Fatal Intent (Desert Heat Book 3) (12 page)

“Nothing.”

The sullen look on her face reminded him of Davi when he was lying, and suddenly Dylan knew Alex was hiding something from him. “Don’t lie to me Alex. If you’re doing something you think I may not like, at least have the courage to own up to it. You’re not a child. I can’t stop you.”

“It’s none of your business.” Alex said.

Next, she’d be sticking her tongue out at him. Dylan had taken all he was going to take. He got up and strode to the door. Before he stormed through it, he turned and looked at her.

“I’ve never wavered, Alex. I’ve never changed my mind, through everything we’ve been through together. The first time I asked you to marry me I meant it. I still want you, and what concerns you
is
my business. It’s time for you to grow up. Make up your mind, and let me know when you’re ready to make a decision and stick to it.”

NINETEEN

This time it felt final. Dylan might as well have slapped her. He didn’t understand what she was going through, and she couldn’t explain it, not in a way he would accept. He’d said it the night before. She hadn’t been right since she found out about her mom, and she wouldn’t be right until she got to the bottom of it. Her dad had betrayed her trust, and now Dylan had abandoned her, too. As far as searching for her mom was concerned, she had nowhere to even begin looking.

The only thing she could do anything about at all was finding out why the Patriots were harassing the Native tribes. That’s what she’d been doing when Dylan came in, searching for a way to get inside the Patriot organization, and she thought she’d found it.

She’d been using a website to ‘try on’, virtually, different hair lengths, colors and styles to see if there was a way to disguise herself. After all, they’d seen her picture. Would a different hairstyle, and maybe a pair of glasses, be enough to keep her from being recognized? Could she learn to disguise the shape of her face with makeup? Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

There were a number of makeup artists in the area advertising their expertise, and plenty of places to get a wig. She’d need to cut her long hair, probably, but finding Sarah’s killer or killers, or the person responsible for maiming Dawn would be worth it, wouldn’t it?

Alex got up and secured her side of the door. She planned to be long gone when Dylan got up the next morning. She didn’t know if she could keep the secret, and he’d be sure to try to stop her. What she was about to do was a dangerous game—even she could admit that. But it was important.

The next morning, Alex opened the outer door and peered up and down the hall. No one was stirring. She hadn’t heard anything through the double connecting doors, either, so she hoped she was in time. Quietly, she slipped out the door and walked down the hall with her bag rolling behind her. At the front desk, she tried to pay for her room, but the clerk told her it had been prepaid.

Alex left the hotel without breakfast, afraid Dylan might catch her if she lingered, and pulled out of the parking lot slowly to avoid any squealing of tires. Only when she was blocks away did she breathe a sigh of relief. If Dylan called, she wouldn’t answer. If he texted, she’d text back that she needed some space. Maybe he’d leave her alone long enough to do what she needed to do. After that, she’d have to see how it worked out.

Sitting in a chain restaurant miles away, Alex ate a lonely breakfast and thought about Dylan. Now that she’d done what she did, she missed him. She really did love him, and it wasn’t fair to treat him this way. On the other hand, he’d never understood her compulsion to get to the truth, and he’d never agreed to her putting that compulsion before her own safety. If he couldn’t accept her choices, she didn’t know if she could be with him.

Because it was Sunday, most of the places she needed to help her create her disguise were closed. But a couple advertised seven days a week, so her choice was made for her. At the wig shop, the sales clerk told her she didn’t have to cut her hair. Braiding it and wrapping it evenly around her head would be sufficient. She left the shop as a blonde with a silky A-line cut that hit her just below the chin in front and curled under, disguising the shape of her face.

A visit to the nearest dollar store netted a pair of glasses with clear lenses that didn’t distort her vision too much. For the final transformation, she found a salon with a makeup artist on duty and explained what she needed.

An hour with the artist learning what to do to create contours where she had none and deeply shaded eyes, and she wouldn’t have known herself in the mirror if she hadn’t reached her hand out to see it was really her. She didn’t even need the glasses, which the artist told her wouldn’t have worked anyway. “Obviously plastic, hon.”

For good measure, Alex went to a discount store and bought a supply of shorts and halter-tops. She’d always worn sundresses, believing them to be cooler, and in fact they were, but they didn’t fit with the image she needed to fit in with the Patriots. Her redhead’s skin didn’t go with the blonde hair, and she didn’t tan, she freckled, so she opted to spend an hour in a tanning salon to get a spray-on tan.

By the time she was done, she was down several hundred dollars and worried about what she’d live on, but she was very confident no one in the Patriots organization would recognize her as the pesky blogger, especially not now that her photo was no longer posted.

~~~

When Dylan found Alex gone, her things cleared out of the room, he was angry at first. He hid his reaction from the boys and took them down for breakfast. He spoke to the desk clerk, asking if he’d seen a redhead. The shift had changed since Alex’s departure, though, so the clerk couldn’t tell him anything. He looked in on the boys, told them to behave themselves or else, and went to the parking lot.

Alex’s car was gone. He should have expected it. After what he’d said to her, he couldn’t blame her. When would he learn to respect what she felt she needed to do? Discouraged, but determined to wait her out, he went back into the hotel and joined the boys.

Since Alex had said it didn’t matter, Dylan settled on the first house the agent had to show him that morning. Located midway between the campus and his new office, the three-and-two ranch with a xeriscaped yard requiring little maintenance was perfect.

The agent assured him the schools were good, and offered information about a Catholic school as well. The Catholic school could be a good option if they had scholarships, he agreed. There would be time to inquire after they moved in, on the first of August. He had a week to finish packing and make all the arrangements to move their stuff. The agent kindly offered to have the utilities turned on and to meet them with a key on the following Saturday. They were all set, except he hadn’t heard from Alex.

Feeling as if he was missing something, Dylan took the boys back to Dodge. It was past dinnertime when they got there, so he dropped by Jen’s to see if she’d do some burgers and fries for them, to go. While he waited for his order, Dylan spotted Paul and went over to talk with him.

“Have you heard from Alex today?” he asked.

Paul shot him a mournful look. “I haven’t heard from her since she tore out of my house mad,” he said. “I don’t dare call her. If she ever forgives me, she’ll make the first move.”

Dylan thought Paul was making the same mistake he’d made with his wife, but he kept his opinion to himself. “Well, my transfer came through and I spent today renting a house. I’ll be moving to Tempe next Saturday.” He gave Paul the address. “You’re welcome any time you’d like to visit. I assume Alex is still planning to live there with me when school starts, but we had a tiff and she took off.” At Paul’s look of alarm, Dylan said, “I’m sure it will be okay.”

It was only later he remembered that was how it had started with her mother. He began to worry then, wondering if her mother’s mental illness was hereditary. Dylan tried to call, but Alex didn’t pick up, so he left a message, apologizing for his part in their row and giving her the address of the house. He’d keep trying.

TWENTY

Late on Sunday afternoon, not having heard from Dylan, she drove back to Casa Grande and went into the house she shared. Lisa looked at her oddly and she remembered she didn’t look like herself. “Hi, Lise,” she said. Lisa’s mouth dropped open when she heard Alex’s voice, and Alex knew her plan would work.

The next day, she put her plan in motion. She didn’t know where the Patriots headquarters were, and even if she had, she wasn’t stupid enough to believe she could walk up to their door and say she’d like to join and kill Mexicans. It could take some time to find a hangout, get noticed and invited to a meeting, and even more time before she was trusted enough to start asking questions. Her first attempt was to drive around to truck stops and wander among the C-store aisles, hoping to overhear some anti-illegals rhetoric she could join.

When that was a bust, she went into a few bars where she found lots of pickups and a few motorcycles outside. The trouble was, that was every bar in Casa Grande, and she hadn’t thought to try to get fake ID. She was underage and even in her disguise she sometimes got carded. Rather than give away her identity, she would slump in apparent disappointment, say ‘never mind’, and leave the bar.

Deciding that wasn’t going to work either, she went home in defeat one evening and told Natalie her problem. “Shooting ranges,” Natalie said.

“I beg your pardon?” Alex asked.

“Shooting ranges. They’re gun nuts, aren’t they?” As taciturn as ever, Natalie didn’t elaborate, but Alex got it. Of course! Where better to find rednecks and ultra-conservatives than at a shooting range, where they could exercise their Second Amendment rights freely and with like-minded people?

As luck would have it, right there on the door of the ammunition shop attached to the first range Alex went to the next day was a flier advertising a meeting of the Patriots! Maybe they weren’t so secret after all.

Alex spent an hour learning to shoot a pink-camouflage semi-automatic weapon, and enjoyed it so much she wished she could buy one. Then reality kicked in. Besides the fact that her dwindling cash didn’t even begin to cover the cost, she couldn’t think of a thing to justify owning one in the first place. She made a note of the location and time of the meeting from the flier, and left, feeling on top of the world

On the day of the Patriots meeting, Alex arrived early and waited across the street from the location listed on the flier. Only when she’d watched long enough to believe they weren’t requiring ID did she approach the door herself. Her heart beating wildly, she approached the door and gave her name as Misty Jenkins. The guy at the door took little notice of her and let her through. Amazed it was so simple, she found a seat near the back and settled in to observe.

As she expected, there was plenty of rhetoric about American jobs and English being the official language of the US, the latter of which she knew to be untrue. Maybe it was outrageous to the descendants of English pioneers, but the US has no official language, and this area had been settled by Spanish pioneers long before the others came west. If there were any justice, she reflected, the Native American languages would also take precedence. Of course, she couldn’t and didn’t say any of what she was thinking. She only hoped she was presenting a neutral face.

By the end of the meeting, Alex concluded that either this was a recruitment meeting, where nothing of substance would be discussed, or there was really nothing to the Patriots. She knew, on the other hand, that several murders had been laid at their door. Dare she attempt to insert herself closer to the inner circle, where she might hear something of value?

There was no opportunity this time, no call to join the membership, if there even was such a thing. What did she expect, an announcement that anyone interested in murdering people should stay after the meeting? Along with everyone else, she filed out of the room, disappointed that she hadn’t learned much more about the Patriots, their true agenda, or their potential for criminal activity.

However, she had learned she could get into one of their meetings without being recognized. Her best plan was to haunt the shooting range and make sure she knew of upcoming meetings. Maybe once she’d attended often enough someone would invite her to less public meetings.

Meanwhile, she wanted to do a follow-up on Dawn Redbird. The original story had garnered some praise from her college adviser, as well as commentary in letters to the editor from not only the students but also many townspeople. Alex hadn’t realized the paper was that widely distributed.

With her funds dwindling, she called the local newspaper and TV station and proposed a follow-up story for pay. The newspaper was interested and offered her a couple hundred dollars for her story, more if her photos were usable. It was a start.

Alex located Dawn at a rehab center in Casa Grande, after trying her at her parents’ house. Dawn was learning to use the prosthesis for her leg, and would be there for several weeks for physical therapy after she mastered the device. On the day Alex visited, Dawn had taken her first unassisted steps.

“Alex! Look!” Dawn cried, when Alex appeared at her doorway. She attempted to stand, and immediately fell back into her chair.

“Dawn, be careful!”

“It’s okay. They’ve told me not to try to jump to my feet like I used to,” Dawn said. The big grin on her face gave away her good spirits, and Alex was glad to see it.

“Let’s see, then, but take it slower.”

Dawn used both hands to push herself up from the chair, took a moment to be sure of her balance and then turned another brilliant smile on Alex. “Here goes!” She swung the artificial leg forward, planted it carefully and then brought the other even. “They say when I learn to bend the knee no one will be able to tell this leg isn’t all mine.” After a few more shaky steps, she reached the bed and sat down.

Alex clapped her hands. “Hey, it
is
all yours! You bought and paid for it, didn’t you?”

Dawn made a face. “Technically, the tribe did. Insurance. But you’re right. If I want to be normal, I have to think of it as part of me. It’s good to see you, Alex. What have you been up to?”

Alex didn’t think it was a good idea to answer that question truthfully, so she left out the part about hunting for and finding the Patriots. Instead, she told Dawn about her broken weekend with her boyfriend. Dawn made a face.

“That’s too bad, Alex. So, what are you going to do? Stay here and finish your degree, or make up with him?” Dawn shifted her position and pulled herself up onto the bed, leaning against the headboard and pillows. “Have a seat.”

Alex hadn’t really thought about her situation with Dylan, and she didn’t want to think about it now. As she sat in the chair Dawn had vacated, she gave a half-hearted chuckle and said, “Oh, I’m sure we’ll work it out. I need to transfer…I’m already a semester late. Anyway, I came here to talk about you. Tell me about your prosthesis. It sounds state-of-the-art.”

Alex put Dylan firmly out of her mind as Dawn waxed enthusiastic about her new leg and all its capabilities. It even had different feet for different purposes, she said. Alex took notes for the story and saw it taking shape in her mind.

She was still asking questions when a nurse came in to get Dawn for her afternoon physical therapy. Sensing a second story, Alex asked to tag along and Dawn agreed. Alex spent another hour gaining an appreciation for Dawn’s courage and strength. Some of those exercises looked painful.

At last, the PT session was done and Dawn confessed to being tired. She invited Alex to come back again whenever she could, and signed the release allowing her to print her story. The story almost wrote itself. Alex had to admit to a bit of a girl-crush on Dawn. She’d faced danger and near death herself, but her injuries were more psychological than physical and she wondered if she would have had Dawn’s courage if she had to endure weeks or months of pain to recover.

That line of self-reflection brought her up against Dawn’s question. What
was
she going to do about Dylan? It occurred to her for the first time that maybe she’d been unreasonable.

How important was it that she find out the truth about her mother? Was she sure she even wanted to? With ignorance, she could pretend something overwhelming had prevented her mom’s return. Maybe the baby had special needs, or something. What kind of damage would it do to her psyche to learn that her mom really didn’t care about her?

Even worse, what if she learned her mom’s minor depression after childbirth had become serious and chronic after a second baby? What if she really was mentally ill, and what if it was hereditary?

By morning, the weight of her speculation kept her from getting up when her alarm went off. All she wanted to do was curl up and sleep until things got better. What finally got her up was the realization that she was exhibiting the very thing she feared—depression. It was time to see her counselor again and talk about her mother this time.

Alex forced herself to write the story and then to polish it for grammar and flow. Keeping her mind off her troubles and on someone else’s seemed to help, but there was nothing in Dawn’s story to make her happy. The girl had been ruthlessly attacked and left for dead, and was now suffering lifelong consequences, all because she believed in a cause.

The injustice of it stung, and it made Alex even more determined to get to the truth. She forgot about her misgivings for her own safety and determined she’d go back to the Patriots and work to gain their trust. The only trouble was she didn’t have very long to do it if she was going to transfer to State.

Her problem wasn’t the distance or travel time involved. It was that once school started she'd have less time to spend looking for answers. Not to mention she would probably have to hide what she was doing from Dylan. He’d never let her knowingly walk into a potential trap.

After filing her story along with an invoice, Alex made an appointment to see her counselor. She’d seen him only a couple of times immediately after her kidnap and attempted murder. Oddly enough, it wasn’t the trauma of those events that sent her to him. It was her vicious counterattack in self-defense, which almost killed her assailant. She didn’t know she had that much rage in her, and it frightened her.

The counselor, Devin Wright, assured her it was natural, given her state of fear after the near-death experience in the hospital. He’d given her a prescription to take if she felt overwhelmed by panic, but the episodes were few and far between. She hadn’t even had one when Wanda’s husband was discovered dead in his hospital room last fall.

Her attack in the hospital was so similar to Hector’s murder that she figured if that hadn’t done it, she was cured. From the incident a few weeks ago, she now knew she wasn’t, and she also wanted to discuss the new information about her mother.