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  Once he had switched channels, Heath reestablished his contact with Jenny Rose and then asked, “Did Deputy Moore radio in a tag number to you this afternoon? Over.”

  “That’s an affirmative,” the dispatcher replied. “He wanted me to run a twelve-seven for the RO. Over.”

  Heath swallowed, feeling as if the walls of his throat had been coated with Elmer’s Glue. His voice had an odd twang when he spoke again. “I need the license number Deputy Moore gave you, Jenny Rose. Over.”

  Within seconds, Jenny Rose came back with the requested information. The plate number she gave Heath was a perfect match for the one he’d entered on the accident report. A wave of nausea rolled through his belly. “Thanks for the help, Jenny Rose. Out.”

  As Heath swung from the Bronco and closed the door, he moved with the cautious slowness of an old man. Heartsick, that was the only word to describe how he felt.

  As he drew to a stop in front of Deputy Moore, he tapped the edge of the clipboard he held against the heel of his opposite hand. “You lied to me, Tom. You out-and-out lied,” he accused softly.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Moore retorted.

  “Let me draw you a picture. While you were patrolling this area this afternoon, you spotted a bunch of teenage boys in an older model, blue Ford pickup. The boy at the wheel was driving a bit erratically, arousing your suspicion. You fell in behind the truck, called in the plate number to Jenny Rose, and then you attempted to pull the kid over. How am I doing so far?”

  Moore stared at the ground as if he found it difficult to meet Heath’s gaze. In the past, Heath had been told by friends that his blue-gray eyes turned as scalding as twice-boiled coffee when he got mad. And right now, he was very mad. He tossed the clipboard back on the fender of the car. Moore jumped at the unexpected noise.

  “When you flashed your lights and hit the siren, the kid panicked and tromped on the gas,” Heath continued icily. “When you followed in pursuit, the kid drove even faster, trying to get away. Bingo. The first thing you knew, he lost control of his vehicle in a sharp curve and went over the edge.”

  Keeping his expression carefully blank, Moore finally met Heath’s gaze. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “The hell you don’t,” Heath shot back. “How many times have I cautioned you not to engage in a high-speed chase when you suspect a kid’s been drinking? If you try to pull him over and he speeds up, it’s obvious that he’s not going to stop, no matter what you do. At that point, the only safe thing to do is back off so he’ll slow down. What can you possibly gain by chasing him? If he’s intoxicated, his driving skills are impaired, and the faster he goes, the more risk there is that he’ll have an accident, injuring himself and possibly other people.”

  Angry color flagged Moore’s cheeks. “I told you I wasn’t anywhere near here! You calling me a liar?”

  Heath wanted to call him a worse name than that. “Jenny Rose gave me the tag number you called in a few minutes before the estimated time that the accident occurred. It’s a perfect match.”

  “So? Since when is it against your rules to check out a license plate? A couple of hours earlier, I saw the truck down by the river. No one was inside, and there was no one around. That seemed suspicious, so I jotted down the tag number to check it out later.”

  “Why later? Why not right then?”

  “I was too busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “It was my lunch break.”

  Heath sighed. This was going nowhere fast. Judging by the deadpan look in Moore’s eyes, he doubted the deputy was going to admit that he’d tried to pull the teenagers over and then given chase. And there was no way Heath could actually prove it. Sadly enough, even if he did, Moore’s ass would be covered. Going by the book, a lawman should have pursued the teenagers. They’d been breaking the law nine ways to hell, not to mention that the one boy had been driving drunk.

  Major problem. On this particular issue, Heath’s law enforcement tactics parted company with the “book.” And he wanted his deputies to follow suit.

  The boys in that truck would have faced a list of charges nearly as long as Heath’s arm. They also could have been expelled from school for truancy at the midnight hour before their graduations, and after all that, they still would have had to face their angry parents whose disciplinary measures, according to the statistics, were usually unreasonably harsh, especially when meted out by a frustrated father who lost his temper and didn’t realize his own strength.

  Who could blame anyone for running to avoid facing all of that? With so much at stake, most kids panicked. Heath had learned that the hard way. When you mixed in a little alcohol with that panic, you came up with teenagers whose thought processes were so muddled, they might do almost anything.

  The long and short of it was that Heath didn’t want kids to be afraid when they saw him coming. At least they didn’t run from him, which gave him a chance to get them enrolled in educational programs that strongly discouraged teenage alcohol and drug abuse.

  Once you zipped a kid into a body bag, there were no second chances. It was the end, period. This afternoon was a good example of that.

  “Get out of here before I do something I may regret,” Heath told Moore softly. “Go help them search the brush.”

  Moore shifted to plant his feet more widely apart. His arms hung loosely at his sides, but Heath didn’t miss the fact that the younger man was clenching and unclenching his fists. Maybe it was bad of him, but he almost wished the cocky little bastard would throw a punch. Beating the snot out of him wouldn’t bring those boys back, but Heath figured it might make him feel a little better.

  In the distance, he heard automobiles approaching. The news hounds. Damn, he’d forgotten all about them. Roving reporters generally monitored the police channels and showed up en masse at the scene of a serious automobile accident. Most times, Heath briefed himself before giving an official statement. There was no time for that today.

  At the sound of squealing brakes and tires skidding on gravel, Moore glanced over his shoulder. His expression was strained when he turned back to meet Heath’s gaze. “If you so much as hint that I was chasing those kids when they went over, I’ll make your life a living hell,” he grated out. “I’m not taking the heat for this.”

  Heath had never wanted to hit someone so badly in all his life. He had a sneaking hunch that Moore had engaged in that high-speed chase hoping he could run those boys off the road, arrest all of them, and come out looking like a hero. But the plan had backfired. Two star football players from Wynema High were dead. If the news media learned the truth, they might tout Moore as a hero. Considering the popularity of the kids, though, it could easily go the other way, with Moore being dubbed a hard-nosed fanatic who chased drunk teenagers over cliffs. That would destroy any hope he’d ever have of being elected to public office.

  A lovely thought, that.

  The thud of running feet and the muted clanking of camera equipment acted as a prod to get Moore moving. With a final glare at Heath, the deputy took off, clearly not wishing to be caught in the limelight. Heath shared the sentiment. This was a hell of a mess, and the guy who had to hang back to do clean up was going to take some hard hits.

  The reporters descended upon Heath like a colony of hungry ants on a bread crumb. Cameras flashed, making black spots dance before his eyes, and when he opened his mouth to say something, a woman shoved a microphone at him so forcefully, she damned near swabbed his tonsils.

  Questions pelted him like scatter spray.

  “Sheriff Masters, what were the names of the boys who were killed?” the woman with the mike demanded.

  A man elbowed her aside. “At what speed was the pickup traveling when it went over, Sheriff? Can you tell us what time the accident happened?”

  From somewhere at the back of the crowd, a feminine voice cried, “Have all the bodies been recovered yet?”

  A man cut in with, “What were you
r feelings when you learned this was a wreck involving intoxicated teenagers, Sheriff? Do you see this as an indication that your present policies might need revamping?”

  A woman waved a piece of paper to get his attention. “I just came from interviewing a group of angry parents who have started circulating a petition to have you recalled from office, Sheriff Masters. They claim that over the weekend, you and your deputies broke up several drinking parties and detained the youngsters involved until they were sober enough to drive. You made no arrests, which would seem to indicate that you condone such behavior. You also failed to notifying the parents of their children’s whereabouts. Can you explain why? Those parents were worried sick about their kids, and they’re justifiably outraged that the sheriff’s department had so little regard for their feelings.”

  Feeling like a dart board at which all players were throwing projectiles at once, Heath held up his hands to ward off more questions. “Please, ladies and gentleman, I can only address one query at a time. I’ll try to answer all your questions, I assure you.”

  As the group of reporters fell silent, Heath scanned their faces. Male or female, they all eyed him with glassy-eyed intensity, recorders running, cameras snapping. The boys lying nearby in body bags were nothing but statistics to them.

  “I’ll take the last question first,” Heath said. “Tax cuts have decreased our county budgets, forcing the sheriff’s department to trim expenses. We’re presently operating with fifteen fewer deputies than we were two years ago. As we approach the end the school year, high school seniors are celebrating their upcoming graduations, and it’s estimated that over seventy-five percent of those who attend parties consume alcohol. In the town of Wynema Falls alone, there are over three thousand kids who’ll be walking under the arches the first of June.

  “Last weekend, I and my deputies crashed five drinking parties, at which there were over three hundred kids collectively. We have no room in our jail for that many teenagers, nor did we have sufficient manpower or vehicles to transport so many back to town. Our only option was to detain them until they could safely drive home. As for notifying the parents, it would have taken hours to make over three hundred phone calls, and that’s not to mention the time we would have spent beforehand, trying to get frightened, closemouthed kids to give us their names.

  “Quite frankly, I don’t have the manpower for an undertaking like that, and as your sheriff, I have to prioritize, concentrating my department’s efforts where we can best serve the public. It seems to me that keeping our teenagers safe has to be a top priority.”

  Another newsman, accompanied by a plump cameraman, elbowed his way through the crowd to stand at center front. Heath recognized him instantly as Bill Krusie, a popular roving reporter for KTYX, a local television station. Heath wasn’t exactly thrilled to see him.

  Twenty years ago, Heath and Bill had been in the same graduating class at Wynema High, both of them eighteen and eager to grab the world by its tail. All through high school, they’d played on the same football team, been members of the Ski Club, and had frequently chummed around together, going to parties and out on double dates.

  Their friendship had endured until four years ago when Heath had had the misfortune of having to arrest Bill for drunk driving. The arrest had resulted in Bill’s enduring immeasurable public humiliation, becoming less popular with television viewers, losing his job at another broadcasting station, and being sued for divorce by his wife of seventeen years. Although Bill had subsequently been forced by judicial decree to go through rehab, had later become a dedicated member of AA, and now had his drinking problem firmly in hand, he still resented Heath for having been instrumental in destroying his life.

  Of all the reporters Heath knew, Bill Krusie had always been the most ethical. But even Bill had his weaknesses, and his bitterness toward Heath was one of them. Bill simply couldn’t reconcile the fact that the sheriff who now ran a zero-tolerance county and had tossed him in the hoosegow for driving under the influence had once been his high school drinking buddy. In Bill’s mind, Heath’s law enforcement policies smacked of hypocrisy, and when an opportunity presented itself, he couldn’t seem to resist taking shots at Heath’s character.

  This situation today was going to provide Bill Krusie with plenty of ammunition.

  Chapter 2

  Heath felt like an accident victim in vertical traction with so many plastic bags hanging from his arms. How women did it, he’d never know, corralling kids, packing babies in car carriers, yet still managing to handle their groceries.

  After closing the drop-down door of his white Bronco and rolling up the window, he headed for the back door of his sprawling farmhouse. In the distance, the Cascade Mountains looked almost purple, their rounded peaks rising like mounds of meringue-capped blueberries above the rolling green foothills. Wind swept down the draws and gullies to whisper softly in the stands of towering pines that bordered his forty-acre parcel of ranch land.

  He hauled in a deep breath, soothed by the sound of cattle lowing in the fields. Home. After the day he’d had, the mingled scents of evergreen, sage, sun-washed grass, and alfalfa worked on his senses like an intoxicant.

  Laden with new leaves, the big oak in the front yard swayed gently in the breeze, casting dappled patterns of light and shadow over the green composition roof. As Heath walked past the wrap-around veranda, he tried not to notice the chipped white enamel on the porch railing or the ankle-high weeds that peppered the lawn.

  As he stepped onto the back porch, he heard the chickens out by the pole barn raising enough ruckus to wake the dead in two counties. When he turned to look, he saw red hens scattering in all directions, his dog Goliath in hot pursuit. It looked as if someone had emptied a gunnysack of red feathers downwind of a turbine.

  “Goliath! Damn it all, stop that!”

  The Rottweiler, unable to hear over the cacophony, never broke stride, the mahogany markings on his feet and legs a blur as he darted in first one direction, then another. With a piercing whistle, Heath finally brought the commotion to a halt.

  His black coat glistening in the sunlight, Goliath swung around, his nearly tailless rump wagging with excitement, his stout, muscular body tensed. The expression on the canine’s face was anything but contrite as he loped toward the porch.

  “You know better than that,” Heath scolded as the dog drew closer. “What am I gonna do with you?”

  Perpetually wet with drool, Goliath’s chin sported a goatee of rust-red feathers. Hell. Another of his hens had a bare patch on her ass.

  “Keep it up, buddy, and there’ll be no more omelets. Traumatized hens don’t lay for shit.”

  Tongue lolling, the dog flopped down on the grass next to the steps, his soulful brown eyes gleaming with smug satisfaction.

  Trying to look stern, Heath found himself smothering a smile instead. The dog had never actually hurt one of the chickens, after all. He just craved the excitement of the chase, and deep down, Heath couldn’t really blame him. Since his accident nine months ago, the former canine deputy had been forced to take early retirement. Causing a brouhaha by chasing the chickens was about the only thrill left to him.

  Heath shook his head, his gaze resting thoughtfully on the Rottweiler. Goliath had saved his hide more times than he could count, and he wanted the dog’s golden years to be happy. Instead, the poor animal was going stir crazy.

  “I took you with me to the department yesterday and the day before that. What more can I do, Goliath? You tell me.”

  The dog gazed up at him with imploring brown eyes.

  “With that hip implant, you can’t cut it in law enforcement anymore. It’s just that simple. If going back to work is what you’re angling for, it ain’t gonna happen, partner.”

  Even as Heath spoke, Goliath cocked one ear forward, an unfocused expression entering his eyes. On the warm evening breeze, Heath caught the distant sound of a child’s voice. Since there was only one house nearby, he knew it must be his new neighbo
r lady’s kid, a tiny, tow-headed girl he’d glimpsed in passing.

  Goliath whined and pushed up on his haunches. Heath sighed, knowing the Rottweiler would give both hind legs and what remained of his tail to go down there and play. If there was anything Goliath loved more than law enforcement work, it was kids.

  “Will you promise to mind your manners and not wear out your welcome?”

  Goliath squirmed with anticipation.

  “Grrr-rruff!” the dog barked in reply.

  Heath juggled grocery bags to glance at his watch. “Only for an hour. You got it? Have your mangy ass home by seven, or I’ll plant a number twelve up it crosswise.”

  Before Heath could say more, the dog sprang into a run, the red-brown marking on his rump little more than a flash as he disappeared around the corner of the house.

  As he unlocked the door, Heath tried not to think of his vow to avoid his new neighbors. Zeke Guntrum, the old fart who owned the property next door, was a lousy landlord and had let the house fall into disrepair. Rusty pipes, faulty wiring, rotten floors. Everyone who leased the damned place regretted it, and Heath was invariably called upon to play Mr. Fix-It. Always in the middle of the night, of course. Plumbing seldom went haywire at a decent hour. The only way to get along with his neighbors, he’d finally decided, was to stay the hell away from them.

  As he stepped into the kitchen, the smell of garlic, an unpleasant reminder of the French bread he’d cremated last night, blasted him in the face. He set the bags on the butcher-block counter, then sorted through the jumble to find the six pack of Red Dog. He plucked out a long-necked bottle, twisted off the cap, and flipped it at the trash can. Visions of a long, lazy evening in front of the television flashed through his mind.

  Chugging beer, he drew off his brown Stetson and tossed it, Frisbee style, at the coat tree. The hat missed the hook, spiraled downward, and plopped crown-first on the yellow linoleum. Heath stared. He hadn’t missed that hook in over six months. But, then, he hadn’t had this bad of a day in a spell, either.