The M.I.L.F. Man

Midnight Rider

And then of course the family were bombarding me with questions and had our PR people fielding calls and sending out cryptic, "Their son could not be reached for comment" press releases that only fanned the flames.

The call I'd been waiting for came just after I landed in El Paso. From a New Mexico area code.

"I got a ride to Mescalero," Cici said. "Inn of the Mountain Gods--Apache rez. So I'm safe for now."

"It's a federal offense, Cielo. They can take you from there."

"They'll have to find me first. It's a big ass resort with a casino and all kinds of places to hide."

"Well, I'm in El Paso. Renting a car—stay put. Is that a borrowed phone?"

"Public. But what are you—"

"Just keep your head down and call me in...maybe an hour or so."

"I don't want you getting all involved in this! Like you said, it's federal. So we're talking prison here—you'd be an accessory or whatever they call that."

"Call me," I said, hanging up before she could argue.

I lit out of El Paso in a rented SUV and got to Inn of the Mountain Gods as fast as I could—it was only about a two-hour drive.

The route took me White Sands and that Roswell place where so many people believe a UFO crash landed and that the evidence, including the alien pilots, are still being hidden away in the missile range nearby.

I felt like an alien, to be honest, in the otherworldly terrain —the vast, sugar white sand dunes "hissed" like they were whispering as I sped by. It was a moonscape world.

Getting a room at that Inn turned out to be quite uneventful, save for the playful flirtations of a few young—and a couple of not so young—women in the queue. The clerk gave me an interesting, "Enjoy your stay," as I left for the elevators she'd pointed to.

But Cici rang as I'd directed, yet again, to get the room number. And when I opened the door, she leapt up and threw arms and legs around me. Cried a little bit. More frightened than she'd let on, but also wearing a cheeky "F.B.I." (Full-blood Indian) cap to cover up that outrageous "do" of hers, and a touristy casino tee.

She was wearing shoes, too. Little sandals to fulfill the "no shoes, no shirt, no service" rules at the convenience stores and such.

In the room I ordered food and talked to Patti, rubbing Cici's back the whole time, hoping she'd doze off. But she needed to tell me everything. And I wanted to hear everything, hoping to pick up a few clues...

"Jesus took the wheel, I swear," she said. "I'd just paid for this big thing of soda and I glanced outside and saw this white SUV pull up behind the van to keep them from backing out. And it had that blue stripe on it, so I just headed toward the restrooms and out of an exit back there."

"But how did you get to Mescalero?"

"That's the best part! There was this Laguna woman named Faye eating lunch in a delivery truck—Frito Lay. She always eats there because there's shade. So I told her exactly what was up and she didn't even bat an eye. Just told me to get in the back—she was headed here. Let me eat all the chips I wanted...talked a blue streak..."

"God is great," I said. Only partly joking...

"Yep! Slid her lunch aside and took off smooth as hell."

I wish I could show you that smile. It was as if she were...exhilarated by all this. The tension had energized her. As if we were on some sort of...mission...