Exit Wounds - J. A. Jance [0]
J. A. JANCE
For Jon
Contents
Prologue
The woman lay in her bed…
One
Late on Tuesday afternoon…
Two
Finished making his tire- and footprint casts…
Three
While Joanna had been juggling phone calls…
Four
Half an hour later, using a bright red disposable leash…
Five
Leaving Chief Deputy Montoya to oversee the outdoor…
Six
Fran Daly and George Winfield stood with their heads…
Seven
The interview with Edith Mossman went…
Eight
Early the next morning, the smell of Butch’s coffee…
Nine
It was just after five when Joanna, still driving behind…
Ten
The horror of the nightmare woke her up.
Eleven
The Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department…
Twelve
An hour later, when Joanna finally emerged…
Thirteen
Good as her word, Joanna was at the Cochise County…
Fourteen
When Edith Mossman emerged from Burton…
Fifteen
Twenty minutes later, having escorted Edith Mossman…
Sixteen
You’re looking chipper,” Frank Montoya said the next…
Seventeen
On the hundred-mile drive back to Bisbee, a bank of…
Eighteen
By the time Joanna returned to the far end…
Nineteen
Joanna was home by two o’clock in the morning.
Twenty
On Friday morning, when Joanna arrived at the…
Author’s Note
About the Author
Books by J.A. Jance
Credits
Copyright
About the Publisher
Prologue
The woman lay in her bed, tossing and turning, and tried to sleep. It was hot, but southern Arizona in July is always hot. Due to unpaid bills, the power company had shut off electricity to the shabby mobile home months ago. By now she was pretty well used to sleeping without benefit of a cooler or even a blowing fan.
The heat was a factor, but more disturbing than physical discomfort was thinking about the approaching interview. She had kept her mouth shut for almost thirty years. For that long, other than pouring her heart out to her grandmother, she had been part of an ugly conspiracy of silence. No more. Tomorrow—today, in fact—she was going to talk. To strangers. To reporters. She was going to let it all hang out. The question was, what would happen then?
Someone had told her once—wasn’t it that same grandmother?—that the truth will set you free. The story she was about to tell was the truth, but would it really free her of the demons that plagued her? The terrible sense of dread she felt wasn’t at all like being set free. What if she only made things worse? What if telling damned her forever?
Finally, around four, a slight breeze ruffled the frayed curtain over her bed, and she drifted off. A scarce three hours later, awakened by a recurring nightmare, she staggered out of bed and into the bathroom. When she turned on the water faucet in the lavatory, nothing happened.
“Damn!” she muttered. “What a time to run out of water.”
Pulling on a pair of shorts and a T-shirt, she hurried outside into the relative cool of the early morning. The dogs, locked in the straw-bale shed, heard the back door slam and set up a terrific racket. If she was outside, they wanted to be outside, too. She went over and opened the door on the make-do shed where she kept her motley collection of dogs overnight. As soon as the door opened, the dogs cascaded joyfully out into the early-morning sunlight.
As always, Streak, the fleet-footed beagle, led the way, followed by Jasper, a mutt who was more German shepherd than anything else. There was FiFi, the three-legged poodle, followed by Donner and Blitzen, the two malamutes the woman had found as tiny puppies left in a box outside Wal-Mart on Christmas Eve two years ago. Fat Albert, the dachshund, raced through the doorway carrying a ball and wanting her to throw it. Razzle, Yo-Yo, and Pansy, three rescued greyhounds, pranced out daintily, with Yo-Yo stopping long enough for a leisurely stretch and to have his ears scratched. Angel was an ugly, wrinkle-faced chow and Roger a doberman whose ears had been mangled in an amateur attempt at cropping. Mikey, the boxer, gave his owner a slobbery-faced greeting while newcomer Hombre—a black-and-tan hound—sidled shyly past her as if still unsure about