“Skeleton Canyon is real enough, but I’m not going to try to give you directions over the phone. Meet me at the Double Adobe turnoff on Highway 80 just as soon as you can. I’ll drive you there. That’ll be easier for all concerned.”

“All right,” George said. “But I’ll need to jump in the shower first.”

“Fine,” Joanna said impatiently. “I’ll shower, too. But meet me as soon as you can. And bring your hiking boots.”

“Hiking boots? Why?”

“Because the body’s twenty yards off the nearest trail down a mountainside,” Joanna said. “We’ll most likely have to do some hiking.”

“Thanks for the warning,” George said. “I’ll have to do the best I can.”

Abandoning her now-cold cup of coffee, Joanna headed for the shower herself. Minutes later, with her hair still damp, and dressed in boots and hiking attire, she headed outside and stopped cold in front of the Crown Victoria. The low-slung patrol car wouldn’t cut it in Skeleton Canyon any better than George Winfield’s hearse.

Unlocking it, she picked up the radio. “I’m going to be out of radio contact,” she told Tica Romero. “I’ll be in my Eagle. It doesn’t have a radio or air-conditioning, but at least it has four-wheel drive.” She was about to end the contact when she remembered it was Sunday.

“When you have a chance, Tica, I’ll need you to call a few people for me. My in-laws are expecting me to drop by after church for dinner. I’ll need you to let Jim Bob and Eva Lou know I most likely won’t make it.”

“And the other call?”

“Make that one to Reverend Marianne Maculyea of Canyon Methodist Church,” Joanna said. “Tell her I won’t be coming to Sunday school or church today. Let her know why. Mari’s a friend of Angie Kellogg’s, too. She and Jeff will both want to know what’s going on.”

Joanna had barely stopped the Eagle on the shoulder of Highway 80 when Ernie Carpenter’s van went flying by. Fifty yards down the road, it almost stood on its nose as Jaime Carbajal, driving in Ernie’s stead, jammed on the brakes. Pulling a quick U-turn, the van came back to the spot where Joanna was parked. After yet another U-turn, the van pulled in behind the Eagle, and both detectives climbed out. For a change, even the usually dapper Carpenter was already dressed down to crime scene-appropriate attire.

“What gives, Sheriff Brady? Do you need help?”

Joanna shook her head. “I’m waiting for George Winfield. He’s still a little short when it comes to Cochise County geography. I wasn’t sure he could find his way to Skeleton Canyon on his own.”

Ernie nodded. “The guy’s still pretty much of a greenhorn. I hope he gets a move on, though. Looking at those clouds over there, we may not have much time.”

“You two go on,” Joanna told them. “Winfield and I will be along as soon as we can.”

“Are you sure you’re all right, Sheriff Brady?” Ernie asked. “Tica told us about Angie Kellogg being missing as well. I know she’s a friend of yours.”

“Thanks, Ernie,” she said. “I’m okay and I’m sure Angie will be fine. She’ll find her way out. Once you get out there, though, you might want to turn on your siren. It’ll make it easier for her to know where you are.”

“Right,” Ernie said. “Will do.”

The two detectives started away. “Detective Carbajal?” Joanna called after them.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“Remember,” she said, leveling a reproving look in his direction, “sirens yes, but whoever was in that pickup is already dead. You’re not out to set land speed records here. This isn’t a hot pursuit situation, and I don’t want it treated as such.”

With a meaningful glance at Ernie, who had no doubt been urging him on, Jaime nodded. “Right, Sheriff Brady,” he said. “I’ll be sure to slow it down.”

Ernie and Jaime had just pulled away when George Winfield arrived in the converted hearse that doubled as his coroner’s wagon. When George walked up to the window of Joanna’s Eagle, he was carrying an Arizona map that he had unfolded and was holding at arm’s length. His left cheek bore a faint smudge of lipstick that was, no doubt, Eleanor’s.

“Ellie says Skeleton Canyon is somewhere over here in the Pelon…” He paused. “How do you say it? The Pelonsillios?”

He pronounced the word in true gringo fashion with the word silly taking the place of the two silent l’s. The sound of it grated on Joanna’s ear. So did his use of Joanna’s father’s pet name for her mother. The lipstick didn’t help.

“It’s Spanish,” she explained, without bothering to cover up her irritation. “That means you don’t pronounce the double 1. It’s Pelon-si-yos.”

George shook his head. “I’ll never be able to say all these god-awful Spanish and Indian words. Whatever happened to good old American English?”

“You mean like Minnesota?” Joanna asked testily. “Or maybe Illinois?”

Realizing he had stepped in something but unsure what it was, Winfield regarded her warily. “I guess we’d better get started.”

“I guess we’d better,” Joanna said.

Winfield went back to the hearse and removed a heavy leather satchel, which he lugged over and loaded into the back of the Eagle. By the time he climbed into the rider’s seat, Joanna already had the engine running.

The turnoff to the north entrance of Skeleton Canyon was at a crossroads presuming to be a village that called itself Apache. From Double Adobe Road to the turnoff was a good fifty-five miles. The drive took them east across the southern end of the Sulphur Springs Valley and then north through the San Bernardino Valley. Most of the time on a drive like this, Joanna would have been frustrated by the vastness of her jurisdictional boundaries. Six thousand two hundred and forty square miles was a big area to cover, but today the miles flew past far too fast for her to even think about it.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, Joanna was thinking not only about the tragedy of Brianna O’Brien’s death, but also about her own culpability with regard to whatever was going on with Angie Kellogg. Joanna had thought Dennis Hacker was inviting Angie on a harmless, old-fashioned date-the kind of innocent, hand-holding thing old people sometimes use to re-gale their kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Wrong. Not in this case.

Joanna knew something about the abuse Angie Kellogg had endured as a child. And she knew a little about her life as a prostitute in L.A. It was hardly surprising that someone with her background would worry that maybe the Bird Man’s intentions weren’t all they were cracked up to be-that he was interested in something besides hummingbirds. Considering what had happened, Joanna had little doubt who had been right and who had been wrong.

Thinking about the realities of Angie out walking around, unprepared, in the wild, rock-strewn landscape that made up the Peloncillos, Joanna glanced at Doc Winfield’s feet. Despite her warning advice, he was nonetheless wearing a pair of thin-soled, highly polished loafers.

“Are those the only shoes you have along?” she asked.

“Unfortunately yes,” he said. “I’m not much for hiking. I haven’t quite gotten around to buying any hiking boots yet.”

“What about water?” she asked. “I don’t suppose you brought along any of that, either.”

“I brought along my crime scene kit.”

“But no water to drink?”

“No.”

Joanna sighed. “That’s all right. I have two canteens in the back. I’ll give you one to use. That’s what happens to city slickers when you turn them loose in the desert. If you don’t watch them every minute, pretty soon they turn themselves into potato chips. When you’re working out in the sun, especially with the humidity going up like it is right now, heat-stroke can sneak up and catch you unawares.”

“Isthat why they call the place we’re going to Skeleton Canyon?” Winfield asked. “Because people died out there?” Joanna nodded.