Hand of Evil ar-3

by J. A. Jance

  Picking her way across uneven ground, she made her way toward the nonexistent cabin. On either side of the clearing she could make out patches of snow. Ahead of her the denuded concrete pad of the house glowed against the surrounding blackness. Shivering with cold and revulsion both, Ali walked as far as what looked like the footprint of a porch.

  “Set it down,” Arabella ordered. “Set it down right there and step away.”

  Ali did as she was told. As she moved toward the Rolls, she saw Arabella assume a military stance, holding the tiny pistol in a two-handed grip. Petrified, Ali plunged to the ground. She was already facedown in the dirt when the sound of the gunfire pierced the silence of the bitterly cold night.

  Behind her, the glass jar exploded into a million pieces. For a long moment, Ali huddled on the ground while the sound of that single gunshot reverberated in her ears. She lay there holding her breath, wondering if she’d been hurt by any of the flying glass and waiting for the next shot-which didn’t come. Finally she looked up to find Arabella still standing calmly beside the Rolls and holding the gun at her side as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

  “There,” she said, casually waving the gun in Ali’s direction. “I’ve said my good-byes. Come on now,” she added. “I’m done here. Get in and let’s go home.”

  Ali’s knees were quaking and her hands shook as she resumed her place behind the wheel. She knew something about firearms. It was clear to her that Arabella Ashcroft was one hell of a shot. Ali knew, too, that if Arabella had really intended to kill her there was no question that she would be dead.

  Thank God I didn’t try to run earlier, Ali thought. She would have plugged me full of holes.

  “What kind of gun is that?” Ali asked, trying to normalize the tension in the car with conversation.

  “A Smith and Wesson Ladysmith,” Arabella said. “It’s a genuine antique. Belonged to my mother. Fires seven rounds.”

  Which means there are probably six shots left.

  “Where did you learn to shoot?” Ali asked.

  “I was trained by a former Royal Marine commando,” Arabella answered.

  In the darkness, Ali rolled her eyes. Sure you were, she thought. And I’m a monkey’s uncle.

  “He tells me I’m a very good shot,” Arabella added.

  Arabella Ashcroft may have been a liar, but that last statement was indisputably true. She was an excellent shot. She was also a cold-blooded killer.

  As they headed away from the burned-out cabin, Ali tried to come to grips with how to deal with someone who was clearly a pathological liar. The same had been true for Arabella’s mother, Anna Lee. Their checks had been good when they had offered Ali her scholarship, but was anything else she knew about them true?

  Arabella claimed to be broke, and the mending on that old cardigan-Brooks’s workmanship most likely-was real enough, but the coat Arabella was wearing right that minute was probably worth several thousand dollars. Arabella had implied that she’d had something to do with several murders. She had coyly refrained from coming right out and admitting to any of them, but the jar had been real enough.

  “Where did you keep it?” Ali asked.

  “Keep what?”

  “The jar. With your brother’s hand. You said you got it from Bill Junior. If you were locked up at the time, surely you weren’t allowed to keep it in your room.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Arabella said. “You’ve never been locked up anywhere, have you?”

  “No.”

  “I had both the jar and the briefcase,” Arabella said. “The briefcase with the jar inside it. Someone I was nice to there took it home and kept it for me, kept it until I was ready to have it again.”

  “How long?”

  “Eight years. From 1956 until 1964, when they shut down Bancroft House.”

  “What’s Bancroft House?” Ali asked. “I thought you were at the Mosberg Institute.”

  “Bancroft came later,” Arabella said. “After the Mosberg.”

  “And somebody was willing to keep it for you for that long, with no questions asked?”

  “That all depends,” Arabella answered coyly.

  “On what?”

  “On what you have to trade.”

  On the drive back to Sedona, Ali kept hoping eventually Arabella would fall asleep, but she didn’t. Ali prayed that somewhere along the way they’d see a patrol car of some kind. That didn’t happen, either. By midnight, as they made their way up the hill to Arabella’s house, there was almost no traffic of any kind. But when they pulled into the yard at Arabella’s house, the garage door was wide open and a stack of suitcases stood barring the spot where Arabella expected Ali to park the Rolls.

  “What is all that stuff?” Arabella demanded. “Honk the horn. Get Mr. Brooks out here to move it.”

  “Arabella, it’s the middle of the night. People are asleep. I can’t be honking the horn.”

  Just then the whole discussion became moot when Leland Brooks, lugging another pair of suitcases, entered the garage through the kitchen door. He set them down with the rest of the luggage then straightened slowly and started toward the Rolls.

  Ali didn’t know what to do. Should she warn him away? Let him come ahead on and hope that, between the two of them, they could somehow wrestle the loaded weapon from Arabella’s hand? Before Ali could respond one way or the other, Brooks made straight for the back door and opened it. “Good evening, madam,” he said to Arabella. “I’m glad you’re home.”

  He reached in and took the briefcase. Without objection, Arabella allowed herself to be helped from the car. “Get all that junk out of the way so she can pull into the garage,” Arabella ordered. “And what on earth are you doing in that god-awful outfit?”

  That was the first Ali actually noticed how Brooks was dressed-in a bright blue sequined cowboy shirt, narrow-legged jeans, and cowboy boots.

  “Don’t you like it?” he asked.

  “Of course I don’t like it,” Arabella said irritably. “You look like you’re about to go out trick-or-treating. And what is all this mess?”

  “It’s my luggage,” Brooks replied. “My ride should be here in a while.”

  “Ride?” Arabella repeated. “You’re going someplace? You’re taking a trip?”

  “Yes, madam,” Brooks said. “I’m afraid I’m leaving.”

  “Leaving! You can’t do that. You can’t be serious.”

  “I’m entirely serious,” Brooks returned. “I know I promised your mother that I’d look after you, but I’m afraid I can’t do that anymore. You’re far too dangerous-to yourself and others-including Madam Reynolds here. You are all right, aren’t you Ms. Reynolds?”

  His manner was as calm and unruffled as if he were inquiring about whether she wanted one lump or two in her tea.

  “Yes,” Ali managed with some difficulty. “I’m fine.”

  “Good,” he said. “Very good.” Then he turned back to Arabella. “I have reason to believe you’ve somehow managed to get into the safe and remove the guns. I’m sure that must be how you convinced Madam Reynolds to accompany you on this little jaunt tonight. Is that true?”

  Arabella stared at him as if he were speaking some incomprehensible foreign language.

  “Well?” he prompted. She said nothing and he held out his hand. “Give it to me,” he said. “Give me the gun.”

  And to Ali’s utter astonishment, Arabella complied.

  “Where’s the other one?” he asked.

  “In the briefcase.”

  “Very well, then. Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here. I took the liberty of starting a fire in the living room in hopes you’d come to your senses and come home. We can talk there. You’re welcome, too, Ms. Reynolds, if you wish. You might want to phone your family and let them know you’re safe, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a call or two first.”

  With Arabella leaning on his arm, Leland led her into the house. With him in his cowboy duds and her in her fur-coated f
inery, the two of them made an incongruous but somehow dignified pair. Seeing them together reminded Ali of pictures of the queen mum being escorted in some royal processional. They went in through the laundry room and kitchen-through parts of the house Ali had never seen before-where appliances that looked as though they should have been genuine antiques consigned to museums seemed to be still functional. They walked through the chilly dining room with its massive polished wood table and matching sideboard.

  As promised, a cheerful fire was burning in the living room. Brooks deftly relieved Arabella of her coat and then deposited her in one of the chairs facing the fire.

  “I notice your computer is missing,” he said. “I’m assuming it hasn’t been stolen.”

  “It’s in the trunk of the Rolls,” she said. “I was going to get rid of it, but then I forgot.”

  “Very well, madam,” Brooks said. “I’ll bring it back inside later. Now would you care for something to drink?”

  “Oh my, yes. I’d love one of your martinis about now, Mr. Brooks. Wouldn’t you, Ali? As cold as you can make them, of course, but do change out of those ridiculous clothes before you serve us.”

  Ali’s head was spinning. By force of sheer willpower Leland Brooks had somehow managed to create a sense of normalcy out of chaos. His steadfast calm in the face of Arabella’s erratic frenzy seemed to have dragged Arabella back into the real world as well. Was this how he had handled her all these years?

  “Is that what you would like, Madam Reynolds?” Brooks asked. “A martini?”

  “Yes, please,” Ali said. “That would be fine. And a telephone.”

  “Very well. Please have a seat here by the fire. I’ll be right back.”

  He took the coat and draped it over the back of a nearby chair and then exited the room, taking the briefcase with him. Arabella leaned into her chair, closed her eyes briefly, and sighed with contentment. She seemed happy to be home. Maybe she’s finally running out of steam, Ali thought.

  Facedown on the table between the two chairs lay a well-thumbed paperback copy of Louis Lamour’s High Lonesome. Ali picked it up and looked at the cover. The two-dollar price tag printed on the cover probably meant that it had been around for a long time.

  Arabella opened her eyes. “That’s Mr. Brooks’s book,” she said. “He likes westerns. He reads to me sometimes when I can’t sleep. Since my memory’s shot a lot of the time, it doesn’t matter if he reads the same story over and over.”

  What a good man, Ali thought.

  When Brooks returned to the living room, he brought with him a tray laden with shakers and glasses along with a thick stack of papers and a telephone. He put the tray on a side table, then he handed the phone to Ali, and approached Arabella with the collection of papers.

  “Before I pour the drinks,” he said, “there are a few items that must be attended to.”

  “Like what?” Arabella asked. “And why haven’t you changed clothes?”

  “This is a listing agreement,” he replied, ignoring her question. “I finished signing it just a few minutes before you arrived. The real estate agent was more than happy to make an after-hours visit.”

  “A listing agreement for what?”

  “To sell the house, of course,” he answered. “Since I have your power of attorney, I’ve already signed it, but I wanted you to have an opportunity to review the documents.”

  Arabella seemed totally dismayed. “We’re selling the house?” she asked. “But why? Where are we going to live?”

  Ali’s first phone call was to the sheriff’s department, where she told the dispatcher what was going on and left a message asking Dave to come get her. Next she dialed her home number.

  “Mom,” Chris said anxiously. “Is that you? Thank God. Where are you? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. “I’m at Arabella’s house.”

  “Athena and I can pick you up.”

  “No. I just talked to the sheriff’s department. Dave’s most likely already on his way here. This is going to take time. Dave will be glad to give me a ride home when things are sorted out.”

  By the time Ali was off the phone, the martinis were poured, but Arabella was once again in a towering rage. “You can’t do that to me,” she screeched at Leland Brooks. “You can’t sell the house right out from under me. It’s not fair. Why are you doing this?”

  “Because you’re going to need the money,” Brooks explained patiently. “We don’t have enough ready cash available to pay for the defense attorney. This is the best way to handle that.”

  “Like hell it is,” Arabella returned. With that, she heaved the papers into the fire and smiled with grim satisfaction as they caught fire and turned into sheets of flying ash.

  Brooks shook his head. “Those are merely copies of the original documents,” he said. “Burning them will do no good at all. Now, please, settle down and have your drink.”

  “I won’t settle down. And you can’t do this to me. I won’t stand for it. You’re fired, do you hear? Fired. I want you out of the house now.”

  “All in good time, madam. All in good time. As I told you earlier, I’m waiting for my ride.” Brooks turned to Ali. “I believe you’ve summoned the authorities?”

  Ali nodded. “Dave Holman is on his way, too.”

  “I thought as much,” Leland said.

  “Why are you doing this?” Arabella asked again.

  Brooks turned to look at her. “I suppose you’ve heard of the straw that broke the camel’s back? In this case, we’re talking about a star.”

  “A star?” Arabella asked.

  “A Silver Star,” Brooks replied.

  “Oh, that,” Arabella said.

  Now it was Ali who thought they were speaking a foreign language. What Silver Star? she wondered.

  “How do you suppose Mr. Ashcroft ended up with my Silver Star?” Brooks asked. “I used to keep it in my wallet back when I first started driving your mother back and forth to Paso Robles, and I never noticed when it disappeared. I thought it had just fallen out somewhere along the line, but you stole it from me, didn’t you?”

  Shrugging, Arabella picked up her drink and took an unconcerned sip. While Ali watched, she slipped back into the bizarre game-playing persona she had exhibited on their long drive together.

  “What if I did?” she asked coyly. Somehow, trapped in that seventy-year-old voice, Ali heard the sound of a terribly disturbed nine-year-old girl determined to have her own way. No matter what.

  “Did you plant it in Mr. Ashcroft Junior’s car?” Brooks asked.

  “Maybe I did,” Arabella said. “Maybe I was hoping if the cops came around asking questions, they’d find the star and think you and mother were responsible for what had happened to him. I mean, you were just Mother’s driver back then, but luckily no one ever asked any questions, either. Bill Junior was a drunk, he died, no big deal.”

  “Until Billy started asking questions,” Brooks said.

  “Yes. He finally had to clear out Bill Senior’s storage unit where Bill Junior’s personal effects from the crash scene had been kept. I’m sure he was looking for something else, but what he found was the star. He hadn’t quite put the whole story together, though,” Arabella added. “He thought the two of us were in on it as a team. I don’t think he had any idea I was capable of doing something that drastic completely on my own. He found out, though, didn’t he?”

  The doorbell rang. Brooks glanced at his watch. “Good,” he said. “Right on time.”

  “It’s the middle of the night,” Arabella muttered as Brooks went to answer the summons. “Who on earth could that be?”

  A few moments later, Brooks escorted a newcomer into the room. Ali expected to see Dave Holman or one of the local Sedona uniforms. Instead, she saw a tall, sallow-faced stranger, carrying a briefcase of his own. Despite the lateness of the hour, he came dressed in a full suit and tie. His costume alone was enough for Ali to realize he had to be a lawyer.

  “
I’m not too late, am I?” the newcomer was asking.

  “No, not at all,” Brooks assured him. “No one else is here yet, although the police have been summoned. They’ll be here momentarily.”

  “Good.”

  “What kind of strangers are you inviting in now?” Arabella wanted to know.

  “Madam Ashcroft,” Brooks said. “This is Morgan Hatfield, your criminal defense attorney. He’s just now driven up from Phoenix.”

  “Send him back,” Arabella insisted. “I already told you, I don’t need a defense attorney. I don’t want one.”

  “But you do need one,” Brooks said. “And now you have one.”

  “And since the police are no doubt on their way,” Hatfield said, “I should probably have a moment alone with my client.”

  “Very well,” Brooks said. “Would you care for some coffee?”

  “I’d like that very much, Mr. Brooks,” the attorney said. “It’s likely to be a very long night.”

  The butler turned to Ali. “If you don’t mind, Ms. Reynolds, perhaps you would be so kind as to join me in the kitchen. I’ll bring your drink along.”

  Not surprisingly, Dave Holman was the first to arrive. When the car came up the drive, Brooks hurried outside and brought Dave into the house through the garage.

  “Goddamnit, Ali!” he exclaimed when he saw her. “When are you going to stop scaring me to death?” And then, without another word, he pulled her off her chair and gathered her into a smothering bear hug. Ali was surprised by how good it felt to have his arms around her and by how comfortable it was to lean into his shoulder.

  “Is Friday the thirteenth over yet?” she asked.

  Dave raised his hand behind her shoulder so he could get a look at his watch. “A long time ago,” he said.

  “Great.”

  In the meantime, Leland Brooks, the soul of discretion, busied himself at the counter, setting out cups, plates, and napkins. “How many officers do you think will be coming?” he asked.