�All right. Thank you very much,� Barnaby said into the telephone. Replacing it on its cradle, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his weary eyes with his fingers. �Nothing,� he announced to Lieutenant Biddle, who sat on the other side of the desk from him. �He�s not at any of the area hospitals.� There was relief in his voice that J.R. was not lying injured in one of the hospitals, but also a note of disappointment that his young cousin had not been found.
They were in Biddle�s office, and the lieutenant had kindly set up a second phone for Barnaby, so they could both make the calls necessary to locate the missing man.
Still looking crisp and fresh in his gray suit and striped tie, Biddle glanced at the clock on the wall. The hands had moved past twelve-thirty, and were slowly making their way toward one o�clock. They had been hard at work for hours, calling all the hospitals, morgues, and precincts in and around the Los Angeles area, inquiring about accident victims. It was unknown if J.R. was carrying any identification on him, so they covered all angles, including unidentified patients or victims in their investigation, but always the answer was negative. No one matching J.R.�s description had been found.
Turning his attention back to his friend, Biddle watched as Barnaby closed his eyes and rubbed his temples with his fingertips, as if nursing a headache. The aging detective, usually impeccably groomed and elegant in his manner of dress, was dressed in a white fishing shirt and khaki pants, his personal choice for casual wear. Opening his desk drawer, Biddle removed the bottle of aspirin that he kept there and passed it across the desk. �Barnaby, you�re exhausted. Why don�t you try to get some rest? I�ll wake you if anything turns up.�
Barnaby looked up, his fingers pausing against his temples, and stared at him as if he was out of his mind for even suggesting such a thing, yet he understood that John was concerned about him. He was very tired, his head was throbbing, his eyes felt like fried eggs, and he knew he probably looked like something the cat had dragged in, but he knew that sleep would be impossible to achieve, so he shook his head as he picked up the aspirin bottle and shook two of them onto his palm. �My cousin is missing and may be hurt, maybe even kidnapped. There is no way I could rest until I know he�s okay.� He popped two white tablets in his mouth and washed it down with a cup of coffee that had gone cold, inspiring an expression of disgust.
John nodded his understanding. �I�ve checked the area police departments that might have been notified of an accident, and they have no information to give us either,� he said. �No one, civilian or otherwise, has reported an accident of any kind on or near Highway 13.�
�I didn�t expect there would be. No one travels that highway anymore, so the chances of him being struck by another vehicle or someone happening by and finding him are pretty remote.� Leaning back in his chair, Barnaby�s eyes drifted to the map of Southern California that Biddle had pinned to the bulletin board, taking particular notice of the huge expanse of the Mojave Desert. �No, I think he�s out there, somewhere.� After a long moment, he glanced appreciatively at his long-time friend. �I appreciate your help, John. It would have taken me all night to get through all these phone numbers by myself.�
Biddle shrugged and waved away the comment. �Hey, I didn�t have any plans for tonight, and I�m glad to help. So where do we go from here? I�m fresh out of ideas.�
Barnaby shook his head slowly, his eyes still fixed on the map. After a few moments, he rose from his chair and went to the map and inserted a push-pin to mark the location where Betty said she had dropped J.R. off. �Okay, we know he started around this point,� he mused, speaking as much to himself as to Biddle. Another push-pin was inserted at the location of the Traveler�s Stop. �And this is where he was supposed to meet Betty, but never made it.� He placed another push-pin at the halfway mark. �He was going to stop here for lunch, but Betty says it�s out of business. There was no sign of him there, so she traveled the entire stretch of road, but saw nothing to indicate what had happened to him.�
�You�re still thinking an accident of some kind,� Biddle guessed.
�It�s the only thing that makes any sense. Something must have happened with the bike. It might have broken down, or maybe an animal ran across the road and caused him to lose control of it, or some other mishap. Traveling at a high rate of speed, it could have been a pretty serious accident.�
�Which brings us back to the same question; where is he? And why didn�t Betty find him or the bike on the road?�
�That is the question, isn�t it?� Barnaby mused in his casual drawl. Trying to solve the mystery, his eyes continued to study the map, following the thin gray line that represented Highway 13. �If he was not incapacitated, he might have tried to walk. If he had an accident before reaching the Oasis, he might have tried to walk to it to find help, not knowing it was closed.�
�In which case, he probably would have waited there for help to arrive,� Biddle suggested.
�As I recall, the restaurant had an awning that would have provided him with shade,� Barnaby agreed. �But if he had made it past the Oasis, he most likely would go on toward the Traveler�s Stop.�
�Unless he was much closer to the Oasis,� Biddle added. �In which case, he might have backtracked to wait under that awning you mentioned.�
Barnaby nodded his head in silent agreement, his brow furrowed with concentration. �None of these scenarios explain why Betty missed him on the road.�
�Unless . . . . � Biddle began, then fell silent again, reluctant to say it.
Barnaby turned to face him. �Unless what?�
�Maybe he was disoriented and wandered off into the desert.�
Barnaby�s sigh was loud in the quiet room, indicating that the thought had also crossed his mind. �He would have to be disoriented for him to do something like that. He knew someone would be coming to look for him when he didn�t show up, so he would have stayed on the road, no matter which direction he was walking. I keep coming back to the bicycle. If there was an accident, what happened to it?�
�Accident? Do you think J.R. had an accident?� Betty asked from the door to Biddle�s office.
Both men turned around, surprised to see Barnaby�s daughter in law standing there. Barnaby glanced at the clock, taking quick note of the time. �Betty, it�s almost one o�clock. You didn�t need to come down here.�
�Did you really think I could sit at home doing nothing when J.R. is out there somewhere? When I called your house and you weren�t there, I took a chance that you might be here. What�s this about an accident?� she asked, ignoring the question as she stepped into the office. �Have you found something out? Did J.R. have an accident?�
�We�re not sure,� Biddle replied.
�Why didn�t you call me?� she asked. It was obvious that she was offended that she had been left out of the efforts to find him.
�I�m sorry, Betty,� Barnaby apologized. �I should have called, but I was hoping you had managed to get some rest.�
�I went by J.R.�s place to feed his cat, then I went home and started making some phone calls,� she told him. �There was a construction site out there not too far from the convenience store where I was supposed to pick him up. I�m afraid I woke a few people up, but I wanted to find out if maybe one of the workers had seen or heard something that might be helpful. What about you two? What have you found out?�
�We haven�t found out much, I�m afraid,� Biddle told him. �We�ve been calling all the area hospitals and other facilities to see if someone matching J.R.�s description was brought in, but that turned out to be a dead end.�
�Since no one travels that road any more,� Barnaby added, �I would have been surprised if someone had found him and brought him in.�
�Well, according to some of those construction workers, kids routinely go out on that highway to drag race. None of them saw anything like that today,� she added quickly when she caught the attention of both men. �Still, from what I�ve been able to determine, at least two cars did go out on that highway today. One of the sightings was probably me when I went looking for him, but the other . . . .� She shrugged.
�So there was one other car driven by someone who might have seen something,� Biddle said. �Any description of the car?�
�No, no one I talked to noticed any details. They just remember he was driving very fast, like he was in a hurry to get out of town.�
�Do you think he could have run J.R. off the road?� Biddle asked.
�He would have been going the wrong direction to come up on him from behind, and if Jedidiah saw him coming into his lane, he would have gotten out of the way,� Barnaby said.
�What about a kidnapping?� Betty suggested. �Like with that street gang a few years ago. Maybe J.R. saw something, and . . . � Her voice trailed, reluctant to finish the thought.
�That�s pretty remote,� Biddle told her.
�It�s as good as anything we�ve come up with,� Barnaby said.
Betty moved closer to study the map, her eyes moving along that narrow gray line, stopping on each of the push-pins. �So what did you come up with?� she asked.
�We�re wondering if he had an accident on the bike and was perhaps disoriented and wandered out in the desert,� Biddle explained.
Betty nodded, slowly. �Maybe. What about the bike? Even disoriented, I don�t think he would push it through the desert. Why didn�t I come across it on the road?�
�That�s where our scenario breaks down,� the lieutenant admitted. �The one thing it would explain is why you didn�t come across him on the road.�
Betty continued to look the map with a worried frown. �There is a lot of wilderness there, and he had only one bottle of water.�
To calm Betty�s worry, Biddle said, �If he�s been using the water sparingly, he may be okay for a while yet. At first light we�ll drive down that highway and start searching the area. With any luck, we�ll come across him this time.�
�And if we don�t?�
�If we don�t, I�ll have a chopper scour the area between the drop-off point and the convenience store for any sign of him.�
�What if he�s hurt? In the desert, people die of dehydration. It will be worse if he�s hurt. He may not be thinking clearly.�
Barnaby placed a fatherly grip on his daughter in law�s shoulder. �We�re going to find him, Betty.�
Betty looked back at him through fearful eyes, wondering what condition they would find J.R. in.
It was very dark in the abandoned restaurant. The boarded up windows and doors blocked the light from the moon and stars as effectively as it blocked easy access to the structure by unwanted visitors. A cricket was chirping forlornly outside the main door, the only sound in the quiet desert night.
With the flashlight beside him within easy reach, J.R. lay quietly on his side on the cool linoleum floor, his arm folded beneath his head to form a pillow, but found it difficult to get comfortable in that position. His arm was going numb from the weight of his head resting on it, and the floor was very hard against his shoulder and hip. Shifting position, he rolled over onto his back, seeking a more tolerable arrangement of his body, but without a pillow, it was not much better.
For hours, he had shifted position over and over, all the while keeping an attentive ear toward the highway, listening for the sound of a passing motorist, but was not surprised that he had heard no vehicles at all. The good news in that was that Jessup had not returned. Most likely, the convict was in Las Vegas by now, holed up in some seedy motel off the Strip. With an air conditioner, he thought, wistfully.
The headache that had plagued him for most of the afternoon was gone. He had not really noticed when it had faded away, but it had apparently been forgotten during the tense moments at the gas station, when he could have been discovered beside the car. Raising his hand, he pressed the tips of his long slender fingers to his forehead, wincing as they probed the contusion left there by the baton.
A strange snuffling sound outside attracted his rapt attention and his hand froze in midair as his head turned toward it. It stopped abruptly, apparently sensing his movement, and for several moments, he heard only total silence, aware now that the cricket had stopped chirping in what it perceived as danger.
Slowly and quietly, J.R. rose up and peered over the countertop, listening intently. In the nearly total darkness, he could see nothing except undefined shapes that marked the boundary of the countertop and the front door handles, but he dared not turn on the flashlight for a better look, fearing that Jessup might have done the unexpected and come back for him. Maybe he had gone in search of a better weapon than the club. Maybe he had returned to carry out his threat.
The snuffling sound began again, followed by a low whine and a scratching sound. It was an animal of some kind, probably a coyote, sniffing and scratching at the cracks between the plywood. It had probably been trotting past when it had detected his scent. J.R.�s experience with coyotes was primarily limited to his amused viewing of the Wile E. Coyote in the cartoons, a highly unreliable source, he knew, but he had heard from others that the animals were one of the most adaptable species in the desert. The cities had encroached so far into their territories that the versatile coyote was occasionally spotted well within the city limits. He had only spotted a few in the distance, but Barnaby had assured him that they were always there, usually hidden from view.
The sounds of the animal trying to get inside the building lifted the hair on the back of J.R.�s neck, even though he knew it favored smaller prey, like rabbits and mice. Even if it got inside, it would not likely attack something the size of an adult human. It was merely investigating an unfamiliar scent. After several moments, the noises stopped and the coyote trotted away.
J.R. began to relax. Settling down behind the counter again, he rested his back against the wall. Stretching his legs out in front of him, crossed at the ankle, he raised his wrist and pressed the button on his watch to illuminate the face. It was almost two o�clock. Lowering his arm again, he rested his hands lightly on his abdomen. It was going to be a long night.
The temperatures were cooling down a bit, providing him with welcomed relief from the oppressive heat, but other discomforts were even worse. His stomach was a hollow void that gnawed hungrily, demanding to be filled. He had eaten nothing substantial since breakfast, and he had eaten sparingly then, eager to be on the road. His mouth felt uncomfortably dry, and he cursed himself again for failing to pick up his bottle of water.
With the coyote gone, the cricket began chirping again, and he listened to it fondly. It was a sound he did not hear much since moving to Los Angeles. His apartment was well up from the street, and if they chirped below, he was not aware of it. In fact, he had not thought anything of it, but as he listened to it now, he recalled the summer vacations in which his family had traveled from Chicago to visit his father�s parents in Tennessee. They had spent many nights in Grandpa�s back yard enjoying hamburgers or watermelons and talking as families do, while the crickets were a barely noticed background noise.
Now his parents were both gone, and his family was Barnaby and Betty, and he knew they must both be worried about him.
With nothing else to do, he began to formulate a plan. Rather than wait until daylight for someone to come looking for him, it might be a good idea to set out while it was still dark, traveling in the cooler pre-dawn. It was just after two now. He could leave around four o�clock, and should make good time by hiking down the highway. Any vehicle he might encounter coming from Los Angeles would be potential help, while a vehicle coming from Las Vegas might be Jessup coming back to carry out his threat. He would easily be alerted to approaching vehicles by their headlights, providing him enough time to step off the road and hide.
His stomach growled again, and as he placed his hand over it in an attempt to sooth it, his thoughts went to Napoleon, the kitten given to him by Cleo, the quirky medium with a menagerie of homeless, injured, and orphaned animals. For some reason, she had decided that the kitten was a perfect match for him, even though he had protested to the contrary. Napoleon was grown now, and he had to admit that the cat had been good company, and even though he was not home enough to give the animal the attention it deserved, it seemed content and was usually glad to see him. Sometimes it lay curled up on his lap while he studied or watched television; other times, when he actually wanted to pet it, it totally ignored him.
The night was passing, and he was beginning to grow drowsy. Finally, his head nodded forward, his chin resting on his chest. Betty and Barnaby both had keys to his apartment, in case of an emergency, and just as he dozed off, he hoped one of them remembered to feed the cat.
Go to Act VII