Killer Heat. Brenda Novak
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the can, she heard it hit him but didn’t pause to see where. She was too intent on running. But no matter how hard her arms and legs pumped, she could hear him gaining on her.
The dog barked and yelped and growled as it pulled at its chain. She tried to ignore it. As dangerous as that animal sounded, it couldn’t hurt her. For now…
A second later, the dog became her last concern as Butch grabbed her purse, which was flapping behind her, and used it to jerk her to a stop. Yanking back, she fell when the strap broke. Then she dropped her phone, which bounced out of reach, and because of the sudden release of tension, he fell, too.
“Who are you? What the hell are you doing here?” Gripping her by the ankle, he dragged her toward him.
The hot dirt burned her bare arms and legs. A sleeveless blouse and skirt were probably the worst things she could’ve worn. He was dressed in blue jeans and a muscle shirt, which protected him, to some degree.
“Answer me!” he grated as they rolled around—she wrestling for her freedom, he trying to subdue her—but she was breathing too hard to respond. All she could think about was escape. She had to keep fighting regardless of the scrapes, the bruises and the burning ground.
It wasn’t long before he managed to pin her down. He had her left wrist, but before he could grab her right, she sank her nails into his cheek, gouging him deeply. She knew she’d gotten him good when he cursed and drew back.
His sudden recoil made it possible for her to scramble out from under him. She got hold of her purse but he obviously realized she was about to escape and caught it, too. She had to let go. It fell away, spilling, as she found her feet and darted around the house.
Although her BMW waited on the road ahead of her, her car keys were either in her purse or on the ground with her cell. She couldn’t drive anywhere, but she ran for her car, anyway.
Her sandals slapped her heels, and the smooth hard soles made her skid here and there, so it was a miracle she reached the front yard. Once she did, she hoped to flag down a car, but the road was empty. And Butch didn’t have any neighbors. Her one advantage was the fact that she’d done more damage with her nails than she’d expected. When she glanced over her shoulder, she could see Butch coming after her, but he wasn’t moving too fast. He staggered, wiping at the blood that dripped from his left eye and cheek.
She’d hurt him, which scared her even more. Fury rolled off him in waves.
Her breath rattled in her throat as she fought to make her shaky limbs follow her brain’s commands. If he caught her, she was dead. She could see a steely resolve set in as he shook off the pain and started to jog.
Thank heaven she’d left her car unlocked. It was a bad habit but she could only be grateful in this particular moment. Wrenching open the passenger door, which was closest, she got in and slammed it just as he stretched out his hand to stop her. He had to yank it away to avoid having his fingers crushed. Then he went for the door handle.
Lock! Lock! Lock! Frantically, Francesca swiped at the console and the upholstery, searching for the button that would secure the doors. In her panic, she couldn’t remember where the damn thing was—but she managed to hit it before he could open the door. She’d never heard a sound more comforting than the thunk of the locks snapping into place or the ineffective catch of the lever as he pulled it to no avail.
Closing her eyes, she gulped for air and would’ve been relieved, except that he was more enraged than ever. Glaring down at her, he banged on the window. “Hey!”
Frozen with terror, she stared up at him. If he got in, it would be over in minutes. She didn’t even have her iPhone.
Had emergency services received any indication that she’d tried to call? Were they sending help? Or had they assumed her call had been a misdial or a crank?
“What the hell’s wrong with you, lady?” he yelled. “I just want to talk. I want to know why you’re here.”
He knew she’d found the body. She could see it in his eyes. He was trying to convince her that she hadn’t really seen what she’d seen, that it was safe to trust in the trappings that surrounded them—the swing set in the front yard, the kiddie pool off to the side, the hand-painted welcome sign on the door. But she wasn’t that easily fooled. As much as the domesticity of the scene might tempt her to think she’d leaped to the wrong conclusion, especially when she saw the wounds she’d inflicted on his cheek, she knew killers often looked like the most mundane husbands and dads. She’d studied them in her work; rarely was it obvious that they were monsters.
Rocking forward, she covered her head. He was so close. All he had to do was break the glass. There was no one else around, no one to hear the window shatter or her cry for help.
“Go away!” she sobbed.
Suddenly, he stopped banging.
She sat up to see him using the bottom of his shirt to clean the sweat and blood from his face. Then he checked behind him, apparently searching for something, and stalked off toward the only tree in the yard. A bat leaned against the trunk, next to a ball and glove. Hefting it, he came toward her as if he intended to break the window. Before he could take a swing, however, the sound of a car engine drew their attention to the road. An old Impala chugged up.
Determined to get the driver to help her, Francesca crawled into the other seat and laid on the horn, but the effort proved to be unnecessary. The woman behind the wheel slowed, then turned in and parked as if she owned the place. She’d planned to stop here all along.
Clearly torn, Butch glanced between Francesca and the driver of that car. A little boy also sat in the Impala. Window down, round face sweaty, he waved and yelled from his car seat, excited enough that even Francesca could hear him. “Daddy! Daddy! We’re home!”
Butch’s expression changed instantly. Dropping the bat, he strode over to the Impala.
Now! Francesca let herself out on the side facing the road. She couldn’t expect the Impala’s driver to come to her assistance, as she’d originally hoped. Not if this was Butch’s wife. Francesca had to assume she was still on her own, because chances were she really was.
Locating her spare key beneath the back bumper, she tore it free. At the same time, the child got himself out of his car seat and demanded Butch pull him through the window.
The woman rushed around to join father and son. As Francesca darted back to the driver’s seat, she heard, “What’s going on? What happened to your face?”
Butch’s reply was too low for Francesca to make out, but the woman’s next question carried easily on air already saturated with heat and threat and panic. “What? But why? Who is she?”
This had to be Butch’s wife, as she’d guessed. The timing of her return home had most likely saved Francesca’s life. But Francesca wasn’t planning to stick around long enough to thank her or tell her about the body stashed amid the junk in the salvage yard. She was get ting out of here while she could.
Climbing behind the wheel, she tossed the magnetic container that had held her spare into the passenger seat, started her engine and punched the gas pedal.
2
“Holy shit.” Jonah Young came to a stop so abrupt Investigator Finch, with the Yavapai County Sheriff’s Office, slammed into the back of him.
“What the hell?” he muttered, but Jonah didn’t move. The woman Finch was taking him to meet sat in a chair just inside the entrance to the investigator’s cubicle. Cradling a cup of coffee, she had a blanket wrapped around her shoulders as if it was the middle of winter instead of the height of summer. But he knew she was fighting off more than the chill of the building’s aggressive air conditioner. She’d just been through a harrowing ordeal. When he called, Finch had told him that a P.I. from Chandler had been attacked. Finch’s partner, Hugh Hunsacker, had taken some deputies and gone directly to the salvage yard, where the incident had occurred, but Finch had stayed behind and asked Jonah to