Killer Heat (18 page)

Shit.
More anxious with every passing second, he waited for Butch's family to go inside. He couldn't do anything while they were out, couldn't even get into the yard. And they weren't the only ones in the way. The headlights of the old couple's car silhouetted a woman standing at the gate. Paris. Jonah knew it was Butch's wife because, once the engine died and the doors opened, she called out to her parents.

“Did you see anyone inside it?”

“Inside what?” her mother responded.

Three doors slammed. Jonah wasn't sure who the third person was, but someone had gotten out of the backseat.

“The van,” Paris said. “The van you called me about a few minutes ago.”

Her father came around the front of the car and was the first to start across the lawn. “Not a soul.”

His wife followed him. So did the third person. The old folks blocked Jonah's view, but he figured it had to be Dean. They must've picked up their son at the bus stop. They'd been gone too long for such a short errand, but they could've had dinner or done any number of other things while they were out.

“How close did you go?” Paris asked.

“Close enough to see that it was empty. There were people in it earlier, though. I saw them when we left. I didn't think anything of it until the same van was there when we came back.”

“Who?” The third person's voice confirmed his identity. It was Dean, all right. “What's going on?”

Paris answered him. “The cops. They're watching the place.”

“Really? Are they hoping to prove Butch killed that woman?”

“Don't sound so excited, Dean,” she snapped.

“I'm not excited. Just surprised. Seems they have a more realistic idea of Butch than you do.”

Anger put an edge to Paris's voice. “Shut up! You wouldn't be saying that if he was standing here.”

“True. But if he was as nonviolent as you claim, I could speak freely, correct?”

Hands curled into fists, she stepped up to him. “How dare you! You're lucky he provides a living for you. Where would you be without him? On the street? Lord knows you can't function like a normal human being.”

He remained unflustered. “You think a killer is normal?”

Their mother finally came between them. “That's enough. Both of you. Don't let this throw us all into a panic. We know Butch would never hurt anyone.”

Did she really believe that? Jonah wondered.

“You mean other than Kelly Martin?” Dean sounded as pleased as Paris had accused him of being. “Because he's smacked her around before. Remember? It was for driving by one too many times and making their affair too obvious.”

“Dean!” her mother cried, but Paris tried to hit her brother and would've succeeded if not for the old lady, who did her best to protect him.

“You little prick!” she shouted. “You leave Kelly out of this. He never touched her.”

Poking his head around his mother, Dean came right back at her. “Oh, yeah? An affair means he
did
touch her, dear sister. In some very intimate places.”

“That's it! We're kicking you out. You can fend for yourself,” Paris screamed.

“We still own this property,” her mother said. “Don't forget that.”

Paris appeared to have a ready response, but they all grew silent when Butch interrupted. Already on his way back from the van, he was carrying some object Jonah couldn't quite make out. “It's her,” he called.

Jonah caught his breath.

“It's who?” Paris's father asked.

Distracted from their squabble, even Paris and Dean turned to face him, silently expectant. “Francesca Moretti.”

Smothering a groan, Jonah cursed to himself.

“How do you know?” Paris asked.

“Recognize this?” He held up what he carried and Dean began to laugh.

“That's her purse,” he said. “Again.”

“So where is
she?
” the old man muttered.

Butch threw Francesca's bag at their feet. Then he propped his hands on his hips and stared into the salvage yard. “She's got to be around here somewhere.”

“She's got no right.” Paris sounded worried. Was it because she secretly feared Butch might not be as innocent as she wanted to believe? There had to be some element of denial in her reaction. “She'll do anything to see you behind bars.”

“What are you going to do now?” Dean asked.

Butch didn't react to the glee in his voice the way Paris had. He tossed a set of keys at Dean instead. “Lock up the yard.”

B
utch knew it was her. And he had her purse
again.
Francesca couldn't believe it. Her new phone was in that purse. She hadn't taken it with her when she left the van. She'd wanted to be light on her feet, hadn't wanted to carry anything, especially an object she could drop and break as easily as her iPhone if she had to move fast. That darn screen was expensive to replace. But she'd been thinking only as far as escaping Jonah. She hadn't planned for this. What now?

Careful not to make any noise, she hid behind a piece of heavy equipment as she waited for Butch and his family to go inside. She couldn't remember what the giant machine was called, but she knew what it was used for. Some kind of industrial-size lift, it stacked car frames. An excavator, which was even bigger, towered over the junk piles on her other side. Both pieces of equipment reminded her of a horror show she'd seen when she was a kid, where the cranes, bulldozers and lifts at a construction site came alive at night and killed the unsuspecting people who found themselves in proximity. To an adult the concept seemed corny, but those images had made a real impact on her when she was young. And, despite the impossibility of a machine killing on its own, it gave her
the creeps to think about that movie now. Butch himself and all the garbage and the rats at the salvage yard made this the last place she wanted to spend the night.

When Butch, Paris and the others finally went into the house, the lights stayed on, but silence settled over the yard. Francesca had a chance to escape—if she could figure out how. She couldn't get out the way she'd gotten in. When Dean locked the gate, he'd used a heavy chain and padlock.

She studied her surroundings. The fence was too high. Even if she could climb it, she'd never get past the razor wire, not dressed in a pair of linen shorts.

Wondering where Jonah was, what he was thinking, she began searching for a weak spot in the bottom of the fence where the chain-link might already be bent or she could bend it enough to slide underneath. She wanted to get out of here on her own, would rather not put Jonah in the awkward position of having to come after her. But there was a chance she wouldn't be able to avoid it. She couldn't let Butch wake up tomorrow to find her here.

Deciding she might be able to create an opportunity along the back, far from most of the lights and myriad pathways that led through the cars, car parts and other salvaged items, she slipped deeper into the yard. But reaching the back fence was tricky. Butch obviously used this area to discard the stuff he wasn't all that interested in. She had to skirt past piles of sharp metal chunks and pieces, tramp over old toasters and other appliances and push some rusty bicycles out of the way.

When a sticky web clung to her legs, she almost screamed. Black widows spun sticky, stretchy webs like that, and they loved the desert. Tarantulas and scorpions lived here, too. So did the most poisonous of all spiders, the wolf spider…

No telling what she might encounter out here in the dark, but she brushed off the web and continued. She had to get out of here, couldn't let fear stop her for even a second.

The back fence wasn't in good repair like the fence toward the front. Even in the low light filtering to the ground from the closest pole, she could see that it had been patched in several places. But those patches seemed solid. And the chain-link didn't stop when it met the ground. Using the head of a shovel, which she found in a pile of rubbish behind her, she began to dig to see how far it extended and realized it was buried at least a foot.

Butch had this yard secured like Fort Knox. Why? Could he really be that frightened someone would steal scrap metal? She knew it had value. Some thieves went so far as to tear the copper plumbing out of new homes if they weren't properly protected. But what Butch had in the yard wasn't made of copper and it wasn't that easy to haul away.

Rocking back on her heels, she let her breath go in an exhausted sigh. That fence went down too far for her to get beneath it. Digging wasn't an option. It'd take all night to get that deep, especially in such hard, rocky soil.

She had to find a pair of bolt or wire cutters to cut the bolt on the gate. Thinking that was now her best option, she headed toward Butch's office and the sheds nearby, where she thought he probably stored his tools—and almost missed the panties lying on the ground. Even when she saw them, their significance didn't immediately register. She was several steps beyond them when she realized what they were and turned back.

Sure enough, the panties—presumably the same ones
Paris had been carrying earlier—were only a few feet from Butch's office. Paris must've dropped them, or thrown them at him while they were arguing.

Francesca curved her fingernails into her palms. Should she take them? She had to, didn't she? They wouldn't be admissible as evidence if Butch was brought to trial, but she couldn't risk leaving them behind in case they disappeared forever. What if they belonged to yet another victim from the Dead Mule Canyon site? If the police could establish that, they'd know Butch was their guy.

Repelled at what might've happened to the woman who'd once owned those panties, and careful not to destroy DNA evidence, she bent and very gingerly put them in her pocket. Butch was such a poseur, with all his talk about Paris and how she didn't care about his extramarital affairs. She cared, all right. Francesca had heard enough from Paris to be certain of that. She'd also noted his girlfriend's name—Kelly Martin—and planned to talk to her as soon as possible. Since he'd supposedly broken up with Kelly, and been violent with her on at least one occasion, maybe she wouldn't be quite as loyal as Paris. Maybe she possessed information that could assist the investigation and would be willing to talk.

Francesca pictured the insolent grin Butch had worn while shoveling all that bullshit her way in his office. “You're such a liar,” she muttered, but then she heard a dog bark and felt every nerve go on high alert.

Unless that noise came from somewhere outside the fence, she had company.

 

Had Butch meant to lock Francesca in or out? Jonah couldn't say. He only knew that if she was inside the salvage yard, she didn't stand much chance of getting out
on her own. He'd seen prison yards that would be easier to break out of. He planned to help her, but in order to do that he had to find her first—before Butch did.

Hoping that she'd come to the fence and stay put, he began walking the perimeter. He'd only gone a few steps, however, when he heard Butch and Paris on the porch with a dog and felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. Jonah wouldn't have been half as worried, except the dog wasn't some friendly pooch. It was the mean Doberman that'd been chained up in the yard before.

“Shit,” he muttered, and froze, waiting to see what Butch would do.

“You can't turn Demon out on her!” Paris trailed after her husband.

He sure as hell better not, Jonah told himself, but Butch seemed intent on doing just that.

“It's not my fault if she trespasses on my property and gets attacked by my dog when I'm in for the night.”

“They'll
make
it your fault,” Paris argued. “She's a police officer!”

Jonah's muscles tensed.
Damn it!

“No, she's not,” Butch said. “She's a private investigator who's not even from this area. She has no business here. And now she'll pay the price. I'm well within my rights. She's been warned before, and she already has a history of harassing me. I've got the scabs on my cheek to prove it.”

Jonah grabbed hold of the chain-link fence. Surely Butch wouldn't really turn the dog loose, not in front of his wife, and with his whole family in the house—or would he?

Maybe he thought that would be the perfect cover.

Or he knew they'd stick by him, regardless.

Gazing up at the razor wire on top of the fence, Jonah
felt his heart knock against his chest. How would he save Francesca if Butch sicced that dog on her? A dog like that could kill her in minutes, long before he could scale the fence.

“Butch, please,” Paris begged. “If Demon hurts her, they'll put him down. You don't want to risk his life. You love that dog. Just call the police. Hunsacker told you that if you mind your own business, this'll all blow over. I heard him.”

Hunsacker had said that? Telling their number-one suspect to lie low wasn't exactly sabotaging the investigation, but Jonah didn't like the sound of it. It smacked too much of divided loyalties. Or did Hunsacker's words bother him because he feared they might lull Butch into thinking he had an ally, into believing he might be able to get away with something like this?

“She's the one who's in trouble now,” Butch said. “Go inside. I'll be in when I've taken care of the problem.”

“You're scaring me,” Paris whined.

“
I'm
scaring you? What about
her?
She's probably busy planting evidence she can use to pin April Bonner's murder on me. I won't go to prison for a crime I didn't commit.”

Paris's voice dropped so low Jonah had trouble hearing her. “None of this ever would've happened if you'd been faithful to me from the start,” she said. But she was cowed. Jonah could see it in her body language, in the way her shoulders drooped as she went inside.

Butch waited for the door to close before walking to the edge of the porch and staring out over the piles of scrap metal and rubbish he sifted through on a daily basis.

“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he said in a soft, singsong voice.

“Don't do it!” Jonah yelled.

Butch looked over at the fence but he didn't respond. He acted as if he didn't hear a thing. Unhooking the leash from Demon's collar, he yelled, “Go get her, boy!”

And the dog took off like a shot.

 

Had she heard Jonah? Francesca thought she had. That gave her hope, until the dog began to bellow, drowning out everything else and making her legs go rubbery. She remembered the animal that'd growled at her with such ferocity when she came onto the property a few days ago.

Apparently, he was no longer in the house. And she didn't get the impression that he was being tied up.

Scanning the refuse and car hulks around her, she searched for something she could get inside or on top of, where the dog might not be able to reach her. But other than shutting herself inside Butch's office or one of the sheds, which might or might not be locked, she couldn't see any way to protect herself.

“Oh, God,” she whispered as she heard Demon coming closer. It was only a matter of time before he found her and tried to rip out her throat. She could hear the purpose in his feverish barking. He meant business, and he was quickly closing in on her.

“Go get her, boy!” she heard Butch yell, but she could no longer hear Jonah.

Frantic, she ducked behind an old mustard-yellow Mercedes. It was the best shelter she could find, but she knew it wouldn't be enough. Set up on blocks, it had no windows and only two doors. The dog could easily scrabble over, under or through it.

I'm dead.
Peering around the car, she strained to make
out the office. Stacked car frames blocked most of her view, but she could see the corner of its roof.

Could she make it that far? Get inside? What about one of the sheds?

They seemed miles away. Unless she wanted to get cut or twist an ankle, she had to stick to the valleys created by the junk all around her. The dog, on the other hand, knew the yard much better than she did. He could slip through a hole she didn't even know existed, or leap over a pile….

Where was Butch's family? They must be able to hear the intense baying, must wonder what had the dog so riled up. Were they turning a deaf ear? Or assuming he'd found a skunk or some other prey? It was even possible that Butch's in-laws were engrossed in a television program and weren't paying attention.

Regardless of the reason, help didn't seem to be on its way. She thought she'd heard Jonah, but she didn't know where he was, or how he'd get in to help her even if he was at the fence. She had seconds….

Mouth so dry she couldn't swallow, she decided to run for the office. It was her only hope. Her life depended on whether or not Butch had locked that door—

Wait!
The blood thudding through her ears created a rushing sound as she hesitated. She should go around the other way. The house was almost as close as the office, and she doubted Butch would expect her to flee there. If she could reach it, she could charge in the back door and run straight through. Even if she encountered Dean or someone else, she'd have a better chance of survival than staying here.

You can do it.
Drawing a deep breath, she inched around the car she'd been using for cover, trying to get a good look at the house. Although the dog seemed to
be drawing close, she couldn't see it. The contents of the yard hid Butch and Demon from view. She was afraid the Doberman might go one way while Butch went the other. The last thing she needed was to run straight into his arms….

Refusing to imagine what would come next, she screamed at herself to go, and sprinted down the widest path. That particular route was too close to the dog for comfort, but with all its obstacles the yard was a maze. She couldn't risk getting lost. If the dog managed to corner her, she'd have no hope whatsoever.

As soon as he saw her, the pitch of the Doberman's bark rose an octave and he cut toward her.

He was ready to move in for the kill.

When his howling reverberated against the metal all around her, she knew Demon was only a leap away.

The house, still at least twenty feet from her, was too far. She'd taken a chance and lost.

No way could she make it.