by Diane Capri
“Nice place.” She looked at his gun. “Could you put that away?”
He lowered his Smith and Wesson a fraction.
She smiled.
He lowered the gun all the way. “Put your Glock in your bag.”
She did as he instructed. He kept his small cannon in his hand.
“Dirty Harry’s,” she said.
He grinned again. “Yes and no. His had the full ten-inch barrel.” He pointed the gun at the sky. “Eight inch is easier to handle in the woods.” He nodded toward her bag. “Your Glock. That good?”
She smiled. “One of the best. Good control on the recoil. Helps with multiple shots.”
He arched his eyebrows and widened his eyes. “Does a reporter need to fire multiple shots very often?”
“You’d be surprised.”
He laughed. A hearty, genuine mirth. “Is it accurate?”
“Very. For a handgun, of course.” She looked at the man, his beard, and the camos. “What’s your name?”
“Wilson. Fred Wilson.”
Jess smiled. He wasn’t trying to hide anything. All she needed him to do was get talking, but she had the feeling he’d never done that in his life.
“I’ve never fired a twenty-nine,” she lied.
He grinned. “Ditto with a Glock.”
She looked around the clearing. “There somewhere here we could use to try these guns out?”
Wilson grinned. He walked past Jess and down the rough track leading to his cabin. She followed.
They rounded the cabin, and she almost laughed aloud. Behind the cabin was a shooting range. A boarded walkway ran from a deck to three trestle targets. Wilson disappeared into the cabin and returned with two large sheets of white butcher’s paper. He handed one to her. They pinned them to the targets. He drew two bull’s-eye rings on each target with a black marker, and they returned to the deck.
She took a deep breath and handed her Glock to Wilson. He studied the surface and tested the balance. “No safety. No problem. My safety is my finger and my head.”
Jess smiled, she was starting to like the guy. “Old school.”
“Like me.” He grinned and waved the Glock. “Let’s see how old school does with new school.”
He took safety glasses and ear muffs from a box on the deck and handed a pair of each to Jess.
“Not completely old school, then,” she said as she donned the glasses.
He shook his head. “No sense being blind and deaf to prove a point, is there?”
He lined up the Glock. A solid stance. His feet braced. His head angled forward. All his concentration on the rings he’d drawn.
The Glock sounded oddly quiet in the wide-open space. Not at all like the ranges she used. Wilson’s first shot was high. He licked his lips, aimed, and fired again. His second shot was an inch high. His third hit the dead center of the bull’s-eye. “Nice,” he said.
“And a dozen rounds left to go,” she said.
He fired three more shots. A close group. The paper flapped as all three bullets went through the same hole.
He lowered the Glock. “Very nice. Now let’s see how new school handles old school.”
Jess had fired a Model 29 before. Once. On a range. It had been the shorter-barreled one, too. She’d binge-watched Clint Eastwood movies over a holiday weekend and caught the bug to try his cannon.
The balance wasn’t bad, but the kick was strong on the short barrel. The longer barrel would probably be worse, and the extra time spent in the barrel would deflect the bullet upward.
She lined up. Feet a natural distance apart. Leaning forward a fraction. Bracing for the recoil. She leveled the gun’s sight a couple of inches below the target’s center and squeezed the trigger.
The action was heavy. She felt the mechanical actions of the revolver. The firing pin, the barrel. But most of all she felt the bullet’s kick. The magnum exploded from the chamber with the force of a mule.
The sound struck her like a physical blow. She kept her eyes on the target, kept her muscles taut, kept the barrel down.
The target whipped open. A tear in the middle snapped the paper to life. The two halves flapped in the breeze.
Wilson laughed and slapped Jess on the back. “That’s old school for you.”
Jess laughed, too. The man’s simple pleasure and honesty were refreshing. She lowered the gun. No point in firing again. There was no paper left to shoot.
They swapped guns. Wilson put his down on a table on the deck. He took a deep breath. “So, break it to me. You’re not trying to sell me a magazine subscription. Why did you really come here?”
The smile faded from Jess’s face. She tightened her grip on her Glock. “Do you know a place called The Crystal?”
He shook his head. “Where is that?”
“Santa Irene.”
He grunted. “Haven’t been there in years.”
“The Crystal is a salon.”
He frowned like the word was foreign to him.
“Hair styles, facials, and such.”
He laughed. “Do I look like the sort of person that goes to a,” he waved his hands mockingly, “salon?”
“And yet calls were made from this property to a salon in Santa Irene.”
“Not by me.”
“I have records. There’s no doubt.”
He frowned. “Really. I would know if I’d called a hair salon.”
“This was two years ago. Maybe more.”
Wilson frowned. “Oh, that might be…” He looked at the woods behind his property.
Jess followed his gaze. “Be what?”
He nodded toward the woods. “A guy moved into Parker’s old place a couple of years ago. Keeps to himself, mostly. I hear him and his friends, but I never see him go out.”
Jess angled her head forward, encouraging him to continue.
“When he moved in, he had a lot of trouble with his electrics. The place was old. Needed lots of work.”
“And your new neighbor used your phone?”
Wilson nodded. “He’d come by every couple of weeks.”
“Tuesdays? Around eleven?”
He shrugged. “Can’t say. One day is like another up here. But it was morning time.”
“Has he stopped coming over to use the phone?”
Wilson nodded. “Got his electrics sorted out, I guess.”
“Does he have any scars?”
Wilson’s forehead wrinkled as he thought about the question. “No. Can’t say he does.”
“On his face? Several scars?” She pointed with her fingers to the locations.
Wilson shook his head. “Nope. When I saw him last, he was clean shaven. No scars.”
Jess breathed out. She felt relieved. Sorry, too. And glad she hadn’t tried to get law enforcement to come out here with her when she learned about the phone number. She’d have looked like a fool now.
Maybe he wasn’t Hades. But he could still know something about Karen Warner. “He used your phone, every two weeks?”
He nodded. “Lives a couple of miles that way. Other side of the lake.” He pointed to the rear of his property. “There’s a trail through the woods.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Tuesday, May 23
Santa Irene, Arizona
Jess thanked Wilson and headed in the direction he’d pointed. As she approached the woods, the trail became visible. She tucked her jeans into her socks and headed into the darkness. Once she was inside the edge of the woods, the undergrowth thinned. She found it easier to walk along the trail and covered ground quickly.
After about two hundred yards, the trail turned left and worked its way along the banks of a mountain lake. The water was mirror smooth, and the blue sky was reflected in the deep blue water. She guessed the other side was maybe a mile away. Which meant the perimeter was more than three miles. A big lake.
At the edge of Wilson’s property was a boat dock and a silver and black, fourteen-foot aluminum fishing boat with a huge outboard
engine. A thick chain and padlock secured it to the dock.
Jess grinned again. It seemed like Wilson didn’t trust anyone. Not an entirely bad policy when you lived in the middle of nowhere and had to look out for yourself.
The neighbor’s house was on an upslope, maybe a quarter of the way around the lake. Jess wondered who owned the lake, but there were no signs of a fence, so she walked on, keeping to the inside edge of the trees, checking behind her. Wilson had sneaked up on her. She wasn’t going to let that happen again.
She stopped a quarter of a mile from the house. It was rustic, rising four floors. A large balcony hung from the top floor, facing the lake. The other floors had picture windows with lake views, too.
Jess moved closer, working her way around to the side of the house. The windows facing away from the lake were smaller. The ground was steep. The structure was built into the slope. On the left side of the house, was a door on what was technically the second floor.
A driveway circled the house, dropping away fast from the road level at the front to the lake at the rear.
A garage structure was halfway down the drive. It had two double doors and looked long enough for several cars. There were windows on the second floor. She watched for a few minutes. Nothing moved. She surmised the garage was empty. At least, she hoped so.
She moved further around the building. A white panel van with a decorator’s name on the side was parked in front of the house. Jess figured visitors arriving by road would only see the two stories when they entered the house.
Jess knelt beside a pine. The undergrowth had thickened and provided good cover to shield her from discovery. There was occasional movement at the windows inside the house. The daylight was bright, and inside the house was dark. With the backlighting, she could see little more than blurred shapes inside.
She’d come this far. She wanted to know who was inside that house. She wanted to know who had called Karen Warner every Tuesday for months before she disappeared.
She shuffled back to sit on a fallen log. Maybe she could wait until nighttime. The house lights would come on, and the outside would be dark. A much better situation for observing the occupants.
Or they might close the drapes, and she wouldn’t see anything. Then she’d be stuck until morning. No way could she find her way back to her rental in the dark.
She heard two voices. Male. Swearing. Laughing. Doors slammed, and silence returned.
She waited a while. She was going to get no better view until the sun moved toward twilight, and then she’d be in danger of becoming lost. She’d have to give up for now. When she was back in cell phone coverage, she could research the house’s owners, and come back again.
She moved back the way she had come. Back down the slope. Passing the door on the second floor, and coming within a hundred feet of the garage.
This time, the rear door to the garage was open. Inside, something glinted in the blackness. She inched forward until she saw the light reflected off a motorcycle. She moved closer still. It was a big motorcycle. Not a Harley. Something Japanese. Something fast.
She listened for a minute. She heard nothing inside. She stepped out of the trees and to one side of the open door. There was no sound and no movement inside. She took a deep breath and peered around the corner into the garage.
The first thing she noticed was a huge, cavernous space. Four motorbikes were lined up, side-by-side. All were big, powerful machines, glinting in the sunshine that found its way through the windows and the open door.
She saw no one inside, and the windows on the far side of the garage offered her a clear view of the house.
Jess crouched and worked her way across the garage floor to a window. Her proximity to the house was better, but the contrast of sunshine and the dark interior was still too strong. She could barely see inside.
One of the men appeared at the lake’s edge. He was far away, and the glass distorted her view, but she saw he was bald.
He held a large black trash bag and started picking up debris around the rear of the house.
She pulled out her phone and took a few pictures. The man finished collecting litter and disappeared into the house.
She’d done all she could. She was probably outnumbered, and definitely out of her depth. She’d seen no one who looked like Hades and picking up litter didn’t exactly fit the MO of a hardened criminal gang. These people might not even have lived in the house when the phone calls were made.
She checked her cell phone, but there was no signal. She pushed it into her pocket. She would have to return to Wilson’s and take her car back to civilization.
She took one last look at the house.
The back of a man’s head was framed by one of the small side windows. The floor above Jess. The window was open. The glass no longer obstructed her view. When he turned around, he had a clear view of her, too.
His face contorted into an expression between a frown and a scowl.
She was an intruder. Any homeowner would be vexed.
But this man wasn’t just vexed.
A split second too late, she realized where she’d seen him before.
He was the man she had seen at Melissa Green’s.
Jess gasped, and she slapped a palm over her mouth to silence the sound.
Too late again.
The man with the ponytail raised his right arm, holding a pistol.
And then he opened fire.
CHAPTER FORTY
Tuesday, May 23
Santa Irene, Arizona
The first bullet disintegrated the windows in front of Jess. Wood and glass splinters exploded around her. She threw herself backward. Four more shots hammered into the garage floor where she had been standing.
She ran sideways, away from the windows and the direct line of fire.
The shooting was replaced by shouting.
Her heart pounded. She put her hand to the side of her head. Her fingers came away dry. She hadn’t been hit.
She raced through the garage, checking the motorcycles until she found one with the keys in the ignition. The man with the ponytail wasn’t an ordinary householder looking to protect his property with a warning shot. He meant to kill her.
She pushed the electric garage door opener, and as it began to rise, punched the bike’s starter button. The huge bike buzzed into life like an entire hive of angry wasps.
The garage door was agonizingly slow to open.
The side door burst open. She fired two shots into the rafters over the top of the door.
She didn’t look to see if she had hit him or anyone else. She leaned low, twisted the throttle, and raced under the half-open garage door.
Shots rang out.
Jess wrestled the big bike around the house. She glanced back. At any moment, they would reach the garage exit, and have a clear target. She needed another route.
The mountain road ran along the front of the house. It was too open, too exposed.
She turned another corner, around the far side of the house. There was no driveway or path, just a steep grass slope down the hill beside the house.
Two bike engines screamed to life.
She jerked her head in all directions, looking for another option. She needed cover and a fast route. She saw no viable alternatives. She had no choice but down.
She held her breath as she brought up the revs and eased in the clutch. The bike rolled over the edge of the hill, and her stomach lurched into her mouth.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Tuesday, May 23
Santa Irene, Arizona
The bike wanted to jackknife. It wanted to roll and tumble. It wanted to tip over and crush her into the slope.
She hunkered down, lying low on the gas tank, holding the back in check with ten percent rear brake and ninety percent force of will.
She hit the path that ringed the lake at an angle hard enough to snap her teeth together.
The big bike rocked. Its weight and momentum threatened to overwhelm h
er muscles. She put out one leg to stop the bike from falling and twisted the throttle.
The bike surged forward, blessedly taking the heavy weight off her leg and leveling out.
She heard roaring noises behind her.
She didn’t look. She didn’t need to. She knew everything she had to know about who was behind her.
She twisted the throttle as far as she dared.
The bike lunged forward. Bouncing and rocking over the hard-packed mud on the trail around the lake.
The ground undulated. Tire tracks lay ahead, but no graded path. The bike lurched wildly and threatened to throw her off.
She guessed the two chasing her rode the bikes around the lake regularly, and likely weren’t slowed by the challenge.
She relaxed her muscles a fraction, and found the right rhythm, leaning forward and back as the bike rocked from one undulation to the next.
The suspension crashed, and the bike shook as she drove it faster and faster.
She heard gunfire, and a tree limb cracked and shook ahead of her. It angled down, and she lay low on the bike as she flew underneath it.
She needed more protection than the exposed lakeside path offered. There were openings between the trees, and she twisted her head to judge them as she passed, but each looked barely wide enough for the big bike.
A burst of gunfire rang out. Wood chips flew from the trees beside her.
Another gun boomed. Loud and heavy. A single shot.
She twitched her head right, looking in the direction of the sound.
Across the lake, she glimpsed black and silver. Wilson’s boat. Racing in her direction.
Wilson stood in the middle, his Smith and Wesson pointed high in the air.
She heard a second booming shot.
Old school might be brave, but he was way too exposed.
An opening in the trees appeared. There was no way the big bike would fit through it. Her skin tingled. It was just what she needed.
She slammed on the brakes, and slew the bike sideways. The bike bounced and lurched. She threw herself off, and dove through the opening in the trees, pulling out her Glock.
