Random Acts Page 6

  “So Detective Holman is coming, too?”

  “He just called.” Ali said. “He’s on his way from Prescott even as we speak.”

  Approaching the exit to General Crook Trail, Joanna was gratified to see that Ali’s ­people had outdone themselves in setting the “construction zone” stage. A full panoply of orange and black warning signs had been deployed along the shoulder of the freeway—­REDUCE SPEED AHEAD; CONSTRUCTION AHEAD; SLOW; FINES DOUBLE IN CONSTRUCTION AREA. Once Joanna reached the exit itself, it was lined on both sides with a collection of cones, as were both sides of the overpass. She doubted all of them contained cameras, but there were enough on display it seemed likely at least one of them would be able to capture the license plate on any passing vehicle. Two construction-­style generators were parked on the side at either end of the overpass.

  Just off the westbound portion of General Crook, a bright red Prius was parked on the shoulder with a man hunched over a laptop in the front passenger seat. Joanna pulled in behind the Prius as a young woman she recognized as Ali’s associate, Cami Lee, returned to the car.

  “How’s it going?” Joanna asked.

  “The angle for each camera had to be manually adjusted, but we’re almost there now. Did you bring the brass?”

  “Yes.”

  “Great. Once you put those where you want them, we’ll be sure that some of our cone cameras are aimed at those, too. We’re hoping for a license, yes, but also for an image that will be good enough for our facial recognition software.”

  There was plenty of traffic on the freeway below but virtually none on the overpass itself. After borrowing a pair of latex gloves from Cami, Joanna went about distributing the four .223 casings. If they had been given some kind of identifying mark, those weren’t visible. As Joanna found places to conceal them—­an expansion joint, a niche beside one of the guardrail uprights, the crack between the pavement and the base of the guardrail—­she was struck by a reminder of her mother—­out in the yard at High Lonesome Ranch, hiding colored eggs early on a sunny Easter morning. It was a blink of memory only, but enough to make her eyes mist over with tears as she realized yet again that her mother was dead. Eleanor may have been annoying as hell, but it hurt to realize that she was gone. Forever.

  Straightening her shoulders, Joanna placed the last of the four casings on the far side of the overpass while Cami followed behind her, readjusting the positions of some of the cones to aim the cameras more effectively.

  “About done here?” Ali asked, walking up behind her.

  “Just about. That’s the last of them,” Joanna said. “As soon as Cami finishes with focus adjustments we can go.”

  They were starting back toward where the cars were parked when a single vehicle exited the freeway and approached the overpass. Joanna and Ali spotted it at the same instant—­a jacked-­up black Toyota Tundra with a pair of spotlights mounted on top.

  “Looks like he’s here,” Ali shouted. “Show time.”

  The solo driver at the wheel of the Tundra paused momentarily at the stop sign with his left turn signal blinking. As if suddenly spotting the three ­people still on the overpass, he gunned the motor. The truck shot straight across General Crook and onto southbound I–17.

  “Let’s go,” Ali shouted, sprinting toward her Cayenne. “Cami, call it in, and then you keep watching from here to make sure he doesn’t pull a U-­turn and come back northbound.”

  Ali and Joanna clambered into the Cayenne at the same moment.

  “Are you armed?” Ali asked as she fastened her belt and put the Porsche in gear.

  “A Glock is all,” Joanna said.

  “Me too,” Ali said grimly. “Up against an AR–15 those won’t be worth much, but I don’t want to lose him.”

  After a gravel-­spraying U-­turn, Ali sent the Cayenne racing down the freeway entrance. It seemed to Joanna that the vehicle shot from zero to eighty-­plus in the blink of an eye.

  “We called it right,” Joanna breathed, scanning the northbound roadway to see if the suspect had maybe doubled back and dialing 911 at the same time. “We called it right. He did come back.”

  “And it almost worked, too,” Ali added. “The problem is, he got there a moment too soon, and now he knows we’re on to him.”

  “Nine-­one-­one, what are you reporting?”

  “A suspect in last night’s double homicide is southbound on I–17. He entered the freeway at General Crook Trail.”

  “May I ask your name and number? And where are you right now?”

  “My name is Joanna Brady. I’m the sheriff of Cochise County. I’m currently in a Cayenne pursing the suspect who is most likely armed and dangerous.”

  “Can you give me your mileage marker?”

  As soon as one appeared, Joanna did so.

  “I’ve just notified the Highway Patrol, but I must advise you to leave off your pursuit. You’re putting yourself in harm’s way.”

  “This guy is someone who blasts ­people in their cars from freeway overpasses,” Joanna said tersely. “That means there are innocent ­people out on the road today who are in far more danger than we are.”

  “Call Dave,” Ali said.

  Ending the 911 call, Joanna did as she’d been asked and was gratified that Dave didn’t bother telling them to mind their own business.

  “You’re sure he hasn’t doubled back?” Dave asked on speakerphone.

  “Not so far, but we’re watching.”

  “If he makes it as far as the Sunset Point rest area which is usually full of tourists . . .” Ali said in the background.

  “All hell breaks loose and no telling how many innocent civilians could be in danger,” Dave replied. “I’m on it. I’ve got ­people working on putting up a southbound roadblock before the Sunset Point exit.”

  “We’ll need one northbound, too,” Joanna added. “Somewhere on the far side of Camp Verde, just in case.”

  Joanna glanced at the speedometer. It was hovering around ninety-­five as the car darted past lumbering trucks and slowpoke RVs and minivans. All Joanna could do was hope the high-­powered Porsche and Ali’s driving skills were both up to the task.

  Ali’s phone rang. She nudged it across the seat for Joanna to answer and then returned both hands to the wheel.

  “Ali’s phone,” Joanna said.

  “It worked,” a voice Joanna recognized as Cami’s reported. “We caught the plate and Stu ran the number. The vehicle is registered to Norma Braeburn of Cave Creek, Arizona.”

  “They caught the plate,” Joanna reported to Ali. “And the vehicle belongs to a woman?”

  “Yes,” Cami replied, “but there was a male at the wheel. It’s likely the vehicle is being driven by Norma’s seventeen-­year-­old son, Scott.”

  “Has that information been forwarded to the Department of Public Safety and Dave Holman?” Joanna asked.

  “Done and done,” said Cami.

  By then the Cayenne was on a relatively flat plateau approaching Sunset Point. Just then, Joanna caught sight of the Tundra, flying northbound in the opposite lanes.

  “The suspect is now headed northbound,” Joanna shouted into the phone at Cami. “Call Camp Verde PD and see if they can establish a roadblock on I–17 somewhere north of General Crook Trail. In the meantime, Cami, you and Stuart need to get out of there.”

  In other places along that stretch of I–17, hundreds of feet of elevation separated the northbound from the southbound lanes. This was one of the few spots where crossing the median was even feasible.

  “Hold on,” Ali ordered. “We’re turning.” She moved over onto the left-­hand shoulder and hit the brake so hard that the engaging seat belt slammed into Joanna’s shoulder and belly. Moments later they bounced across the median on a dirt track and then shot back into the northbound lanes.

  “Call Dave back,” Ali o
rdered, unnecessarily, since Joanna was already doing exactly that.

  “We spotted him,” Joanna reported. “He’s northbound again.”

  “I know,” Dave replied. “Highway Patrol had a car parked just north of the Sunset Point exit to keep him from going in there. The guy took off as soon as he saw the patrol car. He’s headed northbound now.”

  “So are we,” Joanna said. “We should be able to see him any minute.”

  Joanna glanced at the speedometer. With the needle now hovering at well over one hundred, that seemed more than likely.

  “There he is!” Ali shouted. “We’ve got him.”

  It was true. The Tundra had been boxed in behind a slow-­moving semi passing another even slower semi on a steep grade. When the one vehicle finally moved out of the way, the Tundra shot around it, but the pickup had lost its momentum and it couldn’t quite regain its former speed.

  “We’re closing on him,” Joanna reported to Dave.

  “You two need to stand down now,” he replied. “We already know the guy is armed to the teeth. Camp Verde is in the process of assembling a SWAT team to block I–17 in both directions at the first Camp Verde exit. I should be there any minute. I’m on 169 only a mile or so from the freeway.”

  “Oh, my God!” Ali exclaimed. “He’s losing it.”

  And it was true. With her heart in her throat, Joanna watched as the Tundra raced around a northbound RV and then slewed wildly first in one direction and then the other. As the out-­of-­control pickup skidded back and forth across both lanes of the roadway, the driver in the RV did his best to avoid an almost inevitable collision. After three more wild wobbles, the Tundra veered to the right. It shot off the road and onto the shoulder, tumbling down an embankment in a manner that was almost a carbon copy of what had happened to George and Eleanor earlier that morning.

  “He’s off road,” Ali reported. “Just south of the Bloody Basin exit.”

  She pulled over on the shoulder just behind the stopped RV. A shaken and horrified older ­couple popped out of the RV, pointing to the spot where the overturned Tundra had landed on its roof with its wheels still spinning.

  Joanna darted out of the Cayenne. She had seen enough wrecks in her time to doubt this one was survivable.

  “Call for EMTs,” she ordered Ali, handing her back the phone. “I’m going down the hill to see if I can help.”

  “What if he’s still armed?” Ali asked.

  “So am I,” Joanna answered grimly. “So am I.”

  She scrambled down the embankment to the spot where the Tundra had come to rest, upside down, against a sturdy barbed-­wire fence. Drawing her weapon as she went, Joanna heard the kid long before she saw him.

  “Oh, my God!” he moaned. “It hurts. It hurts so bad. Help me! Someone, please help me out of here.”

  Knowing that even gravely injured he could still pose a deadly threat, Joanna approached the wreckage cautiously. Then, much to her relief, she spotted the AR–15 on the ground nearby. It had been thrown clear when the tumbling vehicle came to rest. Having the rifle out of play was a huge relief, and it went a long way toward evening the playing field. Still, she worried that the rifle might not be the only weapon involved.

  “Oh, God. It hurts. It hurts so bad, and I’m bleeding. Help me.”

  With the Glock still in hand, Joanna approached the cab from the rear driver’s side. “Sir,” she said. “Do you have a weapon?”

  “Who’s there?” he asked. “Can you help me? I need help.”

  “Do you have a weapon?”

  “No. I’m hurt—­hurt real bad.”

  Joanna edged forward far enough to peer around the door frame. The overturned truck’s sole occupant, trapped by his seat belt, hung upside down inside the vehicle, bleeding profusely. Realizing he was too badly hurt to pose any threat, Joanna immediately holstered her weapon. Then she reached inside and attempted to release the seat belt. It didn’t work. The weight of his body on the belt somehow kept the release from responding. Her hand came away bloodied.

  It was a shock to realize that the sticky red stuff came from the man who had killed her mother. But Joanna Brady had sworn to serve and protect, even if the person she was protecting didn’t deserve it.

  “You’ve got to get me out of here,” he pleaded. “It hurts so much. I can’t breathe. Please help me.”

  “Steady now,” she said. “We’re here to help.”

  The sound of falling pebbles behind her told Joanna that someone else had come scuttling down the embankment. “Can I help?” Ali asked.

  “I need a sharp knife,” Joanna told her.

  “Right back,” Ali said, disappearing the way she had come.

  Unable to free the kid, Joanna turned her attention to his wound. Most of the blood seemed to be coming from a deep gash in his lower calf. Shrugging out of her T-­shirt, she peeled off her bra and used it as a makeshift tourniquet around his leg.

  “Am I going to die?” the kid sobbed hysterically. “I think I am going to die. I want my mom. Where’s my mom? I need her.”

  How could a cold-­blooded killer sound so much like a little lost boy?

  “You need to be quiet, Scott,” Joanna said. “Save your strength. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”

  His eyes focused on her face. “Do I know you? How do you know my name? Is my mom coming? Have you called her?”

  Ali came skidding back down the embankment and tapped Joanna on the back. “The RV guy had a seat belt scissors in his tool box,” she said handing the implement over to Joanna. “I didn’t know there was any such thing. And the ambulance is on its way, coming from Black Canyon City. I don’t know how long it will take.”

  With the powerful little scissors in hand, Joanna eyed the problem. “When I cut him loose, he’s going to drop like a rock and may end up getting hurt worse than he already is. Can you crawl in through the other side and help break his fall? Then we’ll try to lift him out onto the ground.”

  “Will do.”

  Joanna put her face in front of the boy’s. His eyes were closed. She was afraid they were losing him.

  “Scott,” she pleaded. “Stay with me. Can you hear me?”

  His eyes blinked open. They were out of focus. He looked around in momentary confusion. “Where am I?”

  Joanna worried that if he’d suffered some kind of spinal damage, the very act of freeing him might make things worse.

  “Listen to me,” Joanna ordered. “We’re about to cut you loose now. Can you move your feet?” He did. “Your arms?” He did that, too.

  “Am I going to hell?” he asked as Joanna went to work on the seat belt. “I’m so sorry.”

  “Sorry for what?” Joanna asked.

  “I didn’t mean to do it. I didn’t mean to hurt anybody.”

  Joanna stopped cutting long enough to switch her phone to record. Her fingers were sticky with blood, and operating her phone wasn’t easy.

  “Who did you hurt, Scott?”

  “Those ­people,” he said. “Those two old ­people. I didn’t mean to hurt them. I didn’t mean for anyone to die.”

  Biting her lip, Joanna concentrated on the scissors. “What happened, then, Scott?” she asked.

  “I just wanted to shoot one of my dad’s guns. Mom was spending the night in town. I figured she’d never know. But now she will, won’t she? Where is she? Is she coming? Has anyone called her? Please. Can you get her here? I want her. I need her.”

  “Is this your cell phone?” Ali asked. She had crawled into the truck through the broken window and was holding up what appeared to be an unbroken cell phone.

  Scott looked at her and nodded. “Call my mom, please. Her number’s in there.”

  “We’ll call,” Ali assured him, “as soon as we get you out of here.”

  The seat belt gave way. As Scott dropped, Ali and
Joanna together managed to catch him. Even so, he howled in agony.

  “It hurts! Oh, God, it hurts! It hurts! Mommy, where are you? Please, I want my mommy.”

  He was struggling now, and it was a challenge for the two women to wrestle him out of the vehicle. Joanna was surprised when the guy from the RV stepped up to help. He had come down the embankment carrying an armload of blankets and pillows. Together the three of them eased the boy onto a makeshift bed.

  Dave Holman rushed down the embankment in such a hurry that he almost did a face plant. “What do you need?” he asked.

  Ali handed him Scott’s phone. “Call his mother,” she said. “Her number’s in here.”

  Joanna was totally focused on the boy. His face was much paler now. She couldn’t tell if that was due to the fact that he was no longer upside down or if he was hurt badly enough that he was drifting away. She leaned in close to him.

  “Stay with me, Scott,” Joanna urged quietly. “Tell me about your father’s guns.”

  “He died,” Scott said, “like a ­couple of years ago. And he left me all his guns. It said so right there in his will, but Mom wouldn’t let me touch them. She says I’m not responsible enough for guns.”

  She’s certainly right about that, Joanna thought.

  “It’s hard to breathe,” Scott whispered. “It’s like my chest is too heavy. Like there are rocks on it or something.”

  For the first time, a bright dribble of blood appeared in the corner of his mouth, confirming Joanna’s worst fears. The wound on the leg was bad, but it seemed there might be even worse internal injuries.

  “Am I dying?” he whispered, reaching out to take her hand. “Are you an angel?”

  Four words. “Are you an angel?”

  Here Joanna was, kneeling in the hot desert sun, caring for the young man she knew had killed both her mother and George. And yet she knew, too, that he was just a kid—­a scared, clueless kid—­who was most likely dying. A kid who without malice aforethought—­and mostly with no thought at all—­had pulled the trigger, simply to try out one of the guns his late father had left to him.