Joanna stepped out of her car. A raw autumn wind was blowing down off the Huachucas. Shivering against the cold, Joanna returned to the Blazer and pulled on her sheepskin jacket-the one with the bullet hole still in the pocket. Fingering that hole and remembering how the weapon she had carried there had once saved her life, Joanna pulled the Glock out of her small-of-the-back holster. She was just putting it in her pocket when she heard first one shot, then another and another. The shots were followed by something else-a woman’s terrified scream that floated down to Joanna carried on the icy wind. The sound of it raised the hairs on the back of her neck and sent her scrambling into the Blazer.

Waiting for backup to arrive was no longer an option. The deputies summoned from Mark Childers’ house were still minutes away. The terror and desperation in the woman’s scream left no margin for delay.

“Shots have been fired,” Joanna declared into her radio microphone. “I’m going in, Tica. Tell my backup to use the hell out of their sirens. I want Flores to know we’re coming. I want all of them to know we’re coming.”

With the gas pedal shoved to the floor and with her own siren screaming, Joanna tore up the freshly bladed road that wound uphill to the construction shack. And that’s where Joanna’s headlights zeroed in on a silver Taurus station wagon. Lewis Flores sat on the hood, leaning back against the wind-shield. One weapon lay across his lap. From a distance, Joanna couldn’t make out if he was holding the shotgun or the rifle, but it didn’t really matter. Either one of them was sufficiently lethal.

She parked, cut the lights, and opened the window, but she didn’t step out of the Blazer. If it came to a shoot-out, she wanted the benefit of whatever cover the engine block might provide.

“Lewis,” she called as she drew the heavy-duty Colt 2000 out of her shoulder holster. “That’s enough. Lay down your weapon.”

For an answer, Lewis Flores reached out. Joanna thought he was going for his other gun, which lay beside him on the hood. Instead, he picked up something else. By then Joanna’s eyes were adjusting to the lack of light and she was able to make out that he had picked up a bottle-a tequila bottle perhaps-and was taking a swig.

“Lewis.” Joanna tried to make her voice sound authoritative but calm. “More deputies are on their way. They’ll be here in a few minutes. You’ll be surrounded. Give up before someone gets hurt.”

“I already am hurt,” he said.

Joanna breathed deeply. She had him talking. That was a good sign. “Where are Mark Childers and Karen Brainard, Lewis? What have you done with them?”

There was a sudden pounding. It seemed to be coming from one of the Porta Potties. “I’m in here,” Karen Brainard yelled. “I’m locked in the toilet. He’s been shooting at me. He’s crazy. Get me out of here.”

Relief spilled over Joanna. At least one of the two was still alive, still safe. “Where’s Mark Childers?” she asked. “Why don’t you ask him?” Lewis responded.

But Joanna didn’t want to talk to Mark Childers. She didn’t want to take her focus off Lewis Flores. He was the one with the guns. “Why are you hurt, Lewis? What’s happened?”

“They lied to me,” Lewis answered. “They told me that it wouldn’t matter if the process got hurried up a little. They said they’d make it worth my while, and no one would care. But people do care, and as soon as there was trouble, they turned it all on me. Tried to make out that it was all my fault-all my responsibility.”

“That’s not true,” Karen responded from her prison. “We didn’t do any such thing, did we? Tell her, Mark. Tell Sheriff Brady that Lewis is lying.”

But if Mark Childers had anything to add to Karen Brainard’s denial, he wasn’t saying. In the distant background, Joanna heard the sound of at least one siren. Reinforcements were on their way. The cavalry was about to ride to the rescue.

“Please, Lewis,” she begged. “Think about Carmen. Put down your weapons. Move away from the car with your hands in the air.”

“I am thinking about Carmen,” Lewis Flores replied. “I was thinking about her and all those steps and her having to climb them every day. Of her having to carry groceries home just the way her mother did. I wanted a better place for her, something really nice. And Mark Childers was going to help me get it. But it’s not worth it. I finally figured that out. I’ve lost everything now-my job, my family, my self-respect. They’ve taken it all away.”

“You have to let us out of here,” Karen Brainard pleaded.

“He locked us in here, and he’s been using us for target practice. Please let us out.”

Half a mile away across the desert, a patrol car rumbled across the cattle guard and then roared up the roadway.

“Do you hear that, Lewis?” Joanna asked. “The other deputies are coming right now. Please, put down your weapon so no one gets hurt.”

His hand shot out again. Joanna thought he was reaching for the bottle again, which was out of her sight line on the other side of the hood. But what Lewis Flores raised to his lips that time wasn’t tequila. Joanna saw the flare of light as the gun was fired, heard the explosion, and saw him flop back-ward against the windshield.

“No!” she heard herself screaming as she ran toward the Taurus. “N0000000!” But Lewis Flores was dead long before she reached him.

“Oh, God. What’s he doing now?” Karen screeched. “Make him stop. He’s going to kill us. The man is crazy. He’s going to kill us all.”

Joanna stopped at the Taurus long enough to grab Lewis Flores’ limp wrist. Briefly her fingers searched for a nonexistent pulse. One look at the bloody carnage that had once been the back of Lewis Flores’ head told her there was nothing to do. Dropping his lifeless arm, Joanna raced to the line of Porta Potties just as a patrol car skidded to a stop behind her Blazer.

Unholstering his side arm, Deputy Dave Hollicker jumped out of the vehicle. “What’s the status, Sheriff Brady?”

By then Joanna was at the door to the Porta Potty. It wasn’t just closed. It had been nailed shut. The top of the door was riddled with bullet holes. From inside, she heard the sound of hysterical weeping.

“Bring a crowbar, Dave,” she ordered. “And make it quick. There’s one in the back of my Blazer.”

Leaving the first Porta Potty, Joanna went down the lint, until she found another one that had been nailed shut. Again, the top of the door was riddled with bullet holes. Lewis had been firing at the Porta Potties all right, but high enough not to hit anyone inside-scaring hell out of them but not necessarily trying to kill anyone.

“Mr. Childers,” Joanna called through the door. “Are you in there? Are you all right?”

There was no answer, not even a whimper. Behind her Joanna heard the sound of running footsteps and, off across the ghostly starlit grassland, another siren. Dave was headed toward the first Porta Potty, but Joanna stopped him.

“Open this one first,” she ordered. “The woman’s all right, but I’m not so sure about Mark Childers.”

It took several tries before Dave Hollicker finally pried open the door. When he did so, Mark Childers’ limp body cascaded out onto the ground.

“He may have been shot,” Joanna said, kneeling beside the stricken man and checking for a pulse. There was one. It was faint and erratic, but it existed. Nowhere on his body, however, was there any sign of blood.

“Call for an ambulance, Dave,” she said. “We’ll have to have him airlifted out of here. And bring blankets.” About that time Mark Childers’ pulse disappeared altogether. Without even thinking about it, Joanna began to administer CPR.

“Please,” Karen Brainard pleaded from her prison. “What are you doing? Can’t you let me out? What’s taking so long?”

Joanna wanted to tell the woman to shut up and wait, but she didn’t. Couldn’t. She was too busy concentrating on what she was doing-too busy keeping track of the rhythmic and life-saving breathing and pushing. In the end, Joanna didn’t have to say a word. Dave Hollicker did it for her.