In Cottonwood proper, they’d had to wait through four complete stoplight cycles before being able to turn left onto what was now a totally gridlocked State Route 260.

  “Anything from Frigg?” Ali asked.

  “Not yet,” Stu said. “Once she has something on his condition, I’ll put her on speaker, but in the meantime, she has managed to locate and deactivate all of B.’s devices.”

  “Good,” Ali murmured, feeling better. Not only was High Noon’s proprietary information secure, thanks to Merrilee Hawkins, Ali now knew that although B. had been injured, at least he wasn’t dead. Things for Hal Holden sounded far more bleak.

  Ali’s phone rang again, this time with her son’s name in caller ID. “I just talked to Grandma,” Christopher said. “How’s B.?”

  Ali felt a pang of guilt that she hadn’t contacted her son earlier, but until that last phone call she’d had nothing to report—at least, nothing good. She passed along what she’d just been told.

  “Athena and I are on Christmas break until next Monday,” he said. “If you need me to come down to Phoenix to help out, let us know.”

  “I will,” Ali said. “Thank you.”

  As that call ended, she heard Stu saying, “Thank you, Frigg. I’m putting you on speaker.”

  Moments later, Frigg’s computerized voice came through the Dodge Ram’s sound system. “Good morning, Ali,” she said. “I’m so sorry to hear about your current difficulties.”

  You and me both, Ali started to say, but then she remembered she was speaking to a machine—a polite machine, but a machine nonetheless. “Thank you,” she said.

  “Mr. Holden was severely injured and is in critical condition. At the scene he was unconscious and having difficulty breathing, requiring intubation prior to transport. Mr. Simpson’s injuries are not reported as life-threatening.”

  “At least they’re both alive,” Ali said. “Thank you, Frigg.”

  “Will there be anything else at this time?”

  “No,” Ali replied.

  “Very well,” Frigg said, “but if there are any additional updates, I shall certainly pass them along.”

  As Frigg signed off, Stu gave Ali a sidelong glance. “How are you doing?”

  Ali allowed herself a moment of reflection before answering. “Medium,” she said. “Thanks to Frigg, I can stop holding my breath, but can’t these people drive any faster? How long is this going to take?”

  “According to the GPS, with current traffic conditions, we’ll arrive at the hospital in two hours and twenty minutes.”

  Great, Ali thought. It could just as well be forever.

  By then word about B.’s accident had spread, and Ali’s phone began blowing up with calls of concern. She answered a couple of them, but everyone wanted to know the same thing—how was B. doing? Since Ali wasn’t supposed to have the information Frigg had just supplied, there was no way for her to answer those questions honestly. After telling her third caller that she would have to get back in touch once she reached the hospital, Ali switched the phone over to vibrate and let the calls go to voice mail. She preferred not answering to telling lies.

  CHAPTER 8

  PHOENIX, ARIZONA

  Wednesday, January 1, 2020, 2:30 p.m. (MST)

  When Stu and Ali finally arrived at St. Gregory’s, the Dodge Ram’s rooftop was too tall for the parking garage. Stu dropped Ali at the hospital’s front entrance and then went in search of on-street parking. At the reception desk, Ali managed to negotiate the HIPAA restrictions. After being informed that Mr. Simpson was out of surgery and in recovery, she was directed to a waiting room.

  Stepping off the elevator a minute or so later, Ali was greeted by the familiar face of Sister Anselm Becker. The nun rose from her chair on the far side of the room and hurried over to envelop Ali in a comforting hug.

  Ali and the now eighty-something nun had met years earlier at the bedside of a badly burned woman. Despite their many differences—age, religion, and occupation—the two women had surprised everyone, including themselves, by becoming the best of friends.

  Sister Anselm lived in St. Bernadette’s Convent in Jerome, just up the road from High Noon’s headquarters. At the behest of now-retired Archbishop Francis Gillespie, Sister Anselm’s life was devoted to traveling from hospital to hospital, where she served as a patient advocate for people in need. After Archbishop Gillespie’s retirement, his successor had continued Sister Anselm’s mission. These days she made her rounds accompanied by a much younger associate, Sister Cecelia Groppa, who handled the driving.

  That day, however, Sister Anselm was the last person Ali had expected to encounter in the ICU waiting room.

  “What are you doing here?” Ali asked.

  “What do you think?” Sister Anselm replied with a laugh. “Waiting for you.”

  “How did you get here?” Ali wanted to know. “How did you know something was wrong?”

  “Cami,” Sister Anselm replied.

  Despite the seriousness of the situation, Ali almost laughed aloud. The previous April Cami had ended up with a badly broken leg that had required surgery, followed by a stint in a wheelchair. Once released from the hospital, when it became clear that she’d be unable to manage on her own, Sister Anselm had shown up at her house uninvited and taken charge. Both women were stubborn, and sparks had flown in all directions. Now, though, if Cami had run up the flag to Sister Anselm about what happened with B., the two of them must have buried the hatchet.

  “Cami called me right after she called you,” Sister Anselm continued. “Sister Cecelia and I were at home at St. Bernadette’s, so we packed up and headed here, coming by way of Prescott. Most of the time going that way would have taken much longer, but not today.”

  Ali glanced around the room. “Where’s Sister Cecelia now?” she asked.

  “She’s with Mr. Holden,” Sister Anselm told her. “She’s been in touch with his daughter, Sheila, who is on her way here from DC and due to land at Sky Harbor shortly before nine tonight. Until she arrives, Sister Cecelia will be looking after her father.”

  St. Gregory’s was a Catholic hospital, and both nuns were known entities to the staff. If Sister Anselm said they were supposed to be there, it was unlikely anyone would have objected. Ali had no idea how the two nuns happened to know the name, location, and travel plans for Hal Holden’s daughter. The Sisters of Providence probably didn’t have access to an AI, but one way or the other, they had sussed out Hal’s supposedly confidential information.

  “I’m glad you’re here,” Ali said, sinking gratefully into a nearby chair. “Any word about B.?”

  “His surgeon told me that he came through the splenectomy fine, but he’ll probably be in the recovery room for at least another hour,” Sister Anselm reported. “He has several broken ribs, but the damage to those isn’t nearly as serious as Mr. Holden’s and apparently will require nothing more than taping. His fractured shoulder is another matter entirely. The orthopedic surgeon examined the X-rays and will operate on that once B.’s condition stabilizes.”

  “What kind of surgery?” Ali asked.

  “To determine if the bone can be set or if the shoulder will require replacement,” Sister Anselm explained. “Either way, that will have to happen later on down the road.”

  Ali felt a flood of relief. This was far better news than she had expected during that long, tortuous drive to the hospital.

  “How are you?” Sister Anselm asked.

  “I’m not sure,” Ali said. “It’s been an emotional roller coaster.”

  “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I’ve had coffee,” Ali admitted, “but that’s it.”

  “We should go to the cafeteria, then,” Sister Anselm declared. “I’ll get a buzzer from the nurse so we can be notified if B. is moved from recovery to his room while we’re gone.”

  Ali nodded in agreement. It wasn’t like her to allow herself to be pushed around, but she was too spent to voice even the smallest objection. Just then, however, her phone vibrated again. She’d kept the ringer off, letting the calls go to voice mail and occasionally scrolling incoming calls and texts to see if any of them needed to be returned immediately. This time, when she saw Alonzo was on the line, she answered immediately.

  “Hey, Ali,” Alonzo said. “You’ve probably heard about the traffic mess on I-17. I’m still planning on being home tonight, but it’ll be later than expected. They’re saying the fire is out, but it’s going to take hours for traffic to clear.”

  “About that traffic problem,” Ali said. “There are a few things you need to know.”

  After filling Alonzo in and making sure he had her mother’s contact information, Ali and Sister Anselm went down to the cafeteria. The holiday pickings were slim. Ali settled for a tuna sandwich and a cup of coffee. The sandwich was dry and tasted like cardboard. She choked down half of it and tossed the rest. Ali was returning from the trash bin when Sister Anselm’s buzzer sounded.

  “They’ll be moving him to room 703 in a matter of minutes,” the nun told Ali. “Why don’t you go on up while I check on Sister Cecelia? B. will probably be awake, but don’t be surprised if he’s a bit on the groggy side.”

  On the seventh floor, Ali saw that room 703 was still empty. Heading to the nurses’ station to ask if plans had changed, she spotted a seemingly disconsolate Stu Ramey sitting alone in the waiting room and staring bleakly at the floor.

  Ali’s heart was flooded with guilt. During the grueling drive from Sedona to Phoenix, she had been totally focused on her own issues. Only now did she realize that she hadn’t been the only one looking at a potentially catastrophic loss. Out of concern for Ali, Stu may have done a good job of hiding his feelings before, but now his desolation was painfully obvious.

  Of course he was worried sick about possibly losing B. Stu’s parents had died while he was still a baby, leaving him to be raised by loving grandparents but ones who’d had very little guidance in coping with a child who happened to be incredibly smart but also autistic. Stu had grown up with virtually no social skills, and once his grandparents passed away, he’d been lost. He had been living in a homeless shelter as an abandoned teenager and working for minimum wage when B. had become aware of the boy’s self-taught computer skills. After plucking him out of the shelter, B. had given Stu both a job and a place to live. Over time B. had also gifted Stu Ramey with a sense of purpose and a chance at a semi-normal life.

  B. Simpson was Ali’s husband, but he was enormously important to Stu—boss, friend, benefactor, and in a very real way the only father figure the younger man had ever known. If B. didn’t make it, Ali would lose her spouse. Stu Ramey would lose his anchor.

  “Hey, Stu,” Ali said solicitously. “Are you all right?”

  He started as though awakened from a sound sleep. “I’m okay, I guess,” he muttered. “Just worried. Where were you?”

  “Sister Anselm was already here at the hospital when you dropped me off,” Ali said, taking the seat next to his. “We were down in the cafeteria. They’re supposed to be bringing him up from recovery any minute. Have you called Cami?”

  “Just did,” Stu answered. “I thought people up there would want to know what we heard from Deputy Hawkins.”

  Ali gave herself another black mark for focusing on herself and not paying enough attention to others. “Thank you,” she said. “I should have handled that myself.”

  “It’s okay,” Stu replied. “At least I was able to do something.”

  The elevator door opened and a bed was wheeled into the corridor. Spotting B.’s profile, Ali rose and followed, then stood in the doorway waiting for the attendants to get things settled before actually entering the room.

  “If you’re not a sight for sore eyes,” B. said with a smile when he saw her.

  “How are you feeling?” Ali asked.

  “Not that bad,” he replied. “The pain meds they use around here really are something.”

  Sister Anselm had warned Ali that B. might be somewhat groggy. She had expected him to be higher than a kite, but that didn’t appear to be the case.

  “Mr. Simpson?” a male voice inquired. Ali turned and found a man dressed in a suit and tie standing in the doorway. She recognized him as a cop long before he opened his mouth.

  “I’m Chief Detective Warren Biba, an investigator with the Arizona Highway Patrol, from the District 12 office in Prescott,” he said by way of an introduction. “Mind if I ask you a few questions about what happened earlier today?”

  B. was fresh out of recovery. Ali’s first instinct was to tell the guy to get lost, but B. was willing to talk.

  “It’s fine,” he said, “but I’m not sure how much help I’ll be. Things are still a bit fuzzy.”

  When Detective Biba shot a meaningful look in Ali’s direction with an unspoken suggestion that she take her leave, Ali chose to ignore it.

  “B.’s my husband,” she said, folding her arms in front of her. “I’m staying.”

  “Suit yourself,” Biba agreed grudgingly.

  There was only a single visitor chair in the room, and Biba helped himself to that. He crossed his long legs before producing both a small leather-bound spiral notebook and a ballpoint pen from his coat pocket.

  “So why don’t you walk me through whatever you remember about today’s events?” he asked.

  “Let’s see,” B. said. “Hal and I were on our way to… to…” He frowned as if searching for the words.

  “To the airport,” Ali supplied.

  Biba shot a warning glare in her direction. “And where were you going?” he asked.

  B. paused uncertainly again. “I’m not sure.”

  “London,” Ali said. “You were on your way to London.”

  “Please allow your husband to answer the questions, Mrs. Simpson,” Biba cautioned.

  Ali was fast losing patience. “My name is Ali Reynolds,” she told him brusquely. “I didn’t change my name when we married, and he didn’t change his.”

  Biba turned back to B. “So you were on your way to London. Business or pleasure?”

  Once again B. seemed to struggle to come up with a suitable reply, and he looked beseechingly in Ali’s direction.

  “Business,” Ali answered. “We run a cybersecurity company located in Cottonwood called High Noon Enterprises. B. was on his way to participate in an international ransomware conference that’s being held in the UK.”

  Biba frowned. “You’re calling him B., using his initial rather than his given name. Is that correct?”

  Ali was in no mood to relate the unfortunate history that had forced B. to resort to using his initial in place of a first name. That was a private matter and none of the detective’s business.

  “If you had bothered to check his driver’s license, you’d see B. is his legal name. He changed it years ago.”

  Ali’s tone of voice wasn’t lost on Detective Biba, and he didn’t press further.

  “Can you tell me if there’s anyone in your circle of acquaintances who might wish you harm?” Biba asked.

  Ali was startled. “Harm?” she demanded. “Wait a minute. Does that mean what happened today wasn’t an accident—that someone deliberately ran them off the road?”

  “It’s a possibility,” the investigator conceded, “and that’s what we’re trying to determine.” When B. didn’t reply immediately, Biba gave him a gentle prod. “Well, Mr. Simpson?”

  Looking lost, B. shook his head. “I can’t think of anyone,” he said.

  “What about a business associate?” Biba asked.

  “No one who works for High Noon Enterprises has any kind of issue with B.,” Ali interjected. “We’re a small, close-knit organization.”

  “What about competitors, then?”

  “Cybersecurity may be a cutthroat business,” Ali said firmly, “but I can’t imagine one of our competitors putting out a hit on someone.”

  Biba’s disapproval of Ali’s involvement in the interview was apparent, but he backed off and changed course. “What about Mr. Holden, then?” he asked, once again addressing B. “How well do you know him?”

  “Not all that well,” B. said without any prompting. “I use him as a driver from time to time.”

  “Do you know of anyone who might wish to harm him?”

  “So then you really do suspect this wasn’t an accident?” Ali insisted.

  Biba sighed. “We’ve recovered evidence that suggests that Mr. Holden’s vehicle was deliberately forced off the highway,” he allowed.

  B. shook his head. “I don’t know of anyone who would have issues with Hal. He’s a super-nice guy.”

  “No financial difficulties as far as you know?”

  “None,” B. answered.

  “What about romantic entanglements?”

  “As far as I know he’s a widower, and I have no idea if he’s involved with anyone.”

  “What about you?”

  “Believe me, I’m a happily married man,” B. replied, “but I’m really tired now. Could we finish this some other time?”

  With that, B. effectively dismissed the detective by simply closing his eyes and apparently drifting off. If B. was done, Ali was, too.

  “That’s enough!” she announced. “As you can see, he’s tired and needs to rest.”

  “I’m a cop, and I’m trying to do my job here,” Biba objected.

  “And I’m a wife doing mine,” Ali countered. “Yours will have to wait until later. You need to leave—now. If my husband couldn’t remember where he was going when he left home this morning, he’s clearly in no condition to answer any further questions.”

  Making no effort to conceal his annoyance, Warren Biba closed his notebook and returned both that and the pen to his jacket pocket. Then he unfolded his legs and stood up. “Are you always this protective of your husband, Ms. Reynolds?” he asked.

  Since Ali was still standing, they were now glaring at each other across the white expanse of B.’s hospital bed. “I am when I need to be,” she said unflinchingly. “Now get the hell out.”

  “I’ll be back,” Biba replied.