J. Jance - Minor in possession

"You've read the diary?" I asked.

"Enough of it to know what went on," she returned coldly.

"And you think killing them will make it better?"

"It will make me feel better," she whispered fiercely. "I know now how she did it, how she got Joey under her thumb and kept him there."

"How?" I asked, lifting one foot and putting it down a few inches closer to her. "How did she do it?"

A ragged sob escaped her lips, but the gun didn't waver. "It's all there, in the book."

"Rhonda," I said. "Tell me. How did she do it?"

"She seduced him, that's how!" Rhonda spat out the words with such ferocity that a small drop of spittle landed on my face. I didn't brush it away. I couldn't risk any sudden movement that might distract her. I couldn't risk doing anything that might break her concentration. Instead, I slowly shifted my other foot a few inches closer.

"When?" I asked.

"He was just a baby," she sobbed. "It was molestation at first, just touching. That started when he was nine and she was seventeen. The other came later. Why didn't he tell me? I would have done something…"

"And then she threatened him if he told."

Rhonda's startled blue eyes met mine. "How did you know?"

"Because that's the way it works. That's what abusers do. They terrify kids into keeping quiet, into not telling their ugly secrets."

"She turned him into her slave. Wrecked his life. Made him do her dirty work."

"Joey's probably not the only one," I said, inching another half step closer. Rhonda was only about four feet away now. If she pulled the trigger, I was a dead man.

"Not the only one?" she asked, her voice faltering.

"What about that kid she sent after us the other night? Probably him, too. Believe me, Joey wasn't the only one. It never works that way."

"She's a monster. I swear, I'm going to kill her. And JoJo, too."

"No," I said.

Suddenly she noticed where I was. "Stop," she commanded. "Don't come any closer. I'll shoot."

"Let the law take care of them, Rhonda."

She laughed, almost hysterically, and I was afraid I was losing her. "They think they're above the law and they probably are."

"No," I insisted. "Not this time. How did you get in here, Rhonda?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Did you leave any fingerprints on the briefcases when you opened them?"

"I wore gloves," she answered coldly.

"Good," I said. "Then close them and put them back, just the way you found them."

"Why? Why should I?"

"Because as soon as you turn Joey's notebooks over to Delcia, she'll be out here with a search warrant within forty-five minutes. They don't know you've found the diary, but if they're going to run-with all this money here, I'll bet that's the plan-they'll do it as soon as they finish with the funeral. We don't have much time."

"I don't need a search warrant. All I have to do is wait here and shoot them when they show up."

"But you'll go to prison. Premeditated murder."

"It doesn't matter," she spat back.

"That's where you're wrong, Rhonda. It matters. Guy Owens has changed his mind. He and Michelle are waiting for you at the church. You're going to be a grandmother."

It was silent in the garage. Deathly silent for five seconds, ten, I don't know how long. Then Rhonda Attwood dropped the gun, gave a pained whimper, and fell weeping into my arms.

And as the snub-nosed. 38 went skidding off under JoJo Rothman's polished silver Jaguar, I thanked God and Zeke both that it didn't go off and shoot one of us in the foot.

The rest was easy.

While I retrieved the gun, Rhonda closed the briefcases and put them back up in the rafters the way she had found them. Then, with all evidence of breaking and entering carefully concealed, we hurried out to the cars. We drove back out to the guard shack in the same cars we'd used to drive in, with me pausing long enough to tell the security guard that the Rothmans wanted me at the church after all.

Once out of sight of the guard shack, I stopped and waited for Rhonda, then we switched vehicles so I could use Ralph's mobile phone to begin pulling the rope tight around JoJo and Marsha Rothman's necks.

Ames had followed my instructions to the letter and had herded everyone, including a protesting Delcia, back to his house as soon as the service was over. Delcia sounded angry when I first began to explain the situation, but as soon as she grasped what was going on, she was ready to leap into the fray and assemble search warrants and whatever local law enforcement personnel might be necessary.

"And you? What are you going to do?" she demanded, as soon as I had finished briefing her.

"I'm coming back to Ralph's house to put my feet up," I told her. "This is Arizona, not Washington, remember?"

"I'm glad you do," she returned.

When we reached Ralph's house, Delcia's car was long gone, but the Owenses' borrowed Buick Regal-which actually belonged to Colonel Miller-was parked out front. Driving the Fiat, Rhonda followed me into the driveway. She had driven with the windows open, so her cheeks were flushed and her hair disheveled.

She got out of the car patting her hair self-consciously. "Do I look all right?" she asked nervously.

"You look fine," I said, taking her arm and propelling her toward the house.

No wonder she felt awkward. She had seen Michelle Owens once-Michelle, the girl who would never exactly be her daughter-in-law but who would forever be the mother of Rhonda's only grandchild.

At the time of that first encounter, the younger woman had been unconscious, lying in a drugged heap on the ground where the fleeing Monty had dropped her. So the two of them-women who had nothing in common except an inexplicable love for Joey Rothman-were about to meet for the first time.

I rang the bell, and Ames opened the door.

"Anybody home?" I asked.

He nodded. "They're in the other room," he said.

I led Rhonda Attwood into the expansive living room. Guy Owens, sitting on the low leather couch, began to struggle with his crutches in order to rise to his feet. Michelle, sitting beside him, seemed glued to her seat. She opened her mouth as if to speak but changed her mind. Her braces caught the sunlight, reminding me once more of how very young she was and how unsure of herself.

Rhonda looked around the room and sized up the situation instantly. She motioned for Guy to sit back down. As he sank gratefully back onto the couch, she smiled warmly at Michelle.

"I'm Rhonda Attwood," she said to the girl. "But I believe you can call me Grandma."

D elcia handled the arrests like the pro I knew she was. JoJo and Marsha Rothman were arrested without incident. Jennifer, poor little Jennifer, was made a ward of the court.

Late in November Ralph Ames sent me a typed copy of Joey Rothman's diary. Ralph has been busily making arrangements with a major New York publishing house for the journals to be published in book form under the title Better Off Dead, which was evidently taken from the lyrics of some rock song or other.

It almost made me sick to read the details, and I'm sure it will have the same effect on others, but Ralph tells me that there was another similar book published years ago, an adolescent true-life cautionary tale called Go Ask Alice. The publisher believes Joey's book will have much the same impact on the current crop of teenagers.

After reading it, I've had to reassess my opinion of Joey Rothman. I know now that years of abuse at the hands of his stepmother made him the way he was. There's the widespread belief that only girl children are sexually abused. Certainly it is more common with girls, but when it happens to boys, it's every bit as devastating.

Until he met Michelle, I don't believe Joey was conscious that it was possible to love another human being openly, without selfishness, without demanding something in return. Until Michelle, sex for him was nothing but a bartering chip, a weapon to be used to manipulate other people. And even after he knew Michelle, old habits died hard, hence his abortive attempt to blackmail Louise Crenshaw and to glean information about me from Kelly.