J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

Annoyed that Dick Voland hadn’t stated the case plainly enough, Joanna turned to face her friend. “Look, Angie,” she said sharply, “you can’t come with us. It’s too dangerous.”

Angie stopped in her tracks. Behind her came the Blazer with a smiling Dick Voland at the wheel. A single glimpse of the man’s face was enough to let Joanna know that he hadn’t tried to stop Angie, not really. If he had, he would have and she wouldn’t be there. No, letting her go had been a deliberate ploy on Dick Voland’s part. He was testing Joanna again, wanting to know whether or not she was tough enough to call the shots and make the right choice between friendship and duty.

Except this time there was no choice to make. As sheriff and as a sworn police officer, Joanna Brady’s responsibility was blazingly clear-to serve and protect. “Go back,” she said.

“Why should I?” Angie objected. “I’m wearing a bullet-proof vest.”

“You may have a vest,” Joanna conceded “but that still leaves a whole lot of you unprotected and exposed to danger, which is unacceptable. You brought us this far, Angie. We’re grateful for that, but there’s no telling what’s up ahead. We’re armed. You’re not.”

“But…”

“No buts,” Joanna insisted. “What if there’s a shootout? What if, in trying to take care of you, we can’t protect Mr. Hacker? Your being in the way at a critical moment could make all the difference-the difference between life and death. Go now, please.”

Angie’s shoulders sagged. Her face crumpled. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll go back. I’ll wait in the cemetery, just like you said.” Dejectedly, she turned back while Joanna headed for the idling Blazer.

“Good work,” Dick Voland said as she climbed inside. Aware he had intentionally set her up, Joanna was in no mood to be gracious. “Shut up and drive,” she said.

Sitting alert and on edge, Joanna concentrated on not losing the trail. Twice she made Dick stop the Blazer long enough for her to get out and make sure the tire tracks hadn’t veered off the road.

“I’m sorry,” Voland said a mile or so south of the Cottonwood Creek Cemetery when Joanna climbed back into the Blazer for the second time and fastened her seat belt.

“Sorry about what?” she asked.

“About not giving your friend more credit. The whole way out from Bisbee, I kept thinking this was nothing but some harebrained wild-goose chase. Until I saw the trailer, that is. The whole thing sounded so goofy. Including the idea that anybody camping out here would have a working cell phone…”

The radio came to life once more with Larry Kendrick making an addition to the Aaron Meadows APB. Now Meadows was wanted for questioning in regard to the murder of Roxanne Brianna O’Brien. By the time the dispatcher had finished his transmission, Joanna had the radio microphone in her hand.

“Larry, this is Sheriff Brady. What’s going on?”

“Glad you called in,” Larry replied. “You’re the next person I was going to contact. Ernie wants me to let you know that while they were searching Aaron Meadows’s house, they found-”

“The missing journal?” Joanna interrupted.

Kendrick paused. “How did you know?”

Before Joanna could answer, the Blazer rounded a curve. Ahead of them lay the rain-swollen stream with what looked like a crippled brown-and-tan Suburban parked crookedly on the rocky bank while another vehicle-curtained by a rooster tail of muddy water, roared across the ford and bounced up the other side. Only when it regained the roadway was Dennis Hacker’s Hummer clearly visible.

“There they are!” Joanna shouted.

“There who is?” Kendrick was asking. “What’s happening?”

“Hang on,” Dick Voland shouted as he sent the Blazer speeding toward the water. “This could be rough.”

The Blazer plunged forward and dropped, bucking and shying, into the rocky streambed while Joanna held on for dear life. Once they hit firm ground on the far side of the water, Voland pounded the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The gradually receding flood had left behind a slick coating of muck on the roadway. The tires lost traction briefly, sending the Blazer into a sickening skid. But Dick Voland was nothing if not an experienced driver. With two deft twists of the wheel, he cut the skid and sent the Blazer racing after the Hummer.

As they drove past the Suburban, seconds before the Blazer roared into the water, Joanna had managed to catch a glimpse of the muddied license plate on the back of the Suburban. It carried the same numbers that had been broadcast as part of the APB for Aaron Meadows.

“Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick insisted urgently. “Come in, please. What’s going on?”

“Call Ernie back,” Joanna shouted into the radio. “Tell him we’ve just spotted that missing Suburban. It’s parked and, most likely, disabled. But the two suspects got away. We’re in close pursuit, heading east/southeast. The suspects are driving a dark green Hummer.”

Joanna closed her eyes and thought about Dennis Hacker. Was he dead already, or was he still alive and in the Hummer along with Meadows and Hastings?

“It’s possible they’ve taken a hostage,” she added into the radio. “The name of the hostage is Dennis Hacker, the parrot guy. I’m pretty sure the Hummer is registered in his name.”

Joanna stared out the windshield at the Hummer, which seemed to be gaining distance on them with every passing moment. She turned back to Dick Voland. “Do you know where this road ends up?” she asked.

Without taking his eyes off the road, Dick shook his head. “I’m not sure. Probably at the Mexican border, if not before.”

“And how far are we from the line?”

“Thirty miles or so. Maybe less. In a Hummer, though, it’s not going to matter if the road ends or not. He’ll be able to go wherever he damned well pleases.”

Nodding, Joanna switched on the microphone once more. “Larry,” she told the dispatcher. “Can you find a way to put me through to either Adam York or Ernie Carpenter?”

It took several bone-jarring minutes. Twice during the wait Dick Voland managed to bring the Hummer briefly into view. “Can you tell how many people are in there?” Joanna asked.

Voland shook his head. “There’s too much mud on the windows. I can’t see a thing.”

“Sheriff Brady? Adam York here. What’s up?”

“How’d you get that search warrant from Tucson to Willcox so fast?” Joanna asked.

“In a helicopter.”

“Where is it right now?”

“The chopper? Getting ready to head back to Tucson. Why?”

“I need it,” Joanna answered. “In the Peloncillos. We’ve got a pair of armed and dangerous suspects making a run for the Mexican border.”

“I know we have a mutual aid agreement, but-”

“Mutual aid nothing!” Joanna cut in. “This is your case, too. Aaron Meadows’s Suburban is parked a mile or so back. We’ve just crossed Sycamore Creek and are heading south and east from Cottonwood Creek Cemetery. Ernie Carpenter will be able to tell you where that is. We’re in a county-owned white Blazer. The suspects are in a dark green Hummer. They’ve got a hostage in there with them. Tell Ernie it’s the parrot guy. I believe at least one of the suspects is wounded. Chances are, the hostage is as well.”

“Damn!” Adam York muttered. “Do you want us to call for other backup?”

“You can call all you want, but I believe you two are it, ”Joanna told him. “The way the washes are running right now, I doubt anyone else will be able to get here. That’s why I asked about the chopper.”

“Hang in there, then,” Adam York told her. “Ernie and I are on our way. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”