as he dried Roy off with towels, propped him up on pillows and got him under the sheets. How many assault victims had he seen, treated, covered with blankets? Men and women both. But never someone so close to him. Never someone he considered a brother.
Roy asked, "Can I have more ice cubes?"
Johnny filled a glass with cubes from the cooler, glad for the task.
"She didn't," Roy said without meeting Johnny's gaze. "What you're thinking. It didn't go that far."
But it had gone far enough. Johnny sat on the edge of Roy's bed and handed him the glass. He couldn't think of a single intelligent thing to say other than, "You're going to be okay, you know?"
"Yeah." Roy began munching on the cubes. "Fine."
The Dinah Shore show had come on the TV. Roy settled back on the pillows and watched it with a glazed expression while Johnny treated and dressed the worst of the scrapes on his chest and arms. He lightly bandaged the injured ankles. Somehow, back in the trailer, he'd missed the matching ligature marks on Roy's wrists, but those didn't require cleaning. When he went to lift the sheet, Roy stopped him
"I'll do it," the blond paramedic said. "Give me the Polysporin."
Johnny could have pressed the issue, but instead handed over the creme. After Roy applied it, Johnny helped him into fresh boxers and a v-necked T-shirt. He took Roy's temperature and found the mercury bulb hovering around one hundred and one. He shook more aspirin out of the bottle.
"Take these. Think you can eat? I've got some great-smelling fried chicken."
Roy swallowed the pills. "You eat. I just want to sleep for a little bit.""Okay. I'm going to call the Cap and let him know you're all right. What do you want me to tell Joanne? If I say they checked you into the hospital, she'll want to drive up with the kids. If I tell her you're in a motel, she's going to go nuts."
Roy gave him a helpless look. "I can't go home. Not tonight."
"I know. Can I call Brackett? They've been worried about you at Rampart, too."
"Don't tell him everything," Roy pleaded. "I'll never live it down."
Live it down? As if being kidnapped and molested was something to be joked about, like falling for one of Chet Kelly's pranks? Johnny pulled the bedspread up around Roy's shoulders.
"Sleep," he said. "I'll be right here, me and Dinah."
The drawn curtains didn't block all light, but they dimmed the room considerably. Johnny sat in the chair by the windows and started making calls. Mike Stoker answered at the station. Johnny broke the good news, assured the worried engineer that Roy was unharmed and then talked to Hank Stanley.
"Thank God he's all right," the captain said. "Where are you now?"
"Fontana," Johnny said. Aware that Roy might only be pretending to be asleep, he phrased his next words carefully. "He's really exhausted, Cap. He wanted to clean up a little, so we got a motel room. Now he's sacked out. I think he should get some sleep before we hit the road again."
"You must be exhausted, too. You need someone to come up and drive you both home? I'm sure I can find a volunteer."
"No. I can drive."
"So what happened to him? Where's he been?"
"Long story, Cap. Now's not the time to get into it. But if the papers call, the press or something - just don't tell them anything, okay? Don't tell them where we are."
"All right. But give me the phone number there, just in case I need it. And tell Roy we're here for him, whatever he needs."
Johnny called Rampart next. Dixie had gone off duty and Brackett was in surgery, but the switchboard operator transferred him to Joe Early's office and the physician picked up on the second ring.
"Hey, doc, it's Johnny. We found Roy, he's right here with me. He's okay."
A stretch, perhaps, but not an outright fabrication.
"That's the best news I've heard all day," Early said, sounding heartfelt. "Thank God for miracles. Everyone's been pulling for him here."
"I know."
"Is he really okay?"
Johnny hesitated. Paramedic or friend? In a way, he was relieved he hadn't gotten Brackett. Early had a better bedside manner, and a gentler way of working around a problem.
"More or less," Johnny offered. "Banged up a little. Low-grade fever. He's not real keen on going to the hospital."
"Does he need to go?"
Again, Johnny paused before answering. He kept an eye on Roy, who hadn't stirred in his bed. Was he listening to every word? "Probably not."
Early wasn't a fool. "You don't sound so sure, Johnny. Can you talk freely?"
"Not really, doc."
"Where are you?"
"A motel in Fontana. Right off the 15. He's not up to going home yet."
"Would it help if I came up?" Early asked. "Off the record, just a friendly little house call?"
Relief washed through Johnny. He hadn't wanted to ask directly, but those were the exact words he'd hoped to hear. He wasn't sure Roy was telling him everything, and the kindly doctor was more likely to make Roy feel less self-conscious about his injuries.
"Let me check." Johnny covered the receiver with one hand. "Roy? You awake?"
Roy shifted. "Yeah."
"Early wants to come up and take a look at you. Off the record, just the two of you. Does that sound okay?"
Silence for a moment, except for Dinah singing a song.
"If he wants to," Roy finally said.
Not a ringing endorsement of the idea, but not the total rejection Johnny expected, either. He'd take what he could get. "Thanks, doc," he said into the phone. "Let me give you the address. We really appreciate it."
Johnny looked at the clock and imagined Joanne sitting in the DeSoto kitchen at home, waiting by the phone, worrying over her husband. She wouldn't rest easy until she had him in her arms again. Johnny couldn't blame her. He still thought Roy would be better off at home than in a motel room. But he wouldn't push him that way.
He was still shifting lies around in his head as he dialed Joanne.
"Where are you?" she asked.
"Outside San Bernardino. The doc's going to take a look at him."
"What's wrong with him, Johnny? He sounded so tired.""He's exhausted," Johnny confirmed. "He's sleeping right now, though. That's the best medicine until he gets home to you and the kids."
"I want to drive up there."
"Can you hold off for just a few hours? Let me call you back when I know more about what's going on." The excuses sounded lame in his own ears. Johnny reached down deep, searching for the old Gage charm that had gotten him through more than one sticky situation. "Joanne, he's really beat. If you come up he's going to be more worried about making you feel better than he will be about taking care of himself."
She didn't fall for it. "He's really injured, isn't he?"
"No, it's nothing like that." And it was everything like that, Johnny thought, because the worst of Roy's injuries weren't to his skin, muscles, organs or bones. "I'm going to go now and check on what's going on. Let me call you back."
"John Gage, if you're hiding anything from me, I'm going to hate you forever," she said.
Johnny squeezed the bridge of his nose. "I hear you, Joanne. I hear you."
Roy had fallen asleep, his mouth slightly open as he drooled on the pillow. The dark circles under his eyes looked even more pronounced, almost like bruises. Johnny took a quick shower, glad for the pounding of hot water against his skin, and redressed in his dirty clothes. He crawled into the second bed to get just a few minutes of shut-eye. When he woke again, the room was dark and someone was knocking on the door.
Johnny fumbled for the light. Roy groaned at the brightness and pulled the blanket over his head. Johnny stumbled to the door, peered through the peephole and saw Joe Early standing outside with his physician bag in hand. The parking lot had filled up with cars while Johnny had been napping, and the western sky glowed red from the setting sun.
"Hey, doc, thanks for coming," Johnny said around a jaw-splitting yawn.
Early stepped inside. "No problem at all," he said, as if every doctor routinely traveled ninety miles at the end of the day to visit a reluctant patient. He'd shed his white coat and slacks for a pair of jeans and a denim shirt, which threw Johnny for a moment. He almost never saw the Rampart doctors in casual clothes.
"How was the traffic?" Johnny dialed down the a/c, which had turned the room into a nice refrigerator, and for good measure switched the TV off as well.
"Not too bad." Early went directly to the bed. "How you feeling, Roy?"
Roy peeked out from beneath his blanket. "Doc," he said, a little warily, and sat up with a wince. "You didn't really have to drive all the way up here. My partner's just a little overprotective."
"Overprotective is fine." Early sat on the edge of the bed and opened his bag. "Johnny, could you excuse us for a few minutes?"
"Um, sure." The request caught Johnny off guard. Back home, whenever one of them was hurt or ailing, the other usually stayed in the examination room to provide moral support and satisfy professional curiousity. Johnny looked for his shoes. "I'll just take a walk around."
He left them alone and started doing laps around the parking lot. The evening skies were clear and the temperature had dipped several degrees. Johnny dug his hands into his pockets. Part of him felt hurt at being excluded from the examination. He was Roy's best friend and partner. He'd just spent a frantic week searching for him. How could he help if he didn't know what was wrong? At the same time he understood Roy had survived a terrible ordeal, and deserved not only some privacy but Early's full professional and personal attention.
Gouge marks around his groin. The similar cuts on his chest, all caused by sharp fingernails. Ligature marks and broken skin from pulling helplessly on restraints. Johnny sucked in a deep breath to keep anger at bay. If she hadn't killed herself, he would have wanted to do the deed himself. For someone dedicated to saving lives, it was a disturbing thought. But she deserved it for what she'd put Roy, Joanne and all of them through.
Johnny walked around the parking lot seven times, stopped off in the office to pick up brochures for places he would never visit, talked to a salesman from Seattle who was looking for a good place to pick up loose women and finally returned to knock gingerly on the door.
"Come on in," Early called out.
Roy looked better than he had--a little less tense around the eyes, his shoulders less hunched. He had a cup of ice in his hand. Early sat in the chair beside the bed, rummaging through his bag.
"How you doing?" Johnny asked Roy.
"Like I told you, nothing serious," Roy answered.
"You're right about the fever," Early said to Johnny, "but I think aspirin will knock it down. I'll leave some penicillin in case it starts to climb. Otherwise, I'm writing you a note, Roy, for bed rest for the next few days. Keep pushing the fluids, no strenuous activity, and call me if anything comes up."
"Thanks again for driving all the way up here." Roy inspected a fold in his sheet as if it held the mysteries of the universe. "You didn't have to."
"Roy, I've been getting stopped ten times a day by people wanting to know if there was any word. Doctors, nurses, even Sam who sells the newspapers--everyone's been worried. My driving up here is the least I could do."
"You hungry, doc?" Johnny asked. "I've got some cold fried chicken in that bag over there."
Early perked up immediately. "Cold fried chicken sounds wonderful."They split the food between the three of them. Roy said he wasn't hungry but still managed to eat three wings and a handful of soggy French fries. Johnny and Early each drank a beer, while Roy downed another quart of apple juice. Johnny finished his second beer just as "Sanford & Son" came on the TV.
"I should be heading back," Early said, but didn't move from the armchair. Fred and Aunt Esther argued over Esther's latest choice in boyfriends. A half hour later, they switched channels to watch Oscar and Felix argue over Oscar's latest choice in girlfriends. Roy slipped further and further down his pillows until he started to snore.
"I'm heading out," Early said. "Walk me to my car?"
The stars had come out in full glory overhead. Johnny folded his arms across his chest against the chill. "So how is he, really?"
Early put his bag in the trunk of his Ford. "Physically, he's banged up. He'll bounce back from that."
"And the stuff that's not physical?"
"That's for Roy to work out, with the help of his friends." Early fixed Johnny with a somber gaze. "He's going to need your support more than ever."
"He's got it," Johnny said. "No question."
"Remember that when the going gets rough. He might try to push his friends and family away. Or pretend nothing happened. Give him some space when he needs it, but don't go far."
"I won't."
Early nodded. For a moment he looked as if he might say more, but then he slid into this car and drove off. Johnny went back inside and watched mindless television for another hour until he felt the pull of sleep again. He shut off the lights and went to bed with the smell of chicken in the air. His sleep was restless, anxious, filled with images of Roy shackled to the sink in that trailer, that woman's corpse just a dozen feet away. At one point he woke to see the bathroom light on and Roy's bed empty. The phone cord stretched under the door.
"I know, Jo," Roy was saying. "I know that."
Johnny went back to sleep but came awake an unknown time later when Roy touched his shoulders.
"What's the matter?" he asked, sitting up. Only four a.m. by the bedside clock, but years of klaxons in the middle of the night had trained him to wake up immediately. "You okay?"
Roy hovered over him in the darkness.
"Johnny, I'm sorry," his partner said in a tremulous voice. "I want to go home. I know it's a ridiculous time, but I want to go home."
Johnny rubbed his eyes. "No, whatever, it's fine. We can go."
They threw their things together, left the room key in the drop box by the lobby and piled into the Rover. The windows were thick with condensation. Johnny would have paid a hundred dollars for a cup of coffee, but the diners they passed showed no signs of life.
"You'd think a town like this would have an all-night cafe," Johnny groused as he headed for the highway.
Roy sat silently in the passenger seat, huddling under the spare blanket Johnny kept in the back seat. The heater took its own sweet time kicking in. Johnny turned the radio to a talk station and for the next hour, as the mountains dropped and rose again, as the highway gradually twisted down into the L.A. basin, they listened to some guy talk to lonely hearts calling in from all over the city. They passed almost no other cars. At five a.m. the show went off the air, and the sky in the east started to grow lighter. Every mile on the odometer made Johnny feel better, as if little digits rolling over could put distance between them and memory.
At five forty-five Johnny pulled up in front of Roy's house. The neighborhood looked peaceful and still in the dawn light. Manicured lawns and the cookie-cutter houses gave the impression of order, security, serenity.
"Will you come over tomorrow?" Roy asked.
"Sure," Johnny said. "If you want me to."
Roy nodded but made no move to get of the Land Rover. He had his hand on the door, and Johnny saw his knuckles had turned white.
He looked at his partner squarely. "Roy, she loves you. She's not going to stop loving you or think less of you because of what that psycho bitch did. And if it had happened to her, you wouldn't, either."
Roy blinked. Raw vulnerability crossed his face, along with a measure of irritation. "Don't even say such a thing."
Johnny was glad to see that anger. He'd been afraid Roy was too deep inside himself to even feel it. "Just go to her. Let her do all those things women like to do--fluff the pillows, bring you chicken soup, rub your back."
"Jo makes terrible chicken soup," Roy said.
The front door opened. Joanne stepped out wrapped in a pink bathrobe with big gray socks on her feet. She stood where she was, looking at the Land Rover, her expression hopeful.
"Go to her," Johnny said again.
Roy exited the rover and made his way slowly, stiffly, up the sidewalk toward his house. He shuffled like an elderly man, unsure of his own step. Johnny's throat tightened just watching him. Roy walked up to the house and into his wife's arms. Johnny watch them embrace and go inside. He drove away with the rising sun stinging his eyes and the gnawing gut instinct that Roy's problems, all of their problems, were far from over
To be continued...
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