Left for Dead ar-7

by J. A. Jance

  That was a relief. Sister Anselm was weary and feeling the effects of her long vigil. Jane Doe’s situation had worsened again during the afternoon. Sister Anselm had yet to go to All Saints. She was looking forward to it. She wanted to take a shower; to lie down; to sleep for a few hours. She knew that her phone would alert her if there was yet another crisis for her patient, someone the hospital officially listed as Jane Doe, although Sister Anselm knew otherwise.

  During the afternoon, Sister Anselm had gone down to the administration offices and printed out copies of the photos Ali had forwarded to her. They were easier to see in a larger format, even if the features themselves were a little blurry. That was the real reason Sister Anselm was sticking around the ICU. She was worried that Rose Ventana’s assailant would return to try to do her harm. If that happened, Sister Anselm would most likely be Rose’s only line of defense.

  While the machines murmured in the background, Sister Anselm slipped into a doze only to be startled awake by someone knocking on the door frame. The nun’s eyes popped open in time to see a man’s face appear in the doorway.

  “Excuse me,” he said. “I’m looking for the woman who was found out by Three Points on Friday. Are you a nurse?”

  There he was, the very man Sister Anselm had been worrying about all afternoon. He was dressed as he’d been in the earlier security photos-jeans and a red-and-blue U of A sweatshirt. He was carrying the Mariners baseball cap instead of wearing it.

  At first Sister Anselm thought she was asleep and this was a bad dream. But no, she wasn’t. He was right there in the waiting room, outside Jane Doe’s door.

  Sister Anselm hustled to her feet and planted herself defensively between the doorway and her sleeping patient. Slipping her hand into her pocket, she searched for her Taser. As her fingers closed around the weapon, she pushed back the sliding cover, exposing the trigger button. That way, when she brought it out of her pocket, the Taser would already be activated; the red laser sighting light would be glowing.

  “This is an ICU,” she said firmly. “Are you a relative? If not, you’ll need to leave immediately. Only authorized relatives are allowed to visit patients in this unit.”

  “Mr. Gutierrez?”

  Sister Anselm heard what sounded like Ali’s voice speaking urgently from the waiting room but outside the nun’s line of vision. The man spun around to face the person who had spoken to him. As soon as he did so, Sister Anselm extracted her Taser and stepped toward the door, closing the distance between them. When she stopped moving forward, she was less than three feet from the intruder. At that distance, even a bad shot would hit the target.

  He took several steps backward and moved away from the door. He glanced warily first to the left, then back at Sister Anselm, and finally down toward his chest, where two bright red laser dots had appeared.

  “What the hell?” he demanded. “You’ve both got Tasers? Are you women nuts?”

  While he continued to back away from them, Sister Anselm moved farther into the waiting room, pulling the door to Jane Doe’s room shut behind her.

  “What are you doing here, Mr. Gutierrez?” Ali demanded. She was out of breath and gasping between words. “What do you want?”

  Sister Anselm had no idea how Ali knew the man’s name, but clearly, she did. At least he acted as though she did.

  “I’m trying to find out if she’s alive,” Gutierrez answered. “That’s all I want to know-if she’s alive or not.”

  The man didn’t appear to be armed, and he didn’t seem violent. Sister Anselm slid the lid back over the Taser’s trigger, dousing the red targeting light, but she didn’t return the weapon to her pocket. “Why do you need to know that?” She asked.

  Gutierrez shook his head. “Never mind,” he said. “This was a bad idea.”

  “You don’t mean her any harm?”

  “Are you kidding? You’re both crazy. I’ll just go.”

  “No, wait,” Sister Anselm said. “You brought flowers to the hospital earlier today. Why did you do that?”

  “Because before I went to talk to her parents, I wanted to know for sure that Rose Ventana was alive. I’m the guy who found her.”

  There was a moment of stark silence.

  “You know my patient’s real name?” Sister Anselm said incredulously. “You know my patient’s parents?”

  “Not both of them. I only spoke to her stepfather.”

  Ali’s laser dot switched off as well.

  “You spoke to James Fox?” Sister Anselm asked. “In Buckeye?”

  Gutierrez nodded. “Yes.”

  “How did you know it was her?”

  “I didn’t, not for sure,” Gutierrez admitted. “But I remembered seeing the rose tattoo when I found her out in the desert on Friday. Everybody thought she was an illegal. I tried to tell them that I didn’t agree, because she spoke English not Spanish, but no one paid any attention.”

  “You reported that?” Sister Anselm asked.

  “Yes, but it didn’t do any good, so I did some looking on my own. Then this morning I ran across a website dealing with missing persons. That’s where I found out about Rose Ventana, who went missing in Buckeye, Arizona, three years ago. I couldn’t tell from the photos if she was the one, but it seemed like a good fit. So I drove up to Phoenix to give her parents what I thought was good news. Instead, Mr. Fox sent me packing. He claims he’ll talk to the Buckeye Police Department, but until he has some kind of official verification from them, he won’t even tell her mother. I was on my way back from Buckeye, and I decided to come by the hospital. I wanted to make sure she wasn’t already dead.”

  “She’s not dead,” Sister Anselm said. “She’s getting better.” Those two sentences constituted a serious breach of patient confidentiality, but at this point, she was prepared to give Mr. Gutierrez a break. She held out her hand. “I’m Sister Anselm,” she said. “This is my friend Ali Reynolds. And you are?”

  “Al,” he said. “Al Gutierrez. I’m with the Border Patrol. I found her on Friday and had her airlifted to the hospital here.”

  “Glad to meet you, Mr. Gutierrez. I’ve been assigned to serve as Jane Doe’s patient advocate,” Sister Anselm explained. “I’ve done my own research on the topic, and I happen to agree with you. The woman in that room most likely is Rose Ventana, but at this juncture, I must ask you to make no further effort to contact her or her family.”

  “Why not? If she’s getting better, if she’s not going to die, why not tell them?”

  “Because earlier this afternoon, when I asked her if she wanted me to be in touch with her family, she answered with an emphatic no.”

  “She spoke to you?”

  “Not in so many words. With her jaw wired shut, all she could do was shake her head, but that’s enough of an answer for me. As her patient advocate, I’m honor-bound to abide by her wishes. Like you, I tracked down the family’s current address in Buckeye. Unlike you, I’ve made no effort to contact them, and I won’t until I have her full permission to do so. I’m asking you to do the same. To let it go.”

  Al had stumbled backward into the waiting room far enough to collide with a chair and collapse into it.

  “But why wouldn’t she want to see them?” Al Gutierrez demanded. “Her parents, I mean. And whether she’s dead or alive, why wouldn’t they rush right down here to see her? If she were my kid, I’d want to know the minute somebody found her.”

  “Not all families are alike,” Sister Anselm said. “And until she tells me otherwise, I want to abide by her wishes. Are you with me on that, Mr. Gutierrez?”

  “I suppose so,” he agreed reluctantly. “But you and your friend here drew Tasers on me. You both drew Tasers. All I did was knock on her door, and you were ready to take me down.”

  “I’ve been sitting here guarding her with my life,” Sister Anselm said. “Someone tried to murder her the other day. I was afraid that you were one of her assailants and that you had come back to finish the job.”

  “I
never meant her any harm,” Al objected. “In fact, it’s just the opposite.”

  “I understand that now,” Sister Anselm said. Al Gutierrez seemed very young to her right then. Reaching out, she patted his knee. “And I’m sure Ms. Doe-we need to continue referring to her that way-will be better served if we all work together rather than at cross purposes.”

  Al looked at her questioningly. “You really are a nun?” he asked.

  Sister Anselm nodded. “I really am.”

  “What about her?” He nodded in Ali’s direction. “Is she a nun, too?”

  “No,” Sister Anselm replied. “She was with the Yavapai Sheriff’s Department for a while. Now she’s a reserve officer.”

  Al looked from one woman to the other. “Well,” he said, “if you ask me, Rose is very lucky to have the two of you in her corner.”

  “She’s lucky to have you in her corner, too,” Sister Anselm told him. “Even if it didn’t work out the way you expected, you weren’t wrong to try contacting her family.”

  He nodded and stood up. “Okay,” he said. “I guess I’d better be going.”

  As the young man left the waiting room, Ali glanced at her watch. “It’s been a long day. I’d better go, too. I need to find a place to sleep.”

  “How about a convent?” Sister Anselm suggested.

  “A convent?” Ali asked. “I can’t quite see myself staying in a convent.”

  “You’d be surprised,” Sister Anselm said. “All Saints is right up the road. That’s where I’m supposed to be staying, I just haven’t made it that far. But Sister Genevieve, the reverend mother there, is an old pal of mine. Since you’re here on an errand of mercy, I’m sure she’d be glad to take you in for a night or two.”

  “Isn’t that a little presumptuous?” Ali asked. “After all, I’m not even Catholic.”

  “No, you’re not, but the fact that you’re one of my friends makes up for a lot. Let me give her a call.”

  29

  6:00 A.M., Monday, April 12

  Patagonia, Arizona

  Phil Tewksbury didn’t exactly leap out of bed at six o’clock on Monday morning. The weekend of unaccustomed painting meant he had exercised muscles that were now mad at him. His aching right shoulder had kept him awake off and on overnight, and he felt stiff all over. Still, there was a smile on his face as he pulled on his clothes, brushed his teeth, and took some extra effort with his comb-over. Monday was the one day in the week when Ollie usually showed up, often bringing along something for a picnic. After being home with Christine all weekend long, Phil was ready.

  Christine was in her bedroom, probably asleep, as he headed for the kitchen, but Phil did notice that at least one and maybe two of the remaining lights on the tree had burned out overnight. He made a mental note of their location in case the bulbs got replaced behind his back.

  Now you really are being paranoid, he told himself.

  He was in the kitchen by six-fifteen, making coffee and doing his usual oatmeal ritual-making the hot cereal, dividing it into separate bowls, and leaving them on the counter for Christine to find later. He had the timing down to a science. At six-thirty exactly, he picked up his wallet and keys, left the house, and headed for the garage and his aging F-150 pickup truck. That gave him an hour to have a leisurely breakfast with the guys at the cafe and be at the post office at seven-thirty to do the final sort of his mail. That was when Patty Patton, Patagonia’s postmistress, would give him the Priority and Express Mail packages.

  After all, despite rain, snow, sleet, hail, or even living in hell on earth, the mail must go through.

  Phil stopped at the garage door and shoved the key into the lock, thinking as he did so how, back when his grandparents were alive, the garage door was never locked. A week or so ago, when he had misplaced his key ring, it had been a pain. Fortunately, he’d had a spare.

  That was then, he told himself. This is now.

  Phil pushed the door open. As he stepped into the garage, he was astonished to find himself tripping over something he couldn’t see. Pitching forward, he fell headlong onto the concrete floor, landing hard on his elbow and whacking his shoulder on the pickup’s passenger-side front fender as he fell. His thermos bounced once and rolled out of reach under the truck while his house key ring skittered away from him, coming to rest a good five feet away.

  He lay there for a moment, trying to assess the damage. What the hell just happened to me? he wondered. Did I break anything?

  Phil was on his hands and knees, attempting to scramble to his feet, when something slammed into the back of his head. The shattering blow sent him sprawling once again. It also knocked him senseless. He felt the first blow, but that was it. He was unaware of a dropcloth-his own much used dropcloth, it turned out-being tossed across him to keep bits and pieces of flesh from flying up onto his assailant. When the furious barrage of blows ended, he lay there, dead or unconscious, while his unseen and totally silent attacker walked away.

  Unheard by Phil, the garage door opened and closed behind him. Soon the soft whine of a battery-powered screwdriver cut through the early-morning quiet as the screws that had held an invisible length of fishing filament in place a foot off the ground were removed and the holes left behind were plugged with tiny dots of white toothpaste.

  There was no way to tell if Phil Tewksbury, buried under the dropcloth, was dead or alive when the door closed the second time, but that didn’t really matter. One way or the other, it was over for him. From that moment on, whatever happened to Christine Tewksbury was someone else’s problem.

  30

  6:00 A.M., Monday, April 12

  Tucson, Arizona

  Ali’s cell phone awakened her in a simple but unfamiliar room. She had slept on a narrow cot that would have to be stretched several inches in every direction to duplicate a modern twin-size bed. The iron-barred headboard hadn’t been constructed with reading in bed in mind. At last she located the buzzing phone on a rough-hewn bedside table.

  “Good morning,” B. said. “Sorry to wake you. On my way into a meeting in five minutes. Where are you?”

  “A convent,” Ali said. “All Saints Convent outside Tucson.”

  “A convent? How did you end up there?”

  “I was going to go find a hotel, but Sister Anselm is in Tucson. She suggested I come here.”

  “What’s Sister Anselm doing in Tucson?”

  “Long story,” Ali said. “Longer than I can explain in five minutes. The reverend mother at All Saints, Sister Genevieve, is a friend of Sister Anselm’s, and she was kind enough to take me in. It’s a bit Spartan, a dormitory room with a bed and a bathroom down the hall, but once I got here, Sister Genevieve made me hot tea and helped me raid the fridge.”

  “I didn’t know convents had refrigerators to raid.”

  Somewhere on the grounds, something that sounded like a church bell tolled six chimes. From somewhere else came the scents of cooking-frying eggs, baking coffee cake, and brewing coffee. Doors opened and closed up and down the hallway, and quiet footsteps whispered past Ali’s closed door.

  “That was the call to prayer,” she told B. “Since I’m not a Catholic, Sister Genevieve gave me a pass on prayers, but she said if I wanted breakfast, I’d better be in the refectory at six-thirty.”

  “So it’s a good thing I rousted you out of bed.”

  “Yes,” Ali agreed. “It’s a good thing.”

  “How’s your friend doing?”

  “That’s another long story. Jose’s condition has been upgraded, and he’s out of the ICU. His wife had her baby-an emergency C-section. And their two girls are currently staying with Haley Marsh.”

  “One of the Askins girls?’

  “That’s right. I needed someone to take care of two ankle biters, and Haley was a likely prospect. She doesn’t have classes during the day today, so she’s looking after them until this evening.”

  “So it’s all good?”

  “Not all. Jose and Teresa are being inves
tigated for possible drug dealing by the cop who’s supposed to be investigating Jose’s shooting.”

  “And who’s the flower guy?” B. asked. “Stuart told me something about helping you track down a delivery guy.”

  “Turns out he’s Border Patrol.”

  “How’s he connected to Jose Reyes?”

  “He’s not,” Ali said. “He’s connected to Sister Anselm’s patient, Jane Doe. You’re going to have to call me when we have more time. This is way too complicated.”

  “All right. Here’s my hat; what’s my hurry?” B. said. “But I do need to go. And so do you, if you’re going to make it to breakfast.”

  “Have a good meeting,” Ali said. She was on her way to the bathroom with her phone in hand when it rang again. “I’m sorry I threw you under the bus at dinner the other night,” Edie Larson said. “Since I didn’t hear from you yesterday, I’m guessing you’re still mad at me. But we’ll be signing the paperwork later this morning.”

  “I’m not mad,” Ali said. “I’m in Tucson, and I’ve been really busy. But if anyone needs to apologize, it’s me. I acted like a spoiled brat. There’s no one more deserving of retirement than you and Dad. I was way out of line not to be more enthusiastic that you’ve found some qualified buyers. I guess I was surprised more than anything, but since I don’t ask you about every decision I make-including my trip to Tucson-the reverse should be true. So I’m sorry.”

  “Not telling people in advance was selfish on our part,” Edie said. “And I had no business embroiling you in that mayoral discussion before I spoke to your father about it. Besides, if I’m expecting to have a future in politics, I need to put on my big-girl panties and fight my own battles.”

  Ali laughed at that. “Dad was probably caught as flat-footed on that as I was on your selling the Sugarloaf. You can’t blame him. It’s a lot of change to take on all at once.”

  “Your father has plenty of outside interests,” Edie said. “He’ll probably spend more time with that damnable Blazer of his than he will with me. And when he doesn’t have to go to the restaurant every day, I’m sure he’ll spend a lot more time on his homeless outreach.”