Those insights all washed over Joanna in a series of crushing waves. When the flood ebbed, it left behind, like debris deposited on a sandy shore, an adult understanding not only of both of Joanna’s parents but of herself as well.

There could be no doubt that, in spite of it all, D. H. Lathrop had continued to love his wife. The reverse-Eleanor’s love for Big Hank-wasn’t as easy to discern. Big Hank had managed to maintain the relationship by learning to disregard the hurtful things that came out of Eleanor’s mouth.

Unfortunately, that simple survival trick was one his daughter had yet to master.

Joanna realized now, though, that he had demonstrated it back then. With Joanna sitting at the breakfast table, watching and hanging on his every word, he had simply set Eleanor’s biting criticisms aside. He had let them flow over him and then he shook them off as a dog sheds a coatful of water. Instead of internalizing his wife’s carping, he had simply deflected it. But first, he had winked at his daughter.

“That’s funny, Ellie,” he had said. “I must be younger than you think, because I don’t feel the least bit tired. Fact of the matter is, I think I could go out right this minute and lick my weight in wildcats.”

Seventeen years later, Joanna felt exactly the same way-ready to take on all comers. She had left the Rob Roy feeling drained. The hassle with her mother over the ride home, as well as the confrontation with Terry Buckwalter, had taken their toll. But now, convinced she had made a vital connection in the Buckwalter case, she felt miraculously recovered. Rather than driving directly back to the department, she headed for the Copper Queen Hospital.

On the way, she radioed to the department to see if Ernie Carpenter could meet her there. Unfortunately, Dispatch reported that he was still up in Sunizona. Putting the radio mike back in its clip, Joanna made up her mind.

That’s all right, she told herself. I’ll make like the Little Red Hen, and I’ll do it myself.

Once inside the hospital, she saw Deputy Debbie Howell stationed in the hallway outside the door of Hal Morgan private room. Instead of going directly to the room, Joanna headed for the nurses’ station. Mavis Embry, the heavyset woman issuing orders at the nerve center of the hospital, had been a recent nursing school graduate working in the delivery room on the night Joanna Lathrop was born. Now she was the Copper Queen’s head nurse.

“What can I do for you, Joanna?” Mavis asked.

“I’m here to see Hal Morgan.”

Mavis shook her head. “Dr. Lee says no visitors. He’s over in the clinic, if you want to talk to him about it. Until I get the okay from him, nobody goes in the room.”

Nodding, Joanna headed toward the clinic wing of the hospital. Dr. Thomas Lee was standing out in the hall, perusing someone’s chart. “Dr. Lee?”

Lee, a Taiwanese immigrant and a recent medical school graduate, was only an inch or two taller than Joanna’s five-foot-four. He peered at her through the tiny round lenses of his wire-rimmed glasses.

“Yes?” he answered.

Joanna opened her leather wallet that displayed her badge. He frowned. “The officer who was here earlier disturbed my patient. He needs rest.”

“Another officer was here?” Joanna asked in surprise. “Who?”

“A big man,” Dr. Lee told her. “Voland, I believe was his name. He, too, carried a badge.”

“Dick Voland is one of my deputies,” Joanna said.

Dr. Lee drew himself up to his full height. “I do not care for his bedside manner,” he declared. “You can tell him from me that he is not to enter the rooms of any of my patients without my permission in advance. Is that clear?”

Joanna nodded. “Perfectly,” she replied. “But would it be possible for me to speak to Mr. Morgan? It’s a matter of some urgency.”

“Mr. Morgan has had a severe blow to the back of his head,” Dr. Lee replied. “He needs his rest. You promise not to take too long?”

“I promise,” Joanna said.

“Very well,” Dr. Lee returned. “I will call Mrs. Embry and let her know.”

When Joanna returned to the nurses’ station, Mavis Embry waved her on by. “I guess you know which door,” she said.

Deputy Debbie Howell, stationed directly outside the door to Hal Morgan’s room, was a single mom and a relatively new hire in the department. As a consequence, she was low-man on Dick Voland’s patrol roster. She greeted Joanna with a pleasant smile. “Good afternoon, Sheriff Brady.”

“Good afternoon, deputy,” Joanna returned. “How’s it going?”

Deputy Howell shrugged. “B-o-r-i-n-g,” she answered. “The only people who’ve been in or out so far are doctors and nurses. No other visitors at all.”

In fact, a printed “No Visitors” sign had been affixed to the door frame. “I’ve spoken to Dr. Lee,” Joanna said, pushing the door open. “I won’t be long.”

Hal Morgan lay on his back on the bed. His head was swathed in bandages. At first Joanna thought he was asleep. He lay with his face turned toward the window, and he didn’t move when the door opened. Walking quietly to the far side of the bed, Joanna was surprised to see that his eyes were open. He was staring out the window. Following his gaze, she looked out through the slight distortion of the green mesh screen that covered the window. Half a mile away, the rusty-red tailings dump reared abruptly into the air, reaching heavenward toward an intensely blue canopy of sky.

“Mr. Morgan?” Joanna asked.

Frowning, he turned to look at her. For a moment Joanna wasn’t sure whether or not he recognized her. With head injuries, she knew there was always the possibility of loss of memory. Short term memory, especially of events that occur within hours of the injury incident, can disappear forever.

“Sheriff… Sheriff…” Morgan struggled.

“Brady,” Joanna supplied. “Sheriff Joanna Brady.”

He nodded and then grimaced, as though even that small movement had pained him. But when he spoke, his voice emerged with surprisingly clarity and force.

“I don’t care what that Voland character says,” Hal Morgan told her. “I didn’t kill Amos Buckwalter.”

There was a single chair next to the window. Joanna sank clown onto it. “What’s the last thing you remember?” she asked.

“Wait a minute, Sheriff Brady,” Morgan said with sudden wariness. “I put in my twenty years. Voland already told me I’m a suspect. There’s an armed deputy stationed outside my door. I’m not talking to anyone-you included-without having an attorney present.”

“Do you have one?” Joanna asked.

Morgan frowned. “Do I have one what?”

“An attorney,” Joanna answered. “By the way, the best defense attorney in town is a guy by the name Burton Kimball.”

Reaching into her pocket, Joanna pulled out one of her business cards-one of the shiny new ones with the words “Joanna Lee Brady, Sheriff of Cochise County,” printed on the front. Turning the card over, she scrawled Burton Kim-ball’s name on the back and then handed the card to Hal Morgan. He squinted al it for a moment as though his eyes weren^’t quite working properly. “What’s this?” he asked.

“The name of that defense attorney,” Joanna replied “You’ll have to call him, though. He’s good, but he’s not likely to show up unless you call him. Ernie Carpenter, my homicide investigator, is bound to be in touch before long. You’ll want to have Burton on tap when that happens.”

Morgan lowered the card and stared at Joanna. “Why are you telling me this?” he asked.

Joanna looked down at her hands. “Maybe because I believe you when you say you didn’t do it?”

Momentary anger flickered in Hal Morgan’s deep-set eyes. “Look,” he said, “if this is one of those good cop/bad cop deals, forget it. It’s not going to work. I’ve played that game myself a time or two. No matter what you say or do, I still didn’t kill Amos Buckwalter.”

“I didn’t say you did,” Joanna replied. “In fact, I believe I said the exact opposite.”