Outlaw Mountain (2 page)

The awful pain remained but the terrible all-consuming darkness—a darkness that had verged on blindness itself—was gone. Overhead, beyond the shadow of whoever was standing above her, the sky blazed with the light of a thousand pinprick stars. It was still night, but the glowing starlight made it seem almost as bright as day.

My glasses, Alice realized at once. She had been wearing her glasses, the heavy-duty wraparound sunglasses Dr. Toon had given her after her cataract surgery. The act of falling had mocked the glasses away and turned the solid darkness to silvery light.

If the cholla hadn’t hurt so damned much, Alice might have laughed aloud, but this was no time for joking around.

“Jessie,” Alice managed. “I’m hurt. I’ve fallen in the cactus. You’ve got to help me up, but be careful the cholla doesn’t yet you, too.”

That’s when she noticed that the person towering over her wasn’t on walker. He or she was far too tall and too broad to be Alice’s sister Jessie. Not only that, the face was all wrong too. The features were distorted—mashed together in a strange, monstrous way. Through the haze of pain Alice realized that the person leaning over her was wearing a stocking over his face.

When she spoke again, whatever booze might have once been in her system seemed long gone. “Please help me,” she begged. “If you’ll just take my hand ...”

At once a gloved hand reached out and took Alice’s, but instead of making an effort to lift the woman to her feet, the fingers clamped shut around her wrist, imprisoning it in a bruising, viselike grip. Roughly the gloved fingers peeled back the cuff of Alice’s worn sweater, exposing the bare skin of her forearm. Alice yelped in pain as the yarn in the sweater moved across the cactus barbs impaled in the other side of her arm, driving them farther into her flesh.

“Stop,” she commanded. “Please don’t try to move the sweater. It hurts too much. Just help me—”

That was when she saw the syringe for the first time. Some-how it materialized from nowhere, appearing in her captor’s other hand. His rubber-gloved fingers held it upright, ready to plunge it into the naked flesh of Alice’s captive wrist.

Alice’s son, Clete, was a diabetic and had been for years. As a consequence, Alice was no stranger to syringes and needles. She knew them as distributors of the life-sustaining insulin that had kept her son alive, and as devices that had delivered the pain-killing drugs that had helped ease her husband through his final illness. At first she thought the person standing over her was trying to help her, that the needle held some kind of painkiller that would somehow counteract the poison pumping into her body from the cholla needles. Maybe he was giving her something that would combat the mind-numbing pain.

The metal part of the needle flashed briefly in the starlight and then she felt the sharp jab in her wrist. “Thank you,” she murmured. “I’m sure that will help. Now, if you’ll just help me up.”

Instead, the man produced another needle and shoved that one into her arm as well.

What if this isn’t a painkiller at all? Alice wondered. What if it’s something else, like poison, maybe? What if he’s trying to kill me?

“What are you doing?” she asked. Her tongue seemed to grow thick in her mouth. She had a hard time forming the words, but by then he had pulled yet a third syringe out of his pocket. She struggled and tried to yank her arm free, but even the smallest movement ground hundreds of cholla spines deeper into her back, legs, and arms. Once again the needle of a loaded syringe plunged into her arm.

“Stop!” Alice commanded, but this time the word came out as little more than an unrecognizable gurgle. She moaned in agony.

“Be still, Alice!” he growled. The falsetto was gone now. It was definitely a man’s voice, but whose? It sounded familiar, but Alice’s pain-fogged brain couldn’t make the connection.

“Who are you?” she tried to say. “What do you want?” But the words were so slurred that they sounded like gibberish, even to her.

In reply, the man dropped her wrist. Alice lay still and watched him through a confusing, misty haze as he pocketed the third syringe and gathered up the other two from where they had fallen to the ground beside her. He stuffed them into his coat pocket as well. As he turned to walk away, Alice felt a small object land on her abdomen and then roll off onto the ground.

At that moment, what was happening seemed to be of little concern to her. The body lying on the cold, hard ground might have been someone else’s rather than her own. There was no getting away. Alice had no strength or breath left to scream or cry out for help. There was nothing to do but submit and hope that eventually the pain would stop.

Her tormentor walked away, and after that, time seemed to dissolve as well. The world spun out of control. Despite the cold, sweat popped out all over Alice’s body. The sudden unaccountable dampness of her skin made her feel that much colder. Even so, she somehow remembered that something had fallen on her—something small and hard that had rolled off her body and onto the ground.

Unable to turn her head without driving the cholla needles deeper into her flesh, she patted the earth next to her until her groping fingers closed around something small and smooth. It was a bottle, a tiny glass bottle.

She knew what the tiny vial was without even looking—knew what it must have contained and what the inevitable result would be. The cholla needles were nothing compared to the hurt and betrayal that flooded through her in that awful moment of realization. Grasping the bottle in her fist, she closed her eyes and let the tears come. Hours later, when Alice Rogers finally stopped breathing, the little glass vial was still clutched tightly in her dying fist.

CHAPTER ONE

Easing the porch swing back and forth, thirty-year-old Sheriff Joanna Brady closed her green eyes and let the warmth of an early-November Sunday afternoon caress her body. Nearby, on the top step, sat Joanna’s best friend and pastor, the Reverend Marianne Maculyea of Canyon United Methodist Church. Without speaking for minutes at a time, the two women watched their respective children Joanna’s eleven-year-old Jennifer and Marianne’s three-year-old Ruth—at play.

Both sets of mothers and daughters were studies in contrast. Joanna’s red hair was cut short in what Helen Barco at Helene’s Salon of Hair and Beauty called a figure-skater cut. On this Sunday afternoon, Marianne’s long dark hair was pulled back in a serviceable ponytail. Jenny’s fair, blue-eyed face was surrounded by a halo of tow-headed white hair while Ruth’s shiny black pageboy gleamed in the warm autumn sun.

The last week in October, a surprisingly fierce cold snap had visited southeastern Arizona, bringing with it a frigid rain that had threatened to drown out most of Bisbee’s Halloween trick-or-treating. Two days later, when bright sunlight reemerged, the cottonwood, apple, and peach trees on High Lonesome Ranch seemed to have changed colors overnight, In the sunny days and crisp nights since, dying leaves had drifted from their branches and had fallen to earth, carpeting the yard in a thick mantle of gold, red, rust, and brown.

For little Ruth, recently rescued from life in a desolate Chinese orphanage, the crackly, multicolored leaves were a source of incredible wonder and delight. Together the two girls raked great mounds of leaves into piles, then dived into them with a chorus of shrieks alternating with giggles.

For a while both of Jenny’s dogs—Sadie, a bluetick hound, and Tigger, a comical-looking half pit bull /half golden retriever—had joined in. When Sadie tired of the game, she re-treated to the relative quiet of the porch along with Joanna and Marianne. With a sigh, the dog lay down on the top step and placed her smooth, floppy-eared head in Marianne’s lap. Tigger, however, continued to throw himself into the festivities with all the antic energy of a born clown.

On Jenny’s command to “stay,” the dog, quivering with eager anticipation, would lie perfectly still and allow himself to be covered with a mound of leaves. When Jenny shouted “okay,” the dog would erupt from the leaves, tuck his tail between his legs, and then race around the yard as though pursued by a pack of ravenous coyotes.

Each time the game was repeated, Ruth clapped her hands in childish delight. “Again, Jenny,” she crowed. “Do again!”

Watching the simple game and enjoying the gales of gleeful laughter, Joanna Brady found herself nodding and smiling. She was about to comment on the beautiful afternoon and on the two girls’ unrestrained joy. When she looked in Marianne’s direction, however, she saw a single tear snake its way down her friend’s solemn lace. Seeing that tear, Joanna opted for silence. For the space of another minute or so, neither woman said a word while Marianne’s hand absently stroked Sadie’s soft, velvety muzzle.

“What is it, Mari?” Joanna asked finally. The question wasn’t really necessary because Joanna knew exactly what the problem was. In August, Marianne’s other newly adopted daughter—Esther, Ruth’s twin sister—had died of complications following heart-transplant surgery. It seemed certain to Joanna that watching two little girls at play on this warm, jewel-clear afternoon had reopened Marianne’s aching wound.

Joanna Brady herself was no stranger to the grieving process. The death of her husband, Andy, had thrown her own life into a personal hell of pain and loss. She understood how a perfect moment in a gemlike day could darken and then be dashed to pieces by the sudden realization that someone else was missing from the picture, that a certain loved one wasn’t present to share that special moment. At times like these, the perfection of the present would fade to a muddy gray, shrouded behind an impenetrable fog of hurt. Watching one daughter at play, Marianne had no doubt been stricken by a terrible longing for the other child, one who wasn’t there and never would be again.

Convinced that she knew exactly what was going on with Marianne, Joanna was confused when, after another minute or so, she heard her friend’s clipped response. “I’m going to quit,” Marianne said.

At first Joanna didn’t make the connection. “Quit what?” she asked.

“The ministry,” Marianne replied. “I’m going to resign effective immediately.”

Somehow Joanna managed to stifle her gasp of dismay. “Surely you don’t mean that!” she said at last.

“I do,” Marianne said determinedly. “I’ve never meant anything more in my life. My letter of resignation is all written. It’s sitting in the computer waiting to be printed. There’s a church council meeting on Wednesday evening. I’ll probably turn it in then.”

Stunned, Joanna fell silent. Through the turmoil following Andy’s death, Marianne Maculyea and her husband, Jeff Daniels, had been never-failing sources of comfort and support. With their help and encouragement, Joanna had slowly battled her way back to emotional stability. They had walked her through months of painful grieving—through the inevitable stages of denial and anger—until she had at last achieved a measure of acceptance.

That summer, when tragedy had visited her friends in the form of Esther’s death, Joanna had done her best to return the favor. She had strived to provide the same kind of understanding and strength for them that they had given her. Now, Joanna realized that her efforts had fallen short. She must not have done enough. Why else would Marianne be sitting on the front porch, basking in the warm afternoon sunlight, and drowning in despair?

“What’s going on?” Joanna asked softly. “It’s not like you just give up.”

Marianne’s gray eyes darkened with a film of tears. “It’s the Thanksgiving sermon,” she answered. “Because of bulletin deadlines, I’m always working two weeks ahead. I’ve been trying for days to think of something meaningful to say, but I can’t do it. I’m not the least bit thankful right now, Joanna. I’m outraged. If Marliss Shackleford tells me one more time how lucky we are to still have Ruth, I’m liable to punch the woman’s lights out.”

Marliss was a busybody columnist for the local paper and one of Marianne’s parishioners besides. She wasn’t one of Joanna’s favorite people, either. In fact, when it came to Marliss, Joanna had long since given up turning the other cheek. “It might do the woman a world of good,” she said.

Marianne favored Joanna with a wan smile and then looked off in the other direction, all the while continuing to stroke Sadie’s unmoving head. In times of crisis Joanna herself had drawn comfort from the dog’s uncomplaining, stolid presence, but she wondered if, given the present circumstances, merely petting a dog offered enough solace.

Marianne’s continuing crisis of faith was something the two friends had discussed often in the months since Esther’s death. Joanna had assumed that over time things would get better for Marianne, just as they had for her. But clearly the situation for Marianne wasn’t improving. Rather than pulling out of her morass, Marianne seemed to be sinking deeper and deeper.

Struggling to find something useful to say, Joanna rose from the porch swing and raked a few more leaves into the small bonfire where a collection of foil-wrapped potatoes was roasting. Raking leaves and baking potatoes in an autumn bonfire was something Andrew Roy Brady had done first with his father, Jim Bob, and later with his daughter, Jenny. With Andy gone, this was one of the small family traditions Joanna had been determined to carry on. She had worried that reviving that old custom might bring up too many memories for both mother and daughter. Instead, Jenny had thrown herself wholeheartedly into playing with Ruth and Tigger, while Joanna was too caught up in Marianne’s heartache to remember her own.

What can
I
say that won’t make things worse?
Joanna wondered, as she leaned the rake against the fence and returned to her spot on the porch swim.
Or
would I he better off just keeping quiet?

But keeping quiet wasn’t part of Joanna Brady’s genetic makeup. She was far too much her own mother’s daughter. “Have you talked to Jeff about this?” Joanna asked as she resumed her place.

Marianne’s eyes flashed with sudden anger. Her reply was sharp, aggrieved. “Of course I have,” she snapped. “He thinks I should have my head examined.”