She took a deep breath to steady herself. “It’s Sheriff Brady and Detective Carpenter,” she called through the open door. “We’re here to talk with Dr. Wade.”
“You’re a little late.”
The voice was familiar, but Joanna couldn’t place it. Just then, the radio crackled to life.
“Sheriff Brady,” Larry Kendrick said. “Aren’t you on tour way to see Dr. Wade down in Douglas?”
“That’s right,” Ernie responded. “We’ve got a probem-”
But Kendrick rushed on. “We’ve got more info on that explosion. The cabin belongs to the same guy-Reginald Wade. A Mazda Miata registered in his name was found outside. So was Terry Buckwalter’s T-Bird.”
Earlier, in order to hear the radio over the road noise, Ernie had turned up the volume. Now, in the silence of the clinic yard, the transmission was so loud that not only did Joanna and Ernie hear it, so did the man on the porch.
“See there, Sheriff Brady?” Larry Matkin said. “You should have returned my call right away. If you had, maybe you could have prevented some of this. I wouldn’t have found out she was playing me for a sucker. Maybe they’d all still be alive.”
“Who would be alive?”
“Terry and Reggie, for starters,” Matkin answered. “And me, too.”
Ducking behind the dashboard so as not to be visible while he did it, Ernie lowered the volume on the radio and then spoke urgently into the mike, giving their location, calling for backup. Meantime, Joanna knew it was her job to keep the man talking.
“But you are alive, Larry,” she argued.
“Just barely,” he said. “And not for long.”
“Are you hurt, then?” Joanna asked. “And are you armed?”
“Hurt? You’re damned right, I’m hurt. She really did it to me. Pulled the wool right over my eyes. ‘Nobody will ever have to know,’ she said. ‘Once we have the money, they’ll never be able to prove a thing.’ I trusted her, for God’s sake. I believed every word she said.”
With one ear, Joanna was trying to make sense of what Larry Matkin was saying. At the same time, she was trying to keep track of what arrangements Ernie was making over the radio.
“Who are we talking about?” Joanna asked. “Terry Buckwalter?”
“Who else?”
“And what are we talking about proving?”
“I did it for her,” he said. “I faked all those assay reports. There’s ore there, but not as much as I said. The Don Luis site would be better, but she said as long as she and the doc had their money, they’d make sure I’d get a cut and no one would be the wiser.”
“What doe?” Joanna asked. “Dr. Wade or Dr. Buckwalter?”
“Funny you should ask,” Matkin said with a derisive nigh. “I never thought she’d kill him to get it, but that only goes to show how wrong a guy can be. As soon as Bucky died, I started wondering about it. Everybody seemed to think that guy Morgan did it, but not me. It was just too damned neat. The company attorney is due in town next week to offer a fortune for the mineral rights, and Bucky up and dies. I figured Terry had to be behind it, but I couldn’t figure out how she did it. She had to have had some help. She couldn’t have done it all by herself, because she wasn’t there when he died. She was with me.”
“You’re saying Terry and Reggie Wade killed Bucky?”
“If you want, I can have Terry tell you herself. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”
By then Joanna’s eyes had adjusted enough to the shadows that she could see him sitting there. He reached down and then hauled something up with one hand. At first Joanna sought it was a lifeless mannequin, but then she realized it was Terry Buckwalter, tottering but upright. Her arms were bound to her body by thick strands of rope. There was a gag round her mouth.
“Tell ‘em,” Larry Matkin said, shoving the gag aside so he could talk. “Go on. Tell Sheriff Brady what you told me.”
“Oh, my God!” Terry Buckwalter pleaded. “You’ve got to help me. He’s already killed poor Reggie. He’s crazy. He’s got dynamite all over the place. Here on the porch, in the house. Dynamite and blasting caps, both. He’s going to blow us all to kingdom come.”
“Enough!” Larry ordered. “Tell them the rest of it. About Bucky.” Weeping and shaking her head, Terry dropped to her knees.
“Please,” she said. “Please.”
Somehow, Joanna found her voice. “Come on, Mr. Matkin,” she said. “Give yourself up. There’s no point in this.”
“I can’t,” he said. “It’s too late.”
“No, it’s not,” Joanna argued. “It’s never too late.”
On the seat beside her, Ernie Carpenter let out a groan. “Shit!” he said.
“What is it?” Joanna asked, glancing in his direction. “What’s wrong?”
Ernie was staring into the rearview mirror. “A car just turned in the driveway.”
Behind them, a late-model Chrysler New Yorker had pulled up in front of the clinic. An older silver-haired woman, wearing a bright pink pantsuit, got out of the dark blue four-door sedan. As soon as she opened the door, a small gray dog came tumbling out after her. Ignoring her orders to the contrary, the dog went racing over to the sidewalk, where he lifted his leg and peed on a low-lying manzanita bush.
“Buster,” the woman wailed, chasing after him. “You come back here right now.”
The dog, enjoying the game, paused just out of reach. He waited until the woman was almost on top of him, then he darted off again-running pell-mell toward the house. T-ward Larry Matkin, with the woman chasing after him.
There was no time for discussion, only time to react. “I’ll get her,” Ernie said, peeling out of the rider’s side in a roll. He landed on the ground, crouching and running. The dog, expecting a clear field, ran right into him. Ernie scooped the dog up and then continued forward, grabbing the woman by one arm and spinning her around. Dragging her behind him, he headed for cover on the other side of the sedan.
That took no more than a few seconds. When Joanna looked hack to the porch, however, Terry Buckwalter was no longer visible. Neither was Larry Matkin. What was visible, though, chilled Joanna to the very marrow of her hones. In the shadowy gloom of the porch, she saw the single flame of a burning match.
It wasn’t a question of heroics. The Blazer was still idling. Slinging the gearshift into reverse, Joanna backed away-backed away and then ducked. Just as she disappeared under the dash, the house exploded. Above her she felt the terrible force of the concussion, heard the awful roar. As the force of the blast reached the Blazer, the windshield blew in with a terrible whoosh. Blew in and then blew out the back as the rear and side windows all shattered. Debris came raining down on her back. When at last she could hear again, the only sound was the steady whooping of the Blazer’s car alarm.
Scrambling out onto the ground, Joanna looked back at the house.
It was flattened. Thin wisps of smoke coiled up from the wreckage. She turned around in time to see Ernie hand off the squirming dog to his mistress as though it were some kind of living football, then he started toward the house at a dead run.
Joanna stayed with the Blazer long enough to cut off the alarm and notify Dispatch, then she, too, went racing toward the remains of the house. Ernie was on his hands and knees where the porch had been, lifting a bloodied two-by-four and shoving it out of the way.
“Come on,” he said grimly. “Matkin is dead, but Terry’s under here. She may still be alive.”
He was right. Once they pried the debris off Terry, she still alive. Barely. It would have been best not to move her, but the tinder-dry wood inside the house was quickly catching fire. When they finally got her loose, they each took her by an arm and pulled her free.
Far enough from the house to be out of danger, they laid her down. While Ernie ran to get blankets, Joanna knelt beside side her. “Hold on,” she said. “Help’s on the way.”