Day of the Dead

AFIS?”

Brian waited and listened while PeeWee thumbed through the paperwork. “Nope,” he said. “No sign that they have.”

“I want you to hand-carry them down to Alvin Miller. Tell him we need those old prints fed into the AFIS ASAP.”

“Are you saying the Orozco case is about to go active again?”

“I hope so,” Brian returned.

“Goddamn it, Brian, if you’re holding out on me…”

“I’m not holding out,” Brian countered. “When I know for sure, you’ll be the first to hear.”

Leaving Old Pueblo Grill, Brandon switched his phone ringer off silent before he headed back to the Medicos for Mexico office. The cell phone’s readout reported one missed call, but it wasn’t from anyone he recognized.

In the Medicos parking lot the two matching LS 430s still sat in their respective reserved and shaded spots. The front of the building was awash in media vehicles. Right that minute, media scrutiny was something Brandon fervently wished to avoid. Rather than pulling into the lot, he drove around the block and parked in a residential neighborhood that backed up onto the businesses that lined East Broadway.

It was hard to maintain his concentration. This last week in April, early-afternoon temperatures had soared into the midnineties. The air-conditioning unit in the Suburban was excellent, but idling in Tucson with the AC running was a good way to screw up the engine. Brandon found himself wishing he’d brought along the iced tea he’d left behind on the table at the Old Pueblo Grill.

Sitting and waiting and watching nothing happen gave Brandon time to reflect. Brian was right. Doing this on his own and without backup was stupid, but as long as Brandon kept Larry Stryker under surveillance, the man wouldn’t be on the loose and able to pose a threat to Diana or Lani.

Was Larry a serial killer? If the answer to that question was yes, then what were the chances he was armed? As a sworn law enforcement officer, Brandon would have had access to gun-licensing records. He would have known if Larry Stryker had a legal weapon but not an illegal one. As a TLC operative, Brandon wasn’t privy to any of that information. What if he observed the Strykers making a headlong run for the border? What would Brandon do then? Call for reinforcements? From Bill Forsythe? As Ralph Ames had quickly grasped, that was a no-brainer, unless Alvin Miller came up with the right kind of print information…

At the rear of Medicos for Mexico a metal door marked DELIVERIES ONLY opened. Gayle Stryker hurried across the parking lot, unlocking one of the Lexus sedans as she went. Intent on avoiding the reporters camped out front, she quickly started the car and sped out the back way.

It would have been simple to follow her, but Brandon was torn. Should he go after her, or wait for his real prey-Larry Stryker? Had Brandon Walker been blessed with a partner right then-one with another vehicle-it would have been possible for him to follow Gayle while his partner kept an eye on Larry’s activities. Forced to choose, Brandon opted to stay where he was.

His cell phone rang. Brandon leaped to answer, hoping Brian would be calling with some news. “Hi,” Diana said. “The car’s clean and Lani’s on her way home from Smitty’s. We’re going to come back into town for lunch. I’m sure she’s dying for Mexican food. We’re going to Karichimaka. Care to join us?”

“I’m busy right now,” Brandon told her. “I’ll have to pass.”

“You won’t get a better offer,” Diana told him with a laugh.

Brandon knew it was true, but the best part about missing lunch with his wife and daughter was knowing Diana and Lani would be out together-in public. That was better than their being home alone and trusting their safety to a passing deputy. Lani and Diana were safe, leaving Brandon free to keep watch on Larry Stryker.

It doesn’t get any better than that.

Gayle went by her house and picked up a few essentials-including her loaded Davis Industries P-380, which she slipped into her jacket pocket. After hastily stuffing two suitcases, she loaded those, along with three empty briefcases, into the back of the Lexus.

Then she began her circuit of three separate banks, visiting each in turn, going through the safe-deposit boxes and removing everything of value she found there. She’d learned it was wise to have close banking relationships with several different banks, and the loot she’d managed to squirrel away in all of them over the years was quite impressive. The problem was, she couldn’t simply waltz into a bank and waltz right back out again. She was an important customer in every one of them. The people who worked there-managers and tellers alike-wanted to visit with her and chat her up. One or two even expressed careful sympathy over the “unfortunate” situation with Mr. LaGrange.

Gayle tried to keep things light. More than that, she tried to keep things moving. When leaving a vault, she attempted to carry her briefcase with the same casual indifference she’d used when carrying it in. That wasn’t easy, since loaded briefcases were far heavier than empties.

Finally, when the safe-deposit boxes were cleaned out and the Lexus fully loaded, Gayle headed for The Flying C. She wouldn’t have gone at all except, unlike Larry, there were a few items she wanted from the ranch. Some of the artwork was too valuable to just abandon. She’d put the pieces she wanted in the backseat and drop them off at her storage unit on the way to the airport.

As she headed north, Gayle called the office. When Denise answered, she was crying.

“What’s wrong?” Gayle asked.

“Haven’t you heard?” Denise sobbed.

“Heard what?”

“About Erik?”

“What about him?”

“He’s dead, Mrs. Stryker. One of the reporters just told me. He committed suicide in jail. I can’t believe it! I just can’t believe it!”

You’d better believe it, bitch, Gayle thought. If he hadn’t been sniffing after you, maybe he’d still be alive. That’s not what she said. “What terrible news. Does Dr. Stryker know?”

“I haven’t told him, but someone else might have.”

“Put me through to him, then,” Gayle said.

“What about the reporters? They want to talk to either you or Dr. Stryker.”

“I already handed you a copy of our standard no-comment response, Denise,” Gayle said firmly. “All you give them is that. Do not answer questions. Is that clear?”

“Yes.” Denise sniffled.

“Now put me through to my husband.”

“Hold on, then,” Denise told her. “I’ll have to knock on his door. He has DND selected on his extension.”

Denise Lindsay came back on the line a minute or so later. “He’s not there,” she said.

“What do you mean, he’s not there?” Gayle demanded. “Maybe he’s in the rest room.”

“He’s not,” Denise said. “I checked. His car’s not in the parking lot either. He left without telling me. He must have gone out the back way.”

Gayle was upset, but she didn’t allow any of that concern into her voice. “That’s all right, then,” she said. “I’ll try his cell.”

She did-immediately-but he didn’t pick up, not the first time or the second or the third. That son of a bitch! she muttered. I told him to stay put. What the hell is that damned fool up to?

When Gayle hit the first traffic tieup on Oracle, she shot over to the freeway. She preferred to take the long way around rather than sitting stuck in stalled traffic.

J. A. Jance

Day of the Dead

Twenty-Eight

Minutes after Gayle left the Medicos lot, Brandon spotted her husband. Larry Stryker opened the delivery door and furtively checked to see if anyone was looking before hotfooting it across to his Lexus. Brandon put the Suburban in gear and waited to see what would happen. When Larry peeled out through the back entrance, Brandon had to execute a U-turn in order to follow him. He was doing just that when his phone rang.

“It’s me,” Brian said.

“What’s the word from Alvin Miller?”

“Not good,” Brian answered.

“What do you mean?”

“Not what we expected,” Brian said. “Larry Stryker isn’t our guy. None of the Orozco prints match any of the ones on the Burger King cup. But one of the Orozco prints does match one of the unidentified prints we picked up from LaGrange’s house. Ditto for Yuma County.”

Brandon processed that information in stunned silence. He had invested so much belief and emotion into the idea that Larry Stryker was a serial killer, he couldn’t quite let it go.

“That leaves us only one viable suspect,” Brian continued. “It has to be someone who was present in 1970 when Roseanne was killed and who was at LaGrange’s house on Saturday night.”

“Gayle Stryker!” Brandon breathed.

“You’ve got it,” Brian agreed. “Either her alone or both of them together. I’d love to have a set of her prints, but there aren’t any official ones on file-at least none that Alvin can find that are officially identified as hers. I can’t go for a warrant without something more specific, but I don’t need a warrant to talk to the lady. If I just happened to hand her something and-”

“Damn!” Brandon muttered.

“What’s the matter?”

“She’s gone. She left the Medicos office a few minutes ago. I’m following Larry west on Broadway.”

“PeeWee’s pulling DMV info on all the Medicos company vehicles. While he’s at it, I’ll have him pull licensing information on Gayle and Larry. Once he has that, we’ll come straight there. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get lucky and she’ll come back to the office.”

“That would be nice,” Brandon said, but he didn’t sound hopeful.

“What are you up to again?” Brian asked.

Brandon wasn’t eager to say, but he did. “I’m following Larry Stryker through downtown and out toward the freeway. He came racing out of the office a couple of minutes ago, threw a briefcase in his car, and took off.”

“You’re following him alone?” Brian asked.

“Looks like,” Brandon said.

Brian Fellows sighed. “Okay,” he said. “Stick with him. PeeWee and I will leave here in just a couple of minutes. Once we’re under way, I’ll call so you can let us know your location.”

“Got it,” Brandon said. “And Brian?”

“What?”

“Having backup is an excellent idea. Thanks.”

“You’re welcome,” Brian said. “But do me a big favor.”

“What’s that?”

“Keep your vest on.”

“I hear you,” Brandon said. “And I will.”

It was only a little past two, but already northbound traffic was building up. From Miracle Mile on, Oracle was gridlocked. Over and over, Larry had to wait through two full cycles of a light before he could clear a single intersection. The lines of traffic barely moved. Time, on the other hand, seemed to streak by. It was only a matter of hours until they would be out of the country and, if Gayle was right, relatively safe from prosecution. Still, Larry worried. He didn’t want to be late.

What had happened? For years-for longer than most people stayed married-he and Gayle had maintained an unconventional but relatively untroubled lifestyle. She had allowed him his indulgences, and he had allowed Gayle hers. Last week, everything was fine. This week, the world was falling apart-and all because of a totally unremarkable girl named Roseanne Orozco, someone he barely remembered. She was the ultimate cause of everything coming undone-Roseanne and a jerk of an ex-sheriff named Brandon Walker. What gave that asshole the right to meddle in Larry’s private affairs? Wasn’t that why they’d helped un-elect him-so he couldn’t do that anymore?

Larry inched his way through another light, crossing River Road just as the light turned red overhead, but squeezing through didn’t do any good. A hundred yards beyond the light, traffic stopped cold again, waiting for a light to change so far ahead that it wasn’t yet visible.

He glanced at the clock on the dash. Another ten minutes had passed, but he was nowhere near the Tucson city limit. It was just as well they were leaving. The traffic back and forth to the ranch was getting worse every year. Larry Stryker was tired of having to fight his way through it morning and night, coming and going. Didn’t these people understand he was in a hurry? He had to get out to the ranch and back into town before Gayle did.

Somewhere north of River Road, Larry looked off to the east, toward the spot where he knew Erik LaGrange had lived, and he was struck by a fit of doubt. Gayle had sacrificed that little shit without so much as a backward glance. What if…?

Plucking his cell phone out of his pocket, he scrolled down until he found the number for CitationShares. “This is Larry Stryker,” he said when an Owner Services rep came on the line. “I just wanted to reconfirm our flight for tonight.”

“Your wife’s flight from Tucson to Cabo San Lucas?” the rep asked.

“That’s right,” Larry said. “That’s the one.”

“It’s scheduled to depart at six P.M.,” the clerk told him.

Larry caught his breath. “Did you say six?” he asked. “I understood it wasn’t leaving until eight.”

“No, it’s definitely departing at six. The itinerary calls for one passenger, Mrs. Stryker, leaving for Cabo San Lucas at six P.M. Do you need me to change that, or are you ready to arrange your own departure?”

Larry could barely speak. “No,” he said. “That’s fine.”

He ended the call, then pounded the steering wheel with both fists. “That bitch!” he shouted at the top of his lungs. “That incredible bitch! She’s planning to take off and leave me holding the bag!”

By the time he was stopped at the next light, though, Larry had reconsidered. He picked up his phone and hit redial. “This is Dr. Stryker again,” he said. “You’re right. I do need to make my own flight arrangements. I’d like to leave tonight-as soon as you can get a plane here.”

“Departing from Tucson International?” the reservations clerk asked.

“No. I’ll be at home, north of the city. I’d rather leave from the FBO at Pinal Air Park.”

“Will you also be going to Cabo San Lucas?”

“No,” he said after a moment’s pause. “I’ll be going to Mexico City.”

“And only one passenger?”

“That’s right,” he told her. “Only one. But I’d like a Bravo or an Excel-something big enough so I can make it in one shot.”

“You realize this will be considered simultaneous use. I can’t guarantee you a plane until I check availability. Do you want to stay on the line?”

“Yes,” Larry said. He almost added “please,” but he managed to stifle himself. The wait was interminable.

“All right,” the rep said brightly, coming back on the line. “There weren’t any Excels, but I can have a Bravo there at nine-thirty. So that’s one passenger departing from Pinal Air Park.”

“Wonderful,” he said.

“Any special catering requirements?” she asked.

“Scotch,” he told her, letting out his breath. “And plenty of ice.”

“Cars? A hotel?”

“Have a car meet me at the executive terminal in Mexico City,” he said. “I’ll decide on the hotel on the way.”

Brandon’s arm was bothering him again. He had forgotten about it for a while, but now it was aching like crazy. And the Suburban’s air conditioner didn’t seem to be pumping out enough cool air. Nerves, he told himself. And it was true. When his cell phone rang a few minutes later, Brandon jumped as though he’d been shot.

“Where are you?” Brian asked.

“Stuck in traffic northbound on Oracle at Orange Grove,” Brandon replied. “At least he’s not on I-19 headed for Nogales.”

“If he’s going north on Oracle, Stryker’s most likely going to his ranch,” Brian put in. “It’s The Flying C on the far side of the Tortolitas. That’s the address listed on his driver’s license-101 Flying C Ranch Road. Are you having any difficulty maintaining visual contact?”

“Are you kidding? We’re crawling along at such a snail’s pace I could walk fast enough to catch up, but I’m also in the Suburban. I’m five or six car lengths back. I’m high enough to see him, but I doubt he can see me. How about you?”

“PeeWee and I just left the department. With all the construction at I-19 and I-10, we’re taking surface streets. It may take us a while. Do you want us to use the siren?”

“Don’t bother,” Brandon said. “Traffic’s too heavy for that. I’ll keep you posted, but give me that home address again, just in case. I’ll key it into my GPS. That way, if I do end up losing him, I’ll still have some idea where he’s headed.”

After ending the call, he started messing around with the GPS controls. The obligatory warning came on, telling him not to make adjustments to the system while the car was in motion, but there was no danger of that. The Suburban was stopped cold at a traffic signal. As soon as the GPS system had located the address and mapped it, Brandon called Brian back.

“Wait a minute,” he said. “The Flying C is off Highway 79. It’s in Pinal County, not Pima. What’s going to happen if Bill Forsythe finds out you’ve strayed into another jurisdiction?”

“We’re just going to ask a pair of suspects a few questions,” Brian said. “No big deal.”

But Brandon knew that once Sheriff Forsythe heard what was going on, there would be hell to pay.

The lunchtime rush was mostly over. Diana and Lani sat at a table in the far corner of the room while Lani picked at her food.

“I never saw a Mexican combination plate you didn’t devour on sight,” Diana said to her daughter. “Is something wrong?”

Lani looked at her mother-her Mil-gahn mother-and shook her head. Lani still didn’t understand the terrible dread she was feeling-dread brought on by that vision of the flesh disappearing from Gayle Stryker’s face. And if Lani couldn’t understand it, there was no way she could explain it to her mother.

“I’m worried about Dad,” she hedged at last.

“Don’t be,” Diana said with absolute confidence. “Your father’s a big boy. He can take care of himself.”

Not without help, Lani thought. She pushed her plate away and gave her mother what she hoped was a convincing smile. “I’m full,” she said. “Let’s go home.”

She wanted to be back home-back in her room with the door closed. There, at least, she’d be able to sit on the floor with her legs crossed, hold Looks at Nothing’s crystals in her hands, and sing the song that had come to her earlier. As a medicine woman, it was all she knew to do. As a daughter, it was the best help she could offer.

Staying at a discreet distance, Brandon followed Larry’s LS 430 through Catalina, past Saddle Brook, and then off onto Highway 79 at Oracle Junction. When Larry slowed and signaled for a left-hand turn at Flying C Ranch Road, Brandon took his foot off the gas and then drove by with his face averted in case Larry happened to look in his rearview mirror. Brandon continued on up the highway another half mile or so before pulling another U-turn and parking on the shoulder.

Taking out his phone, he called Brian. “Where are you?” Brandon asked.

“Just past Oracle and Orange Grove,” the detective returned. “Traffic is the pits. We finally had to put on the lights and siren.”

“Don’t worry,” Brandon said. “Everything’s cool. Larry just pulled off Highway 79 onto Flying C Ranch Road. My GPS says that’s a dead end, so he’ll have to come back out eventually. I’m parked up the road a few hundred yards. When he comes back out, I’ll see him, but he won’t see me.”

“Sounds good,” Brian said.

“I’ve been thinking about all this while I’ve been driving,” Brandon added. “Larry was all upset when I brought up the possibility of his being the father of Roseanne Orozco’s baby. I’d talked to him about Roseanne yesterday. He kept his cool then, but the paternity issue threw him into a blind panic. If you and PeeWee can apply the screws…”

“With pleasure,” Brian returned. “We’ll see what we can do.”

“Okay,” Brandon told him. “I’ll hang tight. See you when you get here.”

Larry’s phone rang again as he drove up Flying C Ranch Road. When he checked the readout and saw that it was Gayle, he didn’t answer that time, either. Obviously she knew now that he had left the office and was trying to track him down. Too bad!

He was still shaken by the phone calls to CitationShares, still astonished that she would betray him like that. He had always worried it might happen, though he had never really thought it would, though now it had. Gayle had turned on him, just as she had turned on Erik LaGrange, but with one big difference: Larry had figured out what was up in time to get his own damned plane. Gayle was on her way out of town; so was he.

When he drove into the yard, Gayle’s Lexus was nowhere to be seen. He had half expected that she might have beaten him here and he’d arrive to find the ranch house already reduced to rubble, but it wasn’t. She probably lied to me about that, too, he thought bitterly. She probably never planned to blow it up at all.

That was an appalling possibility. What if somebody stumbled into the basement room with its restraints and shackles and the rest of his equipment? He stopped the car. For a space of time he was too shaken to get out. He had cleaned things up as best he could, but he knew enough about current crime scene investigation to realize that tricky alternate-light sources could locate blood droplets that were invisible to the naked eye.

What should he do? If Gayle wasn’t going to destroy the evidence against him, should he try to do it himself?

No, he decided finally. Get the notebooks and get the hell out. Go wait at the airport. No one will ever think to look for me there…not at Pinal Air Park.

So Larry Stryker hurried into the house and on into the study. He’d had a wall safe installed there, behind one of the big oil paintings. And because Gayle had no idea the safe existed, it had been the right place for him to keep his notebooks.

He was upset enough that his hand shook as he worked the combination. It took three tries before he got it right. Swinging the door open, he grabbed up the notebooks. He shoved them into the open briefcase on his desk and slapped the lid shut. He turned back to the safe to close it and return the painting to its place.

“What do you think you’re doing?” Gayle asked.

He hadn’t heard the car or her. The sound of her voice scared him to death. A chill ran up his spine. The painting fell from his hand, splitting the heavy gilt frame as it smashed onto the Saltillo floor. This couldn’t be happening. Larry led a charmed life. He wasn’t supposed to get caught.

“Nothing,” he said, turning to face her. That’s when he saw the gun-a chrome-plated pistol-that was pointed straight at his chest. It wasn’t a very large weapon, but it seemed to grow in size. He stared at it until the gaping mouth of the pistol was all he could see. “I came to see if you needed any help,” he added lamely.

She smiled and shook her head, but she didn’t move the gun. It stayed pointed at him.

“I never knew about that safe,” she said quietly. “What do you keep in it?”

“Odds and ends. Nothing important. Put down the gun, Gayle. Shouldn’t we get to work?”

“Did you have money in there?” she demanded. “Were you hiding money from me?”

“Of course not!” he declared. Flustered, he felt his face turn red. “Nothing of the kind.”

“Then open the briefcase,” she ordered. “Show me.”

As he carried on his end of the conversation, Larry Stryker was trying to grapple with this new reality. There was no question about whether or not she would pull the trigger. Of the two of them, Gayle was the natural-born killer. He had known that about her for more than thirty years. He had always supposed he was immune. But he wasn’t. His only hope was to fight back.

So he stepped toward the desk and made as if to comply. Instead of opening the briefcase, he picked it up and heaved it at her. She dodged out of the way of the flying briefcase, and her first shot missed him completely. The second one didn’t. The bullet hit him square in the chest and flung him backward. It took forever for him to slide down the wall. He watched her, expecting her to fire again. She simply disappeared from view as he slid behind the desk.

“Gayle,” he called. “Don’t leave me like this. Please.”

She didn’t answer. The last thing Larry Stryker heard was the sound of the study door slamming shut behind her.

In twenty-six years of driving gravel trucks, Amos Brubaker had never had an accident-not even a fender bender. This, his last load of the day, was headed for another new development on the far side of Saddle Brook. The gravel pit was in the riverbed west of I-10 and southeast of Marana. According to the map, it should have been easier for him to get where he was going by backtracking as far as Rillito and going east there. Mileagewise, that would have been closer, but that was the sad truth about Tucson-area traffic. Amos was actually better off going miles out of his way, taking the freeway as far as north Red Rock, cutting over there to Highway 79, and approaching his drop-off point from the opposite direction.

Amos was doing that now, sailing along on the straightaway at slightly over the 65-miles-per-hour legal limit. He slowed slightly when he saw a green Suburban parked on the right-hand shoulder. These days DPS sometimes used stealth vehicles rather than clearly marked patrol cars to police Arizona’s highways. But the Suburban turned out to be just that, a Suburban with a single occupant-a man-sitting in it. His hazard lights weren’t on. He didn’t look like someone having car trouble or trying to flag someone down, so Amos put his foot back on the gas pedal and kept going.

Just then some dim-bulb babe in a Lexus went tearing past him doing at least eighty-five. She’d barely gone around the front fender of his Mack truck when she slammed on her brakes and turned off on a dirt road. Amos flipped her a bird as he went past. What the hell was the matter with drivers today-and not just women drivers, either? If she was planning on turning right, couldn’t she have stayed behind him for that last quarter of a mile? Did bimbos like her have even the vaguest idea of how much blacktop was needed to stop a loaded gravel truck? That was another problem with driving these days. Everybody was in too much of a hurry.

Amos was coming up on Oracle Junction. He reached the place where the straightaway ended. Beyond that point the road narrowed slightly and was far more curvy. Amos eased back to a real 65. He saw the car ahead of him-a pale yellow vehicle of some kind-approaching in the opposite lane, but he didn’t worry about it-didn’t consider it at all. He saw the approaching car and assumed whoever was in it saw him, too. Bright red Mack gravel trucks are hard to miss.

But then, when he was almost on top of the car-a Honda-it turned left directly in front of him. He saw now that the pale yellow Honda was driven by a woman-a gray-haired woman about the same age as Amos. At the very last moment, she glanced up and saw the truck. In that electric instant, he saw the look of horror flash across her face; saw her lips form themselves into a surprised O; saw her eyes open wide, shocked and disbelieving.

Looking for a way to avoid hitting her, Amos checked the left lane, but now there was another car in that lane, a cop car with flashing lights that was speeding toward both the Honda and Amos’s truck. By then, the Honda was fully astraddle the right-hand lane, directly in the path of the speeding Mack truck. Amos Brubaker had split seconds to make his decision. Between T-boning the seemingly stationary Honda or crashing head-on into an oncoming vehicle, the woman’s Honda presented the least lethal choice.

Almost standing on the brake pedal, Amos clung to the wheel and tried to keep the truck and its add-on trailer on the road. He had dodged enough-or maybe she had sped up enough-that instead of hitting her dead-on, he clipped her right quarter panel. Instead of being flattened under the truck’s front bumper, the Honda spun away. When it hit the soft shoulder on the side of the road, it flipped and flew end over end before finally coming to rest, leaning at an angle, against a barbed-wire fence.

Amos felt the impact and saw the car go whirling away. For the barest of moments, he thought he had made it-thought he was home free, then he felt a sickening lurch behind him. He looked in the rearview mirror long enough to see the trailer swing back across the centerline. In that awful moment he knew what was going to happen. The heavy load of gravel would pull him over. As the wheels of the tractor left the ground, all Amos Brubaker could do was hold on for dear life. Hold on and pray.

J. A. Jance

Day of the Dead

Twenty-Nine

Brian Fellows had heard the expression “watching a train wreck,” but he had never understood the implications until that very moment. It seemed to happen in slow motion. Not wanting to alert Larry Stryker, he had shut off the siren as they entered Oracle Junction. Once they were on Highway 79, he saw the approaching gravel truck. He saw the little yellow Honda. When the Honda’s brake lights came on, Brian assumed that the vehicle was preparing to turn, but when the turn signal didn’t come on, there was no way to tell which way the Honda was going. Then, to Brian’s gut-wrenching dismay, the Honda turned directly into the path of the truck. And through it all, there was nothing-not one thing-Brian could do to stop it.

“My God!” PeeWee shouted. “Look out!”

And Brian was looking. He was searching desperately for some safe haven, somewhere to pull off the road and get the hell out of the way. He saw the speeding tractor slam into the side of the Honda. With one tire bouncing high in the air above them all, the out-of-control Honda spun through the air while the truck careened straight toward them. Trying to dodge out of the way, Brian wrenched the wheel to the right. He managed to miss the bouncing tire and the Honda, but the maneuver sent the Crown Victoria pitching off the steep shoulder and directly into a concrete-bridge abutment, where it slammed to a stop.

For the briefest moment, Brian’s vision was obscured by what turned out to be his deployed air bag. When he could see again, the fully loaded gravel truck and trailer were skidding on their sides along both lanes of roadway, spilling mounds of gravel and raising clouds of dust.

Brian turned to PeeWee. “Are you okay?”

PeeWee nodded, rubbing his collarbone. “I think so,” he said. “You?”

Brian tried the door. The frame was evidently jammed. His door wouldn’t open. Neither would PeeWee’s. They ended up having to shove their way through the shattered safety glass in the windshield.

“You go,” PeeWee said when the hole was wide enough for Brian to slip through. “I’ll radio for help.”

When Brian hit the ground, the Mack truck tractor lay on its side, wheels still spinning, with its signature bulldog hood ornament buried in the broken remains of a crushed mesquite tree. As Brian watched, the shaken truck driver scrambled out through a window opening and crawled across the door. Gripping the running board, he slipped over the side and then dropped the last few feet to the ground.

As soon as the man landed, he took off at a dead run. At first, Brian had no idea where he was going. Only when he looked beyond where the driver was headed did Brian see the wreckage of the smashed yellow Honda. It lay at the bottom of a steep wash, leaning up against several strands of barbed-wire fence. The truck driver ran to the edge of the wash and scrambled down the side. By the time Brian reached him, he was pulling desperately on the driver’s-side door handle.

“We’ve got to help her,” the man was saying. “We’ve got to get her out of there.”

But that door wouldn’t budge, either. Peering through the window, Brian saw the still form of a woman. She was flopped over against the door with blood seeping from a deep cut on her head. When he pounded on the window beside her, she didn’t move.

Leaving Brian behind, the truck driver raced around to the far side of the vehicle, clambered over the fence, and shoved. To Brian’s surprise, the Honda wavered for a moment and then tipped back onto its three remaining tires. Brian had to step back to get out of the way. With what seemed superhuman strength, the truck driver wrenched open the passenger door. He stood to one side, panting with exertion, while Brian scrambled inside. The woman still hadn’t moved. Brian felt for a pulse and found one-weak and fast, but there.

He clambered back outside. “Well?” the driver demanded. “Is she okay?”

Without answering, Brian turned back toward the wreckage of the Crown Vic. “She’s still alive,” he shouted at PeeWee, “but only just. Get on the horn. Tell them we’ll need a medevac helicopter out here. On the double.”

Brian turned back toward the truck driver, but the man was no longer standing. Pale and weak as a kitten, he had dropped to his knees and was quietly puking into the dirt.

Parked on the shoulder, Brandon saw the big red gravel truck bearing down on him from behind and the white car come out to pass. As they roared past him, the passing vehicle was on the far side of the truck. He didn’t see it again until the truck braked as the other vehicle slowed to turn off on Flying C Ranch Road. That was when he recognized the white car for what it was-Gayle Stryker’s Lexus. Why was she coming from the north?

Brandon had picked up his phone to call Brian when he saw an explosion of dust a mile or so farther south toward Oracle Junction. Dust like that had to mean that the speeding gravel truck had somehow come to grief, but that wasn’t Brandon’s concern. What worried him was that Brian didn’t answer his phone. After three rings, the cell phone went to voice mail, giving Brandon no choice but to leave a message.

“It’s me. You’re not going to believe it. Gayle Stryker just showed up from the north and turned into the ranch. I don’t know where you are, but get a move on. I need you here now.”

He waited several minutes, thinking that surely Brian would call him back. Finally, impatient, he punched redial. Again, the cell phone rang several times. “Pick up, for God’s sake!” Brandon grumbled.

“Hello?” Brian said at last.

“Where the hell are you? Did you get my message?”

“What message?”

“I called a few minutes ago. Gayle Stryker showed up. She and Larry are both here at the ranch.”

“There’s been an accident,” Brian said. “My phone ended up under the car seat. I didn’t find it until it started ringing.”

“What accident?” Brandon stopped. “Wait a minute,” he added. “Somebody’s coming down the road. It’s a white vehicle, so it may be…” He squinted into the sunlight. “Yes, it’s definitely a Lexus. I can’t tell which one, and I don’t know how many passengers-if they’re both in there or if it’s only one of them. The vehicle’s almost back to the highway. If there was ever a time for backup, this is it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s been a wreck,” Brian said. “A bad one, just short of the junction.”

“But…” Brandon slipped the Suburban into gear and moved forward. The Lexus had pulled up to the intersection now and was turning right onto the highway. “He’s coming out now, turning your way and heading for Tucson.”

“He won’t get past here,” Brian said. “A gravel truck tipped over and spilled its load on top of a culvert. The road’s completely blocked in both directions.”

“Can’t you and PeeWee get through?”

“Negative on that,” Brian returned. “We managed to get out of the way, but we hit a bridge abutment. PeeWee and I aren’t going anywhere. Neither is our vehicle.”

Brandon rounded a curve and saw the field of wreckage up ahead. A few other Tucson-bound cars were already stopped. As he watched, the Lexus swung off onto the shoulder and then turned.

“Stryker’s just this side of your position,” Brandon shouted into the phone. “He’s pulling a U-ey.”

“I’m on foot, but I’m on my way,” Brian told him.

But Brandon soon realized that having Brian on his way wasn’t nearly good enough. Once the Lexus was back on the highway, it would start gaining speed. Brandon did the only thing he could. Using the Suburban’s bulk, he drove toward the much smaller LS 430, forcing it off the highway and onto the shoulder. Only then, with the two vehicles sitting nose to nose, did Brandon see there was only one person in the Lexus. The driver wasn’t Larry Stryker after all-it was Gayle.

She honked at him furiously and motioned him out of her way. When he didn’t budge, she backed up, hit the gas, and tried to swing around him. He blocked her again. That time a stricken look of recognition crossed her face when she finally realized who he was. There was barely a moment of hesitation between her recognizing him and the appearance of the gun. She held it out the window and fired three rounds in rapid succession.

Brandon threw himself across the front seat and hoped that the Suburban’s engine block and dashboard would offer enough cover. He lay there with his ears ringing and wondered if she would fire again. Not wanting to be hit by spraying glass, Brandon rolled down the automatic window with the touch of a button while plucking his Walther out of its holster.

When he heard the squeal of rubber on pavement, he realized Gayle was once again trying to push past him. He raised up in time to see the front side panel of the Lexus surge by. With her on the far side of the moving vehicle, Brandon knew it would be difficult for her to return fire. Leaning out the window and holding the Walther in both hands, he fired two separate shots. Hitting the right rear tire was no big thing. It was so close and presented such a large target that even a beginner could have hit that one. As that tire exploded, though, the car began to fishtail. Hitting the second tire dead-on was sheer luck.

But when Brandon Walker turned back to the steering wheel, he knew he wasn’t home free. A cloud of steam engulfed the Suburban’s whole front end.

“Damn!” he exclaimed. “She shot the hell out of my radiator.”

Even so, Brandon plunged the gearshift into reverse and turned around. He had no idea how far he could drive before the Suburban overheated and the engine seized up, but with Brian and PeeWee stuck on the far side of the gravel truck, he had to try.

Once the vehicle was moving forward, the steam cloud swept back under the Suburban enough so Brandon could see to drive. He came around the last curve before the straightaway hoping that, driving with two flat rear tires, she would have lost control and gone off the road. No such luck. A mile or so ahead of him he saw Gayle’s crippled Lexus. It wasn’t moving fast, but it was moving, moving and turning-turning left, back onto Flying C Ranch Road.

By the time Brandon reached the turnoff, the temperature gauge was already at the top of the red. There wasn’t much time. Just where Flying C Ranch Road left the highway was a cattle guard. Brandon pulled onto it at an angle so the Suburban straddled the whole metal grate. He rolled up all the windows, set the emergency brake, and put the transmission in “park” before shutting off the engine. When he got out, he locked the doors and set the alarm for good measure. The smell of hot metal hurt him. He had loved that old Suburban. The engine was probably doomed, but it would make one hell of a good roadblock.

Common sense dictated that Brandon stay with his vehicle, but that’s what everyone would expect him to do-be the old guy, know his limitations, sit on his duff and wait for the cavalry-the young guys-to ride to his rescue. By then, though, Brandon Walker was far too pumped up to stop. Besides, this was personal. Gayle Stryker had tried to take him out. He was determined to return the favor.

Looking off across the desert, he saw a swath of green trees. The screen of trees probably meant that the ranch buildings were tucked in among them. No doubt Gayle and Larry Stryker were concealed in among those trees, too. They would expect him and his reinforcements to come driving up the road. They wouldn’t expect someone to show up alone, on foot, walking through the desert. So that’s what Brandon did-he walked.

As he moved along, he popped a new clip into the Walther. He had fired only two shots, but he wanted a full load of ammunition at his disposal if and when he needed it. Wanting to tell Brian what was happening, he reached for his cell phone, but it wasn’t there. In all the excitement, he must have dropped it somewhere in the Suburban. He could have gone back for it, but that would have taken too much time. Instead, he kept going.

Behind him, he heard the faintest wail of a siren. Maybe Brian had managed to summon help after all. If that was the case, using the Suburban as a roadblock hadn’t been such a smart idea after all. It might keep the Strykers from getting back on the highway, but it would sure as hell keep backup from getting through as well.

Great planning, Brandon told himself grimly. Hell of a good plan!

Come on, PeeWee,” Brian shouted at his partner. “Brandon needs help.”

Clambering up and over a mountain of spilled gravel, he saw the two cars-Brandon’s dark green Suburban and a white sedan-sitting nose to nose. Brian set off at a gallop, but even as he did so, he knew that with him on foot, they were too far away-much too far.

Loping down the highway, Brian heard the sickening sounds of gunfire. Pop. Pop. Pop. He tried not to think about what that meant. He kept running, juggling his cell phone as he went.

“Nine one one. What are you reporting?”

“Shots fired,” Brian gasped into the phone. “Officer needs assistance.”

He saw a cloud of steam billowing from under the Suburban’s hood. He saw the Lexus take off. He heard more shots and saw puffs of smoke as Brandon returned fire. The Lexus wavered and slowed, but it didn’t stop. Brian kept running, but he wasn’t close to making up the distance when Brandon shoved the steaming Suburban into reverse, turned, and took off after the Lexus.

Brian stopped then. There was no use running anymore. He would never catch them. He stood doubled over, breathing heavily.

“Sir,” a tiny voice whispered to him from very far away. “Are you still there? Sir?”

He looked down. His cell phone was still clutched in his doubled fist. “Yes,” he gasped. “I’m here.”

“What is your position? Are you at the scene of the gravel-truck rollover?”

“Yes. No. I’m on Highway 79, but I’m a quarter mile or more north of the gravel truck. I’m Detective Brian Fellows of the Pima County Sheriff’s Department. An armed homicide suspect is fleeing northbound on Highway 79. A private citizen-a private investigator-is in pursuit.”

“A DPS unit is on its way, coming southbound from Red Rock. It should be there in a few minutes.”

“Good,” Brian managed. “Maybe he can intercept them, but remember to tell him ‘Shots fired.’ The guy in the Lexus should be considered armed and dangerous.”

Two more southbound vehicles went past, but Brian made no effort to flag them down. Instead, he started back toward the gravel truck-toward PeeWee and the Crown Vic’s police radio. With that he’d have a better idea of what was going on.

It was only a matter of two or three minutes until he heard the wail of a distant siren. At first Brian wasn’t sure if it was from emergency vehicles arriving at the gravel truck from the other direction or the DPS unit responding from Red Rock. As it came closer and closer, though, he realized it was coming toward him from the north, and it didn’t turn off. When Brian saw the flashing lights, he realized that the State Patrol officer must have disregarded his request to intercept the fleeing Lexus.

Brian Fellows stepped onto the pavement and waved frantically. The cruiser screeched to a stop. The passenger-side window rolled down and a female officer peered out at him. “What’s the problem?” she asked.

“Didn’t you get the call?” Brian demanded. “I sent word for you to intercept a pair of homicide suspects fleeing north in a Lexus.”

“You’re Detective Fellows, then?” she asked, which meant she had gotten the message. Why the hell had she ignored it? Brian nodded.

“I’m Officer Downs,” she said, unlocking the door. “Get in. I never saw any Lexus.”

“What about a Suburban, then?” he asked as he clambered into the vehicle. “A green Suburban driven by a private detective. It would have been smoking. I think the suspect nailed the radiator to put it out of commission.”

Officer Downs was already turning her vehicle around. “Oh,” she said. “I saw that.”

“The Suburban?”

She nodded.

“Where?”

“A mile or two back. It was parked along the road, but I was responding to everything else. Fasten your seat belt, please,” she added, and took off.

As they drove, Brian tried to give her some background. Two minutes later they reached Flying C Ranch Road. When Brian saw the Suburban parked crookedly astraddle the cattle guard, his heart fell. He jumped out of the cruiser and raced up to the Suburban, more than half expecting to find Brandon Walker’s body slumped in the front seat. It wasn’t. The vehicle was empty-locked and empty.

Brian was turning back to Officer Downs, who had joined him by the Suburban, when a volley of gunshots came from somewhere up Flying C Ranch Road. “Did you hear that?” he demanded. “They must be somewhere up there.”

But Officer Downs was already heading back to her vehicle. She popped open the trunk and returned carrying a pair of wire cutters. Next to the cattle guard was a gate held shut with a padlocked chain. In moments she cut through the chain and the gate swung open. “You wearing a vest?” she asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. Me, too.”

Together they leaped back into her cruiser. Brian’s foot was still on the ground as Officer Downs pulled out.

Brandon darted through the trees-a grove of magnificent tough old eucalyptus-grateful for the cooling shade and the protective cover they offered. The screen was only six or seven trees thick. Nearing the far side, Brandon realized he was out of breath. He hadn’t thought he was moving that fast, but he slowed and tried to catch his breath-tried to stop sounding like an overworked steam engine.

Pausing under the trees, he could see that he was approaching the ranch and outbuildings from behind. There in front of him-parked side by side-were two matching Lexus sedans. Doors and trunks to both vehicles were wide open, and Gayle was hurriedly transferring luggage and other items from one to the other.

There was no sign of Larry and no sign of Gayle’s weapon. Brandon stopped behind the nearest tree. “Drop your weapon,” he ordered. “Place both hands on the vehicle.”

Gayle Stryker stopped what she was doing, stood still, and turned toward him, but he could tell from the way her eyes scanned the trees that she hadn’t seen him-had no idea where he was.

“I said, drop your weapon!”

“What if I said no?” Her response was cool and defiant, but the bravado didn’t quite work. Her voice cracked slightly on that last word, and Brandon heard it.

“Give it up, Gayle. One way or the other, you’re not leaving here.”

“You never had any idea who you were dealing with, Brandon Walker. And you never will.”

The exchange of words must have been enough to give away his position. Putting her right hand in her blazer pocket, she charged, coming straight for the tree trunk that sheltered him. Her hand never came out of the pocket, but he heard a single slug slam into the far side of the eucalyptus.

Then he fired, too. One, two, three, four, five separate shots. His years of range practice paid off. The deadly pattern appeared like spots of bright red paint on her chest.

The barrage of bullets stopped her forward motion. Swaying, she looked down at her chest in surprise and then fell face-first into the dirt.

Brandon smelled cordite mixed with eucalyptus and the combination somehow made him think of his mother’s old cold remedy. He knew he needed to stay hidden in case someone else came out of the house, but he was having a hard time remembering all that-keeping it straight. Brandon heard the siren again. It seemed closer now-closer and louder, but there was a pain in Brandon’s chest that was worse than anything he’d ever felt.

Damn, he thought as he crumpled slowly to the ground. I didn’t think I was hit, but she must’ve got me after all.

With Officer Downs at the wheel, the patrol car screamed into the yard of The Flying C. Brian saw the two Lexus sedans parked side by side, with all the doors and with both trunks open, but there was no sign of movement, no sign of life.

“There,” Officer Downs said, pointing. “Someone’s on the ground.”

Brian reached Gayle Stryker’s body first. He saw at a glance that she was dead. Then he looked around for Brandon. It took only a few seconds to find him, but for Brian those seconds lasted forever. Finally he spotted him. “Here he is!” Brian shouted. “I think he’s been shot.”

Together Officer Downs and Brian raced to Brandon Walker’s side. He wasn’t breathing. There was no pulse. But there was no blood, either-no sign of any wounds other than a gash on his head from where he had scraped his head on the rough tree bark as he fell.

“He’s not shot,” Officer Downs surmised. “I think he’s had a heart attack. Get that vest off him. I’ve got a defibrillator in the car. I’ll be right back.”

She returned moments later carrying a bag of equipment. “I’ve been through the training,” she said as she knelt next to Brandon’s still body, “but I’ve never used one of these things in the field before.”

“Let’s hope it works,” Brian Fellows told her. “Let’s hope to God it works!”

J. A. Jance

Day of the Dead

Thirty

Then, after a time, the woman heard someone speaking very, very softly. She knew without looking that it was I’itoi-Elder Brother-who was speaking to her.

I’itoi said: The babies are here, my sister. They are the babies who have left their mothers, just as your baby has left you, to live with me. These tiny brown curled leaves are the cradles in which the little ones go to sleep when they are tired. These babies who have left their mothers are very happy with me. And they do not like you to feel as you do. That is why they are crying now in their tiny brown leaf-cradles. Are you different from all the mothers?”

And the woman raised her head from her hands and smiled. And from all around her came the sound of babies laughing.

Then the woman took her own brown cradle blanket and went back to the village.

She found the neighbor women busy in her home. The ground was swept and cleaned. The fire was burning under the cooking olla.

A friend called out to her not to go too close to the fire; the smoke would make her eyes bad. But an old Indian woman who looked at her sharply said, “She has talked to I’itoi.”

And always after this the woman’s eyes seemed to be looking a great way off. Sometimes you see eyes like that, big and quiet but looking beyond-farther and farther. Then you will know, that person has talked to I’itoi.

When Brandon Walker finally opened his eyes, it took time for him to make sense of his surroundings. He was alone in a dimly lit room that seemed to be filled with a collection of humming medical equipment. Pinned to the pillow beside him was a cord with a button on it, a call button, he reasoned.

He was about to push it when Diana came into the room. Her hair was pulled back in a ragged ponytail. She wore no makeup. Her face was lined with weariness. She looked more haggard than he had ever seen her, but when she saw him looking up at her, her face brightened while her eyes glistened with sudden tears.

“You’re awake,” she said, reaching for his hand and gripping it tightly in her own, squeezing it until his knuckles ground together.

Brandon tried to speak, but something prevented it.

“It’s the tube,” she explained. “You can’t talk until they take it out.”

He freed his hand from hers and then made a writing motion. Diana searched until she found pencil and paper. When she handed it to him, he scrawled a single question mark onto the paper.

“You had a heart attack,” she said. “Brian found you-Brian and a DPS officer named Cassie Downs, who happened to have a defibrillator in her patrol car. She managed to get your heart going again. Fortunately, there was a helicopter there to pick up someone from the gravel-truck accident. The woman in the Honda didn’t make it. The medevac chopper picked you up instead and brought you here.”

Brandon took the paper from Diana’s hand. He pointed to the question mark a second time.

“You mean, where’s ‘here’?” she asked.

Brandon nodded impatiently.

“You’re at Tucson Medical Center,” she said. “You’ve had triple bypass surgery. Damn Dr. Browder, anyway. He was always going on about your hip and your knee. Why the hell didn’t he say something about your heart?” With that, Diana Ladd burst into tears.

The next time Brandon opened his eyes, he was in a different room altogether. Through drawn blinds he could tell that it was daylight outside. When he felt his face, the tube was gone. Minutes later, the door swung open. Brandon expected Diana or Lani to appear at his bedside. Instead, Brian Fellows sank silently onto the chair beside the bed.

“I’m awake,” Brandon said, causing Brian to jump. “And thirsty as hell. Is there any water around here?”

A water glass with a straw in it sat on the table. Brian had spent years caring for his invalid mother. With a practiced hand, he helped Brandon take a drink. “Not too much,” he cautioned.

“Where am I?”

“ICU,” Brian replied. “Family visitors only,” he said. “Diana told them I’m family.” He turned away, sniffled briefly, and wiped his eyes before turning back.

Brandon reached out and grasped the younger man’s hand. “You always have been,” he said.

They were both quiet for a few seconds, until Brandon let go. “What happened?” he asked.

“You had a heart attack.”

“Not to me,” Brandon Walker said gruffly. “The Strykers.”

“They’re dead,” Brian said. “Both of them. Gayle had a private jet reserved to fly to Mexico that night. From what we’ve been able to learn, she was leaving on her own, but Larry must have figured out what she was up to, and she shot him. If it hadn’t been for you sitting on Larry Stryker’s butt, chances are one or both of them might have gotten away.”

“Are you saying they were both involved in Roseanne Orozco’s murder?”

Brian Fellows sighed heavily and nodded. “That and a whole lot more,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it sometime, but not now. Later. When you’re better.”

Lani Walker sat on the hardbacked chair in the waiting room, holding tight to Looks at Nothing’s precious crystals. During the past two days, she had spent hours in the waiting room outside the cardiac ICU. It seemed like a lifetime. Lani had learned more than she’d ever wanted to know about what it felt like to be in a hospital waiting room-waiting. With this new, unwanted knowledge, she vowed that someday, when she was the person coming through the door in her surgical scrubs, she would remember how it felt to be one of the people here-sitting in this awful purgatory, trapped somewhere between despair and hope.

Her mother had been here most of the time, and Davy a lot of it. Brian Fellows, however, off work on what was being termed “administrative leave,” was a constant presence. Through the long, lonely hours, he had-without meaning to, without knowing quite why-spilled his guts to Lani, telling her about Larry Stryker’s appalling notebooks and about the awful toll Gayle and Larry Stryker had taken in their long reign of terror. DNA and a series of long unexamined fingerprint cold-case evidence had now linked the two of them to fourteen separate cases. Unfortunately, the notebooks held pictures of several more girls than that, dead teenage girls who had yet to be identified.

When he finished, he expected Lani to be as torn up about it as he was. Lani merely nodded. “I knew she was evil,” she said.

“How did you know?” Brian asked.

Lani shrugged. “Fat Crack told me,” she said, knowing somehow that it was an answer Brian could understand and accept.

“But all those poor girls,” Brian continued. The pictures he had seen haunted him in a way nothing else ever had. “Nobody reported them missing,” he said. “No one went looking for them. Once someone really started working the cases, it didn’t take much time to sort it out. Bottom line? Nobody cared.”

Lani reached out and took Brian’s hand in hers. “That’s not true,” she said. “Somebody did too care about them-you and Dad. Those murdered girls may never have had their day in court, but at least they had their day.”

“Yes,” Brian Fellows said sadly. “That’s the best we could give them-a day of the dead.”

When Brandon opened his eyes next, Diana sat dozing in the chair. Knowing how stressed and tired she had to be, he said nothing and let her sleep. Tentatively raising his hand, he managed to reach the water glass on his own. When he did so, he noticed a single red rosebud sitting in a vase.

Eventually Diana woke up. “Good morning,” he said, smiling at her. “I’ll bet you’re tired.”

“A little,” she admitted. “How long have you been awake?”

“Not long,” he fibbed. “Only a few minutes. Thanks for the flower.”

Diana looked at the rosebud and then back to her husband. “That’s not from me,” she said. “It’s from Emma Orozco. She wanted to say thank you, but only relatives are allowed in the ICU.”

“If you see her again,” Brandon Walker said, “give her a message for me. Tell Emma both Fat Crack Ortiz and I say she’s welcome.”