Day of the Dead

by J. A. Jance

  “We’ve got to help her,” the man was saying. “We’ve got to get her out of there.”

  But that door wouldn’t budge, either. Peering through the window, Brian saw the still form of a woman. She was flopped over against the door with blood seeping from a deep cut on her head. When he pounded on the window beside her, she didn’t move.

  Leaving Brian behind, the truck driver raced around to the far side of the vehicle, clambered over the fence, and shoved. To Brian’s surprise, the Honda wavered for a moment and then tipped back onto its three remaining tires. Brian had to step back to get out of the way. With what seemed superhuman strength, the truck driver wrenched open the passenger door. He stood to one side, panting with exertion, while Brian scrambled inside. The woman still hadn’t moved. Brian felt for a pulse and found one—weak and fast, but there.

  He clambered back outside. “Well?” the driver demanded. “Is she okay?”

  Without answering, Brian turned back toward the wreckage of the Crown Vic. “She’s still alive,” he shouted at PeeWee, “but only just. Get on the horn. Tell them we’ll need a medevac helicopter out here. On the double.”

  Brian turned back toward the truck driver, but the man was no longer standing. Pale and weak as a kitten, he had dropped to his knees and was quietly puking into the dirt.

  Parked on the shoulder, Brandon saw the big red gravel truck bearing down on him from behind and the white car come out to pass. As they roared past him, the passing vehicle was on the far side of the truck. He didn’t see it again until the truck braked as the other vehicle slowed to turn off on Flying C Ranch Road. That was when he recognized the white car for what it was—Gayle Stryker’s Lexus. Why was she coming from the north?

  Brandon had picked up his phone to call Brian when he saw an explosion of dust a mile or so farther south toward Oracle Junction. Dust like that had to mean that the speeding gravel truck had somehow come to grief, but that wasn’t Brandon’s concern. What worried him was that Brian didn’t answer his phone. After three rings, the cell phone went to voice mail, giving Brandon no choice but to leave a message.

  “It’s me. You’re not going to believe it. Gayle Stryker just showed up from the north and turned into the ranch. I don’t know where you are, but get a move on. I need you here now.”

  He waited several minutes, thinking that surely Brian would call him back. Finally, impatient, he punched redial. Again, the cell phone rang several times. “Pick up, for God’s sake!” Brandon grumbled.

  “Hello?” Brian said at last.

  “Where the hell are you? Did you get my message?”

  “What message?”

  “I called a few minutes ago. Gayle Stryker showed up. She and Larry are both here at the ranch.”

  “There’s been an accident,” Brian said. “My phone ended up under the car seat. I didn’t find it until it started ringing.”

  “What accident?” Brandon stopped. “Wait a minute,” he added. “Somebody’s coming down the road. It’s a white vehicle, so it may be…” He squinted into the sunlight. “Yes, it’s definitely a Lexus. I can’t tell which one, and I don’t know how many passengers—if they’re both in there or if it’s only one of them. The vehicle’s almost back to the highway. If there was ever a time for backup, this is it.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s been a wreck,” Brian said. “A bad one, just short of the junction.”

  “But…” Brandon slipped the Suburban into gear and moved forward. The Lexus had pulled up to the intersection now and was turning right onto the highway. “He’s coming out now, turning your way and heading for Tucson.”

  “He won’t get past here,” Brian said. “A gravel truck tipped over and spilled its load on top of a culvert. The road’s completely blocked in both directions.”

  “Can’t you and PeeWee get through?”

  “Negative on that,” Brian returned. “We managed to get out of the way, but we hit a bridge abutment. PeeWee and I aren’t going anywhere. Neither is our vehicle.”

  Brandon rounded a curve and saw the field of wreckage up ahead. A few other Tucson-bound cars were already stopped. As he watched, the Lexus swung off onto the shoulder and then turned.

  “Stryker’s just this side of your position,” Brandon shouted into the phone. “He’s pulling a U-ey.”

  “I’m on foot, but I’m on my way,” Brian told him.

  But Brandon soon realized that having Brian on his way wasn’t nearly good enough. Once the Lexus was back on the highway, it would start gaining speed. Brandon did the only thing he could. Using the Suburban’s bulk, he drove toward the much smaller LS 430, forcing it off the highway and onto the shoulder. Only then, with the two vehicles sitting nose to nose, did Brandon see there was only one person in the Lexus. The driver wasn’t Larry Stryker after all—it was Gayle.

  She honked at him furiously and motioned him out of her way. When he didn’t budge, she backed up, hit the gas, and tried to swing around him. He blocked her again. That time a stricken look of recognition crossed her face when she finally realized who he was. There was barely a moment of hesitation between her recognizing him and the appearance of the gun. She held it out the window and fired three rounds in rapid succession.

  Brandon threw himself across the front seat and hoped that the Suburban’s engine block and dashboard would offer enough cover. He lay there with his ears ringing and wondered if she would fire again. Not wanting to be hit by spraying glass, Brandon rolled down the automatic window with the touch of a button while plucking his Walther out of its holster.

  When he heard the squeal of rubber on pavement, he realized Gayle was once again trying to push past him. He raised up in time to see the front side panel of the Lexus surge by. With her on the far side of the moving vehicle, Brandon knew it would be difficult for her to return fire. Leaning out the window and holding the Walther in both hands, he fired two separate shots. Hitting the right rear tire was no big thing. It was so close and presented such a large target that even a beginner could have hit that one. As that tire exploded, though, the car began to fishtail. Hitting the second tire dead-on was sheer luck.

  But when Brandon Walker turned back to the steering wheel, he knew he wasn’t home free. A cloud of steam engulfed the Suburban’s whole front end.

  “Damn!” he exclaimed. “She shot the hell out of my radiator.”

  Even so, Brandon plunged the gearshift into reverse and turned around. He had no idea how far he could drive before the Suburban overheated and the engine seized up, but with Brian and PeeWee stuck on the far side of the gravel truck, he had to try.

  Once the vehicle was moving forward, the steam cloud swept back under the Suburban enough so Brandon could see to drive. He came around the last curve before the straightaway hoping that, driving with two flat rear tires, she would have lost control and gone off the road. No such luck. A mile or so ahead of him he saw Gayle’s crippled Lexus. It wasn’t moving fast, but it was moving, moving and turning—turning left, back onto Flying C Ranch Road.

  By the time Brandon reached the turnoff, the temperature gauge was already at the top of the red. There wasn’t much time. Just where Flying C Ranch Road left the highway was a cattle guard. Brandon pulled onto it at an angle so the Suburban straddled the whole metal grate. He rolled up all the windows, set the emergency brake, and put the transmission in “park” before shutting off the engine. When he got out, he locked the doors and set the alarm for good measure. The smell of hot metal hurt him. He had loved that old Suburban. The engine was probably doomed, but it would make one hell of a good roadblock.

  Common sense dictated that Brandon stay with his vehicle, but that’s what everyone would expect him to do—be the old guy, know his limitations, sit on his duff and wait for the cavalry—the young guys—to ride to his rescue. By then, though, Brandon Walker was far too pumped up to stop. Besides, this was personal. Gayle Stryker had tried to take him out. He was determined to return the favor.

&
nbsp; Looking off across the desert, he saw a swath of green trees. The screen of trees probably meant that the ranch buildings were tucked in among them. No doubt Gayle and Larry Stryker were concealed in among those trees, too. They would expect him and his reinforcements to come driving up the road. They wouldn’t expect someone to show up alone, on foot, walking through the desert. So that’s what Brandon did—he walked.

  As he moved along, he popped a new clip into the Walther. He had fired only two shots, but he wanted a full load of ammunition at his disposal if and when he needed it. Wanting to tell Brian what was happening, he reached for his cell phone, but it wasn’t there. In all the excitement, he must have dropped it somewhere in the Suburban. He could have gone back for it, but that would have taken too much time. Instead, he kept going.

  Behind him, he heard the faintest wail of a siren. Maybe Brian had managed to summon help after all. If that was the case, using the Suburban as a roadblock hadn’t been such a smart idea after all. It might keep the Strykers from getting back on the highway, but it would sure as hell keep backup from getting through as well.

  Great planning, Brandon told himself grimly. Hell of a good plan!

  Come on, PeeWee,” Brian shouted at his partner. “Brandon needs help.”

  Clambering up and over a mountain of spilled gravel, he saw the two cars—Brandon’s dark green Suburban and a white sedan—sitting nose to nose. Brian set off at a gallop, but even as he did so, he knew that with him on foot, they were too far away—much too far.

  Loping down the highway, Brian heard the sickening sounds of gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. He tried not to think about what that meant. He kept running, juggling his cell phone as he went.

  “Nine one one. What are you reporting?”

  “Shots fired,” Brian gasped into the phone. “Officer needs assistance.”

  He saw a cloud of steam billowing from under the Suburban’s hood. He saw the Lexus take off. He heard more shots and saw puffs of smoke as Brandon returned fire. The Lexus wavered and slowed, but it didn’t stop. Brian kept running, but he wasn’t close to making up the distance when Brandon shoved the steaming Suburban into reverse, turned, and took off after the Lexus.

  Brian stopped then. There was no use running anymore. He would never catch them. He stood doubled over, breathing heavily.

  “Sir,” a tiny voice whispered to him from very far away. “Are you still there? Sir?”

  He looked down. His cell phone was still clutched in his doubled fist. “Yes,” he gasped. “I’m here.”

  “What is your position? Are you at the scene of the gravel-truck rollover?”

  “Yes. No. I’m on Highway 79, but I’m a quarter mile or more north of the gravel truck. I’m Detective Brian Fellows of the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. An armed homicide suspect is fleeing northbound on Highway 79. A private citizen—a private investigator—is in pursuit.”

  “A DPS unit is on its way, coming southbound from Red Rock. It should be there in a few minutes.”

  “Good,” Brian managed. “Maybe he can intercept them, but remember to tell him ‘Shots fired.’ The guy in the Lexus should be considered armed and dangerous.”

  Two more southbound vehicles went past, but Brian made no effort to flag them down. Instead, he started back toward the gravel truck—toward PeeWee and the Crown Vic’s police radio. With that he’d have a better idea of what was going on.

  It was only a matter of two or three minutes until he heard the wail of a distant siren. At first Brian wasn’t sure if it was from emergency vehicles arriving at the gravel truck from the other direction or the DPS unit responding from Red Rock. As it came closer and closer, though, he realized it was coming toward him from the north, and it didn’t turn off. When Brian saw the flashing lights, he realized that the State Patrol officer must have disregarded his request to intercept the fleeing Lexus.

  Brian Fellows stepped onto the pavement and waved frantically. The cruiser screeched to a stop. The passenger-side window rolled down and a female officer peered out at him. “What’s the problem?” she asked.

  “Didn’t you get the call?” Brian demanded. “I sent word for you to intercept a pair of homicide suspects fleeing north in a Lexus.”

  “You’re Detective Fellows, then?” she asked, which meant she had gotten the message. Why the hell had she ignored it? Brian nodded.

  “I’m Officer Downs,” she said, unlocking the door. “Get in. I never saw any Lexus.”

  “What about a Suburban, then?” he asked as he clambered into the vehicle. “A green Suburban driven by a private detective. It would have been smoking. I think the suspect nailed the radiator to put it out of commission.”

  Officer Downs was already turning her vehicle around. “Oh,” she said. “I saw that.”

  “The Suburban?”

  She nodded.

  “Where?”

  “A mile or two back. It was parked along the road, but I was responding to everything else. Fasten your seat belt, please,” she added, and took off.

  As they drove, Brian tried to give her some background. Two minutes later they reached Flying C Ranch Road. When Brian saw the Suburban parked crookedly astraddle the cattle guard, his heart fell. He jumped out of the cruiser and raced up to the Suburban, more than half expecting to find Brandon Walker’s body slumped in the front seat. It wasn’t. The vehicle was empty—locked and empty.

  Brian was turning back to Officer Downs, who had joined him by the Suburban, when a volley of gunshots came from somewhere up Flying C Ranch Road. “Did you hear that?” he demanded. “They must be somewhere up there.”

  But Officer Downs was already heading back to her vehicle. She popped open the trunk and returned carrying a pair of wire cutters. Next to the cattle guard was a gate held shut with a padlocked chain. In moments she cut through the chain and the gate swung open. “You wearing a vest?” she asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Good. Me, too.”

  Together they leaped back into her cruiser. Brian’s foot was still on the ground as Officer Downs pulled out.

  Brandon darted through the trees—a grove of magnificent tough old eucalyptus—grateful for the cooling shade and the protective cover they offered. The screen was only six or seven trees thick. Nearing the far side, Brandon realized he was out of breath. He hadn’t thought he was moving that fast, but he slowed and tried to catch his breath—tried to stop sounding like an overworked steam engine.

  Pausing under the trees, he could see that he was approaching the ranch and outbuildings from behind. There in front of him—parked side by side—were two matching Lexus sedans. Doors and trunks to both vehicles were wide open, and Gayle was hurriedly transferring luggage and other items from one to the other.

  There was no sign of Larry and no sign of Gayle’s weapon. Brandon stopped behind the nearest tree. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered. “Place both hands on the vehicle.”

  Gayle Stryker stopped what she was doing, stood still, and turned toward him, but he could tell from the way her eyes scanned the trees that she hadn’t seen him—had no idea where he was.

  “I said, drop your weapon!”

  “What if I said no?” Her response was cool and defiant, but the bravado didn’t quite work. Her voice cracked slightly on that last word, and Brandon heard it.

  “Give it up, Gayle. One way or the other, you’re not leaving here.”

  “You never had any idea who you were dealing with, Brandon Walker. And you never will.”

  The exchange of words must have been enough to give away his position. Putting her right hand in her blazer pocket, she charged, coming straight for the tree trunk that sheltered him. Her hand never came out of the pocket, but he heard a single slug slam into the far side of the eucalyptus.

  Then he fired, too. One, two, three, four, five separate shots. His years of range practice paid off. The deadly pattern appeared like spots of bright red paint on her chest.

  The barrage of bullets stopped her forward mo
tion. Swaying, she looked down at her chest in surprise and then fell face-first into the dirt.

  Brandon smelled cordite mixed with eucalyptus and the combination somehow made him think of his mother’s old cold remedy. He knew he needed to stay hidden in case someone else came out of the house, but he was having a hard time remembering all that—keeping it straight. Brandon heard the siren again. It seemed closer now—closer and louder, but there was a pain in Brandon’s chest that was worse than anything he’d ever felt.

  Damn, he thought as he crumpled slowly to the ground. I didn’t think I was hit, but she must’ve got me after all.

  With Officer Downs at the wheel, the patrol car screamed into the yard of The Flying C. Brian saw the two Lexus sedans parked side by side, with all the doors and with both trunks open, but there was no sign of movement, no sign of life.

  “There,” Officer Downs said, pointing. “Someone’s on the ground.”

  Brian reached Gayle Stryker’s body first. He saw at a glance that she was dead. Then he looked around for Brandon. It took only a few seconds to find him, but for Brian those seconds lasted forever. Finally he spotted him. “Here he is!” Brian shouted. “I think he’s been shot.”

  Together Officer Downs and Brian raced to Brandon Walker’s side. He wasn’t breathing. There was no pulse. But there was no blood, either—no sign of any wounds other than a gash on his head from where he had scraped his head on the rough tree bark as he fell.

  “He’s not shot,” Officer Downs surmised. “I think he’s had a heart attack. Get that vest off him. I’ve got a defibrillator in the car. I’ll be right back.”