Man Overboard

by J. A. Jance

  Stu’s legs were bent back double. One of them was already cramping like crazy, and his shoulders felt like they were on fire. Trying to find a more comfortable position, he was surprised to notice that as he moved, there was slightly more give in the restraints binding his wrists than there had been earlier when he had attempted to answer the phone. He discovered that yanking on them loosened them even more, but pulling wasn’t the whole answer.

  His exertions had made his thumb slightly more maneuverable. He used that to explore the layers of duct tape on his wrists. After untold seconds of searching, he found what he was looking for—the slight rough spot that indicated the edge of the piece of tape. Slowly and patiently he began to pry it loose and peel it away.

  It was hot in the airless darkness. Sweat poured into his eyes, but Stu stayed focused on doing the slow, awkward work that couldn’t be rushed. At least there was hope now. When he opened the trunk, Owen Hansen would expect to find his two prisoners exactly as he had left them. Not if Stu could help it. If he had his way, by the time the trunk lid popped open, both he and Amelia Cannon would be free to launch an armed counterattack. And if Stu could pull his cell phone out of his other pocket, he’d be able to summon help.

  “It’s gonna be all right,” he mumbled seemingly incoherently through the tape, but Amelia must have understood what he was saying.

  She nodded her head vigorously against his chest. The rustling of her hair made him sneeze again. Somehow that was a good thing instead of a bad thing. The sound of another muffled sneeze seemed funny to him just then. If his mouth hadn’t been taped shut with a layer of duct tape, Stuart Ramey would have laughed aloud.

  63

  When the message announcement buzzed on Cami’s phone, she was still out on the lanai. Stuart was in trouble? She wrote back immediately.

  What kind of trouble?

  Ali’s response was equally instantaneous.

  An active shooter was reported inside High Noon. Police still arriving at the scene. Stu was outside when it happened. He is not answering his phone or responding to texts. The 911 call may be bogus. This may have something to do with Owen Hansen.

  What do you need?

  Can you call up the High Noon’s security footage?

  Should be able to. Let me go inside. The Wi-Fi is slow but it works. Anything else?

  Do you have access to Stu’s device finding file?

  Yes.

  If you can find his phone, do that first.

  Inside her stateroom, Cami grabbed her computer and logged in to her High Noon account. The connection was maddeningly slow but it worked eventually. As a security measure, Stuart had created and maintained a master list that enabled him to locate the electronic devices of all key company personnel. Usually he was the one seated at a keyboard typing in the commands and searching for someone else, but it was a shared file, one Cami and B. could access. This time things were different. Stuart was the one who was missing, and Cami was at the keyboard.

  She sent Ali her next text:

  Phone is moving westbound on Arizona Highway 89A, probably in a vehicle of some kind. Looks like he’s just now entering Jerome.

  Okay. If we can get around the roadblock, I’ll go that way, too.

  Is Stu under duress do you think?

  Can’t tell. See if the security footage gives us anything.

  Will do.

  Cami did just that. Fast-forwarding through the footage she saw Stuart leave through the front door. He immediately turned to the right and then disappeared around the side of the building. He appeared briefly in video footage from one of the cameras located on the back of the building, but only in passing. The camera was focused on the entrance, and he merely walked through one corner of the frame before disappearing again. Cami fast-forwarded through the remainder of the footage from all the cameras, but there was no further sign of him.

  Cami had driven on 89A. It was a treacherously narrow stretch of highway filled with switchbacks and hairpin curves that led up and over Mingus Mountain. There was no way Ali should be driving that road and texting at the same time.

  Cami picked up the phone in her room and dialed the operator. “My name is Camille Lee,” she said. “I need to speak to CSO Mordelo immediately. It’s an emergency.”

  64

  A whole fleet of side-by-side Harleys roared up the mountain, almost forcing Odin off the road. The Chrysler’s right rear tire slewed off the blacktop and nearly slammed the car into a cliff. Odin managed to pull it out without overcorrecting, but just barely. Hitting that wall of rock would have been disastrous. He shook his fist at the last of the motorcycle riders, who returned the favor by giving him the finger.

  “Assholes,” Odin muttered. “Total assholes!”

  By his estimate he was more than halfway up the mountain by now, but the gas gauge had dropped precipitously, and the range mileage was down to a bare twenty-five. Maybe there would be a gas station somewhere on the far side of the pass. Maybe he wouldn’t have to drive the whole way into Prescott in order to fill up. If there was a gas station up ahead, Frigg should be able to tell him exactly where it was.

  Dealing with hairpin curves and operating the phone at the same time wasn’t easy, but Odin didn’t have a choice. He somehow managed to redial Frigg’s number without wrecking the car, then he put Dr. Cannon’s phone on speaker mode before slipping it into his shirt pocket. He listened while it rang the first time. That was odd. Frigg usually answered calls prior to the first ring. To his dismay, the phone rang a second time, a third, and then a fourth. Odin could hardly believe it. The phone line in question didn’t have an answering machine assigned to it for the obvious reason that Frigg was a goddamned answering machine. Where the hell was she?

  Odin pulled the phone out of his pocket and checked the screen. Yes, there was only one dot showing, but even so there should have been enough signal strength for a call to go through.

  “Frigg!” he yelled toward the still-ringing phone. “Why the hell don’t you answer?”

  When the phone remained silent, a glance at the screen told Odin, “Call Failed.” And sure enough the one bump had disappeared. This part of the mountain had zero signal strength. Zero.

  Odin was going uphill, which meant his lane was on the inside of the roadway and nearest to the cliff faces lining the pavement. On the slow curves he caught glimpses of the way the mountain plunged away from the highway. That and the fact that the guardrails looked inadequate for the task explained why, when he met up with the next set of Harleys, they had veered onto his side of the double yellow line rather than staying on their own. Odin laid on the horn. What the hell were they trying to do, get him killed?

  65

  Ali hopped out of the Cayenne and raced around to the passenger side, while Alonso dutifully got behind the wheel. “What now?” he asked.

  Ali had already called up a map on her iPad. She had grown up in Sedona, but she had attended high school in Cottonwood. Years of playing Ditch ’Em as a teenager had taught her that there were other ways of getting back to the highway, but during the intervening years most of the street names had fallen out of her head.

  “Turn around and go back the way we came,” she said. “When you get to Scenic Drive, turn right on that. Then turn right again on Old Jerome Highway.”

  “Are you sure?” Alonso asked, but he was already executing the ­U-turn exiting the traffic jam accumulating at the roadblock. “It seems like the long way around.”

  “It is the long way around,” Ali told him, “but at least it’ll get us back to the highway.”

  With Ali calling out directions and Alonso speeding around the corners, they raced back the way they had come, making a left at Reta, a right on Laree, a left on Richard, a right onto Lanny Avenue, and another left onto Lanny Lane. Ali’s phone rang as they came to the intersection with the continuation of Old Jerome.
/>   “Which way now?” Alonso asked.

  Ali motioned to the right. The number showing in the caller ID window included an international prefix, one she didn’t recognize, but she took the call anyway and was thrilled to hear Cami’s voice.

  “How did you manage that?” Ali asked.

  “I’m using the ship’s satellite phone,” Cami explained. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

  “There’s a roadblock on 89A. We took a detour. We’re about to connect up with 89A from Old Jerome Highway. Can you still see Stu’s phone?”

  “He’s on the far side of Jerome, heading up over the mountain to Prescott.”

  “Which way?” Alonso asked when he reached the stop sign at the next intersection.

  “Left,” Ali said.

  As Alonso swung the Cayenne onto the highway, the phone in Ali’s hand buzzed a call waiting announcement. The name on the screen said: “Gordon Maxwell.” As in, Sheriff Gordon Maxwell of the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office.

  “Can you hold a minute, Cami?” Ali asked. “I need to take another call.” She switched over. “Sheriff Maxwell,” she said at once. “I know about the shooter situation. Did you find him?”

  “We didn’t find a damned thing!” he announced irritably. “The 911 call came from someone at High Noon, but the whole place is locked up tighter’n a drum. With those damned shutters in place, responding officers can’t get inside the building to finish clearing it.”

  “There are two keypads next to the front door,” Ali told him. “The one on the left unlocks the front door and the one on the right opens the shutters. They both use the same five-number activation code: *15115 Enter. Shirley Malone, our receptionist, is in a safe room in the back of the building. I told her to stay there until someone gives her the all clear.”

  “Okay,” Sheriff Maxwell said. “Thanks.”

  Ali looked at her phone before she switched back to the other call. Should she have told the sheriff about what else was going on? The problem was, she didn’t really know. It was possible there was nothing wrong at all—that Stuart and Dr. Cannon were simply on their way to some unknown destination entirely of their own volition. Since there had already been one false alarm called in from High Noon Enterprises that day, Ali didn’t want to risk another one. No, better to keep quiet about the Stuart situation for the time being.

  Ali returned to the other line. “Where are you?” Cami asked. “I could probably use another computer to lock on to your phone, too, but for now I’m concentrating on Stu’s.”

  “Good thinking,” Ali said. “We’re through Jerome and headed up the mountain. There’s some kind of motorcycle rally going on. There are packs of Harleys and BMWs everywhere, but what about Stu? Can you still see his phone?”

  “Looks like he’s a long way up the mountain,” Cami said. “He’s probably five miles ahead of you, but did you just say ‘we’? Who’s with you?”

  “Alonso,” Ali answered. “Alonso Rivera, my new butler. We haven’t exactly finalized the hiring process, but for right now he’s doing the driving, and a damned fine job of it, too.”

  Alonso flashed her a grin.

  “Uh-oh,” Cami said.

  “What?” Ali demanded.

  “Stu’s phone just went dark.”

  “Crap,” Ali said. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious. I’ve got nothing. Maybe it’s just a signal problem.”

  Ali held the phone away from her face long enough to check the screen. She still had two dots of signal strength. This lonely mountain pass was a long way from any cell towers, but still the idea of Stu’s phone going quiet due to a signal strength problem seemed far too good to be true. Closing her eyes, it was easy for Ali to imagine a car plowing through a guardrail and then plunging off the narrow roadway. A vehicle like that, tumbling end over end down the steep mountainside, might plummet for hundreds of feet before finally coming to rest. Ali had enough of a law enforcement background to understand that an MVA like that wouldn’t be survivable.

  “What’s going on?” Alonso demanded, dragging her out of her momentary reverie.

  “Cami just lost the signal on Stu’s phone.”

  Call waiting buzzed. Sheriff Maxwell was back on the line. “I’ve got another call,” she told Cami. “Call me back if that signal comes back. In the meantime, we’re going as fast as humanly possible.”

  She switched over to the other call. “What’s the word, Sheriff Maxwell?”

  “Officers are inside High Noon,” he reported. “No intruders were found. Shirley is safe, but what’s the deal with Stuart Ramey? She says he went missing. She also said something about a woman named Dr. Cannon.”

  “Stu’s not missing exactly,” Ali admitted. “We’re pretty sure he’s in a vehicle that’s headed up and over Mingus Mountain on Arizona 89A. What we don’t know is if he’s making the trip voluntarily or if he’s doing it under duress.”

  “By ‘under duress,’ are you saying that he may have been kidnapped?” Maxwell demanded.

  “It’s possible.”

  “And you’re currently in pursuit?”

  Ali didn’t answer the question, which, for Gordon Maxwell, was answer enough.

  “You need to stand down, Ali,” he ordered. “Immediately. I’ll send units from both ends of the road to do an intercept, but you need to back off. What kind of vehicle are we talking about?”

  “I’m not sure. Stu doesn’t have a car. Dr. Cannon drives a late-model blue Chrysler 300. They might be in that.”

  “Do you think they’re traveling together? Is she the one who’s responsible for whatever’s going on?”

  “Possibly,” Ali said, “but I doubt it. She’s probably as much a victim as Stu is.”

  “All right, then,” Maxwell said. “We’re on it, but as I said before, Ali, you need to abandon pursuit. Immediately!”

  “Sorry,” Ali murmured into the phone. “You’re breaking up. I seem to be losing you.”

  With that she ended the call. Sheriff Gordon Maxwell could bellow all he wanted, but she didn’t have to listen, and she didn’t have to do what he said.

  “Are you carrying?” she asked, peering ahead through the windshield.

  “Do you mean am I carrying a weapon?” Alonso asked.

  Ali nodded.

  “No,” Alonso said. “What about you?”

  “I’ve got a Taser in my purse and a holstered Ruger LCP with a laser sight in my bra.”

  “Are you any good?” Alonso asked.

  “With guns?’

  He nodded.

  “Good enough,” Ali answered grimly, “especially when I’m motivated.”

  66

  Unraveling the tape from his wrists took so much time and focused attention that gradually Stu’s claustrophobia lost its grip. His breathing steadied. It was hot and airless in the trunk, but concentrating on the task at hand kept him from worrying about succumbing to a lack of oxygen. It also kept him from thinking about what would happen once the trunk lid opened. At that point it would all be on him. In fact, he realized, it already was.

  One strip at a time he peeled away the tape. Sometimes it came off easily in a single piece. Other times it split off into narrow strips, forcing him to go back, track down another section of edge, and start over. Beside him Amelia Cannon lay perfectly still—as still as the unpredictable movements of the speeding vehicle allowed—as if not wanting to be a distraction.

  At last his hands came free. He immediately tore the tape from his face. “I’m loose,” he whispered into the darkness while at the same time grabbing for his phone. When the screen came to life, the piercingly bright light momentarily blinded him.

  Once he could see again, an incoming text message appeared on his phone’s home screen. Ignoring that for the time being, Stu dialed 911, but the bad news was instantly apparent
. No service. Stu knew that occasionally, in low-signal situations, texts would go through when calls would not, but when he tried texting 911, that wasn’t the case here. He turned on the phone’s flashlight app. Leaving that lit, he slipped the phone into his shirt pocket. The somewhat muted glow from that gave him enough light to work. First he removed Amelia’s gag.

  “Thank you,” she whispered back at him. “Thank you so much.”

  Stu felt his other hip pocket. And there, much to his surprise, was his grandfather’s Swiss Army knife. Stu’s joy knew no bounds. How had Owen Hansen overlooked that?

  There had been times in Stu’s life when that knife had been his only personal possession. He had carried it with him every day, always making sure it was clean and well cared for, and keeping the blades honed to razor sharpness. Now the knife repaid Stu’s years of careful attention as it sliced through multiple layers of tough duct tape with surprising ease. After first freeing Amelia’s hands and feet, Stu loosened the restraints around his own legs. When he tried to move his feet he found they were both sound asleep.

  “My feet are numb,” he whispered. “Can you change positions so I can unbend my legs?”

  Amelia immediately wiggled away from him, somehow contorting herself against the front and side walls of the trunk in a way that gave Stu enough room to straighten his legs. The throb of pins and needles was excruciating, but he welcomed the pain. Without that, when the lid opened, he’d be stuck standing on lumps of concrete rather than usable limbs.

  “Do you have a plan?” Amelia whispered.

  Sort of, Stu thought, but he knew he needed to sound more confident than he felt. “Yes, there’s an interior trunk latch down by our feet. Do you see it?”

  “No, where is it?”

  He switched off the phone light and the glowing fluorescent rectangle reappeared in the darkness. “Do you see it now?”

  “Where that little light is?”

  “Yes, that’s it. The moment the car stops, I’m going to reach down and open the trunk. When I do, you get out and make a run for it. While you find help, I’ll deal with Owen.”