“You’re going in no matter what?”
Joanna nodded. “No matter what. Angie Kellogg thinks a man’s life is in danger, and so do I.”
Dick Voland shook his head. “Get in, then,” he snapped. “Get in, both of you. I’ll drive.”
Joanna held her breath as Voland four-wheeled it through the next two washes, both of them running bank to bank. Twice the Blazer lost its footing and floated downstream half a car length or so before it once again hit the ground firmly enough to regain forward momentum.
Once back on the roadway, Voland shot Joanna a disparaging glance. “All I can say is, this better be serious enough to justify almost drowning. Besides, with everything going on up in Willcox, we should both be headed up there instead of out into the boonies someplace.”
Joanna wanted to argue with him about it-to try to explain the idea that the very fact Angie Kellogg had come to them for help was an indication of the seriousness of the situation. She decided against it. Chief Deputy Voland might be pissing and moaning, but he was also driving in the right direction.
“There’ll be time enough for Willcox later,” Joanna replied mildly. “After we make sure Mr. Hacker is okay.”
“Right,” Voland muttered.
Ahead of them, the clouds over the Peloncillos seemed to break apart, revealing a patch of brilliantly blue sky. Moments later, a breathtakingly beautiful double rainbow appeared, arching across the eastern horizon. Big Hank Lathrop had al-ways told his daughter that there was a pot of gold at the end of any rainbow, but especially double ones. A grown-up Joanna no longer believed that parental myth any more than she believed in Santa Claus or the Tooth Fairy. For today, though, more than a pot of gold, Joanna welcomed the rainbow’s promise that the storm was truly over. Eventually the washes would quit running. Life would return to normal-whatever that was.
“There it is,” Angie called from the backseat.
Ahead of them, a road veered off to the right. Beyond the junction, the wet rock walls of Cottonwood Creek Cemetery glowed damp and shimmery in the late afternoon sun. On the far side of the cemetery, tucked into a clearing sat a small camper-trailer.
“Doesn’t look like anybody’s home,” Dick Voland commented, turning right off Geronimo Trail and then pausing to take stock of the situation. “What kind of vehicle did you say he has?”
“A Hummer,” Joanna said.
“As in sixty to ninety thou?” Voland asked with a whistle.
“How does a guy who raises parrots for a living come up with that kind of cash? He must be one hell of a grant writer!”
“I don’t know where Dennis Hacker gets his money,” Joanna said. “Now, stop here and let me out.”
Voland stepped on the brakes. “Here? What for?”
“So I can look at the tracks and try to figure out what’s going on.”
“But…” Voland began.
Without waiting long enough to hear his objection, Joanna climbed out of the Blazer and slammed the door. She had lived at the end of a solitary dirt road long enough to have taught herself the rudiments of tracking, of reading whatever messages were left behind in the dust and mud.
Kneeling over the still-damp dirt track, she saw that the storm had washed it clean. On the blank slate left behind, only one set of tire tracks was visible. The storm had blown up from Mexico, circling from east to west. Because Joanna had no way of knowing how long ago rain had ended on this particular stretch of roadway, it was impossible for her to tell which direction the tracks were going-in or out. The wide wheelbase made her suspect that the tracks had been left by Dennis Hacker’s departing Hummer, but there was no way of knowing for sure.
Finished with her initial examination of the roadway, Joanna walked back to the Blazer. “Angie, didn’t you say Mr. Hacker called you from home?”
Angie nodded. “Yes. On his cell phone. He was telling me he was about to leave for town when whoever it was came bursting inside.”
Joanna looked at Dick Voland. “There’s only one set of tracks showing,” she told him. “Depending on when the rain ended, they could either be corning or going. Since the Hummer isn’t anywhere in sight, I’d say going. You drive on in as far as the trailer. Try to stay far enough off the roadway itself that you don’t disturb any of the tracks.”
“What are you going to do?” Voland asked.
“Walk,” Joanna said. “Something may give me a clue as to which way he was going or how long ago he left.”
“Wait a minute,” Voland objected. “What if they’re still in there?”
“With the Hummer gone, I doubt it,” Joanna returned. “But that’s a risk we’re going to have to take.”
“Wait,” Angie said. “I’ll come with you.”
“No you won’t,” Joanna told her. “You’ll stay in the back of the Blazer until either Dick or I give the word that it’s safe. Understand?”
Nodding, Angie subsided back in the seat. Joanna slammed the door on Dick Voland’s next volley of objections and turned her attention back to the tire tracks. They were easy to follow. They led directly around the cemetery and toward the little boulder-free clearing where the trailer was parked. Halfway there, a second set of tracks-from the same tires-suddenly overlaid the first.
Joanna held up her hand and signaled for Dick to stop the Blazer long enough for her to sort out what had happened. The original set continued on toward the trailer. The second set-definitely more recent than the first- headed off toward the south. Motioning Dick to stay where he was, Joanna walked closer to the trailer. She was concentrating so hard on the tracks that only a hint of movement registered in her peripheral vision. Because she was already filled with apprehension, the movement, combined with a sudden whack of metal on metal, was enough to send her diving for cover behind a boulder, drawing her Colt 2000 as she did so.
At once, Voland killed the engine on the Blazer. In the sudden hush that followed the whack came again. “Did you see something?” Dick asked a moment later as, nine-millimeter in hand, he dropped to the ground beside her.
Feeling stupid, Joanna didn’t want to answer. “It’s the door,” she said. “The open door to the trailer blowing in the wind.”
“Cover me,” Voland said. “I’ll go on up and check it out.”
“No,” Joanna said. “We’ll both-” She stopped short. Had she not been looking at Dick Voland just then, she might have missed it entirely. “Look!” she said, pointing.
“Look at what? I don’t see anything.”
“Footprints,” she said. She crawled around her chief deputy to examine the set of footprints that had been left in the soft sand. They looked as though they had been left by a pair of worn sneakers, and they led directly from the brush toward the trailer. The prints from the right foot were distinct and clear. The ones made by the left foot were blurry, less defined. A foot or so off to the left of them was a third track of some kind-a round hole poked in the dirt at regular intervals.
“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
