J. Jance: Day of the Dead

For the briefest moment, Brian’s vision was obscured by what turned out to be his deployed air bag. When he could see again, the fully loaded gravel truck and trailer were skidding on their sides along both lanes of roadway, spilling mounds of gravel and raising clouds of dust.

Brian turned to PeeWee. “Are you okay?”

PeeWee nodded, rubbing his collarbone. “I think so,” he said. “You?”

Brian tried the door. The frame was evidently jammed. His door wouldn’t open. Neither would PeeWee’s. They ended up having to shove their way through the shattered safety glass in the windshield.

“You go,” PeeWee said when the hole was wide enough for Brian to slip through. “I’ll radio for help.”

When Brian hit the ground, the Mack truck tractor lay on its side, wheels still spinning, with its signature bulldog hood ornament buried in the broken remains of a crushed mesquite tree. As Brian watched, the shaken truck driver scrambled out through a window opening and crawled across the door. Gripping the running board, he slipped over the side and then dropped the last few feet to the ground.

As soon as the man landed, he took off at a dead run. At first, Brian had no idea where he was going. Only when he looked beyond where the driver was headed did Brian see the wreckage of the smashed yellow Honda. It lay at the bottom of a steep wash, leaning up against several strands of barbed-wire fence. The truck driver ran to the edge of the wash and scrambled down the side. By the time Brian reached him, he was pulling desperately on the driver’s-side door handle.

“We’ve got to help her,” the man was saying. “We’ve got to get her out of there.”

But that door wouldn’t budge, either. Peering through the window, Brian saw the still form of a woman. She was flopped over against the door with blood seeping from a deep cut on her head. When he pounded on the window beside her, she didn’t move.

Leaving Brian behind, the truck driver raced around to the far side of the vehicle, clambered over the fence, and shoved. To Brian’s surprise, the Honda wavered for a moment and then tipped back onto its three remaining tires. Brian had to step back to get out of the way. With what seemed superhuman strength, the truck driver wrenched open the passenger door. He stood to one side, panting with exertion, while Brian scrambled inside. The woman still hadn’t moved. Brian felt for a pulse and found one-weak and fast, but there.

He clambered back outside. “Well?” the driver demanded. “Is she okay?”

Without answering, Brian turned back toward the wreckage of the Crown Vic. “She’s still alive,” he shouted at PeeWee, “but only just. Get on the horn. Tell them we’ll need a medevac helicopter out here. On the double.”

Brian turned back toward the truck driver, but the man was no longer standing. Pale and weak as a kitten, he had dropped to his knees and was quietly puking into the dirt.

Parked on the shoulder, Brandon saw the big red gravel truck bearing down on him from behind and the white car come out to pass. As they roared past him, the passing vehicle was on the far side of the truck. He didn’t see it again until the truck braked as the other vehicle slowed to turn off on Flying C Ranch Road. That was when he recognized the white car for what it was-Gayle Stryker’s Lexus. Why was she coming from the north?

Brandon had picked up his phone to call Brian when he saw an explosion of dust a mile or so farther south toward Oracle Junction. Dust like that had to mean that the speeding gravel truck had somehow come to grief, but that wasn’t Brandon’s concern. What worried him was that Brian didn’t answer his phone. After three rings, the cell phone went to voice mail, giving Brandon no choice but to leave a message.

“It’s me. You’re not going to believe it. Gayle Stryker just showed up from the north and turned into the ranch. I don’t know where you are, but get a move on. I need you here now.”

He waited several minutes, thinking that surely Brian would call him back. Finally, impatient, he punched redial. Again, the cell phone rang several times. “Pick up, for God’s sake!” Brandon grumbled.

“Hello?” Brian said at last.

“Where the hell are you? Did you get my message?”

“What message?”

“I called a few minutes ago. Gayle Stryker showed up. She and Larry are both here at the ranch.”

“There’s been an accident,” Brian said. “My phone ended up under the car seat. I didn’t find it until it started ringing.”

“What accident?” Brandon stopped. “Wait a minute,” he added. “Somebody’s coming down the road. It’s a white vehicle, so it may be…” He squinted into the sunlight. “Yes, it’s definitely a Lexus. I can’t tell which one, and I don’t know how many passengers-if they’re both in there or if it’s only one of them. The vehicle’s almost back to the highway. If there was ever a time for backup, this is it.”

“That’s what I’m trying to tell you. There’s been a wreck,” Brian said. “A bad one, just short of the junction.”

“But…” Brandon slipped the Suburban into gear and moved forward. The Lexus had pulled up to the intersection now and was turning right onto the highway. “He’s coming out now, turning your way and heading for Tucson.”

“He won’t get past here,” Brian said. “A gravel truck tipped over and spilled its load on top of a culvert. The road’s completely blocked in both directions.”

“Can’t you and PeeWee get through?”

“Negative on that,” Brian returned. “We managed to get out of the way, but we hit a bridge abutment. PeeWee and I aren’t going anywhere. Neither is our vehicle.”

Brandon rounded a curve and saw the field of wreckage up ahead. A few other Tucson-bound cars were already stopped. As he watched, the Lexus swung off onto the shoulder and then turned.

“Stryker’s just this side of your position,” Brandon shouted into the phone. “He’s pulling a U-ey.”

“I’m on foot, but I’m on my way,” Brian told him.

But Brandon soon realized that having Brian on his way wasn’t nearly good enough. Once the Lexus was back on the highway, it would start gaining speed. Brandon did the only thing he could. Using the Suburban’s bulk, he drove toward the much smaller LS 430, forcing it off the highway and onto the shoulder. Only then, with the two vehicles sitting nose to nose, did Brandon see there was only one person in the Lexus. The driver wasn’t Larry Stryker after all-it was Gayle.

She honked at him furiously and motioned him out of her way. When he didn’t budge, she backed up, hit the gas, and tried to swing around him. He blocked her again. That time a stricken look of recognition crossed her face when she finally realized who he was. There was barely a moment of hesitation between her recognizing him and the appearance of the gun. She held it out the window and fired three rounds in rapid succession.

Brandon threw himself across the front seat and hoped that the Suburban’s engine block and dashboard would offer enough cover. He lay there with his ears ringing and wondered if she would fire again. Not wanting to be hit by spraying glass, Brandon rolled down the automatic window with the touch of a button while plucking his Walther out of its holster.

When he heard the squeal of rubber on pavement, he realized Gayle was once again trying to push past him. He raised up in time to see the front side panel of the Lexus surge by. With her on the far side of the moving vehicle, Brandon knew it would be difficult for her to return fire. Leaning out the window and holding the Walther in both hands, he fired two separate shots. Hitting the right rear tire was no big thing. It was so close and presented such a large target that even a beginner could have hit that one. As that tire exploded, though, the car began to fishtail. Hitting the second tire dead-on was sheer luck.