J. Jance - Left for Dead

Christine was in her bedroom, probably asleep, as he headed for the kitchen, but Phil did notice that at least one and maybe two of the remaining lights on the tree had burned out overnight. He made a mental note of their location in case the bulbs got replaced behind his back.

Now you really are being paranoid, he told himself.

He was in the kitchen by six-fifteen, making coffee and doing his usual oatmeal ritual-making the hot cereal, dividing it into separate bowls, and leaving them on the counter for Christine to find later. He had the timing down to a science. At six-thirty exactly, he picked up his wallet and keys, left the house, and headed for the garage and his aging F-150 pickup truck. That gave him an hour to have a leisurely breakfast with the guys at the cafe and be at the post office at seven-thirty to do the final sort of his mail. That was when Patty Patton, Patagonia’s postmistress, would give him the Priority and Express Mail packages.

After all, despite rain, snow, sleet, hail, or even living in hell on earth, the mail must go through.

Phil stopped at the garage door and shoved the key into the lock, thinking as he did so how, back when his grandparents were alive, the garage door was never locked. A week or so ago, when he had misplaced his key ring, it had been a pain. Fortunately, he’d had a spare.

That was then, he told himself. This is now.

Phil pushed the door open. As he stepped into the garage, he was astonished to find himself tripping over something he couldn’t see. Pitching forward, he fell headlong onto the concrete floor, landing hard on his elbow and whacking his shoulder on the pickup’s passenger-side front fender as he fell. His thermos bounced once and rolled out of reach under the truck while his house key ring skittered away from him, coming to rest a good five feet away.

He lay there for a moment, trying to assess the damage. What the hell just happened to me? he wondered. Did I break anything?

Phil was on his hands and knees, attempting to scramble to his feet, when something slammed into the back of his head. The shattering blow sent him sprawling once again. It also knocked him senseless. He felt the first blow, but that was it. He was unaware of a dropcloth-his own much used dropcloth, it turned out-being tossed across him to keep bits and pieces of flesh from flying up onto his assailant. When the furious barrage of blows ended, he lay there, dead or unconscious, while his unseen and totally silent attacker walked away.

Unheard by Phil, the garage door opened and closed behind him. Soon the soft whine of a battery-powered screwdriver cut through the early-morning quiet as the screws that had held an invisible length of fishing filament in place a foot off the ground were removed and the holes left behind were plugged with tiny dots of white toothpaste.

There was no way to tell if Phil Tewksbury, buried under the dropcloth, was dead or alive when the door closed the second time, but that didn’t really matter. One way or the other, it was over for him. From that moment on, whatever happened to Christine Tewksbury was someone else’s problem.

6:00 A.M., Monday, April 12

Tucson, Arizona

Ali’s cell phone awakened her in a simple but unfamiliar room. She had slept on a narrow cot that would have to be stretched several inches in every direction to duplicate a modern twin-size bed. The iron-barred headboard hadn’t been constructed with reading in bed in mind. At last she located the buzzing phone on a rough-hewn bedside table.

“Good morning,” B. said. “Sorry to wake you. On my way into a meeting in five minutes. Where are you?”

“A convent,” Ali said. “All Saints Convent outside Tucson.”

“A convent? How did you end up there?”

“I was going to go find a hotel, but Sister Anselm is in Tucson. She suggested I come here.”

“What’s Sister Anselm doing in Tucson?”

“Long story,” Ali said. “Longer than I can explain in five minutes. The reverend mother at All Saints, Sister Genevieve, is a friend of Sister Anselm’s, and she was kind enough to take me in. It’s a bit Spartan, a dormitory room with a bed and a bathroom down the hall, but once I got here, Sister Genevieve made me hot tea and helped me raid the fridge.”

“I didn’t know convents had refrigerators to raid.”

Somewhere on the grounds, something that sounded like a church bell tolled six chimes. From somewhere else came the scents of cooking-frying eggs, baking coffee cake, and brewing coffee. Doors opened and closed up and down the hallway, and quiet footsteps whispered past Ali’s closed door.

“That was the call to prayer,” she told B. “Since I’m not a Catholic, Sister Genevieve gave me a pass on prayers, but she said if I wanted breakfast, I’d better be in the refectory at six-thirty.”

“So it’s a good thing I rousted you out of bed.”

“Yes,” Ali agreed. “It’s a good thing.”

“How’s your friend doing?”

“That’s another long story. Jose’s condition has been upgraded, and he’s out of the ICU. His wife had her baby-an emergency C-section. And their two girls are currently staying with Haley Marsh.”

“One of the Askins girls?’

“That’s right. I needed someone to take care of two ankle biters, and Haley was a likely prospect. She doesn’t have classes during the day today, so she’s looking after them until this evening.”

“So it’s all good?”

“Not all. Jose and Teresa are being investigated for possible drug dealing by the cop who’s supposed to be investigating Jose’s shooting.”

“And who’s the flower guy?” B. asked. “Stuart told me something about helping you track down a delivery guy.”

“Turns out he’s Border Patrol.”

“How’s he connected to Jose Reyes?”

“He’s not,” Ali said. “He’s connected to Sister Anselm’s patient, Jane Doe. You’re going to have to call me when we have more time. This is way too complicated.”

“All right. Here’s my hat; what’s my hurry?” B. said. “But I do need to go. And so do you, if you’re going to make it to breakfast.”

“Have a good meeting,” Ali said. She was on her way to the bathroom with her phone in hand when it rang again. “I’m sorry I threw you under the bus at dinner the other night,” Edie Larson said. “Since I didn’t hear from you yesterday, I’m guessing you’re still mad at me. But we’ll be signing the paperwork later this morning.”

“I’m not mad,” Ali said. “I’m in Tucson, and I’ve been really busy. But if anyone needs to apologize, it’s me. I acted like a spoiled brat. There’s no one more deserving of retirement than you and Dad. I was way out of line not to be more enthusiastic that you’ve found some qualified buyers. I guess I was surprised more than anything, but since I don’t ask you about every decision I make-including my trip to Tucson-the reverse should be true. So I’m sorry.”

“Not telling people in advance was selfish on our part,” Edie said. “And I had no business embroiling you in that mayoral discussion before I spoke to your father about it. Besides, if I’m expecting to have a future in politics, I need to put on my big-girl panties and fight my own battles.”

Ali laughed at that. “Dad was probably caught as flat-footed on that as I was on your selling the Sugarloaf. You can’t blame him. It’s a lot of change to take on all at once.”

“Your father has plenty of outside interests,” Edie said. “He’ll probably spend more time with that damnable Blazer of his than he will with me. And when he doesn’t have to go to the restaurant every day, I’m sure he’ll spend a lot more time on his homeless outreach.”