“Middle-aged, bald, and heavyset,” the woman said. “One arm was in a sling.”
That last comment hit Kath Fellows like a sledgehammer. She had spoken to Brian several times in the course of the day. She knew the man her husband was looking for-the killer he was looking for-was a middle-aged bald man with one arm in a sling. Slamming her car door shut, Kath raced across the aisle and pushed her way through the cluster of people until she was able to get a clear view of the tags on the back of the dusty silver minivan. California.
Long before the patrol car arrived, Kath Fellows was on the horn with her husband. Brian sounded groggy, as though he might have been caught napping at his desk when she called.
“Sorry,” he mumbled. “I meant to call earlier. I’m tracking auto dealers, and I still don’t know when I’ll be home.”
“It’s about your killer,” Kath told him. “Do you have a vehicle tag number for him?”
“Just a sec,” Brian said, shuffling papers. “I have it right here. Why?”
“I’m looking at a very dusty silver minivan, a Dodge Caravan with California plates.”
Brian read off the license information.
“That’s the one,” Kath said.
“What’s going on?”
“I think your guy just carjacked a woman and her baby.”
“Which way did they go?” Brian asked.
Kath heard the urgency in his voice. “South on Campbell in a tan sedan. Maybe a Honda. Is it possible they’re headed for the airport?”
“No,” Brian said at once. “Not that. Southard already tried the airport option this morning. It didn’t work. Besides, we’ve got that covered. He’s headed somewhere else. The smart money is on Mexico. Can you give me any more information on either the vehicle or on the victim, anything at all?”
Kath looked up in time to see that the arriving patrol car was still half a block away, wading through the intersection. The cops weren’t on the scene yet, but the woman’s purse was. It was still sitting where she had dropped it, on the ground next to the spot where her vehicle had been parked.
Before anyone could stop her, Kath had scooped up the abandoned purse. She had the wallet out and open by the time the cop car rolled to a stop in the midst of the milling crowd of excited onlookers.
“Stop her,” someone shouted, pointing at Kath. “That woman is trying to steal her purse.”
A burly young cop hurried up to Kath. “What’s going on here?” he demanded. “Is that your property?”
“Her name is Torres,” Kath said into the phone to her husband without answering the officer’s question. “Virginia Torres. Her address is 231 South Fourth.”
“Ma’am, I asked you once,” the cop insisted. “You need to answer me. Is that your purse or not?”
“Hope this helps,” Kath said. “I’ve gotta go.”
She closed her phone, handed the purse to the police officer, and reached for her own ID. “No, it’s not mine,” she said. “My name is Kath Fellows. I’m with the Border Patrol. According to her ID, the purse belongs to a woman named Virginia Torres. I believe she and her baby have just been carjacked. I think the man who did it is the shooter who killed those four people out on the reservation last night.”
Fourteen
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:50 p.m.
88? Fahrenheit
Brian Fellows was on the phone to Records as he raced out of the building. If the carjacked Honda was still on Campbell or Kino, it was probably headed for either I-10 or I-19. Depending on traffic and lights, the trip to the freeway from Broadway could take as little as seven minutes or as long as ten.
The sheriff’s office was only half a mile or so from where Kino intersected I-10. Brian knew that if he hurried, he might well be there before the Honda. There was a chance a Tucson PD patrol vehicle might beat him to the punch, but that was strictly a matter of luck. Brian was afraid his quota of luck for the day had already been used up in spectacular fashion.
The fact that Kath had been grocery shopping in the same place where Southard had gone looking for a victim was beyond luck. It seemed to him that there was a higher power operating somewhere behind the scenes. There was also the disturbing realization that Kath could just as easily have been the carjacking victim. That, too, was strictly a matter of chance.
Brian was too low on the departmental totem pole to merit a shaded parking place. He piled into his stifling patrol car. The overheated steering wheel scorched his hands as he shot out of his parking place and across the lot. When he reached the exit, he was relieved to see there was no traffic at all on Old Benson Highway. He made a quick right-hand turn without bothering to stop and immediately moved into the far-left lane. He was tempted to turn on his lights and siren, but then he thought better of it. Until he was sure there was backup either from the city of Tucson or from Pima County, it was probably best to maintain a low profile.
Once on Kino, Brian drove as far as the intersection with I-10, where he hit a red light. Stopping for that gave him a chance to study access ramps going in either direction. There was no sign of the Honda on I-10, but while he was looking, Brian took a moment to radio back to Dispatch to let them know that they needed to contact Jake Abernathy and tell him that his homicide suspect was now a carjacking suspect as well.
It was nothing more or less than a CYA call. Jonathan Southard’s case was now officially Jake Abernathy’s problem. If someone from Tucson PD made the collar, Jake would be pissed. If Brian made it, the man would be downright livid. In a perfect world, results should be the final judge and this would be all about catching the bad guy rather than who was catching the bad guy. But Brian Fellows had long ago realized that under Sheriff Bill Forsythe, the Pima County Sheriff’s Department never had been and never would be a “perfect world.”
His phone rang. “Okay,” Kath said. “A Tucson PD unit is headed southbound on Campbell. Where are you?”
“At the freeway and Kino and headed north,” Brian answered. “No sign of the Honda so far, but with any luck that unit from Tucson PD and I will catch it in a squeeze play.”
“Be safe,” Kathy said.
“I always am,” he told her.
Tucson, Arizona
Sunday, June 7, 2009, 1:51 p.m.
88? Fahrenheit
Jonathan watched the woman as she drove. Fortunately she had finally stopped trying to talk to him. At first he had thought she was much younger, but now he realized she had to be somewhere in her thirties. And her baby- thank God the squalling kid had finally shut up and had evidently fallen asleep-had to be somewhere between three and four years old.
Jonathan didn’t like thinking about what was going to happen to them. It was inevitable. The prospect of that finally forced him to think about what he had done to his own kids.
Esther had deserved whatever she got and more, but maybe he should have left the kids be. Someone would have looked after Timmy and Suzy, he supposed. Corrine, Esther’s busybody sister, for one. If he’d had taken the time really to think about it before he shot them, he might not have done it. But he was having time to think about what would happen to this mother and her little boy now, and it bothered him, just like shooting the stupid Indians bothered him. In this case, however, the young woman and her son were already as good as dead. They just didn’t know it. In fact, the woman was probably still hoping he’d give them a chance to get away.
As far as when he would finish them off and where that would happen? He knew that it would have to be somewhere between here and the border. He’d direct her to turn off the freeway onto a deserted road somewhere. Then, after he’d shot them both, he’d take the car. He’d park it somewhere close to the border and then walk
