WHEN THE speeding Crown Victoria finally reached the eastern outskirts of Douglas on Highway 80, Angie looked around at the sodden desert landscape and shook her head. “This isn’t the way we went Sunday morning,” she said. “It’s how Marianne brought me back that afternoon, not the way Dennis took going.”
Joanna immediately heeled the Crown Victoria into a sharp U-turn and headed back to the nearest intersection where she could cross over to Geronimo Trail, the only other route that led from Douglas to the Peloncillos. As they drove past Dick Voland’s Blazer, Joanna caught a glimpse of the pained expression on her chief deputy’s face. He was shaking his head in disgust. It made her glad they weren’t in the same vehicle. She didn’t want to hear his “I told you so.”
Even though the storm seemed to be over and there was water standing along the road, the dips across Geronimo Trail were just beginning to run with trickles of water. Joanna knew full well that just because the rain had stopped didn’t mean the danger of flash floods was past. It would take time for the runoff to drain out of the desert’s higher elevations and into the lower washes. Once that happened, they could quickly become impassible.
Holding her breath each time, Joanna rushed through one dip after another with the wary expectation that at any time a solid wall of water could come crashing out of nowhere and sweep them away. Dick Voland’s four-wheel-drive Blazer would be far less susceptible than Joanna’s Crown Victoria. Still, the bottom line was clear. If the water did come up suddenly, no one else would be able to make it through until after the flooding receded. That meant that if Dick and Joanna found themselves in some kind of difficult situation, calling for reinforcements wouldn’t be an option. Sheriff Brady and her chief deputy would be on their own. Which also meant, Joanna realized, that there was a real possibility she was placing Angie Kellogg in grave danger.
“Sheriff Brady?” The radio squawked to life with the voice of the head dispatcher.
“What is it, Larry?” Joanna returned.
“Ernie Carpenter just called in from Willcox. He says to tell you he’s got some good news and some bad news.”
“Give me the good news first.”
“They found Alf Hastings’s Jeep Cherokee parked behind Aaron Meadows’s place just east of Willcox.”
“Great. What’s the bad news, then?”
“Nobody’s home. Aaron Meadows’s Suburban is among the missing, and so are both Meadows and Hastings.”
“Can you patch me through to Detective Carpenter?” Joanna asked.
“Sure thing. Hang on.”
Joanna came to the next dip, the place where Cottonwood Creek crossed Geronimo Trail. Here a foaming river of rushing water crossed the road. Realizing the depth might be dangerously deceptive, Joanna stopped at the crest of the dip and put her Ford in reverse, then pulled off onto the shoulder.
Ernie’s voice came through the radio. “What are you doing, Sheriff Brady?”
“Changing cars, it turns out,” Joanna told him. “The water’s too deep for the patrol car. From here on, we’ll have to ride with Dick Voland.”
“But where are you?”
“On our way to the Peloncillos. There’s some problem with Dennis Hacker.”
“The parrot guy?”
“One and the same,” Joanna answered. “What are you doing?”
“Same old same old,” Carpenter replied. “What we’ve done all afternoon—hurry up and wait. Adam York has a guy flying down from Tucson with a search warrant. In the meantime, there’s nothing much to do but hang around here and see what happens. If you need backup, we could probably spare…”
“Don’t even bother,” Joanna said. “The way the water’s running out here, we’ll be lucky to get through in the Blazer. Just be sure you keep me posted on whatever’s going on up there.”
“Will do,” Carpenter replied.
“So does this mean Hastings and Meadows are in it together?” she asked.
“Beats me,” the detective returned. “Your guess is as good as mine.”
“Great,” Joanna said.
By the time Joanna put the radio back away, Dick Voland was standing outside her window. With his feet planted wide apart and with his arms folded across his chest, he gazed into the turbulent water and shook his head. Joanna climbed out of the Crown Victoria.
“What do you think?” she asked.
“If we had a lick of sense, we’d give up this wild-goose chase right here and now.”
“It’s not that much farther,” Joanna told him.
“It is if we get washed down-river.” Voland snorted.
“Put it in four-wheel drive,” Joanna said. “From here on, we’re riding with you.”
Voland looked down at her. “I suppose that’s an order, isn’t it?”
“Not necessarily,” she replied. “If you like, you can hand over your car keys and stay here.”
“You’re going in no matter what?”
Joanna nodded. “No matter what. Angie Kellogg thinks a man’s life is in danger, and so do I.”
Dick Voland shook his head. “Get in, then,” he snapped. “Get in, both of you. I’ll drive.”
Joanna held her breath as Voland four-wheeled it through the next two washes, both of them running bank to bank. Twice the Blazer lost its footing and floated downstream half a car length or so before it once again hit the ground firmly enough to regain forward momentum.
Once back on the roadway, Voland shot Joanna a disparaging glance. “All I can say is, this better be serious enough to justify almost drowning. Besides, with everything going on up in Willcox, we should both be headed up there instead of out into the boonies someplace.”
Joanna wanted to argue with him about it—to try to explain the idea that the very fact Angie Kellogg had come to them for help was an indication of the seriousness of the situation. She decided against it. Chief Deputy Voland might be pissing and moaning, but he was also driving in the right direction.
“There’ll be time enough for Willcox later,” Joanna replied mildly. “After we make sure Mr. Hacker is okay.”
“Right,” Voland muttered.
Ahead of them, the clouds over the Peloncillos seemed to break apart, revealing a patch of brilliantly blue sky. Moments later, a breathtakingly beautiful double rainbow appeared, arching across the eastern horizon. Big Hank Lathrop had always told his daughter that there was a pot of gold at the end of any rainbow, but especially double ones. A grown-up Joanna no longer believed that parental myth any more than she believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. For today, though, more than a pot of gold, Joanna welcomed the rainbow’s promise that the storm was truly over. Eventually the washes would quit running. Life would return to normal—whatever that was.
“There it is,” Angie called from the backseat.
Ahead of them, a road veered off to the right. Beyond the junction, the wet rock walls of Cottonwood Creek Cemetery glowed damp and shimmery in the late afternoon sun. On the far side of the cemetery, tucked into a clearing, sat a small camper-trailer.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Dick Voland commented, turning right off Geronimo Trail and then pausing to take stock of the situation. “What kind of vehicle did you say he has?”
“A Hummer,” Joanna said.
“As in sixty to ninety thou?” Voland asked with a whistle. “How does a guy who raises parrots for a living come up with that kind of cash? He must be one hell of a grant writer!”
“I don’t know where Dennis Hacker gets his money,” Joanna said. “Now, stop here and let me out.”
Voland stepped on the brakes. “Here? What for?”
“So I can look at the tracks and try to figure out what’s going on.”
“But…” Voland began.
Without waiting long enough to hear his objection, Joanna climbed out of the Blazer and slammed the door. She had lived at the end of a solitary dirt road long enough to have taught herself the rudiments of tracking, of reading whatever messages were left behind in the dust and mud.
Kneeling over the still-damp dirt track, she saw that the storm had washed it clean. On the blank slate left behind, only one set of tire tracks was visible. The storm had blown up from Mexico, circling from east to west. Because Joanna had no way of knowing how long ago rain had ended on this particular stretch of roadway, it was impossible for her to tell which direction the tracks were going—in or out. The wide wheelbase made her suspect that the tracks had been left by Dennis Hacker’s departing Hummer, but there was no way of knowing for sure.
Finished with her initial examination of the roadway, Joanna walked back to the Blazer. “Angie, didn’t you say Mr. Hacker called you from home?”
Angie nodded. “Yes. On his cell phone. He was telling me he was about to leave for town when whoever it was came bursting inside.”
Joanna looked at Dick Voland. “There’s only one set of tracks showing,” she told him. “Depending on when the rain ended, they could either be coming or going. Since the Hummer isn’t anywhere in sight, I’d say going. You drive on in as far as the trailer. Try to stay far enough off the roadway itself that you don’t disturb any of the tracks.”
“What are you going to do?” Voland asked.
“Walk,” Joanna said. “Something may give me a clue as to which way he was going or how long ago he left.”
“Wait a minute,” Voland objected. “What if they’re still in there?”
“With the Hummer gone, I doubt it,” Joanna returned. “But that’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”
“Wait,” Angie said. “I’ll come with you.”
“No you won’t,” Joanna told her. “You’ll stay in the back of the Blazer until either Dick or I give the word that it’s safe. Understand?”
Nodding, Angie subsided back in the seat. Joanna slammed the door on Dick Voland’s next volley of objections and turned her attention back to the tire tracks. They were easy to follow. They led directly around the cemetery and toward the little boulder-free clearing where the trailer was parked. Halfway there, a second set of tracks—from the same tires—suddenly overlaid the first.
Joanna held up her hand and signaled for Dick to stop the Blazer long enough for her to sort out what had happened. The original set continued on toward the trailer. The second set—definitely more recent than the first—headed off toward the south. Motioning Dick to stay where he was, Joanna walked closer to the trailer. She was concentrating so hard on the tracks that only a hint of movement registered in her peripheral vision. Because she was already filled with apprehension, the movement, combined with a sudden whack of metal on metal, was enough to send her diving for cover behind a boulder, drawing her Colt 2000 as she did so.
At once, Voland killed the engine on the Blazer. In the sudden hush that followed the whack came again. “Did you see something?” Dick asked a moment later as, nine-millimeter in hand, he dropped to the ground beside her.
Feeling stupid, Joanna didn’t want to answer. “It’s the door,” she said. “The open door to the trailer blowing in the wind.”
“Cover me,” Voland said. “I’ll go on up and check it out.”
“No,” Joanna said. “We’ll both—” She stopped short. Had she not been looking at Dick Voland just then, she might have missed it entirely. “Look!” she said, pointing.
“Look at what? I don’t see anything.”
“Footprints,” she said. She crawled around her chief deputy to examine the set of footprints that had been left in the soft sand. They looked as though they had been left by a pair of worn sneakers, and they led directly from the brush toward the trailer. The prints from the right foot were distinct and clear. The ones made by the left foot were blurry, less defined. A foot or so off to the left of them was a third track of some kind—a round hole poked in the dirt at regular intervals.
“Whoever left these tracks may be hurt.”
“What makes you say that?” Voland asked.
“He’s using a cane or a crutch,” Joanna said. “Most likely a cane.”
Voland eyed her quizzically. “How can you tell?”
In order to handle the livestock chores on the High Lonesome, Joanna had found it necessary to have a hired hand. An octogenarian neighbor of hers, Clayton Rhodes, had volunteered for the job. The previous winter, though, after slipping on an ice-glazed pile of cow dung, Clayton had been forced to use a cane for almost two weeks. During that time, Joanna had noticed the tracks he had left behind on trips from his pickup to the barn, to the house, and back again. Those tracks and these were inarguably similar.
“Experience,” she said, without pausing to explain. “Come on. Let’s check out that trailer.”
“Wait a minute,” Voland warned. “Don’t forget a gunman inside that trailer can shoot through those aluminum walls as easily as shooting through pop bottles.”
“Right,” Joanna said. “So what do you suggest?”
“Split up and stay low.”
Joanna crept forward, following the tracks, while Voland moved off to the left. The tracks on the ground were easy enough to follow. They led directly to the wooden step outside the trailer’s open door. There they disappeared.
“Mr. Hacker,” Joanna called, ducking behind a tree trunk little more than a few feet from the door. “Are you in there?”
Joanna waited for the better part of a minute, but there was no response other than the intermittent whack of the door on the trailer’s metal siding. She watched while Voland circled around until he was behind the trailer. Finally, when he signaled, they both moved forward.
They arrived at the trailer almost simultaneously, with her approaching one of the front windows just as Voland’s face appeared in one at the back. “Looks like nobody’s home,” Voland called.
Still taking care to dodge the footprints, Joanna walked close enough to the trailer to poke her head in through the door. The interior of Dennis Hacker’s camper looked as though it had been hit by a cyclone. Shards of broken glass were everywhere, along with shattered pieces of molded black plastic that looked as though they had once been part of a cell phone. There were also several reddish stains that resembled smears of blood.
Sickened, sure that she had once again arrived at the scene of a crime too late to do any good, Joanna backed away. “If you’re looking for signs of a struggle,” she called back to Dick, “here they are.”
While Voland hurried around the trailer to peer in through the door, Joanna walked away, following two new sets of footprints. Now the person wearing the sneakers had been joined by someone else, by someone wearing what Joanna surmised to be hiking boots. Traveling together, the two pairs of prints headed around the trailer in a counterclockwise direction before disappearing into a vehicle—the same wide-tracked vehicle whose tracks Joanna had followed before.
“I’ll go back to the Blazer and radio for a crime scene technician…”
Joanna knew Dick Voland was speaking to her, but she barely heard him. If the vehicle—presumably Dennis Hacker’s Hummer—had left the trailer with two passengers instead of one, maybe Joanna and Dick Viand weren’t too late after all.
“Come on,” she called urgently to Dick. “Go get the Blazer. They’re headed south.”
“Together?” Dick asked, jogging up behind her.
“That’s my guess.”
Voland started toward the Blazer. Then, to Joanna’s annoyance, he turned and came back. “What about the girl?” he asked.
“Angie?” Joanna returned. “What about her?”
“She got us here,” Voland said. “I’ll give her that much, but if we’re heading into an armed confrontation…”
Without bothering to listen to the rest of the sentence, Joanna knew he was right. As an officer of the law, her duty was to keep civilians out of danger rather than leading them into it. She nodded. “Tell Angie to wait in the cemetery. Have her duck down behind that rock wall and stay there until we come back.”
“With pleasure,” Voland replied. He hurried away.
Thinking that settled the issue once and for all, Joanna turned back to the tire tracks. She had gone no more than a few yards when she heard running footsteps pounding behind her. “Joanna, wait,” Angie called. “Let me come, too.”
Annoyed that Dick Voland hadn’t stated the case plainly enough, Joanna turned to face her friend. “Look, Angie,” she said sharply, “you can’t come with us. It’s too dangerous.”
Angie stopped in her tracks. Behind her came the Blazer with a smiling Dick Voland at the wheel. A single glimpse of the man’s face was enough to let Joanna know that he hadn’t tried to stop Angie, not really. If he had, he would have and she wouldn’t be there. No, letting her go had been a deliberate ploy on Dick Voland’s part. He was testing Joanna again, wanting to know whether or not she was tough enough to call the shots and make the right choice between friendship and duty.
Except this time there was no choice to make. As sheriff and as a sworn police officer, Joanna Brady’s responsibility was blazingly clear—to serve and protect. “Go back,” she said.
“Why should I?” Angie objected. “I’m wearing a bulletproof vest.”
“You may have a vest,” Joanna conceded, “but that still leaves a whole lot of you unprotected and exposed to danger, which is unacceptable. You brought us this far, Angie. We’re grateful for that, but there’s no telling what’s up ahead. We’re armed. You’re not.”
“But…”
“No buts,” Joanna insisted. “What if there’s a shootout? What if, in trying to take care of you, we can’t protect Mr. Hacker? Your being in the way at a critical moment could make all the difference—the difference between life and death. Go now, please.”
Angie’s shoulders sagged. Her face crumpled. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll go back. I’ll wait in the cemetery, just like you said.” Dejectedly, she turned back while Joanna headed for the idling Blazer.
“Good work,” Dick Voland said as she climbed inside.
Aware he had intentionally set her up, Joanna was in no mood to be gracious. “Shut up and drive,” she said.
Sitting alert and on edge, Joanna concentrated on not losing the trail. Twice she made Dick stop the Blazer long enough for her to get out and make sure the tire tracks hadn’t veered off the road.
“I’m sorry,” Voland said a mile or so south of the Cottonwood Creek Cemetery when Joanna climbed back into the Blazer for the second time and fastened her seat belt.
“Sorry about what?” she asked.
“About not giving your friend more credit. The whole way out from Bisbee, I kept thinking this was nothing but some harebrained wild-goose chase. Until I saw the trailer, that is. The whole thing sounded so goofy. Including the idea that anybody camping out here would have a working cell phone…”
The radio came to life once more with Larry Kendrick making an addition to the Aaron Meadows APB. Now Meadows was wanted for questioning in regard to the murder of Roxanne Brianna O’Brien. By the time the dispatcher had finished his transmission, Joanna had the radio microphone in her hand.
“Larry, this is Sheriff Brady. What’s going on?”
“Glad you called in,” Larry replied. “You’re the next person I was going to contact. Ernie wants me to let you know that while they were searching Aaron Meadows’s house, they found—”
“The missing journal?” Joanna interrupted.
Kendrick paused. “How did you know?”
Before Joanna could answer, the Blazer rounded a curve. Ahead of them lay the rain-swollen stream with what looked like a crippled brown-and-tan Sub-urban parked crookedly on the rocky bank while another vehicle—curtained by a rooster tail of muddy water, roared across the ford and bounced up the other side. Only when it regained the roadway was Dennis Hacker’s Hummer clearly visible.
“There they are!” Joanna shouted.
“There who is?” Kendrick was asking. “What’s happening?”
“Hang on,” Dick Voland shouted as he sent the Blazer speeding toward the water. “This could be rough.”
The Blazer plunged forward and dropped, bucking and shying, into the rocky streambed while Joanna held on for dear life. Once they hit firm ground on the far side of the water, Voland pounded the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The gradually receding flood had left behind a slick coating of muck on the roadway. The tires lost traction briefly, sending the Blazer into a sickening skid. But Dick Voland was nothing if not an experienced driver. With two deft twists of the wheel, he cut the skid and sent the Blazer racing after the Hummer.
As they drove past the Suburban, seconds before the Blazer roared into the water, Joanna had managed to catch a glimpse of the muddied license plate on the back of the Suburban. It carried the same numbers that had been broadcast as part of the APB for Aaron Meadows.
“Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick insisted urgently. “Come in, please. What’s going on?”
“Call Ernie back,” Joanna shouted into the radio. “Tell him we’ve just spotted that missing Suburban. It’s parked and, most likely, disabled. But the two suspects got away. We’re in close pursuit, heading east/southeast. The suspects are driving a dark green Hummer.”
Joanna closed her eyes and thought about Dennis Hacker. Was he dead already, or was he still alive and in the Hummer along with Meadows and Hastings?
“It’s possible they’ve taken a hostage,” she added into the radio. “The name of the hostage is Dennis Hacker, the parrot guy. I’m pretty sure the Hummer is registered in his name.”
Joanna stared out the windshield at the Hummer, which seemed to be gaining distance on them with every passing moment. She turned back to Dick Voland. “Do you know where this road ends up?” she asked.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Dick shook his head. “I’m not sure. Probably at the Mexican border, if not before.”
“And how far are we from the line?”
“Thirty miles or so. Maybe less. In a Hummer, though, it’s not going to matter if the road ends or not. He’ll be able to go wherever he damned well pleases.”
Nodding, Joanna switched on the microphone once more. “Larry,” she told the dispatcher. “Can you find a way to put me through to either Adam York or Ernie Carpenter?”
It took several bone-jarring minutes. Twice during the wait Dick Voland managed to bring the Hummer briefly into view. “Can you tell how many people are in there?” Joanna asked.
Voland shook his head. “There’s too much mud on the windows. I can’t see a thing.”
“Sheriff Brady? Adam York here. What’s up?”
“How’d you get that search warrant from Tucson to Willcox so fast?” Joanna asked.
“In a helicopter.”
“Where is it right now?”
“The chopper? Getting ready to head back to Tucson. Why?”
“I need it,” Joanna answered. “In the Peloncillos. We’ve got a pair of armed and dangerous suspects making a run for the Mexican border.”
“I know we have a mutual aid agreement, but—”
“Mutual aid nothing!” Joanna cut in. “This is your case, too. Aaron Meadows’s Suburban is parked a mile or so back. We’ve just crossed Sycamore Creek and are heading south and east from Cottonwood Creek Cemetery. Ernie Carpenter will be able to tell you where that is. We’re in a county-owned white Blazer. The suspects are in a dark green Hummer. They’ve got a hostage in there with them. Tell Ernie it’s the parrot guy. I believe at least one of the suspects is wounded. Chances are, the hostage is as well.”
“Damn!” Adam York muttered. “Do you want us to call for other backup?”
“You can call all you want, but I believe you two are it,” Joanna told him. “The way the washes are running right now, I doubt anyone else will be able to get here. That’s why I asked about the chopper.”
“Hang in there, then,” Adam York told her. “Ernie and I are on our way. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”