by J. A. Jance
As people hurried out the door, Kath followed, pushing her cart of groceries. A crowd was gathering around the supposedly “old” woman, someone who looked to be in her sixties, who was pacing back and forth, yelling excitedly, and pointing back toward the parking lot.
“He had a gun,” she said. “I saw it. He got in the car while she was putting the grocery cart away. When she came back to her car, he made her get something out of this one.”
The woman pointed toward a dust-covered silver Dodge Caravan. “She put whatever it was in the backseat of her little car and then they drove out of here in that. But her purse is still here—right there on the ground—and so are some of her groceries.”
Kath listened to the chorus of excited voices as she loaded groceries into the back of her own Odyssey on the far side of the parking aisle. By the time she finished, she knew that Tucson PD was responding to the manager’s 911 call because she could hear the siren of an approaching patrol car wailing in the distance.
“What kind of vehicle were they in when they left here?” the store manager was asking the distressed woman. He was still holding his cell phone and still talking into it.
“Tan,” she said. “Light tan. One of those foreign cars. A Honda, I think, but I don’t know for sure.”
“Which way did they go?”
“South on Campbell.”
“And what about the guy? Did you see him? What did he look like?”
“Middle-aged, bald, and heavyset,” the woman said. “One arm was in a sling.”
That last comment hit Kath Fellows like a sledgehammer. She had spoken to Brian several times in the course of the day. She knew the man her husband was looking for—the killer he was looking for—was a middle-aged bald man with one arm in a sling. Slamming her car door shut, Kath raced across the aisle and pushed her way through the cluster of people until she was able to get a clear view of the tags on the back of the dusty silver minivan. California.
Long before the patrol car arrived, Kath Fellows was on the horn with her husband. Brian sounded groggy, as though he might have been caught napping at his desk when she called.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I meant to call earlier. I’m tracking auto dealers, and I still don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“It’s about your killer,” Kath told him. “Do you have a vehicle tag number for him?”
“Just a sec,” Brian said, shuffling papers. “I have it right here. Why?”
“I’m looking at a very dusty silver minivan, a Dodge Caravan with California plates.”
Brian read off the license information.
“That’s the one,” Kath said.
“What’s going on?”
“I think your guy just carjacked a woman and her baby.”
“Which way did they go?” Brian asked.
Kath heard the urgency in his voice. “South on Campbell in a tan sedan. Maybe a Honda. Is it possible they’re headed for the airport?”
“No,” Brian said at once. “Not that. Southard already tried the airport option this morning. It didn’t work. Besides, we’ve got that covered. He’s headed somewhere else. The smart money is on Mexico. Can you give me any more information on either the vehicle or on the victim, anything at all?”
Kath looked up in time to see that the arriving patrol car was still half a block away, wading through the intersection. The cops weren’t on the scene yet, but the woman’s purse was. It was still sitting where she had dropped it, on the ground next to the spot where her vehicle had been parked.
Before anyone could stop her, Kath had scooped up the abandoned purse. She had the wallet out and open by the time the cop car rolled to a stop in the midst of the milling crowd of excited onlookers.
“Stop her,” someone shouted, pointing at Kath. “That woman is trying to steal her purse.”
A burly young cop hurried up to Kath. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Is that your property?”
“Her name is Torres,” Kath said into the phone to her husband without answering the officer’s question. “Virginia Torres. Her address is 231 South Fourth.”
“Ma’am, I asked you once,” the cop insisted. “You need to answer me. Is that your purse or not?”
“Hope this helps,” Kath said. “I’ve gotta go.”
She closed her phone, handed the purse to the police officer, and reached for her own ID. “No, it’s not mine,” she said. “My name is Kath Fellows. I’m with the Border Patrol. According to her ID, the purse belongs to a woman named Virginia Torres. I believe she and her baby have just been carjacked. I think the man who did it is the shooter who killed those four people out on the reservation last night.”
Fourteen
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:50 p.m.
88º Fahrenheit
Brian Fellows was on the phone to Records as he raced out of the building. If the carjacked Honda was still on Campbell or Kino, it was probably headed for either I-10 or I-19. Depending on traffic and lights, the trip to the freeway from Broadway could take as little as seven minutes or as long as ten.
The sheriff’s office was only half a mile or so from where Kino intersected I-10. Brian knew that if he hurried, he might well be there before the Honda. There was a chance a Tucson PD patrol vehicle might beat him to the punch, but that was strictly a matter of luck. Brian was afraid his quota of luck for the day had already been used up in spectacular fashion.
The fact that Kath had been grocery shopping in the same place where Southard had gone looking for a victim was beyond luck. It seemed to him that there was a higher power operating somewhere behind the scenes. There was also the disturbing realization that Kath could just as easily have been the carjacking victim. That, too, was strictly a matter of chance.
Brian was too low on the departmental totem pole to merit a shaded parking place. He piled into his stifling patrol car. The overheated steering wheel scorched his hands as he shot out of his parking place and across the lot. When he reached the exit, he was relieved to see there was no traffic at all on Old Benson Highway. He made a quick right-hand turn without bothering to stop and immediately moved into the far-left lane. He was tempted to turn on his lights and siren, but then he thought better of it. Until he was sure there was backup either from the city of Tucson or from Pima County, it was probably best to maintain a low profile.
Once on Kino, Brian drove as far as the intersection with I-10, where he hit a red light. Stopping for that gave him a chance to study access ramps going in either direction. There was no sign of the Honda on I-10, but while he was looking, Brian took a moment to radio back to Dispatch to let them know that they needed to contact Jake Abernathy and tell him that his homicide suspect was now a carjacking suspect as well.
It was nothing more or less than a CYA call. Jonathan Southard’s case was now officially Jake Abernathy’s problem. If someone from Tucson PD made the collar, Jake would be pissed. If Brian made it, the man would be downright livid. In a perfect world, results should be the final judge and this would be all about catching the bad guy rather than who was catching the bad guy. But Brian Fellows had long ago realized that under Sheriff Bill Forsythe, the Pima County Sheriff’s Department never had been and never would be a “perfect world.”
His phone rang. “Okay,” Kath said. “A Tucson PD unit is headed southbound on Campbell. Where are you?”
“At the freeway and Kino and headed north,” Brian answered. “No sign of the Honda so far, but with any luck that unit from Tucson PD and I will catch it in a squeeze play.”
“Be safe,” Kathy said.
“I always am,” he told her.
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:51 p.m.
88º Fahrenheit
Jonathan watched the woman as she drove. Fortunately she had finally stopped trying to talk to him. At first he had thought she was much younger, but now he realized she had to be somewhere in her thirties. And her baby—thank God the squalling k
id had finally shut up and had evidently fallen asleep—had to be somewhere between three and four years old.
Jonathan didn’t like thinking about what was going to happen to them. It was inevitable. The prospect of that finally forced him to think about what he had done to his own kids.
Esther had deserved whatever she got and more, but maybe he should have left the kids be. Someone would have looked after Timmy and Suzy, he supposed. Corrine, Esther’s busybody sister, for one. If he’d had taken the time really to think about it before he shot them, he might not have done it. But he was having time to think about what would happen to this mother and her little boy now, and it bothered him, just like shooting the stupid Indians bothered him. In this case, however, the young woman and her son were already as good as dead. They just didn’t know it. In fact, the woman was probably still hoping he’d give them a chance to get away.
As far as when he would finish them off and where that would happen? He knew that it would have to be somewhere between here and the border. He’d direct her to turn off the freeway onto a deserted road somewhere. Then, after he’d shot them both, he’d take the car. He’d park it somewhere close to the border and then walk across, using his passport to get him past the immigration people on both sides.
They had been driving south first on Campbell and then on Kino. He was glad she was sticking to the posted speed limit. So far they hadn’t encountered any law enforcement vehicles, and once they merged onto the freeway system, Jonathan figured they’d be a lot more difficult to find.
They were nearing the intersection with I-10 where Kino widened to lanes. The Honda was still in the middle lane.
“The freeway is coming up,” he told her. “You need to get over.”
“I was planning on getting on I-19 at Ajo Way,” she said. “There’s all kinds of construction on I-10 right now. That intersection might not even be open.”
“I said get on the freeway,” he insisted. “Do it now.”
He saw her check in the rearview mirror for traffic. Even so, she didn’t pull over right away, and the entrance ramp was coming up way too fast. The last thing he needed was for this dumb broad to wreck her car with him in it.
“Get over,” he ordered again. “You’re going the way I tell you. Understand?”
She nodded. At almost the last moment, she jammed on the brakes and slewed the Accord into the right-turn lane.
“You stupid bitch!” he yelled at her. “You almost took us out just then. What the hell were you thinking?”
Naturally the abrupt lane change woke up the kid, and he immediately started howling again.
Great, Jonathan thought. But at least they were entering the freeway now and could blend into traffic there. He breathed a sigh of relief. Things were finally starting to go in his favor.
It was about time.
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:52 p.m.
88º Fahrenheit
Ginny knew that each passing telephone pole and each passing bridge abutment were missed opportunities.
She understood that she needed to choose one and use it before they got on the freeway, but she just couldn’t summon the nerve. All her instincts and all her experience were screaming at her: Do not wreck your car! But in these dire circumstances, wrecking the car was exactly what she needed to do. What she had to do.
Pepe was still asleep. If she did it while he was asleep, chances were he wouldn’t be tensed up and frightened by the impending crash. In the mirror she caught a glimpse of his bare little neck with the tiny dark curls blooming around it. What would happen to that precious little neck, the one she kissed at night when Pepe was sleeping? Would it snap to pieces in the collision? Would she be dooming her child to death or, worse, to life as a quadriplegic? Pepe would never forgive her for doing that to him. Neither would Felix. Neither would her mother-in-law. In other words, Ginny needed a slow-speed crash, not a fast one.
Hoping to see a possible crash site—an appropriate crash site—Ginny wanted to stay on surface streets and at surface street speeds for as long as possible. She saw the street signs and knew the intersection with I-10 was coming up, but she didn’t want to take it. She stayed in the middle lane.
“The freeway is coming up,” he told her. “You need to get over.”
If he was from out of town—his license plates had said California—he probably wasn’t up on the latest news concerning highway construction projects around Tucson. At least she hoped he wasn’t.
“I was planning on getting on I-19 at Ajo Way,” she told him. “There’s all kinds of construction on I-10 right now. That intersection might not even be open.”
“I said get on the freeway,” he insisted. “Do it now.”
They were driving past the yard-shed sales lot. Reluctantly complying, Ginny glanced in the mirror. Just then she saw a car in the opposite lane, a vehicle that looked like a Pima County sheriff’s car, jam on its brakes and jerk into a sudden U-turn. There were no flashing lights, no sirens, but as soon as Ginny caught sight of the brake lights, a spark of hope bloomed in her heart. Maybe someone was coming to help them after all.
While that was happening, though, she very nearly missed the merge onto the freeway.
“Get over,” the gunman ordered again, shouting at her. “You’re going the way I tell you. Understand?”
He sounded angry, but he was looking at her—staring at her. He wasn’t looking in the mirror. Ginny swung the car into a hasty right-hand turn. They were going fast enough that the Accord almost didn’t make it. Tires skidded on the pavement. The rear end of the car washed sickeningly from side to side. It was all Ginny could do to get it back under control and onto the entrance ramp.
“You stupid bitch!” he yelled at her. “You almost took us out just then. What the hell were you thinking?”
Jarred by the abrupt turn, Pepe awakened with a start and immediately began crying. Ginny ignored him and forced herself to look straight ahead. She wanted to know if the cop car was behind her, but she couldn’t risk staring in the mirror. The guy might read a telltale expression on her face and would know that help was coming. The only thing Ginny could hope for now was that between the two of them—Ginny and this unknown police officer—they could find some way to surprise the gunman and take him down.
“Can’t you go any faster than this?” he shouted now. “If you merge at twenty-five, some eighteen-wheeler doing eighty is going to run right over us.”
Ginny didn’t want to, but she stepped on the gas. He was right. Traffic on the interstate was moving right along. If she wasn’t careful, they would be run down before they made the merge.
Ginny dared a quick glance in the rearview mirror. To her immense relief she saw what appeared to be an unmarked cop car turn onto the entrance ramp and come racing up behind them. The lights still didn’t come on. He didn’t signal her to pull over, but he stayed right there, a few feet off her rear bumper. Unfortunately, by then she had brought the Accord up to highway speed and made the merge. She had also passed the last of the light pole masts for the intersection. That meant that she had also driven past her last chance of making a partially controlled, low-speed crash.
“Mommy, Mommy,” Pepe howled at her from the backseat. “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!”
Every time he called to her it was like a stone through Ginny’s heart. Her little boy needed her comforting presence and assurance, but she couldn’t afford to look at him. She didn’t dare. And she couldn’t tell him she loved him, either. All she could do was hope she could find a place to wreck the car without killing both of them.
Moments later—at least it seemed like moments to her—she saw the first exit signs for southbound I-19. She knew as soon as she saw them that the exit ramp itself would be her last opportunity to do what had to be done. Once they started up and over the overpass and onto the other freeway, she would immediately resume highway speed. If she was going to do this, she had to do it now—before the overpass, not after it
.
When she switched on her turn signal, she could see the gunman nodding in agreement.
“Good,” he said aloud. “I guess you finally wised up.”
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:54 p.m.
88º Fahrenheit
Brian was driving like hell and trying to get through to Dispatch at the same time. Before he made any kind of move, he wanted to have backup units in place. To do that and because they were still inside the city limits, he needed to coordinate with Tucson PD.
“And tell them no lights or sirens,” he rasped into the radio as he charged up behind the fleeing Honda on the I-10 entrance ramp. “I’m pretty sure the driver knows I’m here, but the bad guy doesn’t. I want to keep it that way.”
“Do you know where they’re headed?”
“All I know right now is they’re westbound on I-10.”
“Which means they won’t be able to exit again until Prince Road,” the Dispatch operator said. “Do you want us to have someone lay down tire strips?”
“Negative on that,” Brian said. “Too risky. There’s a baby in the backseat.”
But then, as if to show the Dispatch operator how wrong she was, the Accord’s turn signal came on again, blinking the notice that the vehicle was exiting after all, moving onto the exit ramp that led to I-19—the only exit ramp through the downtown area of Tucson that hadn’t been shut down for construction.
“Suspect vehicle is exiting onto I-19,” Brian shouted as he started for the exit ramp as well. “Tucson PD units are approaching.”
He was relieved that someone had given the word about making a stealth approach. At least three marked patrol cars were coming up fast in the right-hand lane behind him. As he had requested, there were no lights and no sirens.
“Tell Tucson PD that we’ll try to hem them in and bring the vehicle to a stop that way.”
“Roger that,” the operator said.
Then, just when Brian dared hope there might be a good end to all this, the Honda suddenly careened off the road. It slammed into a guardrail partway up the exit ramp and then spun a full three-sixty before staggering through another guardrail and down the incline into westbound traffic.
