“Enough!” Larry ordered. “Tell them the rest of it. About Bucky.” Weeping and shaking her head, Terry dropped to her knees.
“Please,” she said. “Please.”
Somehow, Joanna found her voice. “Come on, Mr. Matkin,” she said. “Give yourself up. There’s no point in this.”
“I can’t,” he said. “It’s too late.”
“No, it’s not,” Joanna argued. “It’s never too late.”
On the seat beside her, Ernie Carpenter let out a groan. “Shit!” he said.
“What is it?” Joanna asked, glancing in his direction. “What’s wrong?”
Ernie was staring into the rearview mirror. “A car just turned in the driveway.”
Behind them, a late-model Chrysler New Yorker had pulled up in front of the clinic. An older silver-haired woman, wearing a bright pink pantsuit, got out of the dark blue four-door sedan. As soon as she opened the door, a small gray dog came tumbling out after her. Ignoring her orders to the contrary, the dog went racing over to the sidewalk, where he lifted his leg and peed on a low-lying manzanita bush.
“Buster,” the woman wailed, chasing after him. “You come back here right now.”
The dog, enjoying the game, paused just out of reach. He waited until the woman was almost on top of him, then he darted off again-running pell-mell toward the house. T-ward Larry Matkin, with the woman chasing after him.
There was no time for discussion, only time to react. “I’ll get her,” Ernie said, peeling out of the rider’s side in a roll. He landed on the ground, crouching and running. The dog, expecting a clear field, ran right into him. Ernie scooped the dog up and then continued forward, grabbing the woman by one arm and spinning her around. Dragging her behind him, he headed for cover on the other side of the sedan.
That took no more than a few seconds. When Joanna looked hack to the porch, however, Terry Buckwalter was no longer visible. Neither was Larry Matkin. What was visible, though, chilled Joanna to the very marrow of her hones. In the shadowy gloom of the porch, she saw the single flame of a burning match.
It wasn’t a question of heroics. The Blazer was still idling. Slinging the gearshift into reverse, Joanna backed away-backed away and then ducked. Just as she disappeared under the dash, the house exploded. Above her she felt the terrible force of the concussion, heard the awful roar. As the force of the blast reached the Blazer, the windshield blew in with a terrible whoosh. Blew in and then blew out the back as the rear and side windows all shattered. Debris came raining down on her back. When at last she could hear again, the only sound was the steady whooping of the Blazer’s car alarm.
Scrambling out onto the ground, Joanna looked back at the house.
It was flattened. Thin wisps of smoke coiled up from the wreckage. She turned around in time to see Ernie hand off the squirming dog to his mistress as though it were some kind of living football, then he started toward the house at a dead run.
Joanna stayed with the Blazer long enough to cut off the alarm and notify Dispatch, then she, too, went racing toward the remains of the house. Ernie was on his hands and knees where the porch had been, lifting a bloodied two-by-four and shoving it out of the way.
“Come on,” he said grimly. “Matkin is dead, but Terry’s under here. She may still be alive.”
He was right. Once they pried the debris off Terry, she still alive. Barely. It would have been best not to move her, but the tinder-dry wood inside the house was quickly catching fire. When they finally got her loose, they each took her by an arm and pulled her free.
Far enough from the house to be out of danger, they laid her down. While Ernie ran to get blankets, Joanna knelt beside side her. “Hold on,” she said. “Help’s on the way.”
Terry’s lips moved, but with the sirens coming down Leslie Canyon Road and with the increasing roar of the fire in the background, Joanna couldn’t hear a word.
“What did you say?” she asked, leaning closer. “I couldn’t hear you.”
“Tell Jenny…”
“Tell Jenny what?”
“Take good care of Kiddo.”
“Of Kiddo. What do you mean? I didn’t buy that horse.”
Terry Buckwalter shook her head. “No,” she managed. “Mr. Brady did.”
The E.M.T.’s showed up and took charge then. Joanna moved away and went looking for Ernie Carpenter. He talking to the hysterical woman, who was still clutching her shivering dog.
As Joanna walked up to them, she heard the woman say, “Buster never bites. He must have been scared to death. You’re sure he didn’t hurt you?”
“No, ma’am,” Ernie said. “I’m fine. Not hurt in the least.” He saw Joanna coming. Grinning at her, he gave her a thumbs-up sign. “Thanks to Sheriff Brady here, all Buster for his trouble was a mouthful of Kevlar vest.”
TWENTY-ONE
Terry Buckwalter died of her injuries before she ever made it to Cochise County Hospital in Douglas. It took Joanna and Ernie Carpenter the whole remainder of the day just to fill out the requisite reports. By the time seven-thirty rolled a round, Joanna was ready to bail out on her dinner engagement with Butch Dixon, but she relented finally and agreed to go after all.
Showered and shampooed and wearing fresh clothes, she picked him up at the Grand Hotel just after eight-thirty.
“Our reservation is for nine,” he told her. “Everybody said that the best place around is the Rob Roy. That’s where we’re going.”
“Suits me,” she said. “Now that I think about it, I’m close to starving.”
They drove in silence for several minutes, long enough for her to maneuver the Eagle out of town and onto the high-way. She was driving her personal car. The Blazer, with its shattered windows, glass-shredded upholstery and headliner, was currently out of commission.
“How was your day?” she asked.
“Jenny and I had a great time,” Butch answered. “When I dropped her and her gear off at her friend’s house, I think we were a real hit. Your daughter is now the envy of the neighborhood.”
“Good,” Joanna said.
“And how’s Jenny’s mother? I’ve heard rumors that it’s been a little rough in the law-and-order game today.”
The words rushed out then, tumbling over themselves in Joanna’s need to unburden herself. Had Jenny been around, she would have had to censor what she said, to tiptoe around some of the uglier implications. It was good to have someone grown-up to talk to, someone who cared enough to listen.
“I’m sorry,” she said at last, when she finished. “I shouldn’t be running on and on like this, but I’m trying to make sense of it all. I’m glad we finally figured out who did it, but I’m embarrassed, too, that I fell for so much of Terry’s story. I shouldn’t have.”
“Why wouldn’t you?” Butch said. “You’re a truthful person. You tend to believe what other people tell you. That’s a fault in all the liars of this world, not a fault in you.”
“Still, you’re probably bored to tears.”
“Not at all,” he replied. “I’m trying to add it all up. It turns out that Joanna Brady is smart but naive. She’s also sweet and tough. She’s a good mother and a good friend. She’s full of raw courage backed up by a certain amount of sheer bluff.”
Joanna laughed then. “It sounds as though you think I’m an ordinary schizophrenic.”
“No,” Butch Dixon said quietly. “Not ordinary in any tense of the word. I think you’re downright enchanting.” Embarrassed, Joanna could think of nothing else to say. They drove on into the parking lot of the Roll Roy in total silence.
Even at nine o’clock, the place was still hopping. Joanna and Butch were shown into the bar to wait for their table to be set. Butch looked around at the golf memorabilia decorating the walls.