Downfall

by J. A. Jance

  CHAPTER 40

  BUTCH THOUGHT HE WOULD GO HOME AND MAINTAIN A QUIET VIGIL as he waited for Agent Watkins to call, but that was not to be. When he arrived at High Lonesome Ranch, the house and yard were both abuzz with activity. Inside, the dinner dishes had been cleared away. Denny was evidently in bed, but the kitchen itself was in full production mode, with all hands on deck preparing for the next day’s post-funeral barbecue.

  If we have a barbecue, Butch thought despairingly. If his precious Joey was gone forever, all bets were off.

  Jenny, wearing an oversized apron and standing by the kitchen counter, was using the food processor to slice up cabbage for coleslaw. As soon as she caught sight of him, she abandoned her post and raced over.

  “What’s going on?” she demanded. “You left without saying a word. Tell me!”

  Butch dropped onto the bench of the breakfast nook and buried his face in his hands. “It’s your mother,” he said. “She’s been kidnapped.”

  He told the story then—as much of it as he knew anyway. A wide-eyed Jenny sat stone-faced across from him, staring and listening. The other women listened, too, but they kept on working, with Eva Lou and Carol mixing up and kneading batches of yeast dough while Marcie formed already raised dough into rolls and placed them on cookie sheets to rise a second time.

  “Are you saying she could die?” Jenny asked at last when Butch finished.

  He nodded miserably.

  “And they’re all out there right now trying to save her?”

  Butch nodded again.

  “Why aren’t you out there, too?” Jenny demanded furiously. “Shouldn’t you be helping them instead of sitting here doing nothing?”

  Her angry words weren’t questions so much as outright accusations.

  Butch didn’t want to own up to the real reason he had come home—that he hadn’t wanted to run the risk of leaving both Jenny and her little brother fatherless and motherless. “I’m not a cop,” he said instead. “I’d just be in the way. Besides, Chief Deputy Hadlock is doing a terrific job under the most dire of circumstances.”

  “Right,” Jenny muttered sarcastically. “Of course he is.”

  With that, she got up from the table, leaving Butch sitting alone. She returned to her food processor, slicing up the cabbage heads with an impressive show of displaced fury. Jenny might not have inherited her mother’s fiery red hair, but she hadn’t missed out on Joanna’s hot temper.

  Having worn out his welcome in the kitchen, Butch retreated to the patio, where Jim Bob Brady and Bob Brundage, two guys with absolutely no blood ties between them, were keeping watch over Butch’s propane-fired gas grill and tending to the several savory-smelling hunks of beef brisket that were already aligned side by side in the smoker.

  “What’s up?” Jim Bob asked. “The way you left without a word of explanation, it’s got to be something serious.”

  And so Butch was obliged to tell the story again, from beginning to end. The whole while he was recounting the details, his eyes drifted off in the direction of Geronimo. With intervening hills between the mountain and High Lonesome Ranch, there was no way for him to see that far, but his heart and soul—his very existence; Joanna and his baby girl—were up on that unseen mountain. What if they don’t make it? he wondered. What if they don’t come home to me? What if?

  Feeling lost and helpless and knowing the barbecue preparations were moving forward just fine without him, he opted for spending some time alone.

  “I’m going to go check on the horses,” he said.

  With Jenny’s black Lab, Lucky, at his heels, he went out to the corral and spent some quality time with Joanna’s rescued mare, a blind Appaloosa named Spot, and Jenny’s now-retired barrel-racing gelding, a sorrel named Kiddo. Butch was standing there, weeping silently into the smooth hair on Kiddo’s neck, when his phone rang. With trembling hands, he wrestled the device out of his pocket. Caller ID told him it was an unidentified caller.

  “Hello?”

  “It’s Robin,” Agent Watkins said breathlessly. “It’s over. She’s safe.”

  Not trusting his ability to stand, Butch staggered drunkenly over to the nearest wooden fence post and leaned against it. Even though his head was shaved, he could feel his hair follicles standing on end. “You’re sure she’s okay?”

  “I haven’t seen her yet,” Robin continued. “I’ve been told she has some bumps and bruises, but nothing too serious. It’s still a very chaotic scene out here. Jeremy Stock is dead. He jumped to his death from the top of the mountain, but before he offed himself, the asshole shot the dog. My understanding is that Spike’s still alive. There’s a team up on the mountain right now, trying to bring him down.”

  “But you’re sure Joey’s okay,” Butch said, as if he couldn’t quite bring himself to believe it.

  “Look,” Agent Watkins said, “if you don’t want to take my word for it, why don’t you come see for yourself? The mop up from this incident is going to take time, but as of right now, the shooting war is over. If you happened to show up on the scene, I don’t think Chief Deputy Hadlock would have balls enough to send you packing. Just don’t you tell him I told you so.”

  “Thank you,” Butch murmured. “Thank you more than I can say. I’m on my way.”

  His first instinct was to go straight to the garage and take off—do not pass Go; do not collect two hundred dollars. Then he thought better of it. He sprinted over to the patio and gave the wonderful news to the beef brisket guys before heading into the kitchen. Jenny looked up the moment he entered.

  “She’s okay,” he announced.

  Jenny fairly flew across the room and threw herself into his arms. “Really?”

  “Really. Agent Watkins tells me processing the crime scene is probably going to be an all-nighter. I’m going to drive out there now. Want to come along?”

  For an answer, Jenny whipped off her apron and headed for the garage. “Which car?” she asked. “Yours or Mom’s?”

  “Your mother’s,” he answered. “Bob is parked behind mine.”

  “What happened?” Jenny asked.

  “I don’t have the whole story, but somehow and for some unknowable reason, Deputy Stock took your mother captive and forced her to climb Geronimo.”

  “Why? What was he going to do to her up there, kill her?”

  “I’m not sure, but probably,” Butch said. “Maybe we should ask your mom that question the next time we see her.”

  “But why would he do something like that?” Jenny asked. “I mean, he’s worked for Mom forever, hasn’t he?”

  Was this the time for Butch to tell her what he had heard in the conference room, that Jeremy Stock had gone on a crazed rampage and had murdered both his wife and son? He did a silent eenie, meenie, miny, moe, tapping his fingers on the steering wheel to the remembered words to the old counting rhyme. When the last word let him off the hook, he gratefully accepted that decision. After all, Jeremy Stock’s murderous atrocities were police business. Talking about them outside of law enforcement circles was frowned on, even with family members.

  “I don’t know what set him off,” Butch hedged. “That’s something else we’ll have to ask your mom, but I do have something to tell you. I wasn’t being honest before.”

  “About what?” Jenny asked.

  “About why I didn’t go to the crime scene.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was afraid.”

  They were stopped at the stop sign at the turn onto Highway 80. When Butch glanced in Jenny’s direction, he found her staring at him.

  “Afraid of what?” she asked. “Afraid of getting killed?”

  Butch shook his head. “What terrified me was the idea that if something happened to both your mother and me, you and Dennis would be left totally on your own. I may not be your real father, Jen, but I’m the only one you have. The thought of your possibly losing both your mom and me scared the living daylights out of me. So I was a good boy. When Chief Deputy Hadlock told
me to go home, much as I didn’t want to, I did as I was told. I came home, sat on my hands, and prayed a lot.”

  “And your prayers were answered,” Jenny said softly.

  Butch nodded. “Looks like,” he said.

  A moment later, Jenny reached across the center console and touched his hand. “Thanks, Dad,” she said. “And for the record, coming home was the right thing to do.”

  CHAPTER 41

  THE FIRST THING TOM HADLOCK HEARD WAS A GUNSHOT FOLLOWED by a scream of some kind—the kind of scream that says someone is hurt—badly hurt. When another gunshot followed mere seconds later, it was all the chief deputy could do to remain upright. At that point, there was nothing to do but assume the worst. Sheriff Joanna Brady was dead—had to be. A shot at close range from what was most likely Jeremy Stock’s Beretta? Even if a resulting wound wasn’t instantly fatal, it would be by the time EMTs arrived.

  Why the hell is that stubborn woman so dead set against using a helicopter—a free damned helicopter at that? he wondered. That’s what we need out here tonight in the very worst way—a helicopter!

  The silence following the gunshots seemed to stretch into an eternity. Stay alert, Tom thought, sending a dose of silent encouragement to his officers. He had directed them to stay in place and maintain radio silence until Jeremy Stock was seen attempting to flee or was actually in custody. With Joanna dead or dying, this was the time he would flee—running like hell and coming straight back to the spot where he’d left the car.

  Then, to the chief deputy’s immense relief, Terry Gregovich’s panting voice crackled over the radio, speaking breathlessly into his shoulder mic. “Jeremy Stock is deceased. Repeat. The suspect is deceased. Sheriff Brady is okay. Going up to check on Spike. The son of a bitch shot him.”

  With shaking hands, Tom reached inside Jeremy’s SUV and activated the radio. “Did everyone copy that? Jeremy Stock is down. Let’s go find our sheriff and our dog.”

  Radio transmissions buzzed back and forth as Maglites flashed to life all around. From where Tom Hadlock stood, they looked like so many tiny lit candles surrounding the broad base of Geronimo and moving steadily toward it, gradually tightening the circle.

  Weak with relief, Tom sank down gratefully onto the Tahoe’s driver’s seat and covered his face with his hands. He had done it. He had called the shots—all the shots—and they had worked. The tactics he had put in place had pulled it off. Sheriff Brady was safe, and Jeremy Stock was dead.

  Finally, he picked up the mic again. “Tica,” he managed with his voice still trembling. “Let Dr. Baldwin know what’s happened. We’ll need the ME out here.” Then, after another pause, he added, “Deputy Gregovich. What’s the word?”

  “Spike’s alive,” Terry answered in a strangled whisper. “He’s shot in the leg. I’ve got a tourniquet on it, but—”

  “Hold tight, Deputy Gregovich. Where are you?”

  “At the top. Up at the very top.”

  “Okay,” Tom Hadlock said. “Stay where you are. I’m calling for a stretcher now. Did you copy that, Tica? I want some EMTs out here, ASAP.”

  “I doubt they’ll come for a dog,” Tica said.

  “They by God will come for this damned dog!” Tom roared back at her. “Spike just saved Sheriff Brady’s life, and now we’re going to save his. If they give you any guff, put them through to me. Oh, and we’re going to need that vet on the scene, too—what’s her name?”

  “You mean Dr. Ross?” Tica asked.

  “Yes, that’s right—Dr. Ross. Get her out here on the double.”

  Then another voice came over the radio—a welcome one Tom had feared he would never hear again. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said. “Do you copy?”

  “Yes, I do,” he replied, brushing a tear from his eye. “I most certainly do. Where are you? Are you okay?”

  “Up top with Terry and Spike. Climbing back up was a lot tougher than coming down. I’m a little worse for wear, but not bad. Terry tells me I’ve got a whale of a black eye, but I’m in better shape than Spike. We’ve got to get him some help. Bless that dog. He arrived in the nick of time—just when I needed him most. I never would have made it down the mountain alive if he hadn’t been there to distract Jeremy. Spike blew right past me and gave me a chance to get away. Who was the brainiac who came up with the idea of sending him in?”

  “I did,” Tom Hadlock said modestly. “I’m glad it worked.”

  “You and me both,” Joanna said.

  Off in the distance Tom heard a siren—the distinctive wailing of an approaching aid car. Seconds later, he spotted flashing lights as the emergency vehicle sped northbound on Black Knob heading toward the cattle guard at the far end of the ranch road.

  “The EMTs are coming right now,” he reported. “We’ll send them up as soon as I can brief them and point them in your direction. In the meantime, guys, thank you, one and all. Some of you may need to assist in bringing Spike down the mountain. Everybody else, hop to it. We need to locate Jeremy Stock’s body and get the area cordoned off as a crime scene. We’re going to need lights, generators, CSIs—the whole nine yards. It’s going to be a very long night.”

  “Great job, Tom,” Joanna said when he finished issuing the spate of orders. “One hell of a job!”

  “Thank you, Sheriff Brady,” he replied. “Over and out!”

  CHAPTER 42

  CLIMBING BACK UP TO THE SUMMIT HAD BEEN FAR MORE DIFFICULT than Joanna would have thought possible. For one thing, she was terribly fatigued, but she felt a moral obligation to be there for Terry and Spike, come what may. After all, Spike had saved her life. She owed him. She owed them both.

  Far below, there were suddenly swarms of flashing red lights all around and maybe even a faint siren or two, but up on the summit of Geronimo, it was unnaturally quiet. Terry sat cross-legged on the ground with Spike’s head cradled in his lap. Whenever he reached out to touch the dog’s forehead or ruffle his ears, Spike’s long tail thumped gamely on the ground. Each time it happened, Joanna had to hold her breath to keep from crying, but crying wasn’t allowed, not for her. After all, she was the sheriff, supposedly in command, and these were some of her troops—her very loyal troops.

  Not knowing what to say, she simply sat beside them, saying nothing, and gratefully drinking water from the bottle Terry had pulled out of his pocket and given her.

  “It looks bad,” Terry said brokenly. “What if he loses the leg?”

  “Then we give him a full medical retirement,” Joanna promised. “Vet bills included.”

  “But he loves to work. It’ll kill him if I go to work and he doesn’t.”

  “He’s done this job for a long time,” Joanna said. “Longer than most K9s, right?”

  Terry nodded. “He’s always been such a good dog.”

  “He is still a good dog,” Joanna assured him. “But Spike has earned his retirement, and you’ve earned yourself another partner.”

  Just then, bobbing lights off to the side indicated that someone was approaching and about to join them on the summit. Lieutenant Adam Wilson of the Bisbee Fire Department led the way. His head came into view first, topped by a light-equipped helmet. A medical kit thumped to the ground in front of him before he clambered the rest of the way onto the surface. Two more firefighters trailed behind him.

  “I understand we have an injured patient who needs to be transported?” Wilson asked.

  “Yes,” Joanna said, getting to her feet. “Spike’s over here.”

  “Okay, guys,” Wilson said. “Bring the basket and let’s get him strapped in. Your dog, sir?” The question was directed at Terry, who nodded mutely in reply.

  “All right, then,” Wilson said. “You stay close and help keep him calm. What about a muzzle? Will we need to put one on him? Injured dogs can be a problem sometimes. We may be trying to help them, but they don’t understand what’s going on.”

  “He’ll be good,” Terry answered. “Steady, Spike,” he added as Wilson reached out an enormous glove
d hand to pat the top of Spike’s head. The dog didn’t move.

  “I could give him a little something for the pain, if you like,” Wilson offered. “There may be a few bumps and jolts on the way down.”

  “Please,” Terry said. “If you can, I’d like that a lot.”

  In the end, there were enough volunteers to pass the basket from hand to hand down the mountain rather than having to employ a block and tackle. Once Terry and the dog disappeared over the edge, Wilson turned back to Joanna and peered down at her with the light from his helmet shining in her eyes.

  “If you’ll pardon my saying so, ma’am, you look like hell. That’s quite a shiner you have, and plenty of cuts and bruises as well. Maybe I should drag another stretcher up here and carry you down, too.”

  “Please don’t do that,” she said. “I’m fine. I can manage.”

  Wilson reached for her hands and examined them carefully. They were scratched and bruised all over as well. Some of the deeper cuts on her badly scraped knuckles still seeped blood.

  It was at that precise moment, just as Lieutenant Wilson was studying her hands, when Sage asserted her presence with a vigorous series of kicks.

  Wilson jumped back as though he’d unwittingly stumbled over a rattlesnake. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

  “My baby,” she said. “A girl. I’m due in December.”

  “Jesus Christ, woman!” he exclaimed. “You’re out here acting like a mountain goat and you’re expecting a baby?”

  “I didn’t exactly come here of my own volition,” she told him.

  “Maybe so, but you’re sure as hell not climbing down on your own, either—not on my watch. Understood?”

  Joanna started to argue but stopped. Wilson was doing his job, and she needed to let him do it.

  Turning abruptly, Wilson walked over to the edge of the summit. “Hey, guys,” he called down. “Once you deliver that dog to the vet, I need a couple of you to come back. There’s a pregnant lady up here who doesn’t think she needs any help getting down, but I’m saying otherwise.”

  He sounded so fierce that it tickled Joanna’s funny bone. A moment later she was giggling uncontrollably.