Marianne lapsed into a series of stricken sobs. For several seconds Joanna listened and said nothing. There was nothing she could think of to say. How could she go about comforting someone who was a steadfast friend and pillar of strength to everyone else?
“You’ll get through this,” Joanna said finally.
“Yes,” Marianne choked, “maybe I will. But how will I ever be able to stand up at the pulpit and preach about faith when my own is so totally lacking? How can I teach about a loving God when I’m so pissed off at Him I can barely stand it?”
Joanna smiled in spite of herself. Marianne Maculyea, the rock-throwing firebrand rebel she had known in junior high at Lowell School, was a firebrand still.
“If you’re so totally lacking in faith,” Joanna pointed out, “you wouldn’t even acknowledge God, much less be pissed at Him. Now, have you had any sleep?”
Even as she asked the question, Joanna reminded herself of her mother-in-law. For Eva Lou Brady, a crisis of the soul was almost always rooted in some physical reality.
“No,” Marianne admitted.
“What about having something to eat?”
“Jeff brought me a tray from the cafeteria a little while ago, but I couldn’t eat it. I wasn’t hungry.”
“Is the food still there?”
“The tray is.”
“Eat some of it,” Joanna urged. “Even if it tastes like sawdust when you try to choke it down. You’re going to need your strength, Marianne. If you don’t eat or sleep, you’re not going to be worth a plugged nickel when you’ll want to be at your best. If you’re strung out because of lack of food or rest, you won’t have anything to offer Esther when she finally comes out from under the anesthetic. She’s going to need you then, and you’d better be ready.”
There was another stretch of silence and Marianne seemed to consider what she’d been told. “I’ll try,” she said at last.
Joanna saw two vehicles pulling up behind the Blazer—Dick Voland’s Bronco and Frank Montoya’s Crown Victoria. “Good,” Joanna said. “You do that. And remember, I’ll be there either later this afternoon or else this evening. All right?”
“All right.”
“You hang tough.”
As soon as the call ended, Joanna stood with the phone in her hand. She thought about calling the Copper Queen Hotel directly and telling Butch that she wouldn’t be able to see him that night, but she was afraid he’d talk his way around her. Instead, feeling like a heel and a coward to boot, she punched in the code for the sheriff’s department.
“Kristin,” she said as soon as her secretary came on the line, “I don’t have much time. Please call the Copper Queen Hotel and leave a message for Mr. Frederick Dixon. Tell him I won’t be able to join him for dinner tonight. Tell him I’m going up to Tucson to see Jeff Daniels and Marianne Maculyea.”
“Got it,” Kristin said. “Copper Queen, Frederick Dixon, and you can’t make it for dinner. How’re Jeff and Marianne doing, by the way? I had lunch with my mother. She was telling me about the transplant. I don’t know who told her.”
I can guess, Joanna thought. And her initials are Marliss Shackleford.
“They’re okay,” she said. “At least they’re doing as well as can be expected.”
Finished with the call, she tried to reassure herself that she had handled the Butch Dixon situation in a kind and reasonable fashion. He might be disappointed, but at least she hadn’t just left him hanging for a change. Still, though—
Her thoughts were interrupted by an excited shout from one of the S and R guys a good quarter of a mile away.
“Sheriff Brady,” Mike Wilson yelled, relaying the message. “Come take a look at this.”
With Dick Voland and Frank Montoya both trailing behind her, Joanna hurried over to where Mike was standing. Several of the other S and R guys were already converging on the spot. Ernie Carpenter and Jaime Carbajal weren’t far behind.
“What is it?” Joanna demanded when she finally reached Mike.
He pointed toward the ground. “Look,” he said.
There, nestled between a pair of rocks and winking back the brilliant late-summer sunlight, was a watch—a gold-and-silver Omega. On the watch’s pearlescent face behind the remains of a shattered crystal, the two hands stood stopped at 10:26. That was the time Sonja Hosfield had told her she remembered hearing shots. Around ten-thirty.
Looking around, Joanna saw the blood spatters and knew this was the killing ground—the place Katrina Berridge had fallen to earth. She looked up and caught Ernie’s eye. “Have you found any bullets?” she asked.
“Not yet,” he said. “But we’re looking.”
“Hey, Mike.” Terry Gregovich’s voice shrilled out of the speaker on a small walkie-talkie fastened to the collar of Mike Wilson’s orange hunting vest. “I think we may have found something up here.”
All eyes turned from the watch and the blood-spattered ground around it to the majestic cliffs rising from the valley floor. There, barely visible and clambering over the rock face like so many orange-bodied ants, were the other members of the Search and Rescue team.
“What have you got, Terry?” Mike Wilson asked.
“No shells or anything like that,” Terry Gregovich replied. “But I’ve got some funny little marks here in the dirt. Looks like they might have come from someone setting up a tripod. And some footprints, too. A couple of them might even be good enough to cast.”
Joanna closed her eyes. Now we’re making progress, she thought. “Great,” she said to Mike. “Grab one of the evidence techs from the burial mound and get him over to Terry to make plaster casts. On the double. We lucked out that it didn’t rain here yesterday, but that’s not to say a storm won’t blow through today.”
Joanna knew enough to be thankful. Considering the amount of space involved, it was more than luck that someone had stumbled across the possible footprints on top of the cliffs and recognized their importance. It also crossed her mind that Terry Gregovich’s skills and talents might be underutilized by his being permanently sidelined in Search and Rescue.
“Hey, Mike,” she said, “do your guys carry binoculars?”
“We all do.”
“Ask Terry to look off the other side of the cliffs and see if he can see the ranch house at the Triple C.”
A few moments later, Terry replied in the affirmative.
“Now look off to the left of that,” Joanna continued. “To the north. There’s a well with a big pump on it with two dead cattle nearby. Can he see those from there?”
This time the search took a little longer, but eventually it paid off. “I can see them clear as a bell,” Terry said.
“That’s it, then,” Joanna said. “That must have been where he was when he started shooting. Good work, Terry. Great work, in fact. This may be exactly the kind of break we need.”
“So what should I do now?” Terry Gregovich asked.
“Don’t touch a thing,” Joanna told him. “Stay right where you are until the evidence guys show up with their plaster. And when you get down off the mountain, make an appointment to see Chief Deputy Montoya.”
“What for?” Terry asked.
“To put in for a promotion,” Joanna said. “You’ve earned it. You can tell him I said to find a spot for you in Patrol with the possibility of working into Investigations.”
THIRTEEN
ERNIE CARPENTER bagged the blood-spattered watch and Jaime Carbajal logged it. While they worked the actual crime scene, the S and R team continued to range over the river bottom and rising hillsides in search of evidence as well as the ugly, if unspoken, possibility of finding other victims. Within half an hour, Joanna’s two detectives were joined by investigators from Pima County, Detectives Lazier and Hemming.
Hot, bored, and unable to make any real contribution to the task at hand, Joanna finally took Ernie aside. “I think somebody should go to Rattlesnake Crossing and let them know what we’ve found. I’d hate for either Crow Woman or Danny Be
rridge to hear the news on the radio or from some enterprising reporter before we deliver the notification in person.”
“We’ve got three detectives working here now,” Ernie said. “So if you’d like me to go along with you…”
Next-of-kin notifications always left Joanna with a hole in the pit of her stomach. Telling someone of the death of a loved one, regardless of whether that news was expected or not, often took as much of a toll on the messenger as it did on the recipient. Whoever brought the word was automatically forced into the role of front-row spectator as someone else’s entire existence imploded around him. Still, it had to be done, and this one would be worse than most.
“I’d appreciate that, Ernie,” she told him gratefully. “I’d appreciate it more than you know.”
Leaving the ongoing crime-scene investigations under the overall direction of Dick Voland, Joanna took Ernie Carpenter along with her in the Blazer for the drive to Rattlesnake Crossing. Bumping up the rough, dusty road toward the main ranch buildings, Joanna had the sense that she was traveling through some kind of deserted movie set. No people were visible, anywhere, but she did notice for the first time that all the ersatz tepees and hogans had air-conditioning units attached to discreetly camouflaged platforms placed at the rear of each pseudo-Indian dwelling.
“If these guys want to pay good money to turn themselves into real Indians for two weeks at a time, you’d think they’d be tough enough to put up with real Arizona weather.”
Ernie ignored the wry humor in her comment. “The scalping’s real enough,” he said grimly. “Whoever’s doing this made damned sure he got that part right.”
Joanna glanced in Ernie’s direction. “Have you ever seen anything like this?” she asked.
“No,” he admitted. “I never have.”
“Since it’s likely the killer’s using a sniper rifle, is it possible all of this is connected to what happened to Clyde Philips?”
Ernie thought about that for a moment. “It could be, I suppose,” he said finally. “The fact that a fifty-caliber may have been used in this latest case does point in that direction. We know from what Frank told us that Clyde was trying to demo a fifty-caliber, so he must have had one or more in stock.”
“Frank told me this morning that Clyde claimed to have three different models available for immediate delivery.”
“So he did have some, then,” Ernie mused. “But which ones? And how do we know the killer’s rifle is one of them? Without any serial numbers…”
“Wait a minute.” Joanna reached for the radio clip. “Frank,” she said once she had been put through to Chief Deputy Montoya, “how many companies manufacture fifty-calibers?”
“Not that many,” he replied. “More than five but probably less than twenty nationwide.”
“As soon as you get back to the department, and when you’re not busy dodging reporters, I want you to call all those companies. ATF should be able to help out in locating manufacturers. Once you have them on the phone, find out if any of them were doing business with Clyde Philips in Pomerene. They should be able to come up with lists of serial numbers.”
“Will do,” Frank returned. “I’ll get to it as soon as possible, although it may be a while. The first wad of reporters just drove up and they’re clamoring for information. I told them to go to the Quarter Horse in Benson and wait for me there. How are you doing on the next-of-kin notification?”
“We’re about to pull into the yard at Rattlesnake Crossing. “We’ll check in with you as soon as it’s done.”
Joanna stopped the Blazer in front of a sprawling ranch house built of bulging gray river rock and gnarled, rough-hewn eight-inch timbers. She and Ernie stepped onto a spacious covered porch with flagstone flooring and a scattering of cushion-covered wooden rocking chairs. At the door, Joanna turned and took in the view. The house was built on a low rise. Anyone who had been seated on one of the porch chairs would have looked off across the San Pedro to the ridge of cliffs behind it.
“If a person had a strong enough scope,” she observed, “he could have sat right here and seen the whole thing.”
“That’s a pretty big if,” Detective Carpenter replied.
Nailed to the doorjamb was a wooden notice that said, PLEASE ENTER. Since there was no sign of either a bell or a knocker, Joanna and Ernie did as they were told. Driving from the crime scene to Rattlesnake Crossing, Joanna had used the Blazer’s air-conditioning, but the two officers had been out in the unrelenting heat for so long that they were still overheated when they entered the ranch house and found it to be surprisingly cool. The room was spacious and decorated with the kind of overstuffed furniture most often seen in old-time hotel lobbies. Directly across from the officers was what looked like an unmanned hotel check-in counter, complete with a silver bell and directions to PLEASE RING FOR ASSISTANCE.
Ernie picked up the small silver bell and gave it a shake. For a long time after that, nothing happened. While they waited, Joanna plucked an expensive-looking, all-color brochure off the counter. It was filled with tourist-grabbing photos of the ranch house, some of the tepees, and what looked like an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The pictures included one of a beautiful, raven-haired young woman wearing a squaw dress and weaving a green and white bear grass/yucca basket. Another shot showed a war-painted young man wearing little more than a loincloth and sitting bareback astride a pinto pony. Behind rider and pony was a vivid, saguaro-punctuated sunset.
Come to Apache Country, the bold-faced ad copy said. Live along the fabled San Pedro as Native American Peoples did for thousands of years before the coming of the White Man. Give your mind and body the purifying cleansing that only a sweat lodge ceremony can provide. Find or renew your life’s purpose by enduring your own personal Vision Quest. Return to your workaday world with the blessing and direction that can come only from the Great Spirit.
She handed the brochure to Ernie and he read it, too. “Who dreamed this up?” he asked, handing it back to her. “Sounds like the Apaches meet the New Agers. A two-week stay probably comes complete with frequent-flyer miles and a free pass to the Happy Hunting Ground. And the restorative value of the purification ceremony will be directly proportioned to how much lighter the poor guy’s wallet is.”
Suppressing a chuckle, Joanna turned over the brochure. On the back was a paragraph that read:
THE LEGEND OF RATTLESNAKE CROSSING
Once, no rattlesnakes lived in the Land of the Apaches. They roamed the cliffs and hills on the far side of the river, but the water was so deep and swift that none could cross it. One day a great storm settled over the valley. From one full moon to the next, it rained and rained. It rained so long and so hard that some of the mountains tumbled down across the path of the river, leaving behind a wall of solid earth. Wise Old Rattlesnake took some of the younger ones and led them across the river. They have lived here ever since.
“May I help you?”
Joanna had expected Crow Woman to make an appearance. Instead, the person behind the counter was a tanned and handsome, blond-haired, blue-eyed man who looked to be in his early forties. His words were touched by the slightest trace of a New York accent.
“I’m Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she said, bringing out her ID. “And this is Detective Ernie Carpenter. We’re looking for either Daniel Berridge or someone named Crow Woman.”
A quick flash of something that looked like hope passed across the man’s chiseled features. “I’m Danny,” he said. “Have you found her, then?”
“We’re not sure, Mr. Berridge,” Ernie put in. “We need to ask you a few questions.”
“You have found her!” Daniel Berridge exclaimed as all hope disappeared from his face and was replaced by unmasked despair. “She’s dead, isn’t she? I knew it. What happened? Did she fall? Did a cougar get her? A snake? What?”
In this case, Joanna thought, being dead is the least of it. “We’re not sure the person we found is your wife,” she said kindly. “Detective Carpenter and I h
ave been going over a copy of the missing-person report Deputy Sandoval took yesterday. It says Katrina was wearing a watch when she left home. Unfortunately, the report neglected to say what kind.”
“An Omega,” Daniel Berridge answered at once. “I bought it for her for Christmas years ago.”
Ernie reached into his pocket and pulled out the see-through bag containing the remains of the shattered watch. “This one?” he asked.
Daniel Berridge looked at it and nodded numbly. “That’s it,” he said. “Where is she? Please, tell me what happened.”
“Search and Rescue found her on the far side of the river,” Joanna said. “She was shot—shot and mutilated.”
“Oh, God,” Daniel groaned as his face reddened and contorted with grief. He swallowed hard. “Was she…was she raped, too?”
“No,” Joanna said. “To the best of our knowledge, she was spared that. From the looks of it, all her clothing was still intact.”
“But I thought you said she’d been mutilated. What does that mean?”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Berridge. There’s no easy or kind way to tell you this. Whoever murdered your wife also scalped her.”
“Scalped,” he whispered hoarsely. “You’re kidding! This is the twentieth century, for God’s sake. This has to be some kind of sick joke. You’re making it up.”
“No,” Joanna said. “I wish I were.”
Stumbling backward Daniel Berridge collapsed on a low, rolling stool. He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. Several minutes passed before he was once again capable of speech.
“What kind of a monster would do such a thing?” he croaked. “It’s awful. It’s insane.”
“Yes,” Joanna said. “I couldn’t agree more. It is insane and whoever did it is indeed a monster.”
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