Striking Blind: A Sorrel Janes Mystery

Lonna Enox Publications

Lonnaenox.org

Strking Blind

by Lonna Enox

Copyright © 2012 Lonna Enox ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

First Printing – November 2016

ISBN:   978-0-9977424-5-9

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

EXCEPT FOR BRIEF TEXT QUOTED AND APPROPRIATELY CITED IN OTHER WORKS, NO PART OF THIS BOOK MAY BE REPRODUCED

IN ANY FORM, BY PHOTOCOPYING OR BY ELECTRONIC OR MECHANICAL MEANS, INCLUDING INFORMATION STORAGE OR RETRIEVAL SYSTEMS, WITHOUT PERMISSION IN WRITING FROM THE  COPYRIGHT  OWNER/AUTHOR.

Printed in the U.S.A.

Striking Blind

by

Lonna Enox

For my dad, Lon…

the first cowboy I learned to love

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

My Heroes…My friends…My family

Tim Renfrow, Wasteland Press, created this beautiful cover as well as those of my first two books.

My pastor, retired police detective, Troy Grant, explained the make-up of a task force, what they can or cannot do, and answered my questions without ever grinning at my ignorance.

My longtime editor and friend, Sandy Stogsdill, has the patience of Job and the wisdom of Solomon.  She is patient, positive, and ever diligent to push me toward the best I can do.

Friend, Lucy Nials, retired Home Economics teacher, supplied Teri’s and Reed’s recipes for Green Chili Stew.

My daughters, Monica and Marissa, spirited me away to Branson for a week of wacky fun when I expressed that maybe I would never finish this book.  Their sense of fun reminds me of Sorrel, and revives me when I falter.  Their greatest gift is their continued love and belief that I can do this.  Marissa is the photographer for my back cover photo.

My son Nathan cares for my critters and home while Ron and I travel to research or promote the books.

My grandchildren, Brooke and Drake, who read my books and happily tell people at book signings that their grandma hears voices.

My husband, Ron, saves both me and the computer from destruction during the writing process.  When he hears Oh! No!, he magically appears, taps here or there, and the hours of work that have just vanished reappear.  He cooks meals and reminds me to eat them, keeps the pets content, and reminds me on a regular basis that sleeping is a necessary evil even when my characters are in a tough spot and need me.  He answers the scientific questions, takes photos, and tramps through the hills and woods while we research the locale for each book.  When I hold my finished book in my hands, he wipes my tears and gives me a hug.

My younger brother, Ben, for whom I wrote my first book with crayons on a brown grocery sack when I was 4 and he was 2, and my older brother, Russ, whose gorgeous western artwork captures my love for our Southwest, are my earliest friends and my loyal fans, as well as my extended family.

Ho!  Now you strike like the blind man!

MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING    William Shakespeare

Prologue

                Wind raged through the canyon, stirring up clouds of sand so strong that the stinging grains buried into the skin. Three shadowy shapes followed an almost invisible trail, each carrying a flashlight, stumbling occasionally, wiping gritty eyes with gloved hands, and hunching shoulders against the powerful blasts. 

                A fourth, his hands tied behind his back, lurched between the last two. He had no light, and his boots occasionally caught on something that caused him to pitch forward. His captors, their faces almost covered with their neckerchiefs pulled up over their mouths, muttered ugly comments while yanking him back to his feet.

                The prisoner’s mind searched frantically for anything to help him escape what would only be torture and death. He stumbled again, thankful that his captors blamed his clumsy journey on the darkness instead of a stalling technique. He wasn’t sure how much farther they would go or how quickly his death would come. The odds didn’t look good—3 to 1. Not the poker hand he’d envisioned as he’d sat down at the table in Manuel’s Tavern. 

                Poker had intoxicated him from his very first week of college. It beckoned, flirted, excited, and challenged like nothing else in his rotten life had ever done. He often thought of how much better his childhood would have been had he discovered poker earlier. The cards brightened everything else in his life, making the ugly pain disappear.

                That is . . . until earlier tonight.

                He’d been too confident—too sure of himself—too cocky. And he’d broken his own cardinal rule: He’d allowed himself to be distracted. 

                The toe of his boot caught on something and he stumbled again, landing this time on cactus. Thorns embedded themselves in his eyebrow, and he blinked as blood trickled over his eyelid. He hunched up his shoulder in an awkward attempt to catch it, but settled for blinking rapidly several times. 

                It must have been the woman who’d doctored his drink! It was only water. He’d never allowed alcohol to distract him. Nor a woman either. Again and again he tried to recall when she’d done it. And as before, he remembered instead the scent of jasmine and the softness of her black hair as she bent toward him and whispered—

                There! The first man’s triumphant cry caused the others to stop suddenly. The prisoner caught himself from falling forward as the group momentarily halted. He squinted with his left eye, in spite of the gritty sand, but he couldn’t see in the blackness. Blood had crusted over his right eye, obscuring most of his sight. From the grunts among the men, he sensed they’d reached—or sighted—the destination. With renewed purpose, they surged forward, picking up the pace in spite of the powerful gusts and the darkness. 

                After what he judged to be another half an hour, the group halted again. While his captors busied themselves with one of the packs they’d carried, he again hunched up his right shoulder and bent his head over in a desperate attempt to wipe the crusty blood from his eye. This time, he successfully cleared part of it—enough to get a glimpse of light from their flashlights. 

                Arms circled around his waist and knotted a rope. Another was looped around his shoulders, knotted, and connected with the one at his waist, constructing a crude harness. Were they going to drag him to death? Maybe hang him? He hadn’t seen a tree tall enough for that. Two of the men moved off out of his sight, and he could hear them relieve themselves. He had to concentrate on other noises so as not to do the same. He didn’t need soaked denim to add to his current misery. Funny how tricks you learned as a child returned when you called them. He remembered the hours tied in a bed, waiting until daylight, and knowing that a wet bed meant beating and hunger.

                Daylight should come—even in this godforsaken country—but he didn’t hold out hope that he’d be seeing it. He’d suspected as long as he could remember that he wouldn’t live to be old. Maybe that was better anyway. Visions of the old grandpa who’d lived with them haunted him—his frail body wasting away in a small room that stunk of human waste. They fed him at least once a day and made him sign his check when it arrived each month. Death now—in the prime of his life—would be much better. He wouldn’t be leaving much behind—especially children to live in misery as he’d done. So if the hollering preacher was right and everyone had to stand in judgement at the end of his life, he figured that would be one point in his favor.

                His three captors had gathered in a group close by while he’d been daydreaming. They talked, leaning close to each other’s ears, and he prayed they were near the destination. Abruptly, they broke apart. Two walked over to him, one on each side. Each grabbed an arm and tugged him behind the group’s leader. Then they continued their journey.

                Time had lost its meaning, but the wind had died down and the sky had lightened a bit when the four of them stopped again at the foot of a rocky hill. His companions grabbed the harness and pulled him up with them as they climbed. It was slow and by the time the party reached a small cave opening, the sky behind and around them had lightened to a pale murky pink–lavender. The leader stood in the mouth of the cave and turned his light toward them as his tormentors pulled and pushed him forward.

 He squinted. The mouth of the cave was larger than it had looked. He couldn’t be sure how far it went, but he doubted he’d need to know. No one spoke. Finally, he said, Well, I won’t say it was nice knowing you guys. He laughed but it sounded weak even to his ears.

No one laughed. He sensed the blow before it came and leaned away. It didn’t knock him out, but he staggered and fell anyway. Maybe they wouldn’t know it hadn’t worked. One stood beside him after he fell, and the other two hurried about, dragging brush and boxes farther into the cave across the opening. Were they going to hang him from the cave’s ceiling? He squinted up toward it; but even in the faint light, he couldn’t see it. That wouldn’t be very practical, he decided. What would they attach the rope to?

His captors had stilled. His eyes were becoming accustomed to the faint light; and even without seeing much, he could sense their unease.

   Finally, the leader spoke loudly in accented English. It will go easier if you don’t try to fight it, he said. We know you’re awake! Answer me!

They hadn’t bought his pretense. He squinted and spoke groggily. Why? Fight who?

The one beside him snickered. Not who—what.

Why? the leader asked. "Dinero."

I don’t have any money, the prisoner said. You must have mistaken me for someone else. I lost all my money tonight at the table.

Not your money, hombre. You have friends—or enemies—with money.

The others laughed as if he’d told a funny joke. The prisoner swallowed the panic rising up in his throat. Wrong guy, he managed as calmly as he could.

The leader motioned toward the other two. They caught him from behind by the rope harness and held him tight. The leader knelt down and removed his shoes and socks then tied the prisoner’s ankles together.

Can we negotiate? he asked then. I might be able to get a loan—

The two behind him snickered again and pulled so painfully on the harness that he gasped. One pulled off his bandana and reached toward him to tie it around his neck. 

                No! The leader paused dramatically. We want him to see . . . and we want to hear him. Again all three laughed. The sky had lightened considerably; and even with the barricade across the mouth of the cave, the prisoner could see his surroundings. Maybe those hours locked in closets hadn’t been a total waste.

                Then the three men started toward the cave’s opening. Their captive thought they were leaving him and started working the ropes on his hands. But they’d stopped in front of the crates, picked up a hammer, pried off the lids, and arranged them on top with a narrow opening along the edges facing him. He paused, afraid they’d notice his movement. But they hadn’t. Instead, they stared at the crates—almost hypnotically. Suddenly, they jumped back and scrambled out of the cave’s opening. 

He listened to their oaths and laughs until they faded in the distance. Time to start on getting out of here!

But a sound from the crates first grabbed his attention . . . and then his horror. Anyone who’d lived in the southwest as long as he had done recognized that sound. Rattlesnakes.

Somewhere far back in his childhood, he remembered hearing stories about rattlesnakes—especially in the spring, when they were shedding their skins. The skin covers their eyes, he remembered the tales, causing them to strike out at sound and motion. They’re striking blind.

He didn’t know if the stories were true or just legend. But they’d given him nightmares as a youngster. 

He shivered uncontrollably as his ears registered them bumping into the boards as they found and slithered over the tops of the crates. For the first time in so many years that he couldn’t even remember the last time, he felt tears running down his face. Fellas, he called. Can we negotiate?       

Chapter 1

Ssh! Don’t cry, baby! I whisper in the darkness. I reach out, anxious to touch the baby, to pull it close into my arms and comfort it. But the sobbing continues and my fingers do not reach the baby. Is it moving away? 

Babies don’t need to cry, I whisper, my throat aching at the sobs. Your mama will take care of you.

The crying takes on an even more mournful tone at my words and the volume increases.

Where are you? I’ll rock you. Everything will be okay. I’ll protect you, little one. You have nothing to fear. I repeat the other mantras that I’ve heard mamas croon through the years as they soothe their children.

I reach for the lamp switch, but it only clicks. I remain in darkness. I sit up in bed and turn toward the window. Not even a sliver of light peeks around the blinds. It must be a very dark night. Wait! The security light outside? Is it out? Maybe I should—

The baby screams louder. I turn back toward the screams. Are you hurt? More screams. I draw a breath and sing the familiar lines from my childhood: Hush, little baby, don’t say a word. Mama’s gonna buy you a mockingbird.

She won’t, you know.

Who’s that? I shrink down and frantically search the darkness. The voice is deep as it comes from across the room. It isn’t a baby! It’s either an older child—or a man? 

What good’s a mockingbird anyway? What could it do? the voice sneers.

It appears to have moved to the corner and has taken on a mean, whispery quality. I shiver again and then feel indignation rising deep inside. Who are you? I demand, inserting authority and my rising indignation into my voice. What are you doing in my bedroom?

I am almost screaming now, having raised my voice to be heard over the baby’s screams.

You didn’t answer my question. What could a mockingbird do? The voice reveals no indication of anger. It also seems to have moved again, over near the dresser. My anger melts and I fight the terror creeping up my spine. Who is this? And how did he get into my bedroom? I have a better than adequate security system, and I’m diligent in changing the code often.

What has happened to the lamp? My hand eases over and feels along the nightstand for my cellphone. Gone! I need to keep this voice—person?—occupied while I make a plan.

Ever heard a mockingbird? I ask.

No.

It repeats what it hears.

So then you’d have it crying as well? The voice is growing louder and sounds harsher against the wailing baby. And this would improve things how? Lies never help anyone.

It is moving closer to me. I once again fight the urge to shrink back into the blankets. My instinct is to pull them over my head and pretend—what? My bedroom is small. Surely I can dart to the door and . . . I can . . . can—

Lies, the voice repeats. Mamas only tell you lies. It has taken on a singsong quality.

The baby’s cries are softer, a little hoarse now, and fading into whimpers. Where is it? Is this baby all right? Who is this intruder? Outrage gives my voice almost a shrieking quality.

What are you doing in my house? Get out before I call—

The baby can’t hear you, the voice continues. And I’m only here to ask you a question.

I’m talking to you, not the baby! How did you get in my house? You’re an intruder—an interloper! Why should I answer—

Because you must. The voice has changed. It sounds feminine . . . familiar. 

I tense and look around. Mama?

Silence.

Mama, what do you mean?

Answer his question, Sorrel, she prods.

The male voice hardens into an ugly, snarling tone. Why? That’s the question. Why do mamas lie? You act like you know everything! So just answer that for me. Why do mamas lie?

My heart is pounding so loudly—and the baby continues to wail even though its voice is growing hoarse. I hardly hear Mama’s whisper, I’m sorry to have left this task to you, honey.

What task, Mama? I reach toward her, but she has moved away.

Find the weeping child, Sorrel, she calls. Answer the question.

As the voice faded, I clawed my way out of the dream. It was almost impossible to open my eyes—my lids felt glued—and when I did, I was disoriented. Slowly, my eyes moved over the walls of my bedroom until they focused on the painting hanging just above the small rocker. I’d found it among the paintings in John’s shop—and known it could never be sold. Twice I’d considered adding it to the university collection. Finally, I’d hung it here, where I could see it when I woke. 

In the painting, two children huddle in the corner of a small, bare room. The boy’s arm rests protectively across the girl’s shoulders. Both are painfully thin, barefoot, and dressed in oversized men’s shirts. Their faces, while not especially striking, are turned toward a tiny window. Therein lies the painting’s magnetic pull. Faintly, in the window, one can see a rainbow. The hunger in the eyes and faces of the children as they stare at it is heart wrenching.  

I wiped my eyes. Even in the pale light of dawn, I couldn’t look at it without tears. Knowing the two children—and being the child of one— broke my heart. I shook my head and climbed out of bed. The cats grumbled as I jostled the bed, glared at me, and rearranged themselves in furry circles.

When the alarm I’d forgotten to shut off sounded over an hour later, I heard their paws hitting the floor from my spot at the kitchen table. A hot shower, strong coffee, and homemade cinnamon rolls had almost restored my equilibrium. They came by for a pat and led the way to the cupboard where I stored their cat food cans, meowing as if they were starving. I almost missed the doorbell amid their racket. Coming! I called.

Chris Reed’s finger hovered over the doorbell when I opened the door. I’d about decided you must be sleeping in, he said, following me into my tiny living room/kitchen combo. He sniffed. Coffee. Cinnamon rolls? Did you save me any?

Sit. I’ll pour you a cup. I pointed to my small table and pulled a mug out of the cabinet.

By the time I swung back to set his coffee in front of him, he had already stuffed half a cinnamon roll in his mouth. 

I don’t know how you do it, I said, looking pointedly at the whole plate he’d moved over in front of him. I thought men started getting a belly after thirty something.

Chris swallowed the roll before gulping black coffee. Hard work and clean living, he drawled, his blue eyes dancing. I don’t have the leisure of lounging around waiting for the perfect photo to appear.

I punched the air above his head. Photography is much more than just eating bonbons and lounging around! This gift shop doesn’t run itself either, especially since Teri’s hours are cut with the baby coming. I refilled my own cup and sat down across from him. Are you working today?

Finishing the roof on the feed barn, he said, reaching for another roll. 

Chris had bought a fixer-upper ranch several months back, but at the time he was working undercover. I’d also interfered with his plans to start the barn when my bird photography trip to Bosque de Apache in November took a devastating turn toward danger. He’d somehow convinced his bosses that his case and the bodies piling up around me were connected. Frankly, I still wasn’t completely clear on how they connected, but since he’d saved my life . . . well, I wasn’t complaining.

Not a good sign.

I glanced at him. What isn’t?

You’re not stuffing your face. What’s with the blue under the eyes? He wiped his fingers on his napkin and reached down to Van. I’ll need an update, old feller, he said. Van butted his head and his squeezed huge yellow eyes shut. I could hear his purr across the table.

Disgusting, I muttered. I’m the one slaving in the kitchen and—

This time Chris threw back his head and laughed. My lips twitched. Dad always said you could depend on a man with a healthy laugh. You? Cooking? he asked.

I can when I need to. I just don’t need to cook with Teri’s family always dropping off food.

They have the mistaken idea that you don’t eat. His eyes roved over my face. Now, I repeat, what’s with the blue smudges around your eyes?

Nightmare. I got up and reached for the plate.

No need to pack one lone roll away, he said, nabbing the last bun and stuffing it in his mouth. He chewed, swallowed, and drained his cup. What nightmare? Must have been a bad one. You’ve not mentioned having nightmares.

I hadn’t. You’ve only been here a few minutes and the whole time you’ve either been talking about food or stuffing your own mouth! I reached for his cup and took it over to refill.

Chris Reed had this protective streak about a yard wide where I was concerned. He knew that I’d been a television crime reporter in Houston. For most of those years, I’d been single—both parents dead—and even after I’d married Kevin I’d not changed my habits. Danger hadn’t exactly been a stranger to me—and sometimes I did get afraid, but I was no coward. My curiosity and drive were always pushing me. 

You’re trying to distract me. The dream?

I let out a more dramatic sigh than I felt. I suspect it’s a by-product of our latest adventure. Remember? Dead body? Someone trying to kill us? Nightmares are understandable. What isn’t is the fact that we still hang out together.

That’s easy. I’m a demented peace officer who punishes myself by hanging out with contrary redheads. He grinned, picked up his cup, and walked over to the overstuffed chair. I think I’ll make myself comfortable over here, he grumbled as he sat down. From the look in your eyes, I expect I’ll need to duck.

I followed him, scooped up Flash, and settled on the sofa with her on my lap. I didn’t immediately answer. Finally, I said, It was troublesome. So I didn’t sleep well. Not a huge worry, Reed.

He didn’t immediately answer, just sat there sipping on his coffee with his eyes roving over me.

What have you been up to? I finally asked.

Chris Reed and I had an unusual relationship. When we first met, he considered me a suspect in a murder. After he changed his mind, we started a romance of sorts. But that only continued a short while until he left his job as a police detective to work in the sheriff’s department. Then we became entangled in the disappearance of my old friend, John, and returned to romance afterward.

The silence pulled my mind back to Reed. Why wasn’t he talking? I stared into his eyes.

 So when do we set the date? he asked.

Uh, what date?

He laughed. Gotcha! I knew you weren’t listening!

Guilty.

I’ve been finishing up paperwork on the last assignment, he said. But I’ve also been trying to get some fencing and building repairs finished. I’ve already told you this, but you weren’t listening!

Reed’s ranch—just a couple of sections of land with a rundown house—had been owned by an elderly woman until she sold it to him and moved to Phoenix. I’d been given a tour of the property but not the house. He’d teased that he needed to finish other things before I started bossing him around about decorating the house.

Bought any paint? 

He grinned. There’s too much to do. Paint can wait. I may never get to it. But you can paint!

Too busy!

I guess I’ll have to keep the apartment then—at least until things settle down a bit.

But you won’t. I stroked Flash a moment, refusing to rise to his bait. When do you report for duty? I asked instead. And where?

That’s actually what I wanted to tell you. I’ve had an offer from Border Patrol and, of course, the sheriff’s department is wanting me to come back there. I haven’t quite decided, but they won’t wait forever. My leave of absence is almost up.

Popular guy.

How about you?

You know I’ve had the flurry of Christmas here at the shop. I’m not complaining, but we’re low on products. I’m glad I shut it down for inventory, etc.

When will you re-open?

Right before Valentine’s Day.

Reed emptied his cup and took it to the sink. When he returned, he walked over and stood beside me. Sorrel?

He waited. Finally, I looked up. I knew what he wasn’t asking, so I answered him. I’ve talked to the university about John’s will. They are starting the process. 

He sat down on the couch beside me and reached for my hand. And the memorial service?

I’d like to keep it very small and personal. I’m still working on it. But there’s so much to do. Personally, I’m thinking this summer might be a good time?

Reed leaned back onto the couch, still holding my hand. Summer might be good. The crazy thing is, Sorrel . . . I only met John for a few days, but I knew right away that he was special. What I hope you’ll do, once you’ve worked through your grieving, is really show that person to all of us. You knew him in a way that I doubt anyone else—besides . . . well . . .

I will, Reed.

He sighed. It’s so hard to believe he’s gone. And even harder when we both know we were so close to saving him.

Maybe we were close. I feel sort of numb, you know? But he trusted me to set up the legacy he wanted. And I can certainly do that. Keeping busy is good.

Just don’t pull away and bury yourself, Sorrel. And before you blow up at me, both of us tend to do that. We hide emotions in work. Remember our New Year’s resolution?

I do. I fingered the delicate gold necklace he’d given me at Christmas. When I looked up, he was staring intently at me. Whether we head into life as friends or lovers, we will keep in touch.

He stood then, reached to pull me up, and walked me to the door. His hand on the doorknob, Reed wrapped his other arm around me and gave me a side hug. Our business—the friends or lovers thing—can wait. But not forever.

I nodded. Just as he turned and walked down the steps, I whispered, The nightmare. It was about the weeping child.

I knew he hadn’t heard me, but it felt better to know that I had told him.   

Chapter 2

The day ahead gave me no time to reflect on my silly dream or the complicated relationship Reed and I shared. 

After he left, I stepped into the shop—actually the front part of my house—and surveyed the post-inventory site. Without Teri’s elaborate Christmas decorations, it looked a little bare. But that wouldn’t last long. 

Teri and I had met shortly after I moved to Saddle Gap. She’d worked part time at the newspaper where I worked as a freelance photographer. When I left the photos from my first assignment, a crime scene, with this small, vivacious chatterbox, we became instant buddies.

Her encouragement had helped fuel me in using local craftsmen to open the shop. She’d developed a line of lotions and candles, using ideas from both her grandmother and her mother; and later she designed attractive displays for my store. I’d also found wonderful craft and artistic creations at   the senior center and nursing home. Rose’s