J. Jance - Rattlesnake Crossing

"Well, I will," Joanna said at once. "I'll be there as soon as I can."

She put down the phone and looked across the kitchen at Butch, who was still flipping French toast on the griddle.

"Esther has pneumonia," she heard herself say. "She might not make it. I've got to go to Tucson."

Butch took the last two pieces of French toast off the griddle and turned off the heat. "I'll go with you," he offered.

"No," Joanna said. "You don't have to do that."

"Yes, I do," he insisted. "I want to. Your car or mine, or do we have to take both?"

Joanna Brady knew she was tough, knew she was a survivor. But she also knew that this was one trip she shouldn't make alone.

"Let's go in mine," she decided. "That way, if I have to be in touch with the department, I can use either the radio or the phone. And the siren," she added. "If need be."

Butch's eyes met hers across the kitchen, then he nodded. "Right," he agreed. "The siren."

As they drove up through Bisbee and over the Divide, Butch sat quietly on the rider's side of the Blazer watching the desert speed by outside the window. "What are their families like?" he asked finally.

"Jeff's and Marianne's?"

Butch nodded and Joanna made a face. "I've never met Jeff's folks. They live back East somewhere-Maryland, 1 think. Marianne's parents, Evangeline and Tim Maculyea, came from Bisbee originally, but they moved to Safford after the mines shut down. They still live there."

"Safford," Butch mused. "That's not too far away, so they'll probably show up to help out, too."

Joanna shook her head. "I don't think so," she said. "Safford may not be that far away in terms of mileage, but emotionally, it could just as well be another planet. That's what Jeff was telling me on the phone. He called the Maculyeas and told them what's happening with Esther. I guess Tim was okay on the phone, but Evangeline wouldn't talk to Jeff and she won't come see Marianne, either."

“Why not?” Butch asked.

"Because Marianne's the black sheep in the family," Joanna replied.

"Black sheep!" Butch echoed. "The woman's a saint. She doesn't smoke or drink or use bad words. Not to mention the fact that she's a minister. What makes her a black sheep?"

"She's a Methodist."

"So?"

"Evangeline is a devout Catholic. She's been bent out of shape ever since her daughter left the Church. She hasn't spoken to Marianne since. The same thing goes for Marianne's two younger brothers. They don't speak to Jeff and Marianne, either. I don't think Evangeline Maculyea has ever laid eyes on Jeff Daniels, even though he's been married to her only daughter for more than ten years."

"I suppose that means she hasn't laid eyes on her grand-children, either," Butch surmised.

"Right," Joanna said.

"That's a shame."

"No," Joanna disagreed. "That's a tragedy-all the way around."

As she drove, she kept one eye on the speedometer and the other on the clock. As soon as it was eight, she picked up the radio. "Put me through to Dick Voland," she told Dispatch. "He should be there by now."

It took a few minutes to track the chief deputy down. "Where are you, Joanna?" he asked.

"I'm in the car and on my way to Tucson," she said. "Jeff Daniels and Marianne Maculyea's baby has taken a turn for the worse. I've got to go see them. I'll need you to handle the morning briefing."

"No problem. I can take care of that. Anything in particular you want me to cover?"

Joanna thought about mentioning her Eddy Sandoval idea, but then she reconsidered. That was something she'd need to handle herself. But she did have another suggestion.

"I want you to have someone pick up the last three or four years' worth of high school yearbooks from both Benson and St. David. Have someone show them to Clyde Philips' next-door neighbor, Sarah Holcomb. She should look through them and see if any of the pictures match up with any of the 'young 'uns,' as she calls them, who used to hang around Clyde Philips' house."

"Okay," Dick Voland said. "I'll have someone get right on it. Jaime or Ernie, most likely."

"Whoever you send, tell them that once Sarah finishes examining the pictures, I want her to go visit her daughter, who lives somewhere up in Tucson. I want her to stay there until we put this case to rest."

"You think she's in danger?" Dick asked.

"Absolutely. If there's even a remote chance that she can identify the killer, she's as much a threat to him as Frankie Ramos was."

"What if she refuses to leave?"

"Then put a guard on her house. Park a deputy on her front porch twenty-four hours a day if you have to. I don't want anything to happen to the woman."

"Mounting a twenty-four-hour guard is going to cost money. Frank Montoya'll shit a brick over that idea."

"Well, then," Joanna said, "send him to talk to her."

"Frank? But he's not even a detective."

"He's a trained police officer, Dick. I'm sure he's fully capable of showing her a montage of photos and getting her reaction. He can do that every bit as well as a detective can. Aren't Ernie and Jaime totally overloaded at the moment?"

"Well," Voland conceded, "I suppose they are."

"Besides," Joanna added, "we both know that when Frank's budget is on the line, he can he amazingly persuasive."

"I'd prefer to call it amazingly obnoxious," Voland re-turned, "but you're right. If anyone can charm the old lady into leaving town for the duration, Frank Montoya is it. Especially when there's overtime at stake. I'll have him go to work on it first thing this morning. As soon as the briefing is over. Anything else?" he asked.

"You tell me."

"I'm just now collecting my copies of the overnight incident reports. It doesn't sound like anything out of the ordinary."

"Good," Joanna said. "Keep me posted. If I'm out of the car, I'll have my cell phone with me. You'll be able to reach me on that."

"Right," Dick Voland said. "In the meantime, I hope things work out all right for Jeff and Marianne's little girl."

"I hope so, too." Joanna said the words, but deep in her heart she feared it wasn't to be.

The trip from High Lonesome to Tucson should have taken about two hours. It was accomplished in a little less than ninety hair-raising minutes. And if Butch Dixon had any objections to the way Joanna drove, he had the good grace to keep quiet about it.

As they walked from the hospital parking garage toward the lobby entrance, a wave of panic suddenly engulfed Joanna. She hesitated at the entryway, unsure if she was capable of facing what was coming. On her previous visit, Esther's situation hadn't been this bad. Now it was like having to relive everything that had happened to Andy.

Somehow, without her saying a word, Butch must have sensed what was happening. He reached out, captured her hand, and squeezed it.

“Yuri have to do this,” he said. "Jeff and Marianne are counting on you."

Bolstered by his words, Joanna took a deep breath. "I know," she said. "Thanks."

When they entered the pediatric ICU waiting room there was a lone figure in it, an elderly gentleman standing next to the window, staring down at the hospital entrance far below. It wasn't until he turned to face them that Joanna recognized Marianne's father, Timothy Maculyea.

"Mr. Maculyea," she said, hurrying toward him, "I don't know if you remember me. I'm Marianne's friend Joanna Lathrop-Joanna Brady now. And this is my friend Butch Dixon. Butch, this is Mr. Maculyea."

The older man held out a massive paw of a hand the permanently callused and work-hardened mitt of a former hard-rock miner. "Tim's the name," he said to Butch. "Glad to meet you. I came as soon as I heard, but-" He stopped and pursed his lips.

"How are things?" Joanna asked.