Apache Country by Frederick H. Christian Page B

me
that. Now you tell me something. Is there anything I could do about
it, one way or the other?” she said.
    “He’s your brother,” Easton reminded her.
    “And aren’t I the lucky one?” she said, the
weight of her irony palpable. “Drunk driving, car theft,
burglaries, brawls in bars, knife fights. You name it, my brother
has done it. I don’t know how many times I’ve put up bail for him,
how much it’s all cost. Your people said he killed an old man and a
boy.”
    “Do you believe he could have done something
like that?”
    She did not reply for what seemed like a long
time. He listened to the electronic hum that linked them, wondering
what she was thinking.
    “I don’t know what to believe, Mr. Easton,”
he heard her say. “But right now I don’t see what I could usefully
contribute to the situation.”
    “And you don’t want to, anyway.”
    He thought he heard an if-only-you-knew sigh
and decided not to like Joanna Ironheel much.
    “Will he get bail?” she asked.
    “I doubt it.”
    “When is he to be arraigned?”
    “Monday morning, about ten.”
    “He’s got a lawyer?”
    A chill touched Easton’s spine. “One was
appointed,” he said. “A man named Jerry Weddle. Didn’t he call
you?”
    “Nobody called me except the Riverside
police.”
    “You’re quite sure about that?”
    “Of course I’m sure,” she said, frosting
it.
    Then Weddle’s second call was not to Joanna
Ironheel. So who did he call? I must get those phone records, he
reminded himself again.
    “Ms. Ironheel, it really would be helpful if
you could get down here.”
    “I can’t imagine what purpose that would
serve,” The impatient tone was back in her voice.
    “I’d like to talk to you about James. Get
some idea of his mind-set.”
    He thought he heard a derisive little laugh
and liked her still less.
    “Sorry, I can’t help you,” she said. “I don’t
have the remotest idea what his mind-set might be. I’m not sure he
does, either.”
    Easton shrugged, as if she could see him.
“Any message you want me to give him?”
    “Yes,” she said fiercely. “Tell him I said
ahaga’he.”
    “What does that mean?”
    “It doesn’t translate.”

Chapter Ten
    Well over an hour after he talked to her, the
implications of what Joanna Ironheel had told him were still
fluttering around in Easton’s brain like moths round a floodlight.
The fact that Weddle had not called her – he could think of no
reason why she would lie about it – blew wide open again the matter
of whom the attorney had called prior to his murder, not to mention
whether it was a walk-in killing or something else. Well, no point
trying to contact the phone company at this time of night; it would
have to wait until morning.
    For some reason a picture of James Ironheel –
sitting on the cot in his jail cell with that strange entreaty in
his eyes, like he was trying to say help me, yet unable to speak
the words – kept floating into Easton’s mind’s eye. He knew he
hadn’t imagined it. Gut instinct told him that something – not
being able to put a finger on it only made it worse – was very
wrong. Finally, with a grunt of exasperation, he gave up. The only
way to settle this was to talk to Ironheel again.
    But this time alone.
    The air was much cooler as he went back
across the street. It was well after midnight now. The sky was
blue-black and the stars seemed more brilliant than ever, millions
of them up there. We are all in the gutter, but some of us are
looking at the stars. Who said that?
    He went up the ramp and into the building.
The RO watch had changed, and Easton found senior deputy Jack Basso
on duty. He had his nose in a copy of Guns & Ammo, and Easton
suddenly had this picture of thousands of night-shift deputies all
over the country reading male-interest magazines and getting paid
by the hour to do it.
    “Jack,” he said.
    “Jee-zuss, Dave,” Basso growled, without
getting up. “You got insomnia, or what?”
    He was