by Jance, J. A.
“What others?”
“The ones I don’t know about,” Arabella said. “There must have been others. Those are the ones I think about when I can’t sleep. He was never punished for any of those. But that’s also why he kept his hand, you see. I think that was his way of trying to punish my mother for what I had done to him. That’s why I have it. I did it for her.”
“Did your mother know you had Bill Junior’s hand?”
“I doubt it,” Arabella said.
“When it comes to punishment, what about you?” Ali asked, glancing at Arabella in the rearview mirror. “Should you be punished for what you did?”
“I suppose,” Arabella said. “But I don’t want to be locked up again. Mother promised me that I never would be.”
“Did she know what you had done?”
“Maybe,” Arabella said. “Probably.”
“Your mother wasn’t a judge and jury,” Ali said. “She had no right to make that promise.”
“But she did,” Arabella insisted. “And I believed her. Here we are.”
They entered a small clearing. Ali looked around, expecting to see a small, snug cabin, but she saw nothing. No outline of a building; no flashes of headlights off windowpanes. But then there was something—a gleam in the dark. She pulled closer. What she saw was her headlights reflecting back off what remained of half a wall.
“There’s nothing here,” Ali explained. “There’s no cabin.”
“I know,” Arabella said. “It burned down last summer. Vandals.”
“Then what are we doing here?”
“We’re going to sit here for a while,” Arabella said. “We’re going to sit here and let me think. Then I’m going to say goodbye.”
Good-bye! Ali thought. Good-bye? She’s going to kill me. What the hell am I supposed to do now?
{ CHAPTER 19 }
It was after ten by the time the two detectives left Arabella’s house and headed back to Phoenix.
“Damn,” Larry Marsh complained. “It annoys the hell out of me to think that Arabella snowed us completely.”
“Sounds like she snowed everybody, Mr. Brooks included. And don’t forget Alison Reynolds and Billy Ashcroft. She told Billy she was dead broke. According to Brooks, that’s not the case at all. The money may not be liquid, but it’s there. She told Ali Reynolds all about this mysterious diary of hers, one you’ve even seen, but her butler never saw it. How can that be? My guess is we could hook Arabella up to a lie detector, ask her questions all day long, and have her come up with two or more contradictory answers to every question without ever having any of them register as a lie. If she’s crazy, she probably doesn’t know the difference between fact and fiction, to say nothing of right or wrong.”
“Which will make her damned hard to convict.”
“In my book she’s a person of interest in four different homicides—Billy and Bill Junior as well as the firebug and the nurse at the Mosberg. What’s kept her from knifing poor old Brooks in his sleep all this time?”
“Enlightened self-interest,” Larry said with a mirthless chuckle. “If she did that, who would bring her her morning coffee?”
As Larry drove south on I-17, Hank called Dave Holman to check on the APB. “Still no word?”
“None,” Dave said. “As long ago as they left, they could be anywhere by now—through Phoenix or Flagstaff and halfway to California or New Mexico. If they’re still on the move, we should have found them.”
“How’s Ali’s family holding up?” Hank asked.
“About how you’d expect. I’m here at the house with her son and his girlfriend. Her parents went home to go to bed. After what went on at the hospital last night, everybody’s pretty much strung out,” Dave said. “But she saved my daughter’s life, and now we’ve got to save hers.”
Ali and Arabella sat in the Rolls with the engine running for the better part of the next half hour. Several times, when Ali tried to say something, Arabella insisted on silence. “I told you,” she said. “I need to think.”
Ali was thinking, too. With the sweat trickling down her sides and with her stomach in a knot, she was appalled by their complete isolation. They had seen no lights on the way down the narrow road, no other signs of habitation.
We’re completely alone, Ali thought. No one on earth knows we’re here. Arabella will shoot me and then herself and it’ll be weeks before anyone finds us.
Last night, in the hospital, she hadn’t had time to be scared. Jason had been there—a mortal threat to everyone he met—and Ali had simply reacted. This was different. As the minutes crept by, one by one, Ali thought she understood how condemned prisoners must feel on the night they’re due to be executed.
I don’t want to be dead, Ali told herself. I’m not ready.
“All right then,” Arabella said finally, emerging from her trancelike silence. “Here.”
Ali turned to look as Arabella held up the jar. “I told you I came to say good-bye. Now get out of the car and take this over there to where the porch used to be.”
Ali was shocked to see Arabella was handing her the jar.
“No,” Ali said. “I won’t touch it.”
“Yes, you will,” Arabella insisted. “Have you forgotten I have a gun?”
Ali hadn’t forgotten about the gun, not for a single moment.
“All right.”
Leaving the headlights on and the engine still running, Ali took the jar and got out of the car. Her legs seemed ready to collapse under her and the jar was surprisingly heavy, but she held it to her breast. She didn’t want to drop it; didn’t want to be splattered by the awfulness inside.
Picking her way across uneven ground, she made her way toward the nonexistent cabin. On either side of the clearing she could make out patches of snow. Ahead of her the denuded concrete pad of the house glowed against the surrounding blackness. Shivering with cold and revulsion both, Ali walked as far as what looked like the footprint of a porch.
“Set it down,” Arabella ordered. “Set it down right there and step away.”
Ali did as she was told. As she moved toward the Rolls, she saw Arabella assume a military stance, holding the tiny pistol in a two-handed grip. Petrified, Ali plunged to the ground. She was already facedown in the dirt when the sound of the gunfire pierced the silence of the bitterly cold night.
Behind her, the glass jar exploded into a million pieces. For a long moment, Ali huddled on the ground while the sound of that single gunshot reverberated in her ears. She lay there holding her breath, wondering if she’d been hurt by any of the flying glass and waiting for the next shot—which didn’t come. Finally she looked up to find Arabella still standing calmly beside the Rolls and holding the gun at her side as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.
“There,” she said, casually waving the gun in Ali’s direction. “I’ve said my good-byes. Come on now,” she added. “I’m done here. Get in and let’s go home.”
Ali’s knees were quaking and her hands shook as she resumed her place behind the wheel. She knew something about firearms. It was clear to her that Arabella Ashcroft was one hell of a shot. Ali knew, too, that if Arabella had really intended to kill her there was no question that she would be dead.
Thank God I didn’t try to run earlier, Ali thought. She would have plugged me full of holes.
“What kind of gun is that?” Ali asked, trying to normalize the tension in the car with conversation.
“A Smith and Wesson Ladysmith,” Arabella said. “It’s a genuine antique. Belonged to my mother. Fires seven rounds.”
Which means there are probably six shots left.
“Where did you learn to shoot?” Ali asked.
“I was trained by a former Royal Marine commando,” Arabella answered.
In the darkness, Ali rolled her eyes. Sure you were, she thought. And I’m a monkey’s uncle.
“He tells me I’m a very good shot,” Arabella added.
Arabella Ashcroft may have been a liar, but
that last statement was indisputably true. She was an excellent shot. She was also a cold-blooded killer.
As they headed away from the burned-out cabin, Ali tried to come to grips with how to deal with someone who was clearly a pathological liar. The same had been true for Arabella’s mother, Anna Lee. Their checks had been good when they had offered Ali her scholarship, but was anything else she knew about them true?
Arabella claimed to be broke, and the mending on that old cardigan—Brooks’s workmanship most likely—was real enough, but the coat Arabella was wearing right that minute was probably worth several thousand dollars. Arabella had implied that she’d had something to do with several murders. She had coyly refrained from coming right out and admitting to any of them, but the jar had been real enough.
“Where did you keep it?” Ali asked.
“Keep what?”
“The jar. With your brother’s hand. You said you got it from Bill Junior. If you were locked up at the time, surely you weren’t allowed to keep it in your room.”
“You’d be surprised,” Arabella said. “You’ve never been locked up anywhere, have you?”
“No.”
“I had both the jar and the briefcase,” Arabella said. “The briefcase with the jar inside it. Someone I was nice to there took it home and kept it for me, kept it until I was ready to have it again.”
“How long?”
“Eight years. From 1956 until 1964, when they shut down Bancroft House.”
“What’s Bancroft House?” Ali asked. “I thought you were at the Mosberg Institute.”
“Bancroft came later,” Arabella said. “After the Mosberg.”
“And somebody was willing to keep it for you for that long, with no questions asked?”
“That all depends,” Arabella answered coyly.
“On what?”
“On what you have to trade.”
On the drive back to Sedona, Ali kept hoping eventually Arabella would fall asleep, but she didn’t. Ali prayed that somewhere along the way they’d see a patrol car of some kind. That didn’t happen, either. By midnight, as they made their way up the hill to Arabella’s house, there was almost no traffic of any kind. But when they pulled into the yard at Arabella’s house, the garage door was wide open and a stack of suitcases stood barring the spot where Arabella expected Ali to park the Rolls.
“What is all that stuff?” Arabella demanded. “Honk the horn. Get Mr. Brooks out here to move it.”
“Arabella, it’s the middle of the night. People are asleep. I can’t be honking the horn.”
Just then the whole discussion became moot when Leland Brooks, lugging another pair of suitcases, entered the garage through the kitchen door. He set them down with the rest of the luggage then straightened slowly and started toward the Rolls.
Ali didn’t know what to do. Should she warn him away? Let him come ahead on and hope that, between the two of them, they could somehow wrestle the loaded weapon from Arabella’s hand? Before Ali could respond one way or the other, Brooks made straight for the back door and opened it. “Good evening, madam,” he said to Arabella. “I’m glad you’re home.”
He reached in and took the briefcase. Without objection, Arabella allowed herself to be helped from the car. “Get all that junk out of the way so she can pull into the garage,” Arabella ordered. “And what on earth are you doing in that god-awful outfit?”
That was the first Ali actually noticed how Brooks was dressed—in a bright blue sequined cowboy shirt, narrow-legged jeans, and cowboy boots.
“Don’t you like it?” he asked.
“Of course I don’t like it,” Arabella said irritably. “You look like you’re about to go out trick-or-treating. And what is all this mess?”
“It’s my luggage,” Brooks replied. “My ride should be here in a while.”
“Ride?” Arabella repeated. “You’re going someplace? You’re taking a trip?”
“Yes, madam,” Brooks said. “I’m afraid I’m leaving.”
“Leaving! You can’t do that. You can’t be serious.”
“I’m entirely serious,” Brooks returned. “I know I promised your mother that I’d look after you, but I’m afraid I can’t do that anymore. You’re far too dangerous—to yourself and others—including Madam Reynolds here. You are all right, aren’t you Ms. Reynolds?”
His manner was as calm and unruffled as if he were inquiring about whether she wanted one lump or two in her tea.
“Yes,” Ali managed with some difficulty. “I’m fine.”
“Good,” he said. “Very good.” Then he turned back to Arabella. “I have reason to believe you’ve somehow managed to get into the safe and remove the guns. I’m sure that must be how you convinced Madam Reynolds to accompany you on this little jaunt tonight. Is that true?”
Arabella stared at him as if he were speaking some incomprehensible foreign language.
“Well?” he prompted. She said nothing and he held out his hand. “Give it to me,” he said. “Give me the gun.”
And to Ali’s utter astonishment, Arabella complied.
“Where’s the other one?” he asked.
“In the briefcase.”
“Very well, then. Let’s go inside. It’s cold out here. I took the liberty of starting a fire in the living room in hopes you’d come to your senses and come home. We can talk there. You’re welcome, too, Ms. Reynolds, if you wish. You might want to phone your family and let them know you’re safe, but if you don’t mind, I’d like to make a call or two first.”
With Arabella leaning on his arm, Leland led her into the house. With him in his cowboy duds and her in her fur-coated finery, the two of them made an incongruous but somehow dignified pair. Seeing them together reminded Ali of pictures of the queen mum being escorted in some royal processional. They went in through the laundry room and kitchen—through parts of the house Ali had never seen before—where appliances that looked as though they should have been genuine antiques consigned to museums seemed to be still functional. They walked through the chilly dining room with its massive polished wood table and matching sideboard.
As promised, a cheerful fire was burning in the living room. Brooks deftly relieved Arabella of her coat and then deposited her in one of the chairs facing the fire.
“I notice your computer is missing,” he said. “I’m assuming it hasn’t been stolen.”
“It’s in the trunk of the Rolls,” she said. “I was going to get rid of it, but then I forgot.”
“Very well, madam,” Brooks said. “I’ll bring it back inside later. Now would you care for something to drink?”
“Oh my, yes. I’d love one of your martinis about now, Mr. Brooks. Wouldn’t you, Ali? As cold as you can make them, of course, but do change out of those ridiculous clothes before you serve us.”
Ali’s head was spinning. By force of sheer willpower Leland Brooks had somehow managed to create a sense of normalcy out of chaos. His steadfast calm in the face of Arabella’s erratic frenzy seemed to have dragged Arabella back into the real world as well. Was this how he had handled her all these years?
“Is that what you would like, Madam Reynolds?” Brooks asked. “A martini?”
“Yes, please,” Ali said. “That would be fine. And a telephone.”
“Very well. Please have a seat here by the fire. I’ll be right back.”
He took the coat and draped it over the back of a nearby chair and then exited the room, taking the briefcase with him. Arabella leaned into her chair, closed her eyes briefly, and sighed with contentment. She seemed happy to be home. Maybe she’s finally running out of steam, Ali thought.
Facedown on the table between the two chairs lay a well-thumbed paperback copy of Louis Lamour’s High Lonesome. Ali picked it up and looked at the cover. The two-dollar price tag printed on the cover probably meant that it had been around for a long time.
Arabella opened her eyes. “That’s Mr. Brooks’s book,” she said. “He likes westerns. He reads to me sometime
s when I can’t sleep. Since my memory’s shot a lot of the time, it doesn’t matter if he reads the same story over and over.”
What a good man, Ali thought.
When Brooks returned to the living room, he brought with him a tray laden with shakers and glasses along with a thick stack of papers and a telephone. He put the tray on a side table, then he handed the phone to Ali, and approached Arabella with the collection of papers.
“Before I pour the drinks,” he said, “there are a few items that must be attended to.”
“Like what?” Arabella asked. “And why haven’t you changed clothes?”
“This is a listing agreement,” he replied, ignoring her question. “I finished signing it just a few minutes before you arrived. The real estate agent was more than happy to make an after-hours visit.”
“A listing agreement for what?”
“To sell the house, of course,” he answered. “Since I have your power of attorney, I’ve already signed it, but I wanted you to have an opportunity to review the documents.”
Arabella seemed totally dismayed. “We’re selling the house?” she asked. “But why? Where are we going to live?”
Ali’s first phone call was to the sheriff’s department, where she told the dispatcher what was going on and left a message asking Dave to come get her. Next she dialed her home number.
“Mom,” Chris said anxiously. “Is that you? Thank God. Where are you? Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” she said. “I’m at Arabella’s house.”
“Athena and I can pick you up.”
“No. I just talked to the sheriff’s department. Dave’s most likely already on his way here. This is going to take time. Dave will be glad to give me a ride home when things are sorted out.”
By the time Ali was off the phone, the martinis were poured, but Arabella was once again in a towering rage. “You can’t do that to me,” she screeched at Leland Brooks. “You can’t sell the house right out from under me. It’s not fair. Why are you doing this?”
