A Flower in the Desert Read Online Free PDF

Mexico slowly rolled away. Here and there a conical hill, looking like the sand-blasted nub of some ancient volcano, rose from the wasteland and cast a crouched, hunchbacked shadow in the slanting light of early morning. Down the hillsides gullies wound and twisted, fanning out across the empty flats into pale brown lacework deltas, dry as bone now, but reminders of the sudden spring showers, swiftly gone. Ahead of us, small as a sparrow, a phantom black airplane skimmed along the bleak khaki surface, exactly matching our speed.
    Only fifteen minutes out of Albuquerque, sitting back in the thickly padded first-class seat, sipping my freshly squeezed orange juice, I was already beginning to regret accepting this case.
    For one thing, I’ve never been very fond of Los Angeles. It’s always seemed to me about as appealing, and about as substantial, as a cheap wedding cake.
    For another, I couldn’t stomach the idea of child abuse, sexual or otherwise. Back when I started working with Rita, it had been my idea, not hers, that we refuse any cases in which it might be involved. This was partly because of their ambiguity—as I’d told Alonzo, to me it seemed unlikely that anyone outside a family would ever be able to determine what truly went on within it.
    But there was another reason. You can’t live at the close of the twentieth century and not be aware that human beings are capable of a savagery that would make a hyena gag. No animal on earth is capable of the frenzy that we bring, blindly, merrily, to one another: the rapists, the racists, the serial killers, the ideologues, the genocidal lunatics. But nothing, no other kind of cruelty, bothers me as much as the cruelty visited, all too often, by parents upon their children. It’s the ultimate violation, a betrayal of love by power, and I don’t like to think about it. Out of basic gutlessness, I prefer to pretend that it doesn’t exist. And I hoped, probably as much for my sake as for his, that Ray Alonzo was innocent.
    Certainly, sitting with his uncle in my living room last night, he had once again seemed innocent. After I’d asked them both if I could get them anything, a drink, a coffee, and both had refused, Alonzo had said to me, “Listen, Croft, I mean it. I acted like an asshole this afternoon.”
    I nodded agreeably because I entirely agreed with him. “Yeah, well,” I said, “there’s a lot of it going around. I’ve had a touch of it myself from time to time.”
    â€œAnd I want to tell you how much I appreciate your changing your mind about looking for Mel.”
    I noticed two things. That his wife was Mel now, not Melissa. And that he hadn’t interrupted his earnestness to react to, or maybe even register, my response. He was still playing a part, still reading lines. Well, it didn’t necessarily mean that he was lying. Maybe he simply didn’t know any other way to tell the truth.
    I said, “You do understand, Mr. Alonzo, that it’s Mr. Montoya who’s hiring me?”
    â€œSure, sure. Absolutely.”
    â€œHe’s the one I’ll be reporting to. If you’ve got any questions about the progress I’m making, you’ll have to ask him. Are we clear on that?”
    â€œA hundred percent. I just wanted you to know how glad I am that you’ll be helping us out.”
    â€œThanks.” I lifted my notebook and my Pilot Razor Point from the end table. “What I’ll need first of all,” I told Alonzo, “is the basic list of friends and relations.”
    â€œPeople here or people in L.A.?”
    â€œLet’s start with Los Angeles.”

    And so on Tuesday afternoon, after a change of planes in Phoenix and another hour of flying time, there I was, starting with Los Angeles. The regret that I’d been feeling in the air didn’t let up when I reached the ground. LAX, Los Angeles International Airport, is as big as a fair-sized