Dead to Rights

TWENTY

As they headed east on Highway 80, Joanna could barely contain her excitement. With Ernie Carpenter snoring softly in the passenger seat beside her, Joanna could see that they were about to crack the case wide open.

They didn’t have all the answers yet. So far, there were no proved links between Matkin and Wade. Other than Joanna’s having seen them together briefly at the Amos Buckwalter funeral, there were no direct connections. But Joanna was confident those would come. They had to.

Once the deal on the clinic closed, Reggie Wade would have bought himself a fortune for the price of a small-town animal clinic. Joanna’s fiction-fueled visions of the kindly, humane vet were fast going the way of the goateed composite-sketch artist. All artists didn’t wear beards and mustaches, and all vets weren’t James Herriot.

The desultory chatter on the radio told Joanna that nothing much was happening in the county. There was a disabled semi blocking the intersection of I-10 and Highway 90. Dick Voland and Jaime Carbajal were still in Elfrida working on the second composite sketch with Malt Bly. And Sheriff Joanna Brady was driving across the Sulphur Springs Valley on her way to solve Bucky Buckwalter’s murder.

On either side of the highway, the winter-blackened mesquite stretched for miles. The trees looked as though they were dead forever, but Joanna knew that within weeks-by the middle of February or early March-they would come alive again. Tender young leaves would cover the whole valley floor with a vivid layer of emerald green.

Speaking into the radio, Joanna let Dispatch know that she and Ernie were on their way to Douglas to interview a possible suspect. “Do you want us to notify the city of Douglas they can work backup?” asked Larry Kendrick.

Joanna looked across at the slumbering Ernie Carpenter. “Negative,” she said, answering quietly so as not to disturb him. “At this time it doesn’t look as though that’s necessary.”

She was just passing the Cochise College campus, halfway to Douglas, when another call came over the radio. Joanna could tell from the urgency in the voices that it was something important, but she couldn’t quite make out what was said.

“What is it, Larry?” she asked.

“We’ve got a problem,” he said. “Up in Pinery Canyon in the Chiricahuas. An explosion of some kind. I’ve contacted ties Voland and Carbajal. They were just leaving Elfrida, which puts them better than halfway there.”

Something in the tenor of the words punched through Ernie’s drowsing consciousness. He shook his head, rubbed his eyes, and was instantly on full alert. “What’s going on?” he asked.

“There’s been an explosion of some kind,” Joanna told him. “Up in the Chiricahuas. Details are sketchy yet. Here, you handle the radio.”

Taking the mike from her, Carpenter pushed the “talk” button. “Okay, Larry. What have we got?”

“A guy named Dennis Hacker called in the report. He was hysterical. At first all he’d say was something about parrots. I couldn’t make it out. Finally he calmed down enough to say that somebody had set off an explosion of some kind. Blew up somebody’s cabin. Hacker was afraid it would bother his parrots.”

“Parrots!” Ernie exclaimed impatiently. “What do parrots have to do with the price of peanuts?”

“Ed Hacker is a naturalist who works for the Audubon Society. He has something to do with parrots-raising them or setting them free or something.”

“I know about that,” Joanna said. “There was a feature on him in the paper a month or so ago. He’s trying to reintroduce parrots into the Chiricahuas. The problem is, the parrots have evidently forgotten how to open pine cones. Before he can release them, he has to teach them the basics. Other-wise they’ll starve to death.”

Ernie shook his head. “Enough about parrots,” he growled. “What do we know about the explosion? Do we know who owns the cabin?”

“We’re working on that,” Larry Kendrick returned. “It’s one of the places on Forest Road 42, but we’re not sure yet which one. There are eight or nine cabins located out that way. Hacker’s too focused on his birds to know much about his two-legged neighbors.”

“Figures,” Ernie said.

“What should I tell Deputy Voland? Will you and Sheriff Brady be heading there?”

Ernie looked to Joanna for an answer. She shook her head. “Not right away,” she said. “We’ll make one quick stop in Douglas first.”

Nodding, Ernie passed that information along to Dispatch, then put the microphone back in its clip.

They drove in silence for a moment or two. “By the way,” Joanna asked some time later, “are you wearing your vest?”

Looking uneasy, Ernie Carpenter shook his head. “I left it in my car back at the department,” he said. “As far as I knew, we were on the way to the hospital to watch somebody do a composite drawing. Why would I need a bulletproof vest there?”

Most of the younger deputies had responded favorably to Joanna’s insistence that officers wear Kevlar vests at all times while on duty. Where she had met resistance was from the old guard-from guys like Voland and Carpenter-the very ones who should have known better.

“Besides,” Ernie grumbled, “I seem to have gained a little weight. It doesn’t fit me like it used to.”

“That extra weight is mostly between your ears,” Joanna shot back. “Right now we’re on our way to interview a possible homicide suspect. Reach into that plastic container that’s right behind my seat. I keep Andy’s old vest in there, just in case.”

“It’ll never work,” Ernie objected. “I must outweigh what Andy did by a good forty pounds.”

“Too bad,” Joanna said with considerable lack of sympathy. “You’ll just have to suck it in and make it work.”

Without another word, Ernie fished out Andy’s old vest. He took off his jacket, buckled the vest on outside his shirt, and then put the jacket back on.

“But I can barely breathe in this thing,” he objected. “And it’s wrinkling hell out of my clean shirt.”

“Let that be a lesson, Ernie,” Joanna told him. “Spring for the seven hundred bucks and get yourself a new one. Have it custom-made so it fits.”

“Seven hundred bucks? Are you kidding?” Ernie groused. “We’ll see. It would have to be pretty damned good to be worth that much.”

The bullet-resistant-vest discussion had carried them inside the Douglas city limits. Traveling without emergency lights, Joanna drove through town at the posted limits. After all, since Joanna Brady and Ernie Carpenter weren’t calling for local backup, there was no need to advertise their presence in someone else’s jurisdiction.

Like the Buckwalter Clinic in Bisbee, Wade Animal Clinic on Leslie Canyon Road was outside the city boundaries. North of the county fairgrounds, Joanna turned into the driveway, only to find the way blocked by a homemade sandwich board sign. Hastily written block letters announced the clinic was closed. Disregarding the sign, Joanna drove around it.

“Looks like nobody’s home,” Ernie said.

Wade Animal Clinic, like other small town veterinary practices, was part of an all-purpose compound that included both a residence and clinic facility. The clinic, consisted of two cobbled-together mobile homes, sat near the roaf. The house, a low-slung brick affair with a deeply shaded front porch, sat farther back, nestled in among a grove of towering cottonwoods.

“Maybe not,” Joanna said. “There’s a pickup parked over by the house. Let’s try there first.”

She pulled up and parked beside an empty Dodge Ram pickup. Both Joanna and Ernie opened their respective doors and started to get out of the truck.

“I wouldn’t come any closer it I were you.”

As one, both Joanna and Ernie returned to the Blazer, leaving the car doors open. “Who said that?” Joanna demanded. “And where did it come from?”

“The porch,” Ernie said. “There’s somebody sitting there n the shadow.” Shifting his weight in the seat, Ernie managed to tug his 9-mm Beretta from an underarm holster. Joanna did the same with her Colt.

She took a deep breath to steady herself. “It’s Sheriff Brady and Detective Carpenter,” she called through the open door. “We’re here to talk with Dr. Wade.”

“You’re a little late.”

The voice was familiar, but Joanna couldn’t place it. Just then, the radio crackled to life.

“Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick said. “Aren’t you on tour way to see Dr. Wade down in Douglas?”

“That’s right,” Ernie responded. “We’ve got a probem-”

But Kendrick rushed on. “We’ve got more info on that explosion. The cabin belongs to the same guy-Reginald Wade. A Mazda Miata registered in his name was found outside. So was Terry Buckwalter’s T-Bird.”

Earlier, in order to hear the radio over the road noise, Ernie had turned up the volume. Now, in the silence of the clinic yard, the transmission was so loud that not only did Joanna and Ernie hear it, so did the man on the porch.

“See there, Sheriff Brady?” Larry Matkin said. “You should have returned my call right away. If you had, maybe you could have prevented some of this. I wouldn’t have found out she was playing me for a sucker. Maybe they’d all still be alive.”

“Who would be alive?”

“Terry and Reggie, for starters,” Matkin answered. “And me, too.^”

Ducking behind the dashboard so as not to be visible while he did it, Ernie lowered the volume on the radio and then spoke urgently into the mike, giving their location, calling for backup. Meantime, Joanna knew it was her job to keep the man talking.

“But you are alive, Larry,” she argued.

“Just barely,” he said. “And not for long.”

“Are you hurt, then?” Joanna asked. “And are you armed?”

“Hurt? You’re damned right, I’m hurt. She really did it to me. Pulled the wool right over my eyes. ‘Nobody will ever have to know,’ she said. ‘Once we have the money, they’ll never be able to prove a thing.’ I trusted her, for God’s sake. I believed every word she said.”

With one ear, Joanna was trying to make sense of what Larry Matkin was saying. At the same time, she was trying to keep track of what arrangements Ernie was making over the radio.

“Who are we talking about?” Joanna asked. “Terry Buckwalter?”

“Who else?”

“And what are we talking about proving?”

“I did it for her,” he said. “I faked all those assay reports. There’s ore there, but not as much as I said. The Don Luis site would be better, but she said as long as she and the doc had their money, they’d make sure I’d get a cut and no one would be the wiser.”

“What doe?” Joanna asked. “Dr. Wade or Dr. Buckwalter?”

“Funny you should ask,” Matkin said with a derisive nigh. “I never thought she’d kill him to get it, but that only goes to show how wrong a guy can be. As soon as Bucky died, I started wondering about it. Everybody seemed to think that guy Morgan did it, but not me. It was just too damned neat. The company attorney is due in town next week to offer a fortune for the mineral rights, and Bucky up and dies. I figured Terry had to be behind it, but I couldn’t figure out how she did it. She had to have had some help. She couldn’t have done it all by herself, because she wasn’t there when he died. She was with me.”

“You’re saying Terry and Reggie Wade killed Bucky?”

“If you want, I can have Terry tell you herself. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

By then Joanna’s eyes had adjusted enough to the shadows that she could see him sitting there. He reached down and then hauled something up with one hand. At first Joanna sought it was a lifeless mannequin, but then she realized it was Terry Buckwalter, tottering but upright. Her arms were bound to her body by thick strands of rope. There was a gag round her mouth.

“Tell ‘em,” Larry Matkin said, shoving the gag aside so he could talk. “Go on. Tell Sheriff Brady what you told me.”

“Oh, my God!” Terry Buckwalter pleaded. “You’ve got to help me. He’s already killed poor Reggie. He’s crazy. He’s got dynamite all over the place. Here on the porch, in the house. Dynamite and blasting caps, both. He’s going to blow us all to kingdom come.”

“Enough!” Larry ordered. “Tell them the rest of it. About Bucky.” Weeping and shaking her head, Terry dropped to her knees.

“Please,” she said. “Please.”

Somehow, Joanna found her voice. “Come on, Mr. Matkin,” she said. “Give yourself up. There’s no point in this.”

“I can’t,” he said. “It’s too late.”

“No, it’s not,” Joanna argued. “It’s never too late.”

On the seat beside her, Ernie Carpenter let out a groan. “Shit!” he said.

“What is it?” Joanna asked, glancing in his direction. “What’s wrong?”

Ernie was staring into the rearview mirror. “A car just turned in the driveway.”

Behind them, a late-model Chrysler New Yorker had pulled up in front of the clinic. An older silver-haired woman, wearing a bright pink pantsuit, got out of the dark blue four-door sedan. As soon as she opened the door, a small gray dog came tumbling out after her. Ignoring her orders to the contrary, the dog went racing over to the sidewalk, where he lifted his leg and peed on a low-lying manzanita bush.

“Buster,” the woman wailed, chasing after him. “You come back here right now.”

The dog, enjoying the game, paused just out of reach. He waited until the woman was almost on top of him, then he darted off again-running pell-mell toward the house. T-ward Larry Matkin, with the woman chasing after him.

There was no time for discussion, only time to react. “I’ll get her,” Ernie said, peeling out of the rider’s side in a roll. He landed on the ground, crouching and running. The dog, expecting a clear field, ran right into him. Ernie scooped the dog up and then continued forward, grabbing the woman by one arm and spinning her around. Dragging her behind him, he headed for cover on the other side of the sedan.

That took no more than a few seconds. When Joanna looked hack to the porch, however, Terry Buckwalter was no longer visible. Neither was Larry Matkin. What was visible, though, chilled Joanna to the very marrow of her hones. In the shadowy gloom of the porch, she saw the single flame of a burning match.

It wasn’t a question of heroics. The Blazer was still idling. Slinging the gearshift into reverse, Joanna backed away-backed away and then ducked. Just as she disappeared under the dash, the house exploded. Above her she felt the terrible force of the concussion, heard the awful roar. As the force of the blast reached the Blazer, the windshield blew in with a terrible whoosh. Blew in and then blew out the back as the rear and side windows all shattered. Debris came raining down on her back. When at last she could hear again, the only sound was the steady whooping of the Blazer’s car alarm.

Scrambling out onto the ground, Joanna looked back at the house.

It was flattened. Thin wisps of smoke coiled up from the wreckage. She turned around in time to see Ernie hand off the squirming dog to his mistress as though it were some kind of living football, then he started toward the house at a dead run.

Joanna stayed with the Blazer long enough to cut off the alarm and notify Dispatch, then she, too, went racing toward the remains of the house. Ernie was on his hands and knees where the porch had been, lifting a bloodied two-by-four and shoving it out of the way.

“Come on,” he said grimly. “Matkin is dead, but Terry’s under here. She may still be alive.”

He was right. Once they pried the debris off Terry, she still alive. Barely. It would have been best not to move her, but the tinder-dry wood inside the house was quickly catching fire. When they finally got her loose, they each took her by an arm and pulled her free.

Far enough from the house to be out of danger, they laid her down. While Ernie ran to get blankets, Joanna knelt beside side her. “Hold on,” she said. “Help’s on the way.”

Terry’s lips moved, but with the sirens coming down Leslie Canyon Road and with the increasing roar of the fire in the background, Joanna couldn’t hear a word.

“What did you say?” she asked, leaning closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”

“Tell Jenny…”

“Tell Jenny what?”

“Take good care of Kiddo.”

“Of Kiddo. What do you mean? I didn’t buy that horse.”

Terry Buckwalter shook her head. “No,” she managed. “Mr. Brady did.”

The E.M.T.’s showed up and took charge then. Joanna moved away and went looking for Ernie Carpenter. He talking to the hysterical woman, who was still clutching her shivering dog.

As Joanna walked up to them, she heard the woman say, “Buster never bites. He must have been scared to death. You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”

“No, ma’am,” Ernie said. “I’m fine. Not hurt in the least.” He saw Joanna coming. Grinning at her, he gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Thanks to Sheriff Brady here, all Buster for his trouble was a mouthful of Kevlar vest.”