J. Jance - Rattlesnake Crossing

"What a good idea," Joanna replied. "I'm planning to go see them later on today. I'll be sure to take them some flowers. I know they'll appreciate it."

By now the body bag had been zipped back up and the stretcher loaded into the van. Daniel Berridge straightened up and stood for a moment as if uncertain of what his next move should be. Joanna was relieved when Ernie Carpenter took the man by the arm and led him back toward the Blazer.

"Jenny," she said, "I'm going to have to go."

"Will you call me tonight and let me know how Esther's doing?"

"Yes, of course I will."

"And Mom?"

"What?"

"What about poor little Ruthie? What will happen to her if Esther dies or something? What if she never comes back from the hospital? Daddy didn't. They took him away and he never came back. The same thing could happen to Esther."

With death there is no "or something," Joanna thought. "Don't worry, Esther will be fine," she said with as much conviction as she could manage. "But even if something awful did happen, Ruthie would still have Jeff and Marianne to love her."

"That's different," Jenny said. "That's not like having a real sister."

"No," Joanna agreed, "I don't suppose it is. I've got to go now, Jenny. I love you."

"I love you, too."

Ernie Carpenter was pulling open the back door to the Blazer. "We've got a positive, Sheriff Brady," he told her unnecessarily. "From the looks of things, the evidence techs and the detectives are going to be here for the next several hours. Probably right up until dark or until it rains again, whichever comes first. So if you wouldn't mind taking Mr. Berridge back to Rattlesnake Crossing, I'd really appreciate it.

Glancing to the east, she saw columns of fat thunder-heads rising over the Chiricahuas. Quickly she folded her phone and returned it to her purse. "No problem," she said, motioning to the still ashen-faced Daniel Berridge. "I'll be glad to take you back."

The return trip to Rattlesnake Crossing was conducted in absolute silence. While a stricken Daniel Berridge stared stonily out the window, Joanna tried desperately to think of something to say that wouldn't sound either stupid or patronizing. Only when he opened the door to climb out did she finally find words.

"I'm very sorry about all this, Mr. Berridge. I lost my husband, too, so I know what you're going through. It's a bitch!"

He had started to slam the door shut. But when he opened it once more and stared back across the seat at Joanna, she was touched to see that trails of tears were still clearly marked on his pallid face.

"You warned me," he said, "but I didn't know how had it would be to see her like that. I had no idea."

"We should have foreseen that. If I'd been thinking, we could have wailed and just used dental records. It might have taken a little longer, but not much, and it would have spared you-"

"No," he interrupted. "I wanted to see her. I wanted to see her the way she is now. That way I won't be able to kid myself into thinking that she's coming back."

Joanna saw the terrible emptiness in Daniel Berridge's eyes. She knew part of the pain had nothing whatever to do with how Trina Berridge looked now-had nothing to do with the indignities that had been inflicted on her body during and after her death. Her husband's hurt came from what had gone before, from the quarrel that had sent Trina Berridge into the desert in the first place. Hoping to ease the man's pain, Joanna found herself admitting to this stranger something she had mentioned to no one else, not even to Marianne. It was something so hurtful that she barely acknowledged it herself.

"Andy and I fought too," she said quietly.

"Excuse me?" Berridge said.

"Andy," Joanna said. "My husband. We had a big fight the morning he was shot. It took me months to learn that I had to let it go, Mr. Berridge. I can never take back those angry words, but the words aren't what killed him. The two aren't related."

The combination of surprise and aching distress that flashed across the man's face told Joanna she was right, that she had unearthed part of what was adding extra weight to an already overwhelming burden of grief.

"But it is my fault," he insisted. "We had a fight, she walked out, and now she's dead. If I had just kept my mouth shut-"

"If it hadn't been Katrina," Joanna heard herself saying, "it would have been someone else."

"What do you mean?"

"We're dealing with a monster here, Mr. Berridge. I believe he was out hunting, looking for someone to kill. My guess is your wife walked into his range finder and he blew her away. That same night he also shot up some of Alton Hosfield's cattle and an irrigation pump over on the other side of the cliffs but still on Triple C property. He probably gave the same amount of thought to killing your wife as he did to killing the cattle."

"But how…"

"He's a serial killer, Mr. Berridge. We're pretty sure of one other case and have tentative links to at least one more. There may be others as well, ones we don't know about yet."

"But how can this be? I had no idea there were others. If he's been operating around here, how come nobody ever heard anything about him?"

"We told your sister earlier, but it must have been after you left the lobby. Once these cases hit the media, as they probably will, either this afternoon or tomorrow morning for sure, you need to know that everything about this case is going to come under intense media scrutiny. Your years of relative anonymity here will be at an end."

"They already were," he replied.

"What do you mean?"

"A few months back, this guy showed up here at the ranch unannounced. I don't remember his name now, but he said he was writing a book on failed sports stars." He paused and frowned in concentration. "What was the title? I'm sure he thought it was real catchy. That's it. Losers Weepers was the name of it. All about sports greats or near greats who, for one reason or another, hung up their cleats or gloves or whatever and went home without ever living up to their supposed potential."

"And did you talk to him?"

"For a few minutes, but when he finally explained what he was after, I told him to take a hike."

"What was he after?"

"He wanted to know why I quit."

"And did you tell him?"

"No," Berridge said. "But I'll tell you. I lost my nerve. It was during the Indy. We were going around the track on a yellow. I wasn't even going that fast-seventy or so, maybe. And I was feeling great. I'd had the lead for twelve laps until somebody else spun out on the third turn. I was coming past the place where the safety team was cleaning debris off the track. And then my left rear tire flew off. For no reason, although they said later that I ran over a piece of metal that exploded the tire and tore the wheel right off the axle. It hit one of the safety guys full in the face. Broke his neck. He died instantly. I remember seeing his kids on TV that night, three little girls. The oldest was eleven; the youngest, seven. I haven't been in an Indy car since then. It just wasn't worth it to me. If I could kill somebody going seventy, what the hell could I do at two hundred?"

"But your wife wanted you to go back to it?" Joanna asked.

Berridge nodded. "Trina was really offended by the book and by my being included, with or without an interview. She went behind my back. She started calling up some of our old friends from racing, trying to see if she could put together a deal-a car, a sponsorship, all of that. She almost made it work, too. Two weeks ago, I happened to answer the phone in the middle of the day. Usually I'm outside then. This time, though, when nobody else answered, I picked it up. And I recognized the guy's voice the moment he opened his mouth-Tom Forbes. We used to be buddies when I was on the circuit. Now he's team manager for my old sponsor.