J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

“Are you sure you’re all right, Sheriff Brady?” Ernie asked. “Tica told us about Angie Kellogg being missing as well. I know she’s a friend of yours.”

“Thanks, Ernie,” she said. “I’m okay and I’m sure Angie will be fine. She’ll find her way out. Once you get out there, though, you might want to turn on your siren. It’ll make it easier for her to know where you are.”

“Right,” Ernie said. “Will do.”

The two detectives started away. “Detective Carbajal?” Joanna called after them.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Remember,” she said, leveling a reproving look in his direction, “sirens yes, but whoever was in that pickup is already dead. You’re not out to set land speed records here. This isn’t a hot pursuit situation, and I don’t want it treated as such.”

With a meaningful glance at Ernie, who had no doubt been urging him on, Jaime nodded. “Right, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I’ll be sure to slow it down.”

Ernie and Jaime had just pulled away when George Winfield arrived in the converted hearse that doubled as his coroner’s wagon. When George walked up to the window of Joanna’s Eagle, he was carrying an Arizona map that he had unfolded and was holding at arm’s length. His left cheek bore a faint smudge of lipstick that was, no doubt, Eleanor’s.

“Ellie says Skeleton Canyon is somewhere over here in the Pelon…” He paused. “How do you say it? The Pelonsillios?”

He pronounced the word in true gringo fashion with the word silly taking the place of the two silent l’s. The sound of it grated on Joanna’s ear. So did his use of Joanna’s father’s pet name for her mother. The lipstick didn’t help.

“It’s Spanish,” she explained, without bothering to cover up her irritation. “That means you don’t pronounce the double 1. It’s Pelon-si-yos.”

George shook his head. “I’ll never be able to say all these god-awful Spanish and Indian words. Whatever happened to good old American English?”

“You mean like Minnesota?” Joanna asked testily. “Or maybe Illinois?”

Realizing he had stepped in something but unsure what it was, Winfield regarded her warily. “I guess we’d better get started.”

“I guess we’d better,” Joanna said.

Winfield went back to the hearse and removed a heavy leather satchel, which he lugged over and loaded into the back of the Eagle. By the time he climbed into the rider’s seat, Joanna already had the engine running.

The turnoff to the north entrance of Skeleton Canyon was at a crossroads presuming to be a village that called itself Apache. From Double Adobe Road to the turnoff was a good fifty-five miles. The drive took them east across the southern end of the Sulphur Springs Valley and then north through the San Bernardino Valley. Most of the time on a drive like this, Joanna would have been frustrated by the vastness of her jurisdictional boundaries. Six thousand two hundred and forty square miles was a big area to cover, but today the miles flew past far too fast for her to even think about it.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, Joanna was thinking not only about the tragedy of Brianna O’Brien’s death, but also about her own culpability with regard to whatever was going on with Angie Kellogg. Joanna had thought Dennis Hacker was inviting Angie on a harmless, old-fashioned date-the kind of innocent, hand-holding thing old people sometimes use to re-gale their kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Wrong. Not in this case.

Joanna knew something about the abuse Angie Kellogg had endured as a child. And she knew a little about her life as a prostitute in L.A. It was hardly surprising that someone with her background would worry that maybe the Bird Man’s intentions weren’t all they were cracked up to be-that he was interested in something besides hummingbirds. Considering what had happened, Joanna had little doubt who had been right and who had been wrong.

Thinking about the realities of Angie out walking around, unprepared, in the wild, rock-strewn landscape that made up the Peloncillos, Joanna glanced at Doc Winfield’s feet. Despite her warning advice, he was nonetheless wearing a pair of thin-soled, highly polished loafers.

“Are those the only shoes you have along?” she asked.

“Unfortunately yes,” he said. “I’m not much for hiking. I haven’t quite gotten around to buying any hiking boots yet.”

“What about water?” she asked. “I don’t suppose you brought along any of that, either.”

“I brought along my crime scene kit.”

“But no water to drink?”

“No.”

Joanna sighed. “That’s all right. I have two canteens in the back. I’ll give you one to use. That’s what happens to city slickers when you turn them loose in the desert. If you don’t watch them every minute, pretty soon they turn themselves into potato chips. When you’re working out in the sun, especially with the humidity going up like it is right now, heat-stroke can sneak up and catch you unawares.”

“Is that why they call the place we’re going to Skeleton Canyon?” Winfield asked. “Because people died out there?” Joanna nodded.

“Of thirst?”

“They were mostly murdered, ”Joanna answered. “You ever hear of the Clanton gang?”

“As in Wyatt Earp?”

“Before they tangled with him, the Clantons ambushed a band of Mexican gold smugglers here in the Peloncillos. According to legend, the Clantons made off with a shipment of stolen gold, only to be caught by the survivors a few miles away. In the ensuing fight, a few more people died and the gold disappeared. It’s still supposed to be out there somewhere.”

“Amazing,” George Winfield murmured.

“The Peloncillos have always been a haven for smugglers. It’s a mountain range that’s almost impossible to patrol. The Baker Wilderness Area, between Skeleton Canyon and the international border, is supposed to be closed to vehicular traffic. Unfortunately, smugglers don’t necessarily pay any attention to the edicts of the Environmental Protection Agency or the U.S. Forest Service.”

“Amazing,” George Winfield said again, settling back in his seat and staring out the window at a landscape that was waist-high in yellow grass. “I can’t believe I’m living in a place where those names are part of history and not just something that used to turn up in Saturday matinees. Coming here I thought this would all be real desert, maybe even sand dunes. This almost looks like wheat.”

Joanna considered explaining to him how Anglos had encouraged the spread of mesquite, which had killed off the native grasses, but she let it go. Let him learn some of that stuff on his own, she thought.

They drove in silence for several more miles before George spoke again, clearing his throat as he did so. “By the way, Joanna, has Ellie said much of anything to you about…” He paused. “Well, about us,” he finished lamely.

There he was, using the name Ellie again to bring up a topic Joanna wasn’t at all eager to discuss. “Not really,” she returned coolly. “Why?”

“She hasn’t happened to mention that we’re… er.. married?”

Joanna turned to look at him and in the process ran the right-hand tires onto the shoulder of the road. She had to struggle with the steering wheel for a moment before the Eagle returned to the sun-cracked pavement.

“Married?” she demanded, her face pale. “You can’t be serious! ”

George shook his head. “I wouldn’t kid around about some-thing like this. I’ve been telling her for weeks now that she needed to let you know. In case you haven’t noticed, your mother’s a little stubborn. We eloped, Joanna. Last month. We got married in a little chapel up in Vegas. I’ve booked an Alaskan cruise for our honeymoon in August. I wanted you to know about it before then.”