by Betty Webb
DESERT VENGEANCE
The Ninth Lena Jones Mystery
“Former cop Lena has a fine sense of justice, which she achieves in this ninth entry of a series that features a vivid sense of place, an indomitable protagonist, and a sensitivity to painful social issues.”
—Michele Leber, Booklist
“Webb offers fans the profound pleasure of watching Lena mature as she comes one step closer to understanding and accepting her difficult past, while providing new readers with an introduction to this strong and genuinely likable character.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Webb, no stranger to hot-button issues, takes on child molestation in a page-turner that presents both her flawed heroine and the reader with plenty of challenges to their moral codes.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“Webb’s pithy first-person narration cuts to the chase without a lot of filler, making Desert Vengeance a pleasure to read....Lena Jones is tough yet vulnerable, irreverent and sarcastic, yet dead serious at times...The Arizona desert and its touristy towns offer up a strange bonanza of desert tropes, and Webb mines them with enough restraint to strengthen, rather than overshoot, her themes of loss and retribution.”
—Shelf Awareness
DESERT RAGE
The Eighth Lena Jones Mystery
“The Lena Jones series is notable for its persistent protagonist and vivid southwestern setting; this eighth entry, centered on a gruesome crime, also is particularly sensitive to the issues of foster children and what really makes a mother.”
—Booklist
“Several red herrings arise along the road to a surprising and satisfying ending.”
—Publishers Weekly
DESERT WIND
The Seventh Lena Jones Mystery
“Webb uses her expert journalistic skills to explore a shocking topic that private investigator Lena Jones uncovers with masterly resolve....a must-read.”
—David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of
The Protector
“Webb pulls no punches in exploring another human rights issue in her excellent seventh mystery starring Arizona PI Lena Jones.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“Webb’s compelling exposé of the damage done to nuclear fallout victims (known as downwinders), accompanied by research notes and bibliography, makes for fascinating reading...Sue Grafton’s alphabet series is a prime read-alike for this series; also consider Pari Noskin Taichert and Steven Havill for Tony Hillerman influences.”
—Library Journal
DESERT LOST
The Sixth Lena Jones Mystery
Winner of Library Journal’s Best Mysteries of 2009
“Richly researched and reeking with authenticity—a wicked exposé.”
—Paul Giblin, Winner of the 2009 Pulitzer Prize for Journalism
“Webb’s Scottsdale PI Lena Jones continues to mix southwestern history with crime in her latest investigation...This is a complex, exciting entry in a first-class series, and it makes an excellent read-alike for Sue Grafton fans.”
—Barbara Bibel, Booklist (starred review)
“Webb’s sobering sixth mystery to feature PI Lena Jones further explores the abuses of polygamy first exposed in 2003’s Desert Wives...Clear-cut characterizations help a complicated plot flow smoothly. As Webb points out in a note, polygamy still spawns many social ills, despite the recent, well-publicized conviction of Mormon fundamentalist prophet Warren Jeffs.”
—Publishers Weekly
DESERT CUT
The Fifth Lena Jones Mystery
“Mysteries don’t get more hard-hitting than this...Readers will be talking about Desert Cut for a long time to come.”
—David Morrell, New York Times bestselling author of
The Brotherhood of the Rose and Creepers
“...a compelling story that will appeal to a broad range of mystery readers—and may bring increased attention to a too-little-known series.”
—Booklist (starred review)
“Webb’s dark tale of a clash of cultures is emotionally draining and intellectually challenging.”
—Kirkus Reviews
“This Southwestern series has a depth that enhances the reader’s pleasure.”
—Library Journal
“As in Webb’s earlier adventures—particularly Desert Wives, with its critically praised exposé of contemporary polygamy—the longtime journalist manages to fuel her plot from the starkest of news stories without compromising the fast-paced action.”
—Publishers Weekly
DESERT RUN
The Fourth Lena Jones Mystery
“This thought-provoking novel is a gem.”
—The Denver Post
“Webb bases her latest Lena Jones adventure on a real episode in Arizona history: the great escape of 25 Germans from Camp Papago, a POW camp located between Phoenix and Scottsdale...As in the preceding episodes in the series, Webb effectively evokes the beauty of the Arizona desert.”
—Jenny McLarin, Booklist
“Webb combines evocative descriptions of place with fine historical research in a plot packed with twists.”
—Publishers Weekly
DESERT SHADOWS
The Third Lena Jones Mystery
“This third in Webb’s series makes good use of both tony Scottsdale and the small-press publishing scene. Lena makes a refreshing heroine; being raised by nine different foster families gives her unusual depth. Solid series fare.”
—Mary Frances Wilkens, Booklist
“As the suspense builds, the author touches on such issues as consolidation in the book industry, the plight of foster children, mother-daughter relationships, animal rescue programs and more. The glorious Southwest landscape once again provides the perfect setting for Webb’s courageous heroine.”
—Publishers Weekly
DESERT WIVES
The Second Lena Jones Mystery
2004 WILLA Literary Award finalist
“Reading Desert Wives is like peering into a microscope at a seething culture of toxic microbes.”
—Diana Gabaldon, author of the Outlander series
“If Betty Webb had gone undercover and written Desert Wives as a piece of investigative journalism, she’d probably be up for a Pulitzer...”
—The New York Times
“Stark desert surroundings underscore the provocative subject matter, the outspoken protagonist, and the ‘insider’ look at polygamist life. Webb’s second Lena Jones mystery, after Desert Noir, is recommended for most collections.”
—Library Journal
“Dark humor and thrilling action inform Webb’s second Lena Jones mystery...The beauty of the Southwestern backdrop belies the harshness of life, the corrupt officials, brutal men and frightened women depicted in this arresting novel brimming with moral outrage.”
—Publishers Weekly
DESERT NOIR
The First Lena Jones Mystery
2002 Book Sense Top Ten Mystery
“Another mystery strong on atmosphere and insight.”
—Connie Fletcher, Booklist
“A must read for any fan of the modern female PI novel.”
—Publishers Weekly
Desert
Redemption
A Lena Jones Mystery
Betty Webb
Copyright © 2019 by Betty Webb
Cover and internal design © 2019 by Sourcebooks, Inc.
Cover design by Sourcebooks Inc.
Cover image © Paul Howell
Sourcebooks, Poisoned Pen Press, and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious and are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.
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Published by Poisoned Pen Press, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.
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Library of Congress Cataloging 2018959448
Printed and bound in the United States of America.
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Contents
Desert Redemption
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Acknowledgments
More from this Author
To my “new” brother, Ron Corbin, and his/our family
“[No] matter what a waste one has made of one’s life, it is ever
possible to find some path to redemption, however partial.”
—Charles Frazier, Cold Mountain
35 years earlier
Screams in the distance. Gunshots. Angry voices.
Helen is halfway through the meadow, almost to the trees, but Christina has no trouble keeping up with her, even though the four-year-old is dragging a younger child by the hand.
“The ranger station isn’t far,” Helen whispers to her husband. “I think we can make it.”
Liam’s face is white against the night, but a narrow strip of moonglow through the clouds reveals his green eyes.
Running with them are the other children, white, black, Hispanic, Asian. Most are having trouble navigating the uneven ground, but little Christina provides a steady guide. They’ll be fine as long as no one cries.
They have almost reached the tree line when the child running alongside Christina slows and begins to whimper.
“Quiet, Morningstar!” Christina admonishes. “Or the bad men will hear you.”
Morningstar falls silent at the same moment a lighter-haired girl, not as obedient, begins to wail.
“No, Louisa!” Liam hisses.
Louisa, more frightened of the big red-headed man than of their pursuers, wails even louder. Startled, the babies Liam is carrying join in. Their screams blend with hers.
“Hush, children, please,” Helen begs.
Louisa gulps to a stop, but it is too late.
The men behind them are closer now, and one shouts, “I hear them!”
Christina opens her mouth to scream, but no sound comes out.
Chapter One
Present day
My screams echoed those in my nightmare until Jimmy rolled over in bed and put his arms around me.
“Shhhh. It’s just a dream, Lena. Just a dream.”
“Not a dream,” I rasped, my throat raw from screaming. “A memory.”
“You need to start seeing someone again. How about that anger management therapist you used to go to?”
“She moved to Tucson. Besides, I’m not angry anymore.”
“And I’m the Queen of Sheba.”
“That line wasn’t funny the first time I heard it.”
Silence.
As Jimmy continued to hold me, caressing the old bullet scar on my forehead, I caught my breath. Finally able to speak normally, I said, “The cats are traumatized. Again.”
“They’ll get over it.”
Snowball and Mama Snowball were huddled together in the far corner of the Airstream’s bedroom, their fear-fluffed coats making them look twice their size. At least we had delivered the last of the litter to their adoptive homes yesterday, so only two white flame-point Siamese remained behind to listen to my nightmares.
“I’m sorry, cats. It won’t happen again.”
But I knew it would.
It was a brisk October morning, a mere seventy-two degrees—freezing temps for this part of Arizona—as we headed from the trailer to the corral to feed the horses. Big Boy, Jimmy’s pinto gelding, trotted over immediately, while Adila, my Appaloosa mare looked as spooked as the cats. Living out here on the wild expanse of the Salt River Pima/Maricopa Indian Reservation for two months should have calmed her some, but no, she showed me the whites of her eyes and switched her tail as she approached in a sidling walk. When she got close enough to touch, she flattened her ears and bared her teeth.
“You phony,” I said.
She shook her head, making her snowy mane ripple.
“Nothing but a drama queen.”
She vented a threatening squeal and shook her head again.
“You’re a liar, too, but I brought you a treat anyway.”
When I produced the carrot pieces hidden behind me, her ears, curved like two halves of a crescent moon, flicked forward. Smiling, I thrust my flat palm through the slats of the fence so she wouldn’t be tempted to bite my fingers.
“Careful,” I warned.
Black velvet lips brushed against my palm, picking up carrot pieces with the delicacy of a neurosurgeon. After crunching them down she flattened her ears again and backed away from the fence. Then with a squeal, she wheeled, kicked up her heels, and thundered around the corral, completing three circuits. As I watched my misbehaving horse, I admired her white coat with its dappling of quarter-sized black spots. My beauty. My equal. My spirit animal.
“That horse is going to kill you,” Jimmy said, as he stroked Big Boy’s gentle muzzle.
“Adila? It’s all theater with her. She wouldn’t purposely harm a hair on my head.”
“Maybe not purposely, but with horses like her, accidents happen.”
“I can handle every accident she throws my way.”
Jimmy muttered something I couldn’t hear, then smiled. A full-blooded Pima, his russet skin glistened in the rising sun, making the curved tribal tattoo on his temple look darker in contrast. “You want to ride first or work?”
“Work,” in this case, meant finishing construction on the three-bedroom house he had begun in the spring, months before I’d semi-moved from my apartment in Old Town Scottsdale to join him on the Rez. The early-morning beauty out here was still new to me. Around us orange and violet mesas thrus
t upwards into the clear blue sky. A bright red cardinal sang from a nearby patch of prickly pear cactus, while a family of top-knotted Gambel’s quail scratched for breakfast under a yellow-bloomed creosote bush.
“Let’s ride first,” I said.
“That’s got my vote.”
We were just saddling up when we spotted Harold Slow Horse’s Ford Bronco coming up the dirt road, leaving a rooster tail of dust behind him.
“Here comes trouble,” Jimmy said.
“What makes you say that?”
“Something tells me Chelsea’s taken off again.”
“Took off? I thought she divorced him last August, split with some guy from Texas.”
“She changed her mind and came back.”
“And Harold let her?”
“You know Harold.”
Indeed I did. Harold Slow Horse, a fierce-looking Pima-Kiowa, was even more forgiving than Jimmy, which made him a patsy for users of the female persuasion. In Chelsea’s case, “user” also meant the oxycodone addiction that had led her into treatment at the clinic next door to the convenience store Harold had once managed. She had come in one day for a Coke, the legal kind, and they’d begun chatting. Despite Chelsea’s white bread upbringing, she had a yen for all things Indian, so one thing led to another, and as soon as the clinic declared her clean, she moved onto the Rez with him. That had been three years, one divorce, and two après-divorce kiss-and-make-ups ago. Chelsea Cooper-Slow Horse was nothing if not changeable.
“Ya ta hey,” Harold called, jumping down from his truck, followed by Doofus, his yellow Lab. Thanks to so many years of living indoors, Harold’s round face wasn’t as deeply grooved as most Indians in their fifties. His eyes were those of a much younger man.
“Ya ta hey, yourself,” Jimmy said. “So what’s up, cousin?”
