J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

Joanna was stunned. “He actually said that?” she demanded. “The Mexican part?”

“Not in those exact words, but believe me, I caught his drift.”

“Well,” Joanna said, “if he’s that down on Hispanics, it’s not too smart of him to be living smack on the Mexican border.”

Dick Voland chuckled. “That probably has more to do with where his granddaddy settled than it does with David O’Briens personal preferences.”

“In the meantime, what else is there to do?” Joanna asked.

“I told Mr. O’Brien that the only detective we have, other than Jaime Carbajal, is off duty today. According to Rose Carpenter, Ernie’s out in Sierra Vista having some work done on his car. We paged him, but he’s apparently in the middle of a brake job and can’t get back here any sooner than another hour at the very earliest. O’Brien said that was fine. That the extra hour’s wait would be worth it as long as he gets to talk to a real detective.”

Had Joanna been on the scene herself, she might have insisted on Detective Carbajal’s taking charge of the case and then been there to back him up. A little enforced respect might have been good for whatever unreasoning prejudices ailed Mr. David O’Brien. But right then, Sheriff Brady herself was more Than a hundred miles away from the problem. There was no point in her causing trouble by countermanding Dick Voland’s orders.

“I guess that’ll work. In the meantime, what’s your take on the situation, Dick?”

“I think the girl’s a runaway,” he answered at once. “Her folks bought her a cute little bright-red Toyota truck, one of those Tacoma four-by-fours, for graduation. She’s evidently got a purse full of credit cards and probably a good deal of cash as well. Once she starts using plastic for gas or food, it won’t take long to get a line on her.”

Joanna was quiet for a moment, thinking about what she knew about Brianna O’Brien, most of it second- or third-hand. Barely three weeks earlier, the young woman’s high school senior portrait had graced the front page of the local paper, the Bisbee Bee. During graduation ceremonies, she had been honored as class valedictorian. In addition to that, Joanna knew she had also served as a cheerleader and as student body vice president. Bree was popular, good-looking, and her family had plenty of money. Why would someone like that-someone with brains and looks and money-be a runaway?

Once again, Joanna kept that opinion to herself. Right then, standing in the director’s office at Camp Whispering Pines, was no time to discuss any of those case-specific details. At least two nose-ringed young women-counselors or campers, Joanna couldn’t tell which-were lined up in Andrea Petty’s office. Seeming to hang on Joanna’s every word and glancing pointedly at their watches, they were evidently waiting none too patiently for their turn to use the camp director’s phone.

“Look,” Joanna told Dick, “I just dropped Jenny off at camp. I’m still up on Mount Lemmon at the moment. Once I leave here, it’ll take me the better part of three hours to get back home to Bisbee. I’ll stop by the department on my way out to the ranch to see if there have been any new developments.”

Putting down the phone, Joanna left Andrea Petty’s office. Except for a few stragglers, the dining hall was almost deserted. Near the door, Joanna caught sight of Lisa Christman.

“I’m going to have to leave now,” Joanna said. “You’re sure I can’t see Jenny just long enough to tell her good-bye?”

Lisa shook her head. “It’s not a good idea,” she said. “Jenny’s already up in her cabin. I’ve introduced her to the other girls, and they’re starting to get settled in and acquainted. The afternoon nature hike starts in ten minutes. If you were to see Jenny now, it would disrupt the whole process.”

Here was another jarring transition-in the opposite direction this time-from cop to mother. It hadn’t occurred to Joanna earlier as she watched Jenny walk away, lugging her bedroll, that she wouldn’t be permitted to give her child a more formal good-bye.

For most people, that might not have been such a big deal. To Joanna, it was. One month shy of her thirtieth birthday, Joanna had already been a widow for most of a year. Her husband, Deputy Andrew Roy Brady, had died without her ever having a chance to tell him good-bye. She and Andy had exchanged angry words that last morning as he left for work-words Joanna ached to take back or put right somehow. That last quarrel had left her painfully aware-far more so than most people her age that life doesn’t last forever. She had learned to her sorrow that each good-bye, however mundane or normal it might seem, had the potential of being a last one.

“But, I just… ” she began.

Lisa, clearly as practiced at handling distressed parents as she was homesick campers, shook her head. “No, Mrs. Brady,” she said adamantly. “Really. It’ll be far harder on Jenny if she sees you again right now than it will be if you just leave. Remember, it’s only two weeks.”

Joanna wanted to argue. Still, she knew the counselor was right. “Right,” she said. “Only two weeks. Thanks for the use of the phone.”

With that, she headed back toward the Eagle. Around her were squeals and laughter-the sounds of girls at play. In the background from high in the trees she heard the soft sifting of wind through pine needles-the whispering pines that had given the camp its name.

You’re being stupid, Joanna told herself, biting back tears. Lisa is right. Two weeks isn’t forever.

She was in the car and about to put her key in the ignition when the thought came to her. I wonder if David and Katherine O’Brien had a chance to tell Brianna good-bye.

Sheriff Joanna Brady was known for her common sense. She had the reputation of having both feet firmly on the ground. I lad someone asked her straight out right then whether or not she believed in ESP, she would have told them definitely not.

And yet, in that moment, a glimmer of absolute knowledge came to her from somewhere else-from something or some-one outside herself. From that moment on, despite all rational arguments to the contrary, Joanna lived with a terrible premonition, one that shook her to the very depths of her soul. Roxanne Brianna O’Brien was dead. She wouldn’t he coming home again. Not then. Not ever.

Not only that, halfway down the mountain, Joanna saw the Gila monster again-or, rather, what was left of him. He had been squashed flat by oncoming traffic. The bloody, multicolored remains struck her as an omen and made her feel that much worse.

While the sudden five-thousand-foot drop in altitude sent the Eagle’s interior temperature soaring, Joanna’s initial out-rage at David O’Brien’s refusal to deal with Detective Carbajal was soon tempered by thoughts about what would happen to the man if his daughter really was dead. Losing a spouse was bad enough, but the pain of losing a child-any child, but especially one filled with so much promise-had to be hell on earth.

Emotional turmoil-not only reliving her own hurt but also anticipating what soon might be happening with the O’Briens-made it difficult for Joanna to keep her attention focused on the road. Today David O’Brien could still afford to exercise his petty little prejudices. Tomorrow, though, if his daughter really was dead, that would be a different story. Plunged into a nightmare world from which there would be no waking, David O’Brien would no longer care that Detective Jaime Carbajal was Hispanic. Joanna knew from personal experience that in the aftermath and desolation of a loved one’s death, things that had seemed to be of earth-shattering importance before-hand suddenly faded into total insignificance.