Authors: J.A. Jance
Ali felt self-conscious peeling out of her sodden clothing and putting on the jogging suit under the watchful eye of her captor. As she did it, she seesawed back and forth, second-guessing her strategy. She kept hoping that somehow she’d find another way out of this awful mess—a way that wouldn’t require involving her mother in a desperate life-or-death gambit.
Ali knew she should leave Edie out of it, even though her mother and her newly activated Taser held the key to evening the odds. What if it all went bad—if one or both of them died? Ali knew in advance that no matter what happened, her mother would forgive her, and so would her father. There was no question about that. The problem was, if something awful happened to Edie and her daughter somehow survived, would Ali ever be able to forgive herself?
Even so, Ali knew several important things about Edie Larson that the bad guy didn’t. For one thing, Ali understood that her mother would fight to the death to help protect her child, in the same way Ali would fight for Chris if the situation called for it. Ali knew, too, that her mother was stubborn. Having gone to war with her husband over whether she should have a Taser, Edie would be damned rather than leave the restaurant without it. Just to show her husband, she would have taken it home with her. It would be someplace close at hand—in her pocket or her purse.
Ali’s captor wouldn’t consider the possibility that Edie Larson would be armed for bear. This arrogant jerk would automatically assume that Edie—a harmless-looking gray-haired, hearing-aid-wearing old lady—would pose no threat to him at all. Ali understood instinctively that he would totally “misunderestimate” her mother.
Edie Larson’s stubborn streak was much like Ali’s own, and
Edie would fight like crazy once she knew what was going on—if she knew what was going on. That was the problem. How could Ali manage that feat of mother/daughter communication? How would she let Edie know what was at stake without alerting the gunman?
At last Ali was dressed. When she stood up, she was woozy. Clutching at the dresser for support, she looked around for her shoes, which were nowhere to be seen. The cut next to her eye was still bleeding. She looked down at her bare feet just as a drop of blood trickled off her chin and dripped onto the top of her foot. Her cheek ached, her mouth was close to being swollen shut, but seeing the blood—her own blood—shocked her.
I could die today,
she thought.
It could all be over.
Meantime, her captor pointed the gun at Leland Brooks, who lay motionless on the floor. “Drag him into the other room,” he ordered Ali. “We’ll load him into the back of his truck and take him with us when we leave.”
To go where?
Ali wondered.
Where are you taking us?
She didn’t ask that question aloud, though. She knew better. Wherever he planned to take them, it wasn’t going to be good.
When she bent down to lift Leland, she was relieved to find him soaking wet but warm to the touch. He was breathing and probably heavily sedated, but at least he wasn’t dead. He was deadweight, however. Grunting with effort, she managed to drag him out of the bedroom, through the living room, and over to the front door. He moaned softly as she wrestled him out the door and onto the front steps.
She hoped briefly that one of her neighbors might see what was going on and summon help. Ali’s Andante Drive house sat at the top of the hill with an unobstructed view of the surrounding countryside, but that also meant the house next door shielded
her place from all the others farther down the street. As for her next-door neighbor? She was a single mother who was most likely at work, and her kids were at school. Looking at that deserted street, Ali had never felt more isolated or more alone.
At the edge of the porch, she stopped, panting with effort. “He’s too heavy,” she gasped. “I can’t do this alone.”
With a sigh of disgust, the man shoved the .357 into the top of his pants. Bending over, he effortlessly lifted Leland off the porch and flung him over his shoulder. Ali thought briefly about making a grab for the gun while both of the man’s hands were occupied. She thought about it, but she didn’t even try. She was too spent to make it work.
“Open it,” he ordered.
Months earlier, Leland Brooks had installed an aluminum camper shell on the back of his truck. The tailgate on the camper shell flipped up while the tailgate on the truck flipped down. Ali wrenched both of them open and then stood back while her captor tossed Leland’s helpless body onto the floor of the pickup as casually as if he were a bag of potatoes.
“So much for him,” the man said, closing the tailgates. “We can finish this later. Time to go. You drive.”
But Ali didn’t move right away. The water was finally clearing from her lungs, and the crippling fog was lifting from her brain as well. She stared up at him. He was still wearing his latex gloves. Why? Because he didn’t want to leave any prints behind. He claimed this was all about his stolen files—that he wanted his files back. But there had to be more to it, had to be more at stake. In a moment of insight, Ali understood what it was—the only thing that made sense.
“You murdered Morgan Forester, didn’t you?”
He gave a mirthless chuckle and shrugged. “Brainy as you
are, you’re just now figuring that out? Morgan thought she was smarter than I am, but she wasn’t. Neither are you, and neither is your mother.”
“And now you’re going to kill us, too?”
He nodded. “More than likely,” he said. “Get in.”
“But why?” Ali objected. “Why are you going to kill us?”
“Because I have to,” he said reasonably. “Because you have no idea who you’re messing with or what you’ve done. Now let’s go. I don’t have all day.”
When Ali climbed into the pickup, she found Leland’s car key already in the ignition. She turned it, and the engine roared to life. A lightweight windbreaker had been lying on the seat. As they started down Andante Drive through Skyview, her captor put on the jacket and then slipped the .357 into his pocket.
“You still haven’t told me why you killed Morgan,” Ali insisted. “What did she do wrong?”
“I killed her because she asked too many questions, and so do you. Now shut up and drive.”
When they reached the highway, there were still a few cars in the parking lot at the Sugarloaf Café. Ali knew her father and Jan would be fully occupied with shutting down for the day. While they were driving down the hill, Ali had half hoped her mother’s Oldsmobile Alero wouldn’t be parked there. Maybe Edie would have gone off to run an errand, to pick up some groceries for dinner or to have her hair done. Then whatever happened—whatever this maniac had in mind—would happen to Ali alone. Her mother wouldn’t be involved.
But Edie’s Alero was there, parked right next to her husband’s venerable Bronco. Ali expected that her mother was safely ensconced in her cozy living room, where she could indulge in her one guilty pleasure—watching TiVoed episodes of the previ
ous day’s
Dr. Phil
and
Judge Judy.
That was what she often did in the afternoons before her husband walked in from the restaurant and switched over to nonstop cable news.
The man was right behind Ali with his hand in his pocket as she walked up to her parents’ front door. She could hear the television set blaring from inside. As soon as Ali tapped on the door frame, her mother muted the volume.
“Just a minute,” she said. “I’m coming. I’m coming. I can’t do everything at once.” A moment later, Edie, with a phone in one hand, opened the front door and caught sight of Ali. “Why aren’t you answering your phone?” she demanded. “I’ve been trying to reach you, and so has B. I was waiting for your father to finish cleaning up so we could both come check—” She stopped abruptly. “Ali, you’re bleeding!” she exclaimed. “And your hair’s all wet. What happened? Are you all right?”
Only then did Edie catch sight of the man standing behind Ali. “Who’s this?” she asked.
“It’s the man whose files we stole this morning.” Ali spoke quickly, hoping to stave off any comments that would give the game away. “He’s dangerous, and he’s got a gun. He wants his files back, Mom. I told him they’re on your computer.”
Edie peered up at the man. “Oh, yes,” she said, dropping the phone into the sagging pocket of the worn cotton sweater that was her preferred around-the-house attire. “The files. That means you would be Peter Winter, then, correct? Dr. Peter Winter, I believe.”
Edie’s question may have astonished her daughter, but it floored the man behind her. He took an involuntary step backward.
His name is Winter?
Ali wondered.
How on earth did Mom know that?
By then he had recovered enough to press the barrel of the gun into the small of Ali’s back. “Move,” he ordered. “Get inside. Both of you. Now.”
Still mystified by her mother’s reaction, Ali stumbled over the threshold and into the comfortable, crowded clutter that was Bob and Edie Larson’s tiny living room. There was the recliner her mother occupied only when Bob wasn’t home, as well as a sagging cloth-covered couch with a colorful crocheted afghan covering the spot on the back where aging material had given way.
Both couch and chair were situated within easy viewing distance of an old-fashioned console TV, one that was far too big for the room. The television inside the shiny cherry cabinetry had been dead for years, but the piece of furniture served as a handy base for a newer, slimmer model as well as a collection of cable boxes, receivers, and recorders, everything from an old-fashioned VHS model up through the spanking-new DVR Chris had given his grandfather for his birthday.
Glancing at the TV screen in passing, Ali expected to see a frozen image of Judge Judy preparing to pass judgment on some hapless pair of feuding dimbulbs. Instead, she saw a Taser, one that was improbably decked out in a leopard pattern. Ali knew then that, rather than watching a television program, Edie had been reviewing her training DVD. As for Edie’s metallic pink Taser? That one lay on the hassock that served as her parents’ joint footstool, hidden in plain sight among a scattered collection of remote controls. It was tantalizingly close but out of Edie’s reach and certainly out of Ali’s.
Edie had backed away from the door in order to let them in, but Ali noticed that her eyes remained locked on the man—a man whose name she somehow seemed to know. How was that possible?
“The computer’s in the office,” Edie said to him. “Do you want to go get it, or should I?”
Calling the room that had once been Ali’s bedroom an “office” was vastly overstating the case. Every bit as cluttered as the living room, the second bedroom was actually a catchall storage room. It contained the entire collection of holiday decorations for every conceivable occasion that went up inside the Sugarloaf Café with absolute predictability. It was also a resting place for Bob and Edie Larson’s various short-lived hobbies.
A rickety table in one corner held Edie’s Singer sewing machine, while the flower-patterned spread on the twin bed had long since disappeared under stacks of material and patterns, as well as Edie’s many half-completed sewing projects. One wall of the room was stacked with boxes of books Bob had gathered up in preparation for retirement reading in case retirement ever became a viable option. Another jumble of boxes held the latest assortment of cast-off clothing and household goods that Bob Larson routinely collected and then passed along to anyone who happened to be in need. If a computer—even Edie’s laptop—had somehow been shoehorned into all that mess, Ali had no idea where it would have gone.
Winter, if that really was his name, pulled the .357 out of his pocket and waved it in Edie’s direction. “You go,” he said. “And remember, since your daughter’s here with me, you’d better not try anything.”
Shaking her head in apparent disgust, Edie disappeared into the bedroom/office. Ali was torn. She wanted to edge closer to the hassock, but she didn’t want to risk drawing the man’s attention to either the Taser image on the television screen or the real Taser resting just beyond her reach.
What if she somehow managed to retrieve it? Her mother
had shown her how to push the switch cover out of the way, and which button to depress, but would it work? And if Ali did get off a shot, would the darts penetrate the man’s jacket?
A moment later, and much to Ali’s amazement, her mother emerged from the bedroom carrying what looked like part of a very old desktop computer. She lugged it over to the table and set it down. “There you are,” she said.
“What’s that?” Winter asked.
“My computer,” Edie said brusquely. “You said you wanted my computer. I’m bringing it to you.”
“But that thing is ancient,” Winter objected. “You’re telling me that’s what you used to steal my files? Does it even still run?”
“Of course it still runs,” Edie assured him archly. “A computer’s a computer, isn’t it? It takes a while to boot up, but once it does, it’s good to go. If you’ll wait just a minute, I’ll go get the rest of it—the keyboard, the CRT, and the power cords.”
While she returned to the bedroom, Winter moved closer to the table. Clearly expecting the latest and greatest, he seemed both fascinated and appalled by the appearance of this old machine. Taking advantage of his momentary lapse in focus, Ali moved closer to the hassock.
He reached down and touched the computer. “It’s dead cold,” he said when Edie returned with the oversize monitor. “This thing probably hasn’t run in years.”
“Of course it’s cold,” Edie told him. “I’m not the kind to leave something plugged in and wasting electricity when I’m not using it.”
And that was when Ali understood what was going on. Somehow—through B., in all likelihood—Edie had learned that the man’s name was Winter, but the rest of it was all bluff. Edie
was making a huge production of dragging this computer equipment from the other room. But Ali knew for sure this wasn’t her mother’s computer and never had been. It was probably an ancient model someone had donated to Bob, one that was so out of date even he couldn’t give it away. And Winter was probably right when he said that if Edie ever did plug it in, it wouldn’t boot up.