Блейк Крауч: Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 133, No. 5. Whole No. 813, May 2009

“The mother didn’t tell me that, not that it makes any difference, Miss—” She glanced down at the card — “Miss Terry.”

“Why don’t you call me Lane? That’s what my friends call me.”

“Then call me Marcella. I’m assistant pastor.” She smiled a little in spite of herself, maybe hoping I really wasn’t on the wrong side of things. But she didn’t offer to shake hands or invite me inside, either. We were still in the little garden, both of us standing, neither giving way.

Finally, I asked, “Sure there’s nothing you could do?”

“The answer’s still the same. Sorry, can’t help you.”

“Can’t, not won’t?” My words slipped out. She gave me another appraising look but said nothing, so I added, “I also want you to know that it’s my policy when I look for someone and find them, I don’t tell the client until after the person they’re looking for says they want to be found. Understand? I would never put someone in harm’s way. Anyway, you have my card. Nice meeting you.”

“Goodbye,” she said.

The next morning, I took a quick beach walk, showered off the sand, and put on my cat-burglar outfit, black wool slacks and black cashmere sweatshirt, because the day was overcast and almost chilly. Then I pulled on a matching pair of black Keds and walked to the farmer’s market for some produce. When I got back, I dialed the number Ruth Holloway had given me one more time — after about ten attempts the night before — and let it ring on my speaker phone as I filled my veggie crispers. If someone answered, I could report that the “lady preacher” had not been forthcoming and that I had thus discharged all professional services agreed to and good luck to her.

But there was no answer, no machine, and no particular surprise. As far as I was concerned, that closed the case that never was.

Five minutes later, my phone rang.

“Lane Terry? This is Marcella Perkins from The Little Church on the Hill.” Her voice sounded weak and a little slurred. “I need to see you right away.”

I checked my watch. “What’s it about? I’m at home, in South Laguna,” I said. “You want me to meet you at the church?”

“I’m not at the church. I’m at Hoag.”

As in Hoag Hospital. “Is everything okay?”

“I’ll be fine,” she said, grunting with probable discomfort. “I need to see you, but they’re keeping me here a couple of days for observation. I took a fall and hit my head.”

“Oh, no. Sorry to hear that.”

“Would it be convenient for you to come right away?”

It wasn’t, but she hadn’t impressed me as someone who played games. “Look, I’ll come as soon as I can. If traffic isn’t too bad I should make it in about forty-five minutes.”

She gave me a room number, and we hung up.

Though I was uneasy not knowing what she wanted, I assumed that something was wrong. Traffic was heavy but moving, and I motored up Pacific Coast Highway making good time, my Honda wheezing up the hill to the hospital with its admirable Japanese spirit of endurance. As I took the elevator up and saw my reflection, I realized I was dressed for a funeral.

Marcella Perkins was in a semiprivate room with someone who slept the whole time I was there. Marcella’s bed had a big flower arrangement next to it, on one of those wheelie tables where they put a plastic pitcher, a cup, and a little spittoon. When I walked in, she opened her eyes and smiled like a survivor. She had a black eye and a split lip. The bandages that wrapped around just above her ears left her gray hair sticking comically out the top, but it wasn’t funny at all. More bandages wound down her right forearm and hand. The index and middle fingers were splinted and wrapped together.

A fall down the stairs it wasn’t, but I played along politely.

“I’m so sorry about your accident,” I said. “What do the docs tell you?”

Her painful little smile widened. “Of course they don’t tell you a thing. ‘Wait and see,’ they say. Even though they claim I don’t have a concussion, they want me to stay so we can all wait and see together. It may be they think I’ll sue them, as if I would! In any case, I’m okay, and I’m not lonely. I called you for a reason.”

I let my face ask the question.

“I didn’t really fall,” she explained without the slightest air of drama. “A man came just after you left. He said he was Megan’s father. You can see what he did. When I wouldn’t tell him anything, he punched me a couple of times, hit me with a telephone, and took off with my purse. I found it just outside the door. All he took was some cash and my address book.”

“Well, you’re sure calm enough about it,” I said, trying not to imagine being beaten. “Marcella, he did that to you and you didn’t call nine-one-one?”

“I did. I knew I needed medical attention.”

“Yeah, but what about the cops?”

“I didn’t want to report it. Still don’t.” She had a finality about her statement that made it pointless to ask why. Maybe she thought he’d come back and finish the job if she did report it, given what she’d said about the address book.

I felt the pounding pulse of imagination in my ears when she said, “I want to hire you to take a message to someone for me.”

I headed out toward the desert in the persona of a crusty old prospector with a map to a hidden mine. Marcella couldn’t write, so she’d had to tell me how to draw the map, which was of the inland desert northeast of San Diego a few miles from Warner Springs, according to her estimation. She had been there only once, she said, “so some of the details might be off.” I wondered if that meant I’d just have to knock at derelict trailers until I found the one without a serial killer in it. Or if I took a wrong turn south, I might end up in Mexico, be taken for a drug mule or a journalist, and never be heard from again. Sometimes you just have to slap yourself for having thoughts like that.

It was getting dark, and it was my own fault that I’d gotten stuck in getaway traffic in Orange County. I went out of my way to save time, but instead the highway was choked with high-end cars, SUVs, and monster trucks with aggressive drivers heading home with very poor manners. I got off as soon as I could, but Marcella’s map didn’t direct me to do anything specific before I crossed into San Diego County. In fact, her map stank, but it wasn’t her fault that Holloway had stolen her address book. Her little map was all I had to go on, because my regular state map left out the really small roads, and since I had no route numbers and no address, even a GPS would have been useless. On the plus side, I had a certain blind confidence, and I wanted to help Marcella. As I was leaving, I’d tried to talk her into reporting the crime, but if she didn’t, I’d do it myself as soon as I got back. What kind of animal beats up a sweet little old bear-lady minister?

As I shot straight south on a middling desert highway with few cars swishing by, my cell phone played a few bars of the Brandenburg Concerto No. 3. It was Ron, his voice breaking up with a poor signal, telling me that the Texas car was registered to Naomi Conkling of Brownsville.

I asked, “Any relation to the Conklings?”

“Yes, ma’am. That would be the sister of Gary Conkling. He’s now a long-term guest at the Leavenworth Marriott.”

“Omigod,” I said. “Guess I owe you one—”

For a few seconds the speaker sent out crunchy noises. I waited, and Ron came back in at “—paid up. You ready to let me take you to dinner, though?”

“Sounds great,” I said slowly and clearly. “Why don’t you bring along Tiffany and the baby?”

“You go messing with Conkling’s friends and relations, you’re [ crunch, crunch ] need my help.”