A Kendall O'Dell Mystery

Chapter 4-2

Then something extraordinary happened. Mother Nature provided me with an once-in-a-lifetime visual gift when all at once a brilliant beam of sunlight sliced through the fast-moving clouds illuminating the church, and only the church, in an ethereal golden glow. Talk about a breathtaking photo!

I fumbled for my camera, hoping to capture the unbelievable image, but then another cloud snuffed out the luminescent shaft of light as quickly as it had appeared. What were the odds that I would happen along at that exact moment? Maybe it was a good omen. I hoped so as I turned right and bounced along uneven ground until I came to a fork in the road. A cracked, sun-bleached sign marked the entrance to the Double G Ranch. Ahead, the wrinkled, brown road snaked eastward into rolling hills where a small herd of cattle grazed near a stock tank adjacent to a briskly spinning windmill. PRIVATE PROPERTY and TRESPASSERS WILL BE PROSECUTED signs were posted on the metal gate and along the fence line, including one boldly stating, IF YOU DON’T BELIEVE IN LIFE AFTER DEATH, TRESPASS HERE AND FIND OUT FOR SURE, which clearly conveyed its pithy message.

I turned left, traveling another quarter of a mile and parked the Jeep beneath a desert willow tree on the far side of a clearing, which I surmised had once been the parking area. When I opened the door, the cold wind slammed it shut again. Damn! The weather was definitely not cooperating.

For a few seconds I considered just staying put, but was I going to let a little wind deter me? I pocketed my cell phone, snapped the camera into the waterproof case and slipped the .38 into my jacket. My propensity for charging into dicey situations had not been lost on Tally. So, when he insisted that I learn how to handle and shoot a firearm, I had taken his advice. That training had certainly come in handy the last time I’d found myself out on assignment alone in the middle of nowhere.

It was a struggle to keep the door open, but I was finally able to slide out. I pushed my way through the thrashing willow boughs and began snapping a panorama of photos. I wanted to see it all—the hot springs, the church and the old mansion—but by the looks of the lightning-charged clouds forming overhead followed by the rumbles of thunder, I doubted that was going to happen today.

Our Lady of the Desert rose up before me, far larger than I had imagined. The picturesque structure, even with the sprays of graffiti and sections of peeling stucco, presented an awe-inspiring sight, gracefully displaying her arched corridors, curved gables and wide, projecting eaves. The eye-catching copper-domed bell tower, which amazingly still housed a rusted bell and was topped by an ornate cross, tilted slightly toward the northern mountains. A dark scar ran along one side where I presumed lightning had struck. A blue tarp, whipping in the wind, cascaded down one side of the roof, anchored by several boards and concrete blocks. At the base of the old structure were other signs that repair was imminent—bundles of lumber, buckets of roofing tar, ladders, and pallets piled with rolls of tar paper. Groves of mature acacia trees encircled the perimeter of the property while additional NO TRESPASSING and KEEP OUT signs hung prominently on a wooden fence.

With only the keening wind as my companion, I ignored the signs and slid over the barrier. If anyone tried to stop me, I could always say Wanda had given me permission and that I would be meeting up with her later, which might actually be true. I wandered about capturing a series of images, including the crumbling marble-inlaid stairs that lead to the boarded-up front door that must have stood fifteen feet high. Above it, the darkening sky created a dramatic backdrop for the bell tower as I snapped a succession of photos. My close-up shots revealed a small flock of mourning doves huddled together for warmth in the opening beneath the bell. I could not help but think of the story Clara had told me. Imagine the horror of discovering the body of the young priest hanging from this ancient structure. Tragic.

As I walked around the periphery, wading through knee-high weeds and taking note of the shuttered arched windows, an overwhelming sense of melancholy suddenly gripped me. Was it the fact that I was now privy to the sad history of this abandoned house of worship? I must admit, when I reached the rear of the church and spotted the padlocked entrance to the crypt, a pervasive atmosphere of danger stopped me dead in my tracks. I spun around, searching for the reason for my acute discomfort. My intuition was rarely wrong, but there did not appear to be another soul around. Not a live one anyway. A macabre thought.

Nevertheless, details of Glendine’s tragic tale continued to parade through my mind. Was I picking up vibes from the crypt? “Cut it out,” I chided myself severely. More than likely it was merely the lonesome setting combined with the wind and impending storm—a perfect setting for a ghost story.

The first drops of rain splattered on my face as I continued towards a small stone structure that housed a well pump. Just beyond it, behind a rusted fence, lay a sadly neglected graveyard. Pots of plastic and what looked to be wilted fresh flowers adorned tumbledown gravestones almost hidden in the overgrown grass and weeds. It looked like another great place to explore, but that would take more time than I had today. I moved on to the remains of the rectory.

Just as Thena had described, there was ample evidence of a fire—charred timbers were strewn about, one graffiti-stained wall had partially fallen away while fragments of roofing shingles flapped noisily in the rising wind. The remnants of several Adirondack chairs littered a small yard along with scattered toys and broken beer bottles. A toppled concrete birdbath added to the air of desolation.

I stepped over a pile of rubble and gingerly poked my head through a doorway. The murky light made it difficult to see, so I fished my small LED flashlight from my pocket and shined it around the room. Of course, I searched around for signs of live spider activity, but saw only shredded cobwebs waving in the breeze. I moved about the debris-littered floor while photographing the blackened interior of a room easily identifiable as a kitchen. The appliances were either gone or vandalized. Pipes stuck out of the wall beneath a yawning window where the sink had once stood. Had the fire originated here?

Intermittent flashes of lightning helped brighten the way as I picked my way around pieces of discarded furniture, assorted garbage and clothing remnants, accompanied by the shrill whine of the wind whistling through cracks in the walls and broken window panes. Paw prints and piles of animal droppings everywhere, including what looked like bat guano, gave ample evidence that the desert creatures had taken up residence in the absence of humans. The dilapidated rectory was obviously unlivable now and probably needed to be demolished. I thought it odd that the Trotter family had done nothing to improve the property in a year’s time and was curious to find out what they planned to do with it if they didn’t sell to Thena.

I could definitely see possibilities for the church, but if the interior damage was as severe as Wanda indicated, the amount of money it would take to refurbish it would be truly staggering. Thena would need outside help and that brought to mind my interview with Dr. Craig. If I was going to be on time, I’d best complete my exploration of the property and get back to town.

Once outside, I flinched violently when an ear-splitting clap of thunder announced the arrival of the storm. An upward glance at the now-black, low-hanging clouds confirmed that I’d probably waited too long. I broke into a run and made it about halfway towards the clearing when the sky opened up.

Clara was right. There are no hurricanes in Arizona, but there are microbursts and the occasional tornado. I didn’t know which this was, but the screaming wind tore at my hair and within seconds the rain turned to hailstones, painfully pummeling my face. Bombarded by the volley of ice pellets, there was little I could do to protect myself from the onslaught. I started towards the Jeep, but my footsteps faltered when I heard the faint roar of a car engine. My vision blurred by the torrential rain, I squinted ahead at two approaching vehicles. What looked to be a silver-colored SUV peeled away onto the Double G Ranch road while the second one headed right towards me. Disbelieving, I blinked rapidly and stared aghast. No way! It couldn’t be. The shock of seeing the familiar white pickup and trailer made my stomach plunge. Oh, s**t! The memory of Nelson Trotter’s menacing behavior flashing through my mind raised the question: did I want to be caught out here alone with this known s****l predator who had already advanced a veiled threat? I had to make a decision. And fast. There was zero chance I could make it across the clearing to the Jeep before he arrived, and if I did make a run for it, more than likely he would see me.

Instinctively, I spun around and sprinted towards the church. Blinded by the maelstrom, I ducked behind a row of cypress trees and dove behind the air-conditioning unit. I slid along the slushy ground, wincing aloud as my palms scraped across sharp stones and then felt a searing pain beneath my chin before slamming my cheek into the rough exterior wall. Dizzy and slightly nauseated, I folded myself into an alcove like a hermit crab, only slightly protected from the storm.

Carefully, I touched my aching cheek and then cupped a hand beneath my chin. My pulse surged in horror at the sight of all the blood on my fingers, which quickly mingled with raindrops, spilling a dark pink river onto my clothes. What a mess! All I could do was press my coat sleeve hard against the wound and hope it would stem the flow of blood.

Panic locked my throat, as the distinctive whiny clatter of the diesel truck grew closer. Huddled in the corner, thunder crackling overhead, pounded relentlessly by rain and hail, all I could do was pray he did not discover me. The irony of that act—praying against the outside walls of the church—was not lost on me. I thought my heart would explode when the pickup stopped not twenty feet from me.

Soaked to the bone, barely breathing, I peered through the downpour and watched Nelson Trotter jump from the driver’s side, trot around the truck’s grill and yank the passenger door open. Astonished, I stared through the curtain of rain into the interior of his pickup. Was I hallucinating, or did the cab appear to be overflowing with pink flowers? He reached inside and grasped a bunch along with a plastic garbage bag. When he dragged out a cooler bag and slung it over his shoulder, I noticed something fall to the ground before he slammed the door and loped out of sight.

My mind swimming with confusion, I cautiously peeked around the corner in time to see him kneeling on the ground, unlocking the door to the crypt. Transfixed, I watched him tug the door open, then pick up the flowers and bags. He descended a few steps down before turning to pull the door shut behind him.