Field of Bones

by J. A. Jance

  “Get going, now,” he ordered. “Get yourself ready. You know what to do.”

  Latisha did know what to do. She let herself into the bathroom and closed the door. Knowing it wasn’t being locked behind her made no difference—she’d never be able to get away.

  She drew the bath and stepped into the tub. The hot water soothed her aching body, but her skin was so chapped and dry that the water stung almost as much as it helped. She examined the sore on her leg. The toilet-paper cushioning seemed to be helping. The last time she’d seen it, the wound had been an oozing open sore. Now at least it was scabbing over. She soaped herself down and shampooed her hair. It was an impossible matted tangle now, totally uncombable, but it least it would be clean.

  She stepped out of the tub and dried herself on the communal towel. Next she brushed her teeth with the communal toothbrush. Finally, dreading what was to come, she squared her shoulders, opened the door, and stepped out into a whole new world.

  The Boss was still on the bed—but rather than sitting on the edge of it, he was lying on it. He had undressed, dropping his clothes on the floor next to the boots. He lay there stark naked, obviously waiting for her, but to her amazement he was sound asleep and snoring like mad.

  Latisha had prayed for deliverance for so long that when it was finally at hand, she was too astonished to move. She stood frozen to the spot, staring first at him and then at the door. Could she tiptoe out without waking him? But then what? It was clearly winter. As cold as it was in the basement, it would be colder outside. Not only was she naked, her hair was wet, and she had no shoes. Looking down at her bare feet, misshapen by those long curled toenails, she was overcome by despair. If she ran outside and he came after her, how would she ever get away, especially if he had shoes and she didn’t? That would be hopeless. If she tried to run, he’d catch her and drag her back—back to the freezer, most likely.

  Still unmoving, Latisha heard her stepfather’s voice, as clearly as if Lyle Montgomery Richards were in this appalling room standing right beside her: “God helps those who help themselves.”

  Latisha had heard those words before, and more than once. He’d told her that when she’d been smarting off or arguing with him because the homework at Christ the King was too hard. His admonition came to her now like a bolt out of the blue, and that’s when she saw the boots—his boots, the Boss’s boots. They were still sitting next to the bed, exactly where she’d left them.

  The Boss was a good five or six inches taller than she was. With any luck his larger shoe size would be able to accommodate her oversize toenails. So if she had shoes to wear, what about clothing? Even with shoes on, she couldn’t very well go out into wintry weather bare naked. For clothing there could be only one answer—the army blankets on her mattress downstairs. She might still be naked underneath, but if she wrapped one around herself and wore it as a cloak, the heavy wool would help to ward off the cold.

  Going back downstairs was the last thing she wanted to do. What if he woke up, followed, and trapped her there? But if she was going to get away, going down to grab that blanket was her only option. Holding her breath, she tried to tiptoe past the bed, but the muscles in her calves were too weak. She couldn’t do it. Instead she had to walk flat-footed. Her heart pounded in alarm as one of the old wooden planks creaked under the weight of her body, but when she glanced over at the bed, the Boss hadn’t moved.

  She paused briefly at the foot of the bed, gathering her courage. And then, because praying had become a habit for her, she did so at that moment, moving her lips in a silent whisper to keep from waking the Boss.

  “Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death. Amen.”

  At the top of the basement steps, she paused long enough to find the switch and bathe her hellhole prison in light. There were sixteen wooden steps in all. She took them slowly and deliberately, stopping on each one to recite the prayer once more. She didn’t want to rush for fear she might stumble and fall and give herself away.

  Down in the basement she made her way to her mattress. She collected the blanket she’d used for a pillow because it was already folded. After a moment’s hesitation, she reached down and grabbed the container of kibble. She had no idea where she was or how far she would have to go to find help.

  She was almost to the bottom of the stairs when she thought of something else—water. If she was in the desert, she’d need water as well as food. Hurrying back to her mattress, she located the container that had once held Amelia’s kibble. She took that into the bathroom and filled it from the water in the flushing tank. She didn’t bother putting the tank lid back when she finished. If a rat fell in and drowned, it wouldn’t matter now. One way or another, she wasn’t coming back here—ever!

  Overhead, the snoring continued. Climbing back up, she made it as far as the landing with her heart hammering in her chest and with her breath coming in short gasps, this time more from exertion than fear. Once again she forced herself to move slowly and deliberately across the room. She deposited the blanket and the two containers next to the door, then went to retrieve the boots, carrying them with her rather than putting them on. She was reaching for the doorknob when she noticed the jacket—a leather jacket—hanging on a hook next to the door. It had been there the whole time, but she hadn’t seen it until just now. Wearing a jacket would make better sense than trying to run while holding a cloak closed around her. It would free up her hands. It would make it possible for her to bring along the blanket and the precious containers of food and water.

  She eased the jacket down from its hook and shrugged it on. It was far too big for her. The sleeves were so long that the ends of them hung beyond the tips of her fingers. Compared to the scratchy wool of the blanket, the soft flannel lining felt heavenly against her bare skin.

  She tried slipping one of the containers into a jacket pocket. It was too large and didn’t fit, but in making the attempt she felt a small bulge at the bottom of the pocket. Curious, she reached in, pulled the object out, and was amazed to discover she was holding a key fob. Could it be the key to the Boss’s truck? Was that even possible? Feeling as though Holy Mary, the Mother of God, had just granted her a miracle, Latisha slid the key fob back into the pocket of the jacket. She picked up the folded blanket and placed the two Ziploc containers side by side on that. Then she placed the boots on top of the Ziplocs. Only then did she turn the knob, open the door, and step outside.

  A bitingly cold wind hit the bare skin on her legs and took her breath away. The hard-packed earth under her feet was shockingly cold, but she didn’t pause long enough to put on the boots here, either. If she could find the truck first, she could put the boots on once she was inside that, and if she could figure out how to make it work, she could use that to get away. Using a vehicle would give her a far better chance of escaping than running on foot, boots or no boots.

  Clutching her precious load to her chest with her left arm, she slipped her right hand into the jacket pocket, pulled out the key fob, and grasped it tightly in her fist.

  It was dark outside. Coming from the unaccustomed light inside, she was momentarily blinded, but her eyes, used to months of almost total darkness, quickly readjusted.

  She was standing on the street of what looked like a very old town, or maybe an old movie set. The brick building behind her, the one from which she’d just emerged, had the window covered with what looked like iron bars, making Latisha wonder if perhaps it had once been a jail. There were a few other buildings as well, some still upright and others tumbledown wrecks, on either side of the narrow dirt track. At first she saw no sign of any vehicle, but then, off to the side—parked between the would-be jail and the next building over—sat a huge pickup truck with the emblem of a ram on the hood.

  She walked up to the door and tried the handle. The door opened as if by magic, and an interior light came on. She flung the boots and the containers inside ahead of her far enough that they came to rest against the passe
nger seat’s armrest. Still clutching the key in her right hand, she used her left hand to reach for the grab bar. Scared of dropping the fob, she must have gripped it too tight. Somehow she activated the panic button. Instantly the horn began blaring and the lights flashed on and off.

  Latisha plunged into despair. The noise was bound to wake him. He’ll come for me now, she thought desperately. I’m done. It’s all over. He’ll drag me back inside and kill me.

  And then she heard Lyle’s voice again. “God helps those who help themselves.”

  There were buttons on the key fob. With the lights flashing and her hands shaking, she couldn’t see the labels on the buttons, so she punched one at random. Mercifully, the alarm shut off. On the door she caught sight of the lock button. She pushed that, and the lock engaged. If he came outside with another key, he might be able to open the door and drag her out, but for the moment she was safe. With the lights still flashing, she stared at the dashboard.

  Once, right after she and Trayvon left St. Louis, they had gotten into a fight. They’d been in a bar at the time. Latisha was underage, of course, but in the kinds of places where Trayvon hung out, being underage didn’t matter. A few minutes later, when he’d gone to the restroom, he made the mistake of leaving his key fob on the bar. The one for the Cadillac had looked just like this one. Latisha didn’t have a driver’s license, but she knew that with one of those fobs all you had to do to start the engine was press a button on the dash. She had found the right button, but when she pressed it, nothing happened.

  Trayvon had come roaring out of the bar right then and caught her in the act. Just like now she’d been smart enough to lock the car door behind her. She had thought she was safe, but one of his friends had handed him a baseball bat. He’d smashed the window to pieces, dragged her out of the car, and beaten her senseless. That was the first time he beat her and certainly not the last.

  Later, after he’d gotten the window fixed, he’d laughed at her about it. “Stupid bitch,” he told her. “Don’t you know nothing? Keyless ignitions don’t do shit less’n you step on the brake at the same time you be pressin’ the damned button.”

  She hadn’t forgotten the beating, and she hadn’t forgotten what Trayvon had said, either. His voice and his words came back to Latisha now almost as clearly as Lyle’s had earlier. She put her foot on the brake and punched the ignition button. The engine roared to life, and the lights came on just as the door to the jail crashed open and the Boss bounded out into the street.

  Latisha found the gearshift and moved the handle. On her first attempt, when the indicator landed on the letter R, the truck lurched into reverse and slammed into a corner of the building next door. By then the Boss, naked and barefoot, was barreling toward the truck. Instead of looking at him, Latisha tried again, moving the indicator until it settled on the capital N. This time the engine wound up to a full-throttled roar, but the truck didn’t move. By then the Boss’s furious face was just outside the window. He was yanking on the door handle and pounding on the window with his fist. Not daring to look at him, Latisha tried one last thing. This time the dial landed on the capital D, and the truck shot forward.

  The unexpected burst of speed surprised her. She almost smashed into the building across the street before she managed to twist the wheel to the right. The truck wobbled from side to side before it finally got a grip, and she was able to point it down the street. The mirror settings were all wrong. If she’d been able to look back, she would have seen the Boss, as outraged as he was naked, standing in the middle of the dirt street shaking his fists in her direction and screaming at the top of his lungs.

  Rather than try to look back, Latisha kept her eyes on the road, her foot on the gas, and drove like a bat out of hell.

  Chapter 29

  “YOU LITTLE BITCH!” JIMMY ARDMORE SCREAMED AFTER THE RETREATING vehicle as it sped off into the darkness. “You incredible bitch!”

  Beyond furious and with his bare feet turning to ice on the cold, hard ground, Jimmy Ardmore limped back into the building. Twice in the process, he felt his head spinning so badly that he had to stop and grab something to steady himself—once by leaning against the doorjamb and a few steps later by grabbing on to one of the kitchen chairs.

  Feeling this woozy made no sense to him. Yes, he’d had a few slugs of Jameson on the way down, but not enough to cause this. Eventually he made it back to the bed and sank onto it long enough to retrieve his clothing. When he went to pull his pants on, Jimmy discovered that his little blue pills were still working overtime, even though Latisha, damn her anyway, was well out of reach!

  Not for long, he vowed. Latisha was running, but she wouldn’t get far, and once he caught up with her . . .

  Yes, she had taken his truck, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t follow her. He still had the rattletrap 1998 Subaru Forester that Arthur had bought new and treated as his forever car. It was safely locked away in the garage right next door. Even with the power of attorney, selling and changing the title on the old heap over to someone else might have raised a few eyebrows and elicited some uncomfortable questions. So Jimmy still had the little green Forester. He started it occasionally and drove it some to keep it in good working order. So if Latisha was under the impression that she had left him stranded and without a useable vehicle, she was one hundred percent wrong.

  It wasn’t until he had his pants on and was looking for his boots that he discovered she’d taken those, too. Since he and his half brother had worn almost the same size shoes, that was a fixable problem. Padlocking the door behind him, he raced outside and hobbled to the garage next door, where he used a touchpad to open the rolling shutters. The Subaru was parked inside, surrounded by a dozen five-gallon fully loaded gas cans. The gas cans were there for a reason. When he was ready to leave Calhoun, there wouldn’t be any evidence left behind.

  He got in, started the car, and drove as far as the tin-roofed shack that had once been Arthur’s pride and joy. The clamps on the girls’ ankles had all been set to open with one key, and the padlocks opened with another. He opened the padlock on Arthur’s front door and charged inside. Since he’d left Arthur’s belongings just as they were, he had no problem locating replacement shoes. He dragged a pair of worn Johnston & Murphys—relics from Arthur’s salad days—out of the closet. As Jimmy bent over to tie the laces, he was beset by yet another bout of dizziness. What the hell was the matter with him?

  At the last minute, on his way out the door, Jimmy went back and grabbed Arthur’s .22 revolver off the bedside table. Although Latisha wasn’t in very good shape, she was a lot younger than Jimmy. In a pinch she might be able to outrun him, but she sure as hell wouldn’t be able to outrun a bullet. Not that he wanted to shoot her. He had something better in mind.

  At 4:45 A.M. on Sunday, a mere ten minutes after Latisha had raced out of Calhoun in his stolen pickup, Jimmy Ardmore set off after her. He stopped twenty or so yards short of the intersection where Starvation Canyon Road intersects with Skeleton Canyon Road. Exiting the Subaru, he walked forward along the shoulder, looking for tire tracks.

  Jimmy had paid good money for the full set of oversize Nitto Terra Grapplers on the RAM. Yes, this was the desert, and relatively high desert as well. It seldom snowed, but when it rained, a thin layer of slime often coated dirt roadways, leaving the surfaces almost as slick as if they were covered with ice. Fortunately for him, his truck’s all-weather tires left behind a distinct, telltale pattern.

  Months earlier, when he drove Latisha to Calhoun from Road Forks, he’d seen to it that she was completely out of it. He doubted she had any idea about where she was, much less where she would need to go to find help or how to get there.

  Jimmy couldn’t remember where he’d heard this bit of trivia, but he was pretty sure someone had once told him that when people in unfamiliar terrain are frightened and trying to flee some perceived danger, they generally tend to turn to the right rather than the left.

  Jimmy knew that a right-han
d turn onto Skeleton Canyon would take Latisha back to Highway 80 within a relatively short period of time. Once she hit the paved road, she’d have a lot more options and a lot more opportunities to find help. If she turned to the left, however, she’d find herself in territory that was little more than empty wilderness. That would leave her almost entirely on her own. The roadway between Calhoun and Douglas made for especially rough going. An experienced driver might be able to make the trip in under two hours. An inexperienced driver would take much longer.

  When Jimmy reached the intersection and saw the distinctive tire tracks make a wildly unsteady turn to the left, he couldn’t help smiling. The arc of the turn said it all. Obviously Latisha wasn’t a very good driver. In addition, she had no way of knowing that Jimmy, with another vehicle at his disposal, was already hot on her trail.

  Jogging back to the Forester, Jimmy hopped in and hit the gas. The turn he made onto Skeleton Canyon wasn’t much better than Latisha’s had been. Her wobbling had been due to her being an inexperienced driver. His had everything to do with speed.

  Jimmy Ardmore was coming for her, and she damned well wasn’t getting away.

  Chapter 30

  DEPUTY GARTH RAYMOND RACKED THE DRIVER’S SEAT AS FAR back as it would go and then leaned into it and relaxed. Leaving the engine idling for the moment, he let the heater warm his feet before tucking into what was now the next-to-last of the meat-loaf sandwiches that Grandma Juanita had packed for him before he left the house on Sunday afternoon. When he’d told her he had to go back out to the crime scene for another overnight shift, she had promised to make sandwiches for him to take along.

  He awoke in the late afternoon to find she’d made meat loaf and was busy assembling a stack of sandwiches.

  “I had to wait long enough for the meat loaf to cool,” she explained, handing him a plate with a sandwich already on it. “I made five—one for now, one for dinner, one for a midnight snack, one for breakfast, and one for me. They’re too good to pass up, if I do say so myself.”