take care of things. In other words, if the marks don't fork over, they don't get any patrol coverage.'
'But that's outrageous!' Diana exclaimed. 'They're claiming you're behind it?'
'That's right.'
'But that's the whole reason you were elected in the first place,' Diana protested. 'To clean things up and put an end to that kind of crap.'
'Right.' Brandon, staring into the depths of his beer bottle, answered without looking Diana in the eye.
'How did you find out?'
'Hank Maddern told me.'
'Hank!' Diana echoed. 'He's been retired for years. How did he find out?'
'One of the deputies-Hank wouldn't say which one-went to him with it and asked for advice as to what he should do about it. The deputy evidently thought I was in on it.' Brandon's voice cracked with emotion. It took a minute or so before he could continue.
'Considering the well-known history of graft and corruption during Sheriff DuShane's watch, you can hardly blame the guy for thinking that. Thankfully, Hank and I go back a long way. He came straight to me with it.'
'What are you going to do?'
Brandon sighed. 'I already did it,' he said. 'I went straight to Internal Affairs and told them to check it out on the off chance that some of my officers are involved. I told them I'll cooperate in any way necessary, and that they should do whatever it takes to get to the bottom of it.'
'What'll happen to Quentin?' Diana asked.
Brandon shook his head. 'We're talking felonious activity, Diana. If the prosecutor gets a conviction, he'll spend a couple more years in prison. And when you're already in the slammer, what's another year or two? He won't give a damn, but it's going to be hell for us. Our lives will have to be an open book. We'll have to turn over all our bank records. The investigators will want to know just exactly how much money came in, where it came from, and where it's gone. I told them to have a ball. We've got nothing to hide.'
In the bleak silence that followed that last statement, Brandon Walker slipped lower in his chair, leaning his weight against an arm that had dropped onto the table. 'No matter what we did for that kid, it was never enough.'
Diana reached out and put one hand over her husband's. 'I'm sorry,' she said.
He nodded. 'I know,' he murmured. 'Me, too.'
'It's not your fault, Brandon,' Diana said. 'You did everything you could.'
He looked up at her then, his eyes full of hurt and outrage. And tears. 'But he's my son, for Chrissakes!' he croaked. 'How the hell could my own son do this to me? How could he go against everything I've ever stood for and believed in?'
'Quentin isn't you,' she said. 'He made his own choices…'
'All of them bad,' Brandon interjected.
'… and once again, he's going to have to suffer the consequences.'
Even as Diana uttered the too pat words, she knew they were a cop-out. She was hurt, too, but the real agony belonged solely to Brandon. After all, Quentin was his son. With Tommy evidently out of the picture for good, Quentin was the only 'real' son Brandon Walker had left, which made the betrayal that much worse.
For years they had listened while Janie, Brandon's ex-wife, made one excuse after another about why Quentin and Tommy were the way they were. In Janie's opinion, the critical missing ingredient had always been Brandon's fault and responsibility, one way or the other, although whenever Brandon had tried to exert any influence on the kids, Janie had continually run interference. Any attempt on Brandon's part to discipline the boys had met with implacable resistance from their mother. Diana had seen from the beginning that it was a lose/lose situation all the way around.
'Can you imagine what Janie's going to say when she gets wind of this? She's going to blame me totally, just like she did with the accident.'
'You're the sheriff,' Diana had said. 'You have to do your job. Remember, Quentin's a big boy now-a grown- up. If he's turned himself into a criminal, then it's on his head, not yours.'
But that wasn't entirely true. Quentin was the one who was prosecuted for his part in the extortion scheme, and a slick lawyer got him off but when the next election came around, Brandon Walker lost. His opponent, Bill Forsythe, managed to imply that there had to be some connection between Quentin's illegal but unproven activities and his father, the sheriff.
Diana thought that Brandon could have and should have fought back harder against the Forsythe campaign of character assassination, but somehow his heart wasn't in it. When the fight ended in defeat, he retreated into the Gates Pass house and lived in virtual seclusion while focusing all his energies and frustration on cutting and stacking wood.
Monty Lazarus returned to Diana trailed by a waitress bearing a tray laden with glasses of iced tea as well as a bowl of salsa and a basket of chips.
'I thought I'd order a little food-something to keep up our strength.' He grinned. 'Now where were we? Oh, that's right. You were telling me about your daughter. University High School. That's a prep school of some kind, isn't it?'
Diana nodded.
'So she must be smart.'
'Yes. She hopes to study medicine someday.'
'And pretty?'
Once again she felt that vague sense of unease, but she shook it off.
'I suppose some people would say so,' Diana said dismissively. 'But aren't we getting a little off track?'
'You're right,' Monty Lazarus said. 'Have some chips and salsa. When I'm hungry, my mind tends to wander.'
Buying the car had been fun for Quentin Walker. Early on he had settled on a faded orange, '79 Ford Bronco 4-by-4 XLT, with alloy wheels, a cassette deck, towing package, a newly rebuilt 302 engine, and a slight lift. He'd had to go through the usual car-buying bullshit with that cocky bastard of a salesman who acted like he was working for a Cadillac dealership instead of hawking beaters at a South Tucson joint called Can Do Deals Used Cars.
Winston Morris, in his smooth, double-breasted khaki-colored suit and tie, had taken one look at Quentin's mud-spattered boots and figured him for some kind of low-life without a penny to his name. Quentin had willingly put up with all the crap, waiting for the inevitable moment when Winston would finally get around to saying, 'What's it going to take to put you in this car today?'
Quentin had leaned back in his chair and casually crossed one leg over the other. 'You've got it listed at forty-two hundred. I'll give you thirty-five, take it or leave it.'
The sad look that came over Winston's face was as predictable as his initial closing question. 'You can't be serious. We're in this business to sell cars, not give them away.'
But when Quentin got up to leave, the bargaining had begun in earnest. Quentin ended up paying thirty-six fifty. But the most fun came when the dickering was done and Winston had said, 'How do you intend to pay for this?'
That was the supreme moment, the one Quentin had been salivating over all morning. Nonchalantly, he had reached for his wallet and opened it. One by one he drew out four of the thousand-dollar bills and laid them down on the desk in front of the salesman. 'You can give me change, can't you?'
The look on Winston's face as he scooped up the four bills had been well worth the price of admission. He had taken the money and disappeared into his sales manager's office. He was in there for a long time. No doubt, everybody there was busy trying to figure out whether or not the money was counterfeit. Eventually, though, he came back out and finished up the paperwork.
Leaving the lot, Quentin still felt good. After not driving a car for six years, it was strange to be back behind the wheel again, odd to be in his own vehicle. Knowing what would most likely be waiting for him in the desert, he stopped at a grocery store and picked up a six-pack of beer, a flashlight, and several spare batteries, as well as a large box-an empty toilet-paper box. Then he headed out of town.
The good mood lasted for a few miles more, but as soon as he crossed the pass and could see the mountain ahead of him, a pall of gloom settled over him. He popped open the first can and took a sip of beer, hoping to hold
