While Joanna paid Tigger’s bill, Reggie Wade helped discharge the basset. His kindness in doing so made a real impression on Joanna. It seemed to her that was what small-town America was all about-neighbors helping neighbors even when, under normal circumstances, they might have been considered natural competitors rather than allies.

As Joanna made to leave, Reggie met her at the door, pulling a business card out of his pocket. “If Tigger tangles with that porcupine again, here’s my address down in Douglas. I’m just north of the fairgrounds.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said, taking the card. “You think he’ll do it again, then?”

Dr. Wade shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “You never can tell. How many times is it now?^”

“‘Three so far.”

“It sounds to me as if Tigger and that porcupine have a grudge match going. There’s always a chance the porcupine will decide to move along. Barring that, I don’t think any-thing short of a baseball bat is going to get Tigger to leave him alone. He’s convinced he’s going to win.”

Joanna put the card in her pocket. “In that case,” she said, “I’d best keep your address handy. You’ll probably be hearing from us again real soon.”

On the way back out to the ranch, Jenny sat in the back seat with Tigger’s head cradled in her lap. “What’s going to happen to Kiddo?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You should have seen him when I gave him his carrot. He seemed so sad.”

Joanna bit back the urge to explain to Jenny that horses don’t get sad, but Jenny was already hurrying on with her own agenda. “Couldn’t we buy him, Mom? Please? We’ve got plenty of room. I’d help take care of him. Honest, I would.”

“Buy a horse?” Joanna choked. Another animal to care for was the last thing she needed.

“Don’t you remember?” Jenny wheedled. “Daddy told me I could have a horse someday.”

“Someday maybe,” Joanna said. “But not right now.”

After that, Jenny drifted into a morose silence that lasted all the way out to the ranch and back into town. Unfortunately, the mood was catching. As Joanna looked out at miles of winter-blackened mesquite it seemed to her as though the whole hundred-mile-long expanse of the Sulphur Springs Valley was dead; as though the landscape would remain barren and forlorn forever.

Just like the two of us, Joanna thought.

By eight, Jenny had picked her dispirited way through an order of French toast at Daisy’s, and Joanna had dropped her off at school. With the morning’s somber mood still hanging over her, Joanna arrived at her office in the Cochise County Justice Center.

Joanna’s secretary, Kristin Marsten, wearing her signature short skirt, had just presented Joanna with a stack containing two days’ worth of untended correspondence when Deputies Voland and Montoya came into her office for their early morning briefing.

The two of them could have been Mutt and Jeff. Voland was big and burly and loud-prone to throwing his considerable weight around. Frank was slight and quiet, tending more to negotiation than to barking orders. Their only common physical trait came from seriously receding hairlines.

From day one, relations between the two chief deputies had been as much at odds as their physical characteristics. “Oil and water” was the best way to describe it. Voland’s long history with the department made him the consummate insider. It usually meant he stood firmly behind doing things the way they had always been done. Montoya, a former Willcox City Marshal, had been one of the two men who had run against Joanna in the contest for sheriff. People had been surprised when one of her first acts upon assuming office had been to draft a former opponent, appointing him to be one of her two chief deputies. Most longtime sheriff’s department employees, Dick Voland included, regarded Montoya as a rank outsider.

At the time of the appointment, Joanna had made it clear to Frank that she wanted him aboard so she could he assured of having at least one sure ally in the department. In the months since, Drank had served her in that regard both cheerfully and adeptly. Outside the department, he acted as a public lightning rod. Inside, he functioned as a behind-the-scenes departmental barometer.

On this particular morning, as Voland and Montoya took their usual places at the conference table in Joanna’s office, she was dismayed to see that the usually upbeat Frank seemed downright glum.

“So what’s been happening?” Joanna asked, opening the session with the customary question. Dick Voland complied, quickly delivering the department’s unvarnished overnight statistics.

“Five U.D.A.’s (undocumented aliens) picked up between Douglas and Bisbee along Border Road and two more just outside Tombstone on Highway 80. Turned them over to the Border Patrol. Two drunk drivers. One domestic. A single-vehicle, alcohol-related rollover just south of Elfrida. That’s about it. Pretty quiet, even for a Tuesday.”

“Anything on the Buckwalter case?” Joanna asked.

“According to Ernie, Hal Morgan’s still in the Copper Queen Hospital. They’re treating him for smoke inhalation and a skull fracture. I’ve posted round-the-clock guards out-side his room.”

“Why?” Joanna asked. “He doesn’t sound like a flight risk. He’s a retired cop with a home and a job in Wickenburg. All the people Ernie talked to in California yesterday, guys who knew him when he was still a police officer, said Hal Morgan was a great guy, one who wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

“Try telling that to Bucky Buckwalter,” Dick said, leaning back and drumming his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair. “Once a cop goes haywire, there’s no telling what he might do.”

Joanna looked to Frank. “What do you think?” she asked.

“I’ve been trying to tell Mr. Voland what I think all morning. I’ve been attempting to explain to him the grim realities of our budget meeting with the board of supervisors yesterday. Any overtime we pay in January is going to have a direct bearing on our ability to cover shifts come the end of the year.”

“Budgets, smudgets,” Voland sneered. “I know those guys. They’re always dishing out this belt-tightening crap, but when push comes to shove-when public safety is on the line-they always cave. One way or another, they manage to find the money.”

“Let’s not get off on the budget problems right this minute,” Joanna said, holding up her hand to stifle the debate. “First let’s deal with the Hal Morgan issue. What does Ernie say? Why don’t we have him come in and give us his take on the situation?”

“Because he’s already up at the coroner’s office,” Voland answered. “Winfield has another autopsy scheduled for today-the stiff from Sunizona that we found yesterday.” Voland paused long enough to consult his notes. “The dead guy’s name is Reed Carruthers, by the way. According to Ernie, unless Winfield finds something unforeseen in the autopsy, it’s not a case to concern us. Natural causes rather than a homicide. But at ninety-three, when a guy takes off walking in the middle of a January night with no coat or jacket, you’ve gotta say it’s old age plain and simple.”

Voland looked up. When no comments were forthcoming from either Joanna or Frank, he continued. “According to Ernie’s report, Carruthers’ daughter, Hannah Green, has been looking alter him for years. She claims he’s been sleeping so little of late that she’s all worn out. Two nights ago, he evidently waited until she was asleep and then took off.”

“Wait a minute,” Joanna said. “Isn’t this the same guy who had a bloody wound on his head? Wasn’t that why Ernie was called out to Sunizona in the first place?”

“That’s right. The initial police report said that Carruthers tell off a fence and hit his head on a rock. According to Ernie, that’s pretty much what happened. I’m sure once Dr. Winfield finishes the autopsy, he’ll be able to give us a more definitive answer. As soon as he’s done with Carruthers, he’ll be moving right on to Bucky Buckwalter.”