Rattlesnake Crossing (11 page)

"I noticed the sign down by the road. No feds allowed. Is that why he's mad at them, because he thinks they mismanaged his VA claim?"

Sonja shook her head. "He's mad at them because every time he turns around, there's some other federal regulation or requirement that gets in the way of his being able to run his ranch. He's sick and tired of governmental interferenc and as far as I'm concerned, the man's entitled to his opinion."

"Does that opinion extend to the Cochise County Sheriff's Department?" Joanna asked.

Sonja smiled. "I shouldn't think so, especially since you're here to help straighten out this mess with Scorsby.”

Somewhat reassured, Joanna resumed her questioning. "So, getting back to that, what time did you hear the shots?

"Ten-thirty, maybe? The ten o'clock news had just gone off and I was getting ready for bed. Alton was already asleep."

Just then there was a rumbling outside the house. It sounded like several vehicles arriving at once. When Joanna lanced out the window, however, she saw only two—Jake Hosfield's ATV and a 1980s-era Ford pickup. While she watched, Jake jumped off the ATV, pulled off his helmet, and dashed toward the house. Two men climbed out of the other vehicle. After what looked like a brief conference across the bed of the pickup, one of the two walked away and disappeared into a barnlike structure, while the other—thee driver—limped toward the house.

Sonja Hosfield peeked out the same window. "I'd better go let him know what's what," she said. With that she slipped off her apron and hung it on one peg of a hat rack just to the left of the back door.

Feeling a little like a voyeur, Joanna watched as Sonja darted out the back door and hurried up the path to meet her husband. Tall and angular, Alton Hosfield doffed his cowboy hat and had to lean down to kiss the top of his wife's head. Then, holding hands, the two of them continued on toward the house.

Except for the hearing aids Alton wore in each ear, he was exactly what Joanna would have expected of an Arizona rancher. Hard physical labor meant that there was no fat on his spare, lean body. His features were as craggy and deeply tanned as the rockbound cliffs overlooking the San Pedro. His dusty boots were worn down at the heels, but even after a day out in the field, his threadbare Levi's still showed a hint of the crease some loving hand had ironed into them, while the back hip pocket bore the unmistakable imprint of a round tobacco can. The sleeves of his plaid cowboy shirt—tan with pearlescent snaps—were rolled up almost to the elbows, exposing bare, work-hardened hands and sinewy forearms. The moment he walked info the house, he removed his sweat-stained Resistol hat, revealing a head of hair every bit as red as his son's—although, as Sonja had mentioned, Alton's hairline was definitely receding.

With practiced ease, he tossed the straw hat onto an empty peg next to his wife's apron. Then he came striding across the faded kitchen linoleum with his hand extended. "Sorry to kick up such a fuss around here today, Sheriff Brady," he said in a soft-spoken drawl. "But if somebody doesn't put a stop to Martin Scorsby's nonsense, I will, and I guarantee you, he won't like it."

"Now, Alton," Sonja cautioned. "Please ..."

"Don't you 'Now, Alton' me," Hosfield returned. "I mean what I say. That man and that little Birkinstar-wearing bimbo of his—"

"Birkenstock," Sonja corrected smoothly.

"Whatever you want to call 'em," Alton said, "those two have been a pain in my backside ever since they showed up here. Before that, even. And if Scorsby thinks he can sit over in those trees of his and take shots at my property ..."

"Did Deputy Sandoval take pictures this morning?" Joanna asked.

"Pictures?" Alton Hosfield repeated. "Of my dead cattle? Why would he? Most everybody with a lick of sense can tell a dead cow when he sees one. Why would anybody want to take pictures?"

"If Deputy Sandoval was following proper procedure, he would have," Joanna said. "Photos would have shown exactly how the cows were situated in the field. They would also give us the positions of entrance and exit wounds. With that kind of information, we can begin to develop a sense of trajectory of the bullets. Knowing where the shots came from will help us identify who the shooter is."

"Well," Hosfield conceded, "your deputy may have—taken pictures, that is. I just don't remember."

"What about the pump?"

"When Sandoval got here, I gave him the smashed housing, but I had already replaced it by then. I'm not going to sit around all day with a broken pump while I'm waiting for a cop to decide whether or not he's going to show up. Sometimes they don't, you see. You call and maybe the deputy will turn up that day and maybe he won't.

"Still, the new housing is the same as the old one. They had discontinued that model when I bought them. I was able to get the two—one and a replacement—for almost the same amount of money as a new one would have cost. So if you look at the one that's on the pump now, you should be able to get a pretty good idea of what happened."

Outside, a vehicle started. Joanna looked out the window in time to see an old panel truck, a rust-spotted blue one that looked as though it might have once belonged to a dairy, rattle out past the gate. "Where's Ryan going?" Sonja asked her husband with a frown.

"Into town, I guess."

"What about dinner?"

"He said he had plans."

For the first time since Joanna had met Sonja Hosfield, she saw a look of real annoyance wash across the other woman's face. "He didn't have plans this morning," she said. "Don't you remember? I asked him at breakfast be-cause I wanted to know how much meat to get out of the freezer."

"Well, I don't know where he's going," Alton Hosfield said. "All I know is he said he was going."

With her lips set in a thin, angry line, Sonja came over to the table and removed one of the four place settings, slamming the plate back in the cupboard, dropping the silver-ware into the drawer. "It would have been nice—it would have been good manners—if he had told
me,"
she said pointedly.

"I'm sorry, hon," Alton said. "I should have made him..."

"You shouldn't have done anything, Alton," she told him. "It's not your fault. He's twenty-two years old. He should have thought of it himself."

"Now, Sheriff Brady, getting back to this pump business ..."

At that precise moment, Joanna's cell phone rang. While Sonja and Alton Hosfield looked on in some surprise, Joanna reached into her purse, removed the phone, and answered it. "Sheriff Brady here. I'm in the middle of an interview. What's up?"

"Sorry to interrupt," Larry Kendrick said. "We tried several times to raise you on the radio. I finally decided we'd better try the phone."

"Why?" Joanna asked. "What's happened?"

"Search and Rescue just found a body," Larry Kendrick said. "A woman who's been shot. I thought you'd want to know."

A knot, like a sudden, sharp cramp, gripped Sheriff Brady's insides. Sonja Hosfield claimed that she had heard several shots. The pump and the two dead cattle accounted for three of the several bullets. She wondered if the dead woman accounted for another.

Larry, the chief dispatcher, sounded as though he wanted to add something more, but Joanna cut him off without giving him a chance. "Tell them I'm on my way, Larry. Where do I go?"

"Where are you now?"

"With Mr. and Mrs. Hosfield at the Triple C."

"Search and Rescue set up a command post just inside the gates to Rattlesnake Crossing Ranch. It's another three miles or so up Pomerene Road from where you are."

"I know where Rattlesnake Crossing is," Joanna said. "I'll be there just as soon as I can make it."

"Detective Carbajal's still in Pomerene and tied up with the lady from the Pima County Medical Examiner's office," Larry continued, "so I called Ernie Carpenter at home. He's still a little woozy from whatever medication he took for his migraine, but he said to tell you that he's on his way
."

Sighing, Joanna ended the call and slipped the phone back into her purse. "Sorry," she said to the Hosfields. "There's been an emergency. I have to go."

"They must've found that woman," Alton said, turning to his wife. "I probably forgot to tell you. Her husband came around looking for her right after breakfast this morning. He came by while Ryan and I were working on the pump. Said she'd been missing since yesterday afternoon."

"Is she okay?" Sonja asked.

"No," Joanna told them. "She's not okay. She's dead."

CHAPTER SEVEN

As she heeled the Blazer around and headed back for Pomerene Road, Joanna glanced at her watch. Six o'clock, straight up and down. She had stayed at the Triple C far longer than she had intended, and time had slipped away from her. Now, with exactly one hour before her date with Butch and with more than an hour's worth of driving between the Triple C and High Lonesome Ranch, she was headed for Rattlesnake Crossing, which lay in the opposite direction.

Rather than hightailing it for home and a relaxing evening of fun with someone whose company she had come to value, Sheriff Joanna Brady was, instead, off to investigate her second crime scene of the day—her second homicide of the day.

Slowing almost to a crawl on the rough, washboarded surface, she pulled her cell phone out of her purse once again and checked the roaming light to be sure she still had a signal. Then she punched in the memory code for Butch's Roundhouse Bar and Grill up in Peoria, near Phoenix. Obviously, since her date with Butch was scheduled for Bisbee—a minimum of four hours by car from the Phoenix area—he wouldn't be at the Roundhouse to take the call himself, not at the bar and restaurant downstairs or in his bachelor apartment upstairs. Nevertheless, Joanna knew from past experience that Butch Dixon was a conscientious business owner who never left town without leaving behind a telephone-number trail to let people know exactly where he'd be staying. That way, in case of any unforeseen circumstances or emergencies at his place of business, the daytime bartender and relief manager would have no difficulty in reaching him.

Punching SEND, Joanna waited, listening for the phone to ring. Then, because there was so much road noise, she held the phone away from her ear long enough to punch up the volume. When she put the phone back to her ear, an operator's recorded announcement was already well under way. "... you feel you have reached this number in error, please hang up and dial again. If you need help, hang up and dial the operator."

Puzzled, and scowling at the phone, Joanna punched RECALL. She studied the lit display long enough to verify that the number she had dialed was indeed that of the Roundhouse. Once again she pressed SEND. This time she was careful to hold the phone to her ear, only to hear the familiar but irritating sequence of a disconnect announcement. She listened to the message from beginning to end.

"The number you have reached has been disconnected. If you feel you have reached this number in error, please hang up and dial again. If you need help, hang up and dial the operator."

Disconnected! Joanna thought dazedly. How on earth could Butch's number be disconnected? And why wasn't there a forwarding referral to another number? How could that be?

The Blazer bounced across the rattle guard at the edge of the Triple C and lurched to a stop at the intersection of Triple C with Pomerene Road. Her stopping there had far more to do with a need to think than it did with the stop sign posted there.
What on earth had happened?

Joanna waited while first one car and then another rumbled past. The second one she recognized. Seeing Detective Ernie Carpenter roar by in his private vehicle, the Mercury Marquis he called his "geezer car," was enough to shock Joanna out of her reverie. Not wanting to be left out of the loop, she quickly turned onto the road and followed him, maintaining just enough distance between his vehicle and hers to avoid most of the cloud of dust kicked up by his tires.

Following Ernie and operating on autopilot, Joanna continued to grapple with the puzzling problem of what had happened to Butch Dixon and his restaurant. She remembered how, during the past few weeks, he had told her over and over how busy he was. More than once she had allowed herself the smallest possible qualm that perhaps another woman had arrived on the scene. Now, though, other scenarios marched through her head. Maybe something terrible had happened to him, something Butch hadn't wanted to burden her with. What if his place had burned down? What if he had somehow landed in financial trouble and had simply run out of money? And if he hadn't left a forwarding phone number, how did he expect anyone—her included—to be able to get in touch with him?

For a few minutes she toyed with the idea of calling Dispatch and asking them to send an officer out to her place to meet Butch and tell him exactly what was going on. She considered the idea, then dismissed it. Prior to her arrival on the scene, the Cochise County Sheriff's Department had operated like a little fiefdom, with on-duty officers running personal errands on behalf of their supervisors. Under Joanna's administration, that practice had been expressly forbidden. And as someone who wanted to lead by example, Sheriff Brady couldn't afford to fly in the face of' the very rules she herself had created.

No, she decided finally as she turned in under the arched gate marked "Rattlesnake Crossing." We'll have to let the chips fall where they may. I'll stop just long enough to make an appearance. Since Ernie's here to take charge, I won't have to hang around. With any kind of luck, Butch will wait at the house until I get there.

Once again Joanna found herself driving on a mile-long dirt track. The Triple C holdings were situated along the river bottom. Rattlesnake Crossing, however, like Martin Scorsby's Pecan Plantation, was located on the other side of the road—upland and away from the river itself. What Joanna knew about Rattlesnake Crossing was more countywide gossip than anything else.

Under the name The Crossing, the place had come into existence in the mid-seventies as a residential psychiatric treatment center for patients of Dr. Carlton A. Lamphere. Dr. Lamphere, a New York native and a devotee of R. Buckminster Fuller, had bought up a tract of land, sunk a well, and then created his treatment facility by building a massive main ranch house in the center of the property and scattering the rest of his hundred and twenty acres with twenty or more Fuller-inspired geodesic domes.