"Jance, J. A. - Joanna Brady 05 - Skeleton Canyon" - читать интересную книгу автора (Jance J. A)

PROLOGUE

Hands on her hips, youthful breasts outthrust beneath the bulk of her red-and-gray sweater, seventeen-year-old Roxanne Brianna O’Brien, captain of the Bisbee High School pep squad, tossed her long blond hair and led her six-member team in a strutting parade around the end of the football field.

On a clear crisp late-November night, this was the end of halftime festivities and the beginning of the third quarter in a hard-fought football game between two teams whose long-term rivalry stretched all the way back to 1906. A ragtag marching band—comprised of mismatched players from both the Bisbee and Douglas music programs—had just delivered a faltering, musically challenged performance. Now it was time for the uniformed yell squads of both schools to travel to oppo­site sides of the field. There each would give an obligatory and good-sportsmanlike cheer in front of the opposing team’s fans.

The Bisbee Pumas might have been two touchdowns behind at the half, but there was no sign of that in the proud carriage of their cheerleaders as they marched down the sidelines toward the part of the bleachers reserved for visiting Doug­las supporters.

At the fifty-yard line, Brianna, who much preferred her middle name to the old-fashioned Roxanne, glanced toward the reserved-seat section where her parents usually sat. David O’Brien’s wheelchair was parked in the bottom aisle. As the cheerleaders paraded past out on the field, Bree no­ticed that her father’s silvery-maned head was inclined toward his program, studying it with frowning concentra­tion. Brianna hoped he’d raise his eyes and at least glance in her direction. She longed for some acknowledgment from her father, for some sign of parental pride or approval. As usual, David was too preoccupied with something else to bother noticing her.

The same did not hold true for Bree’s mother, Katherine. She smiled and nodded encouragement as her daughter went by. Katherine’s beaming pride and unfailing enthusiasm were almost as hard for Bree to handle as her father’s studied indif­ference. Under the harsh glare of the ballpark’s newly installed field lights, Bree was careful not to let the hurt show through. After all, to those around her—fellow students who had elected her head cheerleader, homecoming queen, and the girl most likely to succeed—Brianna O’Brien had it all—money, looks, and brains. Brianna alone knew the hurt and disappoint­ment that lurked behind those outward trappings of youthful success.

Leading; the girls down the field, Bree kept her smiling mask carefully in place. Once at the far end of the visitor section of the stands, she stopped and waited for the other girls to find their proper places. When the line was perfectly straight, she raised her arm like a conductor raising his baton to signal the beginning of a concert.

“Ready, girls?” Bree had to shout to be heard over the rising hubbub in the stands as the teams on the field began to form up in anticipation of the second-half kickoff. “Two bits, four bits, six bits, a peso. All for Douglas stand up and say so.”

A the applauding Douglas fans surged to their feet, the Bisbee girls turned a series of handsprings up and down the sidelines. Then they resumed a parade stance and headed back toward their own side of the field via the end zone holding
what were now Bisbee’s goalposts. The cheerleaders’ backs were turned to the players on the field when a referee blew his whistle, announcing the resumption of play.

The second-half kickoff flew high in the air, sending the ball tumbling toward the Bulldog offensive unit, stationed at the far end of the field. Fifteen yards from the goal line, the ball plummeted into the waiting hands of Douglas quarterback and team captain Ignacio Salazar Ybarra. He paused for a moment, searching the field for any sign of weakness among the Bisbee defenders. Seeing a hole, he clasped the ball firmly to his chest and started down the field, deftly dodging between other players—friend and foe—alike—with all the grace and agility of a fleeing white-tailed deer.

As both teams rumbled down the field toward the marching cheerleaders, there was no hint on Roxanne Brianna O’Brien’s shadowless face that in the next thirty seconds her young life would be inalterably changed.

Afterward, newspaper accounts of the game reported that throughout the first half of the game on that crisp fall evening, Bulldog Iggy Ybarra had played nothing short of inspired foot‑ball with a confidence that came from knowing every yard gained carried him that much closer to winning a coveted football scholarship, one that would pay his way to college.

Pounding toward the goal line, Iggy angled across the field and then stayed just inside the sideline markers. He had out-distanced most of the Puma defenders and thought he was almost home free when, five yards short of the goal line, he heard someone gaining on him from behind. Dodging out of the way, he went one step farther than he meant to, crossing over the sideline marker in the process. He had just stepped out of bounds when someone smashed into him from behind. The two players crashed to the ground only a yard or so from the cheerleaders.

Bree was close enough to the action that, even over the rau­cous roar of enthusiastic fans, she heard the bone snap. Turn­ing her head in horror, she saw a Douglas player crumple to the ground with Bisbee defender Frankie Lefthault on top of him. The awful groan that came as the Douglas boy fell seemed to have been wrenched from his very soul. Bree saw him lying there, writhing and helpless, moaning in agony while penalty flags blossomed and referee whistles sounded all over the field.

Long before anyone else reached the injured player, long before Frankie himself scrambled to his feet, Bree O’Brien was kneeling at the fallen boy’s side, holding his hand. She re­sponded out of instinct, out of an inborn compulsion to go to the aid of anything or anyone in need. It was only as she knelt there that she realized player number eleven on the Douglas Bulldog team was someone she actually knew.

The previous summer, Brianna had attended a two-week line arts session at the University of Arizona in Tucson. There, she had net Nacio Ybarra, as he called himself. The two of them had wound up in the same drama workshop. In an honor bestowed by their peers, they had been paired to play the Romeo and Juliet balcony scene for the end of-session grand finale.

In the process of working together, they had established an easy friendship. That night, after the performance, they had taken a long walk, ending up at the fountain by Old Main. There they had exchanged several long unstaged kisses. The next morning, before going their separate ways, they had promised to keep in touch, but they had not done so. The hubbub of respective senior year activities and the twenty-three miles between them had proven insurmountable.

“Nacio,” she whispered. “It’s me, Bree. Hang on. Help is coming.”

He looked up at her, but there was no sign of recognition in his pain-filled eyes. “Oh, God,” he sobbed. “My leg. It’s broken. I know it’s broken.”

“It’s not my fault,” Frankie wailed behind them. “1 didn’t do it on purpose. I didn’t mean to hurt him.”

By then coaches, trainers, managers, and referees were all converging on the scene. One of them brusquely thrust Bree out of the way. She retreated to a spot behind the goal line where, for the next few minutes, she and the other cheerleaders stood rooted to the ground. Around them, the entire ballpark went deathly still. The only sounds to be heard were the heart‑wrenching, involuntary moans that periodically escaped Ignacio Ybarra’s tightly clenched teeth.

One of the Douglas coaches popped out of the group huddled around Ignacio and gestured frantically toward a waiting ambulance that spent each home game parked just inside the ballpark gates of the far end of the field. Accompanied by the low growl of a siren, the ambulance picked its way down the visiting team’s sidelines through clumps of stunned players from both teams. Two uniformed EMTs leaped from the ambu­lance. One brought out a stretcher while the other cut through the cluster of anxious onlookers.

All the while, that almost breathless silence lingered over the stricken crowd. Except for mindlessly shifting out of the way to let the ambulance or stretcher pass, no one moved or spoke. Working quickly but expertly, the medics covered Ig­nacio Ybarra with blankets and then eased him onto the stretcher. They were trying to be gentle. They were being gen­tle. Even so, that little movement elicited another gasp of pain that was more shriek than groan. The desperate sound caused Brianna O’Brien’s own knees to nearly buckle.

As the stretcher started toward the ambulance, the Douglas cheerleaders, still at the far end of the field, began leading a cheer to honor the injured player. Belatedly, the Bisbee squad joined in as fans from both towns stayed on their feet, offering encouragement.

“Well,” Cynthia Jean Howell whispered in Bree’s ear when the cheering ended, “with that damned quarterback out of the way, maybe we can finally do something about winning this game.”

Stunned, Bree wheeled around to face her. When it came time to elect the captain of the cheerleading squad, C.J. Howell had come in second. Not on the best of terms before that, Bree and C.J. were even less friendly now.

“Shut up, C.J.!” Bree whispered back. “He might hear you.”

C.J. shrugged. “So what?” she hissed. “Who cares if he does? Do you want to win this game or not?”

What happened next was strictly reflex. Bree’s right hand flashed out and connected with the other girl’s cheek. The resulting slap knocked C.J.’s heal sideways and left the plain imprint of an outspread palm on the carefully made-up contours of her narrow jaw.

As quickly as it happened, the other girls swooped in to separate them. “What’s the matter with you?” C.J. sputtered. “Are you crazy or what?”

“Didn’t you hear what happened?” Bree raged at the other girl. “That bone in his leg is shattered. What if he never walks again?”

“So?” C.J. returned, massaging the bright red skin of her cheek. “What business is it of yours? Besides, he’s from Douglas, isn’t he?”

“He may he from Douglas, but Ignacio Ybarra is a friend of mine. Don’t you forget it!”

“That’s your problem,” C.J. returned.

At that point Bree might have gone after C.J. again had not one of the other girls restrained her. “Come on, Bree. Leave her alone,’’

In response, Roxanne Brianna O’Brien simply turned her back and walked, striding purposefully away from her own bleachers and back toward the Bulldog side of the field. Bree’s best friend on the squad, sixteen-year-old Kim Young, hurried after her.

“Wait up, Bree. What are you doing?”

“I’m leaving.”

“You can’t ‘just walk out like this. It’s the middle of the game.”

“I don’t care.”

“Ms. Barker will have a fit. She may even throw you off the squad.”

“I don’t care it she does,” Bree replied grimly.

Kim stopped in her tracks and wavered hack and forth as if undecided about whether she should follow Bree or go back to where the others stood waiting. Being elected cheerleader at the beginning of her junior year was Kimberly Young’s sole claim to fame. She didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize her shaky standing as one of the movers and shakers in the B.H.S. student body, not only for this year but for her senior year as well.

Forced to choose, Kim reluctantly opted for ambition and social standing over friendship. Shaking her head, she turned her back on Bree and raced across the field to catch up with the other cheerleaders while a resolute Bree watched her briefly and then continued her own solitary walk down the sidelines.

Barbara Barker, the cheerleading sponsor, headed Bree off before she made it as far as the fifty-yard line. “Where are you going, Bree?”

“The hospital,” Bree answered.

“The hospital,” Ms. Barker echoed. “What’s the matter? Are you hurt?”

“I’m fine,” Bree said. “A friend of mine’s been hurt, and I’m going to check on him.”

As the loaded ambulance made its way down the field, and while the referees pondered what to do about the unnecessary roughness penalty they had called against Frankie Lefthault, the cheerleading sponsor reached out as if to stop Brianna’s headlong rush along the sidelines.

“Wait a minute, Bree. You know the rules. My girls aren’t allowed to walk off the field without permission in the middle of a game. If you go, I’ll have to kick you off the squad.”

“You can’t kick me off,” Brianna replied.. “I already quit.”

From her seat on the fifty-yard line, Katherine O’Brien had observed the unfolding drama both on the field and off it. At football games, regardless of what was happening to the team, Katherine’s eyes seldom left her daughter. Watching the action through the fine pall of dust raised by hundreds of shuffling feet, Katherine hadn’t heard a word of the heated exchange between Bree and C.J. Howell, but she had witnessed the assault. With a gasp of surprise, she had seen Bree’s hand flash and slap the other girl’s cheek. As Bree stalked down the aisle Katherine O’Brien, like Barbara Barker, rose to intercept

“Where are you going?” David demanded, reaching out to stop his wife.

“There’s something the matter with Bree,” Katherine said. “She needs me.”

“Leave her be,” David O’Brien admonished, taking Kather­ine by the hand. “She has to learn to sort these things out by herself. You can’t always go flying to her rescue, you know.”

Fifty years of continuous self-effacement made it difficult for Katherine O’Brien to tolerate making a scene in public. In this however, the unmasked rage she had seen on her daughter’s face somehow stiffened her spine.

“I’ve got to go to her,” Katherine insisted, pulling her wrist free of her husband’s grasp. “I’ll be right back.”

She reached Bree’s side just in time to see her daughter pull away from Barbara Barker in much the same way Katherine herself had just broken free of David’s restraining hand. “Bree,” Katherine demanded, “what’s going on?”

“A friend of mine is hurt,” Bree replied. “As soon as I get out of this uniform, I’m going to the hospital to see if he’s all right.”

 “You don’t want to do that,” Katherine said. “If you leave in the middle of the game, Ms. Barker may throw you off the squad.”

“Don’t worry about that,” Bree returned. “She already has.”

CHAPTER ONE

It was five o’clock on a Friday afternoon in June when Bree came into the kitchen. Even with the air-conditioning going full blast, the kitchen was hot compared to the rest of the house. Sweat rolled down Mrs. Vorevkin’s jowly cheeks as she stood bent over the kitchen sink, cleaning and chopping vegetables for the salad.

“I’m ready to go”

Olga turned and smiled at the young woman whose tan, lithe, and cheerful presence never failed to brighten any room she entered. “The cool chest is in the pantry,” Olga told her. “It’s all packed.” She put down her knife and dried both hands on her apron. “The soup is ready,” she added. “You should have some before you leave. Hot soup on a hot day will cool you off. Besides, it’s such a long drive. You should eat something besides sandwiches.”

Bree sniffed the air. Over the years, the O’Briens had gone through any number of cooks. Most of them hadn’t lasted because they couldn’t stand up to David O’Brien’s stringent demands for quality and impeccable service. Olga, however, had been with the O’Briens a little over three years. She was an excellent cook who had come to them, by some circuitous path, from a job with the U.S. embassy in Moscow with an unex­plained stop-off in New Orleans along the way. During her three years’ tenure, she had developed a very loving friendship with this bright, golden-haired young woman who stood in her kitchen, waffling with indecision.

Bree glanced at her watch. Nacio, as she usually called him, would be off work in another hour. She wanted to be there in time to meet him when his shift ended, but there was just time for some of Mrs. V.’s delicious soup and a thick slab of the crusty white bread she made on a daily basis, summer and winter.

“All right,” Bree agreed at last, slipping into her favorite place at the kitchen table. “But I’ll have to hurry.”

The soup was a clear broth with a few green slivers of scal­lion floating on the top. Five or six tiny homemade meat-filled dumplings sat on the bottom of the bowl. It was wonderful.

“What time will Mom and Dad be home?” Bree asked, glancing casually at her watch. She wanted to be through the security gates, off Purdy Lane, and on the highway headed for Douglas long before her parents returned. Not that it mattered that much whether or not they were home when Bree left. She was going regardless. It was just always easier for her to leave without having to face them, without having to lie to them directly. Although, with practice, even that was easier now. Brianna was gelling used to it.

Finishing the soup, Bree pushed her chair from the table, carried her dishes to the counter, and plucked a plump radish from the pile of clean ones Mrs. V. had stacked next to the sink. “Take two,” Olga said with a smile. “They’re not very filling.”

Tossing her ponytail, Bree took a second radish and then hurried to the pantry. The cooler was right there, just as she had known it would be, packed with sandwiches, sodas, fruit, and, most likely, some little dessert surprise as well. Mrs. V. was a great believer in the Cajun tradition of lagniappe—some­thing extra.

Bree lugged the cooler as far as the front door. As soon as she opened it, she almost choked on the raw stench of cigar smoke that lingered in a hazy cloud just outside. Alf Hastings, her father’s director of operations, was sitting in the shade of the verandah next to the fountain. He hurried to his feet as Bree came through the door. “Let me help you with that,” he offered.

Alf hadn’t been on Green Brush Ranch long. Bree didn’t know much about him other than he was one of those middle-aged men who gave her the creeps. She suspected there were times he made unnecessary security sweeps through the yard outside her bedroom window on the off chance he might catch her in the act of undressing.

“No, thanks,” she said. “I can manage on my own.”

Not one to take no for an answer, Hastings leered at her. “Looks pretty heavy to me,” he said. “At least let me open the gate to the camper.”

That was the last thing Brianna O’Brien wanted. If he opened the camper shell on the pickup, he was bound to see all the camping equipment she had smuggled out of the garage and stowed there without anyone—her parents especially—being the wiser.

“It goes in front,” she told him, quickly putting the cooler down on the ground. “I’ll have to go back inside to get the key.

He was still standing there puffing on what was left of his cigar when she came back out of the house with the key in hand.

“Off to Playas again?” he asked.

Bree gave him a sidelong look. Was he testing her? Had he seen her loading the stuff into the truck and figured out what was really going on? Or was he just making conversation?

“That’s right,” she said.

This time Alf made no offer to help, but she noticed that he had moved off to one side, no doubt hoping to look down her tank top when she bent down to pick up the cooler. Give the dirty old man a thrill. If he’s looking at my boobs, that means he probably isn’t looking inside the camper. Once the cooler was properly situated on the rider’s side of the seat, she slammed the door shut.

“Hope you keep the doors locked when you head off on your own like this,” Alf said. “A young girl like you can’t ever be too careful.”

“I’m careful,” she assured him, walking around to the driv­er’s side and letting herself in. “Very careful.”

As she turned the key in the ignition, she wondered if Alf would climb into the ATV parked under the portico, one of several used for routine security patrols around the ranch, and then follow her as far as the security gates. When she pulled out onto the road that led away from the house, he was still standing there, looking after her through a pall of cigar smoke.

“Asshole,” Bree hissed between clenched teeth as she watched his reflection grow smaller in her rearview mirror.

As the sun went down in the west, Nacio Ybarra stood in the shade of the gas station’s canopy and checked his watch. Bree should have been there by now. He was looking forward to seeing her, but he was dreading it, too. For a week now, Nacio’s Aunt Yolanda had been doubled over with excruciat­ing stomach cramps. Late that afternoon, her local doctor, unable to make a solid diagnosis, had finally managed to secure an appointment with a specialist in Tucson for the following morning. The problem was, the appointment and accompa­nying tests required an overnight stay in the hospital. Natu­rally, Nacio’s Uncle Frank, the owner of Frank’s Union 76, was going to drive her there.

“I know you were planning on going camping with your friends,” Uncle Frank had said apologetically. He had come into the bay where Nacio was fixing a flat to tell him about it. “But I need you to stay. Ronnie’s way too new to be left to close up by himself. God knows what would happen if I did that. He can’t even change a tire by himself. And as for Hector ... ” Frank rolled his eyes.

Ever since he was thirteen, Nacio Ybarra had worked as a gas jockey and mechanic at his Uncle Frank’s Union 76, next door to the once-booming Kmart store on the outskirts of Douglas. There was no question about Frank’s assessment of his other two employees. Ronnie Torres was an eager beaver, hut he was only sixteen and had worked at the station for less than two weeks. Frank had hired Ron in hopes of grooming the younger boy to take his nephew’s place when Nacio left for college in the fall.

As for Hector… Yolanda’s younger brother was no doubt a skilled mechanic, but his penchant for Jose Cuervo made him a bad bet to be trusted with the day’s receipts or to show up on a Saturday morning with the cash register change bag intact.

“Don’t worry about it,” Nacio said. “I’ll stay long enough to close. What about opening in the morning?”

Frank nodded. “That too,” he said. “I’ll be here by early afternoon, so once Hector gets workwise, you could probably take off later in the morning.”

Frank Ybarra was the only father Ignacio Ybarra had ever known. Ignacio had never met his real one, whom he thought of only as a sperm donor. Nacio’s mother, sixteen years old and eight and a half months pregnant at the time, had crossed the border west of Douglas and walked as far as the emer­gency entrance to the Cochise County Hospital. Her water had broken along the way. She had arrived in the hospital lobby with just time enough to be put on a gurney and wheeled into an emergency room before her son catapulted into the world. For years, Uncle Frank had teased his nephew that there was more than one way to be a wetback.

Having assured her son’s U.S. citizenship, Imelda Ybarra had left him in the care of her older brother, Frank, and promptly returned to Mexico, resuming her designated role in a thriving business in Agua Prieta’s red-light district. She had died a few years later of what her son now suspected was probably an early case of heterosexually transmitted AIDS. Frank and Yolanda had raised the boy as one of their own, watching in wonder and with no small pride as this towering foster son of theirs totally eclipsed the physical, academic, and athletic accomplishments of their four natural children.

For almost five years, Nacio had worked in Frank’s gas station after school, on weekends, and during the summers. He was dependable and personable. The customers loved him, and most were aware that he was saving every penny toward col­lege. Frank had always figured there would he plenty of schol­arship help available to put someone as bright and talented as Nacio through school. That had seemed especially true when, it the beginning of his senior year in high school, he was as good as promised a full-ride football scholarship to Arizona State University in Tempe. Unfortunately, the football scholarship had disappeared the moment Nacio’s leg had been broken during the Bisbee-Douglas game the previous fall. Doctors had managed to save the leg and pin it back together, but Ignacio Ybarra’s football-playing days were gone forever.

The two academic scholarships Nacio had been granted instead of the athletic one were both to the University of Arizona hi Tucson. Taken together, they didn’t add up to nearly the some amount as the single sports scholarship would have been, and only one of them was renewable. That made Ignacio’s job at Frank’s Union 76 all the more important.

“Don’t worry, Uncle Frank,” Nacio had said. “You take care of Aunt Yoli. I’ll handle the station.”

A Tioga motor home with Kansas plates pulled in and swal­lowed up a huge tankful of fuel while Nacio washed the wind-shield and checked the oil. He was just finishing checking the air pressure in the last tire when Bree pulled up behind him. Naturally, Ronnie hurried out to wait on her before Nacio had a chance.

After running the motor home driver’s credit card through the machine, Nacio went over to the red Toyota Tacoma. “Hey, Ronnie,” he called, without looking in Bree’s direction but making sure his voice carried through her open window, “I’m going to grab a soda.”

With that, Nacio limped off across the parking lot. The doc­tors kept telling him that eventually the leg would get better, but he doubted it. He went inside, bought himself a soda, and then came outside to sit on the picnic bench left behind by a short-lived and now departed latte stand. There he waited for Bree to join him.

Nacio hated having to meet her this way, having to sit stiffly on the bench as though they were nothing more than a pair of strangers passing the time of day. It was only when they were alone that they could be themselves—free to be young and in love.

He was struck by the irony of their living a real-life version of the Romeo and Juliet roles they had played all those months earlier. According to Bree, her father hated Mexicans, and Ig­nacio’s Aunt Yolanda was forever pointing out the folly of mixed dating, which inevitably led to the far worse folly and inevitable heartbreak of mixed marriages. Such warnings had fallen on two sets of determinedly deaf ears.

Brianna O’Brien had returned to Nacio Ybarra’s hazy line of vision while he was still so groggy from the anesthetic and painkillers that at first he had imagined her to be some kind of ethereal being—an angel perhaps—rather than the same flesh-and-blood, blond-haired beauty whose lips had breathed fire into his one hot June night in Tucson several months ear­lier. Even after the drugs wore off, he still expected she would simply disappear. But she didn’t. Instead, she visited him every day of the three weeks he was stuck in the Copper Queen Hospital. Each time she came to his room, she brought with her a sense of joy and laughter and the hope that, although his leg was undeniably broken, his life was certainly not over.

Those visits had continued for a while even after Nacio was released from the hospital and allowed to return home to Douglas. They had ceased abruptly once Aunt Yolanda, alerted by nosy neighbor, came home early one day and figured out that what was going on had slipped well beyond the sphere of ordinary friendship. Since then, the two young people had learned to be discretion itself, but that took work and a whole lot of creativity.

Bree would often come into the station in the late afternoons, pulling up to the full-service pumps about the time Uncle Frank went home for dinner. While Nacio pumped her gas and checked her tires, oil, water, and windshield fluid, while he cleaned all her windows and polished her rearview mirrors, they would hurriedly make arrangements for when and where they would meet again—often at a secluded spot halfway be­tween Bisbee and Douglas on a long-deserted ranch road that ran alongside the railroad line near the Paul Spur Lime Plant.

They both lived for weekends like this one, though, when Bree would tell her parents she was going to New Mexico to visit her friend Crystal Phillips, and Nacio would tell Uncle Frank and Aunt Yolanda he was going camping with some of his friends from school. From Friday night until Sunday after-noon, it would just be the two of them. Usually they would rendezvous at a secret meeting place in the Peloncillo Moun­tains, east of Douglas, at a wild, deserted place called Hog Canyon. Once they met up, they’d spend the night there, sleep­ing on an air mattress in the back of Bree’s truck. The next day, they’d leave Nacio’s old Bronco parked out of sight somewhere in the canyon and head out for parts unknown. They loved wandering around in out-of-the way places in New Mexico, an area where they weren’t likely to run into anyone they knew.

Bree always had plenty of money. They went where they wanted with the understanding that by three o’clock Sunday afternoon she would drop him off at his car and they would go their separate ways. That was how this weekend was supposed to work. Now, though, with Nacio unable to get away until sometime Saturday morning, he supposed they would have to scrap the whole thing.

“You look like you just lost your best friend,” Bree said, sitting down on the same bench, but not so close that it looked as though they were actually sitting together.

“Aunt Yolanda’s still sick. Uncle Frank’s taking her up to Tuc­son to see an internist, and they won’t be back until tomorrow afternoon,” Nacio told her. “I’ll have to close tonight and open tomorrow morning. I’m sorry, Bree. I don’t know what to do.”

Bree had spent every moment of that week longing for Friday, when the two of them could be together. Still, it never occurred to her to argue with him about it or try to change his mind. Ig­nacio had told her enough about his background—about how much his aunt and uncle had done for him—that she knew he owed them everything. Whatever they needed him to do, Nacio would do without question or else die in the attempt.

“Do you want to come over to the house?” Nacio asked after a pause. “Uncle Frank’s up in Tucson. No one will know.”

“Your neighbor will,” Bree objected. “If she tells on us again like she did the last time, your aunt will have a fit.”

Nacio nodded. “I guess we’ll just have to forget it, then,” he said reluctantly. “Unless you want to go back home and tell your parents you changed your mind and decided to leave tomorrow morning instead of tonight.” Bree considered. It had been hard enough to convince her parents that she needed to go back to Playas yet again. If she retuned home, there was a chance Bree’s father would put his fool down and not allow her to leave a second time.

“What if I went on out to the mountains tonight and waited you to catch up with me tomorrow morning?” Bree asked.

Nacio swung around and stared at her in disbelief. “All by yourself? Wouldn’t you be scared?”

Bree shrugged. “Not that scared. I’d be in the truck. That would he safe enough.” She looked at him and smiled. “Besides, if it means getting to see you later instead of not seeing you at all, I’d do it in a heartbeat.”

Ignacio felt a sudden warm glow in his chest, a feeling that came over him whenever he realized how much Bree loved him, how much she cared. Aunt Yolanda was always saying that the only reason Anglo girls hung out with Hispanic boys was because they were sluts, not good enough to catch an Anglo boy of their own. Even so, she said, they always acted like they were better than everyone else and treated their Mexi­can boyfriends like shit. But Bree wasn’t like that with Nacio Ybarra. Not at all.

“You shouldn’t do that,” he told her at once. “It could be dangerous. There are bears out there, to say nothing of moun­tain lions....”

“Don’t worry,” Bree returned with a winning and confident smile. “I’ll be fine. No mountain lion in its right mind would dare attack me. I’m a Puma, too, remember?”

Nacio was still laughing as Bree stood up and walked away with her hips swaying and her ponytail bouncing playfully hick and forth in the warm summer sun.

CHAPTER TWO

Joanna Brady stopped at the door of her daughter’s room and peered inside. Ten-year-old Jennifer Ann was sitting cross-legged in the midst of what looked like chaos. Frowning in concentration, she was going down a list checking off items as she went. The next day she was due to leave home for a two-week stay at Whispering Pines, a Girl Scout camp located in the Catalina Mountains north of Tucson.

“How’s it going?” Joanna asked.

“Okay,” Jenny replied. “I think I have everything. All I have to do now is get it into the duffel bag.”

“Do you want some help?”

“No, Mom,” Jenny replied. “The directions say I’m sup-posed to pack it myself.”

“All right, then,” Joanna said. “But don’t stay up too late. Tomorrow’s a big day.”

Feeling slightly useless, Joanna backed away, went to her own room, and got ready for bed. The swamp cooler was running. She usually turned it off overnight, but the last few days had been so miserably hot that tonight she left it on.

“See there?” she said, addressing her husband Andy and counting on the drone of the cooler to cover her voice. After all, Andy had been dead since the previous fall, the victim of a Colombian drug lord’s hired assassin, but Joanna Brady still talked to him sometimes, especially at night when she was all alone in what had once been their bedroom. “That’s what happens. Kids grow up, and then they don’t need their parents anymore. Not even to pack their bags.”

She paused, as if to give Andy an opportunity to respond, but of course, being dead, he had nothing to say.

“What I can’t figure out,” she continued, “is if this is the way things are supposed to be, why do I feel so awful about it?”

Since Andy’s death, his daughter, Jennifer, had gone through a dozen different guises and stages—from bossy to totally pliant and passive, from a whining clinging vine to this new stage of haughty independence. Faced with the prospect of Jenny’s being gone for two whole weeks, her mother could have han­dled a bit of clinging right about then.

Closing her eyes, Joanna lay there and waited for sleep to come. If Andy was still here and we were both handling this together, she thought, maybe it wouldn’t be so hard.

For a Friday evening it was still surprisingly quiet in the Blue Moon Saloon and Lounge in Old Bisbee’s Brewery Gulch. So to this shift, Angie Kellogg, the bartender, had had little to do other than making sure her two regulars—the toothless Archie McBride and hard-of-hearing Willy Haskins--were supplied with beer and an occasional vodka chaser.

The two were both retired underground miners. They loved to regale Angie with tales of Bisbee’s glory days, of how things used to be when payday weekends in Brewery Gulch had been nothing but boozing and brawling good times. In nine months of working at the Blue Moon, Angie had come to have a genu­ine affection for the two old men. Even half drunk, they always treated her with a degree of old-fashioned gentlemanly respect and never failed to apologize when one of them made an inad­vertent slip and used what they considered a bad word in front of her. Even when they reached a point where she had to cut them off, they hardly ever gave her a hard time about it. Instead, they’d just get up and leave.

“No problem. We’re eighty-sixed, old buddy. Little lady’s jus’ doin’ her job,” the more sober of the two would say to the other as they fell off their bar stools and headed for the door. “See you tomorrow.”

Angie would nod and wave. “See you,” she’d say. And after they left, she would stand there marveling at the fact that she liked them and they liked her. In her previous life as an East L.A. hooker, those kinds of easygoing relationships had never been possible. But here in Bisbee, Arizona, they were. Not only was she friends with those two harmless but kindhearted drunks, Angie also counted among her pals the local sheriff, Joanna Brady, and a Methodist minister by the name of Mari­anne Maculyea. In fact, on her days off, Angie sometimes baby-sat for Marianne and her husband, Jeff Daniels. She would take charge of their rough-and-tumble daughter Ruth while Jeff and Marianne took Ruth’s twin sister, Esther, to one of her all too frequent visits to the cardiologist at University Medical Center in Tucson.

There were times on those days while Angie was pushing Ruth’s dual but half-empty stroller up and down the sidewalks of Tombstone Canyon that she almost had to pinch herself to believe it was real. Day after day, month after month, she was beginning to learn that the lives most people lived were far different from the abusive one she had left behind three sepa­rate limes now—first with her father in Michigan, next with her psychotic California pimp, and finally with her sinister and deadly boyfriend Tony Vargas. She had come to Bisbee convinced that the whole world was out to get her.

Joanna Brady and Marianne Maculyea had been the first people to break through Angie’s barriers of distrust. With men it was harder. All her life, Angie’s good looks had made her p target for the unwanted attentions of almost every man she met. For years her body had been her only bartering chip. Men had preyed on that and she had hated them for it. Men were always the bad guys in the piece, from Daddy right on down the line.

Living in Bisbee, people like Marianne’s husband, Jeff Daniels, and Angie’s boss at the Blue Moon, Bobo Jenkins, were gradually causing Angie to wonder if it was time to rethink her position. Maybe all men weren’t inherently bad. For one thing, neither Jeff nor Bobo had ever made a single pass at Angie, welcome or otherwise. Nor had there been any off-color remarks. Angie herself had told Bobo about her past, and she was sure Jeff knew about it as well. Nevertheless, both men treated her with a kind of brotherly respect that somehow made her feel both protected and appreciated. Still, being around them—especially alone—made her nervous. She couldn’t shake her very real apprehension that at any moment one of them might turn on her and demand something she wasn’t prepared to give.

The outside door swung open, and a tall, gangly man walked partway into the bar. He was still holding the door open and peering around uncertainly when a gust of dry wind blew in behind him. His straight, straw-colored hair stood on end. Self-consciously, he tried to smooth it with one hand, but it didn’t work very well.

At the end of the bar, Archie and Willy stopped their con­stant bickering long enough to turn and examine the new ar­rival. The Blue Moon survived on a clientele of regulars. Only the most intrepid of tourists ventured this far up Brewery Gulch. Obviously the stranger wasn’t a regular, but he didn’t have the look of an ordinary tourist, either. Tanned and fit, he might have been in his early to mid-thirties. He was dressed in a set of camouflage shorts and shirt with a pair of well-worn hiking boots on his feet.

“So what have we got here?” Willy demanded loudly. “Some kind of Boy Scout?”

Angie shot Willy a withering look. “You hush, Willy, or you’re out of here.” She turned back to the newcomer with a welcoming smile. “What can I get you?”

“I’m looking for someone,” the man said with what sounded like an English accent. “Her name’s Angie. Is that you?”

Years of wariness asserted themselves. Angie’s smile cooled. Tony Vargas was long dead, but that didn’t mean one of his old associates wouldn’t come looking for her someday. Still, this lanky, loose-jointed blond giant of a man didn’t look like anyone the swarthy Tony Vargas would have counted among his acquaintances.

“That’s me,” Angie replied. “What do you want’?”

Instead of moving forward, the man stood where he was it stared at her, saying nothing.

“Well,” Angie insisted.

“My name’s Hacker,” he said, taking another tentative step or two into the bar. “Dennis Hacker, the Bird Man. Remember? You wrote and asked if you could come see my parrots.”

Dennis Hacker had come to Angie’s attention when his name appeared in the Bisbee Bee in conjunction with a homicide case. A dynamite explosion had destroyed a cabin in the Chiricahua Mountains near Pinery Canyon. Hacker, a witness to the explo­it, was reported to be a naturalist on an Audubon Society­-funded mission to reintroduce parrots into the southeastern Arizona mountains. Living in captivity, the parrots had somehow forgotten a few of the more important survival basics, including the vital ability to break open pinecones. Hacker had of himself in the role of teacher and patiently instructed his pupils in pinecone-opening techniques before setting them free in the wilderness.

Intrigued by this information and excited by her own fledgling interest in birding, Angie had written a note to Hacker, sent in care of the Audubon Society, asking if it would be possible for her to drive up to the Chiricahuas and try to catch glimpse of his birds. The letter had been sent with high hopes, but after weeks and months passed with no answer, she had pretty much forgotten about it.

“Hey, Angie,” Archie offered gallantly. “If this guy is botherin’ you, just let us know. Me and Willy may be old, but the two of us can handle him if you need us to.”

Ignoring him, Angie stared at Dennis Backer. “That was ages ago,” she said. “When I didn’t hear back from you, I thought you didn’t like having visitors or maybe—”

“Sorry about that,” Hacker interrupted. “I was gone for a while. Several months. My grandmother was taken ill. I had to fly back home. Fortunately, they were able to find a biology grad student from the U. of A. in Tucson to take care of my birds while I was gone.”

“I hope she’s all right, then,” Angie returned.

“Grandmum?” Hacker nodded. “She’s out of hospital now, but she’s in her eighties. She isn’t going to last forever.”

Not knowing quite what to say next, Angie fell back into her role as barmaid. “Can I get you something?” she asked. “To drink, I mean?”

“You wouldn’t happen to have any coffee, would you?”

A hoot of laughter from the far end of the bar caused Angie to send a second stifling glare in Archie and Willy’s direction. “Sure,” she said. “But it’s not very fresh. It’s early though, so if you don’t mind waiting, I’ll brew another pot.”

Turning back to him after starting the coffee, Angie was puzzled. “How did you know I worked here?”

Hacker reached into his hip pocket and pulled out a thick leather wallet. From that he extracted a much-folded piece of paper that Angie recognized as her own letter.

“It says so right here,” the Bird Man said. “That you work in a place called the Blue Moon, that you’re interested in birds, and that on one of your days off you’d like to come see my parrots. I’d be happy to show them to you. If you still want to, that is.”

The outside door opened again. A gang of middle-aged mo­torcycle enthusiasts tramped into the room. These weren’t trendy yuppies out for a lark, hut hard-core, tooth-missing, tattoo-wearing tough guys—women included. For the next few minutes Angie was busy passing out pitchers of beer and margaritas. It wasn’t until after the coffee finished brewing that she was able to return to Dennis Hacker.

“Are parrots the only kind of bird you’re interested in?” he asked, as she set a stout china mug in front of him.

“Oh, no. I like all kinds of birds. Why?”

“Hummingbirds?”

“I love hummingbirds.”

“The problem is, I’m not in the Chiricahuas right now. I’m In the process of setting up camp over in the Peloncillos, far­ther east. Parrots should be able to make it there, too, eventually. But while I was looking around last week, I found a meadow in Skeleton Canyon, just off Starvation Canyon, where the whole place is teeming with hummingbirds—Anna’s mostly, but other kinds, too. I thought, if you wanted to, I could pick you up on your next day off and we could hike up there so I could show them to you.”

The mere mention of birds sent Angie Kellogg’s carefully honed wariness flying right out the window. “Anna’s?” she responded, her blue eyes sparkling. “Really?”

Hacker nodded. “Hundreds of them,” he said. “When’s your next day off?”

“Sunday,” Angie answered. “I get off at two Sunday morning and don’t have to be back until Monday at noon.”

“What say I pick you up right about then?” Hacker asked.

“At two?” Angie asked, flustered.

Hacker nodded. “In order to see them at their best, we need to be in place no later than five-thirty or six in the morning. Skeleton Canyon is a good two-hour drive from here, and it’ll take another hour or so to hike up to the meadow.”

Angie hesitated, but only for a moment. “Sure,” she said. “What should I wear?”

“Jeans. Hiking boots. Long-sleeved shirt.”

“Hey, Angie,” Willy Haskins called. “How does a man get some service around here?”

Shaking her head in annoyance, Angie started down the bar. By then some of the bikers’ pitchers were empty. During the next few minutes, as she poured more beer and mixed more margaritas, she began having second thoughts. After all, this guy was a perfect stranger. It sounded as though the place they were going was somewhere out in the boondocks. The sensible thing would be to not go at all or else to not go with Hacker unless someone else went along as a chaperone—like Joanna Brady, for instance. But by the time Angie had a spare minute to tell him so, Dennis Hacker was gone. On the bar under his empty cup, Angie found six bucks—one for the cof­fee and a five-dollar tip.

Instead of making Angie feel better, the out-of-proportion tip only made things worse. She had spent too many years of her life in a world where money always required something in return.

She picked up the five and examined it for a moment, as if expecting to be able to read something of Dennis Hacker’s motivation in the forbidding look on Abraham Lincoln’s face. Finally, making up her mind, she folded up the crisp, new bill and stuffed it into her shirt pocket. She would call Joanna first thing in the morning, she decided, although Angie Kellogg’s idea of morning was everyone else’s afternoon. If Joanna Brady couldn’t go along on this little adventure, neither would Angie Kellogg.

Stopping on the sidewalk outside the Blue Moon, Dennis Hacker paused long enough to wipe his glasses on his shirttail and to lake a deep breath. He had carried the letter around with him for months, intrigued by the idea that there was a woman somewhere who sounded like she was almost as interested in birds as he was. What he hadn’t anticipated was how beautiful she would be. Blond, blue-eyed, and beauty pageant beautiful . Movie star—type beautiful. And yet she had agreed to go with him on Sunday morning. Incredible. Unbelievable.

“Where’d you get this funny-looking outfit?”

Dennis Hacker turned around to see that the two old men from inside the bar had followed him out onto the sidewalk mid were staring at his four-wheel-drive Hummer. They seemed harmless enough. “The dealer’s up in Scottsdale,” he told them.

One clapped the other on the shoulder. “Like hell,” he said. “I’ll bet you stole it right out from under the MPs’ noses out there at Fort Huachuca.”

Hacker was still too overcome by wonder to be offended. “Think whatever you like,” he said. Then, replacing his glasses, he climbed into the Hummer. Dennis Hacker had come down to replenish his supplies. On several other occasions, hr had arrived intending to stop by the Blue Moon and introduce himself. Each time, he had lost his nerve at the last min­ute and hadn’t gone inside. This time he had surprised himself.

Now, though, it was time to head for Safeway. For a change, Dennis actually found himself looking forward to the process of shopping. By nine at night, most of the housewives with their unruly little kids would have gone home, taking their offspring with them. He’d be able to lay in his supplies with a minimum of distractions. And this time, instead of just buy­ing the basics, he was determined to pick up something special for that Sunday morning picnic breakfast.

By the light of a battery-operated lantern, Bree sat on one of two camp stools writing in her journal. With her shoulders hunched in concentration, she wrote quickly but carefully, pouring out the words that rushed through her heart and mind—her disappointment that Nacio wasn’t with her right then, her anticipation of their being together the next morning.

Beyond that small halo of light, it was dark in the Pelon­cillos. Suddenly the silence was sliced open by a flap of wings and the cry of some night hunting bird. Putting the pen inside the book, Bree switched off the light, hoping to catch sight of the bird. For a moment, she could see nothing. Then, gradu­ally, as her eyes adjusted to the darkness, bright stars began to appear in the sky above her head. The far-off call of a coyote was answered by another, followed by the yapping chorus of pups. There was something wild and wonderful in the sound—like infectious laughter. Bree smiled in response.

Overhead, the stars shone like glittering diamonds against a velvet sky. The starlight was so bright that the mountains, rocks, and trees around her emerged from the gloom. Sitting there in the half-lit dark, it was easy for Brianna to sense time falling away from her. This rugged almost-empty corner of the Arizona desert had changed so little that even now an occa­sional jaguar, roaming north from the mountains of Mexico, had been spotted by a solitary rancher. And if the wild can­yons of the Peloncillos still played host to an assortment of wildlife, it wasn’t so far off to imagine that human outlaws still ranged that same habitat as well.

Skeleton Canyon, a few miles from Bree’s camping place in Hog Canyon, had been the place where Geronimo had finally surrendered to General Crook. It was also where members of Tombstone’s marauding Clanton gang had ambushed and slaughtered a band of Mexican smugglers only to be ambushed and shot in turn. That story, more legend and lore than history, claimed that the smugglers’ fortune in gold was still lost somewhere in the Peloncillos waiting to be found by some lucky hiker or hunter.

Bree and Nacio had talked about finding the gold one night and fantasized about what they would do with it. For Nacio, newfound wealth would have meant his being able to repay Aunt Yoli and Uncle Frank for their years of financial support. For Bree, having her own money would have meant indepen­dence. It would have allowed her freedom from the comfort and control of her father’s checkbook.

For Bree and Nacio together, having money of their own would have meant an end to sneaking around. That was coming anyway, eventually. Once the two of them went away to school in Tucson in September, it would be easier to circum­vent parental disapproval. They would be able to do the same things they did now—they just wouldn’t have to lie about it.

Leaning back on the stool, Bree breathed deeply, thought about Nacio, and wished he were there with her to share the wonder of this beautiful night. She was still sitting that same way when she heard the sound of an approaching vehicle.

Nacio’s coming, she thought joyfully. Uncle Frank must have come home and let him off work after all.

On other nights, lying together in the back of her truck, cuddling in the warmth of a double bedroll, Bree and Nacio had heard an occasional and virtually invisible vehicle pass by on the Forest Service road half a mile away. Now, though, staring off in the direction of the road, Bree was able to make out the glow of slow-moving headlights. Holding her breath, Bree waited to see if the vehicle would pass on by or if it really would turn left at the turnoff.

Long moments later, it did. The headlights that had been moving eastbound suddenly turned north. Clutching her jour­nal to her, Brianna O’Brien leaped to her feet and hurried to meet her lover. She could hardly wait to see him. She wanted nothing more than to share the glories of this wonderful night with him. She wanted to lie in the bedroll with their bodies entwined and tell him how much she loved him.

The headlights were closer now, flickering through the dark­ness, when Bree decided what to do. She loved Nacio with all the devotion of newly awakened passion. She knew what plea-sure he took in her body and she in his. And now, with the headlights flickering toward her, Bree knew there was a gift she could give Nacio—a gift only she could offer.

She had to hurry. In the process she put the journal down on a nearby rock and then failed to notice when it slipped off to one side. By the time the laboring engine of the approaching vehicle rounded the last outcropping of rock, she was ready and waiting.

Twin rays of light stabbed through the night and caught her there like a deer frozen and alert in the brilliant glow of a pair of high beams. Her arms were outstretched in greeting. A welcoming smile parted her lips.

The surprise for Nacio Ybarra—Bree’s gift to him—had nothing to do with her arms or with her lips. It had to do with the rest of her, impaled on those piercing rays of light. She was smooth and pale and beautiful and as unashamedly naked as flay she was born.

CHAPTER THREE

Dennis Hacker came home from his shopping trip and un­loaded his supplies. At six-one, he had to be careful not to clip his head on the ceiling as he moved around the little two-wheeled caravan that Americans insisted on calling a trailer.

Once the groceries were put away, Dennis glanced at his cell phone before crawling into bed. It would be morning in England. If his grandmother, Emily Lockwood, was well enough, she would be downstairs, drinking her morning tea in her sunny kitchen and looking out at the beginnings of a lush summer garden.

He thought about calling her. That was why he had parked the trailer in this particular spot. It was the last usable place on Geronimo Trail where he could still send and receive a cell phone signal. He thought about telling her she might be right once again when it came to his contacting this young woman who had expressed such an unusual interest in Dennis Hack­er’s beloved parrots.

Dennis considered calling his grandmother, but after some reflection, he didn’t. It was too soon, way too soon. Besides, Sunday morning was when she usually called him. Leaving the phone alone, he clambered up into the upper bunk. He had to lie on a diagonal in order to fit his frame into the bed. He fell asleep almost instantly.

Hacker had lived alone in the wilderness for so long that he was comfortable with the animal-punctuated silence that surrounded him. He had just settled into a sound sleep when something startled him awake. The unusual noise was gone before he was fully conscious, but he could tell from the total silence around him that the animals had heard it as well. They, too, were hushed and listening.

Swinging down to the rag rug–covered linoleum floor, he opened the door and stepped out onto the wooden step. Under a star studded sky, the Peloncillos were dead silent. After a minute or two, a coyote finally howled in the distance. The coyote’s plaintive yelp seemed to settle Dennis Hacker’s jangled nerves. Closing and locking both the metal door and the wooden screen door, he climbed back into bed and soon was fast asleep once more.

Long after Jenny’s bedroom light went out, Joanna lay sleepless in her own room. Over the months since Andy’s death, she had learned to sleep in the dead middle of the bed. It blurred the lines between his side and hers, making the bed seem smaller and not quite so lonely.

For a change, Sheriff Brady wasn’t worried about something at work. For the past two weeks all of Cochise County had been amazingly quiet. Other than rounding up the usual quota of undocumented aliens there had been no murders, no ugly domestic violence cases, no fatal traffic accidents, and only a few drunk drivers. The lack of new incidents had allowed her two detectives, Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal, to go back over a few old and still-unsolved cases to see if there was anything new that could be brought to bear.

For one thing, the county had recently installed an Automated Fingerprint Identification System. Usually the AFIS technician was so busy entering new prints into the system that there was no opportunity to do anything about cold cases. Already the extra effort was paying off. A perpetrator in a two­-year-old Huachuca Mountains burglary case had been found in the Pima County jail in Tucson.

So, instead of worrying about work, Joanna was anticipating the next two weeks with a certain amount of dread. Jenny would be away at Camp Whispering Pines all that time. Although Joanna was confident Jenny would be fine, she wasn’t so sure how she herself would fare. High Lonesome Ranch had seemed decidedly well-named in the months since Andy’s death. With both Jenny and Andy gone, Joanna wasn’t con­vinced she’d be able to handle it.

Turning over on her side, trying to find a more comfortable position, Joanna forced herself to think about something else—about the solo shopping trip she had planned for herself in Tucson after she dropped Jenny off up on Mount Lemmon.

It was summer, and the simmering heat required a change of wardrobe. She needed some lightweight work clothes, ones that would be reasonably cool, look professional, and also be built in a fashion that would accommodate the soft body armor she wore each day when she went to work. There were times when she looked at some of her female officers and felt almost envious of their uniforms. At least they didn’t have to go to their closets every morning and decide what to wear.

Joanna wasn’t wild about shopping. She didn’t usually look forward to fighting her way in and out of malls jammed to the gills with mothers out shopping for early back-to-school bargains. Nonetheless, buying clothes was something that had to be done—a necessary evil. Then, when she came back from Tucson Saturday evening, she needed to see her mother.

Lately, both Joanna and her mother, Eleanor Lathrop, had been so busy they had barely seen each other. Not only that, there had been an alarming drop in the number of Eleanor’s phone calls.

Time to do your daughterly duty, Joanna told herself. Besides, if she showed up to see her mother wearing one of the new outfits she had purchased earlier in the afternoon, she was bound to get an instant evaluation. There was comfort in knowing that, Joanna decided as she drifted off to sleep. Eleanor Lathrop had never been one to soft-pedal her opinions. She would take one look at whatever her daughter was wear­ing and say exactly what she thought.

Good, bad, or indifferent, at least I’ll know what she thinks.

“I’m too hot,” Jenny grumbled to her mother in an irritating whine. “Can’t we stop and get something to drink?”

Joanna Brady was hot, too. Twenty miles earlier, just outside Tombstone, the air-conditioner in her Eagle had finally given up the ghost. For weeks now, she had heard an ominous howl in the AC’s compressor, but she had hoped to nurse it along for a while longer—at least long enough to drive Jenny to camp. Naturally, it had quit working completely on the tip to Mount Lemmon and on what promised to be a record-breaking scorcher of a June day.

Still, none of that was sufficient reason for Jenny to dispense with the niceties.

“Is there a please hiding in there somewhere?” Joanna asked. “I didn’t hear one.”

“Pretty please,” Jenny said.

Joanna nodded. “All right then,” she agreed. “We’ll stop in Benson for lunch.”

“At Burger King?”

“I suppose.”

As they drove down Benson’s almost-deserted main drag, the thermometer on the bank read 105 degrees. Joanna shook her head, letting the hot wind from the open window blow over her face. If it was already this hot in Benson, what would it be like when they dropped farther down into the valley?

“Why couldn’t we bring the other car?” jenny had asked when the air-conditioning vents started blowing nothing but hot air.

Jenny was referring to the county-owned Crown Victoria Sheriff Joanna Brady now drove for work. The Blazer she would have preferred to use as an official vehicle was out of commission after being too near an unexpected blast of dyna­mite. Since the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department was cur­rently long on Crown Victorias and short on Blazers, Sheriff Joanna Brady was stuck with one of the former.

“Taking you to camp at Mount Lemmon on my day off hardly qualifies as county business,” Joanna replied. “And since I’m trying to discourage unauthorized private use of of­ficial vehicles, that would be setting a pretty poor example.”

“I know,” Jenny said glumly. “But at least the air conditioner works.”

“I’m sure I can get this one fixed.”

“Before you come back to bring me home?”

“We’ll see.”

Fifteen minutes later, armed with the remains of two large Cokes and in somewhat better spirits, Joanna and Jenny hooded north on 1-10. The seventy-mile-an-hour speed limit on the interstate chewed up miles so fast that there was still some Coke left by the time they turned off the freeway onto Houghton Road. Using that and Old Spanish Trail, Joanna was aide to make it to the Mount Lemmon Highway without ever having to endure central Tucson’s heavier traffic.

Had Joanna been willing to get up at four A.M. and drive to Tucson, it would have been possible for Jenny to ride up to ramp on a chartered bus that had left for Camp Whispering Pines from Tucson’s Park Mall at six o’clock that morning. However, knowing that weekend nights often resulted in late­ night calls, Joanna had opted instead to drive Jenny up to camp on her own. Joanna had used the too-early hour as a handy excuse. Although her rationale might have sounded rea­sonable enough to anyone else, Joanna herself knew that get­ting up at the crack of dawn was only part of her reluctance. The truth was that even today she was still having a hard time dealing with the idea of Jenny’s going off to camp on her own lift two whole weeks. After all, with Andy dead, Jennifer Ann Brady was all Joanna had left.

As soon as the General Hitchcock Highway began climbing tip) out of the desert floor into the Catalina Mountains, the temperature began to fall. Halfway up the mountain, Jenny screeched with excitement when she spotted a multicolored Gila monster lumbering across the two-lane road. By the time they reached the turnoff to the camp, near Mount Lemmon’s 9,100-foot summit, the breeze blowing in the windows felt pleasantly cool. Somewhere in the high eighties, Joanna esti­mated. But the improved comfort in the car did nothing to lessen her concern about saying good-bye to her daughter.

“You’re sure you packed everything on the list?”

Yes, Mom,” Jenny said resignedly.

“Everything? Even the insect repellent?”

“Even that,” Jenny replied with a scowl. “It was on the list, too. I checked everything off as I put it in the bag. You sound just like Grandma Lathrop, you know,” she added.

Unfortunately, Joanna realized at once that Jenny’s criticism was right on the money. Eleanor Matthews Lathrop was forever firing off barrages of blistering questions. To Joanna, who was usually on the receiving end, those questions always felt more like an attack than anything else. Now Joanna found herself wondering if her mother’s unending grilling hadn’t served to disguise what was really going on. Maybe Eleanor had been just as concerned about her daughter as Joanna was about hers. Maybe firing off all those questions had served as a substitute for the motherly concern Eleanor never seemed to know quite how to express.

Hoping to do better than that, Joanna sighed. “I’m going to miss you, sweetie,” she said.

Jenny nodded. “I’ll miss you, too,” she replied seriously, sounding altogether too grown-up for Joanna’s taste. “Will you be okay out on the ranch all alone?” Jenny continued.

Once again, jenny’s innocent remark was so impossibly dead-on that it took Joanna’s breath away. She had to swallow the lump in her throat before she could answer. Joanna held herself back, refusing to blurt out the whole truth about her very real dread of being left alone.

In her heart of hearts, she knew this separation of mother and daughter was a necessary step for both of them. It offered them an opportunity to move beyond the tragedy of Andy’s death and to find new ways of functioning in the world. That was something Eleanor Lathrop had resisted doing after the death of her husband, Joanna’s father. When D. H. Lathrop died, Eleanor had tried too hard to keep Joanna cocooned with her, creating a kind of hypertogetherness that had done noth­ing but drive Joanna away. It had been a motherly mistake and probably perfectly understandable under the circum­stances, but it was an error in judgment that Eleanor’s daugh­ter was trying desperately not to repeat.

“I won’t be all alone,” Joanna corrected, hoping to keep her answer light and accompanying the comment with what she trusted was a convincing enough smile. “Not with two dogs, one horse, and ten head of cattle to take care of,” she added.

“You know what I mean,” Jenny insisted with a frown.

“Yes,” Joanna conceded. “I do know what you mean. I’ll be fine.”

“You’ll write to me?”

“Every day.”

By then they had threaded their way up the narrow road In the parking lot at Camp Whispering Pines. They stopped next to the sign that said NO MOTOR VEHICLES ALLOWED BEYOND THIS POINT. Off to the left ahead of them, nestled at the end of a small clearing and backed by a grove of towering pines, sat a low-slung dining hall. Tucked here and there among the trees were large wood-floored canvas tents, each of them large enough to hold eight cots. The place was at once famil­iar and foreign. Joanna had stayed there herself years earlier. What seemed inconceivable now was that Jenny was already a “Junior” Girl Scout and old enough to stay there on her own.

Joanna opened the trunk of the Eagle. By the time they had Jenny’s bedroll and duffel bag unloaded, a smiling, shorts-clad, and deeply tanned camp counselor came hurrying down the path in their direction. “Hi,” she said, smiling down at Jenny and holding out her hand. “I’m Lisa Christman. You must be Jenny Brady, and this must be your mother.”

“How did you know?” Jenny asked, gravely shaking the proffered hand.

Lisa laughed. “For one thing, you’re the only camper we were missing. For another, ten minutes ago we had a telephone call from someone looking for Sheriff Brady.”

Joanna flushed with annoyance. She had deliberately left her pager at home, leaving word with Dispatch that this was to be a real day off. She had planned to spend the whole morning with Jenny. In the afternoon there was that much-needed wardrobe rehabilitation expedition. Both Joanna’s chief depu­ties, Dick Voland and Frank Montoya, had known where she’d be, but she had given strict instructions that, if at all possible, she was to be left off call.

“There’s a phone in the camp director’s office,” Lisa of­fered helpfully. “You’re more than welcome to use that. In the meantime, I’ll help Jenny pack her gear up to the cabin. Did you already have lunch?” she asked, addressing Jenny.

Struck suddenly both subdued and shy, Jenny nodded and backed away.

Lisa, clearly an old hand at bridging troublesome parental farewells, forged ahead. “You’ll be in Badger,” she continued. “‘That’s just two cabins up the hill from the dining hall. There are some really great girls in there. If you can carry the bedroll, I’ll take the bag. That way, I can help you find your bunk and he there to introduce you when the other girls come back from lunch. Is that all right?”

For a moment, Jennifer wavered, hovering between wanting lo go with Lisa and wanting to climb back into her mother’s wheezing Eagle. As directed, she reached down and picked up her bedroll, only to drop it again a moment later to throw her arms around Joanna’s waist.

“I’ve changed my mind,” she said tearfully. “I don’t want to stay. I’d rather go back home with you.”

Had the decision been left to Joanna, she would have simply loaded the bedroll and bag back into the car. Lisa, however, remained unmoved and unperturbed. “Hurry up now, Jenny,” she insisted. “Tell your mother good-bye so she can go make her phone call. Then we’ll need to hurry, or you’ll miss this afternoon’s nature hike.”

To Joanna’s amazement, that little bit of gentle prodding was all it took. With one more quick hug, Jenny let go of her mother, picked up her bedroll, and walked away without so much as a single backward glance. Joanna was the one who was left behind with a mist of tears covering her eyes. Grateful lot the dark sunglasses that covered half her face, Joanna glanced at Lisa. If the counselor saw anything amiss, she pre-tended not to notice.

“You go ahead and make your phone call, Sheriff Brady,” she said to Joanna.

“When I finish, I can come up ... “ Joanna began lamely.

 Lisa shook her head. “No,” she said. “It’s probably better if you just go after that. Jenny will be fine. You’ll see.”

Sure I will, Joanna thought, looking after them. Just wait until you’re a mother. Then you’ll know how it feels.

It was almost noon before Hector finally showed up at the station. He was sober by then, but he looked like hell.

“Where’ve you been?” Nacio demanded. “Uncle Frank just called looking for you. I was supposed to leave hours ago.”

“I got held up,” Hector said.

“Right,” Nacio growled back at him. “You’re just lucky Uncle Frank keeps you on. If it was up to me, you’d be out of here. Now, get to work. Mrs. Howard is due back in half an hour. Her Buick needs an oil change, and I haven’t had a chance to get near it.”

“What’s the matter with you this morning, Pepito?” Hector asked with that slow, lazy smile of his. “Did that little blond bruja of yours cut you off?”

Nacio looked at him. He couldn’t afford to make any denials. Half sick, he realized that if Hector knew about Bree, most likely so did Uncle Frank and Aunt Yoli.

“Shut up and get to work,” he said. “We’re too far behind this morning to stand around arguing.”

Without another word, Hector headed for the Buick in the far bay and disappeared under the opened hood. An hour later, with things pretty much back under control, Nacio went in search of Ron Torres.

“Hector’s here now. Uncle Frank should be in later on. Will you be all right until then?”

Ron grinned and gave him a thumbs-up. “No problem,” he said, as a car pulled up to the full-service pumps. “We can handle it.”

“Good, then,” Nacio said. “because I’m going.”

CHAPTER FOUR

With a hard lump blocking her throat and almost cutting off her ability to breathe, Joanna watched Jenny walk away until she disappeared behind the dining hall with Lisa following twenty or thirty paces behind. It took every bit of effort Joanna could muster to restrain herself from jogging after them. Fi­nally, sighing, she plucked her purse out of the Eagle and went off in search of the camp director’s office. Joanna paused in the doorway of the dining hall.

Years before, when Joanna had attended this same camp, she had eaten meals at long narrow tables in this very room. The wood-and-stone building that had once seemed wonderfully spacious and comfortable now appeared cramped and surprisingly shabby. It was packed full of noisy, disheveled girls downing an uninspired-looking lunch. They sat on benches at drearily functional Formica-topped cafeteria ta­bles. Seen through adult eyes, the place reminded Joanna of a few prison dining rooms she had seen. Still, the high-spir­ited girls who were wolfing down sandwiches at those tables seemed absolutely delighted by both the food and their surroundings,

“May I help you?” someone asked.

“I’m looking for the camp director,” Joanna said.

“‘That’s me. My name’s Andrea Petty.”

The smiling speaker was a young, nut-brown, shorts-clad African-American woman with a scatter of freckles sprinkled across an upturned nose. She wore a headful of shiny, beaded braids. She didn’t look a day over sixteen.

“What can I do for you?” Andrea continued.

“My name’s Joanna Brady. Lisa met my daughter and me at the car and said there was a message for me. She also said that if I needed to, I could use the phone in your office.”

Andrea gave Joanna an appraising once-over. “All the message said was for you to call your office, but you don’t look old enough to be a sheriff.”

That makes us even, Joanna thought. You don’t look old enough to be a camp director, either. “Thanks,” she said. “If you don’t mind, I’ll take that as a compliment.”

Andrea smiled back. “The phone’s in here,” she said, leading the way into a small Spartan office that opened off the south end of the dining hall. “It’s behind the door. There’s not much privacy. If you need me to leave . . .”

“No, that’s all right,” Joanna said. “I’m sure this will be fine.”

Fumbling through her purse, she found her departmental telephone credit card and began punching numbers into the phone while a tearful girl about Jenny’s age came edging her way past the partially opened door. With a badly scraped knee, she was in need of both sympathy and a little first aid.

“Sheriff Brady here,” Joanna said when someone picked up the phone at the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department, more than a hundred miles away. “I had a message to call in. What’s happening?”

“Dick Voland said if you called to put you straight through to him,” the desk clerk said. “Hang on.”

With a severe budget crunch looming, Chief Deputy Richard Voland wasn’t supposed to be in the office on Saturday. “What are you doing going to work on your day off, lobbying for comp-time?” she asked as soon as Voland came on the phone. “You haven’t moved out of your apartment and back into your office, have you?”

“I got called in,” he said, ignoring the jibe. “We’ve got a problem.”

“What kind of problem?”

“A missing person.”

“A missing person?” Joanna echoed. “You’ve gone in to work on Saturday and you’re calling all over God’s creation looking for me on account of a missing person?”

“Wait until I tell you which one is missing,” Voland replied.

The seriousness in his tone was unmistakably convincing. “Go ahead, then,” Joanna said impatiently. “Who is it?”

“Roxanne O’Brien,” Dick Voland answered. “David and

“Katherine O’Brien’s daughter.”

“Bree O’Brien? You’re kidding.”

Joanna’s response was as reflexive as it was illogical. Of course, Dick Voland wasn’t kidding. The possible disappear­ance of the only daughter of one of the county’s most promi­nent couples was hardly a joking matter.

“When?” Joanna asked, not giving her chief deputy time to take offense. “And how? What happened?”

“She left home yesterday afternoon to drive to Playas, New Mexico. She was supposed to spend the weekend with a friend of hers, Crystal Phillips,” Dick Voland said. “The problem is, she never made it. Katherine O’Brien called over there this morning to verify what time she’d be home tomorrow after-noon, but according to Ed Phillips, Crystal’s daddy, Bree never showed up there. Not only that, she wasn’t expected.”

“Not expected? That sounds bad.”

“Just wait,” Voland continued. “You haven’t heard anything yet. It gets worse. According to Katherine O’Brien, Bree has made three weekend trips to visit Crystal Phillips in the last three months—this one included. Crystal and Bree plan to be roommates at the University of Arizona this fall. As far as the O’Briens are concerned, the two girls have been getting to­gether on weekends to make plans about that—about dorms and clothes and curtains and whatever else girls have to sort out before they can live together. But Ed Phillips and his wife, Lorraine, claim they’ve never laid eyes on her these last three months. They both say that the last time they saw Bree O’Brien was before they left Bisbee to move to Playas over a year ago.”

As sheriff of Cochise County, Joanna Lathrop Brady had learned to make the necessarily swift and sometimes painful shifts from being a mother to being a law enforcement officer. AI first those instant role changes had given her the mental equivalent of the bends. Now she was more accustomed to them.

“What are we doing about it, Dick? Have you been in touch with Randy Trotter over in New Mexico?”

“I tried,” Voland returned. “Sheriff Trotter is on vacation. He’s camping up in the White Mountains and isn’t due back until a week from tomorrow. I have been in touch with the Hidalgo County Sheriff’s Department, however. The under‑sheriff there has deputies looking for Bree O’Brien on his side of the state line. I’ve got cars looking for her on this side as well, ours and Department of Public Safety both.”

“On Highway 80 and on Geronimo Trail?”

“Right,” Dick Voland replied. “Deputy Hollicker took the initial call from the O’Briens. I sent Detective Carbajal out to see them, but that didn’t work.”

“What do you mean, it didn’t work?”

“Old man O’Brien wouldn’t talk to him. In fact, he ordered Jaime off the place and then called in here raising hell and asking what were we thinking of sending a kid out to investi­gate his daughter’s disappearance. A kid and a Mexican to boot.”

Joanna was stunned. “He actually said that?” she demanded. “The Mexican part?”

“Not in those exact words, but believe me, I caught his drift.”

“Well,” Joanna said, “if he’s that down on Hispanics, it’s not too smart of him to be living smack on the Mexican border.”

Dick Voland chuckled. “That probably has more to do with where his granddaddy settled than it does with David O’Bri­ens personal preferences.”

“In the meantime, what else is there to do?” Joanna asked.

“I told Mr. O’Brien that the only detective we have, other than Jaime Carbajal, is off duty today. According to Rose Car­penter, Ernie’s out in Sierra Vista having some work done on his car. We paged him, but he’s apparently in the middle of a brake job and can’t get back here any sooner than another hour at the very earliest. O’Brien said that was fine. That the extra hour’s wait would be worth it as long as he gets to talk to a real detective.”

Had Joanna been on the scene herself, she might have insisted on Detective Carbajal’s taking charge of the case and then been there to back him up. A little enforced respect might have been good for whatever unreasoning prejudices ailed Mr. David O’Brien. But right then, Sheriff Brady herself was more Than a hundred miles away from the problem. There was no point in her causing trouble by countermanding Dick Voland’s orders.

“I guess that’ll work. In the meantime, what’s your take on the situation, Dick?”

“I think the girl’s a runaway,” he answered at once. “Her folks bought her a cute little bright-red Toyota truck, one of those Tacoma four-by-fours, for graduation. She’s evidently got a purse full of credit cards and probably a good deal of cash as well. Once she starts using plastic for gas or food, it won’t take long to get a line on her.”

Joanna was quiet for a moment, thinking about what she knew about Brianna O’Brien, most of it second- or third-hand. Barely three weeks earlier, the young woman’s high school senior portrait had graced the front page of the local paper, the Bisbee Bee. During graduation ceremonies, she had been honored as class valedictorian. In addition to that, Joanna knew she had also served as a cheerleader and as student body vice president. Bree was popular, good-looking, and her family had plenty of money. Why would someone like that—someone with brains and looks and money—be a runaway?

Once again, Joanna kept that opinion to herself. Right then, standing in the director’s office at Camp Whispering Pines, was no time to discuss any of those case-specific details. At least two nose-ringed young women—counselors or campers, Joanna couldn’t tell which—were lined up in Andrea Petty’s office. Seeming to hang on Joanna’s every word and glancing pointedly at their watches, they were evidently waiting none too patiently for their turn to use the camp director’s phone.

“Look,” Joanna told Dick, “I just dropped Jenny off at camp. I’m still up on Mount Lemmon at the moment. Once I leave here, it’ll take me the better part of three hours to get back home to Bisbee. I’ll stop by the department on my way out to the ranch to see if there have been any new developments.”

Putting down the phone, Joanna left Andrea Petty’s office. Except for a few stragglers, the dining hall was almost de­serted. Near the door, Joanna caught sight of Lisa Christman.

“I’m going to have to leave now,” Joanna said. “You’re sure I can’t see Jenny just long enough to tell her good-bye?”

Lisa shook her head. “It’s not a good idea,” she said. “Jen­ny’s already up in her cabin. I’ve introduced her to the other girls, and they’re starting to get settled in and acquainted. The afternoon nature hike starts in ten minutes. If you were to see Jenny now, it would disrupt the whole process.”

Here was another jarring transition—in the opposite direc­tion this time—from cop to mother. It hadn’t occurred to Jo­anna earlier as she watched Jenny walk away, lugging her bedroll, that she wouldn’t be permitted to give her child a more formal good-bye.

For most people, that might not have been such a big deal. To Joanna, it was. One month shy of her thirtieth birthday, Joanna had already been a widow for most of a year. Her husband, Deputy Andrew Roy Brady, had died without her ever having a chance to tell him good-bye. She and Andy had exchanged angry words that last morning as he left for work—words Joanna ached to take back or put right somehow. That last quarrel had left her painfully aware—far more so than most people her age that life doesn’t last forever. She had learned to her sorrow that each good-bye, however mundane or normal it might seem, had the potential of being a last one.

“But, I just . . . ” she began.

Lisa, clearly as practiced at handling distressed parents as she was homesick campers, shook her head. “No, Mrs. Brady,” she said adamantly. “Really. It’ll be far harder on Jenny if she sees you again right now than it will be if you just leave. Remember, it’s only two weeks.”

Joanna wanted to argue. Still, she knew the counselor was right. “Right,” she said. “Only two weeks. Thanks for the use of the phone.”

With that, she headed back toward the Eagle. Around her were squeals and laughter—the sounds of girls at play. In the background from high in the trees she heard the soft sifting of wind through pine needles—the whispering pines that had given the camp its name.

You’re being stupid, Joanna told herself, biting back tears. Lisa is right. Two weeks isn’t forever.

She was in the car and about to put her key in the ignition when the thought came to her. I wonder if David and Katherine O’Brien had a chance to tell Brianna good-bye.

Sheriff Joanna Brady was known for her common sense. She had the reputation of having both feet firmly on the ground. I lad someone asked her straight out right then whether or not she believed in ESP, she would have told them definitely not.

And yet, in that moment, a glimmer of absolute knowledge came to her from somewhere else—from something or some-one outside herself. From that moment on, despite all rational arguments to the contrary, Joanna lived with a terrible premo­nition, one that shook her to the very depths of her soul. Roxanne Brianna O’Brien was dead. She wouldn’t he coming home again. Not then. Not ever.

Not only that, halfway down the mountain, Joanna saw the Gila monster again—or, rather, what was left of him. He had been squashed flat by oncoming traffic. The bloody, multicol­ored remains struck her as an omen and made her feel that much worse.

While the sudden five-thousand-foot drop in altitude sent the Eagle’s interior temperature soaring, Joanna’s initial out-rage at David O’Brien’s refusal to deal with Detective Carbajal was soon tempered by thoughts about what would happen to the man if his daughter really was dead. Losing a spouse was bad enough, but the pain of losing a child—any child, but especially one filled with so much promise—had to be hell on earth.

Emotional turmoil—not only reliving her own hurt but also anticipating what soon might be happening with the O’Bri­ens—made it difficult for Joanna to keep her attention focused on the road. Today David O’Brien could still afford to exercise his petty little prejudices. Tomorrow, though, if his daughter really was dead, that would be a different story. Plunged into a nightmare world from which there would be no waking, David O’Brien would no longer care that Detective Jaime Car­bajal was Hispanic. Joanna knew from personal experience that in the aftermath and desolation of a loved one’s death, things that had seemed to be of earth-shattering importance before-hand suddenly faded into total insignificance.

Because of the heat, Joanna had dressed in shorts and an old Cochise County Fair T-shirt to drive Jenny to camp. Now, though, she wondered how that kind of casual dress might affect and offend the O’Briens. She worried that they might think Sheriff Joanna Brady wasn’t paying attention; wasn’t according their family’s crisis the kind of respect it deserved.

Taking that into consideration, she changed her mind about skipping off at the department first thing. Instead, she drove straight home to High Lonesome Ranch. Barely pausing to greet the two dogs, Tigger and Sadie, Joanna hurried inside to shower, put on fresh makeup, and change into civilized work clothes—her most lightweight business suit, a blouse, heels, and hose.

If Bree is dead, I probably won’t be able to do a damned thing to help those poor people, she told her image in the mirror as she gave her short red hair one last shot of hair spray. If nothing else, though, at least I’ll look competent. That may be the best I can do.

CHAPTER FIVE

Finished dressing, Joanna rushed out to her waiting Crown Victoria. Late afternoon sun had turned the interior into a fiery oven. Barely able to stand touching the steering wheel, Joanna turned on the air-conditioning full blast. By the time she made it out to the highway, the car was beginning to cool off some. The difference between her Eagle and the air-conditioned Ford was astonishing. I will have to get the AC fixed this week, Joanna told herself. Definitely before I go back to pick Jenny up from camp, not after.

Driving toward David O’Brien’s place, Joanna still thought of it by its old name, Sombra del San Jose—Shadow of San Jose, named after the stately mountain that thrust up out of the Mexican desert a few miles away. That was the name the ranch had been given originally by David O’Brien’s grandfa­ther, back before the turn of the century. When David O’Brien had returned to the family digs from Phoenix several years earlier, he had renamed the place Green Brush Ranch, after the mostly dry wash bed—Green Brush Draw—that bisected the entire spread. The new name was posted above the gale, formed in foot-high, iron letters.

Despite the sign, the new name hadn’t caught on with most other locals any better than it had with Joanna. They regarded II as change for change’s sake. Now, knowing about David O’Brien’s attitude toward Jaime Carbajal, Joanna saw the name in a whole new light. Considering his attitude toward Mexi­cans, no wonder David O’Brien had dropped the Spanish lan­guage name.

At the entrance to the ranch, a closed, electronically controlled gate barred her way. On either side of the gate, as far as time eye could see, stretched an eight-foot-tall chain-link fence topped by V-shaped barbed wire with a coiled layer of razor wire resting inside it. The fencing reminded Joanna of the barrier surrounding the inmate exercise yard at the Cochise County jail. It was the same stuff that encircled countless human and auto junkyards all over the country.

At the time the O’Briens had been having the fencing installed at great expense, they had been considered something of a laughingstock. Old-timers around the county had made fun of the whole concept, calling the fence David’s Folly and referring to the ranch itself as Fort O’Brien. That, however, was before the dawn of the era of “Border Bandits,” roving hands of mostly Sonora-based thieves and thugs who practiced home invasions, burglaries, and armed robbery on people who lived along the U.S. side of the border. Taking the grim pres­ence of those folks into consideration, David O’Brien’s fence no longer seemed foolish.

Joanna leaned out the driver’s window of the Crown Victoria and punched the talk button on an intercom mounted on a post just outside the gate.

 “Come on in, Sheriff Brady,” a disembodied voice said as the gate slowly began to swing open. “Drive right up to the house. They’re expecting you. Detective Carpenter said you were on your way.”

Joanna glanced around in surprise. There was no sign of any monitoring video camera, yet there had to be one somewhere. Joanna hadn’t announced her name, yet whoever was in charge of the gate knew who she was and what she was doing there.

“Thanks,” she said, putting the Crown Victoria back in gear and moving forward. “I’m glad to hear they know I’m coming.”

Outside the gate, on the county side of the fence, the far western end of Purdy Lane was little more than a dirt track. Inside the fence, however, the private road leading away from the gate was a smooth layer of well-maintained blacktop. Thinking of the rough, rutted track that led through High Lonesome Ranch and of the sometimes sagging barbed-wire fence that surrounded it, Joanna shook her head. The O’Briens must have money to burn, she told herself.

Following the winding road, Joanna reviewed what little she knew about David and Katherine O’Brien. David, in his early seventies, was a Cochise County native and the only grandson of one of southern Arizona’s more colorful pioneers. David’s grandfather, Ezra Cooper, had first set foot in what would eventually become the Arizona Territory when, as a young man, he had worked as a surveyor laying out the boundaries of the Gadsden Purchase. Later, after making a fortune work­ing for what would become the Southern Pacific Railroad and also after contracting TB, Cooper had returned to the southern part of the Arizona Territory hoping to regain his health. He had brought with him a young wife and had expected to found a thriving family dynasty on the lush grassland of the lower San Pedro Valley.

When Ezra Cooper died a few years later, he left behind a widow named Lucille, a six-year-old daughter named Rox­anne, and, to his regret, no sons. Lucille’s second husband, a fortune-hunting ne’er-do-well named Richard Lafferty, had so overgrazed the place that when he died of influenza in 1918, what was left of Ezra Cooper’s Sombra del San Jose was little more than a mesquite-punctuated wasteland. Now, with the help of a university trained botanist and liberal applications of money, David O’Brien had gained a good deal of favorable press by systematically removing the water-hoarding stands of mesquite and returning the desert landscape to its original grassy state.

So much for David O’Brien. Joanna knew that Katherine was David’s second wife. Other than the fact that she was the mid­dle-aged mother of an outstanding daughter, Joanna knew very little about her. Economically and socially, Green Brush Ranch and the High Lonesome were worlds apart.

Coming around a curve, Joanna encountered a Y in the road. Never having been to the place before, Joanna might have taken the wrong fork. Fortunately, an all-terrain vehicle, its original color obscured by a layer of red dirt, sat idling at the intersection. The driver—a cigar-chomping cowhand with a roll of fat around his middle—waved her on, sending her down the right-hand fork and slipping onto the roadway be-hind her.

A white-stuccoed ranch house appeared a moment later. Surrounded by yet another razor wire–topped fence, the house was set in a small basin, nestled in among a stately copse of green-leafed cottonwoods. Once again Joanna had to wait for an electronically operated gate to open to allow her access to the house itself.

Threading her way through a collection of several parked police vehicles and past another fiberglass-topped ATV, Joanna pulled up under a shaded portico and parked next to David O’Brien’s customized Aerostar van. In front of the van sat Katherine O’Brien’s distinctive Lexus LS 400—the only one like it in town. On the verandah, beyond David O’Brien’s wheel­chair-accessible van and next to a gurgling fountain, stood the hulking figure of Chief Deputy Richard Voland. He was talk­ing to another man, one Joanna didn’t recognize. Beside the stranger sat a huge panting German shepherd.

Voland glanced up as Joanna approached. “Afternoon, Sher­iff Brady,” he said. “This is Alf Hastings, Mr. O’Brien’s opera­tions manager.”

Alf was a suntanned forty-something man with a cream-colored straw Resistol cowboy hat pulled low over pale blue eyes. Joanna might not have recognized the face immediately, but she did recognize the name.

In Arizona law enforcement circles, Alf Hastings was notori­ous. As a Yuma County deputy, he had been the focal point of one of the biggest police scandals in the state’s history. He and three other deputies had been fired for systematically bru­talizing a group of teenaged undocumented aliens (UDAs) who had been caught crossing the Mexican border just north of San Luis. The four officers had herded the UDAs into a van, driven them just inside the Cabeza Prieta National Wildlife Refuge, and left them there—after first beating the crap out of them and taking their water. No doubt all six of them would have died had they not been found by a feisty Good Samari­tan—a spelunking retired schoolteacher from Wooster, Ohio. She had given them water, loaded them into her Jeep Wagoneer, and then carted them off to the nearest hospital.

In the resulting investigation, the cops had lost their jobs, although none of them actually went to prison. An ensuing flurry of civil lawsuits, shades of California’s Rodney King, had put a big hole in Yuma County’s legal contingency fund.

“So you’re our local lady sheriff, are you?” Alf said with what was no doubt calculated to be an engaging grin. “Glad to meet you.”

He held out his hand. Joanna shook it without enthusiasm. “I didn’t know you had moved to Bisbee,” she said.

“I haven’t exactly,” he returned. “Unless the Bisbee City limits come all the way out here. My wife and I live at the hired help’s compound just a ways back up the road here. Mr. O’Brien was good enough to set aside six mobile homes for those of us who work here, except for Mrs. Vorevkin, the housekeeper. She has a room here at the house.”

Hastings’s pocket radio squawked to life. As the operations manager walked away to answer his summons in private, Jo­anna turned to Dick.

“What’s he doing here?” she asked.

Voland frowned. “As near as I can tell, he’s probably doing the same thing he was doing before—keeping America safe for Americans, only on a private basis, this time, not a public one.”

“Have we had any complaints?”

“Not so far,” Voland answered. “My guess is he’s been keeping a pretty low profile.”

“Did you tell him we don’t tolerate that kind of behavior around here?”

“The subject didn’t come up,” Voland said.

“Never mind,” Joanna said. “I’ll tell him myself the next time I see him. In the meantime, what’s going on? Any word about the girl?”

At six-four, Chief Deputy Voland towered over Joanna by a whole foot. The top of her head barely grazed the bottom of his chin. For months now, the sheriff had been aware of the possibility that her not-quite-divorced second in command might have a crush on her. Always gruff and blustery in pub­lic, his private dealings with Joanna had changed. Too much the professional to say anything directly, his feelings were be­trayed by ears that reddened when she spoke to him in private as well as by sudden bouts of his being tongue-tied in her presence.

As a consequence, in her dealings with Dick Voland, Joanna always found herself walking a tightrope. Because he was in charge of the day-to-day functioning of her department, it was essential that she have a good working relationship with the man. On the other hand, she didn’t want to say or do anything that would encourage him or give him the wrong idea.

“Nothing much so far,” he said. “Ernie just got here a little while ago. He’s inside talking to the parents. You can go on in, if you want to.”

“How are the O’Briens holding up?” Joanna asked.

“About how you’d expect,” Voland answered. “The mother is brokenhearted; the father is pissed. If I were Brianna O’Brien’s daddy,” he added, “I would be, too.”

As soon as Joanna rang the bell, the O’Briens’ front door was opened by a round-faced red-haired woman who spoke with what sounded to Joanna like a thick Russian accent. “I’m Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said, showing the woman her photo ID and badge. “I’d like to see Mr. and Mrs. O’Brien.”

“Yes,” the woman said. “Of course. This way, please.”

Inside, away from the blazing heat, the interior of the air-conditioned house felt almost chill. As Joanna followed the shuffling, heavyset housekeeper across a smooth saultillo tile Boor, she was struck by the scale of the house. The ceilings were high and broken by walls with clerestory windows that provided light without letting in heat. The housekeeper led the way down a long hallway that was almost twice as wide as those in most private homes. The white walls were adorned with groupings of carefully lit and lavishly framed art. Some of the pieces looked familiar. Walking past, there was no way for Joanna to tell whether or not any of the pieces were origi­nals or whether they were simply extremely well-executed reproductions.

Surely they’re not originals, Joanna thought. No one in his right mind would bring a valuable collection of original art right here to the border... .

But then, thinking about the razor wire–topped chain-link fence and the ATV-mounted security guards, the video moni­toring system, and what was no doubt a trained guard dog, she reconsidered. Maybe this was original artwork after all.

Al the far end of the long hallway, the housekeeper paused. “You wait,” she said.

Before Joanna, set in an alcove that had clearly been designed for that specific purpose, sat an exquisite, two-foot-tall marble statue of the Madonna and Child. The baby was roly-poly and clung to his mother’s waist with one chubby bare leg. The young mother’s face seemed almost alive with a be­nevolent, welcoming smile. Her one free hand reached out in graceful, openhanded greeting to all who looked upon her. Beneath the statue sat a polished rosewood prie-dieu. On the prie-dieu lay an open Bible, an onyx-beaded rosary complete with a gold crucifix, and a single lit votive candle. The brown leather of the padded knee rest glowed with the patina of long and faithful use.

Feeling as though she were standing in a chapel, Joanna gazed up at the statue while running an admiring finger over the satin-smooth grain of the wood.

“Sheriff Brady?”

Like a child caught doing something she shouldn’t, Joanna turned to face the lady of the house. The luxury automobiles parked under the covered portico, the spaciousness of the beautifully tiled hallway, the elegance of the artwork had all led Joanna to expect that Katherine O’Brien would be someone equally elegant—slender, fashionable, and maybe even a little on the delicate side.

Joanna was surprised to see before her a plain-faced and sturdy woman in her early to mid-fifties. She was dressed ca­sually in a tank top, Bermuda shorts, and leather thongs. Her brunette hair, going gray around the temples, was drawn back in a casual, foot-long ponytail. As soon as Joanna saw the woman she realized she had seen her before—in the grocery store and post office on occasion—without having the smallest glimmer of who she was.

“I’m sorry,” Joanna apologized. “The wood is so lovely I couldn’t help touching it.”

Katherine smiled sadly and nodded. “I know what you mean. I’ve spent the better part of the afternoon on my knees there, praying. Both pieces, the prie-dieu and the statue, came from a Sisters of Silence convent in upstate New York. When the Cistercian Order closed the place down, they asked So­theby’s to auction off all the contents. The prie-dieu and the statue had both been in the mother superior’s private chapel. I was glad David was able to buy them so we could keep them together.”

Katherine stopped abruptly, as though the customary gra­ciousness of telling visiting guests about her objets d’art had somehow outdistanced the painful circumstances that had brought this particular visitor into her home. “Sorry,” she said. “Detective Carpenter and my husband are out back by the pool. If you’ll come this way.”

Katherine O’Brien led Joanna past a formal dining room and through a large kitchen where the housekeeper was busy cook­ing something meaty that smelled absolutely wonderful. Be­yond the kitchen was an informal dining room and a family room complete with a massive entertainment unit. French doors from the family room led to a fully enclosed patio complete with black wrought iron furniture, a permanently installed canopy, a hot tub, and a lap pool. The interior wall of the patio was lined with raised flower beds that held an aston­ishing assortment of vividly colored, dinner plate—sized dahlias.

An empty wheelchair sat parked next to the edge of the pool. In the pool itself, a silver-haired man Joanna recognized as David O’Brien swam back and forth. Meanwhile, Detective Ernie Carpenter, overdressed as usual in his customary double-breasted suit, sat sweltering under the canopy.

As soon as Joanna and Katherine came out onto the porch, O’Brien used two swift strokes to propel himself over to a stainless steel pole that stood next to the wheelchair. Turning his hack to the side of the pool, he did something that activated a whirring motor. Moments later, he emerged from the water seated on what was evidently a one-person lift. The lift stopped when David O’Brien was exactly level with the seat of the chair. Using the strong, well-defined muscles in his arms and shoulders, David swung himself from lift to chair.

A stack of terry cloth towels sat on the table. David O’Brien rolled his chair over to the table. Taking the top towel off the pile, he draped that over his deformed and useless legs. He used a second towel to dry his hair, face, and upper body.

“It’s about time you got here, Sheriff Brady,” he grumbled. “Maybe now you can get Detective Carpenter here to stop asking all these damn fool questions about Bree’s friends and start doing something useful like actually looking for her.”

“They are looking for her, David,” Katherine reminded her husband gently. “Detective Carpenter already told us that they have deputies and the highway patrol searching all the roads between here and Playas....”

“But she didn’t go to Playas!” David O’Brien exploded, pounding the table with his fist. The powerful blow sent Er­nie’s almost-empty glass of iced tea skipping across the surface of the table. The detective managed to catch it, but only just barely.

“What would you like us to do, Mr. O’Brien?” Joanna asked. “Call in the FBI. Get some manpower on this thing.”

“The FBI?”

“Hello, Sheriff Brady,” Ernie said, nodding in greeting. He was a solidly built, beetle-browed man in his early fifties. His tie and stiffly starched white shirt were wilting fast.

“Mr. O’Brien here is under the impression that his daughter has been kidnapped.” He finished his tea and returned the emptied glass to the table.

 “Kidnapped,” Joanna repeated. “Why? Has there been a ran­som demand?”

“Nothing like that,” Ernie replied. ‘‘Not so far.”

“What about the pay phone call? If that wasn’t an abortive tall for ransom ...” David O’Brien interjected.

“What phone call?” Joanna asked.

“The O’Briens have caller ID on their phones,” Ernie said. “A call came in a few minutes ago, just about the time I got here. The monitor reported it as a pay phone call. I traced it to a location near the Kmart down in Douglas. The problem is, whoever it was hung up.”

“So you didn’t actually speak to anyone?” Joanna asked Katherine.

“No.”

“And there was no request for ransom?” Joanna continued.

“‘That’s true,” Katherine agreed.

“But that’s where ransom calls usually come from, isn’t it?” O’Brien interrupted. “From pay phones so the calls can’t be traced back to the kidnapper’s residence or place of business.”

“It could have been nothing more ominous than a wrong number,” Joanna suggested. “What makes you think otherwise? Have there been kidnapping threats in the past?”

“No. Not really. But look around,” O’Brien said brusquely, with an expansive gesture that took in both the patio and the opulent home beyond it. “My wife and I have money, plenty of it. What better way for someone to lay hands on some of it than by kidnapping our only daughter? It’s not as though her existence is some kind of secret. Her graduation picture was plastered all over the papers a few weeks back. It’s no wonder-”

Joanna glanced back at Ernie. “Any sign of violence or foul play?”

The detective shook his head. “Not that I’ve found so far. In addition, Brianna has evidently taken off like this on at least two other occasions. According to Mrs. O’Brien here, there have been two other similar incidents in the last few months—times when Brianna has left for the weekend without arriving at her supposed destination. Each time it’s been with the un­derstanding that she was going to visit this same girl, this” —Ernie paused to consult his notes— “this Crystal Phillips over in Playas. The problem is, Crystal’s father says Brianna hasn’t ever been there.”

“But she keeps pretending that’s where she’s gone,” Jo­anna said.

Ernie nodded. “Right. Each time, she left home late in the day on a Friday and returned Sunday evening. As long as her folks here didn’t call to check up on her, everything was peachy. My expectation is that she’s pulled the same stunt this time, too. She isn’t lost at all. Late Sunday she’s going to show up thinking everything’s all fine and dandy. Only this time, she’ll find out the game’s up. When she comes waltzing home on Sunday afternoon, she’s going to be one mighty surprised young lady.”

Ernie finished his speech by hauling out a hanky and mop-ping his sweat-drenched brow. His theory sounded reasonable enough, and Joanna wanted it to be right. She wanted to be­lieve that an errant Brianna O’Brien would arrive home on Sunday night in time to be read the riot act by both her out-raged parents for having been AWOL all weekend long. Still, Joanna couldn’t dodge the premonition that had come to her before she ever left the parking lot on Mount Lemmon one that left her believing that Brianna O’Brien was already dead.

Standing there fully clothed with the late afternoon sun blaz­ing down on her, Joanna was already regretting having changed clothes. The O’Briens’ flower-bordered patio might have been fine if you were dressed in shorts or if you had just stepped out of a swimming pool. For people dressed in busi­ness clothing and wearing body armor, though, it was like playing dress-up in the middle of a blast furnace.

David O’Brien glared across the table at the detective. “My daughter is an honor student,” he announced. “She’s never lied to me about anything in her life. I can’t understand why she’d start now. But since we’ve done our jobs as parents, how about you starting to do yours as cops?”

CAPTEIZ SIX

Joanna knew there were lots of people in town who were intimidated by David O’Brien. It was easy to see why. He was a craggy-faced man whose suntanned arms and chest glistened with silvery hair. He had a long, hawkish nose and piercing blue eyes. He was ruggedly handsome in an aging Marlboro man kind of way. In fact, at that very moment, he reached for a pack of cigarettes that lay on the table in front of him. Watching him light up, Joanna estimated that he had to be somewhere in his late seventies—of an age when he might be more likely to be a teenager’s grandfather rather than her father.

“You’d say you’re on good terms with your daughter, then?” Joanna asked.

“Absolutely!”

“David, please don’t shout,” Katherine said quietly, giving him a lingering look Joanna noticed but couldn’t quite deci­pher. “That isn’t necessary. And we’re forgetting our manners. Won’t you sit down, Sheriff Brady? This chair is still in the shade. Would you care for a glass of iced tea? And, it you don’t mind, I’ll switch on the mist cooler.”

Accepting the offer of tea, Joanna sank into the chair Kather­ine had indicated. Meanwhile, Katherine herself walked over to the wall and flipped a switch. Instantly a fine spray of water Nettled over the patio. It was a cooling device Joanna had seen in Phoenix and Tucson at nicer restaurants with outdoor seat­ing areas, but this was the first time she had seen that kind of setup in a private home. She would have loved to strip off her jacket, but that would have revealed that she was armed, twice over. Her Colt 2000 rested in a shoulder holster under her arm. Her backup weapon—a Glock 19—was hidden in a discreet small-of-the-back holster.

“Did you already tell Detective Carpenter what kind of vehi­cle your daughter is driving?” she asked.

“A red Toyota,” Katherine said.

“It’s a Tacoma,” David added. “She could have had any kind of car, but what she wanted was a damned pickup. We gave it to her three months ago as a combination birthday/ graduation present.”

“Do you happen to know the license number?”

David shook his head. “Not off the top of my head, but I’m sure the registration and title are in my file. Would you like me to get them?”

Joanna shook her head. “That’s not necessary. We’ll get it from the D.M.V.” She looked at Ernie. “Have you checked the house to make sure nothing’s missing, Detective Carpenter?”

“Not yet,” he replied. “I was about to do that when—”

“Missing?” David O’Brien interrupted. “What do you mean, missing? Are you implying that Brianna would steal from her own parents?”

“I’m implying nothing of the kind,” Joanna returned coolly, choosing to ignore David O’Brien’s continuing bluster. “Your daughter left home yesterday, correct?”

“Yes.”

“I’m merely trying to ascertain what, if anything, she took with her. Something she might have taken along may give us a clue as to her actual destination.”

“I see,” David agreed reluctantly.

Joanna turned to Katherine. “Would it be possible for you to show us Brianna’s room?”

The woman stood at once. “Of course,” she said. “I’ll be happy to. Right this way.”

With Katherine leading, Ernie and Joanna walked back into the welcome coolness of the house. Morosely smoking his ciga­rette, David O’Brien remained where he was.

“Please excuse David,” Katherine O’Brien was saying. “He’s not usually so on edge. You have to understand, this has all been a terrible strain on him. A shock. And the idea that some-thing awful may have happened . . .” Pausing, she shook her head. “After what went on before, it’s just . . . just unthink­able,” she finished at last.

They had entered a part of the sprawling house that ap­peared to be a bedroom wing.

“After what happened before?” Joanna asked.

“You know,” Katherine said. “If he lost Bree, too. Just like he lost his other two kids. I don’t think he’d survive it.” Joanna frowned. “He had other children?”

Katherine had stopped in front of a closed door. With one hand on the knob, she hesitated before opening it. “I’ve always respected Bree’s privacy,” she said. ‘I’ve never gone into her room without permission.”

“Do it just this once,” Ernie urged. “I think she’ll forgive you.” Nodding, Katherine opened the door and let him inside, but without entering the room herself. Since the woman was Moving in the hallway, so did Joanna, mulling over what Katherine had just told them.

“I thought Brianna was an only child,” Joanna said a moment later.

“There were two others,” Katherine said. “A boy and a girl. From his first wife.”

“What happened to them?”

Katherine looked surprised. “I thought everyone knew about that.”

“I don’t.”

Katherine sighed. “They both died,” she said simply. “David and Suzanne, his first wife, were driving back to Phoenix after being down in Tucson over Fourth of July. David was at the wheel. The two kids were asleep in the backseat. David Junior was eight, and Monica five. On the road between Phoenix and Casa Grande, they got caught in one of those terrible Interstate 10 dust storms.

“David told me that he saw the dust cloud coming and was trying to make it to the next exit, but the storm got to them first. He drove over on the shoulder of the road, hoping to get out of the way of traffic. He got out of the car and was opening the passenger door to lead Suzanne and the kids to safety when a semi slammed into them from behind. The impact threw him clear of the wreckage. Suzanne and the kids were trapped in the car. The coroner said they all died on impact. I hope so, because there was a terrible fire after that—one of those awful chain reaction things. Nine people died in all, most of them burned beyond recognition.

“It was more than an hour later when someone finally found David. He was unconscious and had been thrown so far from the other wreckage that no one saw him at first. They airlifted him to Good Samaritan in Phoenix. That’s where I met him. I was an intensive care nurse. I was on duty in the ICU when they brought him in. I was there when he regained consciousness.”

Remembering, Katherine paused and bit her lip. “I’ll never forget it. ‘Where’s my wife?’ he asked. ‘Where are my kids? Please tell me.’ The doctor had left orders that he was to be told nothing, but that didn’t seem right. The funerals were scheduled for the next day, and he didn’t even know they were dead. So I told him.

“Later, when his doctor found out I was the one who had given David the information, the doctor tried to have the nurs­ing supervisor fire me. It didn’t work, but I quit anyway. When David left the hospital, he needed a full-time nurse, and he hired me to take care of him. Those first three or four years were awful for him. He was devastated. He felt like he had lost everything. He was suicidal much of the time. There were guns in his house. If I hadn’t hidden them, I think he would have taken his own life a dozen times over.”

“When did you get married, then?” Joanna asked.

“Five years later,” Katherine answered. “When David finally realized that his life wasn’t finished. That he wanted to live again. That he could possibly father another child.”

Katherine stopped. “People say that, you know,” she added. “At funerals. To the parents of dead children. They say, ‘You can have another child.’ Except it doesn’t work out. You can never replace one child with another.”

Up to that very moment, Katherine O’Brien had given every indication that she was a pillar of strength. Leaning against the doorjamb of her daughter’s room, she began to cry.

“She’s gone,” she sobbed hopelessly. “I know it. My poor little Bree is gone, and she’s never coming back.”

For a time there was nothing Joanna could do but wait. She knew that words would do nothing to relieve the kind of dis­tress Katherine O’Brien was suffering. “I’m sorry,” the weep­ing woman mumbled at last, blowing her nose into a tissue. “I’ve been trying not to fall apart in front of David, but open­ing the door to Bree’s room was more than I could bear.”

“I understand,” Joanna said kindly. “Believe me, I do.”

Ernie reappeared in the doorway. “Would you mind coming in here now, Mrs. O’Brien? I’d like you to look through your daughter’s clothing and toiletries and try to see if anything in particular isn’t here. That way, if it becomes necessary to broadcast a report to other jurisdictions, we’ll be able to include a description of exactly what she might be wearing.”

Joanna gave Ernie a grateful nod. Officially, Bree O’Brien’s possible disappearance was not yet a missing persons case. Still, Ernie’s diplomatic handling of the situation seemed to filler Katherine some comfort and give her courage.

Sighing and pulling herself together, Katherine stepped into her daughter’s room. Joining her, Joanna was surprised by what she saw. The room was immaculately clean; the bed carefully made. Books on the loaded bookshelves stood with their whines aligned in almost military precision. The desktop held a formidable computer setup, but no stray pieces of paper lingered around it. In fact, the place was so unbendingly neat that, had it not been for the posters and pictures pinned to the walls and for the mound of teddy bears piled at the head of the bed, it would have been hand to tell that a teenager lived there at all.

Jenny’s room stayed neat because she liked it that way, but Joanna remembered all too well the chaotic condition of her own room back when she had been Brianna’s age. The place had been a pit. Once a week or so, and always uninvited, Eleanor Lathrop had stepped over the threshold into Joanna’s sanctum sanctorum. Once inside, she never failed to raise hell. Eleanor, needing to exert control, had wanted the place kept spotless, while a rebellious Joanna had craved and reveled in the very disorder that drove her mother wild.

Based on that scale of value, Joanna’s initial reaction was to see Brianna O’Brien’s room as an indicator of a good relationship between mother and child—one of mutual respect. As always, when faced with evidence that some mothers and teen-age daughters actually got along, Joanna allowed herself to indulge in the smallest flicker of envy. After all, her relation-ship with her own mother was still far from perfect.

“Right this way, Mrs. O’Brien,” Ernie was saying. “If you’ll just take a look at the closet here and tell me if you notice anything in particular that’s missing—something that ought to be here but isn’t.”

The closet was a walk-in affair. It was big enough for both Katherine and Joanna to join Detective Carpenter inside the well-organized little room without even touching shoulders. The closet was as compulsively neat as the room. Clothes were hung on hangers. Paired shoes were carefully stacked in hang­ing shoe bags. A dirty clothes hamper stood in the corner, but it was empty.

“Her overnight bag,” Katherine said at once, gesturing toward a fool-and-a-half-wide empty space on an upper shelf. “It’s just a little carry-on. That’s all she ever takes with her.”

“Yore don’t see any clothes missing?” Ernie urged.

“Her tennis shoes,” Katherine said.

Ernie grimaced in disappointment. “Nothing else?”

“Not from the closet. It’s summer, though. Bree spends most of the time in shorts and tank tops. Those are kept in the dresser.”

Moving over to the dresser, Katherine pulled open the top drawer. “Some underwear, I suppose,” she said. Closing that drawer, she moved on to the next one. “And shorts. She usually wears cutoffs and tennis shoes.”

“Do you know the brands?”

“Wranglers for the jeans and Keds for the shoes,” Katherine said. “And tank tops. She has several of them. They’re all the same style but in several different colors, so I can’t really tell on which ones aren’t here.”

Ernie scribbled something in his notebook. “Nightgown?”

Katherine walked as far as the bed and lifted the right-hand pillow, spilling the mound of lounging teddy bears off onto the floor. “Her nightgown’s definitely missing,” she said a moment later. “And her diary ... her journal, rather,” Katherine corrected. “I think of it as a diary, but Bree prefers to call it a journal. It’s one of those little blank books with lots of pink or blue flowers on the cover. I forget which it is. She buys them at a bookstore in Tucson, and she usually keeps the one she’s working on right here on her nightstand. She says that’s the last thing she does before she falls asleep at night—writes in her journal.”

Ernie made another notation. “What about the bathroom?” he said. “Would you mind checking there?”

Moving deliberately, Katherine headed there next. She stood for some time in front of the bathroom counter. “Perfume, deodorant, makeup are all gone,” she said. “She’s taken the usual stuff. The kinds of things you’d expect. Her hair dryer is here, but I’m sure Crystal has one Bree could borrow.”

Reaching out, Katherine pulled open the top drawer in the built-in bathroom vanity. “Comb and brush,” she reported. Then, frowning, she reached down into the drawer and picked something up. At first glance it looked to Joanna like a light green, oversized matchbook.

“What’s this?” Katherine asked, turning the packet over. Lifting the flap revealed a layer of tiny white pills covered by a plastic shield and backed by foil. To Joanna, the packaging was instantly recognizable. It took Katherine O’Brien a mo­ment longer.

Turning the package over in her hand, Katherine frowned as she read the label. “Birth control pills!” she exclaimed in dismay. “What on earth would Brianna be doing with these?”

Behind Katherine’s back, Ernie Carpenter and Joanna Brady exchanged glances. The usual reason, Joanna thought. Maybe there’s a lot more rebellion going on in Brianna O’Brien’s amazingly clean room than anyone—most especially her mother—ever imagined.

Those thoughts flashed through Joanna’s head, but she was careful to say nothing aloud. Keeping quiet allowed Katherine O’Brien the opportunity to arrive at those same conclusions on her own. “Why, you don’t think ...” Katherine blanched. “No. Absolutely not. Bree wouldn’t do such a thing.”

But clearly, Ernie Carpenter did think. “When we were out in the other room and I was asking about Bree’s friends,” he ventured, “neither you nor Mr. O’Brien mentioned a boyfriend.”

Detective Ernie Carpenter had been a homicide cop for fifteen years and a deputy before that. He knew everything there was to know about murder and mayhem. Up to then, his care­ful handling of Katherine O’Brien had been sensitive in the extreme, but as soon as he made that statement, Joanna realized his knowledge of women was still somewhat lacking. His comment hit Katherine O’Brien hard, especially since the little green package clutched in her hand would most likely rob her of any lingering illusions about her daughter’s supposedly virginal purity.

Rather than believe the evidence in her hand, however, Katherine turned on Ernie. “My daughter does not have a boyfriend, Detective Carpenter!” she insisted. “N-O-T. If she did, don’t you think her mother would know about it?”

Not necessarily, Joanna thought, relieved to note that, at that juncture, Ernie was smart enough to keep his mouth shut.

“As for these,” she continued furiously, flinging the offending package of pills back into the drawer and slamming it shut, “there’s probably a perfectly reasonable explanation. Bree sometimes has terrible menstrual cramps. Maybe she’s taking the pills for that. It’s a common treatment. She certainly wouldn’t be using them for birth control. Now, if there’s noth­ing else, I need to be getting back to my husband.”

“Mrs. O’Brien,” Joanna said quickly, “would you mind if Detective Carpenter and I poked around in here for a few more minutes in case there’s something we’ve missed?”

Having spent her outrage, Katherine took a deep breath. She considered for a moment, looking back and forth between Ernie and Joanna. “No,” she said finally. “I suppose not, but still, I should be getting hack to David.”

“As soon as we finish in here, we’ll come find you,” Jo­anna said.

In an exhibition of self-control Joanna found astounding, Katherine O’Brien switched off her anger and turned on an outward display of good manners. “We’ll probably be in the living room,” she said. “We usually have cocktails there every evening. In times of crisis, David likes to stick to as normal a routine as possible. You and Detective Carpenter are welcome to join us if you like.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “But not while we’re working.”

Katherine walked as far as the door. She went out into the hallway, pulling the door almost shut behind her. Then she opened it again and stuck her head back into the bedroom. “One more thing,” she added. “I’d appreciate it if you wouldn’t mention the pills. To David, I mean. Knowing about them would only upset him. He’s already very close to the edge.”

“Talk about close to the edge,” Ernie said, staring at the closed door as Katherine left and the latch clicked home. “What about her? And what’s the big deal anyway? Would these people prefer having their daughter turn up pregnant rather than be caught taking birth control pills?”

“They’re Catholic,” Joanna said, as if those words alone were explanation enough. “Practicing birth control is a sin.”

“Maybe so,” Ernie said. “But it seems to me that there are times when not practicing birth control is downright crazy.”

Going into the bathroom, he opened the drawer and re-moved not one but two identical containers of pills. He took out his notebook and made a note of the doctor’s name and the pharmacy’s address on the label.

“She got these up in Tucson,” Ernie told Joanna, ‘‘ The pharmacy is there, and probably the doctor is, too. Which means that she probably went to a good deal of trouble to make sure her parents wouldn’t find out about them. My guess is that these two packages are for the next two months. She most likely has this month’s supply with her.”

Nodding, Joanna wandered over to the nearest bookshelf. There, on the second shelf from the bottom, sat a series of identical books—blue ones with streams of pink flowers spill­ing over the covers. Realizing these had to be the journals Katherine had mentioned, Joanna reached down and plucked the first one off the shelf. Inside the front cover was Brianna’s full name—Roxanne Brianna O’Brien—written in flowing pur­ple ink. The first entry was dated in June, three years earlier. Entries in that first volume ran from June 7 to September 12. The next volume picked up on September 13. Each volume covered roughly a three-to-four-month period. The last journal ended on October 8 of the previous year.

“Look at this,” Joanna said, thumbing through the last vol­ume. “Why did she stop?”

“Stop what?” Ernie asked.

“Keeping a journal. Bree started doing it three years ago. From the looks of it, she poured her heart and soul into these hooks. Each day’s entry covers one to three pages, and one volume fills three to four months. Then, at the end of the first week of last October, she stops cold. But her mother just told Hs that Bree writes in her diary every night before she goes lo sleep. So what’s happened to the last eight months’ worth of entries?”

Ernie came over to where Joanna was standing and squinted down at the shelf from which she had removed the volume she was still holding.

“Where’d this one come from?” he asked.

Joanna pointed. “Right there,” she said.

“Bree took one with her,” Ernie said decisively. “The ghost of the book’s footprint is still here, in the dust at the back of the shelf behind the books. That means that, if she’s continued to write her diary entries at the same pace, she may have taken two volumes along—one completed and the other nearly so.”

“Why?” Joanna asked.

“Something to do with that nonexistent boyfriend maybe? But if she went to all the trouble of taking both journals along, why didn’t she take the pills, too?”

Joanna thought about that for a moment. “According to Katherine, she didn’t generally come into Bree’s room. If she did, the books were all there on the bookshelf, in plain sight. The pills were put away.”

Ernie shook his head. “None of that makes much sense to me,” the detective said. “But then I’m not a girl.”

“I suppose I am?” Joanna returned.

“Aren’t you?”

Had anyone else in the department called Sheriff Brady a girl, she might well have taken offense. But Ernie Carpenter was a crusty homicide detective who, from the very beginning, had treated Joanna as a fellow officer—a peer—rather than as an unwelcome interloper. Their already positive relationship had solidified when the two of them had narrowly survived a potentially fatal dynamite blast. Since they were comrades in arms, Joanna was able to overlook Ernie’s occasional lapses into male chauvinism.

“Look,” Joanna replied, “girl or not, it doesn’t take a genius to see what’s going on here. Bree was far more worried about her parents’ finding out what was in her journal than she was about them stumbling over her supply of birth control bills. So that’s where we have to start with whatever is in that journal.”

“Great,” Ernie said. “But as you’ve already noticed, the last seven or eight months of entries are missing.”

“No problem,” Joanna said. “Just because whatever Bree wrote is a deep dark secret to her family, that doesn’t mean it is to everyone else. Half the students at Bisbee High School may know what’s been going on. The trick is going to be getting one of them to tell us.”

“Mrs. O’Brien gave me a list of all her friends,” Ernie uttered.

Joanna shrugged. “We can start with them, I suppose,” she said. “But we’ll get what we want sooner by talking to Bree’s enemies. They’re the ones who’ll give us the real scoop.”

“Enemies!” Ernie sputtered. “What kind of enemies would Bree O’Brien have? She’s eighteen years old, comes from a good family, is an honor student, and was valedictorian of her class. That’s not the kind of girl you’d expect to be drinking, drugging, or hanging around with gangs, which, as far as I’m concerned, is where most teenage problems and fatalities come from.”

Joanna looked at Ernie. He was a man who brought to his position as detective a bedrock of old-fashioned, small-town values. His solid beliefs and common sense had seen him through years of investigating the worst Cochise County had It) offer. He and his wife, Rose, had raised two fine sons, both of whom were college graduates—although neither of the boys had followed his father into law enforcement.

“You and Rose only raised sons,” Joanna said. “You probably still believe girls are made of sugar and spice and every-thing nice.”

“Aren’t they?” He turned back and once again surveyed Bree O’Brien’s almost painfully neat room. “But I don’t think that’s the case here,” he said finally.

“Me either,” Joanna said.

“So who’s going to give David O’Brien the good news/bad news?” Ernie asked. “Who gets to tell him that his precious daughter most likely hasn’t been kidnapped but that she’s probably out there somewhere, shacked up for the weekend with an oversexed boyfriend her daddy doesn’t know any-thing about?”

“I suppose,” Joanna said without enthusiasm, “that dubious honor belongs to me.”

CHAPTER SEVEN

Angie Kellogg tried calling Joanna several times during the course of the afternoon. She had known Joanna was tak­ing Jenny to camp that Saturday morning, but Angie also knew that her friend had expected to be back home in Bisbee some time before dark. Angie was still hoping she’d he able to convince Joanna to go along on the next morn­ing’s hummingbird-watching expedition. By the time Angie had to get dressed to go to work, she still didn’t have an answer.

What do I do now?  she asked herself, standing in front of her closet. Should I take along hiking clothes or not?

In the end, she decided to pack a bag with hiking gear just in case. After all, it was early in the evening. There was still plenty of time for Joanna to call.

Picking up the phone, Angie dialed the High Lonesome one last time. “It’s Angie again,” she said when the machine clicked on. “Give me a call at work as soon as you get in. I really need to talk to you.”

Joanna and Ernie left Brianna’s room together and started back to the living room. Walking down the hallway, Joanna paused to study a collection of framed photographs that lined both walls. There were four distinctly separate groupings of pictures.

One set featured poses of a much younger and still able-bodied David O’Brien. One photo showed him in an old-fash­ioned Bisbee High School letterman’s sweater accepting the Copper Pick trophy from the captain of the Douglas team in the aftermath of a long-ago game in which the Bisbee Pumas had beaten the Douglas Bulldogs. Another showed him stand­ing in front of the entrance of the old high school building on Howell up in Old Bisbee. A third photo showed him in a cap and gown standing next to the fountain in front of Old Main at the University of Arizona. Beside him stood two women—one middle-aged and the other stooped, white-haired, and el­derly. His mother and grandmother, Joanna assumed.

The first picture in the next group featured a smiling David O’Brien dressed in white tennis togs. One hand gripped a ten­nis racket while the other arm was draped casually across the bare, halter-topped shoulders of an attractive young woman. Seemingly unaware of the camera, she smiled up at him with a look of undisguised adoration. When Joanna saw the same woman again in the next picture—an informal family grouping posed around a towering Christmas tree—she realized this had to be David O’Brien’s first family—the wife, daughter, and son who had perished in a fiery chain reaction wreck on Inter-state 10.

The little boy was a somber-faced young man who bore an uncanny resemblance. to his father. The daughter, with an impish smile and a disarming set of dimples, was a carbon copy of her mother. It saddened Joanna to see those two long-dead children, youngsters whose lives had been snuffed out in a moment, leaving them no opportunity to grow to adulthood or to experience all the joys and sorrows life has to offer. With a sudden ache in her heart, Joanna found herself missing fenny.

“‘This must be his first wife and their two kids,” Joanna said quickly to Ernie, pointing back at the Christmas picture.

The detective nodded. “And these must be Katherine.”

In the next grouping, one picture showed a much younger version of Katherine wearing a prom dress but standing alone, posing beside an easy chair all by herself rather than with a male escort. Another featured a young and smiling Katherine proudly wearing her black-banded R.N. cap. A third showed her beaming down at a scowling newborn baby that had to he Brianna.

The last section, one featuring almost as many photos as the other three combined, featured Bree O’Brien herself. Among others there were shots of her on a tricycle, clasping a teddy bear under each arm. One frame held a family Christmas card featuring a toothless six-year-old Brianna along with a caption that read, “All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth.” Another photo was a pose of her in a BHS cheerleading uniform. The last picture in the montage was a framed copy of Bree’s senior portrait, the same one that had been featured in the newspaper prior to graduation.

Seeing the pictures grouped together like that gave Joanna the odd sensation of having all those people’s lives spread out in almost instant replay fashion. The one woman and the two children had been wiped off the face of the earth, leaving behind hardly a trace—other than a few photographs—to testify to their all-too-brief lives. David O’Brien had gone from being a strappingly handsome, healthy young man to an embittered, wheelchair-bound, old one. Katherine’s bright-eyed and sweetly smiling nurse’s portrait was totally at odds with the dignified and sadly reserved middle-aged woman she had become. As for Brianna, there was nothing in the photos that gave any kind of hint about the existence of the double life that, Joanna was convinced, lay hidden in her missing jour­nal entries.

After studying the pictures, Ernie must have reached the same conclusion. Pointing to the senior portrait, he shook his head. “A picture’s supposed to be worth a thousand words,” he said sadly. “But it makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”

Joanna nodded. “It certainly does,” she said.

Back in the O’Brien’s living room, David and Katherine sat in front of a massive stone fireplace. David’s wheelchair was parked on one side. Katherine’s overstuffed brocade-covered chair was opposite his. Both Katherine and David held fist-sized cocktail glasses in their hands. As soon as Joanna walked into the room, Katherine’s eyes sought hers. That silent, plead­ing look spoke volumes. Please don’t tell my husband about the pills, it said. Her voice, however, belied the desperate message in her eyes.

“Won’t you reconsider and join us?” Katherine asked. She gestured graciously toward a silver serving tray stocked with several crystal glasses, a matching ice bucket, and a selection of liquor bottles. The tray, placed well within reach, sat on an elegantly carved ebony coffee table. “Or, if you wish,” Kather­ine Continued, “Mrs. Vorevkin could bring in a fresh pitcher of lea.”

David O’Brien frowned as though finding his wife’s offer of hospitality somehow offensive. Polishing off the liquid in his own glass, he leaned over, slamming the crystal glass down on the tray hard enough to jangle the bottles standing there. Allen tossing in a couple of ice cubes, he refilled his glass with a generous serving from a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal.

“No, thank you . . .” Joanna began.

“Stop it, Katherine,” O’Brien ordered. “That isn’t necessary. No sense treating these two cops like they’re honored guests or long-lost relatives. They’re here for business, not pleasure.”

Katherine blanched at the rebuke. Wanting to make her feel better, Joanna ignored David O’Brien’s rudeness and turned instead to his wife. “Your husband is right, Mrs. O’Brien,” Joanna said smoothly. “Detective Carpenter and I are here on business. It’s very kind of you, but it isn’t necessary to treat us as guests. And, now that we’re finished, we need to be going.”

Katherine had been ordered to stifle, and she did so. She nodded mutely in response, holding her mouth in a thin, straight line while her eyes welled with tears. David O’Brien, however, seemed oblivious to the fact that his actions had caused his wife any discomfort. Still fuming, he turned his attention on Joanna.

“Well, Sheriff Brady,” he continued brusquely, “what have you decided? Are you going to call in the FBI or not?”

“Not,” Joanna replied. “I realize, Mr. O’Brien, that you’re under the impression that some serious harm has come to your daughter. However, nothing we found in her room gives any indication of foul play. According to what your wife could tell us about your daughter’s things, the clothing Bree packed when she left home is consistent with someone going away for a few days—of someone going away with every intention of returning. Your daughter told you she’d be back on Sunday afternoon, correct?”

“Yes, but ...”

“How old is she, Mr. O’Brien?”

“She turned eighteen in March.”

“Not a juvenile, then. She’s of an age where the law allows her to come and go as she pleases, regardless of her parents’ wishes. Until she misses her Sunday afternoon estimated time of arrival or until you receive some kind of threat or ransom demand, there’s really nothing more we can do.”

“Can or will?” David O’Brien asked.

“We’ve already done something,” Joanna countered reason-ably. “Probably more than we should have under the circumstances. Even though Brianna doesn’t officially qualify as a missing person, my department has nonetheless alerted au­thorities both here and in New Mexico to be on the lookout for her.”

“But not the FBI.”

“No.”

“And you have no intention of notifying them?”

David O’Brien was clearly a bully—someone who was accust­omed to having his own way each and every time, no quest­ions asked.

“As I told you earlier,” Joanna said, “we won’t take that kind of action unless there’s some compelling evidence to indicate that a kidnapping has actually taken place.”

The unwavering calmness in Joanna’s answer seemed to provoke David O’Brien and make him bristle that much more. “I thought as much,” he said. “But that’s till right. You do your thing, Sheriff Brady, and I’ll do mine.”

“David ...” Katherine began, but he silenced her once more with a single baleful glare. Again the woman subsided into her chair. She said nothing more aloud, but the fingers gripping her partially filled glass showed white at the knuckles.

Looking at the woman, the phrase “contents under pres­sure” suddenly popped into Joanna’s head. That was what Katherine O’Brien was like. She seemed to be forever walking on eggshells around her husband, trying to keep things from him—things like learning about his daughter’s birth control pills—that might provoke . . . what?

For the first time, the possibility of domestic violence entered into the equation. Joanna had been sheriff long enough to know that domestic violence was a part of all too many seem­ingly happy marriages in Cochise County and throughout the rest of the country as well. DV calls came from homes at all socioeconomic levels and all walks of life. David O’Brien was in his seventies, but his bare arms bulged with the muscles and sinews used to propel his non-motorized wheelchair. His hands, callused from turning the rubber wheels, would come equipped with a powerful grip. Used as weapons, those same hands could be dangerous, although, in Joanna’s opinion, the words that came from his mouth—words steeped in anger and bitterness—seemed damaging enough.

Joanna thought again of the almost obsessive neatness of Brianna’s room—of the House Beautiful quality of the whole spacious and well-appointed place. Some people were good housekeepers by their very nature, but Sheriff Brady had learned from reading her deputies’ incident reports that in some relationships keeping a clean house was a stipulation—a requirement to be met on a daily basis—in order to keep from earning a smack in the mouth. Or worse. In that kind of environment, Bree’s birth control pills, her missing journal entries, and even her own AWOL status made far more sense. For that matter, so did Katherine’s obvious fear of rocking the boat.

Joanna turned back to David. He was studying her with narrowed eyes, as if expecting her to cave in to his demands.

“What do you mean by your thing and my thing, Mr. O’Brien?” she asked.

“It means that as soon as I saw your department’s reluctance to call in reinforcements, I went ahead and made other ar­rangements. I’ve contacted a private eye up in Phoenix. Detec­tive Stoddard will be here by nine o’clock tomorrow morning. You may be unwilling or unable to do the job, Sheriff Brady. I’m sure my PI won’t be.”

“Hiring a detective is certainly your prerogative, Mr. O’Brien,” Joanna returned. “It may prove to be a waste of money, however, especially if your daughter shows up on her own as scheduled tomorrow afternoon.”

“Even if she does, it’s my money,” O’Brien said sourly.

“Of course,” Joanna agreed. “And you’re entitled to spend it in whatever manner you see fit. Good evening, then.” She started to leave, but then stopped and turned back. “May I ask one more question?”

“What’s that?”

“Have you noticed any changes in your daughter’s behavior in the last few months?”

“What’s this? You’re asking me questions about a daughter you insist isn’t really missing?”

Joanna ignored the jibe. “Has she changed?”

O’Brien shrugged. “Of course she’s changed,” he said. “Night to day. As though she had a personality transplant. Telling us one thing and doing another is just the tip of the iceberg.” He paused long enough to glower at his wife, as though he held Katherine personally accountable for his daughter’s emerging dishonesty.

“She never should have dropped out of the cheerleading squad,” he continued. “That was the beginning of all this and a grave disappointment to me as well. I didn’t raise my daugh­ter to be a quitter. That’s not what O’Briens do.”

You mean being student body vice president and class valedicto­rian weren’t enough? Joanna wanted to ask, but she didn’t. In­stead, she stifled that question in favor of another. “She just quit?”

David O’Brien might have wanted Katherine to keep quiet, but his orders weren’t enough to suppress a mother’s natural inclination to defend her daughter. “Miss Barker had to drop her,” Katherine interjected. “It happened back in November. At the end of football season. Because Bree had been captain of the squad, there was a bit of a flap about it. You may have heard ...”

From the moment Joanna had found her wounded husband shot and bleeding in a sandy wash her every waking moment had been preoccupied with her own concerns, with her own survival and with Jenny’s. Joanna Brady had had very little energy left over to squander on anyone else’s difficulties. In That kind of emotion-charged atmosphere, it was hardly sur­prising that a tempest centered in and around the local high school cheerleading squad had failed to penetrate her consciousness.

Joanna shook her head. “I don’t remember hearing anything about it,” she said.

“You’re probably the only one,” David said. “It happened during the Bisbee-Douglas game. One of the players from Douglas—some young Mexican kid—ended up getting hurt. Had his leg broken, I guess. Bree was upset about it beyond all reason. She walked off the field right in the middle of the game. Left the ballpark and went directly to the hospital. Natu­rally, the cheerleading adviser had no choice but to put her off the squad.”

Joanna counted off the months in her head. November through June. Seven months. About the same length of time covered by the missing journals. “And that was when you first noticed the change in her?”

“She was moody, I suppose,” Katherine said. “But that was understandable. After all, losing her position on the squad was a very real loss to her, a blow to her self-esteem. There’s some grieving to be done after something like that happens. Grieving and a certain amount of acting out. But beyond that, she was fine. It’s not like it interfered with her grades or anything.”

Realizing Katherine was once again attempting to smooth things over and to minimize whatever had happened, Joanna decided to press the issue. “What kind of acting out?” she asked.

“She called me a bigot, among other things,” David O’Brien snarled, his face darkening with rage. From the looks of him, Bree’s accusatory words might still be hanging in the charged air around him. “My own daughter called me that to my face when I tried to explain to her that some stupid Mexican having his leg broken was no reason for her to give up something she’d wanted for years—something the whole family had worked for.”

Joanna couldn’t help noticing the sneer in O’Brien’s voice when he said the word Mexican. She also remembered his irrational refusal to deal with Detective Jaime Carbajal. Maybe, she thought, Brianna O’Brien’s assessment of’ her father was right on the money.

“Are you a bigot, Mr. O’Brien?” Joanna asked.

The room grew still. Raising his bushy eyebrows, Ernie Car­penter shifted uneasily from one foot to the other. The silence lasted so long that Joanna wondered if perhaps she had gone too far, but David O’Brien didn’t appear to be especially of-fended by the question. In fact, he seemed to like the idea that Joanna was standing up to him and pushing back.

“Are you aware that I’m from here originally?” he asked at last, favoring Joanna with an unexpected but grim smile. She nodded.

“Not just from Bisbee,” he continued. “But from right here on the outskirts of Naco. My father, Tom O’Brien, died of a ruptured appendix when I was two. Growing up in a border town makes it tough for kids. On both sides. I didn’t transfer to St. Dominick’s in Old Bisbee until I was in the third grade. Before that I was one of the only Anglo kids in Naco Elementary. The Mexican kids down here used to beat me up every day, Sheriff Brady. Not only that, it was a Mexican driving the truck that killed my first family, smashed my legs to smither­eens, and sentenced me to a wheelchair for the rest of my natural life. So believe me, if I’ve got my prejudices, maybe I’m entitled. That’s what I told Brianna, and that’s what I’m telling you.”

CHAPTER, EIGHT

Not knowing what to say in response, Joanna headed for the door. As she did so, Katherine reached forward and plucked a small silver bell off the coffee table. Moments after she rang it, Mrs. Vorevkin appeared in the room. “Olga,” Katherine said, “please show Sheriff Brady and Detective Carpenter out.”

The housekeeper nodded in her stolid, impassive way and started down the hallway. She was standing in front of the open door waiting for them to step outside when Joanna stopped beside her. “Can you tell us anything about all this, Mrs. Vorevkin?” Joanna asked.

The woman’s faded blue eyes welled with tears. “I packed the food,” she said brokenly. “Just like before. I did not mean to cause trouble.”

“What trouble?” Joanna demanded. “And what food?”

“A bag of sandwiches, chips, some fresh fruit, and sodas,” Olga answered. “She always wanted plenty of sodas, root beer and Cokes, both.”

Joanna frowned. “Two kinds?”

Olga nodded. “Several of each.”

“And what kinds of sandwiches?”

“Peanut butter and bologna.”

“How many?”

“Five of each.”

Joanna turned to Ernie. “What do you think?” she asked. “Either Brianna O’Brien was one heavy eater or the picnic lunch was being made for more than one person.”

“That’s what I think,” Joanna said, returning her gaze to Olga’s placid face. “You were the last person here to see her?” Joanna asked.

Olga nodded.

“What was she wearing?”

Olga glanced toward Ernie. “He ask me already, but I don’t remember. Too upset. She’s a good girl, Brianna,” the woman added after a moment. “A nice girl. A very nice girl. You find her and bring her home.”

Sheriff Brady saw no point in attempting to explain the twenty-four-hour missing persons rule to Olga Vorevkin. “We will,” she promised instead. “We’ll do our very best.”

Outside in the driveway, the only official vehicles left were Ernie’s white van and Joanna’s Crown Victoria, Alf Hastings, David O’Brien’s chief of operations, sat on a folding camp stool next to Joanna’s sedan. He was smoking the stub of a powerful cigar.

‘‘Where’d everybody go?” Joanna asked.

Hastings shrugged. “Beats me,” he said. “Call came in over the radio, and they all took off like they’d been shot out of a cannon.”

Opening the car door, Joanna reached for her radio. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said. “What’s going on?”

Larry Kendrick, the Cochise County Sheriff Department’s lead dispatcher, took the call. “We had what at first sounded like a serious explosion over in St. David. Everything’s pretty much under control now, but Chief Deputy Voland didn’t want to disturb either you or Detective Carpenter while you were talking to the O’Briens. Voland headed over to St. David right away, along with two other cars.”

Joanna’s heart constricted to hear the words explosion and St. David mentioned in the same sentence. St. David was the site of a nitrate-manufacturing plant that specialized in both fertilizers and explosives. “Not the Apache Powder Plant,” she breathed.

“No,” Kendrick reassured her. “It wasn’t nearly that serious. It was at a farm near the river on the other side of town, off to the south rather than to the northwest.”

“Any injuries?”

“None reported so far. There was a small fire. Outbuildings only. As I understand it, that’s out now.”

“Keep me posted anyway,” Joanna said. Sliding her thumb away from the push-to-talk switch, she turned to Hastings. The man stood up, making a production of grinding out what was left of his cigar. “If you’re ready to go, I’ll get my ATV and lead you as far as the gate.”

“That’s not really necessary,” Joanna objected. “I’m sure we can find our way out.”

“I’m sure you can, ma’am,” Hastings said, doffing his hat. “But orders are orders, and since the guy giving the orders also writes my checks, I’ve got no choice but to follow ‘em.”

Hastings ambled away, leaving Joanna and Ernie alone in the deepening twilight. “What do we do now, Coach?” the detective asked.

“Tomorrow’s another day,” Joanna told him. “We go home. You take off your tie, I take off my high heels, and we both put our feet up.”

“You really don’t want me to do anything more tonight?” Ernie asked.

Joanna shook her head. “No,” she replied. “We’re not going to move on this case unless and until Brianna O’Brien doesn’t show up tomorrow afternoon.”

“Are you sure that’s wise?” Ernie asked. “It looks to me as though David O’Brien has more money than God. And clout to match. What if he decides to put you out of office?”

Joanna shrugged. “This is a free country and that’s his God-given right. In the meantime, you and I are charged with providing equality under the law. That means for ev­erybody, David O’Brien included. If we have a twenty-four-hour waiting period for every other missing person in Cochise County, then we have a twenty-four-hour waiting period for him as well.”

“Sounds good to me,” Ernie said, loosening his tie and set­ting off for his van.

Hastings rumbled up just then on his ATV. First Ernie and then Joanna fell into line behind him. At the far gate, there was a turnout along a side road that provided a stopping place just inside the fence. Hastings swerved off the roadway onto the parking strip, leaving enough room for Joanna and Ernie to drive past as the gate swung open. Checking in her mirror Joanna saw him wait until both vehicles had cleared the gate before he let it swing shut and drove away.

Fort O’Brien, Joanna thought. That would have been a much better name for the place. Taking all the security into consideration Green Brush Ranch just doesn’t do it.

Joanna had traveled only a mile or two back toward town when hunger suddenly asserted itself. It had been almost eight hours since her lunchtime Whopper in Benson. At that hour, the idea of going home to cook was out of the question. Instead of driving directly to High Lonesome Ranch, she headed for Bisbee’s Bakerville neighborhood and Daisy’s Cafe.

On that still-steamy June Saturday night, other Bisbeeites must have had much the same idea. The draw might have been the almost chilly air-conditioning in the restaurant as much as it was the food. Whatever the reason, Daisy’s was jammed. People stood in clutches of two and three in the cashier’s lobby area, waiting for one of the booths or tables to clear. When Daisy Maxwell, the owner, came to collect the next pair of customers, she spied Joanna standing alone.

“You here by yourself?” Daisy asked, picking up a fistful of menus.

Joanna nodded.

“There’s a single up at the counter. You’re welcome to that if you like,” Daisy told her. “Everybody else is at least a two-top.”

Collecting a menu of her own, Joanna headed for the single empty stool. She waited while Daisy’s husband, Moe, finished clearing the spot of dirty dishes before she sat down. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

Moe Maxwell’s usual place of employment was the Bisbee branch of the post office. His primary role in his wife’s restau­rant was as chief occupant of the booth nearest the door. There, ensconced with a view that included both the cash register and a tiny black-and-white TV, he would while away his weekend hours drinking coffee and visiting with whichever one of his many cronies happened to stop by.

Sorrowfully, Moe shook his head. “Don’t even ask,” he said, placing a glass of ice water in front of Joanna. “I was drafted. When it got crowded, Daisy said I could either go to work or plan on spending the night with old Hoop out in his doghouse tonight when we get home. That didn’t leave me much of an option.”

Joanna laughed. “I suppose not,” she said.

“Hot enough for you?” Moe continued, halfheartedly wiping the counter.

Joanna nodded. “And wouldn’t you know, the air-condition­ing went out in my car today. I had to take my daughter to camp up on Mount Lemmon. Between now and when I go to pick her up, I’ll have to get it fixed.”

“Good luck with that,” Moe said. “You’d better call for an appointment right away. Jim Hobbs is the only mechanic I know of around town who’s doing that right now. People are lined up out the door. I just went through it myself a couple of weeks back, me and my old GMC I can tell you this, it lightened my wallet by a thousand bucks.”

Joanna almost choked on a single sip of water. “A thousand dollars?” she repeated in dismay. “You’re kidding. To fix an air conditioner?”

Moe nodded, looking even sadder than before. “That’s right,” he replied. “I’m not sure I understand all the details. Has something to do with global warming and holes in the ozone. According to Jim Hobbs, one itty-bitty little thirty-pound canister of Freon costs a thousand bucks a pop these days. Jim retrofitted my truck with some new kind of compressor that uses something else. I can’t remember exactly what it’s called. Had a whole bunch of letters and numbers. R2D2, maybe? Anyways, the damned thing cost me a fortune, and it doesn’t work nearly as well as the Freon did, either. I would have just let it go, but you know Daisy. With her hair the way it is, she can’t even ride to the grocery store with the windows rolled down.”

Joanna looked across the room to where Daisy was separat­ing yet another two people from the herd waiting near the door. For thirty years, a towering beehive—one with each per­oxided blond hair lacquered firmly into place—had been Daisy Maxwell’s signature hairdo. The mere fact that the price of Freon had shot sky-high wasn’t enough to make her change it.

Daisy delivered the two waiting diners to a nearby booth and then detoured behind the counter on her way back to the cash register. Slipping past her husband, she gave him a swift jab in the ribs with one bony elbow. “Booth six needs bussing,” she told him. “So does table two.”

With a long-suffering sigh, Moe picked up a wet rag and went to clear the tables.

“He’d a whole lot rather gab than work,” Daisy complained, pulling a pencil out of her hair and an order pad out of her apron pocket. “If that man really was on my payroll, I would’ve fired him by now. Since he’s working for free, though, what can I do? Now, if you know what you want, I can put the order in on my way through the kitchen. Otherwise it’ll take a while for me to get back to you. We’re short-handed tonight. I didn’t expect this kind of crowd.”

“Chef’s salad,” Joanna said without bothering to look at the menu. “Ranch dressing on the side. Iced tea with extra lemon.”

“Corn bread or sticky bun?”

“Definitely sticky bun,” Joanna answered.

“You got it,” Daisy said, and hurried off.

The tea came within less than a minute. Stirring in sugar, Joanna became aware of the music playing through the speak­ers situated at either end of the counter.

Reba McEntire sang of a lonely woman living through the aftermath of a painful divorce. The lyrics were all about how hard it was to sleep in a bed once shared with a no-longer ­present husband. Regardless of the cause of that absence—death or divorce—Joanna knew that the loneliness involved was all the same, most especially so at bedtime, although meal-times weren’t much better.

Determined to shut out the words, Joanna sat sipping her tea and observing the people in the room through the mirror on the far side of the counter. Unfortunately, she could see nothing but couples. Pairs. Men and women—husbands and wives—eating and talking and laughing together. In the far corner of the room sat a young couple with a toddler in a high chair. The child was happily munching saltine crackers while the man and woman talked earnestly back and forth together.

Struck by a sudden jolt of envy, Joanna forced herself to look away. It reminded her too much of the old days when Jenny was at what Andy had called the “crumb-crusher stage.” It had been a period during which every meal out—whether in a restaurant or at someone else’s home—had included the embarrassment of a mess of cracker crumbs left around Jenny’s high chair.

Right about now, Joanna thought, I’d be so happy to have a few of those crumbs back again that I wouldn’t even complain about  having to clean them up.

By the time Joanna’s salad came, the hunger she had felt earlier had entirely disappeared. She picked at the pale pieces of canned asparagus and moved the chunks of bright red to­mato from side to side. It was easy to feel sorry for herself, to wallow in her own misery and self-pity. Butch Dixon, a man she had met up in Peoria when she went there to attend the Arizona Police Officer’s Academy, had made it quite clear that he was more than just moderately interested in her. But Joanna didn’t think she was ready for that. Not yet. She was glad to have Butch as a friend—as a pal and as someone to talk to on the phone several times a week—but it was still too soon for anything beyond that, not just for Joanna but also for jenny.

“Mind if I sit down?”

Joanna looked up to see Chief Deputy Richard Voland stand­ing with one hand on the back of the now-vacant stool next to her.

“Hi, Dick,” she said. “Help yourself.”

She was grateful Daisy’s was a public enough venue that Voland’s ears didn’t turn red as he eased his tall frame down onto the stool. Opening a menu, he studied it in silence for some time before slapping it shut. “Batching it is hell, isn’t it?” he grumbled. “Ruth maybe had her faults, but she was one helluva cook.”

Ruth Voland, Dick’s soon-to-be-ex-wife, had taken up with their son’s bowling coach from Sierra Vista. Their divorce was due to be final within the next few weeks. As that day loomed closer, Chief Deputy Voland was becoming more and more difficult to be around.

“You’re right,” Joanna agreed. “It’s not much fun, but thanks to people like Daisy Maxwell, neither of us is starving to death.”

Voland nodded morosely. “Hope you don’t mind my tracking you down. Dispatch said you were stopping off to have dinner. I needed to grab a bite myself.”

Daisy came to take his order. Joanna waited until she left before speaking again. “So what’s up over in St. David?”

“Killer bees,” Voland answered. “It was unbelievable.”

“Killer bees?” Joanna repeated. “I thought there was some kind of an explosion.”

“That’s right. There was. A lady by the name of Ethel Jami­son found a swarm of killer bees up under the roof of a tool shed. Her great-grandson is down visiting from Provo, Utah, for a couple of weeks. He offered to take care of them for her. So he and a buddy of his logged onto the Internet, consulted some kind of cyberspace Anarchist’s Cookbook, and blew the place to pieces, bees and all. Except they didn’t quite get all the bees. Like this one, for example,” Voland added, pointing to an ugly red welt on the back of his hand. “And this one, too.” A second vivid welt showed itself on the back of his neck, just above his wilted shirt collar.

“I wasn’t the only one who got stung, either,” Voland added. “A couple of the volunteer firemen did, too. Naturally, the two boys didn’t.”

Dick’s coffee came. He stopped talking long enough to add cream and sugar. “So what’s happening on the O’Brien deal?” “Nothing,” Joanna said.

“But I thought ...”

“Brianna O’Brien may not have gone where she said she was going,” Joanna told him, “but she’s not yet officially missing. According to her parents, she’s not due back until tomorrow afternoon. If and when that deadline passes, we’ll make an official missing persons determination.”

“You’re going to wait the full twenty-four hours?” Dick Vo­land asked. “David O’Brien will have a cow.”

“He’s already having a cow, so I don’t see what difference it makes.”

“David O’Brien isn’t someone I’d want to get crosswise with,” Voland warned. “From a political standpoint if nothing else. With his kind of money, he can make or break you.”

Joanna gave her chief deputy a sidelong glance. “I’m sur­prised to hear you say that, Mr. Voland,” she told him. “Aren’t you the same guy who was out on the stump during the elec­tion, trying to get people to vote against me?”

Voland ducked his head and shrugged self-consciously. “Maybe I changed my mind,” he said while his ears glowed bright red.

It was Saturday night. Knowing small-town gossipmongers might read far more into this casual dinnertime meeting than it merited, Joanna picked up her ticket and slid off her stool.

“I’d better be going,” she said. “See you Monday.”

“Right,” Dick returned. “See you then.”

CHAPTER, NINE

Joanna went out to the Crown Victoria and drove north toward the traffic circle where Jim Hobbs’s auto repair shop was lo­cated. Remembering Moe Maxwell’s advice that she put the Eagle in the shop for repairs as soon as possible, she glanced off in that direction. To her surprise, even after nine o’clock on a Saturday night, the lights were still on at Jim’s Auto Repair. One of the two garage bay doors was still open.

Instead of heading out toward the ranch, Joanna drove on around the circle and pulled in beside Jim’s cherished 1956 Chevy BelAir. Jim himself was hanging over the front fender of a Honda Civic. He straightened up when he heard Joanna’s car stop and sauntered out of the garage, wiping his greasy hands on a rag.

“It’s you, Sheriff Brady,” he said, grinning when he recog­nized Joanna. “1 thought it would be Margo come to tell me to get the hell home. But since I’m working on my mother-in­-law’s car, I don’t figure I’ll be in too much trouble. What can I do for you?”

“It’s the air-conditioning on my Eagle,’’ Joanna began. “It went out on the way to Tucson today. Moe Maxwell says I’ll need to get in line for an appointment, so I thought I’d check.”

The congenial grin disappeared from Jim’s face. “It’s a setup deal, isn’t it? A sting. As soon as I got the call, I figured it would be something like this. Sorry, Sheriff Brady. I’m all booked up for air-conditioning work. I won’t be able to get around to you for a month or so, maybe even longer.”

“A month?” Joanna echoed. “That long? Right in the middle of the summer?”

“Too bad, isn’t it,” Jim returned coldly. “But like I said, it might even be longer than that.” Then, as if dismissing her, he turned and headed back into the garage.

For several moments Joanna sat there wavering in confusion. Jim Hobbs had done lots of work for her over the years. She had no idea what had provoked him or why she would de-serve such an abrupt dismissal. Something was wrong. Not wanting to leave the misunderstanding hanging, Joanna climbed out of the Crown Victoria and followed him into the garage.

Jim’s Auto Repair had arisen from the ruins of a defunct gas station, one that had become a permanent casualty in the EPA’s ongoing war against leaky gasoline tanks. Anyone walk­ing into the orderly but run-down building would have known at once where Jim Hobbs’s priorities lay. The grungy cinder block walls, the fly-specked dirty glass, and the cracked cement flooring might have all been seventy-year-old original con­struction, but there was nothing old or lacking in the gleaming tools and up-to-date equipment lining the walls.

Walking inside, Joanna stood for a long time watching Jim in silence while he studiously ignored her. “All right, Jim,” she said at last, trailing him over to a metal tool chest where he slammed a wrench into one of the drawers. “What’s going on?”

“I’ll tell you what’s going on,” he growled, turning on her and poking the air between them with one of his stubby fin­gers. “That weasely Sam Nettleton character over in Benson gives me a call this afternoon and tells me he’s got a cool deal on some really cheap Freon if I want to go in with him on it. Well, here’s the real scoop, Sheriff Brady. I didn’t bite, so you can call off your dogs and forget it. I’ve got twenty thousand bucks tied up in legally approved equipment to do air-condi­tioning work the right way. The reason I’m as busy as a one-armed paperhanger right now is that hardly anyone else in the county has bothered to invest in that new equipment—includ­ing Mr. Sleazeball Sam Nettleton. If you think you’re going to waltz in here and find me using illegal Freon—”

“Wait a minute, Jim,” Joanna said. “Hold on. I don’t have any idea what you’re talking about. I stopped in here to see about getting my Eagle fixed because I almost roasted to death driving Jenny up to Mount Lemmon today.”

Jim looked suddenly abashed. “You mean Sam Nettleton didn’t try to sic you on me?”

“The person who sent me here is Moe Maxwell. I saw him in Daisy’s just a few minutes ago, and he said you had fixed the air-conditioning on his GMC. I don’t even know Sam Net­tleton. From the sounds of it, though, maybe I should. Care to tell me about him?”

Now Jim looked downright embarrassed. “I shouldn’t,” he said. “But the whole deal makes me so damned mad.” “What deal?”

“Years ago, the tree huggers in Washington, D.C., got all hot and bothered about holes in the ozone. They fixed it so Congress passed some laws designed to fix ‘em. The holes, I mean, not the tree huggers. The first guys the feds went after for chlorofluorocarbon use were the big industries. Now they’re coming after us—the little guys. It turns out that Freon is bad for the ozone, and Freon just happens to be what makes most pre-1995 air conditioners run. The U.S. isn’t producing R-12 Freon anymore. Newer cars use R-134A. Dealers have to have proper, EPA-approved equipment to work on that or on any other R-12 substitute.

“Some of those supposed substitutes are so bad the cars blow up. Like the two little old ladies who burned to death up on I-40 last summer. Some shyster mechanic over in Gallup had filled up their compressor with something that was more butane than it was anything else.”

“Let’s get back to Sam Nettleton,” Joanna urged. “Who is he? What does he do?”

“He runs an outfit called Sam’s Easy Towing and Wrecking up in Benson. He’s the kind of guy who gives every other mechanic in the universe a bad name.”

“And what’s his connection to Freon?”

“Like I said, the U.S. is out of the R-12 business, but other countries are still making it. If they can figure out a way to ship it here, there’s a ready black market. Arizona has lots of pre-1995 automobiles that are still on the road. Here in the desert, air-conditioning is a necessity rather than an option. A thirty-pound container of Freon that would have cost thirty bucks a few years ago now sells for nine hundred.”

Joanna whistled. “No wonder there’s a black market.”

Jim nodded. “No wonder.”

“Why did Nettleton call you?”

“Who knows? My guess is he needed someone to go in with him on it, someone who could bring along some cash. I’ve got a reputation for doing more automotive air-conditioning work than anyone else in the county, so he probably figured I could use it. If I bought it at his price and charged the usual markup for the real stuff, it would be a regular gold mine—for a while anyway. Until somebody got wise. But like I told Nettleton on the phone, if the EPA inspectors come in and find me using illegal Freon, I’m out of business, just like that. I’m not going to risk it. And I’ve been standing here all night, working and stewing about it.”

“When’s Nettleton’s cut-rate Freon supposed to be here?” Joanna asked.

“Sometime soon, I guess,” Jim said. “He told me he’s got to have the money by Monday noon at the latest.”

“He didn’t say where the shipment was coming from?”

Hobbs shook his head. “No, but you can pretty much figure it out. It’s gotta be Mexico. Maybe all the old drug dealers have switched over and are carrying Freon these days instead of heroin and cocaine.” He paused for a moment. “So do you still want me to work on your car?” he asked somewhat sheepishly.

Joanna grinned at him. “As a matter of fact, I do. It’s like you said, we’re talking necessity here.”

“What do you think happened to it?”

“It sounded to me as though the compressor died.”

“You want it retrofitted to run on R-134A?”

“That must be the stuff Moe Maxwell calls R2D2. Is that what you did to his GMC—retrofitted it?”

Jim Hobbs nodded.

“Well,” Joanna said, “if it’s good enough for Daisy Maxwell’s beehive, it’s good enough for me. When can you do it? I’d like to have it sooner than a month or two if that’s possible.”

“Okay, okay,” Jim said, realizing she was teasing him. “We’ll get it done a little sooner than that. Come on into the office. I’ll have to check the book.”

Back in her Crown Victoria Joanna headed east on Highway 80, but again, instead of going straight on out to the ranch, she turned off at the Cochise County Justice Complex. After all, no one was waiting for her at home. Is that why I’m finding a hundred reasons not to go there? she wondered.

After a few seconds of reflection, Joanna shoved that unwel­come thought aside, convincing herself, instead, that the real reason she was stopping off at the office was because some-thing Jim Hobbs had said was still niggling at her. Joanna realized that what Hobbs had suggested about drug smugglers switching over to Freon was indeed true. As head of law en­forcement for a county with eighty miles of international bor­der inside her jurisdictional boundaries, Sheriff Brady was a member of the MJF—the Multi-Jurisdiction Force—an organi­zation designed specifically to combat border area criminal ac­tivities. As such, she was well aware that, after heroin and cocaine, Freon had now moved to number three on the DEA’s list of illegal substance smuggling headaches.

Bearing that in mind, Joanna felt obliged to share whatever information she had gleaned with other members of the MJF. Before opening her mouth, however, she wanted to know more specifics. She pulled into the lot at the back of the building, parked in her reserved spot, and then let herself into the office through a private door outfitted with a keypad lock. Once inside, she settled down at her desk, turned on the computer, and logged onto the MJF web site.

As soon as she typed in the word Freon, she hit pay dirt. For the next twenty minutes she learned more about the lucra­tive trade in illicit R-12 smuggling than she ever would have thought possible, including the fact that the Drug Enforcement Agency was now working jointly with the U.S. Customs Ser­vice to put a stop to it. When she finished, she picked up the phone and dialed a Tucson number for Adam York, the DEA’s local agent in charge, who had become both a colleague and a friend.

“So where are you this time?” Joanna asked when he an­swered. York’s job took him all over the state and even all over the country at times, but through the magic of call-forwarding, his Tucson number always seemed to work.

“Believe it or not,” he said, “I’m just sitting here by the pool with a drink in one hand savoring the idea of a Saturday night at home. How about you? You’re not in Tucson, are you?”

“I wish,” Joanna said. “I’m busy, reading up on Freon.”

“Freon. How come?”

“There’s a possibility I may have stumbled onto a smuggling operation down here.”

Joanna heard Adam York’s glass hit a table. The sound of it told her she had the man’s undivided attention. “Who?” he asked urgently. “Where?”

“I heard tonight that some guy up in Benson was about to pick up a big load of cut-rate Freon. I thought you might he interested.”

“You bet I am. Who is he?”

“His name’s Sam Nettleton. Runs a place called Sam’s Easy Towing and Wrecking in Benson. I just ran a copy of his rap sheet. Everything from drunk and disorderly to assault. He’s also had a number of consumer complaints for exorbitant tow­ing charges. Does this sound like somebody you’d be inter­ested in?”

Over the next few minutes, Joanna gave Adam York a com­plete rundown on the situation, including Sam’s offer to bring Jim Hobbs in on buying what was evidently an illegal ship­ment of coolant. York listened all the way through.

“This Nettleton guy sounds like a pretty small fish,” the DEA agent said when she finished. “But small fish often lead to bigger fish. We’ve been investigating a big air-conditioning contractor up in Phoenix for months now. So far we haven’t been able to put together anything solid. It’s not likely the two cases are related, but that’s always a possibility. Let me do some checking and get back to you. Is Monday soon enough?”

“Monday will be fine, I guess,” Joanna said. “But it may be too late. Remember, that’s when the alleged shipment—what­ever it is—is supposed to arrive. Nettleton told Jim Hobbs he had to have the cash by noon on Monday in order to pay for it.”

“I’ll get back to you on this tomorrow, then,” Adam prom­ised. “If not in the morning, then tomorrow afternoon for sure. If I can manage it, I’ll figure out a way to put this guy under surveillance. What about the fellow who told you about him? What’s his name again?”

“Jim Hobbs,” Joanna told him. “He runs an auto repair shop here in Bisbee.”

“Do you think he’d mind talking to one of my investigators?”

‘‘Are yon kidding? He’s so pissed about what Sam Nettleton is pulling, I’d be surprised if he wasn’t willing to take out an ad in the paper.”

Joanna gave Adam York Jim Hobbs’s telephone numbers. While the DEA agent’s moving pencil made scribbling sounds over the phone, she added, “Sorry about screwing up your peaceful weekend at home.”

“Don’t worry about it,” York said. “Happens all the time. Besides, look who’s talking,” he added. “It’s ten o’clock on a Saturday night, and here you are calling me from the office.”

“Don’t tell me,” Joanna said. “Caller ID. Right?”

“It would have to be,” Adam York said with a chuckle. “I’m sure as hell no psychic.”

When Joanna left the office an hour or so after she arrived, she found that the outside temperature had dropped some. Turning off on Double Adobe Road, she noticed that, off to the southeast, at the southernmost corner of the vast Sulphur Springs Valley, there were a few muted flickers of light on the distant horizon. Lightning. The first storms of the summer monsoon season were trying to make their way up into the Arizona desert from the Gulf of California.

Traditionally, summer rains always arrived just in time to throw a wet blanket on Bisbee’s Fourth of July fireworks cele­bration. But Independence Day was still more than two weeks away. In the meantime, Joanna expected there would be more days of scorching summer temperatures accompanied by the added complication of gradually increasing humidity.

She had barely turned off onto the High Lonesome’s dirt track of a road when Tigger, a clownish golden retriever/pit bull mix—and Sadie, a leggy bluetick hound—bounded into the moving glow of headlights to greet the car and race the Crown Victoria back to the house. When Joanna parked and opened her door, the dogs raced around to the far side of the vehicle in a frenzied but futile search for Jenny.

“Too bad, guys,” Joanna told them. “No Jenny tonight. Sad to say, you two are going to have to make do with just me for the next little while.”

Out of habit, Joanna had switched off the cooler when she had left for Green Brush Ranch late that afternoon. Now, at ten o’clock at night, the inside of the house felt overheated, especially when compared to the far more moderate tempera­tures outdoors. Once Joanna turned on the old swamp cooler, she knew it would take an hour or more for it to work its magic. In the meantime, she stripped off her work clothes in favor of shorts and an old T-shirt. Then, pausing only long enough to take messages off the machine, she collected her new cordless phone, a tablet, and a pen and went outside onto the front porch. Settling into the swing, she began returning calls.

Eva Lou Brady, Joanna’s mother-in-law, had called early in the afternoon to invite Joanna to come to dinner after church on Sunday. One of the organizers of the Fourth of July parade had called to see if Sheriff Brady would be willing to step in as grand marshal now that Bisbee’s mayor, Agnes Pratt, had been sidelined with an emergency appendectomy. There were also two separate calls from Joanna’s friend Angie Kellogg—one from home and one from work.

The parade call couldn’t be returned until Monday, and Angie would be at work until two o’clock in the morning. The call to Joanna’s in-lows was different. Jim Bob and Eva Lou Brady usually went to bed right after the local news ended at ten-thirty, so she called them back immediately. Jim Boll Brady answered the phone.

“How’d it go?” he asked. “You get Jenny dropped off at camp all right?”

The hours between then and Joanna’s last glimpse of Jenny seemed to melt away. The image of her daughter trudging dejectedly away from the car with her camp counselor caused a sudden tightening in Joanna’s throat. “It was fine,” she managed, speaking around a lump in her throat that made speech almost impossible. “It would have been better if the air-condi­tioning in the Eagle hadn’t given out on us along the way.”

“Did you get it fixed?” Jim Bob asked at once. “Is there anything you need me to do?”

Her in-laws’ unfailing helpfulness and generosity never failed to warm Joanna. “Thanks, Jim Bob,” she said. “I’ve already made an appointment with Jim Hobbs to have it fixed.”

“Good. What about dinner tomorrow, then?” Jim Bob asked. “Eva Lou doesn’t want you to get too lonely out there all by yourself.”

“Dinner would be great,” Joanna told him. “What time?”

“One. One-thirty.”

“I’ll be there,” Joanna said.

Ending that call, she dialed the bar in Brewery Gulch. Angie Kellogg answered, speaking over the din of talking people and blaring jukebox music. “Blue Moon. Angie speaking.”

“It’s Joanna. You called?”

“Yes,” Angie said. “I wanted to ask a favor, but it doesn’t matter. He’s already here.”

“Who’s already there?”

“The parrot guy. He came to take me for a hike tomorrow morning. To see some hummingbirds. I was going to ask you to come along.”

“No kidding. The parrot guy? The one from the Chircahuas? What was his name? Hacker, isn’t it?”

“That’s right,” Angie said. “Dennis Hacker.”

“And the two of you are going on a hike? That’s great.”

Angie’s voice sounded a little more hopeful. “Could you maybe come along with us?” she asked. “We’re going to leave here right after I get off work.”

At two o’clock in the morning? Joanna thought. “Sorry, Angie,” she said. “I just can’t make it. I’m already beat as it is. I’ve got to go to bed and get some sleep. Not only that, I just made arrangements to have an early dinner with Jim Bob and Eva Lou.”

“Oh,” Angie said. “Well, I guess I won’t go then, either.”

“What do you mean you won’t go? You love hummingbirds.”

“It’s just that ...”

“It’s just what?”

“I don’t know if I want to go with him all by myself.”

Joanna thought back to her one meeting with Hacker. He had come to the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department to give a statement in regard to another case. Jenny had been in the office for Take Our Kids to Work Day, Cochise County’s modi­fied version of the national Take Our Daughters to Work Day. While there, she had encountered the tall, gangly, and loose-jointed Englishman in the hallway. Afterward, Jenny had come dashing into her mother’s office.

“Mom,” she had babbled breathlessly, “you’ll never guess who’s out there in the hall. It’s the Scarecrow from the Wizard of Oz.”

Smiling at the memory, Joanna addressed Angie. “What’s the matter?” she asked. “Why don’t you want to go out with him? I’ve met him. He seems like a nice enough guy to me.”

“That’s just it,” Angie said defensively. “I don’t know what to think. What if he turns out to be too nice for me or else ... “

“Or else what?” Joanna asked.

“Well,” Angie returned defensively, “what if it turns out to be like the old days? What if we go on a hike to see the birds but he really thinks we’re going out there for something else?”

“You wrote him a letter, didn’t you?” Joanna asked.

“Yes. He claims that’s why he came to see me after all this time—because of the letter.”

“What do your instincts tell you?”

“Half one way and half the other.”

Joanna smiled. “It sounds like a date to me, Angie,” she said kindly. “A regular, ordinary, old-fashioned date for two people to get together and do something they’re both interested in. If I were you, I’d go.”

“Would you really?”

“Yes.”

“I’ve gotta go,” Angie said. “Someone’s asking for a drink.”

“Have fun,” Joanna told her. “Call me tomorrow and tell me how it turned out.”

“Okay,” Angie said with a dubious sigh. “I will.”

CHAPTER TEN

Joanna punched the button that ended the call. Putting the phone down on the swing beside her, she picked up the tablet and pen and began to write.

Dear Jenny,

I had to go in to work this afternoon for a little while, so I^’ve only just now come home. If it weren’t for Mr. Rhodes stopping by to feed the dogs on a regular basis, they’d be living on the same kind of crazy schedule I am.

It’s almost eleven o’clock at night, and it’s too hot to be inside, so I’m writing this on the front porch. Even the dogs think it’s too hot. They’re both lying here beside me, panting like crazy. They didn’t much like it when I came home and you didn’t get out of the car. Tigger especially couldn’t quite believe it.

I just took a message off the machine asking me if I could serve as grand marshal of Bisbee’s Fourth of July parade. I don’t know if you heard about it, but Mayor Pratt had an appendectomy last week. She isn’t going to be up to riding in a parade. I’d be happy to sub for her, but I don’t happen to own a horse. I was wondering if you’d consider lending me Kiddo for the day.

Joanna paused, holding the pen to her lips. Jenny had begged for a horse for her tenth birthday. Joanna had resisted, only to be overruled by Grandpa Jim Bob, who had purchased the horse on his own. In the months since, though, Joanna had seen the almost magical changes having a horse to care for had wrought in her grieving daughter. Somehow, taking re­sponsibility for an animal who had lost its former master had helped the fatherless Jennifer Ann Brady immeasurably. There were times when it seemed to Joanna that Jenny was making far more progress at working through her grief than her mother was.

I stopped by Jim Hobbs’s place tonight and made an ap­pointment to have the Eagle fixed. You’ll be happy to know that by the time I come pick you up, we’ll once again have a fully working air conditioner.

Joanna paused again. She had already decided to say noth­ing at all about work or about the type of case that had occu­pied the whole of her Saturday afternoon. There was no point in mentioning Brianna O’Brien’s disappearance. Chances were the missing teenager would show up safe and sound the next afternoon. In that case, if she had been off somewhere fooling around with a boyfriend, the less said, the better. On the other hand, if David O’Brien was right and his daughter had fallen victim to some awful fate, then word of that would come won enough for everyone—Jennifer Brady included.

With a shock, Joanna realized that Jenny, at ten, was a mere eight years younger than Bree. Determinedly thrusting that disturbing thought aside, Joanna returned to her writing.

Grandpa and Grandma Brady have invited me over for dinner tomorrow after church. I think they’re afraid that with you gone for two weeks, I’ll dry up and blow away or starve to death.

Speaking of drying up, I can see lightning way off in the distance to the south, somewhere down in Sonora. Maybe the summer rains will get here a little early this year—sooner than the Fourth of July. But not so soon, I hope, that they spoil any of your time at camp.

I guess that’s all for now. It’s so hot inside the house and so nice out here on the porch that I think I’ll do what we used to do on hot summer nights when Dad was alive. Re-member how we’d bring those old army cots out here and sleep on the porch? That way, you’ll be camping out tonight, and so will I.

Love, Mom

Joanna addressed an envelope, sealed the letter inside it, and then carried the letter, the phone, and her writing materials back inside. The three old army cots were stowed in the back of Jenny’s closet. Joanna dragged one out, brought her pillow and a set of sheets, and returned to the porch. For tonight, at least, she wouldn’t be dealing with Reba’s double bed problem.

She was on her way back outside for the last time when the phone rang. That late at night, there were only two real possibilities—something had happened at work, some new emergency that demanded the sheriff’s attention; or else, things had quieted down enough at the Roundhouse Bar and Grill up in Peoria and Butch Dixon had found a spare moment to give her a call.

“Did you get Jenny off to camp safe and sound?” Butch asked. “How did it go?”

Glad to hear the sound of his voice, Joanna slipped onto the chair beside the telephone table and tucked her feet up under her. “It went fine,” she said, giving Butch the benefit of only the smallest of white lies. “No problems at all.”

Later, lying there on the porch, waiting to fall asleep and watching the intermittent flickers of lightning, Joanna reviewed what had gone on during the day. One of the things that stood out in her mind was Ernie’s objection to Joanna’s use of the word enemies in conjunction with Bree O’Brien. Having raised only sons, Ernie was more familiar with little boy kinds of disputes—ones that included straightforward fistfights and uncomplicated rock throwing.

Joanna, however, was acquainted with the kinds of insidi­ous, ego-damaging warfare traditionally practiced on young women by other young women. Joanna Lathrop Brady had been there and done that. Her nemesis at Bisbee High School had been a girl named Rowena Sharp.

Popular and smart and blessed with two doting parents, Stub and Chloe Sharp, Rowena had been everything Joanna Lathrop wasn’t. In fact, now that she thought about it, Bree O’Brien reminded Joanna of Rowena. Going through adoles­cence is tough enough, but Joanna Lathrop had also been dealing with the loss of her father. For some reason, Rowena had singled Joanna out as the object of unmerciful torment and contempt. Not only that, Rowena’s gal pals had risen to the occasion and joined in the fun, not unlike a flock of cannibalis­tic chickens pecking to death some poor wounded and de­fenseless bird that had happened to wander into their midst.

Joanna never knew what she had done to merit Rowena’s scorn, but it was something she had been forced to endure, day in and day out. There had been bitchy remarks about “Miss Goody Two-shoes” in the girls’ rest room and the cafete­ria lunch line. There had been numerous and undeniably delib­erate pushings in the hall and gym when Joanna’s back was turned to open her locker. It wasn’t until late in their senior year that things had changed ever so slightly.

Rowena had been one of two contenders for the position of salutatorian, but she was having a terrible time grasping the basics of chemistry. On her own, she would have earned a solid B in the course, but a B wouldn’t have done enough for her GPA. She had persuaded one of her friends—a girl who worked in the principal’s office during second period—to lift a copy of Mr. Cantrell’s final exam. Word of the pilfered exam had traveled like wildfire through the senior class. Even Joanna heard about it, and she alone had tackled Rowena on the issue.

“Why cheat?” Joanna asked. “Why not just take the grade you’ve earned on your own?”

“Because it won’t be good enough,^” Rowena shot back. “Be-cause if Mark Watkins is salutatorian instead of me, my par­ents will just die.”

Not wanting to be saddled with more “Miss Goody Two-shoes” remarks, Joanna had kept her mouth shut. Rowena Sharp received her illicit A and graduated second in their class, with Mark Watkins coming in a close third. As for Joanna, she could never look at that page in her senior yearbook without feeling a stab of guilt whenever she saw Rowena’s smiling face staring back out at her.

The last time Joanna had seen Rowena Sharp Bonham had been at their ten-year class reunion, where the printed bio had announced that Rowena was an attorney practicing law in Phoenix. Clearly, the passage of time hadn’t helped Rowena forget any more than it had helped Joanna. When they encoun­tered one another in the buffet line, Rowena had cut Joanna dead.

Good riddance, Joanna thought as a surprisingly cool breeze wafted over her, letting her drift off to sleep. As Eva Lou would say, good riddance to the bad rubbish.

Long after midnight, Francisco Ybarra sat in the kitchen of his darkened home, keeping company with a bottle of Wild Turkey and worrying.

Frank wasn’t much of a drinker. Nonetheless, he poured himself another glassful of bourbon. The hundred-proof liquor warmed his gut as it went down. Maybe eventually sleep would come, but right now he was still wide awake.

Frank’s worries had two separate sources—his ailing wife, Yolanda, and Pepito. Hector had told him about the blond girl in the red truck, about how she had come by the station the previous afternoon and about how today Nacio had been in a foul mood all day long. Frank’s nephew had left the station after first lashing out at Hector. When he had returned to the station much later in the day, Hector claimed Pepito hadn’t been worth a plugged nickel.

Hector had long ago alerted Frank Ybarra to the existence of the girl in the red pickup truck—the one who came by the station, usually when Frank wasn’t there and sometimes even when he was. He knew about her long blond ponytail, her long tan legs, and her cute little ass. Frank was sure she had to be the same girl from Bisbee, the one Yolanda had been all over Pepito about last winter.

Frank had known from very early on about what was going on, but he had decided to let it go—to allow the affair to run its own course—because he was confident Pepito would get over it eventually. Now he wasn’t so sure.

From outside the house, came the sound of familiar tires crunching the gravel of the back alley. A pair of glowing head-lights dissolved into darkness. Not moving, not reaching for the light, Frank Ybarra sat in the dark and waited, listening for the telltale creak of the iron gate and for Nacio’s limping steps on the wooden planks of the back porch.

Stealthily, almost as though he were willing the sometimes fussy lock to silence, Nacio’s key clicked in the keyhole. The door opened. Almost simultaneously, the overhead light came on. Illumined in the glaring fluorescent glow, Ignacio Ybarra was a bruised and bloodied mess. His scraped and scabby face looked as though it had been dragged along a sidewalk. Underneath the torn material of a ragged shirt, Frank glimpsed a layer of bandages encircling the boy’s chest.

“What happened?” Frank asked, even though he thought he already knew the answer.

The door was still open when Nacio saw his uncle. He turned and would have fled back into the night, had Francisco Ybarra not stopped him. “I asked you, what happened?”

“I got in a fight,” Nacio said, slipping unconcernedly onto a chair and trying to sound casual. “A guy beat me up.”

Uncle Frank stood up, a little unsteadily, and walked around the table to the far side of Nacio’s chair. He stared down at his nephew for a moment, then, walking with great dignity, Frank returned to his chair. He had seen beatings before. He knew what they looked like.

“What guy?” he asked, his face going still and cold. “An Anglo?”

Nacio nodded.

“Which one?”

“Just a guy,” Nacio answered. “I can’t say.”

“The hell you can’t!” Uncle Frank returned savagely, pound­ing the table with his fist. He realized then he was more than a little drunk. “You can tell me, and you will. People can’t get away with this kind of shit anymore. You tell me who it was who did this. I’ll call the cops.”

“No,” Ignacio insisted. “No cops.”

“Why not, Pepito?” Frank’s voice grew softer suddenly, al-most cajoling. Nacio was the little boy he had raised from an infant, the one he loved almost as much or maybe even more than his own son. The fact that once again someone had hurt his beloved Pepito shook Francisco Ybarra to the core. His fury was made that much worse by the fact that it could so easily have been prevented. Frank knew that he himself should have put a stop to Nacio’s dangerous romance. If nothing else, he should have told his wife about it. Yoli would have handled it.

“Were you doing something wrong?” Frank asked gently. “Something you shouldn’t?”

 Nacio’s chin trembled. His Adam’s apple wobbled up and own with the effort of speaking. “No,” he replied. “I wasn’t doing anything wrong. But still, no cops.”

He stood up then, walked over to the light, and switched it back off. “I’m going to bed, Uncle Frank. We can talk about his in the morning.”

Feeling sick, Frank Ybarra waited until the door swung shut before he reached for the bottle. This time, though, instead of pouring another drink, he grasped the bottle by the neck. Molding it in one knotted fist, he stood up and staggered as far as the back door. After wrenching open the door, Frank hurled the bottle as far as he could into the inky darkness of the backyard. The bottle splattered against the brick wall of the garage and splintered into a thousand pieces.

Frank stood for a moment longer, leaning against the doorjamb while his chest heaved and he fought with the knowledge that his worst fears had been realized. One of the reasons he hadn’t told Yoli about the girl was his firm belief that Pepito could take care of himself. Evidently, Frank had been wrong about that, too. Nacio might have tried to spare his uncle some of the gory details, but Frank was convinced he already knew them anyway. This was exactly the kind of shit Yoli had been worried about when she herself had warned Pepito to stay away from the girl.

Ignacio Salazar Ybarra wasn’t the first Hispanic boy to have the crap beaten out of him for messing with an Anglo girl, and he sure as hell wouldn’t be the last. But now, with Yoli so sick—in the hospital and facing surgery on Monday morn­ing—how on earth would Frank ever be able to tell her?

Having Dennis Hacker hanging around in the bar made Angie nervous. Not that he did or said anything out of line. Not that he was obnoxious. He just sat there, chatting with the other customers, drinking coffee, and watching her. By last call, he had settled in with Archie and Willy at the far end of the bar, where the three entertained one another telling tall tales about the Huachucas and the Peloncillos. They were on such good terms that Hacker bought the two old men their last round of the evening.

All night long, Angie had waffled back and forth, wanting to go and not wanting to go. Now, though, at ten minutes before one and after the man had waited for her for hours, it was too late. She couldn’t very well tell him that she had changed her mind and wasn’t going.

Hacker, Willy, and Archie were the only customers left in the bar when Angie went into the back room to lug out the four locking wood panels that slipped into slots in the bar’s front to cover the supply of liquor. “Those look heavy. Would you like me to help you with them?” Dennis Hacker offered.

“It’s all right,” Angie said. “I can manage.”

“Hey, Angie,” Willy said. “This Brit knows all about birds. All kinds of birds. If you don’t believe me, just ask him.”

“Finish your drink, Willy,” she ordered. “You, too, Archie. It’s closing time.”

“What about him?” Archie whined.

“He’s drinking coffee,” Angie pointed out. “There’s no law against drinking coffee after hours, only booze. Besides, he’s with me.”

Archie’s toothless face collapsed in on itself. “You mean like a date?^” he asked. “You’re not going to put her in that fancy damned Hummer of yours and pack her off, are you?” he demanded. “Angie’s the best thing that’s ever happened to this place.”

“What’d she say?” Willy asked.

“This guy’s her boyfriend,” Archie groused. “That’s why he can stay and we can’t.”

Flushing with embarrassment, Angie collected their glasses. “Out,” she ordered. “Time to go.”

Still grumbling, the two old men helped one another off their respective stools and shuffled toward the door. They shared a basement room in an old, moldering rooming house two build­ings up the street, so Angie knew they were in no danger of driving a car. At the door, Archie turned around and shook an admonishing finger in Dennis Hacker’s direction.

“Remember,” he warned, “don’t you go carrying her off. Angie’s ours. We saw her first.”

Once they were out, Angie pushed the door shut and locked it behind them.

“I think they like you,” Dennis Hacker said.

Angie rolled her eyes in exasperation. “I guess they do,” she agreed.

Still nursing his coffee, Dennis Hacker waited while Angie fin­ished her closing time chores, washing the last of the glasses and ashtrays and sweeping the floor. She took her time—far longer than she needed—but at last there was nothing left to do.

“Are you ready, then?” Dennis Hacker asked.

“I have to change.”

She disappeared into the back room and returned a few min­utes later wearing hiking boots, jeans, and a flannel shirt.

“You look great,” Dennis said. “We’d better go. Those hum­mingbirds will be up bright and early.”

32

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Angie Kellogg had seen Hummers in news broadcasts about the Gulf War, only they had been called Humvees back then. Lately she had even seen a few television commercials about them, but she had never seen one in real life, and she had certainly never expected to ride in one.

Once Dennis Hacker helped her climb inside, she was sur­prised by how spacious it was. Between her bucket seat and the driver’s was a wide flat expanse of tan leather that was almost as big as her kitchen table. Climbing in himself, Dennis caught her looking across the space between them. “That’s the air-conditioning unit,” he explained. “Behind that’s the drivetrain. That’s what makes Hummers so hard to tip over.”

“Right,” Angie said, not letting on that the word drivetrain was a total mystery to her.

Dennis turned the key and the engine growled to life. Angie thought it felt like being inside some huge animal—like being swallowed by a tiger, maybe.

“The ride isn’t all that wonderful on the highway,” Hacker continued, as he expertly maneuvered the vehicle out of what Angie thought was far too small a parking place. “But it^’s great for the kind of work I do and for getting around in the backcountry.” He paused and looked questioningly at Angie. “You’re sure it’s all right to leave your car here on the street like this? It wouldn’t be any trouble to drop it off at your house.”

Angie wasn’t at all sure she wanted Dennis Hacker to know where she lived. “Oh, no,” she said lightly. “It’ll be fine right here.”

As they drove out of town, Dennis kept up an easy line of patter, telling Angie about his five years of working almost exclusively with parrots and reintroducing them to former hab­itats in the Southwest.

“The parrots are usually fine,” he told her. “It’s people who cause problems. That’s where I am now, over in the Pelon­cillos. Before I bring in any birds, I have to negotiate a peace treaty with the local ranchers and the environmentalists both. The odd thing about the Peloncillos is that it seems to be one of the few places in Arizona where those two opposing sides are starting to work together. Just because they evidently have a jaguar or two down there now, though, doesn’t mean they’ll let my parrots in.”

“What could the ranchers possibly have against a few parrots?” Angie asked.

Hacker shrugged. “There’s always the concern that as soon as the birds show up, someone will pull some endangered species stunt that will also endanger the ranchers’ time-hon­ored grazing rights. Believe me,” he added, “when cowmen and tree huggers go to war, it’s easy for a guy like me to get caught in the middle and end up wearing a bullet in my chest.”

“A real bullet?” Angie asked nervously.

Dennis Hacker’s answering smile didn’t hold much humor. “Unfortunately, yes.”

He went on to tell Angie how his grandmother’s interest in birds had been passed on to him. Leaning back in the upright seat, Angie was happy to listen. Only when Dennis Hacker’s story ran down and he began to ask questions about her own background did Angie Kellogg grow uneasy once more.

“Where did you go to school?” he asked.

She knew this incredibly intelligent man had attended Cambridge University in England before coming to the United States and picking up graduate degrees in zoology from both Stanford and UCLA. Angie was a high school dropout. Since leaving school, what education she had achieved had come through reading books.

“Ann Arbor,” she said.

“What did you study?”

Angie lost it then. For a moment she could think of nothing to say. “Education,” she managed finally.

“Why are you a barmaid, then?” he asked.

“I tried teaching but I didn’t like it,” she said lamely.

She was relieved when the conversation wandered back to birds once more, with Dennis telling her about the wonderful displays at the Arizona/Sonora Desert Museum up in Tucson, especially the hummingbird compound. “It’s a shame you haven’t been there yet. Maybe that’s where we should go next. I’d love to take you.”

With lightning flickering far to the south, they left Douglas on what Dennis explained was the Old Geronimo Trail. “That’s where he surrendered, you know,” Dennis told her.

“Where who surrendered?”

“Geronimo,” he said. “That famous old Apache chief. He surrendered in Skeleton Canyon, just down the mountain from where we’ll be watching the hummingbirds.”

Dennis Hacker’s travelogue continued as they drove east. Angie was feeling at ease when the Hummer turned off one dirt road, bounced past something that looked like a walled-in cemetery, and came to rest beside a small, two-wheeled camper/trailer.

“What’s this?” she asked suddenly wary as Dennis switched the motor.

“Home sweet home for the next little while,” he answered cheerfully. “Come on in. It’s time for breakfast.”

“But I thought we were going on a picnic,” Angie objected. They were miles into the wilderness. Since leaving Douglas an hour earlier they hadn’t seen a single other vehicle. Dennis Hacker seemed nice enough, but the idea of going into this house with him alone ...

He came around to Angie’s side of the Hummer, opened the door, and then held out a hand to help her down. “There’s plenty of time for us to eat before we head up the mountain. Besides, I can fix a much better breakfast here than I can over a campfire. It also means we won’t have to carry food and cooking utensils in our packs. Come on.”

Hacker’s gentlemanly gesture of extending his hand didn’t leave Angie much choice. Feeling trapped and scared and wishing she hadn’t come, she allowed herself to be led toward the trailer. There was no telling what he could do to her alone out here in the wilderness like this. Angie Kellogg had been with some pretty scary guys in her days as a hooker, but she had always been on her own turf in the city. If one of the johns or a pimp came after her there, all she’d had to do was run outside, screaming for help and knowing that, eventually, help would come. Here there was no one. If Hacker turned on her, what would she do?

Angie looked longingly back at the road, back the way they’d just come, but Dennis Hacker didn’t relinquish her hand. “That’s Cottonwood Creek Cemetery over there,” he said, leading her forward. “It’s an interesting place, but there’s not much to see in the dark. I’ll take you there later, after we come down the mountain. Here’s the step. Be careful.”

Opening the door with one hand, he guided her up a wooden stair. “Stay right here until I turn on the light.”

The light turned out to be a butane-fueled light fixture that hung over a tiny kitchen table. “Sit,” he told her. “As you can see, this place is too small for two people to stand at once, so if you’ll sit and supervise, I’ll cook.”

Angie eased herself into the little breakfast nook and peered around. The place was indeed tiny, but it was also neat as a pin. As she sat down, she caught a glimpse of a well-made bed in a loft tucked up over a built-in desk. The paneled walls glowed warm and golden in the softly hissing light.

“How do bacon and eggs sound?” he was asking. “And do you prefer coffee or tea? I’ve become Americanized enough that I drink coffee most of the time, but I still like to have a nice cup of tea first thing in the morning.”

“Tea will be fine,” Angie managed.

Watching as he bustled around the trailer—getting out pots and pans, setting a pot of water to boil—Angie noticed that Dennis was so tall he had to stand with his neck bent to keep from bumping his head on the ceiling. “Doesn’t that bother you?^” she asked. “Having to hold your head that way?”

He shrugged. “I’m used to it. In order to get a higher ceiling, I would have had to go for a bigger caravan—”

“Caravan,” Angie interrupted with a frown. “What’s that?”

Hacker stopped peeling potatoes long enough to grin at her. “Sorry. I mean trailer. That’s what you Yanks call them. This one happens to suit me. The short wheelbase makes it possible for me to take it almost anywhere I want to go.”

Within minutes, Angie was enjoying the delicious aroma of frying bacon and sipping strong, hot tea from a beautifully delicate bone china cup and saucer. The pattern on the cup showed a long-legged blue bird standing, regal and serene, among exquisitely painted pink and orange flowers. When her bacon, eggs, and hash browns (homemade, from scratch) showed up a little later, the food was arranged on matching and equally beautiful crane-decorated plates. The silverware was a mismatched jumble, but the dishes themselves were ele­gant and beautiful.

“Where did you get this wonderful china?” Angie asked.

Dennis Hacker smiled. “It’s called Kutani Crane,” he told her. “It’s Wedgwood. The set was a gift from my grandmother. Sort of a congratulatory gift for getting this job. It meant I didn’t have to go back home and sign up to work in my fa­ther’s shipping business.”

“Your grandmother must have chosen that pattern because she knew you liked birds,” Angie said. “That was thoughtful of her.”

Dennis laughed out loud. “No,” he said. “Grandmum chose it because she likes birds. Remember who got me interested in birds in the first place. Come on now. Eat up. It’s getting late. We’ll need to hit the trail pretty soon. I’ll just leave the dishes in the sink and do them when we get back.”

They were almost ready to leave when a phone rang. “A phone?” Angie asked in surprise when she heard it ringing.

Dennis nodded apologetically. “Sorry,” he said. “Speak of the devil. That’s probably Grandmother right now. She’s never quite gotten the hang of the time change. She usually rings up early Sunday mornings before I go out to take care of the birds. She likes to keep tabs on me.”

Angie tried not to listen as Dennis chatted with his grandmother. The idea of someone calling all the way from England to visit on the phone with someone sitting in a camper parked in the middle of nowhere in the Arizona desert seemed strange to her. But then, the things Angie Kellogg did would probably seem strange to most other people, too.

While Dennis was busy talking, Angie contented herself with examining an old framed but faded photo hanging on the wall between the table and the desk. In brown and sepia-tinged tones, it showed an endless line of hundreds of men dressed in heavy winter gear and loaded with huge packs climbing what appeared to be an almost vertical snow-covered mountain.

“My great-grandfather took that,” Dennis explained when he got off the phone. “It’s called Climbing Chilcoot Pass.” He took the picture off the wall and handed it over to Angie so she could examine it more closely.

“Where’s Chilcoot Pass?” she asked.

“Alaska. These guys were all part of the Klondike Gold Rush. The shortest way to get from the States to the gold in Yukon Territory was over this mountain pass from Skagway, then down Lake Bennett and the Yukon River both.”

“They look like ants,” Angie said. “How come they’re all carrying so much stuff?”

“The Canadian authorities were worried that the miners were totally unprepared for the hardships of a Yukon winter. They didn’t want half of them dying of hunger, so they sent Mounties out to patrol the border and make sure no one crossed into Canada without at least a year’s worth of sup­plies—literally, a ton of supplies per man. That’s what these guys are doing—hauling their supplies up and over the moun­tains in hopes of striking it rich.”

“Did he?” Angie asked, handing the picture back. “Your great-grandfather, I mean. Did he strike it rich?”

“In a manner of speaking, he did,” Dennis said. “He’d always been something of a black sheep—an adventurer. Over the years, this particular picture has actually made him famous in some quarters. But the Yukon got to him in the process, made him a believer. He lost all of his grubstake and most of his toes before he finally wrote home and asked for help. His father paid for his return passage to England. In exchange, he had to shape up and go into the family business the way ev­eryone thought he should have done in the first place.”

Dennis stopped and glanced at his watch. “Come on now,” he said. “It is getting late.”

Outside, the sky was just beginning to lighten into a pale gray. Once again, Dennis handed Angie up into the vehicle, closing the door behind her the way a gentleman might treat a lady or like someone handling one of those delicate bone china cups back inside the trailer.

For Angie, who had never before experienced that kind of treatment, it was a strange sensation. It made her feel all funny—both good and bad at the same time—as though she didn’t quite deserve it. Still, she was gratified to realize that, despite all her worries beforehand, nothing at all had hap­pened. She and Dennis Hacker had eaten breakfast together and enjoyed it. The food had been delicious and the conversa­tion fun. He hadn’t made a pass at her. Hadn’t tried to get her into bed. In fact, there hadn’t been a single off-color remark. In her whole life, Angie Kellogg never remembered having quite such a wonderful time.

“With all this cloud cover, it should be a glorious sunrise,” Dennis told her. “And just wait till you see all those hummingbirds. They’re unbelievable.”

The red Miata convertible came screaming down Highway 80, ignoring the speed signs, almost missing the curve. Joanna, merging into traffic from the downtown area of Old Bisbee, switched on her lights and siren and fell in behind the other car.

In actual fact, that part of Highway 80 was inside the Bisbee city limits and, as such, outside the jurisdiction of the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department. Since this was a dream, however, jurisdictional boundaries didn’t apply. In real life, Sheriff Jo­anna Brady had never once made a traffic stop, but in the dream landscape, that didn’t matter, either.

“Pull over,” she announced in a voice that reverberated as though being broadcast through a huge megaphone. “Pull over and step out of your vehicle.”

Ignoring the order, the driver of the Miata shot forward, racing down the grade onto the long flat stretch of highway that runs along the edge of Lavender Pit. Generations of speeding drivers have given that part of Highway 80 the unofficial name of Citation Avenue. The driver of the speeding convert­ible seemed determined to do her part to help maintain the legend, but Joanna wasn’t about to be outdone. This was hot pursuit, and she was determined to pull over the speeding motorist.

With Joanna’s Crown Victoria right on the Miata’s back bumper, they raced down through the back side of Lowell and then onto the traffic circle. Around and around they went, time and again. Suddenly, for no apparent reason, the Miata simply stopped. As Joanna approached the vehicle, weapon in hand, the driver’s side door popped open and a woman stepped out. She was tall and blond, wearing a miniskirt and a pair of impossibly high heels.

“Hands on your head,” Joanna ordered.

“You can’t do this to me, Joanna Brady,” Rowena Sharp Bonham screeched. “You can’t pull me over like a common criminal. I won’t stand for it. I wasn’t doing anything wrong.”

“Yes, you were,” Joanna told her calmly. “You were cheating.”

She woke up then, laughing. For a moment she was disori­ented by waking up outside the house rather than in her own bedroom, but that momentary jar gave way to a feeling of well-being. Mourning doves cooed their early morning wake-up calls. Across the Sulphur Springs Valley, dawn was tinging the sky a vivid orange. But something was different.

For weeks now, clouds had drifted up from the south each afternoon, bringing with them the tantalizing promise of much-needed rain. By morning they would retreat back into the interior of Mexico without leaving behind a trace of mois­ture. This time, though, the clouds were still there, billowing up in tall, puffy columns above the far horizon. From miles away across the thirsty desert came the welcome scent of an approaching storm.

Joanna had grown to adulthood with a desert dweller’s un­bridled delight in the prospect of a summer rainstorm. What she wanted to do more than anything that morning was to sit on her porch and watch the storm build. She wanted to track the wind and surging clouds of dust as they marched across the desert just ahead of the rain. She wanted to sit back and watch jagged flashes of lightning electrify the entire sky, and to listen to the rolling drums of thunder, but first, she wanted to make a pot of coffee and read the Sunday paper. In order to do that, she’d have to collect the paper from the tube down by the cattle guard.

She went inside. The house had been dreadfully hot when she came home the night before. To counteract the heat, she had left the swamp cooler running all night long. Overnight, both indoor and outdoor temperatures had dropped enough that now the house seemed almost chilly. The first thing she did was switch off the cooler. As soon as she did so, she was startled by how quiet it was. Far too quiet.

Don’t stand around dwelling on it, she told herself firmly. Do something.

Throwing on a pair of jeans and one of Andy’s old khaki shirts, she hurried into the kitchen to start the coffee. Then, after stuffing a carrot into her pocket and with both dogs trail­ing eagerly behind, she walked out to the corral.

In the last few months, since Bucky Buckwalter’s horse Kiddo had come to live on High Lonesome Ranch, one of Jen­ny’s weekend duties had been to ride the horse down to the end of the road to bring back the Sunday paper. Before Kiddo’s arrival on the scene, Joanna herself would have driven down in the Eagle. This morning, while water dripped through the grounds in the coffeemaker, Joanna decided to take the horse herself and go get her newspaper.

As soon as the nine-year-old sorrel gelding heard the back door slam shut, he came to the side of the corral and peered eagerly over the fence. Ears up, whickering, and stamping his hooves, he shook his blond mane impatiently while Joanna stopped in the tack room long enough to collect a bridle. When she came into the corral, Kiddo gobbled the carrot and ac­cepted the bridle without complaint.

“I’ll bet you miss Jenny, too, don’t you?” Joanna said sooth­ingly, scratching the horse’s soft muzzle once the bridle was in place. “That makes four of us.”

Joanna had worried initially that Kiddo would be too much horse for Jenny to handle, but the two of them—horse and child—had become great friends. Jenny had taken to riding with an ease that had surprised everyone, including her mother. She preferred riding bareback whenever possible. Girl and horse—both with matching blond tresses flowing in the wind—made a captivating picture.

Joanna herself was a reasonably capable rider. For this early morning jaunt down to the cattle guard, she too rode bareback. The sun was well up by then. On the way there, she held Kiddo to a sedate walk, enjoying the quiet, reading the tracks overnight visitors had layered into the roadway over the marks of her tires from the night before. A small herd of delicately hoofed javelina—five or six of them—had wandered down from the hills, following the sandy bed of a dry wash. In one spot Joanna spied the telltale path left behind by a long-gone sidewinder. There were paw prints left by a solitary coyote. She saw the distinctive scratchings of a covey of quail as well as the prints of some other reasonably large bird, most likely a roadrunner.

Butch Dixon—a city slicker from Chicago—had come to visit the High Lonesome and had marveled at how empty it was.

It isn’t empty at all, Joanna thought. I have all kinds of nearby neighbors. It’s just that none of them happen to be human.

Coming back from the gate, with the folded newspaper safely stowed under her shirt, Joanna gave Kiddo his head. They thundered back down the road with the wind rushing into Joanna’s face. It was an exhilarating way to start the morning.

No wonder Jenny liked Kiddo so much. It was almost like magic. On the back of a galloping horse it was impossible for Joanna Brady to remember to be sad.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Angie and Dennis arrived in the meadow off the south fork of Skeleton Canyon just as the sun came up. Settling into a rocky cleft, Dennis reached into his backpack and pulled out two pairs of powerful binoculars, one of which he handed to Angie. “There’s no real trick to this,” he said. “You just have to be patient. They’ll show up eventually.”

As promised, the hummingbirds appeared half an hour later. There they were, hundreds of them, hovering in vivid color against an overcast sky. “The dark green ones with the black bills are Magnificent Hummingbirds or Eugenes fulgens,” Den­nis explained. “The lighter greens—chartreuse almost with the orange bills—are called Broad-billed or Cynanthus latinostris. The ones with distinct red caps are male Anna’s—Calypte anna.”

Enchanted but also self-conscious that he knew so much more than she did, Angie held the binoculars glued to her eyes. “And the ones with the purple throats?” she asked.

“Male Lucifers—Calothorax Lucifer. I spotted some Black‑chinned in here the other day, but I don’t see any of them now.

Angie watched until her arms grew tired of holding the binoculars. When she took them down, she was surprised to find Dennis Hacker looking at her rather than the birds. Nervously, she cast around for something to say. “It doesn’t seem fair that the males are always so much prettier than the females,” she said.

“That may be true for birds,” Dennis told her, “but it cer­tainly isn’t true of humans.”

Embarrassed, Angie looked back at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

He grinned. “It means you’re beautiful,” he said. “You’re willing to hike a mile and a half uphill to watch birds at six o’clock in the morning. You’re interested in my parrot project. What else is there? I think I’m in love.”

Not knowing how to reply, Angie put the binoculars back to her eyes and said nothing.

“I’m serious, you know,” Hacker continued. “I told my par­ents once that I was going to marry the first woman I ever found who was as interested in birds as I am.”

In the few hours they had spent together, Angie had found Dennis Hacker to be pleasantly likeable, but she could tell from the way he spoke that he was serious. There was no point in letting things go any further.

“Look,” she said, “this is silly. You don’t know anything about me.”

“But I do. You’re a hard worker. You’re kind to old drunks. You’re a woman of your word. All day long yesterday, I was afraid you’d stand me up.”

Angie smiled. “I almost did,” she said.

“But the point is, you didn’t. You’re here. Maybe you don’t believe in love at first sight, but I do.”

That was it. “Look,” she said forcibly, “you think I’m a woman of my word, but I already lied to you. When you asked where I went to school, I know you meant where did I go to college. I’ve never even been to Ann Arbor. I went to high school in a place called Battle Creek, but I didn’t graduate. When I ran away from home, I took the name Kellogg after the factory my father worked in back home. I don’t have a degree in teaching. I’m an ex-hooker. The job in the Blue Moon as a bartender is the first real job I’ve ever had.”

Not knowing what kind of reaction to expect, she stopped and waited. It wasn’t long in coming. A grin creased Dennis Hacker’s face. “You’re kidding!”

“I’m not.”

Angie Kellogg couldn’t possibly have anticipated what hap­pened next. Dennis’s initial grin dissolved into gales of laughter. He laughed until the tears rolled down his cheeks and he had to hold his sides. “That’s the funniest thing I’ve ever heard,” he gasped at last.

But Angie didn’t think it was funny. She put down the bin-oculars and stood up.

“Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Come on, Angie. Let me explain.”

Angie Kellogg wasn’t interested in explanations. Without a glance over her shoulder, she bolted away from him, heading back down the mountain the way they had come. Dennis, shaking his head and still chuckling, took his time packing up. He returned the two pair of binoculars to their separate cases and then put them and the bottled water he’d brought along back in his backpack. He had no doubt that he’d meet up with Angie back at the truck. Once she realized what he was laugh­ing about, Dennis knew it would be all right.

Hefting the pack onto his back, he started after her. On the way up, he had followed a meandering path that had kept the rise in elevation from being quite so steep. For going back down, though, and because he wanted to reach the Hummer about the same time Angie did, he set off straight down the mountain.

Which was how, half an hour later, Dennis Hacker stumbled onto the wrecked remains of a smashed red pickup.

After rubbing Kiddo down, feeding him, and returning him to the corral, Joanna went back to the house. By then the coffee was ready. She poured herself a cup and was headed for the porch when the phone rang.

“Sheriff Brady?” Tica Romero, one of the departmental dis­patchers, was on the phone. “We’ve got a problem.” “What’s that?”

“A one-car fatality rollover has just been reported in the Peloncillos. Off the road up in Skeleton Canyon. A hiker reported the incident. Called it in on his cell phone. At least one person is dead, but it’s pretty rough country. There could be more bodies and they just haven’t found them yet. The guy who found it gave me a description and a license number.”

“And?”

“I thought you’d want to know right away. It’s a red Toyota Tacoma,” Tica replied. “Registered under the name of David O’Brien. Isn’t that the missing person case—”

“Yes, it is,” Joanna interrupted. “Any ID on the victim?”

“Not so far. The body must have been thrown free in the accident. The vehicle fell on top of it. There won’t be any way to tell exactly what’s underneath until we get a tow truck in there to move the vehicle.”

Joanna’s throat constricted. Her right hand shook so badly that she had to put down her coffee cup in order to keep from spilling it. The O’Briens’ worst fears and Joanna’s niggling premonition were both coming true. Brianna O’Brien was dead, but there could be no notification made to the parents waiting at Green Brush Ranch until after the sheriff’s department had some additional confirmation.

Joanna turned at once to the enlarged map of Cochise County that she had tacked to the wall over her living room phone. There were two forks to Skeleton Canyon. The south fork ran virtually north and south and was entirely inside Cochise County. The north fork ran east and west and crossed over into New Mexico.

“You’re sure this is our deal and not Sheriff Trotter’s over in New Mexico?” Joanna asked. She couldn’t help hoping the wrecked truck would end up being someone else’s problem instead of hers.

“It’s ours, all right,” Tica answered. “It’s the south fork, not the north. And the truck isn’t all,” she continued. “Mr. Hacker says—^”

“Mr. Hacker?” Joanna asked. “You mean Dennis Hacker, the parrot guy?”

“I don’t know anything about parrots, but that’s the name he gave. Dennis Hacker. Do you know him?”

“Yes. What does he say?”

“That one of your friends is missing up there as well. Her name is Angie Kellogg. Hacker says that in all the confusion of finding and reporting the accident, she wandered off some place by herself. He says she’s out there alone without any food or water. He’s asking for help organizing a search party.”

Angie missing? Joanna wondered. How could that be? With a sinking feeling, she remembered her conversation with Angie the night before—remembered how Angie had been concerned about going on what had essentially been a bird-watching blind date. Joanna also remembered all too clearly that she, Joanna, had been the one who had urged Angie to put her concerns aside and go.

“Tica,” Joanna said, “can you patch me through to Mr. Hacker? I want to talk to him.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff Brady. Hang on.”

“Mr. Hacker,” Joanna said seconds later, “this is Sheriff Brady. What’s happening?”

“Angie disappeared,” he said.

“How did the two of you get separated?”

“We had a little misunderstanding,” Hacker said. “She took off. I discovered the wreck while I was following her back down the mountain. I thought for sure she’d go straight back to the truck, but I’m here now, and there’s no sign of her. She isn’t here and hasn’t been, as far as I can tell. I tried to back-track up the trail. She must have missed one of the turns along the way.”

Misunderstanding, Joanna thought grimly. Right.

“So where are you now?”

“At the north entrance to Skeleton Canyon. The one off Highway 80.”

“And where’s the wrecked truck?”

“Just below the ridge between Hog Canyon and the south fork of Skeleton.”

“Can we get a wrecker to it?”

“It won’t be easy. It’s twenty yards off the nearest trail in strictly four-wheel-drive terrain. It’s going to be bad enough just getting the body out, to say nothing of the wrecked pickup. What about Angie, though? Will you notify Search and Rescue? From what Angie told me, I don’t think she’s ever been out in the mountains by herself before. I’m afraid—”

“Exactly how long has she been gone?” Joanna interrupted.

“An hour now, maybe more.”

“Just hold on, Mr. Hacker. I know Angie Kellogg personally. She’s a friend of mine, and one thing I can tell you about her is that she’s got plenty of common sense. We’ve got people on the way. There’ll be sirens and lots of noise out there. I’m sure she’ll be able to follow the sounds and find her way back down the mountain.”

“But...”

“No buts. I’m on my way myself. I’ll be there as soon as I can. You wait right where you are so you can guide us in when we get there.”

Joanna ended the call and then immediately dialed back to the department and shifted into an all-business mode. “Tica,” she said, once the dispatcher was on the phone, “who all have you called?”

“You were number one,” Tica answered. “That’s the stand­ing order. The detectives are next, and then Dr. Winfield.” George Winfield was Cochise County’s newly appointed coroner.

“What about Dick Voland?” Joanna asked.

“I can call him, but are you sure you want me to? He’s supposed to be off today unless there’s some kind of real emergency. I think he has tickets to take his boys up to Tucson for a Toros game this afternoon.”

“Don’t bother him, then,” Joanna answered. “You notify the detectives. I’ll call Doc Winfield. I have both his home and work numbers programmed into my phone. If I call him instead of having you do it, it’ll save time.”

After punching the proper number, Joanna waited through the automated dialing sequence and two rings.

“Hello.”

Joanna had expected a male voice to answer, but the person speaking into the phone was definitely not Doc Winfield. In fact, the woman who answered sounded very much like Joan­na’s mother, but that couldn’t be.

Quickly, without saying anything, Joanna disconnected the call. Of course, Eleanor’s number, along with several others, was also programmed into the phone. Maybe Joanna had sim­ply punched the wrong button, although that seemed unlikely. She tried again, this time taking special care to punch the right one—George Winfield’s nine rather than Eleanor’s five.

“Hello,” Eleanor Lathrop answered again, a bit more forcefully this time.

“Mother?” Joanna asked. “Is that you?”

“Of course it’s me,” Eleanor said. “Who else would you be calling at this ungodly hour of the morning? The phone rang a minute or so ago, but no one was there when I answered. Was that you, too?”

“Mother,” Joanna interrupted, “I wasn’t calling you. I was trying to reach George Winfield. What are you doing at his house at seven o’clock on a Sunday morning?”

“I’m not at George’s house,” Eleanor returned stiffly. “I’m right here in my own bed trying to catch up on my beauty sleep.”

“But I dialed George’s number and got you. Twice,” Joanna pointed out.

“Oh, that,” Eleanor said. “I see. Well, he must have forwarded his calls here, then. He does that sometimes in case someone needs to get hold of him.”

Joanna took a deep breath. “I think this is one of those times. You’d better put him on.”

Dr. George Winfield was a relative newcomer to town. An attractive widower from Minnesota, he had somehow managed to hook up with Eleanor Lathrop within months of arriving in Bisbee. Joanna knew the two of them had been going out to­gether for some time, but she couldn’t quite imagine her strait-laced mother actually allowing a man to spend the night in her home. It was hard enough for Joanna to picture George Winfield in her mother’s life. To imagine him now in Eleanor’s cozy little house on Campbell Avenue and in the double bed that had once belonged to both Joanna’s parents was unthinkable.

Still, she had no choice when George’s sleep-distorted voice came on the phone. “Hello? Joanna? What’s up?”

For a moment she couldn’t answer. Joanna had lectured her-self on the subject more than once. It shouldn’t have been that big a deal. Eleanor Lathrop had been widowed for a long time. After being left to raise a sometimes difficult and headstrong teenager, she certainly deserved to find some personal happi­ness. And George seemed nice enough. There was no logical reason why Eleanor’s resumption of dating should have thrown her daughter for such a loop, but it had. And, months later, it continued to do so. No matter how hard Joanna tried, she still couldn’t get over or around her own personal objec­tions. Was it a matter of not being able to accept her mother as a sexual being? Or, on a far more basic level, was it nothing but jealousy?

“Joanna?” George repeated. “What’s going on?”

“There’s been a car wreck up in Skeleton Canyon,” Joanna said. “A pickup truck. According to the guy on the scene there’s at least one body trapped under it, maybe more.”

“Where the hell is Skeleton Canyon?” George Winfield de­manded. “Is that a real place, or did you make it up?”

Joanna thought about the complications of trying to explain to a newcomer how to find the entrance to Skeleton Canyon or even how to get to the Peloncillos themselves. She also thought about what Dennis Hacker had said about the rugged terrain. The coroner’s official vehicle was nothing more than a modified hearse. That wouldn’t cut it.

“Skeleton Canyon is real enough, but I’m not going to try to give you directions over the phone. Meet me at the Double Adobe turnoff on Highway 80 just as soon as you can. I’ll drive you there. That’ll be easier for all concerned.”

“All right,” George said. “But I’ll need to jump in the shower first.”

“Fine,” Joanna said impatiently. “I’ll shower, too. But meet me as soon as you can. And bring your hiking boots.”

“Hiking boots? Why?”

“Because the body’s twenty yards off the nearest trail down a mountainside,” Joanna said. “We’ll most likely have to do some hiking.”

“Thanks for the warning,” George said. “I’ll have to do the best I can.”

Abandoning her now-cold cup of coffee, Joanna headed for the shower herself. Minutes later, with her hair still damp, and dressed in boots and hiking attire, she headed outside and stopped cold in front of the Crown Victoria. The low-slung patrol car wouldn’t cut it in Skeleton Canyon any better than George Winfield’s hearse.

Unlocking it, she picked up the radio. “I’m going to be out of radio contact,” she told Tica Romero. “I’ll be in my Eagle. It doesn’t have a radio or air-conditioning, but at least it has four-wheel drive.” She was about to end the contact when she remembered it was Sunday.

“When you have a chance, Tica, I’ll need you to call a few people for me. My in-laws are expecting me to drop by after church for dinner. I’ll need you to let Jim Bob and Eva Lou know I most likely won’t make it.”

“And the other call?”

“Make that one to Reverend Marianne Maculyea of Canyon Methodist Church,” Joanna said. “Tell her I won’t be coming to Sunday school or church today. Let her know why. Mari’s a friend of Angie Kellogg’s, too. She and Jeff will both want to know what’s going on.”

Joanna had barely stopped the Eagle on the shoulder of Highway 80 when Ernie Carpenter’s van went flying by. Fifty yards down the road, it almost stood on its nose as Jaime Carbajal, driving in Ernie’s stead, jammed on the brakes. Pull­ing a quick U-turn, the van came back to the spot where Jo­anna was parked. After yet another U-turn, the van pulled in behind the Eagle, and both detectives climbed out. For a change, even the usually dapper Carpenter was already dressed down to crime scene-appropriate attire.

“What gives, Sheriff Brady? Do you need help?”

Joanna shook her head. “I’m waiting for George Winfield. He’s still a little short when it comes to Cochise County geog­raphy. I wasn’t sure he could find his way to Skeleton Canyon on his own.”

Ernie nodded. “The guy’s still pretty much of a greenhorn. I hope he gets a move on, though. Looking at those clouds over there, we may not have much time.”

“You two go on,” Joanna told them. “Winfield and I will be along as soon as we can.”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Sheriff Brady?” Ernie asked. “Tica told us about Angie Kellogg being missing as well. I know she’s a friend of yours.”

“Thanks, Ernie,” she said. “I’m okay and I’m sure Angie will be fine. She’ll find her way out. Once you get out there, though, you might want to turn on your siren. It’ll make it easier for her to know where you are.”

“Right,” Ernie said. “Will do.”

The two detectives started away. “Detective Carbajal?” Jo­anna called after them.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Remember,” she said, leveling a reproving look in his di­rection, “sirens yes, but whoever was in that pickup is already dead. You’re not out to set land speed records here. This isn’t a hot pursuit situation, and I don’t want it treated as such.”

With a meaningful glance at Ernie, who had no doubt been urging him on, Jaime nodded. “Right, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I’ll be sure to slow it down.”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Ernie and Jaime had just pulled away when George Winfield arrived in the converted hearse that doubled as his coroner’s wagon. When George walked up to the window of Joanna’s Eagle, he was carrying an Arizona map that he had unfolded and was holding at arm’s length. His left cheek bore a faint smudge of lipstick that was, no doubt, Eleanor’s.

“Ellie says Skeleton Canyon is somewhere over here in the Pelon . . .” He paused. “How do you say it? The Pelonsillios?”

He pronounced the word in true gringo fashion with the word silly taking the place of the two silent l’s. The sound of it grated on Joanna’s ear. So did his use of Joanna’s father’s pet name for her mother. The lipstick didn’t help.

“It’s Spanish,” she explained, without bothering to cover up her irritation. “That means you don’t pronounce the double 1. It’s Pelon-si-yos.”

George shook his head. “I’ll never be able to say all these god-awful Spanish and Indian words. Whatever happened to good old American English?”

“You mean like Minnesota?” Joanna asked testily. “Or maybe Illinois?”

Realizing he had stepped in something but unsure what it was, Winfield regarded her warily. “I guess we’d better get started.”

“I guess we’d better,” Joanna said.

Winfield went back to the hearse and removed a heavy leather satchel, which he lugged over and loaded into the back of the Eagle. By the time he climbed into the rider’s seat, Jo­anna already had the engine running.

The turnoff to the north entrance of Skeleton Canyon was at a crossroads presuming to be a village that called itself Apache. From Double Adobe Road to the turnoff was a good fifty-five miles. The drive took them east across the southern end of the Sulphur Springs Valley and then north through the San Bernardino Valley. Most of the time on a drive like this, Joanna would have been frustrated by the vastness of her juris­dictional boundaries. Six thousand two hundred and forty square miles was a big area to cover, but today the miles flew past far too fast for her to even think about it.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, Joanna was thinking not only about the tragedy of Brianna O’Brien’s death, but also about her own culpability with regard to whatever was going on with Angie Kellogg. Joanna had thought Dennis Hacker was inviting Angie on a harmless, old-fashioned date—the kind of innocent, hand-holding thing old people sometimes use to re-gale their kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Wrong. Not in this case.

Joanna knew something about the abuse Angie Kellogg had endured as a child. And she knew a little about her life as a prostitute in L.A. It was hardly surprising that someone with her background would worry that maybe the Bird Man’s inten­tions weren’t all they were cracked up to be—that he was interested in something besides hummingbirds. Considering what had happened, Joanna had little doubt who had been right and who had been wrong.

Thinking about the realities of Angie out walking around, unprepared, in the wild, rock-strewn landscape that made up the Peloncillos, Joanna glanced at Doc Winfield’s feet. Despite her warning advice, he was nonetheless wearing a pair of thin-soled, highly polished loafers.

“Are those the only shoes you have along?” she asked.

“Unfortunately yes,” he said. “I’m not much for hiking. I haven’t quite gotten around to buying any hiking boots yet.”

“What about water?” she asked. “I don’t suppose you brought along any of that, either.”

“I brought along my crime scene kit.”

“But no water to drink?”

“No.”

Joanna sighed. “That’s all right. I have two canteens in the back. I’ll give you one to use. That’s what happens to city slickers when you turn them loose in the desert. If you don’t watch them every minute, pretty soon they turn themselves into potato chips. When you’re working out in the sun, espe­cially with the humidity going up like it is right now, heat-stroke can sneak up and catch you unawares.”

“Is that why they call the place we’re going to Skeleton Canyon?” Winfield asked. “Because people died out there?” Joanna nodded.

“Of thirst?”

“They were mostly murdered,^” Joanna answered. “You ever hear of the Clanton gang?”

“As in Wyatt Earp?”

“Before they tangled with him, the Clantons ambushed a band of Mexican gold smugglers here in the Peloncillos. According to legend, the Clantons made off with a shipment of stolen gold, only to be caught by the survivors a few miles away. In the ensuing fight, a few more people died and the gold disappeared. It’s still supposed to be out there somewhere.”

“Amazing,” George Winfield murmured.

“The Peloncillos have always been a haven for smugglers. It’s a mountain range that’s almost impossible to patrol. The Baker Wilderness Area, between Skeleton Canyon and the in­ternational border, is supposed to be closed to vehicular traffic. Unfortunately, smugglers don’t necessarily pay any attention to the edicts of the Environmental Protection Agency or the U.S. Forest Service.”

“Amazing,” George Winfield said again, settling back in his seat and staring out the window at a landscape that was waist-high in yellow grass. “I can’t believe I’m living in a place where those names are part of history and not just something that used to turn up in Saturday matinees. Coming here I thought this would all be real desert, maybe even sand dunes. This almost looks like wheat.”

Joanna considered explaining to him how Anglos had en­couraged the spread of mesquite, which had killed off the na­tive grasses, but she let it go. Let him learn some of that stuff on his own, she thought.

They drove in silence for several more miles before George spoke again, clearing his throat as he did so. “By the way, Joanna, has Ellie said much of anything to you about . . .” He paused. “Well, about us,” he finished lamely.

There he was, using the name Ellie again to bring up a topic Joanna wasn’t at all eager to discuss. “Not really,” she returned coolly. “Why?”

“She hasn’t happened to mention that we’re . . . er . . married?”

Joanna turned to look at him and in the process ran the right-hand tires onto the shoulder of the road. She had to struggle with the steering wheel for a moment before the Eagle returned to the sun-cracked pavement.

“Married?” she demanded, her face pale. “You can’t be serious!^”

George shook his head. “I wouldn’t kid around about some-thing like this. I’ve been telling her for weeks now that she needed to let you know. In case you haven’t noticed, your mother’s a little stubborn. We eloped, Joanna. Last month. We got married in a little chapel up in Vegas. I’ve booked an Alaskan cruise for our honeymoon in August. I wanted you to know about it before then.”

Joanna couldn’t think of a single word to say in reply. George hurried on. “I hope you’re not too shocked. At our ages, you know, it’s hard to tell how much time we have. And your mother and I are just alike. High-fidelity and low-frequency, if you know what I mean.”

He chuckled at his own joke and then looked at Joanna to see if she was laughing. She wasn’t. They were approaching the turnoff to Skeleton Canyon. With her chin set and her eyes staring straight ahead, Joanna jammed on the brakes. She swung the Eagle onto the gravel road with such force that, had George Winfield not been wearing his seat belt, he would have come sliding into her lap.

“I guess you’re a little angry about this,” he murmured a little later.

“Angry?” Joanna repeated. “Whatever makes you think that?”

“I suppose that’s why Ellie was so reluctant to tell you in the first place. She was afraid you’d react this way.”

In front of them a trio of three black-tailed deer gracefully leaped across the sandy track, clearing the barbed-wire fences on both sides as though they didn’t exist and then disap­pearing into the waist-high grass. Seeing them gave Joanna a chance to gather her resources. The last thing she ever wanted to do was react just the way her mother said she would. If Eleanor had thought Joanna was going to be angry, then, by God, angry was the last thing she’d be!

“I’m surprised,” she said carefully. “Surprised and shocked, but not angry.”

George Winfield sighed. “That’s a relief, then,” he said. “What about your brother? What do you think he’ll say?”

Bob Brundage, Joanna’s long-lost brother, was another one of Eleanor Lathrop’s little secrets. Born out of wedlock before D.H. Lathrop and Eleanor married, Bob had been put up for adoption as an infant. Joanna had first learned of his existence at Thanksgiving the previous year, when he had tracked down his birth mother after the deaths of both his adoptive parents.

“I have no idea what Bob will say,” Joanna replied, curbing a desire to snap. “You’ll have to ask him yourself.”

“I thought we’d invite him and his wife to the reception,” George continued.

“What reception?”

“The one we’ll have when we get back from the cruise. Maybe in September sometime. That’ll be fun, don’t you think? Nothing too fancy. Maybe just a little get-together at the club-house out at Rob Roy Links. That’s where we went on our first real date, you see.”

“I’m sure it’ll be a ball,” Joanna said. “I can hardly wait.”

They came around a sharp curve where the road was blocked by a barbed-wire gate. Parked in front of the gate was a battered green Range Rover. A slender woman in a dark blue dress and wearing huge, wraparound sunglasses stood next to the vehicle, studying a map.

Joanna rolled down her window. “Excuse me,” she called. “Would you mind moving out of the way? We need to get past.”

The woman looked up. “Maybe you can help me. I’m look­ing for Skeleton Canyon, but when I came to this gate, I was afraid I had missed a turn. Am I going the right way?”

Leaving the Eagle idling, Joanna climbed out. “I’m sorry,” she said, pulling out her badge. “I’m Sheriff Brady. There’s been a serious accident up in Skeleton Canyon today. A fatal­ity. We’re expecting emergency vehicles in and out of here on this road. If you don’t mind, it would probably be better if you could postpone your visit to some other time.”

“But that’s why I’m here,” the woman replied. “Because of the accident. I heard about it on my police scanner and came straight on out.” She reached into her purse and pulled out an ID wallet of her own that she handed over to Joanna.

“Frances G. Stoddard,” the identification card said. “Private Investigator.”

Suddenly, a day Joanna Brady was convinced had already bottomed out got that much worse. “You’re David O’Brien’s private eye.”

“Bingo,” Frances Stoddard said with a smile. ^“You can call me Frankie. Everybody else does. What was your name again?”

“Brady,” Joanna said wearily. “And you can call me Sheriff.”

If Frankie Stoddard was offended by Joanna’s brusque reply, she certainly didn’t let it show. “Glad to meet you, Sheriff,” she said. “I understand you’ve been traveling in a vehicle with no radio, so you probably don’t know what’s going on.”

“What now?”

“If this is the right road, two of your officers are up ahead. Stuck in a wash. They’ve called for a wrecker to come get them out. I have a winch on the Rover. I thought if I could get up to where they are ...”

Joanna closed her eyes and shook her head. From bad to worse and worse again.

“Come on,” she said to Frankie. “If you can move your vehicle out of the way, I’ll go first. And if you can winch them out, I’ll be eternally grateful. Otherwise, we’ll be stuck here half the day without getting anywhere near where we’re supposed to be.”

At the turnoff in Apache, the road to Skeleton Canyon had been a fairly generous gravel affair that soon dwindled to dirt. On the other side of the closed gate, however, it was comprised of two rocky tracks with foot-high grass growing up in the middle. A few hundred yards beyond the gate, the road opened out again into a wide, sandy wash. Ernie Carpenter’s van sat stuck in the middle of it, mired in sand up to the hubcaps.

Ernie sat on a nearby rock, wiping the sweat off his forehead. As soon as Detective Carbajal saw Joanna, he came hur­rying up to her Eagle. “Sorry about this, Sheriff Brady,” Jaime apologized. “I thought I had enough momentum going into the wash to get us through. The sand just reached out and grabbed us.”

There was no sense in ripping into him about it. “Tell you what, Jaime,” Joanna said. “Load what you can of Ernie’s equipment into the back of this. The lady behind me, Frankie Stoddard, is a private detective working for David O’Brien. She says she has a winch, and she thinks maybe her Range Rover can haul you out of here. Meantime, I’ll take Doc Winfield and Ernie on up the line to see if we can make it to the accident scene.”

“Sure thing, Sheriff Brady,” Jaime said. “I’ll get right on it.”

Twenty minutes later, Joanna was ready to set out again with George Winfield in the front seat and with Ernie scrunched into the backseat along with as much of his equip­ment as would fit. Shifting into four-wheel drive, she negoti­ated the wash with no difficulty.

“Who was that lady?” Ernie asked again. “The one with the Range Rover?”

“Her name’s Frankie Stoddard,” Joanna answered. “She’s David O’Brien’s private eye.”

“Great,” Ernie muttered.

“That’s what I say,” Joanna said.

Angie Kellogg heard the sirens. Sitting in a thicket of mesquite, she watched the drama below. She saw an agitated Dennis Hacker bound off the hillside and into the little clearing where the Hummer was parked, saw him look around anxiously for her, heard him calling her name and talking on his cell phone, but Angie didn’t move. She was too hurt. Too angry.

It wasn^’t that she liked Dennis Hacker that much. She had seen him just the two times. What was important about him, though, was what he represented. Joanna Brady, Marianne Ma­culyea, Jeff Daniels, and Bobo Jenkins had all tried to convince Angie that she could leave her past behind and live a normal life. And it had seemed to her in the past few months that she was doing so, that she was succeeding. She had made some friends at work. At home, she was learning to deal with neigh­bors, some of whom she liked and some she didn’t.

The former included Effie Spangler, Angie’s spry, octogenar­ian neighbor, who despite her years and having a working clothes dryer in her laundry room, nevertheless preferred dry­ing her wash on a clothesline. The latter included Richard, Effie’s obnoxious husband, who always seemed to find something to do in the backyard whenever Angie was sunbathing and who never failed to complain that her bird feeders were bound to attract rats.

For Angie, there was much to be proud of. There was a normalcy and a regularity to her existence now that would have astonished her family back home in Battle Creek. Some of that normalcy included things her parents themselves had never achieved. For instance, Angie’s snug little house in Ga­lena was completely paid for. She had a job and a car and insurance premiums. She had her own driver’s license and her very own voter’s registration card. All of those achievements should have said she was real.

Yet, in spite of all that, once she told Dennis Hacker the truth, he’d had the nerve to laugh at her. That hurt like hell.

She heard him now, calling her name. “Angie, Angie. Where are you?”

I’m up here, she thought determinedly, and I’m not coming down.

From her vantage point high on the hillside, she could see north to a road—a paved highway of some kind. Every ten minutes or so a vehicle would pass slowly in one direction or the other. She knew this wasn’t the road she and Dennis had taken from Douglas early that morning because what Dennis had called Old Geronimo Trail had been dirt most of the way.

That’s what I’ll do, she told herself, watching a pickup wend its way along that same paved road. When he finally gives up and leaves, I’ll walk down there and hitchhike home.

But what would she do when she got there? Stay or go? Work her heart out to get along, knowing all the time that as soon as people knew the real story, they would reject her out of hand? What was the use of fighting it? Maybe she should leave for a while, go someplace else. She’d have to give Bobo notice, of course. Give him a chance to find someone to take her place, but that probably wouldn’t be all that hard.

Just then, with that thought barely formed in her head, she felt a whirring past her ear. A high squeak shrilled in her ear as a beautiful, multicolored Lucifer Hummingbird settled on a branch not five feet from where Angie was sitting. He was close enough that she could see the distinctive downcurved bill, the rich purple feathers on the underside of his throat, and the bronze-green hues from crown to rump. Although Angie was careful not to move, he stayed for only a few sec­onds, then he was off, buzzing down the mountainside.

It was like a fairy tale. It seemed almost as if the beautiful bird had given her permission to go. She stood up as he disap­peared from view.

“Good-bye,” she whispered aloud. “I’m leaving, too.”

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Standing on the edge of the ridge, Joanna looked down on the shattered remains of the pickup far below. It lay on its top, parallel to the road, with a spray of silvery glass shards glitter­ing around it. “Where’s the body?” she asked Dennis Hacker, who was standing beside her.

“Under the cab,” he replied. “I couldn’t see it, but I know it’s there.”

“how?” Joanna asked.

Hacker nodded skyward toward three vultures circling la­zily high overhead. “A little bird told me,” he said. “When I got closer, I could figure it out for myself.”

Joanna turned to Ernie Carpenter and George Winfield, who had been walking back and forth along the cliff, trying to de­termine exactly where Brianna had run off the edge and why. Now they stood nearby, conferring in low voices.

“No sign of braking or skidding. No sign of her meeting another vehicle and being forced off the cliff.”

“What happened, then?” George asked.

Ernie shook his head. “The only thing I can figure is she came around the rock face too close to the edge and tipped off. But if she was in four-wheel drive, with two wheels still on the track, she should have been able to correct and get back up on the trail—unless she was drunk or sound asleep, that is.”

“Who’d go to sleep driving in a place like this?” George asked, looking around. “Maybe she did it on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Ernie agreed.

“What next?” Joanna asked, inserting herself into the discussion.

“Mr. Hacker says the body is caught under the cab. If that’s the case, we may have to tip the truck over to get at it,” Ernie said.

“But won’t that run the risk of rolling it further down the hill?” Joanna objected.

“It’s possible, so before we do anything rash, I’d suggest we climb down and take a closer look.”

Detective Carpenter and George Winfield set off, with Ernie leading the way and with George slipping and sliding in his wake. I warned him to bring along decent shoes, Joanna thought, hoping he wouldn’t break a leg or his neck in the process.

“But what about Angie?” Dennis Hacker was saying. “Is anyone looking for her?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Joanna said.

“We were up in the meadow, watching the hummingbirds and having a great time, when we started talking. I guess I hurt her feelings, but I didn’t mean to. She took off down the mountain. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Exactly how did you hurt her feelings?”

“You^’re a friend of hers,^” I locker said. ^“Does that mean you know about her background?”

Joanna met the man’s troubled gaze, staring back at him without flinching. “If you’re asking me whether or not I know Angie Kellogg is a former prostitute, the answer is yes. I know all about it. She told me.”

“She told me, too,” Hacker continued with a pained expres­sion on his face. “I’m afraid I did something unforgivable. I laughed.”

“You did what?”

“I laughed. Look, I can explain ...”

“I don’t think I’m interested in your explanations, Mr. Hacker,” Joanna said coldly. “But I can certainly see why Angie left. She wasn’t physically injured in any way the last time you saw her, was she?”

“No, she was fine—”

Joanna cut him off. “I’m sure, from what you say, that she probably is fine. And I have no doubt that she’ll find her own way home.”

“But it’s getting hot. She didn’t take any water with her. If she drinks water from the stream, there’s no telling what will happen. She could come down with giardia—or worse.”

“Thank you for your help in finding the pickup, Mr. Hacker,” Joanna said, dismissing him. “Dispatch has your cel­lular number, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“How about if you go home and look after your parrots. We’ll give you a call when we find her.”

Joanna knew she was being curt, but she didn’t care. Why should she? She was so angry with Dennis Hacker right then that she could have spit. How dare this arrogant asshole with his sixty-five-thousand-dollar off-road wonder and vanity plates that said BRDMAN laugh at Angie Kellogg? How dare he make fun of someone who, against terrible odds, was strug­gling to gain a toehold in the regular world?

“But, Sheriff Brady . . .” Hacker began, flushing beet red under his tan from the top of his khaki collar to the roots of his straw-colored hair.

Joanna was glad to see that flush, gratified that her words had hit home. Dennis Hacker deserved to be embarrassed. “You’ll have to excuse me now,” she said. “My people and I have an accident to investigate.”

Leaving Dennis Hacker alone and stewing, Joanna followed Ernie Carpenter and George Winfield down the cliff face. Even with proper hiking boots, getting down was no easy task. Just below the ridge, the empty camper shell clung to a rocky out-cropping like the dead husk of a molted and long-gone cicada. A few steps farther down the hill, Joanna realized that however long ago the accident had happened, the summer heat had done its worst. Within fifteen feet of the wreck, Joanna’s nostrils filled with the ugly stench of rotting flesh. Dennis Hacker was right and so were the vultures. There could be no doubt someone or something was dead.

By the time Joanna reached the shattered truck, both Ernie and George were wearing face masks over their mouths and noses. Both of the truck’s doors were missing, and the two investigators were peering into the cab of the pickup through the missing uphill door. When Joanna joined them, George Winfield fumbled a third mask out of his pocket and handed it over. She accepted the mask gratefully and put it on at once—not that it did much good.

“What gives?” she asked.

George pointed to a boulder that was perched beside the top of the cab. “No sign of any survivors,” he said. “‘That rock down there on the other side of the engine is what stopped it. The problem is, with the truck’s center of gravity up in the air like this, we can’t be sure the rock is strong enough to hold it secure.”

“So what do we do?” Joanna asked. “Try to get it back on its wheels?”

Ernie nodded. “We sure as hell can’t do any investigating this way. I’m worried about tipping it, though. On this kind of steep grade, depending on the momentum and what it hits going down, it could still roll a long way. Hopefully, though, we’ll accomplish two things—uncover the body so George here can get at it, and have the truck come to rest against something solid enough that we can actually get inside.”

“The grass around here is tinder dry,” Joanna observed. “Any danger of starting a fire?”

Ernie shook his head. “Fortunately, I don’t smell any leaking fuel. If it didn’t catch fire when it came rolling down the hill with the engine running, it isn’t going to burn up now.”

Hearing the sound of falling rocks and pebbles behind her, Joanna turned in time to see a block and tackle fall to the ground behind her. Moments later Dennis Hacker came sliding after it, carrying a crowbar. Without a glance in Joanna’s direc­tion, he walked up to Ernie. “If you’re going to try to move the truck, I thought these might come in handy,” he said.

He paused for a moment and surveyed the situation. “I don’t think that boulder’s enough to hold it. Want me to try prying it out of the way?”

“Sure,” Ernie said. “Let’s see what happens.”

Since Ernie had already agreed, there wasn’t much point in

Joanna’s objecting. Besides, compared to Ernie Carpenter and George Winfield, Dennis Hacker was a hulk of a young man. Somewhere in his thirties, he was a good twenty years younger than the detective and twenty-five or so younger than the coro­ner. Not only that, he was in tremendously good shape.

“Be careful,” was all Joanna said, then she stood aside and watched. It took several grunting, muscle-bulging efforts before Hacker sent the boulder crashing down the steep face of the mountain, cracking like a rifle shot as it bounced against other rocks along the way and finally rolling out of sight into the underbrush.

The worry had been that with the rock out of the way, the truck itself might slip loose from its precarious mooring and come rolling down on Hacker. It didn’t. Moments later, the four of them, all wearing disposable rubber gloves, were once again uphill from the wreck.

Joanna expected it would take a good deal of effort to move the truck. Her assumption was that they would have to rock it back and forth to get it moving, sort of like pulling a gigantic tooth. In actual fact, they pushed far too hard. The first shove sent the truck tumbling while the pitch of the steep hillside, momentum, and gravity all worked together to do the rest. The Tacoma rolled first onto its side and then up onto its flattened tires. It tottered there briefly and then went right on rolling, careening down the hill twice more before it came to rest, upright again, against a scrub oak.

“Way to go,” Ernie panted. “That tree should hold it.”

But by then Joanna wasn’t listening. She was looking down at her feet, staring at the pitiful lump of smashed flesh that had once been Brianna O’Brien. She lay facedown on the rock-strewn hillside. Her long blond hair fanned out around her, parted by a jagged bloody gash that ran almost the whole length of her head. Her face had been crushed almost flat.

For Joanna, though, the worst part wasn’t the awful physical wounds visible on the broken and rapidly decomposing body. She had expected those. They went with the territory of acci­dent investigation. What Sheriff Brady hadn’t expected was the fact that Brianna O’Brien wasn’t dressed the way her mother had predicted she would be. Bree wasn’t dressed at all. She was, in fact, stark naked.

Faced with that horrifying full view of Bree O’Brien’s man­gled and naked corpse, Joanna’s knees went weak beneath her. She had to fight to control the wave of nausea that rose in her throat.

“I’m going to need my stuff,” George Winfield was saying as he picked his way across the mountain’s steep grade all the while struggling to maintain his balance.

“I’ll go get it for you,” Dennis Hacker offered at once, wip­ing the perspiration off his brow. “Tell me where it is.”

Joanna reached into her pocket and pulled out her car keys. “Thanks,” she said, handing them over. “It’s the brown leather satchel in the back of the Eagle.”

While Dennis Hacker climbed back up the cliff, George Win-field knelt beside the body, close enough to look but without touching anything. In the meantime, Ernie set off down the mountain after the truck. Given an option, Joanna followed Ernie.

In the process of falling the first time, the camper shell had been knocked loose. There was debris scattered all over the hillside. Careful not to touch anything, Joanna picked her way through it—past the battered cooler that had spilled out its cache of sandwiches and smashed and empty soda cans. Past an unfurled bedroll and an air mattress that was still fully inflated. Past broken camp stools and a still-zipped cloth suitcase that trailed clothing out of its torn side.

Joanna was sidestepping the suitcase when she saw a book. The cover—blue with a cascade of pale pink flowers—matched the others she and Ernie had seen in Brianna O’Brien’s bed-room. “Ernie,” she called, “here’s the journal.”

Ernie had pulled out a camera and was already taking pho­tos of the battered wreck. “One journal or two?” he called, without bothering to look over his shoulder.

“Only one so far,” Joanna replied. “The other one’s probably around here somewhere. Is it okay if I pick this one up and look at it?”

“You’re wearing gloves, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead then, if you want to,” he said.

Fully aware that the person who had last touched the book was dead, Joanna approached the journal reverently, almost as though it were a holy relic. Dropping down onto a nearby rock, she opened the front cover. Written in the same girlish hand Joanna remembered from the other volumes, this one covered the period of time between October 9 of the previous year and this year’s March 4.

“It’s the completed one,” Joanna called to Ernie.

“Well then,” Ernie replied impatiently between squeezes on his camera’s shutter, “go look for the other.”

By then Dennis Hacker had returned from the Eagle with George Winfield’s equipment satchel. Taking out an evidence bag, Joanna slipped the book inside. Then she began to comb the hillside, searching for the missing book. It was hard, hot work. She went to what appeared to be the edge of the debris field—the camper shell—and started there. At the end of hill an hour she was too hot and winded to continue.

“Your face is all red,” George Winfield observed, glancing in her direction. “Better have some of that water of yours. I’d hate for you to have a heatstroke.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. She heeded his advice immediately. Sinking down next to the evidence box, she helped herself to water from her canteen. As she did so, the journal was right there, sitting in plain sight, tempting her. Finally, handling it with the gloves on, and being careful to touch only the edges, she slipped it out and opened it, turning to the last entry first.

The entry for March 4 was written at the very bottom of the page. It consisted of only five words, written in a hurried, careless, and almost illegible scrawl: “My mother is a liar.”

So is mine, Joanna thought. Remembering what was going on with Eleanor Lathrop and George Winfield, she couldn’t help empathizing with the hurt made almost visible by Brianna O’Brien’s angry scribble. Since that was the last sentence written at the bottom of the last page, there was no further expla­nation about what kind of lie Katherine O’Brien had told her daughter. No additional explanation was necessary for Joanna Brady to know exactly how Brianna must have felt when she wrote those words—betrayed, hurt, and left out.

Glancing at the journal again, Joanna realized it was possible Bree had written more on the topic. Perhaps the entry contin­ued in the next volume—the one that was still missing.

Still too hot to return to the ground search for the missing diary, Joanna spent a few more minutes scanning the preced­ing entries. From what was written there, she was able to gather that at the time Katherine O’Brien had been out of town, off on some kind of extended trip. Nothing Joanna could find in the days immediately preceding the March 4 entry gave any indication that there was anything amiss. One entry said that Bree was hoping to pull off a special surprise in honor of her mother’s birthday, but there was nothing to explain exactly what the surprise was to be or whether it had anything to do with the unvarnished anger in those last few words.

Remembering that David O’Brien had mentioned the previ­ous November as the time things had changed so for Brianna, Joanna thumbed back to the last week in November and the first few days of December. A few minutes later, after closing the book and returning it to the bag, she made her way down to where Ernie Carpenter was meticulously examining the inte­rior of the truck.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“We now know the name of the boyfriend. Ignacio Ybarra, the football player from Douglas who was injured during the Bisbee/Douglas game.”

Ernie stopped what he was doing. “The one Brianna O’Brien got kicked off the cheerleading squad over?”

“One and the same.”

“We’d better go talk to him. Anything else?”

“The last entry is intriguing. It says, ‘My mother is a liar.’ “

“That’s all?”

“That’s it.”

Ernie frowned. “It sounds as though there’s a possibility that we’re dealing with two liars here—like mother like daughter.”

“It does sound that way,” Joanna agreed. Just then she heard the noisy clamor of what must have been several approaching vehicles. “I’d better go up and see who’s here.”

“Go ahead,” Ernie told her. “I’ll keep working. If Jaime’s finally dug himself out of that sand trap, tell him to get his ass down here. I need him to establish a grid and start bagging up some of this evidence. I don’t like the sound of that thun­der. I want this stuff out of here before it rains, not after.”

Up until then, Joanna had been so preoccupied with what was going on that she hadn’t paid any attention to the weather. Now, though, she looked up. Earlier the sky had been simply overcast. Now it was threateningly so. A storm was definitely brewing. Not only would they need to gather the evidence as quickly as possible, Joanna realized, they would also need to get all the vehicles back across that enormous wash before the rain arrived. Then, with a sudden pang of guilt, Joanna real­ized she had spent more than an hour too busy to give the missing Angie Kellogg a single thought.

Hurriedly, she scrambled back up to the top of the ridge. The crest looked like a traffic jam. Vehicles were parked single file behind Joanna’s Eagle. First came Ernie’s van, followed by a wrecker from Willcox big enough to haul semis. Bringing up the rear was Frankie Stoddard’s Range Rover. Dennis Hacker’s Hummer, which once had been parked directly behind the Eagle, now was nowhere in sight.

Jaime Carbajal met Joanna at the lip of the cliff. “Sorry it took so long, Sheriff Brady. We ended up having to wait for the wrecker after all.”

“That’s okay. Hurry, though. Ernie wants you down there on the double, establishing a grid and bagging evidence. What about Mr. Hacker?”

“We ran into him about half a mile back. He’s off searching for Angie Kellogg.”

“No one’s heard from her or seen her?” Joanna asked. “Not so far.”

Looking at the sky and worrying that she had waited too long, Joanna hurried over to Ernie’s van and commandeered the radio. “Tica,” she said when the dispatcher answered. “Where are the guys from Search and Rescue?”

“They’re on the way,” Tica responded.

“Tell them we’ve got an inexperienced hiker lost out here in the Peloncillos, and it looks like a big storm is coming. If they need something of Angie’s to give the dogs her scent, have them get in touch with her boss, Bobo Jenkins, at the Blue Moon up in Brewery Gulch.”

By the time Joanna got off the radio, Frankie Stoddard was standing directly behind her. “So what gives?” the private in­vestigator asked. “Is it her?” she asked, nodding in the direc­tion of the wreck.

Joanna nodded. “We’re pretty sure,” she said. “Pending pos­itive ID, of course.”

“And she just ran off the cliff here?”

“That’s how it looks.”

For a long moment, Frankie stood with her arms crossed, staring down at the wreck. “I know it’s your job to notify the parents,” she said at last. “But I’d guess you’re going to be tied up here for quite some time. If you’d like, I could drive back into town and tell the O’Briens that there’s been a fatality accident out here and the victim is most likely their daughter.”

Notifying the O’Briens was a task Joanna had been dreading from the moment she looked over the edge of the cliff and saw the smashed red pickup far below. “Once we get the body back to town, we’ll need them to come do an official identifi­cation, but you’re sure you wouldn’t mind telling them initially?”

Frankie Stoddard shook her head sadly. “Mr. O’Brien hired me to find his daughter,” she said. “It looks as though I have.”

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

the next several hours passed in a blur of activity. While awaiting the arrival of the Search and Rescue unit, Joanna stayed on the scene of the accident investigation. Overhead, the sky went from merely overcast to dark and threatening. The constant and ominous rumble of thunder to the south put real urgency into the race to gather evidence.

Joanna, along with Jaime Carbajal, worked at combing the steep hillside, bagging, logging, and labeling the debris they found there. She kept hoping one of them would stumble over the second volume of Brianna’s journal, but so far it hadn’t been found. Joanna and Jaime had just been joined by two additional deputies, Lindsey and Raymond, when Ernie called Joanna over to the truck.

“I’m about to give the wrecker operator the all-clear to haul this away, but f wanted you to take a look first,” he said, motioning Joanna in the direction of the truck’s interior. “See anything strange?”

Joanna looked inside. At first glance, there was nothing to see. The truck was absolutely empty. With both doors missing and both the windshield and back window broken out, there was nothing loose, including the driver, that hadn’t been shaken out during the truck’s roll down the mountain. On the gray leather headrest of the driver’s seat was a single smear that looked like blood, but that single stain was all there was.

Joanna had been there when the truck was removed from the body. She had seen the terrible laceration on the back of Brianna’s skull, a blow so severe that it had left part of her brain exposed. With a wound like that, there should have been blood. Lots of it.

“Where’s the spatter?” Joanna asked.

“Precisely,” Ernie returned. “You’re definitely starting to get the hang of this.”

Joanna appreciated her investigator’s unsolicited compli­ment, but there was no time to savor it. “So what?” she asked. “You^’re saying Brianna was already dead when the pickup went over the edge?”

“It’s a possibility,” Ernie said. “A distinct possibility.”

Joanna felt yet another emotional hole open up and swallow her. On Saturday afternoon David O’Brien had expressed his fear—no, his firm belief—that something terrible had hap­pened to his daughter. He had wanted Joanna to call in the FBI immediately. Had she done so? No. Instead, Sheriff Joanna Brady had taken refuge in the twenty-four-hour missing persons cop-out. She had done nothing. She wondered now if the outcome would have been any less fatal had she made a different decision.

“What about the other journal?” Joanna asked. “It’s not out on the hill. We’ve searched every inch of it. I thought maybe it might be inside here, under the seat or behind it.”

Ernie shook his head. “Believe Inc, this cab is clean as a whistle. So maybe whoever killed her took the book with him. Maybe she had written something in it that was incriminating.”

Joanna nodded, remembering the last entry in the other jour­nal. “My mother is a liar.”

While Ernie went off to confer with the tow truck driver, Joanna returned to the spot at the bottom of the cliff where Doc Winfield had just finished zipping the body bag closed. As the two deputies loaded it into a basket, George turned to Joanna.

“I’m worried about trying to maneuver the body up that trail. Looks to me as though it’s going to be next to impossible. Do you think Mr. Hacker would mind if we used his block and tackle?”

Joanna wasn’t much interested in what Dennis Hacker would or wouldn’t mind. “He left it here,” she said. “He must have meant for us to use it.”

While Winfield attached the come-along to the basket, one of the deputies took the rest of the block and tackle back up the cliff. Even with Detective Carbajal and the two deputies to apply muscle, pulling the body up was still a tricky process. The face of the ridge wasn’t smooth. More than once the basket got hung up, once on a clump of mesquite and another time it wedged in underneath a jagged outcropping of rock. The second stall was far more serious than the first. With Doc Winfield on his hands and knees at the edge of the cliff shouting instructions, Joanna had to work her way out onto a narrow ledge far enough to pry the basket loose. The storm was almost on them by then. Sand and grit flew in her eyes, and the force necessary to set the basket free also threatened to knock Joanna off her precarious perch. It took half a dozen tries before the basket swung free and disappeared overhead.

“Good work,” Ernie said, stretching out a hand to pull Jo­anna back to the relative safety of a newly made path. “It’s a wonder you didn’t break your neck.”

Joanna was standing there catching her breath when she heard Doc Winfield’s shout. “Hey, Ernie. Come on up. There’s something here you need to see. Quick, before the wind blows it away.”

Grumbling, Ernie did as he was told, with Joanna close on his heels. When Joanna reached the top and could see, George Winfield was still on his hands and knees, staring intently into a scraggly clump of yellowed grass. “What’s this look like to you?” he asked.

Wedging his way between Jaime and one of the deputies, Ernie Carpenter dropped to the ground beside Winfield. The detective, too, stared into the grass. “I’ll be damned!” he exclaimed a moment later.

Joanna, coming up behind the group, was almost run over by Jaime, who was heading for the van at a gallop. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“Ernie’ll need a set of hemostats,” he said. “I’m going to get them, along with the evidence log and the tape measure.”

“And evidence bags,” Ernie called after him. “I’m all out of the small ones.”

Catching up with the others, Joanna peered over Ernie’s shoulder and saw nothing. “What did you find?” she asked.

“A hair,” Ernie answered. “A single strand of long blond hair.”

“You’re thinking the same thing I am, aren’t you?” George Winfield said, “‘That she was dead long before she hit the ground.^”

Ernie nodded. “I’m afraid so,^” he said.

Angie knew the storm was brewing. She was out on the flat now and traveling at an angle toward the road, but behind her in the mountains and to the east of them, she could see a block torrent of rain falling from the sky. She had always been afraid of thunderstorms. One of the girls in her first grade class in Battle Creek had been hit and killed by lightning at an outdoor barbecue. There was nothing for it, though, but to keep walking.

A chill wind shrieked through the three-foot-tall grass. Lightning forked across the sky and thunder rumbled all around her. Angie wore jeans and boots and a long-sleeved shirt, but nothing waterproof. She hadn’t expected to be out in the rain on foot. She hadn’t expected to be in the desert alone.

The wilderness was still a frightening and alien place to her. Watching the desert birds was wonderful, but there were other desert dwellers that weren’t nearly so pleasant. She had heard, for example, that snakes and Gila monsters came out in ad­vance of rain storms. Archie McBride had told her that, and Willy had backed him up. They both claimed that a Gila monster bite could kill you within a matter of minutes. A lot of what Archie and Willy said was so much bullshit. It was possi­ble they had just been teasing her with more of their tall tales. Still, out there all by herself, with the wind whistling and the glass bent almost double, it seemed likely that they had told the truth.

In the course of hours of waiting and walking, Angie Kel­logg had moved beyond being hurt. Now she was simply mad. “Damn you anyway, Dennis Hacker,” she shouted into the screeching wind. “Go ahead and laugh. See if I care.”

“You think it’s hers, then?” Joanna asked, watching Ernie fight the windblown hair into an equally windblown glassine bag.

“Who else’s would it be?” he asked. “As soon as we can get the body transported, we’ll have to search the rest of the area up here, just in case. And we’re going to have to hurry. The storm’s almost here. Get her loaded into that truck on the double.”

“Truck?” Joanna asked.

Ernie nodded. “Deputy Raymond brought along his pickup. He can take her back to Bisbee in that.”

Joanna looked at Matt Raymond’s Ford F-100 parked four vehicles down the hill. Then she looked back at the basket and the body bag. “No,” she said.

“What do you mean, no?” Ernie countered.

“Just what I said. We’re not going to haul Brianna O’Brien’s body back to town in the bed of a pickup truck like she was a sack of potatoes or a bale of hay. Put her in my Eagle.”

That announcement stunned the little group gathered around the body basket into total silence. Joanna caught the questioning look George Winfield leveled in her direction. “Are you sure?” he asked.

“I’m sure,” she said. “Load her up.”

As Deputies Raymond and Lindsey hurried to comply, Joanna turned back to the others, “Doc Winfield and I will go on ahead. The rest of you, don’t spend too much lime looking, for evidence. It looks like this storm’s going to be a doozy, It’s the first one of the season, so most of the water should soak in, hut I don’t want anybody taking any chances with that wash.” She aimed the last sentence directly at Jaime Carbajal, who grinned apologetically.

“Don’t worry, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I’ve learned my les­son. Besides, if we get into any trouble, the wrecker’s already here.”

“I don’t even want to think about it,” she said. With the storm boiling in from the south, the possibility of vehicles get­ting stuck was one consideration. What was far worse, however, was the thought of Angie, out by herself, lost and afraid in a storm of that magnitude. She knew nothing at all about the desert. If a fully loaded vehicle couldn’t stand up to a flash flood, what would happen to her if she made the mistake of stepping into a raging, water-filled wash?

l don’t want to think about that, either, Joanna told herself. She had summoned Search and Rescue and made sure they were doing their job. For now, that was the best she could do.

The rain hit long before Angie made it to the road. Within seconds she was soaked to the skin. Her hair was plastered down around her face. The downpour was startlingly cold. Looking like this, I’ll never catch a ride, she thought despairingly as she ducked through the strands of barbed wire that stood between her and the narrow ribbon of pavement. Angie was enough of a hitchhiking veteran to know that most drivers wouldn’t stop for someone who was soaking wet. Why would they want to put some muddy bedraggled wreck into a per­fectly clean and dry car?

Still, what choice did she have? Treading carefully, she picked her way across the rain-slick blacktop and positioned herself on the far side of the road. Through the pouring, slant­ing raindrops, no vehicles were visible as far as she could see in either direction. It looked as though it was going to be a long damned wait.

She stood in the rain for what seemed like a very long time. Peering blindly off to the east, she didn’t even hear the car bearing down on her from the west until it was almost upon her. When she did hear it, she turned just in time to see a VW bug flash by. It looked like Marianne Maculyea’s car. Sea foam green was the right color, but ...

A few feet beyond where Angie stood the VW’s brake lights flashed on. Skidding dangerously back and forth across the center line, the car came to a stop and then the backup lights came on.

Angie ran forward, meeting the vehicle just as Marianne rolled down the window. “What are you doing here?” Angie asked.

“What do you think? That I’m out for a Sunday ride?” Mari­anne asked. “I’m looking for you. I came as soon as I could get loose from coffee hour. Climb in. You’re soaking wet.”

Summoning as much dignity as she could, Angie walked around to the far side of the car and got inside. “I knew they were looking for me,” she said. “I heard the sirens, but I didn’t want them to find me.”

“Why not? It’s pouring rain.”

Angie’s eyes filled with tears. “Because Dennis Hacker made fun of me,” she said. “I told him who and what I was and he laughed.”

Reverend Marianne Maculyea put the VW into a sharp U-turn and then shifted back up to speed. “Maybe you’d better start at the beginning,” she said kindly. “Tell me about Dennis locker. I don’t know who this guy thinks he is, but he sounds like a creep in need of having his lights punched out.”

It took several minutes for the body and Doc Winfield’s satchel to be loaded into the Eagle. After that a series of several backing maneuvers were necessary before Joanna could turn the Eagle back down the ridgeline. In the rearview mirror, she saw the investigators scouring the ground where the body had been hauled up over the cliff. She was just picking her way past Ernie’s van when the detective came huffing up behind her.

“On the way back to Bisbee, Jaime and I will stop by and see this Ignacio Ybarra down in Douglas.^”

Joanna nodded. “You think you’ll be able to find him all right?”

“Are you kidding? Half of Jaime’s relatives live in Douglas. Finding him won’t be a problem. What about going to see the O’Briens? Do you want us to handle that, too?”

Joanna considered his offer. She had already done one cow­ardly thing by letting Frankie Stoddard handle the initial notification, which, by rights, should have been a function of the sheriff’s department. It would have been all too easy to let Carpenter and Carbajal go and take the brunt of David O’Brien’s wrath. Easy, but not fair. Joanna had been the one who had insisted on following procedure. Regardless of whether or not the twenty-four-hour rule had made any difference in Bri­anna O’Brien’s survival, it was only right that Joanna should take the heat for that decision.

“After I drop the body off at the morgue, I’ll go home, clean up, and change. Call me as soon as you get in. We were the ones who went out to see the parents yesterday. We should be the ones to go there today.”

Ernie gave her a half-assed salute that was at once both mildly teasing and respectful. “Right, Chief,” he said. “I’ll give you a call as soon as we hit town.”

As he backed away from the car, Joanna started to roll up the window. Then she thought better of it. Instead, she left it down. The smell of moisture sweeping across the parched de­sert was a welcome antidote to the smell of decaying flesh that leaked through the thick folds of the body bag and permeated the air.

“I appreciate this,” George Winfield said as they started down the mountain. “The truck might have done the job, but you’re right. It wouldn’t have shown the proper respect.”

“What about the autopsy?” Joanna asked. “How soon can you do it?”

“Tomorrow,” Winfield answered. “Unless you need it sooner.”

“No,” Joanna said. ^“Tomorrow will be fine. You’ll be able to tell when she died?”

“Friday, between nine and ten,” George said confidently. Joanna was impressed. “You can tell that just by looking at the body?”

George Winfield shook his head. “No, by looking at her watch,” he said. “It stopped at nine fifty-one on Friday, June fourteenth. It could have been broken during the initial attack or during the plunge off the mountain. I’d say from the condition of the body that disposal took place within an hour or so of lime of death.”

“I see,” Joanna said. In a way, she was relieved. It salved her conscience a little to know that Brianna had already been dead long before Joanna herself had taken refuge in the twenty-four-hour rule. What she had or hadn’t done once she and Ernie had been summoned to Green Brush Ranch would have made no difference in whether or not Bree O’Brien survived.

By the time the Eagle neared the big wash, the storm was starting in dead earnest. First came hard, wind-driven drops that pounded into the dry earth and sent up little puffs of powdery dust. Then came a cloud of needle-sharp hail while jogged forks of lightning crackled across the sky. After that, the sky seemed to open up and the rain fell in torrents. The laboring windshield wipers couldn’t come close to keeping up.

Lack of visibility forced Joanna to slow to a crawl.

“Unbelievable!” George shouted over the roar of the wind, rain, and thunder. “I’ve been here for months and never knew it could storm like this.”

Going into the big wash, Joanna stopped at the crest of the Bill to examine the roadbed. The process of extricating the van had torn it up, leaving great gouges in the sand. If the wash started running, those deep, gaping holes would fill first. Peer­ing through the windshield, she spotted a new set of tracks that detoured around the damaged roadway. Deciding those had most likely been left by Frankie Stoddard leaving and the two deputies corning, Joanna followed them. She heaved a sigh of relief when they were safely across.

Winfield looked. behind them. ^“Are those washes really dan­gerous? I keep suspecting that all the flash flood nonsense is so much hooey—something old-timers tell new arrivals just to scare their pants off and keep ‘em in line.^”

“They’re not nonsense,” Joanna told him. “When you see a sign that says DO NOT ENTER WHEN FLOODED, don’t. A wash like the one back there can fill up with water in less than a minute. In fact, in less than sixty seconds it can swallow a car.”

“How can that be?” George asked. “It doesn’t look that deep.”

“The sand liquefies in the water,” Joanna explained. “What looks like a foot-deep little drop right now can turn into a six-or seven-foot killer during a storm. People drown in them all the time.”

“No shi—” Winfield stopped himself. “No kidding,” he corrected.

Joanna looked across the seat at George and smiled. In the last several hours, they had worked so hard together and in such a focused, purposeful manner, that all personal considera­tions had somehow melted away. They had been sheriff and coroner working together as professionals. Now, his small ver­bal slip brought the personal back into view.

“It’s all right if you use the word shit around me,” Joanna assured him. “You don’t have to edit what you say and you certainly don’t need to apologize. I’m a big girl. I’ve heard it all before.”

“It’s just that . .”

“That’s one of the differences between my mother and me,” Joanna continued. “On occasion, with enough provocation, I’ve been known to use that particular expression myself and a few that are worse. I don’t believe, however, that any of those words have ever passed Eleanor Lathrop’s lips. As far as know, she’s never moved a whit beyond a heartfelt ‘My stars and garters.’“

George smiled and nodded. They reached the fence then. Joanna waited while George climbed out into the driving rain lo open the gate. When he stepped back inside, he was soaked to the skin.

They were almost to the turnoff at Apache before he spoke again. “Why do you call her that?” he asked.

“Why do I call my mother Mother?” Joanna asked.

“No. Why do you call her Eleanor?”

Until George pointed it out, Joanna wasn’t even aware of it. She had to think about her answer for some time before she save it. “I’ve always called her that,” Joanna said.

“Do you call her that to her face, or is it just when you speak of her to other people?” George persisted.

Again, Joanna considered her reply. “I don’t suppose I’ve ever called her that to her face,” she admitted honestly. “But it is how I talk about her, and it’s how I think about her, too. As Eleanor.”

“I see,” George said, nodding thoughtfully and rubbing his thin, “So what you’re saying is that it’s not so much a matter of disrespect as it is a matter of distancing.”

And because the questions and George Winfield’s resulting conclusion came far too close to home, Joanna had to lash out sit him.

“She I tied to hold me too close,” Joanna snarled. “She tried to smother me.”

For a long time after that, while they traversed the rest of the gravel track into Apache and then for several miles after they turned onto the blacktop, they drove through the curtain of pouring rain with neither of them saying a word.

“Ellie isn’t doing it anymore,” George Winfield said at last. “I believe she’s willing to let you go, Joanna. Isn’t it about time you did the same?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

By the time they reached Douglas, Joanna realized she had been wrong in her assumption about that first storm of the season. The rain wasn’t soaking in after all. Water came down in such a swift deluge that there wasn’t time for soaking. The dips on Highway 80 northeast of Douglas were already trickling with water that, Joanna knew, could turn into a torrent at any time once runoff from higher elevations drained into the willies and washes.

In Douglas proper, the highway’s railroad underpass was closed—for good reason. Years earlier, the highway depart­ment had painted markers on the wall in foot-long increments in order to measure and warn otherwise unsuspecting motor­ists of the water’s dangerous and potentially lethal depth. Jo­anna was surprised to see that the water filling the Southern Pacific underpass—murky, reddish brown stuff topped by a loamy white froth—had already topped the four-foot mark and was still rising.

“Now I see what you mean,” George Winfield murmured as the Eagle sat idling next to the yellow-and-black sign that stated the all-too-obvious—DO NOT ENTER WHEN FLOODED.

Southeastern Arizona’s summer thunderstorms are often fierce but brief. For some reason, this one, after that first incredible outburst, had now settled into a steady downpour. George Winfield’s clothing, still damp from getting out to open the gate, made the windows inside the Eagle keep steaming up. Unfortunately, because the air-conditioning compressor wasn’t working, neither was the defroster. As they waited in the detour line to be routed around the flooded underpass, Joanna thought she glimpsed Marianne Maculyea’s 1960s vin­tage VW far ahead of them.

Seeing the car reminded Joanna that Marianne hadn’t shown up in Skeleton Canyon. Had she been there with the Search and Rescue Unit looking for Angie, Joanna surely would have heard about it. Something serious must have come up in Bisbee, Joanna reasoned. It wasn’t like Marianne not to show up in person when one of her friends and/or parishioners was in trouble.

Thinking of Angie reminded Joanna once again of just how wrong she could be. And how often. This supposedly welcome rain storm was turning into a veritable flood. Instead of spend­ing an unauthorized weekend with her boyfriend, Brianna O’Brien was dead—at the hands of person or persons un­known. And Dennis Hacker, who had struck her as a nice man, had turned out to be a jerk instead.

You’re batting a thousand, old girl, Joanna told herself. just keep it up.

At the Double Adobe turnoff, Joanna stopped to let George Winfield into his own vehicle. “Do you want to transfer her into my van now?” he asked before opening his door. “‘That way you could go straight home from here.”

Joanna shook her head. The rain was still falling. The coro­ner’s office up in Tombstone Canyon was housed in a former funeral home that came complete with a covered portico. “I’ll take her the rest of the way to your office,” Joanna told him. “That way she won’t get wet, and neither will your satchel.”

“‘Thanks, Joanna,” George told her, climbing out. “See you there.”

The usually dry creek in Mule Gulch was running bank to hank where it crossed the highway, and there were fallen rocks anti muddy debris on the roadway in the high cuts between there and Bisbee. Wanting to report the hazard and summon someone to clean it up, Joanna reached for her radio. For the dozenth time that day, it wasn’t there. Her ability to communi­cate with Dispatch was at home in the Crown Victoria, parked in the yard of High Lonesome Ranch.

That does it, she thought. Budget or no budget, I’m getting a cellular phone.

It was almost four in the afternoon as Joanna made her way up Tombstone Canyon. That wasn’t easy, either. The deluge had washed what looked like at least one vehicle down Brew­ery Gulch. It was stuck in the subway, a massive storm drain designed for just such occasions. Driving past emergency vehi­cles and personnel out in the downpour trying to pull whatever it was out, Joanna couldn’t help being grateful that this latest incident, whatever it might be, was inside the Bisbee city limits rather than outside. That made it someone else’s prob­lem, not hers.

She realized then that she was hungry. Not just hungry—starving. She’d had nothing to eat all day long. She had missed Eva Lou Brady’s Sunday dinner, which had probably been something wonderful like a pork roast or fried chicken. Health-conscious badgering might have persuaded the Colonel to change a few things at KFC, but there had been no change in Eva Lou’s philosophy of what was appropriate fare for Sunday dinner.

Fantasizing about that missed meal, Joanna failed to notice the black Lexus parked by the curb just down the street from the coroner’s office. Joanna was sitting in the Eagle under the portico and waiting for George to pull in behind her when someone tapped on the window beside her head. She looked outside to see the grief-ravaged face of Katherine O’Brien.

Joanna opened the door. In the more than two hours she had been in the car with the body, Joanna’s olfactory senses had somehow become deadened to the stench. Only when she opened the door and moved into the fresh air could she tell the difference. The evil cloud that came out of the Eagle with her sent Katherine reeling backward, gagging and holding her mouth.

“That’s not . . .” she wailed, shuddering and pointing at the mud-encrusted back gate of Joanna’s wagon. “It can’t be ...”

“Mrs. O’Brien,” Joanna said quickly. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“I had to come and see for myself,” Katherine said. “Miss Stoddard told us that it didn’t look good, but I had to know for sure. I had to know what really happened.”

Seeing the Lexus now, Joanna squinted through the rain. “Where’s your husband, Mrs. O’Brien? Is he waiting in the car?”

Katherine shook her head. “I came by myself. I told him I was going up to St. Dominick’s to light a candle and pray. He doesn’t know I’m here.”

“And you shouldn’t be,” Joanna admonished. “Dr. Winfield wasn^’t planning to try to ID the body until after it’s been prop­erly taken care of for evidence reasons.”

“It?” Katherine said, her voice rising until it verged on hys­terics. “You’re calling my daughter an ‘it’? And what’s she doing stuffed in the back of a station wagon like that?”

Thank God Deputy Raymond didn’t drive up with the body in the back of his pickup, Joanna thought.

Just then Doc Winfield pulled in behind the Eagle. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“‘This is Katherine O’Brien,” Joanna explained. “She came to find out what’s happened to her daughter.”

George Winfield’s clothing was still plastered to his body. The man was a mess. Still, with a look of total and grave concern, he reached out and took Katherine O’Brien’s hand, grasping it firmly. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. O’Brien,” he said, his voice softened by genuine warmth and dignity both. “It will lake some time for me to prepare things so you can actually view your daughter. If you wouldn’t mind going inside to wait, I’ll come get you as soon as possible.”

Taking Katherine by the arm, he escorted her to the door while Joanna stood there waiting. She knew George Winfield had been a doctor once, an oncologist, before he had left that field to study forensic pathology. As she watched Katherine O’Brien lean against him, taking comfort from whatever he was saying to her, Joanna realized she was seeing a demonstra­tion of bedside manner in action—an impressive demonstra­tion at that.

Joanna knew the body was far too heavy for her to manage on her own. During the next few minutes, she occupied herself with hauling George Winfield’s equipment case out of the back of her Eagle. In less than five minutes, the coroner reappeared. He was dressed in clean, dry scrubs and wearing a lab coat. He was also pushing a gurney.

“If you can help me load her onto this,” he said, “I’ll be able to handle things from here.”

“What about Mrs. O’Brien?” Joanna asked. “Do you want me to have her go home and come back later?”

Winfield frowned. “I’m not used to having family members waiting outside quite this soon,” he said. “But you could just as well let her stay. The face is so badly mangled from being squashed flat by the falling truck that there isn’t that much that will soften the blow. Not only that, if the mother can’t positively identify her by sight, then we’re better off knowing now that we’ll have to get the dental records.”

Joanna nodded. “Do you want me to wait with her?”

“If you don’t mind,” George Winfield said, “that would be a big help.”

Painfully aware of her own scruffy appearance—of her dirty clothes and dusty hiking boots—Joanna Brady ventured inside. The Cochise County Coroner’s Office was housed in quarters once occupied by Dearest Departures, a bankrupted discount funeral home. George Winfield had stowed Katherine O’Brien in a small, darkened room that had probably been intended to function as a private chapel. Katherine sat on one end of an upholstered love seat, weeping quietly into a hanky. Joanna walked over and sat down beside her.

“You probably shouldn’t do this alone,” Joanna said tenta­tively. “Would you like to have someone go out to Sombra—” She slopped and corrected herself. “—to Green Brush Ranch and bring your husband here to he with you’?”

Katherine O’Brien shook her head. “I’m a trained nurse,” she said. “It’s better if I do it.”

Joanna nodded. “All right, then,” she said.

Katherine blew her nose. “Tell me about Ignacio Ybarra,” she said.

“I didn’t think you knew anything about your daughter’s boyfriend,” Joanna returned. “That’s what you told us yesterday.”

“I didn’t,” Katherine said. “Not then. Frankie Stoddard picked up the name earlier by listening to radio transmissions on her police scanner. As soon as she mentioned the name, I recognized it. He’s the football player from Douglas—the one who was injured in the Bisbee-Douglas game.”

“The one your daughter quit the cheerleading squad over’?” Katherine nodded.

“That’s him,” she said.

“My mother is a liar.” Unbidden, the words from the last entry in Brianna’s journal came back to Joanna in a rush. What kind of liar?

There were lots of ways to lie, Joanna realized. Eleanor Lathrop had lied, not by spinning some outrageous fib but by keeping silent. By marrying George Winfield on the sly and then by not mentioning it to anyone, not even to her own daughter. That was what Ogden Nash and the Catholic church would have called a sin of omission rather than a sin of com­mission. So what kind of untruth on Katherine’s part had so offended her own daughter that Brianna had retaliated by weaving her own web of lies?

“Are you aware that two of your daughter’s journal volumes are missing from her room?”

“No,” Katherine replied. “I had no idea.”

“One was found at the crash site. The second—the current one—wasn’t there.”

“So it is her, then, isn’t it,” Katherine said doggedly, her tears starting anew. “I kept hoping and praying it might be some other truck. There are lots of those around, you know. I saw one just like it on my way uptown. But the journal ...” She shook her head. “That pretty well settles it. How did it happen? The accident, I mean. Tell me. I need to know.”

Joanna sighed. With no certain confirmation from the au­topsy, it was still way too early to discuss the possibility that Bree’s death might prove to be a homicide rather than an acci­dent. Still, as long as Frankie Stoddard continued to monitor all departmental radio transmissions, it wouldn’t be a secret for long. Joanna nonetheless decided to try.

“The truck ran off a cliff out in the Peloncillos,” she said. “It turned over several times. It looks as though Brianna was thrown clear. When the truck finally came to rest, she was crushed underneath it. Under the cab.^”

Katherine closed her eyes. “She died instantly, then?”

Joanna shook her head. “I don^’t know,” she said. “Dr. Winfield is the only one who can answer those kinds of questions. That’s why he needs time to collect evidence.”

“Yes,” Katherine said. “Of course.”

“Tell me something,” Joanna said. “Yesterday, when your husband wanted me to notify the FBI, he raised the issue of a possible kidnapping. Is there anything in your husband’s busi­ness dealings that would lend itself to that kind of scenario?”

The change in Katherine’s demeanor was abrupt. “What ex­actly do you mean by that?” she demanded. “And what does a question like that have to do with my daughter driving her truck off a cliff?”

She’s doing it again, Joanna thought, watching in fascination as Katherine O’Brien seemed to collect herself and make an almost instant transformation into a tigress defending her young or den. It was the same kind of almost schizophrenic behavior she had exhibited the day before when Ernie and Joanna had been interviewing her. One moment she had been falling apart. The next, in a daunting display of willpower, she had pulled herself together and assumed the role of gracious hostess. This time she came out swinging in her absent husband’s defense.

“It’s just curiosity more than anything,” Joanna assured her quickly. “Obviously, your husband has made a good deal of money over the years ...”

“He was in real estate,” Katherine returned. “Real estate and construction both. He was a major player in the development of Paradise Valley up in Phoenix. Over the years, he diversified enough so that when it was time to sell out and come down here, he was able to make a good deal of money—funds that are still coming in, by the way. If you’re asking me whether or not my husband hangs out with lowlifes who would do this kind of thing—a kidnapping, I mean—I’ll tell you right here and now that he doesn’t. David O’Brien may be a little overbearing at times, even unreasonable occasionally. But my husband is a highly principled man. If you don’t believe me, there are any number of people you could ask. Wally, for instance.^”

“Wally?”

“Wally Hickman,” Katherine O’Brien said. “Years ago, before Wally went into politics, he and my husband were busi­ness partners.”

Joanna took a deep breath. “You mean Governor Hickman,” she asked.

Katherine O’Brien nodded. “You know him., don’t you?”

“Not personally.”

“Well, I do, and so does David. Wally and his wife, Abby, are good friends of ours.”

Sheriff Joanna Brady suddenly had visions of this tragic but seemingly obscure little incident in the Peloncillos taking on statewide proportions. I’ll have to get hold of Frank Montoya and bring him up to speed, she told herself in a mental note. Mon­toya, her chief deputy for administration, also doubled as her department’s public information officer. Not if but when the case turned into yet another media hot potato, Frank would be the one who had to handle it.

Joanna decided to back away from the kidnapping line of inquiry. “You said a moment ago that your husband can be unreasonable at times. If you’ll pardon my saying so, I did happen to notice some evidence of that yesterday when Detec­tive Carpenter and I were at the house talking to you.”

“So?” Katherine asked defensively. “There are lots of unrea­sonable people in the world. If you think of all that’s happened to David over the years, I believe he has more grounds than most for being difficult.”

“He made that quite clear himself,” Joanna said. “But con­sidering his attitude toward Hispanics, what do you think he would have done had he known his daughter was secretly involved with someone like Ignacio Ybarra?”

“What any right-thinking parent of a rebellious teenager would have done, Sheriff Brady. He would have grounded her for the rest of her life.^”

Before Joanna could think of another question, George Winfield appeared in the doorway. “Mrs. O’Brien?” he said. “You can come in now.^”

Taking Katherine by the arm, he led the two women into a spotless lab. “I must apologize for having to show you your daughter in her current condition, but ...”

Katherine swallowed hard. “That’s all right,” she said. “I understand.”

Having been away from the awful smell of decaying flesh long enough to clear her nostrils and lungs, Joanna once again had to fight to keep from gagging. The basket was gone. The hotly bag lay on a gurney. The bag was unzipped only far enough to allow an unobstructed view of the terribly man­gled face.

Katherine walked forward far enough to glimpse it, then she stopped. Sagging against Doc Winfield, she nodded. “It’s her,” she whispered.

“You’re sure?”

“Yes. I recognize the birthmark on her neck.”

“Very well.” Winfield went to the head of the table and covered the bag with a clean white sheet. “Wait,” Katherine said. “What about her jewelry? Along with the truck, her fa-Ihn’r gave her a diamond ring for her eighteenth birthday. I’m mire he’ll want to have that back, and her class ring as well.”

Winfield pulled out a form and consulted it. “I’ve invento­ried both of those items on the personal effects form,” he said. “Along with her purse, wallet, watch, and the earring as well, hill for the time being, I’ll have to hold on to all of them. The watch we’ll most likely have to keep indefinitely.”

“Why’s that?”

“It might prove helpful in setting the time of death. Everything else you’ll get back, of course, once the investigation is complete, but—”

“What kind of earring?” Katherine interrupted.

“It’s a single pearl,” Winfield answered. “Looks to be of pretty good quality. The other one must have fallen off somewhere. The only reason this one wasn’t lost as well was that the post was smashed flat.”

“I don’t want it,” Katherine said at once. “The earring or the watch. Just give me the two rings. Those are all I care about.”

“But, Mrs. O’Brien—”

“The watch is a cheap Timex. It’s of no consequence whatever. The earring is different. Brianna had her ears pierced just a few weeks before school was out,” Katherine said. “It caused a good deal of heartache in our home because her father disap­proves of pierced ears. On anyone, but most especially on his daughter. He forbade her to wear the earrings in the house. In fact, he gave her strict orders to get rid of them. It would hurt him terribly to learn that she had disobeyed him. His heart will be broken as it is.”

“You don’t understand, Mrs. O’Brien,” Winfield interjected. “once personal effects are no longer required for evidentiary reasons, I’m required to turn them over to victims’ families. If I were to keep any items that had appeared on inventory sheets, I would be in clear violation. If it was reported, I’d be out of a job.”

“Very well,” Katherine said. “If that’s the case, when the time comes, I’ll make sure I’m the one who collects Bree’s things. That way I can take care of it myself. You won’t have to have anything at all to do with it.” She backed toward the door. “Is that all? Can I go now?”

“Yes,” George said. ‘‘Thank you so much for your help. Please accept my condolences and extend them to your hus­band as well.”

Katherine nodded. “Thank you,” she said. “I will.”

Joanna followed Katherine from the lab as far as the outside door. “Mrs. O’Brien?”

“Yes.” Katherine O’Brien stopped with her hand on the doorknob. “You’ll have to forgive me, Sheriff Brady,” she said. “I can’t answer any more questions, not right now. Since it’s confirmed, I must go home and tell my husband.”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “I understand. Later on this evening, when Detective Carpenter gets back to town, he and I may need to come back out to the house to see you and Mr. O^’Brien.^”

“‘That’ll be fine,” Katherine said. “We’ll be home.”

She left then. Joanna turned back to the lab. Inside, the dis­carded bag lay on the floor and George Winfield was in the process of draping a sheet over the naked body. He looked up at Joanna. “Is there something else?” he asked.

“What do you think about her?” Joanna asked, nodding toward the door.

“You mean about Katherine O’Brien?”

Joanna nodded. “She may have been a nurse once, but how could she be so cool, so calculating?”

“Shock affects different people different ways,” George replied. “Some people collapse in hysterics. For others, it’s just the opposite.”

“Oh,” Joanna said. Instead of leaving, though, she stood there lost in thought, considering the many mystifying faces of Katherine O’Brien. Was her surprising reaction to her daughter’s death shock, as George suggested, or was it something else entirely?

“Is that all?” George asked at last as if impatient to be rid of Joanna so he could go on with his work.

The question startled Joanna out of her contemplation and back into the present. “When you do the autopsy, be sure you check to see whether or not Brianna was raped.”

Winfield nodded. “That’s all part of the autopsy protocol—looking for semen, hairs, and other evidence of rape.” The coroner paused. “You think she might have been?” he asked. “Of course, given the fact she was naked, it’s certainly possible.”

Joanna nodded.

“And if she was,” George added wearily, “I suppose her father won’t want to know about that any more than he would about the earring.”

“You’re right,” Joanna said, closing the door behind her and leaving George Winfield to deal with his grisly tasks. “I don’t suppose he would.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Joanna left the coroner’s office at five. The rain had finally let up by then, but when she got to High Lonesome Ranch, the creek beds were still running too deep for her to risk crossing them even with four-wheel drive. Instead, famished now and feeling filthy as well, she headed back to town.

She considered going to her mother’s place but quickly de­cided against it. She wasn’t yet ready to walk into Eleanor Lathrop’s house and encounter George Winfield’s shaving kit on the bathroom counter. And she wasn’t ready to discuss it, either. Instead, she drove to her in-laws’ duplex on Oliver Cir­cle, where she could be relatively sure of her welcome.

Stopping the Eagle in front of the Bradys’ walkway, she stepped out into the cool, rain-freshened air and realized that the smell of deteriorating flesh was still with her—still clinging to her hair and clothing and to the car’s upholstery as well. Hoping time and open windows would help, she rolled them all down before going inside. When Sadie had gotten into a skunk once, Andy had used one of his mother’s time-honored remedies^—he had washed the dog in tomato juice. Maybe Eva Lou will have to do the same thing to me, Joanna thought grimly, climbing the steps.

If Joanna’s mother-in-law noticed the odor, it wasn’t appar­ent in Eva Lou’s greeting when she opened the door. “Why, Joanna,” she said, her face beaming in welcome. “What on earth are you doing here?”

“Hoping to bum a meal, a shower, and use of your washer,” Joanna said sheepishly. “I’ve spent all day at a crime scene. I’m a mess and need a shower in the worst way. I tried to go home to clean up, but the washes out at the ranch are still running. So I came here to throw myself on your mercy.”

“Why, of course,^” Eva Lou agreed. “You come on inside and make yourself at home. I saved you some leftovers, and it won’t take any time at all to run those clothes of yours through the wash. You can wear my robe in the meantime.”

By the time Joanna was out of the shower, the washer was running full steam and a plate of microwaved chicken dinner was waiting for her on the kitchen table. Beside it sat a platter stacked with mouthwatering slices of ruby-red tomatoes fresh from Jim Bob’s garden.

“The gravy came out a little too thick today for some rea­son,” Eva Lou apologized, hovering as Joanna took her first bite of mashed potatoes.

“The gravy,” Joanna declared, savoring that first mouthful, “is absolutely scrumptious.”

Jim Bob poured himself a cup of decaf and wandered over to the table. “Did I hear you say you’ve spent all day on a crime scene?”

When Andy had signed on as a Cochise County deputy sher­iff, his father had taken on the unofficial role of the department^’s Monday morning quarterback. Retired from his job as a foreman in Bisbee’s copper mines, Jim Bob Brady had enjoyed backstopping his son’s handling of various cases, analyzing what had worked and what had gone wrong, making suggestions that were based on common sense rather than proper police procedures. Now that his widowed daughter-in-law had assumed the job of sheriff, Jim Bob was at it again.

Had Joanna’s mother been the one asking those kinds of probing questions, Joanna most likely would have felt Eleanor was prying. With Jim Bob, though, it was . . . well, different.

“A possible crime scene,” Joanna corrected. “In Skeleton Canyon. At this point it could still go either way—as an acci­dent or as a homicide.”

“Anybody we know?” Jim Bob asked.

Katherine O’Brien had already positively identified her daughter’s body. There was no need to withhold information pending notification of next of kin. “You may know her,” Jo­anna answered. “The victim’s name is Brianna O’Brien.”

Eva Lou paled visibly upon hearing the name. “Not that nice girl who was valedictorian of the senior class!” she exclaimed.

“Unfortunately, yes.”

“What happened?” Jim Bob asked.

“Brianna was evidently out in the Peloncillos east of Douglas four-wheeling it. Sometime over the weekend, she went off a chit. It turns out my friend Angie Kellogg was out there, too, hiking and bird-watching with a friend of hers. The friend is the one who actually discovered the body. In the process of notifying us, though, Angie herself got lost. When Doc Win­field and I left the mountains to bring the body back to town, Search and Rescue was still looking for Angie.”

“You mean to tell me that poor girl was out there all by herself, walking around in that awful storm’?” Jim Bob asked. “I have two-point-six inches showing in my rain gauge right here in the yard. No telling what it was like in the mountains. Some places around are reporting more than that—up to three inches in Sierra Vista. And it said on the news a little while ago that Tucson is a mess, too, with flooded streets and power outages all over town.”

Jim Bob’s unwelcome weather report went straight to the heart of Joanna’s own guilt where Angie was concerned. And Jenny, too, for that matter, staying up on Mount Lemmon in Camp Whispering Pines’ canvas-topped cabins. Joanna pushed her chair back and started for the phone. “I should probably call the department and check in. Hopefully they’ve found Angie by now. I’ve been driving the Eagle all day, so I’ve been without a radio.”

“You stay right where you are,” Eva Lou ordered. “You can call after you finish eating.”

Obeying Eva Lou’s edict, Joanna settled back onto her chair, but from then on, with Angie foremost in her mind, even Eva Lou’s crisp chicken and Jim Bob’s juicy hand-grown tomatoes had a cardboard taste to them. Whatever had happened to Angie, it was all Joanna’s fault.

While his daughter-in-law ate, Jim Bob sat quietly nearby thoughtfully sipping his coffee.

When the food was gone and with her now-clean clothes transferred to the dryer, Joanna helped herself to the Brady’s kitchen wall phone. “What’s the latest?” she asked after identi­fying herself to the duty clerk.

“Things are hopping. We’ve got fender benders and road washouts as well as spotty phone and power outages all over the county.”

“I’m sure. Who’s working Dispatch?”

“Kendall Evans and Larry Kendrick are both on tonight. Want me to put you through to them?”

“This is Sheriff Brady,” Joanna said to Kendall a moment later. “I’ve been out of radio contact most of the day. What’s going on?^”

“Where are you?” Kendall asked. “Ernie Carpenter has called in several times looking for you.”

“I’m at my in-laws’ place here in Warren bumming a meal. I’m sure you have the number displayed on your screen. Where’s Ernie?”

“He and Detective Carbajal got stuck on the wrong side of a dip east of Douglas. They had to wait until the water went down. They’re in Douglas now, talking to someone. Will you be at the same place for a little while?”

“It looks that way,” Joanna answered. “I’m having my own version of the same problem. I can’t go home until the creek goes down. I’ll probably be here for another hour at least. When you catch up with Ernie, remind him that his radio currently has big ears. He shouldn’t say anything about the Peloncillo situation that he doesn’t want broadcast nation-wide.”

“Right,” Kendall said.

“Next, what’s happening with Search and Rescue?”

“‘They all went home. They may not be there yet, but they’re on their way.”

“What did they do?” Joanna asked. “Call off the search on account of weather?^”

“You mean the search for Angie Kellogg? Oh, no. She’s fine.”

“They found her, then?”

“Search and Rescue didn’t find her but somebody else did. Here it is. Marianne Maculyea, the report says.”

Joanna breathed a sigh of relief as Kendall Evans continued. “She was found walking along Highway 80. Reverend Macu­lyea loaded her in the car and hightailed it back to Douglas hoping to beat the worst of the storm. She called from the first available phone booth to let us know Ms. Kellogg was safe.”

“That’s great,” Joanna breathed.

“The problem is, Sheriff Brady,” Kendall continued, “we’re real busy right now. There are two other calls coming in. I’ve got to go.”

“Sure. I’ll be here if you need me.”

Emptying the dregs of his coffee into the sink, Jim Bob an­nounced he was going into the living room to watch America’s Funniest Home Videos. Even though the dishes were done and put away, Eva Lou, looking troubled, seemed reluctant to leave the kitchen.

“So young,” she said sadly after her husband disappeared into the living room. “So terribly young. Brianna O’Brien was a smart girl who should have had a whole wonderful future ahead of her. Here she is gone.” When Eva Lou paused, Joanna could see the older woman was struggling to control herself.

“Not only that,” she added, “I know exactly what her par­ents are going through right now. I’ll never forget how it was when that first call came in about Andy. I just couldn’t believe it. Hearing about that poor girl and her family brings it all back to me as clearly as if it happened yesterday.”

Joanna nodded. It was the same for her. Each time she wit­nessed some new family descending into the hellish pit of los­ing a loved one, she, too, was sucked along, back into the awful abyss of Andy’s death. Other people’s pain mingled with her own, and neither seemed to lessen that much with time. Joanna didn’t bother explaining any of that to her mother-in-law. She didn’t have to. Eva Lou Brady was dealing with exactly the same thing.

“Do you know the O’Briens?” Joanna asked, more to make conversation than anything else.

Eva Lou shook her head. “Not personally. I know of’ them, though. Babe Sheridan goes to St. Dominick’s, you know. She ways they’re nice people. Mr. O’Brien is all crippled up, but Babe said something about Katherine going off on missions for two weeks at a time. Medical missions, I believe she said, where a team of doctors and nurses go into out-of-the-way places and provide medical services for the poor. They do corrective surgeries—the kinds of procedures that wouldn’t be available otherwise. I believe Katherine O’Brien is a trained nurse. It takes a real giving person to do that—and a whole lot of gumption, too.”

“It certainly does,” Joanna agreed.

For a few minutes, Joanna and Eva Lou sat together in si­lence. “How’s your mother doing?” Eva Lou asked finally. “I’ve barely seen her these past few weeks. She must be awfully busy.”

“She’s been busy all right,” Joanna returned dryly. “She’s married.^”

Eva Lou put down her coffee cup. “She’s what?”

“Married,” Joanna repeated. “She and George Winfield eloped when they went to Vegas.”

“Why forevermore!” Eva Lou Brady said wonderingly. “Good for her. Good for both of them. What wonderful news!”

In the face of her mother-in-law’s evident enthusiasm, Joanna had the good sense and grace to stifle any further negative comments of her own. Besides, just then Jim Bob called to his wife from the living room.

“Hey, Eva Lou, the last commercial just ended. Come on now or you’ll miss it.”

Eva Lou excused herself and went to join her husband in front of the blaring television set. Left on her own in the kitchen, Joanna dialed Frank Montoya’s number, alerting him to the Brianna O’Brien situation and bringing him up to speed as much as possible. Then she tried dialing her own number, hoping to use her answering machine’s remote feature to re­trieve her own messages. Nothing happened. The phone rang and rang, but the answering machine wouldn’t pick up.

Frustrated and unwilling to go into the living room to watch TV, Joanna picked up the yellow pad Jim Bob and Eva Lou kept on the kitchen table next to the phone. Since she was just passing time, why not write today’s letter?

Dear Jenny,

For a long, long time, “Dear Jenny” were the only words that appeared on the paper. Where should I start? Joanna won­dered. How should I begin?

This afternoon’s storm was a real corker. The washes are running at home, so I’m writing this from Grandma and Grandpa Brady’s house. I tried calling for messages a little while ago, but the answering machine isn’t working, so maybe our phone is out of order as well. I hope the storm didn’t catch you out somewhere on a hike. If it did, you probably got soaked.

You’ve only been gone for a day and a half; but it feels much longer. And it turns out that there’s all kinds of news. The most important of which has to do with Grandma Lathrop.

As you know, she’s been going out with that Dr. Winfield. Well, you’ll never guess what happened! It turns out that they’ve been doing a little more than just “going out.” Dr. Winfield and I were working on a case together today and he told me that they^’re married. He said they eloped last month when they took that trip up to Las Vegas. They’re planning on a honeymoon cruise sometime in August. So, not only do you have a new grandfather, I have a new stepfa­ther as well.

Joanna paused long enough to reread what she had written, hoping that it sounded breezy enough—breezy and nonjudg­mental. After all, she didn’t know how George Winfield would measure up in the stepfather department, but he might be perfectly fine as a grandfather. Joanna didn’t want to write anything that would prejudice Jenny against him.

The animals are all fine. At least, they were fine when 1 left the house this morning, and I’m sure they still are. I’ve been off investigating a crime scene most of the day. The storm that blew through late this afternoon didn’t make things any easier.

Oh, I almost forgot. Search and Rescue had to be called out today to look for Angie Kellogg. She and a friend went bird-watching up in Skeleton Canyon. They got separated, somehow, and Angie was lost for several hours. She found her way out, however. Dispatch just told me that Marianne found her and brought her home safe and sound.

The telephone rang. “I’ll get it,” Joanna said before Jim Bob made it out of his easy chair. “That’s all right,” he said. “It’s probably for you anyway.”

And it was. “Sheriff Brady?” Ernie Carpenter asked. “What big ears?”

“Frankie Stoddard and her police scanner.”

“That’s right,” he said. “I forgot all about her. It’s a good thing I’m calling on a phone then.”

“Why? What’s happening?”

“Jaime and I just made arrangements for a deputy to come pick up Ignacio Ybarra and bring him in for questioning. I’ll ride back to the department in the patrol car with them while Jaime drives the van.”

Joanna was stunned. “Brianna’s boyfriend? You think he had something to do with what happened to her?”

“Wait until you see him,” Ernie said grimly. “He looks like hell. Claims somebody beat him up, but he won’t tell us who it was or where it happened.”

“If you’re bringing him to the department, I’ll meet you there.”

Joanna put down the phone.

Oops, I^’ve gotta go. I^’ll have to mail this tomorrow along with Saturday’s letter as well. You’ll probably get them both on the same day—Tuesday, I hope.

Love, Mom

Joanna didn’t even bother trying to go home a second time. Once her clothes finished drying, she dressed, said her goodbyes and thank-yous to her in-laws, and drove straight to the department. Jaime Carbajal wasn^’t there with the van yet, and neither was Ernie Carpenter. Waiting in her office, Joanna decided to give Angie Kellogg a call and see how she was doing. To her surprise, there was no answer at Angie’s house in Galena.

That’s odd, she thought. Maybe she’s working.

Except, when Joanna dialed the Blue Moon, no one answered there, either.

Concerned, Joanna finally tried calling Jeff and Marianne’s parsonage up Tombstone Canyon. Marianne herself answered.

“Mari,” Joanna said, “it’s me. I’m looking for Angie. I just wanted to make sure she’s all right, but I can’t find her. She isn’t at home and she isn’t at work, either.”

“You’ve called the right place,” Marianne Maculyea said cheerfully. “She’s here all right, but she’s in the tub right now, trying to soap her troubles away.”

“She’s okay, I hope,” Joanna said. “She’s not still upset about Dennis Hacker laughing at her, is she?”

“No,” Marianne said. “I’d say Mr. Hacker is pretty far down the list of concerns at the moment. She’s a lot more upset about her car.

“Her car!” Joanna exclaimed. “What happened to that?”

“When she and Dennis Hacker went birding this morning, he lacked her up at work. She left her Omega parked in Brewery Gulch, sitting out in front of the Blue Moon. This afternoon, when a four-foot wall of water came pouring down the gulch, not only did it shut down all the telephone service in Brewery Gulch, it also picked up Angie’s car and carried it right along with it. Washed it down into the storm drain under Main Street.”

“Oh, no,” Joanna murmured.

“Oh, yes,” Marianne continued. “With the fire department’s help, a tow truck finally managed to pull it out, but I’m wor­ried that it’s wrecked for good. The engine was completely under water. Not only that, it went nosefirst down into the drain. The whole front end is bashed in—the grill, the hood, and both front fenders. Angie’s just sick about it.”

So was Joanna. From what Marianne was saying, the Omega would probably end up being totaled. Although Angie had been extraordinarily proud of her little Omega, it was, never­theless, a seventeen-year-old vehicle. As an inexperienced driver who had never before carried auto insurance, Angie Kellogg was in a high-risk/high-premium group. She carried the state-mandated coverages, especially liability, but her pol­icy included nothing that would repair the physical damage.

“She’s staying with us for tonight, at least,” Marianne con­tinued. “Jeff and I didn’t think she should be alone after all she’s been through today. As for tomorrow, I don’t know. It’s too far for her to walk from her house back and forth to work. We’ll have to work something out.”

“Other than her car, though, she’s all right?” Joanna asked.

She had heard Dennis Hacker’s lame version of what had gone on in Skeleton Canyon earlier that morning. But all day long, whenever she had thought about Angie Kellogg, Joanna had worried and wondered if that was all there was to it, or had there been something more? Dennis Hacker might have looked like the boy next door, but then so had Ted Bundy.

“She’s fine,” Marianne said. “She was wet to the bone, chilled, and hungry when I picked her up. Jeff gave her a little shot of medicinal brandy when I got her home and then he fed her some supper. He also administered a brotherly talk about some men being such incredible bums that women shouldn’t waste a minute of their time on them. By the time Jeff finished with her, I think she was feeling better. Once she’s _‘hone soaking in the tub, she’ll probably be ready to go night-­night right along with the girls.”

“Give Jeff Daniels a hug for me,” Joanna said. “He’s one of the nicest people l know.”

“I’ll be glad to tell him,” Marianne said. “I happen to think so, too. In the meantime, can you tell me anything about what else was going on out in the mountains today? I’ve heard all kinds of awful rumors that Brianna O’Brien is dead.”

“I don’t know who your sources are,” Joanna said. “Unfor­tunately, they’re right. Brianna O’Brien is dead. Her mother identified the body a little while ago.”

“‘That’s dreadful,” Marianne breathed. “An accident of some kind?”

“We don’t know that yet,” Joanna told her. “And we won’t, not until after Dr. Winfield conducts the autopsy.”

There was a long pause while neither woman said a word. ^“Are you all right?” Marianne asked at last.

Marianne Maculyea knew Joanna all too well. There was plenty of reason for Joanna not to be all right, but before she before go into any of it, including telling Marianne about Eleanor Lathrop’s latest caper, Joanna’s other line started ringing.

“Sorry, Mari. There’s another call. I’ve got to go.” She winched the other line. “Yes?”

“Excuse me, Sheriff, but there’s a man out here named Burton Kimball. You know, the attorney. He says Detective Carpenter is bringing in one of his clients. Mr. Kimball is supposed to be present for the interview. I talked to Dispatch. They didn’t know anything about it. Kendall Evans said I should talk to you.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’ll be right out.”

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Tall, broad-shouldered, and with his brown hair going gray at the temples, Burton Kimball stood in front of the lobby display case examining the photographs featured there—pictures of all the previous sheriffs of Cochise County, up to and including Sheriff Joanna Brady. Except for hers, all the black-and-white photos were formal portraits of the “lawman” variety—pic­tures of solemn, upright men staring back at the camera with unsmiling disdain. All of the men sported some variation of cowboy getup. A few of the portraits even included horses.

Joanna’s picture was different. Cropped from an ordinary snapshot and then enlarged, it showed her as a smiling child, dressed in a Brownie uniform and posing with her Radio Flyer wagon stacked high with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.

“The Women’s Club did a great job of putting this display together, but how come most of these guys look like they have a corncob stuck up their butts?” Burton asked Joanna when she walked up beside him.

After a day filled with thorny complications and unrelenting tension, Cochise County’s leading defense attorney^’s comment was so unexpectedly lighthearted and welcome that Joanna burst out laughing. “Probably because they did,” she replied. Sill smiling, she offered him her hand. “How’s it going, Burton? I understand you’re waiting for a client.”

I le nodded and looked around. “I take it they’re not here yet?”

“Not so far. You’re welcome to wait in my office if you like.”

She led him through a security door and down the long hallway to the suite of private offices at the back of the build­ing. Joanna’s was in the far back corner. “Have a chair,” she invited as they entered.

Gratefully, Burton sank down on the long leather sofa that, along with the oversized desk and all the other furnishings, were hand-me-downs dating from the administration of Walter V. McFadden, Joanna’s immediate predecessor. Folding his arms behind his head, Burton leaned back into them. “‘Tell we,” he said. “How’s Ruby Starr holding up? Is she still cook­ing up a storm around here?”

In local law enforcement circles, Burton Kimball had a repu­tation for attracting an oddball and sometimes difficult clien­tele. Ruby Starr qualified on both counts. She and her husband had come to Bisbee with the intention of opening a fine dining establishment. The husband had been supposed to provide the business expertise while Ruby was expected to do the cooking. Their partnership and marriage both had come to grief in a domestic dispute that started with Ruby going through the house and nailing her husband’s discarded dirty clothes to the hardwood floor. The battle had escalated into a sledgehammer-­to-windshield finale that had put Ruby Starr in the county jail charged with criminal assault.

She just happened to be there—with Burton Kimball on re­tainer as her attorney—when the jail’s previous cook made off in the middle of the night, taking with him all the fixings for the jail inmates’ Thanksgiving dinner. In an act of civic gener­osity, Burton and his wife had provided dinner, replacing the missing turkeys and other necessary ingredients as well. Ruby Starr had been drafted out of her jail cell to do the cooking. She had done such an admirable job that, upon her release, she had been offered the jail cook’s job on a permanent basis. Seven months later, she was still there.

Joanna smiled. “Ruby’s doing fine,” she answered. “Now the only inmates who complain about the food are the ones who weren’t here before and who don’t have any idea how bad it can be. One of our repeat offenders usually sets the griper straight in a big hurry.”

After a few minutes of small-town talk about whose kids were doing what over the summer, Joanna steered the conver­sation toward the business at hand. “How do you know Ig­nacio Ybarra?” she asked.

“I hardly know him at all,” Burton admitted. “His uncle, Frank, and I played football at the same time. Not exactly together, since we were on opposite teams. Still, we knew one another by reputation. Over the years, I’ve done some work for Frank, including legalizing Frank and Yolanda’s informal guardianship of their nephew—Frank’s sister’s son—Iggy.”

“That’s what they call him, Iggy?”

Burton shook his head. “No, I picked that up from reading a newspaper article about his football exploits. His family calls him Pepito.”

The phone rang just then and Joanna answered. “They’re here,” she told the attorney moments later.

Burton Kimball rose to his feel and smoothed his jacket, twitching at once from his at-ease demeanor to something far more businesslike. “If it’s at all possible, I’d like to meet with my client in private for a few minutes before we go into one of the interview rooms.”

“Certainly,” Joanna said. She rang the desk clerk. “Tell De­tective Carpenter to bring Mr. Ybarra into my office. Mr. Kimball would like to speak to him in private.”

Joanna stood up. “I’ll go into the outer office to wait.” She started toward the reception room door and then paused, glancing at the private door from her office that led back outside to the parking lot.

Burton Kimball seemed to read her mind. “Don’t worry, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “Ignacio Ybarra won’t take off. I give you my word.”

Nodding, Joanna went out and closed the door. In the recep­tion area, she met Ernie and Ignacio Ybarra as they entered the room. The young man was taller than Joanna expected—well over six feet. He was dark-haired, dark-eyed, and good-looking, except for the fact that his face was covered by a series of scrapes and ugly bruises. He held himself stiffly, as though his whole body hurt.

“How do you do, Mr. Ybarra,” Joanna said.

Anxiously, Ignacio peered around the room. “I thought Mr. Kimball was supposed to be here,” he said.

“He is,” Joanna responded. She pointed toward her closed office door. ^“In there. He’s waiting to speak to you. You may go in.”

With a glance over his shoulder at a fuming Detective Carpenter, Ignacio Ybarra walked past them both and into the sheriff’s private office while Joanna turned to her outraged detective.

“We don’t have to do this,” Ernie grumbled. “Allowing them a private conversation isn’t required by law. And why leave them alone in your office? What if Ybarra takes off?”

“He won’t,” Joanna said. “It may not be a legal requirement, but giving them the opportunity to confer in private is an act of common decency. Burton told me that he barely knows his client. Why shouldn’t we give them a chance to introduce themselves?”

“You’re telling me Kimball claims he doesn’t know him?” Shaking his head, Ernie broke off in disgust. “I doubt that. When we picked Ybarra up, he just happened to have Burton Kimball’s home telephone number on him. In a pencil-written note in his shirt pocket. That doesn’t much sound like strang­ers to me. And when he made his single phone call, all Ybarra had to do was tell Burton Kimball his name and the attorney says he’ll be right here. Which he is, by the way.”

“That’s all that was said, Ignacio Ybarra’s name?”

Ernie consulted his notes. “That’s right. Ybarra says, ‘It’s me, Mr. Kimball, Ignacio Ybarra,’ and then he hangs up. Burton Kimball drops everything on a Sunday night and scoots right over here. Yup, I’m sure they’re strangers.” The sarcasm in Ernie’s voice wasn’t lost on Joanna.

“So you’re saying Burton Kimball had already been alerted to some coming legal difficulty long before you and Jaime showed up at Ignacio’s house?”

“You bet. Mr. Ybarra may have put on an Academy Award-worthy performance when we told him Brianna O’Brien was dead, but it isn’t going to wash with mc. And neither is his cock and-bull story about some guy he didn’t know beating the crap out of him.”

“What do you think did happen?” Joanna asked.

“My guess is that he and Brianna got into some kind of beef. II turned physical. He ended up killing her, but with her giving almost as good as she got. Then, realizing what he’d done, he decided to run the truck off the cliff and try to make it look like an accident.”

“Without any clothes on?” Joanna raised an eyebrow. “Do you have anything at all to substantiate that theory, Ernie?”

“Not so far,” he grunted, “but I’m working on it.”

The door to Joanna’s office opened and both Burton Kimball and a subdued Ignacio Ybarra walked into the reception room. “We’re ready now,” the attorney announced. “Where are we going to do this? One of the interview rooms?”

“How about right here?” Joanna suggested. “It’s certainly noire comfortable than anywhere else, and bigger, too.”

They settled into places, with Ignacio and Burton Kimball pearling themselves in the two matching captain’s chairs. Ernie assumed the love seat, while Joanna leaned against the front of her secretary’s desk.

Ernie didn’t waste any time. “All right, Mr. Ybarra. May I call you Iggy?”

Ignacio shrugged. “I like Nacio better, but Iggy’s okay.”

“Very well, Nacio. Why don’t you tell us in your own words exactly what your relationship was to the dead woman.”

Ignacio Ybarra winced at the words. His face paled. “We were in love,” he said softly. “We wanted to get married someday.^’’

“Did Brianna^’s parents know anything about that?” Ernie asked.

“Probably not,” Nacio said.

“Why’s that?”

Ignacio’s eyes met and held Ernie’s. “Because we didn’t tell them. They wouldn’t have approved,” Nacio said.

“Because Mr. O’Brien doesn’t like Mexicans?”

“I guess,” Nacio said quietly. “But I’m an American. I was born in Douglas.”

“All right,” Ernie said. “Now, why don’t you tell us what happened last Friday?”

“Bree and I were supposed to go away together,” Nacio said. “To the Peloncillos, but when she came by to meet me, I told her my aunt got sick and ended up in the hospital in Tucson. I was going to have to work Friday night and Saturday morning both. I thought Bree would just go back home. Instead, she decided to go on up to the mountains by herself to wait for me. That way, she said, she could reserve our camping place, and I could come up on Saturday whenever I got off. That’s the last I saw her.”

“And you let her go? Just like that?”

“Bree did what she wanted,” Nacio said. “I didn’t have any choice.”

^“So tell us about Saturday,” Ernie continued. “Did you go to the mountains to meet her?”

“Yes,” Nacio said. “I went where Bree was supposed to be, but she wasn’t there. She had been, but she must have left.”

“How do you know that?”

“Because I found part of her earring. It was lying in the dirt.”

Joanna had been standing quietly to one side, listening. Men­tion of the earring jarred her out of her self-imposed silence. “What kind of earring?”

“A pearl,” Nacio said as tears suddenly welled in both eyes. “The earrings were a graduation present to her from me.”

Remembering Katherine O’Brien’s surprising response upon hearing about the existence of that one earring, Joanna thought she understood it better now. It wasn’t just a matter of David O’Brien’s being offended by pierced ears. It had as much or more to do with who had given Bree the pearl earrings in the first place.

“Where is it now?” Joanna asked.

“I lost it again.”

“Where?”

“I don’t know,” Nacio murmured.

There wasn’t a person in the room who didn’t believe Ig­nacio Ybarra’s barely audible answer was a lie. Ernie Carpenter bounced on it at once. “You expect us to swallow that?” he demanded. “You know exactly where you found it but you can’t tell us where you lost it again?”

Nacio shook his head. Ernie’s glower proclaimed he was unconvinced, but Nacio said nothing more.

“So,” Ernie continued a moment later, “you went up to the mountains. When Brianna wasn’t there, what did you think?”

Nacio shrugged. “I thought maybe she was mad at me.”

“Why?”

“Because I was so late. I thought maybe she got tired of waiting and just went home.”

“What did you do then?”

“I went back home, too. I went to work, actually. I kept thinking she’d come by and see me there, but she didn’t.”

“Let’s go back to the camping bit. Where was that, the spot where you usually stayed?”

“Up in the Peloncillos,” Nacio said. “Along the creek.”

“In Skeleton Canyon?”

“I’m not sure which canyon is which out there. They all sort of run together, but where we camped is in a little clearing. It’s just off the road, but hidden from the road. Easy to get to but hard to see.”

“You didn’t have to go four-wheeling it to get there?”

“No,” Nacio said. “Not at all.”

Standing outside the fray as the questions droned on and on, Joanna’s attention began to wander. She was going more by her impressions of how Nacio answered—of his manner in doing so—rather than by his specific replies. Joanna had the sense that, for the most part, Ignacio Ybarra was telling the truth—that he had loved Brianna O’Brien and was devastated by her loss. He spoke of her with the bewildered pain of someone who can’t quite come to terms with what has happened, of someone who wants nothing more than to awaken and dis­cover what he thought had happened was nothing but a bad dream.

“When you went sneaking around on these camping trips,” Jaime was saying when Joanna tuned back into the conversa­tion, “where exactly did you sleep?”

“Usually in the back of Bree’s pickup on an air mattress.”

“With a bedroll?”

“Two,” Nacio said. “One on top and one on the bottom. We zipped them together.”

“But we found only one bedroll at the scene today,” Jaime said casually. “Where do you suppose the other one went?”

“I have no idea. Someone must have taken it.”

“They took it, all right,” Jaime said. “They took it because it was soaked in blood. We’re convinced Brianna’s killer used that other bedroll to wrap up the body and move her around.”

Jaime reached into his pocket and pilled out one of the evidence bags. “See this?” he said, handing it over to Nacio. “We found that stuck on a clump of brush near where Brian­na’s truck went over the edge of the cliff. What does it look like to you?”

Nacio looked at it. Then, as his face took on a deathly pallor, he let the bag drop to the floor. Groaning, he buried his hands in his face and began to sob, his shoulders heaving. By then, Burton Kimball was on his feet.

“All right, you guys. That’s enough of this. No more ques­tions. Either book my client or let him go, but there’ll be no more questions tonight.” Bristling with anger, he bent down and retrieved the bag. “What the hell is this?^” he demanded, handing it back to Jaime.

“It’s a piece of material,” Jaime returned. “We found it snagged on a clump of cat claw at just about the same spot where Brianna’s truck went off the cliff. It looks like it could he from the inside lining of a bedroll. Not only that, I wouldn’t he surprised if that spot on it didn’t turn out to be a splotch of blood matching the victim’s.^”

Burton Kimball’s jaw clenched with anger. “You had no business showing him that,” he snarled at Jaime. Then Burton wheeled on Ernie as well. “Let’s cut to the chase, Detective Carpenter. Are you arresting my client or not?”

“Not at this time,” Ernie returned mildly. “But he’s not to leave the area. We’re going to be questioning all his associates. If Mr. Ybarra knows what’s good for him, he’ll have a sudden flash in the memory banks about what exactly happened to his face and ribs. If he wants us to believe that he didn’t get those injuries as a result of a physical confrontation with Brianna O’Brien, then he’d better come up with some other plau­sible answer, along with some witnesses to back it up.”

“Come on, Ignacio,” Burton Kimball said. “Let’s get out of here.”

“I’m free to go then?” Nacio asked. He sounded dazed, as though he couldn’t quite believe what was happening.

“Evidently,” Burton said. “For the time being at least.”

Taking his young client by the arm, Kimball exited the room. The reception area was quiet for some time after they left.

“I figured showing him the cloth would provoke some kind of reaction,” Jaime said. “Did I go too far?”

Rubbing his forehead, Ernie shook his head. “You were pushing it, maybe, but you did get a reaction. What do you think?”

Jaime shrugged. “Maybe she was trying to break up with him. Maybe they got in a fight over that.”

“Maybe. How about you, Sheriff Brady?” Ernie said, turning to Joanna. “What’s your opinion?”

“I wish we had that missing journal,” she said. “If we could read that, we’d have a better idea of what was really going on.

“We’ll find it all right,” Ernie said grimly. “I’ll bet we find that missing bedroll, too.”

“You want me to go to work on getting a search warrant?” Jaime asked.

“Not tonight,” Ernie replied. “Tomorrow’s another day.” “Right,” Jaime said. “I’ll get after it first thing in the morning.”

Ernie turned again to Joanna. “What about the O’Briens?” he asked. “Should we drive out to Green Brush Ranch and talk to them tonight?”

Wearily, Joanna shook her head. “As you said, Ernie, its late. Tomorrow’s another day.”

They all left the department a few minutes later. On the drive home, Joanna found she was so exhausted that she had trouble staying awake. Corning through the cuts on Highway 80, she was dismayed to see orange emergency lights flashing at the intersection of High Lonesome Road and the Double Adobe cutoff.

“What now?” she muttered. “Not an accident, I hope.”

When she reached the lights, however, she discovered not one but two utility crews. “What’s going on?” she asked, rolling down her window.

“We’ve got a fried transformer here,” the foreman told her. “It melted some wires as well. None of the people up High Lonesome have power right now, but we should have it back on within a couple of hours.”

“Great,” Joanna said. “The perfect ending to a perfect day.”

The dogs met her, as usual, halfway up the drive. The water had drained out of both creek beds, leaving both crossings rocky and muddy and devoid of the usual tracks, but passable nonetheless. It was eerie, though, driving into the yard without having the motion detector turn on the floodlights. Joanna wasn^’t looking forward to the silence, either.

It’s going to be quiet, she thought. Way too quiet.

But when she stepped out of the Eagle, she was assailed by the noise of what sounded like the bleating of a herd of a thousand sheep. Colorado River toads, she realized with a smile of relief. The night wasn’t going to be quiet after all.

The frogs^’ noisy squawking was one of the sounds of summer. That first rainstorm always awakened hordes of hibernat­ing toads and set them on their brief but frenetic mating trail.

Their raucous racket never failed to cheer Joanna. It meant that after months of dry days and endless blue skies, the rains had returned, bringing with them the promise of life begun anew.

Joanna knew that once she went inside, the walls of the house would cut off the toads’ welcome, cheery song. That settles it, she told herself, making up her mind. I’m sleeping out on the porch again tonight.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Standing in front of her closet on Monday morning, Joanna was faced with the usual problem of what to wear. Had she managed to go shopping on Saturday afternoon, she might have had a few more choices. As it was, she settled on a three-piece hunter green pantsuit that was coming up on the end of its useful life. It was an old standby that dated from her previous career in the insurance business. She had worn it until she was tired of it. Most likely so was everyone around her.

The phone in the outer office was ringing as she walked in the door to hers. “It’s Adam York,” Kristin Marsten, her secre­tary, announced over the intercom once Joanna made it as far as her desk. “Do you want me to put him through?”

“Sure,” she said. “Hello, Adam,” she added a moment later. “You’re certainly up and at ‘em bright and early this morning.”

“You call this bright and early? What do you mean?” Adam replied. “I’ve been working all weekend—ever since you called on Saturday. In fact, I tried like hell to reach you yesterday evening. The phone rang and rang, but there was no answer. Your machine never picked up, either.”

“Sorry about that,” Joanna apologized. “I was out all day in a car with no radio. Then, last night, a storm came through and knocked out a transformer just up the road, shutting off the electricity for several hours. It also seems to have put a permanent glitch in my answering machine. Even with the power back on this morning, I couldn’t make the thing play back messages or record a new one.”

Adam York laughed. “Sounds like it’s about time to toss out that outdated machine and sign up for something civilized like voice mail.”

“I’ll look into it,” Joanna told him. “Now, what have you got for me?”

“Here’s the deal. As I told you the other night, the guys up in Phoenix have been working overtime on a big-time Freon-smuggling case. I checked with them. No one on that case thinks your Benson guy is related to what’s going on in Phoe­nix. They agree with me that he sounds like more of a small-time, independent operator than a big one. The Phoenix case revolves around a major air-conditioning contractor up there, not some seat-of-the-pants tow truck operator. All the same, as of six o’clock this morning, both Sam Nettleton and Sam’s Easy Towing and Wrecking are under twenty-four-hour surveillance.”

“Great,” Joanna said. “How’d you manage that?”

Adam York laughed. “There are a few advantages to being the agent in charge, you know. If we come up with anything concrete, we’ll let you know right away.”

“I appreciate it,” Joanna said. Glancing out into the reception area, she saw both her chief deputies pacing back and forth, waiting for their early morning briefing. “‘Thanks for keeping me posted, Adam. I have to go. Duty calls. There are people outside waiting for me.”

^“Sure thing,” Adam told her cheerfully. “Rut don’t bother Ilianking me. If this lead turns into something, we should be thanking you. You’re the one helping us, remember?”

Putting down the phone, Joanna motioned Deputies Voland and Montoya into the room. Wrangling as usual, they assumed their customary chairs. “What’s the deal?” Joanna asked.

“We took another big hit in the overtime category again this weekend,” Frank Montoya complained. “Nobody around here seems to listen or believe me when I tell them a budget crunch is coming. It’s going to nip us in the butt. We can’t keep squan­dering our resources this way, day after day, week after week.”

“You call that squandering? We had a homicide, for one thing,” Voland reminded him. “We also got hit by a record breaking storm—one that played havoc with roads and traffic all over the county. Of course, we had to use overtime. What do you expect?”

“I’ll tell you what I expect. If we keep splurging on overtime at the same rate we have been lately, my computer model says payroll will hit empty two weeks prior to the end of the fiscal year. What’s going to happen then?”

“Nothing much,” Dick Voland said easily. “We’ll have ourselves an old-fashioned SDC with the board of supervisors.”

“An SDC?” Frank Montoya asked with a frown. “What’s that?”

“A stare-down contest,” Voland replied with a sardonic grin. “First guy to blink loses.”

Montoya, chief deputy for administ^ration, was not amused. “That’s no way to run a department,” he said.

“And neither is this,” Joanna told them firmly. “Quit bick­ering, both of you. You sound like a wrangling old married couple. Let’s go to work. Yesterday’s overtime charges aren’t Dick’s fault, Frank. He wasn’t even in town when the storm hit. On the other hand, Frank is right about the budget shortfall. Every week he gives me a computer printout that shows where we are and where we’re going. At the moment we’re running six-point-seven days short of being able to meet basic payroll at the end of the fiscal year. That’s a serious problem. Everybody from patrol right through jail staff is going to have to do something to fix it. Now let’s—”

The intercom buzzed. Shaking her head in annoyance, Jo­anna pushed the button. “What is it, Kristin?^” she demanded. “We’re having a briefing in here. Can’t it wait until—”

“There’s someone here who insists on seeing you, Sheriff Brady,” Kristin said. “His name’s Ignacio Ybarra.”

“You mean he’s here to see one of the detectives, don’t you?” Joanna asked.

“No. He says he wants to see the sheriff. Right away.”

“Where’s Detective Carpenter?”

“He still hasn’t come in this morning.”

“And Detective Carbajal?”

“He’s on his way up to the courthouse to see Judge Moore about a search warrant.”

Joanna considered for a moment. “Does Mr. Ybarra have Burton Kimball along with him?”

“The lawyer? No,” Kristin answered. “He’s here alone.”

“Ybarra,” Dick Voland said, glancing down and scanning his briefing sheet. “Isn’t he the prime suspect in the O’Brien case’?” Joanna nodded, and Voland rose to his feel. “If you want me to, Sheriff Brady, I can handle this for you....”

“He asked to speak to me, Dick,” Joanna said firmly. “I’ll talk to him myself.”

“Without Ernie?”

“You heard Kristin. Mr. Ybarra asked for me. He didn’t ask for you or Detective Carpenter or even for Detective Carbajal.”

“But—” Voland began.

Joanna cut him off. “I’m quite capable of passing along whatever information is given to me, Dick. Now, if it’s all right with you two, we’ll continue our briefing in the conference room as soon as I finish up with Mr. Ybarra.”

The two chief deputies left immediately after that, although Dick Voland was still grumbling about it under his breath as he walked out the door. Joanna punched the intercom button once more. “All right, Kristin,” she said. “You can send him in now.”

Ignacio Ybarra entered the room looking awful. His eyes were red-rimmed and puffy. His coloring was gray. Dark circles under his eyes said he hadn’t slept. Once through the doorway, he paused and glanced warily around the room as if expecting to see other people.

“Have a seat, Mr. Ybarra,” Joanna said. “And relax. There’s no one else here but us—no hidden microphones, no nothing. Are you sure you wouldn’t like to have your attorney present when you speak to me?”

Ignacio shook his head and eased himself onto a chair, gri­macing with pain as he did so. “No,” he said. “This is all right.”

‘‘What can I do for you, then?” Joanna asked.

Nacio took a deep breath. “I come to talk to you about Bree’s earring.”

“The one you found and then lost again?”

The young man nodded. “I only found part of it,” he said. “The pearl.”

“What about it?” Joanna asked.

“You know something about that earring, don’t you, Sher­iff Brady?”

Once again, Joanna thought back to Katherine O’Brien’s sur­prising reaction to the one remaining earring—to the fact that the dead girl’s mother wanted to have nothing to do with it. Nodding, Joanna kept quiet and waited for Ignacio Ybarra to speak again. Instead, he sat in an uncomfortable and lengthen­ing silence, staring down at his hands.

Joanna wasn’t quite sure what to do next. Here was a mur­der suspect who had willingly walked into her office. He must have come there with the intention of volunteering some bit of information he hadn’t been prepared to share earlier in the presence of his attorney. Now, though, he had frozen up. He seemed unable to say anything at all much less what he had come to say.

Sitting there, Joanna Brady regretted that she wasn’t more experienced at interrogating suspects. What she had done in-stead, however, was live on the High Lonesome long enough to recognize the sometime necessity of priming a pump. In order to elicit any information from this obviously guarded and wary young man, she would have to share some bit of intelligence herself.

“I know her parents didn’t approve of them,” she said quietly.

Ignacio’s troubled brown eyes met hers. The pained hurt in that look--the all-consuming grief–was almost more than Joanna could bear. Katherine O’Brien’s way of grieving had been far more decorous and controlled—grief under glass, almost. Ignacio’s pain was much closer to the surface and written over every inch of him. Joanna Brady had been through her own terrible loss. She recognized there was no fakery in Ignacio Ybarra’s hurt, no pretense. Regardless of how Brianna O’Brien had died—at her lover’s hands or someone else’s—that Monday morning, Ignacio was suffering. His heart was broken.

“They told you that?” he asked at last.

“Mrs. O’Brien did,” Joanna replied. “She said her husband disapproved of Brianna’s wearing earrings.”

“Bid she tell you how much they didn’t like them?”

“What do you mean?”

“Mr. O’Brien hit Bree,” Ignacio said quickly. “Did her mother tell you about that, too?”

Joanna shook her head. “No,” she said.

“Well, he did,” Ignacio declared, rushing on. “He caught her wearing the earrings in the house and told her to take them off. She told him they were her ears, that she should he able to decide what she would and wouldn’t wear on them. That’s when he slapped her—hard, right across the face. It happened the week before graduation. She had to wear makeup all week to keep the bruise from showing.”

Joanna nil let her breath out. I wasn’t wrong, she thought. There was an undercurrent of violence in that compulsively clean house. And in Bree’s room as well.

“Did her parents know about you?” Joanna asked gently a moment later. “Did they know that’s where the earrings came from?”

Ignacio shook his head. “I don’t think so,” he said. “She was afraid to tell them.”

“Why?”

He shrugged. “Bree was afraid of what her father might do if he discovered his daughter was involved with an Hispanic.”

“Afraid he’d do something to her or to you?” Joanna prompted.

“Maybe both,” Ignacio replied after a pause.

“She was afraid he’d hurt you?”

“He did,” Ignacio said simply.

Joanna sat bolt upright in her chair. “He did what?”

“Mr. O’Brien hurt me. At least, one of his men did.”

Joanna could barely believe her ears. “Wait a minute. You’re telling me that one of David O’Brien’s men beat you up? When? Where?”

“Saturday night,” Ignacio said haltingly. “It happened right outside the gate to Green Brush Ranch. I went there hoping to catch sight of Bree. I thought if she had gone home, maybe I could spot her truck and know she was all right. I wanted to talk to her—to apologize for being late. I didn’t see her truck, though. All I saw were police cars. I was afraid something had happened to her.”

Fully alert, Joanna listened with every cell of her body. Ig­nacio was a homicide suspect. If what he was saying was true—if he had gone to Green Brush Ranch hoping to catch sight of the victim—that would mean he still thought she was alive almost twenty-four hours after Brianna’s shattered Timex had stopped ticking for good at 9:51. On Friday, not Saturday. That would also mean Ignacio Ybarra hadn’t killed her. The question was, however, was he telling the truth?

“When was this again?” Joanna asked.

“Saturday. I went there in the late afternoon, after I left the station. I was hiding outside the gate in a clump of mesquite when some guy saw me—one of Mr. O’Brien’s security guards, I guess. He’s the one who beat me up.”

“You’re saying the man who beat you up came from Green Brush Ranch?” Joanna asked.

“I le must have,” Ignacio replied. “I didn’t see exactly where he came from. All I know is, he snuck up on me from behind. I didn’t see him until he was on top of me. But that’s where he went afterward—back through the gate to Green Brush Ranch. Another guy on an ATV drove up to the gate. He waited just inside the fence. After the one guy finished with me, he walked across the road and went inside the gate. The two of them rode away together, back up the drive toward where the house roust he.”

“Where the house must be,” Joanna repeated thoughtfully. “You’ve never been there?”

Ignacio shook his head. “Bree made me promise that I wouldn’t go. I think she was worried something like this might happen.”

“Like what?” Joanna asked. “Tell me exactly what happened.”

“This guy came up behind me—an older guy.”

“What did he look like?”

“I couldn’t see him too well in the dark, but he was tall and skinny. Tan. Wearing a cowboy hat.”

Unbidden, the image of Alf Hastings flashed across Joanna’s mind, but she brushed it aside. “Go on,” she said.

“Like I said, it was after dark,” Ignacio said. “1 may have dozed off for a minute. All I know is, out of nowhere I heard someone walk up behind me. I tried to stand up, but I had been in the same position for so long that my legs were asleep. When I tried to stand up, they collapsed under me. I fell forward, right on my face. I had managed to make it as far as my hands and knees when the guy kicked me in the gut. He was wearing pointed cowboy boots, and the toe caught me in the solar plexus. It knocked the wind out of me. I fell down again. The next thing I knew, he had me by the hair, pulling it out by the roots.”

Ignacio paused, as if remembering the attack were almost as painful as living through it the first time.

“So?” Joanna urged.

“I must have blacked out for a minute. When I came to, he was talking to me. ‘You’re a big one for a greaser,’ he was saying. ‘But you know what they say about that. The bigger they come, the harder they fall, right?’ I didn’t answer. I tried to turn around so I could get a better look at him, but he shook me so hard, I was afraid he was going to break my neck. ‘Did you hear me?’ he said again. ‘You’re supposed to answer when somebody speaks to you.’

“He shook me again—the kind of shake a coyote might give a rabbit in order to break its neck. That’s when I decided a rib was broken. One at least. According to Dr. Lee, it turns out to be three.”

“Dr. Lee over at the Copper Queen?” Joanna asked. She was taking notes now, writing as fast as she could.

Ignacio nodded. “He was my doctor last fall when I got hurt up here playing football. And that’s where I went after this happened—to the hospital to see Dr. Lee.”

“Go on then,” Joanna said.

“‘What’re you doing here, greaser?’ the guy says. ‘Casing the joint? Trying to figure out how you and your buddies can get inside and steal some of Mr. O’Brien’s stuff?’ I tried to tell him that I didn’t care about the O’Briens^’ stuff, but he didn’t believe me. He must’ve thought I was one of the border bandits.^”

“What happened next?” Joanna urged.

“He let go of my hair. When I fell back down, it hurt so had, I was afraid I might have ruptured a lung. I was still dealing with that when he burned me.”

Joanna caught her breath. “Burned you?”

Ignacio nodded. “I heard him strike a match and then I smelled cigar smoke. The next thing I knew, he burned me—right between my shoulder blades. I could smell that my shirt was on fire. I rolled around on the ground, trying to put it out. All the time, he^’s talking to me. ‘Just pass the word along to all your thieving friends down there across the line,’ he said. ‘Tell ‘em Mr. O’Brien has a few surprises for anyone who comes around here trying to steal his stuff.’ By the time I fi­nally got the fire out, the guy was already crossing the road to where the other guy was waiting on the ATV.”

Listening to the story, Joanna felt almost physically ill as she recalled some of the almost forgotten details of the Alf Has­tings case over in Yuma County. There wasn’t a decent police officer in the state of Arizona who hadn’t been ashamed of what had happened to the young illegals who had fallen into his clutches. They had been beaten and left to die. Now that Ignacio Ybarra mentioned it, Joanna thought she remembered that the young men had also been tortured and burned.

She stood up. “Would you excuse me for a moment?”

Ignacio nodded. “Sure,” he said.

Joanna stalked out into the outer office. She picked up Kristin’s phone and dialed Frank Montoya’s extension. As a recent law enforcement graduate of the University of Arizona, he was also the most computer literate.

“Does the name Alf Hastings ring a bell?” she asked when he answered.

“Not right off,” Frank responded. “Should it?”

“He was the deputy over in Yuma County who was the ringleader in that police brutality case with the four young UDAs. I want you to run Hastings’s name through the com­puter database. Bring me a copy of everything you get back.”

“What are you after specifically?” Frank asked.

“I want to hear from some of the other investigating offi­cers,” Joanna told him. “I’m looking for an MO. I want to know exactly what was done to those kids.”

“Any particular reason?”

“Yes,” Joanna said. “Alf Hastings is living in Cochise County right now and working for David O’Brien. Unless I’m mistaken, I have one of Hastings’s most recent victims sitting here in my office. My major concern is that there may be others we don’t even know about.”

“I’ll get right on it,” Frank told her.

Taking Kristin’s phone book from the shelf behind her desk, Joanna located the number for the Copper Queen Hospital. It was morning office hours at the clinic, so Joanna had to pull rank before she was finally put through to Dr. Lee directly.

Dr. Thomas Lee was a Taiwanese immigrant in his mid-thirties who had come to Bisbee straight out of medical school. He had initially planned to stay long enough to pay off his school loans. The loans were all gone now—had been for over a year—but still he stayed on.

“Sheriff Brady,” Dr. Lee said, when he came on the phone. “Can I help you?”

“I have it young man in my office right now,” Joanna told the doctor. “Ignacio Ybarra. Do you know him?”

“Nacio? Yes, of course.”

“I need to ask you a question about him.”

“Sheriff Brady, you know I can’t reveal—”

“Please, Dr. Lee. I need to ask just one or two questions. Did you see him this weekend?”

“Yes.”

“When was that?”

“Saturday,” Dr. Lee said. “Saturday night. He came to the emergency room.”

“You treated him then?”

“Yes.^”

“Is there a possibility that Ignacio’s injuries had been re­ceived the night before?”

“You mean on Friday instead of Saturday? Absolutely not!” Dr. Lee exclaimed. “He was bleeding. Dirt was still in the wounds.”

“‘Thank you, Dr. Lee,” Joanna breathed. “That’s all I need to know.”

“But you must tell me,” Dr. Lee objected. “Why are you asking such questions? Has something happened to Nacio? Is there anything I can do to help?”

“You already have,” Joanna told him. “I thought Ignacio was telling me the truth. Now I know for sure.”

Putting down the phone, she went back into her office. Ig­nacio Ybarra was still sitting in the same place with his head lowered, his shoulders bent. Sorrow exuded from every pore.

Moving with a confidence she hadn’t felt before, Joanna re-hinted to her desk. Ignacio looked up as she came by. Joanna mat down and met his questioning gaze.

“Nacio,” she said kindly, “why didn’t you tell us any of this last night?”

The young man ducked his head. “I don’t know,” he said. “I guess I was too scared. I didn’t think anyone would be­lieve me.”

“So why are you here now?”

“I’ve thought about the pearl for two nights now. I want it back, Sheriff Brady. I gave it to Bree because I loved her, and I want it back for the same reason. It’s all I’m ever going to have to remember her by.” He broke off, burying his grief-contorted face in his hands.

Joanna waited several moments while the young man sat there sobbing. “You must have loved her very much,” she said at last.

Ignacio nodded, but it took several seconds longer before he was under control enough to speak. “Bree and I thought that someday we’d be able to be together. We were going off to school in September. With us in Tucson and with both our families here, how much could they have done to stop us?”

Plenty, Joanna thought, thinking about how much grinding criticism her disapproving mother had heaped on Joanna’s and Andy’s marriage over the years. For good or ill, Ignacio Ybarra was never going to have to face those kinds of issues with David and Katherine O’Brien.

“You lost the pearl during the beating, then?” she asked. “Is that what you’re telling me?”

“Yes,” Ignacio murmured. “I’m sure that’s when it fell out of my shirt pocket. It’s bound to be there, right across the road from the gate. I’m sure I can find it again, but if I go back on my own to look for it, he’ll send somebody after me again. That’s why I carne here this morning, Sheriff Brady. To ask for help. If I go there with a deputy, no one will bother me.”

“Do you want to file charges against him?” Joanna asked.

“Against the man who beat me up?”

“Yes.”

Ignacio seemed to consider the possibility. “I hadn’t thought that far ahead,” he admitted. “I just wanted the pearl back, that’s all.^”

“If you have broken ribs, we’re talking about a serious assault here,” she told him. “Whoever did this to you shouldn’t hr allowed to get away with it.”

“But I barely saw him,” Ignacio objected. “It was dark. I may not be able to identify him.”

“Don’t worry about it,” Joanna said grimly. “I have a pretty good idea of who he is.”

Before Joanna had a chance to turn back to Ignacio, there was an impatient knock at the door. “Come in,” she called.

The door burst open and Detective Carpenter strode into the room. “What exactly is going on here?” he demanded, glower­ing first at Joanna and then at Ignacio. “I thought I was the Detective on—”

“Good morning, Ernie,” Joanna interrupted. “I’m so glad you could join us. I need you and/or Detective Carbajal to take Mr. Ybarra’s statement. I believe Nacio has been the victim of serious assault at the hands of one of David O’Brien’s em­ployees. Afterward, you’ll need to search the area opposite the outside gate to Green Brush Ranch to see if you can find Brianna O’Brien’s missing pearl earring, which was lost in the course of that attack. I’m sure Mr. Ybarra will be able to show you where it happened. I’m waiting for some information from Yuma County. If what I suspect pans out, sometime early this afternoon you and I should pay a visit to Green Brush Ranch.”

Ernie started to object, but something in the authoritative way Joanna had spoken stopped him cold.

“Jaime Carbajal is up at the courthouse trying to obtain a search warrant,” Joanna continued. “Call him off that and have him go with you. Now, get going.”

Without another word, Ernie turned on his heel and started for the door. Once there, he turned and looked back into the room. “Coming, Mr. Ybarra?” he asked.

Slowly, Ignacio Ybarra rose to his feet. He stepped toward Joanna’s desk, holding out his hand. “Thanks,” he said quietly, as they shook hands. “Thank you for believing me. I think what Mr. Kimball said about you was right.”

“Why?” Joanna asked. “What did he say?”

“He said that he’d met a lot of sheriffs in his time but that you were the only one who knew how to listen with your heart as well as your ears.”

“Thank you,” Joanna said.

May it always be so.

CHAPTER TWENTY

An hour later, while Joanna was busy reading Frank Montoya’s computerized printout on the police brutality case in Yuma, Kristin called in on the intercom to announce that Dr. Winfield was on the phone.

The prospect of talking to the coroner threw Joanna off cen­ter. Officially, Doc Winfield was the coroner, but he was also Joanna^’s new stepfather. Picking up the handset, she wasn’t mire how to speak to him on the phone. Winfield settled the whole issue by handling the entire transaction on a strictly professional basis.

“I still have some toxicology tests to do, and those take time-weeks even,” he told her. “But the preliminary results are these. The victim was struck on the head, repeatedly. The weapon was a heavy blunt object of some kind, but what actu­ally killed her was drowning.”

“Drowning?^” Joanna asked.

“In her own blood. Her rib cage was completely crushed. Both lungs filled with blood. That’s what killed her.”

Joanna shivered. Drowning in your own blood seemed like an appalling way to die. She forced herself to sound dispas­sionate. “Any signs of defensive wounds?” she asked.

“None,” George Winfield returned. “It looks to me as though she was naked when the attack came and as though her assailant came at her from behind. There are contusions and abrasions that look as though they happened prior to death.”

“Like she was running, maybe?” Joanna asked. “As though she was trying to get away?”

“Maybe.”

Joanna didn’t want to ask the next question, but she had to. “Was she sexually assaulted?”

“No,” George Winfield answered. “Given the circumstances of a naked victim, that’s something I would have suspected. But there’s no sign of sexual violation at all.”

“What about pregnancy?” Joanna asked.

“Negative on that, too. Her birth control pills must have been working.”

“Good,” Joanna said. Those things seemed like insignificant details, but Joanna was glad that they were blows David and Katherine O’Brien would be spared.

“Anything else?” Joanna asked.

“That’s all so far. This should be typed up by noon in case you want someone to come get it.”

“Thanks, George,” Joanna said. “I appreciate the advance notice.”

She had no more than put down the phone when it rang again. “We’ve got it,” Ernie said.

“Got what?” Joanna asked.

“The pearl.”

“Yon found it, then?^”

“Looks like. With the rainstorm and all I didn’t think we’d ever find it, but we got lucky. It was right where Ignacio said II would be. Maybe he was telling the truth after all.”

Having already talked to Dr. Lee, Joanna didn’t need any more convincing, but she was happy to have Ernie Carpenter’s concurrence.

“What do we do now?” he asked.

“While I was sitting here waiting, I’ve been reading up on Alf Hastings’s background,” Joanna said quietly. “He sounds like a hell of a nice guy. You’ll never guess what he liked to do to undocumented aliens besides kicking the crap out of them.”

“What?”

“He liked to burn them,” Joanna answered. “With the lit end of a cigar. Either between the shoulder blades or else on the genitals. On one of those four kids, he did both.”

The phone line went so silent that for a moment Joanna thought Ernie Carpenter had hung up on her. “Ernie?” she asked. “Are you there?^”

“Yeah,” he said. “I’m here.”

“What’s going on?”

“I’m thinking about Ignacio Ybarra,” Ernie Carpenter said. “I guess he’s one lucky guy.”

“Lucky? How do you figure? He just lost a girl he cared about very much. He—^”

“Right, but he only got the shoulder blade treatment,” Ernie interjected. “From my point of view, that’s luck.”

As soon as Sheriff Brady stopped long enough to think about it, she had to agree.

“I guess I’d better go on over to the ranch and have a chat with Mr. Hastings,” Ernie said a moment later.

“Alone? Where’s Detective Carbajal?”

“He left a few minutes ago. I had him take Nacio back over to the hospital. He was here with us when we found the pearl. I had planned to take him out to the Peloncillos this afternoon and have him show us where he and Brianna usually camped. Considering yesterday’s storm, there’s probably not much to find, but I wanted to give it a try. The problem is, as soon as he saw the pearl, the guy fell to pieces. He even blacked out for a while. It may have just been the heat, but with his ribs the way they are, I didn’t want to take any chances. I told Jaime to take him over to the hospital and to stay with him there. If he comes around later on, Jaime will take his statement.”

“If Detective Carbajal’s not there with you,” Joanna said, “who’s going to be your backup when you go see A l l Hastings?”

“I’ll call in and have Dispatch send me out a deputy,” Ernie replied.

“No,” Joanna said, standing up and reaching for her purse. “Don’t do that. I can be there in ten minutes flat. Alf Hastings is a worm. There’s nothing that’ll give me greater pleasure than seeing his face when he realizes we’ve dug him out of the dirt.”

“Do you think you’ll be able to fix it?” Angie Kellogg’s lower lip trembled as she asked the question. Hurt by Dennis Hacker’s derisive laughter, Angie had come back to Bisbee intent on simply packing up and leaving town. That plan had been derailed twice over. For one thing, Angie’s Omega had been washed down Brewery Gulch, drowned and smashed almost beyond recognition. But that misfortune had brought into focus the other thing that made the thought of leaving town almost impossible. For the first time in her life Angie Kellogg had friends, real friends—Jeff Daniels and Marianne Maculyea, for example.

Al the moment, Jeff—with the twin girls strapped into car seats in the backseat of the VW—was giving Angie a ride to work after viewing the crushed remains of the Omega in the fenced backyard of Jeff’s new business venture, Jeff’s Auto Rehab.

For years Jeff Daniels had played the role of stay-at-home spouse, backstopping his minister wife’s career. Their recent adoption of twins, Ruth and Esther, had thrown a severe financial wrench into the works, especially in view of the fact limit Esther had a heart condition that would eventually require surgical correction.

With money perpetually tight, Jeff had always kept the fami­ly’s two aging vehicles—a ‘63 VW and an even older Interna­tional—in pristine driving condition. Over time, his reputation for taking meticulous care in restoring vintage automobiles had spread. Working more as a hobbyist than anything else, he had restored several antique autos. The twins’ arrival from China, complicated by Esther’s ongoing medical difficulties, hail brought home the necessity for Jeff Daniels to give up his house-husband status and look for work outside the home. Torn between the need for an additional paycheck and the difficulty of finding and paying for child care, Jeff had opted for opening a business of his own.

Within days of making that decision, the opportunity to rent a defunct gas station had fallen into his lap. Its location, hall a mile up Tombstone Canyon from the parsonage, was ideal, and the bargain basement rent had seemed an answer to a prayer.

Jeff had begun the process by remodeling the office area into a combination nursery/playroom for the girls. Only then had he turned his hand toward the actual work space. Now, several months later, having found a number of clients with, as Jeff said, more money than sense, he was hard at work restoring several old cars, including a venerable Reo that belonged to a retired three-star general from Fort Huachuca.

Angie Kellogg’s battered Omega had been towed to the fenced lot behind Jeff’s garage, where it was parked next to the ‘52 DeSoto that was scheduled for Jeff’s ministrations once he finished work on the Reo.

^“Yes, we will,” Jeff told Angie reassuringly. “I’ve already made a list of the parts we’ll need. If we’re lucky, I’ll be able to find most of them in wrecking yards up in Tucson or Phoe­nix. Once we get the parts assembled, it’s just a matter of putting the pieces together, priming, and painting.”

“Will it be very expensive?” Angie had already discovered the sad reality that the physical damage to her vehicle wasn’t going to be covered by her insurance policy.

“If you’re worried about how much it’s going to cost,” Jeff said, “you could always come help me and do some of the work yourself.”

“Me?” Angie asked in surprise. “Work on a car?” “Why not?”

“I never have. I don’t know anything about it.”

“You can learn. It doesn’t take a genius to do priming and painting. Besides, as I recall, you didn’t know all that much about bartending when Bobo Jenkins hired you to work at the Blue Moon.,’

“No,” Angie agreed after a moment’s consideration. “I guess I didn’t,”

“Speaking of which,” Jeff said, pulling up in front of the Blue Moon, “here we are. Right on time, too. Now, do you want either Marianne or me to come get you when your  shift ends?”

“No, thanks,” Angie said. “I’ll be off early tonight. I can walk hack up the canyon to your place. It’s not that far. And it’s a whole lot less than the four miles out to Galena.”

“Well, okay,” Jeff said reluctantly. “But if you change your mind, the offer still stands.”

Angie’s eyes filled with tears. “I don’t know how to thank you.”

“You already did,” Jeff said.

As Angie moved to open her door, a howl of protest erupted from the backseat. “Me go, too! Me go, too,” Ruth screeched, holding out her pudgy little arms, begging to be picked up anal Liken along. Angie Kellogg was Ruth Maculyea-Daniels’s all-time favorite baby-sitter. Angie’s leaving always provoked a noisy squawk of objection.

Angie leaned into the backseat and blew the girls a pair of kisses. “You can’t come, Ruth,” she said. “Not right now. I have to go to work. I’ll see you tonight.”

“Read me a story?”

“Right,” Angie said with her first smile of the day. “When I get there, I’ll read you a story.”

As she opened the door to the Blue Moon, she heard the phone ring. Behind the bar, Bobo Jenkins looked at his watch.

“It’s for you,” he said without bothering to pick up the re­ceiver. “It’s a good thing you’re on time. This guy’s been driv­ing me crazy all morning.”

“What guy?” Angie asked.

“You tell me,” Bobo replied. “Just answer the phone.”

“Angie?”

Dennis Hacker’s clipped English accent was instantly recog­nizable. “Angie,” he repeated. “Are you all right? I’ve been worried sick. I’ve been dialing your home number all night and all morning, too. Where have you been?”

Angie’s initial pleasure at hearing his voice turned almost immediately to anger as she remembered his hurtful laughter once again. “I can’t talk right now,” she said. “It’s time for my shift to start.”

“But first you have to let me explain,” Dennis said. “You must let me tell you what it was that set me to laughing.”

“There’s nothing to explain,” Angie returned coldly.

“But there is. It’s because of my great-grandmother, you see. I wanted to tell you about her in person, but I’m meeting with members of the Peloncillo Ranchers’ Association later on this afternoon. It’s taken weeks to put the meeting together, so I can’t leave for Bisbee until it’s over—sometime between four and five. What time do you get off work?”

“I don’t see what your great-grandmother has to do with me—” Angie began her objection with every intention of hanging up, but Dennis Hacker didn’t let her.

“Wait, please,” he interrupted. “You don’t understand, Angie. Great-grandmother Hacker has everything to do with you. That’s what’s so funny. She was a working girl, too. From Nome. If it hadn’t been for her kindness, my great-grandfather would have died during the winter of 1898. He was terribly sick with pneumonia, so sick that he let the fire go out in his cabin. That’s when the frostbite got him and he lost all those toes. For some reason, Caroline took pity on him. She nursed him back to health as much as possible. Eventually, his father relented and brought him back home to England to finish his recovery. As soon as he was well, he sent for her, brought Caroline to England, and married her.

“She was a runaway—a jilted bride from a good San Francisco family who had turned to prostitution as an alternative to going back home. Her upbringing in the States was such that no one in England ever knew about her real background, except for my grandmother, who still has the letters the two of them wrote back and forth.

“I just found out about all this a few weeks ago when I went home because my grandmother was so sick. She had me take the letters out of her strongbox and let me read them. I’m sure she thought she was dying and if she didn’t tell me then, she wouldn’t have another chance.”

Angie was listening, trying to make sense of the words while Dennis Hacker hurried on. “The letters probably ought to be in a museum somewhere, but I have them with me. I want to show them to you. Can I come see you tonight? After you get off work?”

“I don^’t know,” Angie said dubiously. “Really, I ...”

“Listen, Angie. What I’m trying to tell you is that if a work­ing girl from Nome was the apple of my great-granddad’s eye, then you’re good enough for me. Much too good, most likely. End of story.”

Blushing furiously, Angie looked up and down the bar. Ev­eryone in the room was staring at her. The place was deathly quiet as all the weekday morning regulars waited to see what would happen.

“You don’t mean that,” Angie objected. “You barely know me.”

“Just try me,” Dennis Hacker returned. “I think you’ll be surprised.”

“I’ve got to hang up now,” Angie said.

“Can I see you tonight? We’ll have dinner together. We can talk.”

“I don’t think so,” Angie said.

“Can I call you, then, after the meeting? I don’t know what time I’ll get away from there, but maybe you’ll change your mind by then and agree to see me.”

“I’ll be working,” she objected. “It’ll probably be busy.”

“I won’t take long,” Dennis pleaded. “I promise. Now tell me what time you get off so I don’t miss you.”

Taking a deep breath, Angie relented. “Six,” she said.

“Good. I’ll be sure to call before then.”

Angie put down the phone. At the far end of the bar, Archie

McBride and Willy Haskins exchanged knowing smirks. Archie McBride shook his grizzled head and raised his nearly empty glass. “Damn those Boy Scouts anyway!” he said.

Mrs. Vorevkin led Ernie and Joanna through the house and showed them into a darkened study. David O’Brien was seated at a desk with only a single small reading lamp lighting the curtain-shrouded room.

“Why are you bringing them in here?” he demanded irritably of his housekeeper. “I thought I told you all inquiries were lo he directed to Katherine.”

“Mrs. O’Brien isn’t here right now,” Olga said. “She had to go uptown to the mortuary, remember?”

“Oh, all right,” O’Brien responded. “Come on in, then. What is it you want?^”

Maybe it was only a trick of the dimmed lights, but the man hunched behind the desk seemed far less formidable than the arrogant swimmer Joanna had met on Saturday. Events in the two intervening days had taken their toll. By late Monday morning, all of David O’Brien’s seventy-odd years showed in the sun-etched lines of his craggy face. Even his peevish verbal response to Mrs. Vorevkin lacked some of his previous stridency.

“We asked to speak directly with you,” Joanna put in.

“I suppose it’s just as well you’re here.” O’Brien sighed. “I uniderstand there have been deputies out front by the gate most of the morning, Sheriff Brady. What’s going on? Brianna’s been dead for days. Isn’t it a little late for you to come prowling around now?”

“We’re investigating another case,” Joanna said. “An assault. In fact, we’re actually looking for Alf Hastings. We’d like to him some questions about the incident.”

“What incident is that?” O’Brien asked. “And what do you wont with Alf?”

“Has Mr. Hastings told you anything about what happened outside the entrance to your ranch on Saturday night?”

As they spoke, David O’Brien began sounding more and more like his old self—condescension, arrogance, and all. “You mean the one with the wetback he found sneaking around outside the gate? Fending off interlopers who are trying to gain access to my property is Alf’s job. Of course he told me about it. He gave me a full report.”

“Did he tell you this alleged wetback’s name?”

“His name?”

“Ignacio Ybarra.”

At once the fight went back out of David O’Brien. “Him?” he asked hoarsely. “Brianna’s boyfriend?”

Joanna nodded.

“What was he doing here?”

“He claims he was looking for your daughter,” Joanna said, “She wasn’t where he expected to find her. He was worried about her.”

“And I suppose you believe that?” David O’Brien asked.

“Until we hear Mr. Hastings’s version of what went on, I don’t know what to believe,” Joanna told him.

“In any case, you won’t be able to talk to Alf today. He’s out of town. Today’s his day off. He asked for tomorrow off as well. He said he had some pressing business out of town. He left the ranch early this morning. I don’t expect him back before tomorrow night.”

“You don’t know where he was going?”

O’Brien shook his head. “I have no idea. What my employ­ees do on their own time is none of my business.”

“Would his wife know?”

“Maggie? Maybe.”

“Where would we find her?” Joanna asked.

“If she’s home, she’s most likely down in the workers’ com­pound. First trailer on the right-hand side of the road.”

“We’ll go see her, then,” Joanna said.

“Suit yourself,” O’Brien said with a wave of his hand. Dis­missed, Ernie turned and left the room while Joanna hovered in the doorway. Thinking both his visitors had left the room, David O’Brien hunched back over his desk and buried his face in his hands. His shoulders heaved. A strangled sob escaped his lips. Joanna didn’t like the man, but she couldn’t help being moved by such abject despair.

“Mr. ( )’Brien?”

Al the sound of Joanna’s voice, he started but didn’t lower him hands or look in her direction. “What?”

“Please accept my condolences about your daughter. I know how much it must hurt ...”

“‘Thank you,” he mumbled almost inaudibly.

Warned by some guiding instinct, Joanna glided away from the door and moved back into the room. She didn’t stop until she was standing directly in front of the desk. In a pool of golden lamplight she saw a single piece of paper—and a pen, a Mount Blanc fountain pen. Years of working over the counter In the Davis Insurance Agency had made Joanna Brady adept at reading words that were written upside-down. What she saw scrawled across the top of the single piece of paper chilled her. “To whom it may concern.”

“I thought you told me the other day that O’Briens aren’t quitters,” she said quietly.

O’Brien dropped. his hands and glared up at her, his vivid Glue eyes probing hers. “What do you mean?”

“I mean that suicide isn’t the answer. It never is.”

Hurriedly, David O’Brien covered the revealing paper with his hands. “What would you know about it?” he asked.

“When my husband died, I felt the same way. As though I couldn’t possibly go on.”

“No, you didn’t, Sheriff Brady,” David O’Brien interrupted. “You couldn’t have felt exactly the same way. You lost a husband. That’s different from losing a child, I’ve done that before. Twice. I’ve had three children, and I’ve outlived all three.”

“There must be a reason.”

“Oh, there’s a reason, all right,” he conceded bitterly. “I tried to outwit God, and this is what it got me. As far as I can see, I’ve got nothing left to live for.”

“What about your wife?”

“What about her?” He shrugged. “Katherine’s had one foot out the door all these years. With Brianna gone, there’s no reason for her to stay. And there’s no reason for me to hang around, either. I built all this for my daughter,” he added. “If I can’t give it to her, what’s the point?”

^“There may be another answer,” Joanna told him. “One you’ve missed so far. The problem is, suicide is a permanent solution. If you’re dead, you’ll never have a chance to find out what that answer might be. Talk to a counselor, Mr. O’Brien. Or to Father Morris from St. Dominick’s. You need some help.”

“What I need is for you to get out and leave me alone,” David O’Brien said wearily. “You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

Ernie met Joanna at the door. “What happened?” he asked. “I got all the way to the door before I figured out you weren’t right behind me. What’s going on?”

^“Where’s Mrs. O’Brien?”

“I’m pretty sure she’s home now. The Lexus was just driving into the yard when I started back to find you.”

“Good,” Joanna said grimly. “We’d better have a word with Katherine before we go see Maggie Hastings.”

“Why?” Ernie asked. “Is there a problem?”

“There will be if someone doesn’t do something to prevent it,” Joanna replied. “Unless I’m mistaken, David Mitten is right on the brink of blowing his brains out.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

“I’m going to tell his wife.”

As it turned out, they met up with Katherine O’Brien in the entryway. She had just come in the door and was depositing his keys and purse on a gilded entryway table. She was dressed in a sedate navy blue shirtwaist dress. There was makeup on her face. Her graying hair was swept up into an elegant French twist. The cumulative result made Katherine O’Brien far different from the casually attired, makeup-free woman Joanna had met on two previous occasions. The one hung that remained constant, however, was Katherine O’Brien’s ironclad emotional control.

“What’s going on, Sheriff Brady?” Katherine asked. “I saw two sheriff’s cars out in the drive. Has something happened? Did you catch Bree’s killer?”

“No,” Joanna said hastily. “Nothing like that. We’re here on another matter—to see your husband about Alf Hastings. But Mrs. O’Brien, I must warn you, I think your husband is taking vow daughter’s death very badly.”

“Of course he’s taking it badly,” she returned. “It isn’t the kind of thing you take well.”

“I believe your husband is suicidal,” Joanna added. “You need to talk to him about this. Or find him some help, someone to talk to—a priest or a counselor. Unless you want to be plan­ning two funerals instead of one.”

Katherine O’Brien seemed to draw back. Her eyes narrowed, her lists clenched. “God helps those who help themselves,” she said.

The woman’s brusque response was so different from what Joanna expected—so different from the concerned and hov­ering helpmate Katherine had appeared to be previously—that Joanna was momentarily taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. I mean David’s a grown-up. If he wants to find someone to talk to about this, he’ll have to find help for himself. It’s not up to me.”

“But isn’t—”

“Look,” Katherine interrupted, her eyes blazing with anger, “I spent eighteen years of my life walking a tightrope and running interference between those two. While Brianna was here, nothing she did ever quite measured up. No matter what, she wasn’t good enough to suit him. If he’s going to go off the deep end now that she’s gone, it’s up to him. He’ll have to come to terms with his own guilt for a change. I’m finally out of the middle, and I have every intention of staying that way.”

Looking at Katherine, Joanna couldn’t help remembering David O’Brien’s words. Katherine’s had one foot out the door for years. Was that what was going on here, then? Was this one of those cases where an incompatible couple had stayed mar­ried for the sake of a child? And, now that the child was gone, did that mean the marriage was over? Unfortunately, in trying to help David O’Brien, it seemed Joanna had only succeeded in pouring oil on the flames.

She decided to take one last crack at smoothing things over. “We all have to learn to live with the consequences of our actions,” she said.

Katherine nodded. “I figured that out a long time ago,” she said. “David never has. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” She turned toward the kitchen. “Olga,” she called, “I’m going to go lie down for a little while. Please don’t let me sleep past three. I have a four o’clock appointment with Father Morris.”

Left alone in the foyer, Joanna and Ernie let themselves out the front door. ^“Whew!” Ernie exclaimed, once the door closed behind them and they were alone on the verandah. “What the hell was that all about? Katherine O’Brien isn’t what I’d call your typical grieving mother.”

“Maybe there’s no such thing,” Joanna said thoughtfully. “Come on. Let’s go see Maggie Hastings.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Taking two separate cars, Ernie and Joanna drove back up the road to the Y that led off through the lush grass to the Green Brush Ranch employee compound. It consisted of five separate fourteen-by-seventy mobile homes. They were set in a slight hollow, out of sight from both the road and the main house. The mobile home sites were newly carved from the desert. The trailers were surrounded by raw red dirt punctuated by baby landscaping of reed-thin trees, tiny cacti, and leggy clumps of youthful oleander.

The first trailer on the left-hand side of the road was flanked by a six-foot-high chain-link dog run. As soon as Joanna stopped her Crown Victoria and stepped outside, the German shepherd she had seen on Saturday threw himself against the gate, barking and growling.

Ernie, joining Joanna beside her car, gave the dog run’s fierce occupant a wary look. “Let’s hope to hell the damned thing holds,” he said.

The dog was still harking furiously when a woman opened the door in answer to Ernie Carpenter’s knock. “Yeah?” she said, holding on to the doorjamb with both hands and swaying unsteadily on her feet. “Whad’ya want?”

“Maggie Hastings?” he said, opening his wallet and dis­playing his ID. “Would it be possible to speak to you for a few moments? Could we come in?”

Maggie Hastings was a disheveled, dark-haired woman in her mid-to-late forties. Her graying, lackluster hair was pulled back in a greasy ponytail. She wore a soiled man’s shirt over a pair of too-tight shorts. She was also quite drunk.

Stumbling away from the door, she allowed Joanna and Ernie to enter. “Whaz this all about?” she slurred.

The room’s curtains were tightly closed. The difference be­tween the interior gloom and the brilliant exterior sunlight left Joanna momentarily blind. The stench of booze combined with a lingering pall of cigar and cigarette smoke was so stifling that Joanna could barely breathe.

“Sorry the place is such a mess,” Maggie muttered, kicking something aside. “Haven’t had a chance to pick up today. Waddn’t ‘xactly expecting company.”

From the sound, Joanna suspected that the invisible object was an empty bottle of some kind. As her eyes adjusted to the dim light, she was shocked by the disarray. To the outside world, Alf Hastings presented a neat, well-pressed counte­nance. It was hard to believe that his starched khaki uniform could have emerged from such filth. The living room wasn’t merely a mess. It was a disaster. Empty bottles—gin mostly, but some beer as well—littered the newspaper-strewn floor. The dining room table, visible from the living room, was cov­ered with stacks of dirty dishes, milk cartons, margarine con­tainers, and bread wrappers—several days’ worth at least. A line of what seemed like mostly can-and-bottle-filled garbage sacks lined one side of the room, marching from the kitchen doorway toward the front door.

Remembering all too well how many bugs the new cook had rousted from what supposedly had been a clean jail kitchen, Joanna shivered. No doubt there were plenty of well-fed but currently invisible bugs hiding in this very room.

Turning her back on her visitors, Maggie staggered as far as the end of the couch and then fell onto it. She picked up a remote control and muted the droning television set, turning an afternoon talk show into a wordless pantomime of moving lips and wagging heads. She stared at it with such avid inter­est, however, that Joanna wondered if she even remembered that someone else was in the room.

“This is about your husband,” Joanna said.

Maggie Hastings’s eyes never wavered from the set. “What about him?” she asked.

“Do you know where he is?”

“Work.” Maggie’s reply was little more than a grunt.

“No, he’s not,” Joanna told her. “Mr. O’Brien told us your husband went away for a day or two.”

“Well, that’s news to me,” Maggie said with a noncommittal shrug. “If he was going somewhere, don’t you think he’da told me?”

Not necessarily, Joanna thought. And even if he did, who’s to say you’d remember? “This is serious, Mrs. Hastings,^” she said aloud. “Do you have any idea where he might be?”

The firmness in Joanna’s question somehow must have pene­trated Maggie Hastings’s drunken haze. “Why all the ques­tions?” she asked, finally glancing away from the television set for the first time. “Whiz going on?”

 “On Saturday night, a young man was severely beaten out-side the gate to Green Brush Ranch,” Joanna replied. “Not only was he beaten, but burned, too, with the lit end of a cigar.”

Joanna said no more than that, but it was evidently enough. Maggie Hastings’s response was instantaneous. Her face seemed to collapse. Her mouth went slack while her eyes brimmed with tears. “Oh, no,” she wailed. “Not that. Not again.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t believe it. How could he? What if we lose this job, too?” Maggie whispered brokenly but with far less drunken slurring. “And the roof over our heads, too, just like the other time. You don’t know what it was like then. We lost every­thing—our house, our furniture, our friends. Stevie will kill him when he finds out. He’ll just plain kill him.”

Overcome with a combination of emotion and booze, she fell into a long series of racking sobs. For several minutes, she was totally incapable of speech. Joanna had no choice but to wait until the sobs subsided before she could ask another ques­tion. “Who’s Stevie?”

Maggie took a ragged breath, blew her nose, and wiped her eyes. “Stephan Marcovich,” Maggie answered. “Alf’s cousin up in Phoenix. He’s an old friend of the O’Briens. He’s also the one who arranged this job for us. If it hadn’t been for Stevie, once the lawyers got done with us, we’da been sunk. We had no place to go. Alf couldn’t find a job anywhere in Yuma, not even flipping burgers. It was like we had a disease or something. We were one step away from living on the street when Stevie sent Alf here. Oh, my God. And now he’s done if again. 1 can’t stand it,” she wailed. “I just can’t.”

Once more Maggie’s voice trailed off into a torrent of hope-less tears.

“Mrs. Hastings, would your husband’s cousin have any idea where Alf might be?”

Blowing her nose again, Maggie shook her head. “I don’t think so,” she said. “If I don’t know where he is, how would Stevie?”

“Just the same, can you give us his number?”

“Stevie’s? Up in Phoenix?”

Joanna nodded. “Please,” she said.

“I guess so.” Unsteadily, Maggie Hastings hoisted herself off the couch, then she wobbled across the room and staggered down a short hallway. For several minutes, Joanna and Ernie could hear her in a room down the hall, mumbling and curs­ing. Finally she returned, carrying a frayed business card.

“Here it is!” she announced triumphantly, handing it over to Joanna. “Alf says I never can find anything in all this mess, but he’s wrong, you know. There’s a system around here. He just doesn’t understand it, that’s all.”

She belched then, spewing a cloud of stale gin throughout the room. “Can I get you something?” she asked.

Looking down at the card, Joanna barely heard her. “Air Conditioning Enterprises,” the raised print said. “Stephan J. Marcovich, President.”

“No,” Joanna managed, coming to her senses. “Nothing, thank you. We’ve got to go.”

As soon as the door opened and they stepped out into the fresh air and light, the dog resumed its barking. “What’s going on?” Ernie asked as they headed toward the cars. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

In a way, Joanna had seen a ghost—her father^’s. She was remembering a breakfast from long ago. Her father, D. H. Lathrop—only a deputy back then—had been working on a case. “When it comes to homicide,” he had announced over his bacon and eggs, “there ain’t no such thing as coincidence.”

“Isn’t,” Eleanor had returned at once, correcting his gram-mar as usual. She was forever doing that, trying to weed out the remnants of her husband’s Arkansas childhood. “There isn’t any such thing,” she added for good measure.

It was one of the few times Joanna could remember her mother’s habitual corrections riling her easygoing, even-tem­pered father. “Ellie,” he had said, banging his coffee cup back into the saucer. “It would be nice if, just once in your life, you’d listen to what I mean instead of picking apart whatever I say.”

With that, he had stood up and stalked out of the house. “Well?” Ernie pressed. “What’s going on?”

“I’m remembering something my father said years ago,” she told him, handing over the card. “He told me once that, in a homicide case, there’s no such thing as coincidence.”

“I’d have to agree, but ...”

“Did I mention anything to you about Jim Hobbs being offered the opportunity to get in on an illegal Freon buy? The guy trying to put the deal together was Sam Nettleton.”

“Nettleton? The scuzzball towing operator from up in Benson?”

“Right.”

Ernie shook his head. “You didn’t say a word to me about it.”

“Sorry. With everything else that happened, it must have slipped my mind. But I did call Adam York about it. He said the DEA is investigating a big Freon-smuggling deal up in Phoenix, something involving one of the big refrigeration con-tractors. So here we have a Cochise County Freon case, suppos­edly unrelated to theirs, and a Phoenix air-conditioning contractor connected, however loosely, to one of our homi­cides. What do you think?”

Ernie handed Joanna back the card. “You’re right,” he said. “There’s no such thing as coincidence. What are you going to do about it?”

“As soon as I have some lunch, I’m going back to the office to call Adam York. What about you?”

“I’m supposed to meet Rose uptown. After that, I’ll run by the coroner’s office to see if George has that official copy of the autopsy typed up for us by then.”

Joanna nodded. “Good deal,” she said. “I’ll see you back at the office right after that. I don’t know about you, but I can do a whole lot better job of strategic planning on a full stomach than I can on an empty one.”

On her way back to the office, Joanna stopped long enough to grab a hamburger. She sat alone in the midst of Daisy’s noisy lunchtime clatter, letting her thoughts wander back to Green Brush Ranch. What had happened to Bree was an ap­palling tragedy, but it seemed to Joanna that there were other tragedies looming there as well. She had read somewhere that the death of a child was one of the most difficult marital storms for a couple to weather. From what she had seen that afternoon from both David and Katherine O’Brien, Joanna didn’t hold out much hope for the long-term survival of their marriage.

Leaving the restaurant, she glanced off to the south. A series of tall columns of cumulus clouds was rising up on the far horizon. Another afternoon storm was brewing. If this one turned out to be as bad as yesterday’s, there’d be another big bite in the overtime department. Frank Montoya would have a fit.

Back at her desk, Joanna immediately tried calling Adam York, but he didn’t answer his phone. Following his voice mail directions, she left her number on his pager. Even so, it was almost forty-five minutes before he answered the page and called her back. In order to contain her impatience, Joanna had buried herself in that day’s pile of paperwork and correspondence.

“Just how mad are you?” the DEA agent asked as soon as Joanna picked up her phone.

“Mad?” she repeated. “Why would I be mad?”

“D.C. went over my head on this one,” he said. “I couldn’t help it. It’s all gone down since I talked to you this morning. I tried to call you about it the minute it happened, but you weren’t available, and it was too complicated—”

“Adam,” she interrupted. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“The Freon deal. We’ve been in touch with the guy you ‘old me about, the one in Bisbee.”

“Jim Hobbs?”

“Right. He’s agreed to make the buy. Somebody was sup-posed to meet him in Benson just a little while ago to give him a briefcase full of marked bills.”

“Wait a minute,” Joanna fumed. “Are you telling nee that you people are initiating a sting operation in my jurisdiction without anyone letting my department know beforehand?”

“Unfortunately, yes. Joanna, I’m sorry. As I said, I did try calling you earlier to let you know. If you had a damn cell phone, maybe I could get through to you once in a while. Ever since that one attempt, I’ve been shut up in meetings. This case is all coming together so fast—”

“What case?” Joanna interrupted. “With Air Conditioning Enterprises, you mean?”

Adam York stopped in mid-sentence. “What did you say?”

“With Air Conditioning Enterprises,” Joanna repeated, read­ing from the card Maggie Hastings had given her. “Stephan J. Marcovich, President.^”

“How the hell did you do that?” Adam York demanded. “This was supposed to be totally hush-hush. Nobody is supposed ...”

The undisguised shock in Adam’s voice told Joanna that she had indeed made the right connection. Stephan Marcovich did have something to do with the DEA’s Freon deal. “It’s like you told me the other day, Adam,” she reminded him, not worrying if she sounded a little smug. “Little fish lead to big fish, remember?”

“But what . . . ?”

“Hush-hush or not, maybe it’s time we traded info,” Joanna informed him. “I’ve got a homicide case down here—a young girl, eighteen years old, who was murdered and dumped off the side of a cliff out in the Peloncillos east of Douglas some-time over the weekend. We didn’t get a positive ID until late last night. My public information officer has been dealing with the press about it all morning, so it’ll probably be headlines statewide by late this afternoon.”

“Why?” Adam York asked. “What makes a weekend homi­cide in Cochise County headline news all over Arizona?”

“Because the girl’s name is O’Brien.”

“So?”

“And her parents, David and Katherine O’Brien, are good friends of the Hickmans—as in Wally and Abby.”

“I don’t think I want to hear this.” Adam groaned. “You mean as in Governor Wallace Hickman?”

“One and the same.”

“Damn!”

“And I wouldn’t be the least bit surprised,” Joanna contin­ued, “if we don’t find out that Mr. Stephan J. Marcovich wasn’t part of the governor’s circle of acquaintances as well.”

Adam York sighed. “We already know he is. A major con­tributor besides. That’s why we’re trying to keep this thing quiet. What’s his connection to the O’Briens?”

“Marcovich^’s cousin is a man named Alf Hastings, who hap pens to work for David O’Brien. You remember Alf Listings, don^’t you?^”

“Remind me.”

“He used to be a deputy sheriff over in Yuma County. He got drummed out of the corps on a charge of police brutality. Now this same Alf Hastings is David O’Brien’s chief of opera Lions. Translation: junkyard dog/bodyguard. According to Hastings’s wife, Maggie, Alf’s cousin—Stevie, as she called him—arranged for the job when Alf couldn’t get work any where else. The dead girl’s Hispanic boyfriend went out to the O’Brien place hoping to catch sight of his missing girlfriend. Instead, Alf Hastings beat him up. We’re investigating it as an assault case, but he could develop into a suspect in our homicide and into a possibility for your smuggling case as well.”

“Have you talked to this All guy?”

“Not yet. He’s not at work today,” Joanna told hint. “According to his boss, he won’t be at work tomorrow, either. And nobody—his wife included--seems to know where he is. But let me tell you something about the O’Brien place, Adam. It’s called Green Brush Ranch, and it’s situated smack on top of the Mexican border. In fact, the property line runs along the border for miles, from Naco west all the way to the San Pedro River. Over the past couple years, under the guise of reestablishing the grassland, the owner has turned the whole place into an armed camp, complete with razor wire all the way around the perimeter and with ATV-mounted guards and guard dogs patrolling the property line.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. “In other words, what you’re telling me is that no law enforcement folks have been allowed inside.”

“That’s right.”

“Which would make for an ideal smuggling operation.”

“Right again.” Joanna agreed.

Ever since she had read the words on Stephan Marcovich’s business card, the same ugly theory had been germinating inside Joanna’s head. Now that she had confirmation from Adam York that Marcovich was indeed the air-conditioning contrac­tor in question, she was almost sure of it. The seed of the idea was there, but she had yet to voice it aloud. She felt self-conscious at the idea of laying it out in front of Adam York. Would the DEA agent find it as chillingly believable as she did, or would he simply toss it aside?

“Let me run this past you, Adam. If either David O’Brien and/or his wife is involved in this smuggling deal, what do you think the chances are that one of them had something to do with their daughter’s death?”

“What makes you think that?” Adam responded at once.

Relieved that he didn’t laugh outright at her theory, Joanna continued. “I had a chance to look through the girl’s diary,” she said. “Through one of them, anyway. Brianna O’Brien was one of those faithful diarists. She’s been keeping a journal for several years now. The last entry stuck with me. ‘My mother is a liar,’ it said. My guess is that both her parents are liars, not just her mother.

“When Ernie and I were out at the house earlier today, I saw the father writing what looked like a suicide note. The mother is pissed as hell—at the father. Not only that, she said something that I’ve been thinking about ever since. She said her husband has never lived with the consequences of his ac­tions. The way she said it set off all my alarms.”

Again the telephone line went quiet. Joanna suffered through the silence, expecting the DEA agent to tell her she had a far too vivid imagination.

“The liar comment is the very last entry in the journal?” Adam asked at last. “The final one the girl made before she died?”

“No. It was the last entry in the next-to-last volume. It was written months ago. The problem is, the volume Brianna O’Brien has been writing in since then—the one that might contain any telling details—is missing. It isn’t in her room. It wasn’t at the crime scene, either.”

“As in maybe somebody got rid of it,” Adam York muttered.

“The same thought that occurred to me,” Joanna said.

“Unfortunately,” Adam continued, “this Freon thing is a multimillion-dollar business. If our suspicions are correct, Stevie Marcovich, otherwise known as Marco, runs an operation that will be right up there with the six-million-dollar bust we made in Florida a year ago. If the O’Briens are involved and their own daughter was expendable, I’d say Sam Nettleton up in Benson i5 in way over his head. So is Jim Hobbs, for that matter.”

“What do we do about it?” Joanna asked.

“For one thing,” Adam said, “I’m canceling the sting opera­tion as of right now. How soon can your detectives be in Benson?”

Joanna glanced at her watch. One forty-five. “Ernie Carpen­ter is probably still up the canyon at the coroner’s office. With luck I can possibly have him there by two-thirty. The same thing goes for Jaime Carbajal. Why? What do you have in mind?”

“I think somebody should go see Sam Nettleton and lay the cards on the table. We’ll let him know his ass is on the line. Maybe we can scare him into springing with what he knows.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then we’re no worse off than we were before.”

“Except you may have blown your chance to nail Marco­vich,” Joanna said.

“Right,” Adam returned. “But considering there are inno­cent lives at stake, that’s a chance I’m willing to take. I’m on my way to Benson, too, but I’m coming from Casa Grande. I don’t know if I’ll make it there before all hell breaks loose.”

“Do me a favor,” Joanna said.

“What’s that.”

“Tell your people that Nettleton comes here first for questioning.”

“Joanna—”

She cut off his objection. “You owe me, Adam. This is my turf. As far as I’m concerned, my homicide takes precedence over your sting.”

“Okay,” Adam York agreed reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll let them know.”

The moment Joanna was off the telephone with Adam York, she called Dispatch and told the operator who answered to locate both Detective Carbajal and Detective Carpenter and send them off to meet up with the DEA task force in Benson. Once that was done, there wasn’t much more for Joanna to do except sit and wait. She was tempted to go racing off to Benson right along with everyone else. After a moment’s consider­ation, though, she decided against it. That wasn’t her job. It was why she had detectives. Besides, Cochise County or not, the Benson operation was the DEA’s deal. Adam York would he in charge of that one—of his officers and Joanna’s as well.

Sit and stay, she told herself firmly. No need for a second com­mander in the field. All that would do would be to gum up the works. She stopped long enough to eye the ever-growing mounds of paper that littered her desk.

Especially, she added, when I’ve got more than enough to do right here.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

During Joanna’s term as sheriff, paperwork had become the bane of her existence. No matter how often she did it—no matter how hard she tried to keep up—it continued to roll across her desk in a perpetual stream. It struck her that it was just like trying to keep up with housework at home, where there was always another pile of dirty laundry to wash or another load of dishes to do. It was a drudgery aspect of police work that somehow never quite made it into the phony TV world of quirky cops and equally fantastic crooks duking it out in exotic high-speed car chases.

She had barely made a dent in the pile labeled “Thursday” when Chief Deputy Frank Montoya tapped on her half-open door and let himself into her office. Frowning, he eased his lanky frame into one of the chairs opposite Joanna’s desk.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

“It’s that obvious?” he returned.

“From a mile away,” she said with a smile. “Now, what is it and how bad?”

“The usual,” he said. “It’s going to be another big-time media blitz, including all the out-of-towners.”

“Great.” Joanna groaned. “Just what we need.”

Frank nodded. “I’ve been doing this job long enough that I should be getting used to it. At least by now I pretty well know all the players—as in which reporters are trustworthy and which ones should be run out of town on a rail.”

“That sounds ominous,” Joanna said.

“It is. I happen to have in my possession a preview of Mar­liss Shackleford’s column for tomorrow’s Bisbee Bee.”

“What do you mean a preview?”

“Just what I said. Ken Dawson, the publisher over at the Bee, sent along a copy of tomorrow’s column just in case you have any comment.”

Despite the fact that Joanna and Marliss both attended Canyon Methodist Church, the two of them had never been friends. Since Joanna’s election, their already thorny relationship had deteriorated even further. Marliss never failed to publicly point out whatever she thought to be Joanna’s official shortcomings.

Joanna reached for the paper Frank was holding in front of him. “That bad?” she asked.

“It’s not good,” Frank muttered as she turned her attention to the words on the paper.

With eighteen-year-old honor student Brianna O’Brien dead by what officials are calling homicidal violence, it remains to be seen how much responsibility Sheriff Jo­anna Brady must shoulder for the girl’s untimely death.

As late as Saturday afternoon Sheriff Brady report­edly refused to call in the FBI to search for Brianna even though the girl’s father, retired Paradise Valley developer and Naco native David O’Brien, specifically requested that she do so.

Although it is doubtful summoning the FBI at that point would have spared the recent BHS graduate’s life, the question remains about why Sheriff Brady was so reluc­tant to request the involvement of other law enforce­ment agencies to help with this unfortunate situation.

At a time when the criminal element is able to leave a trail of destruction that crosses both state and in­ternational boundaries, can Cochise County afford a sheriff who regards herself as a female version of the Lone Ranger?

Think about it, Sheriff Brady. How about a little more cooperation and a little less egomania?

Her head buzzing with anger, Joanna tossed the paper back to Frank. “How dare she? That’s garbage and Marliss knows it. Brianna O’Brien was dead long before I refused to call in the FBI.”

“You know that and I know that,” Frank agreed. “Unfortu­nately, everybody else—other reporters included—may take this stuff as gospel. I think you should make some kind of official comment. In fact, I’ve even drafted a couple ...”

“The Lone Ranger?” Joanna continued, almost as though she hadn’t heard him. “I’ve never been a lone damned ranger. And here she is, putting that in the paper when, even as we speak, my department is up to its ears in the middle of a joint opera­tion with the DEA.”

After that, Joanna fell silent. “So,” Frank asked. “Do we send a response or not?”

What Joanna really wanted to do in response was get in her car, drive uptown to the Bee’s office on Main Street, grab Marliss by the front of her shirt, and shake her until her teeth rattled. That, of course, was a rotten idea. Struggling to get a grip, Joanna thought about it. As for a written response, any mention of the joint operation ran the risk of blowing the Freon deal and possibly the murder investigation as well. Much as Joanna personally would have liked to drop Marliss Shack­leford down the nearest mine shaft, Joanna knew that just wasn’t possible—not without jeopardizing too many other things.

“Not,” she said. “Thank Ken for sending it over. That was very evenhanded of him for a change, but we’ll let the column go as is. With no comment.”

“Wouldn’t it be better if you said something?” Frank asked.

“No,” Joanna said. “In this case, I think we’ll let our actions speak for themselves.”

“All right,” Frank conceded. “Have it your way.”

Once Frank left her office, Joanna continued to fume. She found herself second-guessing her decision. Between that and wondering what was going on in Benson, it wasn’t too surpris­ing that she couldn’t concentrate on paperwork anymore. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t force herself to proof-read a densely worded letter from her to the board of supervi­sors. The sentences on the page simply didn’t make sense. They kept becoming entwined with Marliss Shackleford’s Lone hanger comment and with the single sentence from Brianna O’Brien’s diary that Joanna had come to regard as the dead girl’s haunting last words. “My mother is a liar.”

Finally, giving up on her third attempt at reading the letter, Joanna put it aside, along with the remainder of that day’s untended correspondence. Abandoning all pretense of staying on task, Joanna leaned back in her oversized chair and stared out the window.

When Joanna had come into her office an hour or so earlier, the sky outside her window had been brilliantly blue. Now that same blue sky was pockmarked with puffy white, gray-bottomed clouds. On the ground below, swiftly moving shad­ows from those same clouds glided silently over the desert landscape like so many circling vultures. Watching the shad­ows, Joanna found herself once again thinking about Brianna O’Brien’s mother, the liar.

Determined to do something constructive, Joanna stood up and headed for the evidence room. Buddy Richards, the evi­dence room clerk, greeted her with a welcoming smile that Joanna knew was far more pleasant than it should have been. Buddy was one of the recalcitrant old-timers who had much preferred things the way they were. Months after the election, Buddy still wasn’t happy about having a woman for a boss.

“What can I do for you, Sheriff Brady?” he asked from be-hind his manufactured grin.

Buddy was a former deputy who, as a result of a bull-riding accident on the amateur rodeo circuit, now had a right leg two inches shorter than the left. When he had been offered a dis­ability retirement, Joanna had hoped he’d take it, thus ridding her of one more detractor. Unfortunately, Buddy had refused the offer, claiming he’d much rather “gimp around the evi­dence room than be put out to pasture.”

“Ernie Carpenter should have turned in a book with regard to the O’Brien case,” Joanna told him. “Do you happen to know whether or not it’s been dusted for prints?”

“Looks like,” Buddy replied, consulting his computer screen.

“Could I see it, then?”

Richards frowned. “According to the rules, I’m only supposed to release it to one of the officers on the case.”

Joanna looked the man directly in the eye. “What do you think I am, Mr. Richards?” she asked. “Chopped liver?”

“I’ll get it right away,” he said.

Once the book was in her hands, Joanna took it straight to her office. Out on the mountain on Sunday afternoon, she had scanned through most of the journal. Now, with nothing to do but wait, she took the time to read it more thoroughly. More than once, the words Brianna had written brought tears to Joanna’s eyes.

Bree had filled the pages with teenaged joy and anguish both. She had spent full pages agonizing over the extent and seriousness of Ignacio Ybarra’s football injuries. Using the jour­nal as a sounding board, she had also poured out her dismay at the callous attitude exhibited by the other girls on the cheer-leading squad who had once been her friends. Not only did they not share her concern for the injured player, they had ostracized her for leaving the squad. It was only in reading the journal that Joanna learned how Bree, once arguably the most popular girl in school, had been forced to come to grips with life as a social outcast.

In that emotional snake pit, it wasn’t surprising that she had invested so much of herself in a new and forbidden relation-ship with Ignacio. Isolated and alone, she had turned to him for solace. No wonder the friendship between them had quickly blossomed, first into romance and later into love.

Joanna discovered some references to a brief summer school connection between them that was little more than a stolen kiss or two. Had they never seen one another again, that brief encounter would have been dismissed as mere puppy love. Their second interaction, however, had been far different. Even from a distance, Joanna Brady couldn’t help but be moved by the youthful but undeniable passion that had flowed so freely out of Bree’s heart and onto the pages of her journal. The outpouring was made all the more poignant by Joanna’s know­ing the rest of the story. Ignacio Ybarra had returned Bree’s feelings. Now he was left alone, trying to find a way to survive the loss of that ardent first love.

Not only did the journal provide a detailed road map of Bree’s feelings, it also offered a faithful account of the resourceful young couple’s meetings, of how they had arranged at least one of their secret assignations. It also told about where they went and what they did on the first of their unauthorized weekends together. It wasn’t until Joanna reached the last week in February that she found an item that had nothing at all to do with Ignacio Ybarra. It was something Joanna remembered reading on her first scan of the journal, but with everything that had been going on at the time, she had missed the entry’s possible significance.

As per usual Mom is going to be out of town over her birthday. I don’t know why she insists on being gone right then. She always gives some lame excuse like she doesn’t care for birth-days or that after a certain age they don’t matter that much any-way. And she always says it wouldn’t be fair to interrupt what the whole group is doing for some kind of birthday celebration.

Before, I’ve gone along with her wishes and haven’t done anything about her birthday until she gets back home. But this time I’ve made up my mind things are going to be different. I’ve found the most wonderful birthday card—tire perfect one—and I don’t want to have to wait and give it to her after she gets back home. I know that one of those companies like FedEx or UPS—the ones who advertise that they can deliver anything anywhere—will he able to get it to her on time. All I have to do is figure out in advance exactly where she’ll be. After that, the rest will be easy.

Joanna stopped reading and once again stared out the win­dow. The clouds that earlier had merely dotted the sky now had coalesced into an ominously dark and unbroken gray can­opy. Across the parking lot, gray sticks of ocotillo, already edged with new green leaves sprouting in the aftermath of yesterday’s rain, tossed wildly back and forth in a brisk breeze.

Just as Joanna had suspected earlier, another fierce summer thunderstorm was on its way, bringing with it wind, dust, and rain. Not to mention flash floods and more overtime, Joanna thought. But as she continued to stare out the window, her budget con­cerns were overtaken by another consideration—by the glimmer of a hunch that was more gut instinct than anything else.

Under normal circumstances, Joanna would have turned that hunch over to her investigators. With both her detectives otherwise occupied, she decided to follow through on it herself. Pick­ing up her phone, she dialed the records clerk. “Cindy, can you get me driver’s license information for Katherine O’Brien?”

“Sure, Sheriff Brady,” Cindy Hall responded. “Do you have a middle initial or date of birth?”

“Negative on both of those,” Joanna told her.

“What about address?”

“Purdy Lane,” Joanna replied. She waited during the silence
for the several seconds it took for the computer to hook into the
slate’s vehicular database and to kick out the needed information.
“All right,” Cindy said finally. “I think I’ve got her. Middle initial is V. Maiden name was Ross. What else would you like to know?”

“Date of birth, for starters,” Joanna said.

“March four,” Cindy answered. “And the year is 1942. Anything else?”

March four, Joanna thought. The same day as the entry that said Katherine was a liar. Are the two somehow related?

“Any arrests or convictions?” Joanna asked.

“None at all,” the clerk answered.

Putting down the phone, Joanna considered her next move. Finally, picking up the receiver again, she dialed her in-laws’ number. She was relieved when Eva Lou answered the phone. That way Joanna could ask her question directly without hav­ing to go through Jim Bob.

“Why, good afternoon, Joanna,” Eva Lou said. “How are you doing today, and what have you heard from Jenny?”

Joanna laughed. “Nothing so far. This is Monday. She’s only been there since Saturday, remember?”

“I suppose that’s true,” Eva Lou conceded. “It seems much longer.”

Joanna nodded. It seemed that way for her as well.

“If you write to her,” Eva Lou continued, “be sure to tell her that Grandpa and I miss her terribly.”

“Will do,” Joanna agreed. “In the meantime, I need your help. Last night you were telling me something about Kather­ine O’Brien. About her mission work.”

“Oh, yes. That poor woman,” Eva Lou said. “My heart just aches for her.”

“Who was it who told you about Mrs. O’Brien’s going on missions?^”

“That would have been Babe,” Eva Lou answered at once.

“Babe Sheridan. She also attends St. Dominick’s. Why do you heed to know?”

“It’s nothing,” Joanna said. “I have a couple of questions is all.” Minutes later, Joanna was on the phone with Babe Sheri­dan at the water company’s customer service desk, where she had worked ever since her husband’s death in a mining acci­dent some thirty years earlier.

“What can I do for you Sheriff Brady?” Babe asked.

“I’m curious about Katherine O’Brien,” Joanna said, trying to make the inquiry seem as casual as possible.