Devil's Claw (41 page)

“Where’s Dick Voland now?” she demanded.

“Outside,” Butch replied. “At least that’s where he was when I left everybody else to go meet you.”

They were crossing the dining room and heading back toward the shattered kitchen when something bright and sparkly reflected back the light from the broken chandelier and caught Joanna’s eyes. Up against the mopboard and almost out of sight behind the swinging door was a tiny piece of glassware—Joanna’s maternal grandmother’s cut-glass toothpick holder. Seeing it, Joanna realized that the light pink Depression-era piece had been knocked out of the buffet along with everything else. Something must have cushioned its fall because it had landed without breaking. Spilling a thin trail of toothpicks, it had rolled across the floor and come to rest in a place where it was almost out of sight and hidden away from the frenzy of ongoing devastation.

Escaping from Butch’s grasp momentarily, Joanna bent over and scooped up the fragile piece. Holding it up to the light, Joanna examined it for cracks and chips, but it was perfect. All this while she had managed to hold her tears in check. Now they burst through and threatened to overwhelm her. Seeing the glowing toothpick holder was like catching sight of the first rainbow after a terrible thunderstorm. And, like a rainbow, the delicately colored glass held a promise that perhaps the worst was over and that somehow, someday, the sun would shine again.

With a sigh, Joanna plunged the piece deep in her pocket.

“Wait a minute,” Butch objected. “I told you I promised Frank that we wouldn’t touch anything as long as we were in here.”

“Too bad,” Joanna said. “This toothpick holder belongs to me, and I’m keeping it. If it turns out this is the only thing in the whole house with usable fingerprints on it, that’s too bad as well. In that case, we’re going to have a hard time catching the perp who did this.”

Butch looked at her. “It sounds like Sheriff Brady is back,” he said. “I think you’re going to be okay.”

She nodded. “I will be okay,” she agreed. “Seeing all this was a shock to the system, but this is all stuff—inanimate objects. I’m far more upset about what happened to the dogs. What about Kiddo and the cattle?”

“They seem to be fine.”

“Good.”

“There is one thing that really pisses me off,” Butch added.

“What’s that?”

The shadow of a grin played around the corners of his mouth. “Here we spent all that time and effort on Sunday cleaning your damned oven,” Butch told her. “In all this mess, nobody’s ever going to notice—not your mother, and not mine, either.”

Hearing his good-natured grousing, Joanna felt some of the strain drain out of her own body. After all, this was Butch Dixon’s way of dealing with a crisis—to make light of it if at all possible. Under most circumstances, it would have been Joanna’s preferred way of coping as well, but she allowed herself only the smallest of giggles. She didn’t dare laugh out loud. It would be only the merest of baby steps to go from dissolving into real laughter and then tumbling downward into a fit of hysterics and unstoppable tears. Right that minute, none of those were acceptable options.

As Joanna and Butch emerged from the house, Frank Montoya and Ernie Carpenter met them on the back porch. Concern was written large on both men’s anxious faces. “Are you all right?” Frank asked.

“I’m okay,” Joanna assured him with far more certainty than she felt. “Where’s Dick?”

“Dick Voland?” Frank returned. “He left a few minutes ago. He said he was going to track Reba Singleton down and try to talk to her.”

“You let him walk away just like that?” Joanna demanded. “Did anyone happen to tell him that my Colt Two Thousand is missing from the locked desk in my bedroom? What if an unsuspecting Dick Voland walks right up to Reba Singleton and she blows him to kingdom come?”

“We tried to stop him,” Frank said. “But he wouldn’t listen.”

“Was he wearing a vest?”

Ernie Carpenter shook his head. “I don’t think so. If I remember right, he never much approved of wearing the damned things.”

Joanna glared at the detective. “Sounds like somebody else I know,” she said. “But let’s all remember, Dick Voland is a civilian now. If he’s injured or killed as a result of his involvement in what ought to be a police action, you can bet there’s going to be hell to pay. Our department will be caught in a hail of lawsuits that will take the wind out of our budget for years to come. Let’s go.”

“Go where?” Ernie asked.

“To where this all started,” Joanna replied in exasperation. “And where I’m guessing Reba Singleton means for it to end—to Rhodes Ranch.”

Ernie and Frank immediately turned on their heels and headed for their respective vehicles. “Hey, you two. Don’t leave without me,” Joanna yelled after them. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

“So will I,” Butch added at once. “I’m coming, too.”

“No, you’re not,” Joanna returned. “You don’t have a weapon, you don’t have a vest, and you don’t have a badge. That means you’re staying here.”

“Like hell—!”

Just then a pair of headlights came careening into the yard. Dodging around the clutch of parked vehicles, it skidded to a stop next to the gate and scattered a team of crime-scene techs who were gathered there assembling their materials.

“Joanna Brady, what on earth is going on?” Eleanor Lathrop demanded. She slammed the car door shut behind her and came tottering up the uneven walkway in a pair of high heels. “We were all just getting ready to leave for our dinner reservation when Eva Lou called and told us something dreadful had happened out here—something about the dogs being poisoned and I don’t know what all else.”

“Sorry, Mom,” Joanna said hurriedly. “I have to go. Ernie Carpenter and Frank Montoya are waiting for me.” Neatly sidestepping her mother’s trajectory, Joanna dashed for the gate, leaving Butch Dixon trapped behind her.

“But what’s going on?” Eleanor Lathrop Winfield insisted.

“Don’t worry,” Joanna called back over her shoulder. “I’m sure Butch will explain everything.”

CHAPTER 25

“She’s here,” Dick Voland said, as soon as Joanna answered. “She’s here at her father’s place.”

“I figured as much,” Joanna said. “We’re on our way. What’s happening?”

“She’s swinging.”

“She’s what?”

“Swinging. There’s an old rope swing in one of the cottonwoods between the house and the barn. She’s swinging on that.”

“Be careful, Dick,” Joanna warned. “She’s armed. My Colt Two Thousand is missing from the house. I’m guessing she has it somewhere on her person. Have you spoken to her?”

“She doesn’t even know I’m here,” Dick replied. “I turned off my lights driving up the road and hiked in the last few hundred yards. I suggest you do the same.”

“Where are you?”

“Out of sight on the far side of the house.”

“Aren’t you afraid she’ll hear you talking on the phone?”

“Not right now,” Dick replied. “She’s singing at the top of her lungs. If she stops, all bets are off.”

“What’s happening?” Frank asked. “What’s going on?”

Keeping the earpiece glued to her ear, Joanna explained to Frank what she had learned. “Ask him if he’s got a plan,” Frank said when she finished.

“Don’t bother,” Dick said. “I heard that. My only plan right this minute is to wait for reinforcements.”

“What’s she singing?” Joanna asked.

“What do you mean?”

“What song?”

“What the hell does that have to do with the price of tea in China?”

“It might give us some idea of what Reba Singleton’s mental state is right now,” Joanna said. “Listen for a minute and see if you can tell.”

“Sounds like ‘When You Wish Upon a Star,’ something like that,” Dick Voland said. “Isn’t that from one of those Walt Disney movies,
Sleeping Beauty,
maybe?”

“Pinocchio,”
Joanna told him. “It’s Jiminy Cricket’s song.”

“So?”

“I don’t know. What’s she doing now?”

“Still swinging, pumping like mad.”

Joanna picked up the radio and called Dispatch. “Tica, tell Ernie to pull over. We’ll all get out and walk from here. And one more thing. Where’s Detective Carbajal?”

“Over by Pearce with Catherine Yates. You told him he should go there after attending Sandra Ridder’s funeral. At last report, he was still there.”

“Good,” Joanna said. “Glad to hear it.”

Seconds later, Ernie’s Econoline van pulled over to the side of the road. Frank followed suit. While leaving High Lonesome Ranch, Joanna had stopped by her Crown Victoria long enough to pull on a pair of sneakers. Now, as she and Ernie and Frank started up the rocky track to Clayton Rhodes’ place in Mexican Canyon, Joanna was grateful she had done so. She was also thankful that there was enough moonlight so that, once their eyes adjusted to the lack of headlights, the three officers were able to see well enough to walk safely.

Moving along, Joanna couldn’t help but be amazed. In the few minutes since leaving her damaged house and during the ride in Deputy Howell’s Bronco, she had moved beyond the scope of her own personal crisis and slipped back into her role as sheriff. It seemed she couldn’t be both victim and police officer at the same time, and that was just as well.

“Dick is asking how you want to handle this,” Frank asked. While Joanna had been on the radio with Dispatch, Frank Montoya had maintained the cell-phone link with Dick Voland.

“Can he see if she’s holding the weapon?” Joanna asked.

“Negative on that,” Frank answered a little later. “He can’t see it, but she’s wearing a heavy jacket of some kind. It could be concealed in a pocket.”

“I want to try to talk her down,” Joanna said.

“Talk!” Frank exploded. “She’s got your Colt, Joanna, and you want to talk?” Through the phone, she could hear Dick Voland’s angry objections as well.

“First we’re going to get the lay of the land,” Joanna continued. “I don’t remember where that swing is in relation to the house. Is it closer to the front or the back?”

“Dick says back.”

“Okay, so I’ll go to the back of the house and try to talk to her from there. One of you can come with me to back me up. The others should stay up near the front.”

“Shouldn’t someone go around and try to come up behind her?” Frank asked.

“You mean, so if shooting breaks out, we can wing one of our own in the process?” Joanna asked. “I don’t think so.”

“You’re right,” Frank agreed. “Not a good idea.” Then, after a pause, he said, “By the way, Dick said to tell you now she’s switched to that song from
The Wizard of Oz
—‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow,’ Dick thinks it’s called.”

“Fortunately, neither one of you will ever end up on ‘Name That Tune.’ “ Joanna told them. “I’m sure Reba Singleton remembers them from when she was a little kid. From a time when the world wasn’t such a scary, uncertain place. My guess is she’s wishing she could go back there.”

“Don’t we all,” Ernie Carpenter breathed. The road was rising sharply, and the detective was having to huff and puff in order to keep up. “I still don’t think talking is going to do any good. I vote we lob a canister of tear gas under the tree and catch her when she gets off the swing.”

“And what happens if she falls out of the swing and breaks her neck in the process?” Joanna asked. “We’re doing this my way and talking first.”

“Okay,” Frank Montoya said. “You’re the boss.”

By the time they reached the gate to the yard, they could hear the singing. Dick Voland came to the gate to meet them. “Climb over the fence,” he advised in a whisper. “I tried opening the gate. It squeaks like a son of a bitch.”

Joanna hiked up her skirt and scrambled over the fence. Dick Voland was there to break her fall as she landed. “Are you wearing a vest?”

He shook his head.

“Armed?”

“Yes.”

“All right,” Joanna said. “Frank, you’re with me. Dick, you and Ernie stay on the front porch and out of sight unless this thing goes in the toilet. Understood?”

“You can’t—“ Dick Voland began.

“I can and I will,” Joanna declared. “Front porch or nothing. Front porch or go down the road. Which?”

“Front porch,” Voland agreed glumly.

As Joanna and Frank made their way around the side yard, walking past thorny rosebushes and clumps of sharp-edged pampas grass, Reba Singleton tuned up with another song—a Teresa Brewer–like rendition of “I Saw Mommy Kissing Santa Claus.” The singing was plaintive. Sad. With a sudden jolt of insight, Joanna realized why Jenny’s room hadn’t been touched. Jenny was a child, and in her torment, so was Reba Joy Singleton.

“Reba?” Joanna called softly, once she and Frank were in position.

The singing stopped. The swinging did not. There was a steady creak from a rope rubbing on a tree bough. That didn’t change.

“Who is it?”

“You know who it is,” Joanna said softly.

“How do you like being left with nothing?” Reba demanded. “How does it feel?”