Downfall (29 page)

THE FIRST THING TOM HADLOCK HEARD WAS A GUNSHOT FOLLOWED
by a scream of some kind—the kind of scream that says someone is hurt—badly hurt. When another gunshot followed mere seconds later, it was all the chief deputy could do to remain upright. At that point, there was nothing to do but assume the worst. Sheriff Joanna Brady was dead—had to be. A shot at close range from what was most likely Jeremy Stock's Beretta? Even if a resulting wound wasn't instantly fatal, it would be by the time EMTs arrived.

Why the hell is that stubborn woman so dead set against using a helicopter—a free damned helicopter at that?
he wondered.
That's what we need out here tonight in the very worst way—a helicopter!

The silence following the gunshots seemed to stretch into an eternity.
Stay alert,
Tom thought, sending a dose of silent encouragement to his officers. He had directed them to stay in place and
maintain radio silence until Jeremy Stock was seen attempting to flee or was actually in custody. With Joanna dead or dying, this was the time he would flee—running like hell and coming straight back to the spot where he'd left the car.

Then, to the chief deputy's immense relief, Terry Gregovich's panting voice crackled over the radio, speaking breathlessly into his shoulder mic. “Jeremy Stock is deceased. Repeat. The suspect is deceased. Sheriff Brady is okay. Going up to check on Spike. The son of a bitch shot him.”

With shaking hands, Tom reached inside Jeremy's SUV and activated the radio. “Did everyone copy that? Jeremy Stock is down. Let's go find our sheriff and our dog.”

Radio transmissions buzzed back and forth as Maglites flashed to life all around. From where Tom Hadlock stood, they looked like so many tiny lit candles surrounding the broad base of Geronimo and moving steadily toward it, gradually tightening the circle.

Weak with relief, Tom sank down gratefully onto the Tahoe's driver's seat and covered his face with his hands. He had done it. He had called the shots—all the shots—and they had worked. The tactics he had put in place had pulled it off. Sheriff Brady was safe, and Jeremy Stock was dead.

Finally, he picked up the mic again. “Tica,” he managed with his voice still trembling. “Let Dr. Baldwin know what's happened. We'll need the ME out here.” Then, after another pause, he added, “Deputy Gregovich. What's the word?”

“Spike's alive,” Terry answered in a strangled whisper. “He's shot in the leg. I've got a tourniquet on it, but—”

“Hold tight, Deputy Gregovich. Where are you?”

“At the top. Up at the very top.”

“Okay,” Tom Hadlock said. “Stay where you are. I'm calling for a stretcher now. Did you copy that, Tica? I want some EMTs out here, ASAP.”

“I doubt they'll come for a dog,” Tica said.

“They by God will come for
this
damned dog!” Tom roared back at her. “Spike just saved Sheriff Brady's life, and now we're going to save his. If they give you any guff, put them through to me. Oh, and we're going to need that vet on the scene, too—what's her name?”

“You mean Dr. Ross?” Tica asked.

“Yes, that's right—Dr. Ross. Get her out here on the double.”

Then another voice came over the radio—a welcome one Tom had feared he would never hear again. “Sheriff Brady here,” she said. “Do you copy?”

“Yes, I do,” he replied, brushing a tear from his eye. “I most certainly do. Where are you? Are you okay?”

“Up top with Terry and Spike. Climbing back up was a lot tougher than coming down. I'm a little worse for wear, but not bad. Terry tells me I've got a whale of a black eye, but I'm in better shape than Spike. We've got to get him some help. Bless that dog. He arrived in the nick of time—just when I needed him most. I never would have made it down the mountain alive if he hadn't been there to distract Jeremy. Spike blew right past me and gave me a chance to get away. Who was the brainiac who came up with the idea of sending him in?”

“I did,” Tom Hadlock said modestly. “I'm glad it worked.”

“You and me both,” Joanna said.

Off in the distance Tom heard a siren—the distinctive wailing of an approaching aid car. Seconds later, he spotted flashing lights as the emergency vehicle sped northbound on Black
Knob heading toward the cattle guard at the far end of the ranch road.

“The EMTs are coming right now,” he reported. “We'll send them up as soon as I can brief them and point them in your direction. In the meantime, guys, thank you, one and all. Some of you may need to assist in bringing Spike down the mountain. Everybody else, hop to it. We need to locate Jeremy Stock's body and get the area cordoned off as a crime scene. We're going to need lights, generators, CSIs—the whole nine yards. It's going to be a very long night.”

“Great job, Tom,” Joanna said when he finished issuing the spate of orders. “One hell of a job!”

“Thank you, Sheriff Brady,” he replied. “Over and out!”

CLIMBING BACK UP TO THE SUMMIT HAD BEEN FAR MORE DIFFICULT
than Joanna would have thought possible. For one thing, she was terribly fatigued, but she felt a moral obligation to be there for Terry and Spike, come what may. After all, Spike had saved her life. She owed him. She owed them both.

Far below, there were suddenly swarms of flashing red lights all around and maybe even a faint siren or two, but up on the summit of Geronimo, it was unnaturally quiet. Terry sat cross-legged on the ground with Spike's head cradled in his lap. Whenever he reached out to touch the dog's forehead or ruffle his ears, Spike's long tail thumped gamely on the ground. Each time it happened, Joanna had to hold her breath to keep from crying, but crying wasn't allowed, not for her. After all, she was the sheriff, supposedly in command, and these were some of her troops—her very loyal troops.

Not knowing what to say, she simply sat beside them, saying nothing, and gratefully drinking water from the bottle Terry had pulled out of his pocket and given her.

“It looks bad,” Terry said brokenly. “What if he loses the leg?”

“Then we give him a full medical retirement,” Joanna promised. “Vet bills included.”

“But he loves to work. It'll kill him if I go to work and he doesn't.”

“He's done this job for a long time,” Joanna said. “Longer than most K9s, right?”

Terry nodded. “He's always been such a good dog.”

“He is
still
a good dog,” Joanna assured him. “But Spike has earned his retirement, and you've earned yourself another partner.”

Just then, bobbing lights off to the side indicated that someone was approaching and about to join them on the summit. Lieutenant Adam Wilson of the Bisbee Fire Department led the way. His head came into view first, topped by a light-equipped helmet. A medical kit thumped to the ground in front of him before he clambered the rest of the way onto the surface. Two more firefighters trailed behind him.

“I understand we have an injured patient who needs to be transported?” Wilson asked.

“Yes,” Joanna said, getting to her feet. “Spike's over here.”

“Okay, guys,” Wilson said. “Bring the basket and let's get him strapped in. Your dog, sir?” The question was directed at Terry, who nodded mutely in reply.

“All right, then,” Wilson said. “You stay close and help keep him calm. What about a muzzle? Will we need to put one on him? Injured dogs can be a problem sometimes. We may be trying to help them, but they don't understand what's going on.”

“He'll be good,” Terry answered. “Steady, Spike,” he added as Wilson reached out an enormous gloved hand to pat the top of Spike's head. The dog didn't move.

“I could give him a little something for the pain, if you like,” Wilson offered. “There may be a few bumps and jolts on the way down.”

“Please,” Terry said. “If you can, I'd like that a lot.”

In the end, there were enough volunteers to pass the basket from hand to hand down the mountain rather than having to employ a block and tackle. Once Terry and the dog disappeared over the edge, Wilson turned back to Joanna and peered down at her with the light from his helmet shining in her eyes.

“If you'll pardon my saying so, ma'am, you look like hell. That's quite a shiner you have, and plenty of cuts and bruises as well. Maybe I should drag another stretcher up here and carry you down, too.”

“Please don't do that,” she said. “I'm fine. I can manage.”

Wilson reached for her hands and examined them carefully. They were scratched and bruised all over as well. Some of the deeper cuts on her badly scraped knuckles still seeped blood.

It was at that precise moment, just as Lieutenant Wilson was studying her hands, when Sage asserted her presence with a vigorous series of kicks.

Wilson jumped back as though he'd unwittingly stumbled over a rattlesnake. “What the hell was that?” he demanded.

“My baby,” she said. “A girl. I'm due in December.”

“Jesus Christ, woman!” he exclaimed. “You're out here acting like a mountain goat and you're expecting a baby?”

“I didn't exactly come here of my own volition,” she told him.

“Maybe so, but you're sure as hell not climbing down on your own, either—not on my watch. Understood?”

Joanna started to argue but stopped. Wilson was doing his job, and she needed to let him do it.

Turning abruptly, Wilson walked over to the edge of the summit. “Hey, guys,” he called down. “Once you deliver that dog to the vet, I need a couple of you to come back. There's a pregnant lady up here who doesn't think she needs any help getting down, but I'm saying otherwise.”

He sounded so fierce that it tickled Joanna's funny bone. A moment later she was giggling uncontrollably.

Wilson spun around to face her. “What's so funny?”

“Nothing,” she said, silencing her laughter. “When you're right, you're right. Thank you.”

It was humiliating being passed from hand to hand, but Joanna realized partway down that she really was in no condition to make the descent on her own, especially not in the dark. The first two faces she saw once her feet were on
terra firma
were the ones she wanted to see the most—Butch and Jenny's.

“Oh, Mom,” Jenny whispered, pulling Joanna into an impassioned embrace. “I was so scared!”

“So was I,” Joanna admitted. “Believe me, so was I."

She turned away from Jenny into Butch's welcoming arms and let him hold her for a long, long time. When she drew away at last, she saw that she had left several bloody imprints on his shirt. “You're bleeding,” he said. “You're hurt.”

“It's nothing,” Joanna replied, trying to downplay his concern. “But how did you get here?”

“Agent Watkins called me the moment Jeremy Stock bit the dust. I wanted to come here along with everyone else earlier, but she talked me out of it. Said it was too dangerous and that I should go home.”

“It
was
too dangerous,” Joanna said.

“Agent Watkins promised that she'd call me the moment you were safe, and she did. But, Joey, you look awful. Your face is a mess!”

Just then someone walked up behind Butch and tapped him on the shoulder. “May I cut in?” Tom Hadlock asked. As Butch stepped away, Tom swept Joanna into a smothering bear hug.

“Boy howdy!” he exclaimed, pushing her away finally and examining her face. “If you aren't a sight for sore eyes!”

“I'm a sight all right,” Joanna replied with a laugh. “Everyone keeps telling me so, but thanks, Tom. Thank you for everything you did tonight. You made some really great calls, and I wouldn't be here talking about them if you hadn't.”

“Thank you, ma'am,” he murmured. “Appreciate it.”

Lieutenant Wilson approached Tom Hadlock. “Okay, Chief Deputy,” he said. “We're done here. Dr. Ross has taken charge of the dog, so we'll be heading out.”

“This is Lieutenant Adam Wilson,” Joanna told Butch. “With the Bisbee Fire Department, and this is my husband, Butch Dixon.”

“He's the guy who helped you down off the mountain?” Butch asked.

“The very one,” she replied.

Butch held out his hand to shake Wilson's. “Thanks,” he said. “Thanks for rescuing my wife and our baby, too.”

Wilson glanced back and forth between them. “Is it possible your wife is slightly stubborn?” he asked.

“Not slightly,” Butch answered with a grin. “Very.”

“You might want to have her visit the ER after she finishes up whatever she needs to do here,” Lieutenant Wilson suggested.
“Those cuts and scratches need to be cleaned by professionals, and at least one of them—the cut on her right cheek—should probably be stitched up if she doesn't want to be stuck with a scar. Oh, and a word of advice,” he added. “If I were you, I wouldn't bother asking her opinion on the subject. I'd just put her in the car and take her there.”

“Good idea,” Butch said. “I'll do that very thing, the first chance I get.”

THE EVENTS OF THE DAY—AND OF THE NIGHT AS WELL—HAD LEFT
Joanna in an odd position. She was still the sheriff, yes, but she was also both victim and witness. By virtue of the latter two, it was necessary for her to leave her chief deputy in charge of investigating the incident, especially since, by all accounts, he was doing a great job. That left her strictly on the sidelines and at somewhat of a loss. She was glad to have Butch and Jenny there with her, but still . . .

Joanna learned that the EMTs had loaded Spike and the basket as well into Dr. Ross's van so he could be taken directly to the vet's clinic, where the injured dog was currently undergoing surgery. Dr. Ross had given Terry a lift back to his parked SUV so he could follow her back into town. Joanna had no doubt that Terry, and probably Kristin as well, were both sitting vigil in the vet's waiting room.

With Joanna no longer on the mountain to direct the search, it took close to an hour for deputies to locate Jeremy Stock's body. They found his shattered remains just as the ME's van arrived on the scene. As Dave Hollicker told Joanna later, Jeremy had crashed to earth only feet from the spot where they had determined he had shoved both Susan Nelson and Desirée Wilburton to their deaths.

Kendra Baldwin got out of her van, spotted Joanna, and came right over. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Where else would I be?” Joanna asked.

“The hospital maybe? I heard what happened. You got Tased and cracked the back of your head. You need to go to the ER and be checked out for a possible concussion. In addition, your face is a mess.”

“I've been trying to tell her—” Butch began.

“Don't bother,” Kendra advised. “Just take her.”

“Come on, Mom,” Jenny urged. “That's at least five to one, all of us telling you the same thing. When are you going to give in?”

“About now, I suppose,” Joanna agreed grudgingly. “I'll go tell Tom that we're leaving.”

She found Chief Deputy Hadlock overseeing the towing of Jeremy's Tahoe to the impound lot. “Have you spoken to Frank about the homicides out in Sierra Vista?” she asked.

Tom nodded. “The bodies are still where they were found, waiting for Dr. Baldwin to make the trip out there after she finishes here. According to Frank, it looks like both Allison and Travis died of a choke hold. That's not certain, of course, until Dr. Baldwin gives us the final word.”

“A police choke hold?” Joanna asked.

Tom nodded grimly. “What the hell happened to the guy?” he
demanded, glancing around to see if anyone else was in earshot. “I mean you and I worked with Jeremy for years—we all did—and I never saw any of this coming. Wouldn't have guessed it in a million years. What did we miss?”

“We missed what was going on behind closed doors,” Joanna said. “Once we go digging into the family situation, we may find that there was a certain level of domestic abuse going on in the Stock family for a long time without it ever being reported. Jeremy expected his wife and son to do whatever he said, no matter what.”

“Make that
sons
, not
son
,” Tom corrected. “I've just been informed that there's a second one, an older boy named Thad. He's going to school somewhere in Texas. I've got law enforcement people there reaching out to let him know what's happened.”

“Jeremy mentioned Thad earlier,” Joanna said. “He indicated there was some bad blood between them.”

“Not surprised,” Tom muttered. “This kind of crap probably explains why Thad is in school in Texas rather than somewhere closer to home.”

Joanna nodded. “When Jeremy issued an order, he expected instant, unquestioning obedience. That's what happened to Susan Nelson. When she refused to abort their child, he went off the deep end. This afternoon, when he found out that she had been screwing around with Travis, too, that was the last straw.”

“Wait,” Tom interjected. “You already knew that Jeremy was the father of Susan Nelson's baby? We didn't find that out until late this afternoon, and you weren't in the conference room for that briefing. How did you know that?”

“I heard it straight from Jeremy himself. And this afternoon, when Travis insisted on giving me that voluntary DNA sample,
he did so in defiance of his father's direct orders, ones issued no doubt because Jeremy knew that his son's DNA would be his downfall and lead straight back to him.”

“Which is exactly what it did,” Tom said. “What's unbelievable is that by giving you that sample, Travis signed his own death warrant, his mother's, too, and very nearly yours.” Joanna nodded in agreement.

“Are there other cases like this?” Tom wondered aloud. “Other people inside the department who are pulling the same kinds of stunts at home?”

“Maybe,” Joanna said. “And maybe it's high time we had some departmental meetings focused on that very topic—for both our officers and their respective spouses.”

“Right,” Tom said. “I suppose we should, but right this minute, it seems like way too little way too late.”

Those words hung in the air between them for a moment before Tom continued. “Bruce Ryder, the FBI's Tucson special agent in charge, came through for us in a big way. He lit a fire under one of his buddies at Taser International. Casey just had a call back from them. The AFIDs we found out in the parking lot did come from Jeremy's Taser.”

“No surprises there,” Joanna said.

“No, but it'll be an important piece of evidence as we start putting the sequence of events together. Speaking of which, the Arizona Department of Public Safety is sending an investigation team to conduct impartial interviews with everyone involved. They'll be at the Justice Center in about an hour or so. Will you feel up to talking to them tonight, or do you want me to ask them to come back some other time? Not tomorrow, because of the funeral, of course, but maybe over the weekend.”

“I'd rather get the interview over with tonight and not have it hanging over my head all weekend long,” Joanna told him. “Butch and Dr. Baldwin are both insisting that I stop by the hospital to be checked out. Depending on how long that takes, maybe I could go home and change into different clothing before the interview.”

Unfortunately, her first pair of specially modified, expanded-waist trousers had literally bitten the dust, and on their very first day of use. Climbing up and down Geronimo twice in the course of one day had left her uniform very much the worse for wear.

“By all means, stop by the ER,” Tom urged. “Incidentally, have you ever heard of arnica?”

“What's that?”

“A plant of some kind which they use to make a salve. I forget the name of it—Arnicare maybe—but it's great on bruises of any kind. Helps with the pain and reduces the swelling. Have Butch pick you up some of that. You've got a fat lip at the moment, and that black eye is a doozy.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. “Will do.”

Something to reduce the swelling was probably a good idea, she realized as she walked back to where Butch and Jenny waited beside the Enclave. There was an extra bump of cheek sticking out under her right eye and distorting her vision. Yes, there was definitely some swelling.

The ER visit took less time than expected. The doctor determined that there was no concussion. That was the good news. The bad news was that Lieutenant Wilson was right. The scrapes and abrasions all needed to be properly cleaned, and the cut on her cheek did indeed require several stitches.

When she and Butch finally arrived at the house at High
Lonesome Ranch, just after midnight, lights were on all over the place and barbecue preparations were still in full swing. Joanna stepped out of the passenger seat into the arms of a stream of people who hurried into the garage to welcome her home—Carol Sunderson; Jim Bob and Eva Lou; Bob and Marcie.

They greeted Joanna as if she were some kind of conquering hero, but she didn't feel very damned heroic. She was bruised and battered, stitched and sore, but she was still alive. Maybe that was part of what it meant to be a hero—being the one who lived to tell the tale.

At the hospital, suspecting that Joanna's blood sugar was at an all-time low, Butch had sent Jenny off in search of a vending machine. Jenny had returned with a much-needed Snickers bar, but when Joanna stepped into a kitchen alive with the aroma of freshly baked yeast rolls, she realized she was beyond famished.

“Go shower and change,” Butch admonished her. “I'll drive you back for your interview, but not until after you've had something to eat.”

“You don't need to drive me,” she objected. “There's no telling how long the interview will take. I can drive myself.”

“I will drive you,” Butch insisted even more firmly. “Go shower. Driving yourself is not an option, Joey. That's an order.”

“Yes, sir,” she said, giving him a mock salute. “On my way.” When Joanna returned to the kitchen, showered and dressed, a bowl of green chili casserole, a still-warm yeast roll, and a glass of milk were waiting for her in the breakfast nook. The food was there and so was Butch, but no one else was in evidence.

“Where did everybody go?” she asked.

“Jenny went to bed and everyone else went home,” Butch
said, sinking down beside her on the bench. “They were all hanging around to make sure you were okay. I told them, but they wanted to see it with their own eyes, and I don't blame them for that. I felt the same way. That's why Jenny and I showed up at the crime scene—to see for ourselves.”

He reached across the table and covered one of her bruised hands with his own. “I'm so glad you're here, Joey,” he said, his voice cracking with emotion. “The idea of you and the baby being Tased? I can hardly imagine something so awful. You're sure she's all right?”

For an answer, Joanna lifted both their hands from the tabletop and placed them side by side on her belly, where Sage was once again pummeling her lower ribs.

“See there?” she said. “Sage is just fine.”

“Thank God,” Butch breathed.

“Thank God and dog,” Joanna told him with a smile. “Spike had a paw in saving me, too.”

Half an hour later, they were in the Enclave and on their way to the Justice Center. Joanna, sitting with her head against the headrest and her eyes closed, tried to imagine how she could possibly manage to make it through the rigors the next day. When Butch's voice drew her out of her reverie, she realized he must have been speaking to her without her having heard a word he'd said.

“Sorry,” she said. “I was half-asleep. What were you saying?”

“About the name—the baby's name.”

“I know,” Joanna answered. “You don't like the name Sage.”

“I don't mind it all that much,” Butch replied, “but wouldn't it be better as a middle name? What if we called her Eleanor Sage Dixon—Ellie for short?”

As soon as he spoke the name aloud, a chill ran up and down Joanna's legs. Knowing how incredibly right it was, she momentarily lost her ability to speak.

“That's perfect,” she breathed at last. “Absolutely perfect. Eleanor Sage Dixon it is!”