Desert Lost (9781615952229) Read Online Free PDF Page A

Despite the tension of the moment, I smiled. Her voice was a sweet soprano, but flat. The deaf often have trouble hitting the right notes.
    Seeing the direction of my glance, Rosella managed a smile, too.
    â€œThat latest poem, she get it published?” I asked.
    â€œIn Highlights Magazine , no less. Now she’s settin’ it to music using some kinda mathematical formula she found on that website for people in the beginning stages of Usher’s. Who’d a thunk music is math.”
    KariAnn suffered from Usher’s Syndrome, a common product of generations of incest. Like profound mental retardation, this particular genetic combination of deafness and blindness was endemic on the polygamy compounds. The prophets loved it because the handicap guaranteed the sufferer SSI payments for life, yet the disease left the girls fertile enough to breed more Usher’s kids. Cash cows squared.
    Rosella closed the door to her daughter’s room, then led me into the living room, which was further along in the renovation process than the house’s exterior. Pale yellow walls contrasted with polished oak floorboards, and bright patterned throws covered the reupholstered sofa and armchair Jimmy and I had helped her lug home from Goodwill. The lemony scent of furniture polish filled the small room.
    As I settled myself on the chair, she said, “One of us has to tell the cops.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œBut, uh, as you know, I try and stay away from them.”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œBecause of any kidnap charges that might be pendin’.”
    â€œRight.” One of the problems with helping young women escape was that they were so often minors, therefore still legally under their parents’ control. Under Arizona statutes, helping a minor hide from his or her lawful custodial parent was custodial interference at best, kidnapping at worst. Since Rosella had been implicated in dozens of “custodial interference” cases, the county attorney, who boasted polygamists in his own family tree, had set his sights on the more serious charge. For the same reasons, the state attorney general didn’t like Rosella, either. My friend was one warrant away from a jail cell. Add to this the numerous death threats that had been leveled against her by Hiram Shupe’s God Squad, and Rosella’s paranoia wasn’t merely understandable, it was smart.
    â€œHow about an anonymous phone tip? There’s a pay phone over by the Ranch Market.”
    â€œTwo blocks from my house? The cops ain’t dumb. Look, all they need is Celeste’s name, then they can do the rest. There’s some phones outside that Circle K on Forty-Fourth Street. Call on your way back to Scottsdale and disguise your voice.”
    A pointless caution in the day of voice recognition systems, not to mention the fact that my retrofitted 1946 Jeep, painted front bumper to back with Pima Indian symbols, was memorable. Still, I could see little harm in calling in the tip. Celeste King’s life had been cruel enough without letting her lie unidentified in the cool room down at the county morgue.
    â€œGive me a dollar, Rosella.”
    She grabbed her purse and pulled one out. “This means I’m your client?”
    â€œFor what it’s worth.”
    Down the hall, her daughter’s tuneless singing continued. Something about aspens trembling in the wind.
    ***
    After making the call from the Circle K, I drove back to the office on surface streets, along the Hispanic neighborhood on eastern McDowell with its used furniture stores and payday loan rip-offs, past the National Guard Armory at the western edge of Papago Park, then cruised through the big sandstone buttes into Scottsdale proper.
    Here’s the thing about Scottsdale: it really is beautiful, an oasis in the middle of a harsh land. But being surrounded daily by beauty can scald your eyes blind. Our City Council’s aesthetic shortcomings prove