“Experience,” she said, without pausing to explain. “Come on. Let’s check out that trailer.”

“Wait a minute,” Voland warned. “Don’t forget a gunman inside that trailer can shoot through those aluminum walls as easily as shooting through pop bottles.”

‘`Right,” Joanna said. “So what do you suggest?”

“Split up and stay low.”

Joanna crept forward, following the tracks, while Voland moved off to the left. The tracks on the ground were easy enough to follow. They led directly to the wooden step outside the trailer’s open door. There they disappeared.

“Mr. Hacker,” Joanna called, ducking behind a tree trunk little more than a few feet from the door. “Are you in there?”

Joanna waited for the better part of a minute, but there was no response other than the intermittent whack of the door on the trailer’s metal siding. She watched while Voland circled around until he was behind the trailer. Finally, when he signaled, they both moved forward.

They arrived at the trailer almost simultaneously, with her approaching one of the front windows just as Voland’s face appeared in one at the back. “Looks like nobody’s home,” Voland called.

Still taking care to dodge the footprints, Joanna walked close enough to the trailer to poke her head in through the door. The interior of Dennis Hacker’s camper looked as though it had been hit by a cyclone. Shards of broken glass were everywhere, along with shattered pieces of molded black plastic that looked as though they had once been part of a cell phone. There were also several reddish stains that resembled smears of blood.

Sickened, sure that she had once again arrived at the scene of a crime too late to do any good, Joanna backed away. “If you’re looking for signs of a struggle,” she called back to Dick, “here they are.”

While Voland hurried around the trailer to peer in through the door, Joanna walked away, following two new sets of foot-prints. Now the person wearing the sneakers had been joined by someone else, by someone wearing what Joanna surmised to be hiking boots. Traveling together, the two pairs of prints headed around the trailer in a counterclockwise direction before disappearing into a vehicle-the same wide-tracked vehicle whose tracks Joanna had followed before.

“I’ll go back to the Blazer and radio for a crime scene technician…”

Joanna knew Dick Voland was speaking to her, but she barely heard him. If the vehicle-presumably Dennis Hacker’s Hummer-had left the trailer with two passengers instead of one, maybe Joanna and Dick Voland weren’t too late after all.

“Come on,” she called urgently to Dick. “Go get the Blazer. They’re headed south.”

“Together?” Dick asked, jogging up behind her.

“That’s my guess.”

Voland started toward the Blazer. Then, to Joanna’s annoyance, he turned and came back. “What about the girl?” he asked.

“Angie?” Joanna returned. “What about her?”

“She got us here,” Voland said. “I’ll give her that much, but if we’re heading into an armed confrontation…”

Without bothering to listen to the rest of the sentence, Joanna knew he was right. As an officer of the law, her duty was to keep civilians out of danger rather than leading them into it. She nodded. “Tell Angie to wait in the cemetery. Have her duck down behind that rock wall and stay there until we come back.”

“With pleasure,” Voland replied. He hurried away.

Thinking that settled the issue once and for all, Joanna turned back to the tire tracks. She had gone no more than a few yards when she heard running footsteps pounding behind her. “Joanna, wait,” Angie called. “Let me come, too.”

Annoyed that Dick Voland hadn’t stated the case plainly enough, Joanna turned to face her friend. “Look, Angie,” she said sharply, “you can’t come with us. It’s too dangerous.”

Angie stopped in her tracks. Behind her came the Blazer with a smiling Dick Voland at the wheel. A single glimpse of the man’s face was enough to let Joanna know that he hadn’t tried to stop Angie, not really. If he had, he would have and she wouldn’t be there. No, letting her go had been a deliberate ploy on Dick Voland’s part. He was testing Joanna again, wanting to know whether or not she was tough enough to call the shots and make the right choice between friendship and duty.

Except this time there was no choice to make. As sheriff and as a sworn police officer, Joanna Brady’s responsibility was blazingly clear-to serve and protect. “Go back,” she said.

“Why should I?” Angie objected. “I’m wearing a bullet-proof vest.”

“You may have a vest,” Joanna conceded “but that still leaves a whole lot of you unprotected and exposed to danger, which is unacceptable. You brought us this far, Angie. We’re grateful for that, but there’s no telling what’s up ahead. We’re armed. You’re not.”

“But…”

“No buts,” Joanna insisted. “What if there’s a shootout? What if, in trying to take care of you, we can’t protect Mr. Hacker? Your being in the way at a critical moment could make all the difference-the difference between life and death. Go now, please.”

Angie’s shoulders sagged. Her face crumpled. “All right,” she agreed. “I’ll go back. I’ll wait in the cemetery, just like you said.” Dejectedly, she turned back while Joanna headed for the idling Blazer.

“Good work,” Dick Voland said as she climbed inside. Aware he had intentionally set her up, Joanna was in no mood to be gracious. “Shut up and drive,” she said.

Sitting alert and on edge, Joanna concentrated on not losing the trail. Twice she made Dick stop the Blazer long enough for her to get out and make sure the tire tracks hadn’t veered off the road.

“I’m sorry,” Voland said a mile or so south of the Cottonwood Creek Cemetery when Joanna climbed back into the Blazer for the second time and fastened her seat belt.

“Sorry about what?” she asked.

“About not giving your friend more credit. The whole way out from Bisbee, I kept thinking this was nothing but some harebrained wild-goose chase. Until I saw the trailer, that is. The whole thing sounded so goofy. Including the idea that anybody camping out here would have a working cell phone…”

The radio came to life once more with Larry Kendrick making an addition to the Aaron Meadows APB. Now Meadows was wanted for questioning in regard to the murder of Roxanne Brianna O’Brien. By the time the dispatcher had finished his transmission, Joanna had the radio microphone in her hand.

“Larry, this is Sheriff Brady. What’s going on?”

“Glad you called in,” Larry replied. “You’re the next person I was going to contact. Ernie wants me to let you know that while they were searching Aaron Meadows’s house, they found-”

“The missing journal?” Joanna interrupted.

Kendrick paused. “How did you know?”

Before Joanna could answer, the Blazer rounded a curve. Ahead of them lay the rain-swollen stream with what looked like a crippled brown-and-tan Suburban parked crookedly on the rocky bank while another vehicle-curtained by a rooster tail of muddy water, roared across the ford and bounced up the other side. Only when it regained the roadway was Dennis Hacker’s Hummer clearly visible.

“There they are!” Joanna shouted.

“There who is?” Kendrick was asking. “What’s happening?”

“Hang on,” Dick Voland shouted as he sent the Blazer speeding toward the water. “This could be rough.”

The Blazer plunged forward and dropped, bucking and shying, into the rocky streambed while Joanna held on for dear life. Once they hit firm ground on the far side of the water, Voland pounded the gas pedal all the way to the floor. The gradually receding flood had left behind a slick coating of muck on the roadway. The tires lost traction briefly, sending the Blazer into a sickening skid. But Dick Voland was nothing if not an experienced driver. With two deft twists of the wheel, he cut the skid and sent the Blazer racing after the Hummer.