"Andy and I fought too," she said quietly.
"Excuse me?" Berridge said.
"Andy," Joanna said. "My husband. We had a big fight the morning he was shot. It took me months to learn that I had to let it go, Mr. Berridge. I can never take back those angry words, but the words aren't what killed him. The two aren't related."
The combination of surprise and aching distress that flashed across the man's face told Joanna she was right, that she had unearthed part of what was adding extra weight to an already overwhelming burden of grief.
"But it is my fault," he insisted. "We had a fight, she walked out, and now she's dead. If I had just kept my mouth shut-"
"If it hadn't been Katrina," Joanna heard herself saying, "it would have been someone else."
"What do you mean?"
"We're dealing with a monster here, Mr. Berridge. I believe he was out hunting, looking for someone to kill. My guess is your wife walked into his range finder and he blew her away. That same night he also shot up some of Alton Hosfield's cattle and an irrigation pump over on the other side of the cliffs but still on Triple C property. He probably gave the same amount of thought to killing your wife as he did to killing the cattle."
"But how…"
"He's a serial killer, Mr. Berridge. We're pretty sure of one other case and have tentative links to at least one more. There may be others as well, ones we don't know about yet."
"But how can this be? I had no idea there were others. If he's been operating around here, how come nobody ever heard anything about him?"
"We told your sister earlier, but it must have been after you left the lobby. Once these cases hit the media, as they probably will, either this afternoon or tomorrow morning for sure, you need to know that everything about this case is going to come under intense media scrutiny. Your years of relative anonymity here will be at an end."
"They already were," he replied.
"What do you mean?"
"A few months back, this guy showed up here at the ranch unannounced. I don't remember his name now, but he said he was writing a book on failed sports stars." He paused and frowned in concentration. "What was the title? I'm sure he thought it was real catchy. That's it. Losers Weepers was the name of it. All about sports greats or near greats who, for one reason or another, hung up their cleats or gloves or whatever and went home without ever living up to their supposed potential."
"And did you talk to him?"
"For a few minutes, but when he finally explained what he was after, I told him to take a hike."
"What was he after?"
"He wanted to know why I quit."
"And did you tell him?"
"No," Berridge said. "But I'll tell you. I lost my nerve. It was during the Indy. We were going around the track on a yellow. I wasn't even going that fast-seventy or so, maybe. And I was feeling great. I'd had the lead for twelve laps until somebody else spun out on the third turn. I was coming past the place where the safety team was cleaning debris off the track. And then my left rear tire flew off. For no reason, although they said later that I ran over a piece of metal that exploded the tire and tore the wheel right off the axle. It hit one of the safety guys full in the face. Broke his neck. He died instantly. I remember seeing his kids on TV that night, three little girls. The oldest was eleven; the youngest, seven. I haven't been in an Indy car since then. It just wasn't worth it to me. If I could kill somebody going seventy, what the hell could I do at two hundred?"
"But your wife wanted you to go back to it?" Joanna asked.
Berridge nodded. "Trina was really offended by the book and by my being included, with or without an interview. She went behind my back. She started calling up some of our old friends from racing, trying to see if she could put together a deal-a car, a sponsorship, all of that. She almost made it work, too. Two weeks ago, I happened to answer the phone in the middle of the day. Usually I'm outside then. This time, though, when nobody else answered, I picked it up. And I recognized the guy's voice the moment he opened his mouth-Tom Forbes. We used to be buddies when I was on the circuit. Now he's team manager for my old sponsor.
"'How're you doing out there, Bud?' Tom says to me. That's what he always called me-Bud. 'I hear you're thinking about coming back into the fold.' I didn't know what to tell him… That was the first I had heard anything about it. But as soon as 1 talked to Trina, I figured out where it came from. I told her no deal, and that's when the fighting started. I knew right then it was just a matter of time."
"That's when you started shopping around for a replacement cook?" Joanna asked.
"That's right." He paused. "Racing gets in your blood. It can be dangerous as hell, but it's also glamorous and exciting. And you can make a hell of a lot more money by winning a single race than you can grubbing out an existence here for five or ten years. What Trina didn't understand is that I like this better. I like taking the time to plant something and then having a chance to watch it grow. I like taking something apart-like a broken bread machine-and putting it back together so it works like new."
The plank door slammed at the front of the ranch house. Joanna looked up and was surprised to see a collection of several people-young men, mostly-staring at them. Daniel Berridge saw them, too. "I'd better go," he said. "And I'm doing better now. Thanks for letting me talk. I guess I needed to."
Joanna nodded. In a few minutes of not asking questions, she had learned far more about Daniel Berridge than might have emerged in even the most focused of interrogations. By talking to him about Andy-by revealing her own dark secret-she had created a bond between them, a human connection, that left her utterly convinced that the man had no involvement in his wife's death.
Turning the Blazer to drive back out of the yard, Joanna tried to catch a glimpse of Rattlesnake Crossing's current crop of temporary residents. For Apache-warrior wannabes, the group of mop-haired, mostly blond young men standing on the porch looked disturbingly normal and ordinary.
When Joanna had crossed Pomerene Road earlier to bring Berridge home to Rattlesnake Crossing, the four-way intersection had been empty. Now, though, a white Nissan was parked there-a Nissan Sentra with a Bisbee Bee logo plastered on the door.
Not Marliss again, Joanna thought despairingly. Not twice in one day.
She would have tried to drive right on by, but Marliss Shackleford had seen the Blazer coming toward her. She clambered out of her car, waving frantically.
Joanna slowed and rolled down her window. "Is something the matter?" she asked.
"Is this where it all happened?" Marliss pointed up the now well-worn dirt track that led off toward the cliffs. "Is this where you're finding all the bodies?"
"From right here, this is a crime scene," Joanna told her. "That means it's off-limits for everyone but investigating officers."
"But what happened out here?" Marliss demanded. "Tell me. Back in town we're hearing all kinds of awful rumors. Is it true there's a serial killer on the loose in Cochise County?"
"As you know, Chief Deputy Montoya is in charge of media relations. I believe he's scheduled a news conference for later today. In the Quarter Horse over in Benson. If you want information, I'd suggest you be there."
"The Bee's reporters will be there to cover the news conference," Marliss replied indignantly. "I'm a columnist, Joanna. My job is to cover the human-interest part of the story. The angle. Most of the time, angles have nothing to do with the pablum that's dished out at official news conferences."