Field of Bones

by J. A. Jance

  “Yes, he’s talking and making sense.”

  “And he’s going to pull through?”

  “Sounds like,” Tom confirmed.

  A flood of relief swept through Joanna’s body. “And even though he’s been shot, he’s well enough to drive himself to meet the ambulance?”

  “He’s not doing the actual driving,” Tom corrected. “A girl by the name of Latisha Marcum is at the wheel.”

  “Who’s Latisha Marcum?”

  “Someone who’s spent the last however many months being held prisoner, chained to a wall in a pitch-black basement along with Amelia Salazar and two other girls. Latisha somehow managed to escape. When the bad guy came after her, he and Deputy Raymond went at it. Garth took a bullet, and the bad guy got away.”

  A wave of gooseflesh ran up and down Joanna’s leg. Kendra Baldwin had worried that there might be additional victims, and she’d been right.

  “What about the girl?” Joanna asked.

  “She’s not hurt, as in no gaping wounds,” Tom told her. “According to Garth, she’s not in very good shape, but she doesn’t require an ambulance. I’m sending Detective Howell out to pick her up. Right now the only information we have to go on is what Deputy Raymond was able to pass along. I’m hoping that once Deb connects with Latisha, she’ll be able to conduct a more formal interview.”

  “Was she able to supply the names of the other girls?”

  “She was, and I wrote them down. In addition to Amelia Salazar, there was a Sandra Ruth Locke, who came from somewhere in California, and Sadie Kaitlyn Jennings, from North Carolina.”

  “Did you pass that information along to Dr. Baldwin?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I certainly did. What I need right now is anything and everything Latisha Marcum can tell us about Arthur Ardmore.”

  “Who’s he?” Joanna asked.

  “Our killer.”

  “You’ve identified him? You’ve got a name? How on earth . . . ?”

  “When Garth was a kid, he and his grandfather used to go hunting out in the Peloncillos, so he’s very familiar with that part of the county. From what Latisha told him, he was able to connect the dots and figure out that she and the other girls must have been kept prisoner in one of the buildings in an old ghost town over there, the one at the base of Starvation Canyon.”

  “Calhoun,” Joanna supplied. “I went there once with my dad.”

  “Right,” Tom said. “Calhoun’s the one. So I ran a quick title search. It turns the whole town is owned—lock, stock, and barrel—by a fellow named Arthur Ardmore.”

  “I seem to remember hearing the name and something about him being a hermit,” Joanna said. “Since he didn’t seem to be breaking any laws, I didn’t pay a lot of attention to the story.”

  “But he was breaking the law,” Tom corrected. “We just didn’t know he was doing it. I wanted to get the skinny on this Ardmore guy, so I called Kent Williams, and he clued me in.”

  That was a name Joanna did recognize. When it came to ranchers in the San Bernardino Valley, Kent Williams, owner of the Calhoun Ranch, was a major player. He also happened to be one of Joanna’s political supporters.

  “You know Kent?” she asked.

  “Sure,” Tom said. “He’s an old buddy of mine. It turns out that the town of Calhoun used to be part of his ranch. A couple of decades ago, this Ardmore character—an odd duck with more money than good sense—turned up on Kent’s doorstep asking to buy the parcel of the ranch where the ghost town was located. Said that’s where he wanted to live—in a ghost town. Kent took the deal, and Ardmore has lived there ever since.”

  “In a ghost town?”

  “Apparently,” Tom said. “I would guess he’s not what you’d call a sociable kind of guy, since it looks like he spends his spare time torturing and killing young women. I sent a copy of Ardmore’s driver’s-license photo to Garth’s phone, and Latisha identified him from that. I didn’t take the time or trouble to put together a photo montage, because I don’t want him to get away. Detective Carbajal is off obtaining warrants, and I’m assembling the Emergency Response Team to go make the arrest. Since Ernie’s a mainstay in the ERT, Media Relations is going to be offline for the time being.”

  “Marliss isn’t going to like that.”

  “Screw Marliss,” Tom grumbled. “The last thing I need to worry about right now is Marliss Shackleford.”

  “Do we know if Garth and this Ardmore guy exchanged gunfire?” Joanna asked. “If we’re dealing with an officer-involved shooting, we’ll need to bring in the Department of Public Safety to handle the investigation.”

  “Garth didn’t say one way or the other,” Tom replied, “and I didn’t think to ask. I’ll put you on hold and call him back.”

  A few moments later, Tom came back on the line. “Deputy Raymond says he drew his weapon but didn’t discharge it. All the same, once he gets to the hospital, we should have his hands and clothing swabbed for GSR. We’ll also collect his weapon. That way if an investigation of any kind comes up later on, we’ll have our bases covered.”

  “Do we know anything about the vehicle Ardmore is driving?” Joanna asked.

  “According to the Department of Licensing, the only vehicle registered in his name is a 1998 Subaru Forester. I’ve issued a BOLO on that and asked the Arizona Highway Patrol and the New Mexico State Police to be on high alert for it, especially out along US 80 and I-10. The Department of Public Safety is in the process of dispatching additional units to the area in case we need backup.”

  “Sounds like you’ve got things well in hand,” Joanna told him.

  “Not quite,” Tom answered. “Dave Hollicker and I were supposed to meet the Paxtons at the Justice Center at eight to take one last crack at the dump site, but that’s not going to happen, at least not today. Dave and Casey Ledford are on their way to the scene of the shooting. I was about to call Ms. Paxton and cancel, but I seem to have misplaced her number. If you could let them know that I need them to stand down today . . .”

  “Of course,” Joanna said. “I’ll do that the moment I get off the phone.” When an awkward pause followed, she sensed there was something Tom wasn’t saying. “Is there anything else?” she asked.

  “I’m out of my depth here,” he said finally. “What the hell am I supposed to do? On the one hand, I’ve got a wounded officer on his way to the ER. By all rights I should be at the hospital to greet him. On the other hand, since I’m about to send people into harm’s way, I should be with them, too. How can I be in both places at once?”

  “You can’t,” Joanna answered, “so tell you what. You take charge of the ERT. I’ll put on a uniform and be at the hospital when Deputy Raymond gets there. By the way, I don’t believe Garth’s grandmother drives.”

  “You’re right, she doesn’t,” Tom said, “but I’ve got that covered, too. I’ve already dispatched a deputy to pick Mrs. Raymond up and bring her to the hospital. Oh, and one more thing. Your satphone was on the blink yesterday, but overnight some faraway wizard of a technician was able to reboot it remotely.”

  “Does that mean it’s working again?”

  “Yup. We’ll be out in the middle of nowhere, but at least we won’t be incommunicado. It seems to be taking forever to get those warrants. I hope to hell Arthur Ardmore doesn’t give us the slip in the meantime.”

  “I hope so, too,” Joanna said. “And since the phone is working again, please keep me posted.”

  Ending the call, Joanna sat for a moment lost in thought—thinking about both the distance and the difficult road conditions between the Justice Center and Starvation Canyon. A few months earlier, she had turned down a yearlong grant from an outfit called Police Our Borders, POB for short, that would have given her department a year’s worth of access to a leased helicopter. On the surface it sounded like a great deal—it was a lot like one of those “free to good home” puppies. The front-end costs were low, but hiring a pilot and paying for aircraft upkeep would have had to come out of Joann
a’s budget. With the amount of money that would have cost, Joanna could have hired two additional full-time deputies. She had nixed the deal, and passing on the helicopter was something Don Hubble had used against her time and again during the election campaign.

  Today, for the first time, Joanna found herself regretting that decision. A departmental helicopter would have made it far easier to transport key personnel and weapons to and from that remote location.

  Too bad, she told herself. What’s done is done.

  Still in her robe, Joanna hurried outside to pass along Tom’s message to the Paxtons. Back in the house, she pawed through her assortment of variously sized uniforms until she finally found a set that more or less fit her nonpregnant but still-not-back-to-normal figure.

  She worried about taking a newborn along on a visit to the ER. Public areas in hospitals were well known for being germ factories, but gearing up to use a breast pump right that minute wasn’t in the cards. She’d have to leave Sage here with Carol, and when it was time to feed her, she’d have to come home.

  By the time Joanna was dressed, made up, and ready to go, Carol had delivered the boys to the bus stop and was in the kitchen loading the dishwasher. As soon as Joanna explained what was going on, Carol came up with a better plan.

  “Go grab Sage and pack the diaper bag,” she said. “I’ll take a book along and stay in the car with her while you’re inside. When it’s time for you to nurse her, you can do so in the privacy of your very own Buick.”

  “What an excellent idea!” Joanna said. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

  Chapter 37

  THE SHOCK OF SEEING THE BOSS’S FACE LEFT LATISHA SHAKEN, and it took some time for her to be able to put the SUV back in gear and drive. But still, if the cops knew who he was, maybe that meant they were that much closer to catching him. When the phone rang again, Latisha expected it to be her mother.

  “It’s my grandmother,” Garth said. “Somebody must have called her.” He took the call without putting the phone on speaker, leaving Latisha to listen in on only half of the conversation.

  “Yes, it’s true,” he said, after being quiet for several moments. “I did get shot. They’re taking me to the hospital in Bisbee, but don’t worry. I’ll be all right. We managed to stop the bleeding.”

  That statement was followed by another long silence. “They’re sending someone to pick you up and bring you to the hospital? That’s great. Okay, I’ll see you there, but one more thing—do you happen to have any more of yesterday’s meat loaf? You do? Great. If you could whip up a couple more of those sandwiches and bring them along to Bisbee, it would be terrific. I have someone here who thinks your meat-loaf sandwiches are manna from heaven.”

  The thought of having another meat-loaf sandwich was enough to make Latisha smile, and she treated herself to another bite of the one she had.

  “Okay, Grandma,” Garth continued. “See you there. And yes, I love you, too.”

  Some distance ahead of them, Latisha caught sight of a plume of dust, rising skyward and speeding toward them. “Is that them?”

  “Probably,” Garth said. “There’s a wide spot just ahead at the turnoff to Slaughter Ranch. Pull in there.”

  Latisha was easing into the turnoff when another call came in. “Hello,” Garth answered. “Yes, Mrs. Richards, your daughter is right here, but she’s driving. As soon as she gets parked, I’ll put her on.”

  When Latisha went to take the phone, her hands were trembling again. She knew what was coming and didn’t want to go through it—didn’t want to have to tell anybody else about what had happened to her, most especially her mother.

  “Hello?”

  “Latisha, Latisha, Latisha,” her mother sobbed into the phone. “Dear God, is it really you? When Lyle called to tell me, I couldn’t believe my ears. I thought I was dreaming—that I’d wake up, it wouldn’t be true, and you would still be gone. Are you okay? Are you hurt?”

  Latisha wasn’t exactly hurt, but she wasn’t okay, either.

  “I broke a tooth,” she said.

  That broken, aching tooth was the least of it, but it was one thing—the only thing, really—that she could admit to right then, as long as she didn’t have to explain exactly how it had gotten broken. Would she ever get around to telling her mother and Lyle about having to eat kibble?

  “Who’s the man there with you, the one who answered the phone?” her mother asked. “Is he like a boyfriend or something?”

  “He’s not my boyfriend,” Latisha answered. “He’s a deputy sheriff, and he’s my friend.”

  “Oh,” her mother said. “Trayvon always claimed that you ran away from him—that you took off with someone else. But where have you been all this time, Latisha? We’ve missed you so much. Why didn’t you ever call home? Why didn’t you contact us and let us know that you were okay?”

  At the moment those questions remained unanswerable. What was Latisha supposed to say—that she hadn’t called home because she was being held prisoner, naked and chained to a wall, in some pervert’s basement? That she’d been beaten and starved? That her friends had all been murdered? That she wasn’t okay, not even close?

  For years when she was a child, her mother had dodged Latisha’s insistent questions about whether or not the Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus were real. Eventually Latisha had worked out the truth about those things for herself, and the same thing might need to happen here. For the time being, her mother would have to figure it out on her own, because Latisha was incapable of putting any of it into words.

  “I couldn’t,” Latisha managed. “I just couldn’t.”

  Her mother seemed to sense that she had pushed too hard, and she backed off. “The important thing is that you called today,” she declared. “Lyle’s probably on the phone making travel arrangements at this very moment. He says we’ll need to fly into Tucson, but with him coming from one place and me from another, I don’t know how long it will be before we see you.”

  “Wait,” Latisha said. “Lyle’s not in St. Louis with you?”

  “No, he’s down in New Orleans.”

  “New Orleans!” Latisha repeated in dismay. “What’s he doing there?”

  “Trying to get the goods on Trayvon Littlefield,” her mother said. “When we didn’t hear from you, we were so worried that Lyle and I drove down to New Orleans and filed a missing-persons report. When we tracked down Trayvon, he swore that you’d run away. We didn’t believe him, not for a minute. Lyle said he’d probably murdered you and dumped your body in a bayou somewhere.

  “We tried telling the cops the same thing, but nothing came of it. After that we hired a private detective, but he didn’t get anywhere, either. So for the past three months, Lyle’s been working the case on his own, using his vacation time and days off to drive down to New Orleans and look around—talking to people, asking questions.”

  Two approaching vehicles—an ambulance with flashing lights and a marked SUV with a sheriff’s-department logo on the door—ground to a halt beside them in a blinding cloud of dust.

  “I’ve gotta go, Mom,” Latisha said hurriedly as people piled out of the other vehicles and hurried toward them. “Someone’s here. I can’t talk right now.”

  “Please, don’t hang up on me,” her mother begged. “Is this your phone? Can I call you back at this number?”

  How could Latisha explain that she no longer had a phone—that when she’d awakened in the bunk of the Boss’s truck those many months ago, her purse, her phone, and all her ID had disappeared?

  Latisha looked at Garth for help. “She wants to know how to call me.”

  “Tell her to contact the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department,” he said. “Have her ask for Chief Deputy Hadlock. He’ll be able to tell her how to reach you.”

  “Did you get that, Mom?”

  “Yes, Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Got it.”

  “Good-bye, Mom,” Latisha said. “I love you.”

  Knowing that her mother would
be even more worried if she heard that cops and an ambulance had just arrived, Latisha ended the call and returned the phone to Garth just as the first EMT tapped on his window. With a click of the lock button, the door swung open.

  “Sir, are you Deputy Raymond?” the EMT asked.

  Garth nodded.

  “I understand you’re in need of some assistance. Let’s see about getting you out of there.”

  Meanwhile a woman wearing a navy-blue pantsuit and holding up a badge was rapping noisily on the driver’s-side window. Latisha barely noticed. Overcome by what she’d just heard, she leaned into the steering wheel, buried her face in her hands, and sobbed.

  The whole time she’d been locked in the basement—all those hours when she’d been sure that no one cared about her and that no one was bothering to look for her—none of that had been true, because her mother and Lyle had been out there spending time and money, frantically trying to find her.

  In her mind’s eye, Latisha tried to imagine straight-arrow Lyle prowling the streets in Trayvon’s seedy, gang-infested neighborhood, looking for him and looking for her—for Latisha, for the stepdaughter who had given the poor man nothing but grief. Latisha wept about that—as ashamed as she was grateful.

  By the time she regained her composure, the EMTs had Garth on a gurney and were loading him into the back of the ambulance. When the doors closed and the vehicle sped away, Latisha felt totally abandoned. The two of them had been through a terrible ordeal together, but in the course of those few desperate hours they had become friends. Latisha had already lost so much, and she was crushed to think that now she was losing him, too.

  At last the woman outside, tired of knocking on the window, pulled open the door. “Excuse me, Ms. Marcum,” she said. “My name is Detective Howell. I’m here to take you to the hospital so the doctors can check you out.”

  Wiping away her tears, Latisha started to hand over the car keys.

  “Just leave them in the cup holder,” Detective Howell said. “A CSI team is on its way to investigate the shooting incident. They’ll be here in a few minutes, and they’ll pick up Deputy Raymond’s vehicle on the way.”