Cait finally dozed off, waking up after her brother had left for work. Chris had left her a half a pot of coffee on the counter.
Sipping from a mug at the kitchen table, she checked her cell and was disappointed to find no calls or emails. No word yet from Judith Buckey, the attorney she’d hired to help Fern Bush get her money back.
Cait dressed and headed out for the Tucson Medical Center. Fern was to be released from the hospital that morning, and Cait had promised to help her get settled in her new place and run any needed errands. All of Fern’s important papers had been destroyed in the fire, including her driver’s license, bank statements, checkbook, Social Security and Medicare records.
At the medical center, Cait found Fern in her room in a wheelchair. A social worker was advising her about public assistance available for crime victims and the elderly.
Then it was time to check out. “Would you like to see your son before we leave?” Cait smiled at Fern, who looked shell-shocked.
“That would be nice.” The older woman looked beaten down, hands folded limply in her lap.
Ten minutes later, they entered Clark’s room on the second floor.
“Look what the cat dragged in. My two favorite women.” Clark gave them a lop-sided grin as he sat up in bed with an Arizona Highways magazine in his lap.
He seemed buoyed by their visit. The bandages were off his face, revealing more bruising and lines of stitches crisscrossing his face.
“I get to see a dentist later today,” Clark said. “Life’s looking up.”
Cait offered to drive him to the appointment, but he assured her he had transportation lined up. “I’m sure you ladies will have plenty to do.”
As Fern chatted with her son, Cait wondered how many lives Rod Stone, aka Jerry Fleming, had ripped apart. Fern had a place to stay for only three months. Beyond that, she would have to depend on her late husband’s Social Security income to get by. Once a homeowner in a posh neighborhood, she was now a crime victim defrauded of her savings. There was one silver lining. While Fern wouldn’t receive insurance money to rebuild her home, she could still sell her land. Cait expected that Fern’s Catalina Foothills acreage would command a good price.
Cait excused herself and stepped into the hallway, cell phone in hand. She tapped in the number for Detective Bison at Tucson PD. The man was a grouch, but she had to ask him if there was any news about Rod Stone’s whereabouts.
“Bison.”
Cait greeted him and asked about Stone.
“Why’re you calling me? Aren’t you tracking him down yourself?” Bison was not going to play nice.
“Actually, no,” Cait said evenly. “Have you heard anything?”
“Nada. Not a trace of him anywhere. Listen, I’ve got another call. Adios.” Bison hung up. If he did know something, she was the last person he’d tell.
She returned to Clark’s room. He was telling his mother about how he’d started and built up a gemology business in Albuquerque. It was obvious mother and son hadn’t talked much over the years. Now though, Fern was showing real interest in the details of Clark’s life. Cait hoped their improved relationship would give Fern strength to face her struggles. The woman might need to move to Albuquerque to be near Clark, her only remaining close relative. In a worst-case scenario, Fern might have to move in with him.
“Mom, you’ve got things to do. Cait, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate all you’ve done for us. Let me know if you need money to buy things for the new place.” Clark patted Fern’s hand.
Then the dam broke. Fern’s tears flowed. “I’ve been so selfish. All I’ve done is worry about myself. It’s all my fault you were attacked. You could have been killed. I should have asked your opinion about Rod Stone. I was so stupid.” She hid her face in her hands.
“Don’t beat yourself up. The important thing is we’re both alive. We’ll get through this.” Clark put an arm on her shoulder.
Cait waited until Fern’s emotions subsided. “Let’s go check out that apartment. Good luck at the dentist, Clark. I’ll call you later.” With that, Cait wheeled Fern into the hallway, past a nurses’ station and toward a bank of elevators that led to the parking garage level. Fern said little during the drive to her new home in a restored motel on Oracle Road near Miracle Mile.
After taking Fern shopping for groceries and the essentials for apartment living, Cait said goodbye in the late afternoon. She had set the woman up with a basic cell phone and made her promise to call if she needed anything.
Before heading back to Saguaro National Park East, Cait stopped at a coffee shop. Over an espresso, she checked voicemails and listened to a message from Judith Buckey, Fern’s lawyer. Earlier that day, Buckey had filed claims on behalf of Fern with Rod Stone’s bank and the various law enforcement agencies involved in seizing the trickster’s six-figure account. “It’s clear that Rod Stone took advantage of an elderly person. It’s too early to know how we’ll fare, but as far as I can tell, Fern is the only claimant for that money. So that’s good news. I’ll keep you updated. Any questions, give me a call.”
As she put the phone away, she spotted a newspaper rack by the counter. A banner headline on the front page of the Tucson daily read: Gem and Mineral Show Kicks Off Today.
Cait bought a copy. Inside was a tabloid insert with a schedule for the two-week event. Her jeweler dad had told her the yearly show was a big deal, attracting exhibitors and visitors from around the world.
Many of the venues in the show’s opening days were restricted to the wholesale trade, but a number of locations welcomed the public. Cait longed to get away from worrying about Jack and his parents, Fern and Clark Bush, and the fate of Estrella’s jaguar. She picked out a public venue with exhibits that included Native American jewelry and mineral specimens and fossils from around the world.
Show locations were mostly scattered around Tucson’s downtown and the west side. Her destination was right off the I-10 on the city’s southwest side. She got into her jeep, found the freeway and took an exit toward a cluster of large white pavilions set up on the edge of an asphalt lot filled with vehicles.
Cait parked and hurried inside a vast tent devoted to mineral exhibits. Rows of retail booths showed off colorful arrays of rock specimens, most of which she’d never heard of.
One vendor’s offerings caught her eye. Besides stacks of geology and rock-collecting books for sale, the exhibit featured a small room with a dark interior. Inside the darkened structure, ultraviolet lights spotlighted fluorescent rocks and minerals glowing in a myriad of intense colors.
She checked out the room and when she emerged, was greeted by an enthusiastic woman with skin like tanned leather. “You can use a UV flashlight in the desert at night and find the most amazing rocks lying around.”
“Here in Arizona?”
“Arizona, Utah, New Mexico, Nevada, the California desert. Wherever it’s arid and the bones of the planet are exposed.” The rock hound was eager to share her knowledge.
Cait bought a UV flashlight and a book. She continued past booths packed with fossilized rocks, petrified wood, geodes, crystals, and semi-precious and precious gems from Africa, Asia, Europe, and the Americas. She splurged on a handful of sparkling, faceted peridot crystals mined from the San Carlos Apache reservation southeast of Phoenix, hoping her dad could use the translucent yellow-green gemstones in his jewelry.
She continued to wander and was drawn in by a display of copper-related minerals. The intense blues and greens of chrysocolla resembled turquoise, also found by copper deposits.
An area on one side of the tent was cordoned off to display a model of a skeleton of a thirty-foot-long Dynamoterror dynastes, a type of tyrannosaur that roamed parts of New Mexico eighty million years ago. The jawbones of the massive carnivore were studded with rows of saw teeth ideal for shredding flesh. The modern world was full of risks, but Cait was glad she would never have to face down a prehistoric beast.
An adjacent pavilion featured a marketplace for high-quality jewelry, including Native American work. Cait explored the rows of vendors, stopping at one booth to examine vintage silver concho belts and squash blossom necklaces.
A nearby voice sent gooseflesh running up her arm. She looked up. Not ten feet from her stood a vendor, his back turned to her, chatting with a woman about a piece of jewelry.
It was Rod Stone, aka Jerry Fleming. The con artist who’d tried to kill her the previous summer in New Mexico.
Cait darted behind a neighboring pop-up tent. Her heart thudded so loudly she was sure others could hear it. Here was Fleming, a fugitive charged with the murder of an elderly Flagstaff man and suspected in other deaths. An evil charmer who changed identities like a chameleon switched colors, he had beaten his Albuquerque girlfriend half to death and looted her house of Native American art. In his latest ruse as Rod Stone, he had swindled Fern Bush, bludgeoned her son, and blown up her house.
She made herself take slow, steady breaths, calm her thoughts. It wasn’t surprising to find him there. The gem show was a perfect place for him to unload his remaining inventory of Native American jewelry, Asian-made imitations mixed in with authentic pieces stolen from his victims.
Cell in hand, Cait moved down the aisle and phoned Detective Bison.
“What now?”
“I’m looking at Rod Stone. He’s at the gem show.”
“Exactly where are you?” His attitude did a ninety-degree reversal.
She described the white tents off the frontage road along I-10. “I won’t let him get out of sight.”
“He see you?”
“No.”
“Keep your distance. Don’t try anything.” Bison ended the call.
Time slowed. She watched Stone interact with customers, make a cash sale.
Finally two patrolmen came through a tent entrance. When she waved, they started toward her.
Her cell rang. It was one of the officers. “Tucson PD. Where is this guy?”
“Four booths to my right. He’s tall, silver-haired, in a black collared shirt and jeans.” Cait’s anxiety ramped up. One cop scooted down an aisle that ran in back of Stone’s booth.
The other patrolman headed toward the front of the exhibit. Cait watched him approach, hand on the butt of his weapon. Stone appeared to arrange jewelry in a table-top wooden case. He glanced up. Reached inside his jacket as the officer neared him.
“Sir. Step away from the table with your hands up.”
No, no. Cait’s scream stuck in her throat at the popping sounds. The cop confronting Stone stumbled and fell. As if he had eyes in the back of his head, the con man whirled around and fired at the other officer.
The second uniform pitched sideways and crashed into a jewelry display. Stone yanked his popup canopy onto the downed man before he charged away, shoving aside a woman in his path.
A flashback surfaced, rooting Cait to the spot. She relived the sting of wire cutting her neck as she fought to keep the con man from strangling her last year in Santa Fe.
She shook her head. Shoved the memory away. Fear gripped her, but she had to keep him from getting away.
Keeping display booths between her and Stone, she followed him toward the entrance of the neighboring mineral and fossil pavilion.
“That man’s wanted for murder.” She pointed and yelled. Panicked vendors and customers dived out of the way, unwilling to tangle with a man holding a gun.
He barged through the door and was gone. Cait heard a series of loud clanking amid shouts.
She entered the big tent and stopped cold. The huge Dynamoterro model had collapsed into a pile of broken plaster bones.
“Horrible . . . madman.” A woman hiding behind a table shrieked. “He pushed it over on purpose.”
Her ears caught the sound of running feet. Stone shot through the far exit.
She sprinted and weaved past startled shoppers. By the time she burst outside into the parking lot, he was gone.
A passenger van lumbered along and slowed in front of her, blocking her view. She cursed and detoured around the van. Shielding her eyes from the glaring sun, she scanned the lot.
Festival-goers passed by and vehicles crept along the rows, hunting for parking spots. A tan SUV at the edge of the lot sped toward the exit. Someone in a big hurry to leave.
Keys in hand, she raced to her Jeep and jumped in. As she accelerated toward the frontage road, she saw the tan vehicle take a west-bound I-10 onramp.
Cait floored it to the onramp and onto the busy freeway, squeezing between a pair of semis in the slow lane. She changed lanes in time to spot the tan vehicle ahead, weaving around vehicles. Maybe the driver had heisted the SUV from the gem show parking lot. Or Rod Stone was behind the wheel.
She said a silent prayer for the fallen officers back at the gem show. Stone had shot at least one of them. Fingers melded to the steering wheel, she goosed the Jeep around slower traffic. The light-colored SUV shot from the fast lane to the off ramp for Tangerine Road. Had to be Rod Stone.
Cait managed a quick lane change and got off at Tangerine. She breezed through a right turn at a red light at the intersection. Stone was driving so fast she soon lost him.
At a T intersection with Oracle Road, she had to decide which way to go. Give up and return to Tucson or follow the busy road out of town. She chose the latter. If she had just shot a cop, that’s what she’d do.
As traffic bunched up, she grabbed her cell and called Detective Bison’s number. She left a terse voice mail about following a speeding SUV that might be driven by Rod Stone.
Traffic stalled at endless signals until she passed Saddlebrooke Road and the start of open land. A fork in the highway required another choice. Go left on State Route 79 toward Florence and its state prison complex or stay on State Route 77 toward the town of Oracle. She figured a wanted man would steer clear of the state pen, so she headed for Oracle. In a few miles, she joined a line of cars bogged down by a van spewing smoke and creeping along under the speed limit.
Oncoming traffic finally cleared. One vehicle and then another passed the slowpoke. But it was time to give up the chase; she’d lost Stone. At the next wide spot on the shoulder, she would turn around and head back to Tucson.
Her plans changed in an instant.
A tan SUV—blocked from her sight by other vehicles—whipped out into the oncoming lane to pass the slow van. The SUV aimed straight for an approaching semi. An air-horn blatted so loud Cait felt it in her bones. The eighteen-wheeler fish-tailed, laying a coat of rubber on the asphalt as the driver struggled to keep his rig under control.
Cait braked and pushed back against the seat, preparing to steer off the road to avoid a pileup. Her breath whooshed out. The crazed SUV driver narrowly missed disaster. The big truck rumbled past in the other direction.
Maybe Stone knew she was following. More likely, he was reckless by nature and circumstances. Furious over losing control of a big bank account and his jewelry cache. Desperate because he was on the run again.
The dying van putted onto the shoulder just before the Oracle turnoff for West American Avenue. As Cait drove past the exit, she saw the tan SUV barreling toward Oracle.
She braked hard, u turned and headed for the American Avenue exit. A half mile down the road into Oracle, she spied the SUV in front of a cafe.
Cait parked by a feed store and watched Rod Stone exit his vehicle. An innocent person would head for a restaurant without looking around. But not Stone. Cagey as an escaped prisoner, he glanced in all directions, checking out his surroundings.
He spotted Cait, jumped back in the SUV and sped away. She started up and jammed her foot on the gas pedal, wishing she’d had time to call Detective Bison.
The road made a sharp left curve. Cait held her breath as Stone took the corner on two wheels. He dived through a series of turns. She lost ground, worried about getting into an accident on the narrow road that twisted and rollercoastered through hilly grasslands. Stone was way over the 35-mph speed limit, tempting fate as he ignored road signs warning of S-curves ahead. He caught air momentarily as the SUV launched over a short, steep hill.
The road straightened out and T-boned old State Route 76. Stone almost took out a stop sign as he slew right toward the village of San Manuel. Where he thought he was going, Cait had no idea.
She kept after him through a sharp left and then a right onto Redington Road. The narrow asphalt ribbon straightened. Stone hurtled away toward through the boundless desert.
Cait let up on the gas, picked up her cell and got through to Bison at Tucson PD.
Before he had a chance to gripe, she cut him off. “Rod Stone is headed south from San Manuel on Redington Road. Tan SUV, going like a bat out of hell.”
“You know for sure it’s him?”
“Do javelinas like garbage?”
“Smart ass.”
She turned serious. “The officers he shot at. How are they doing?”
“Only one was hit, but he wore a protective vest. He’s ok. So you’ve been chasing Stone this whole this time? Who do you think you are? Why didn’t you call?” Bison was gearing to throw the book at her. Reckless driving, interfering with an investigation, you name it.
“I wasn’t sure it was him until he got out of his vehicle in Oracle. And you’re not supposed to use a cell phone while driving.” Cait could just see Bison rolling his eyes.
She slowed to the speed limit, almost relieved that the tan SUV was gone. “Maybe you can track him by helicopter. He should be easy to spot, with so little traffic.”
“Don’t tell me what to do.” Bison snapped like an angry dog. “Lady, you need to report to police headquarters downtown and make a statement.”
“Rats, you’re . . . breaking up . . . no bars . . . I can’t . . .” Cait tossed the phone on the passenger seat. Getting along with the detective was just not in the stars. True, she had chased an APB suspect into Pinal County by herself, but if she hadn’t, Stone would have gotten away. Like he had anyway.
Redington Road cut through high desert flanked by distant humps of mountain ranges: the Catalinas on her right, the Galiuros on her left, and the Rincons ahead.
She relaxed as she drove, wondering where the road went. Probably turned into a rutted cow path. Let Rod Stone be someone else’s problem. She’d done all she could.
Miles later, she bumped over a cattle guard. The asphalt ended and she had to make a fast choice between Cascabel Road on the left and Redington Road on the right.
She took Cascabel because she liked the name. And because of a thin pall of dust ahead that set her teeth on edge.
The sight around the next corner made her hit the brakes.
***
Cait let out a curse for not heeding Jack’s advice to arm herself.
She slowed to a stop as a herd of cattle bolted off the road, mooing as they crashed into the brush. Calves bawled for their mothers as frightened bovines stampeded in all directions.
An impressive longhorn bull took a stand in the middle of the road. Head lowered, he contemplated a tan SUV that had scattered the livestock and smashed into a large palo verde tree.
Steam hissed from the vehicle’s front end. The driver’s window was half way down. The angle of the SUV prevented Cait from seeing if Stone was in the front seat. He was either out cold or waiting for her with gun in hand.
She made sure her doors were locked and kept the engine running as she called 911. “The driver plugged a Tucson officer this morning and is wanted for murder.”
As she ended the call, the SUV driver’s door popped open. Rod Stone planted his feet on the ground and stared at her.
Her instincts screamed at her to duck. Instead she froze in place like a deer in the headlights. He reached back into the SUV and came out with a pistol.
She came to her senses in time to throw the Jeep into reverse and mash the gas pedal, tires spewing rocks and dirt.
He aimed and fired. Her foot slipped off the clutch and the engine died as she dived beneath the dash. A sharp report boomed out as a spider web pattern spread out from a hole in the windshield.
Blood rushed in her ears during the long seconds it took to restart the engine.
Crunched down by the dash, unable to look back, she jammed a foot on the accelerator. The Jeep shot back and jerked to a halt. Rear tires spun as they bogged in deep sand at the edge of the road.
Another shot winged off the vehicle frame near the windshield. Sprawled across the front seats, she managed to depress the clutch, shift into first gear and step on the accelerator. The Jeep moved forward a few feet, front tires grabbing and pulling the rear of the vehicle out of the sand.
Her throat was so dry she couldn’t swallow. By now, Rod Stone would be right outside. Setting his gun sight on her. A bitter tang filled her mouth. Expecting a bullet between the eyes, she popped her head up to confirm her fate.
She was dumbstruck by what she saw.
Rod Stone was aiming at the irate bull that had taken a dislike to the con man. The creature snorted, pawed the ground, and wagged ponderous horns at him.
Stone squeezed off a shot but missed. Maybe he was rattled, used to assailing hapless victims, not a belligerent adversary capable of grinding him into mush. Two thousand pounds of beef on the hoof launched at him. As the animal charged, it shook its six-foot horn span and stomped holes in the sandy roadbed.
The tip of a horn caught Stone near the ribcage. He screamed. Managed to pull free and sidestep the lumbering beast. As Stone fled into the desert scrub, the animal thundered after him. Hoof beats interspersed with desperate yells issued from the underbrush on the other side of Cascabel Road.
Cait dared not leave the Jeep to watch the fracas. It seemed like forever before sirens cried in the distance. Two Pima County Sheriff’s units finally ploughed to a dusty halt near her.
The deputies were understandably wary. They positioned themselves behind the engine blocks of their vehicles and surveyed Cait’s Jeep and the crashed SUV.
She didn’t fault their caution. The fugitive could be anywhere, training a bead on them from the brush on the side of the road or inside one of the vehicles.
She rolled her window down, gave a wave and pointed in the direction she’d last seen Stone.
Handheld radios crackled and then her phone chimed. An emergency dispatcher connected her to one of the deputies, who wanted a fix on Stone’s whereabouts.
At that moment a K-9 unit pulled up, followed by a large boxy black vehicle emblazoned with Pima County SWAT Team in white lettering. A loud, amplified voice cut through the dry air: “Rod Stone, give yourself up.”
The fugitive failed to comply. Barely a minute later, a group of helmeted officers encased in bullet-proof gear spilled out of the SWAT van.
One heavily armed officer checked out the interior of Cait’s Jeep, then ran toward the SUV and looked inside. The others waited for the K-9 handler to bring his excited charge up to the damaged vehicle. After sniffing around the SUV interior, the German Shepherd alerted toward the creosote jungle across the road, the SWAT team close behind.
Seconds later, Cait heard frantic barks, mixed with yelling and cursing. Con artist Jerry Fleming, aka Rod Stone, bellowed his rage and pain. A chorus of growls, snorts and hoof stomping make her smile. Both police dog and longhorn were taking turns going after the creep. Thank the heavens for that bull. It occurred to her that the best way to thank the bovine for saving her life would be to turn vegetarian. Forsake green chile cheeseburgers, or at least cut back to one a year.
Stone was escorted out of the brush by a phalanx of deputies. Handcuffed and covered in dirt, his clothes were torn and bloody. As he was pressed into the back of a unit, she overheard his snarl. “I’d barbeque those damn animals . . .”
The K-9 handler interrupted. “Never mess with a police dog. Or a longhorn. If it were up to me, I’d let them finish you off.” He patted the shepherd and rewarded it with a treat. “We need to put that bull on retainer.”
Stone turned his head and spotted Cait, fixing her with a look of pure hate. She glanced away, fright doing a little dance in her gut. She was well aware of what he was capable of.
Last year he had been finally caught and jailed. Then he had escaped, blinding an officer in the process. Before fleeing Albuquerque, he’d left a parting threat on Cait’s front porch: an oversized, neurotoxic rattlesnake in a picnic basket.
She knew the cops wouldn’t get anything out of him. Stone would go to his grave before admitting where he’d gone after Albuquerque, who else he’d victimized. Those mysteries would never be solved.
Still, she wilted with relief at his capture. Let’s hope this time they lock him up and lose the key.