Faye answered. “They’re fifteen. Boy is, at any rate. They act like wild animals and I know they do drugs. They’re always picking through our garbage, looking for food. Sometimes, other kids come by and camp out with them. Word must be out they have a place to crash.”
“Can’t you report ’em to the cops?”
Marcus shook his head. “Tried that. They vamoose the minute anybody shows up.”
“Could there be a connection between Agnes’s disappearance and their moving in?”
“I doubt it,” he said. “She’d been gone a couple months by the time they got here. Somebody might have told them the trailer was empty. They never seemed to worry about her showing up. I know they’ve torn the place apart, but there’s not much we can do.”
I gave him my card. “This is my number in Santa Teresa. I’ll be down here a couple of days seeing if I can get a line on her. After that, you can reach me at this 805 area code. Would you give me a call if she gets in touch? I’ll try to check back with you before I leave town, in case you’ve heard from her. Maybe you’ll think of something that might be of help.”
Faye peered over his shoulder at the card I’d given him. “A private detective? I thought you said you were a family friend.”
“A hired friend,” I said. I had started back to my car when he called my name. I turned and looked at him.
“There’s a sheriff’s substation in Niland, right next to the old jail on First. You might check with the deputy. There’s always a possibility she’s dead.”
“Don’t think it hasn’t occurred to me,” I said. His gaze held mine briefly and then I moved on.
I headed back toward the township of Niland, 145 feet below sea level, population twelve hundred. The old jail is a tiny stucco structure with a shake roof and an ornamental iron wheel attached to the wooden porch rail. Next door, not ten feet away, is the new jail, housed in the sheriff’s substation, also stucco and not much wider than the width of one door and two windows. An air conditioner hung out of a window around on the side. I parked out in front. A note was taped to the front door. “Back at 4:00 p.m. In emergency or other business talk to Brawley deps.” Not a clue about how to contact the Brawley sheriff’s department.
I stopped at a gas station and while the tank was being filled, I found a pay phone and checked the dogeared directory that was chained to the wall, looking up the telephone number of the Brawley sheriff’s department. From the address listed, I had to guess it wasn’t far from my motel on Main. In a quick call, I learned that Sergeant Pokrass, the deputy I should be talking to, was presently at lunch and would be back at one o’clock. A glance at my watch showed it was 12:50.
The sheriff’s substation is a one-story stucco building with a red tile roof, located right across the street from the Brawley Police Department. There were two white sheriff’s cars parked in the narrow lot. I went in through a glass door. A Pepsi machine dominated the corridor. To the left of the entrance was a closed door that, according to the sign, led to a courtroom. On the other side of the hallway were two small offices with an open door between them. The interior was polished brown linoleum, Formica countertops, light wood desks, metal file cabinets, swivel chairs. There were two deputies and a civilian clerk in sight, the latter on the telephone. The low murmur of conversation was underscored by the steady, low ratchet of the police radio.
Deputy Pokrass turned out to be a woman in her thirties, tall and trim, with sandy hair cut short, glasses with tortoiseshell rims. The tan uniform seemed designed for her: all function, no frills. There was very little animation to her face. Her eyes were a penetrating brown, rather cold, and her manner, while not actually rude, was on the abrupt side of businesslike. We didn’t waste a lot of time on pleasantries. I stood at the short counter and filled her in on the situation, keeping my account brief and to the point. She listened intently, without comment, and when I finished she picked up the telephone. She called the local hospital, Pioneers Memorial, and asked for the patient billing and accounting department, her voice wanning only slightly in her conversation with someone named Letty on the other end. She pulled a yellow legal pad closer and picked up a pencil sharpened to a perfect point. She made a note, her handwriting full of angular down-strokes. I was sure that, even at the age of twelve, she’d never been the type to make a little happy face when she dotted an i. She hung up the phone and used a straightedge to tear off the strip of paper on which she’d written an address.
“Agnes Grey was admitted to Pioneers on January 5, through emergency after the paramedics picked her up outside a downtown coffee shop where she collapsed. Diagnosis by the admitting physician was pneumonia, malnutrition, acute dehydration, and dementia. On March 2, she was transferred to Rio Vista Convalescent Hospital. This is the address. If you locate her, let us know. Otherwise you can come back in and fill out a missing persons report. We’ll do what we can.”
I glanced at the paper, then folded it and put it in my jeans pocket. “I appreciate your help.” By the time I got the sentence out, she’d turned away, already back at work on the report she was typing. I used my proffered hand to scratch my nose, feeling the way you do when you wave back at someone who turns out to be waving happily at someone else.
On the way to my car, it occurred to me that the admissions officer at the convalescent home might be reluctant to give me information on Agnes Grey. If she was still a patient, I could probably get a room number and whip right in. If she’d been released, things might get trickier. Medical personnel aren’t as chatty as they used to be. Too many lawsuits over the right to privacy. Best not blow my chances, I thought.
I went back to the Vagabond, where I unzipped the duffel and removed my all-purpose dress. I gave it a shake. This faithful garment is the only dress I own, but it goes anyplace. It’s black, collarless, with long sleeves and a zipper down the back, made of some slithery, miracle fabric that takes unlimited abuse. You can smush it, wad it up, sit on it, twist it, or roll it in a ball. The instant you release it, the material returns to its original state. I wasn’t even sure why I’d brought it-hoping for a hot night on the town, I suppose. I tossed it on the bed, along with my (slightly scuffy) low-heeled black shoes and some black panty hose. I took a three-minute shower and redid myself. Thirteen minutes later I was back in the car, looking like a grown-up, or so I hoped.
The Rio Vista Convalescent Hospital was set in the middle of a residential area, an old two-story stucco building painted a tarnished-looking Navajo white. The property was surrounded by chain-link fence, wide gates standing open onto a parking lot. The place didn’t look like any hospital I’d ever seen. The grounds were flat, unlandscaped, largely sealed over in cracked asphalt on which cars were parked. As I approached the main entrance, I could see that the brittle blacktop was limned with faded circles and squares of some obscure sort. It wasn’t until I’d passed through the main doors and was standing in the foyer that I knew what I’d been looking at. A playground. This had once been a grade school. The lines had been laid out for foursquare and tetherball. The interior was nearly identical to the elementary school I’d attended. High ceilings, wood floors, the sort of lighting fixtures that look like small perfect moons. Across from me, a water fountain was still mounted on the wall, white porcelain with shiny chrome handles down low at kiddie height. Even the air smelled the same, like vegetable soup. For a moment, the past was palpable, laid over reality like a sheet of cellophane, blocking out everything. I experienced the same rush of anxiety I’d suffered every day of my youth. I hadn’t liked school. I’d always been overwhelmed by the dangers I sensed. Grade school was perilous. There were endless performances: tests in spelling, geography, and math, homework assignments, pop quizzes, and workbooks. Every activity was judged and criticized, graded and reviewed. The only subject I liked was music because you could look at the book, though sometimes, of course, you were compelled to stand up and sing all by yourself, which was death. The other kids were even worse than the work itself. I was small for my age, always vulnerable to attack. My classmates were sly and treacherous, given to all sorts of wicked plots they learned from TV. And who would protect me from their villainy? Teachers were no help. If I got upset, they would stoop down to my level and their faces would fill my field of vision like rogue planets about to crash into earth. Looking back on it, I can see how I must have worried them. I was the kind of kid who, for no apparent reason, wept piteously or threw up on myself. On an especially scary day, I sometimes did both. By fifth grade, I was in trouble almost constantly. I wasn’t rebellious-I was too timid for that- but I did disobey the rules. After lunch, for instance, I would hide in the girls’ rest room instead of going back to class. I longed to be expelled, imagining somehow that I could be free of school forever if they’d just kick me out. All my behavior netted me were trips to the office, or endless hours in a little chair placed in the hall. A public scourging, in effect. My aunt would swoop down on the principal, an avenging angel, raising six kinds of hell that I should be subjected to such abuse. Actually, the first time I got the hall penalty, I was mortified, but after that, I liked it pretty well. It was quiet. I got to be alone. Nobody asked me questions or made me write on the board. Between classes, the other kids hardly looked at me, embarrassed on my behalf.