"It might," she conceded. "Jenny comes home tomorrow afternoon. That's when I turn back into a pumpkin."

"When should I show up?" Butch asked.

"Make it an hour," Joanna said. "I still have to go to the store and buy groceries."

"Make it half an hour," he countered. "I'll go buy the groceries."

Butch was as good as his word. He showed up with his Outback loaded with groceries five minutes after Joanna had walked into the house and kicked off her shoes. They had an early dinner, listened to Patsy Cline, and were in bed but not exactly sleeping when the phone rang at a quarter past ten.

Joanna groaned first, but she answered.

"Sheriff Brady?" Tica Romero said. "I'm sorry to bother you at home, but we have a problem here."

"What kind of problem?"

"There's a convoy of eighteen-wheelers parked in front of the department. We've got a man and woman screaming something about unlawful imprisonment, and then there's a whole bunch of pissed-off truckers who claim the woman-who happens to be married to one of them-is the naked hitchhiker who's been running the honey-pot deal out on I-10. What should we do?"

"Call Dick Voland," Joanna said. "Tell him I'm under the weather. He'll have to handle it."

Butch grinned as Joanna set down the phone and switched off the light. "Under the weather?" he teased. "Well," she said, "maybe I meant under the covers."

EPILOGUE

The Monday after Ryan Merritt's death was hot and muggy. It was like the aftermath of any other natural disaster. The end of Cochise County's spree killer brought with it a flurry of funerals.

Early that morning, Clyde Philips was laid to rest in the Pomerene Cemetery after a moving service conducted by Belle's pastor at the First Pentecostal Church of Pomerene. And up the road at the Triple C, after a service in the Benson L.D.S. church, Jake Hosfield was laid to rest in the family plot. Alton had wanted to bury Ryan Merritt-a boy the tabloids were already labeling the "Cascabel Kid"-in the family plot as well, but his wife wouldn't hear of it. After a brief but heated battle Alton had acceded to her wishes.

When the younger boy's service was over, Alton took off alone on what had once been Jake's ATV. He rode it all the way to the edge of the river, stopping only when he was sure he was safely out of Sonja's sight. Then he spent a heartbroken half hour scattering the ashes of his other son, his firstborn. As he scattered the ashes, he also turned loose his lifelong dream of one day handing over his hard-held family spread to one or both of his sons. A lesser man might have taken his own life that afternoon, but that wasn't Alton Hosfield's way. When he finished what had to be done by the river, he went back to the house and his wife and tried to go on.

A few miles away, across Pomerene Road at Rattlesnake Crossing Ranch, Daniel Berridge and his sister, Crow Woman, conducted a private ceremony for Katrina Berridge, burying her in a grave the two of them had spent the night digging by hand. A photographer for People magazine tried to crash the ceremony, only to be driven off by what he later called "a shovel-wielding maniac in a black squaw dress and moccasins."

After a short service at a funeral home in Tucson, Ashley Brittany's remains were shipped back to her home in southern California for final burial. Ruben and Alicia Ramos heard an aging priest celebrate their son's burial mass at a small parish church in Benson.

The last of the funerals that day, the one scheduled for three o'clock in the afternoon at Bisbee's Canyon United Methodist Church, had nothing at all to do with the Cascabel Kid and everything to do with Joanna Brady. She sat by the pulpit, nervously aware that she was sitting in Marianne's accustomed spot. Eventually, looking out at the sea of familiar faces and listening to the soothing notes of the organist's prelude, she began to feel a little better.

Esther's casket was tiny and white. Dwarfed by banks of flowers, it was covered by a blanket of white roses interspersed with sprigs of greenery and baby's breath. While Joanna watched, a rainbow of midafternoon sunlight splashed in through the stained-glass window and transformed the delicate white petals into a kaleidoscope of breathtaking colors jewel tones of red and green, blue and gold.

Moments before the three o'clock starling time, the last few people began filing into the front pew, the one that had been reserved with bands of black satin.

Jeff and Marianne were there with their other daughter, Ruth. As usual, Ruth was being a two-year-old handful. It took the concerted efforts of both Angie Kellogg and Dennis Hacker to keep her corralled in the pew. Seeing Angie there in the front row, Joanna couldn't help wondering how many times in her life the woman had actually set foot inside a church. But then, she was there for the same reason Joanna Brady was-because Marianne Maculyea and Jeff Daniels were her friends.

Beyond Dennis Hacker, at the far end of the pew, sat Butch Dixon. Beside Butch, huddled under the protective wing of his arm, sat Jennifer Ann Brady.

At last the organist stopped playing. In the hushed and expectant silence of the room, with no other sound but the distant rumble of the air-conditioning unit, Joanna knew it was time for her to stand and speak. She had expected her knees to knock, her hands to shake, and her voice to quiver, but none of that happened. She was doing this for Marianne. She was doing this because a friend had asked it of her as a favor. And that, Joanna realized, taking hold of the pulpit with both hands, was what made doing it possible. When Joanna Brady conducted Esther Maculyea-Daniels' funeral that afternoon, she did so with a poise and confidence that surprised her almost more than it surprised her mother.

"The first hymn today isn't listed by number in your program," she said. "I didn't think that was necessary, because it's one we all know by heart."

Down in the front pew, Butch Dixon shook his head and tapped his ear. Seeing that, Joanna knew she needed to readjust the volume. Clearing her throat, she spoke more clearly, more firmly into the microphone. "This particular song was one of Esther's favorites. It's the one her parents sang to her when she was restless and unable to sleep. Please join me in singing 'Jesus Loves Me.' "

Joanna had stayed up half the night on Sunday, writing and rewriting the service, searching her heart, hoping to hit on just the right combination of hope and comfort. Now, as Jeff Daniels and Marianne Maculyea rose from their seats and joined hands to sing, Joanna allowed herself to believe that she had achieved her goal.

Enough time had elapsed since Andy's funeral that she could no longer remember any of the specifics of that service. What she was left with was the sense that whatever words Marianne Maculyea had spoken that day, whatever songs had been sung or Scriptures read, they had all been exactly right. And maybe, she hoped, that would be true here as well. Perhaps, once the pain had lessened some, Jeff and Marianne would feel that way about this service. Maybe, in the long run, what was said or sung wouldn't matter nearly as much as that beautiful rainbow splash of stained-glass color reflecting off the snow-white petals of the roses.

The voices of the congregation rose in unison, finishing the first verse of the childhood hymn and marching inexorably into the second:

Jesus loves me. He will stay

Close beside me all the way.

If I love Him when I die,

He will take me home on high.

Up to then, Marianne had been singing right along with everyone else, but at that point her voice faltered. She stopped singing and turned into Jeff’s arms, burying her head against his chest. That moment of parental inattention was all the restless Ruth needed. Determined to escape the confines of the pew, she slipped away from her parents, dodging past Angie Kellogg and Dennis Hacker as well. The escape-bent child might have made it all the way to the side aisle if Jenny hadn't reached out, caught her, and dragged her back.