Skeleton Canyon (19 page)

“What happened, then?” George asked.

Ernie shook his head. “The only thing I can figure is she came around the rock face too close to the edge and tipped off. But if she was in four-wheel drive, with two wheels still on the track, she should have been able to correct and get back up on the trail—unless she was drunk or sound asleep, that is.”

“Who’d go to sleep driving in a place like this?” George asked, looking around. “Maybe she did it on purpose.”

“Maybe,” Ernie agreed.

“What next?” Joanna asked, inserting herself into the discussion.

“Mr. Hacker says the body is caught under the cab. If that’s the case, we may have to tip the truck over to get at it,” Ernie said.

“But won’t that run the risk of rolling it further down the hill?” Joanna objected.

“It’s possible, so before we do anything rash, I’d suggest we climb down and take a closer look.”

Detective Carpenter and George Winfield set off, with Ernie leading the way and with George slipping and sliding in his wake.
I warned him to bring along decent shoes,
Joanna thought, hoping he wouldn’t break a leg or his neck in the process.

“But what about Angie?” Dennis Hacker was saying. “Is anyone looking for her?”

“Why don’t you tell me what happened?” Joanna said.

“We were up in the meadow, watching the hummingbirds and having a great time, when we started talking. I guess I hurt her feelings, but I didn’t mean to. She took off down the mountain. I haven’t seen her since.”

“Exactly how did you hurt her feelings?”

“You
^’
re a friend of hers,
^”
I locker said.
^“
Does that mean you know about her background?”

Joanna met the man’s troubled gaze, staring back at him without flinching. “If you’re asking me whether or not I know Angie Kellogg is a former prostitute, the answer is yes. I know all about it. She told me.”

“She told me, too,” Hacker continued with a pained expression on his face. “I’m afraid I did something unforgivable. I laughed.”

“You did what?”

“I laughed. Look, I can explain ...”

“I don’t think I’m interested in your explanations, Mr. Hacker,” Joanna said coldly. “But I can certainly see why Angie left. She wasn’t physically injured in any way the last time you saw her, was she?”

“No, she was fine—”

Joanna cut him off. “I’m sure, from what you say, that she probably is fine. And I have no doubt that she’ll find her own way home.”

“But it’s getting hot. She didn’t take any water with her. If she drinks water from the stream, there’s no telling what will happen. She could come down with giardia—or worse.”

“Thank you for your help in finding the pickup, Mr. Hacker,” Joanna said, dismissing him. “Dispatch has your cellular number, don’t they?”

“Yes.”

“How about if you go home and look after your parrots. We’ll give you a call when we find her.”

Joanna knew she was being curt, but she didn’t care. Why should she? She was so angry with Dennis Hacker right then that she could have spit. How dare this arrogant asshole with his sixty-five-thousand-dollar off-road wonder and vanity plates that said BRDMAN laugh at Angie Kellogg? How dare he make fun of someone who, against terrible odds, was struggling to gain a toehold in the regular world?

“But, Sheriff Brady . . .” Hacker began, flushing beet red under his tan from the top of his khaki collar to the roots of his straw-colored hair.

Joanna was glad to see that flush, gratified that her words had hit home. Dennis Hacker deserved to be embarrassed. “You’ll have to excuse me now,” she said. “My people and I have an accident to investigate.”

Leaving Dennis Hacker alone and stewing, Joanna followed Ernie Carpenter and George Winfield down the cliff face. Even with proper hiking boots, getting down was no easy task. Just below the ridge, the empty camper shell clung to a rocky out-cropping like the dead husk of a molted and long-gone cicada. A few steps farther down the hill, Joanna realized that however long ago the accident had happened, the summer heat had done its worst. Within fifteen feet of the wreck, Joanna’s nostrils filled with the ugly stench of rotting flesh. Dennis Hacker was right and so were the vultures. There could be no doubt someone or something was dead.

By the time Joanna reached the shattered truck, both Ernie and George were wearing face masks over their mouths and noses. Both of the truck’s doors were missing, and the two investigators were peering into the cab of the pickup through the missing uphill door. When Joanna joined them, George Winfield fumbled a third mask out of his pocket and handed it over. She accepted the mask gratefully and put it on at once—not that it did much good.

“What gives?” she asked.

George pointed to a boulder that was perched beside the top of the cab. “No sign of any survivors,” he said. “‘That rock down there on the other side of the engine is what stopped it. The problem is, with the truck’s center of gravity up in the air like this, we can’t be sure the rock is strong enough to hold it secure.”

“So what do we do?” Joanna asked. “Try to get it back on its wheels?”

Ernie nodded. “We sure as hell can’t do any investigating this way. I’m worried about tipping it, though. On this kind of steep grade, depending on the momentum and what it hits going down, it could still roll a long way. Hopefully, though, we’ll accomplish two things—uncover the body so George here can get at it, and have the truck come to rest against something solid enough that we can actually get inside.”

“The grass around here is tinder dry,” Joanna observed. “Any danger of starting a fire?”

Ernie shook his head. “Fortunately, I don’t smell any leaking fuel. If it didn’t catch fire when it came rolling down the hill with the engine running, it isn’t going to burn up now.”

Hearing the sound of falling rocks and pebbles behind her, Joanna turned in time to see a block and tackle fall to the ground behind her. Moments later Dennis Hacker came sliding after it, carrying a crowbar. Without a glance in Joanna’s direction, he walked up to Ernie. “If you’re going to try to move the truck, I thought these might come in handy,” he said.

He paused for a moment and surveyed the situation. “I don’t think that boulder’s enough to hold it. Want me to try prying it out of the way?”

“Sure,” Ernie said. “Let’s see what happens.”

Since Ernie had already agreed, there wasn’t much point in

Joanna’s objecting. Besides, compared to Ernie Carpenter and George Winfield, Dennis Hacker was a hulk of a young man. Somewhere in his thirties, he was a good twenty years younger than the detective and twenty-five or so younger than the coroner. Not only that, he was in tremendously good shape.

“Be careful,” was all Joanna said, then she stood aside and watched. It took several grunting, muscle-bulging efforts before Hacker sent the boulder crashing down the steep face of the mountain, cracking like a rifle shot as it bounced against other rocks along the way and finally rolling out of sight into the underbrush.

The worry had been that with the rock out of the way, the truck itself might slip loose from its precarious mooring and come rolling down on Hacker. It didn’t. Moments later, the four of them, all wearing disposable rubber gloves, were once again uphill from the wreck.

Joanna expected it would take a good deal of effort to move the truck. Her assumption was that they would have to rock it back and forth to get it moving, sort of like pulling a gigantic tooth. In actual fact, they pushed far too hard. The first shove sent the truck tumbling while the pitch of the steep hillside, momentum, and gravity all worked together to do the rest. The Tacoma rolled first onto its side and then up onto its flattened tires. It tottered there briefly and then went right on rolling, careening down the hill twice more before it came to rest, upright again, against a scrub oak.

“Way to go,” Ernie panted. “That tree should hold it.”

But by then Joanna wasn’t listening. She was looking down at her feet, staring at the pitiful lump of smashed flesh that had once been Brianna O’Brien. She lay facedown on the rock-strewn hillside. Her long blond hair fanned out around her, parted by a jagged bloody gash that ran almost the whole length of her head. Her face had been crushed almost flat.

For Joanna, though, the worst part wasn’t the awful physical wounds visible on the broken and rapidly decomposing body. She had expected those. They went with the territory of accident investigation. What Sheriff Brady hadn’t expected was the fact that Brianna O’Brien wasn’t dressed the way her mother had predicted she would be. Bree wasn’t dressed at all. She was, in fact, stark naked.

Faced with that horrifying full view of Bree O’Brien’s mangled and naked corpse, Joanna’s knees went weak beneath her. She had to fight to control the wave of nausea that rose in her throat.

“I’m going to need my stuff,” George Winfield was saying as he picked his way across the mountain’s steep grade all the while struggling to maintain his balance.

“I’ll go get it for you,” Dennis Hacker offered at once, wiping the perspiration off his brow. “Tell me where it is.”

Joanna reached into her pocket and pulled out her car keys. “Thanks,” she said, handing them over. “It’s the brown leather satchel in the back of the Eagle.”

While Dennis Hacker climbed back up the cliff, George Win-field knelt beside the body, close enough to look but without touching anything. In the meantime, Ernie set off down the mountain after the truck. Given an option, Joanna followed Ernie.

In the process of falling the first time, the camper shell had been knocked loose. There was debris scattered all over the hillside. Careful not to touch anything, Joanna picked her way through it—past the battered cooler that had spilled out its cache of sandwiches and smashed and empty soda cans. Past an unfurled bedroll and an air mattress that was still fully inflated. Past broken camp stools and a still-zipped cloth suitcase that trailed clothing out of its torn side.

Joanna was sidestepping the suitcase when she saw a book. The cover—blue with a cascade of pale pink flowers—matched the others she and Ernie had seen in Brianna O’Brien’s bed-room. “Ernie,” she called, “here’s the journal.”

Ernie had pulled out a camera and was already taking photos of the battered wreck. “One journal or two?” he called, without bothering to look over his shoulder.

“Only one so far,” Joanna replied. “The other one’s probably around here somewhere. Is it okay if I pick this one up and look at it?”

“You’re wearing gloves, aren’t you?”

“Yes.”

“Go ahead then, if you want to,” he said.

Fully aware that the person who had last touched the book was dead, Joanna approached the journal reverently, almost as though it were a holy relic. Dropping down onto a nearby rock, she opened the front cover. Written in the same girlish hand Joanna remembered from the other volumes, this one covered the period of time between October 9 of the previous year and this year’s March 4.

“It’s the completed one,” Joanna called to Ernie.

“Well then,” Ernie replied impatiently between squeezes on his camera’s shutter, “go look for the other.”

By then Dennis Hacker had returned from the Eagle with George Winfield’s equipment satchel. Taking out an evidence bag, Joanna slipped the book inside. Then she began to comb the hillside, searching for the missing book. It was hard, hot work. She went to what appeared to be the edge of the debris field—the camper shell—and started there. At the end of hill an hour she was too hot and winded to continue.

“Your face is all red,” George Winfield observed, glancing in her direction. “Better have some of that water of yours. I’d hate for you to have a heatstroke.”

“Thanks,” Joanna said. She heeded his advice immediately. Sinking down next to the evidence box, she helped herself to water from her canteen. As she did so, the journal was right there, sitting in plain sight, tempting her. Finally, handling it with the gloves on, and being careful to touch only the edges, she slipped it out and opened it, turning to the last entry first.

The entry for March 4 was written at the very bottom of the page. It consisted of only five words, written in a hurried, careless, and almost illegible scrawl: “My mother is a liar.”

So is mine,
Joanna thought. Remembering what was going on with Eleanor Lathrop and George Winfield, she couldn’t help empathizing with the hurt made almost visible by Brianna O’Brien’s angry scribble. Since that was the last sentence written at the bottom of the last page, there was no further explanation about what kind of lie Katherine O’Brien had told her daughter. No additional explanation was necessary for Joanna Brady to know exactly how Brianna must have felt when she wrote those words—betrayed, hurt, and left out.

Glancing at the journal again, Joanna realized it was possible Bree had written more on the topic. Perhaps the entry continued in the next volume—the one that was still missing.

Still too hot to return to the ground search for the missing diary, Joanna spent a few more minutes scanning the preceding entries. From what was written there, she was able to gather that at the time Katherine O’Brien had been out of town, off on some kind of extended trip. Nothing Joanna could find in the days immediately preceding the March 4 entry gave any indication that there was anything amiss. One entry said that Bree was hoping to pull off a special surprise in honor of her mother’s birthday, but there was nothing to explain exactly what the surprise was to be or whether it had anything to do with the unvarnished anger in those last few words.

Remembering that David O’Brien had mentioned the previous November as the time things had changed so for Brianna, Joanna thumbed back to the last week in November and the first few days of December. A few minutes later, after closing the book and returning it to the bag, she made her way down to where Ernie Carpenter was meticulously examining the interior of the truck.

“Find anything?” he asked.

“We now know the name of the boyfriend. Ignacio Ybarra, the football player from Douglas who was injured during the Bisbee/Douglas game.”