Trial By Fire

“I’ve trashed this tracksuit,” she said. “It’s too worn out to appear in public.”

“Not to worry, madam,” Leland said. “I’ll see what I can do about that either tonight or first thing in the morning.”

When Ali was finally released from the ER, it was with the knowledge that the X-rays had revealed no broken bones. She had bandaged cuts on both arms and her right knee, none of which had been deemed serious enough to merit stitches. She had been given a tetanus shot, a prescription for painkillers, and a verbal warning to be sure to take it easy the next few days.

It was almost ten when she finally limped out of the ER. She wanted to check on Sister Anselm, but it seemed best to go back to the hotel to clean up before presenting herself as one of Sister Anselm’s visitors. As she handed her ticket stub to the parking valet at the hospital, he gave her tattered jogging suit a dubious look, but he retrieved her car without comment.

When Ali walked into the hotel lobby, the concierge hurried to greet her. “I understand you’ve had a difficult day, Ms. Reynolds,” he said. “You have some visitors. We’ve upgraded them to the club level. They’re upstairs in the lounge.”

Going up in the elevator, Ali had no doubt who the guests in question would be-her parents, of course. They had asked her about coming to the hospital, and she had told them no. Evidently they hadn’t listened. What astonished her was the idea that her parents had come to the hotel, checked in, and were prepared to spend the night.

She fully intended to go see Sister Anselm, but her parents came first. Back in her third-floor suite Ali showered and changed into her somewhat wrinkled long-sleeved pantsuit, which covered the bandages on her arms and knees as well as the darkening bruises on her legs. Then she fixed her face. It turned out she had gotten sunburned while she’d been outside scrabbling around in the wash with Sister Anselm. The jagged scar Peter Winters’s fist had left on her face months earlier showed bright white against her reddened skin, and it took several layers of powder to tone it down and make it less noticeable.

With the damage concealed as well as possible, she went in search of her parents and found them seated in the spacious club lounge, where her father was nursing a beer and her mother was sipping a cup of tea. Ten o’clock was a good three hours past Edie Larson’s usual bedtime.

“What are you doing here?” Ali asked as soon as she saw them.

“Let me see,” Edie said. “Would it happen to be because our daughter was almost rubbed out in a shoot-out this afternoon but she gave us strict orders not to come to the hospital? How are you? Are you okay? Is anything broken?”

“I’m fine,” Ali said. “Really.”

Bob Larson gri

“But what about the restaurant?” Ali said.

“We went by the Sugarloaf and put up a sign. I printed it out myself on the computer. Closed for a family emergency,” Edie said. “If this doesn’t count as a family emergency, I don’t know what does.”

The lounge attendant came over to the table where they were sitting. “May I get you something?” she asked Ali.

“A glass of merlot, please.”

“And for you, sir,” she said to Ali’s dad. “Would you care for another beer?”

“One’s my limit,” Bob told her. “Otherwise the wife gets cranky.”

Edie gave him a withering look. “I do no such thing,” she declared. “You’re welcome to drink as many of those fool things as you want.”

Bob winked at the attendant. “I’ll stick with one,” he said. “It pays to keep her happy.”

Ali’s cell phone rang. There was a notice on the table asking that people refrain from using their cell phones in the lounge, but since she and her parents were the only people there and since the caller was Dave Holman, she answered anyway.

“Do you hear it?” he asked.

“Hear what?”

“ATF agents Do

“You’re kidding,” Ali breathed.

“Nope,” Dave continued. “McGregor has lived outside of Payson for a long time, staying under everyone’s radar. When he hasn’t been out on what he calls ‘missions,’ he’s been holed up in a cabin busily documenting everything his particular fire-setting cell has been doing for the last twenty years or so-sort of an unabridged ecoterrorism history, written in longhand.”

“Longhand?” Ali asked.

“Yup. McGregor’s no fan of computers or electronics of any kind. He’s done all his writing the old-fashioned way, with pen and ink in a pile of spiral notebooks. There are pages and pages of material, naming names and citing specific operatives involved and so forth. It’s incredibly amazing stuff-invaluable stuff. Your basic ATF gold mine.”

“How did he stay under the radar all this time?” Ali asked.

“By not causing trouble or calling attention to himself. He never got picked up for anything. No arrests of any kind, anywhere. He lived off the grid. He used a kerosene lamp for light and a wood stove for heat, and hand-pumped his own water from a well. The only thing that doesn’t fit is the cell phone found in his possession today. It’s a dead end, however. It’s one of those throwaway phones that only made calls to another throwaway phone.”

Ali was aware that her parents were hanging on her every word, but she had to ask. “What’s McGregor’s co

“Good question,” Dave said. “We have no idea, but on a slightly different topic, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

“What?” Ali asked.

“Sheriff Maxwell got word tonight that Mrs. Cooper didn’t make it. She died a little after six this evening.”

While I was downstairs in the ER, Ali thought, and while Sister Anselm was similarly occupied in some other part of the hospital.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Ali said, “but as bad as she was burned, she never would have recovered.”

“I know,” Dave agreed. “It’s probably a blessing for her, and for her family. I’m sure they’re relieved to know that she’s not suffering anymore. And I’m sure it’ll mean a lot to her husband and kids when we can tell them that we’ve nailed Mimi’s killer.

“As for that missing painting?” Dave continued. “The arson investigators found something that looks like a piece of charred picture-frame stock and some glass with a few scraps of paper stuck to it in the other burned house up in Camp Verde. The manufacturer’s number is still visible on back of the frame. The investigators are trying to trace that, but the initial reading is that it’s good-quality and expensive stuff. Not from your local frame-it-yourself outlet.”

“They burned up Mimi’s Klee?” Ali asked. “Why would they? It’s worth a fortune.”

“Let’s hope it’s insured,” Dave said.

Ali knew it was. She had spent a long time in the burn unit with Mimi’s less than exemplary family. She was sure Hal would be grieving the loss of his wife and wouldn’t notice the loss of the painting, valuable or not. Mimi’s children were another matter. They would be looking to lay hands on any dollars available, and they wouldn’t be pleased to know that if Hal Cooper was cleared of complicity, he would be free to inherit whatever Mimi had left him.

“Does Hal know about the painting?” Ali asked.

“Not yet,” Dave said. “That’s why I’m calling you. No one has told anyone anything. Do

“In other words, Do