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The older Native American man was sitting at a table with his back to Sonora. She wanted to go around him and see what he was doing, but found herself unable to move.
“Why am I here? What the hell do you want,” she yelled.
Either he didn’t hear her, or he was ignoring her.
The man stood up slowly, then walked away, revealing a small piece of wood and pile of wood curls.
He was carving something, but whatever it was, it was little more than an outline in the wood. Her gaze slid from the wood to the man. He was shaking pills from a bottle into his hand. There was a strange expression on his face as he tossed them down the back of his throat and chased them with water.
He’s dying.
The moment Sonora thought it, she flinched. A deep sadness came over her. “What am I supposed to do?” she cried. “Why are you haunting me?”
“Hey, lady!”
Sonora jerked.
“What?”
“I asked you…what do you want?”
Sonora blinked. Traveling from insanity to the real world was confusing, but she was getting better at it. It didn’t take her but a moment to answer.
“A medium sausage and mushroom pizza and a large Pepsi.”
The waitress nodded and left Sonora on her own again, only this time, Sonora focused her interests on the people at the other tables as she waited for her food to arrive.
She was both frustrated and confused by these recurring hallucinations. Talking to a shrink was a possibility and probably wise, but she wouldn’t risk it. The first time the precinct got wind of an agent in “therapy,” that agent would wind up doing desk duty until pronounced fit for duty again. Sonora didn’t want that on her record, so she was relying on instinct to get her through this. She couldn’t help but feel as if she was seeing this man for a reason. Maybe if he was real, and maybe if she found him, she’d discover for herself what this all meant.
Then the waitress came, delivered the pizza, refilled Sonora’s drink and left her to dine alone. By the time she had finished eating and paid for her meal, the rain had stopped. Reflections from the street lights were mirrored in the puddles as she crossed the street to get to her room.
She was wide-awake and itching to be on the move. Despite an old fear of the dark, she handled it better outside. When she thought about it, which was rarely, it always made sense. She’d gotten her fear of the dark from being locked in a closet, so if she wasn’t bound by four walls, the fear never quite manifested into a full-blown panic attack. Glad to be on the move again, she packed her bag quickly, dropped her room key off at the office, and mounted up. Within the hour, she was gone.
Miguel Garcia had been in Phoenix less than six hours when he’d gotten his first good lead on Sonora Jordan’s whereabouts. He had a name and an address, only it wasn’t Sonora’s address. It belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Buddy Allen.
It was just after 10:00 p.m. when Buddy pulled into the driveway of his apartment building. It was the first time he’d been home since this morning when he’d left for work. With his mind on a shower and bed, he got off the elevator, carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of groceries. He set down the six-pack, then toed it into his apartment after he opened the door. The door locked as it swung shut. Buddy was halfway across the living room when it dawned on him that all the lights were on, but he distinctly remembered turning them off when he’d left.
The hair rose on the back of his arms. He set down the sack and the six-pack and stepped backward, intent on leaving the apartment to call the police.
Then a man walked out of the bedroom holding a gun. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and motioned for Buddy to sit down on the sofa.
Buddy measured the distance to the door against the gun and cursed silently. The man didn’t look like the kind to be making idle threats.
“Who the hell are you?” Buddy asked.
“My name is of no importance,” he said.
“Then what are you doing here?” Buddy countered.
“Looking for a friend of yours.”
“Who?” Buddy asked.
“Sonora Jordan.”
Buddy’s stomach rolled. Suddenly, it hit him how much danger he was in. Sonora didn’t deal with lightweights and she’d been spooked enough to leave Phoenix. There was every possibility that he might not live to see another day.
“I don’t know where she is,” Buddy said.
The man frowned. “Wrong answer,” he said, and swung the butt of his gun up under Buddy’s chin.
Buddy dropped, then didn’t move.
DEA agent Gerald Mynton was pouring his second cup of coffee of the day when the phone rang. He set down his cup and reached across the desk to answer it. “Mynton.”
“Agent Mynton, I’m Detective Broyles with Phoenix Homicide.”
“Detective, what can I do for you?” Mynton asked.
“I’m not sure, but we’re working a murder and the name of one of your agents came up.”
Mynton frowned. “Who?”
“Sonora Jordan.”
Mynton sat down in his chair with a thump. “What about her?”
“Do you know a man by the name of Robert Allen…goes by the name of Buddy?”
“Not that I—wait! Did you say Buddy Allen?”
“Yes.”
“Oh hell,” Mynton said.
“Then you do know him?” Broyles asked.
“Not personally, but I do know that Agent Jordan used to date a Buddy Allen. Is he the one who’s dead?”
“Yes.”
“And you say it was murder?”
“Beat all to hell and back,” Broyles said. “Died in E.R. about two hours ago.”
“And you’re looking for Agent Jordan because?”
“Mr. Allen had a message for her. It was the last thing he said before he died. He said to tell her that, ‘he didn’t tell.’ Do you know what that means?”
Mynton felt sick. “Maybe. Do you have any leads?”
Broyles shuffled his notes.
“Uh…here’s what we know so far. Around two in the morning, a neighbor was coming home when she saw a stranger get out of the elevator and leave the building. She said he had blood on the front of his clothes. She got into her apartment and went to bed. But she said she couldn’t sleep because she kept hearing an intermittent thump from the apartment above her. She knew it belonged to Buddy Allen, and said it wasn’t like him to make noise of any kind, so she called the super. He went up and checked…found Mr. Allen in a pool of blood and called an ambulance. When he died, we were called in. After questioning the other occupants of the building, we’re leaning toward the theory that the man the neighbor saw might be our man.”
“Got a name?” Mynton asked.
“No, just a description.”
“Was he Latino?”
There was a long moment of silence, then Broyles spoke, “Yes, and I want to know how you know that.”
“We got word a few days ago that there was a hit out on Agent Jordan.” Mynton sighed. “God…we never thought about warning any of her friends. She’s going to be sick about this.”
“That’s all fine, but I want to know about the Latino.”
“Of course,” Mynton said. “I can’t guarantee that the man who killed Allen is the one who’s after Sonora Jordan, but just in case…you might be looking for a man named Miguel Garcia, or one of his hired goons.”
“We would like to talk to Ms. Jordan.”
“Yeah, so would I, but she’s gone,” Mynton said.
“What do you mean, gone?”
“We knew Garcia was after her. I told her to get lost for a while, but I haven’t heard anything from her since she left.”
“How long ago was that?”
“Uh…three, maybe four days, I’m not sure.”
“Do you have a cell phone number?”
“Yes, but would you allow me to get in contact with her first? She’s going to take the news about Allen hard. She’ll blame herself for his death and she’s already under a load.”
“Yes, all right,” Broyles said. “But as soon as you contact her, please have her call us.”
“Will do,” Mynton said.
He hung up the phone, then flipped through his Rolodex for Sonora’s cell phone number.
By noon, Mynton had left three messages on Sonora’s cell without receiving a call back. He was worried and frustrated by his inability to reach her, but he knew that, if she was okay, she would eventually return his call. It was fifteen minutes to one when he left the office for a lunch meeting.
After riding all night and stopping for a few hours at a motel, it was close to sunset when Sonora mounted the Harley and got back on the road. The setting sun was at her back as she rolled out onto the interstate.
The night promised to be clear. The first star of evening was already out and although the air was swiftly cooling, the heat of the pavement was still a force with which to be reckoned.
The power of the Harley carried Sonora swiftly down the highway. She rode with the confidence of a seasoned biker. Just before the last of the light faded away, Sonora signaled to change lanes, then glanced in the rearview mirror. The last thing she expected to see was the outline of a horse and rider up in the sky, following at her back.
Startled by the sight, the bike swerved slightly. She quickly regained control and then ventured another glance. This time, she saw nothing but a scattering of clouds.
Rattled, she curled her fingers tighter around the handlebars and focused on the road ahead.
It was nothing but clouds in an odd formation—no way had she seen a ghost rider.
No way, indeed.
Miguel Garcia was ticked off. He’d beaten Buddy Allen senseless and still wasn’t any better off than he’d been when he’d walked into the apartment. Either the man didn’t know, or he’d rather die than tell where Sonora Jordan had gone. All he’d gotten from his visit to Allen’s apartment was a photo of Sonora. He’d seen her driver’s license photo, but it did not hold a candle to the one Buddy had in a frame. Miguel stared at the image, eyeing the copper-colored skin and straight black hair. Her eyes were dark and almond shaped, her lips full with a twist that could be read as sensual or sarcastic.
Miguel had to admit that Sonora Jordan was beautiful. But beautiful or not, she’d killed Juanito and helped put Enrique in prison and for that she would pay.
Before he’d left the neighborhood, he’d done a little investigating, spread a little money around, and learned that Buddy Allen used to have a Harley parked near his pickup truck, but that he’d ridden away on it about five days ago and come back in a cab. After that, he’d drawn a blank.
Once he got back to his hotel room, Miguel made a call to Jorge Diaz to see if he had any contacts in Phoenix who could hack into computer systems. Jorge had given him a name. Toke Hopper. It turned out to be a good one.
At Miguel’s instructions, Toke hacked into the Arizona DMV and discovered that the missing Harley actually belonged to Sonora Jordan, not Robert Allen.
Since Miguel had already been to her apartment and seen the amount of accumulating mail dropped through the slot in her door, he was guessing that she’d already been gone for a few days. He’d been puzzled by the fact that her car was still in its parking place, and assumed she’d taken a plane or a bus out of Phoenix.
Just to make sure his guess had been right, he had Toke check the passenger lists of airlines and buses for the past week. To his surprise, Sonora Jordan had not used either to leave the city. The only thing missing besides Sonora, herself, was the Harley. If she left town on it, he had no way of knowing a destination.
He decided to go back to her apartment and look again. Maybe he’d missed something before that would make sense to him now.
He paid off the hacker and drove back to Sonora’s apartment building, then walked in like he owned the place. It was a quarter to eleven in the morning and most of the residents were at work. No one challenged him as he rode the elevator up to her floor and picked the lock on her door as he’d done before.
Once inside, he began going through papers, looking for something—anything—that would give him a clue as to where she’d gone. Thirty minutes later he was no closer to an answer than he had been when he came in, and was ready to give up. He was on his way out of the kitchen when he accidentally dropped his car keys. As he was picking them up, he noticed something on the floor underneath the island. He got down on his hands and knees and pulled it out.
It was nothing but a book. He had a difficult time speaking English and couldn’t read it at all, so he was definitely disappointed. He didn’t get interested until he realized the book wasn’t just a book, it was an atlas—a book of maps.
He was looking for a woman who’d obviously gone on a trip, so he started at the beginning and began turning pages one by one. About six pages in, he came to the page showing the map of the United States and found his first clue.
Someone had taken a highlighter and traced a path north out of Phoenix and into Oklahoma. The yellow line ended near a small town on the interstate called Henryetta.
He didn’t know how old the atlas was, or if the yellow line was from a previous trip, but it was simple enough to check out. Within minutes he was gone.
He made Flagstaff around four o’clock and immediately began flashing her picture around at gas stations and eating establishments. It took a couple of hours before he hit pay-dirt.
He found an employee at a gas station who remembered a pretty woman wearing black leather and riding a Harley. When Miguel showed him Sonora’s picture, he confirmed it was her that he’d seen.
Miguel was congratulating himself on his detective work and thought about driving on through the night, but when he saw the gathering thunderstorms, he changed his mind. He got a room for the night and settled in, satisfied that he was on the right track.
Sonora was still rattled by her latest hallucination as she rode through Amarillo, Texas, but kept going.
She never knew when she crossed the Oklahoma border, but when the sun finally came up, she saw a sign on the side of the road indicating Clinton and Weatherford were only a few miles ahead. She’d never heard of Clinton, but for some reason, she knew Weatherford was in Oklahoma.
Just knowing that she was in the state fueled a sense of urgency she didn’t understand, but she was too weary to go any farther until she’d gotten some food and some sleep.
Adam Two Eagles had watched the sun rise, then fed his cat before making himself sit down and write checks to pay his bills. Some time today he was going to have to go into town and get groceries, but not for a while. The day was too nice to waste and he’d promised some families he’d go visit and make medicine for them.
