J. Jance - Rattlesnake Crossing

"Frank told me this morning that Clyde claimed to have three different models available for immediate delivery."

"So he did have some, then," Ernie mused. "But which ones? And how do we know the killer's rifle is one of them? Without any serial numbers…"

"Wait a minute." Joanna reached for the radio clip. "Frank," she said once she had been put through to Chief Deputy Montoya, "how many companies manufacture fifty-calibers?"

"Not that many," he replied. "More than five but probably less than twenty nationwide."

"As soon as you get back to the department, and when you're not busy dodging reporters, I want you to call all those companies. ATF should be able to help out in locating manufacturers. Once you have them on the phone, find out if any of them were doing business with Clyde Philips in Pomerene. They should be able to come up with lists of serial numbers."

"Will do," Frank returned. "I'll get to it as soon as possible, although it may be a while. The first wad of reporters just drove up and they're clamoring for information. I told them to go to the Quarter Horse in Benson and wait for me there. How are you doing on the next-of-kin notification?"

"We're about to pull into the yard at Rattlesnake Crossing. We'll check in with you as soon as it's done."

Joanna stopped the Blazer in front of a sprawling ranch house built of bulging gray river rock and gnarled, rough-hewn eight-inch timbers. She and Ernie stepped onto a spacious covered porch with flagstone flooring and a scattering of cushion-covered wooden rocking chairs. At the door, Joanna turned and took in the view. The house was built on a low rise. Anyone who had been seated on one of the porch chairs would have looked off across the San Pedro to the ridge of cliffs behind it.

"If a person had a strong enough scope," she observed, "he could have sat right here and seen the whole thing."

"That's a pretty big if," Detective Carpenter replied.

Nailed to the doorjamb was a wooden notice that said, PLEASE ENTER. Since there was no sign of either a bell or a knocker, Joanna and Ernie did as they were told. Driving from the crime scene to Rattlesnake Crossing, Joanna had used the Blazer's air-conditioning, but the two officers had been out in the unrelenting heat for so long that they were still overheated when they entered the ranch house and found it to be surprisingly cool. The room was spacious and decorated with the kind of over-stuffed furniture most often seen in old-time hotel lobbies. Directly across from the officers was what looked like an unmanned hotel check-in counter, complete with a silver bell and directions to PLEASE RING FOR ASSISTANCE.

Ernie picked up the small silver bell and gave it a shake. For a long time after that, nothing happened. While they waited, Joanna plucked an expensive-looking, all-color brochure off the counter. It was filled with tourist-grabbing photos of the ranch house, some of the tepees, and what looked like an Olympic-sized swimming pool. The pictures included one of a beautiful, raven-haired young woman wearing a squaw dress and weaving a green and white bear grass/yucca basket. Another shot showed a war-painted young man wearing little more than a loincloth and sitting bareback astride a pinto pony. Behind rider and pony was a vivid, saguaro-punctuated sunset.

Come to Apache Country, the bold-faced ad copy said. Live along the fabled San Pedro as Native American Peoples did for thousands of years before the corning of the White Man. Give your mind body the purifying cleansing that only a sweat lodge ceremony can provide. Find or renew your life's purpose by enduring your own personal Vision Quest. Return to your workaday world with the blessing and direction that can come only from the Great Spirit.

She handed the brochure to Ernie and he read it, too. "Who dreamed this up?" he asked, handing it back to her. "Sounds like the Apaches meet the New Agers. A two-week stay probably comes complete with frequent-flyer miles and a free pass to the Happy Hunting Ground. And the restorative value of the purification ceremony will be directly proportioned to how much lighter the poor guy's wallet is."

Suppressing a chuckle, Joanna turned over the brochure. On the back was a paragraph that read:

THE LEGEND OF RATTLESNAKE CROSSING

Once, no rattlesnakes lived in the Land of the Apaches. They roamed the cliffs and hills on the far side of the river, but the water was so deep and swift that none could cross it. One day a great storm settled over the valley. From one full moon to the next, it rained and rained. It rained so long and so hard that some of the mountains tumbled down across the path of the river, leaving behind a wall of solid earth. Wise Old Rattlesnake took some of the younger ones and led them across the river. They have lived here ever since.

"May I help you?"

Joanna had expected Crow Woman to make an appearance. Instead, the person behind the counter was a tanned and handsome, blond haired, blue-eyed man who looked to he in his early forties. His words were touched by the slightest tract. of a New York accent.

"I'm Sheriff Joanna Brady," she said, bringing out her ID. "Anil this is Detective Ernie Carpenter. We're looking for either Daniel Berridge or someone named Crow Woman."

A quick flash of something that looked like hope passed across the man's chiseled features. "I'm Danny," he said. "Have you found her, then?"

"We're not sure, Mr. Berridge," Ernie put in. "We need to ask you a few questions."

"You have found her!" Daniel Berridge exclaimed as all hope disappeared from his face and was replaced by unmasked despair. "She's dead, isn't she? I knew it. What happened? Did she fall? Did a cougar get her? A snake? What?"

In this case, Joanna thought, being dead is the least of it. "We're not sure the person we found is your wife," she said kindly. "Detective Carpenter and I have been going over a copy of the missing-person report Deputy Sandoval took yesterday. It says Katrina was wearing a watch when she left home. Unfortunately, the report neglected to say what kind."

"An Omega," Daniel Berridge answered at once. "I bought it for her for Christmas years ago."

Ernie reached into his pocket and pulled out the see-through bag containing the remains of the shattered watch. "This one?" he asked.

Daniel Berridge looked at it and nodded numbly. "That's it," he said. "Where is she? Please, tell me what happened."

"Search and Rescue found her on the far side of the river," Joanna said. "She was shot-shot and mutilated."

"Oh, God," Daniel groaned as his face reddened and contorted with grief. He swallowed hard. "Was she… was she raped, too?"

"No," Joann, said. "To the best of our knowledge, she was spared that. From the looks of it, all her clothing was still intact."

"But I thought you said she'd been mutilated. What does that mean?"

"I'm sorry, Mr. Berridge. There's no easy or kind way to tell you this. Whoever murdered your wife also scalped her."

"Scalped," he whispered hoarsely. "You're kidding! This is the twentieth century, for God's sake. This has to be some kind of sick joke. You're making it up."

"No," Joanna said. "I wish I were."

Stumbling backward Daniel Berridge collapsed on a low, rolling stool. He buried his face in his hands, and sobbed. Several minutes passed before he was once again capable of speech.

"What kind of a monster would do such a thing?" he croaked. "It's awful. It's insane."

"Yes," Joanna said. "I couldn't agree more. It is insane and whoever did it is indeed a monster."

For a time the room was silent except for the ticking of an immense grandfather clock. Finally Berridge seemed to pull himself together. "Who did it?" he asked. "What kind of a person could do such a thing? And why?"