TRIAL BY FIRE (32 page)

Knowing she must have additional resources, Ali was reaching for her phone when Sister Anselm’s eyes fluttered open. For a moment she seemed puzzled by her surroundings. Then, seeing Ali’s face, she managed a tiny smile.

“You came,” she croaked. “You must have gotten my message.”

“I got all your messages,” Ali returned. “Just a minute.” Punching Redial, she called Dave’s number and let out her breath when he answered after only one ring.

“What the hell’s going on there?” he demanded.

“We’ve found Sister Anselm. She needs an air ambulance as fast as you can get one here.”

“Where’s here?” Dave wanted to know.

“Log on to my e-mail account,” she said, giving him the name and password. “Open the last e-mail from Sister Anselm. You can get the GPS coordinates from that—or else the helicopter pilot can. They’ll know they’re getting close when they see a DPS car parked along the road. Tell them to take a heading north from the big boulder just to the west of the vehicle. We’re down in a gully.”

She could tell he was still writing. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Bad. They’ll have to put her on a stretcher. Even with one of those, I’m not sure how they’ll get her up and out.”

“Hanging up now,” he said, “so I can call it in.”

Ali turned her attention back to Sister Anselm. Her eyes were closed again.

Ali was sure the injured woman was dehydrated, but with her face sideways in the sand, there was no way to offer her a drink from one of the bottles.

Ali opened the first-aid kit and rummaged through the scrambled mess inside until she found a roll of gauze. She pulled off a hunk of that, soaked it with water from one of the bottles, and then held it to Sister Anselm’s parched lips. Then she poured the water from the other bottle over Sister Anselm’s hair. At the touch of the water on her skin, her eyes blinked open again.

“Water,” she whispered. “Thank you.”

“Suck on the gauze,” Ali told her. “When you get the water out of that, I’ll wet it again. Can you move?”

“No. I think my hip is broken. It hurts,” she added. “Hurts like crazy, and that’s good. It means my back isn’t broken, and I’m alive.”

Just barely,
Ali thought.

She loaded the strip of gauze with another dose of water. While Sister Anselm sucked on that, Ali peered up at the sun. It was setting, but the stark line of shadow that now divided the gully in half was still a good foot and a half away from Sister Anselm’s overheated body. Hoping to create some shade, Ali pulled the blanket out from under her shirt and flapped it open. By draping the blanket on her left arm and holding it out straight she was able to create a small patch of temporary shade. With her right hand, she pulled a laminated sheet of first-aid instructions out of the kit and used that as a fan.

The whole time she had been climbing down the bank and scrabbling around in the sand, she had been half listening for the sound of gunshots. Even if a shoot-out occurred a mile or more away, she expected that the sounds of weapons being fired would travel long distances in this empty landscape. Once or twice she heard what sounded like the remote clatter of the helicopter’s rotating blades.

Now, though, fanning Sister Anselm’s bright red face, Ali heard the sound of an approaching vehicle. Since it was clearly coming from the east, Ali realized at once that it wasn’t a backup vehicle, since those would be coming from the west. The approaching vehicle was traveling fast. Ali knew that meant it had to be an SUV. No older-model sedan could make that kind of headway on the rutted road.

“More water,” Sister Anselm murmured. “Please.”

Giving her more water was a two-handed procedure. Ali had to let go of the blanket in order to pick up the bottle of water. After saturating the hunk of gauze again, she returned it to Sister Anselm’s lips.

Ali was about to pick up the blanket again when she heard a metallic
ka-chunk.
A distinctive sound. The sound of a shotgun round being chambered. She froze.

“Where are the keys?” a man’s voice said. “I want the keys!”

Ali glanced up. The man stood at the top of the bank, aiming a loaded shotgun down into the gully. Ali knew enough about shotguns to understand that, from that range, being hit by a blast from a shotgun would be fatal.

“Bring me the keys,” he ordered. “Now!”

Ali realized in a split second what must have happened. Somehow the bad guy had managed to take possession of the Gila County deputy’s vehicle. Had the deputy also been shot?

Far in the background, Ali heard the distant clatter of the helicopter, but what did that mean? Had the shooter somehow managed to baffle Agent Robson and the others in the helicopter with a change of vehicles? If so, by now they must have realized their error.

They were coming, but Ali knew they were too far away to provide any kind of counterforce to the man staring down from the bank with his finger clamped to the trigger of a loaded shotgun.

She stood up and faced him. He was a small man, middle-aged and balding. He had a slight paunch beneath a worn Grateful Dead T-shirt and jeans. He was the kind of man who wouldn’t merit a second glance in a grocery store or post office, but with a shotgun in his hands, he commanded her absolute attention.

“Who are you?” she asked. “What do you want?”

“Insurance,” he said. “You’re my ticket out. Come here now or I’ll kill you both.”

Ali glanced down at the woman lying at her feet. Sister Anselm was helpless, and perhaps near death. Looking into the barrel of that shotgun, Ali realized that she, too, was near death. But she wasn’t helpless. Her knees may have been knocking, her heart hammering wildly in her chest, but Ali was armed. Sister Anselm was not.

“Move!” he ordered.

He probably wouldn’t expect that she would be carrying a weapon. It occurred to Ali that once she started climbing the bank, she might be out of his line of vision long enough to draw her Glock, but that wouldn’t be easy, especially since climbing down into the gully had been a two-handed job. She suspected that climbing back up would require both hands as well.

She had no idea how long she hesitated, but it was too long for his purposes. “I mean now!” he ordered. “Move or I start shooting.”

Ali didn’t doubt that he meant it. She moved, plowing through the hard-packed sand and making her way toward the steep bank. Approaching it, she looked for a route that would provide some cover.

“Come up right here,” he called, pointing with the barrel of his weapon.

“I can’t,” she said. “It’s too steep. The dirt crumbles when you step on it.”

She started up, grabbing at a clump of dried grass halfway up the bank to give herself some purchase. Once she pulled herself up to that, she glanced up at the bank. She could still
see the shooter, which meant he could still see her as well. She needed more time, and a better route.

With her next step Ali deliberately misplaced her foot. The fragile bank gave way beneath her and she went slipping back down, all the way to the sandy bottom. It was a controlled fall. She was scratched and scraped as she fell, but she landed relatively unhurt. In the process of sliding down the bank, however, the bottom of her top had hiked up above her waist. She pulled it down quickly, hoping he hadn’t seen the holster.

“Come on, come on,” he screamed at her. “You can do better than that.”

The sound of the helicopter was closer now, hovering far overhead, well out of range. No wonder he was growing more agitated. There was always a possibility that if he panicked, he might pull the trigger accidentally.

Trying not to think about that, Ali moved several feet down the bank and farther away from Sister Anselm before she made her next attempt to ascend. She knew she couldn’t pull the same stunt twice. If she fell again, he’d probably run out of patience and start blasting away at her. She took a calming breath, trying to steady her shaking hands and trembling knees before she started back up.

This time she chose a spot just beyond the place where another massive lichen-covered boulder, not unlike the one up next to the road, had tumbled into the creek bed. She hoped the bulge of outcropping rock would give her sufficient cover to do what needed to be done.

“Get a move on!”

“I’m trying,” she said.

Holding her breath, she paused behind the rock long enough
to move the Glock from her small-of-the-back holster to the front of the elastic waistband on her battered pink tracksuit. She knew that wasn’t necessarily the safest option, but at that point, with a dangerous killer holding a gun on her, safety was relative and her waistband provided the easiest access.

“Drop it!”

Damn!
Ali thought.
He saw me.

“I said drop it and get on the ground!” the menacing voice repeated. “Now! You’re surrounded. There’s no way out.”

But I am on the ground,
she thought.

The thought came and went in an instant before she realized what must have happened. Backup really had arrived.

Before the words to another thought could form in her head, the hot desert air exploded in a barrage of deafening gunfire. Ali’s heart hammered in her chest as she flattened herself behind the rock, burying her face in the sandy bank.

She worked the Glock out of her waistband. If the shooter somehow escaped his pursuers and came her way, Ali was determined to be ready for him. If it came to that, she would pull the trigger. She wouldn’t let him escape.

The first roar of the shotgun was followed by at least a dozen more shots. Listening to the firefight, Ali thought it went on for an eternity. Stray bullets ricocheted off boulders, kicking up a spray of splintery rocks and dirt. Then, as suddenly as the gun battle had begun, it ended. The sudden silence was punctuated by a terrible scream—a scream of agony—followed by more silence, almost as deafening as the gunfire had been loud.

Ali watched in horror as a bloodied figure tumbled end over end down the bank and into the ravine. Halfway down, the shotgun separated itself from the body and went skittering off in another direction. The shooter hit the ground headfirst without
doing anything to break his fall. Ali heard a fearsome crack and knew right then that his neck was broken. He tumbled twice more, finally coming to rest a half dozen feet away from Sister Anselm.

Somehow that seemed fair.

“Don’t shoot,” Ali called to whoever was up there as she quickly tucked her weapon back into her holster. “Sister Anselm and I are here—in the gully.”

An unfamiliar male face peered down at her from the top of the ledge. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Are you coming up, or going down?”

“Down,” Ali said, reversing course. “I’m sure the shooter’s dead, but there’s a severely wounded woman down here. She needs help. Bring more water.”

Sliding on her belly back down to the creek bed, Ali knew that the pink jogging suit was a goner. She hurriedly went back to Sister Anselm’s side.

The nun was still breathing, but her eyes were closed again. Despite the gunfire, she had somehow drifted back into unconsciousness. Considering her injuries, that was probably a blessing. Ali made no attempt to wake her.

In the intervening minutes the line of shade had moved several inches closer to Sister Anselm’s desperately still body, but it still wasn’t close enough. Picking up the fallen blanket, Ali shook the sand out of it and held it between the injured woman and the glaring sun.

For right then, that was as much as Ali could do.

One at a time, a group of men sporting Kevlar vests with the ATF monogram printed on them came scrambling down the bank and into the gully. That meant that Agent Robson’s guys were the cavalry who had ridden to the rescue, arriving first and saving the day. One of them had also fired the shots that had sent the armed gunman tumbling to his death. One agent went to check on the gunman while two more came to kneel beside Sister Anselm.

The sounds of the gunshots were still reverberating in Ali’s head. Totally focused on Sister Anselm, she didn’t hear her phone ringing. Instead, she felt it vibrating in the zippered pocket of her torn tracksuit. Looking down at the remains of her outfit, Ali realized that her foresight in zipping that pocket shut was probably the only thing that had kept her from losing the phone altogether.

“Hello, Dave,” she said.

“Are you all right?”

“I’m fine. The shooter’s dead. Sister Anselm isn’t dead, but she’s in bad shape.”

“I know,” he said. “You told me. The medevac folks are scrambling two helicopter crews. The first one should be at your location within the next twenty minutes or so.”

“I already told you,” Ali said. “The shooter’s dead. We don’t need two helicopters.”

“Yes, you do,” Dave answered. “One is for Sister Anselm, and the other is for Deputy Krist.”

“Who’s he?”

“A Gila County deputy. The guy shot him. Shot him, dragged him out of his vehicle, left him on the ground to die, and then drove off in his SUV.”

Dave was most likely a hundred miles or so away from the action, but he knew far more about what had gone on than Ali, who had been directly involved. No doubt he had heard detailed reports from Agent Robson’s helicopter.

“How badly is the deputy hurt?” Ali asked.

“Life-threatening,” Dave replied. “That’s as much as I know. Robson had his pilot put down next to him so he could drop off Officer Frank from the DPS to stay with Krist. As far as I know, Frank is still there, waiting for help to show up. Robson took off again and came back looking for you, but it sounds like his guys got there first.”

“Yes, they did,” Ali agreed, “and not a moment too soon. The killer had a loaded shotgun. He also had the drop on me. He demanded my car keys and threatened to shoot me and Sister Anselm if I didn’t cooperate. I was in the process of doing just that when the ATF showed up.”

“Just a minute,” Dave said. Ali heard muttering in the background. “Sheriff Maxwell is wondering if you ended up firing your weapon.”

That figured. Sheriff Maxwell had to be relieved that the
shoot-out had taken place in someone else’s jurisdiction. He wouldn’t have to put one of his own officers on administrative duty during the ensuing investigation of an officer-involved shooting. Since this had all taken place in Gila County, it would be up to Sheriff Tuttle and the ATF to sort out whatever needed sorting. It would be someone else’s media relations problem as well. For some reason, that last thought made her giggle.