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Willcox seemed like a big city compared to Portal, but it was infinitesimally small by L.A. standards and looked like the set of a John Wayne movie. According to some trivia Nate had mentioned, the building designated as city hall had once been a train depot for the Southern Pacific Railroad. Not far away, on Railroad Avenue, sat several Old West-style buildings with plank walkways and wood overhangs. In this cluster of buildings Rachel saw the Willcox Cowboy Hall of Fame—A Tribute to Rex Allen, the Singing Cowboy. She supposed he’d either been born in Willcox or he’d died here—maybe both.
“Interesting place,” she said as Nate slowed the truck to a crawl in accordance with the new speed limit.
“Warren Earp was shot in this town, outside a saloon,” he responded.
“You mean, Wyatt Earp?”
“No, Warren—his little brother.”
“How do you know?”
“Same place I learned the history of city hall. I saw it on the official Web page for Willcox when I was trying to figure out where we’d stay.”
She gazed around, noting the Chiricahua Mountains in the distance, the farms in between and the heavy ranching influence. “Not that I’m criticizing, but I wouldn’t have minded staying here. It would’ve been better than a trailer with an outhouse. It doesn’t even seem as hot.”
“It’s not. This is high desert—about four thousand feet.”
“I like it.”
“What’s not to like? Willcox is home to the world’s largest hothouse tomato grower.” He winked at her. “Now that’s something.”
She frowned. “Smart-ass.”
“Hey, I have nothing against tomatoes,” he said with a laugh.
“I’m more interested in these small, clean-looking motels.” She indicated a mom-and-pop motel with about twelve units. “Why don’t I stay here until you infiltrate the cult? You can send for me when you’re ready.”
“Nice try.” He motioned to a much more modern building than the ones hunched together on Railroad Avenue. “There’s an AutoZone. Let’s stop and get some coolant, see if the clerk’s ever heard of Martha Wilson.”
Normally, Rachel would’ve laughed at the notion of pulling into some business and asking about a citizen without knowing of a prior connection. But in a town this size, it was entirely possible that word of Martha and her claims had circulated widely enough that they might succeed with a random inquiry.
Bracing as they rolled over a speed bump, she climbed out as soon as Nate cut the engine. “So what are we going with here?” She kept her voice low as they met near the entrance. “Newspaper reporter? Husband and wife out to photograph nature? Or what?”
“Curious people passing through should work. If not, make up something that seems to fit.”
“God, I love my job,” she muttered but she wasn’t entirely serious. She loved the money and the freedom it would eventually afford her. And she loved putting bad guys away. It made her feel that what she did was worthwhile. In this case, she even loved the idea of taking an ax to her father’s “you will do as I say or go to hell” type of religion. But she did not like suffering the heat of an Arizona summer while fighting the mixed emotions she felt whenever she looked at her boss. The combination made her irritable.
An electronic squawk announced their entrance. Hefting a body that was at least a hundred pounds overweight from a stool, the guy behind the counter waited to assist them. With a buzz cut and a face as full as a baby’s, he looked young—maybe eighteen or nineteen.
Rachel thought he might be the only man in town, besides Nate, who wasn’t wearing a cowboy hat and Wranglers. “Hello.”
The clerk smoothed the front of the Led Zeppelin T-shirt that hung over his black pants. “Can I help you?”
Nate strode down the aisles, searching for the coolant while she approached the register. “Our air conditioner went out on us. We need some coolant.”
“Aisle five.” He spoke up so Nate could hear and pointed. “Right over there.”
While Nate followed the clerk’s directions, Rachel stood where she was. “How long have you lived in Willcox?” she asked, as if merely striking up a conversation.
“I was born here.”
“Nice place.”
“Thanks.”
Someone older might’ve asked if she was visiting or what had brought her to town. This boy, who seemed very shy, gave her nothing to work with, so she forged ahead on her own. “I hear there’s a strange cult in the area.”
“This area?”
“In Paradise.”
“Oh, you must be talking about the Covenanters.”
“I think that’s the name. You don’t know anything about them, do you?”
He smoothed his shirt again—apparently a nervous habit. “Not really. I’ve never even met one.”
“How would you know if you had or not?” she asked.
“Most of ’em have a C on their foreheads. With a little mark in the middle.”
“A tattoo?”
“I guess.”
“Really! On their foreheads.”
“Right in the middle.” He indicated the spot between his own eyes.
“That would certainly make someone stand out,” she said with a laugh.
“Yeah, I’d like to see it.”
She leaned on the counter. “Why not go there?”
He rearranged a display of key rings and some deodorizers. “Paradise isn’t that close. It’s about an hour and a half. And from what I’ve been told, they’re not very friendly. There’s a woman running around who says they tried to stone her.” He lowered his voice. “To death.”
“That’s what I’ve heard. That’s actually why I’m here. I’m this close—” she formed an inch with her fingers “—to getting my doctorate in psychology. I’m doing my thesis on cult behavior. You don’t know where I could find this woman, do you? I’d love to interview her.”
“I’m pretty sure she lives here in Willcox now. There was an article in the paper about her not too long ago. But I don’t know exactly where she is.” He straightened his shirt again. “There’ve been lots of people asking about her, though. I heard someone talking to the gas station attendant just the other day.”
“Someone?”
“A man. I’d never seen him before.”
