Dead to Rights

SEVENTEEN

When Jenny and Joanna reached the Pizza Palace, Butch Dixon’s Goldwing was already parked outside the door. They found the man himself inside, seated at an oilcloth-covered picnic table. He was leaning against the wall, still reading the same book. While Jenny headed straight for the video-game arcade, Joanna slipped onto the bench across from him.

“Must be a good book,” Joanna said.

Closing it, Butch looked over at her and grinned he said. “This is the fourth or fifth time I’ve read it. It’s like reading the Bible. Depending on where you are and what’s going on in your life, you get something different out of it with each reading.”

He glanced around the room. “Where’s Jenny?”

“Waylaid by the video games,” Joanna answered with an exasperated shrug of her shoulders. “I gave her a dollar and told her when that’s gone there’ll be no more.”

“If she’s any good, she could he gone a long time,” Butch said.

“Believe me,” Joanna returned, “she^’s not that good.”

“You look tired,” Butch said, examining her face. “Rough day, I suppose, with the funeral and all.”

Joanna was still so stricken by her confrontation with Ruth Voland that Bucky Buckwalter’s funeral seemed days, not hours, away. “It’s been a rough week,” she said.

Jenny proved to be far better with the video games than her mother had expected. By the time she finally showed up at the table, Butch had already ordered a pitcher of root beer, a large pepperoni pizza with extra cheese, and green salads all around. Left on their own, the two grown-ups had launched off into conversation.

“Well,” Joanna said, “what’s the verdict on Bisbee so far?”

“It’s nice,” he said. “And small. And everybody seems to know you.”

“That’s how small towns are supposed to work. Everybody knows everybody else.”

“No,” Butch said. “People know you specifically. Several different people have asked me what I’m doing in Bisbee. When I tell them I’m here visiting a friend and that the friend is you, they all have something to say about you.”

“Good, bad, or indifferent?” Joanna asked.

“Mostly good,” Butch replied. “The people I’ve talked to seem to be very proud of you. Small-town girl makes good and all that.”

Joanna gave him a rueful grin. “Don’t believe everything you hear. And remember, I didn’t exactly volunteer for this job. I was drafted.”

“So were most of the guys whose names ended tip on the Vietnam War Memorial in Washington, D.C.,” Butch Dixon answered seriously. “But just because they were drafted doesn’t keep them from being heroes or martyrs, depending on your point of view.”

A moment or two passed. “Does that bother you?” he asked. “The fact that everybody knows you?”

“I guess I’m getting used to it.”

Sensing that the conversation was making her uncomfortable, Butch changed the subject. “It’s gorgeous country,” he said. “The contrasting reds and grays. The blue sky. The whole place is just incredible.”

Relieved of her four quarters, Jenny arrived at the table, sampled her drink, smiled at Butch and said, “What kind of pizza?”

“Jenny,” Joanna admonished. “Mind your manners. First you should say hello.”

“Hello,” Jenny chirped in Butch’s direction. “And what kind of pizza?”

“Hello yourself,” Butch returned. “And the pizza of the day is pepperoni with extra cheese.”

“Did you know that’s my favorite?” Jenny asked.

Butch nodded. “A little bird told me.”

“It did not,” Jenny responded, settling onto the bench be-side her mother. “She told you.”

Butch grinned. “You got me,” he said. “Now tell me all about this ranch of yours. Where is it again?”

“The High Lonesome is about ten miles the other side of town. Fifteen miles or so from where we are now.”

“And the two of you live out there all by yourselves?” he asked. “Isn’t it lonely?”

Jenny shook her head. “It’s not lonely,” she said. “We’ve got the dogs. And pretty soon we’re going to have a horse, too. Mom’s going to buy me one for my birthday.”

Joanna glowered at her daughter. “I wouldn’t he so certain about that horse, Jenny,” she said. Then, to Butch, she added, “It does seem a little lonely at times. And there are days when I get so sick of the long commute that I wonder if it’s worth it.”

“What do you mean, a long commute?” Butch asked.

Joanna shrugged. “Well,” she replied, “it’s ten minutes to the end of the road and then another seven or so after that to the office.”

Butch Dixon’s response was a genuine hoot of laughter. “Back in Chicago, where I grew up, twenty minutes was how long it took my father to get to the train station in Downers Grove. Then there was another hour on the train. That’s a long commute. He did it every weekday for twenty-five years.”

“You’re from Chicago?” Jenny asked. Butch nodded.

“So how did you get to Arizona?”

“My grandparents-my mother’s parents-were among the original buyers in Sun City,” Butch said. “I was in sixth grade-just a few years older than you-when my grandfather got sick. My parents pulled me out of school in January so we could come see him before he died. I’ll never forget it. It was bitterly cold in Chicago. The streets were lined with thousands of cars that were frozen to the ground and covered by mounds of snow-plowed ice, while people in Sun City were walking around in shirtsleeves, playing golf, and barbecuing on their outdoor patios. I thought I was in heaven. I decided right then that Arizona was the place for me. I told my mother at the time, but I don’t think she believed me. It took a few years, but I finally made it.”

Their salads arrived then, followed by a steaming pizza. Talk was lighthearted and fun. Joanna enjoyed watching the way Butch teased and charmed Jenny. The chill seemed to bask in the attention of this funny but attentive man who not only asked her questions but seemed genuinely interested in her answers. By the time the spumoni ice cream disappeared, Jenny and Butch Dixon had become friends.

“Can’t Mr. Dixon come out to the house so we can show it to him?” Jenny asked.

“Maybe he isn’t interested…” Joanna objected.

“But I want him to meet the dogs,” Jenny continued. “You like dogs, don’t you, Mr. Dixon?” she asked, checking Butch’s face as he answered.

“I love dogs,” he said.

“Still,” Joanna said, “it depends on whether or not he wants to.^”

“Sure,” Butch said. “I’d love to meet Tigger and Sadie, but what do you think?” he added with a sidelong look in Joanna’s direction.

“I don’t mind,” she said.

They caravanned out to the ranch, with Jenny riding back-ward most of the way to make sure Butch didn’t get lost in the process. Tigger and Sadie both went properly berserk at the sight of the motorcycle, but they were also fairly well behaved once Jenny had introduced them to Butch. When Jenny took the dogs and went inside, Butch and Joanna stood for a moment on the night-chilled back porch staring up at the velvet-black, star-studded sky.

“It’s breathtaking,” he said quietly. “Beautiful and peaceful both. When you live in the city, it’s hard to believe there’s anyplace on earth that’s still this empty.”

“It’s not that empty,” Joanna returned. “My nearest neighbor is just a little over a mile away.”

“Only a mile? That close?” Butch laughed. “Listen,” he added. “The next time you start wondering about whether or not your commute is worth it, call me. I’ll be glad to tell you it is.”

Laughing too, Joanna opened the backdoor. “It’s cold out here. Come on in,” she said. “We do have a front door, but most people come into the house this way-through the laundry room.”

Thanks to Angie Kellogg’s cleaning efforts the previous morning and due in no small part to the fact that hardly anyone had been home in the meantime, the house was still reasonably straight. They had gone only as far as the kitchen when Jenny returned and grabbed hold of Butch’s hand.

“Come on,” she said. “I’ll give you the tour.”

While Jenny guided Butch around the house, Joanna ducked into the bedroom long enough to slip off both her holsters and her body armor. Then she went back out to the living room to take messages off the machine. For a change, there were only two-both from Eleanor. Joanna decided those would have to wait until after Butch left. She was sitting on the couch in the living room when the tour ended and Jenny delivered him back there before heading off for her nightly bath.

Butch paused in front of a bookcase and studied the shelf devoted to family pictures. “Andy and you?” he asked, pointing at their wedding picture.

“Yes.”

“You must have been very young.”

Joanna nodded. “I had just turned nineteen the month before we got married. Andy died the day after our tenth wedding anniversary.”

“You were lucky,” he said, collapsing into the chair opposite her-the same worn easy chair that had always been Andy’s favorite. Joanna winced at the idea of Butch Dixon sitting there. It seemed wrong somehow-disloyal to Andy.

“At least you had ten years,” Butch was saying.

At least? Joanna wondered. What did he mean by “at least”?

This was a whole new perspective. She had spent so much time during the last few months missing the years she and Andy hadn’t spent together that it was difficult for her to see those few years in a different light, with her cup half f u l l instead of half empty.

“Some people never have that many,” he finished.

Before Joanna had a chance to reply or to learn what kind of private hurt lay behind those words, the phone rang. She hurried to pick it up. If it turned out to be Eleanor, how would she manage to get her off the phone?

“Hello,” she said, picking up the receiver. “Joanna Brady speaking.”

“We’ve got a problem,” Dick Voland told her. “Hal Morgan’s taken off.”

“Taken off?” Joanna echoed. “What do you mean?”

“Just that. He’s gone. He assaulted Deputy Howell and headed for the hills. From what we can tell, he used a bottle to knock her colder ‘an a wedge, then took off in that Buick of his. I’ve posted an APB. With any kind of luck, he won’t make it out of the county.”

“How’s Debbie?” Joanna asked.

“She’s got a concussion. She’s been transported to the hospital. “

Joanna felt her temperature rise. “If Deputy Howell’s already in the hospital, how long ago did all this happen?”

“Half an hour, I guess,” Dick Voland replied. “Maybe forty-five minutes.”

“Why wasn’t I informed before now?”

“I was still here in the office,^” Voland said. “I’ve been handling it. I didn’t see any reason to bother you.”

Another time, Joanna might have chewed him out for leaving her out of the loop. This time, however, she understood exactly why he was right there, Johnny-on-the-spot, the moment the call came in. She could still see Dick Voland stretched out and sleeping on the couch in his office. And she could still see Ruth Voland standing there in her sweats, telling Joanna about Ken, the bowling coach. Poor Dick.

“So tell me again what happened,” Joanna said.

“According to what we’ve been able to piece together, Debbie must have been out behind the motel, grabbing a smoke. Someone-I’m betting Morgan himself-whacked her over the head from behind. The doc’s still picking slivers of broken beer bottle out of her scalp. Anyway, she was left lying unconscious, right beside the dumpster. One of the bus-boys from the coffee shop came out later on to empty the trash. He’s the one who found her and called nine-one-one. By then Morgan was long gone. He left a note, though.”

“A note? What kind of note?”

“A suicide note. Typed it on the screen of a little laptop computer he left in his room.”

“What did it say?” Joanna asked.

“That Bucky Buckwalter deserved to die. Morgan said he had no intention of going to prison for something that was no more of a crime than putting a sick dog out of its misery.”

Joanna felt her stomach contract. In the hospital Hal Morgan had assured Joanna that he hadn’t killed Bucky Buckwalter. She cursed herself for being a naive fool. Obviously Morgan had been lying through his teeth, and she had been stupid enough to believe him.

“I have company right now,^” Joanna said. “If everything is handled…”

“Just a minute,” Voland interrupted. “Something’s coming in from Dispatch.”

As she waited, holding the telephone receiver to her eat she was aware that Butch Dixon was watching her-watching and listening. “Problems?” he asked.

She nodded, just as Dick Voland came back on the line. “Deputy Long, from the northern sector, just spotted the Buick at the gas station in Elfrida. There are too many civilians around for him to risk doing anything. I told him to hang back and keep Morgan under surveillance.”

Joanna was torn. She had been out working every nigh this week. It sounded as though Dick Voland had things under control. Still, he had called with the expectation that, one notified, the sheriff would do something about the situation. And most sheriffs-most hands-on sheriffs-would have.The problem was, most of them didn’t have nine-year-old daughters to worry about.

“Dick,” Joanna began. “I can’t leave Jenny here…”

“I’ll watch her for you,” Butch offered. “You go. I’ll stay right here until you get back.”

Covering the mouthpiece, Joanna looked across the room at him. “You don’t mind?” she said.

“Not at all.”

Joanna hesitated, but only for a second. Then she took her hand away from the mouthpiece. “I’m on my way,” she said, If anybody wants me, I’ll be in the Blazer. I’ll be in radio contact just as soon as I’m in the car.”

Slamming down the phone, Joanna turned toward Butch. “I’m sorry,^” she said. “You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“Like I said yesterday. When duty calls, you’ve got to go. Jenny and I will be fine. We may even watch a little of My Fair Lady before it’s her bedtime. She told me it’s one of her favorites. I happen to like that one as well.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “I’d better go get ready.”

She stopped by the bathroom long enough to let Jenny mow what was happening. Then she hurried into the bedroom and put her body armor back on under her clothing-her body armor, her Glock, and her Colt 2000. When she came back out of the bedroom, she found Butch settled on he couch, with the two dogs curled up comfortably at his ^feet. He was scratching Tigger’s ears.

“I think he’s adopted me,” he said.

“It does look that way,” she agreed.

“What are all these scabs all over his face?”

“Tigger’s big problem with porcupines is that they can’t outrun him. And once he catches one, he thinks he can win.”

“I know the feeling,” Butch said. “I seem to have the same kind of luck with women.”

Not knowing what to say in response, Joanna started toward the door. “Make yourself at home,” she said.

He nodded. “I’ll wait here and keep the home fires burning,” he said. “You go do whatever it is you have to do. But be careful, and come back home in one piece, you hear?”

Joanna started to make some smart-mouthed reply, but she stopped when a lump rose unaccountably in her throat and her eyes suddenly blurred with tears. How many times had she said almost those exact words to Andy when he had been called out to some crime scene or accident in the middle of the night? The words of warning and caution took on a new meaning when someone else said them to you. When someone else cared enough to say them to you.

Nodding, she murmured a quick “I will.” Then she turned away before Butch Dixon had a chance to glimpse how his words of concern had affected her. By the time she vaulted into the Blazer and started down the road, she was crying like a baby.

And the thing that made those tears so very puzzling was that she didn’t really know why she was crying. She had no idea at all.

By the time Joanna reached High Lonesome Road, she had herself under control enough to stop the tears and switch on the radio. “What’s going on?” she asked.

“The situation is under control, Sheriff Brady,” the calm voice of Tica Romero, one of the dispatch operators, assured her. “We’ve got it handled.”

Pica’s unruffled response was frustratingly low on information. “I’d like to know exactly how it’s being handled,” Joanna responded.

“Deputy Ted Long has the Buick under surveillance. The suspect still hasn’t left the gas station. It looks like he’s headed northbound on Highway 191.”

“What are Deputy Long’s orders?” Joanna asked.

“Visual contact only. No hot pursuit. No lights or sirens.”

Joanna was relieved. She had visions of civilians caught in an Elfrida shootout or maybe some twilight-working former on a tractor being creamed by either a fleeing suspect or a speeding patrol car. “Good,” she said. “What else?”

“Chief Deputy Voland has authorized establishing a road-block just beyond the Sunizona curve.”

Visualizing the road, Joanna worried about other cross-odds that turned off Highway 191 prior to Sunizona-roads that led off into the Chiricahua Mountains on the east or up into the Dragoons on the left. What if Hal Morgan turned off on one of those? In the 1860s, those high desert mountain fringes had been the ones where a canny Apache chieftain named Cochise had led his people in order to elude capture by the U.S. Cavalry. The rugged part of the Dragoons called Cochise Stronghold came by the name honestly. If those steep, rockbound canyons had once been able to afford a safe haven to a whole band of people, Joanna knew it would be all too easy for a single modern-day homicide suspect to disappear into them.

“Can’t we put up the roadblock any sooner than that?” Joanna asked. “Why wait so long?”

“Because Deputy Casey can’t get there any faster, for one thing. He’s on his way down from a domestic over in Dragoon. Chief Deputy Voland figures if Deputy Casey can get as far as Township Butte, he can hide behind the butte to put the roadblock in place. That way the suspect won’t be able to see him until he’s right there. When he comes around that curve at Sunizona, it’ll be too late for him to turn off. The two patrol cars will have him in a squeeze play.”

“Where’s Chief Deputy Voland right now?”

“He’ll be leaving the complex as soon as he finishes gathering the response team. Where are you?”

Joanna’s Blazer had just bounced across the last cattle guard on High Lonesome Road. “I’m on my way to the scene, just now turning left on Double Adobe Road at High Lonesome,” she responded. “Once I hit Double Adobe, I’ll take Central Highway up to Elfrida. Anybody else ahead of me?”

“Nope. Other than Deputy Casey coming south from Dragoon, you’re the next one up.”

Knowing that, Joanna switched on both flashing lights and siren. The road was relatively straight but narrow and bisected every few miles by washes that made for gut-wrenching dips. She flew through them so last that more than once the Blazer felt as though it was momentarily airborne.

“He’s moving now,” Tica announced.

“Which way?”

“North, just like we figured.”

Nodding grimly, Joanna kept on driving. It was one thin} to know intellectually that Cochise County was comprised of 6,256 square miles. Only now, as Joanna Brady sped first east and then north, did her understanding of the challenging distances in her jurisdiction come fully into focus.

Her departmental patrol division consisted of fifty sworn officers. That sounded like a sizable force but that was before it was parceled out-before those fifty officers had to be divided into five separate shifts and spread over seven twenty four-hour days. Seven days and all those miles. In all, a single patrol officer often was responsible for covering as much as seven hundred square miles.

Considering the fact that a suicidal Hal Morgan had attacked Deputy Howell in making good his escape, he had to be classified as a danger to himself and others. He posed serious threat to the public welfare regardless of where he was and whether or not he was armed. And across all those vast miles of Cochise County, only two responding deputies and Sheriff Joanna Brady herself were anywhere near striking distance of his damn gas-guzzling Buick.

Several minutes passed before the radio squawked again. “Sheriff Brady?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve got a problem,” Tica Romero said. “We’ve lost him.”

“Lost whom?” Joanna demanded.

“Deputy Long. Something’s wrong. We’ve lost radio contact”

Joanna was just coming into Elfrida then, pausing but not stopping at the junction where Central Highway met 191 and then racing north through town. Highway 191 was a far better road than the one from Double Adobe to Elfrida, but on a better roadway there was always a possibility of more traffic.

No sooner was she clear of the hamlet of Elfrida than she saw the fallacy in Dick Voland’s plan. In an otherwise black sky, a pulsating halo of red and blue light threw the silhouetted shadow of Township Butte into sudden sharp relief. The mountain may have hidden Deputy Casey’s vehicle, but not the pulsingly eerie glow from his flashing emergency lights. And if, from miles away, Joanna Brady knew the roadblock was there, so did a fleeing Hal Morgan.

“Lost radio contact,” Joanna repeated. “How can that be?”

“Hold it,” Tica said. “I’m getting something.”

During the seemingly endless pause that followed, Joanna held her breath and drove like a maniac. Eventually Tica came back on the air. “Officer down, code three,” she said. “Deputy Casey has abandoned the roadblock and is on his way to the scene. So’s an emergency medical squad from Douglas.”

“What the hell happened?”

“Morgan rammed the patrol car,” Tica Romero answered. “Flipped him right over. According to Deputy Long, he’s pinned inside his vehicle and needs help.”

Even as Tica spoke, the flashing lights of Deputy Casey’s patrol car appeared from around the curve and came speeding south. Between Joanna’s Blazer and that one there was no sign of any other vehicle.

“And the suspect?”

“Gone,” Tica answered.

Except it wasn’t possible that he was gone completely. “He didn’t come north past Deputy Casey?”

“Not so far.”

And no vehicle had come southbound toward Joanna, either. That meant Hal Morgan was out there somewhere, out on the vast plain of the Sulphur Springs Valley, and about to make good his escape. Joanna was north of Rucker Canyon Road by then. That meant he couldn’t have turned off there.

Her first urge was to go racing off to the scene, to do what she could to help Deputy Long. But the truth was, help for him was on the way-both in the form of Deputy Casey and the emergency medical technicians from Douglas. Joanna’s prime concern had to be capturing Hal Morgan.

Forcing herself to respond logically, Joanna pulled over, stopped on the shoulder of the road, and doused the lights. Groping in the glove box, she located a pair of long-range night-vision binocular goggles. Several pairs had found their way into Joanna’s department through participation in the M.J.F., a multi-jurisdiction task force created solely to help local authorities deal with border-focused crime.

As Joanna scanned the horizon, the flashing lights of Deputy Casey’s southbound patrol car were even more clearly visible. Between Joanna and the flashing lights was a slowly dissipating cloud of dust. She was sure the dust marked the site of the ramming. Shaking her head, Joanna resolutely turned the goggles away from there and looked out toward the black mound of the Chiricahuas rising out of the desert to the east. Slowly she scanned back and forth between High way 191 and the mountains along what she thought had to be the approximate location of Highway 181. There were other, smaller, roads the suspect might have taken, but 181 was the main road leading up to the Wonderland of Rocks, a most popular camping and picnicking area known officially as the Chiricahua National Monument. The road was paved and well-maintained, for one thing, and it was the only route that would offer Hal Morgan any real chance of escape. If the suspect stayed on 181, skirting along at the base of the mountains, eventually he would come to a junction with Highway 186. That would take him into Willcox. And beyond that, onto Interstate 10.

Forcing herself to be patient, Joanna continued to scan the horizon. Eventually-after a space of several minutes-it paid off. In a place where, a moment earlier, there had been nothing, there was now a speeding vehicle. Not one that was starting from a dead stop. No, this one was already traveling at full speed when the headlights came on. No, make that headlight. A single lamp. From a vehicle no doubt damaged by running into another.

“Got him!” Joanna yelped triumphantly to the emptiness of the starlit desert sky.

Racing back to the car, she fastened her belt before slamming the car into gear. The tires sprayed rocks and dirt high into the air behind her as she plunged forward onto the high-way. As soon as the Blazer was safely back on the pavement, she switched on the radio.

“Suspect vehicle, missing one headlight, is eastbound on 181, probably two to three miles east of 191.”

“Copy,” Tica replied.

“Contact the Highway Patrol,” Joanna continued. “We need them to set up a roadblock south of Willcox where 181 meets 186. If he makes it all the way into Willcox, we may lose him completely.”

By then, she had reached the place where Deputy Casey’s patrol car was pulled over on the shoulder of the road. Neither Deputy Long nor his wrecked vehicle was visible from the Blazer until Joanna reached a spot where a wash crossed the road. There they were, down in the wash. Barely slowing, Joanna drove straight past.

“I just drove by Deputies Long and Casey,” Joanna said. “What’s the status?” she asked.

“Deputy Long is conscious and talking,” Tica replied. “The ambulance is still a good fifteen minutes out.”

Fifteen minutes! In a situation like that, fifteen minutes could mean the difference between life and death for Deputy Casey. And fifteen minutes was a terribly long time for Joanna to go without backup. Still, she couldn’t very we expect Deputy Casey to walk away, leaving his fellow officer gravely injured and alone.

“As soon as emergency crews reach the scene, tell Casey to follow me on 181. I’ll need him for backup, but not until someone’s there to take care of Deputy Long. Got that?”

“Got it,” Tica replied.

Gripping the wheel, flying toward the looming darkness of the Chiricahuas, Joanna felt incredibly alone. Once again her hands were so sweaty and slick that it was all she coould do to maintain control of the Blazer.

It had been years since she had traveled Highway 181 hut she knew it all too well. It led to a place in the mountains where volcanic activity, combined with wind and water erosion, had carved a forest of spindly rhyolite columns and magically balanced boulders. As a child, that part of the Chiricahuas had been Joanna Lathrop’s favorite place on earth. Her love affair had ended fifteen years earlier, when Ii Hank Lathrop died on that road while bringing home a carload of Girl Scout weekend campers. Since that day, Joanna had never once returned Io the Wonderland of Rocks.

Now, for the first time since that fateful Sunday afternoon, Joanna Lathrop Brady was back on that same stretch of highway. Her father had come to his end unwittingly. When he stopped to change a stranded motorist’s tire, there had been no way for him to tell in advance that his life was in danger. This was different. Joanna was up against a known killer. Hal Morgan was someone who hadn’t hesitated at resorting to violence on more than one occasion.

Joanna knew she was doing the right thing. She had no intention of tackling Morgan on her own. She had called for assistance and fully intended to wait until her backup arrived, but what if help came too late? What if lightning struck twice in the same place? Maybe Highway 181 would take Joanna’s life in much the same way it had taken her father’s.

Not bloody likely, she muttered under her breath. With that, she reached again for the radio.