Next to Joanna, Junior stirred restlessly, shifting from one foot to the other, moaning softly. “Go,” he whimpered, making his first sound in almost an hour. “Go. Go. Go.”
Glad that he was speaking to her at last, Joanna did her best to reassure him. “It’s all right, Junior,” she crooned. “We’ll be leaving soon. Just let me finish talking to Detective Carbajal.” She turned back to Jaime. “Sorry I can’t be more of a help right now,” she told him. “As you can see, I-”
“You’ve got your hands full, Sheriff Brady,” Jaime said. “Don’t worry. You take care of him. I can handle this.”
“But I’ll want you at tomorrow morning’s briefing,” Joanna said. “With everything that’s been happening today-here, in Tucson, and out at Sierra Vista-we’re going to need to start the day with firsthand information on all fronts.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Jaime said. “I’ll be there.”
By now, Junior had edged away from Joanna and was skittering down the road. He had already passed the Crown Victoria by the time she was able to dash after him, catch him by the arm, and bring him back to the vehicle.
“Go,” he said again, more urgently this time. “Junior go. Junior go now!”
“All right,” Joanna agreed. “We’re going. Come get in the car.”
He tried to shake loose of her hand. Remembering what had happened to Sister Ambrose, Joanna held firm. After a momentary struggle, he quieted. For a matter of seconds Joanna wondered if she should lock him in the backseat rather than letting him ride up front with her, but by then he was no longer fighting. She helped him into the front passenger seat and buckled the seat belt across him. Then she hurried around the car and climbed in herself.
She had started the car, backed up, and completed a U-turn when the sharp and unmistakable odor of urine flooded her nostrils. Her heart sank with the sudden realization of what Junior had really meant when he said he wanted to go. She knew instantly that Junior’s particular brand of “go” was going to play havoc with the Civvy’s cloth-covered interior.
Embarrassed for Junior and angry with herself for not understanding his urgent plea, Joanna floorboarded the gas pedal. There was no point then in stopping the car and trying to hustle him into a rest room. The damage was already done.
What are the guys in Motor Pool going to think when I bring this one in? she wondered.
On the seat beside her, Junior buried his face in his hands and sobbed. “Sorry,” he wailed over and over again. “Junior sorry.”
“It’s all right,” Joanna said, swallowing her own anger in hopes of calming him. “You tried to tell me and I didn’t understand. We’ll be home soon, Junior. We’ll take care of it.”
He raised his head hopefully. “Home?” he said.
A feeling of total helplessness washed over Joanna. She had no idea where his home was or how to take him there. In his innocence he thought she did and trusted her to make good her promise. How could she do that? And how would she deliver on what she had told Father Mulligan, that she would take care of Holy Trinity’s little lost lamb?
Where would she find something as simple as dry clothing for him to wear? There was nothing out at High Lonesome Ranch that would fit him. Joanna had long since sent Andy’s things to a local clothing bank. Even if she was able to solve the basic issue of dressing Junior, what would she do with him after that? For one thing, there was the question of bed-rooms. The house at High Lonesome Ranch was a modest two-bedroom affair with no guest room. Butch had slept fine on Joanna’s cloth-covered sofa. With Junior that wouldn’t be possible-for several obvious reasons.
On the seat beside her, an inconsolable Junior once again dissolved into tears. His despairing, muffled sobs were enough to break Joanna’s heart.
“Hush now,” she said. “Do you like to sing?”
Continuing to whimper, he didn’t answer.
They were through Tombstone now, past the airport, and coming down the long curve into the upper San Pedro Valley. Off to the right-a good twenty miles across the valley-the combined lights of Sierra Vista and Fort Huachuca glimmered along the base of the mountains. Ahead of them, in the darkened sky over the Mule Mountains, a single star-the evening star-glittered brightly. Seeing it reminded Joanna of some of the trips she had made back and forth to Tucson when Jenny was a baby. Driving by herself, there had been no way to comfort her crying child but to sing. Would that same magic work on Junior?
“Twinkle, twinkle, little star,” Joanna began. The familiar tune filled the night. At the sound of her singing, Junior quieted a little. He continued to sniffle and choke, but his heart-wrenching sobs eased.
By the time Joanna finished that first familiar ditty, Junior’s breath was coming in long, ragged shudders, but at least he was quieter. And Joanna felt better, too. As the last notes of “Little Star” died away, she moved on to another equally familiar tune. For the next twenty minutes, she sang every childhood song she could remember. There were ones from Sunday schooclass="underline" “Zacheus,” “Jesus Loves Me,” “I’ll Be a Sunbeam for Jesus.” There were ones from kindergarten: “Eensy Weensy Spider,” “I’m a Little Teapot,” and “Do the Hokey-Pokey.” By the time the Crown Victoria slid across the Divide and dropped down into Bisbee’s Tombstone Canyon, Joanna had moved on to Girl Scout songs: “Make New Friends But Keep the Old” and “White Coral Bells.”
By then it no longer mattered what she sang because Junior was sound asleep beside her. With the heater on, the smell of urine was thick in the air, but Joanna didn’t dare open the window for fear the cold air would chill him. After all, he was wet. She wasn’t.
Coming around Lavender Pit, she finally made up her mind about where she was going to go-straight to Butch Dixon’s place in Saginaw. Picking up the phone, she dialed his number and breathed a sigh of relief when he answered right away.
“Where are you?” Butch asked. “Jenny and I are just now sitting down to eat.”
“I’m coming through Lowell,” she told him, speaking quietly, afraid that if she raised her voice she might disturb Junior, who was snoring softly beside her.
“Great,” Butch said. “We set a place for you, but I didn’t think you’d be here this early.”
“Neither did I,” Joanna murmured, wondering how she was going to break the news to him. “But I’ve got a problem, Butch.”
“What kind of problem?”
“I’ve got a passenger with me. His name is Junior. At least that’s as much of his name as we know. He’s developmentally disabled. He peed his pants about the time we were leaving a crime scene in Tombstone, and now he’s sound asleep.”
“What’s he doing in your car?” Butch asked. “Is he under arrest, or what?”
“He didn’t commit a crime, so no, he’s not under arrest. Somebody abandoned him at the weekend arts and crafts fair over in Saint David. It’s hard to tell about his age. I’d say he’s somewhere close to fifty, but we’ve got no identification to verify that. Mentally he’s closer to three or four. Verbal, but only just.”
“Not enough to tell you he needed to go to the bathroom.”
“Right. He tried. I just didn’t understand.”
“So where are you taking him, to the jail?”
“I can’t take him there, Butch. Some of those guys…”
“I know. I know. And you can’t take him home, either.”
“No,” Joanna agreed. “I can’t, but…”
“You want me to take care of him?”
Joanna’s heart filled with a flood of gratitude. It was exactly what she had wanted, but she hadn’t dared ask. By then she was less than half a mile from Butch’s home in the Saginaw neighborhood. Driving around the traffic circle, she was tempted to go around several more times, just to give Butch time to adjust to the idea of taking in an unexpected house guest. It seemed, however, that Butch was already coping.