J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

For Angie, there was much to be proud of. There was a normalcy and a regularity to her existence now that would have astonished her family back home in Battle Creek. Some of that normalcy included things her parents themselves had never achieved. For instance, Angie’s snug little house in Galena was completely paid for. She had a job and a car and insurance premiums. She had her own driver’s license and her very own voter’s registration card. All of those achievements should have said she was real.

Yet, in spite of all that, once she told Dennis Hacker the truth, he’d had the nerve to laugh at her. That hurt like hell.

She heard him now, calling her name. “Angie, Angie. Where are you?”

I’m up here, she thought determinedly, and I’m not coming down.

From her vantage point high on the hillside, she could see north to a road-a paved highway of some kind. Every ten minutes or so a vehicle would pass slowly in one direction or the other. She knew this wasn’t the road she and Dennis had taken from Douglas early that morning because what Dennis had called Old Geronimo Trail had been dirt most of the way.

That’s what I’ll do, she told herself, watching a pickup wend its way along that same paved road. When he finally gives up and leaves, I’ll walk down there and hitchhike home.

But what would she do when she got there? Stay or go? Work her heart out to get along, knowing all the time that as soon as people knew the real story, they would reject her out of hand? What was the use of fighting it? Maybe she should leave for a while, go someplace else. She’d have to give Bobo notice, of course. Give him a chance to find someone to take her place, but that probably wouldn’t be all that hard.

Just then, with that thought barely formed in her head, she felt a whirring past her ear. A high squeak shrilled in her ear as a beautiful, multicolored Lucifer Hummingbird settled on a branch not five feet from where Angie was sitting. He was close enough that she could see the distinctive downcurved bill, the rich purple feathers on the underside of his throat, and the bronze-green hues from crown to rump. Although Angie was careful not to move, he stayed for only a few seconds, then he was off, buzzing down the mountainside.

It was like a fairy tale. It seemed almost as if the beautiful bird had given her permission to go. She stood up as he disappeared from view.

“Good-bye,” she whispered aloud. “I’m leaving, too.”

Standing on the edge of the ridge, Joanna looked down on the shattered remains of the pickup far below. It lay on its top, parallel to the road, with a spray of silvery glass shards glittering around it. “Where’s the body?” she asked Dennis Hacker, who was standing beside her.

“Under the cab,” he replied. “I couldn’t see it, but I know it’s there.”

“how?” Joanna asked.

Hacker nodded skyward toward three vultures circling lazily high overhead. “A little bird told me,” he said. “When I got closer, I could figure it out for myself.”

Joanna turned to Ernie Carpenter and George Winfield, who had been walking back and forth along the cliff, trying to determine exactly where Brianna had run off the edge and why. Now they stood nearby, conferring in low voices.

“No sign of braking or skidding. No sign of her meeting another vehicle and being forced off the cliff.”

“What happened, then?” George asked.

Ernie shook his head. “The only thing I can figure is she came around the rock face too close to the edge and tipped off. But if she was in four-wheel drive, with two wheels still on the track, she should have been able to correct and get back up on the trail-unless she was drunk or sound asleep, that is.”

“Who’d go to sleep driving in a place like this?” George asked, looking around. “Maybe she did it on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Ernie agreed.

“What next?” Joanna asked, inserting herself into the discussion.

“Mr. Hacker says the body is caught under the cab. If that’s the case, we may have to tip the truck over to get at it,” Ernie said.

“But won’t that run the risk of rolling it further down the hill?” Joanna objected.

“It’s possible, so before we do anything rash, I’d suggest we climb down and take a closer look.”

Detective Carpenter and George Winfield set off, with Ernie leading the way and with George slipping and sliding in his wake. I warned him to bring along decent shoes, Joanna thought, hoping he wouldn’t break a leg or his neck in the process.

“But what about Angie?” Dennis Hacker was saying. “Is anyone looking for her?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Joanna said.

“We were up in the meadow, watching the hummingbirds and having a great time, when we started talking. I guess I hurt her feelings, but I didn’t mean to. She took off down the mountain. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Exactly how did you hurt her feelings?”

“You ’re a friend of hers, ”I locker said. “Does that mean you know about her background?”

Joanna met the man’s troubled gaze, staring back at him without flinching. “If you’re asking me whether or not I know Angie Kellogg is a former prostitute, the answer is yes. I know all about it. She told me.”

“She told me, too,” Hacker continued with a pained expression on his face. “I’m afraid I did something unforgivable. I laughed.”

“You did what?”

“I laughed. Look, I can explain…”

“I don’t think I’m interested in your explanations, Mr. Hacker,” Joanna said coldly. “But I can certainly see why Angie left. She wasn’t physically injured in any way the last time you saw her, was she?”

“No, she was fine-”

Joanna cut him off. “I’m sure, from what you say, that she probably is fine. And I have no doubt that she’ll find her own way home.”

“But it’s getting hot. She didn’t take any water with her. If she drinks water from the stream, there’s no telling what will happen. She could come down with giardia-or worse.”

“Thank you for your help in finding the pickup, Mr. Hacker,” Joanna said, dismissing him. “Dispatch has your cellular number, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“How about if you go home and look after your parrots. We’ll give you a call when we find her.”

Joanna knew she was being curt, but she didn’t care. Why should she? She was so angry with Dennis Hacker right then that she could have spit. How dare this arrogant asshole with his sixty-five-thousand-dollar off-road wonder and vanity plates that said BRDMAN laugh at Angie Kellogg? How dare he make fun of someone who, against terrible odds, was struggling to gain a toehold in the regular world?

“But, Sheriff Brady…” Hacker began, flushing beet red under his tan from the top of his khaki collar to the roots of his straw-colored hair.

Joanna was glad to see that flush, gratified that her words had hit home. Dennis Hacker deserved to be embarrassed. “You’ll have to excuse me now,” she said. “My people and I have an accident to investigate.”

Leaving Dennis Hacker alone and stewing, Joanna followed Ernie Carpenter and George Winfield down the cliff face. Even with proper hiking boots, getting down was no easy task. Just below the ridge, the empty camper shell clung to a rocky out-cropping like the dead husk of a molted and long-gone cicada. A few steps farther down the hill, Joanna realized that however long ago the accident had happened, the summer heat had done its worst. Within fifteen feet of the wreck, Joanna’s nostrils filled with the ugly stench of rotting flesh. Dennis Hacker was right and so were the vultures. There could be no doubt someone or something was dead.