“Clearly there’s a good deal that Peter hasn’t shared with me,” Rainy said.
For a moment or two, there was an uncomfortable quiet in the room and a chill that was not from the air-conditioning.
“Does the name Rodriguez mean anything to you?” I asked.
“Lots of Rodriguezes in these parts,” Harris said. “Why?”
“Peter mentioned a man named Rodriguez when he called Rainy last night. Not in a good way.”
Harris gave a little shrug of innocence.
“We should be going,” I said. I handed Harris my card. “If you hear from Peter, please let us know.”
“Of course,” he said.
They saw us out, and as we stood in the late afternoon sun with our shadows long across the ground, Jayne Harris gave Rainy a hug. “I’m sure there’s a reasonable explanation for all of this. But in the meantime, I’ll keep you and Peter in my prayers.”
I shook hands with Frank Harris, and we got into our oven on wheels and headed under the stone arch and down the road through the grapevines.
“I’m feeling like a terrible mother,” Rainy said. “There’s so much I should know about Peter and I don’t.”
“Did you tell your mother everything?”
“It would have just broken her heart.”
“Well, there you go. It’s not about being a bad parent. It’s about children trying to keep their parents from worrying.”
“What was it Peter didn’t want me to worry about?”
Before I had a chance to consider her question, Jocko stepped from among the vines and waved us down. I braked to a stop, and the old man came to Rainy’s window, which she lowered. He leaned his big, tanned arms on the Cherokee and looked into Rainy’s eyes.
“Peter’s like a grandson to me. You hear from him, you let me know.”
“Of course.”
He looked back at the Harrises’ grand home, where the walls rose high above the green vines. “Don’t let anyone tell you Peter’s not in trouble.”
“What do you know?” Rainy asked. “Tell me the truth.”
He shook his head. “In Coronado County, ma’am, only the dead know the whole truth.”
He pushed away and walked back into the grapevines.
CHAPTER 6
* * *
We headed west, back to Cadiz, taking the longer way, following paved roads. The sun was hanging just above the Coronados. The rays came through the windshield at a blinding angle, and I kept the visor down. It was an empty country, this desert grassland, and one that seemed full of menace—snakes and thirst and cacti and lies. In Minnesota, even as you drove miles with tall evergreens standing close, like ragged walls on either side, you didn’t feel this alone or this threatened. At least I didn’t. Out here, I had the sense that a person could die way too easily and so absolutely alone that only the circling vultures would be the wiser.
I could feel Rainy’s fear. It came out of her love for her son and from a growing sense that there was great reason to be afraid for Peter. I was tempted to give myself over to the same sense of dread. But I remembered what Henry Meloux had advised, that until we knew something different, it was best to imagine what gave us hope. And I remembered his other piece of advice, too, not to feed someone else’s fear with your own, so I tried to stay clear and to corral the demons of my own doubts.
“People are lying to us, Rainy, that much is obvious. But it might not be because of Peter.”
“Jocko said Peter’s in trouble.”
“He didn’t say what kind of trouble.”
“And why didn’t he?” She was angry. That was her fear coming through.
“Because he didn’t know or because he was afraid.”
“We should have made him tell us.”
“And how exactly should we have done that?”
I swerved to avoid some kind of small animal that darted across the highway. It was brown and without a tail. In Minnesota, I could have told you exactly what it was. Here, I didn’t have a clue.
“I don’t know, Cork. But I need some answers soon.”
“I understand. When we hit Cadiz, let’s track down the minister at Grace Church, see if the pastor has something to offer us that might be helpful. And, Rainy, let’s continue to imagine the best—that in the end this is all some kind of terrible mistake.”
Rainy inhaled deeply several times, trying, I suspected, to breathe out her fear, her anger. Eventually, she reached out and put her hand gently on my arm. “Migwech.”
“Thank you for what?”
“For being Uncle Henry when Uncle Henry isn’t here.”
Which was one of the greatest compliments she could have paid me.
Cadiz, as the day died, was a much less busy place than when we’d been there earlier. I figured the folks from Tucson and maybe Phoenix who’d come to the high country of Coronado County to escape the worst of the summer heat had headed back home. Grace Methodist Church wasn’t difficult to find. It was a small square with a squat bell tower, built of gray stone, set on the east side of the San Gabriel River. The little parking lot was empty and the doors were locked. In front stood a stone statue of an angel in the company of a small child. The angel was pointing up, as if directing the child to look heavenward. Beside the statue was a sign that, along with the times of services, gave the telephone number and name of the pastor, Michelle Abbott.
“That’s the same number on the church sign in Sulfur Springs,” I said.
The sun had set by now, and we stood next to the angel and the child, in the shadow of the western mountains, while I dialed the minister’s number. Her line rang several times, then went to voice mail. I left a brief indication of who I was and my number.
“We should get a room for the night,” I suggested.
On the main street, we’d passed a nice-looking little inn of white adobe. I drove to it, and we checked in with a pleasant older woman who was delighted to hear that we were from Minnesota.
“My grandparents lived there,” she said. “Duluth. You know it?”
“We know it well,” I said.
“I remember how cool it used to be by the lake when we visited them in the summer.”
“Ever visit in the winter?” I asked.
She laughed. “We weren’t crazy.”
The Desert Breeze Inn was built around a small cactus garden with a bubbling fountain, which seemed to be such a favorite of folks in the Southwest. I thought that Henry Meloux might look at this as a form of smudging, the cleansing sound of water in a land that had so little of it. There were only six rooms, and we were given the one at the very end. No sooner had we carried in our luggage than my cell phone rang.
“This is Pastor Michelle Abbott. You called about Peter?”
“Yes,” I said. “Let me give the phone to his mother. She’d like to talk with you.”