Having her feet bound was like being caught in a life-and-death sack race. Hopping along, Joanna made for a small open space between the freezer and workbench, all the while dodging away from Dena and her tape and trying, at the same time, to drive a wedge between the two conspirators.
“Don’t do this, Dena,” Joanna pleaded. “Don’t let Ross talk you into it. Once you load me into that car of his, it’s kidnapping. Add that to murder and conspiracy to commit, you’re talking capital offenses. In case you haven’t noticed, executions are back in style in Arizona, and being a woman is no excuse.”
“Shut up,” Dena said, following doggedly behind Joanna, with the roll of duct tape still in her hand. “Just shut up.”
She was so focused on taping Joanna’s mouth that she clearly wasn’t thinking of anything else. She didn’t notice that Joanna was leading her into the foot and a half of confining space between the freezer and the workbench, a space so small that there would be almost no room for maneuvering-for either one of them.
“Think about a plea bargain, Dena,” Joanna said. “If you’ll agree to testify against him, I’ll do whatever I can to help you.”
“I said, shut up,” Dena insisted. “I don’t want to hear it.”
By then, Joanna had backed herself against the wall. Just as she expected, Dena charged after her. There wasn’t much time. Joanna knew that her only chance was to make her move now, while it was still a one-on-one contest, while Ross Jenkins was still outside the garage. Once he finished transferring the luggage, it would be too late.
Pressed up against the wall and using that to help maintain her balance, Joanna ducked her head until her chin was resting on her breastbone. Then she flexed her knees. As Dena moved in with the tape, Joanna sprang forward. The top of her head caught Dena Hogan square on the chin. The head butt hit Dena hard enough that Joanna herself saw stars. She stood there reeling while Dena Hogan, groaning in surprise, fell to the floor and lay still.
Joanna didn’t bother looking at her. Hopping again, she made her way around the fallen woman. She had noticed grass shears among the collection of tools. Seeing them again, she noted the sharp blades glinting wickedly in the light from the garage-door opener. If Joanna could get to the shears, maybe she could hack through the tape enough and free her hands long enough to wrest her Glock from its holster.
The distance from where she was to the shears was only a matter of a few feet, but it might as well have been the length of a football field. Hopping and with her heart hammering in her chest, Joanna was almost there when the automatic garage light hit the end of its timer and went off, plunging the place into total darkness.
Crashing a rib against the corner of the workbench as she made her way past it in the dark, Joanna knew she was close. Turning, she felt along the wall. She remembered that a long-handled rake had been next to the workbench and the shears had been next to the rake, hanging with the handle up and the closed blades down. Joanna had found the blades and was just beginning to saw through the tape when the garage door opener whirred once more. As the light came on again, Ross Jenkins reentered the garage.
“Come on,” he was saying as he came. “I heard the talk on her police radio. The cops are on their way. Let’s go, Dena.” Just then, catching sight of Dena on the floor, he stopped short. “What the hell!” he exclaimed.
Huddled against the wall of tools with her hands still not freed from the tape, Joanna saw him turn on her. With his face distorted by rage, Ross Jenkins charged forward. There was no time to finish cutting through the tape; no hope of prying the hidden Glock loose from its holster. There was only time enough for her to register that he was hurling himself toward her with both of his hands visible and empty.
Standing on tiptoes, Joanna managed to wrench the shears loose from the hook that held it to the wall. Then, with a half-jump, she spun around so that she was facing the wall with the handle of the shears clutched in both hands behind her.
Ross never saw the danger or, if he did, the warning came too late for him to check his headlong attack. Momentum carried him forward and onto the upthrust blades of the shears. The force of the blow to her back sent Joanna smashing face-first into the wall. The other tools hanging there crashed to the floor around her. Meanwhile, as Ross fell back, Joanna felt something hot and sticky ooze onto her hands.
“Why, you bitch!” he howled, rolling on the floor and clutching his bleeding abdomen. “You incredible bitch!”
Joanna tried to move out of the way, but hopping on both feet together didn’t make for maneuverability. He caught her by the leg and pulled her down on top of him.
“You’re going to help me,” he hissed. “You’re going to help me get up and out of here.”
Somehow, though, through it all-through being knocked down and then dragged on top of him-Joanna had managed to keep hold of the shears. Twisting in his grasp, she plunged the shears into him a second time. This time the blade went deep into his thigh. As Ross squirmed and howled in pain, Joanna managed to roll away from him and go slithering across the cold cement floor.
Joanna had heard Ross say that help was on its way. All she had to do was keep him there and keep herself out of harm’s way until the promised backup units arrived. Unable to regain her feet, Joanna scooted out of the garage and onto the driveway. The cold and rough cement tore through her nylons, rubbing her legs raw. With every inch of forward motion, Joanna kept looking back over her shoulder, expecting him to come lunging after her once more.
Joanna moved past the Lexus without stopping, but when she reached the Concorde, she used the car’s fender as a brace and hauled herself up into a sitting position. There, she dropped the shears and wrested the Glock out of her holster. It wasn’t a matter of taking aim. She simply held the barrel of the gun against the rubber tire and pulled the trigger.
Then, after retrieving the shears and with both them and the Glock in hand, she made her way back to the Blazer. There was always a chance that Ross Jenkins’ vehicle was equipped with those new expensive tires, the ones you were supposed to be able to drive on for fifty miles even if they were plugged full of holes. Joanna knew it would be a long time before Frank Montoya would agree to buy them for the sheriff department’s fleet of vehicles.
When she finally reached the front of the Blazer, she did the same thing to the right front tire there, shooting it twice for good measure and sighing with satisfaction as the confined air came rushing out.
“Lady,” a voice directly behind her said. “What are you doing? Are you crazy or something? And what’s on that shears? It looks like blood.”
Joanna turned. There, scowling at her from the seat of a bicycle, stood a young boy of eleven or twelve. “I’m not crazy,” she said. “There’s a killer loose in there-a killer with a gun. Here. Take the shears and cut my hands loose before he comes after us.”
The boy hesitated, but for only an instant. Dropping his bike, he grabbed the bloody shears and snipped through the tape. First he freed Joanna’s hands and then her legs, not without nicking her in the shin. In the distance Joanna heard the welcome swell of a siren announcing the arrival of at least one patrol car.
“Thank you,” she said. “Now go. Get out of here before you get hurt.”
The boy scrambled for his bike.
“What’s your name?”
“Andrew,” he said. “Andrew Styles.”
“Where do you live?”
He pointed. “Two houses down,” he said.
“Go!” Joanna ordered. “Get inside the house and stay there. Don’t come out until I come and tell you it’s okay.”
“But what about you?”
“I’m okay now. I’ll be fine.”