Saguaro: Volume One of the Arizona Trilogy

By Gloria H. Giroux

In the late 1970s, a diabolical killer stalks the streets of Tucson, Arizona. Viciously striking at random and leaving no clues, the killer thrusts the city and its residents into a state of terror. Law enforcement and private citizens are desperate to uncover the identity of the monster dubbed the Saguaro Sadist and stop his bloody reign of fear and death.

A motley crew stands up to investigate, including two police detectives battling their own demons, a famous author whose interest in the city is unusual at best, several college professors of anthropology and criminology, a British expatriate PI, a psychic witch from Salem, two sets of twins from New Orleans, and a determined but grieving Cajun cop from the Big Easy.

As the bodies pile up, it becomes clear that unless the culprit is caught, he will disappear into history. Why? Because this isnt the first such suite of murders, and that murderer was never caught. Has he begun reimagining his old crimes, or has someone taken up his mantle in a most savage way?

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Feb 15, 2018
• ISBN: 9781532041679

Gloria H. Giroux

Gloria H. Giroux was born in North Adams, MA. Raised in Hartford, CT, she graduated from Bulkeley High School, the University of Connecticut and the Computer Processing Institute subsequently embarking on a double career of IT and writing. The author of nineteen fiction novels, Keene Retribution is homage to a special place in her life in New England. She currently lives in Arizona where she is working on her next book.

Book preview

SAGUARO

VOLUME ONE OF THE ARIZONA TRILOGY

Copyright © 2018 Gloria H. Giroux.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the author except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

iUniverse

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Because of the dynamic nature of the Internet, any web addresses or links contained in this book may have changed since publication and may no longer be valid. The views expressed in this work are solely those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the views of the publisher, and the publisher hereby disclaims any responsibility for them.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Certain characters in this work are historical figures, and certain events portrayed did take place. However, this is a work of fiction. All of the other characters, names, and events as well as all places, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4166-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4165-5 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5320-4167-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2018901102

iUniverse rev. date: 02/14/2018

Contents

Cast Of Characters

Cast Of Additional Characters/References

Prologue

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

BOOK TWO

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

BOOK THREE

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Epilogue

BOOK ONE

Chapter One

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This book is

dedicated to family and friends here and gone who have played an important part in my life and my writing:

Helen Gonczarow Cutler: My best friend for over fifty years, a kind, loving soul who makes the world and my life so much the richer by her presence.

Donna Pallone: A unique soul lost to us now, who taught me so much about being a professional technologist, and a lover of science fiction.

Bruce Peterson: Gone but not forgotten. Bruce, the U.S. really DID land on the moon––it was not faked by the Nixon administration. Really.

Greg Garrison: Gone too soon with his savagely rapacious wit and irreverence. Stella!!!!

Robin Foersterling: One special lady also gone far too soon. My dogs worshipped you, sistah.

Jenny Roberts: An expatriate from Down Under who enjoys the same Mexican dishes as I and is of the same mindset regarding the last presidential election, LOL. Crikey!

Ursula Rodriguez & Bruce Lehr: May you travel to wondrous, faraway lands for many years to come.

Marnie Dolan: My nutritionist and the best manuscript-reader one could ever hope for. Thanks for being my psycho-serial-killer inspiration. Nobody could do it better.

R.K.: On Wednesday, September 19, 2007, 9:25 AM EST, you taught me about betrayal and soul-crushing heartache, and what a friendship should never be. For that, I thank you, for you freed me to a life of truly wonderful things. And the best life is a revenge well-lived.

Irene Catania: Still there from my tender childhood onward, and a lover of dogs and my books––who could ask for more?

Bette-Ann Voeth: You were loved by many, dear babysitter, and you will always be missed.

Khushboo Bhartiya: An amazing young lady who was there for me when I survived cancer, and when I needed a devoted, loving dog sitter.

The very special and unique elderly ladies with whom I forged friendships and who enriched my life so much: Harriet Harrow, Lucille Bruneau, Antoinette Runch, Jacque Bond, Olga Link, Bonnie Milam, and Anna Aliberti.

Betty Antoinette Manzone Rogers: The love of my brother’s life, and one damned fine woman, sister, and friend. And, as once noted, the best meatball-maker in the world.

Tucson MacArthur Rogers: Big brother, second dad, pretty special human being whose major flaw is that he can’t drive as fast as I’d like. Pass that car NOW!!!! NOW!!!! NOW!!!!

Bruno Savinski: Uncle, third dad, crabby old bastard with a heart of gold when one digs deep enough with a very sharp spade and a plethora of patience and tolerance. Rest in peace, Unk.

George Henry Giroux: Daddy. Gone too soon, I wish I had known you longer and better since by all accounts you were a complex man with a dichotomous nature quite probably passed on to your daughter.

Helen Savinski Giroux: Mom, Dad, Best Friend, Brother, Sister, Cheerleader, Chief Cook, Taskmaster, Light in the Darkness, Occasional Annoyance, and pretty much the architect of my life. Thank you for being the oak tree to my acorn and showing me how to make my dreams come true.

Oh, yes: Wolfie and Cinnamon, my beloved dogs, who literally changed my life for the better although they have cost me untold bucks in carpet, tile, furniture replacement, and vet bills.

My sweet, sweet baby girls!

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CAST OF CHARACTERS

CAST OF ADDITIONAL CHARACTERS/REFERENCES

PROLOGUE

August 12, 1955, New Orleans, Louisiana

Mignon LaVache was very, very meticulous as she lit the selection of candles on the altar. Candles for rituals had many colors, and each color represented something special in both the spiritual and tangible world. There were multiple schools of thought on what each color represented. Until the late 1940s she had adhered to the designations provided by Zora Neale Hurston, a leading figure in the Harlem Renaissance. Flamboyant and irreverent, as well as very much self-made, Hurston had battled for and won an education and gone on to study African-based cultures. She’d written about them in such works as Mules and Men, and Tell My Horse, a sympathetic study of Haitian Voodoo. She’d been fascinated with the subject of Voodoo and Santeria, and had pursued their study. Her writings and declarations became the bible for many a Voodoo Queen or King, or regular practictioner.

Madame LaVache considered Hurston a master and followed her path; however, in the 1940s other voices appeared, one in the figure of Robert Tallant. Tallant came to prominence as an offshoot of FDR’s New Deal; an agency called the Works Progress Administration was tasked with providing opportunities for writers and artists. Tallant, a New Orleans native, was given the charge of writing guide books on the Crescent City and Louisiana. His inclusion in the massive Gumbo Ya-Ya, a compilation of Louisiana folklore, solidified his reputation as a literary figure. From 1948 onward he began writing novels and works of nonfiction on his ubiquitous city and state, including the well-received Voodoo in New Orleans in 1946. Although as a writer he received his share of criticism for his attitudes and research, he was nevertheless acknowledged as something of an expert on the religion. He was in line with some of the time-honored traditions of Voodoo, but manipulated some to present a slightly subjective viewpoint.

In that respect, his analysis of the color of candles diverged from tradition ever so slightly, falling more in line with those espoused by the secretive Henri Gamache. Gamache was a pseudonym; to this day his true identity remained a mystery. In 1942 he wrote a book that many now considered the bible of candle coloring and burning: Master Book of Candle-Burning. He expanded the list of candle colors, including those which blended more than one color together. He also expanded the meanings of the colors, which appealed to many, including Madame LaVache.

She studied and utilized Hurston’s interpretations of color, but decided after careful thought that she would take some of Gamache’s observations and integrate them into her rituals and expectations. Of course, being the very independent and forward-thinking priestess that she was, she also incorporated her own determinations into her rituals. An unusual tactic for a dedicated priestess, she incorporated into her practices aspects of both Santeria and Voodoo, although she considered herself mainly attuned to the latter and reveled in her acknowledged title of Voodoo Queen. She was cagey about her racial and ethnic background as well; very few people knew that she was a mixture of Negro, Spanish, French, and, oddly, Scottish. Her second cousin, Henri McCray LaVache, had written two small but critical books on Santeria in the 1920s. He had published them to critical acclaim by believers, but had raised the ire of the white Christian populace in his town: he was lynched on his thirty-third birthday, copies of his books piled beneath his dangling legs and set on fire.

The Klan made it clear to the small publishing house that if any more of the books were printed, they’d burn down the building as well as the homes of the publisher and all employees; the publisher immediately destroyed the manuscript and print settings. Luckily, Madame LaVache’s mother had several copies hidden and Madame LaVache kept them hidden as well when she was not referring to them for spiritual guidance. Orishas: The Breaking of Chains and The Honor of Lucumí’s Saints were safe in her special place.

For the ceremony that she was preparing, which would welcome into the world the last two special babies for whom she was charged with protecting and nurturing, she had selected four glass-encased candles: one white, one black, one blue, and one comprised of a mixture of seven colors.

The white candle represented spiritual blessings and purity; peace, too.

The black candle which in Hurston’s view of the world represented evil or death meant something rather different in Gamache’s view: freedom from evil. Two initials were carved into the top of the candle.

The blue candle reinforced the concept of peace, with a sprinkling of joy and harmony.

The fourth candle, the blend of seven colors, was of a preemptory nature: it presented an aura of strength in times of great need. The seven colors represented the mighty strength of the Seven African Powers of Santeria: the Orishas Eleguá, Yemaya, Oshun, Obatala, Ochosi, Oya, and Ogun. Orishas were the spirits that reflected the supreme divinities and ruled over nature and humanity; their Voodoo counterparts were called loas, and served a similar purpose. Despite the fact that most practitioners played to the seven common orishas, there were well over a thousand such entities, ranging from the obscure to the famous to the infamous. Madame LaVache had chosen adherence to Yemaya when she was barely out of her teens and already a legend in her neighborhood. Yemaya was the mother of water and childbirth, and since Madame LaVache had chosen midwifery as her respectable profession, this orisha was the natural choice.

She lit the white, black, and blue candles, chanting her special prayer in both French and Lucumí, a dialect of the Yoruba language spoken by her Nigerian ancestors who were brought as slaves to Louisiana through Cuba and Haiti. Lucumí was a dying language, but lyrical and beautiful, heavily influenced by the Spanish spoken by the native Creoles. She chose to use that as her language of choice while she performed her spells and incantations.

She picked up the fourth candle and studied the swirling blend of colors: white, black, blue, purple (power, ambition), red (victory, passion), green (money, luck), and an unusual color not associated with any of the aforementioned practitioners, gold. She chose gold––comprised of gold dust she had purchased from a Cuban bruja in Baton Rouge––since many religions, including Catholicism, revered the precious metal as having divine properties. Unlike some of her contemporaries and predecessors, she did not dismiss the aspects of Christianity abounding in her religion; rather, she embraced them, integrated them, and used them to her best benefit. Her chalice, intricately carved from ebony wood imported from Africa, was leafed with gold. On one side was carved an image of an African god; on the other, a simple Christian cross.

The miasmatic wax palate resembled a desert landscape of shifting colored sands, the edges of each color blending with the next to negate any definitive borderline between them. The gold flecks dotted all of the other colors, presenting a shimmering effect when held up to the light. This was important to her, since she believed that no singular trait, or spirit, was so independent as to not rely on another for its strength and power.

She was satisfied with the fourth candle. She placed it gently down next to the others, and lit the wick. The four candles surrounded two small, intricate wax figures, throwing flickering shadows across the figures and the table on which they all rested. The small back room of her house, where she was performing this very important ceremony, was lit only by these candles, and the rows of small white ones rimming the four walls of the room. Next to each white candle was a small triangle of jasmine incense, which wafted through the still air. The small size of the room, the candles, and the incense should have made for a stifling, cloistered experience, but they did not; they brought a sense of order to Madame LaVache, as they always had since she was six years old and her equally powerful mother had initiated her into the darkness and light of their mutual religion.

She picked up her small jar of Van Van oil, pulled out the cork and sniffed. She smiled slightly at the intense lemony smell. The origins of the oil varied, according to legend, and depended on the ethnicity of the creators and users. Some said the oil stretched back as far as the 1700s; some said the oil was much more recent, and originated mainly in the Algiers section of Louisiana. The name Van Van was generally acknowledged as a Creole bastardization of the French term vervaine, or lemon verbena. The more expensive version of the oil was created with lemon verbena essence; the less expensive, more common version of the oil was derived from lemongrass. Although the two were similar in smell, a true practitioner could always tell the difference, and those most powerful and revered would never consider using anything less than the real thing. Both ingredients, however, were associated with coveted powers surrounding spiritual cleansing, and, more importantly, protection from evil. In the Far East the oil had another quite coveted property: it was considered an aphrodisiac.

Madame LaVache used only the true Van Van oil. She re-corked the bottle and rested it next to the multi-colored candle. She laid a thin hand on one of the wax figures; still cool, the heat of the candles and the still air hadn’t softened the wax. The tiny, centimeter-square, etched gold tablets with the equally short shanks were embedded in the wax figures, one in each directly where the heart would be. The shank pierced the back of the figure, where a swivel bar held the square in place. Unlike many monogrammed items, the initials on each square differed from the other. Each initial was bordered by swirls that looked like leaves. The design was custom, and meaningful, the perfect accouterment for the little figures. The initials were the same as those carved into the black candle.

She cast a glance down at one of the large cribs on the floor beside the table. The occupants were sleeping; one boy, one girl, both particularly small due to their circumstances. The girl’s face was scrunched up as though she were dreaming about something disturbing; the boy looked utterly peaceful, like a little dark angel. She let a half smile play along her full lips as she contemplated their lineage and potential. Many people believed that babies were unformed blobs of flesh whose potential, good or bad, developed as they aged and experienced life tempered by nature or nurture, or both. She believed that the fates of these children––as well as any others––were set at their moment of conception, if not before. They were destined for whatever they were destined for, and had control only over the path that led to their ultimate fates. Despite the fact that they were presented as twins, their fortunes as human beings were as separate as though they had been born on opposite ends of the globe to different sets of parents.

The baby boy murmured some unintelligible sound as he slept, but didn’t open his eyes; she wished he would. He and his sister had beautiful eyes, the boy’s as green as a lush forest after a pounding rainfall had exfoliated the leaves and grass, uncovering their hueful essence; the girl’s a vivid hazel, a stunning example of Rayleigh scattering where the iris shifted unpredictably between brown and green depending on the light or even the child’s moods. Each time that Madame LaVache looked into those eyes she could swear they never showed the same color or sense of emotion.

Her desire to gaze upon those intelligent, roiling eyes was fulfilled seconds later when the restive girl-child twisted and turned and opened her eyes to stare up at the woman leaning over the crib. For a moment their eyes locked unblinking, and Madame LaVache could swear that she saw all the knowledge of the world emanating from those intense orbs; the radiation of intelligence was momentarily overpowering, and the thrill that overwhelmed Madame LaVache mixed with an indefinable disquiet that she had never felt in her sixty years. The baby girl closed her eyes and nestled closer to her brother, and the feeling of disquiet dissipated. Madame LaVache ran her hand over the baby’s silky sable hair, let the backs of her fingers brush the child’s soft dark-cinnamon cheek, and murmured a short blessing in French.

She was ready to begin the ritual to bless the children and send them on their way into the world as she had the others. Most of her rituals involved other people; she had a male acolyte who frequently assisted her and could drum up the very gods of Africa with his rhythms, but that day she forewent his presence and the pounding of his magical hands on the taut goatskin that was stretched over the small rim of his hand drum. She had sacrificed that goat herself, skinned it, and presented the hide to him as an expression of her gratitude for his participation in the cursing ritual that turned the life of that fat, arrogant city politician upside down. That was a most pleasant experience, initiated by the fat man’s much-cheated-upon wife, who was particularly generous with her compensation.

Drums awakened the spirits, bolstered by dancing that engaged every cell of the body, invigorating every inch of the body and soul with vibrations that reached down into the very nature of humanity. There would be no dancing today, although she did intend to sway her thin but still supple body as she chanted her rites and invoked the spirits to protect and strengthen the two babies given to her by their mother. She had known the mother since the young woman was a toddler, and always thought that there was something particularly special about that child although she couldn’t see precisely what despite her most valiant efforts at scrying with the crystal skull passed down to her by her mother, and her grandmothers before that. All she could see for the child then young woman was a path bordered by tribulations and strife, with patches of extreme joy as well as extreme sadness. Triumph was a constant companion, according to her readings, but would manifest itself in odd manners that had many different interpretations.

When she scryed against these two babies, the results were even murkier, cloudy with patches of mist that hid the critical aspects of their life paths. In truth, Madame LaVache couldn’t see their future clearly, and that bothered her. Hence, she wanted to perform a ceremony that might counterbalance any negative forces the children might encounter as they grew and took their tentative steps into a world not ready to accept them for what they were. She wanted to drive out any bad influences or spirits that might erode their intrinsic innocence and potential. She was willing to accept any evil spirits into her own body to protect them; she had promised their mother that she would do so.

She had also promised their mother that she would do her best to exorcise the negative aspects that they might have inherited from their father, but she couldn’t promise that she would be wholly successful; from what she knew of their father, that man’s juju was too powerful to predict results. She had incorporated his representative physicality in the squares appended to the wax figures of the babies. She had shuddered when she touched the objects; they were hot to the touch. They shouldn’t have been. She thought that this meant that he had some magic in his background, magic that was strong enough to bridge thousands of miles and a culture as different from his own as the sky was different from the earth. She would have to hide all of the wax figures in a deep, dark, cool place to keep them whole and safe.

She checked the candles; they were burning clean. That was a good sign, that they weren’t spewing ash or darkness as the wax melted down. Each of the three single-color candles was seven inches tall; each had lost around an inch of its presence as the flames relentlessly decimated the wicks. The multi-colored candle was nine inches tall, a very unusual size, but she needed the extra bulk and time to perform her ceremony.

Although she had eschewed the use of drums to punctuate her ritual, she chose an unusual method of providing auditory stimulation: a specially created record made at her request for this particular ceremony. Stamped at a small jazz studio on a side street off the French Quarter, the label was as simplistic as could be: green, with the name of the song, and the translated nomenclature of the singer, who happened to be the mother of the babies: Saule.

The song, Sinner Man, was a traditional black spiritual song that presented the story of a sinner trying to dodge justice from God on Judgment Day.

Oh, sinner man, where you gonna run to?

Sinner man where you gonna run to?

Where you gonna run to?

All on that day

So I run to the river

It was bleedin’, I run to the sea

It was boilin’, I run to the sea

…

So I run to the Lord …

When the ritual ended, she would either break the record into pieces and condemn it to fire for destruction, or hide it away in her treasure chest for possible future use. She wasn’t sure which path she’d take; the end of the ritual would guide her to make the wise decision. She took a soft shammy cloth and carefully wiped the face of the record, then placed it down on the spindle. She took a last look around to make sure that everything was in place, and then she began. She carefully placed the needle on the record, and a few seconds later the song began to play.

She poured an ounce of the Van Van oil on her hands and massaged it into her skin. Then she placed her hands around the black candle and as she chanted an ancient prayer she stroked her slick hands downward on the glass, pushing away the evil forces that might impact the babies’ lives. It was never far from her thoughts that she was pushing away the evil of the sinner man that fathered the babies. She finished her prayer before the song ended. She lifted the candle, offered a final blessing, and kissed the glass before placing it down on the table.

She re-oiled her hands and began gently swaying as she offered another prayer while she stroked the white candle upwards to pull its essence of peace towards her and towards the children. She repeated the same upward stroking with the blue candle. Then it was time for the multi-colored candle.

The Van Van oil container was almost empty; perhaps a quarter inch of the liquid remained. Perfect. She picked up a second vial that had been resting in the crib between the babies, who were both awake at this point. She noted that both of their vivid, colorful eyes were alert and watching her. She opened the vial of viscous red maternal blood and mixed it with the remaining oil. She paused for just a few seconds, then nodded to herself. She removed a sharp stiletto with an intricately carved ivory handle from a drawer in her chest of supplies and tokens. Without hesitation she stabbed her left palm, drawing blood. She placed the knife down on the table, and let a dozen drops fall into the mixture of blood and oil she already had, then corked the vial and shook it.

She poured the mixture into her cupped palm and massaged it into her hands and forearms.

Madame LaVache picked up the last candle and held it aloft as she intoned Yemaya to summon the orisha’s blessing for the children as well as their mother. She placed the candle on the table and began rhythmic, vigorous upward stroking to draw the good powers of the colors towards her and her charges. She closed her eyes and swayed her body ever so slightly as she felt the power of the orisha fill her with ecstasy. Every cell in her body was on fire. She lost track of time, of corporeal being as she sank into the supernatural reservoir of her passion and strength. Still, she was aware enough of her duty, and she opened her eyes, surprised to find that the candle in her hands had burned halfway down; her immersion into her mind and heart had lasted far longer than she anticipated. She looked down at the babies; they were sleeping again.

She put the candle down, and dipped her right index finger into the hot melted wax. She touched the wax to the baby girl’s forehead, made the sign of the cross, and said something in Latin. She was wearing an odd silver ring, a snake with two bypassing heads. She touched the serpentine heads to the baby’s forehead, too. She repeated the action for the baby boy. She leaned over the crib, nearly touching their soft faces. She whispered their secret names and placed a kiss on each forehead.

Her ritual was done.

She opened the door to her ceremony room, then picked up the babies, cradling one in each arm. She walked down the short hallway to her living room. A young couple with expectant looks on their faces rose from the old couch on which they’d been waiting. They were dressed in their finest Sunday clothes; the woman’s glossy chestnut hair was tightly curled and swept back from her open, lovely, café-au-lait face, captured under a small, tightly woven straw hat with a pink silk rose appended to one side. She wore a pink polka-dot dress and white, open-toed shoes; her hands were encased in short white cotton gloves, and a white patent-leather purse dangled on her forearm. The man’s short black hair––parted on the right with razor-sharp precision––was straightened and plastered down with pomade that shone like glass even under the dim room lighting. He was wearing an ill-fitting suit and a stark white shirt; his red tie was meticulously knotted, most likely by his wife. Madame LaVache nodded, and the woman rushed forward and took one of the babies; her husband took the other. The woman’s dark green eyes crinkled in obvious joy; the man’s chocolate orbs were almost as happy, just tempered with the nervousness natural for a new father on whose shoulders a new, immense sense of duty and obligation now heavily rested. Madame LaVache felt a sense of relief that she had chosen well. She narrowed her soulful amber eyes whose vitality minimized the lines and creases on her coal-black, withered face. She handed the man the two forged birth certificates, then spoke but a few words.

Ils sont maintenant le vôtre. Élevez-les bien, car je vais regarder. Je surveillerai toujours. They are yours now. Raise them well, for I will be watching. I will always be watching.

The couple nodded, then left the ramshackle house in the city’s Faubourg Marigny neighborhood quickly as they took their new son and daughter on the journey home.

Madame LaVache dropped down on her sagging couch. She lit up a cigar laced with premium marijuana, and poured herself a generous draught of brandy. She smoked and drank, and laid her head back against the couch.

She smiled. And laughed.

BOOK ONE

"This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man’s hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star."

T.S Eliot (The Hollow Men)

Saguaro%20Content%20Book%20One%20Photo%20Under%20Quote%20770543%20xx-xx-2018.JPG

CHAPTER ONE

May 23, 1977, Tucson, Arizona

The sheets were clinging-wet. They stuck to his damp body and gave off a sweaty, musty smell that made him groan in resignation and disgust at the continuing unusual heat wave that was blasting oven-like temperatures across Tucson. This upcoming summer season promised to be one of the hottest on record if the vestiges of spring were this hot, and enduring it in a small, cramped house with no air conditioning moved past inconvenience to living Hell.

He scraped the sheets away from his legs and swung them over the edge of the bed. He paused, his heavy rhythmic breathing a noisy testament to his growing lethargy at the daily routine. He was oblivious to the clenching and unclenching of his hands around the edge of the mattress. Abruptly, he thrust himself off the edge of the bed and propelled himself towards the only respite to his physical and emotional discomfort.

Even the shower water was tepid and unrefreshing. He didn’t bother to use the soap, instead opting for a quick coating of the water that did nothing to remove the night’s sweat and grimy feeling. He toweled dry quickly and padded into the tiny kitchen where he threw a couple of sausages into the Litton microwave and poured a glass of orange juice. Unconcerned for any visual discomfort he might cause his neighbors he stepped out on the front walk and bent over to pick up the rolled-up copies of the Arizona Daily Star and the Old Pueblo Sentinel. As he straightened up he pulled off the rubber band on the Star and noted that the story-du-jour covered the horror hitting Europe: Moluccan terrorists from a small Indonesian province had taken over a school in Bovensmilde in northern Holland and were holding one hundred five hostages; they had also simultaneously taken ninety hostages on a passenger train on the Bovensmilde-Assen route. He thought briefly that almost half over 1977 was over and proving to be a problematic year across the globe. And if that wasn’t bad enough, the country was embroiled in what he considered the most troubling experience: disco music. Shameful. He was a classic-rock, country-western fan.

At least he could assuage his auditory horror by enjoying that much-hyped upcoming sci-fi film Star Wars, which was set to premiere in only two days. He had heard that anxious viewers were camping out at theaters to ensure they could get in and declare that they’d seen it first. He hoped it was better than the last film he’d seen at the theater, Day of the Animals, a horror non-classic to which most of the audience had guffawed in synchronicity from beginning to end. The special effects of animals gone mad from the depleting ozone layer were stunningly bad. The Showcase Luxury Cinema had quickly withdrawn the film when word of mouth spread and replaced it with re-showings of fan favorites, Annie Hall and The Eagle Has Landed.

He looked up and caught the disapproving glare of his neighbor, Mrs. Rodriguez. He grinned sheepishly and gave her a wave as he covered up the object of her steady gaze with the newspapers and backed into the house.

The microwave beeped and he pulled his steaming breakfast out and let the dish clatter on the kitchen table as he grabbed for his juice. He had barely settled down to read the Sports page when the phone rang. He glared at the ringing object for a few seconds before he reluctantly answered the call. It was getting harder and harder to pretend interest in his duties. Quintana, he snapped at the hapless person on the other end of the line.

There was a brief second of silence as that person tried to decide just how life-threatening the upcoming unwelcome conversation would be. All too familiar with her contact, the dispatcher sighed audibly and plunged right in.

Sergeant?

Quintana––what?!

Ah, Sergeant, Detective Wheeler asked me to tell you to, ah, get your butt over to the Saguaro West and back him up on a homicide call.

Where, exactly?

Just past the gate on the left, about a hundred yards.

Take me twenty minutes. Call Wheeler and let him know. Cursing himself for snapping for the umpteenth time at the wrong person, he added a quick, Thanks, Maria.

He hung up the phone and swallowed the last of the juice in one gulp and stuffed the two over-cooked, shriveled sausages into his mouth as he chewed his way into his bedroom. He kicked a pair of hiking boots out of his path; they had been lying in the same place ever since his Sabino Canyon hike the previous weekend. He pulled open the middle drawer of his dresser and took out a fresh shirt, shorts, and socks. He pulled them on quickly and shrugged into his tight jeans and well-worn cowboy boots, which pushed his six-foot-two height up another inch. He hooked up his worn shoulder holster and slid on his bolo tie. He checked his reflection in the dresser mirror, his dark brown eyes satisfied at his presentability, amused at the too-long black hair that his superiors razzed him about on a daily basis. He hesitated, then grabbed his single gold cross earring and affixed it to his left ear. That drove his superiors crazy. He swung out of the bedroom and grabbed his denim jacket as he opened his front door. He saw that Mrs. Rodriguez was still watering her plants and scowling at him. He smiled and waved; under his breath he muttered, Viejo murciélago. Mean old bat.

Seven-thirty, and it was already hot enough to fry the proverbial egg on the sidewalk. Great, he thought. Another swell day. He hoped to God that the stiff hadn’t been fermenting too long out in the desert; that smell stayed with a man for days.

Quintana maneuvered his ’64 sky-blue Mustang past the rush hour traffic on Tanque Verde until he came to Kolb Road and turned south. He followed the road down a bit paralleling Pantano Wash until he came to Speedway, where he turned west. He glanced quickly at a few commuter vans that were packed with people headed south towards the missile plant. He relaxed slightly at the knowledge that at least he was spared that daily grind. He couldn’t imagine surviving a cloistered day blocking out the smell of machine oil and shrieking noises that accompanied that particular blue-collar profession. His father had done it for twenty-five years. It had killed him.

He crossed under the I-10 interchange and continued west where Speedway blended into Gates Pass and elevated upwards of three thousand feet. It was just past the seasonal point where the mobs of tourists and despised snowbirds would fill the narrow road with their cars and RVs; still, they were plentiful even during the waning days of spring although they multiplied ten-fold when October rolled around. He had a fast trip to Kinney Road around the Tucson Mountain trail and bore north where the saguaros thrust their cross-like bodies up towards the sky. He passed the Arizona-Sonora Desert Museum sign and within minutes he arrived at the start of the western section of the Saguaro National Park and pulled his car up behind Luke Wheeler’s Blazer a short distance from the Visitor’s Center. He got out of the car and slid the cardboard protector over the dashboard, for all the good it would do in the Tucson heat.

He saw Luke waving at him from a small cluster of men. Ducking under the police tape he looked right and left and back again at the terrain hoping to spot something out of the ordinary. Nothing. He licked his chapped lips and squinted at the broken arm of a crucifixion thorn bush. The break appeared fresh, and he picked his way over to the bluish grey-green spiny shrub with only deadly looking branches and no leaves. This one was a mere five feet tall; they could grow as high as ten. He studied the broken branch; nothing special about it save the fact that the innards were green and fresh, meaning it hadn’t been disarticulated from the bush for very long.

Luke Wheeler broke away from the two officers who had responded to the initial call and walked briskly towards his partner. As usual the hyperkinetic Quintana was not so covertly scanning the area for clues, oblivious to his partner and anything else around him except the Job. Wheeler tapped him on the shoulder, and had to tap again before he was graced by Quintana’s attention. He smiled sardonically at the half-Hispanic, half-Irish sergeant.

Nasty one, Quint. Hope you haven’t had breakfast yet. Wheeler brushed back an errant lock of his sandy-brown hair and grinned, flashing his bright gold incisor, his light grey eyes sparkling almost mischievously. There was a smear of Vicks under his nose; that meant that the body had decomposed long enough to start stinking.

Quintana frowned absently. Wouldn’t make any difference. Eat in the Café Coyote and you can keep anything down. He returned his partner’s grin at mention of the greasy spoon two blocks down from the station, then asked soberly, Where is it? He accepted the small Vicks jar that Wheeler was holding out and smeared a generous amount of the viscous gel above his top lip.

Wheeler led him back to the road where the two uniforms were scribbling notes down from an agitated man in a wrinkled business suit. Wet spots were spreading from his armpits and his carefully combed hair was separating into damp clumps. His face was ashen, and Quintana’s stomach tightened at the sight and smell of fear that had been part and parcel of his world for too many years, from his time in Vietnam to his current law enforcement duties. He had never gotten used to it, to steeling himself into the detached manner behind which so many cops hid to keep their professionalism, and, more importantly, their sanity.

Wheeler inclined his head towards the suited man and introduced him to Quintana as the manager of the monument, Mr. Jason Hanson. Quintana nodded brusquely and started in.

Mr. Hanson, when did you find the body?

Ah, at about a quarter to seven.

What were you doing here at that time of morning?

Well, I had some paperwork to finish up. We’re kind of in the middle of an audit––

How did you find the body?

Well, I noticed a couple of chicken hawks flying around and, um, pecking at something. Then I noticed a red bandana lying on one of those cacti. So I went over, and, well, saw it. Hanson pointed towards an oddly shaped saguaro cactus whose right arm was bent in a manner that suggested a pointing finger. Appropriate, Quintana thought as he signaled to Wheeler to follow him to the death scene.

The two men picked their way carefully across the grounds making sure that they disturbed as little as possible before the forensics team arrived. Quintana could see and smell the body only two feet before he reached it; it was located behind a mass of thick, dense brush resting between two mounds of baked earth. The body lay at the foot of the huge saguaro cloaked in the safe embrace of an ironwood tree, looming over the corpse as though it were making a final judgment on and last rites for the body’s soul.

The corpse was that of a man. That much was certain. But it was going to take an autopsy to uncover the man’s identity if there was no ID on the body.

The man’s face was a bloody mess, covered in vicious cactus spines, resembling a hemorrhaging porcupine. It looked like someone had shoved him face-first into a cactus before completing the rest of the damage.

But that part of his anatomy was the least horrific.

Quintana stared down, frozen. Despite the heat, his skin was cold and goose bumps sprawled across his flesh like scales on a sidewinder.

My God, he said softly. Oh, my God.

A heavy ax blade was deeply embedded in the top of the man’s skull, buried almost to the point where the blade met the thick, smooth handle. The man’s throat was cut virtually to the bone.

And he was gutted, his chest and stomach opened, the skin flapped back, the innards either removed or savagely destroyed in what had to be a fit of rage. Someone wanted this man dead, and dead in a very viscerally brutal way.

The Crime Scene Unit’s on its way, Wheeler said.

Any ID on the body? Quintana asked, his eyes never leaving the decimated body resting on the hard desert earth. Despite the Vicks the smell was seeping up through his nose, and would saturate his clothes quickly. Well, he had to do a load of laundry that night anyway.

Didn’t have time to check, Wheeler replied.

Okay, Quintana said as he squatted and carefully fished in the man’s pants for a wallet. The pants were drenched in blood, as was the wallet Quintana extracted gingerly. He stood up and opened the wallet. Joseph Catalana, he said as he studied the driver’s license. Lives over near mid-town.

Lived, Wheeler corrected. Sorry, he muttered at Quintana’s stink-eye stare. Anything else useful in there?

Diner’s Club card. Master Charge. Library card. And this, Quintana said as he pulled out a crinkled photo of the dead man and a woman, arms around one another, smiling, alive. Must be the wife. Head over to the address and see if she’s there.

You don’t want me to send someone and stay here? Wheeler’s tone was huffy; he wasn’t a damned errand boy.

I think I can handle a dead man without you, but thanks for the offer. The two men generally worked well together, but there had been some tension ever since they both set their sights on the same woman a few weeks earlier. Phaedra Black Wolf owned a small but elegant Native American artifacts shop off Swan, and they had interviewed her about burglaries occurring in the neighborhood. Her ethnicity was mixed despite her obvious name; a tall, slender woman in her early twenties with waist-length ebony hair and hazel eyes, she was coy about her background, admitting only to having some Native American blood, and acknowledging that her unusual first name was Greek. Her nose was a little wide, and those hazel eyes resting above sharp, high cheekbones were deep-set; Quintana wondered if she didn’t have some black genes in her family history. It wouldn’t have mattered; this wasn’t the nineteenth century.

He was mixed, too: his father, Francisco Quintana, was a swarthy, black-haired, black-eyed man from Guadalajara, Mexico, and his mother was a cream-complexioned, freckled, red-headed, blue-eyed Irish lass from Boston; Quintana inherited his father’s raven’s-wing-black hair but had brown eyes, and much lighter skin. Wheeler had fallen head over heels in about ten seconds; it took Quintana a minute longer. Both men had independently made a point of returning for follow-up questions, but so far neither had come away with a date, or even the hint of one. Both men being alpha males, they found themselves circling each other, jockeying for prominence.

Suit yourself, Wheeler said coolly as he whirled around and stalked back towards the perimeter. He could feel Quintana’s eyes boring into his back but he didn’t turn around. The Crime Scene tech passed him just as he reached his car, and Wheeler mumbled a few words and gestured towards the death scene before he slammed into his Blazer and screeched off. Pete Murphy shook his head at the impetuous detective and approached Quintana grinning, his two young coworkers following him like adoring puppies.

He still pissed ’cause he thinks you got the edge with that Indian chick? Murphy said dryly as he broke open his case and fiddled with his camera. He directed his buddies, who broke open their own cases and began working a perimeter.

Native American, Quintana corrected. They don’t like to be called Indians.

A cactus flower by any other name, Murphy murmured as he began snapping photos of the dead man and the surrounding area. He forewent the Vicks; he was too used to the smell to care about it.

While Murphy snapped his shots Quintana scoured the area visually for anything out of place. Nothing. He walked a perimeter for twenty feet in each direction, carefully looking at the ground. Still nothing. Either the man had been killed where he was, or whoever brought the corpse here was very, very meticulous. He squinted back at Murphy and the corpse, then walked over to the tech. He got his associate’s attention and nodded down.

Those look like Saguaro spines in the man’s face to you?

Nope, sure don’t. Too thin. More like prickly pear.

You see any prickly pear in the immediate vicinity?

Murphy looked around. Nope. Passed a few groupings of the cow tongues on my drive up. Shame that it’s past their time for their flower blooming. You know, the fruits make a hell of a––

Time of death?

Who am I––the Amazing Kreskin? Gimme a few hours.

Okay, Quintana said. I’ll leave you to your work. Coroner should be here any time. I want the report asap, or sooner. He handed the dead man’s wallet to the tech, who dropped it into a plastic bag, sealed it, and wrote the date, time, and Quintana’s name on the label. He had already bagged the red bandana.

Will do. I can hazard a guess about cause of death. Ax.

Spectacularly incisive, Kreskin. I still want the official report. With that Quintana walked off briskly, reaching his Mustang just as the Coroner’s van pulled up. He exchanged a few words with the coroner, they shook hands, and he drove off back towards the city, satisfied that the uniforms would keep any looky-loos away. He wasn’t distracted enough to not notice the voluminous number and variety of cactus replete in the park area. He passed quite a few copses of prickly pear, pinkflower hedgehogs, staghorn and devil chollas, and fishhook barrels as well as the ubiquitous saguaros that grew nowhere else naturally on the planet except the Sonoran Desert. He loved the desert, and had spent many weekends hiking this part of the park as well as the eastern section near the Rincons, close by his home. Despite the fact that the two sections were part of the same national park system, and had quite a number of identical flora and fauna, they differed enough to provide a separate hiking experience. The Rincons were higher and wetter than the Tucsons, having originally been created by the Tucsons thirty million years earlier via crustal stretching and volcanic rock displacement. He preferred the Rincons if only for the less formidable climate.

He decided that he’d head over to the dead man’s residence and help Wheeler interview the wife if she was home; if not, they’d have to find her. The address was in a close-knit neighborhood off 22nd Street near the Reid Park Zoo, so the neighbors would most likely know everything about the couple. Tucson was designated a city, but it had a small-town feel, and secrets seemed to be both closely held and also altogether too well-known.

He sped through the underpass where Speedway intersected with the I-10, and not for the first time thought about what it would be like to get on that interstate one day and just keep driving and driving across the country and into another state, another life. There was nothing he would be leaving behind except his job; his parents were both dead, and he had no siblings. No wife, no kids. An uncle of sorts that he was sometimes at odds with. He hadn’t given his singular state of existence much thought, either, until he met Phaedra, who for God knew what reason seemed to touch something inside him, awakening a need, a desire. Even so, anything with her was in such an embryonic stage that it wouldn’t have an impact on his life if he did take the entrance ramp and head east.

He shook off his longing and made a right turn on Campbell, heading south to 22nd. He turned on Country Club and two streets later headed into 24th Street, an older neighborhood with well-spaced, single-story ranch houses, most with carports instead of garages, and lined with tall palm trees and palo verde trees. He headed about halfway down, frowning: he spotted Wheeler’s car, but there were also two patrol cars in front of the Catalana address. That wasn’t good. Wheeler was standing on the sparse lawn talking to a uniform; neighbors were dotting the nearby lawns, curious, whispering. He pulled his Mustang behind the Blazer and got out. Wheeler waved him over.

Wife home? Quintana asked tersely.

Yeah, she’s home, Wheeler said in his slow east-Texas drawl as he turned to lead his partner into the small white house. Quintana took note that the lawn was well-maintained, with a two-foot-wide brick border edging the house, filled with gravel and containing small cacti and lantanas. The Catalanas obviously cared for their home; actually, the entire street was neat and orderly. People here respected themselves and their neighbors.

Quintana took note that the inside was just as neat and orderly as the outside of the house. The furniture was old but not excessively worn; the drapes appeared new. There was a vase of fresh flowers on the coffee table. A half-empty cup of coffee rested nearby.

Is she in the kitchen? Quintana asked as he heard a rustling from that direction.

Yup, Wheeler said as he followed Quintana towards that room. They entered to see a uniformed officer standing over the sink retching. The officer looked at the detectives apologetically, then looked down.

Quintana followed his gaze. His stomach clutched.

I didn’t say she was alive, Wheeler said mildly as they both stared down at the butchered woman with the ax stuck in the back of her skull. A lake of blood surrounded her body like a red aura; the metallic smell mixed with growing decomposition aroma impregnated the air like a cloud reeking of death.

Quintana thought that the I-10 East was looking pretty damn good.

CHAPTER TWO

Tucson, Arizona, rests in a high desert valley four-fifths of the way down in the state, one hundred twenty miles south of Phoenix, the state’s capital city, and sixty miles north of the Mexico border. The origination of the city name is not entirely definitive: some believe that the name was derived from a Papago-Piman phrase meaning dark spring; others believe that the Spanish name for the city, Tucsón, originated as Cuk Ṣon, from the Native American O’odham tribe, meaning at the base of the black hill.

At an elevation of nearly 2,400 feet, it is cooler than Phoenix, and is surrounded by four mountain ranges: the Santa Catalinas, the Rincons, the Tucsons, and the Santa Ritas. It is served by a small airport, and its property costs are somewhat lower than their Phoenix counterparts. It’s generally considered a little more laid-back than Phoenix, a little more isolated, and a little more in tune with its Hispanic neighbors to the south. The architecture has more of a Spanish feel, and the older neighborhoods remind one of a time when single-story, stucco and adobe homes were the only ones providing shelter to the residents.

Now, however, as the latter part of the 1970s rolled on, more modern homes were springing up as the population grew not only from within but from immigrants to the warm, welcoming desert climate and all of the outdoor and indoor culture that the multi-ethnic city and surrounding towns had to offer. There weren’t many industries to speak of; the Hughes missile plant near the Air Force base was a major employer, as was the University of Arizona, and quite a few resorts catering to tourists. Small businesses abounded, from arts and crafts stores to clothing stores to those necessary to support the growing population and residences. There were a couple of malls enclosing small stores and larger flagship stores: the El Con Mall (Tucson’s first mall) had opened a little more than fifteen years earlier with retailers such as Levy, Penney, Kresge, Woolworth, and Montgomery Ward; it was rumored that next year a Goldwater’s would open its doors. The Park Mall had opened in 1975 on Broadway (with its major anchor the ironically named large retail store, The Broadway) on the east side, and was becoming very popular with its growing suite of customers. There were rumors that one or two new malls might open up in the next few years.

If anyone had a valid criticism of Tucson it was that its road systems left much to be desired; the I-10 bordered and bypassed the city to the west, and linked up with highway 19 heading towards the border. East-west was the true problem, being comprised only of streets not really wide enough or with enough lanes to accommodate the growing traffic that battled the directions through an abundance of traffic lights; anything north-south east of the I-10 was equally as problematic.

Phaedra Black Wolf didn’t especially care about the negative aspects of the town which she now called home. She believed that the benefits of living in Tucson outweighed the downsides, and she relocated to the city ten months ago after she graduated college. She had no desire to bury herself in the corporate or academic life; she always enjoyed anything artistic, and was quite a good acrylic painter of desert scenes and scenes of Native American culture. And, she was very adept at interfacing with people, treating everyone with respect and kindness. Those latter qualities served her well when she reached out to local Native American artists to buy their wares to sell in the small artwork-crafts-bookstore she opened off Swan. Southwest Soul was growing in customers and word-of-mouth, and Phaedra was gaining a reputation for being a stand-up person as well as intermediary with Native American artists.

Her first success was convincing the well-known and respected Yaqui artist Julio Banderas to allow her to consign some of his pottery or sculptures; she sold them all during the high tourist season, and they both made money. Banderas referred her to several of his cousins, and before long she had an impressive selection of native artwork ready for the swooning hearts and wallets of people who traveled to the city for a week or a month or longer. They didn’t seem to mind paying her exorbitant prices since they believed––correctly––that they were getting genuine art created by American Indians. Phaedra found a great deal of professional and personal satisfaction in the knowledge that the pieces she sold graced homes from California to New England––and even one in Sydney, Australia.

She was a one-woman operation, although on weekends she did employ a young U of A student to spell her in the afternoons. When the hot weather hit and the snowbirds thankfully returned to their godforsaken nests she shut down her store on Fridays and Saturdays, giving herself a long weekend to enjoy her home and explore the desert, its flora, its fauna, and its people. Part Native American herself, she and her people came from the east, mainly in Tennessee and Kentucky; a few branches lived in Louisiana and Mississippi. Her ethnicity mixed Cherokee and Choctaw; her Louisiana cousins had a sprinkling of Natchez blended in, as well as Negro blood from not-too-distant ancestors, including her light-skinned mother; her father was a proud Greek-American, which accounted for her mythological name, and that of her twin brother, Constantine. Her complexion was a mixture of her parents’ skin colors, what she described as a