hunched her shoulders against the rain and walked out into the parking lot. Quickly she crossed the street to a pizza place on the corner.
“One more time,” she muttered as she hurried inside.
“Sit anywhere,” a waitress said as she hurried by with an order. “I’ll be right with you.”
This time, Sonora settled in at a booth near the front door and then leaned her head against the glass as she looked out into the night. She was alternating between sausage or mushroom pizza when another flash of lightning sent her back into the black hole that had become part of her mind.
* * *
The older Native American man was sitting at a table with his back to Sonora. She wanted to go around him and see what he was doing, but she found herself unable to move.
“Why am I here? What the hell do you want?” she yelled.
Either he didn’t hear her, or he was ignoring her.
The man stood up slowly, then walked away, revealing a small piece of wood and a pile of wood curls.
He was carving something, but whatever it was, it was little more than an outline in the wood. Her gaze slid from the wood to the man. He was shaking pills from a bottle into his hand. There was a strange expression on his face as he tossed them down the back of his throat and chased them with water.
He’s dying.
The moment Sonora thought it, she flinched. A deep sadness came over her. “What am I supposed to do?” she cried. “Why are you haunting me?”
* * *
“Hey, lady!”
Sonora jerked.
“What?”
“I asked you…what do you want?”
Sonora blinked. Traveling from insanity to the real world was confusing, but she was getting better at it. It didn’t take her but a moment to answer.
“A medium sausage-and-mushroom pizza and a large Pepsi.”
The waitress nodded and left Sonora on her own again, only this time, Sonora focused her interests on the people at the other tables as she waited for her food to arrive.
She was both frustrated and confused by these recurring hallucinations. Talking to a shrink was a possibility and probably wise, but she wouldn’t risk it. The first time the precinct got wind of an agent in “therapy,” that agent would wind up doing desk duty until pronounced fit for duty again. Sonora didn’t want that on her record, so she was relying on instinct to get her through this. She couldn’t help but feel as if she was seeing this man for a reason. Maybe if he was real, and maybe if she found him, she’d discover for herself what this all meant.
Then the waitress came, delivered the pizza, refilled Sonora’s drink and left her to dine alone. By the time she had finished eating and paid for her meal, the rain had stopped. Reflections from the streetlights were mirrored in the puddles as she crossed the street to get to her room.
She was wide-awake and itching to be on the move. Despite an old fear of the dark, she handled it better outside. When she thought about it, which was rarely, it always made sense. She’d gotten her fear of the dark from being locked in a closet, so if she wasn’t bound by four walls, the fear never quite manifested into a full-blown panic attack. Glad to be on the move again, she packed her bag quickly, dropped her room key off at the office and mounted up. Within the hour, she was gone.
* * *
Miguel Garcia had been in Phoenix less than six hours when he’d gotten his first good lead on Sonora Jordan’s whereabouts. He had a name and an address, only it wasn’t Sonora’s address. It belonged to her ex-boyfriend, Buddy Allen.
* * *
It was just after 10:00 p.m. when Buddy pulled into the driveway of his apartment building. It was the first time he’d been home since this morning when he’d left for work. With his mind on a shower and bed, he got off the elevator, carrying a six-pack of beer and a bag of groceries. He set down the six-pack, then toed it into his apartment after he opened the door. The door locked as it swung shut. Buddy was halfway across the living room when it dawned on him that all the lights were on, but he distinctly remembered turning them off when he’d left.
The hair rose on the back of his arms. He set down the sack and the six-pack and stepped backward, intent on leaving the apartment to call the police.
Then a man walked out of the bedroom holding a gun. “You’re not going anywhere,” he said, and motioned for Buddy to sit down on the sofa.
Buddy measured the distance to the door against the gun and cursed silently. The man didn’t look like the kind to be making idle threats.
“Who the hell are you?” Buddy asked.
“My name is of no importance,” he said.
“Then what are you doing here?” Buddy countered.
“Looking for a friend of yours.”
“Who?” Buddy asked.
“Sonora Jordan.”
Buddy’s stomach rolled. Suddenly, it hit him how much danger he was in. Sonora didn’t deal with lightweights, and she’d been spooked enough to leave Phoenix. There was every possibility that he might not live to see another day.
“I don’t know where she is,” Buddy said.
The man frowned. “Wrong answer,” he said, and swung the butt of his gun up under Buddy’s chin.
Buddy dropped, then didn’t move.
* * *
DEA agent Gerald Mynton was pouring his second cup of coffee of the day when the phone rang. He set down his cup and reached across the desk to answer it. “Mynton.”
“Agent Mynton, I’m Detective Broyles with Phoenix Homicide.”
“Detective, what can I do for you?” Mynton asked.
“I’m not sure, but we’re working a murder and the name of one of your agents came up.”
Mynton frowned. “Who?”
“Sonora Jordan.”
Mynton sat down in his chair with a thump. “What about her?”
“Do you know a man by the name of Robert Allen…goes by the name of Buddy?”
“Not that I—Wait! Did you say Buddy Allen?”
“Yes.”
“Oh, hell,” Mynton said.
“Then you do know him?” Broyles asked.
“Not personally, but I do know that Agent Jordan used to date a Buddy Allen. Is he the one who’s dead?”
“Yes.”
