In case either of us ever needs any, Ali had thought.
Her brief romance with Dave Holman had ended even if their friendship hadn’t, and Leland’s long-term relationship with Yavapai County Superior Court judge Patrick Macey had also run its course.
Ali had let Leland’s housing decision stand without any further discussion, and in truth she was enjoying having the house all to herself. She had loved having Chris around in the house on Andante Drive, but it was also nice to be completely on her own and in her own place. There had been no question that the Beverly Hills mansion where she had lived with her second husband, Paul Grayson, had been his before she arrived, while she lived there, and after she left. And in many ways, the house on Andante Drive still bore the stamp of Ali’s aunt Evie, who had bequeathed it to her niece.
This home was Ali’s. It was far smaller than Paul’s but larger than Aunt Evie’s. That went for everything from furniture to appliances to the radiant heat in the floors.
Ali parked in the garage and then let herself into the house through the kitchen door. She wasn’t completely on her own, however; Sam showed up immediately, wrapping her body around Ali’s leg and complaining vociferously, as only cats can, for having been abandoned. This was all a lie, since Ali knew without a doubt that Leland would have fed Sam much earlier in the evening.
“You’re a terrible liar,” Ali told the cat aloud. “I know good and well that you’ve already been fed, and I’m not falling for your phony claims to the contrary.”
Ali was tired, but she was also wound up from her long night’s work. Knowing she wouldn’t be able to sleep right away, she stopped in the kitchen long enough to make herself a cup of hot cocoa. While there, she wrote a note for Leland.
“Have to be in Prescott between eight-thirty and nine,” she told him. “Don’t worry about breakfast.”
Once in her bedroom, she pulled off the clothing she had worn and wasn’t the least surprised that it smelled of smoke. A closer examination showed several places where falling embers had charred the material. The pantsuit had been expensive when she bought it and now it was ruined. She dropped it on the floor in front of her closet.
Maybe I should ask Sheriff Maxwell for a uniform allowance, she thought.
On that note she headed into her spacious marble-tiled bath for a luxurious shower. Afterward, dressed in a nightgown and robe, she took her cocoa and her computer into the small study next to her bedroom.
Time to do some homework, she told herself.
Opening her computer, she added the new names and addresses to her media contact list and then sent out an announcement about the press briefing scheduled for the courthouse steps the next morning. She intended to do some background studying on the Earth Liberation Front, but soon found herself nodding off over her computer keyboard.
Finally, without even finishing her cup of cocoa, Ali gave up. She closed her computer and crawled into bed. It took no time for her to fall asleep. Not surprisingly, while sleeping, she had one recurring nightmare after another. They weren’t all exactly alike, but they were similar.
In each one, Ali was trapped in a locked room-a room with no windows or doors. Sometimes the room was familiar, sometimes not; but in each dream, one thing was the same: someone-some unseen person-was coming after her, intent on doing her harm. In each instance she knew her attacker was armed and dangerous. She also knew there was no escape.
CHAPTER 5
The ICU nurse picked up the phone and called out to the nurses’ station. “The patient seems to be stirring,” she said in a voice inaudible to the woman lying in the bed on the far side of the room. “Let Sister Anselm know.”
The patient struggled awake, emerging from the horrible nightmare of being caught in a fire, but found that even though the dream was gone, the heat was still there. She was drifting in a cocoon of pure pain. Excruciating pain. Agonizing pain.
She tried to move her head but could not. She tried to move her lips to cry out, but she couldn’t do that, either. She was unable to speak or move, but she could see, and she tried desperately to make sense of what she was seeing.
Gradually she became aware that there were people moving around her-people who spoke in hushed voices, with the sounds of their words barely audible above the steady beep, beep, beep of some kind of machine that was just outside her line of vision. The sound resembled the warning backup
She strained to hear and understand what the voices were saying. A man’s voice said something about damage to lungs and something about keeping up the… something that seemed to start with an O. Osmosis, maybe. And something else that sounded like a ringer, or maybe a wringer. What was that? Someone else spoke about keeping the morphine levels high enough to keep her from going into shock.
“We’ll do all we can, all that’s reasonable.” It was the man’s voice again. “The problem is, without a next of kin or a durable power of attorney, we can’t pull the plug.”
Who are these people, she wondered, and who are they talking about? Do they mean me? Are they talking about pulling my plug?
She tried again, desperately trying to move her lips, but no sound came out.
Someone else in the room spoke, and her welcome words were far more easily understood.
“Looks like it’s time for another dose.”
A woman-a nurse, most likely-dressed in a brightly colored flowered tunic appeared briefly in her line of vision and began working with something beside the bed. Because it was a bed, she realized, but a strange kind of bed. She was in it and the nurse was doing something to an IV tree that stood next to the bed. She seemed to be adding something to the IV drip. Maybe what the man had said at first was a lie. Maybe they were about to pull the plug and she was going to die.
Don’t, she wanted to scream aloud. Please don’t. I’m here. I’m alive and awake. Please don’t.
But she couldn’t say any of those things. She could hear herself screaming the desperate words in her head, but her lips still wouldn’t move. Her voice was lodged somewhere deep in her chest.
Gradually, the appalling pain seemed to lessen. The brightly lit room dissolved around her, and so did the voices. As she drifted away into nothingness, she hoped the dream wouldn’t come again, but she knew it would.
She understood that the moment she closed her eyes, the flames would be there again, waiting to consume her.
By the time Ali made it to Prescott the next morning, Gurley Street, from the sheriff’s department to Whiskey Row, was full of news-media vehicles. The arson story, confirmed or not, complete with suspected ELF-involvement (officially unconfirmed ELF-involvement), was evidently out in the world in a big way. News outlets from all over the state, and some national outlets as well, were apparently paying attention and in attendance.
Welcome to the three-ring circus, Ali thought as she searched for a parking place. And I’m the newbie ringmaster with no assigned parking.
She finally found a spot on the street three blocks away. When she stepped out of her Cayenne, someone was waiting for her. “Nice ride,” he said admiringly.
Ali recognized the voice at once-the ELF-centric reporter from the previous evening. “Thank you,” she said and then added, “good morning, Mr. Green.”
He seemed a little surprised that she knew his name-surprised and pleased. He wouldn’t be nearly as pleased if he knew she knew the Oswald part, but then again, for someone with properly moussed hair, perfect clothes, a perfect tan, and perfect teeth, that was only to be expected. It came with the territory; it was only his just
