Saguaro Riptide

Those were the things Rorie was thinking about. But not Wyetta. Rorie discovered that PDQ, because suddenly the sheriff emerged from her own personal fog and said, “If we only knew who Komoko was calling on that damn cellular phone of his.”

Rorie nodded. At least Wyetta had broken her silence. At least her comment acknowledged the fact that Rorie was in the room.

“That would sure help us some,” Rorie agreed. “I wonder if there’s a way we could get ahold of Komoko’s phone records-”

“Wait just a goddamn minute.” Wyetta drained her drink and thunked the tumbler onto the redwood burl coffee table. “Where’d you put Komoko’s phone?”

“You’ve got it,” Rorie said, and she said it gently because she didn’t want to get into a fight; personal experience told her that the one thing that got Wyetta more riled than a bronc in a barn fire was a challenge to her memory.

“That night,” Rorie continued, “after we came back here. . you had that drink to calm yourself down, and then you told me to put the phone-”

“In the library, behind my Wyatt Earp books.” Wyetta remembered, after all. “Wait here. I’ll go get it.”

Rorie took a deep breath. Maybe things weren’t so bad. It was just the Komoko thing. It was getting to Rorie, too. And the whole thing was really her fault, because she was the one who’d told Wyetta about Komoko in the first place. If she’d kept her mouth shut they wouldn’t be going through all this shit right now. But this shit couldn’t last forever. This was just what you called a bad patch, and once they got through it, together. .

Rorie settled back on the couch, a Navajo-patterned monstrosity that smelled like old horse blankets. She sipped her O’Doul’s. Just a bad patch, she repeated, almost believing it this time, and once we get through it … together-

Wyetta returned, cellular phone in hand. “Damn. I should have thought of this before. Komoko’s phone is one of those titties-on-a-bull models. It has all the whistles and bells- including a redial button. All we have to do is punch that button and presto, we’re in touch with the last person he talked to.” Wyetta didn’t wait for a reply. She punched REDIAL. Listened.

Five rings. An answering machine picked up. First came some music. Drums. A military cadence. Followed by a sprightly theme song. .

Jesus, it was the theme from Hogan’s Heroes.

The music cut off abruptly. Somebody said, “Benteen residence. Nobody’s home. If you’re not a reporter, leave a message. Wait for the beep.”

Wyetta hit the OFF button and turned toward Rorie. “Well, we’re off and runnin’, cowgirl. The phone belongs to someone named Benteen.”

“A woman?”

“Yeah … it was a woman’s voice on the machine. Why?”

“Little Miss Death-From-Above. Her name’s Kate Benteen.”

“Who?”

“You remember-the chicklet at the Five-and-Dime. The one in the black T-shirt and combat boots, the witness to Baddalach’s run-in with Jerry Caldwell. I was talking to her while you and the boxer did your little dance.”

“No shit? Her name’s Benteen?”

“No shit whatsoever.”

“Oh, man. What an act, pretending that she didn’t even know the pug. We’ll have to have us some serious girltalk with that little gash.” Wyetta walked over to the bar and grabbed her own telephone. “But first I’d better make some calls … do a little checking up on Ms. Benteen.” The sheriff grabbed a pencil and a notebook and returned to the dead bovine chair.

“What do you want me to do?” Rorie asked.

Wyetta gave her a big smile. “How about rustling us up some dinner? There are a couple of T-bones in the fridge. There’s even some lettuce if you’ve a mind to make me eat my rabbit food. And I bought some of those Pop’n’Fresh biscuits you like, too. They’re in the freezer.”

“No problem,” Rorie said, because that was what she always said when Wyetta asked her to do something.

As she started for the kitchen she heard the unmistakable sound of Jack Daniel’s sloshing over ice.

But she did not turn around.

She did not speak a single word.

Instead she rustled up some dinner.

After her swim, Kate Benteen returned to her room. Sandy Kapalua-Dayton had put her in 23, which was right at the top of the stairs. Kate didn’t care. She might have, had she known that Jack Baddalach was in room 22, but she had no idea where the boxer had disappeared to.

The first thing Kate did was power up the air conditioner. HI-FAN. MAX A/C. She liked things cool. Then she took a shower and washed off all that chlorine. Motel pools always used way too much. Kids always took the rap for pissing in ’em, but Kate put the blame on turista guys who drank too much beer. She’d known more than a few guys like that in her time.

She toweled off, shredded the safety seal on the bottle of Murine she’d bought at the five-and-dime, and dribbled a few drops into her eyes. For a second she felt really good, like she could see the whole world really clearly.

Then she blinked and quite suddenly ersatz tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Benteen wiped them away. Swearing at herself, she pulled on a pair of jeans and a clean T-shirt. Another black one. This one said KILL 'EM ALL amp; LET GOD SORT 'EM OUT.

She cleaned her guns even though they weren’t dirty. It was an old habit, and hard to break. She had a Heckler amp; Koch USP.45 and a Benelli Super 90 shotgun, and she checked the action on both after reassembling the weapons.

She stowed the Benelli with her other gear. While she was up, she grabbed a couple boxes of ammo- Winchester 185-grain Silvertips and Federal 230-grain Hydra-Shoks-then juggled them, trying to make a decision.

After a minute she set the Heckler-still unloaded-on her nightstand, because suddenly the least little decision seemed to require way too much effort.

It was too damn quiet and she knew it. She wished she’d bought a couple of paperbacks at the store. Maybe a new Mack Bolan, something that would distract her. She didn’t want to think about what she was doing in Pipeline Beach because she didn’t know if she’d be very happy with the answer to that question if she went looking for it.

Screw it, then. She wasn’t going to think about it.

The TV remote was bolted to the nightstand. The TV itself was bolted to the dresser. The whole setup made her want to break something.

Kate ignored the temptation and turned on the TV instead.

Just in time to see some guy get thrown off a train.

He rolled down a grassy knoll and came to a stop stark-staring-dead-as-you-please.

Then the theme music started up. Twangy sixties spy guitar set to a tiki-torch beat. Patented Henry Mancini. Kate didn’t need to see the credits to know that the picture was Charade, starring Audrey Hepburn and Cary Grant.

The plot wasn’t what you’d call alarmingly original. Still, Kate didn’t hit the OFF button. Didn’t even hit mute or change the channel. She just sat there, staring, her worst couch potato instincts taking hold.

Audrey was in Gay Paree, and her husband had turned up dead-he was the stiff who’d been tossed from the train (a jowly little gent who, Benteen noted with her signature sense of sarcasm, looked like he’d have about as much chance of wedding Ms. Hepburn as he’d have being mistaken for Cary Grant). There were all these menacing strangers hovering about the exotic environs through which Ms. Hepburn wove her way, including the aforementioned Monsieur Grant, and each and every one of them seemed to be real interested in discovering the