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Wanda hadn’t moved back to Nevada. Dr. Price had called Jonah late last night to say they’d managed to identify more of the remains. Wanda Erickson was one of the victims. “Any chance you can give me Butch’s cell phone number. I’d like to see if I can help,” Jonah said.
“Sure, no problem,” he replied and rattled it off.
Dean shut the door as Jonah walked slowly back to his car. She’s pretty tired of him cheating…. I once saw a list in her purse…. Her name had a line through it….
Bits of the forensic profile also came to mind: Beating someone to death is intensely personal. I believe the man you’re looking for has reason to hate his victims and feels justified in violence. The man they were looking for? What if they weren’t looking for a man at all? What if it was a woman? A woman who thought her victims deserved the worst possible treatment? A woman who used a bat to make up for what she lacked in size and strength? A woman who’d already attacked one rival in a jealous rage? Maybe if Julia hadn’t been killed accidentally, in front of Butch, she would’ve been killed on purpose, behind his back. Like the others…
“Shit!” The killer was associated with the salvage yard. They’d been right about that. But they’d been looking past the real culprit. And, if Jonah had his guess, Butch had figured it out, too, or he wouldn’t have called to warn Kelly….
Taking his phone from his pocket, Jonah dialed Finch’s number. They had to find Paris—before she attacked anyone else.
* * *
Paris slowed to make a U-turn. This had been a good choice; Wickenburg was the perfect place. She’d been scouting towns since she left home early that morning. Now all she had to do was travel back toward Prescott until she found a desolate spot….
After twenty minutes, she felt she’d gone far enough. She was in the middle of nowhere, precisely what she wanted. Only a handful of cars passed by. Since it was noon, most people were inside, working a day job, not driving from one small town to another in the middle of the Sonoran Desert.
Spotting an alcove where she’d have the cover of some scrub brush and palo verde trees, she turned around so she’d be facing in the right direction, and pulled to the side of the road. Then she got out and went to the trunk, taking out the hammer and nail she’d put there.
Would the nail be long enough? Frowning, she held it up. If not, she’d have to find something else. She hadn’t had much time to prepare for her encounter with Francesca. But she wasn’t particularly worried. It wasn’t that difficult to pop a tire.
Wincing against the blistering heat, she circled the Impala while deciding which tire to flatten. Francesca would be more prone to believe her “crippled car” predicament if she could see the problem immediately, wouldn’t she?
That made sense, so—when there was no one else on the road—Paris crouched beside the front right tire.
She’d just finished hammering the nail through the rubber, could hear the hiss of escaping air, when her cell phone rang. It was her husband. Again. He’d called more than a dozen times. She hoped he’d been in touch with Champ’s friend’s mother, made arrangements to pick him up, because she couldn’t answer the phone and remind him. He’d be upset with her for leaving and would try to talk her into going home.
She’d call him when it was all over, she told herself, after Francesca got what was coming to her.
But what if Francesca proved to be more of a challenge than the others? Dean hadn’t been able to overpower her, had he? No. She needed to make her plans accordingly. Fortunately, she wasn’t as stupid as Dean. And she’d done this before. Only Sherrilyn had given her any real problem, but she’d managed to overpower her. They’d find her remains in Dead Mule Canyon with the rest, if they hadn’t done so already. She knew they were still looking and had two more to find.
Returning to the trunk, she gathered up the rest of her tools, including the one that would cause the most pain. Maybe Francesca hadn’t slept with Butch, but she was a whore all the same and deserved the treatment Paris saved for the women she hated most.
Finding a nice spot in the shade, she sat down and went over every aspect of her plan while awaiting Francesca’s call.
* * *
By the time she reached Wickenburg, Francesca had her headache under control. She was grateful for the cessation of pain; her nerves were difficult enough to deal with. Paris claimed to possess evidence that would blow the Dead Mule Canyon case wide-open. As far as Francesca was concerned, that couldn’t happen soon enough. But she was still reluctant to believe it was Dean who’d been murdering people. Despite those macabre drawings, he didn’t seem to have the killer instinct.
Fortunately, Paris said she had proof. If that was true, they’d no longer have to rely on intuition or profiling or anything else.
As she passed an old schoolhouse painted bright red, obviously a historic building, she called Paris’s number. “I’m here.”
“I’ve been trying to get hold of you.” Paris sounded discouraged.
“You have? Nothing’s come through.”
“Coverage is spotty out here.”
“Out where?”
“I’m stranded along the highway. And, God, is it hot. I wish I’d brought some water.”
Already at the end of town, Francesca pulled to the side of the road. “What’s wrong?”
“I was almost to Wickenburg when I picked up a nail. My tire’s flat.”
“You don’t have a spare?”
