Coming through the highway cuts between Bisbee and the Double Adobe turnoff, Joanna scanned the upper reaches of the Sulphur Springs Valley. In the spot where she knew her house to be, she saw the telltale pulsing glow of lights from any number of emergency vehicles. There were lots of lights, but there was no dark smudge of smoke rising skyward, no layer of smoke drifting north across the valley. So no, it wasn’t a fire then, or, if a fire had occurred, someone had put it out much earlier.
Joanna slowed down and turned off, first onto Double Adobe Road and then onto High Lonesome. The whole situation seemed weird to her. On the one hand she was a police officer responding to the report of an incident. It could have been an ordinary car wreck or homicide, except this one was different. When she arrived, the smashed car or worse would belong to her. How was that possible? How could it be?
Turning onto the one-lane track that led to her house, she saw that the pulsing halo of lights was much larger, much brighter. Usually she recognized the separate tire tracks that traveled her mile-long dirt access road. This time there were too many strange tracks for her to be able to identify any of them. When Joanna reached the wash, she had to slow to a crawl. The Crown Victoria, built far lower to the ground than Joanna’s Blazer, had a difficult time negotiating the rugged terrain where first Reba Singleton’s limo and subsequently the tow truck as well as numerous other vehicles had torn the established roadbed to pieces.
Once through the wash, Joanna sped up again, only to be forced to a stop once more when she broke through the grove of mesquite and found her way blocked by a clot of emergency vehicles. That was when the reality of the situation finally hit home. Whatever had happened, it was serious enough to have brought all these people out in the early-evening twilight. And it had happened here, on High Lonesome Ranch, in Joanna Brady’s own safe haven.
She looked at the house. From the outside it seemed all right. There were lights on throughout, and they cast a comforting, familiar glow. See there? Joanna told herself as she took a deep breath. It’s going to be fine.
She stepped out of the Crown Victoria and took stock of some of the nearby vehicles scattered haphazardly around on the roadway. There were Frank Montoya’s Civvie, Ernie Carpenter’s Ford van, Butch’s Outback, and even Dick Voland’s new Camry. She noticed the vehicles and the small clutches of people standing here and there. The groups of onlookers all seemed to be watching her questioningly, waiting for direction, perhaps—waiting for her to tell them what they should do. She heard the sound of a few voices, of people speaking to one another in the low, earnest, and self-consciously controlled voices usually reserved for guests at funerals, for broadcasters at golf tournaments, and for stunned bystanders at fatality auto accidents.
Butch Dixon detached himself from a trio of men and walked toward her. His face materialized through Joanna’s growing fear like a ship emerging from a cloud of fog. She tried to read the messages written on his features—concern, anger, and more besides.
“Are you okay?” he asked, reaching for her and pulling her close.
“I’m fine, Butch,” she said with a catch in her throat. “At least I think I’m fine. What’s happened here? What’s going on?”
He took her hand. “Come inside,” he said grimly. “You’ll see.”
As soon as Butch opened the back door, Joanna caught the whiff of a jarring mix of odors. The sharp smell of mustard, hot sauce, peanut butter, vinegar, and ammonia all came flowing at her in an eye-watering mix.
“Watch your step,” Butch murmured, steadying her by holding on to her elbow. “There’s lots of broken glass and lots of water, so it’s all terribly slippery.”
Once at the doorway to the kitchen, Joanna realized he was right. Nothing Butch could have said on the phone could possibly have prepared her for the wanton destruction that had been visited on her house. She felt her pulse quicken, felt the disbelieving panic rising in her throat. For a few seconds, she could barely breathe. The oxygen came into her mouth and throat but didn’t seem to pass from there to her lungs.