by J. A. Jance
“I’ve got you, you scumbag,” Stuart said aloud to the monitor. Not only had Barry Handraker been living in Doris Ralston’s condo, he had evidently been using her vehicle.
Stuart had every expectation that his silver bullet was going to work, but just in case it didn’t, he wanted to make sure he had backup. To that end, he used an untraceable VOIP connection to send a copy of the Turnberry Towers tape to the Minnesota’s Most Wanted website. If Barry managed to slip through the first trap, he probably wouldn’t be as lucky with the professionals from the Las Vegas Police Department. They had plenty of practice in taking down fugitives.
31
When Ali’s eyes blinked open again, more time had passed, although she couldn’t guess how much. She noticed that the darkness wasn’t as complete as it had seemed before. Her moving prison was suffused in a strange green glow. Did that mean it was night? She didn’t know. Some time ago, long before she found herself locked in this prison, it had been morning. She had been somewhere—Phoenix, maybe?—and on her way to see someone, driving under a clear blue sky. She remembered being somewhere that had seemed like a bar, and a guy with a mustache who had been angry about something. Maybe he was the one who had locked her in here. Maybe he was the one who was driving her God knows where.
She remembered someone else—had that been earlier than the bar or later? She didn’t know. A woman who seemed to be walking away from Ali, striding off across a parking lot. Concentrating, Ali could almost sort out the woman’s features but not her name. What was it? Susan, maybe, or Sally or Cynthia? Whatever her name was, part of the time she had been scared and part of the time angry, but she was worried about someone else. Her child, a son. The kid was in some kind of trouble—trouble that had something to do with a box. Suddenly, for no reason Ali could imagine, the lyrics to a song from Fiorello! were running unchecked through her head:
A little tin box
A little tin box
That a little tin key unlocks.
What was that all about? As the song went back out of her head, Ali realized she was no longer hearing the roar of traffic from outside. Yes, there were occasional vehicles coming and going, but they sounded more like cars than trucks. There was pavement under the tires, but they were no longer traveling on a freeway. They were on a less traveled road.
As Ali attempted to assemble the pieces, her heart filled with dread: They were on a less traveled road to some deserted corner of the desert. It might be night. She was being driven there by someone evil who, for reasons she didn’t understand, had locked her in a trunk. When they got wherever they were going, she was going to die, because she remembered that much. That was what had happened to the other woman, the one in the trunk, and this was the same thing. The person driving the car had killed that other woman—what was her name? Jan. Gina. Jill. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t dredge it up.
This time, much as she wanted to, Ali didn’t allow herself to fall back asleep. She willed herself to fight through the mental fog—to remember whatever it was that she didn’t want to forget. She twisted her cramping body and managed to free the arm that had been trapped. As circulation returned to her aching limb, Ali used the painful waves of needles and pins as a reminder that she was alive.
The car turned sharply to the right, thumping off the pavement and onto something much rougher. A dirt track, maybe? If that was the case, they were probably getting closer to stopping, getting closer to the end—of everything she held dear.
Her mind was filled with an endless parade of folks she’d never see again if she were dead. These were the beloved people she had left behind that day, or even the day before, without holding them close and saying a proper goodbye. B., of course, and then her parents; Chris and Athena; Colin and Colleen. It pained her to think that her grandchildren most likely wouldn’t remember anything at all about her except that she had been hauled off in a trunk and murdered. And then there was Leland Brooks. What would happen to him?
It was remembering all those people that did the trick, that made her want to go on living. That made her refuse to give up.
“I may die,” Ali Reynolds said aloud in the moving darkness, “but I sure as hell won’t go out without a fight!”
32
When the car lurched to a hard stop, the load of luggage behind Ali shifted, slamming her forward and mashing her face into the carpet-covered wall in front of her. The abrupt change of position sent a whole new agony of needles and pins powering through her legs and feet and a new awareness through her brain.
She had been at Doris Ralston’s house. A man had come into the room unannounced, a man who had to be Molly Handraker’s husband. Those were the only connections she had managed to make when she heard shouting from somewhere outside the vehicle—two voices, a man and a woman’s, screaming.
“What’s wrong?”
“The damned thing just stopped!”
“Can’t you start it again?” Ali recognized Molly’s voice.
“No, I can’t start it again. Since when am I a damned mechanic?”
“What are we going to do?” Molly sounded desperate and close to tears.
“We’re going to finish this thing once and for all.”
“Why did we have to bring her all the way out here? Why couldn’t we just—”
“Because I said so,” he told her. “Now shut up.”
For all the bluster in the man’s voice, Ali detected what she hoped was a hint of panic. The car’s breakdown wasn’t part of his plan, whatever that plan might be. While they figured out how to cope with the crisis, there was a chance they’d make a mistake of some kind, one that might give Ali an opportunity to escape.
Waiting for the trunk to open, she tried to steel herself for whatever would come. She had a pretty good idea what it would be. As her brain cleared, she remembered more of what had gone on. That other woman had been stabbed before she was dumped out in the desert and left to die.
If that was what was going on here, what was Ali’s best tactic? Would the element of surprise help if she shot up and out the moment the trunk lid opened, like some kind of enraged jack-in-the-box? Even though that idea was initially appealing, she concluded that there were far too many unknowns. The worst of those was whether she would be able to trust her own body. Yes, circulation had returned to her trapped extremities, but they had been held immobile for so long, would they work as she commanded them? Ali had some faith in her ability as a sprinter, but what if her legs didn’t respond and she fell to the ground and flopped there, helpless as a landed fish?
By the time the trunk lid thumped open and the greenish glow disappeared, Ali had made a decision: She would lie perfectly still and wait. Staring at the carpet directly in front of her, she was amazed to see that she could make out individual fibers. She had spent hours confined in the blackness of her moving prison. Over time her eyes had adjusted to the almost total darkness. Now the mere presence of starlight seemed close to daylight for her light-starved vision. If her opponent’s eyes were coping with the loss of the car’s headlights, that might give Ali a small advantage.
Maybe.
“While you get your crap out of the car, I’ll check on the plane,” the man continued. “With the car broken down, I’ll have to see if they can send someone out to pick us up.”
“Are you kidding? Out here in the middle of nowhere?”
“Depends on how much we’re willing to pay,” the man muttered. “So like I said, get that junk out of the trunk. We need to get rid of her.”
Ali had known all along that would be the most likely endgame. Still, hearing the words said aloud almost took her breath away. She listened as his heavy footsteps crunched away from the vehicle. When he stopped moving, she heard the indistinct mumbling of him talking on the phone. Moments later, the pressure on Ali’s back eased a little as Molly began unpacking the trunk, as she’d been ordered to do, and removing the obstacles that had kept Ali confined to the front of the trunk.
Finished unloading, Molly stood at the back of the car. The task had taken its toll. Ali listened to Molly’s labored breathing, all the while keeping her own eyes shut and her breathing slow and even.
“Okay,” Molly called. “Everything’s out but her. What now?”
“Get her out, too,” Barry said. “I’ll be there to help in a minute.”
Ali knew this was it. If she were to have any chance of getting away, she had to do it now, while she was dealing with Molly alone. Once Barry finished with his lengthy telephone negotiation, he would come to help. Then it would be two against one and too late.
Molly hesitated for another few moments. In the silence, Ali heard the distant rumble of the man’s voice and maybe something else, too, but before she could identify the new sound, Molly reached into the trunk and used both hands to grasp Ali’s shoulders. Grunting with effort, Molly flipped Ali over and dragged her a few short inches toward her. Ali concentrated on being unresisting deadweight. She kept her eyes shut, kept her limbs limp and pliable. She had no doubt that her life depended on the subterfuge. Barry Handraker might be armed and dangerous, but he wasn’t the only one. Molly hadn’t hesitated to draw a weapon the other night, and Ali suspected she would do so again with the smallest amount of provocation.
Grunting and pulling, Molly managed to shift Ali’s body a few inches, then she stopped. “Barry, she’s too heavy,” she called over her shoulder. “I need some help here.”
Ali could tell from the sound of Molly’s voice that she had turned in Barry’s direction to call to him. Taking full advantage of the momentary distraction, Ali quietly straightened her legs. The cramping in her calves nearly took her breath away, but even if her legs weren’t ready to function properly, Ali knew now was the time. She had to make her move while Molly was alone.
“What the hell’s that noise?” Molly demanded. “It sounds like a helicopter.”
Ali heard it, too, the distant thwack of rotating helicopter blades. Suspecting Molly was searching the surrounding sky for the aircraft, Ali opened her eyes. Molly’s back was turned. She was staring off into the distance. “Barry, do you hear that?”
Holding her breath, Ali turned back onto her belly. Raising herself into a half crouch, she waited for Molly to turn toward her once more. When it happened, Ali was ready. Throwing all her weight behind a karate chop, Ali caught Molly in the side of the neck. Ali had hoped to catch her full in the throat, but the blow had enough force to send the other woman sprawling.
The moment Molly fell, Ali leaped out of the trunk. She had been right to worry about her legs. She hit the ground hard, landing on a bed of sharp rocks that bit into the soles of her bare feet. She paused in midflight, looking left and right. The car was parked in a rough clearing that fell sharply downhill, where the ground appeared to end in utter blackness that Ali took to be water. To the right, the same clearing ran uphill until it gave way to scattered brush and what looked like a series of low-lying hills.
Stripped of shoes in that rugged terrain, outgunned and alone, Ali could have given up, but she didn’t. Instead, realizing she needed to give her legs some time before they would work, she dove for cover, scrambling under the car and wriggling forward under it commando-style.
“Barry!” Molly screamed. “Come quick. She’s getting away.”
“My God, woman,” he demanded. “What’s the matter with you?”
Ali thought she might get away clean, but when she shot out from under the front end of the car, Barry was waiting for her, holding a weapon Ali suspected was her own Glock.
“Not so fast, bitch!” he growled. “You’re not going anywhere.”
With the weapon in one hand, he grabbed the collar of Ali’s jacket with the other and began hauling her to her feet. Ali realized she might have one more chance. She waited until both of her feet were firmly on the ground, then she straightened up, butting him under the chin so hard that she saw stars. She heard his teeth slam together as she knocked him off balance. When he let go of her and staggered backward, Ali darted away, running uphill, away from the water and toward the desert.
Her feet screamed in agony as she raced through the rock-strewn, eerily starlit landscape. Dreading the sound of bullets whistling past, Ali spotted a low-lying ridge of rock and dirt that looked to have been bladed away to clear a space that was evidently some kind of boat launch. She dove for that, throwing herself over the ridge and rolling down the other side. She was airborne when she saw her mistake.
The ditch on the other side of the ridge glittered with the debris of a thousand broken beer bottles. As she rolled, pieces of jagged glass sliced into her body. When she came to rest, she could hear someone running toward her on the other side of the ridge. Desperate for a weapon, she looked for a suitable rock. She found something far better. Inches from her hand lay the remains of a broken beer bottle. The neck was intact. The body was a ring of jagged glass.
A broken bottle isn’t much, Ali thought as her fingers closed around what she hoped would be a lethal weapon, but it’s more than I had before.
She lay waiting, and Molly didn’t disappoint. She topped the ridge of dirt, drawn weapon in hand. Convinced that Ali was still running, Molly made the mistake of looking off into the distance. Misjudging her footing, she tumbled into the ditch. As she landed, the gun flew out of her hands while she came to rest just beyond Ali.
This was hand-to-hand combat, and Ali didn’t hesitate. Closing her fingers around the glass, she jammed the bottle with everything she had into the top of Molly’s thigh, then grabbed up the fallen gun and took off into the desert while Molly writhed on the ground and shrieked in pain.
A bullet that was far too close ricocheted off a rock three feet away from Ali as she dove for cover again, this time behind a scraggly bush. Once she was behind it, she slithered away on the ground until she settled behind a nearby boulder, coming to rest a good ten yards to the right from where Barry would have seen her last. Crouching there, bruised and bleeding, she was grateful to have Molly’s weapon in her hand. It was a lightweight Kahr PM9. The nine-millimeter semi-automatic wasn’t a handgun Ali had ever used, but it would do, and she was a good marksman.
She could see Barry coming toward her, easing his way up over the ridge. Ali held her fire. Ali judged him to be too far away to risk a shot. She’d have to wait. Breathing deeply, she concentrated on stilling her mind and calming herself.
He came up on the far side of the ridge, crossing it at almost the same place where Molly lay in the ditch. She had given up screaming in favor of whimpering. “Help me,” she begged. “Please. You’ve got to, or I’ll end up bleeding to death.”
He paused and looked down at her. What happened next shocked Ali Reynolds beyond anything she had ever seen in her life. He simply aimed his weapon full at his wife’s face and pulled the trigger.
Ali had already known this was life or death, but she hadn’t understood the depth of Barry Handraker’s cold-blooded ruthlessness. Now she did, and she realized with a chill that he was coming after her next. She felt a momentary temptation to flee again, to try to put some distance between herself and the murderous thug, but she knew that running offered only the illusion of safety. She was barefoot. He was not. If she ran, he would pursue her to the bitter end. With this boulder as her protection, Ali knew she was far better off standing her ground.
Barry walked forward, leaving Molly dead in the ditch without so much as a backward glance. He came after Ali with the same kind of single-minded concentration. In the end, it was that tota
l focus that did him in, along with the sound of that fatal gunshot reverberating in his ears.
When Ali saw the ghostly figure rise up out of the ditch behind him, she was puzzled at first. Who was this person? Where had he come from? Or was it Molly? Had she somehow survived and followed him?
Gradually, the second figure closed the distance, moving with a careful stealth that allowed him to go both unnoticed and unheard. His right hand held an upraised weapon, a club of some kind. The pursuer was only a few feet away when something must have warned Barry. He half turned. As he did so, the club in the other man’s hand swung around and caught him in the back of the head. Barry stumbled forward half a step and then crumpled to the ground.
Without knowing the identity of her rescuer, Ali stayed where she was. Perhaps it wasn’t a rescuer at all but another member of a gang of crooks, bad guys who were busy turning on one another. Far in the background, Ali heard another sound or, rather, two other sounds—the distant wail of an approaching siren, and again the heavy thwack of a helicopter rotor. With those sounds filling up her ears, it took her a moment to recognize the familiar voice calling to her.
“Madame Reynolds, where are you?” There was no mistaking Leland Brooks’s distinctive voice. Leaning down, he appeared to pick up Barry’s weapon and pocket it; then he called to her again. “Please show yourself, Madame, and let me know you’re all right.”
Dumbfounded, Ali rose up from behind her boulder and stumbled toward him. This time, if rocks cut into her feet as she sprinted across the clearing, she didn’t notice. Moments later, she had her arms wrapped around the old man, hugging him close and weeping unashamedly into his shoulder.
“Are you hurt?”
“No, no,” she blubbered. “Well, maybe a little, but how did you find us? How did you get here? And how did you do that? Is he dead?”