by Jance, J. A.
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Contents
Web of Evil
Hand of Evil
Cruel Intent
ALSO BY J.A. JANCE
ALI REYNOLDS MYSTERIES
Edge of Evil
JOANNA BRADY MYSTERIES
Desert Heat
Tombstone Courage
Shoot/Don’t Shoot
Dead to Rights
Skeleton Canyon
Rattlesnake Crossing
Outlaw Mountain
Devil’s Claw
Paradise Lost
Partner in Crime
Exit Wounds
Dead Wrong
J. P. BEAUMONT MYSTERIES
Until Proven Guilty
Injustice for All
Trial by Fury
Taking the Fifth
Improbable Cause
A More Perfect Union
Dismissed with Prejudice
Minor in Possession
Payment in Kind
Without Due Process
Failure to Appear
Lying in Wait
Name Withheld
Breach of Duty
Birds of Prey
Partner in Crime
Long Time Gone
and
Hour of the Hunter
Kiss of the Bees
Day of the Dead
TOUCHSTONE
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This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2007 by J.A. Jance
All rights reserved,
including the right of reproduction
in whole or in part in any form.
TOUCHSTONE and colophon are registered trademarks of Simon & Schuster, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Jance, Judith A.
Web of evil: a novel of suspense / J. A. Jance.
p. cm.
I. Title.
PS3560.A44W43 2007
813'.54—dc22 2006052137
ISBN-13: 978-1-4165-4519-4
ISBN-10: 1-4165-4519-0
eISBN: 978-1-4516-7577-1
Visit us on the World Wide Web:
http://www.SimonandSchuster.com
For Donna A., the last missing piece of my childhood.
I’ve been looking for you for years.
WEB OF EVIL
{ PROLOGUE }
When the man opened his eyes, it was so dark that at first he thought they were still closed. So he tried again, but nothing changed. It was dark—a hot black stifling darkness that seemed to suck the breath out of him. He sensed movement, heard the whine of tires on pavement, but he had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. He tried to move his legs but couldn’t. They were jammed up under his belly in a space that was far too small, and they seemed to be tied together somehow.
His hands were stuck behind him, shoved up against something hard. After several minutes of struggling he was finally able to shift his body enough to free them. He was stunned to discover that they, too, had been bound together in the same manner his legs were. The combination of their being tied too tight and being stuck under his body had cut off the circulation. At first his hands were nothing more than a pair of useless and inextricably connected dead-weight cudgels. After a few moments the blood returned to his fingers in a rush of needle-and-pin agony.
As his senses gradually reasserted themselves, he realized that the rough surface under his cheek was carpet of some kind, and from somewhere nearby came the distinctive smell of new rubber—a spare tire. That meant he was in the trunk of someone’s vehicle being taken God knows where. He tried to shout, but of course he couldn’t do that, either. His mouth was taped shut. All that emerged from his throat was a guttural groan.
What was it you were you supposed to do if you found yourself trapped in a vehicle like that? Kick out the taillights, hang an arm out the hole, and signal for help? But he couldn’t kick anything. He couldn’t move his legs, and his bound hands were still useless.
As the man gradually understood the seriousness of his predicament, his heart beat faster while his breath quickened to short panicky gasps. For a while he was afraid he was going to pass out again, but he fought it—fought to bring his breathing back under control. Fought to concentrate. What the hell was happening? Where was he? Who was doing this? And why?
He tried to remember something about what had gone on before. He had a dim recollection of something like a party. Lots of lights and laughter, lots of girls, lots of liquor. So had he gotten drunk and pissed someone off? Was that what was going on? He knew that given enough scotch he wasn’t anyone’s idea of Mr. Congeniality, but still…
Sweat trickled down the side of his face and dribbled into one eye, burning like fire. Without the use of his hands, there was no way to brush it away.
The vehicle slowed suddenly and swerved to the right, rolling him back onto his hands. Outside he heard the roar of a semi going past followed immediately by another and another. So they were on a busy freeway somewhere—or had just left one. But where? As hot as it was, it had to be somewhere over the mountains—somewhere in the desert. Palm Springs, maybe? Or maybe farther north, up toward Needles and Parker.
Why can’t I remember where I was or what happened? he wondered. He had always prided himself on being able to hold his liquor. He wasn’t like some of the guys he knew, high-powered wheeler-dealers who would have to call around after a wild night on the town, checking with valets at local watering holes to see where they had left their favorite Porsche or Ferrari. He usually knew exactly where he’d been. He also knew when he’d had enough. But now, his mind was fuzzy. He couldn’t quite pull things together—not just tonight, but what had gone on in the days before that, either.
The vehicle slowed again. He braced himself, expecting another right-hand turn. Instead, the vehicle turned sharply to the left and bounced off the pavement and onto a much rougher surface. Fine dust swirled inside the small space, filling his eyes and nostrils, making his eyes water and his nose run. Definitely the desert somewhere.
There was another hard jolting bump, then the vehicle came to a sudden halt. What must have been the driver’s door opened and shut. And then there was nothing. No sound at all. At first he hoped and dreaded that the trunk lid would click open and his captor would free him, but that didn’t happen. He strained his ears, hoping to establish if the freeway was still near enough that he’d be able to hear semis speeding past, but for the longest time, he heard nothing at all. He felt only the oppressive heat and wondered how long it would be before the oxygen ran out and he suffocated.
He felt it first. The car trembled as if it were alive, as if it were being racked by a bad case of the chills. Then he heard it—a distant rumble growing louder and louder until it turned into an unmistakable roar. The car rocked in concert with the sound until the terrible roar and the
shaking were one. It was then the man heard the shrill, earth-shattering screech of a fast-approaching freight train. The whistle sounded once, in a single, long, warning wail. Only then did he realize that whoever had locked him in the trunk had left him on the train tracks—left him there to die.
He struggled desperately against his restraints, but it was no use. He couldn’t free himself. The engine of the speeding eastbound train plowed into the stationary vehicle, peeling it open like an empty tin can and then dragging the wreckage along underneath the engine for the additional mile it took for the shaken engineer to finally bring the fully loaded train to a stop. As the engineer spoke to the 911 operator in Palm Springs, he reported having seen something fly up and out of the shattered vehicle, something that had looked more like a rag doll than it did a human being.
{ CHAPTER 1 }
CUTLOOSEBLOG.COM
Thursday, September 15, 2005
For all you cutloose fans out there who’ve been following my story from the beginning, tomorrow is the day the D-I-V-O-R-C-E becomes final. For those of you who may be new to the site, the last few months have been a bit of a bumpy ride since both my husband and my former employer simultaneously sent me packing in hopes of landing a younger model.
My soon-to-be-ex, aka Fang, as he’s known in the blogosphere, called me yesterday. It was the first time I’d heard from him directly in several months. What surprised me more than anything was how much I DIDN’T feel when I heard his voice. That, I believe, is a good sign. It turns out Fang was calling, in his own imperious way, to make sure I’d be in court tomorrow so the divorce decree can be finalized. I could have given him grief about it. Could have claimed I was sick or maimed or just too annoyed to bother driving eight hours plus from Sedona over to L.A. And, had I done so, it would have sent him up a wall. You see, Fang needs this divorce right about now a whole lot more than I do. Our court appearance is scheduled Friday. Saturday is Fang’s wedding day.
I’ve heard rumors that he and his blushing bride, aka Twink, are planning a big-deal celebration, a catered affair with all the right people in attendance at what used to be our joint domicile on Robert Lane. In view of the fact that Twink is expecting Fang’s baby within weeks of the scheduled nuptials, you might think a little more discretion was called for, but discretion has never been Fang’s long suit. For that matter, it must not be Twink’s, either, since the baby was conceived some time prior to my abandoning our marriage bed.
For those of you who are concerned about my state of mind as I approach this change in marital status, don’t be. I’m fine. I’m ready to make a clean break of it; glad to have what was clearly my sham of a marriage—as far as Fang was concerned anyway—over and done with. I’m moving on with my new life. When you’re doing that, hanging on to the old one doesn’t help. Neither does bitterness. As my mother is prone to point out, bitterness destroys the container it’s in.
If I do say so myself, this particular container is going to be in pretty fine shape tomorrow when I show up in court. With my son’s help, I’ve been working out. My personal shopper at Nordstrom’s down in Scottsdale has set aside a couple of new outfits for me. I plan on picking up one of them on my way through Phoenix later on this afternoon.
In other words, for today anyway, I’m a rolling stone, and rolling stones gather no moss—and do no blogging.
Posted 7:23 A.M., September 15, 2005 by Babe
As soon as Ali Reynolds hauled her suitcase out of the closet, Samantha, Ali’s now permanent refugee cat, disappeared. Completely. Ali found it hard to believe that a sixteen-pound, one-eared cat could pull off that kind of magicianship, but she could.
Six months earlier, a series of forced moves had left Sam in a new, unfamiliar home with a new owner who wasn’t exactly enamored of cats. Over time, Ali and Sam had developed a grudging respect for each other. With the unwelcome appearance of a suitcase, however, all bets were off. For Sam, the sight of a suitcase and/or the dreaded cat crate brought back all those bad old times and sent the panicky kitty scrambling for someplace to hide.
It took Ali a good two hours—two hours she didn’t have—to find the animal again, scrunched in beside the drainpipe behind the washing machine in the laundry room. And finding Sam was only part of the problem. Extricating the cat from her snug little hidey-hole and into the cat crate for a trip to Ali’s parents’ place was a whole other issue. Had it been any other weekend, Sam could have remained at home and been looked after by Ali’s son, Christopher, but it happened that Chris was due at a two-day seminar in Phoenix starting early Saturday morning.
“Off to Grandma’s with you,” Ali said, retrieving the indignant cat and stuffing her into the waiting crate. “And you’d better behave yourself, too.”
And so, hours later than she had intended, Ali finally finished packing. With Sam yowling in bitter protest, Ali left her hilltop mobile-home digs and drove her lapis blue Porsche Cayenne down to the highway, where she parked under the shady weeping willow tree outside her parents’ family-owned diner, Sedona’s fabled Sugar Loaf Café.
Inside, the lunch hour rush was just beginning. Edie Larson, Ali’s mother, was working the cash register and lunch counter while Ali’s father, Bob, held sway in the kitchen. Edie picked up an empty coffeepot and headed for the back counter to refill it, glancing reflexively at her watch as she did so.
“You call this an early start?” Edie asked.
Since Edie rose every morning at o-dark-thirty to prepare the Sugar Loaf’s daily supply of signature sweet rolls, she considered any departure that happened after 6 A.M. to be tardy. She had thought Ali’s initial estimated departure of nine to be close to slothful. Now it was coming up on noon.
“Unfortunately, Sam had other ideas,” Ali said. “She saw the suitcase and went into hiding. I found her, though, finally.”
“Good,” Edie said reassuringly. “Cats usually don’t like change, but by the time your father gets finished spoiling Sam, that ugly cat of yours won’t even want to go back home. Where is she, by the way?”
“Out in the car in the shade.”
Edie poured Ali a cup of coffee. “I’ll call Kip to come get the crate and take Sam back to the house.”
Kip Hogan was a formerly homeless Vietnam War vet Bob Larson had dragged home about the same time his daughter had adopted Sam. Originally Kip had been hired to help look after Bob in the aftermath of an unfortunate snowboarding accident that had left Ali’s father temporarily wheelchair-bound. Bob had since recovered and was back at work, but Kip continued to hang around, living in an old Lazy Daze motor home parked in the Larsons’ backyard, helping out with odd jobs around both the house and the restaurant, and gradually becoming more and more indispensable.
“Want some lunch before you go?” Edie asked. “Or should I have Dad make up one of the coolers for you to take along with you?”
“What would go in the cooler?” Ali asked.
“Fried chicken,” Bob Larson answered from the kitchen service window. “Biscuits. Some homemade applesauce.”
Having been raised on her father’s crisp fried chicken and her mother’s lighter-than-air biscuits, there was really no contest. “I’ll have coffee now and take the cooler option,” Ali answered.
Edie took a brief jaunt down the counter, delivering coffee as she went, then she returned to Ali. “Are you all right?” she asked.
“I’m perfectly fine,” Ali said. “It’ll be good to have this whole mess behind me.”
“Yes,” Edie agreed. “I’m sure it will be.”
Ali had retreated to Sedona, her hometown, to find her bearings in the initial aftermath of both losing her job and learning about her husband’s infidelity. She hadn’t expected to like it; hadn’t expected to be comfortable there, but she was. The double-wide mobile home her aunt Evelyn had left her may have seemed like a big comedown from the gated mansion on Robert Lane, but it suited Ali’s needs, everything from the Jacuzzi soaking tub to the basement wine cellar. And having her s
on, Chris, for a roommate didn’t hurt, either.
Chris had graduated from UCLA and was in his first year of teaching welding and American history at Sedona High School. Ali enjoyed her son’s company. He never left a mess in the kitchen, didn’t stay out all that late, and spent much of his spare time working on his metal sculpting projects down in the basement. From what Ali could tell, she and Chris got along better than did many parents and their newly adult children.
All in all, she felt at ease being back home in Sedona—at ease and at peace.
“I wish Chris were going over with you,” Edie added, seeming to read Ali’s mind. “Driving to L.A. is a long trip to do all by yourself.”
“Chris is busy with a seminar this weekend,” Ali replied. “I don’t mind driving. In fact, I enjoy being on the open road. Besides, I’ve got Aunt Evelyn’s library of musicals along to keep me company.”
“Well, be sure you take plenty of breaks,” Edie cautioned. “They say tired drivers are as bad as drunk drivers.”
Bob rang the bell, letting Edie know that an order was ready. While she went away to deliver it, Kip Hogan turned up at Ali’s elbow. “Keys?” he asked.
When Kip had first appeared, six months earlier, he had come from a snowy, outdoor homeless encampment up on the Mogollan Rim. After years of living rough, he had been gaunt and grubby, with long, filthy hair, dirty clothes, missing teeth, and a much-broken nose. Kip’s missing teeth and crooked nose were still at issue, but months of eating decent food had allowed him to fill out some. And dressed in respectable if secondhand clothing and with ready access to running water, the man looked far less scary than he had initially.
Without a word, Ali handed over her car keys.
“Leave the cat in her crate in the living room,” Edie told Kip as he started for the door. “That way she’ll have a chance to get used to her new digs before we let her out to explore.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Kip replied. “Will do.”