Devil's ClawJ Read online

  The last time Lucy had looked at the entrance sign it had been bathed in the faded glow of moonlight. Now it was fully illuminated in the glow of headlights from a nearby parked car. And on the ground, under the sign, was a woman on her hands and knees, struggling to shift the rocks from place to place.

  With a catch in her throat, Lucy watched as her mother—a woman she hadn’t seen in almost eight years, a woman she had hoped never to see again—carefully moved the rocks to one side. Lucy found herself paralyzed by a storm of emotion. She wanted to speak to Sandra, and yet, at the same time, she didn’t want to. In the end, not knowing what to say, Lucy stayed where she was. She was still sitting there as unmoving as a carved wooden statue when a car pulled up and stopped beside the sign.

  “Do you need help?” a man asked from inside the idling vehicle.

  Quickly, Sandra Ridder stood up and walked over to the car. Lucy couldn’t hear all that was being said, but evidently it was enough to satisfy the guy’s curiosity. “Okay, then,” he concluded at last. “Since you’re all right, I’ll just go on and go.”

  Sandra and Lucy both watched as the vehicle’s taillights disappeared behind a tangle of underbrush and scrub oak. Momentarily distracted, neither of them saw the figure of another man suddenly emerge from the gloom into the bright glow of headlights.

  “Well, well, well,” he said with an audible sneer. “Imagine meeting you here!”

  Lucy heard Sandra’s sharp intake of breath. She stepped back one full step. “What are you doing here?” she gasped.

  “What do you think?” he growled, closing the gap between them with one long stride. “I came to collect what’s mine.” He paused then and looked around. “What a clever girl,” he added. “To think you’d hide it out in the open like this, hidden and yet almost in plain sight.”

  “Hide what?” Sandra asked.

  He lunged at her then and grabbed her by one arm. “Don’t go all coy and innocent on me, Sandy, honey. I know the score here. I know all about it.”

  “Stop,” she said, squirming and trying to free her captured arm. “You’re hurting me.”

  “And I’m going to hurt you a whole hell of a lot more if you don’t give it to me right now! Now, for the last time, where is it?”

  Sandra seemed to go limp in his grasp. “There,” she said, pointing.

  “Where?”

  “Under the sign. I buried it.”

  “Well, suppose you unbury it?” With that, he flung her away from him and sent her stumbling forward. Only by catching and steadying herself against the body of the sign did she keep from falling.

  Barely daring to breathe, Lucy watched the ugly drama unfold. For the next several moments the man loomed over a kneeling Sandra Ridder while she removed several more rocks. And the whole time it was happening, Lucy was all too aware of what her mother had yet to discover. If what the man wanted was the diskette, it was no longer where Sandra Ridder had left it all those years earlier.

  “You little bitch,” he said as she worked. “Whatever made you think you could hold out on me? Whatever made you think you could get away with it?”

  “I didn’t. I just wanted—”

  “Shut up and get it. Now!”

  Part of Lucy wanted to call out to her mother and warn her. “Look over here,” she wanted to say. “The diskette is right here in my pack.” But another part of her—that primitive but still powerful instinct for self-preservation—kept her as still and silent as a frightened fawn.

  At last Sandra wrested one final rock out of the way and plunged, elbow-deep, into the hole. She seemed to struggle for a moment, searching with her fingers. Then a look of utter disbelief crossed her face, but she said nothing.

  “All right,” the man said impatiently, holding out his hand. “Don’t be so slow about it. Hand it over.”

  Obligingly Sandra Ridder removed her hand from the hole. When she did so, Lucy caught the smallest glint of metal and knew that Sandra was holding the one thing that remained in the container—the tiny gun that had been entombed right along with the diskette.

  “Stop right there,” Sandra ordered, aiming the weapon at the man who, even then, was bearing down on her.

  But he didn’t stop, and, unfortunately for Sandra Ridder, she didn’t pull the trigger. From Lucy’s hidden vantage point, what happened next seemed to do so in slow motion. The two separate figures of man and woman merged into one writhing mass of flesh. The two-headed creature fell to the ground, rolling this way and that. When the gunshot came, it was so muffled between the two clenched and struggling bodies that, bare yards away, Lucy hardly heard it. There was a single high-pitched shriek of pain, then slowly the two co-joined figures drew apart. When they had separated completely, the man was standing upright with the gun in his hand while an injured Sandra writhed and sobbed on the ground.

  For several long seconds, nothing happened. Then there was an ominous click as the man tried to fire the gun while holding it at point-blank range inches from Sandra’s head. “Shit!” he muttered after attempting to fire the weapon one more time. “The damn thing must be empty.”

  Leaning down, he grabbed Sandra Ridder under both arms and dragged her toward the waiting vehicle. “Open the door, for God’s sake,” he ordered. “Can’t you see I need some help here?”

  Behind the blinding curtain of headlights, there had been no way for Lucy to tell who was in the waiting vehicle. Now, though, the rider’s door swung open, pushed by an invisible hand. In the dim glow of the dome light Lucy could see the figure of a woman seated behind the wheel of the vehicle, but lighting and distance both made it impossible to sort out any distinguishing features.

  Muscling the door the rest of the way open, the man shoved Sandra Ridder’s suddenly limp body into the backseat, then he went back to the hole. For several minutes he searched fruitlessly, cursing all the while. Finally he returned to the car and clambered into the front seat. “Now you’ve done it, you stupid bastard!” the woman muttered.

  “Just shut up and drive,” he told her. “Get us the hell out of here! Step on it.”

  He slammed the door shut, and the white car’s engine roared to life. Too stunned to move, Lucy watched while the once again invisible driver made a tight turn. Sending a spray of dirt and rocks into the air, the car sped back down the road. It all happened so quickly that there was no chance of seeing the license plate, and once the car was gone, Lucy made no effort to follow. Instead, sobbing and shivering, Lucy ducked deeper into the folds of the bedroll that had burrowed deeply into the sandy floor of the dry creek bed.

  Lucy had earnestly prayed for her mother’s death, and now that prayer had been answered. Sandra Ridder was dead, and it was all Lucy’s fault.

  Several long minutes passed before Lucy finally calmed herself enough to creep from her hiding place. By then her eyes had once again adjusted to the moonlit darkness. She barely paused at the blood-spattered spot of sand where her mother had been shot. Instead she raced down the roadway to retrieve her bike. Once on it, she went pumping after the long-disappeared vehicle as if by overtaking it she might somehow be able to help.

  Within a hundred yards or so, she knew it was hopeless. She stopped and stood still. As soon as she did, Big Red came gliding down out of the darkened sky and landed once again on her handlebar.

  Walking the bike now because she was crying too much to see to ride, Lucy continued down the roadway. “It’s got something to do with this stupid blank disk,” she told Big Red. “It’s why my father died and it’s why my mother is dead now, too. And if that guy ever figures out I have it, he’ll kill me as well. And maybe even Grandma Yates. What are we going to do, Red? Where can we go?”

  Big Red gave no answer, but he made no effort to leave either. And for right then, that was answer enough. At last, squaring her shoulders, Lucinda Ridder climbed on her bike and rode back the way she had come to retrieve her bedroll.

  CHAPTER 2

  “Mom,” Jennifer Ann Brady called from
the bathtub. “Tigger’s drinking out of the toilet again. It’s gross. Come make him stop.”

  Sighing, Joanna Brady opened her eyes and forced herself up from the couch where she had inadvertently dozed off while waiting for Jenny to finish her bath so they could both go to bed. “Tigger,” she called. “You come here.”

  But even as she said the words, she knew it was hopeless. Tigger, Jenny’s half golden retriever/half pit bull, was one of the most stubborn dogs Joanna had ever met. Simply calling to him wouldn’t do the job. Walking into the steamy bathroom, she grabbed Tigger’s collar and bodily hauled the dripping dog out of the toilet bowl. Then, closing the door to keep him out of the bathroom, she led him through the kitchen and into the laundry room.

  “There,” she said, pointing at the water dish. “That’s where you’re supposed to drink.”

  Except, even as Joanna said the words, she realized the water dish was empty. And not just empty, either—it was bone-dry. Reaching down, Joanna picked up the dish and filled it at the laundry-room sink. As soon as she put the dish down, Sadie, Jenny’s other dog appeared in the kitchen doorway as well. The long-legged bluetick hound and the shorter, stockier mutt stood side by side lapping eagerly from the same dish.

  That’s odd, Joanna thought. That’s usually the first thing Clayton does when he comes over to do the chores. He lets himself into the house to feed and water the dogs.

  Clayton Rhodes was Joanna’s nearest neighbor. A bow-legged, spindly octogenarian, Clayton was a hardworking widower whose 320 acres were situated just north of Joanna’s High Lonesome Ranch. For years now, ever since Joanna’s husband’s death, Clayton had come to the High Lonesome mornings and evenings six days a week to feed and water the ranch’s growing collection of animals. The man was nothing if not dependable, but now, watching the thirsty dogs, Joanna recalled the unusual attention Sadie and Tigger had focused on the dinner table that evening while she and Jenny ate.

  “Did he forget to feed you guys, too?” Joanna asked. “Do you want to eat?”

  At the mere mention of the magic word “eat,” Tigger left the water dish and began his frantic “feed me” dance. Shaking her head and half convinced the dogs were lying to her, Joanna collected the two individual food dishes and filled them as well. While the dogs wagged their tails and enthusiastically crunched dry dog food, Joanna went out onto the back porch to check the outside water dish. That one, too, was empty.

  “Poor babies,” Joanna murmured as she filled that dish as well. “He must have forgotten about you completely.”

  For Clayton Rhodes, forgetting to feed or water animals was totally out of character. Joanna wondered if something had happened that afternoon to distract him. Briefly she considered calling and checking, but a glance at her watch convinced her otherwise. It was almost nine o’clock. She knew that as soon as Clayton finished his hired-hand duties on High Lonesome Ranch, he returned home, ate his solitary dinner, and went to bed almost as soon as the sun went down.

  “Early to bed, early to rise,” he had told Joanna once. “That’s the secret to living a long healthy life.” And it must have worked. Only three months earlier, at age eighty-five, Clayton Rhodes had finally sold off his last horse and given up horseback riding for good.

  A few minutes later Joanna was back in the living room with the sated dogs lying contentedly at her feet when Jenny emerged from the bathroom wearing a robe and toweling dry her mop of platinum-blond hair. “Can I stay up and watch TV?” she asked. “It’s Friday. I don’t have school tomorrow.”

  “You may not have school,” Joanna conceded, “but tomorrow’s going to be a busy day. We’d both better get some rest.”

  Jenny made a face. “More stupid wedding stuff, I suppose,” she huffed.

  Joanna’s scheduled wedding to Frederick “Butch” Dixon was a week and a day away. It wasn’t that Jenny was opposed to the match. As far as Joanna could tell, her daughter exhibited every sign of adoring Butch Dixon and of looking forward to having a stepfather. Nonetheless, within days of dealing with pre-wedding logistics—something Joanna’s mother, Eleanor Lathrop Winfield, seemed to adore—Jenny had been bored to tears with the whole tedious process. In fact, as wedding plans continued to expand exponentially, Joanna was beginning to feel the same way herself. Even now, at this late date, she was tempted to back out and settle for a nice, uncomplicated elopement, just as she had years earlier when she married Jenny’s father, Andrew Roy Brady.

  Her penalty for running off to marry Andy in a hastily arranged, shotgun-style wedding had been years of unremitting recrimination from her mother. Right now, though, with Eleanor Lathrop Winfield functioning in fearsome, full-scale mother-of-the-bride mode, the idea of eloping a second time was becoming more and more appealing.

  “Let your mother have her fun,” Butch had said early on. “What can it hurt?”

  Famous last words. Little had Butch known that once Eleanor Lathrop Winfield took the bit in her teeth, nothing would stop her or even slow her down. Since she had missed her daughter’s first wedding, Eleanor was determined to make this second one a resounding social success. Butch had said those fateful words before the guest list had burgeoned to over a hundred and fifty—a crowd that would fill the sanctuary of Canyon United Methodist Church to overflowing. It would also test the considerable patience and capabilities of Myron Thomas, the man who ran the catering concession at the Rob Roy Links in Palominas, the county’s newest and most prestigious golf course and the only place in Cochise County where what Eleanor termed a “four-star reception” could be held.

  By now even Butch’s easygoing good nature had been stretched to the limit. He was the one who had pointed out that Jenny’s twelfth birthday on the fifth of April would fall right in the middle of their upcoming honeymoon. He had suggested that the three of them—bride, groom, and Jenny—abandon the wedding roller coaster for a day or two in order to spend that weekend focused on Jenny and her birthday.

  “Not wedding,” Joanna said in answer to her daughter’s question. “Birthday. How would you like to go up to Tucson tomorrow and do some shopping?”

  Jenny brightened immediately. “Really?” she said. “Can Butch go too?”

  “Since it was his idea in the first place,” Joanna replied, “I don’t think wild horses would keep him away.”

  “Where are we going, Tucson Mall?”

  “Maybe,” Joanna said evasively. “But maybe not.”

  “Where?” Jenny asked. “Tell me.”

  Joanna shook her head. “It’s a secret,” she said.

  Actually, she and Butch and Jenny’s two sets of existing grandparents had already agreed on a joint gift. For some time, Jenny had made do with secondhand tack for her horse, a sorrel gelding named Kiddo. Now that she was getting ready to go barrel racing on the junior rodeo circuit, her ragtag collection of used equipment no longer quite fit the bill. As a result, the adults in Jenny’s life had agreed on a birthday purchase of a new saddle in addition to all the accompanying bells and whistles.

  “Well, then,” Jenny said, “I guess I’d better go to bed.” She turned and started from the room.

  “Wait a minute,” Joanna said. “Didn’t you forget something? What about my good-night kiss?”

  Jenny rolled her eyes. “Mom,” she said. “I’m almost twelve. That’s too old for good-night kisses.”

  “I’ll decide what’s too old for good-night kisses. Now come here!” Joanna commanded.

  Shaking her head, Jenny came across the room, planted a glancing kiss on the top of Joanna’s head, and then darted away before her mother could capture her in a hug.

  “You’re a brat,” Joanna told her.

  “A nearly twelve-year-old brat,” Jenny agreed with a grin, then she disappeared into her bedroom and closed the door.

  For some time, Joanna remained where she was, sitting on the couch and wondering how it was all going to work. In the time since Andy’s death, she had grown accustomed to having the house to herself in t
he evenings, to doing things her own way, without having to consult any other adult about how the place was run. She and Jenny had hit on a reasonable way for the two of them to share the house’s single bathroom. And all the while Butch had lived the same way—on his own. How would all the logistics work out when they tried to combine two separate households and lifestyles together?

  Financially, they would be fine. With Butch’s income from selling his Roundhouse Bar and Grill and Joanna’s salary as sheriff, the two of them would be rich by Cochise County standards. They had talked about the possibility of selling High Lonesome Ranch and moving into a place that was neutral territory—a house where neither of them had lived before. But Joanna didn’t want to live in town, and neither did Butch.

  High Lonesome Ranch was only a few miles east of the Cochise County Justice Complex where Joanna worked, but it was far enough away to offer a retreat from some of the stresses of her job. It was a place where Jenny could have a horse—more than one, if she wanted—and multiple dogs as well. As for Butch, the ranch offered a perfect hideaway for someone dealing with the tortuous process of writing his first novel. In the end, Butch and Joanna had decided that the High Lonesome was where they would stay.