Vendetta

“What?”

Shetterly pointed to the dead man’s chest. Marker had gone to bed shirtless. The physician traced a muddy print on the lifeless flesh with his forefinger. “It was raining when the woman arrived.”

“What is that?” Marion asked. Then, just before Shetterly answered, she recognized it.

“That,” Shetterly said, “is a muddy footprint.” He looked up at Keller, who had come over to join them. “I spotted this after you went outside. Thought you’d like to see it.”

“Can we get a print off it?” Keller asked.

“Take pictures of this,” Shetterly said. “Then take pictures of the bottom of the shoes that woman has on. It’s almost as good as fingerprints.”

“She put her foot on him?” Marion asked.

Shetterly nodded. “I think so.”

“Why?”

The medical examiner took glasses from a shirt pocket, slipped them on and examined the muddy print. “Looks like she used her foot to hold Marker down while she shot him. He knew it was coming. She made sure of that.”

“Do we know what Marker was doing here?” Marion stood outside the motel room while Shetterly and his assistant took care of the body.

“No.” Keller smoked and watched the rain pouring from the eave.

Marion glanced at her wristwatch. Almost an hour had passed since her arrival. It had only seemed like minutes. The death smell clung to her and she couldn’t wait to get home to shampoo the stench out of her hair.

“There is the connection to the Ellis family,” she said. “We could follow up on that.”

Keller nodded. “Got that penciled in. But folks like the Ellises don’t live the same lives you and I do, Counselor. The air’s a mite more rarified where they are.”

Marion knew that. Phoenix tended toward a city of absolutes. Rich and poor families lived there, but they seldom interacted.

“Even if we do get a chance to interview them, they’re not going to tell us any more than they want us to know.”

“Personal experience, Sheriff?” Marion asked.

“Yes, ma’am.” Keller hesitated a moment. “Brian Ellis may have come home from Vietnam as a returning prisoner of war and a military hero of sorts, but he didn’t leave here that way.”

“What do you mean?”

Keller shook his head. “I already said too much. I shouldn’t have said what I did.”

Marion decided to let the comment pass but she made a mental note to have a look at whatever the D.A.’s office had on Brian Ellis. “Where’s the woman?”

Keller nodded toward the sheriff’s office cars. “I’ve got her in one of the cars. Maybe Marker got lucky with that punch before she blasted him. She was out on her feet, more or less. She was walking back along the parking lot when the first cars arrived. If we’d been another couple minutes later—” He lifted his shoulders and dropped them. “We might have missed her.”

“I want to see her.”

Marion followed Keller’s broad back to one of the nearest sheriff’s cruisers. Rain pelted her in fat drops. The rainfall was abnormal for the time of year, but the weather sometimes did strange things due to the White Tank mountain range.

They stopped at the car and Keller nodded to the deputies standing guard. The man put his hand on his sidearm and gingerly opened the door.

“You’ll want to be careful, Cap’n,” the young deputy said. “She fights something fierce. Jonesy is at the hospital getting his ear stitched up where she bit him. Got to wonder if he needs his rabies vaccination, too.”

They’re afraid of her, Marion realized. That surprised her. She hadn’t seen men afraid of women very often. Or if they were, they’d given no indication of it.

The woman sat in the backseat with her hands cuffed behind her back. Her dark chestnut hair cascaded across her shoulders. Her profile was strong. Pale skin picked up the lights from the motel parking lot. Even seated she looked taller than average and extremely athletic.

She ignored them as they stared at her. The effort reminded Marion of the wild animals that had gotten trapped in the attic of her family home. She and her dad had once had to relocate a whole family of raccoons. They’d used live cages to capture them. While caged, the raccoons had pointedly ignored them in the same manner as this woman. But when the cage was rattled, they attacked immediately. Marion suspected the same would hold true of the woman in the back of the sheriff’s car.

“I’m Marion Hart,” Marion said. She felt guilty simply staring at the woman. Despite what she’d done, she wasn’t a zoo animal.

The woman ignored Marion and kept her gaze locked on the front windshield.

“I’m with the district attorney’s office,” Marion said.

Slowly the woman turned her head and looked at Marion. Deep blue eyes gleamed like daggers in the pale light waxing over the motel parking lot. They were cold and devoid of emotion.

“Prove it,” the woman challenged. Her voice was flat and harsh. There was a nasal quality that made Marion immediately think she was from somewhere back East.

Taken aback by the woman’s decision to speak and the unflinching challenge that had rung out in her voice, Marion opened her purse and removed her identification. She started to lean in with it but Keller intercepted her hand.

“She’s who she says she is,” Keller said.

Resentment flashed over Marion. “I’m quite capable of—”

“Capable of getting yourself killed,” Keller growled. “This woman does things with her fists and feet that I haven’t ever seen done before.” He handed Marion her identification back.

“A woman,” the woman mused. “Interesting.”

“I have some questions,” Marion said.

“I don’t care.” The woman turned and went back to staring through the windshield.

Despite repeated attempts to get the woman to talk, Marion finally gave up in disgust. The newspaper people were pressing forward as well. Keller shut the door on the cruiser and ordered the driver to take the prisoner to jail.

“We’re not going to get anything out of her,” Keller said as the departing car’s taillights flared red.

“She has to talk,” Marion said. “What kind of woman would walk into a man’s motel room, shoot him dead and then show no emotion?”

“She’s already shown emotion,” Keller commented. “That was the part where she put all six rounds through Marker’s head.”

They watched in silence as Doc Shetterly and his team brought the body from the motel room on a gurney. White sheets covered the dead man, but blood soaked through and turned the material dark.

Bulbs from the reporters’ cameras flashed. Marion was also certain she heard someone cheering. She tried not to think about how quickly a person went from living to being a temporary news sensation.

Life had to be worth more than that.

Back at the Maricopa County Jail, Marion watched as the jailer matron, a hefty dishwater blonde named Whitten, forced the woman to strip and subject herself to the obligatory shower to kill possible lice infestation. The prisoner stood arrogant and proud before the stares of the other women.

Her body was a work of art. Hard, lean muscle created dynamic curves. She was a woman, Marion realized, that would turn men’s heads no matter where she was or what she wore.

But the beauty was marred. Several scars—bullet, knife and burns—marked the prisoner. Miraculously nothing had touched that gorgeous face.

However, the bruising from the blow they suspected Marker had delivered before he’d died was starting to darken. The prisoner’s left cheek was puffy from it. A long scratch held blood crust. Due to the darkness in the cruiser, Marion hadn’t noticed the damage.

Marion made a note to have a medical doctor take a look at the woman. She didn’t want charges of law enforcement abuse or coercion to taint the case.

Staring at the signs of present and past violence, Marion couldn’t help wondering what kind of life the woman had lived. If she was a product of abuse, how accountable could she be held for her actions?

Domestic abuse had always been something practiced behind closed doors, but cases were being brought out of the homes into the courts these days. When she’d grown up, Marion had lived next door to a family where a woman had been abused.

Marion’s father had intervened on more than on occasion. He’d grown more and more frustrated with his helplessness. The neighbor had been a long-haul trucker and the beatings had been as regular as the work that had taken the man out of town.

Marion’s mother had advised the woman to leave her husband one night while tending the bruises and cuts the man’s fists had left. The whole time, the women’s two young children had clung to Marion and quivered. In the end, the woman had cried pathetically and told them that she couldn’t leave her husband because she wouldn’t be able to care for her children.

Immediately following one late-night episode, Marion’s father had called the police. Marion had been frightened for her father because the trucker’s rage had been dark and out of control. He had threatened to kill Marion’s father.

In the end, though, the police had done nothing. The woman had sworn she’d fallen down the stairs. One of the policemen stated that she must have fallen up the stairs as well to do all the damage they’d seen. She’d refused their offer to take her to the hospital and asked them to leave. Without testimony, the officers hadn’t been able to act.

That experience remained within Marion’s mind. Women sometimes ended up helpless not because they lacked the will or ambition to take care of themselves. Many of them ended up victimized by men and life simply because they lacked options.

Marion hadn’t wanted to be that helpless. But there were several women who still were. Someday, somehow, she wished she could help them realize their potential instead of accepting a secondary citizenship role. She also wanted to change the law so police officers could act to protect the welfare of a family without testimony.

Marion had taken the job as an assistant district attorney not just because she loved the work, but because she’d wanted to show other women that they could succeed outside the home, too.

That hadn’t worked out as well as Marion had hoped. Most of the wives of the men in the D.A.’s office resented her because they viewed her as a threat, not a role model. Some disliked her because she spent more time with their husbands than they did.

Marion had always heard that nothing worth having ever came easily. She tried to remember that to convince herself she had made the right choices, but it was hard.

Once the shower was over, the woman stepped into a pair of white cotton panties, a bra and pulled on the jumpsuit Whitten issued her. She pulled her wet hair back into a ponytail and secured it with a rubber band. During the whole process, she never once acknowledged anyone else in the room.

Marion felt sorry for the woman. During her time with the D.A.’s office, Marion had never watched anyone processed through an arrest. The whole experience seemed demeaning.

Like dealing with cattle, Marion couldn’t help thinking. But then she focused on what the corpse had looked like in the motel room. Whatever family Colonel Thomas Marker had left behind couldn’t even have an open casket service. No one would be able to replace what the woman’s bullets had taken away.

But thinking like that only raised the question of the woman’s motivation in Marion’s mind again. She really wanted to know what had happened in that motel room.

They stood the prisoner against one wall and took pictures of her right profile and full face. She was booked under the name Jane Doe.

A few moments later, Whitten looked at Marion curiously. “Where do you want her?” the matron asked.

“Put her in interview room D,” Marion responded. “I’ll be along shortly.”

The jailer nodded. She took the woman by the arm and guided her through the door. Before they’d gone three steps, the woman slid into sudden movement as graceful as a dancer’s choreography.

The woman lifted her captured arm, folded it, then rammed it into the matron’s face. The meaty impact filled Marion’s ears. Blood gushed from the matron’s mouth, but she was a big woman and used to dealing with violent prisoners. The matron reached for the woman.

The prisoner ducked beneath Whitten’s arms. She turned and spun on one foot. The other leg folded then snapped forward like a coiled spring. The prisoner’s bare foot caught Whitten in the throat with enough force to lift her from her feet.

The matron stumbled backward and crashed to the floor. The other two female jailers rushed forward and tried to grab the prisoner.

The prisoner grabbed the outstretched arm of one jailer as she sidestepped. She whirled and maintained her grip on the jailer’s arm. Something snapped with a sickening crunch. The jailer flipped and landed flat on her back. Her breath left her lungs in a rush.

The other jailer slid her nightstick from her belt and swung at the prisoner’s head. In a blur of movement, the prisoner lifted her left arm, trapped the jailer’s arm under it, then spun back outside of the jailer’s reach. The prisoner delivered two punishing elbows to the jailer’s temple. The jailer crumpled but the prisoner stripped the nightstick from her hand before the woman collapsed.

Marion stepped forward but wasn’t certain what she was going to do. Before she reached the prisoner, the woman whirled and smashed the nightstick across Marion’s forearm.

Pain ignited in Marion’s head. Her senses screamed. Driven more by instinct than any planning, she tried to step back. But it was too late. The prisoner circled behind her and slid the nightstick across her throat.

“Okay, muffin,” the prisoner said in that nasal accent. “It’s just you and me now.”

Chapter 5

Maricopa County Jail

Phoenix, Arizona

Thursday, May 16, 1968

The Past

Panic swelled through Marion as the prisoner held her. The crushing pressure against her windpipe was merciless. She knew she was only inches from death.

“How do you feel now, muffin?” the prisoner whispered in her ear. “Are you afraid? Fear isn’t going to get you out of a situation like this. You’ve got to control your fear. Use it. When you can work with it, fear makes you faster, stronger. You’re never more alive than when you’re at the edge of death. Don’t you feel it?”

Marion didn’t answer. She reached for the nightstick.

The prisoner pulled the nightstick tighter. “Don’t. Get your hand down or I’ll snap your pretty little neck.”

With effort, Marion got control of her fear and dropped her hand. She swallowed hard and hoped she didn’t throw up. Her senses swam, but she was certain that was more from the blood flow getting cut off to her brain than anything else. She almost fell.

The pressure from the nightstick lessened.

“Don’t pass out on me, muffin,” the prisoner commanded. “We’ve got places to go. Things to do. We’re going to start with getting out of here.”

Across the room, Whitten got to her feet. The big woman gasped and wheezed. She helped one of the other jailers to her feet. The jailer cradled her broken arm.

The third jailer lay on her back. Blood pooled beneath her from the laceration on her face. Whitten touched the woman’s neck. Marion’s stomach gave another sickening lurch when she realized Whitten was checking to make certain the woman was still alive.

“I didn’t kill her,” the prisoner snarled. “I could have if I’d wanted to.” Savage joy resonated in her words. Marion heard it. But desperation was there as well. “I could have killed you too, piggy.”

“You’re not getting out of here,” Whitten croaked.

“I think I will.” The prisoner shook Marion. “I’ll bet nobody around here wants their token women’s libber in the D.A.’s office to end up dead this morning.”

Whitten beat on the door without taking her eyes from the prisoner. Marion saw anger on the big woman’s face, but she saw fear as well.

The door opened and a deputy shoved his head inside. He took in the scene at a glance, drew his weapon and started to come into the room.

“Stay out,” the prisoner ordered. “Or I’ll kill her.”

The deputy froze.

“Get the sheriff,” the prisoner said. “Get Keller.”

The deputy stepped back outside. Whitten started to step through the door, too.

“Not you, piggy,” the prisoner said.

Whitten pointed at the unconscious woman lying on the floor. “She needs a doctor.”

“She can wait.”

Marion felt the prisoner’s breath hot against her neck and ear.

“Are you still with me, muffin?” the prisoner asked.

Speaking past the nightstick pulled tight against her throat was hard, but Marion managed. “I’m still here.” She was surprised at the defiance in her voice.

“You sound spunky. Good. I don’t need you passing out on me when we walk out of here.”

“I’m not going to pass out.” Marion held on to her anger and used it to bolster her strength.

“I hope not. But just so you know, if you do pass out I’m going to drag you out of here anyway.”

Marion forced herself to focus through the panic that threatened to paralyze her. Her heart hammered inside her chest. You can get out of this. Even as she told herself that, though, she realized she had no doubt that the prisoner would kill her.

She couldn’t help thinking how her parents would react if something happened to her. Three weeks ago at an accidental death, she’d seen parents devastated by their son’s overdose on heroin. She didn’t want to put her parents through that.

“Let’s go, muffin,” the prisoner grated. She pushed Marion toward the door. “Stay back, piggy.”

Whitten glared at the prisoner but lifted her hands in the air and stepped back from the door.

Out in the hallway under the bright fluorescent lighting, Marion felt light-headed. Panic ripped at her with sharp claws. Her legs trembled with the desire to run.

The prisoner stayed close behind Marion. She felt the woman’s body pressed against hers. The warmth took away some of the chill of her damp clothing.

Six deputies stood in the hallway with drawn weapons. Sickness swirled in Marion’s stomach. She forced herself to sip air.

“Keep moving, muffin,” the prisoner ordered.

“Y-you’re not h-helping your case,” Marion said. Embarrassment flooded her as she heard her stuttered words.

The prisoner laughed. The sound was totally without mirth. “You sound like you’re still going to try me.”

“I am. Y-you’re not going to g-get out of here.” Marion wished she could keep from stuttering. That would have helped her sound more convincing.

“I’m going to get out of here,” the prisoner replied. “I don’t have a choice about staying here. If I stay here, I’m dead. There are people who’ll kill me long before you ever get me to trial.”

Marion seized on those words and wondered what the woman meant by them.

“If you play your cards right,” the prisoner went on, “you’ll get out of here, too.”

“H-how do I know you w-won’t kill me like you did Marker?”

“I don’t have a reason to kill you.”

“What reason did you have to kill Marker?” Marion couldn’t believe she was asking questions with her life on the line. But she couldn’t be quiet and there were so many questions swimming in her mind.

“That’s my business and none of yours.”

“H-how did you f-find him?”

The woman sounded irritated. “You talk way too much, muffin. This isn’t part of a guided tour. Keep your trap shut.”

Sheriff Frank Keller stepped into view at the end of the hallway. He had a two-handed grip on his revolver and stood with his left foot forward.

Marion closed her eyes for just a moment and resisted the urge to be sick. You’re going to lose that battle one of these times, she told herself.

“Hold it right there,” Keller thundered. His pistol never wavered.

Marion tried to stop, but the prisoner kept pushing her from behind.

“Move,” the prisoner commanded.

“You’re not leaving this building,” Keller declared. “If you don’t cease and desist this instant, I’m going to shoot you.”

Disbelief swept over Marion. She stared at the cavernous mouth of Keller’s big pistol. Surely he was kidding.

“Are you that good a shot?” the prisoner taunted.

Marion knew the woman was crouched tightly behind her. She stared at the unwavering muzzle of the pistol Keller held. Bare inches of the woman had to be exposed.

Keller’s face was cold stone. “I think I am.” He thumbed the hammer back on the pistol. “I’m not going to tell you again.”

“I guess we’re going to find out how good you are,” the prisoner said, “because I can’t be here long. I’ve already over-stayed my welcome.”

Knowing that she was trapped, Marion chose to take command of her fate. She rammed her head back into the prisoner’s face. Something crunched. The prisoner’s breath gushed out against the back of Marion’s neck.

Reaching up, Marion caught her captor’s forearm and the loose folds of the jumpsuit just as the nightstick tightened and shut off her wind. She held on tight as she bent forward suddenly.

The prisoner flipped over Marion’s back and slammed against the tiled floor. Blood streamed over the woman’s face as she gazed up at Marion in shock. The prisoner’s recovery was inhumanly quick, though. She pressed her hands against the floor, vaulted to her feet lithe as a cat and crouched.

Marion backed away before the woman could come after her. She didn’t stop until she reached the wall behind her.

“Down on your face,” Keller commanded.

For a moment, the prisoner hesitated. Marion’s breath caught in the back of her throat as certainty that she was about to see the woman executed in front of her eyes surged within her.

Then, with a wry smile through the blood, the prisoner dropped to her knees and put her hands on top of her head. She bent forward till she lay prone on the ground. The movement was fluid and effortless. Blood dripped from her nose to the floor.

Deputies rushed forward and cuffed her as she lay on the ground.

Marion stood on trembling knees, but she stood. She took pride in that. She also took pride in the fact that she’d saved herself in spite of everything.

The prisoner gazed up at Marion in open appraisal. “Not bad, muffin. I didn’t expect that out of you.”

“Get her to lockup,” Keller growled.

The deputies hustled the prisoner away.

Keller surveyed Marion. “Are you all right?” he asked.

Marion nodded. “I think so.” Her stomach churned.

“That was a nice move. Slick.” New appreciation showed in Keller’s hard eyes.

“I took a class in jujitsu while I was in college.”

“Jujitsu? I think they’re teaching that stuff to the federal agents.”

Marion couldn’t help talking. She couldn’t keep quiet, but she didn’t want to talk about what nearly happened. Any topic was better. “Bruce Lee’s role on The Green Hornet got everybody interested in self-defense. I took it to fulfill a phys ed requirement. It was interesting. I was good at it.”

“You were good at it today,” Keller said.

Marion looked at the sheriff. “Would you have shot her?”

The big man hesitated for just a moment. “Yes, ma’am. I’ve never had a prisoner escape. I wasn’t about to start this morning.”

“And if you’d missed?”

Keller smiled and shook his head. “I don’t miss. Truth to tell, Counselor, you just saved her life. Might have been easier all the way around if you’d have let me shoot her.”

Marion couldn’t believe Keller was so casually discussing taking the life of another person. “Killing her isn’t an answer.”

Surprise pulled at Keller’s features. “What do you think you’re going to be doing when you put that woman on trial, Counselor?”

In the bathroom, Marion pulled a paper towel from the dispenser and patted her face dry. She looked at her reflection in the mirror.