J. Jance - Skeleton Canyon

Following the speeding Hummer, Dick Voland’s Blazer rumbled south. After winding past the crumbling remains of what had once been an adobe ranch house, the road deteriorated to little more than a rutted cow path that led back up into the Peloncillos, heading from there on down into the Guadalupe Mountains and the Baker Canyon Wilderness Area.

“If he decides to really go off-roading on us, we’re screwed,” Voland told her. “I’ve heard those Hummers can handle a sixty percent grade if need be, and he’s got at least eight more inches of ground clearance than I do. In any kind of rough terrain, I don’t think the Blazer can keep up.”

Sitting in the rider’s side, Joanna had been remembering the last time she had been stuck in the boonies with a potentially explosive situation. That had been up in the Chiricahuas in the dead of night. She had made a call for backup and had been assured help was on the way, but when push came to shove, Joanna had been entirely on her own.

Dick Voland wasn’t all that easy to work with at times, but right then she was glad to have him. She was especially thankful for his more than capable driving. “If the driving had been left up to me,” she said, “the guy probably would have lost us a long time ago. In the meantime, all we have to do is keep him in sight long enough for the helicopter to show.”

“If it shows,” Voland muttered. “When it comes to calling for reinforcements, I don’t have much faith in the feds.”

Up to a point, Joanna agreed with him. But if the feds were one thing, Adam York was something else. She had total confidence in the man’s ability to deliver.

“Don’t worry,” Joanna said. “They’ll be here. After all, we’re after these guys because they may have killed somebody. The DEA wants them for smuggling Freon. When it comes to the availability of crime-fighting resources, holes in the ozone are a higher priority than holes in people’s bodies-to some of the folks from D.C., anyway.”

“If you ask me, that sounds like the tail wagging the dog,” Voland grumbled.

Despite the seriousness of the moment, despite the fact that they were even then in a hot pursuit chase with lives hanging in the balance, Joanna found herself laughing.

“What’s so funny?” Voland demanded after the Blazer lurched around two more curves and then launched itself into space across another bone-jarring dip.

His question sobered her, made her recognize what was most likely something close to stress-induced hysterics.

“Nothing,” she said finally. “This job is turning me into a total pragmatist. I’m in favor of what works-whatever that may be.”

In the space of little more than a mile, the relatively flat desert gave way to foothills and a mile after that to genuine mountains. The twisting trail seemed more appropriate for mountain goats than it did for vehicular travel. Part of the time, Joanna was able to keep their quarry in visual contact. Most of the time she and Voland kept track of the Hummer’s progress by following the faint tracks left in the rock-strewn roadway. Once back on the mountain grades, progress was much slower.

“What if they make it to Mexico before we catch them?” Joanna asked as she peered anxiously into the sky, hoping to see some sign of Adam York’s helicopter. With the clouds gone and the sky washed clean by rain, there was nothing overhead but limitless blue that was gradually giving way to pale stars and evening shadow.

“Then we get Frank Montoya to see what kind of a peace treaty he can negotiate with the federales down in Sonora so we can get them to track the crooks down and ship them back.”

They traveled in silence for a little while before Joanna took the microphone out of its holder. Calling in to Dispatch, she asked Larry Kendrick to notify authorities in both New and Old Mexico, telling officers in those jurisdictions that assistance might be required.

After all, Joanna thought, cooperation is the name of the game.

By the time she finished with the radio, they had left the streambed far below and were climbing up and out of yet another canyon. In the process, they crossed two broken fence lines. There were padlocked gates on each of them designed to keep out unauthorized interlopers. The driver of the Hummer had ignored the No Trespassing signs and had circumvented the locks by simply plowing through the barbed wire, popping the strands and knocking out fenceposts. Since the fences were already down anyway, Dick Voland followed suit.

Half a mile beyond the second fence, they found themselves in the middle of a small herd of panicked goats.

“Those don’t look like mountain goats to me, ”Voland said.

“They’re not,” Joanna told him. “They’re feral-domestics that have gone wild after being left behind by a disgruntled goat farmer. It happened when the federal government took back his land in order to create the Baker Wilderness Area. They’re thriving out here because there are very few natural predators left.”

“If they don’t get the hell out of my way,” Dick Voland growled, “I’ll be happy to introduce them to an unnatural predator-me.”

Once the Blazer made it through the herd of panicked and milling goats, there was no sign of the Hummer. “Where did they go now?” Dick demanded.

“Let me out again,” Joanna said. “I’ll walk around and see if I can pick up the trail.”

She found it, eventually, but it took time-time they didn’t have. The sun had disappeared completely. Dusk had deepened even more before Joanna once again spied the Hummer’s distinct tracks leading off through knee-high grass. As she climbed back into the Blazer, Joanna scanned the sky once more. There was still no sign of Adam York’s helicopter.

This time the tracks led off across rugged terrain where there was no hint of a road. Voland had to pick his way slowly, concentrating on every move, while Joanna tried to keep track of the Hummer’s fading trail. They were both so engrossed in their own responsibilities that they were caught unawares by the springing of a well-calculated trap.

In Spanish, the word peloncillos means “little baldies,” These mountains had been given that name because of the distinctive volcanic outcroppings and knobs on top of almost every hillock, ridge, and mountain in the range. The Hummer’s driver had led them up to the crest of one of those knob-crowned ridges. Still following the trail, the Blazer rounded a semitruck-size boulder only to have the Hummer, headlights doused, roar out from behind that same rock.

The enormous, almost-armor-plated front end of the Hummer smashed into the Blazer on the driver’s side, tipping the smaller Chevy over onto its side and sending it tumbling down a steep bank. As the Blazer tipped to the right, the shoulder belt clamped tight across Joanna’s clavicle and ribs while the seat belt grabbed across her abdomen and pelvis. With debris from the cargo space raining down around her head, she felt something whack her in the face. For a time, she thought she had blacked out. Then, when she could see again, she realized her temporary blindness had come from having the explosively opening air bag inflate in her face.

By then the Blazer had come to rest. Looking across the seat, Joanna was horrified to see Dick Voland, limp and unmoving, slumped over the airbag-covered steering wheel. Joanna tried the door, but it was jammed. She was starting to climb out the window when a shotgun blast shattered the twilight. A scatter of buckshot slammed into the side of the Blazer and rattled through the surrounding rocks and underbrush.

Joanna instinctively reached for her Colt. Then, seeing Dick’s shotgun still fastened in place between them, she wrested it out of its clamp. Let’s fight fire with fire, she thought grimly.