by J. A. Jance
If Angie Kellogg was in there, she’d turn on up the street sooner or later. Then, all he’d have to do was track her down and take her out.
NINETEEN
Empty-handed, Angie Kellogg came racing back to the room in a blind panic. “He’s here!”
“Who’s here?” Joanna asked.
“Tony. I saw him. As I was coming down the stairs, he was going into the bar. How did he get here? What am I going to do?”
There was no mistaking Angie’s despair or her terror. She rushed to the window and looked out. Afraid she might climb out or jump, Joanna moved to restrain her. “Are you sure?” she asked. “How would he know to follow you here? You must have left some kind of trail, some due.”
“No, I didn’t, I swear. But where can I go now? If he found me once, he’ll find me again. You don’t know what he’s like.” The words poured out in a blithering torrent.
“Calm down,” Joanna said. “Let’s think this thing through.”
She tried to sound composed even though her own mind was churning. There was a certain ominous symmetry in having both Vargas and York turn up in the Copper Queen at the same time. Were they both there looking for someone else-Angie, for instance? Or were they there to meet each other? As soon as that ugly thought occurred to her, Joanna felt physically sick.
She turned to Angie. “Did Tony ever mention Adam York’s name to you?”
“The DEA agent?” Joanna nodded. “No, not that I remember. Why?”
“Did you read through Tony’s book by any chance? See what was in it?”
Angie shrugged. “I glanced at it is all. Names, telephone numbers, dates, that kind of thing
“Do you remember any of the names?”
“No. There wasn’t enough time. I was too worried about getting away to pay that much attention. Why? What are you thinking?”
“Supposing Adam York’s name is one of the ones listed in that book,” Joanna suggested. Supposing he’s been working with Tony and the others all along. If that’s the case, you and that book aren’t just Tony’s problem any more. If the drug dealers have a well-placed accomplice working in the DEA, they’re going to move heaven and earth to keep him there. Not only that, if they realize you and I have made contact…”
A jangling fire alarm clanged noisily in the hallway outside the room, cutting Joanna off in mid-sentence. Angie jumped like a startled deer. Reflexively, she grabbed for her beach bag and started for the door.
“Wait,” Joanna cautioned. “What if it’s a trick?”
“A trick?”
“Maybe it’s a false alarm. Maybe they’re waiting for us downstairs.”
“Oh, my God.”
Joanna went to the door and opened it a crack. The alarm was directly across the hall and the shrill clanging was almost deafening. The man from room 412, still pulling on his pants, was scurrying barefoot toward the stairs. No one else was visible in the hallway, but with the door open, Joanna could smell the unmistakable odor of smoke. She turned back to Angie.
“It is a fire! Come on.”
But Angie had retreated to the far corner of the room where she stood, clutching the beach bag and frozen with fear. “No,” she whimpered. “You’re right. It’s a trap. He’ll get me as soon as I step outside.”
Joanna slammed the door shut and came back into the room. A blue United Van Lines windbreaker lay on the bed. Joanna plucked it off the bed, walked over to Angie, and handed it to her. “Put this on,” she ordered. We’ve got to get out of here!”
Still Angie didn’t budge. Gripping both the jacket and the beach bag, she stood as if transfixed, unable to move. Joanna fought to appear calm. She spoke soothingly to Angie, persuading and cajoling, as she might have done with a terrified child.
“I won’t let them get you, Angie. I swear. We can get out the back way, but we’ve got to hurry.”
Through the open window came the confused sounds of an approaching fire truck mixed with what seemed to be a dozen garbled voices raised in excited shouts. Joanna darted into the tiny bathroom and wet two bath towels, then she raced back out to find Angie still hadn’t moved.
“Put on the jacket, Angie,” she ordered. “Now!”
Woodenly, Angie complied. Joanna passed her one of the towels. “No telling what it’ll be like when we open the door. Hold this up to your face and hang onto my arm. Whatever you do, don’t let go.”
Dragging Angie along, they moved in tandem toward the door. Expecting the corridor to be filled with smoke or flames, Joanna was amazed when the hallway was relatively clear. Only a thin pall of smoke still hung in the air.
The fire alarm on the wall continued its nerve-shattering clamor, but there was no sign of flames.
At first Joanna was reassured by the fact that the fire was probably already under control, but that didn’t last long. Her second thought chilled her. If Vargas and York would go so far as to set fire to a hotel in order to flush out their quarry, then they would stop at nothing.
As they stepped into the corridor, Angie automatically turned toward the stairs. Joanna dragged her back and urged her in the opposite direction.
“Where are we going?” Angie protested.
“This way. There’s a fire escape back here.”
During their abbreviated honeymoon, Joanna remembered how she and Andy had tiptoed down this same hallway in the middle of the night for a two A.M. unauthorized session of skinny-dipping in the hotel’s postage stamp-sized pool. The space for the pool and surrounding patio had been carved out of a rock outcropping behind the hotel and was walled off by a combination of cliff and high stuccoed wall, but Joanna was sure she re-embered a door in the wall, or maybe a gate.
With Joanna still leading the way, they reached the fire exit door and peered out into the darkness. They were standing at the top of a long and narrow, dimly lit ramp. Halfway down the incline, the ramp doubled back on itself before dropping down to the pool. The back side of the patio was sheer cliff, the other two were impassable walls.
“We’re trapped,” Angie wailed, shrinking back into the building.
“No, we’re not,” Joanna insisted determindly. “This way.”
She dragged Angie down the ramp to the place she remembered. There, at a landing where the ramp doubled back, a dilapidated door had been built into the stuccoed wall. Barely daring to hope, Joanna tried the handle. The door was locked, but the weathered door shuddered and creaked when she pushed against it. She tried again, shoving harder this time. The wood seemed to give way beneath her body. Strengthened by a surge of fear-summoned adrenaline, she threw herself against the door. This time it sprang open, spilling both women headfirst into an abandoned street above a weed-choked yard.
Gaping for breath, Joanna leaped up and attempted to prop the door back shut. Inside the hotel, the clanging alarm ceased abruptly, leaving behind a strangely pregnant silence. Joanna held her breath and tried to listen over the rush of blood in her own ears. Sure enough, on the far side of the hotel, between it and the Presbyterian church next door, she heard at least one pair of pounding feet.
Joanna hurried back to Angie who was on her hands and knees in the rocks, patchy weeds, broken glass, and blowing trash, searching for something.
“Come on,” Joanna whispered urgently. “Someone’s coming.”
“My thong came off,” Angie whispered back. “I can’t find it anywhere.”
“You’ll have to go barefoot. Come on!”
She helped pull Angie to her feet. The woman was still clutching the beach bag. She may have lost a thong, but the money was still intact. Together they started across the broken pavement and the rough, uneven yard. They had gone barely two steps each when a broken bottle sliced into the bottom of Angie’s leg. Gasping in pain, she stopped in her tracks. Joanna looked down in time to see a spurt of blood pour from her wounded ankle.
“It’s not far,” Joanna whispered. “Lean on me. We can make it.”
Together they limped down the steep hill side t
o where a single frail streetlight dangled on a crooked pole at the top of a stairway. They paused momentarily at the top of the stairs. Below them they heard the occasional tires and saw the headlights of passing automobiles. There was still no sound of pursuit from behind. They might just make it.
“‘That’s Brewery Gulch,” Joanna said, whispering still. “If we can make it down there, we should find someone to help us.”
They started forward again. Joanna looked back over her shoulder. They had delayed for only a matter of seconds at the top of the stairs, but a pool of blood was clearly visible on the rough concrete surface of the step. Even without someone chasing them, there wasn’t a moment to lose.
In the the old days Brewery Gulch had been a wide-open redlight district, complete with bars, gambling dens, and scarlet women. Joanna remembered her father telling stories about how, even in his time, Brewery Gulch had liven a thriving beehive of activity. As they hurried down the stairs, Joanna fervently wished it were still so. In places like that, even a woman with a bloody foot could melt into a crowd and disappear, but the same economics that had closed down the copper mines had also emptied most of the bars along Brewery Gulch.
In the darkness behind and above them something heavy clattered to the ground. Their pursuer had discovered the door and knocked it down in his eagerness to come after them. The sound galvanized them both and they charged out of the stairway onto the raised sidewalk of a seemingly deserted street. Only two sets of neon lights offered any hope of haven.
Leading Angie along, Joanna headed for the closest one, a place called the Blue Moon Saloon. They barged in through the door. The sound of an approaching police vehicle entered the long high-ceilinged room with them. Joanna quickly shut the door closing out the noise.
Inside, the narrow room was smoky and dimly lit. A carved wooden bar ran the entire length of one wall. With the exception of the bartender and two solitary customers seated at opposite ends of the bar, the Blue Moon was empty. All three men glanced up in surprise at the sudden appearance of the two women who had stopped just inside the door.
“Hey, ladies,” the bartender called at once. “You gotta wear shoes in here. The health department’s already after my ass.”
“Hey, Bobo,” Joanna called. “Come quick and give me a hand. She’s bleeding to death.”
Bobo Jenkins, the huge bartender who had been the only black student in Andy’s graduating class, placed both hands on the bar then swung himself up and over and came hurrying to her side. He looked down at Angie’s bloody ankle. “Sheeit, Joanna, what’d she do, try to cut the damn thing off?”
“Somebody’s after us, Bobo. We need your help.”
Without a word, he picked Angie Kellogg up and carried her away from the door. He took her to the far wall where, holding her on raised knee, he opened a door that led to a small stock closet. He set her down on a bar stool.
“You wait here, honey,” he said. “Nobody’s going to find you here.” With that, he hurried back to Joanna who was mopping up the blood with the wet towel she had somehow managed to hang onto.
“I’ll handle that, Joanna. You go be with your friend. The door locks from inside.”
Nodding, Joanna scurried away while Bobo took over the cleanup difficulties. “There are clean towels inside there,” he called over his shoulder. “You’re going to need them. And as for you,” he said to the two men at the bar, “you two jokers may be too drunk to go chase the fire trucks, but you’d by god better be sober enough to keep your mouths shut, you hear7”
‘You’re the boss, Bobo,” one of them returned. “Archie and me’ll do whatever you say.”
Bobo was on his hands and knees mopping up the last of the blood that had pooled on the floor in front of the door. “Fill those two ice buckets with hot soapy water and bring them over here, Willy. Hurry. Archie, you bring me the broom.”
A tipsy eighty-year-old, Willy Haskins was surprisingly spry for his age and condition. He hurried around the end of the bar, filled two plastic buckets with detergent and water, and lugged them over to Bobo. The bartender took them outside. Within seconds the entire length of sidewalk in front of the Blue Moon Saloon was awash in wet, soapy suds. He left the broom out front as though he was in the middle of a routine, late night sidewalk cleanup.
Nodding in approval, Bobo hustled Willy and Archie back inside. “Looks like the next round’s on the house,” he told the two old men. Willy Haskins and Archie McBride nodded in happy unison.
Bobo laughed and shook his head. “In six years, that’s the first time you two boys ever agreed with one another about anything. Keep your mouths shut when the time comes, and I’ll buy you another.”
Moments later, the door swung open and a man stuck his head inside and looked around, then he walked up to the bar and ordered a shot of tequila. “Did a woman just come by here?” he asked.
Bobo Jenkins pushed the man’s drink across the bar, smiling sadly. “No such luck, Bud. You missing one? They’ve just had some excitement up at the hotel. Maybe’s she’s up there.”
The stranger paid for his drink then egged it. “She’s not there,” he said. “I already looked.”
A toothless, gaunt old man was sitting next him on the bar. “You say you lost your woman?” he asked loudly. “Me, too. I lost my wife a couple years back, and when I come in here and told Willy, you wanna know what this old geezer tole me? He says, ‘Hey Archie, did you remember to look under the refrigerator?”
At that both old men, the speaker and his equally aged counterpart at the end of the bar, burst into loud uproarious laughter. “You get it?” he asked, holding his sides and wiping the tears from his eyes. “Maybe you’d better look in the same place.”
“Yeah,” the other drunk added. “Have another drink. Maybe she’ll show up.”
Slamming his shot glass down on the bar, the man got up and stalked out. Willy and Archie were still laughing. Bobo Jenkins wasn’t. He’d been a bartender long enough to recognize danger when he saw it. He felt a trickle of cold sweat run down the back of his neck, but he made no effort to wipe it away.
Bobo walked over to the window and flipped over the closed sign, then he walked back to the bar. “I’m closing up, boys,” he said. “It’s motel time.”
“Wait a minute,” Archie said. “You promised us a drink.”
“I promised you a drink if you kept your mouths shut,” Bobo corrected.
Willy howled in outrage. “Why, Bobo Jenkins, you’re a no-good lousy welsher.”
Bobo shook his head. “I promised you a drink for keeping quiet. What I got was a damn stand-up comedy routine. So here’s what I’m gonna do. Tonight, I’m shuttin’ her down. You two are eighty-sixed. Come tomorrow, though, you boys show up at the regular time, and the entire evening’s on me.”
“No shit?” Archie asked hopefully. “You mean it?”
Bobo Jenkins nodded. “You bet your ass I do. Now you two get the hell out of here. And if you meet that bastard out on the street, you keep quiet or the deal’s off. You dig?”
“Mum’s the word,” Willy said, climbing down from his stool and staggering toward the door. “Mum is definitely the word.”
And Bobo Jenkins knew he had found the secret formula that would keep those two old codgers quiet no matter what.
TWENTY
Bobo and Joanna’s joint assessment was that it the cut on Angie’s foot required a doctor’s immediate attention. Carrying her as effortlessly as if she were a doll, Bobo packed her out the door and across the street to the tiny lot where he kept his mint-condition El Camino. After placing Angie in the truck he hurried back to Joanna who was having difficulty working the troublesome lock on the Blue Moon’s front door.
“Who the hell is that bad-ass bastard?” Bobo asked under his breath, as he took the key from Joanna’s fingers and quickly finished locking the door himself.
“She thinks the man chasing her is the one who killed Andy,” Joanna replied. “And he won’t stop at anyth
ing to keep her from going to the cops.”
“But why’s he after you?”
Joanna shrugged. “I’m with her.”
They headed for the car where a still-frightened Angie sat huddled in the middle of the seat with her bleeding foot wrapped tightly in a thick swathe of towels. Bobo Jenkins was large enough that, with three people crammed together on the bench seat, it was all they could do to close the doors.
“I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t bleed on the carpet,” Bobo said with a nod to Angie as he turned the key in the ignition. Angie looked up at him warily and tried to move closer to Joanna.
“Hey,” Bobo said. “That was just a joke, trying to lighten things up. You go right ahead and bleed all you want.”
Joanna recognized the old-time Bobo humor. He had always been the class clown, and evidently nothing had changed. When Joanna laughed, so did Angie. It didn’t change a thing about their situation, but it did relieve the suffocating tension.
“What are we going to do?” Angie asked.
“Once you’re under a doctor’s care, I’m going to go see Walter McFadden,” Joanna told her.
“The sheriff?”
“That’s right.”
“Are you going to tell him about me?”
“I’ve got to, Angie. It’s too dangerous otherwise. There’s no telling what they might do.”
“They?” Bobo asked attentively.
“At least two,” Joanna returned. “The one you met, Tony.”
“‘Tony Vargas,” Angie supplied.
“And a DEA agent named Adam York.”
“Thanks for telling me,” Bobo muttered. “It’s nice to know who the hell’s on what side.”
Most of the police officers in the City of Bisbee were still congregated around the Copper Queen Hotel, trying to locate two missing female guests who had disappeared in the aftermath of a minor fire. As a consequence, Bobo Jenkins sped through town at sixty or so miles per hour with no one pulling him over or raising an eyebrow. They made the three-mile drive from Old Bisbee to the Warren district in record-breaking time while Joanna quickly brought Bobo Jenkins up to speed on what had been going on.