him land. Her eyes blinked open.
“Water,” she whispered. “Water, please.”
Not
“Hold on,” he said. “I’ll be right back,” He raced back to his vehicle, radioing for help as he went. He had no idea who her assailants were, which direction they were going, or what kind of vehicle they were driving, but he did the best he could.
“How bad is she hurt?” the dispatch operator wanted to know.
Al thought about the catalog of bloody bruises, cuts, and burns. “Looks to me like someone tortured her first,” he said. “Then they threw her down in the sand and kicked hell out of her.”
“Survivable?” the dispatcher asked.
“I don’t know,’ he said. “She’s hurt real bad.”
“Ambulance or helicopter?” the operator asked. “Your call.”
As a taxpayer, Al knew that each and every airlift of an undocumented—and, as a consequence, uninsured— alien was coming out of the pockets of legal Arizona residents at a rate of fifty thousand dollars a pop. Still, he didn’t think the woman would live long enough for a regular ambulance to arrive, to say nothing of driving her the fifty or more miles to the nearest trauma center.
“Needs to be an airlift,” Al answered.
“Airlift it is,” Dispatch said. “I’ll give you a call when I know their ETA.”
“You’ve got my coordinates?” he asked.
“Yes, sir. Your vehicle’s GPS position is right here on my computer.”
Al wondered how things had worked back in the days before all the vehicles came equipped with GPS technology. Back then cops out in the boonies were probably a whole lot harder to find.
He collected a bottle of water and a lightweight blanket from the trunk of his vehicle, then made his way back down to the woman. Her eyes were closed again. Out of nowhere, a swarm of flies had appeared. She gave no indication that she even noticed them buzzing around her and made no effort to drive them away. He did.
“I brought you some water,” he said, kneeling beside her. He knew it was dangerous to move a victim, but he did so anyway, lifting her as gently as he could into a semi-sitting position so he could give her some water. Her eyes flickered open briefly, and she moaned again. He held the open bottle up to her parched lips and tried to dribble some water into her mouth. He was afraid she might choke on it, but she managed to swallow a small sip. He offered her more, but she closed her eyes. Since the woman—a girl, really—had apparently passed out, he didn’t dare give her more for fear of drowning her.
“They’re sending a helicopter to take you to the hospital,” he explained, covering her naked body with the blanket, more for modesty’s sake than for warmth. She was already far too warm. “They’ll be here soon,” he added. “Hang on.”
Most of the illegals he had met spoke some English, but only with prodding. This one had spoken English even under terrible physical stress. Her blond hair and olive skin constituted a mixed message. She might be Hispanic, but he wasn’t sure she was an illegal. If not, who was she, and what was she doing here?
Al sat there cradling the injured woman and keeping the flies away until the helicopter showed up half an hour later. While they waited, he noticed the tape residue on her arms, legs, and mouth—evidence that she had been restrained by her captors either during the attack or before. As the air ambulance attendants moved her onto a gurney, Al noticed the tiny rose tattoo discreetly inked into the side of her right breast with what appeared to be a cigarette burn marring the center of the flower.
Not a prison tat, Ali realized. And not a DIY homegrown ink job, either. Al couldn’t ever remember seeing a female illegal sporting a professional tattoo.
Relieved that she was still among the living, Al left her in the care of the air ambulance attendants and went looking for the crime scene. He found it on the other side of the wash, just opposite the spot where he had found her.
On the far bank, the rocky red dirt had been disturbed. From the way the grass was bent, it looked like something—a blanket, maybe, with something heavy in it—had been dropped on the ground. Unfortunately, there were no legible tire or footprints to be found. Broken stalks of dried grass and mesquite branches showed where people on foot had tramped through the desert. Here and there around the place where the blanket must have been, Al found what looked like blood spattered on the ground, as though much of the beating had been administered right there.
He was photographing the scene when his immediate supervisor, Sergeant Dobbs, showed up.
“What have you got?” Kevin Dobbs asked.
“Looks like the worst of the assault happened here,” Al answered. “The victim is being airlifted to the trauma center at Physicians Medical in Tucson. If she doesn’t make it, this will turn into a homicide. Do you want me to notify Pima County?”
“Naw,” Dobbs said, shaking his head. “Don’t bother. If you do that, you’ll be stuck with a world of paperwork, and so will I. You found her and got her transported. She’s an illegal. That makes her somebody else’s problem.”
Al knew that Sergeant Dobbs wasn’t a fan of extra paperwork, either. “What if she isn’t?” Al asked.
“Isn’t what?”
“Isn’t an illegal.”
“You found her out here in the desert all by herself, in an area that is known to be full of illegal immigrants, right?”
Al nodded. “Right.”
“Did she look like an illegal to you?” Dobbs asked.
“Yes, but—” Al began.
“But nothing,” Dobbs interrupted. “If it looks like a duck and walks like a duck and quacks like a duck, then it is a duck. End of story. Go write up your report and hand it over. I’ll take it from here, and I want you signed out at the time your shift is over. Got it?”
“Got it,” Al answered.
But once he got back to his vehicle, he made a note of the location showing in his GPS. He thought it was likely that Dobbs would simply deep-six any investigation, but if Al needed to get back here with a local homicide detective and without the vehicle he had driven that day, he wanted to know exactly where he was going.
4
5:00 P.M., Friday, April 9
Sedona, Arizona
Late in the afternoon Ali’s peaceful reverie was broken by the welcome arrival of twin tornadoes in the form of her two-year-old grandkids. Squealing with delight, Colleen and Colin raced onto the patio just ahead of their father, Chris.
“Mom, can you watch these two dust devils while I check on the footing forms for the cement pour?” Chris, who left nothing to chance and was determined that the sculpture would be spot-on perfect, had arrived carrying a diaper bag laden with kid stuff as well as a giant tape measure.
Seeing both things together made Ali smile. “Sure,” she said, “they’re safe with me.”
When the twins were born, Chris had put both his teaching and his artwork on hold in favor of being a stay- at-home dad, while Athena, their mother, continued to teach and coach at Sedona High. Chris had done an excellent job of caring for the little ones, but as they grew older, Ali had seen evidence of his feeling frustrated and stuck, something she saw as the male equivalent of postpartum depression. Her decision to commission Chris to create the garden’s centerpiece had helped snap him out of it. As the job progressed, the old Chris reemerged—energetic, humorous, and full of enthusiasm. And two more people who had seen the work in progress in his basement studio had commissioned him to do pieces for them.
