Exit Wounds

by J. A. Jance

  “We’ll get you, you lousy bastard,” she vowed aloud once she eased herself down on the skin-searing seat. “One way or another, we’re taking you down.”

  Seventeen

  On the hundred-mile drive back to Bisbee, a bank of beautifully mountainous thunderclouds, fat with the promise of still more much-needed rain, piled up over the mountainous silhouettes of the Chiricahuas and Dragoons. After only two days of summer monsoons, the shoulders of the highway were already tinged with green, as dormant seeds of grass and weeds sprang to life.

  Ordinarily, Joanna Brady would have reveled in this summer miracle, but today she was as blind to the desert’s annual transformation as, earlier, she had been unaware of Tucson’s heat. With her mind focused totally on the job, her initially angry resolve to deal with Eddie Mossman gradually evolved into questions of strategy.

  What was her duty here? What was her responsibility as sheriff, and what was required of her as a human being? Although as yet there was no physical evidence to support such a theory, Andrea Mossman was clearly operating under the assumption that her father, Ed Mossman, had murdered his own daughter, Carol, and that he posed a danger to his other surviving children as well.

  Andrea had asked Joanna to warn Stella. What kind of connection existed between Stella and her father? Were the two of them on better terms than he had been with Carol and Andrea? Ed Mossman claimed Stella was the one who had notified him of Carol’s death. Stella might have placed calls from someplace other than her own home, but Joanna had little reason to doubt that Stella Adams’s telephone records, once found, would back up that claim. Unless, of course, Ed Mossman had already been only too well aware of his daughter’s murder.

  How do you go about delivering this kind of news? Joanna asked herself. It was hard enough to tell someone that their loved one was somehow unexpectedly dead. What could she say—what should she say—to Stella Adams? And how could she go about warning Stella without necessarily revealing that Ed Mossman was coming into view as a prime suspect in three separate homicides?

  The safety of Stella Adams and her family was important, but so was Joanna’s responsibility—her duty—to bring a killer to justice. Her investigators were counting on Sheriff Brady to conduct herself in a fashion that didn’t interfere with the successful resolution of the case. So were the voters of Cochise County. Now was no time for her to go Lone Rangering into a situation that might very well blow up in her face.

  Joanna glanced at the clock on the dash. Two o’clock. That meant that both Frank Montoya and Ernie Carpenter might still be up to their eyeballs in the Ramón Sandoval meeting. This was no time to interrupt them, either.

  She radioed into Dispatch. “See if you can hook me up with Deputy Howell,” Joanna told Tica Romero. “I want to know how she’s doing with keeping an eye on Ed Mossman.”

  When her phone rang a few minutes later, she thought it might be Debbie Howell getting back to her. Instead it was Butch. “Where are you?” he asked, sounding annoyed.

  “Coming back from Tucson.”

  “You missed your appointment with Dr. Lee.” It was a statement rather than a question. An accusation, really.

  “Yes,” Joanna admitted. “I did. I had to cancel it. Something came up—something important.”

  “This baby’s important, too,” Butch said. “Dr. Lee’s office just called to verify that the appointment has been reset for tomorrow morning at ten. I told his receptionist that you’d be there on time if I have to bring you in myself.”

  “I’ll be there,” Joanna said. There was a long pause. “Any word from Drew Mabrey?” Joanna added, more to fill up the uneasy silence than anything else.

  “Nothing,” Butch said. “But I’ve got better things to do than just hang out by the telephone waiting for it to ring.”

  That was when Joanna figured out that the annoyance in Butch’s voice had far more to do with his case of nerves about what was going on with the manuscript than it did with his being upset about her missing a doctor’s appointment. During the long months when Drew Mabrey had reported one rejection after another, Butch had resigned himself to the idea that the manuscript might never be sold. Now, with a glimmer of hope, the anxiety was excruciating.

  “Will you be home for dinner?” he asked.

  “Yes,” Joanna replied, without mentioning the fact that she had missed lunch altogether. “I’ll be home as close to six as I can make it.”

  Tica radioed back only seconds after Joanna finished the call with Butch. “Deputy Howell says to tell you Mr. Mossman has been holed up in his room out at San Jose Lodge all afternoon. She says she’s been keeping an eye on him, and he isn’t going anywhere without her.”

  “Great,” Joanna said. “Tell her to keep up the good work.”

  By then the towering clouds had mounded ever higher in the sky. When she came through St. David, a black curtain of rain had settled over the Dragoons, completely obliterating the mountain range from view. By the time Joanna started through Tombstone sixteen miles later, rain was pelting so hard against the windshield that the wipers barely made a dent in the water. Even at the posted limit of twenty-five miles per hour, she could hardly see to drive. At least an inch of water covered the roadway, and every passing vehicle raised a blinding spray in its wake.

  Then, as suddenly as Joanna had driven into the cloudburst, she emerged on the far side of it into blazingly bright sunlight that turned the pavement surface a shimmering silver. Switching off the air-conditioning, she opened the windows and left them open. In the aftermath of the storm, outside temperatures had dropped a good twenty degrees. The distinctively refreshing smell of summer rain on sun-warmed creosote bushes washed through the Civvie. It wasn’t enough to dispel all her concerns about the impending visit with Stella Adams, but it helped.

  When Joanna reached the Divide outside Bisbee, the storm clouds had been replaced by bright blue, rain-washed skies. The pavement on the road was still slightly wet, while hundreds of tiny waterfalls cascaded down the rocky cliffs of the Mule Mountains. On both sides of the Divide, washes ran bank to bank with muddy, swiftly moving water. As a lifelong resident of southern Arizona, Joanna knew how treacherous those fast-moving floods of water could be. Every year someone, usually a hapless visitor from out of state, would drown after being surprised by flood-waters from a downpour that had happened miles away.

  Ignoring the turnoff to the Justice Center, Joanna drove straight to Stella and Denny Adams’s home on Arizona Street, just across from Warren Ballpark. There were no cars parked in the driveway or on the street in front of the low-slung iron fence, but Joanna parked along a concrete-lined drainage ditch. It, too, was running with several inches of swiftly moving water. Then she walked across a narrow footbridge, through a gate, and up onto the front porch, where she rang the doorbell.

  Inside she heard the muffled sound of a television set tuned to something that sounded like MTV. Moments after the doorbell rang, the TV set was silenced. A few seconds after that, the door opened and there stood Nathan Adams. The sight of him was enough to take Joanna’s breath away. When she had first seen Eddie Mossman, she remembered that he had looked familiar somehow, even though she was certain she had never seen the man before. Now she knew why. Nathan Adams looked just like Eddie Mossman—just like his grandfather.

  Or was it also, Joanna wondered for the first time, just like his father? No one had said as much. No one had admitted that, at the time Carol Mossman had fled Mexico with her two younger sisters, Stella might have been pregnant with her own father’s child. And the simple fact that no one had mentioned it made Joanna wonder that much more whether it was true.

  “Yeah?” Nathan said. “Whaddya want?”

  “Is your mother home?” Joanna managed. “There’s something I need to talk to her about.”

  “She’s not here.”

  “Do you know when she’ll be back?”

  Nathan Adams shrugged. “No idea,” he said. “Could be an hour or two, maybe lo
nger.”

  “What about your dad?” Joanna asked hopefully.

  “He stays at an apartment up in Tucson during the week,” Nathan explained. “He’s usually only home on weekends.”

  “Oh,” Joanna said. “I’ll be going then.”

  “Want me to have her call you when she gets in?”

  “No,” Joanna said. “Don’t bother. I’ll talk with her tomorrow.”

  As Joanna walked back across the wide porch, the door slammed behind her. A moment later, the atonal thumping of MTV returned. Joanna retreated to the Civvie and then sat there for several long minutes without turning the key in the ignition.

  Is that the truth? she wondered. Is Nathan the product of an incestuous relationship between Stella and her father? And if so, does he have any idea about the truth of the situation?

  Joanna remembered Nathan as he had appeared when she had first laid eyes on him that day in the lobby of the Justice Center. He had struck her as a surly, smart-alecky teenager—typical, in other words. She had thought him spoiled, doted on, and more than a little obnoxious, but normal—utterly normal. But could you be a normal teenager if you knew that kind of awful truth about your parentage?

  Kids exist in a herd mentality. They want to fit in—want to be just like everyone else. That’s why they wear the same kinds of clothes, watch the same television programs, listen to the same music. But could you fit in if you knew that you existed because your mother had been impregnated by her own father?

  It came to Joanna then in a flash of insight. “He doesn’t know!” she almost shouted, pounding the steering wheel with her fist. “Nathan Adams has no idea!”

  Joanna’s hands trembled as she turned the ignition key and put the Crown Victoria in gear. Meanwhile the gears in Joanna’s head were meshing as well. And if Nathan doesn’t know, that’s because Stella’s been keeping it a secret. And if Carol was going public, the secret was about to come out.

  There it was laid out before her so clearly that Joanna wondered why she hadn’t seen it before. Andrea was convinced that her father was Carol’s murderer, but this made far more sense. Here was motive—a protective mother’s motive—understandable, utterly implacable, and absolutely deadly.

  Joanna headed straight for the department. Without being aware of her speed, she found herself doing seventy down the Warren Cutoff. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to pull her foot off the gas pedal and drive sensibly. She parked the Civvie behind her office and darted inside. As soon as she put her purse down, she hurried over to the door.

  Kristin looked up from her desk, surprised to see her,. “What are you doing here?” she said. “I thought you’d go straight home from Tucson.”

  “Something came up. Where’s Frank?”

  “Still in the conference room with Ernie and those other guys,” Kristin answered. “They must be having a great time in there. A few of them have come out for pee stops, but they’re obviously still going strong.” She gave Joanna a close look. “You seem upset,” she said. “Is something wrong?”

  “No,” Joanna said, “nothing’s wrong. But let me know as soon as Frank comes out. Tell him I need to see him. What about Jaime Carbajal? Has anyone heard from him?”

  “Not as far as I know.”

  Joanna returned to her office and tried calling Jaime’s cell phone. It rang several times, and she hung up without leaving a message. Frustrated, she stared at the mounds of untouched paperwork covering almost every square inch of her desk. Finally her eye settled on the last of Irma Mahilich’s General Office drawings—the one marked page 4. The paper sat directly in front of her just where she’d left it. Something drew Joanna’s eyes to the far-right corner of the paper where, although she hadn’t noticed it before, a single name stood out: Adams—Anna Wake-field Adams.

  Staring at the words written in Irma Mahilich’s spidery script, a string of names tumbled through Joanna’s mind: Stella Adams. Denny Adams. Anna Wakefield Adams. Joanna had known of Denny Adams. He had been younger than Joanna by several years, so they hadn’t been in school together, but she knew the name. Now she wondered if Anna Adams and Denny were related. She looked up the number in the telephone directory and called the Ferndale Retirement Center.

  “Irma Mahilich,” she said to the person who answered.

  “I’ll ring her room for you.”

  “No,” Joanna said. “Don’t do that. Let me speak to the receptionist. The one at the front desk.”

  A moment later another voice came on the line. “May I help you?”

  “This is Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said quickly. “I’m trying to reach Irma Mahilich. Is there a chance she’s sitting out in the lobby working on a jigsaw puzzle?”

  “Yes,” the receptionist said. “She’s right there. If this is important, I could have her come take the call here at the desk.”

  Joanna let her breath out. “Yes, it is important,” she said. “I’d really appreciate it.”

  After an interminable wait, Irma’s voice rang over the phone. “I’m here,” she said irritably. “Who is this? What do you want?”

  “It’s Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said.

  “I can’t hear a thing. Wait while I fix my hearing aid. Now, who are you again?”

  “I’m Joanna Brady. You know, D. H. Lathrop’s little girl.”

  “Oh, yes. I remember you. You came to my house selling Girl Scout cookies that one year. I think I even bought some from you. Thin Mints, I believe. Those were always my favorites. What can I do for you?”

  “I was wondering about someone who used to work with you,” Joanna said slowly. “Someone who worked with you in the General Office.” Joanna picked up the drawing and studied it. “Her name was Anna Adams, and she worked upstairs. Her desk was just to the right of the stairs—between them and your office.”

  “Oh, yes, Anna,” Irma said. “I remember her. Her husband ran off with another woman and left her to bring up her son on her own. Dennis, I believe his name was. Fortunately, she had her parents to fall back on, so she had a place to live and someone to help her look after the baby when she had to go to work. Once PD shut down, I don’t have any idea what became of her. She probably transferred up to Silver City or over to Playas. Unlike the rest of us, Anna was way too young to retire.”

  “And when Mr. Frayn was passing out those guns,” Joanna asked softly, “do you happen to remember whether or not Anna Adams took one?”

  “Took one!” Irma practically whooped. “Are you kidding? When they handed out guns, that girl was first in line. She said she wanted one of her own. She said if that worthless husband of hers ever came nosing around again, she was going to plug him full of holes.”

  Irma paused. “Now wait a minute,” she said. “Who did you say you were again?”

  “Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said. “Thank you so much for your help.”

  She put down the phone and sat there thinking about how a gun that had once been used by company-hired vigilantes to march union protesters to the Warren Ballpark had now, more than eighty years later, come home to roost in a house directly across the street from that very same ballpark.

  The phone rang. When Joanna answered, Deputy Debbie Howell was on the line and fighting mad. “Some son of a bitch messed with my vehicle, Sheriff Brady,” Debbie Howell stormed. “Mossman came out of his room, got in his car, and drove away. I had gone into the restaurant long enough to use the facilities. When I came out, he was getting into his car and leaving, so I hustled after him. He drove out to the highway and turned left like he was headed back into town. My Blazer started fine, but two miles down the road, just short of the junction with Highway 92, it conked out on me. It acts like it’s out of gas, but I just filled it. I think maybe somebody put sugar in the gas tank.”

  “What kind of vehicle is he driving?” Joanna asked.

  “A Hertz rental,” Debbie replied. “A late-model white Ford Taurus. I passed the vehicle description and license info along to Dispatch so people can be on the lo
okout for it. I’m sorry I dropped the ball on this one, Sheriff Brady. I really thought I had it under control.”

  “How long ago did you lose sight of him?”

  “Only about ten minutes.”

  “He can’t have gotten too far then,” Joanna said. “I’m sure we’ll find him. What about you?”

  “Motor Pool is sending a tow truck to bring me back to the department.”

  “See you here,” Joanna said.

  As she put down the phone, Frank Montoya sauntered into her office. Grinning, he held both thumbs up in the air. “I think you scored a bull’s-eye, boss,” he said.

  “How’s that?”

  “Señor Sandoval knows more than anyone thought possible, and he’s naming names that the feds want to hear—people on both sides of the border. The FBI is taking him into custody, so he’ll be out of our bailiwick and into theirs. We’re also handing over the interviews you had us do.”

  “Great,” Joanna said.

  Frank homed in on her lack of enthusiasm. “What’s wrong?” he asked.

  “I don’t know where to start,” she responded. “But maybe you should get Ernie in here before I do.”

  Frank and Ernie listened in almost total silence. When Joanna finished, Ernie nodded. “You could be right about all this,” he observed. “It’s not like it used to be in the old days. Now, having an out-of-wedlock child is no big deal, but this is incest. And if all of this is a result of Stella Adams trying to conceal the boy’s real parentage, it might not be over yet. Who else would know?”

  “The grandmother, Edith Mossman,” Joanna replied. “Ed Mossman himself, and the sister, Andrea.”

  “You said Andrea was going into hiding.”