Forbidden Entry (18 page)

“Yes.”

Face contorted in shocked rage, she spluttered, “Why…why are you asking me such a…a…horrible question, Kendall?”

“Because the forensics specialist found drugs in the pocket of her jeans.” I laid a comforting hand on her arm. “This is not an accusation, Marcelene, but your answer is important.”

“Oh good Lord,” she whispered, her expression softening from outrage to bewilderment. “I…I…never…she wouldn't…” She paused, her lips twitching, obviously trying to gather her wits before barking out a forceful, “No! I know her...I mean, I knew her too well. She would never use drugs! We talked about things like that. She didn't drink. She didn't smoke. She went to church every Sunday. She…she was a good girl. No, I refuse to believe…”

“What about Nathan?” I cut in, “Where did she meet him?”

“One of her friends introduced them.”

“Did he live here in town?”

She shook her head. “No. He lived with his father in Surprise.”

“Did he ever display any surreptitious or odd behavior?”

Appearing ill at ease, she glanced away. “I suppose it depends on a person's definition of odd.”

Intrigued, my interest level climbed. “What do you mean?”

She needlessly fiddled with her purse strap. “He seemed like a nice-enough young man. Very good-looking. Jenessa was certainly bedazzled by him but I had reservations.”

“Because…?”

“His wild streak worried me.”

“In what way?”

She drew in a deep breath and expelled the air slowly, apparently considering her answer. “Nathan was a daredevil. Not like the other boys she had dated. I worried about him pushing her into something…dangerous. The higher the risk, the better. He didn't seem to have any life goals other than trying to figure out what crazy stunt to try next.”

“And you worried that he might have a corrupting influence on her?” I suggested.

“Yes.”

Might as well get to the point. “Marcelene, do you think he was doing drugs?”

Lips pinched together, she hesitated before whispering, “I don't know.” She eyed her watch again. “I have to go now.”

“Okay, just one final thing. Would you mind if I look around Jenessa's room? I'll lock the front door when I leave.”

Deep sadness invaded my heart when she pressed a hand to her mouth. “I…I haven't been able to bring myself to go in there yet.” She locked eyes with me and thumbed behind her. “Down the little hallway behind the kitchen. Last door on the left.” Swiping away tears, she marched past me to her car and drove away. I had no doubt she was trying desperately to keep it together.

Sighing heavily, I stepped inside and closed the door. Within seconds I felt it, the same haunting sensation I'd experienced walking through the hushed rooms in my grandmother's house four years ago a few days after she died—the aura of emptiness, of grief, of irreplaceable loss. Even though her physical body was gone, it seemed that remnants of her powerful essence, her fiery spirit still remained. I also remembered the phenomenon of the inexplicable silence, an extreme dense hollowness that seemed to inhabit the house after her passing. With those gut-wrenching memories still fresh in my mind, I walked through the living room, hearing only the muted ticking of clocks. Yep. A familiar feeling. And a little eerie.

I forced myself to concentrate, pondering Marcelene's emotional response to my questions. What if Nathan had been using drugs, but had not exhibited any obvious signs like my brother? Had he pressured Jenessa into trying them? In order to please him, had she abandoned her principles? But why were the pills found only in her pocket? If Nathan had provided them, why were none found on his person? I was positive the camper must have been searched from end to end, with no other pills being found. Thought-provoking indeed.

With the curtains drawn at all the windows, I had to stop momentarily when I entered the narrow hallway so my eyes could adjust to the low light before continuing. Several feet from the last door, I paused again, unable to identify the dark lump on the floor in front of Jenessa's room. My heart did a nervous little dance. What the hell was that? I sidestepped to the nearest window and pulled the curtains apart, revealing one of the saddest things I've ever seen. A fuzzy, black cat, head bowed, body curled in a tight ball, lay pressed against the closed door. Cold relief mixed with sympathy streamed through me. Oh my. Was the poor thing waiting for Jenessa's return? How long had it been there? “Hey, there, little one.” I knelt, allowed the cat to smell my hand and then reached out to stroke the silky fur. A round nametag dangled from the pink collar so I angled it towards the window. Fiona. Obviously female. “Well, hello there, Fiona.” The cat slowly raised her head, fastened glowing emerald eyes on me and stared intently as if she were trying to telepathically convey a message. A sorrowful breath caught in my throat. Over these past few months of being a cat owner, I'd learned how intuitive and complex these remarkable creatures could be. More than likely, she was suffering from depression. The urge to comfort her was overwhelming. Should I pick her up? Nope, might spook her. Besides, I knew what she wanted. Rising to my feet, I simply opened the door. Unexpectedly, an icy breeze, almost tomblike, rushed out, sending goose bumps skimming up my arms. The ghostly flutter of sheer white curtains at the open windows added to the surreal atmosphere. But, it didn't deter Fiona. She streaked into the room and leaped onto the stuffed-toy-littered bed. Only then did I realize that she had only one hind leg. Surprised by her agility, I watched as she searched the bed, dropped to the floor, sniffed all around, then looked up at me expectantly as if to say, ‘Okay, where is she?'

“Can't help you, honey,” I whispered, crossing to close the window before beginning my own quest for answers. Even though I was on a worthwhile mission, I still felt like an interloper rummaging through the personal possessions of a young woman who'd only been gone from this earth for a week and a half. Just like I'd experienced with my grandmother's death, the strong perception of her life force remained. Fiona apparently sensed it too because she seemed more at ease lying on a round throw rug, lazily flicking her tail. However, she never took her eyes off of me as I moved around the room taking photos, recording notes and learning far more about the attractive, flaxen-haired girl than I'd ever known while she was alive. That thought sent waves of regret coursing through me. I wished I hadn't been so preoccupied with my own life, wished I'd taken the time to get to know her better. I would have known that her favorite color was lavender; favorite flower was daisies and that she preferred perfumes with a light and airy scent. Resentment joined with regret at the unfairness of it all. What was that old adage—only the good die young? Conversely, why did it often seem that rotten people lived forever? With difficulty, I shook off my growing despair and focused on the task at hand. I had work to do. No time to be fanciful.

Jenessa's bookcase revealed more about her character. It was packed with sheet music for piano, books on religion, including several beautifully bound Bibles, a pile of BLM and Prescott National Forest maps, a stack of
Arizona Highways
magazines and other publications featuring various outdoor activities, as well as informative pamphlets about no-kill animal shelters. The mauve-tinted walls were adorned with colorful photographs depicting various Arizona landscapes, and in one corner stood a glass display cabinet containing an array of quirky ceramic animals and dolls. Her dresser drawers and desk were orderly, as well as the clothes and shoes in her closet. And something else was strikingly evident. Everything in that room reflected goodness, innocence, optimism and compassion. There were no slick posters of Hollywood entertainers or grungy pop stars, no hint of porn, no references to alcohol, cigarettes, illicit drugs, nothing to indicate that she dabbled in anything improper, which made the situation decidedly more bizarre. Nathan must have been the corrupting influence in her life. The urgent desire to find out more about him and his activities was now high on my priority list.

A tree branch rocking in the wind scratched the windowpane rhythmically as I sifted through a box of receipts on her desk, noting some recent purchases—hiking boots, backpack, sleeping bag, freeze-dried food and a flashlight. She'd bought new blue jeans, shampoo, conditioner, hair ties, earrings, and there was paperwork indicating that she'd recently upgraded her cellphone. Yeah. That was one of the things bothering me the most. What had happened to the cellphones? What were the odds that they would both lose them at the same time? And if they had, where were they?

Barely halfway through the pile, I found several letters thanking her for generous donations to various Arizona animal shelters, and a receipt for cat food, cat toys, collar and nametag. I checked the date. They'd been purchased three weeks ago. Did that mean she'd recently adopted Fiona or just bought replacement items? I'd have to ask Marcelene. I returned all the receipts to the box. Then I made the poignant discovery of her calendar where she'd circled the date for our engagement party. There was a little notation marked in the square.
So excited!
There was also a cryptic notation for the previous Tuesday, the day she and Nathan should have come home.
Pick up SG.
What did that mean? My cell phone chimed and I glanced at Ginger's text. TALLY'S A SWEETHEART! IF U EVER DECIDE 2 THROW THAT MAN BACK, HE'S MINE! ☺ WILL TAKE CARE OF WALTER'S DEAL. GOOD LUCK! KEEP ME POSTED!!

A loud crash from behind made me flinch so violently, I almost dropped my phone. I whirled around to see Fiona perched on the edge of the dresser calmly staring at me. A few tense seconds passed before I noticed the picture frame lying facedown on the wood floor below her. Still feeling light-headed from the sudden shock, I knelt down, flipped it over and stared through the cracked glass at a photo of Jenessa and a very good-looking dark-haired young man standing in front of a row of mailboxes on a dirt road. Was this Nathan Taylor? I studied the photo carefully. They were both smiling, attired in outdoor gear, and she was clutching a black cat in her arms. I glanced up at Fiona and back to the photo. I could not tell for sure if it was the same cat. Directly behind them, nestled between thick foliage, stood several small buildings and further in the background a steep, rocky incline. I wondered if Marcelene could tell me where and when the photo had been taken and by whom.

Careful to avoid the shards of glass, I removed it and took a picture of it with my phone before looking around for others. I searched the room, finally discovering a few more in the nightstand drawer. There was one of Nathan jumping an ATV over a dry wash, another of him rollerblading, several showed him hang gliding and the last one pictured the laughing couple kayaking on a lake. I rummaged around in the second nightstand looking for more photos and came across two faded ones at the very bottom along with an assortment of greeting cards she'd saved. The first one pictured a smiling Jenessa posing with Kailey and two adults that I assumed were Kailey's parents. Both appeared slender, the man quite tall. They were backlit so it was difficult to see their faces clearly.

The second photograph appeared to have been taken at a fair or amusement park and showed both young girls riding a merry-go-round. When I turned it over, my throat closed with emotion and my eyes glazed with tears reading the inscription
See you in Heaven
. There was no way to tell when it had been written, and I wondered if the sentiment reflected her state of mind immediately following the tragedy, or had it been penned more recently? I carefully replaced them, hoping her wish had been fulfilled.

When I couldn't find any others, I figured the bulk of them were probably on her laptop, which sat closed on her desk. I opened the lid, disappointed to see it was password protected. Being fully aware that Marcelene knew next to nothing about computers meant I'd have to ask Ginger's brother, Brian, for help. He'd know how to get into the files so I could check out her emails and hopefully find more photos.

The cuckoo bird in the kitchen chirped ten times, reminding me that it was time to hit the road. As I turned to leave, Fiona bounded back on the bed and settled herself comfortably. “Sleep well, little one,” I murmured, careful to leave the door open, my heart heavy with the thought that she was waiting for someone who would never return.

Anxious to tackle my new assignment, I left the cottage feeling certain about only two things. I'd seen nothing in Jenessa's room to indicate that she was anything other than a sweet, loving person. No way would this girl be experimenting with street drugs, prescription drugs or any other drugs. The two words she'd scribbled on her calendar indicated that she'd been looking forward to performing at our party. In my mind, that pretty much ruled out suicide. It boiled down to an accident or foul play. Driving out of town towards my destination, I was filled with a new sense of purpose. If there was something sinister going on out there, I intended to find out what it was.

CHAPTER

17

Strong tailwinds and scarce northbound traffic on I-17 allowed me to peg the speedometer at 80, so in no time at all I skimmed past the small, mountain-rimmed communities of New River, Rock Springs and Black Canyon City, where I began the steep ascent towards Sunset Point. I arrived at the Bumble Bee exit in just over an hour and twenty minutes, and headed downhill into the remote valley, dazzled by the breathtaking scenery. It was an optical illusion of course, but somehow the intermittent patches of snow decorating the craggy tops of the Bradshaw Mountains made them appear higher, more imposing and majestic. Fast-moving clouds patterned the vast juniper-mesquite-and cactus-dotted slopes with irregular shadows, adding rich texture to the deep canyons and jagged rock outcroppings. The ribbons of narrow dirt roads and ATV tracks snaking away into the wilderness beckoned to me, firing up my imagination. Would the brooding peaks hold fast to their secrets, or would I eventually be able to pry loose some answers to my questions? Even though my instincts told me there must be more to this story, I still had to fight off the fleeting notion that I might also be on the mother of all wild goose chases.

Rounding a sharp bend, my approach startled a small herd of javelinas munching on prickly pear cactus and scattered them into the dense brush. The recent winter rains and snowfall had rejuvenated the arid Sonoran desert and transformed it into a succulent, green garden. I cracked the window a little more, relishing the invigorating wind blowing in my face. And only then did it hit me—the full ramifications of what Tally's benevolent gift had granted me. Freedom. Adventure. Pursuit of the truth. I could not resist smiling. It was a supremely reassuring feeling to realize that after all these months of verbalizing his displeasure, Tally finally got me. Instead of expected resistance, this time he'd actually encouraged me to follow my passion, pursue my ‘adrenalin fix' as he laughingly called it. Our relationship was definitely maturing.

The pavement ended abruptly after a mile or so and, other than two pickups and a handful of RVs sitting in a wide parking area, there was no sign of civilization. Driving on, I crossed over a little stone bridge and spotted a rectangular yellow sign that read:
WELCOME TO BUMBLE BEE, AZ. Est. 1864, Ranch 1/4 MI Town 1/2 MI Population 19 People, 45 Horses, 161 Cattle, Drive With Care.

I zoomed past the entrance to the Bumble Bee Ranch and drove into the tiny village of Bumble Bee itself. There wasn't much to the place and if I'd looked away for even a minute, I would have missed it completely. I pulled onto the shoulder and slid out to take a few photos, which I forwarded to my dad, Sean and Tally. I looked around, taking it all in. There didn't appear to be more than a dozen structures still standing and they looked deserted. Except for the crunch of my boots in the gravel and the soft whistle of the wind scattering a few pieces of paper along the road, there were no other sounds. To the west stood a row of small wooden houses, along with an old stone building that looked like it might have once been a bar or store. It was boarded up tight, but there was no missing the prominent hand-painted signs nailed to the door.
Tell ADOT No to the highway in the canyon! HELL NO TO ADOT!!!
What was this? The Department of Transportation was going to build a freeway through this picturesque place? There were several other homes, including a rough-hewn stone house in good condition on the east side of the road. And there were other telltale signs of the residents' strong opinions nailed to a nearby fence.
NO FREEWAY HERE! LEAVE BUMBLE BEE IN PEACE! IF YOU TRY TO BUILD IT, EXPECT A LOAD OF BUCKSHOT IN YOUR ASS!
I totally agreed and could not blame people for voicing their written displeasure. It would be a shame to ruin the peace and quiet of this tiny ranching community by carving a freeway through here. I shook my head, wondering what bureaucrat would make such a boneheaded decision. The expense of such a project would be astronomical.

Looking further down the road, I noticed an old yellow school bus with the windows blacked out and a TV antenna sticking out of the roof. Yep. Definitely a unique place.

All at once, the serene silence was broken by loud, ferocious barks. Startled, I glanced around and my heart rate surged when I saw two dogs, teeth bared, rushing at me. Uh-oh. I backed towards the Jeep. To be on the safe side, I jumped inside, noting that the curtains in one of the small cabins moved slightly. Okay. Apparently one of the 19 residents was watching me and whoever it was had knowingly let the dogs out, no doubt in an attempt to scare me away. I found that annoying and just a little disturbing. Did they think I was with the Department of Transportation? I waited another minute, and when no one appeared and the dogs continued their frenzied yowling, I decided it was time to go. I sprayed a little gravel as I pulled away and within seconds the tiny town vanished in my rearview mirror.

Accelerating along the well-graded road, with the Sunset Point rest stop towering above me to the right and flanked by rolling foothills to the west, I passed by a rusting stock tank on an abandoned ranch and followed the sign towards the little hamlet of Cleator, still having not seen a single soul since leaving the freeway. Just when I was starting to feel like I was the only person on earth, I turned a corner and stared in wonderment at the unexpected scene ahead. The road was completely blocked by a dump truck. A mud-caked red and white pickup, probably at least 40 model years old, sat sideways in front of it, debris all over the ground. A short, rotund woman wearing a floppy brown hat and overalls stood toe-to-toe with a tall, wiry man. She appeared to be shouting and was shaking her finger in his face. And there were chickens—lots of chickens running around in panicked circles. Brimming with curiosity, I eased to a stop and lowered the window. The woman's angry voice, plus the rumble of the truck's idling engine, apparently masked my arrival. What in the world was going on?

Upon closer inspection, I determined that the rubble strewn on the ground consisted of damaged wooden cages and scores of egg cartons, the contents now undoubtedly smashed. I pulled out my phone and took a series of photos as I eavesdropped on the fierce verbal altercation.

“What do you mean it was my fault?” the woman shrieked, gesturing at the chaotic scene around her. “You're the one who hit me, you idiot!”

“How the hell did I know you were gonna slam on the brakes for no good reason? I can't stop this thing on a dime, you know.”

“I had a reason,” she fired back. “If you people would quit tearing up the road with your damn trucks, I wouldn't have to slow down every two minutes to avoid all the gigantic potholes!” She threw her hands up, gesturing wildly. “Look at this mess. You, Mister, owe me big bucks for scattering my chickens to hell and gone and breaking all my eggs. And look at the damage to my truck!”

The driver, who I judged to be in his late 40s or early 50s, rubbed the dark stubble on his chin and appeared to be baiting her when he glanced towards her pickup and responded with an insolent, “This shit wagon? How can you tell?”

“It's
vintage,
” she squealed, her face now beet-red and contorted with rage, “and happens to be worth a lot of money.”

The man pulled himself up to his full height, towering over the diminutive woman. “I ain't payin' you squat. This was your doin', you dumb bitch.”

“Who are you calling a bitch?” She poked him hard in the chest. “I've got a good mind to shoot your boney ass!”

At that his expression turned cautious and he took a step back, palming his hands forward as if in surrender. “Look, Lady, I don't want no trouble, but I'm warning you. Keep your hands off me!” He fished a cell phone from his shirt pocket and tapped the screen.

I could tell by their rigid body language that the dispute was escalating to a dangerous level. So, what could I do about it? I hesitated. Should I involve myself in yet another dicey situation? Impatiently, I checked the time. While the confrontation was certainly entertaining, and at times bordered on amusing, nevertheless my frustration level climbed. With less than five hours of daylight left, I didn't have any more time to waste listening to them squabble. Unfortunately, there was no way to get around the truck because of the steep inclines on either side of the narrow road. But, the urgent need to do something to break the impasse persisted and I was all set to get out and try to convince the man to move his rig when the sound of another vehicle approaching from behind caught my attention. It was only then that the two of them looked over and saw me. Their jaws dropped in surprise before they switched their attention to the aqua-blue pickup braking to a stop on the far side of the road.

With interest, I noted the Prescott National Forest emblem on the door. Maybe this guy could get things moving. The ranger or whoever he was had a cell phone pressed to his ear, but within thirty seconds terminated the call and exited the pickup, his lips pressed together in obvious agitation. I judged him to be in his middle-to late-30s, of medium height and build. He had a round, nondescript face and wore wire-rimmed glasses. Shrugging into a jacket, he secured a ball cap over thinning brown hair and, after shooting me an inquiring glance, trudged towards the feuding couple. I sat up straighter when I suddenly recognized him as the same man I'd seen at breakfast in Prescott yesterday. “What's going on here, Darcy?” His arrival momentarily diffused the volatile confrontation as both of them began talking at once, each of them stating their own version of the story. “Slow down,” he finally ordered. “One at a time, please.”

Two of the chickens were clucking and scratching in the dirt around my Jeep, so I pocketed my phone and stepped outside just as a second pickup rolled to a stop. This one was white and belonged to the Bureau of Land Management. A tall, muscular woman with a tight, blonde ponytail emerged, wearing a tan uniform, badge, radio and a sidearm. After pausing to assess the situation, she turned to me. “Any idea what's going on here?”

I told her what I'd overheard concerning the accident and she inquired, “You a witness?”

“No. This was already in progress when I arrived.” The rising wind was making a complete mess of my long curly hair, which maddeningly kept blowing across my face as I rummaged in my purse and handed her a business card. “Kendall O'Dell. I'm here to do a follow-up story on the recent deaths of a young couple somewhere up the mountain there,” I said, gesturing towards the jagged ridgeline. “You're probably familiar with it.”

“Very much so.” She studied the card briefly and then fished one from her shirt pocket. “Linda Tressick. I'm the Law Enforcement Ranger for this district.” We shook hands. “You know where you're going?”

“Ah…not exactly.”

“Well, you're in luck. That gentleman over there in the green uniform is Burton Carr. He's with the Forest Service and he'll be able to provide you with more information since the place where those kids died lies within his jurisdiction. Mine officially ends there at the cattle guard,” she stated with a wry smile, pointing to where the truck's front tires rested. “Although there's always cooperation and cross-delegation between the two agencies when need be and it looks like this is one of those times.”

I glanced over at Burton Carr. Was this fortuitous or what? He was another of the people high on my list to interview. At least something right was happening today. “May I ask you a few questions?”

She raised a hand. “Another time. I need to deal with this situation right now,” she said, moving towards the trio. “My number is on the card.” She walked right into the middle of the ongoing fracas, which had fired up again with the irate woman stubbornly standing her ground.

“He's a lying bastard! He was too close and going way too fast! You need to arrest him for reckless driving!” The tip of her bulbous nose was so red it almost glowed. This was one pissed-off lady.

“That's horseshit! How about you arrest this wing nut?” the driver challenged, his expression turning surly. “More than likely she's high on some the of that weed she's growing up there in her little backyard pot garden.” And in an apparent move to add fuel to the fire, he tacked on, “Or have you moved on to cooking meth?”

Bristling, she pulled herself up to her full height, which was probably about five feet tall at best. “For your information,
numbnuts
, I've got a certificate from the state granting me permission to grow it!” Then she switched gears, modulating her tone, assuming a beleaguered demeanor designed to elicit sympathy, no doubt. “As a caregiver, I need it for my suffering patients.” She turned to Burton Carr, her brow furrowed with disappointment. “What's wrong with you? Why are you just standing there like a bump on a log?”

Really? This abrasive little woman was a caregiver? She must have a hidden compassion bone not readily evident to me.

The forest ranger managed a conciliatory smile. “It's not necessary to use such inflammatory language. What do you say we try a little harder to work this out, okay?”

“Oh, Burton, I'm glad your dear mother isn't here to see this, God rest her soul. She'd hate to see you acting like such a wimp.” Fisting hands on broad hips, she lamented, “You didn't like being bullied by that brother of yours, did you?” Without waiting for his response, she resumed, “And I'm not gonna stand here and be bullied by this idiot!”