logical. I certainly couldn't shed any light on that topic, and the prisoners didn't either.
With everyone else deciding who should go where and how it should all be accomplished, there was little or nothing for Rhonda and me to do but sit in the background, huddle under ambulance blankets, try to keep warm, and watch the three-ring circus unfold around us.
'You know that. 38 I gave you earlier?' I asked her in careful undertone when we were alone.
'Yes. What about It?'
'So far it hasn't been fired, right?'
'Right.'
'So how about if I make you a gift of it? I don't want any of these hotshots getting me on a concealed weapons charge.'
'What about me?' Rhonda asked.
'You're an artist, not a cop. People expect artists to do crazy things.'
She nodded and laughed. 'Thanks for the present,' she added. 'Remind me to return the favor.'
The sun had gone down and it was becoming increasingly chilly when one of the tow-truck drivers-there were now three separate tow trucks on the scene-came looking for us.
'You J. P. Beaumont?' he asked.
I nodded.
'I called Alamo,' he said, almost apologetically, 'you know, to see where they wanted me to tow the Beretta. Someone from there is on the radio. They want to talk to you.'
I'll just bet they do, I thought, as he led me to his truck and handed me the microphone. I pushed down the switch. 'This is J.P. Beaumont. Over,' I said.
'Mr. Beaumont?'
'Yes. Over.'
It was woman's voice, controlled but furious. 'My name is Lucille Radonovich, District manager for Alamo Rent A Car.'
'What can I do for you, Ms. Radonovich? Over.' I tried to sound reassuring, engaging, casual. It didn't work.
'You are a dangerous man, Mr. Beaumont,' she declared.
'Look,' I said, reasonably, 'I took the extra collision insurance you sold me. Ten dollars a day. Everything's fine, right? Over.'
Lucille Radonovich was not to be dissuaded. 'Mr. Beaumont, everything is not fine. You may have taken the additional insurance, but it may or may not be valid depending on the exact geographical location of accident.'
'It wasn't an accident,' I interrupted helpfully. 'That guy shot it with a Colt. 45. On purpose. Over.'
She continued, as though I hadn't spoken. 'Mr. Beaumont, I have been directed to tell you to turn your keys over to our representative, the tow-truck driver. Immediately. Is that clear?'
'Yes, ma'am.'
'Later on, someone from this office will be in touch with either you or your attorney to settle your account.'
'Does this mean I don't get another car? Over.'
I already knew the answer to my question, but I had to ask, had to hear it from her own lips.
And Ms. Lucille Radonovich's reaction was exactly what I expected-no more, no less. A pause. A long pregnant pause, and then a slowly released breath like a dangerously stressed valve letting off excess pressure.
'Some things go without saying, Mr. Beaumont. Over and out!'
Without a word, I handed the keys to the Beretta over to the tow-truck driver. He looked at them for a moment, then walked away, shaking his head.
I watched him go and realized that it would be a hell of a long walk back to Ralph Ames' home in Paradise Valley some two hundred miles away.
I went back to where Rhonda sat waiting. She was chilled. Her teeth were chattering. I put my arm around her shoulder and she snuggled close to me.
'Are these the people who killed Joey?' she asked. 'Or was it somebody else?'
I squeezed her shoulder and held her tight. 'No way to tell,' I answered, 'at least not right now.'
We sat there for another half hour and watched while the tow trucks began to haul away wrecked cars.
'How are we going to get home?' she asked, lifting her head off my shoulder to look at me as though the thought hadn't occurred to her before.
'I don't know. It could be a very long walk.'
Rhonda Attwood must have been starting to feel better.
'You mean that nice Ralph Ames won't come get us the way he did for you up in Prescott?' she asked.
'We'll see,' I said. 'He may have run out of patience with me the same way Alamo has.'
CHAPTER 21
Fortunately, Ralph Ames is a forgiving man-a most forgiving man with an inexhaustible supply of good connections. Once alerted to our plight, he hired another helicopter and came to Tucson to get us.
By three the next morning he had successfully extricated Rhonda Attwood and me from the clutches of the F.B.I. By four he had dragged us home to Paradise Valley. When it was time to go to bed, Rhonda made not the slightest pretense of going to her own designated room. She undressed in mine, crawled into bed, snuggled contentedly against my chest, and instantly fell asleep.
There was no seduction, no game-playing. We were both far too tired. I drifted off within minutes as well and slept the heavy, dreamless sleep born of exhaustion. My body's resources had been driven far beyond the reaches of endurance.
My own noisy snoring woke me up the next morning. The sun was already well up behind the looming hump of Camelback Mountain, and I was in bed alone.
Guiltily, I wondered if my snoring had awakened Rhonda and driven her from the room, but a quick check of her room showed it was empty as well, the bed untouched. I glanced at the bedside clock. It was already almost ten-high time to be up and about, especially considering the fact that Joey's funeral was scheduled for three that afternoon.
I hurried into the bathroom, took a quick showed, dressed, and then went prowling Ames' house in search of intelligent life. There wasn't any. Rhonda Attwood was nowhere to be found, and neither was Ames, but the coffee carafe was full of hot, aromatic coffee. I was just pouring myself a cup when the phone rang.
'Detective Beaumont?'
I recognized Guy Owens' brisk voice at once. 'Hello, Guy. How's Michelle?'
'Much better, thank you. They pumped her stomach. She's up and around.'
'What about you? How's the leg?'
'In a cast, but it'll mend.' He paused, sounding somewhat uncertain. 'I need to ask you a question, Detective Beaumont. I never had a chance yesterday, but today I need to know the answer.'
'Shoot.'
'Why did you and Rhonda Attwood come to Sierra Vista?'
I could feel myself being painted into a corner. I sensed the hidden traps inherent in any answer I might give, so I waffled. 'You should ask Rhonda that question, Guy, not me.'
'Put her on the phone, then, and I will,' he returned.
'Sorry. She's not here right now.'
'But now is when I need the answer,' Guy insisted stubbornly.
I heard a hard edge come into his voice, a tone that I recalled hearing once before during our long, fruitless wait in my cabin, that night seemingly eons ago. Then we had been linked by the mutual bond of outraged fatherhood. A lot of painful water had gone under the bridge since then. Now, five long days later, my connection with Rhonda Attwood had somehow, inexplicably, forced me into a separate camp. Guy Owens and I were no
