“Going back to you and Clete Rogers. Would you say the two of you were close friends?”

“No. Clete was a good guy, and he was nice to Alice-a lot nicer than Susan and Ross. But no, we weren’t really close.”

“Still, though, since Clete was really your first point of contact in Tombstone, mightn’t someone think you were good friends? If someone came to town looking for you, might they assume that of all the people in town, Clete Rogers would know where you’d gone off to?”

Joanna’s question was followed by a long silence. “You think that’s who killed him?” Jonathan Becker asked. “The people who are looking for me?”

“The only other possibility would be Ross Jenkins,” Joanna said. “He’s undergoing surgery in Tucson at the moment, so he’s in no condition to tell us one way or the other. But his accomplice says not.”

After a long moment Jonathan Becker nodded thoughtfully. “They’d do it in a minute,” he said. “They swore they’d get to me, and they probably will. As soon as I knew Alice was missing, I was afraid it was them. That’s why I took off. But how did you find me?”

“Your prints,” Joanna said.

“The Witness Protection people said they had pulled my prints, but still I worried about that. That’s the reason I tried to wipe down everything in the house. Where did you find them, at Alice’s?”

“No, at Outlaw Mountain,” Joanna said. “They were on the dirty dishes in the dishwasher. You forgot to run it. I think it’s possible that the Witness Protection folks did pull your prints, but somebody came behind them and put them back into the system. Have you ever heard of a Detective Garfield?”

“Who’s he?”

“A phony detective who called my AFIS tech claiming to be a North Las Vegas detective. He called within minutes of her getting the hit on your prints when the regular clerk had already told her you were dead. It was enough to arouse suspicion, especially since Detective Garfield doesn’t exist and the phone call placed to my tech came from a North Las Vegas pay phone and not a police department.”

Behind them in the chapel, the man from the lobby cleared his throat. “Excuse me,” he said. “The visitation is over. I really do need to lock up now.”

“Fine,” Joanna said. “We were just leaving.”

“I’m sorry I’ve caused so much trouble,” Jonathan Becker said. “I guess I’ll just head on down the road. Although there doesn’t seem to be much point. It won’t matter where I go. They’ll just track me down again.”

He sounded so beaten-so defeated and alone-that Joanna ached for him. And in that instant, she had an idea. “What if we let them find you?” she asked.

Becker frowned. “What do you mean?”

“What about if we lay a trap for them, tomorrow, at Alice’s funeral?”

“How?”

“I’m not sure. I’d have to check with some friends of mine, including Adam York, the local agent in charge at the DEA. I’m sure he could point us in the right direction.”

“I don’t know…”

“Excuse me,” the man from the funeral home insisted. “I really must close up now.”

“Come on,” Joanna said, taking Becker by the arm and pulling him from his chair. “We’ll talk more about this outside.”

“Do you think it would work?” Becker asked once they were outside the mortuary.

Joanna looked up and down the street, but there was al-most no traffic. G Avenue seemed completely deserted.

“It might,” she said, “but it could also be very dangerous. We’d need to have you in body armor, of course. And we’d have the whole funeral laced with plainclothes officers.”

Becker shook his head. “Even if we succeed-even if we catch whoever they’ve sent this time-who’s to say they won’t try again? They’ll just turn around and send someone else.”

“Maybe not,” Joanna said. “Maybe if we nail the messenger, he’ll lead us back to whoever sent him, and we’ll get those guys, too.”

A long silence followed as Jonathan Becker seemed to consider Joanna’s idea. At last he sighed. “Tell me what to do,” he said. “I’m tired of running. I don’t want to do that anymore. When Alice let me move into her little place at Outlaw Mountain, I finally started feeling like I was alive again. For the first time since my son died, I felt like life was worth living. Maybe someday I’ll feel that way again, but not if I’m forever on the run.”

“Come on, then.”

“Where are we going?”

“Back to my office at the Justice Complex. I need to make some calls. Where’s your car?”

“I ditched it. It was too distinctive. I drove it into a wash out east of town, right along the border. I thought maybe I could trick people into believing that I’d crossed the line into Old Mexico. All I have left is this.” Becker held up a small single suitcase Joanna hadn’t noticed before. “When you’re on foot,” he added, “you have to travel light.”

Joanna smiled. “You’re not on foot now. We’ll go in my Bronco.” She pointed. “It’s over there on the corner.”

Leading the way, Joanna climbed in the driver’s door and then used the electronic lock to let Becker in on the other side. Once they were both strapped in, she started the engine and eased into the sparse late-evening traffic on G Avenue. She had barely started up the street when a car pulled out of an alleyway and fell in behind them.

Concerned but unwilling to show it, Joanna made at least three separate turns, following the old truck route back to the highway and keeping her eye on the narrow pair of headlights that duplicated her every maneuver. By the third turn, Joanna knew she was in trouble. She realized that the men tracking Becker must have worked their way through the same assumptions Joanna had and decided that they, too, would attend Alice Rogers’ visitation. The question now was: What to do about them?

Had Joanna been in her own Blazer, she would have had a spare Kevlar vest for Jonathan Becker to slip on and wear. As it was, she didn’t.

“Don’t turn around, Mr. Becker,” she said evenly, “but someone is following us. I’m going to call for backup. As soon as we have another car or two to make a squeeze play, I’m going to pull over and try to trap this guy. When I do, you’re to hit the floor and stay there. Is that clear?”

“Yes.”

Calling into Dispatch, Joanna learned there were no county units available anywhere in the near vicinity, other than the two deputies who had been left guarding Dena Hogan at the hospital. One could be spared, but at best he would be a good ten minutes away.

“What about Douglas cops, then?” Joanna asked. “Are any of them available?”

Two minutes later, just after Joanna had crossed the road to Pirtleville, a city of Douglas patrol car met Joanna. The cop flashed his lights briefly, and then pulled a U-turn as a second car came sliding to a stop in the left-hand lane and cut off all means of escape. Joanna jammed on the brakes, and so did everyone else. Within seconds, the desert lit up with the glare of flashing red lights.

Joanna remained in the Bronco long enough to make sure Jonathan Becker had hit the floorboard and would stay put. By the time she stepped out of the vehicle, the Douglas cops had already wrestled the suspect out of his vehicle and had him pinned flat on the pavement. One of them was just snapping shut a pair of handcuffs when Joanna arrived on the scene.

“Here he is, Sheriff Brady,” one of the Douglas cops announced proudly, shining a flashlight down on the suspect’s shiny bald head. “He never had a chance.”

“I’ll say!”

Joanna recognized Butch’s voice the moment he spoke. Finally, without the headlights glaring in her eyes, she recognized his Outback, too. “Butch, what on earth are you doing here?” she demanded.

“I was following you,” he said sheepishly. “I was worried. I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

“You know this guy?” one of the Douglas officers asked. “Unfortunately, yes,” Joanna Brady said. She was grateful that in the pulsing glow of lights it was impossible for anyone to see the vivid blush that had flooded her face. “His name’s Butch Dixon. He’s my fiancé.”