by J. A. Jance
After printing that article, Ali returned to her search page. There were twenty-nine other entries for William Cowan Ashcroft III, and she fully intended to read every one.
As the steamy windows turned the interior of the Explorer into a cozy cocoon, Curt Uttley reclined the driver’s seat, lay back, and enjoyed it. How he enjoyed it. He had known she’d be good just from watching the downloaded film clip from the BJV section of his now favorite Web site, www.afterschoolspecial.com, and this was special all right. It was very special indeed.
He didn’t focus on how old the girl was because if he did that, he might end up thinking about his own kids—his two sons, one a year older and one a year younger than this very hot, hot, hot little girl on her knees before him on the floorboard of his car. What Curt thought about instead, as he moved her face ever so slightly to achieve a better angle, was how impossibly good she was at what she was doing. And he wondered how much longer he could possibly hold off before letting go. Fortunately for him, she hadn’t demanded that he use a condom. That made it all the better.
He had seen the clip and then had made it his business to find her. With the help of what she’d posted on her Web page, that had been almost too easy. And it had taken only a matter of weeks after first making contact for Curt to reel her in. That was what was so wonderful about little girls—they believed what they wanted to believe.
Now, though, within seconds of climaxing, Curt was startled out of his pink haze by the unwelcome flash of headlights in his rearview mirror. He had pulled off I-17 near Mund’s Park into a secluded area that he often used for these kinds of late-night trysts where it was essential not to be disturbed. He liked this spot in particular because it was far enough from town that he’d never seen anyone else anywhere around. But there was someone here now.
Terrified that a cop was coming, Curt pushed the girl away and then peered desperately through the steam-covered glass while he pulled up his pants. He could make out a single pair of headlights, but that was it. No flashing reds, thank God.
“What is it?” she asked. “What’s wrong? Don’t you want me to finish?”
“Shut up,” he ordered. “Someone’s coming. Get your clothes on.”
He could see several figures making oddly jerking motions in front of the stationary headlights. They seemed to be milling around some central object, but he couldn’t tell what that object was or what they were doing. While the girl wiggled back into her clothing, Curt rolled down the window and peered outside. What he saw made his blood run cold. There were at least three men standing over a fourth one who was lying prone on the ground. As Curt watched they passed something that looked like a baseball bat from hand to hand, then they took turns smashing the club into their helpless victim, laughing and jeering at him as they did so.
The ugly sound of wood thudding into flesh left Curt petrified. A cop showing up was one thing, but what would these murderous thugs do if they spotted the Explorer parked only a matter of yards away?
“What’s going on?” the girl asked again. “What’s wrong?” Except, she didn’t just ask—she screeched really.
He hit her hard with the back of his hand, just to shut her up, but it was too late. The sound of her voice had carried, and one of the bat-wielding attackers had heard her. Still holding the weapon raised in his hand, he had turned and was peering off into the darkness—staring toward the very spot where Curt had parked.
Petrified, Curt sprang into action. “We’ve got to get the hell out of here!”
He turned on the engine, switched the lights to what he hoped was a blinding bright, and hit the gas.
“What are they doing to that man?” the girl wanted to know as they raced past. “It looks like they’re hurting him. We need to call someone. We need to call the cops.”
She was already reaching for her cell phone. “Put that thing away,” he ordered. “We’ll call for help, but don’t call on that.”
As Ali scrolled through William Cowan Ashcroft III’s checkered past, time slipped away from her. She was half asleep with the computer still perched on her lap in front of her when the ringing telephone startled her awake.
A glance at the clock told her it was after eleven. In her current frame of mind a late-night phone call couldn’t mean anything but bad news, especially with Chris still not home. She answered with her heart in her throat.
“Hi, Ali,” Bob Larson boomed cheerfully. “How’s my favorite daughter?”
Of course Ali was Bob Larson’s only daughter.
“Hope I didn’t wake you,” he continued. “Is Chris there?”
Relieved that her father was on the phone and that something terrible hadn’t happened to her son, Ali tried to erase the hint of panic she was sure had been obvious in her voice. “No,” she said quickly. “He’s still down at school playing basketball. They don’t usually finish up until after ten, and he often stops off for a beer or something afterward. Why?”
Bob sighed. “That probably explains why he isn’t answering his cell. I guess it’ll have to wait until morning then.”
“What’ll have to wait?” Ali asked.
“Going to pick up the Bronco,” Bob replied.
“The Bronco? Why?” Ali asked. “Where is it?”
“At Sunset Point,” Bob answered.
Sunset Point was the first rest area south of Sedona on I-17. “What’s it doing there?” Ali asked.
“That’s what I’d like to know,” her father said with a growl. “I can’t imagine what got into Kip that he went off and left it there. It’s a miracle somebody didn’t steal it. My friend Jack Riggs called a little while ago just after he spotted it. Jack was taking his wife down to Phoenix to catch a plane. He stopped to take a leak, and that’s when he noticed my Bronco sitting in the parking lot. He says it has a flat tire, but the key was still in the ignition. He said he put the keys under the floor mat for safekeeping until I can get there to pick it up. I want to go right away. Changing the tire is no problem, but I can’t drive two cars by myself. I need someone else to take me there, and your mother’s already gone to bed. I was hoping Chris would give me a hand so I can drag the Bronco home before someone decides to strip the damned thing.”
When Bob finally paused for breath, Ali realized it was one of her father’s longest speeches ever. Clearly he was very upset. After all, his one-owner 1972 Bronco was his baby.
Bob had purchased the Bronco new and at an end-of-year bargain price in early 1973. Buying it with minimum down and on credit, the Bronco was the first and only brand-new vehicle Bob Larson had ever bought from a dealer. By dint of mechanical know-how and a whole lot of stubbornness, he had managed to keep the Bronco running for decades and for more than three hundred thousand tough miles.
Ali knew that other than burning down the Sugarloaf, no betrayal on Kip Hogan’s part could have hit Bob Larson as hard as the hired hand’s casual disregard of Bob’s beloved vehicle. Thinking about it now, Ali decided even that might not have hurt as much. At least the restaurant was insured. The Bronco was long past qualifying for comprehensive coverage. A five-hundred-dollar deductible would have amounted to full replacement value.
So clearly the Bronco needed to be brought home. Chris was out having fun, and Edie Larson’s early-morning baking duties at the Sugarloaf exempted her from any late-night excursions. That left the job up to Ali.
“No problem, Dad,” she said. “I can take you.”
“You can?” he replied eagerly. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”
“I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thanks. I really appreciate it. Don’t come to the house. I’ll wait out by the restaurant so we don’t wake your mother.”
Ali jotted off a note and left it on the counter for Chris in case he beat her home. Then she pulled on a fleece-lined jacket and hurried out to her Cayenne. When she pulled up in front of the Sugarloaf a few minutes later, she found her father pacing back and forth in the parking lot.
“You s
till haven’t told me what your Bronco’s doing at Sunset Point,” she said as he settled into the seat and fastened his belt.
“How should I know?” Bob asked irritably. “The last I saw it was this morning when Kip headed out to go see you. He put that credenza in the back and took off. Then he was supposed to pick up a load of groceries and clothes and blankets and deliver them to the folks up on the Rim. He did come to your place, didn’t he?”
“Yes, but not this morning,” Ali said. “He didn’t show up with the credenza until after lunch. He said something came up.”
“Something must have come up all right,” Bob sniffed. “When Kip didn’t turn up this afternoon, your mother was convinced he fell off the wagon.”
“Do you think Kip stole the Bronco?” Ali asked. “Did you call the cops?” she asked.
“No, I didn’t call the cops,” Bob grunted in return. “Why would I? What would I tell them if I did call? That I’m afraid the guy I loaned my truck to turned around and stole it from me? The cops in town already think I’m some kind of bleeding-heart, do-gooder fruitcake. And when I say cops, I don’t mean Dave Holman, by the way,” Bob added defensively. “Not him. No, I’m talking about the guys on the city police force. I’m guessing the local gendarmes would treat this whole thing as some kind of joke, starting from the premise that I probably deserve it. I’ve heard that several of them are of the opinion that by taking in street people like Kip Hogan I’m just asking for trouble. It’s one thing to hear that kind of stuff from my wife. I sure as hell don’t need to hear it from our local civil servants.”
Finished with his second rant in a row, Bob crossed his sturdy arms across his chest and subsided into an angry, wounded silence.
“Do you think something bad could have happened to Kip?” Ali suggested.
“If it hasn’t,” Bob replied, “it sure as hell is going to happen once I catch up with him.”
“Did you try calling his cell phone?” Ali asked.
“The man doesn’t have a cell phone,” Bob pointed out irritably. “He’s a street person, remember—an ex-street person. I offered to buy him a disposable, but he couldn’t be bothered. I think he actually likes being unavailable.”
Ali knew this wasn’t the first time one of Bob Larson’s human rehab projects had gone sour on him. She also knew her mother wouldn’t be out of line for pointing it out or for being upset about it, either. Driving back toward the freeway, it seemed like a good idea to change the subject.
“Your friend said that there’s nothing wrong with the Bronco,” she said.
“It has a flat tire.”
“But it hasn’t been wrecked or anything?”
“Not as far as I know,” her father answered. “Maybe it’s out of gas. The gas gauge stopped working years ago. Who knows? Just drive,” he answered with a sigh. “There’s no way to tell how bad it’ll be until we get there.”
Crystal Holman crouched on the toilet in the locked bathroom stall for the better part of an hour, shivering and hoping the guys with the bats wouldn’t come looking for her there. She had no idea where Curt had gone. The last she had seen of him, he was using a pay phone in the parking lot.
A woman came into the restroom and tried the stall door. A few minutes later, she returned and tried again. Finally a man came in and pounded on the door. “You’ve gotta get out of there. Other people need to use it.”
Crystal peeked out through the crack. The man was wearing a uniform of some kind—a blue shirt with the name Jimmy sewed on the pocket.
Finally, Crystal opened the door and walked out past Jimmy. Past the woman. Out in the mini-mart, she looked around for Curt, but he wasn’t there and neither was anyone else she recognized. Pulling her lightweight jacket close, Crystal darted outside and surveyed the deserted gas pump area. In the sallow glow of the overhead lights, there was no sign of Curt or his SUV. Thankfully, there was no sign of the guys with the bats, either.
Out of the corner of her eye, Crystal caught sight of Jimmy emerging from the restroom area. Before he could spot her, she rounded the corner of the building and melted into the darkness. All Crystal Holman wanted right then was to find a place to hide.
When they pulled into the parking lot, Ali was relieved to see the Bronco sitting awash in sickly yellow light at the far end of the row reserved for passenger cars. At first glance it seemed unharmed. As Jack Riggs had reported, the right rear tire was flat. Closer examination revealed that Bob’s tool chest, gas can, and spare tire had been lifted. As for the flat tire? It was much more than flat—it was in tatters. Bob squatted down to check on it.
“Looks like he drove on it flat for a long time,” he muttered. “So the rim’s ruined, too. That means it’ll have to be towed,” he said resignedly. “Thank God we belong to Triple A. A wrecked rim, no spare, a stolen gas can, and a stolen set of tools—that’s bad enough. If we had to pay extra for towing, your mother would really have my hide.”
She may still, Ali thought.
Bob hauled out his cell phone and his wallet. As he made the call, Ali walked around the Bronco looking for and not finding any sign of additional damage. “What are all those boxes in the back?” she asked once Bob was off the phone.
He placed his hands against the back window and peered inside. “So he didn’t even make the delivery,” Bob muttered.
“What delivery?”
“On Tuesdays he goes to Basha’s and collects some of their throw-aways—outdated food they can no longer sell—and takes it up the mountain.”
“Where people are still living,” Ali confirmed.
Bob nodded. “Nobody makes too big a deal about it. He just goes by, picks it up, loads it into the Bronco, and drops it off. The food’s still usable. This way it doesn’t go to waste and people who would otherwise go hungry have something to eat. He takes along any blankets and clothing that have come in during the week. That was what was on the schedule for today—your credenza and his run up the mountain.”
Ali nodded. “I had expected him this morning, but he didn’t drop off the credenza until after lunch. I told him I thought he did a beautiful job, by the way.”
“He did,” Bob agreed. “Fat lot of good it does any of us, though,” he added bleakly. “I taught him a useful skill, but if he’s back on the sauce it’ll all go to waste.”
Ali shivered against the cold. “What did Triple A say?” she asked.
“They’re sending a truck. Should be here in less than an hour. You don’t have to wait with me. Go on back,” Bob said. “I’ll be fine.”
“No,” Ali told him. “You won’t be fine. I’ll wait, too. We both will—in the car. It’s too cold to stand around out here. If you catch pneumonia, Mom will come looking for me with a club and a skinning knife.”
Knowing she was right, Bob headed toward the Cayenne without further argument. Ali had unlocked the doors and was about to climb inside when she heard the sound of a helicopter passing overhead. Months earlier, a low-flying helicopter had played a pivotal and almost fatal part in a Palm Springs area shoot-out. Before that, helicopters had come and gone overhead without Ali’s ever paying the slightest attention. Since then, however, the noise of approaching helicopter rotors sliced into her consciousness with hair-raising clarity.
Ali stopped dead and stared up into the star-studded sky until she located the flashing lights of the chopper. It was headed south, flying fairly low and fast, following the general path of the freeway and moving toward Phoenix. Bob paused with one foot in the Cayenne and followed his daughter’s troubled gaze.
“Medevac,” he explained. “Probably taking some poor sick bastard to one of the big hospitals in Phoenix.”
Despite her father’s reassurances, Ali noticed that when she reached to turn the key in the ignition, her hand was trembling. She knew for a fact that her involuntary tremor had nothing to do with the icy temperatures. Not looking at Bob, she quickly turned up the heater and switched on the heated seats.
“Where would Kip
go?” Ali asked, more to take her mind off the rapidly disappearing helicopter than because she wanted to know the answer.
“You mean if he isn’t timed out in a bar someplace?” Clearly Bob Larson was still bent out of shape by his missing handyman. Just because his precious Bronco wasn’t irretrievably broken didn’t mean he was prepared to let Kip Hogan off the hook.
“I mean where did he come from before he ended up in that homeless encampment up on the Rim?” Ali asked. “He must have family somewhere.”
“Probably,” Bob agreed. “But I have no idea where. All in all I’d have to say Kip was a pretty close-mouthed son of a bitch.”
“But everybody’s from somewhere,” Ali objected.
Her father gave her a disparaging look. “You don’t understand, Ali. If you’re going to work with certain kinds of people—with the Kip Hogans of the world—you have to get used to taking them at face value. You have to go with what they tell you—with what they want to tell you. You can assume whatever they say is a bunch of baloney, but you have to treat it like it’s the truth, otherwise you lose them. Understand?”
“I think so,” Ali said, but she wasn’t at all sure she did.
They sat in the car in an extended period of silence while the heater gradually warmed up the SUV’s interior. “I’m going to miss him,” Bob said at last. “He was a big help around the place. Your mother can call me an old fool until hell freezes over, but even she would have to agree with me on that one. Kip Hogan was an excellent worker, and right up until today he was totally dependable.”