Free Absolution by Michael Kerr Page B

wide enough to negotiate between the lofty trees that grew either side of it.  Another quarter-mile long track opened up to a small clearing in which a sturdy cabin stood, its windows shuttered as if it was either abandoned or protecting something very old and of great value within its solid log walls.
    “Who lived here?” Logan said as Andy parked the Mazda at the side of the cabin.
    “Uncle Walt left it to Fran and me.  It’s a place to get away from it all once in a while.  Walt was an artist and bought this cabin back in the late sixties.  He lived in Tucson till he was seventy and just stayed up here at weekends. But after Aunt Barbara died, he sold up and moved here permanently, becoming very reclusive until he passed in oh-nine.”
    The cabin was a three-roomed structure comprising a kitchen/living area and two bedrooms.  The facilities were basic.  There was no electricity, just a few oil lamps, a large propane stove with two hobs and an oven, and a fire place for burning logs in.  The toilet was an outside privy situated sixty feet away at the rear of the building.  The water supply was a narrow, spring-fed stream that ran west to east beyond the privy.
    “Nice,” Logan said with sincerity.  “It’s a perfect retreat with everything that a man could need.”

    By eight p.m. Martin had identified the Nissan and its current female owner.  A contact in the motor vehicle division of the Arizona Department of Transportation had taken less than a minute to check the plate number and furnish him with details.  The car belonged to a woman by the name of Andrea Corby, a twenty-nine year old woman with blond hair.  Her address was an apartment in Ajo.
    Martin smiled.  It wouldn’t surprise him to find that Logan was at the apartment with her.  This could all be taken care of within a couple hours.  He decided that Logan and Andrea Corby would make fine company for Wayne, out at Barton Gap, at the bottom of the deep, narrow chasm.
    They parked on the next street and walked in.  Martin, Gary Foley and Strother Perkins had no difficulty entering the eight unit apartment block.  The entrance door was not locked, and at the side of it was a panel with names on strips covered by translucent acetate next to bell pushes.  A. Corby lived in number five on the second floor.  The street door opened onto a small lobby that had mailboxes bolted to one wall.  There was no elevator.
    Martin led the way up the stairs and stopped outside the door of number five.  Leaned forward and put his ear to the door, but could hear nothing.  Perhaps the couple was out, or had gone to bed to do what comes naturally.
    Martin nodded to Strother, who picked the cheap lock in less than twenty seconds and silently turned the ball-shaped metal handle to open the door six inches.  The room was in darkness.
    They searched the apartment, but found nothing that gave any intimation of where the woman might be.  Martin went across to the wall-mounted phone in the kitchen, plucked the receiver from its cradle and hit redial for the last number called.  Got a voicemail at a local pizza parlor and hung up.
    As they left the apartment and went back down to the lobby, an elderly woman was just walking in off the street.  Martin held the door for her.
    “My, you’re as tall as Town Hall,” Emily Harmon said, smiling up at Martin.
    Martin returned the smile.  Introduced himself as John Thompson, and asked the old woman if she knew where Andrea might be.  Said he was her cousin, and that he couldn’t reach her by cell phone, and that he had been out of touch for several years.
    “I saw her leave in a hurry last night, or maybe it was the evening before. I lose track of time these days,” Emily said.  “She had a suitcase and a large bag, so maybe she was going on vacation, or to visit her sister.”
    “Is her sister still living in Phoenix?” Martin said to keep the conversation going.
    “No, John.  Fran moved to Pisinimo after