Jonathan Kellerman - The Murderer's Daughter

She cracked her window, let in dust and heat and diesel fuel. The sun was gone now but you could still see things and they pricked her memory, too: The fringy tops of those wrinkled plants with their gray leaves. Discarded oil drums and other metal stuff heaped in piles off the side of the road.

Desert, miles of it.

And now Wayne had turned off onto a road that made Grace’s heart pound. A sign pointed the way to Desert Dreams. If he wasn’t going so fast, she would’ve tried to jump out of the car.

Even though she couldn’t escape, she imagined it. Balling her hands into fists so she could punch Wayne on the back of his fat neck, make him stop.

The desert. How long could she survive by herself?

Not long, no place to hide. Unless she could make it all the way to the mountains. But maybe it was worse up there, she had no idea, she’d never been.

All she had on was a Disneyland T-shirt, shorts, sneakers. Up in the mountains it could probably get real cold, even in the summer.

She knew that because sometimes when Dodie used to complain about living in a damn oven, Grace could see snow atop the mountains.

It was too dark to tell if there was snow, all Grace could see were the outlines of the mountains, big and sharp.

Like knives.

Wayne said, “Almost there. How ya doin’?”

Terrible, you stupid caseworker.

Grace said, “Okay.”

“A little nervous, huh? That’s natural, new surroundings. Tell the truth, kid, I don’t know how any of you do it, the constant shuffling — being moved around.” He chuckled. “Shuffled like cards in a deck. Come to think about it, it is kind of like a game of chance.”

Grace stared at the back of his neck. Spotted a pimple to the side of his ponytail. If she used her nail to flick it, the pain might be enough to...

Then she realized he hadn’t turned toward Desert Dreams, this was a road she’d never seen. Skinnier, real dark, and Wayne was muttering something about “out in the boonies” and making his headlights brighter, turning the area in front of the car into a cold, white tube.

Dust flew up from the tires, like upside-down rain. The sand stretched forever.

Why was he taking her here?

Now a different kind of fear crawled into her belly and kept going, lodging in her throat.

Was he one of those ?

She searched for some detail to remember. It took a long time before anything rose above the desert. But then: A big yard of metal garbage. Broken-up trucks. Part of an old bus, too. Heaps of wheels and metal grilles and things that looked like metal branches.

As soon as the junkyard was gone, a fenced area that said Water Station: No Admittance.

Grace put one hand on her seat belt clasp so she could undo it fast if she needed to.

Wayne was fat, Grace figured she could outrun him.

He began to hum off-key.

All of a sudden more buildings appeared outside Grace’s window. A trailer park just like Desert Dreams, this one was called Antelope Palms but with no palms or any other kind of plant around. To her surprise, she was happy seeing the mobiles.

Wayne kept driving and humming louder. More open space followed by another mobile park. And another. Brightly lit signs chewing their way through the darkness.

Sunrise Motor Estates.

Morningview Motorhaven.

Okay, so she’d end up somewhere like Desert Dreams, but without the memories... okay, that would be okay.

Despite telling herself that, she shuddered. Hugged herself tight and tried not to be sick.

Time for good thoughts, she’d been practicing that in order to drive out bad ones, it was hard but she was getting better at it.

Okay. Breathe. Think good... maybe her new fosters would live in a double-wide with a real bed for her... maybe there’d be a big enough refrigerator so she wouldn’t have to wait for scraps. Maybe — Wayne made a sudden turn and got on another road, this one really, really bumpy.

They were getting closer to the mountains.

Nothing out here but more of those fringy trees — Grace suddenly remembered what they were called. Joshuas, they were passing through kind of a forest of Joshuas — another turn, then another, and bigger trees appeared — now there were palms and some roundish ones with clusters of small leaves.

The road had turned straight and less bumpy and Wayne had stopped humming.

A gate appeared up ahead. He braked smoothly, slid to a stop. The gate was connected to metal fencing, like for a horse corral, but there were no horses Grace could see.

Maybe they were in a barn or something, asleep.

Above the gate was a spotlight that shone on a wooden plaque. Burned in the wood was cursive lettering.

Stagecoach Ranch

This caseworker was taking her to be a cowgirl?

He idled the car, got out, swung the gate open, returned to the driver’s seat. “Pretty cool, no? I figure everything you been through, you deserve something better, kiddo. Guess what this place was used for back in the day?”

Grace said, “Animals?”

“Good answer but even better, Ms. Grace Blades. This was a film ranch, they used it to shoot movies.” He laughed. “Who knows, you might even come across some memorabilia — that means old interesting stuff.”

He drove through the gateway. Up ahead was a house, bigger than Grace had ever seen except in books. Two stories high, wide as two normal houses, with white wooden boards running along the front and up three steps, a front porch that tilted to one side.

Wayne whistled through his teeth. “Home sweet home, kiddo.”

He gave a short honk. A woman came out of the house drying a dish with a towel. Old and small, she had white hair that hung below her waist, a sharp nose that reminded Grace of a bird, and skinny arms that moved fast as she kept up the drying.

Wayne got out and held out his hand for a shake. The woman barely touched his fingers and resumed her towel work. “You’re a bit late, amigo.”

“Yeah, sorry.”

“Heck,” said the woman, “it’s not as if I’m booked with appointments.” She approached the car, moving nimbly despite her age. Stooping, but not too much because she was short, didn’t have to lower herself a lot to gaze through the window.

Peering at Grace, she made a rotary motion that Grace figured meant, “Roll it down.”

She obeyed and the old woman studied her. “You’re a pretty thing, aren’t you? Nice to have both — brains and looks. I’m telling you that from personal experience.” She laughed like a younger woman. “So what do you like to be called?”

“Grace.”

“Simple enough. I’m Ramona Stage and for the most part you can stick with Ramona. When I get grumpy — it does happen, I’m human — you might try Mrs. Stage. But mostly Ramona’ll be fine. Okay?”

“Okay.”

“Get your stuff, I’ll show you your room.”

The house was even bigger inside, with heavy, dark furniture everywhere and wood-plank walls covered with paintings of flowers and photos of a man — the same man, over and over — in a fancy black shirt and white cowboy hat. Grace didn’t have a chance to notice more; she was hurrying up the stairs after Ramona Stage, who’d grabbed Grace’s bags and was moving like she was weightless.

At the top was a wide, brown-carpeted landing with six doors. The air smelled of tomato soup and maybe some kind of laundry detergent.

“That,” said Ramona, pointing to the nearest door, “is my bedroom. Door’s open, you can knock. If I say ‘okay’ or ‘enter’ or ‘come in’ or something along those lines, you can come in. You find the door closed, don’t even try. That room at the far end is a linen closet. The one next to it is the bathroom. I’ve got my own so it’s just for the kids. That leaves three bedrooms for the kids and right now I got two little ones in the left-hand room, one by himself over there, he’s got special circumstances. All boys, but that could change. Meanwhile, you, being the only female, get your own space, which is something I can’t always promise. Obviously it’s going to be the smallest room. That seem unfair to you?”