IN MEMORY OF
LIEUT. JACK W. SWILLING
1831-1878
WHO BUILT THE
FIRST MODERN IRRIGATION DITCH
AND
TRINIDAD, HIS WIFE
1850-1929
WHO ESTABLISHED IN 1868 THE FIRST
PIONEER HOME IN THE
SALT RIVER VALLEY.
ERECTED BY
MARICOPA CHAPTER
DAUGHTERS OF THE AMERICAN REVOLUTION
1931
I sat on the fountain’s concrete lip and listened to the water.
“Swilling’s Ditch” was one of the hundreds of miles of canals built by the Hohokam to divert water of the Salt River in this great alluvial valley. “Those who have gone”-the disappeared civilization, the canal builders. Then the Anglos came, found the ancient waterworks, the most advanced in the New World outside Peru. They cleared out the ancient canals, built new ones and the Phoenix was reborn.
Old Phoenix kept its secrets. Jack Swilling was one of the town’s founders. He was also a scoundrel who helped betray the Apache leader Mangus Coloradus, leaving him to be tortured and killed by the U.S. Army. It was an act of treachery that helped ensure twenty years of war. But this wasn’t engraved on the fountain.
And people like Chris Melton didn’t even know or care. They moved into their new subdivisions far from the heart of the city and thought the only history was back home in the Midwest. I would bet he had never read this plaque.
The water trickled in a melody that should have been comforting. Not tonight. Because I knew. Too much and not enough.
Maybe even Mike Peralta was a scoundrel who would throw everything away for a case of diamonds. And here I am carrying that damned badge. I never should have come back here. Not to this building. Not to this city.
Better to be teaching history in Southern California or Denver, Portland, or Seattle, even in a community college if need be. Anywhere but here.
Yet Peralta never stopped trying to get me back to the Sheriff’s Office and he had finally succeeded. When I didn’t get tenure in San Diego and returned to Phoenix, intending to sell the house and move on, he hired me to clean up some old cases. And I stayed.
I never should have stayed.
Phoenix is not my city now.
It belongs to the millions of newcomers drawn here by sun, a pool in the backyard, and big wide freeways to drive. To the ones that bulldoze its history and throw down gravel and concrete where there once were flowers and oleanders and canopies of cottonwoods, eucalyptus, and Arizona ash over open irrigation ditches.
I hear the ghosts of the Hohokam and love it when it rains. Newcomers want championship golf and endless sunshine.
They own this place now, not me.
They tell me every place changes, but why did my place have to get worse? It’s not as if we traded the Valley of Heart’s Delight to become Silicon Valley.
What right have I to hate them? They have no memory of my garden city when the air was so clear it seemed as if you could reach out and touch the mountains. They don’t miss the passenger trains at Union Station or the busy stores and movie palaces downtown.
How could they miss what had been wiped away?
The problem is me, for loving Phoenix still.
The blame rests with me, for coming back, for staying.
I should have sold the house in Willo, where the historic districts carry strands of the old city’s loveliness-sold it and left for good.
But it had been built by my grandfather, had always been in the family. How could I endure seeing a photo of it on the Web, knowing a stranger owned it, and had probably put rocks in place of Grandmother’s gardens?
But it is a house, nothing more, and sentimentality disables me.
What fool would mourn Phoenix? It makes as much sense as pining for Muncie, Indiana, in the nineteenth century.
My fool’s punishment is that I am from nowhere.
“David, this is your home, your hometown.”
I have no hometown.
I am a fraud.
I’ll never make it home again.
Had I not come back, I never would have met Lindsey, the young Sheriff’s Office computer genius with the nose stud and wicked sense of humor. She would have been so much better off without me.
I should not be here.
It’s not healthy.
It’s not sane.
I am like a mad archeologist trying to conjure ruins back to their past glory.
Or like a dog that can’t leave his master’s grave, ending up a stray that howls all night in the cemetery, crying, loss…loss…loss…
So help me, God, I am so lost.
The water shut off, as if on a timer.
I made my legs stand and take the steps two at a time up to the grand arched main entrance where I buzzed the night bell.
“Mapstone! I haven’t seen you in forever. How the hell’s it hanging?”
The deputy didn’t even realize I had left the department.
A metal detector and X-ray machine with a belt had been installed inside, but otherwise the lobby and airy atrium looked the same. No, better. The county had actually done a good job restoring the building to its period beauty. The brass elevator doors glimmered beyond.
Instead, I took the staircase that wound up the atrium, walking on the brown Mexican saltillo tiles, gripping the railing that so many thousands of justice-seeking hands had touched. The decorative tiles on the risers had been polished and replaced where needed. The wrought-iron chandeliers burned through yellow panes set off with colored medallions.
When Peralta had first put me over here, the building was an afterthought holding a few county agencies. Now, I guessed it was busy on weekdays. Tonight, it was silent enough for my footfall to echo. I reached the fourth floor and walked past the doors of dark wood, pebbled glass, and transoms. Overhead were white globes spaced every few feet.
My phone vibrated. A message from Lindsey: “You ok?”
I texted back, “Yes. Home soon.”
I was anything but okay.
Then I found the correct door, slipped in the key, and went inside.
My new office was perhaps ten feet by twelve feet, a comedown from my old digs. But it had a large window looking north. I turned on the lights and there they stood, the antique wooden desk I had scrounged from the county warehouse, swivel chair, and two other straight-back chairs in front. Against one wall was the 1930s courtroom bench I also had appropriated. Another wall held the historic map of Phoenix that was yet another of my finds, one I didn’t take with me when I left the job.
It was as if Melton had planned it all before we ever talked.
And I had fallen into the snare.
Treason, indeed.
I switched the lights back off, crossed to the desk chair, and slowly lowered myself to sit. The empty desktop received its first employment since I had resigned and cleaned out my old office-the case file Melton had given me. I thought about reading through the case now, thought better of it, and instead spun around to watch the cars moving along Washington Street.
I wondered where Peralta was, if he was safe, what the hell was going on. I needed to be working on finding him, deciphering the messages on the cards, not rehashing a thirty-year-old case.
The dread had hold of my throat and chest before I realized it. My heart galloped insistently inside my chest. I was conscious of every chamber of my heart opening and closing, opening and closing. In only seconds, it seemed, the trap door to oblivion would open beneath me. Yes, Sharon, I still get panic attacks.
The only remedy was to move, to get up and flee the building, get into the night air and see some other human souls. At Central and Washington, I boarded a train so full of them that I had to stand all the way home.
On the way, I tried to figure out what to tell Lindsey.
Chapter Ten
Our block was awash in white lights and hemmed in by the dark silhouettes of satellite trucks bearing the logos of television stations. As I drew closer, I saw that the lights were from television cameras and pointed at our house. The house looked good. Lindsey looked even better, standing on the front patio and talking into microphones that five reporters held to her very telegenic face.