J. Jance - Dead to Rights

Straining her ears, Joanna cautiously opened the door to the Blazer and set one tentative foot on the grainy pavement.

“Mr. Morgan. We’re here to help you. Come out with your hands up.”

Once again, she heard the thumping noise. This time she was sure that the sound was coming from the vehicle, from somewhere inside the Buick. Keeping herself half hidden behind the scanty cover of the car door, Joanna wondered what she should do. Walk forward until she was close enough to look in the window? Even as she framed the question, she knew that doing that without proper backup could be fatal.

“Mr. Morgan,” she called again, pleading this time. “Give yourself up. Come out with your hands up. We don’t want to hurt you.”

Now, though, in addition to the thumping, there were muffled cries as well-the grunting, indecipherable groans made by someone desperately trying to communicate but unable to speak. For the first time Joanna considered the possibility that in the process of bolting from the motel, Morgan might have taken someone else prisoner as well. Father McCrady maybe? Someone from the motel-a maid or, perhaps, a fellow guest?

The very thought made Joanna’s knees go weak. The thumping came again. More urgently now. Whoever was in the trunk wasn’t there of his or her own volition. So where was Morgan? Was he out in the woods somewhere waiting for Joanna to show herself, or was there a possibility that he, too, remained hidden in the Buick? Maybe he had been injured somewhere along the way. Meanwhile, where the hell was her backup?

The pounding came again, but along with the pounding, there was something else as well-a dimly flickering light that hadn’t been there a moment before. At the same time she saw the light, she smelled smoke-the pungent odor of burning vinyl. The front seat of the Buick was on fire. Whoever was locked in the trunk was about to be burned alive. There was no time to weigh her own safety against the life of the prisoner in the trunk. Nor could there be any question of waiting for backup.

Racing forward, she flung open the door to the Buick. The whole front seat was aflame by then, from the floorboard back. She punched the trunk release, but nothing happened. With her heart sinking in her chest, she realized that the trunk-release wires that ran under the dash must have already melted.

Spinning around, Joanna holstered the Colt, darted back to the Blazer, and wrenched open the back door. A moment later, her grasping fingers closed around the crowbar she kept on the floorboard under the seat.

It only took a matter of seconds for her to reach for the crowbar, but by then, when she turned back to the Buick, the whole interior of the vehicle was engulfed in flames. There wasn’t a second to lose.

Returning to it, she stood for a moment before the closed trunk, trapped in indecision. If she battered the keyhole in, would that release the latch and open the lid? Or would she he better off trying to pry it open?

In the end, that’s what she decided. Shoving the business end of the crowbar as far as she could under the trunk lid, she used every bit of strength she possessed to pull on the crowbar. The stiff sheet metal gave a little, but not enough. Not nearly enough. The lock still held firm.

The fire was burning hot enough now that she could feel the heat of it against her face. Another frantic set of pounding, weaker now, came from inside the trunk.

Please, Joanna prayed, leaving God to fill in the blanks. Please!

Feeling as though her arms were going to burst with the strain of it, she pulled a second time. And a third. On the fourth, when the lock finally gave way and the lid popped open, she almost plunged headfirst into the trunk herself.

The smoke was in her eyes and nose. She could barely see, but she could feel. Dropping the crowbar, she reached blindly into the trunk. Her hands closed around a pair of trouser-clad legs. Partway up the legs, her fingers encountered a knotted rope. The victim in the trunk was lying on his side, trussed and facing the backseat. He was breathing the hot noxious fumes that were pouring into the trunk.

Still panting with exertion, Joanna tried grasping the man around the waist. He was too big, too heavy. She couldn’t budge him. “You’ve got to help me,” she yelled at him. “I can’t do it alone.”

But there was no response. The fumes had done their work. Bracing her shoulder under him, Joanna finally managed to raise him a few inches off the floor of the trunk when she heard someone behind her.

“What the hell…!” Dick Voland exclaimed. “Hollicker, come quick!”

Joanna had never in her life been so glad to see someone. It look six hands to lift the unconscious man clear of the trunk and carry him back behind the Blazer and far enough around the curve to be out of harm’s way. Next Deputy Hollicker shoved the Blazer into reverse and moved it as well. And just in time, too. With a terrifying whoosh, the Buick’s gas tank exploded.

Joanna, gasping for breath and coughing her lungs out, fell to her hands and knees. When the Buick went up, she heard it go and felt the sudden burst of heat, but she didn’t see it. Then there were hands on her shoulders, pulling her up.

“Are you all right, Joanna?” Dick Voland asked.

“I’m fine,” she choked. “It’s just the smoke…”

He took her firmly by the arm. “Come on. We’ve called for the rangers. They’re bringing fire-fighting equipment, so we’d better get out of the way.”

Back at the Blazer, Joanna stood for a moment looking up at the burning car. “We’ve loaded Morgan into the rear of your vehicle,” Voland said. “Can you drive, or do you want me to? ”

“Morgan?” Joanna asked, not quite understanding. “Hal Morgan? You mean you found him, too?”

Voland looked down at her. “Didn’t you see him? He was the guy we pulled out of the trunk.”

All Joanna could do was shake her head. And when she reached for the door handle, there was no strength left in her hands. Voland opened the door for her. “I’ll get in on the other side,” she said. “You’d better drive.”

Helping her along as though she were an invalid, Voland led her around the vehicle and lifted her into the passenger seat. Then he jogged back and jumped into the driver’s seat.

“You realize that if you’d been even thirty seconds later, Morgan would have bought it. How the hell did you manage to get that damned trunk open?”

Joanna looked across the seat. Against an orange back-drop, her chief deputy’s face stood out in sharp relief. Even through the choking coughs, Joanna could see the concern and compassion written there. She had also heard the pride in his voice. It was easy to see how someone like Ruth Voland might read something into that look that wasn’t there.

“I don’t know,” Joanna returned, then lapsed into yet another fit of shuddering coughs.

She turned around and looked at Hal Morgan. His legs were still tied, but his hands were free. Part of a duct-tape gag was still stuck to his face. He, too, was coughing and choking, trying to clear the bitter, chemical-laced smoke out of his lungs. There were dozens of questions she wanted to ask, but those would have to wait-until they both stopped coughing.

Fortunately, the single tree that had caught fire was far enough from its neighbors that no other trees burned with it. That was partially due to the fact that the fire truck and rangers were there within minutes and were able to keep the flames from spreading. Directed by the rangers, a contingent of deputies helped deal with the fire. Once it was out, they settled down to await the arrival of the canine unit. Meanwhile, at a turnoff two miles back down the road, Joanna Brady and Dick Voland finally had a chance to interview Hal Morgan. He was bruised and battered from being knocked around in the trunk, but other than that, he seemed fine.