by J. A. Jance
James’s family, still relatively united, had taken possession of the middle of the room, including the table with the unfinished jigsaw puzzle. Mark sat apart from the rest of them, keeping to himself in the far corner, with Ali’s laptop open on his lap.
Before Sarah and Roy’s earlier arrival on the scene, the television set in the room had been on, but at such a low volume that no one had paid attention to whatever was showing. That had changed with Roy’s arrival. He had turned the volume up to high. He sat in front of the set, still fully engrossed in his baseball game—or was it a new baseball game? Ali couldn’t tell.
What was obvious, however, was that Roy was using the game to absent himself from the battle between Sarah and her recently arrived younger sister, Carol. The two of them were going at it hot and heavy over what could have been done or should have been done to keep their older sister from falling asleep with a cigarette in her hand, thus setting herself on fire.
As Ali walked past the argument to reach Mark Levy, she caught a whiff of a distinctive odor, which made her suspect that Carol had already taken a nip or two of her daily allotment of demon rum.
Mark closed the computer at her approach. “I hope you don’t mind me using it,” he said, handing it over. “I was checking my e-mail.”
“No,” Ali said. “That’s fine. Did Sister Anselm come back?”
“Nope. At least she didn’t come through here.”
“And Hal?” Ali asked.
Mark shook his head. “He hasn’t been out since you left, but you might want to check your e-mail. It sounded like several new messages came in while I was online.”
Dropping into the chair next to Mark’s, Ali clicked on her mail program. Her in-box showed ten new e-mails. Three of them made her hair stand on end. [email protected]. Sister Anselm writing from a Sisters of Providence Web site.
While Ali had been waiting for and expecting a text message, Sister Anselm had sent her an e-mail instead.
When Ali pushed Read, she expected a regular e-mail to appear on the screen—something complete with words and text. Instead a map popped up on her screen, a map of Scottsdale, at least one with the far northeastern edge of Scottsdale showing on the screen. There was a red dot on the Beeline Highway northeast of Scottsdale. In the upper left-hand corner was a speedometer with a reading of 63 miles per hour. In the upper right-hand corner was a compass showing a northeast heading.
For a moment Ali couldn’t make out what was happening. What did it mean? She checked the next message. The same map appeared. In that one the pin was still on Highway 87, but a little to the north of the location in the previous message.
Suddenly Ali understood. Sister Anselm was employing one of the more exotic applications on her iPhone—she was using her navigation system to broadcast where she was. In a moving vehicle, heading north by northeast.
Weeks earlier Ali had heard Chris and B. Simpson discussing this latest add-on in iPhone technology, but she hadn’t paid much attention. Now she was on full alert. Sister Anselm needed help, and she was sending out a wireless SOS, most likely to the most recently used address in her phone—Ali’s. Maybe she couldn’t risk attempting to leave a voice message right then for fear of being overheard, and perhaps ordinary texting was too cumbersome for some reason, but this worked. The most recent e-mail had come in a mere five minutes earlier.
Ali had been on the Beeline Highway on occasion. Once you were on it, there weren’t all that many places to turn off. You either went north to Payson or south on the Apache Trail past Roosevelt Dam.
Ali glanced around the room. No one seemed to be paying any attention to her. If Mimi’s children were involved in this latest plot somehow, they were doing an excellent job of giving themselves cover. If they were ever asked about it, they would be able to answer quite honestly that at the time Sister Anselm was being driven north by person or persons unknown, they had been sitting in a hospital waiting room, minding their own business, and expecting any moment that their dying mother would be pronounced dead. That would count as a foolproof alibi.
Mark leaned over the arm of his chair and peered at the map. “Hey, that’s one of those new G-spot things, isn’t it?” he said. “Cool.”
Ali put her finger to her lips. “I’m going down to the lobby,” she said aloud.
As soon as the elevator door closed behind her, Ali hit the speed dial that went directly to Sheriff Maxwell’s cell phone.
“Hey, I’m in a meeting now,” he said when he picked up. “Can I get back to you?”
“No! You can’t,” she declared. “I need to speak to you now.”
“What’s going on?” he asked. “You make it sound like a matter of life and death.”
“It is,” she said. “I think someone has kidnapped Sister Anselm.”
“Kidnapped the nun?” Maxwell demanded. “Who would do that? Why?”
“The people responsible for the attack on Mimi Cooper,” Ali responded. “I suspect they believe Mimi confided in her and revealed their identities.”
“Damn!” Maxwell muttered, which was much the same thing Ali had said a few minutes earlier. “You know this for sure? If so, where did it happen? If she was kidnapped in Phoenix, you’ll need to contact Phoenix PD and get their people on the case.”
“I don’t know who has her,” Ali said urgently, “but I know approximately where she is.” Ali glanced at her watch. “At least I know where she was about ten minutes ago.”
“Wait a minute,” Maxwell said. “Hold on. Hey, guys,” he said. “I’ll need you to step outside so I can take this call.” Moments later a door slammed shut on Maxwell’s end. By the time the sheriff was back on the line with her, Ali had made her way to an unoccupied love seat in the lobby.
“Let me get this straight,” Maxwell said. “You’re telling me that you believe Sister Anselm has been kidnapped. You don’t know that for sure, but you still think you know where she is.”
“I do know where she is,” Ali insisted. “She’s in a vehicle headed north on the Beeline Highway.”
“And you know this because . . .”
“Because she just sent me an e-mail through her navigation system,” Ali said. “If you’ll go back to your computer, I can forward it to you and you’ll see for yourself. We need to move fast, Sheriff Maxwell. If she’s not there of her own free will, and if whoever grabbed her finds her iPhone and figures out she’s been sending out messages, it’ll all be over.”
Ali opened her computer and logged on to her AirCard. In her new mail list, she found another message from Sister Anselm.
“Okay,” Ali said. “She just sent me another one. It looks like the vehicle is north of Jake’s Corner and still heading toward Payson. I’m forwarding it to you. You should have it in a few minutes.”
“Okay,” he said. “This is nuts, but I’ll go back into my office and wait for it.”
She heard the swishing sound of an outgoing message leaving her computer. Then she waited, fuming, for the forward to make its way into his mailbox. It took only a few seconds, but with Ali’s heightened sense of urgency, the wait seemed interminable.
“Got it,” Maxwell said. “I see it now. Where they are now is out of Maricopa County and into Gila. I can call over to Globe and talk to Sheriff Tuttle, but he’s going to have the same problem we have—too much ground to cover and not enough patrol units.” He paused for a moment before adding, “You really think the person who has her is the one who set the fire in Camp Verde?”
“Either the perpetrator or an accomplice.”
Maxwell sighed. “Holy crap!” he exclaimed. “To get officers there in time to do any good, we probably need a helicopter. That means I’ll have to call that bastard Donnelley and drag his people into this. I could call in DPS, but that’ll take time, too. I’m guessing the ATF has a chopper at their disposal when needed. Let me give them a call, Ali. I’ll get back to you.”
Ali closed her phone and waited. It seemed to take forever. In the meantime yet anoth
er message came in from Sister Anselm. The vehicle was still moving north, but Ali worried that in that desolate and virtually uninhabited part of the state, the iPhone would lose its connection or power or both. Finally the phone rang.
“Okay,” Sheriff Maxwell said. “Donnelley has dispatched several ground units. It’ll take time for them to get there. In the meantime, he has an agent named Robson on his way over to the hospital. Gary Robson. Isn’t he the guy you told me about yesterday? The one who was there in the burn unit throwing his weight around?”
“Yes,” Ali said. “That’s the one.”
“He happens to be closest to your location. He’s coming by to pick up your computer. Donnelley is trying to negotiate permission for them to land an ATF helicopter on the hospital helipad long enough to pick him up.”
“No,” Ali said.
“Excuse me? What do you mean, ‘no’? No what?”
“No, that’s not going to work. Tell Agent Donnelley from me that if Agent Robson is taking my computer, he’s also taking me.”
“Ali,” Maxwell said, making an effort to sound reasonable. “You can’t do that. The ATF isn’t going to let you hitch a ride with them on a tactical pursuit like this. I’m sure that would be violating at least a dozen rules and regs, to say nothing of liability issues.”
“I don’t care about liability,” Ali returned. “Sister Anselm is sending those messages to me. I’m her lifeline. If you think I’m going to let my computer out of my hands, you’re nuts. The ATF is welcome to the information on my computer, but only if they take me along. My computer and I are a package deal. I have a vest. I’ll have to get it out of my car, but I have it along.”
“Ali, I’m giving you an order—”
“I’m not a sworn police officer,” Ali pointed out. “If you want to fire me for insubordination, be my guest. Fire away. I was happily unemployed when you dragged me out of retirement. I’ll be glad to go back to that, eating bonbons and maybe learning how to play bridge. In the meantime, Sister Anselm has trusted me with her life, and I’m not going to let her down.”
“Ali,” Maxwell pleaded. “Be reasonable.”
“My way or the highway,” she said and closed her phone. She hurried over to the valet stand, gave the attendant a five, and asked him to retrieve her Kevlar vest from the back of the Cayenne. While he sprinted off to find it, Ali’s cell phone rang again. This time Dave Holman’s number showed in the display.
“So Sheriff Maxwell ran up the flag to you in the hope of getting me back in line?” she said.
“More or less,” Dave said. “He’s right, of course, Ali. You’ve got no business sticking your nose in all this—”
“I hung up on him and I’ll hang up on you, too,” Ali told him. “Sheriff Maxwell asked me to work with Sister Anselm, and that’s why she’s sending her messages to me. Agent Robson was here yesterday, and he didn’t make a very good impression on anyone—including Sister Anselm.”
“But—”
“No deal,” Ali said. “Another message just came in. I don’t know how many more she’ll be able to send, or even if she’ll be able to send them, but I’m going to be on the scene with the ATF guys or else.”
“Okay,” Dave said, conceding defeat. “I’ll tell him. He isn’t going to like it.”
“Neither is Agent Robson,” Ali said. “That’s his problem. They’ll both have to like it or lump it.”
The parking attendant returned carrying Ali’s vest. She slipped it on over her pink tracksuit. She also slipped off the wig and stuck it in her briefcase. She was sitting staring at her computer screen when Agent Robson appeared on the scene a few minutes later.
“Ali Reynolds?” he asked.
She looked up at him and nodded.
“I’m here for your computer.”
“What?” Ali returned. “No ‘please’ and no ‘thank you’? Just ‘hand it over’?”
“This is an emergency situation—” he began.
“I’m well aware it’s an emergency,” she returned. “I’m the one who called it in, remember? Without me, you wouldn’t even know Sister Anselm was among the missing, much less where she had gone.”
“Look,” he said, “Donnelley told me some garbage about your wanting to go along. That’s not going to happen. The helicopter will be here any minute. If you’re right and the killer has her, we don’t have much time. Now give me the damned computer and show me the file so I can go.”
“I don’t work for you, Agent Robson. I have it on pretty good authority that Sheriff Maxwell is about to terminate my consulting agreement, too, so it turns out I don’t have to take orders from him or from you. You might mention to Agent Donnelley that Sister Anselm has an exceptionally good working relationship with the bishop at the Catholic diocese here in Phoenix. If he wants to risk her life by not having access to my information . . .”
“Where the hell do you get off—” he began.
“That’s the whole point,” she said. “I’m not getting off. If my computer is going on that helicopter, so am I.”
“It could be dangerous.”
“So is crossing a street.”
Shaking his head, Robson touched the button on his Bluetooth. “Call Agent Donnelley,” he said.
Ali stood with her arms crossed and stared at him until he finally connected.
“Yeah,” he said. “I talked to her. She’s adamant that she’s going along … No, she won’t listen to reason … Yes. Okay. I’ll tell her.”
Just then Jake Whitman, the hospital administrator, came striding off the elevator. He nodded curtly in Ali’s direction. “I’m looking for an Agent Robson.”
“That would be me.”
“I’m the hospital administrator. It’s most unusual to have anything other than a medevac helicopter on our helipad. You need to get it out of there immediately. Come on,” he added, rattling a set of keys. “I’ll take you.”
He started away from them, then stopped when he realized neither Agent Robson nor Ali was following. “Well,” he said impatiently. “Are you two coming or not?”
As Ali stuck her computer in her briefcase, the wig, with a mind of its own, managed to tumble out on the floor.
Robson bent to pick it up. Before giving it back to her, he looked at the wig and then at Ali. “That’s who you are,” he said. “That’s why you look familiar.”
“Yes,” she agreed. Then, closing her briefcase and picking up her purse, she turned to Whitman. “We’re coming,” she told the hospital administrator. She knew full well that Robson wouldn’t go to the mat with her about any of this in front of Whitman. Cool macho dudes like Robson didn’t like being seen arguing with women in public.
Whitman set a brisk pace as they followed him back into the elevator. Access to the twelfth floor required use of a key. The doors opened on a corridor with a smoothly polished floor.
“This way,” he said.
The hallway ended in a pair of double doors. When Whitman pushed open one of the doors, Ali’s ears were assailed by the roar of a helicopter’s engines. Her hair blew up and out in the buffeting gale from the rotating blades.
Without pausing for permission, Ali walked past Whitman and climbed into the helicopter.
“Who the hell are you?” the pilot demanded. “I was told to pick up Agent Robson.”
“It turns out we’ve got a freeloader,” Robson said, climbing in behind her. “Fasten your damned belt,” he ordered her, “and keep your mouth shut. Open your computer, show me what you’ve got, and then stay out of my way.”
You really are an overbearing jerk, Ali thought as the helicopter rose off the roof. She had worked with enough of those in her time, so she had some idea how to deal with him. Without being told and without asking permission, she clapped a set of earphones on her head, earphones with an attached microphone.
“Where to?” the pilot asked.
“I was told to head out to a road called the Beeline Highway. Northbound on that.”
Nodding, the pilot put the helicopter into the air. Once they gained altitude, they set off across the city, traveling on a diagonal, pounding past Camelback Mountain, heading northeast, covering the traffic-congested roadways with surprising speed. The sun was sinking in the west. The shadow cast by the helicopter was long and skinny.
Ali waited for a few moments, taking in the sights before she spoke. “I suppose I could keep quiet, unless you’d like to know the make and color of the vehicle we’re looking for.”
Robson crossed his arms and glared at her. “Tell me,” he said.
“A red Honda crossover,” she replied. “At least that’s the vehicle Sister Anselm was seen getting into outside her hotel. They might have switched into another vehicle by now and stuffed her into a trunk.”
“That would be my guess.” Robson’s agreement surprised her.
“As hot as it is,” Ali began. “How long can someone survive in an overheated car trunk?”
“Exactly,” Robson said. “If we don’t get to her soon, she’ll be dead no matter what.”
From the grim set of his mouth as he said it, Ali knew the man was totally focused on what was going on with Sister Anselm and whether it would be possible to save her.
A jerk, yes, Ali thought as she opened her computer, but a jerk who’s determined to do his job.
Ali was relieved to see that her AirCard still worked even though they were airborne. Once she accessed it, Sister Anselm’s map immediately appeared on the screen. There was also a new e-mail waiting in Ali’s in-box—another message from Sister Anselm, one that was more recent than the one Ali had seen back at the hospital.
When Ali opened that one she immediately noticed that the speedometer on the screen now read fifty miles per hour. “They’re slowing down,” she said.
“How do you know they’re slowing down?” Robson asked, leaning over to peer at the screen.
“Previously their average speed was sixty-three miles per hour. Now they’re down to fifty.”