Dance of the Bones

by J. A. Jance

  Lani tried pulling her arms loose, but the tie wraps didn’t give. Her shoulders were screaming in agony from being trapped in one position for such a long time. How much time had passed since Henry had given her that first shot? Long enough for him to drive from Sells to Tucson. And after the second one? Long enough for night to fall.

  Henry Rojas was clearly fleeing for his life. That meant that once he finished whatever he was doing in the house, he would most likely kill Lani. What would happen if she could somehow open the door and fall far enough out of the vehicle so that her body was half in and half out? Maybe a passerby would notice and stop to help. The only problem was that there were no ­passersby—no cars driving slowly through the neighborhood and no one out walking a dog. And when she did attempt exiting the vehicle, it didn’t work. Henry had locked the car. She could reach the door handle, but not the button to unlock the door.

  Resigned to her fate, Lani settled back against the car seat as best she could. What would happen to Angie and Micah? Dan was a good man and an excellent father. If she was gone and he was left alone with the kids, he’d do a great job of raising them. She also knew that her parents would do everything in their power to help.

  But just thinking about Dan made her want to weep. Only yesterday he had tried to warn her about the dangerous smugglers she and Gabe might encounter out near Ioligam, and he had been right. The dangerous smugglers had been there all right, but it turned out that none of them were strangers, not at all. As for Henry Rojas, someone who should have been above reproach? He was likely the most dangerous of them all. Dan hadn’t seen that one coming, and neither had Lani.

  She tried to keep an eye on the street. Trusting the drug to keep her sedated, Henry hadn’t bothered to gag her. If someone came by, she intended to scream her head off. Otherwise, she knew that her best chance of living was to continue doing just what she’d been doing all along—­pretending to be asleep. It seemed unlikely that he’d do whatever it was he planned right here in the car. He’d need transportation of some kind that wasn’t filled with either a dead body or blood and gore. She could only hope that at some point he’d have to loosen the tie wraps that bound her. That would be her one opportunity to fight back.

  “I’ll head-­butt that son of a bitch all the way into next week,” she swore to herself. “Then I’ll run like hell.”

  AVA LOOKED AT HER WATCH again and wondered what was taking so long. At this point Henry was over an hour late in making the delivery, and she was growing impatient. Or maybe Jane Dobson was the one worrying and watching the minutes tick by. At this point, it was hard for Ava herself to remember exactly who she was at the moment or who she would be at any given time. That was something to bear in mind. As of now, Ava Richland was over. Going forward, Ava would always be someone else.

  The problem was, she had a long drive ahead of her tonight. It would take at least five hours to reach the Border Patrol checkpoint northwest of Brawley, California. She wanted to pass through that around midnight, a time when the guards would be tired and traffic would be light. Jane Dobson would drive past the officers in her properly licensed vehicle. Then, somewhere north of there but south of Indio, Jane Dobson would disappear for good, shortly after Ava Richland.

  At that point the Acura’s Arizona license plate would go in the trunk. Weeks earlier she had commissioned one of her operatives to steal a California plate from a similarly colored Acura. Then, with the stolen plate in place, she would assume the guise of Kate Worthington for the remainder of the trip. And once in L.A., Kate Worthington would also evaporate when Jane Carruthers went into Postal Minders to pick up her preshipped packages of diamonds.

  As for Henry Rojas? She hoped it would be days or maybe even weeks before anyone stepped inside Jane Dobson’s abandoned house to find his body. Earlier in the day she had asked one of the neighborhood kids for help loading her luggage into her car in the two-­car garage. In passing, she happened to mention to the kid that she was on her way to visit her dying mother and wasn’t sure when she’d be back.

  Waiting for the garage door to open, Ava concentrated on remaining calm. She touched her purse with the toe of her shoe. The extra weight told her that her weapon was where she needed it to be. The Glock semiautomatic was much smaller than the .22 she had used on Amos Warren and Kenneth Mangum. The .22 had originally belonged to her philandering father. Twelve-­year-­old Ava had found it hidden in the bottom drawer of his dresser the day her mother threw the man out of the house. Ava had taken the gun, hidden it in her own dresser, and used it twice before ditching it in a Dumpster at a gas station somewhere in Portland on her way home from Seattle.

  As for this one? It was new. She hadn’t spent any time firing it, but at close range, that wouldn’t matter. She worried about the sound of gunfire. Occasional gunshots in this dodgy neighborhood weren’t all that unusual, but unwelcome attention was something she could ill afford. If she could avoid shooting him, she would.

  With that in mind, what Ava was really counting on was Henry’s soft spot for tequila. They’d shared a slug or two of that on other occasions when he’d dropped off shipments. This time, she had prepared a special barbiturate-­laced bottle of Jose Cuervo. She’d set it out on the coffee table along with a single shot glass, a plate of lime slices, and a shaker of salt. And if that didn’t quite do the trick? If something more was required, she was pretty sure she’d be able to make it look like suicide.

  Ava had watched the local news at six. She had followed the piece on the reservation shooting with avid interest, but there had been few details. Stories about two unidentified males being gunned down out along the border didn’t get much traction these days. Just before the broadcast ended, there had been a brief breaking news alert about a disturbance at the state prison in Florence in which two ­people had died and one was injured. The smiling young blond anchorwoman breathlessly promised more details on the ten o’clock edition.

  Ava fervently hoped that the two dead victims were the right dead victims, but she didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to make sure. She’d be well on the road before it was time for the ten o’clock news.

  The minutes crept by. She had poured herself a glass of wine that sat untouched on the table next to her chair. There was no point risking having wine before embarking on an all-­night drive, but the wine provided camouflage and gave her a reason for not joining Henry in having some of his tequila.

  For hours now, the only sound in the house had been the quiet growling of the fridge as the motor switched on and off and the occasional banging of ice machine cubes rattling as they dropped into the plastic bin. The sound she was waiting for was the slow creak of the garage door opening, but that one didn’t come. Instead she was jarred by the sound of her doorbell.

  Doorbell? Are you kidding? What the hell was the man ­thinking?

  BOZO LAY ON HIS BED while Brandon paced the patio, waiting and worrying. When Amanda Wasser called to report that John Lassiter was out of surgery and in the recovery room, he was relieved to hear the news, but it was all he could do to keep from snarling at her. He hurried Amanda off the phone because he wanted the line open in case Todd Hatcher called.

  He already knew there was no way he’d be able to keep his promise to Diana—­no way he’d be able to stay out of it. After all, Lani was his daughter. He didn’t want to trust her fate to a bunch of inexperienced patrol officers who might shoot first and ask questions later. And Brandon knew in his gut that Dan Pardee would be on the same page.

  Henry Rojas was Navajo and Border Patrol. If Brandon and Dan could get to Henry, they might be able to talk him down or take him down. The problem was, they had to find him first.

  When Todd’s call finally came, Brandon didn’t bother with the niceties.

  “Did you find her?”

  “Did,” Todd said. “Sorry it took so long, I had to jump through several extra hoops, but the phone seems to
be stationary in the 5800 block of a street named Calle de Justicia. Do you know where that is?”

  “No idea,” Brandon said, “but I’ll find it.”

  “The trouble is,” Todd continued, “I have the block number but not the actual address.”

  “Don’t worry,” Brandon said. “If my daughter’s there, I’ll find her. You have no idea how much I appreciate this.”

  Brandon was already heading for the garage when he thought better of it. Turning around, he sprinted back into the house. In the laundry room, he pawed through the collection of bathing suits that stayed there year round. It took a moment to find the tiny thonglike thing that passed for Lani’s bathing suit.

  Diana was right. Going there by himself was dangerous. Going there without backup was even worse, but it turned out Brandon had just realized he did have backup—­backup guaranteed to arrive on the scene at the same time he did.

  Bozo was on his bed, eyes closed. “Hey, Bozo,” Brandon said. “Do you want to go to work?”

  The dog’s transformation was instantaneous. One moment he was dozing on his posh heated bed. The next moment the dog was on his feet at full attention, looking quizzically at Brandon as if making sure he had heard right. When Brandon nodded, the dog sprinted for the garage and the Escalade with no sign of the aging animal’s game shoulder or crippling limp. Brandon Walker had said the magic go-­to-­work words, and Bozo was already locked, loaded, and back on the job.

  As Brandon fumbled with the GPS, keying in the address, Bozo sat in the backseat, panting over Brandon’s shoulder. Once they were under way, Brandon hooked up his Bluetooth and dialed Dan.

  “Someone has just located Lani’s phone. It’s currently pinging in the 5800 block of a street called Calle de Justicia.”

  “Calle de Justicia?” Dan repeated. “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s not far off I-­10 at Craycroft.”

  “Have you called the cops?”

  “Not yet. I’m going there now to check it out visually. It may be the phone’s there and Lani isn’t. The GPS says it’ll take us twenty-­eight minutes.”

  “Who’s us?” Dan asked.

  “I invited Bozo to come along for the ride—­for backup.”

  “Good call,” Dan said. “I’ve got Hulk with me, too. But don’t do anything stupid, Brandon. If you don’t call the cops, I will. If anything were to happen to you, Diana would kill me.”

  His voice came to a strangled halt, and Brandon heard the silent words Dan Pardee couldn’t utter. “And so will Lani.”

  “Really,” Dan resumed after a pause. “You can’t expect the two of us to go after him on our own.”

  “I know all about Tombstone courage,” Brandon said, acknowledging Dan’s warning, “but if Henry is holding Lani hostage, do you want cars with sirens blaring and cops with guns running around all over the place? Besides, by my count, with the dogs in our corner, it’s four to one. Where are you?”

  “I stopped at Three Points. If Henry’s headed to Mexico, Sasabe would be the nearest border crossing. If he’s headed north, he might have cut across to I-­10 at Cortaro Road. Okay. I’ve got the Calle de Justicia address in my GPS. It’ll take me forty-­five minutes at least. If you want it to be four to one, you’ll have to wait until Hulk and I get there.”

  “Got it,” Brandon said. “And for God’s sake, do not speed. None of us can afford a speeding ticket right now, most especially Lani.”

  A FURIOUS AVA MARCHED ACROSS the room to the front door, banging her walker on the tile. Henry had parked out on the driveway instead of in the garage? What in the world was the matter with the man? What was he thinking?

  At the door she paused for a moment and got herself back under control. A steaming-­mad Ava Richland would never pass for an ailing Jane Dobson. Only when she had herself fully in hand did she turn the key in the dead bolt.

  Henry stood on her doorstep, holding up a gym bag and looking sheepish.

  “Did you get the shipment?” she demanded.

  He nodded.

  “And Tim’s taken care of?”

  He nodded again.

  “Well, come in then,” she said, standing aside. “Why didn’t you use the garage?”

  “I left the clicker in the other car,” he said.

  Ava hadn’t turned on the porch light. She peered out the door. In the dim light, she caught sight of a strange car parked in the middle of her driveway. She sighed. She’d have to move it into the garage as soon as possible, but for right now, she supposed it was fine to leave it where it was. She didn’t want Henry to think she was overly anxious or that anything was amiss.

  “That’s all to the good, then,” she said, trying to sound relieved. “Come have a seat. I know for a fact that you’ve had a tough ­couple of days.”

  “Ain’t that the truth,” Henry muttered.

  Ava smiled her most reassuring smile. “I think this calls for a bit of a celebration, don’t you?” she asked. “If you’re hungry, I’ve got a tray of cold cuts out in the kitchen.”

  “No,” he said. “I’m fine.”

  “Well, at least have a drink with me. I’m drinking wine this evening, but let’s have a toast together. What do you say?”

  Henry crossed the room ahead of her and took a seat at the end of the sofa that was farthest away from her chair and the side table with her wineglass on it. He set the gym bag down on the floor. Opening it, he dragged the peanut butter jar out of the bag and set it on the coffee table.

  “It wasn’t easy, but here it is. What about Max?”

  “Don’t worry about him,” Ava said. “Max José is no longer an issue.”

  She studied Henry. She had met him on any number of occasions over the years. There was something slightly off about him tonight. By her count, he’d done away with four ­people in the last twenty-­four hours, so maybe he had a right to be slightly jittery. After all, Ava herself hadn’t been ready to dance the light fandango after she took out Amos and Kenneth. The same thing had been true after she’d helped Clarence step off the bank into that flash flood in Pantano Wash; she hadn’t felt altogether perky after that one, either. Right this minute she was relieved that today she was able to walk away from Harold and simply let nature run its course.

  She lifted her glass. “A toast,” she said, “to you and to a difficult job well done.”

  With immense satisfaction she watched Henry pour a healthy shot of tequila into the glass and pick up a piece of lime. “A job well done,” he agreed.

  Ava held the wineglass to her lips, but she didn’t swallow so much as a drop.

  “Is that a new car out there?” she asked. “I don’t believe I’ve seen that one before.”

  Her mention of the car was intended as nothing more than an icebreaker. She hoped that if Henry was upset, a little light conversation along with the booze might relieve some of the tension without his necessarily noticing how much liquor was going down the hatch. She was pleasantly surprised to learn that settling on the car as a topic must have been a good idea. Henry quickly poured another slug of tequila into his glass and downed it in a single gulp, following it with a long suck on a wedge of lime. She had worried earlier that even in tequila the barbiturates she’d added might be discernible. Now she could relax. If it tasted strange, Henry Rojas wasn’t a sophisticated enough imbiber to notice.

  “I know I promised you a bonus,” Ava continued, reaching for the purse that was parked beside her chair. “I took the liberty of counting it out in advance. Forty thousand dollars should cover it, don’t you think?”

  The tension she had noticed in Henry before seemed to evaporate. She didn’t know why, exactly. Maybe the tequila was already doing its job. He leaned back on the sofa, looking relaxed, and actually smiled at her. “That should just about do it,” he said.

  Ava reached into her purse, just as she’d done
many times before, but Henry Rojas seemed to be reaching for a weapon of his own. Ava didn’t hesitate and Henry never had a chance. The first bullet caught him full in the chest. He tried to rise to his feet. Ava fired twice more, which made for three more shots than she had wanted to discharge. Obviously her carefully laid plans of making his death look like suicide had come to nothing.

  Worried that a neighbor might have heard the racket and started peering out windows, Ava abandoned the walker and raced through the kitchen to the garage. She needed to have Henry’s car off her driveway and concealed inside her garage before anyone else came snooping around. Outside, she breathed a sigh of relief. No lights had come on in neighboring houses. No one was visible out on the street.

  Ava hurried to the vehicle and was dismayed to discover that the door was locked. She had to go back inside and search Henry’s bloodied body for a key fob. She pressed the unlock button as she came through the garage a second time. It wasn’t until she was seated inside and trying to figure out how to operate the engine that Ava realized with numbing shock that she was not alone. There was someone else in the car with her—­a woman.

  Ava’s fingers went stiff and clumsy as they searched for the ignition button. Once the engine started, she sped into the garage so far that she banged the front bumper on the far wall before braking to a stop.

  Ava leaped out of the car and hurried to close the garage door behind her. Then she went to the passenger side of the car and wrenched the door open. As she did so, the interloper was pulled out of the vehicle, landing hard on the concrete floor. Her hands were cuffed together and they had somehow been affixed to the door itself.

  “Who are you?” Ava demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  Momentarily stunned, the bound woman didn’t answer immediately. “Help me,” she whimpered finally. “Please help me.”

  “Of course,” Ava said. “Just a minute.”