Outlaw Mountain (34 page)

After first slipping her cell phone into the coat pocket of her blazer, she thumbed the talk button on her radio. “Dispatch,” she said. “Sheriff Brady here. I need backup.”

“Where are you?” Tica Romero asked.

“Kind Road, just south of Ramsey. It’s a residence that belongs to Rex and Dena Hogan.”

“That’s the same address I found for you a few minutes ago, isn’t it?”

“Yes. Two suspects are loading a vehicle. I want to keep them from leaving. How long before you can have another unit here?”

“We’re short-staffed in that sector right now, Sheriff Brady. The closest county unit is over at Palominas, finishing investigating a multi-car accident. Deputy Pakin can probably be there in half an hour or so. Do you want me to ask for mutual aid from Sierra Vista PD?”

“Yes,” Joanna agreed at once. “Better safe than sorry.”

The door to Dena Hogan’s house opened again. This time two people walked out and headed for the Concorde. The woman was wearing a coat and carrying a purse. That meant the loading was done. The suspects were leaving. There would be no time to wait for backup, none at all.

“I’m going to have to go in alone,” Joanna said. “But when I do, I’ll leave my cell phone turned on. That way, you’ll be able to monitor what’s happening.”

Quickly Joanna punched up Tica’s direct number and then waited for the dispatcher to answer before stowing the phone itself inside the cup of her bra. By then, Ross Jenkins and the woman were standing on either side of the Chrysler. Switching on the ignition, Joanna sent the Blazer roaring forward. Once it was astraddle the driveway and blocking the Concorde’s exit, Joanna slammed the Blazer into neutral and then stepped out onto the parking strip.

“Hi there, Ross,” Joanna said. “Do you have a minute?”

From the dismayed look that passed across his face, it was clear that Ross Jenkins was startled to see her. he recovered quickly, however.

“Well, hiya there, Sheriff Brady,” he said easily. “We were just leaving. If you don’t mind, we’re a little pressed for time at the moment.”

“I’m sure you are,” Joanna replied. “I only have a few questions. I presume this is Dena Hogan?”

“Yes, I’m Dena.” The woman’s answer was chilly and wary at the same time. “What do you want?”

Joanna wavered momentarily. She could play it cool and pretend that all she was looking for was a copy of Mark Childers’ financial records. Or she could go for broke. She could take a page from her father’s old poker-playing days and bluff like hell.

“I’m curious where you both were last Saturday night,” she said quietly. “Where you were after Alice Walker left Sierra Vista to drive back home to Tombstone?”

Glances might not be admissible in a court of law, but the dagger-filled look Dena Hogan shot across the top of the car toward Ross Jenkins spoke volumes.

“We were together,” Ross said with a dismissive shrug, as though the fact that he was sleeping around behind his wife’s back was an unimportant detail too insignificant to bother denying. “Right here. I came over after dinner and was here until late—until two or three in the morning.”

“With no witnesses, of course,” Joanna said.

Ross smiled. “I should hope not. I don’t think Susie would like it much if she found out. She’s been through so much lately. I wanted to spare her feelings.”

“We both did,” Dena said.

“How very thoughtful of you,” Joanna observed. “And I suppose you’re also sparing your husband’s feelings at the moment, Ms. Hogan? I’m assuming Rex isn’t home. Otherwise he’d be the one lugging your suitcases out to the car, not Mr. Jenkins here. And speaking of suitcases, from the size of them I’d say you’re planning on being gone for some time. Maybe even longer than next Monday morning, which is when your receptionist said you might be recovered enough to return to work.”

There was no way for Joanna to tell if her cell phone was picking up any of the conversation. It was buried under both her bra and the Kevlar material woven into her soft body armor.

Dena looked at her watch. “Come on, Ross. It’s getting late. Let’s go. She’s got no reason to hold us. If you have to drive across the grass to get around her, do it.”

Ross Jenkins made no effort to comply, and when he didn’t get in the Concorde, neither did Dena Hogan.

“Look, Sheriff Brady,” he said, turning on a gratingly wheedling tone, the persuasive one that could have been dubbed straight into one of his auto dealership’s radio commercials. “You may not be able to understand this or believe it, but Dena and I are in love. Neither one of us planned for it to happen quite this way, but it did. And yes, we are leaving town. We’re going away to try to get some perspective on things—to try to figure out what we should do about it. Maybe you’ve never been trapped in a loveless marriage, but we both have. We feel like we owe it to ourselves to salvage whatever bit of happiness we can.”

Angered by his phony-baloney excuses, Joanna crossed her arms. “As they say in rodeo, Mr. Jenkins, nice try, but no time. This isn’t about love or lack of it. It’s about murder—your mother-in-law’s first and now, quite possibly, your brother-in-law’s as well.”

Dena jaw dropped. A dumbfounded expression flitted across her face. The look caught Joanna’s eye and her attention wavered momentarily. That was all the opening Ross Jenkins needed. His attack came without warning. One moment the man was standing at ease beside the Concorde, with one arm draped casually across the vehicle’s roof. The next moment he sprang at Joanna in a flying tackle that caught her smack in the midsection and sent her flying backward.

The force of the blow knocked her to the ground and drove the wind from her lungs. Before a gasping Joanna knew what had happened or could inhale another breath, the man was on top of her, sitting astride her waist. He wrestled Joanna’s Colt 2000 out of her shoulder holster and stuffed it in his pants pocket. Then he grabbed both her arms, twisted them behind her, and threw her face-down in the dirt.

“For God’s sake, Ross, what are you doing?” Dena demanded. “Are you crazy?”

“I’m not crazy. I’m saving our lives. Do you have any duct tape in the garage?”

“Yes.”

“Go get it then. Hurry. No, on second thought. I’ll bring her into the garage. There’s not much time.”

Wrenched to her feet, Joanna looked up and down the street, hoping there would be someone around to see what was happening. But there was no one. No children were outside for an afternoon bike ride. No retirees took advantage of the crisp afternoon to rake leaves or do other yard work. Ross Jenkins might as well have launched his attack in a completely deserted village.

When he hauled her to her feet, Joanna was afraid the phone might have been jarred loose or turned off. She worried that it would fall out of its hiding place, but it remained where she had put it, the battery warm against her breast as he hustled her past the two parked cars and up the driveway. Moments later, with the whir of an electric motor, the door of Dena’s garage moved slowly open. Jenkins didn’t wait for it to rise all the way before he ducked underneath and pulled Joanna into the garage with him. Immediately the door whirred shut again.

“Dena’s right, you know,” Joanna managed when she was finally able to speak. “Assaulting a police officer is a bad idea. I’ve already called for backup, Ross. Other cars will be here momentarily.”

Still slightly dazed, Joanna tried to assess her situation. Jenkins was far bigger than she was, and his attack had caught her so much by surprise that she hadn’t been able to utilize any of the countermeasures Andy had taught her. Her Colt was gone, but in his haste to hustle her into the garage and out of sight, Ross Jenkins had failed to discover Joanna’s re-serve weapon. Her Glock 17 still rested securely in her small-of-back holster. And, as long as he was busy keeping her arms pinned to her shoulder blades, he might still miss it.

“Don’t listen to her, Dena,” Ross admonished as the woman reappeared with what looked like a brand-new roll of duct tape. “And don’t worry. We’ll be gone momentarily. Here. Wrap the tape around her wrists. When you finish that, tape her ankles together as well.”

With a rip, a length of tape tore loose from the roll. Behind her back, Joanna felt the sticky stuff wrap around her wrists, lashing them together. Any second, Joanna expected one of Dena’s hands to fall against the Glock, but that didn’t happen. When Dena had finished with the wrists, she knelt to tape Joanna’s ankles.

“You can’t kill her, Ross,” Dena was saying. “Aren’t we in enough trouble already?”

“Shut up and tape. Ankles first and then her mouth. I’ll go outside and juggle cars.”

“What are you going to do with her, Ross?”

“You’d be surprised. Right now I’m going to move the luggage from my car to hers. Then we’ll load her into my trunk. If she isn’t bluffing and if cops are on their way, we sure as hell can’t leave her here. All we have to do is make sure that by the time reinforcements show up, we’re long gone.”

With that, Ross let go of Joanna’s arms and moved away, leaving her standing unsteadily, trying to maintain her balance. With her feet taped together, that was almost impossible. Meanwhile, Dena closed in on Joanna’s face with her roll of tape once more firmly in hand.

Joanna noticed that she and Dena Hogan were fairly evenly matched in size. Had Joanna’s arms and legs been free, Joanna no doubt could have taken the woman in a fair fight. But for now, all Joanna could do to defend herself was to hop away, with the ungainly crooked hop of a drunken Easter bunny. As she did so, she looked around the virtually empty two-car garage, trying to get her bearings.

At the far end of the garage was a door that opened into the house. Lining the front of the garage were recycling baskets, a refrigerator/freezer, and a workbench. The right-hand wall of the garage, from workbench to corner, was lined with a collection of garden tools and equipment—rakes, hedge trimmers, grass shears—hanging on a series of wall-mounted hooks.

Having her feet bound was like being caught in a life-and-death sack race. Hopping along, Joanna made for a small open space between the freezer and workbench, all the while dodging away from Dena and her tape and trying, at the same time, to drive a wedge between the two conspirators.

“Don’t do this, Dena,” Joanna pleaded. “Don’t let Ross talk you into it. Once you load me into that car of his, it’s kidnapping. Add that to murder and conspiracy to commit, you’re talking capital offenses. In case you haven’t noticed, executions are back in style in Arizona, and being a woman is no excuse.”

“Shut up,” Dena said, following doggedly behind Joanna, with the roll of duct tape still in her hand. “Just shut up.”

She was so focused on taping Joanna’s mouth that she clearly wasn’t thinking of anything else. She didn’t notice that Joanna was leading her into the foot and a half of confining space between the freezer and the workbench, a space so small that there would be almost no room for maneuvering—for either one of them.

“Think about a plea bargain, Dena,” Joanna said. “If you’ll agree to testify against him, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”

“I said, shut up,” Dena insisted. “I don’t want to hear it.”

By then, Joanna had backed herself against the wall. Just as she expected, Dena charged after her. There wasn’t much time. Joanna knew that her only chance was to make her move now, while it was still a one-on-one contest, while Ross Jenkins was still outside the garage. Once he finished transferring the luggage, it would be too late.

Pressed up against the wall and using that to help maintain her balance, Joanna ducked her head until her chin was resting on her breastbone. Then she flexed her knees. As Dena moved in with the tape, Joanna sprang forward. The top of her head caught Dena Hogan square on the chin. The head butt hit Dena hard enough that Joanna herself saw stars. She stood there reeling while Dena Hogan, groaning in surprise, fell to the floor and lay still.

Joanna didn’t bother looking at her. Hopping again, she made her way around the fallen woman. She had noticed grass shears among the collection of tools. Seeing them again, she noted the sharp blades glinting wickedly in the light from the garage-door opener. If Joanna could get to the shears, maybe she could hack through the tape enough and free her hands long enough to wrest her Glock from its holster.

The distance from where she was to the shears was only a matter of a few feet, but it might as well have been the length of a football field. Hopping and with her heart hammering in her chest, Joanna was almost there when the automatic garage light hit the end of its timer and went off, plunging the place into total darkness.

Crashing a rib against the corner of the workbench as she made her way past it in the dark, Joanna knew she was close. Turning, she felt along the wall. She remembered that a long-handled rake had been next to the workbench and the shears had been next to the rake, hanging with the handle up and the closed blades down. Joanna had found the blades and was just beginning to saw through the tape when the garage door opener whirred once more. As the light came on again, Ross Jenkins reentered the garage.

“Come on,” he was saying as he came. “I heard the talk on her police radio. The cops are on their way. Let’s go, Dena.” Just then, catching sight of Dena on the floor, he stopped short. “What the hell!” he exclaimed.

Huddled against the wall of tools with her hands still not freed from the tape, Joanna saw him turn on her. With his face distorted by rage, Ross Jenkins charged forward. There was no time to finish cutting through the tape; no hope of prying the hidden Glock loose from its holster. There was only time enough for her to register that he was hurling himself toward her with both of his hands visible and empty.

Standing on tiptoes, Joanna managed to wrench the shears loose from the hook that held it to the wall. Then, with a half-jump, she spun around so that she was facing the wall with the handle of the shears clutched in both hands behind her.

Ross never saw the danger or, if he did, the warning came too late for him to check his headlong attack. Momentum carried him forward and onto the upthrust blades of the shears. The force of the blow to her back sent Joanna smashing face-first into the wall. The other tools hanging there crashed to the floor around her. Meanwhile, as Ross fell back, Joanna felt something hot and sticky ooze onto her hands.