Night of Shadows Read online

  He regarded her tenderly and halfway expectantly, as though inviting her to respond. She lowered her eyelids and looked away.

  "I'll keep in touch," she promised.

  ***

  Melinda was lucky she had been able to book a flight for so early the next morning. She had made her connection in Albuquerque, and was on the last lap of her journey into southern New Mexico as the 19-seater aircraft she was in revved up for takeoff.

  It was an unsettling contrast to the spacious 727 jet that had carried her from Atlanta. She gripped both arms of the seat she was wedged in as the commuter plane edged toward the runway. It was destined for Roswell, the largest city in the remote area where she was bound. The noise from straining engines almost deafened her. Something in her expression must have inspired the sympathetic look cast her way by the man seated across the aisle.

  "It's not nearly as bad as it sounds," he said in a raised voice that competed with the roar. "These little planes really are quite safe. We joke about 'em, though. We call this outfit Treetop Airlines around these parts."

  Melinda smiled crookedly as the plane shuddered. She squeezed her eyes shut for a few seconds as her stomach lurched with the takeoff.

  "Is this your first trip to Roswell, ma'am?" the stranger asked.

  Reluctantly, she opened her eyes and nodded "yes." Only two other passengers were aboard, a heavyset man and a woman seated near the front. Melinda was grateful that the man who had spoken to her at last pulled out a book and started reading. She was in no mood for small talk.

  She leaned closer to the window as the plane skimmed the miles of New Mexico territory that revealed very few cities, even fewer trees and rolling hills of brown cut by dry arroyos sprinkled with yellow grass. In the distance, mountains jutted majestically from the terrain.

  She looked down at the long, dark shadows cast as the rising sun remained slanted low on the horizon. Could it be that Joan was down there somewhere? Lost? Kidnapped?

  She then was stabbed with the inevitable guilt.

  When their parents were killed in a car wreck six years ago, Joan had been only 14 years old. But Melinda, at 19, already was enrolled in college in nearby Atlanta, which was about 150 miles from their hometown of Leesburg, Georgia.

  Melinda had none of the doubts that seemed to plague the majority of her classmates. She knew exactly what she wanted. She was a confident, straight-A student intent on a career in advertising.

  She had been devastated, of course, over the death of her parents. But her grief was nothing compared to the lingering sorrow experienced by her little sister. Joannie endured nothing but upheaval. Their parents' will named Aunt Polly, the girls' only living relative, as their guardian until they reached the age of 21.

  Aunt Polly was a spinster, accustomed to coping only with a few spoiled cats, until Joannie invaded her household in Orlando, Florida. The austere life seemed to Joan like she was in exile. She rebelled by making Aunt Polly's life as miserable as possible, which resulted in continual punishment that kept her even more restricted to the house. Joan often called with pleas for Melinda's help.

  Melinda again could hear Joannie's pleading voice as she begged her older sister to move out of the dormitory and rent an apartment where she could move in and they could be together.

  Melinda's reasons for refusing sounded noble at the time. She convinced Joan that she needed Aunt Polly's maturity and wisdom for guidance. But the truth was, Melinda feared a little sister's presence might interfere with her studies as well as her social life. At the memory, remorse stabbed at Melinda's heart.

  Well, maybe she had let Joannie down then. But she wasn't about to do it again.

  She settled back in the seat, and reviewed her plans. After the plane reached its destination, she would rent a car. Then she would use Joan's map to find the McClure ranch. Even if the brothers sent her away — which would be unspeakably rude — she still planned to stay in the area. If necessary, she would rent a motel room in Ruidoso to explore Joan's old haunts.

  Secretly, Melinda hoped this nonsense was the result of nothing more than a spat between husband and wife. She tried to imagine Joan's triumphant return amid the commotion her sister sometimes enjoyed creating. Melinda would be angry — oh yes. She would be as angry as she had been the day Joan told her she had quit college.

  Melinda had been so delighted the year Joan graduated from high school and moved to Atlanta to attend the university. Melinda had looked forward to re-establishing the old, close bond she and her sister once shared. She also hoped that at last Joannie would have a direction, something in which to invest her wayward energies.

  But after only one semester, and bad grades (Melinda suspected from too many parties), Joannie made her dramatic announcement. She and two friends had concocted a grand scheme. They would travel around the country and take on odd jobs to support themselves. Melinda pictured Joannie as she had been the day of that confrontation, with her anxious blue eyes, soft blonde hair and a defiant look that replaced her usual eagerness to please her sister.

  Melinda's word always had been law, up until that moment. She just knew she could convince Joan that their parents had wanted so much more for her. That's why they had established a trust fund to provide enough money for college. But Melinda's indignation did no good. Joannie then was 18, ready to assert her independence.

  And when, only months later, Joannie announced that she had married a man named Preston in some forsaken area of New Mexico, Melinda was heartbroken. It had been too soon. She knew that Joannie could not have matured so quickly.

  The plane dropped into a fast descent and jerked Melinda back to the present. She spotted the long runway below as it rushed up to meet them, and caught her breath when the plane bumped once, then vibrated from end to end. A high-pitched rumble indicated the brakes had been applied.

  When the small turboprop at last taxied to a halt, Melinda stood and staggered through the narrow aisle. As she made her way down the portable steps outside, she was greeted with a blast of heat from a searing sun. She jerked her hand from the hot metal railing, then walked into the small air terminal building. There, she gratefully breathed in the refrigerated air and stood for a moment looking around at the scattered seats and ticket booths.

  Melinda was uncertain about her next move. It still was not too late to notify Preston that she was here. She could insist that he drive to Roswell and pick her up. She paused, eyeing the public telephone wistfully. Then, remembering the warning in Joan's strange letter, she turned away and instead strode over to a small booth to make arrangements for a rental car.

  She plunked down her credit card for the required fee, collected her luggage, and marched through the airport.

  As she threaded her way through the parking lot to find her car, she ran into her companion from the plane. He was following along behind her, apparently intent on finding his own vehicle.

  "I hope you have a good stay," he said pleasantly. "Where you headed? To see the sights?"

  "Oh, not really." She tried to keep her voice friendly yet coolly distant. One never knew about strangers. "It's a strictly business matter. I need to visit Sacramento Ranch. Have you ever heard of it?"

  By that time, Melinda had spotted the white foreign compact described to her and paused with the key poised to unlock the door.

  The man was frowning now. "I know where it is. But, lady, you'll never make it in that. We've had some rough weather these past few days. The back roads are torn up by all the flooding."

  Melinda's fist tightened around the keys. "You can't mean that!"

  "I'm sorry, ma'am. You just can't get there right now in a car — at least, not that car. Or in any of the cars they rent around here. Until they get the roads fixed back up, you might need a four-wheel drive. At the very least, you need a pickup."

  He squinted up at the sky at a squadron of dark clouds gathering in the distance. "In fact, I'd advise you not to go at all. This is a bad time of year. We've been having
a lot of afternoon storms."

  He paused, interrupting his gloomy forecast. "You're not from around here, are you?"

  "No."

  "I thought so from the accent. Southern, isn't it?"

  Melinda thought this an interesting observation from someone with such a marked drawl.

  "Anyhow," he continued. "A desert thunderstorm is none too pleasant. If you have to go, I suggest you find someone to take you."

  Despite her misgivings about strangers, Melinda found herself eyeing him hopefully. He shook his head with a slow, apologetic grin.

  "I wish I could help, really. But I have a farm near here, and I have some urgent business of my own I need to tend to."

  Finally, she found her voice. "But surely I could rent something somewhere?"

  "Well...Gosh. I don't know. My brother-in-law has an old truck he's been trying to sell. It don't look like much, but it runs good. That's about all I can say for it. I'm sure he'd rent it to you..."

  He scanned her doubtfully, as his eyes rested on her expensive travel suit and heels.

  But Melinda was a desperate woman. An hour later she was perched high in the seat of an aged, dented Chevy truck she dubbed Old Blue. It whined in protest every time she mashed on the accelerator, and groaned each time she shifted a gear. But — as the farmer had assured her — the motor seemed to be in good shape. She only hoped that the rest of the truck would hold together long enough to reach the ranch.

  She was headed west on a narrow highway that obviously was not one of New Mexico's major thoroughfares. As the pickup hit some of the numerous potholes that defaced the pavement, she was jarred and bounced painfully against the overhead. She rubbed her scalp and, with the other hand, hung onto the gyrating steering wheel. It didn't help that Old Blue also was equipped with bad shocks.

  More than an hour had passed when she started to watch for a sign that marked the turnoff onto County Road 38. She wondered how its condition would compare to the so-called highway she already was on.

  The western horizon was ablaze with a mixture of purplish, orange, gold and yellow hues that reached up like fingers and caressed the clouds. But the descending sun radiated intense heat as it converted the pickup cab into an unwanted sauna. Perspiration soaked Melinda's clothes, causing them to cling to her body.

  Occasionally, as she shifted positions, she found herself almost glued to the uncomfortable vinyl seat. She fiddled with the dials on the makeshift air conditioner, but it no longer worked.

  She encountered so little traffic on this off-route that it was no problem to relax a little and take advantage of the view. Shimmering heat waves distorted the hazy blue range of mountains in the distance. Melinda observed them with anticipation. It had to be cooler in the higher elevations where she was destined.

  The nearby landscape was dotted with numerous, colorful desert plants such as elephant ear cactus with red blossoms and purple wild flowers that resembled verbenas. Yellow and orange flowering plants she was unable to identify flourished along the hillsides. She suspected that the recent rains had brought out this temporary colorful display that would shrivel as soon as the wet spell ended and the harsh desert sun again prevailed.

  Water was pooled alongside the roadway, evidence of recent heavy deluges that even the extreme heat had failed to dry out. Melinda rolled her window all the way down, and relished the pungent aroma of the desert plants mixed with the warm, humid air that fanned her face.

  As she gazed up through the windshield at the deep blue sky, she saw two hawks gliding gracefully in slow circles as they searched for prey. Beyond them, dark thunderheads formed in the distance.

  She was so enthralled with the scene that she almost missed the road sign announcing her turnoff.

  Quickly she jammed the stubborn brakes, bringing the truck over to the side of the highway. Then she wrestled the steering wheel to the left and turned the vehicle away from the pavement.

  Melinda felt edgy as she drove farther down the gravel road that penetrated the rugged and unfamiliar terrain before her. Beyond the nearby barren, black lava hills, she noted the clouds that now rolled swiftly in her direction. She tried not to let them worry her. She was from the South, after all. She was used to a little rain.

  As she lifted her sunglasses to peer at the road ahead, she couldn't help but feel a grudging admiration for this country, ugly as it had first appeared from the confines of the airplane. She indulged her artistic talent by often sketching illustrations for advertising layouts, and now felt the urge to pull out a drawing pad to capture this panorama purely for the sake of its own rugged beauty.

  But she had to pay attention to the business at hand. Quickly reverting to her old practicality, she gripped the steering wheel firmly with one hand and used the other to spread out Joan's map beside her on the seat. There was nothing to be concerned about. She was simply taking a road out to a ranch where people had lived, probably in utter boredom, for years.

  Joannie had advised her in the directions to pay special attention to the mileage reading on her odometer so that she would be sure and take the correct turnoff to Sacramento Ranch. Only then did she notice that the instrument on the old pickup had not registered any miles since she had left Roswell. To complicate matters, the pickup sputtered and coughed, as though on the verge of stranding her in the middle of nowhere.

  These additional aggravations contributed to an inadequate feeling that had dogged her from the beginning of this hastily planned trip. She usually prided herself on her ability to organize, her mastery of detail. And this mad, haphazard journey was so far out of character that she kept expecting disaster at any moment.

  The truck wheezed once or twice more, then seemed to recover as she mashed the accelerator and mentally dared it to fail her now.

  She patted the dashboard encouragingly. "Good 'ol truck," she muttered.

  The road continued winding in the general direction of the mountain range ahead of her. She frowned down at the map on the seat, and noted there would be several turnoffs required. She would have to do some guessing. She was supposed to travel 33.8 miles west from the main highway, then make a right and travel 8.2 more miles through Tres Cruces Canyon.

  The rearview mirror reflected her scowl. Would it be too much to ask the county to erect a few road signs? There certainly wasn't any place to stop and ask directions.

  Melinda drove on for miles, while she boosted her morale with confident thoughts. She hummed a few broken strains of Home on the Range.

  Suddenly, a whirling wind filled with dust blasted the truck, causing it to sway momentarily. Enormous, dirty rain splats drummed the windshield as she stared in dismay. Through the accompanying downpour, she was barely able to discern the dim road just ahead that led to her right. This had to be the place to turn, from what she could decipher of Joan's directions. She prayed she wouldn't get stuck out here as she savagely jerked the wheel and slid onto the two deep ruts that appeared to constitute a road.

  She kept going, hoping she was in Tres Cruces Canyon. At one point, she was forced to slide to a complete halt as torrential rain mixed with golfball-sized hail pounded the roof, deafening her with its roar. She anxiously watched the windshield, half expecting it to shatter. Mercifully, the hail lasted only a few minutes.

  The rain continued, but finally let up enough to provide her with visibility to drive on. At least, the windshield wipers worked, swishing madly in their effort to keep up. She had to press onward. She looked for a house or another vehicle where she might get help. Yet, who but a nitwit would be out in this?

  The lashing rain again swept over the truck, and again compelled her to stop. As she nervously waited, streams formed in the ruts of the road. Before she could fathom what was happening, water began to swell, sweeping like a small river around her. For the first time, she felt genuine fear as she knew that this rain was more than a mere annoyance. It was a cloudburst. She was in a canyon — a low lying canyon, now filling fast with muddy water.

  P
anic overtook her as she pressed the accelerator, and sloshed onward. She must reach higher ground — quickly! The water rushed down from the surrounding hills to the lowest points, and cascaded through canyons like the one she was now in.

  Oh, dear powers above, Melinda thought. Please, please help me. She had never before experienced terror like this. Her leg trembled as she tried to bear down on the gas pedal. The engine sputtered and died. The water sweeping around the pickup rose rapidly. Her mind froze with indecision.

  Should she stay here? Or should she leave the security of the truck?

  She felt moisture on her feet, and looked down where water had seeped into the floorboard. The truck slowly moved at an angle with the current, then lodged against something. There was no other answer. She had to get out — now — and make it to higher ground!

  She shoved open the door, and berated herself for not acting sooner. Yet, she again hesitated as she looked down at the gray, muddy torrent that swirled past her. Debris floated by with what looked like a rattlesnake writhing on top of it. That's when the hysteria overcame her.

  Clinging to the door, she grabbed her purse, slung it over her shoulder and gingerly stepped down into the clutching stream of icy water. The current grabbed at her waist and knocked her off her feet as it tried to pull her under.

  At the same moment, she lost her grasp on the door and was swept downstream. She struggled desperately to keep her head above the churning waves, as she tried to paddle toward the edge of the stream.

  She managed once or twice to regain her footing momentarily. But the water was relentless. A passing tree limb knocked her end over end. She surfaced, gasping and choking for air. She was fast losing her strength.

  She thrashed her way towards a log headed her way. By now, she gulped water along with the air each time she took a breath. She stretched out her arms to try and latch on to the evasive limb as it rushed by, but it was out of reach. It was a lifeline, her last hope for survival — gone.