J. Jance - Hand of Evil

Ali complied wth her marching orders while Arabella, puffing slightly, clambered into the back. Ali cringed as the briefcase landed heavily on the floor behind her with the jar rattling loosely around inside it.

“Here,” Arabella said. “Put this on. It’ll look better.” She dropped Leland Brooks’s short-billed cap into the front seat. “And the key is there in the ignition.”

Only someone who wasn’t used to driving would make that kind of mistake with a Rolls, Ali thought. When she turned the key, the perfectly tuned engine purred to life. It took a moment to fasten her belt, adjust the seat, and locate the headlight switch. Nothing was familiar.

“Where to?” Ali said finally, pulling out of the driveway.

She caught a hint of gin as Arabella took another hit from the flask. “When you get to the bottom, turn left.”

As soon as Ali turned onto the highway, she saw the Sugarloaf Rock and below it the cafe. The lights were out, but there were several cars still in the parking lot. She caught a glimpse of her father’s Bronco, somehow repaired and returned from the garage in a surprisingly timely fashion. She saw her mother’s Alero, Chris’s silver Prius, Dave’s battered Nissan, and two more vehicles Ali couldn’t quite identify. Earlier she had dreaded going there and having to tell Dave the latest piece of Crystal’s bad news.

Now, though, Ali could easily imagine the crowded living room of her parents’ cramped house, and that was exactly where Ali Reynolds wanted to be, seated along with everyone else in a humble living room masquerading as a dining room and breaking bread with people she loved. That wasn’t to be. Instead of being there and being able to meet the young woman who might become Chris’s wife, Ali was stuck in a bright yellow Rolls-Royce, being held captive by an armed old woman who was certifiably crazy.

Just like Detective Marsh said, she thought ruefully. Definitely inserted and definitely in danger.

“Where are we going?” Ali said.

“Just drive out to the freeway,” Arabella told her. “I’ll tell you what to do once we get there.”

When the two detectives arrived in Sedona, it was well after dark. There were lights on deep in the interior of Arabella Ashcroft’s house, but no one was home.

“What do we do now?” Hank asked.

Larry Marsh sighed. “I hate to mention it, but I guess we’d better look up Ali Reynolds after all.”

“Do we know where she lives?”

Larry was already pulling the cell phone out of his pocket. “We will in a minute.”

Twenty minutes later they arrived at a mobile home at the top of Sedona’s Andante Drive. There were several vehicles parked in the driveway with people milling around inside and out. Somewhere in the background the slap of a basketball pounded on pavement.

“What’s going on?” Larry asked an older woman standing outside, talking animatedly on her phone.

“It’s my daughter, Ali,” she said. “She’s missing. Are you cops? Dave was just now calling. How did you get here so fast?”

“We are cops,” Larry said, pulling out his badge. “But probably not the ones who were called. Your daughter is Alison Reynolds? What’s your name, and how long has she been gone?”

“Edie, Edie Larson. My grandson talked to his mother right at six-thirty. We were putting dinner on the table, and she was already supposed to be there by then. She told him she was on her way, but she never showed. Finally we came up the hill to check. Her car is here and so are her keys, but no purse and no cell phone. I’ve tried calling that-but she doesn’t answer.”

Larry Marsh knew exactly where the missing phone and purse were-back in Phoenix in the evidence room. No wonder she hadn’t answered.

A man showed up and looked anxiously from Edie to Larry. “Who’s this?” he asked.

“Detective Marsh,” Edie told him. “From Phoenix.”

The guy held out his hand. “I’m Dave Holman,” he said. “Detective Dave Holman, Yavapai County Sheriff’s Department. What brings you here?”

“We’re investigating the death of a man named William Ashcroft. We wanted to speak to Ms. Reynolds about Mr. Ashcroft’s aunt, Arabella.”

Just then a young man came jogging back up the hill. “I talked to Gabe down the street,” he said. “He was out shooting baskets and saw Mom leave. She was driving a big old yellow car. He didn’t know what kind exactly, and he said there was someone sitting in the backseat.”

“That would be Arabella Ashcroft’s Rolls,” Larry Marsh said.

“Why would Ali be driving Arabella’s Rolls?” Dave asked. “Where’s her driver-what’s his name?”

“Brooks,” Larry supplied. “Leland Brooks.”

A pair of squad cars nosed their way up the street and stopped behind the Phoenix PD Crown Victoria. As uniformed officers converged on the scene and began trying to assess the situation, Larry pulled his partner aside.

“Once we get an APB put out on that Rolls, we’ll leave the locals to work this scene,” Larry said. “And while they’re busy with that, we’ll head back over to Arabella’s house. Maybe we missed them in transit.”

Which way?” Ali asked when they reached the freeway. Her hands were sticky with sweat. She knew now that Arabella Ashcroft was completely nuts. She was also armed and dangerous.

“South,” Arabella said. “Get off again at Camp Verde.”

Make conversation, Ali counseled herself. Try to make things seem normal. “You still haven’t said where we’re going,” she added.

“I’m going to say good-bye,” Arabella said.

“Good-bye to what?”

“We’re going to a place I loved,” Arabella explained. “Mother called it her ‘cabin in the woods.’ It’s on a piece of private land in the middle of the wilderness. It’s very peaceful there. Once they lock me up, I’ll never see it again. And when I die, they’ll knock it down and turn it back into wilderness. It’ll be gone forever.”

Back at the house Arabella had seemed defiant-giggly and almost gleeful. Now her mood shifted. She sounded morose and brooding. Ali sensed that this subtle change, booze induced or not, made Arabella more dangerous to deal with rather than less. And if her intention was to go somewhere to say good-bye, what were the chances that she intended to take Ali with her?

“Did you do what I told you?” Ali asked. “Did you contact a defense attorney?”

In the course of their long, rambling conversation, Arabella Ashcroft had admitted to committing two homicides. She had also hinted that she might be involved in two more. It occurred to Ali that if and when the woman was taken into custody, even the most effective representation might not be enough to save her. Arabella seemed to have arrived at the same conclusion.

“No,” she said. “I didn’t see any point. Why waste the money? They’re going to send me to jail or somewhere else. Either way, I’m not coming back here. This is over.”

“What’s over?” Ali asked in an effort to keep Arabella talking.

“Everything,” Arabella said. “I’ve lived my whole life, and I’ve never done anything worthwhile.”

“What about those little girls you wanted to help? Did you mean what you said about helping them?”

“Yes, I meant it. Of course I meant it!” Arabella’s anger briefly resurfaced. “But once everything that’s happened is made public no one is going to pay any attention to anything I say.”

“I know a girl like that,” Ali said quietly.

“A girl like what?”

“One like you were, only she’s a couple of years older. She’s someone who has been abused and who has decided to use her body for whatever it’ll buy.”