by Webb, Betty
I tried not to look surprised. “Why would either of them want to kill Gloriana? Especially Poor Sandra.”
His face, never kind, took on a new malice. “So Sandra sucked you in? The bitch. Well, lovely Lena, I’m not the only person who got called into the Chamber of Horrors and had the riot act read to. Wait a minute. Is that a dangling participle? Oh, who the hell cares. Listen, the only difference between me and Sandra was that I got fired, while Sandra, being family, was given another chance.”
“What was Sandra’s crime, Mr. Brookings?”
“Helping herself to the petty cash, a habit of hers.”
This information didn’t surprise me as much as it should have. I’d sensed an odd current of desperation in the woman. But for all her sticky-fingered behavior with the petty cash, Sandra had not been written out of Gloriana’s will. I wondered if the amount had been enough to alleviate all her money troubles.
“I can see your point about Sandra,” I told him. “But why would David Zhang want to kill Gloriana?”
Brookings flicked some more ash on the floor. “No particular reason, other than the fact that he has the worst temper I’ve ever seen on a Chinaman.”
I was as tired of Brookings’ cynicism as I was his trailer’s squalor, so after saying goodbye, I let myself out. I tore away the National Alliance’s flier as I left, wishing that I could ram it down Brookings’ throat.
I must have been in Brookings’ trailer longer than I realized, because it was full dark as I settled myself into my Jeep. With lights off, I drove a few spaces away, stopped in front of a double-wide, and picked up my cell phone. I didn’t want Brookings to hear me tell Jimmy to run one of those infamous deep checks on him. As well as on Sandra.
“Already a done deal on both,” Jimmy’s voice crackled over the poor connection. “Brookings has a rap sheet. Back in ninety-two, he got drunk and almost killed some five-year-old kid walking home from school. Sentenced to two years, released in eighteen months. Then a few more DUIs, a few more wrecks, a few stints in rehab. Suspended license, of course.”
Somehow Brookings had neglected to tell me about the child and the prison sentence. Maybe he forgot. “Jimmy, he seemed to be expecting a visit from some kind of state representative. In fact, that’s who he thought I was at first. Do you know what that’s all about?”
The cell phone hissed some more (I really had to buy a better one some day), then Jimmy’s voice emerged again. “He’s collecting SSDI, Social Security Disability Insurance. They’re probably checking on him to make sure he’s still disabled.”
I frowned. “There are doubts?”
“If they’re making home visits, yeah. Looks like they suspect he’s leeching off the system. Lots of that going around, these days.”
I remembered Brookings’ walker, obviously used. And then the trail by Oak Creek. How steep was it? With a little care, could any reasonably adept person clunk along the trail with a walker, pick a few plants, then clunk back to their car? I’d have to ask Owen. One of the residents at the Wigwam Trailer Park might not have minded renting out their car for a few bucks. And kept quiet about it for a few more.
“What did you get on Sandra Alden-Taylor? Brookings said she was pilfering petty cash from Gloriana. If that’s true, I want to know why, and if she’s stolen from anyone else.” I didn’t add that Brookings appeared to have a personal hate on for Sandra. Perhaps she had helped get him fired?
More hissing on the line. I rolled the Jeep forward a few feet, and the hissing stopped. I repeated my question.
“Sandra Alden-Taylor. That’s…ah, I’d rather not talk about her over the cell. Come on back to the office and we’ll discuss it.”
I looked at the darkness around me. Time for Jimmy to go home. I pointed this out.
“I’ll wait until you get here. This is stuff you need to know.”
I ended the call, curious about Sandra’s other sins. Before turning the key in the ignition, I placed yet another call to Myra Gordon/Mbisi. No answer. I would have to drive to Wyatt’s Landing and hunt her down, either at home or at the library. I no longer cared which.
Then I switched on the Jeep’s lights, and headed toward my office, yellow National Alliance fliers glowing in my rearview mirror.
***
When I arrived back at Desert Investigations, Jimmy looked the picture of misery. “Sandra Alden-Taylor is in the red at all the local casinos, and she’s carrying some pretty heavy online debt, too. Her credit cards are maxed out, she’s behind on the consolidation loan she took out a year ago, and her car’s been repossessed. She’s been using one of Gloriana’s cars to get back and forth from work.”
Gambling debts. Apparently, like many put-upon people, Sandra had found an escape. And like most obsessive-compulsives, she had turned her escape into an even worse trap.
“Um, there’s more.” Jimmy’s eyes flicked away from mine.
“Such as?”
“I called one of my cousins at the casino, and he told me he’d heard some rumors about her.”
“Rumors?” What was wrong with the man? Such coyness was unlike him. “Come on, Jimmy, spit it out.”
He ducked his head in embarrassment. When he spoke, he addressed the floor. “The rumors are that she likes a little action.”
“Which means?”
“Geez, Lena. Do I have to say it?” When he looked back up at me, Jimmy’s mahogany-colored face had flushed bright red, making the tribal tattoo on his forehead stand out in startling contrast. Suddenly I realized what he meant by “action.”
Amused, I said, “So Sandra’s promiscuous, eh? Hardly a big deal these days.”
“It’s more than a little messing around, Lena. My cousin told me that Sandra got herself hooked up with a casino crowd that likes to party hearty, sexually speaking. He also said that during one of those parties somebody got busy with a camcorder and posted the whole deal on the Net.”
Good thing for Sandra that Gloriana didn’t like computers. If she had known about the orgy, the scandal would probably have been the final straw. Bye-bye new house.
“Good work, partner,” I told him. “Listen, you go ahead and lock up. We’ll talk about this more tomorrow.”
On my way back to Desert Investigations, I had noticed that the lights were still on at Patriot’s Blood. On the off-chance that Sandra was burning some midnight oil, or stealing more petty cash, I decided to pay a visit.
She looked surprised to see me, and her face, smudged with dirt from moving cartons, paled when I confronted her with what I had learned.
“I never stole from the office,” she said, her voice quavering. “Whoever told you that is lying.” Then she chewed on her already well-gnawed fingernails.
“Okay, Sandra. Let’s say you’re telling me the truth about the petty cash. What about the videotape?”
Her mouth gaped in guilty horror. “Videotape? What videotape?”
“Sandra Does Scottsdale. Did Gloriana see it? Someone could have downloaded it, shown it to her.”
Sandra refused to meet my eyes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Now please go away. I’ve got a lot of work to do, that’s why I’m still here.” She made a big show out of shuffling papers. Some of them were blank.
I refused to let up. “Sandra, it’s going to come out when.…”
I never finished the sentence because the air around me suddenly changed, as if someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the building. Then a wall of heat rushed toward me at the same time a roar slammed against my eardrums.
Before I could react, I felt myself lifted into the air.
So this is what death is like, I thought, as the bomb’s shockwave hurled me through the plate glass window.
Chapter 20
For an instant I lay stunned on the pavement, able only to stare at the flames licking the remains of Patriot’s Blood. The bomb’s concussion had deafened me, so even while glass continued to shatter and beams fell, the horrific scene appeared no more dimensi
onal than a silent movie.
Then I remembered Sandra.
Was she dead? Or was she trapped inside, screaming for help to a woman who could no longer hear?
Mercifully numb, though I knew the pain would come, I scrambled to my feet and looked desperately along the pavement. My carry-all lay a couple of feet from me, but the cell phone peeking out of it had cracked down the middle. So much for calling 911. Still, someone nearby must have heard the blast and would send help. But probably not soon enough for Sandra. If she had any chance for survival at all, it would have to come from me.
I took a deep breath and ran back into the building.
The reception area was a shambles, with overturned file cabinets and desks partially covered by smoldering heaps of crumbling drywall. Thankfully, the worst of the fire was still confined to the back of the building, but it was only a matter of minutes, possibly seconds, before all of Patriot’s Blood’s paper-rich offices blossomed into a funeral pyre.
“Sandra!” I shouted, ignoring the fact that I couldn’t hear her even if she answered. If she still lived, I wanted to give her hope.
The heat was intense, bearable only because the blast had punctured the roof so that the flames at the back of the office vented upward. My immediate problem was the acrid black smoke rolling slowly toward me, lit at the edges by sulfurous yellow and orange. Remembering that more people die of smoke inhalation than burns, I ripped off my blouse and tied it, bandana-like, over the lower part of my face. A weak protection against the approaching smoke’s deadly chemicals, but better than none.
I screamed Sandra’s name again.
“Sandra! Where are you?”
As I staggered barefoot through the rubble, keeping my head as low as possible, my ankle slammed against something hard. Looking down, I saw Gloriana’s old Underwood typewriter. The blast had thrown it through the wall and into the reception area, where it now rested on its side against a metal filing cabinet. Nearby, a tongue of flame licked through the yard-wide hole the typewriter had left behind.
“Sandra! I can’t hear! You’ll have to move, show me where you are!”
Nothing.
The flames from the back marched silently toward the reception area, consuming stacked manuscripts and books. All of Gloriana Alden-Taylor’s ugly dreams. And me, eventually, if I didn’t get out of here.
But not without Sandra. Refusing to give in to my fear, I forced myself to look away from the flames’ steady progress.
“Sandra! Please! Show me where you are!” My throat was so raw with inhaled dust and smoke I wondered if I had made any noise at all. I continued calling her name, turning over large pieces of drywall that could hide a human body.
“Sandra! Move! Do something!”
Then, from underneath a toppled file cabinet, a movement. A small hand inching its way out, fingers fluttering.
Sandra was still alive, the cabinet that crushed her also protecting her.
I stumbled sore-footed across fallen beams to reach her, screaming that I was coming, that I would save her, to hold on. Ignoring the splintered beam that raked its teeth across my leg, I knelt down and grasped her hand. “Don’t worry, I’m getting you out of here.”
Could she breathe? The air around us was beginning to thicken, sucking away what little oxygen remained in the ruined room. I probably had only seconds before, blouse bandana or not, noxious fumes overcame me.
I let go of her hand, grabbed the corner of the file cabinet, and heaved. Nothing. The file cabinet was too heavy, probably loaded down with manuscripts.
“Sandra, try and help me! Push against the cabinet!”
A feeble twitch, then nothing. She was too weak. God only knew what injuries she had sustained.
I pulled at the cabinet again, but even with my years of weight-training at the gym, I didn’t have the strength to do more than shift it slightly. Was I injuring her further? Was she screaming?
Greenish-black smoke belched toward us, and right behind it, a wall of flame. Now the heat was almost unbearable. If I stayed here, I was as doomed as Sandra.
Who was I kidding? The whole situation was hopeless.
I turned away from her, hoping that the way remained clear to the door. It did. Hardening my heart, I started toward it.
Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw Sandra’s hand again. Reaching up, palm out. Begging for her life.
I turned back.
“I won’t leave you!” I screamed at her, struggling once more with the file cabinet.
After one more heave, the file cabinet shifted, but not enough to free her. I needed something to give me leverage.
And then I saw it.
Like Gloriana’s typewriter, the toilet plunger had been thrown through the reception room wall all the way from the bathroom. It lay on top of an overturned desk, rubber suction cup half burned away, but with the wooden handle miraculously intact.
In one fluid movement, I grabbed the plunger, shoved it under the edge of the filing cabinet and heaved. The cabinet shifted. I slipped the handle even further under the cabinet and heaved again.
The plunger snapped in two.
But not before I saw Sandra, lying on her stomach, one hand over her head, the other stretched toward me.
Still alive.
The smoke rolled closer, followed by the hungry flames. Desperate, adrenalin spiking, I looked around for another tool.
There. A two-by-four, fallen from the ceiling.
I took it in my hands and shoved it under the cabinet. Then, with one final heave, the cabinet slid away from Sandra. Her mouth opened in a scream I couldn’t hear. “There, there,” I said, leaning down, trying to lift her into my arms.
Sandra was too big. She was every bit as tall as I, but much heavier. A safe carry wasn’t possible, so I’d have to do the best I could.
Realizing I was probably aggravating her injuries, I slipped my arms under hers, wrapped them around her chest, then locked my fingers together. I could feel her uneven breaths. Was she still screaming? No matter. Gritting my teeth against the heat, I began to drag her limp form over the rubble-strewn floor. Behind us, the flames consumed the wall and started across the floor. The file cabinet I’d found Sandra under was already scorching.
“It’s okay,” I lied. “We’ll be fine.”
Once, her shoe—miraculously still on—snagged on a splintered piece of wood, and I had to stop to free her once again. In my haste to rip her shoe away, I tore her skin and she began to bleed from yet another wound.
But pain was better than death. I should know.
“Hold on. We’re almost there,” I grunted, wishing that I could hear her, if only to know that she was still alive.
The smoke was blinding me now, an almost solid mass churning around us, as if purposely keeping us from escape. The blouse I’d wrapped so hopefully around my face no longer kept out the fumes, and I could feel them enter my nostrils, my throat.
Would I be able to make it to the blown-out door before the smoke won and I lost consciousness?
Better not think about that. Think about the jasmine-scented night air, and beneath it, the cool pavement. All I wanted was to reach the street, lie down, and sleep. Then again, why wait? I closed my eyes against the smoke, thinking that all I had to do was drop my burden, buckle my knees, and go to sleep right here. Why continue this ridiculous struggle?
Then Sandra’s hands grasped mine. I opened my watering eyes, squinted through the seductive tendrils of black smoke, and saw her lips move.
I think she was saying “My babies, my babies.…”
No, I couldn’t give up and die right now. Not with a clean conscience, I couldn’t.
Refusing to look at the flames, to breath in the acrid smoke, I hitched her up again and hauled her forward.
Toward the soft night.
Chapter 21
I hate hospitals.
I hate doctors, nurses, and all those vampires who draw your blood.
Yet none of them are half
as bad as the visitors.
During my first full day at Scottsdale General Hospital, it seemed like half the people in my life—with the noted exception of Dusty—trooped into my room, shoving flowers in my face, waving their arms, and moving their mouths at me, totally ignoring the fact that I couldn’t hear a word they said. Every cop I’d ever worked with dropped by, and they were the worst of all. They flapped their mouths like ventriloquists’ dummies, while all I could do was grin and nod, hoping that I wasn’t agreeing to marry one of them.
At least Jimmy understood that the blast had pretty much deafened me. Besides keeping the press at bay (I’d made headlines again), he kept me informed via notepad on Sandra’s condition: smoke inhalation, first and second degree burns, a broken collarbone, three broken ribs, a punctured eardrum and various cuts and scrapes. But she would live.
The paramedics who had scraped us off the pavement after a flurry of 911 calls from a gaggle of tourists had rendered expert care to us both on the way to the hospital. Not that I could remember any of it.
My own injuries were confined to flash burns, minor smoke inhalation, miscellaneous cuts, and a plate-sized bruise on my ass where I’d landed on the sidewalk. The most painful wounds of all were those on my feet, which were covered with burns and gashes, one of them almost to the bone. The blast had blown me out of my shoes, and I had run back into the building barefoot, stepping on a burning beam here, a little broken glass there. I couldn’t remember feeling much pain at the time, but I felt it now. So much so that the doctors insisted I remain in the hospital for one more day.
This made me a captive audience for too many garrulous visitors.
Megan Alden-Taylor, my eighth drop-in of the day—it wasn’t yet noon—stood with Zach by my bed, shedding dog and cat hairs all over the hospital’s clean white linens.
She said something, but I couldn’t quite make it out. Figuring that she’d asked me how I felt (that seemed to be the standard question for everyone), I said, “I’m fine. I’ve been to rougher parties.” I lied in as chipper a tone as I could manage without being able to hear myself. I wished she and Zach would go back to the ICU’s waiting room where they had been hanging out all night, waiting for word of Sandra’s condition.