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  Edna recognized him and her composure slipped. There was a note of panic in her voice. “Why is he here?”

  “To take you into custody, sweetheart. Remember your bail bondsman? He has the right to pursue bail skips, and since he’s not a government agent, he doesn’t need a warrant.”

  • • •

  I confess I chortled all the way to the office, cheered by the idea that Edna and Joseph would finally be held to account. I’d barely sat down at my desk when the phone rang. I picked up, hoping it was Henry so I could share the good news.

  It was Dietz. He skipped right over the greetings and the chitchat. “What have you gotten yourself into?”

  I felt like someone had thrown a bucket of water in my face. “You obviously know more than I do, so you tell me.”

  “I can tell you who Susan Telford is. Everybody in this part of the state knows who she is. She’s a fourteen-year-old white female who disappeared two years ago in March. It must not have made the papers in California, but it was all over the news here: headlines, television coverage, radio appeals, reward offered.”

  I felt myself go still. “What happened to her?”

  “She vanished. She might as well have gone up in smoke. She was last seen the morning of the twenty-eighth, walking on Paseo Verde Parkway in Henderson, the supposition being she was on her way to the park. Her mother reported her missing that evening when she didn’t come home. The cops talked to everyone—family, her friends, teachers, the park maintenance crew, people who lived in the area surrounding the park. They rounded up registered sex offenders, vagrants.”

  “Nobody saw anything?”

  “Eventually her best friend spoke up. At first, she was too damn scared, but she finally broke down and told her mom. Not that it made a difference. Her information was too vague to be of help.”

  “Told her mom what?”

  “Her story was some guy approached Susan in the mall a couple of days before. He was there snapping Polaroids. He said he worked for a fashion magazine and asked if she’d be interested in some freelance modeling. According to him, this was all preliminary. He’d be coming back with a crew to do the shoot in a few days, but he was scouting the area, looking for locations, and while he was at it, had his eye out for new and fresh talent.”

  “Dietz.”

  “That was all crap, of course. The guy was obviously cruising for young girls, and she was gullible enough to—”

  I cut in again. “I’ve heard this story, only in the version I was told, her name was Janet Macy and she lived in Tucson. She was approached by a photographer with much the same kind of line. I talked to her mother on the phone a week ago. She last saw her daughter in 1986, but she thinks Janet went off to New York to launch her modeling career. Some photographer claimed he worked in the fashion industry and thought she showed promise. He was going to help her put together a portfolio. Not even sixteen years old and she went off with him like a damn fool.”

  “Shit.”

  “Her mother did file a missing-persons report, but the officer didn’t think she had anything to worry about. He took down all the information and told her to get in touch if she heard from Janet, but forget about that. All this time she’s been telling herself stories about where the girl was and why she didn’t write. This is Ned Lowe. I know it is. He works in outside sales, but photography has been his passion since he was in high school.

  “The reason I mentioned him in the first place was because both Susan’s name and Janet’s were on the list Pete put together. One of the six women was his first wife, who died back in 1961. One divorced him and the other one is currently married to him. The fourth was involved in a so-called love relationship that she broke off.”

  “Where is he now?”

  “Well, he lives in Cottonwood, but he was scheduled to leave on one of his annual photographic jaunts, which begin to sound like hunting trips. His wife said she’d call after he left, but I haven’t heard from her, so maybe he’s getting a late start.”

  “I’ll have the detectives in Henderson talk to Tucson. At least they can compare notes and establish the link if there is one. Why don’t you talk to Cheney and tell him what’s come up. Maybe there’s a way to corral the guy. You know where he’s headed?”

  “Not a clue, and his wife doesn’t know, either.”

  Dietz said, “Never mind. I’ll call Santa Teresa PD myself. I know more of Susan Telford’s story than you do, and it’ll save them some time.”

  I gave him Ned and Celeste’s address and phone number in Cottonwood. I replaced the handset in the cradle, feeling the tension seep out of me. It was a relief to turn the whole issue of Ned Lowe over to law enforcement. I’d pursued the matter as far as I could, and now that I knew about the two missing girls, it was clear I was out of my element. Dietz had sworn he’d keep me posted, but I didn’t expect news anytime soon. In the meantime, I was hoping for a way to distract myself. I pulled out two sheets of typing paper and a fresh sheet of carbon paper and rolled them into the carriage, pausing to think about how to frame the information I’d just been given.

  I heard the office door open and close. I looked up, but no one appeared in the doorway. I waited briefly and then got up from my desk and crossed the room, peering out into the reception area. I looked to my right just as Ned Lowe grabbed me and locked his arm around my neck. He leaned back and lifted me almost off my feet and then flipped me so that I came down hard. I might have grunted as I hit the carpet, but that was the only sound I made. I was astonished to find myself facedown, staring at the floor from a distance of less than an inch. My cheek was pressed hard against the rug, which bit into my skin more viciously than you’d imagine. The takedown had been so quick, I could scarcely comprehend what was happening. I had that odd sensation at the bridge of my nose that denotes a hard blow. No blood gushed out, so my guess was the cartilage was intact. He had his knee in the middle of my back and he grabbed me by the hair and pulled my head up far enough to get one hand on my face. He pinched my nose shut, that same warm hand covering my mouth. I thought, Oh shit. I knew what this was. This was how Lenore died.

  In the brief moment as I went down, I’d noted the absurdity of my situation. It was broad daylight. My office was wired, equipped with a panel where an emergency button would signal my distress and bring help in short order. The problem was while I could move my feet, I couldn’t lift my hips or legs and I couldn’t buck or turn my lower body. The small effort I made was futile and only burned oxygen I needed to conserve.

  I converted any thought of resistance to a simple resolve to breathe. Fewer than ten seconds had passed, but his weight prevented me from drawing a breath and the panic was overwhelming. Compressive asphyxia had limited the expansion of my lungs to the point of suffocation. This crushing phenomena was precisely what I’d been avoiding by never jacking up my car and sliding under it to make homely repairs. The nose pinch and the palm pressed hard against my mouth formed a seal. My attention was most wonderfully concentrated on the need for air. Often in moments of physical jeopardy, I’m entertained by the incongruities of time and place. Once when I was bleeding on a stretch of office carpeting, thinking soon I’d be shot to death, I wondered idly what unlucky soul would be hired to clean up the mess. With blood, cold water is always preferable to hot because heat cooks the protein content, causing it to set. You don’t want blood to dry, either, because you’ll only compound the staining issue. Never seal your bloody evidence in a plastic bag. In short order, it will putrefy and will be worthless in court.

  I wasn’t concerned with any of the above just then. Oxygen deprivation is a speedy means of leaving this earth. I figured three minutes tops—unconsciousness followed by crippling brain damage followed by death. The pain in my lungs was searing, the need for air so acute that I nearly gave myself up to it. I could not make a sound. No air passed in or out of me, and the carbon dioxide in my system
built so rapidly that I felt like I was being consumed from within. The hand was warm and fleshy, and if he’d been doing anything other than killing me, I might have appreciated his strength. All the times I worked late, the nights I’d stopped off at the market on my way home, times I’d found myself on empty streets in the dark. I’d always felt safe. I’d thought I was prepared.

  Straining for air was pointless. I lay still, trying to signal submission. Did he know he was killing me? Of course he did! That was the point. My heart hammered and my blood pressure soared as my systems labored to feed my brain the oxygen required to continue functioning. Heat radiated through my chest and spread along my arms.

  What aggravated the hell out of me, in the brief time I had for reflection, was the thought of all the time and energy I wasted learning to fight. Success at hand-to-hand combat is predicated on traction and balance, on the landing of solid kicks, on strikes with knuckles, elbows, and knees. I thought about all the orderly exercises I’d participated in, learning self-defense. In class, grabbing your opponent’s arm gave you sufficient leverage to turn the tables on him, dispatching your assailant with speed. Hair grabs and forearm blocks, heel stomps to your attacker’s instep, a chop to the back of his neck. Head butt, followed by elbow smash to the solar plexus. I could flip my opponent with the best of them. I couldn’t remember a training scenario in which I’d been flung to the floor while my aggressor stopped my breathing by the leaden application of dead weight, mouth and nose blocked until death ensued. I pictured the books on self-defense with the stern admonitions to jab your attacker’s eyes while you snapped a knee to his groin. In my current prone position, none of that was possible. I was going to die here and I wanted my money back.

  I was tipping toward the swelling black. My hearing had begun to fade and a rising tone sounded in my head. The good news was that the pain was beginning to recede. It crossed my mind that you never think you’re going to die until you do.

  He pressed his cheek against mine, and I realized he’d eased the weight of his knee and he was no longer pinching my nose shut. This allowed me to take in a teaspoon of air, for which I was profoundly grateful. He was whispering and it took me a moment to hear what he was saying. I expected to hear threats until it occurred to me that a threat would be silly when he was already in the process of killing me. I was still immobilized, but he’d eased his weight just enough for me to suck in a bit more air; not enough for normal breathing, but enough to ease my panic. I blinked and took stock.

  His breath against my ear was hot, a cloud of Listerine fumes disguising whatever he’d eaten earlier. His voice was strained. Despite the efficiency with which he’d taken me down, he’d had to exert himself, and even though my struggle was minimal, his efforts had taken a toll. He whispered hoarsely, as though short of breath himself. When I’d seen him at April’s, I remember thinking he was soft. Judging from his pasty complexion and the bags under his eyes, I’d assumed he was weak. A miscalculation on my part.

  He said, “I’m good at this. Really good, because I’ve had lots of practice. I can bring you back from the brink or take you out so far you’ll never get back. Are you hearing me?”

  He seemed to be waiting for a response, but I couldn’t manage it. Warm breath against my ear. “Listen carefully,” he went on. “You have to stop, okay? Don’t insert yourself in business that’s none of your concern.”

  I tuned him out, rejoicing at the feeling of air on my face. The pressure had lessened just enough for me to take in half breaths. I wanted to gulp. I wanted to suck huge mouthfuls down into my lungs. I didn’t want to hear what he had to say, but just in case it was pertinent, I decided I better pay heed.

  “Leave it alone. What’s done is done and nothing will change the facts. Do you understand? No more of this.”

  I couldn’t nod. I couldn’t even move my head. He was so matter-of-fact, it was disconcerting. If I screamed, if I even managed to moan (which I wasn’t capable of in any event), the mouth and nose clamp would come back. The idea filled me with horror.

  “Don’t make me come after you again.” He spoke as though it pained him to spell it out, but anything that transpired from this time forward would be my fault.

  He got up. The absence of pressure was so sudden, I thought I might be levitating. I didn’t hear the office door close behind him, but I knew he was gone. I pulled myself up onto my hands and knees and then to my feet. I staggered shakily as far as the guest chair and sank into it. My chest hurt. I could feel darkness gather, my peripheral vision closing in. It would be odd to faint when I’d just stumbled back from the brink of unconsciousness.

  I put my head between my knees and waited for the shimmering blackness to go away. I was clammy at the core and a line of sweat trickled down my face in a rush of heat and ice. I could still feel the weight of his knee. I could feel the warmth of his palm across my mouth, the fleshy clothespin of his fingers pressing my nostrils shut. My heart was still thumping hard, apparently not in receipt of the news that we were alive. Or perhaps not convinced.

  AND IN THE END . . .

  In my final report, I must warn you there’s good news and bad. In the bad news department, Ned Lowe vanished. By the time Cheney Phillips reached the Lowes’ residence in Cottonwood, he was already gone. While Cheney was quizzing Celeste about Ned, he was busy burking me on my office floor.

  Celeste said her husband had packed everything in the Argosy Motorhome after dinner the night before. At two in the morning, she’d been awakened by the sound of the vehicle pulling out of the drive. No note, no good-bye, no hint as to his destination. When Cheney suggested she call the bank, she discovered that Ned had emptied their checking and savings accounts, which suggested he was on his way out of one life and onto something else. Maybe this was the big change he’d mentioned to her.

  Cheney put out immediate calls to the California Highway Patrol, the Arizona Highway Patrol, and the Nevada Highway Patrol. He also notified the Santa Teresa PD and the Santa Teresa County Sheriff’s Department to be on the lookout. The Argosy, with its FOTO BIZ license plate, was not only highly visible, but a notorious gas-guzzler. The expectation was that the vehicle would be spotted the first time he was forced to stop and refuel. It didn’t happen that way.

  Two weeks after Ned Lowe left the area, the Argosy was discovered in a remote area of the Mojave, gutted by fire, its chassis warped by heat, its flammable components reduced to ash. The vehicle identification number on the front of the engine block had been obliterated, but a second VIN in the rear wheel well was still legible, having been shielded by the tire.

  There was no sign of Ned. The assumption was that he’d fled the area on foot, and had perhaps hitched a ride with a passing stranger when he reached the nearest highway.

  He’s now been linked to a number of disappearances, all young girls between the ages of thirteen and seventeen. Twenty-three photographs were developed from negatives he left behind in his darkroom. Those pictures were published in newspapers across the country, flashed on television newscasts, along with appeals to the public for their cooperation in identifying the subjects.

  Family members were quick to spot their missing loved ones. A few young women even recognized themselves and stepped forward, not appreciating until that moment how close they’d come to disaster. There was no way to determine why some had survived the encounter with Ned Lowe and some had died. I number myself among those spared for reasons I can’t fathom.

  In the good news department, Edna and Joseph Shallenbarger were arraigned in Perdido Superior Court on April 12, 1989. She was charged with felony grand theft, forgery, and failure to appear. He was charged with forgery as well, along with aiding and abetting the embezzlement and failure to appear. There were a few additional charges thrown in just to sweeten the pot. I’m not sure what happened to all the money Edna stole, but she claimed indigence. The pair requested and were assigned a public defender, who aske
d for a continuance to allow him time to prepare his case.

  I wasn’t present, but I heard about their brief appearance from an attorney friend who was in the courtroom for a hearing later the same morning. Joseph was once again confined to a wheelchair, claiming an injury suffered at the time of his arrest. I could have told him he was too out of shape to make a run for it. His new chair is electric, equipped with a sip-and-puff delivery system. According to my friend, Joseph sat slumped to one side, his head atilt, his right hand clawlike and immobile in his lap. It was all fake, of course, but he did a good job maintaining the fiction.

  I can only imagine the conversation that took place in the judge’s chambers, the assistant district attorney dreading the inevitable courtroom contretemps. Who wants to be the heartless bastard who prosecutes an eighty-one-year-old woman whose only concern is the welfare of the husband she’s been married to for sixty years, who’s now having to puff and sip his way through life, barely able to lift his head?

  Also by way of good news, as I was closing up the office one afternoon during that same period, I received a call from Ari and Teddy Xanakis, who were happily ensconced at Claridge’s in London, having the time of their lives while waiting to hear what the Turner experts had to say about their painting. They were feeling optimistic and, sure enough, by the time they returned to California on the fifteenth of April, its authenticity had been confirmed.

  Months later, after Ari’s marriage to Stella Morgan was dissolved, Ari and Teddy married for a second time in a civil ceremony at the Santa Teresa courthouse. Stella was not invited, but I was. I’d have insisted on my role as the oldest living flower girl on record, but it would have looked silly under the circumstances.

  There’s a commonly accepted assumption that the rich are greedy and uncaring and the elderly are frail and ineffectual. This isn’t always the case, of course. Sometimes it’s old people who lie, cheat, and steal. Ari and Teddy are supporting all the local charities again, and their generosity is legendary.