Tombstone Courage

by J. A. Jance

Joanna Brady had owned the semi-automatic for less than two weeks, so it was still somewhat new and unfamiliar. Even without Adam York’s advice, she had been doing target practice on her own, as much as time permitted. Every session, she pinned a black-and-white man-sized, man-shaped target to a hay bale and fired away at it.

  She continued to have some difficulty in mastering the sweeping trigger-finger motion required to fire the next round, but each subsequent practice showed some slight improvement. And each succeeding target came down from the bale with the bullet holes grouped more tightly in the desired deadly patterns. She didn’t have to wonder what kind of damage those kinds of groupings could do to a human body. She already knew about that. On a firsthand basis.

  At ten to seven, chilled to the bone, she took off her protective ear covering and heard the shrill, sharp blasts of the soccer-referee whistle she and Jenny used to summon each other when the distances on the ranch were too great for shouts to carry.

  The high-pitched blasts had a disturbingly frantic quality to them. Joanna holstered the gun and hurried back to the house with a sense of dread walking beside her. She was relieved to see Jenny and the dogs waiting for her on the back porch.

  As soon as she was close enough to see her, Joanna could tell from the look on Jennifer’s face that something was terribly wrong. The child’s face was pasty white, her thin lips drawn together in a grim, straight line.

  “What’s the matter?” Joanna asked, hurrying to Jenny’s side.

  “Marianne called,” Jenny said. “She wants you to call her back right away.”

  “Why? What happened?”

  “She says they found Mr. Patterson. He’s dead!”

  And with that, Jennifer Ann Brady threw both small arms around her mother’s neck and sobbed her heart out, the racking sobs shaking her whole body. It was as though she had somehow slipped through the protective cocoon of childhood into the terrible world of adulthood, of life and death.

  Joanna took Jenny in her arms and held her close, murmuring what words of comfort she could summon. But the child’s frantic grief, her overriding anguish, went far beyond the reach of her mother’s puny words. Or of Marianne’s phone call, either.

  Jenny wasn’t crying about Harold Patterson, an old man she barely knew. No, she was crying for her father.

  Damn Tony Vargas anyway! Joanna thought, remembering the man who had murdered Jenny’s father. Damn him straight to everlasting hell!

  Twenty

  WHEN JENNY finally calmed down enough to go shower, Joanna headed for the telephone. There were three new messages on the machine—from three different reporters—all wanting to schedule interviews, but no one from the Cochise County Sheriff’s Department had bothered to dial up the new sheriff to let her know what was going on out at the Rocking P Ranch. If there was some kind of official-notification system within the department, Sheriff Joanna Brady’s name was not yet included on the list.

  She was tempted to call Dispatch and demand to know what the hell was going on, but she squelched that idea. Going off half-cocked would be stupid. Before she did anything at all, she needed some real knowledge of the situation from a reliable source. Instead of calling the department, she dialed Marianne Maculyea’s number.

  “What’s up?” she asked Jeff Daniels when he answered the phone.

  “Marianne’s in the shower. She told me to tell you she’s heading out to the ranch as soon as she gets dressed. Ivy called a few minutes ago. They found her father in a glory hole up on Juniper Flats. Harold Patterson is dead.”

  “Heart attack?”

  “No. Hit on the head with a rock. At least that’s what Ivy said. The sides must have caved in on him. Ivy was hysterical on the phone. Marianne’s out of the shower now. Do you want to talk to her?”

  “There’s no need. Tell her thanks for letting me know, and that I’m on my way, too. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

  Jenny came out of the shower wrapped in a towel. “Be where?” she asked.

  “At the Patterson ranch. Hurry and get dressed,” Joanna told her. “We’ll have to leave early. I’ll check with Grandma Brady to see if you can have breakfast with her.”

  After making hasty arrangements with Eva Lou, Joanna dialed the Sheriff’s Department and asked to speak to Dispatch.

  “This is Joanna Brady,” she said when a youthful-sounding operator came on the phone. “I want to speak to a dispatch supervisor.”

  “Who did you say this is?”

  “Sheriff Joanna Brady,” she said firmly. “Who are you?”

  “Larry. Larry Kendrick. But I thought…”

  “What did you think?”

  “Excuse me, ma’am. You just got elected the other day. How can you be sheriff already?”

  “It happens, Larry, and you should have been briefed. I still need to speak to a supervisor.”

  “There isn’t one available at the moment. She’s down the hall. Is anything wrong? Something I can help you with?”

  “When did the call come in about Harold Patterson?” Joanna asked.

  “About an hour ago.”

  “Who took the call?”

  “Tica Romero.”

  “And who called it in?”

  “Let me check.” There was a slight delay before he answered. “Ivy Patterson. I believe she’s one of Harold’s daughters.”

  “And who responded?”

  “Deputy Dave Hollicker. His car was closest to the scene at the time. As far as I know, he’s still there. After Hollicker’s initial survey, he called for backup. Dick Voland and Ernie Carpenter both headed out there on the double.”

  Ernie Carpenter was Cochise County’s lead homicide investigator, but his being called in didn’t necessarily mean murder. He was usually summoned to the site of any unexplained death, where the first order of business was to determine whether the person had died of natural or unnatural causes. As acting sheriff, Dick Voland naturally would have responded as well. The problem was, Dick Voland was no longer acting sheriff. And no one had bothered to call the real one. The new one.

  “I see,” Joanna said, keeping her voice free of any trace of rancor.

  It was highly possible that Tica Romero and Larry Kendrick were doing things exactly as they had been told. Joanna’s swearing-in, the official changing of the guard, should have been top priority at all duty briefings as officers came on shift, but clearly few, if any, had been told. Joanna suspected that fault for that oversight lay fairly high up in the chain of command. If Joanna was going to make an issue of it, she had to make sure she was dealing with the responsible party.

  “Kristin Marsten isn’t in yet, is she?”

  “No, ma’am. She doesn’t come in until eight or so.”

  “Leave word with her that I’m out at the Rocking P and won’t be in until later. And from now on, Larry, things are going to be different. If there’s a dead body found anywhere in this county, I want to know about it. Any time of the day or night. Once you dispatch duty officers and emergency personnel to a scene, I’m to be called next. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Absolutely.”

  “Good.”

  “And Sheriff Brady?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is it okay if I say congratulations?”

  “It’s fine.”

  Once off the phone, Joanna hurried into the bedroom to grab a quick shower and get ready herself. Standing under the steaming water, she felt dumb washing her hair just to go out and tramp around a crime scene, but she did it anyway. The shower was fine, but she didn’t hassle with makeup. Her shiner would just have to shine.

  Once again the real question was what to wear. Did men have this problem? Certainly not in the same way women did. No matter what she wore, it made a statement one way or the other. And given that Joanna was operating in what was perceived as a male venue, she was subject to intense scrutiny every time she poked her head outside the house.

  By the time she was standing in front of the closet in her unde
rwear, Joanna had nixed the idea of either a dress or a skirt. For working in Milo’s office, the choices had been relatively simple—heels, panty hose, skirts, blouses, and blazers. But none of those made sense for a glory hole on Juniper Flats.

  Finally, she settled on the much-used jeans and hiking boots she had worn for target practice earlier that morning, but she passed on the shirt. Her worn plaid flannel shirt, the comfortable one with patches on both elbows, would never do. Overcoming her natural reluctance, she turned at last to Andy’s end of the closet.

  All through the campaign, she had put off sorting Andy’s things, telling herself that painful job, along with designating possible guardians, could wait until after the election, until she felt stronger. The Ladies’ Auxiliary at Canyon Methodist had started a clothing bank, and Joanna had planned to take most of Andy’s clothes there.

  She rummaged around on the top shelf until she located the extra Kevlar vest Andy had kept there, the one he had insisted was too small and uncomfortable to wear. As soon as she tried strapping it on over her bra, she could certainly believe the lack of comfort. Nothing about the bulletproof vest took the specifics of female anatomy into consideration. The vest was surprisingly heavy, and it chafed the skin under her arms.

  For a moment, she considered not wearing it at all. But then she thought about Adam York and the wise counsel he had been kind enough to offer—lifesaving advice it didn’t make sense to disregard. Joanna was sure that in Adam York’s book, even an ill-fitting vest would be preferable to none at all.

  With a sigh, she undid the vest and added one of Andy’s undershirts to the mix before trying again. The extra layer of material did seem to help. Next she buttoned on one of Andy’s khaki uniform shirts, rolling the sleeves up far enough so her hands showed beneath the cuffs. Over the breast pocket where Andy had worn his badge, Joanna pinned the one her mother had given her. Hank Lathrop’s badge. Hers now.

  Once the badge was in place, she paused and studied it for a moment before pulling on jeans and boots. Next she belted the holstered semi-automatic into position and was relieved to know that at least one thing she wore actually belonged to her. She finished off the outfit with Andy’s heavy denim jacket—the fleece-lined one with the single .44 caliber bullet hole in the pocket. From the inside out. She herself had pulled the trigger of that pocketed gun. She had pulled it with the intent to kill and she had done exactly that.

  Finally dressed, Joanna once again examined her costume in the mirror. And it was a costume, she decided critically. She looked like a little girl dressed up in her father’s oversized clothes and about to go out trick-or-treating. The ill-fitting, pasted-together ensemble would never pass inspection with Eleanor Lathrop. For that reason alone, Joanna found herself almost liking it.

  She was still standing in front of the mirror when Jenny came into the room. Except for slightly puffy eyes, all trace of her previous outburst had been seemingly scrubbed away.

  Joanna spun around, giving Jenny the full effect of her outfit. “Well,” she asked, “what do you think?”

  Jennifer wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Daddy’s clothes are way too big for you,” she said.

  Joanna shrugged off her daughter’s confidence-sapping comment. “Someday soon,” she said, “I guess we’ll have to go shopping for some clothes of my own. Are you ready to go? Did you feed and water the dogs?”

  Stopping in front of the Bradys’ duplex a few minutes later, Joanna shifted into Park, set the emergency brake, and got out of the car. Meanwhile, Jenny was already on her way up the brick walkway.

  “Hey, wait a minute here, Jennifer Ann Brady,” Joanna said severely. “Since when don’t I get a hug?”

  Dejected and dragging her feet, Jenny turned and came back. When Joanna hugged her, the child’s head thumped solidly against the hard surface of the Kevlar vest. Andy Brady had worn a vest like that to work for as long as Jennifer remembered. Recognizing the vest for what it was as soon as she bumped against it, the child stiffened and drew away.

  “Wearing one of those didn’t help Daddy,” she said disparagingly. With that, Jenny darted up the walkway.

  Dismayed, Joanna climbed back into the idling Eagle. This wasn’t at all how she had imagined her first day as sheriff of Cochise County. Rather than savoring triumph, she seemed to be losing ground at every turn. If winning could be this bad, losing must be hell.

  And it didn’t get any better. When Joanna reached the turnoff to the Rocking P Ranch, a Cochise County Sheriff’s Department patrol car was parked sideways just inside the cattle guard, totally blocking the entrance. Marianne Maculyea’s sea-foam VW Bug was stopped on the shoulder of the highway. Reverend Maculyea herself, agitated and gesturing wildly, stood arguing with an impassive deputy, one Joanna didn’t instantly recognize, but from Dispatch’s information she guessed this to be Deputy Hollicker.

  Joanna parked behind the VW and was surprised to hear Marianne’s usually calm voice rise to the level of shrill outrage. “What do you mean, no one’s allowed in? Ivy Patterson called me. She specifically asked me to come! I’m her pastor. I’m sure she called because she wants help making funeral arrangements.”

  Hurrying to join the fray, Joanna heard the deputy’s dispassionate response. “Sorry, lady. Orders are orders.”

  “Whose orders?” Joanna asked.

  Together, both Marianne and the deputy turned toward Joanna. She had known Marianne Maculyea for years without ever seeing the woman this angry. Two vivid red splotches colored her cheeks, while her dark eyes crackled with emotion.

  “He says no one’s allowed up at the house,” Marianne complained. “Can you believe it?”

  The deputy’s glance took in Joanna’s appearance in one quick appraisal before settling warily on her holstered Colt, the nose of which peeked out from under the hem of her jacket.

  “Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you doing here?”

  They eyed one another, giving Joanna a chance to verify the name.

  “Does the name Joanna Brady ring a bell, Deputy Hollicker?” she asked, pulling aside the jacket enough so the badge showed. “The last time I heard, someone told me I was the new sheriff in this jurisdiction.”

  Hollicker’s jaw dropped. “Oh, yes,” he said, relaxing his stance. “I believe something about that just came over the radio.”

  Joanna smiled, but without humor. “I wouldn’t be surprised. Now, what’s this about orders?”

  “They came straight from Dick Voland, the chief deputy. He said not to allow anyone at all past this gate.”

  “I see,” Joanna said. “Under the circumstances, it’s a perfectly understandable order, but for now I’m countermanding it. Please move your vehicle aside so Reverend Maculyea and I can drive through. You’re more than welcome to keep everyone else out after that.”

  “Okay,” Deputy Hollicker said uncertainly, moving at once to comply. “Sure thing.”

  Marianne and Joanna started back toward their respective vehicles. Reverend Maculyea was still steaming. “What’s the matter with that guy? He sounded as though your being sheriff was a total surprise to him, like he just found out about you a few minutes ago.”

  “It did sound that way,” Joanna agreed. “I may be the sheriff, but someone seems to be trying to keep that fact a secret.”

  “You mean if they don’t see you, maybe you’ll go away?”

  “Nice try, but no time,” Joanna answered grimly in time-honored rodeo lingo. “They’ll have to do better than that.”

  Dave Hollicker started up his Ford Taurus patrol car and drove it out of the way long enough for Joanna and Marianne to cross the cattle guard; then he moved it back into its original position, once more blocking the gate.

  Marianne continued on up the road toward the Rocking P’s ranch house, but Joanna stopped the car and went back to the Taurus, where Dave Hollicker was speaking animatedly into his handheld microphone. When he saw Joanna peering in the window at him, he hurriedly switched off the
microphone and rolled down his window.

  “Did you need something else?” he asked.

  “Yes. Where is this glory hole? How do I get there?”

  “Chief Voland said for you to wait right here. He’ll come down and get you.”

  “Deputy Hollicker, I don’t believe you understood what I said to you back there. I’m issuing orders, not taking them. And I have no intention of standing here waiting for Deputy Voland to come get me. Is that clear?”

  Even as she said it, Joanna realized it wasn’t fair to put Dave Hollicker in the middle of a power play between Dick Voland and herself, but something definitive had to happen to get the chief deputy’s attention.

  Hollicker waffled only a few seconds longer before making up his mind. “Drive just like you’re going to the house,” he directed. “When you reach the corrals, instead of turning in, go straight on past. About a half-mile farther on, you’ll come to a gate. Go through that, then take the left-hand fork. Whenever you can after that, bear left. It’s three miles, give or take.”

  “Thank you.” Joanna turned and started back toward her Eagle.

  “It’s a pretty rough road,” he called after her. “That’s why Chief Deputy Voland wanted you to wait here. He said he’d come get you in his Blazer.”

  “Radio back and tell him not to bother,” Joanna said over her shoulder. “My four-wheel-drive Eagle can make it anywhere Dick Voland’s Blazer can.”

  “Oh,” Dave Hollicker mumbled into the cloud of dust that billowed in her wake. “I’ll be sure to tell him that. He’ll love hearing it. And then he’ll chew my ass.”

  Twenty-One

  EVEN WITHOUT directions, Joanna would have had no trouble finding her way. Much of the road was over coarse, trackless shale, but here and there—in still-muddy low spots or in patches of dry, dusty dirt—a collection of freshly laid tire indentations left their separate marks. Wherever visible tracks remained in the roadway, Joanna was careful to drive around them.

  She followed the ever-narrowing trail, through a scrub-oak-dotted landscape toward the rockbound red cliffs that crowned the mountain. As she drove through the ranch where Harold Patterson had lived all his life, Joanna allowed herself a moment of private grief. She hadn’t thought about that part of the job, about investigating the death of someone she knew and cared for. But Cochise County was a relatively small community. Some of the people whose deaths came under investigation were bound to be acquaintances if not friends.