Devil’s Claw

CHAPTER 7

As soon as Frank’s Crown Victoria pulled into Catherine Yates’ yard, the porch light snapped on and the front door slammed open. A stocky woman in blue jeans and a flapping denim shirt came hurrying off the front porch of a tiny square house.

“Did you find her?” she demanded of Frank Montoya as he rolled down the driver’s window.

“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m sorry to report that we still haven’t found your granddaughter. I’ve brought Sheriff Joanna Brady along with me, Ms. Yates. She and I need to talk to you for a few minutes. We’d like to ask you a few questions.”

Joanna stepped out of the car and went around to the other side, offering her hand. “How do you do, Ms. Yates.”

Catherine Yates’ work-hardened fingers closed around Joanna’s with a surprisingly gentle touch. “Nice to meet you,” she said grudgingly. “I guess I didn’t really expect that the sheriff herself would show up.”

“I came because we need to speak to you about your daughter,” Joanna said.

“About Sandra?” Catherine asked. “How come? My granddaughter’s the one who’s missing.”

“You told Frank that you were expecting Sandra home soon. Is it possible that she and Lucinda took off together?”

Asking the question, Joanna knew she was stalling for time, postponing the inevitable moment when she would most likely have to deliver the painful news. Joanna fully expected Larry Kendrick’s mug shot would confirm that Catherine’s daughter was dead. In the meantime, asking questions was an acceptable delaying tactic. Even so, if Sandra was the victim, the awful task of telling Catherine Yates that her daughter was dead couldn’t be put off indefinitely. Notifying bereaved next of kin was Sheriff Joanna Brady’s job-part of it, anyway.

Behind her, Frank switched off his Crown Victoria-his Civvie, as he preferred to call it-and emerged into the chill early evening air.

“No,” Catherine Yates was saying. “That wouldn’t have happened. Lucy wouldn’t have gone anywhere with her mother.”

“How can you be sure of that?” Joanna asked. “Her mother’s been away for some time. Doesn’t it stand to reason that she’d be glad to see her?”

Catherine Yates simply shook her head and said nothing.

“All right, then,” Joanna said with a sigh. “Why don’t you tell us what you know about your daughter’s recent whereabouts.”

Catherine glanced warily at Frank Montoya before she answered. “I heard from Sandra just yesterday afternoon,” she said. “Sandy called from Tucson and told me she had been released. She said she was spending last night in Tucson with a friend. I told your deputies that earlier. I expect her home sometime today or tomorrow.”

“What friend?” Joanna asked.

“A friend, that’s all.”

“Look, Ms. Yates, I’m sure this is all terribly painful for you to discuss. Otherwise you would have told Chief Deputy Montoya the whole story earlier. We already know that your daughter was released from prison yesterday afternoon, so it’s no secret. Just tell us. Have you heard from her since then?”

Catherine Yates bowed her head. For a moment her face was obscured by a curtain of shoulder-length gray hair. Seeing her face in the dim glow of a yard light, it was easy to understand why Frank might have been in doubt about the woman’s ethnic heritage. She could easily have passed for either Hispanic or Indian, although there was clearly some Anglo blood mixed in as well.

“No,” Catherine said finally. “Sandra hasn’t called me, and I haven’t tried reaching her, either. In fact, I’ve been dreading talking to her all day long-ever since I realized Lucy was gone. I didn’t want to be the one to have to tell Sandy that Lucy had run away.”

“Who’s the friend?” Frank interjected. “The one Sandra’s supposed to be staying with?”

Catherine bit her lip. “Her name’s Melanie Goodson, and she’s not much of a friend, if you ask me. She lives somewhere out on Old Spanish Trail. She was Sandy’s attorney years ago. She’s also the one who let that stupid plea bargain go through. I don’t know if she was lazy or what. I don’t think she even tried to take Sandy’s case to court. If she had, I’m sure my daughter would have gotten off. What happened between Sandy and her husband should have been ruled self-defense. He was abusive, and my daughter never should have gone to prison for manslaughter. After all, Tom Ridder beat her up. If I’d‘a been her, I would have shot the son of a bitch, too.”

Listening, Joanna remembered what Catherine had said earlier-about Lucinda Ridder not being willing to go anywhere with her mother. “How did your granddaughter feel about her father’s death?” Joanna asked.

Catherine Yates was a stout woman. When asked that question, her broad shoulders seemed to shrink inside her shirt. She shook her head sadly. “Lucy loved her father,” Catherine said. “All she remembers is this tall handsome devil in his smart army uniform. I’ve tried talking to her about it, tried explaining that as far as Tom Ridder is concerned, looks weren’t everything. Tom looked a whole lot better than he really was.

“But it’s like talking to a wall, Sheriff Brady, and it hasn’t done a bit of good. No matter what I say, Lucy still blames Sandy for her father’s death. You know how kids are. Once they get some wild idea in their heads, nothing short of an act of God is going to shake it loose.”

“I take it Lucy wasn’t necessarily happy that her mother was getting out of prison?” Joanna asked.

Catherine sighed and nodded. “Happy? I’ll say she wasn’t happy, not at all. Furious is more like it. In fact, we had a big fight about it just yesterday afternoon when Lucy came home from school. She told me that she had prayed every day that her mother would die in prison so she’d never have to see her again. I tried to explain how wrong and unforgiving that was. I told her there are two sides to every story, and that she needed to give her mother a chance to tell her side of it. Instead, Lucy blew up at me. She told me that she would never live in the same house with her mother, no matter what. She said that I’d have to choose between them-between Lucy or Sandy-because I couldn’t have both.”

“What did you tell her?”

In the glow of the porch light, Joanna saw Catherine’s eyes fill with glistening tears. “I told Lucy that mothers don’t work that way. That just because your child does something wrong, that doesn’t mean you wipe them off the face of the earth. It’s like Big Red and the kitten.”

“Who’s Big Red?”

“A hawk,” Frank Montoya supplied. “Remember? I told you about him. Big Red is Lucy’s pet hawk.”

“A red-tailed hawk,” Catherine added. “Lucy found him when he was nothing but a half-dead hatchling-a tiny little thing who had fallen out of his nest. Lucy climbed up and put him back. She waited and watched, but the parents never returned. Finally, rather than leave him there to starve to death, she brought him home and took care of him.

“For months we’d get up early several mornings a week and go find what we used to call fresh road-kill pizza. We’d drive along the highway between here and Elfrida or between here and the freeway and pick up whatever had been run over on the road overnight-rabbits, kangaroo rats, coyotes-and we’d give Big Red that for breakfast. Finally, though, he got big and strong enough to hunt for himself. And wouldn’t you know, the first thing he nailed was a newborn kitten-a kitten Lucy had her heart set on keeping. She was mad about it for days, but I told her that wasn’t fair. I told her that hunting is what hawks do to survive and that she was wrong to hold a grudge when Big Red was just doing what comes naturally.

“Yesterday I tried to explain that what happened between her mother and father was the same thing that had happened between Big Red and the kitten. I told Lucy that Sandy did what she did to protect herself-to save her own life and Lucy’s.”

“What did Lucy say to that?”

“She said it was all a lie, that her father never hit anybody. After that, Lucy stormed off to her room and didn’t come out for dinner. This morning, when I got up, she was gone, along with her backpack, a bedroll, and some of her clothes.”

“Was anything else missing?”

“Some food from the kitchen, her bike…”

“And?”

Catherine bit her lip and didn’t answer.

“What else?”

“A gun,” Catherine answered reluctantly. “A twenty-two. It belonged to my husband. I keep it for protection-for snakes, that kind of thing.”

“Does Lucy know how to use it?”

“Yes. I taught her myself.”

“Did you tell Frank earlier this afternoon that the gun was missing?”

“No. I was afraid if I told him she was armed that it would keep people from looking for her.”

It wouldn’t keep them from looking, Joanna thought. But they’d be a hell of a lot more careful while they were doing it.

“What about Big Red?” Joanna continued. “Have you seen any sign of him today?”

“No.”

“So it’s possible he’s with her?”

“Probable more than possible, I’d say,” Catherine answered. “The two of them spend most weekends together. They ride over to the Stronghold.”

“Ride?” Joanna asked.

“Oh, yes. Big Red rides on her shoulder or her handlebars. He’s done that since he was just a baby. When they get to the park, Lucy climbs up and down the cliffs and Big Red usually sticks around somewhere nearby. Out of sight, maybe, but not far away.

“I tried to warn Lucy about that, by the way. There are so many other people hiking and camping up there that I told her it could be dangerous for him. I tried to explain that turning wild animals into pets is a bad idea because once they grow accustomed to humans, they may not be afraid when they ought to be. But of course, by the time I told Lucy that, it was already too late. And maybe it’s not as bad as all that. As far as I can tell, she’s the only person Big Red’ll have anything to do with. I can tell you, as soon as that bird catches sight of me, he flies off in a hurry.”

“Does Lucy drive?”

“No. She’s still too young to get a learner’s permit.”

“So you don’t think Big Red would get into a vehicle with her?”

“In a car? No. But on the bike, no problem.”

“Which means, if the bird is with Lucy, then wherever they are, they most likely traveled there on foot or by bicycle.”

Catherine Yates nodded, and Joanna turned to Frank. “What about Search and Rescue?” she asked.

“They’re aware of the situation,” Frank replied. “By morning the twenty-four-hour waiting period will be up. I’ve made arrangements with Mike Wilson to have a Search and Rescue crew here by first light in the morning if Lucy hasn’t been found by then.”

Joanna nodded. Departmental policy called for the passage of twenty-four hours before taking a missing-persons report or calling in Search and Rescue. There were exceptions to that rule, especially in the case of lost small children or wandering elderly Alzheimer patients. Lucy Ridder’s case fell in a gray area, unless she turned out to be a homicide suspect. In that case, all bets were off.

“Do you happen to have recent photos of your daughter and granddaughter?” Joanna asked.

“The one I have of Sandy is several years old, but I have last-year’s school picture of Lucy. Would that help?”

“Very much,” Joanna said.

“Well then,” Catherine Yates told her, “come on in. You might as well wait inside. It’s cold out here.”

Joanna and Frank trailed after Catherine as she led the way onto the porch.

“When are you going to get around to telling her?” Frank asked, under his breath.

“After we have the fax with the mug shot in hand,” Joanna whispered back. “I’d like to have a little more confirmation on that stolen Lexus before I blow this poor woman out of the water.”

Frank nodded. “Want me to go back to the car and wait for it? That way I can bring it inside as soon as it comes through.”

“Right,” Joanna said, then she followed Catherine Yates into the living room of her tiny square-shaped house.

Joanna recognized the design. Larry Yarnell Homes, an early edition of modular housing, had been marketed in the late sixties and early seventies as a relatively inexpensive form of pre-fab housing-one step up from mobile homes and one step down from permanent frame construction. Because they were less costly to build, Larry Yarnell Homes had sprouted like weeds in rural southern Arizona. Now, almost forty years later, most of those houses had outlived their useful lives. Made of generally shoddy materials, some were little more than moldering, burned-out hulks. This one, however, had clearly been well cared for and kept in good repair.

While Catherine Yates disappeared into the back of the house, Joanna stood in the middle of the living room and looked around. The carpeting on the floor was threadbare but clean. The same could be said for the collection of old-fashioned but still serviceable leather furniture. On the wall, over a long sofa, two gold-framed pictures broke the monotony of cheap oak paneling. One was the photo of a smiling Korean War-era GI standing with one foot resting on the bumper of a 1952 Mercury convertible.

The other photo-in faded sepia tones-depicted a man who appeared to be a full-blooded Indian standing proudly at attention and staring, solemn-eyed, into the lens of the camera. He wore some kind of uniform-one that was unfamiliar to Joanna.

“The one on the right is Carter, my husband. The one on the left is my great-grandfather,” Catherine Yates said, returning silently to the living room. “His name is Eskiminzin. Ever heard of him?”

Joanna shook her head.

“You should have. He was an Arivaipa Apache. He was also a chief, just like Cochise or Geronimo. Except he wasn’t a warrior. He was a man who wanted to get along with the whites. Even after most of his first family was murdered in the Camp Grant Massacre, he still tried to make peace. My great-grandmother, my mother’s grandmother, was his second wife.”

Joanna knew enough about Arizona history to have a nodding acquaintance with the Camp Grant Massacre. What history books called the “Apache Wars” would, in the modern vernacular, have been termed “ethnic cleansing.” Operating under the philosophy of “Manifest Destiny,” the United States Government had engaged the Apaches in a war of eradication designed to remove them from their ancient lands and make way for Anglo settlers.

Worn down by years of fighting, in 1871 several separate Apache bands had surrendered to the commanding officer at Old Camp Grant and sued for peace. Having been told that they could camp outside the fort under the protection of the United States Cavalry, the Apaches stayed there for the next two months while peace negotiations took place. Meanwhile, several Tucson-area merchants-Anglos every one-rounded up an expeditionary force made up of Mexicans and Tohono O’othham who had their own long-held grudges against marauding Apaches.

This band of mercenaries attacked the sleeping Apaches under the dark of night. Many of the younger men managed to escape into the hills, but women and children, along with the old and sick and helpless, were slaughtered where they slept.

“It was about this time of year,” Catherine said softly. “April thirtieth.”

Obviously, for Catherine Yates and her family, the Camp Grant Massacre wasn’t some distant, dusty footnote to history. It was still a hauntingly vivid and painful part of her family’s past.

“But the uniform…” Joanna began.

“After his family was killed, Eskiminzin still wanted peace. He became one of the first members of the tribal police on San Carlos. That’s him in his policeman’s uniform. Later on, he took his second family, left the reservation, and started his own ranch. Then there was another Apache uprising. Since he was a chief, he was suspected of being involved. His ranch was taken from him, and he was shipped off to Oklahoma.”

“How do you know all this?” Joanna asked.

“A friend of his wrote it down,” Catherine Yates explained. “John Clum was an Anglo who was superintendent of the San Carlos early on. Eskiminzin worked for him. Clum wrote a paper for the Arizona Historical Review. My mother, Christina Bagwell, was ten years old when he sent her mother, Eskiminzin’s daughter, a copy of what he’d written, along with that picture-the one you see there on the wall. Otherwise it all would have been forgotten long ago.”

Joanna had become so caught up in the story that she had almost forgotten her own purpose for being inside Catherine Yates’ house until Catherine handed her two photos-two eight-by-ten school pictures in matching gold frames. Joanna took them and spent several long seconds examining them. From the hairstyles, it was easy to recognize that the two photographs came from different eras. Nonetheless, even the most casual observer would have noticed the striking family resemblance between Sandra Ridder and her daughter, Lucy.

Just as Joanna handed the two pictures back and was about to speak, Frank Montoya tapped lightly on the front door and let himself into the room. “Sorry to interrupt, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “This just came in.”

Frank made his way across the room without meeting Catherine Yates’ anxiously inquiring gaze. As he handed Joanna the piece of paper he carried, he gave the slightest shake of his head. “It looks like she’s the one,” he said softly.

“Who?” Catherine asked.

Joanna looked down at the picture in her hand. In the mug shot, the woman in one picture appeared to have aged ten or fifteen years. “You’re sure?” Joanna asked.

Frank nodded. “I’m sure,” he said. “It’s Sandra, all right.”

Joanna turned to Catherine. “It’s about your daughter, Mrs. Yates,” she said. “I’m afraid we have some bad news. We’re fairly sure that your daughter stole a vehicle last night, and now there’s a good chance that she may be a homicide victim as well.”

Nodding and moving in slow motion, Catherine sank down on the couch and wrapped her arms around her body. “I knew it,” she said. “I knew when you kept asking me about Sandy instead of Lucy that it had to be something to do with her. What is it? What’s happened?”

“This afternoon a woman was found in a culvert along the road between Cochise Stronghold and Pearce. She’d been shot. Unfortunately, she died while being airlifted to a hospital in Tucson. I didn’t want to say anything to you about it until after we had more information.”

“No,” Catherine whispered. “I can’t believe it! I just can’t.”

“I’m so sorry-” Joanna began, but Catherine cut her off.

“How could she?”

“As I said, the victim, she was shot. We didn’t find a weapon, so we’re currently treating this as a homicide. The vehicle she was thought to be driving is missing, and it’s possible one or more UDAs-illegal immigrants-were involved in what happened.”

“You’re just saying that,” Catherine said. “You’re telling me that because you don’t want to tell me the truth.”

“What truth is that?”

“If Sandy is dead, I know who killed her, and so do you-Lucy! It has to be her. She’s missing, isn’t she, and so is my gun. I should have known. She as good as told me, but I never thought… Couldn’t even imagine that she’d do such a thing!” Moaning softly, Catherine doubled over on the couch, rocking back and forth.

“You mustn’t jump to conclusions,” Joanna said carefully, even though she herself had made much the same kind of leap. “As I said, we did find some evidence that suggests UDAs may have been involved, and there may be some other explanation entirely. At this point, other than the fact that your granddaughter is missing, we have nothing to indicate that she’s involved in what happened to her mother.”

“You’ll find it,” Catherine said sadly. With that she leaned back against the couch and covered her eyes with one hand. After a full minute of silence she added in a hoarse whisper, “I can’t do this again. I just can’t.”

“Do what?” Joanna asked.

“Go through all this.” Catherine took her hand away from her face. The sorrowful eyes she focused on Joanna were smoldering coals. “This has probably never happened to you, has it,” she added accusingly. “I’ll bet no one you love has ever been arrested and sent to prison for killing someone else.”

“No,” Joanna admitted. “You’re right.”

“I thought so,” Catherine Yates said. “Go away. Leave me alone.”

“But we’ll need to make arrangements to have you come to Bisbee and do an official identification. My detectives will need to talk to you…”

“Tomorrow will be time enough for that,” Catherine Yates replied. “Right now, all I want is to be left alone!”

“You’re sure you’ll be all right?” Joanna asked.

“I won’t be all right,” Catherine said. “I’ve lost my daughter, and my granddaughter, too. I’m sure I’ll never be all right again. But I’m a tough old bird, and I’ll live. So go now, please.”

Joanna started to say something, to warn Catherine about not going into Lucy’s room or disturbing anything, but in the end she said nothing. The all-pervasive grief that distorted Catherine Yates’ previously placid face, screwed up her mouth, and wrung a steady stream of tears from her eyes made any such cautions seem rude and unnecessary.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Yates. Really I am.”

Catherine nodded. “I know,” she croaked brokenly. “So am I.”