Rhonda managed to start the Blazer and maneuver the limping hulk into position. We were just beginning to hook up the winch cable when Guy Owens alerted us to look up the road, where a swirl of dust announced the swift approach of an oncoming vehicle.
I looked at the carnage around us, broken cars and bound and battered people, and wondered if anyone would believe our story. If some local rancher happened on the scene, would he take time to listen, or would he shoot first and ask question later?
The vehicle turned out to be an ugly yellow Forest Service Suburban driven by an earnest young man in a brown uniform. I've never been so happy to see an untried, beardless youth in my life.
He stopped the van next to the wrecked Beretta and got out, moving forward uncertainly. As soon as he saw the weapon in Guy Owens' hands, he stopped short and began to scuttle back toward his truck.
"Wait," I called. "Please. We need your help. "People are injured."
He checked his headlong flight, but only barely. He ducked his head and cleared his throat before he spoke as if he was having trouble swallowing.
"Looks like you're having a little difficulty here," he croaked.
"As a matter of fact, we are," I said. "I'm a police officer. You wouldn't happen to have a radio in that thing, would you?"
"Yes. What's the problem? Are these guys wetbacks or what? Do you need me to call the border patrol?" Now that he had found his voice he spat out the questions one after another without waiting to hear any answers.
"Actually, there's a whole catalog of calls to be made," I said. "Start with the nearest hospital, the local sheriff's department, and the F.B.I. And when you finish with them, you should probably call a tow truck."
"The hospital in Sierra Vista?" our rescuer faltered.
"No, not that one," Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens interrupted from his seat on the ground several feet away. "Call Colonel Miler at the base hospital on post. Tell Joe, if one's available, to send a chopper for a dust-off."
"A what?" the beardless youth stammered.
All I can say is he must have been a babe in arms during the Vietnam War. The term mystified him.
"A Med-evac helicopter," Guy grumbled in explanation. "My name's Lieutenant Colonel Guy Owens. Give him our location. Tell him it's for me and Michelle. Joe'll handle the rest."
What followed could easily have passed for a mini-convention of local law enforcement personnel. Guy and Michelle Owens were already loaded into the helicopter and on their way to Raymond W. Bliss Army community Hospital at Fort Huachuca before the first patrol car arrived, bringing a Santa Cruz County deputy who had come across the valley from some place called Patagonia.
Next a Border Patrol van showed up, not because they were summoned, but because they had been on their way. One of their informants had notified them that something unusual might be going on up in the pass. They had been coming to check that rumor out when they heard the series of emergency radio communications from the Forest Service Suburban.
Two ambulances, an enthusiastic D.E.A. officer, and a tow truck arrived from Nogales almost simultaneously, followed closely by two F.B. I agents summoned from Tucson who disembarked from another helicopter and immediately took charge.
Time and again Rhonda and I explained what had happened as far as we knew. All three of the prisoners seemed to be a more-or-less known quantity to the D.E.A. guy, who was beside himself with joy at the idea of having al three of them in custody.
According to him, Paco and Tony each had long rap sheets. Monty, presumably a much bigger fish, had never before been nailed, although both his existence and his name had long been rumored in drug-dealing circles.
What seemed to puzzle everyone concerned was why guys who were basically successful drug runners would suddenly involve themselves in the much less lucrative and potentially far riskier crime of kidnapping. It wasn't logical. I certainly couldn't shed any light on that topic, and the prisoners didn't either.
With everyone else deciding who should go where and how it should all be accomplished, there was little or nothing for Rhonda and me to do but sit in the background, huddle under ambulance blankets, try to keep warm, and watch the three-ring circus unfold around us.
"You know that. 38 I gave you earlier?" I asked her in careful undertone when we were alone.
"Yes. What about It?"
"So far it hasn't been fired, right?"
"Right."
"So how about if I make you a gift of it? I don't want any of these hotshots getting me on a concealed weapons charge."
"What about me?" Rhonda asked.
"You're an artist, not a cop. People expect artists to do crazy things."
She nodded and laughed. "Thanks for the present," she added. "Remind me to return the favor."
The sun had gone down and it was becoming increasingly chilly when one of the tow-truck drivers-there were now three separate tow trucks on the scene-came looking for us.
"You J. P. Beaumont?" he asked.
I nodded.
"I called Alamo," he said, almost apologetically, "you know, to see where they wanted me to tow the Beretta. Someone from there is on the radio. They want to talk to you."
I'll just bet they do, I thought, as he led me to his truck and handed me the microphone. I pushed down the switch. "This is J.P. Beaumont. Over," I said.
"Mr. Beaumont?"
"Yes. Over."
It was woman's voice, controlled but furious. "My name is Lucille Radonovich, District manager for Alamo Rent A Car."
"What can I do for you, Ms. Radonovich? Over." I tried to sound reassuring, engaging, casual. It didn't work.
"You are a dangerous man, Mr. Beaumont," she declared.
"Look," I said, reasonably, "I took the extra collision insurance you sold me. Ten dollars a day. Everything's fine, right? Over."
Lucille Radonovich was not to be dissuaded. "Mr. Beaumont, everything is not fine. You may have taken the additional insurance, but it may or may not be valid depending on the exact geographical location of accident."
"It wasn't an accident," I interrupted helpfully. "That guy shot it with a Colt. 45. On purpose. Over."
She continued, as though I hadn't spoken. "Mr. Beaumont, I have been directed to tell you to turn your keys over to our representative, the tow-truck driver. Immediately. Is that clear?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Later on, someone from this office will be in touch with either you or your attorney to settle your account."
"Does this mean I don't get another car? Over."
I already knew the answer to my question, but I had to ask, had to hear it from her own lips.
And Ms. Lucille Radonovich's reaction was exactly what I expected-no more, no less. A pause. A long pregnant pause, and then a slowly released breath like a dangerously stressed valve letting off excess pressure.
"Some things go without saying, Mr. Beaumont. Over and out!"
Without a word, I handed the keys to the Beretta over to the tow-truck driver. He looked at them for a moment, then walked away, shaking his head.
I watched him go and realized that it would be a hell of a long walk back to Ralph Ames' home in Paradise Valley some two hundred miles away.
I went back to where Rhonda sat waiting. She was chilled. Her teeth were chattering. I put my arm around her shoulder and she snuggled close to me.
"Are these the people who killed Joey?" she asked. "Or was it somebody else?"