by J. C. Eaton
Thanks to Myrna, my shirt was beginning to get that icky sour smell as if a baby had recently “cheesed” on it. I tried to ignore it as I drove to Copperstone Drive, a garden apartment complex with separate courtyard areas, each one named for a different bird. Eloise lived in North Finch, Apt. 14B. I parked my car on the street and charged to her door, pounding on it first until I located her doorbell, disguised as a small frog.
With the door open a crack, and a door chain in place, Eloise peered through. All I could see was short frizzy hair and wire-rimmed glasses.
“If this is something political, I’m not signing. I’m also not buying anything either.”
“No. Not any of that. Listen, I think you might be in danger. Real danger. From Sorrel Harlan’s killer.”
“What? Who are you? I’m calling the posse.”
“Yes. Call them. It’s a good idea. I’m Sophie Kimball. I work for Williams Investigations. But they didn’t send me here. I’m their accountant. Bookkeeper. Well, actually, both.”
The words came out of my mouth in spits and spatters. It was a wonder I made sense at all.
“I was at Bagels ’N More and overheard two men talking. In the parking lot. They didn’t see me. One was Brent, the maintenance director for Golfscapes, and the other was Edmund Wooster.”
“Edmund Wooster is plotting to kill me? I’ve been sitting across from him for two years at those meetings. Why on earth would he want to kill me?”
“Please, may I come inside?”
I must’ve looked harmless enough because she unlocked the chain and let me in, closing and locking the door. We stood in her foyer as I continued to talk.
“When Sorrel Harlan came up with that idea to create the eco-friendly neighborhood parks instead of keeping all of the golf courses, it wasn’t only the golf course homeowners who had a lot to lose. It was the maintenance company for those golf courses. And that’s big bucks. Millions. Edmund Wooster resigned from the board because he took a management position with Golfscapes. A position he will likely lose if the property is converted to parks.”
“But murder? People would kill for that?”
“You’d be surprised what people kill for.”
“And Brent Haywood was in on this? That’s his last name—Haywood. He always seemed like such a nice young man. Very organized. Very capable. Are you sure about all of this? Maybe you misunderstood something.”
“I don’t think so. I’ve already notified my boss, since our company has been working on the case. I drove over here to warn you. Keep your door locked. And don’t go anywhere until you hear from me or someone from my office. You can make that call to the posse, but I’m on my way over there now.”
I handed her my card, and this time, I didn’t have to cover up anything with my thumb.
Eloise looked at the card and looked at me. “Murder. Over an eco-friendly park. I hope you’re wrong, dear.”
The lock clicked behind me as I headed to my car. By now, my shirt really stunk. I couldn’t wait to get home, throw it in the wash, and take a shower, but I still had one more stop to make—the posse station. Nate and Marshall hadn’t returned my calls. The phone was set on the highest ringtone and nothing. Well, they couldn’t blame me if they weren’t around to deal with this.
Copperstone Drive was dark and quiet. Unlike the newer parts of town, the streetlights were dimmer, although small coach lights that resembled lanterns were affixed to the outside walls of each courtyard. I reached in my pocket and fished my car key out from under the cell phone, shoving aside the few paperclips I had stashed in there. Since I hated those automatic car door openers, I opted to use the old-fashioned key. The car fob sat in one of my kitchen drawers, along with a screwdriver and a pair of pliers.
I turned the key and reached for the door handle when a crushing pain erupted on the top of my skull.
* * *
The next thing I remembered was severe nausea. I reached out to steady myself on the car door, only I wasn’t anywhere near my car. I was on the ground, my back leaning against a wall. I was inside some sort of room, a room where shallow light was seeping through the cracks. Too dizzy to focus, I closed my eyes and concentrated on my breathing.
It was the staple of every Tai Chi class I’d ever attended, not to mention all the other exercise classes I’d tried before quitting. Somehow my breathing soothed me, although I still felt as if I was about to throw up.
What the hell. It’s not as if my shirt doesn’t stink already thanks to Myrna’s creamer.
My eyes felt as if they were glued shut and the more I struggled to open them, the tighter they felt. Finally I was able to blink and eventually I was able to open them. Total darkness. The shallow light was gone. How long was I in here? It seemed to take forever until I could make out my surroundings. Not much to see. I was in a shed. A shed with gardening tools. Or were they golf clubs? Whoever had hit me over the head and locked me in here hadn’t bothered to tie me up. It had to be Brent. He must’ve figured I wouldn’t be waking up any time soon. That wasn’t good. It meant he wasn’t done with me.
My bag and car keys were probably lying on Copperstone Drive, next to the car, but my cell phone was still in my pocket. I moved my hand slowly and pulled it out, thankful I’d remembered to charge it during the day.
The screen looked fuzzy, so I did something I’d never done before. I asked Siri to place a call to Marshall. Again with the stupid voice mail. Same deal for Nate. They both got the same raspy message. “Help! Trapped! Maintenance shed!” I made one more call and left the same message.
Then I decided to try 911 but never got the chance. Someone was unlocking the door. I shoved the phone back in my pocket and pretended to be unconscious. I didn’t have to pretend too hard.
With my body slumped over and my arms hanging loosely at my sides, Sorrel’s killer probably assumed I was still out of it. And he was partially right. Still, I was able to figure out exactly where I was the minute he dragged me from the shed and hoisted me over his shoulder into a golf cart. The only thing I didn’t know was which golf course I was on.
I played along as the cart rolled through the course, its lights off. The motion was making me sicker by the minute, and I had to fight back the urge to unleash the bile that had come up in my throat. Even on one of my best days, there would’ve been no way I could’ve outrun the guy. And now, with a possible concussion (my own diagnosis), it was impossible. I remained bent over trying to strategize my next move.
The golf cart turned onto a narrow path that led directly to one of the streets. Edmund Wooster was standing next to a car, his face partially illuminated by someone’s pathway lighting that needed to be adjusted. The beam focused upward and not on the path. Unless the homeowner walked the perimeter of his or her property at night, they wouldn’t have noticed the uneven pathway lighting.
“Hurry up and open the door,” Brent hissed. “It’s like dragging dead weight.”
Dead weight. The last words I’ll ever hear about myself.
I let him heave me into the backseat and tried to hear what he and Edmund were saying.
“You’re going to do what you said, right? Leave her in the desert?”
Brent didn’t respond.
“You said you’re going to leave her in the desert. What do you plan to do? Shoot her?”
“Never owned a gun. There are other ways to get things done. You really don’t get it, do you, Wooster? This lady’s testimony in court could put us away for life. Let me deal with her and then take care of that Frable lady. You coming along or what?”
“It doesn’t look like she’s going anywhere. So, no. I’ll pass.”
“And miss out on seeing the desert at night? All those beautiful moonlit saguaros and chollas.”
“If you say so.”
I tried to recall the conversation Marshall had had with the range manager for the archery club. Something about people going out in the desert to practice with hay bales or foam archery targets. Brent Haywoo
d had to be one of them. Only this time he didn’t need to bring a practice target. He had me. And I was in no condition to make a move. Not yet, anyway.
Saying you’re going to take a drive out in the desert is like saying you’re going to take a dip in the Atlantic Ocean. The desert is everywhere as soon as you leave city limits, and there are a zillion dirt access roads.
The door next to me slammed shut while another one opened. Brent was getting into the front seat, and I was running out of options. My body felt as if it was made of lead, and every time I moved my head, I got dizzy. I was, however, able to position myself so I could see where he was headed. First, out of the Sun City West complex and onto Route 60, Grand Avenue. He was headed north. We drove under the 303 overpass and were on our way to Wickenburg.
The city lights were gone, but I recognized where we were by the small clusters of house lights—Wittman, the only populated area between Surprise and Wickenburg. Brent made a left-hand turn onto an unmarked road. The car slowed for a minute as he made another turn. Judging by the crunch of stones under the tires, it was a dirt road, probably leading to where the guy did his target practice.
My heart was racing and my head began to clear. I had to think fast. No time for a strategic escape plan. It was minute to minute, if I even had that long. The good news? He didn’t have a gun. He’d said as much. I seriously doubted he was going to waste time with a bow and arrow when he could easily dump me from the car and drive over me. I slid my hand in my pocket and felt the phone. Too damn late to make a call and too obvious to send a text. Then, my fingers touched something else—the paperclips. And they were the big ones.
Slowly, I pried one of the clips apart until it was fairly straight. The tip was sharp, but I wasn’t sure if it would be sharp enough. It didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if I had anything else going for me. I kept my head bent down and my body slouched over as Brent continued on the dirt road.
I had one chance to jab that clip into his neck and brace myself for what would happen next. He’d temporarily lose control of the car, giving me enough time to open the door and run. With any luck, I’d be able to call 911. It was better than becoming the next roadkill.
My fingers gripped that paperclip, and, with a sudden burst of adrenaline that I never thought possible, I sat up in my seat, leaned forward, and plunged the paperclip into his neck. It went in easily, followed by a piercing scream—mine.
Brent shoved his hand back and turned away from the wheel, but his foot was still on the gas pedal. The car was moving. Not what I expected. Then, out of nowhere, something heavy crashed through the windshield, and we came to such a fast stop that my body flung forward into the back of the driver’s seat before resting against the backseat. At least I didn’t have to worry about unbuckling a seatbelt. I shoved the side door open and stumbled out, expecting Brent to do the same. I still had another uncoiled paperclip left.
The car’s headlights were on. The trunk of a small saguaro rested atop the airbag, toward the driver’s-side door. Another few feet and the airbag might not have made a difference. Those saguaros weigh a ton. The passenger-side door clicked, and it was as if I’d heard the starter pistol for a race. I grabbed my phone, slid the arrow, and screamed, “Siri, call nine-one-one!” But there was no race. My legs couldn’t move.
Brent muttered every four-letter word he knew as he made his way toward me. Then I remembered something Augusta had once told me. “Hells bells with the damn self-defense classes. Kick ’em hard between the legs and poke their eyes out if you have to.”
Leg kicking and eye poking weren’t my strengths. Unlike Augusta, I wasn’t brought up on a Wisconsin farm. My skillset was limited to latte sipping and doing business math.
“Nine-one-one. What’s your emergency?”
“Help! He’s going to kill me!”
Those were the only words I could scream before Brent grabbed the phone from my hand and threw it as far as he could. In that instant, I became a madwoman.
“Oh hell! That was a new iPhone. Three hundred and thirty hard-earned dollars, you SOB!”
And then I did it. I did what Augusta had told me to do. Almost. I lunged for him, but, instead of kicking, I made a fist and punched him right between the legs. And then I punched again. Brent doubled over as I heard a voice from the car.
“Are you alright, sir?”
At first I wasn’t sure where it was coming from or if I was imagining it. The voice from out of nowhere repeated the message, and I suddenly realized what it was—the automatic crash response from ONSTAR. Brent Haywood’s vehicle was from General Motors, and it came with ONSTAR. I could’ve kissed the dealership.
Screaming as loud as I could, my words were still soft and hoarse. “No! Send help now!”
I moved as fast as my sluggish legs would go until I reached the passenger-side door. Leaning in, I tried to yell again, “Help! Car crash! Hurry!”
“We’re sending help now,” was the response. I wasn’t sure if the ONSTAR system could detect my exact location, but what the heck? Neither could I. I did the best I could, shouting, “Wittman, dirt road, desert.”
The voice at the other end tried to be reassuring, but whoever was sitting in some dispatch office didn’t have a crazed killer a few feet away. I wasn’t about to take any chances. I gripped the remaining paperclip as if it was a spear.
“Make one move toward me and, I swear, this time I’ll rip out your arteries.”
My threat certainly sounded good, although I didn’t know an artery from a vein. Brent Haywood stood absolutely still by the driver’s-side door, while I kept a wary distance on the other side of the car. A voice in my head kept telling me he wasn’t going to stay still for long. Maybe I’d seen too many late-night zombie horror movies, but I knew the paperclip wasn’t going to be enough if the guy decided to make a move.
Slowly, I reached my hand to the shattered windshield and with a fist, gave it enough of a push to loosen a piece of the glass. With my other hand, I felt around the seat to see if there was anything I could use to prevent my fingers from getting cut. Come on. Every car has old tissues and rags stuffed in the console. All the while I maintained eye contact with my abductor. Not easy. Then I remembered the side door. In my car it was a catch-all for discarded fast food napkins. I felt around in its cubby and sure enough, found a wad of them. Hallelujah. Even so, removing the glass shard was tougher than I thought and my head felt as if it weighed a hundred pounds.
“It’s over you know,” I said. “Killing me now won’t save you.” Then, for good measure, I added the most overused, hackneyed phrase in the crime movie handbook, “You won’t get away with it.”
Brent must not have been a movie buff because, in that second, he stepped back from the car and lunged toward me. Only it wasn’t me. I had become some sort of wild crazed woman. With a paperclip in one hand, and a fairly sharp piece of glass in the other, albeit the bottom of it wrapped in old napkins, I stabbed at his arms with all the strength I had.
He tried to grab me but somehow missed. I had no idea how long I could hold him off. It didn’t matter. What mattered was I heard sirens in the distance and thanked my lucky stars the ONSTAR response was fast. Only, it wasn’t ONSTAR. Someone else had come to my rescue.
Chapter 32
The blue and red flashing lights were getting closer. One car, a sheriff’s car. No ambulance, no fire truck. Only someone from the Maricopa County Sheriff ’s Department. I figured they had to have been in close vicinity, and the other rescue vehicles would be along shortly.
My feet felt as if they were glued to the ground, and I was still queasy. I leaned against the frame of the car as two deputies approached.
“This lunatic woman tried to kill me!” Brent shouted. “Look, she even stabbed me in the neck! I lost control of the car and crashed into that cactus.”
“That’s not what happened,” I said. “I mean, the cactus part is true, but he abducted me. From Sun City West. Hit me over the head. Drove me here to
kill me.”
“She’s lying. She’s a lying little lunatic, and I can prove it. I’m bleeding.”
“What’s your name, miss?” the deputy asked.
“Sophie Kimball. And I work for Williams Investigations. That’s Brent Haywood, and he’s responsible for killing Sorrel Harlan.”
The deputy turned to the other deputy. “Send for an ambulance.”
“You’ve got to believe me. I’m telling you the truth,” I said.
“We know,” was the response. “Sun City West Posse got a call from an Eloise Frable. They sent someone over to her house to speak with her and found a car parked on Copperstone Drive with its keys on the ground by the driver’s-side door and a ladies’ purse next to it. Your identification was in the purse. They checked the registration and insurance from your glove compartment and it matched up.”
Just then, more sirens and more flashing lights. This time it was another sheriff’s car, an ambulance, and a firetruck from the city of Surprise.
“What the heck?” one of the deputies said. “They can’t be getting here that fast.”
“ONSTAR,” I replied. “But how did you know I was here? How did you find me?”
“Our office got another call. Someone named Augusta Hatch. And she was quite persistent. Said you were kidnapped and gave us your cell phone number to track your whereabouts. Unfortunately, we’re not Hawaii Five-O. It took a while. Good thing they put up a cell tower in Wittman not too long ago.”
“She’s lying, and I’m going to bleed to death,” Brent shouted.
The deputy closest to me turned to his partner. “Arrest him under suspicion of kidnapping. We’ll check into the rest. Have the EMTs look him over and get him to the hospital. Same with Miss Kimball. I’ll call for another ambulance.”
