J. Jance - Rattlesnake Crossing

"'How're you doing out there, Bud?' Tom says to me. That's what he always called me-Bud. 'I hear you're thinking about coming back into the fold.' I didn't know what to tell him… That was the first I had heard anything about it. But as soon as 1 talked to Trina, I figured out where it came from. I told her no deal, and that's when the fighting started. I knew right then it was just a matter of time."

"That's when you started shopping around for a replacement cook?" Joanna asked.

"That's right." He paused. "Racing gets in your blood. It can be dangerous as hell, but it's also glamorous and exciting. And you can make a hell of a lot more money by winning a single race than you can grubbing out an existence here for five or ten years. What Trina didn't understand is that I like this better. I like taking the time to plant something and then having a chance to watch it grow. I like taking something apart-like a broken bread machine-and putting it back together so it works like new."

The plank door slammed at the front of the ranch house. Joanna looked up and was surprised to see a collection of several people-young men, mostly-staring at them. Daniel Berridge saw them, too. "I'd better go," he said. "And I'm doing better now. Thanks for letting me talk. I guess I needed to."

Joanna nodded. In a few minutes of not asking questions, she had learned far more about Daniel Berridge than might have emerged in even the most focused of interrogations. By talking to him about Andy-by revealing her own dark secret-she had created a bond between them, a human connection, that left her utterly convinced that the man had no involvement in his wife's death.

Turning the Blazer to drive back out of the yard, Joanna tried to catch a glimpse of Rattlesnake Crossing's current crop of temporary residents. For Apache-warrior wannabes, the group of mop-haired, mostly blond young men standing on the porch looked disturbingly normal and ordinary.

When Joanna had crossed Pomerene Road earlier to bring Berridge home to Rattlesnake Crossing, the four-way intersection had been empty. Now, though, a white Nissan was parked there-a Nissan Sentra with a Bisbee Bee logo plastered on the door.

Not Marliss again, Joanna thought despairingly. Not twice in one day.

She would have tried to drive right on by, but Marliss Shackleford had seen the Blazer coming toward her. She clambered out of her car, waving frantically.

Joanna slowed and rolled down her window. "Is something the matter?" she asked.

"Is this where it all happened?" Marliss pointed up the now well-worn dirt track that led off toward the cliffs. "Is this where you're finding all the bodies?"

"From right here, this is a crime scene," Joanna told her. "That means it's off-limits for everyone but investigating officers."

"But what happened out here?" Marliss demanded. "Tell me. Back in town we're hearing all kinds of awful rumors. Is it true there's a serial killer on the loose in Cochise County?"

"As you know, Chief Deputy Montoya is in charge of media relations. I believe he's scheduled a news conference for later today. In the Quarter Horse over in Benson. If you want information, I'd suggest you be there."

"The Bee's reporters will be there to cover the news conference," Marliss replied indignantly. "I'm a columnist, Joanna. My job is to cover the human-interest part of the story. The angle. Most of the time, angles have nothing to do with the pablum that's dished out at official news conferences."

"We're not exactly on the same wavelength, then, are we, Marliss?"

"What do you mean?"

"You say your job is to find an angle," Joanna told her. "Mine is to enforce the law. Between the two, I don't think there's a lot of common ground."

Marliss Shackleford's jaw stiffened. Joanna Brady had landed a blow, and both women knew it.

"My, my," the columnist said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Are we power-tripping or what?"

"You're welcome to call it whatever you want," Joanna returned. "As you said, I'm merely doing my job."

"And getting a swelled head in the process," Marliss added. "It might be a good thing if you took a good, long look in the mirror once in a while, Joanna. Maybe you'd see how you're treating some of your old friends. Maybe you'd come to your senses."

"Who are you trying to kid, Marliss? The two of us have never been friends, and you know it. And if you ask me, I don't think we're likely to be buddies in the future, either. So give it a rest. Forget the phony friendship stuff. Stay away from me and stay away from my crime scenes."

"Why, I'll…"

As Joanna drove away, she glanced in the rearview mirror. Marliss Shackleford stood frozen in a billowing cloud of dust, her mouth open in astonished but silent protest.

Within half a mile of driving away, Joanna regretted what she'd done. She understood at once that she had taken a bad situation and made it infinitely worse. If Marliss Shackleford had been gunning for Sheriff Joanna Brady be-fore this, now the columnist would be downright rabid.

Way to go, girl, Joanna scolded herself. You and your big mouth.

Half a mile down the road, Joanna was so caught up in mulling over the confrontation with Marliss Shackleford that she barely noticed an early-eighties F-100 Ford pickup coming toward her. Only when the truck wheeled in a sharp U-turn and came speeding after her with its lights flashing on and off did she pay attention. She pulled over immediately. Stepping out of the Blazer, she was standing on the shoulder of Pomerene Road when the pickup stopped beside her. There were two men in the truck-Alton Hosfield, owner of the Triple C, and a younger man who looked to be in his mid-twenties.

"Sheriff Brady, what the hell is going on out here?" Hosfield demanded, leaning forward to speak across the young man in the passenger seat. "The phone's been ringing off the hook. My ranch is crawling with people I don't know, but I can't get any of them to talk to me. I think I deserve some kind of explanation."

"We're conducting a homicide investigation," Joanna said. "Two actually. One body was found up on the ledges just below the cliffs last night. Another was found by Search and Rescue this morning."

"Two homicides," Hosfield echoed. "On my property? You can't be serious."

"I am," Joanna returned. "Katrina Berridge was the cook at Rattlesnake Crossing, just up the road. From the looks of it, the weapon that killed her may very well turn out to be the same one that killed your cattle and wrecked the pump. The other victim, Ashley Brittany, was a biology student from N.A.U. in Flagstaff. She was down here doing a master's degree internship."

Hosfield rammed the pickup into neutral and then climbed out. He came around the front of the truck, clutching a frayed Resistol Stetson in his hands. Meanwhile, his passenger stepped out of the truck as well.

"This is my son Ryan," Alton Hosfield said. "Ryan, this is Sheriff Brady."

Nodding politely in Joanna's direction, Ryan doffed his Denver Rockies baseball cap. He was tall and lean like his father, but his bright blue eyes, unruly mop of long blond hair, and finely chiseled features bore little resemblance to his red-haired father's craggy features. Had Joanna encountered Alton and his two sons on the street, she would have known at once that Alton Hosfield and Jake were father and son. Ryan, on the other hand, didn't look as though he was remotely related to either his father or his half brother.

Joanna acknowledged the polite greeting by offering her hand.

"Glad to make your acquaintance," he said.

Joanna turned back to Alton Hosfield, whose face was knotted with a puzzled frown. "Why does the name Ashley Brittany sound familiar to me?" he asked.