“Wait a minute. You’re asking me to marry you?” Joanna returned. “On the telephone?”
“Well, I admit it’s not the best possible arrangement. But it seems like I’d better do it now. Otherwise, your mother will do it for me.”
“Butch. I don’t know what to say.”
On the other end of the phone, Joanna heard a doorbell chime.
“Say yes,” he urged.
“But you promised. You told me you wouldn’t push.”
“That was before your mother rang my doorbell. So, will you or won’t you?” The doorbell chimed again. “Well?” he pressed.
Joanna took a deep breath. “Yes, dammit. All right. I will.”
“Good answer. Good answer,” Butch said. “Now I’ve gotta run and answer the door. Otherwise Junior will beat me to that.”
Butch Dixon hung up then. Twenty miles away, across the San Pedro Valley, Joanna Brady stared at her cell phone in stunned silence.
Ten
FOR THE next several minutes, Joanna was so thunder-struck by what had happened that she barely saw where she was going. How could it be? Butch had asked her to marry him and she hadn’t said no. She hadn’t said “I need to think it over.” She had simply said yes. And not even very graciously at that.
She wanted to call him back, to say something—anything, but she couldn’t do that. Not with her mother there! Her mother! How dare she! And yet…Try as she might, Joanna couldn’t be angry with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield right then. She was happy in a way she had never thought to be happy again. Giddy, almost.
When Joanna was growing up, a place called Nicksville—little more than a bar and a couple of scattered mobile homes—had been civilization’s last visible outpost along Highway 92 between Sierra Vista and the cutoff to Coronado Pass. The isolated mountain pass overlooked the route Coronado and his men once followed as they came north in search of the Seven Cities of Gold. Nicksville was where Joanna finally came to her senses. She realized then that she had overshot the turnoff to Mark Childers’ Oak Vista Estates without even noticing.
Laughing now, Joanna made a U-turn in the bar’s parking lot and headed back the way she had come. On the way she made a conscious effort to put her life-changing phone call to Butch aside. She was going to Oak Vista on business—on police business. She understood how vitally important it was for her to keep her mind on the job. Inattentive cops too often become dead cops.
Just north of the cutoff to Coronado Pass, the sweeping majesty of the Huachucas was marred by several moving columns of dust and by the thick smoke of a slash-burn fire that spiraled skyward above the grassy foothills. Gigantic bulldozers had left behind red earthen scars through the tall yellow grass and knocked down grove after grove of sturdy scrub oak.
Seeing the damage, Joanna shook her head. Welcome to urban blight, she thought. No wonder people were offended by Mark Childers’ grandiose plans and thundering equipment. By the time his dozer-wielding construction crews were done with their work, people buying homes in Oak Vista would be lucky if there were any viewable oak left standing for miles around.
Three miles back down the highway she came to a huge billboard. WELCOME TO OAK VISTA ESTATES, the sign read. MODELS OPENING SOON. Underneath, on the far side of a cattle guard, a narrow road wound off into the desert. Next to the cattle guard, propped against one of the uprights, was an orange-and-white hand-lettered sign. NO TRESPASSING, the sign announced. CONSTRUCTION VEHICLES ONLY.
Switching the Blazer into four-wheel drive, Joanna bounced across the cattle guard. She followed the narrow dirt track for the better part of a mile. By then she noticed that, although smoke from the slash burns was still rising in the brisk autumn air, the moving columns of dust she had spotted from farther up the road were no longer visible. She drove up to a construction shack behind which sat a row of transportable chemical toilets.
It was only when she arrived at the shack that Joanna realized why the earth-moving equipment was no longer moving. It was lunchtime. One whole wall of the construction shack—the shady side—was lined with dusty, hard-hat-wearing workers, all of whom sprawled in the shade, eating lunches out of lunch pails and brown paper bags.
One of the men, a muscular blond in his early thirties, stood up and sauntered toward her. He was stocky with the broad, bulging shoulders and bull neck of a chronic weight lifter. He swaggered up to Joanna’s unmarked Blazer, buttoning the top several buttons of a faded flannel shirt and grinning suggestively. Joanna rolled down her window.
“Hey, red,” he said, referring to Joanna’s bright red hair, “can’t you read, or didn’t you see the sign? It says ‘no visitors.’ Mr. Childers doesn’t want people who don’t belong hanging around here.”
Joanna pulled out her ID wallet and opened it. As soon as she did so, the extra badge she had picked up from the storeroom—the one she had planned to drop off for Junior—plummeted out of the wallet. It landed in the dirt with a tinny thunk. Bent on retrieving it, Joanna bounded out of the truck. As she hit the ground, her ears were assailed by a series of approving catcalls from the other workers. Meanwhile, Mr. Weight Lifter beat her to the punch. When he handed the fallen badge back to Joanna, she was blushing furiously and still trying to offer him a glimpse of the other badge as well as her picture ID.
He chose to ignore both. “What’s the matter, little lady?” Mr. Weight Lifter asked with a leering grin. “Are Crackerjacks having a run on badges these days?”
At five feet four inches tall, Joanna Brady had spent a lifetime being self-conscious about her height—or lack thereof—and being teased about it as well. Consequently, there were few terms that raised her ire more than a derisive “little lady,” although sarcastic comments about her hair color came in a close second.
“No,” she said frostily. “As a matter of fact, this badge came out of a box of Wheaties right along with my Colt 2000, my Glock, and my handcuffs. Care to tell me where I can find Mr. Childers?”
The leer retreated slightly but it didn’t disappear altogther. “He’s not here,” the man answered. “He went into town to grab some lunch.”
“Do you know what time he’ll be back?”
Mr. Weight Lifter raised his hard hat and swiped a grimy forearm across his forehead, leaving behind a muddy track on a sweat-stained brow. “Probably not before two-thirty or so. He believes in long lunches.”
Joanna dug in her pocket and pulled out a business card. “Tell Mr. Childers Sheriff Brady stopped by to see him,” she said. “Now then, one of my deputies is out here somewhere. Any idea where I’d find him?”
“The guy with the dog?”
Joanna nodded.
Taking her card, the man stuffed it into a shirt pocket that was scarred with the round telltale brand of an ever-present can of snuff. “Hey, you guys,” he called back to his fellow workers. “Anybody here know where that deputy went—the one with the big dog?”
One of the other men tossed a soda can past Joanna into a trash can a few feet away. Dregs of soda sprayed out of the can, missing her dry-clean-only suit by mere inches. Evidently pleased with himself the guy favored Joanna with a gap-toothed grin as she dodged back out of the way.
“Up on the back forty,” he said. “Youse go straight up here and turn right at the barbed wire. It’ll take youse right to him.”
Dismissing her, the first guy ambled away. As he turned, his back, Joanna noticed a sickeningly familiar bulge in his hip pocket. “Wait a minute,” she said. “What’s your name?”
He stopped, turned, and stared back at her disdainfully. “Are you talking to me?” he asked.
“Yes, I am.”
“It’s Rob. Rob Evans. Why? I notice you’re not wearing a ring. You interested in a date, maybe?”
Hoots of laughter erupted among Rob Evans’ fellow workers. Joanna didn’t smile. “I’m interested in knowing whether or not you have a permit to carry that concealed weapon,” she said.
Surprise spread over Evans’ face—surprise followed by
dismay. He turned and looked down at his pocket, then back at her. “It’s not concealed,” he said.
“It is,” Joanna said. “It’s not readily displayed in a holster. It’s in your pocket and out of sight. That means it’s considered a concealed weapon and you’re required to have a permit. Hand it over.”
“My gun?”
“Either the gun or the permit, take your pick.”
For several long seconds, Joanna couldn’t tell whether or not Evans would comply. Finally he did. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out a .22 handgun. Holding it gingerly by the barrel, he gave it to her. The Saturday-night special—a cheap knockoff—was such a non-brand name that Joanna didn’t recognize the label.
“It’s for protection,” Evans explained. “The job-site was attacked by rioters yesterday afternoon. We’ve got a right to defend ourselves. It says so in the U.S. Constitution—the right to have guns.”
Joanna wondered why it was that suddenly everybody in Cochise County was busy quoting the Bill of Rights to her.
“I’m familiar with the right to bear arms,” she said.
“And while federal law allows for that, the criminal code of the state of Arizona specifically forbids the carrying of concealed weapons. Let me ask you again, Mr. Evans. Do you have a permit?”
“No,” he said, as his face turned beet-red. Seeing it, Joanna couldn’t tell if the heightened color came from anger, embarrassment, or both.
“How about a holster, then? Do you have one of those?”
“Sure. It’s in my track.”
“Suppose you go get it,” Joanna said. “I can wait.”
Evans’ face turned that much redder. “It’s not here,” he hissed under his breath. “I came to work in a car pool this morning.”
While the other workmen watched in stony silence, Joanna expertly emptied the weapon of bullets. Then she slipped both the gun and the ammunition into her purse.
“Tell you what, Mr. Evans,” she said. “Here’s the deal. You can have your gun back as soon as you show up at my office in Bisbee with either a permit or a holster. Until then, I’m keeping it.”
“You can’t do that!” Evans bawled. “That’s unlawful search and seizure.”
“I haven’t written you up yet,” Joanna reminded him. “And I won’t, either, as long as you show up at my office within the next twenty-four hours to retrieve your weapon. In the meantime, I need to see some ID.”
Still grumbling objections, Evans dug out his wallet and handed over his driver’s license. While Joanna made a note of the number, she continued talking, speaking loud enough for everyone else’s benefit.
“As for the rest of you—” she told the gawking and fascinated onlookers, all of whom had long since given up any pretense of eating lunch. “I’m sure you all know from what happened yesterday that we have a pretty volatile situation on our hands. How many of the rest of you brought guns along to work today—for protection?”
No one raised a hand. Still, Joanna could tell from the uneasy shifting back and forth and from the surreptitiously exchanged glances that she had hit a nerve, that she had landed on something important. Guns were present, all right—present, unaccounted for, and potentially lethal. And that was the very last thing Sheriff Joanna Brady needed on a Tuesday—for a fully armed construction crew to go after a collection of equally armed environmental activists. She could already imagine a banner headline blazing across the front page of the Bisbee Bee. MASSACRE AT OAK VISTA LEAVES X DEAD. The only thing lacking right then was filling in the number of victims.
“After yesterday,” she continued evenly, “I’m sure tempers are running high on both sides of this issue. We don’t yet know for sure whether or not the demonstrators will be back this afternoon, but I promise you this: There will be a group of deputies here to keep the peace. Not only will they be here on the Oak Vista property, they will also be under orders to confiscate any and all weapons—especially concealed weapons—found to be in the possession of people who do not have valid permits to carry.
“Furthermore, for any of you who may have had run-ins with the law on previous occasions, let me remind you that guns are strictly off-limits for most convicted felons. In fact, in some circumstances, the very act of carrying a weapon may result in a one-way ticket back to the slammer. If that applies to anyone here, I won’t hesitate to help your parole officer ship you straight back to Florence.”
“But, Sheriff,” Mr. Soda Can objected. “Youse weren’t here when it happened, so youse didn’t see it, but yeste’day when them people came after us, we wus nothin’ but a bunch of sittin’ ducks. They could’a creamed us.”
“Could have, but they didn’t,” Joanna pointed out. “And in case you haven’t heard, several of those demonstrators ended up spending the night courtesy of Cochise County. Some were arrested for simple assault; others for assault with a deadly weapon. So listen up. If anyone here goes after demonstrators with guns, the same thing will happen to you. You’ll end up in jail—at least overnight—and you’ll lose your weapons besides. You can count on the fact that, if you happen to be arrested by one of my deputies, your weapons will be confiscated and you won’t be getting them back anytime soon. Understood?”
No one spoke aloud. For an answer, Joanna had to content herself with a series of grudging nods.
“All right, then,” she said. “Which way to find my deputy?”
“Bitch,” Bob Evans muttered under his breath. “I hope you go to hell.”
She looked back at him and smiled. “Not today,” she said. “For right now, I only have to go as far as the barbed-wire fence. See you in my office, Mr. Evans. Either late this afternoon or first thing tomorrow morning. You might want to call, though, first. Just to be sure the little lady is in.”
Back in her vehicle, Joanna breathed a sigh of relief as she switched on the ignition. As soon as the Blazer was in motion, she reached for her radio. “Patch me through to Dick Voland,” she told the dispatcher.
“What’s up?” he asked.
“We’ve got a big problem out at Oak Vista,” she told him. Over the next several minutes, she brought him up-to-date. “We’ve got to have people out here,” she urged as she finished. “If the demonstrators show up again today, they’ll be walking into an armed camp. They’re likely to be met with a hail of bullets. As I said, I don’t know how many more guns are involved over and above the one I took off Rob Evans, but I’m willing to bet money that he isn’t the only one who came to work today packing a weapon.”
“Do you think Mark Childers encouraged it?”
“He sure as hell didn’t discourage it,” Joanna replied. “Which means in effect that he’s fomenting a modern-day range-war-type mentality where people are going to get hurt and/or killed.”
“Have you talked to him about it?”
“Not yet. According to his work crew, he’s in town having a long lunch. I wasn’t going to bother hanging around here and waiting for him, but now I think I’d better. In the meantime, I want you to assemble that squad of deputies. Take them from whatever sectors you have to. Since demonstrators showed up around quitting time yesterday, we should have our people here no later than two. That way, if there is going to be trouble, they’ll already be on site.”
“Great,” Voland said. “By the way, have you talked to Deputy Gregovich yet?”
“Not so far. I was just on my way to look for him. According to Childers’ work crew, Terry’s out here somewhere, but I haven’t managed to spot him yet. What about Ernie and Jaime? I don’t suppose they’ve found any trace of Farley Adams.”
“Nope,” Voland told her. “The last I heard, Carpenter and Carbajal were both still over in Tombstone. But I do have a little bit of good luck to report. Jaime’s in charge of the crew working Farley Adams’ mobile home at Outlaw Mountain. About an hour ago, one of his investigators opened the dishwasher. Guess what?”
“They found a dead body inside?” Joanna suggested.
“Ha, ha!” Vol
and said without humor. “The dishwasher was full of dirty dishes. The guy forgot to run it.”
A jolt of excitement coursed through Joanna’s body. “If he forgot to turn on the dishwasher,” she said, “does that mean he also forgot to wipe the dishes for prints?”
“You’ve got it,” Voland told her. “Once the techs finish dusting the dirty dishes, we should have a good set of prints—a complete set—to input into AFIS.”
“Great. While we’re on the subject of Alice Rogers, you might let Ernie know that I’ve spoken to Dr. Daly up in Tucson. She’s got some preliminary autopsy information for him that she’ll be faxing down to us. He’ll want to stay on top of it.”
“Daly says it’s murder then?” Voland asked.
“Looks like. The Pima County detectives continue to hang tight to their neat little theory that Alice Rogers got herself falling-down drunk and then went staggering off into that grove of cactus to die, helped along by a convenient bunch of teenaged car thieves. From what I’ve seen of Hank Lazier, he may not let the facts get in the way of his pet theory. That’s why I want Ernie and Jaime to keep after it.”
“They already are,” Dick said. “I think you’d be hard-pressed to convince them otherwise.”
Just then Joanna came to the end of the newly bladed road. Across an expanse of tinder-dry, knee-high grass she could see an old firebreak meandering off to the right along a drooping barbed-wire fence that evidently marked the boundary of the Oak Vista development. With the Blazer already in four-wheel drive, Joanna bounced easily across the intervening desert and turned north on the old dirt firebreak. It was rough, slow going. Joanna was grateful she was behind the wheel of the Blazer rather than driving the lower-slung Civvy.
Half a mile north, she topped a slight rise and had to slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a white Subaru Legacy parked directly in her path. Had the circumstances been different, she might have simply assumed that the car belonged to a hiker off on a day-long jaunt in the Huachucas. Considering the ongoing problems at Oak Vista, however, Joanna couldn’t afford to ignore the possible threat of that parked vehicle. She had just told Dick Voland that the demonstrators probably wouldn’t show, up at the job site much before quitting time. Now, though, she wondered if, in fact, some of them weren’t already there and wandering around undetected.
Outlaw Mountain : A Joanna Brady Mystery (9780061748806) Page 15
