by J. A. Jance
“Whoever left these tracks may be hurt.”
“What makes you say that?” Voland asked.
“He’s using a cane or a crutch,” Joanna said. “Most likely a cane.”
Voland eyed her quizzically. “How can you tell?”
In order to handle the livestock chores on the High Lone-some, Joanna had found it necessary to have a hired hand. An octogenarian neighbor of hers, Clayton Rhodes, had volunteered for the job. The previous winter, though, after slipping on an ice-glazed pile of cow dung, Clayton had been forced to use a cane for almost two weeks. During that time, Joanna had noticed the tracks he had left behind on trips from his pickup to the barn, to the house, and back again. Those tracks and these were inarguably similar.
“Experience,” she said, without pausing to explain. “Come on. Let’s check out that trailer.”
“Wait a minute,” Voland warned. “Don’t forget a gunman inside that trailer can shoot through those aluminum walls as easily as shooting through pop bottles.”
‘`Right,” Joanna said. “So what do you suggest?”
“Split up and stay low.”
Joanna crept forward, following the tracks, while Voland moved off to the left. The tracks on the ground were easy enough to follow. They led directly to the wooden step outside the trailer’s open door. There they disappeared.
“Mr. Hacker,” Joanna called, ducking behind a tree trunk little more than a few feet from the door. “Are you in there?”
Joanna waited for the better part of a minute, but there was no response other than the intermittent whack of the door on the trailer’s metal siding. She watched while Voland circled around until he was behind the trailer. Finally, when he signaled, they both moved forward.
They arrived at the trailer almost simultaneously, with her approaching one of the front windows just as Voland’s face appeared in one at the back. “Looks like nobody’s home,” Voland called.
Still taking care to dodge the footprints, Joanna walked close enough to the trailer to poke her head in through the door. The interior of Dennis Hacker’s camper looked as though it had been hit by a cyclone. Shards of broken glass were everywhere, along with shattered pieces of molded black plastic that looked as though they had once been part of a cell phone. There were also several reddish stains that resembled smears of blood.
Sickened, sure that she had once again arrived at the scene of a crime too late to do any good, Joanna backed away. “If you’re looking for signs of a struggle,” she called back to Dick, “here they are.”
While Voland hurried around the trailer to peer in through the door, Joanna walked away, following two new sets of foot-prints. Now the person wearing the sneakers had been joined by someone else, by someone wearing what Joanna surmised to be hiking boots. Traveling together, the two pairs of prints headed around the trailer in a counterclockwise direction before disappearing into a vehicle-the same wide-tracked vehicle whose tracks Joanna had followed before.
“I’ll go back to the Blazer and radio for a crime scene technician…”
Joanna knew Dick Voland was speaking to her, but she barely heard him. If the vehicle-presumably Dennis Hacker’s Hummer-had left the trailer with two passengers instead of one, maybe Joanna and Dick Voland weren’t too late after all.
“Come on,” she called urgently to Dick. “Go get the Blazer. They’re headed south.”
“Together?” Dick asked, jogging up behind her.
“That’s my guess.”
Voland started toward the Blazer. Then, to Joanna’s annoyance, he turned and came back. “What about the girl?” he asked.
“Angie?” Joanna returned. “What about her?”
“She got us here,” Voland said. “I’ll give her that much, but if we’re heading into an armed confrontation…”
Without bothering to listen to the rest of the sentence, Joanna knew he was right. As an officer of the law, her duty was to keep civilians out of danger rather than leading them into it. She nodded. “Tell Angie to wait in the cemetery. Have her duck down behind that rock wall and stay there until we come back.”
“With pleasure,” Voland replied. He hurried away.
Thinking that settled the issue once and for all, Joanna turned back to the tire tracks. She had gone no more than a few yards when she heard running footsteps pounding behind her. “Joanna, wait,” Angie called. “Let me come, too.”
Annoyed that Dick Voland hadn’t stated the case plainly enough, Joanna turned to face her friend. “Look, Angie,” she said sharply, “you can’t come with us. It’s too dangerous.”
Angie stopped in her tracks. Behind her came the Blazer with a smiling Dick Voland at the wheel. A single glimpse of the man’s face was enough to let Joanna know that he hadn’t tried to stop Angie, not really. If he had, he would have and she wouldn’t be there. No, letting her go had been a deliberate ploy on Dick Voland’s part. He was testing Joanna again, wanting to know whether or not she was tough enough to call the shots and make the right choice between friendship and duty.
Except this time there was no choice to make. As sheriff and as a sworn police officer, Joanna Brady’s responsibility was blazingly clear-to serve and protect. “Go back,” she said.
“Why should I?” Angie objected. “I’m wearing a bullet-proof vest.”
“You may have a vest,” Joanna conceded “but that still leaves a whole lot of you unprotected and exposed to danger, which is unacceptable. You brought us this far, Angie. We’re grateful for that, but there’s no telling what’s up ahead. We’re armed. You’re not.”
“But…”
“No buts,” Joanna insisted. “What if there’s a shootout? What if, in trying to take care of you, we can’t protect Mr. Hacker? Your being in the way at a critical moment could make all the difference-the difference between life and death. Go now, please.”
Angie’s shoulders sagged. Her face crumpled. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll go back. I’ll wait in the cemetery, just like you said.” Dejectedly, she turned back while Joanna headed for the idling Blazer.
“Good work,” Dick Voland said as she climbed inside. Aware he had intentionally set her up, Joanna was in no mood to be gracious. “Shut up and drive,” she said.
Sitting alert and on edge, Joanna concentrated on not losing the trail. Twice she made Dick stop the Blazer long enough for her to get out and make sure the tire tracks hadn’t veered off the road.
“I’m sorry,” Voland said a mile or so south of the Cottonwood Creek Cemetery when Joanna climbed back into the Blazer for the second time and fastened her seat belt.
“Sorry about what?” she asked.
“About not giving your friend more credit. The whole way out from Bisbee, I kept thinking this was nothing but some harebrained wild-goose chase. Until I saw the trailer, that is. The whole thing sounded so goofy. Including the idea that anybody camping out here would have a working cell phone…”
The radio came to life once more with Larry Kendrick making an addition to the Aaron Meadows APB. Now Meadows was wanted for questioning in regard to the murder of Roxanne Brianna O’Brien. By the time the dispatcher had finished his transmission, Joanna had the radio microphone in her hand.
“Larry, this is Sheriff Brady. What’s going on?”
“Glad you called in,” Larry replied. “You’re the next person I was going to contact. Ernie wants me to let you know that while they were searching Aaron Meadows’s house, they found-”
“The missing journal?” Joanna interrupted.
Kendrick paused. “How did you know?”
Before Joanna could answer, the Blazer rounded a curve. Ahead of them lay the rain-swollen stream with what looked like a crippled brown-and-tan Suburban parked crookedly on the rocky bank while another vehicle-curtained by a rooster tail of muddy water, roared across the ford and bounced up the other side. Only when it regained the roadway was Dennis Hacker’s Hummer clearly visible.
“There they are!” Joanna shouted.
>
“There who is?” Kendrick was asking. “What’s happening?”
“Hang on,” Dick Voland shouted as he sent the Blazer speeding toward the water. “This could be rough.”
The Blazer plunged forward and dropped, bucking and shying, into the rocky streambed while Joanna held on for dear life. Once they hit firm ground on the far side of the water, Voland pounded the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The gradually receding flood had left behind a slick coating of muck on the roadway. The tires lost traction briefly, sending the Blazer into a sickening skid. But Dick Voland was nothing if not an experienced driver. With two deft twists of the wheel, he cut the skid and sent the Blazer racing after the Hummer.
As they drove past the Suburban, seconds before the Blazer roared into the water, Joanna had managed to catch a glimpse of the muddied license plate on the back of the Suburban. It carried the same numbers that had been broadcast as part of the APB for Aaron Meadows.
“Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick insisted urgently. “Come in, please. What’s going on?”
“Call Ernie back,” Joanna shouted into the radio. “Tell him we’ve just spotted that missing Suburban. It’s parked and, most likely, disabled. But the two suspects got away. We’re in close pursuit, heading east/southeast. The suspects are driving a dark green Hummer.”
Joanna closed her eyes and thought about Dennis Hacker. Was he dead already, or was he still alive and in the Hummer along with Meadows and Hastings?
“It’s possible they’ve taken a hostage,” she added into the radio. “The name of the hostage is Dennis Hacker, the parrot guy. I’m pretty sure the Hummer is registered in his name.”
Joanna stared out the windshield at the Hummer, which seemed to be gaining distance on them with every passing moment. She turned back to Dick Voland. “Do you know where this road ends up?” she asked.
Without taking his eyes off the road, Dick shook his head. “I’m not sure. Probably at the Mexican border, if not before.”
“And how far are we from the line?”
“Thirty miles or so. Maybe less. In a Hummer, though, it’s not going to matter if the road ends or not. He’ll be able to go wherever he damned well pleases.”
Nodding, Joanna switched on the microphone once more. “Larry,” she told the dispatcher. “Can you find a way to put me through to either Adam York or Ernie Carpenter?”
It took several bone-jarring minutes. Twice during the wait Dick Voland managed to bring the Hummer briefly into view. “Can you tell how many people are in there?” Joanna asked.
Voland shook his head. “There’s too much mud on the windows. I can’t see a thing.”
“Sheriff Brady? Adam York here. What’s up?”
“How’d you get that search warrant from Tucson to Willcox so fast?” Joanna asked.
“In a helicopter.”
“Where is it right now?”
“The chopper? Getting ready to head back to Tucson. Why?”
“I need it,” Joanna answered. “In the Peloncillos. We’ve got a pair of armed and dangerous suspects making a run for the Mexican border.”
“I know we have a mutual aid agreement, but-”
“Mutual aid nothing!” Joanna cut in. “This is your case, too. Aaron Meadows’s Suburban is parked a mile or so back. We’ve just crossed Sycamore Creek and are heading south and east from Cottonwood Creek Cemetery. Ernie Carpenter will be able to tell you where that is. We’re in a county-owned white Blazer. The suspects are in a dark green Hummer. They’ve got a hostage in there with them. Tell Ernie it’s the parrot guy. I believe at least one of the suspects is wounded. Chances are, the hostage is as well.”
“Damn!” Adam York muttered. “Do you want us to call for other backup?”
“You can call all you want, but I believe you two are it,” Joanna told him. “The way the washes are running right now, I doubt anyone else will be able to get here. That’s why I asked about the chopper.”
“Hang in there, then,” Adam York told her. “Ernie and I are on our way. We’ll be there as soon as we can.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Following the speeding Hummer, Dick Voland’s Blazer rumbled south. After winding past the crumbling remains of what had once been an adobe ranch house, the road deteriorated to little more than a rutted cow path that led back up into the Peloncillos, heading from there on down into the Guadalupe Mountains and the Baker Canyon Wilderness Area.
“If he decides to really go off-roading on us, we’re screwed,” Voland told her. “I’ve heard those Hummers can handle a sixty percent grade if need be, and he’s got at least eight more inches of ground clearance than I do. In any kind of rough terrain, I don’t think the Blazer can keep up.”
Sitting in the rider’s side, Joanna had been remembering the last time she had been stuck in the boonies with a potentially explosive situation. That had been up in the Chiricahuas in the dead of night. She had made a call for backup and had been assured help was on the way, but when push came to shove, Joanna had been entirely on her own.
Dick Voland wasn’t all that easy to work with at times, but right then she was glad to have him. She was especially thankful for his more than capable driving. “If the driving had been left up to me,” she said, “the guy probably would have lost us a long time ago. In the meantime, all we have to do is keep him in sight long enough for the helicopter to show.”
“If it shows,” Voland muttered. “When it comes to calling for reinforcements, I don’t have much faith in the feds.”
Up to a point, Joanna agreed with him. But if the feds were one thing, Adam York was something else. She had total confidence in the man’s ability to deliver.
“Don’t worry,” Joanna said. “They’ll be here. After all, we’re after these guys because they may have killed somebody. The DEA wants them for smuggling Freon. When it comes to the availability of crime-fighting resources, holes in the ozone are a higher priority than holes in people’s bodies-to some of the folks from D.C., anyway.”
“If you ask me, that sounds like the tail wagging the dog,” Voland grumbled.
Despite the seriousness of the moment, despite the fact that they were even then in a hot pursuit chase with lives hanging in the balance, Joanna found herself laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Voland demanded after the Blazer lurched around two more curves and then launched itself into space across another bone-jarring dip.
His question sobered her, made her recognize what was most likely something close to stress-induced hysterics.
“Nothing,” she said finally. “This job is turning me into a total pragmatist. I’m in favor of what works-whatever that may be.”
In the space of little more than a mile, the relatively flat desert gave way to foothills and a mile after that to genuine mountains. The twisting trail seemed more appropriate for mountain goats than it did for vehicular travel. Part of the time, Joanna was able to keep their quarry in visual contact. Most of the time she and Voland kept track of the Hummer’s progress by following the faint tracks left in the rock-strewn roadway. Once back on the mountain grades, progress was much slower.
“What if they make it to Mexico before we catch them?” Joanna asked as she peered anxiously into the sky, hoping to see some sign of Adam York’s helicopter. With the clouds gone and the sky washed clean by rain, there was nothing overhead but limitless blue that was gradually giving way to pale stars and evening shadow.
“Then we get Frank Montoya to see what kind of a peace treaty he can negotiate with the federales down in Sonora so we can get them to track the crooks down and ship them back.”
They traveled in silence for a little while before Joanna took the microphone out of its holder. Calling in to Dispatch, she asked Larry Kendrick to notify authorities in both New and Old Mexico, telling officers in those jurisdictions that assistance might be required.
After all, Joanna thought, cooperation is the name of the game.
By the time she finished with
the radio, they had left the streambed far below and were climbing up and out of yet another canyon. In the process, they crossed two broken fence lines. There were padlocked gates on each of them designed to keep out unauthorized interlopers. The driver of the Hummer had ignored the No Trespassing signs and had circumvented the locks by simply plowing through the barbed wire, popping the strands and knocking out fenceposts. Since the fences were already down anyway, Dick Voland followed suit.
Half a mile beyond the second fence, they found themselves in the middle of a small herd of panicked goats.
“Those don’t look like mountain goats to me,” Voland said.
“They’re not,” Joanna told him. “They’re feral-domestics that have gone wild after being left behind by a disgruntled goat farmer. It happened when the federal government took back his land in order to create the Baker Wilderness Area. They’re thriving out here because there are very few natural predators left.”
“If they don’t get the hell out of my way,” Dick Voland growled, “I’ll be happy to introduce them to an unnatural predator-me.”
Once the Blazer made it through the herd of panicked and milling goats, there was no sign of the Hummer. “Where did they go now?” Dick demanded.
“Let me out again,” Joanna said. “I’ll walk around and see if I can pick up the trail.”
She found it, eventually, but it took time-time they didn’t have. The sun had disappeared completely. Dusk had deepened even more before Joanna once again spied the Hummer’s distinct tracks leading off through knee-high grass. As she climbed back into the Blazer, Joanna scanned the sky once more. There was still no sign of Adam York’s helicopter.
This time the tracks led off across rugged terrain where there was no hint of a road. Voland had to pick his way slowly, concentrating on every move, while Joanna tried to keep track of the Hummer’s fading trail. They were both so engrossed in their own responsibilities that they were caught unawares by the springing of a well-calculated trap.
