The Well - Book One of the Arizona Thriller Trilogy Read online

  The Well

  A Mystery/Thriller

  Book One of the

  Arizona Thriller Trilogy

  Sharon Sterling

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2013 Sharon Sterling

  Second Edition copyright © 2016 Sharon Sterling

  Changing Lines Press

  ISBN-13: 978-1530914517

  ISBN-10: 1530914515

  All rights reserved

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means without the prior written permission of the copyright owner. Exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.

  Acknowledgement

  To members of the Native American tribes and their sacred sites mentioned herein, I sincerely hope I have conveyed my deep respect and appreciation for you, your culture and your traditions.

  Chapter 1

  The second he walked in she was going to kill him. He would be an easy target, standing backlit in the wide-open doors of the garage. When he pulled the filthy string of a single overhead light bulb he would be a silhoette like a paper target on a shooting range. She was a good enough shot from this distance to put a hole in his heart.

  The snub-nosed 32-caliber pistol felt solid, cool against her jeans-clad thigh. She placed her hand over it, rubbed its smooth metallic skin then picked it up and with arms straight she sighted down the barrel and mentally rehearsed it again. He usually came home around seven or eight o’clock but she could wait, here in the dark at the back wall where he couldn’t see her but she could see him.

  The wood-frame garage stood fifteen feet square, the doorway made of two five foot wide panels that swung outward on rusty hinges. The dirt floor where she sat had been smoothed and hardened by time, tires and oil. The exterior was decorated by a few remaining streaks of weathered white paint. In here the planks were grey and rotted at the bottom. They gave a little against her back. The garage had been built in the 1950's for the boat-like cars with fins typical of that era. It was deep enough for his bullet-shaped 1978 Datsun 280-Z, and bare of anything except the tool cabinet that served as her hiding place.

  The minutes ticked by slowly, filaments of time she spun in silence. An hour passed with no sound of life, save for the far-away bark of a dog, the whispered scurry of a rodent and the hushed susurration of her own breath.

  Suddenly, as if through someone else’s eyes, she saw herself crouched in this dirty place with only spiders and field mice for company, waiting for a dirty man to come and die. With an inward shrinking the word coward came to her. No. She was no coward. It had taken every courageous fiber of her body and every cell of mind to dare the thought of killing a man she had believed was invulnerable. Only days before, the truth had crashed in followed by a wave of hatred. The man's only true shield was an invisible crust of evil.

  But was this the justice she craved? Should the final minutes of his accursed life pass so easily? It would be like squashing a cockroach rather than delivering a fitting end to a man she loathed for his cowardice, the least of his flaws.

  She put the gun down on the dirt floor. Hugging her legs toward her, she lowered her forehead to her knees. No, she thought. It should be more...fair, more...fitting. But how?

  Out of the dank silence an idea materialized, penetrated her mind, coalesced there. A better way…a much better way. She rose to leave, picking up the gun and reminding herself to clean and oil it before she gave it back.

  ***

  Psychotherapist Alexandra Davis, better known as Allie, opened her office door and looked down the corridor toward the waiting room for a glimpse of her new client. The girl sat in profile, staring at the wall. She cradled her left hand in her right. She had wrapped her left wrist in now-bloody gauze and a Halloween trick or treat bag.

  Allie drew a deep breath and retreated to stand motionless in her doorway. Doctor VanDeusen, the psychiatrist who had referred the woman, hinted that accepting this client would be more a favor to him than to Allie. Now she understood why.

  She pushed away the image of the orange and black bag wrapped around its pathetic, bloody 'treat', and asked herself, What else did I see?

  The woman’s slender figure draped in dark sweat pants and a shapeless t-shirt, long, wispy brown hair falling like a veil around a thin, pale face. The woman sat as if in a trance, motionless on the edge of the waiting room chair.

  The client was fifteen minutes early for her appointment but Allie's instincts told her she couldn’t let this client wait. She strode down the corridor then slowed to compose herself before she entered the waiting room. She stepped in front of the girl.

  “Hello, you must be Crystal,” she said, smiling.

  The girl nodded but didn’t get up.

  “I’m Allie Davis. Pleased to meet you Crystal. Um…I won’t offer you my hand because I see you have a problem there.”

  No reply.

  “Is that something that needs to be seen to right away?”

  The girl shrugged.

  “May I look?”

  The girl obediently held out her arm, removed the wrapping and revealed a blue veined wrist scored by thin, red marks that appeared clean and dry. Finally she spoke. “I did it this morning, after I saw Doctor VanDeusen. Then I poured peroxide on it. I don’t think it needs stitches or anything.” She re-wrapped her wrist.

  “Well, I’m glad you took care of yourself, Crystal. Are you ready to talk now?” The girl nodded. “My office is down this way,” Allie said, and indicated the east corridor. Her client obediently got up to follow her.

  In the small, ten-office professional building the receptionist’s area was located strategically against the back wall of the waiting room, directly across from the frosted glass entry doors. The opaque doors provided privacy for clients while admitting natural light. The receptionist had a full view of the entire waiting room from her desk, as well as the entry to the east and west corridors. Swinging half doors in a low wall on either side of her cubby gave it a semblance of definition and privacy.

  Wanda, the receptionist, was a heavy set woman in her fifties who had dyed her close-cropped hair a defiant black. Allie never saw Wanda smile, not even at clients who might desperately need reassurance. Now she crossed her arms over her ample chest and inspected Allie and the client as they walked by. Her glance went meaningfully to the girl’s wrist then to Allie. She shook her head and rolled her eyes upward in a clear expression of contempt.

  Allie’s teeth clenched but she said nothing. Instead, she touched Crystal’s shoulder lightly to guide her down the hall.

  Crystal stopped just over the threshold of the office. “Where do you want me to sit?”

  “Where ever you feel most comfortable.” She indicated both the chair and sofa. Crystal chose the chair. She, lowered herself slowly and sat rigidly upright on the edge of the cushion.

  Allie opted to sit in her desk chair, directly across from Crystal, rather than take a more casual positioning on the sofa. With this client she would not ignore the so called elephant in the room by beginning the session as she usually did, with friendly platitudes about the weather.

  “I’m glad you came in today, Crystal. You must have been pretty upset to hurt yourself like that. Is that something you do often?"

  Tears began to well in Crystal’s eyes. She blinked, obviously willing them back.

  “Can you tell me what happened?”


  “Do I have to talk about it?”

  “In here, Crystal, you don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do.” Crystal nodded and curved her colorless lips in a polite smile.

  Allie continued, “Eventually you will want to talk about it because that’s the way I’ll be able to help you.”

  Crystal nodded. A new client orientation should come next but Allie was aware that her client was in no condition to process detailed information, so she related, as briefly as she could, the confidentiality rules and conditions of therapy that would guide the sessions.

  Crystal finally eased back a little into the seat. Allie said, “Doctor VanDeusen sent me a little information about you this morning but I haven’t had a chance to look at it. Would you mind if I glance at it? Then we can talk some more?”

  “Okay.”

  Allie reached for her reading glasses with impatience. Her “over forties” pigeonholed her by age, but more important, they were simply a nuisance. She had never before had to wear glasses. Now she told herself, it is what it is. Get over it. In less than a minute she skimmed the first page of Doctor VanDeusen’s notes, the outline for a complete psychiatric assessment. The demographic section said Crystal was thirty-two years old, rather than Allie’s guess of early twenties. She was married, had two young children and described herself as a stay-at-home mom.

  Doctor VanDeusen had scribbled 'histrionic' and 'borderline' in the diagnosis block on his assessment, and underlined in the margin, 'uncommunicative'. The first two words were provisional diagnoses that Allie took with a grain of salt but she couldn’t argue with 'uncommunicative' A client who wouldn’t talk did present a special challenge.

  When she looked up Crystal was nervously twisting a strand of lank brown hair as she stared at the floor. Allie hesitated. The woman’s fragile emotional state made her wary of asking the usual first appointment questions but she had to begin somewhere.

  “Why don’t you tell me more about your children?” she suggested.

  Crystal shrugged.

  “What are their names? How old are they?”

  “Well, Kaylee is four and Toby just turned two.”

  Allie leaned forward to hear the soft, mumbled, replies.

  “They call it the terrible twos, but he’s still precious.”

  Allie said, “They are adorable at that age but they can be a handful, can’t they? Kaylee and Toby. Cute names. Are they much alike?”

  “Different as cactus from roses. For Halloween, Kaylee is going as a princess. Toby...my neighbor--she has kids--gave me an adorable pumpkin costume for him, but he won’t wear it. I’m just going to paint his face like a cat, and pin on a tail, you know?”

  As she talked about her daughter and son Crystal’s face gradually softened and at last she smiled, revealing a chipped upper front tooth and crooked lower teeth.

  Allie knew it was a mouth innocent of orthodontics and may have lacked even basic dentistry. She was relieved to see no signs of rampant decay because a client with a mouth full of rotted teeth would have raised the possibility of amphetamine dependence. The drug known as crystal meth had arrived in the area as a fad more than three decades ago but had soon become a staple in the drug culture, the drug of choice for many in the area. Lately its use was challenged by a new demon, heroin.

  Crystal talked about her daughter’s pre-school. She took pictures from her wallet to show Allie. Now the session was going well.

  Allie took the photos and saw two round-faced, smiling children. They looked robust and happy, in contrast to their wan and fragile mother. Allie waited for the opportunity to ask Crystal about her husband, speculating that an issue with the husband or maybe even a boyfriend might have provoked Crystal’s emotional storm.

  “So, Crystal, what happened before you got so upset you cut yourself? Did you have an argument with your husband--maybe your mother?”

  “My husband and I almost never argue and I get along fine with my mom. She lives in Maine. We don’t talk on the phone very often. Occasionally we e-mail.”

  “How about other relationships, then? You know, what you tell me in here is completely confidential, other than the few exceptions I mentioned earlier.”

  Crystal shook her head with a thoughtful look. Her negative answer came out more as a question. Who else could she have relationship problems with?

  Her client’s innocent unknowing indicated to Allie that there was no boyfriend to complicate Crystal’s life or add another level of complexity to future counseling sessions. She drew a deep breath. “We’re going to have to stop soon, Crystal. Do you feel comfortable enough with me to come back next week?”

  Crystal smiled and nodded.

  “I’ve asked you a lot of questions today. Is there anything I should have asked but didn’t, or anything else you want to ask me, or tell me?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, then.” Allie entered the date and time of their next appointment in both the computer and her spiral-bound appointment book then filled out an appointment card which she handed to her client. But the session wasn’t over yet.

  “Before you go, Crystal, I’d like to go over a few things you might do if you get real stressed again, instead of hurting yourself.”

  Crystal’s eyebrows lowered and she reached for a strand of hair. Allie noted the flicker of defensiveness. She said, “Reaching out might seem like the last thing you want to do, but you did it today, and now that you’ve taken the first step, I have confidence that you can do it again if you need to.” She handed Crystal a card printed with the telephone number for the local crisis line. Crystal stared at the card and made no comment.

  “One thing I’ve learned about you today, Crystal, is that you love your husband and your children. You seem to be an honest person. I get the idea you prefer to be silent rather than say something you don’t mean or something that’s not true.”

  Crystal nodded again.

  “Now I want you to promise me that you love your family enough to stick around for them, even if that means you’ll face and talk about some painful memories. Will you do that?”

  Her client looked up and met Allie’s eyes with confidence. “Okay.”

  Allie smiled at her. “Good.” She noted that in the last fifteen minutes of the session, Crystal’s posture and facial expression had undergone a subtle transformation. The young woman now sat back in her chair and looked directly at Allie when she spoke. The compulsive hair twisting had ceased and her brow was smooth. Allie watched while Crystal absentmindedly unwound the plastic bag and gauze from her wrist, wadded them up and stuffed them in her purse.

  A surge of relief came over Allie. She felt the muscles in her stomach loosen, her shoulders drop in relaxation. She said, “If nothing you try seems to work and you still feel like physical pain is the only recourse, hold a piece of ice in your hand until you feel better.”

  “A piece of ice?” Then Crystal smiled again as she understood the concept of mild pain without injury. “Okay.”

  Allie's gut told her the client meant it. Crystal would be all right, at least for the near future. Allie walked down the hall with her to see her out the front door.

  Back in her office, she sank into the easy chair, exhausted by the intense focus she had exerted in the past hour. She had learned a lot about Crystal, but not enough. She needed to know the root of the woman’s distress so she could do more than supply her with a few coping techniques. She picked up the telephone to call Doctor Ralph VanDeusen, the local psychiatrist who had referred Crystal.

  He answered and said, “I’m guessing you called to tell me how it went with little Crystal Navin,”

  “Yes, I have her signed permission for us to talk.”

  “Just like you to dot the i’s and cross the t’s. You’re a veritable slave to the Privacy Act.”

  Allie skipped over his reference to the federal confidentiality law. “You know, she cut herself today, between the time she saw you and when she got to me.”

 
He laughed. “What’s one more borderline for your budding practice?”

  Allie said, “I’m not so sure she does have borderline personality disorder.”

  “So if that’s not her problem, what do you get? Is she using?”

  It was a fair question, even in this small rural town. Illegal drugs had spread north from Phoenix and east from Las Vegas and other urban areas like a contagious disease, creeping over the Mogollon Rim into Cottonwood and the whole Verde Valley to add another misery to the common scourge of rural poverty.

  “I don’t think she’s using. She says not. She’s certainly depressed and very anxious. She said the cutting was a first time thing for her. She gave me a verbal contract not to do it again between now and our next appointment. I told her it’s a bad habit she doesn’t have to fall into. She seemed to understand that.”

  “Good!”

  “I’m concerned about two issues. One is that she may need to be on an antidepressant or anxiety medication. The other is that although she gave me a pretty good personal history and she seems straightforward, she wouldn’t tell me what triggered the crisis.”

  Doctor VanDeusen’s voice sounded relaxed. His answer conveyed the same casual attitude. “She gave me the gist of it. It seems she started to feel anxious when an uncle she hadn’t seen in years came back to town and she saw him on the street. She couldn’t--or wouldn’t--tell me why she hates the man. Or maybe she’s afraid of him. She said she started to think about suicide after she saw him. That scared her enough to bring her in to see me.”

  “I did the suicide scale with her and she scored very low.”

  “Most women with young children don’t suicide. I think you know that.”

  “Don’t be so certain of what I know, Doctor V. You might think to look at me that I’ve been at this work for twenty years, but I’m still a newbie. Of course Crystal doesn’t fit the profile for suicide. Maybe this uncle of hers is an abuser of some sort. She has that learned helplessness look, the victim affect, doesn’t she?”