The Devil's Cradle

There it was again. That feeling. Gnawing at my insides. Disturbing my train of thought. Hard as I tried, I couldn't shake the growing sense of agitation.

Wedged behind my desk in the small newspaper office, the phone jammed against my ear, I fidgeted in the chair and stared longingly out the smudged window at the cottonwood trees tossing in the sultry August wind that swept across the desert floor every afternoon. In the distance, mountains of hazy purple, crowned with thunderheads taunting the promise of rain, beckoned to me.       Massaging the ache in my neck, I tried to refocus my attention to the matter at hand. The disembodied voice droning on and on at the other end of the line was beginning to tax my patience.

I sighed inwardly. Might as well give the feeling a name. Restlessness. I was restless and bored. And trapped. I wondered, not for the first time, if I hadn't made another one of my colossal blunders of judgement. I seemed to do well in the mistake department.

"Ah hem!" I tuned out the prattling in my ear and glanced at the doorway. Our receptionist, Ginger King, was planted there for the second time since lunch. The look of suppressed excitement on her freckled face, combined with hand gestures that rivaled a navy signalman, left little doubt that she intended to capture my attention this time.

"It's your brother, Patrick, calling from Pittsburgh again," she called in a loud whisper, "and I don't think he's gonna take no for an answer this time."

I cupped my hand over the receiver. "Ask him if I can call him back. Markham Bainbridge is on the line and he's mad as a wet hen." I paused. "Make that a rooster."

      She grinned at my little joke, but remained firm. "You can't. He's fixin' to catch a plane right shortly and says he's got something real important to tell ya."

My heart jolted. Uh oh. The rush of anxiety must have shown on my face because she took a quick step forward. "Now, dumplin', don't wet your drawers or nothin'," she soothed. "Your family's all hunky-dory, but he told me he's got a heap o' news that'll make your day and then some."

My innate curiosity got the best of me. I pressed my hand tighter on the mouthpiece. "Tell him to hang on."

She flashed a hundred-watt grin and gave me an enthusiastic thumbs-up before turning to leave.

Laughter gathered in my throat. Ginger was such a delight. Quirky. Bubbly. Always upbeat. What would I do without her?

"Miss O'Dell, are you listening to me?" Mr. Bainbridge's testy voice crackled in my ear.

"Ahhh, yes, yes, I heard you," I fibbed, straining to remember what he'd said last. "We're extremely sorry for the misstatement attributed to you and there will be a retraction in Saturday's paper."

"Page one?" he goaded.

"Page one. And sorry again for the mix up." Before he could utter another syllable, I punched the blinking button. "Patrick? This had better be good."

"Keep your shirt on, Sis," he chuckled. "How's it going? You settling into your new duties okay?"

"I guess. Being an editor is certainly no picnic. No wait, it's a headache and a half."

His laugh was sympathetic. "You sound just like Dad. He always said reporting in the field was a lot more fun than pushing papers and dealing with all the other crap. But listen, I've come across a story you may find interesting," he announced, a reflective note entering his voice. "You in the market for a scoop?"

"Are you kidding?" I swiped the list of problem calls away and grabbed my notepad. In the background, I could hear the din of airport noise as I waited for him to begin.

"I'll make this short and sweet, because we're boarding pretty soon. Okay, here's what I know. Margie's second cousin has a girlfriend at her college and her name is..." He paused as if he were reading something. "Angela. Yeah, Angela Martin. Anyway, this girl's mother passed away last March and she's been living kind of hand-to- mouth working nights and going to school and then, whammo, out of the blue she gets this really weird letter last week from some doctor she's never heard of from out there in Arizona."

I tightened the grip on my pen. "Explain really weird."

"You're gonna love this," he said, raising his voice over the clamor. "The guy claims he knew her mother, Rita, a long time ago and that Angela isn't really Angela."

"You lost me."

"This doctor-Orcutt's his name-claims her mom gave her a fake identity."

"Interesting. Why?"

"Angela says she doesn't have a clue, and she's also been under the impression her father died when she was a little kid. Well, guess what? He actually just passed away a couple of weeks ago and here's the corker. She's the sole heiress to some old mining town out there."

"A town?"

"Yeah. A whole town."

"Well, that might be no big deal. There are a lot of played-out mines in this state. Are you talking about a ghost town?"

"No, no. The doctor lives there and apparently mining engineers have discovered a huge new vein of gold. Angela could end up being a very rich young woman."

"Now this is starting to get good. Tell me more." I scribbled furiously as he fed me additional information.

When he was finished, I blew out a low whistle. "Pat, this is great stuff. But, why are you torturing me with this gem? I can't do it justice from here. The story ought to be covered by someone there in Pittsburgh."

"But, Kendall, the girl is coming out your way."

"Here? To Arizona?"

"Yeah, silly. Why do you think I called you?"

A spark of anticipation warmed me. "Well, why didn't you say so? When?"

"The beginning of next week, I think."

"That soon?" My mind began to work feverishly.

"Yeah. Margie's helping her book a flight into Tucson."

"Why Tucson?"

"She's supposed to see her mother's lawyer there. Angela said Dr. Orcutt was going to phone her later this week with more details. Oh, listen, Margie told her you'd arrange to have someone meet her at the airport and kind of show her the ropes. Was that okay?"       

That was so like my sister-in-law to forge ahead without bothering to check with the parties involved. "Not really. Tucson is a four-hour drive from here and I'm pretty short-handed right now...but I'll tell you what, if you fly her into Phoenix, I'll do my best to meet her plane. After that, I don't know. Is she renting a car?"

"Oops. I forgot to tell you something important. This girl is an epileptic so, she's not allowed to drive. Listen, Sis," he said in a distracted tone. "I have to go now."

"Wait, wait, wait. Just one more thing. Is this girl in agreement? I mean, before I go out on a limb, how do I know she'll consent to let me write this story?"

"You don't. I'm just passing along the information Margie gave me," he said cheerfully. "I guess it will be up to you to convince her."

      "You're such a dear," I replied dryly. "How long will she be staying?"

"Don't know that either. I'll call you Sunday when I get back from Atlanta."

      By the time I'd thanked him and cradled the phone, my spirits were going through the roof. For the first time in weeks my doldrums completely vanished.

Re-reading the notes, my thoughts leapfrogged over each other until the barest glimmer of an idea began to form. It was illogical. It was unrealistic. But as the concept grew in scope, so did the list of obstacles confronting me.

I jumped up and paced the cluttered room, lamenting my decision to take the reins as editor of the Castle Valley Sun. It had seemed like a great idea seven weeks ago, but the naked truth was, it wasn't fun. And every fiber of my being screamed out for me to get back to what I liked best-investigative reporting. I loved it, I needed it and I could feel clear down to my bone marrow that this was going to be one hell of a good story. The solution was simple enough, I thought, slumping behind the desk once more. All I had to do was find someone to take my place in six days.       

The cracked-vinyl chair gave a protesting squeak when I swung around to stare dejectedly out the window as if somehow I expected to find the answer to my dilemma amid the shimmering heat waves rising from the asphalt parking lot.

"Flapdoodle," I complained aloud, borrowing Ginger's favorite phrase. "Double flapdoodle!"

"Double Flapdoodle?" inquired a voice behind me. "Now that sounds mighty serious."

Startled, I looked around to see Tally slouching in the doorway. Before I could answer, he strode in, his boots clicking smartly against the bare concrete floor still awaiting new carpet. He turned the wooden chair in front of my desk around and straddled it. As always, his nearness made my pulse rate pick up considerably.

"You look like you're carrying the weight of the world on those pretty shoulders. What's up, boss?" He laid his hand out and I slid mine into it.

"Oh...this and that. And quit calling me boss," I chided with mock severity.

He grinned and...