“Stop!” Alice commanded, but this time the word came out as little more than an unrecognizable gurgle. She moaned in agony.
“Be still, Alice!” he growled. The falsetto was gone now. It was definitely a man’s voice, but whose? It sounded familiar, but Alice’s pain-fogged brain couldn’t make the connection.
“Who are you?” she tried to say. “What do you want?” But the words were so slurred that they sounded like gibberish, even to her.
In reply, the man dropped her wrist. Alice lay still and watched him through a confusing, misty haze as he pocketed the third syringe and gathered up the other two from where they had fallen to the ground beside her. He stuffed them into his coat pocket as well. As he turned to walk away, Alice felt a small object land on her abdomen and then roll off onto the ground.
At that moment, what was happening seemed to be of little concern to her. The body lying on the cold, hard ground might have been someone else’s rather than her own. There was no getting away. Alice had no strength or breath left to scream or cry out for help. There was nothing to do but submit and hope that eventually the pain would stop.
Her tormentor walked away, and after that, time seemed to dissolve as well. The world spun out of control. Despite the cold, sweat popped out all over Alice’s body. The sudden unaccountable dampness of her skin made her feel that much colder. Even so, she somehow remembered that something had fallen on her—something small and hard that had rolled off her body and onto the ground.
Unable to turn her head without driving the cholla needles deeper into her flesh, she patted the earth next to her until her groping fingers closed around something small and smooth. It was a bottle, a tiny glass bottle.
She knew what the tiny vial was without even looking—knew what it must have contained and what the inevitable result would be. The cholla needles were nothing compared to the hurt and betrayal that flooded through her in that awful moment of realization. Grasping the bottle in her fist, she closed her eyes and let the tears come. Hours later, when Alice Rogers finally stopped breathing, the little glass vial was still clutched tightly in her dying fist.
One
EASING THE porch swing back and forth, thirty-year-old Sheriff Joanna Brady closed her green eyes and let the warmth of an early-November Sunday afternoon caress her body. Nearby, on the top step, sat Joanna’s best friend and pastor, the Reverend Marianne Maculyea of Canyon United Methodist Church. Without speaking for minutes at a time, the two women watched their respective children—Joanna’s eleven-year-old Jennifer and Marianne’s three-year-old Ruth—at play.
Both sets of mothers and daughters were studies in contrast. Joanna’s red hair was cut short in what Helen Barco at Helene’s Salon of Hair and Beauty called a figure-skater cut. On this Sunday afternoon, Marianne’s long dark hair was pulled back in a serviceable ponytail. Jenny’s fair, blue-eyed face was surrounded by a halo of tow-headed white hair while Ruth’s shiny black pageboy gleamed in the warm autumn sun.
The last week in October, a surprisingly fierce cold snap had visited southeastern Arizona, bringing with it a frigid rain that had threatened to drown out most of Bisbee’s Halloween trick-or-treating. Two days later, when bright sunlight reemerged, the cottonwood, apple, and peach trees on High Lonesome Ranch seemed to have changed colors overnight. In the sunny days and crisp nights since, dying leaves had drifted from their branches and had fallen to earth, carpeting the yard in a thick mantle of gold, red, rust, and brown.
For little Ruth, recently rescued from life in a desolate Chinese orphanage, the crackly, multicolored leaves were a source of incredible wonder and delight. Together the two girls raked great mounds of leaves into piles, then dived into them with a chorus of shrieks alternating with giggles.
For a while both of Jenny’s dogs—Sadie, a bluetick hound, and Tigger, a comical-looking half pit bull/half golden retriever—had joined in. When Sadie tired of the game, she retreated to the relative quiet of the porch along with Joanna and Marianne. With a sigh, the dog lay down on the top step and placed her smooth, floppy-eared head in Marianne’s lap. Tigger, however, continued to throw himself into the festivities with all the antic energy of a born clown.
On Jenny’s command to “stay,” the dog, quivering with eager anticipation, would lie perfectly still and allow himself to be covered with a mound of leaves. When Jenny shouted “okay,” the dog would erupt from the leaves, tuck his tail between his legs, and then race around the yard as though pursued by a pack of ravenous coyotes.
Each time the game was repeated, Ruth clapped her hands in childish delight. “Again, Jenny,” she crowed. “Do again!”
Watching the simple game and enjoying the gales of gleeful laughter, Joanna Brady found herself nodding and smiling. She was about to comment on the beautiful afternoon and on the two girls’ unrestrained joy. When she looked in Marianne’s direction, however, she saw a single tear snake its way down her friend’s solemn face. Seeing that tear, Joanna opted for silence. For the space of another minute or so, neither woman said a word while Marianne’s hand absently stroked Sadie’s soft, velvety muzzle.
“What is it, Mari?” Joanna asked finally. The question wasn’t really necessary because Joanna knew exactly what the problem was. In August, Marianne’s other newly adopted daughter—Esther, Ruth’s twin sister—had died of complications following heart-transplant surgery. It seemed certain to Joanna that watching two little girls at play on this warm, jewel-clear afternoon had reopened Marianne’s aching wound.
Joanna Brady herself was no stranger to the grieving process. The death of her husband, Andy, had thrown her own life into a personal hell of pain and loss. She understood how a perfect moment in a gemlike day could darken and then be dashed to pieces by the sudden realization that someone else was missing from the picture, that a certain loved one wasn’t present to share that special moment. At times like these, the perfection of the present would fade to a muddy gray, shrouded behind an impenetrable fog of hurt. Watching one daughter at play, Marianne had no doubt been stricken by a terrible longing for the other child, one who wasn’t there and never would be again.
Convinced that she knew exactly what was going on with Marianne, Joanna was confused when, after another minute or so, she heard her friend’s clipped response. “I’m going to quit,” Marianne said.
At first Joanna didn’t make the connection. “Quit what?” she asked.
“The ministry,” Marianne replied. “I’m going to resign effective immediately.”
Somehow Joanna managed to stifle her gasp of dismay. “Surely you don’t mean that!” she said at last.
“I do,” Marianne said determinedly. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life. My letter of resignation is all written. It’s sitting in the computer waiting to be printed. There’s a church council meeting on Wednesday evening. I’ll probably turn it in then.”
Stunned, Joanna fell silent. Through the turmoil following Andy’s death, Marianne Maculyea and her husband, Jeff Daniels, had been never-failing sources of comfort and support. With their help and encouragement, Joanna had slowly battled her way back to emotional stability. They had walked her through months of painful grieving—through the inevitable stages of denial and anger—until she had at last achieved a measure of acceptance.
That summer, when tragedy had visited her friends in the form of Esther’s death, Joanna had done her best to return the favor. She had strived to provide the same kind of understanding and strength for them that they had given her. Now, Joanna realized that her efforts had fallen short. She must not have done enough. Why else would Marianne be sitting on the front porch, basking in the warm afternoon sunlight, and drowning in despair?
“What’s going on?” Joanna asked softly. “It’s not like you to just give up.”
Marianne’s gray eyes darkened with a film of tears. “It’s the Thanksgiving sermon,” she answered. “Because of bulletin deadlines, I’m always working two weeks ahead. I’ve been trying for days to
think of something meaningful to say, but I can’t do it. I’m not the least bit thankful right now, Joanna. I’m outraged. If Marliss Shackleford tells me one more time how lucky we are to still have Ruth, I’m liable to punch the woman’s lights out.”
Marliss was a busybody columnist for the local paper and one of Marianne’s parishioners besides. She wasn’t one of Joanna’s favorite people, either. In fact, when it came to Marliss, Joanna had long since given up turning the other cheek. “It might do the woman a world of good,” she said.
Marianne favored Joanna with a wan smile and then looked off in the other direction, all the while continuing to stroke Sadie’s unmoving head. In times of crisis Joanna herself had drawn comfort from the dog’s uncomplaining, stolid presence, but she wondered if, given the present circumstances, merely petting a dog offered enough solace.
Marianne’s continuing crisis of faith was something the two friends had discussed often in the months since Esther’s death. Joanna had assumed that over time things would get better for Marianne, just as they had for her. But clearly the situation for Marianne wasn’t improving. Rather than pulling out of her morass, Marianne seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper.
Struggling to find something useful to say, Joanna rose from the porch swing and raked a few more leaves into the small bonfire where a collection of foil-wrapped potatoes was roasting. Raking leaves and baking potatoes in an autumn bonfire was something Andrew Roy Brady had done first with his father, Jim Bob, and later with his daughter, Jenny. With Andy gone, this was one of the small family traditions Joanna had been determined to carry on. She had worried that reviving that old custom might bring up too many memories for both mother and daughter. Instead, Jenny had thrown herself wholeheartedly into playing with Ruth and Tigger, while Joanna was too caught up in Marianne’s heartache to remember her own.
What can I say that won’t make things worse? Joanna wondered, as she leaned the rake against the fence and returned to her spot on the porch swing. Or would I be better off just keeping quiet?
But keeping quiet wasn’t part of Joanna Brady’s genetic makeup. She was far too much her own mother’s daughter. “Have you talked to Jeff about this?” Joanna asked as she resumed her place.
Marianne’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. Her reply was sharp, aggrieved. “Of course I have,” she snapped. “He thinks I should have my head examined.”
Any other time, such a comment might have been nothing more than a light-hearted quip. Here it was no laughing matter. “What do you think?” Joanna asked.
“I already told you what I think,” Marianne replied. “If I don’t have anything of value to contribute, I should quit. I can type. I can probably get a regular job. Somebody around here must need a secretary or receptionist.”
Joanna closed her eyes. In her mind’s eye she visualized the Marianne of old standing behind the pulpit preaching. Before Esther’s death, and comfortable in her faith, Marianne’s face used to glow with certitude as she delivered her sermons. There had been an inner joy about her that had backlit everything she said. For months now, though, that glow had been absent. Joanna doubted she was the only one who realized that her friend was simply going through the motions, but even Joanna had never considered the possibility that Marianne’s inner glow might have dimmed for good.
“Have you thought about seeing a doctor?” Joanna asked.
“A doctor?” Marianne sneered impatiently. “See there? You’ve jumped to the same conclusion Jeff has. You think I should see a shrink.”
“I didn’t say shrink,” Joanna corrected. “And I didn’t mean shrink, either. I saw what happened today at lunch. You hardly ate anything at all. You pushed the food around on your plate until enough time had passed for the meal to be over. The only food that actually left your plate was what you gave Ruth. You’re not eating properly, and you look like you’re melting away to nothing. You’ve got deep, dark circles under your eyes.”
“I wasn’t hungry,” Marianne cut in. “Food makes me sick these days. I can barely stand to look at it, much less swallow it.”
“And I’ll bet you’re not sleeping properly, either,” Joanna continued doggedly. “You know yourself that eating and sleeping disturbances are standard symptoms of grief—grief and depression both. You’re depressed, Mari. You need help. Go see a doctor.”
“And what good will that do?” Marianne demanded. “All he’ll do is plug me full of antidepressants—dose me with some kind of chemical joy juice. Take two of these and then wait for a sermon to pop up on the computer screen?”
“Not necessarily,” Joanna replied. “But seriously, Mari, maybe there’s something else wrong—something physical—that’s causing all this.”
“Come on, Joanna. Give me a break. Don’t you see? It’s not physical at all. I’m not a hypocrite. I’ve spent my whole life first believing and then preaching that life is eternal. Now that Esther’s gone, I don’t feel that anymore. I feel empty. There’s nothing left of that hope but a huge black hole and everything—my whole life—is collapsing into it. I don’t know what to do about it. If I’m not capable of living my beliefs in my own life, what business do I have passing them along to anyone else?”
“Maybe that’s what the sermon should be about,” Joanna suggested.
“About what?”
“About being thankful for the black hole,” Joanna said. “The people down front—the ones sitting out there in the pews—probably think they’re the only ones who’ve ever felt that way. A sermon like that coming from you would show them they’re not alone.”
Before Marianne had a chance to reply, a telephone rang inside the house. Joanna hurried to answer it. “Hello.”
“Sheriff Brady?” an unfamiliar male voice asked.
With only a few seconds of emotional buffer between her private life and her public one, Joanna switched gears. “This is Sheriff Brady,” she replied. “Who’s this, and what can I do for you?”
“What’s the deal with this Frank Montoya guy?” her gruff caller continued. “Is he some kind of a dim bulb, or what?”
Chief Deputy for Administration Frank Montoya, along with Chief Deputy for Operations, Richard Voland, were Joanna’s primary aides-de-camp in running the Cochise County Sheriffs Department. Both men had initially opposed Joanna’s candidacy for the office of sheriff, but once the election was over, both had assumed important roles in her administration.
Listening intently, Joanna couldn’t quite place the voice, although she was sure she had heard it before. “Chief Deputy Montoya is anything but a dim bulb,” she replied. “He’s a dedicated and talented police officer. Who’s asking?”
“Mayor Rogers,” the man replied. “Mayor Cletus Rogers of Tombstone.”
Joanna sighed, took a seat, and prepared herself for the worst. In the aftermath of a bitterly divisive city recall effort, Clete Rogers had been the successful write-in candidate for mayor during a special election the previous July. A restaurateur with all the diplomacy of a mountain goat, Clete Rogers had assumed mayoral duties in the Town Too Tough to Die. Once sworn into office, he had immediately set about consolidating his power base by firing anyone who disagreed with him. One of the first victims of his displeasure had been Dennis Granger, formerly the town’s chief marshal.
Rogers had planned to fire Granger and replace him with a crony—somebody who would be more to his liking. Granger, however, refused to go quietly. After turning in his badge and city-owned weapons, he had filed a million-dollar wrongful-dismissal lawsuit. With litigation still pending, both sides were forbidden from discussing the matter in public. In the meantime, the Tombstone city attorney had advised Mayor Rogers that he had best not fill the marshal’s vacancy since, legally, the vacancy did not yet exist. Which was how Sheriff Joanna Brady and her department had been drawn into the fray.
Mayor Rogers had asked the county supervisors to allow the sheriffs department to assume control of the town’s four remaining marshals. The job was more supervis
ory than anything else—a matter of assigning and coordinating the officers left to do the actual work.
In the Cochise County Sheriffs Department, Chief Deputy for Administration Frank Montoya was Joanna’s right-hand man, but before signing on with the county, he had served as marshal for the city of Willcox. Montoya’s background and experience made him the logical choice to take on the Tombstone assignment. He had been there—working out of city hall, staying in a motel, and with the city of Tombstone paying his salary—for the better part of two months. But as litigation threatened to drag on and on, both Frank and Joanna were beginning to wonder if he’d ever return to his office at the Cochise County Justice Complex outside Bisbee. Not only that, from what Joanna had heard, Mayor Rogers didn’t seem to appreciate Frank’s performance as marshal any more than he had Dennis Granger’s.
“What’s the problem now?” Joanna asked.
“I’ll tell you what the problem is,” Rogers returned. “My sister Susan is the problem. She came into my place of business just before noon and started a disturbance. Frank Montoya was sitting right there eating his lunch when it happened. He didn’t raise a finger.”
“What kind of disturbance?” Joanna asked.
“Do you remember the Smothers Brothers?” Rogers asked.
“The Smothers Brothers?” Joanna asked dubiously. “Who are they?”
“That’s right,” Rogers snorted. “You’re probably too young. Years ago, in the sixties, they were a comedy team. Used to have a great show called ‘The Smothers’ Brothers Comedy Hour.’ I loved it. Some of their best routines were all about how their mother liked the other one best. Believe me, when it comes to that, Susan could have given those guys lessons.”
Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806) Page 2