“I see.” Peculiar hesitation there. “Well, I suppose you intend to warn me again that I need to watch out for her. I do appreciate your concern—”
“Actually, I’m calling for a slightly different reason.” It was Shepherd’s turn to hesitate. “I want to ask you for help.”
“Help?”
“In apprehending this woman. Tonight.”
“You want my assistance… in catching her. I see.”
There was something new in Cray’s tone, something Shepherd could not quite define. Under other circumstances, he might have thought it was a note of sly amusement. But the cell phone’s reception was muddy, and he was sure he’d misinterpreted what he heard.
“It may entail some risk,” Shepherd said, choosing his words with care. “And I haven’t contacted the sheriff’s department to work things out with them. But if I can get their cooperation, can I count on yours, as well?”
He waited. On the other end of the line, Cray exhaled a long, slow breath.
“Detective,” Cray said, “when it comes to putting Kaylie safely in custody where she belongs, I assure you I’ll do everything I can.”
Chuck Wheelihan, undersheriff of Graham County, stood by the side of his Chevy Caprice cruiser in the desert night.
Three deputies loitered nearby. They wore tan short-sleeve shirts, open at the collar, and brown trousers encircled by gun belts, and they had yellow-bordered patches on their shoulders and silver badges on their chests. They were young. Damnably young, Wheelihan thought.
One was smoking a cigarette, another had just returned from taking a whiz in a creosote patch, and the third was drumming his fingers restlessly on the hood of Wheelihan’s car.
“So, Chuck,” the drummer said, “what do you think the odds are of this working?”
Wheelihan took a moment to think it over. The great quiet of the desert loomed around him, and above the high peaks of the Pinaleno range the stars dazzled.
“One in three,” he answered at length.
“That guy from Tucson seems to think our chances are a good deal better’n that.”
“That’s because he thinks the girl is watching Cray’s house.”
“And you don’t?”
“Way I see it, she ran to the border or to another state. Or she’s layin’ low.”
“If she’s sensible, sure. But she’s crazy, they say.”
There was eagerness in the young man’s voice. He wanted to go up against somebody crazy, somebody dangerous, even if it was only a woman.
Not much action here in Graham County. The militia types stirred up a fuss from time to time, setting off explosives in the desert or scaring folks with their silly war games, and there was that local man who’d taken a tire iron to his girlfriend’s skull one drunken night, but that was about it, as far as excitement went.
So Chuck couldn’t blame the boy for straining at his harness. Still, he preferred to keep things low-key, which was why he took his time in making his reply.
“Sure she’s crazy. I know that. I’m one of the ones that nabbed her, way back when. I was part of the search-and-rescue team. We came across the gal, out in the desert about twenty miles from here, and you should’ve seen her, all dirty and crying, and she wouldn’t say nothing. She was just kneeling there, kneeling like she was at her prayers. Her eyes were empty. Nobody home. You know what I mean?”
The boy didn’t. “I guess.”
“She’s a psycho, all right, like all the other nutcases they got there in the loony bin. But she’s not stupid, see? She escaped from the nuthouse, didn’t she? She’s stayed on the lam for twelve years. Am I right?”
“You’re right, Chuck.”
“She’s not so dumb. Some of these fruitcake types, they can be pretty damned shrewd. So I’m saying, she’s nowhere near this spot, is my guess. She’s off in Sonora, maybe, or cruising up to Salt Lake. Or she’s gone to ground like the scared bunny rabbit she is. Whatever. Point is, she’s not gonna risk coming anywhere near Dr. John Cray.”
The smoker, who’d been listening to this, tossed his cigarette away with an impatient flick of his wrist. “So why’re we here, earning overtime,” he asked, “when some of us would rather be at home getting a hot meal?”
Wheelihan shrugged. “Because I could be wrong, Mel. I have been before. And I know the sheriff would dearly like to close the book on the McMillan case. He comes up for reelection next year, you know.”
“Sheriff don’t have to explain to my wife why he missed her pot roast,” the smoker groused.
“Pot roast makes good leftovers,” commented the man who’d relieved himself, contributing this thought for no particular reason.
“Just get comfortable, boys.” Wheelihan smiled at the high canopy of the sky. “It’s a nice night, and we’re getting paid to do this, and who knows? We just might get lucky. Like I said, it’s one in three. She might be on the run. She might be hunkered down. But if she’s here — if she’s staking out the place like this man Shepherd thinks — then we’ll get her.”
He surveyed the gravel road visible through the scrim of mesquite trees that concealed the three department vehicles, the road that John Cray soon would travel in his Lexus sport-utility, the road Kaylie McMillan would have to take if she meant to follow Cray from his house. He nodded.
“Heck, yeah,” Chuck Wheelihan said. “We’ll get the crazy little bitch.”
On her belly, hidden on a ridge of the Pinaleno foothills, Elizabeth watched Cray’s house.
The evening was balmy, with a light breeze. The dry air had a velvet texture, soothing on her skin. There were no clouds anywhere, and the stars were sharp and brilliant, and in the far distance a coyote sang its lonely refrain, to be answered by echoes from deep canyons.
Strangely, she liked this spot, her special hiding place. She knew it well. It was home to her, really — more like home than any motel room she could remember. She’d spent a great deal of time here on this ridge, under the open sky.
On every evening of the past twenty-seven days, she’d come here, steering her Chevette partway up a twisting fire road, then leaving the car to traverse a trail on foot. By five o’clock she was always settled near the rim, lying on a blanket she carried in her car, waiting to see what Cray would do.
Sometimes he would go out, and she would follow in her Chevette. On other occasions he would stay home, but even then she would keep her vigil until after midnight, returning to her motel only when she was certain Cray would not prowl the streets.
His house lay at the rear of the hospital compound, served by a private, gated driveway. The foothills, all scrub and stunted trees and windblown confusions of cactus, rose up instantly beyond the road.
Elizabeth’s perch on the slanted ridge placed her at eye level with the upper story of Cray’s home, about two hundred feet away.
The curtains of his bedroom windows were rarely closed. With the aid of binoculars — one of the few possessions she had left, and only because she had forgotten to remove them from the Chevette’s glove compartment — Elizabeth could see him clearly whenever he entered the room.
He was there right now.
She watched him in the wobbly oval of the binoculars’ field of view. He was removing his suit jacket, his shoes.
Normally he arrived home earlier than this. Tonight some business at the hospital must have delayed him. She hadn’t seen any lights in the windows of the house until twilight was settling over the mountains.
Although he was late, he appeared to be following his usual routine in other respects. Invariably he changed out of his business attire after a day’s work.
If he meant to stay in, he would don a charcoal dressing gown and slippers, then pass the night reading or perhaps jotting notes in a pad while music, faintly audible even at this distance, would spill from the window of his downstairs study.
But if he meant to go out…