"Ellie says Skeleton Canyon is somewhere over here in the Pelon . . ." He paused. "How do you say it? The Pelonsillios?"

He pronounced the word in true gringo fashion with the word silly taking the place of the two silent l's. The sound of it grated on Joanna's ear. So did his use of Joanna's father's pet name for her mother. The lipstick didn't help.

"It's Spanish," she explained, without bothering to cover up her irritation. "That means you don't pronounce the double 1. It's Pelon-si-yos."

George shook his head. "I'll never be able to say all these god-awful Spanish and Indian words. Whatever happened to good old American English?"

"You mean like Minnesota?" Joanna asked testily. "Or maybe Illinois?"

Realizing he had stepped in something but unsure what it was, Winfield regarded her warily. "I guess we'd better get started."

"I guess we'd better," Joanna said.

Winfield went back to the hearse and removed a heavy leather satchel, which he lugged over and loaded into the back of the Eagle. By the time he climbed into the rider's seat, Joanna already had the engine running.

The turnoff to the north entrance of Skeleton Canyon was at a crossroads presuming to be a village that called itself Apache. From Double Adobe Road to the turnoff was a good fifty-five miles. The drive took them east across the southern end of the Sulphur Springs Valley and then north through the San Bernardino Valley. Most of the time on a drive like this, Joanna would have been frustrated by the vastness of her jurisdictional boundaries. Six thousand two hundred and forty square miles was a big area to cover, but today the miles flew past far too fast for her to even think about it.

Absorbed in her own thoughts, Joanna was thinking not only about the tragedy of Brianna O'Brien's death, but also about her own culpability with regard to whatever was going on with Angie Kellogg. Joanna had thought Dennis Hacker was inviting Angie on a harmless, old-fashioned date-the kind of innocent, hand-holding thing old people sometimes use to re-gale their kids, grandkids, and great-grandkids. Wrong. Not in this case.

Joanna knew something about the abuse Angie Kellogg had endured as a child. And she knew a little about her life as a prostitute in L.A. It was hardly surprising that someone with her background would worry that maybe the Bird Man's intentions weren't all they were cracked up to be-that he was interested in something besides hummingbirds. Considering what had happened, Joanna had little doubt who had been right and who had been wrong.

Thinking about the realities of Angie out walking around, unprepared, in the wild, rock-strewn landscape that made up the Peloncillos, Joanna glanced at Doc Winfield's feet. Despite her warning advice, he was nonetheless wearing a pair of thin-soled, highly polished loafers.

"Are those the only shoes you have along?" she asked.

"Unfortunately yes," he said. "I'm not much for hiking. I haven't quite gotten around to buying any hiking boots yet."

"What about water?" she asked. "I don't suppose you brought along any of that, either."

"I brought along my crime scene kit."

"But no water to drink?"

"No."

Joanna sighed. "That's all right. I have two canteens in the back. I'll give you one to use. That's what happens to city slickers when you turn them loose in the desert. If you don't watch them every minute, pretty soon they turn themselves into potato chips. When you're working out in the sun, especially with the humidity going up like it is right now, heat-stroke can sneak up and catch you unawares."

"Is that why they call the place we're going to Skeleton Canyon?" Winfield asked. "Because people died out there?" Joanna nodded.

"Of thirst?"

"They were mostly murdered," Joanna answered. "You ever hear of the Clanton gang?"

"As in Wyatt Earp?"

"Before they tangled with him, the Clantons ambushed a band of Mexican gold smugglers here in the Peloncillos. According to legend, the Clantons made off with a shipment of stolen gold, only to be caught by the survivors a few miles away. In the ensuing fight, a few more people died and the gold disappeared. It's still supposed to be out there somewhere."

"Amazing," George Winfield murmured.

"The Peloncillos have always been a haven for smugglers. It's a mountain range that's almost impossible to patrol. The Baker Wilderness Area, between Skeleton Canyon and the international border, is supposed to be closed to vehicular traffic. Unfortunately, smugglers don't necessarily pay any attention to the edicts of the Environmental Protection Agency or the U.S. Forest Service."

"Amazing," George Winfield said again, settling back in his seat and staring out the window at a landscape that was waist-high in yellow grass. "I can't believe I'm living in a place where those names are part of history and not just something that used to turn up in Saturday matinees. Coming here I thought this would all be real desert, maybe even sand dunes. This almost looks like wheat."

Joanna considered explaining to him how Anglos had encouraged the spread of mesquite, which had killed off the native grasses, but she let it go. Let him learn some of that stuff on his own, she thought.

They drove in silence for several more miles before George spoke again, clearing his throat as he did so. "By the way, Joanna, has Ellie said much of anything to you about . . ." He paused. "Well, about us," he finished lamely.

There he was, using the name Ellie again to bring up a topic Joanna wasn't at all eager to discuss. "Not really," she returned coolly. "Why?"

"She hasn't happened to mention that we're . . . er . . married?"

Joanna turned to look at him and in the process ran the right-hand tires onto the shoulder of the road. She had to struggle with the steering wheel for a moment before the Eagle returned to the sun-cracked pavement.

"Married?" she demanded, her face pale. "You can't be serious!"

George shook his head. "I wouldn't kid around about some-thing like this. I've been telling her for weeks now that she needed to let you know. In case you haven't noticed, your mother's a little stubborn. We eloped, Joanna. Last month. We got married in a little chapel up in Vegas. I've booked an Alaskan cruise for our honeymoon in August. I wanted you to know about it before then."

Joanna couldn't think of a single word to say in reply. George hurried on. "I hope you're not too shocked. At our ages, you know, it's hard to tell how much time we have. And your mother and I are just alike. High-fidelity and low-frequency, if you know what I mean."

He chuckled at his own joke and then looked at Joanna to see if she was laughing. She wasn't. They were approaching the turnoff to Skeleton Canyon. With her chin set and her eyes staring straight ahead, Joanna jammed on the brakes. She swung the Eagle onto the gravel road with such force that, had George Winfield not been wearing his seat belt, he would have come sliding into her lap.

"I guess you're a little angry about this," he murmured a little later.

"Angry?" Joanna repeated. "Whatever makes you think that?"

"I suppose that's why Ellie was so reluctant to tell you in the first place. She was afraid you'd react this way."

In front of them a trio of three black-tailed deer gracefully leaped across the sandy track, clearing the barbed-wire fences on both sides as though they didn't exist and then disappearing into the waist-high grass. Seeing them gave Joanna a chance to gather her resources. The last thing she ever wanted to do was react just the way her mother said she would. If Eleanor had thought Joanna was going to be angry, then, by God, angry was the last thing she'd be!

"I'm surprised," she said carefully. "Surprised and shocked, but not angry."

George Winfield sighed. "That's a relief, then," he said. "What about your brother? What do you think he'll say?"

Bob Brundage, Joanna's long-lost brother, was another one of Eleanor Lathrop's little secrets. Born out of wedlock before D.H. Lathrop and Eleanor married, Bob had been put up for adoption as an infant. Joanna had first learned of his existence at Thanksgiving the previous year, when he had tracked down his birth mother after the deaths of both his adoptive parents.

"I have no idea what Bob will say," Joanna replied, curbing a desire to snap. "You'll have to ask him yourself."

"I thought we'd invite him and his wife to the reception," George continued.

"What reception?"

"The one we'll have when we get back from the cruise. Maybe in September sometime. That'll be fun, don't you think? Nothing too fancy. Maybe just a little get-together at the club-house out at Rob Roy Links. That's where we went on our first real date, you see."

"I'm sure it'll be a ball," Joanna said. "I can hardly wait."

They came around a sharp curve where the road was blocked by a barbed-wire gate. Parked in front of the gate was a battered green Range Rover. A slender woman in a dark blue dress and wearing huge, wraparound sunglasses stood next to the vehicle, studying a map.

Joanna rolled down her window. "Excuse me," she called. "Would you mind moving out of the way? We need to get past."