hugged him right back, hard.
"You mean to tell me you're not gonna whip that boy's behind?" Joe asked, disappointed.
I looked at him and laughed. "No. I'm not."
"Hell," Joe said, and then he fell sound asleep.
7
The drive down to Flagstaff was a dull one.
For the first thirty-five miles or so leading out of the Grand Canyon, Highway 180 was just a two-lane swath cut through the Arizona flatlands, a colorless stretch of geography memorable only for its formidable monotony. Patches of piñon pine and Utah juniper trees interrupted this trend occasionally, but you had to be paying close attention to notice. When you finally came upon a large tourist trap overrun with giant Flintstones characters, Highway 180 turned east toward Flagstaff and left State Highway 64 to continue on south toward Williams. The change in direction made for more interesting scenery along 180, it was true, but only marginally; once you had taken in the snowcapped splendor of Humphreys Peak looming to your left, and admired the walls of ponderosa pine and aspen trees that eventually surrounded you on both sides, you were soon back to counting the minutes before a Flagstaff City Limits sign made an appearance.
This was more of a problem for me than it was for Joe, of course, because Joe had the distraction of driving to keep him company. And Dog, well, beautiful scenery or the lack of same has never much mattered to him; on trips of any duration, he's usually asleep in a car before the click of his seat belt fastening has stopped echoing in his ears.
So what, you might ask, did I do in the cramped cab of a pickup truck to fend off boredom while my youngest son slobbered on my right shoulder, and my husband peered intently at the alternating white and yellow lines splitting the road ahead? I read three issues of People magazine before studying the contents of Geoffry Bettis's safety deposit box one more time. What else?
"This drawing has to mean something ," I told Joe, referring to the crudely sketched outline of someone's grotesque right foot.
"You keep saying that," Joe said wearily.
"I can't help it. I keep thinking I've seen a foot like this somewhere before. I just can't remember where."
"Well, don't look at me. I've got beautiful feet."
"This doesn't look familiar to you?"
"No."
"And he doesn't either?" I asked, referring to the three odd monochromatic photographs of a stranger visiting his mailbox.
"No. Why should he?"
"Because this stuff means something, Joe. It has to."
Big Joe just made a disgruntled sound deep in his throat.
"You don't think it does?"
"It's not that. It's just that I'm past caring whether it does or not. What Bettis did and who killed him was only my concern while we were being held in connection with his murder, Dottie. Now that we're not, I couldn't care less about the man, or anything pertaining to him. All I want to do now is pick up Lucille and head east."
"But, Joe—"
"I know, I know, he died in our trailer. But so what? We didn't put the man there. He invited himself in. Why should we feel responsible for him?"
"I didn't say we should feel responsible for him. All I meant was, I'd hate to leave here for good without finding out what happened to him, and why. And I should think you'd feel the same way."
"Because I was a cop."
"No. Because you were a good cop. Someone who was never satisfied with just a suspect, or a motive. You needed to know the truth about things. Good or bad."
"That was my job ," Joe said. "This isn't."
"No, but—"
"They have a suspect, Dottie. They'll get the truth out of him, sooner or later. And they aren't going to need our help to do it, believe me. Besides—" He finally took his eyes off the road to look at me directly. "We're already more involved in their investigation than wisdom says we should be. It's just lucky for us they don't know it yet."
He glanced at the four items in my lap to make sure I got his meaning.
"You mean, if this stuff ever became relevant to
"You mean to tell me you're not gonna whip that boy's behind?" Joe asked, disappointed.
I looked at him and laughed. "No. I'm not."
"Hell," Joe said, and then he fell sound asleep.
7
The drive down to Flagstaff was a dull one.
For the first thirty-five miles or so leading out of the Grand Canyon, Highway 180 was just a two-lane swath cut through the Arizona flatlands, a colorless stretch of geography memorable only for its formidable monotony. Patches of piñon pine and Utah juniper trees interrupted this trend occasionally, but you had to be paying close attention to notice. When you finally came upon a large tourist trap overrun with giant Flintstones characters, Highway 180 turned east toward Flagstaff and left State Highway 64 to continue on south toward Williams. The change in direction made for more interesting scenery along 180, it was true, but only marginally; once you had taken in the snowcapped splendor of Humphreys Peak looming to your left, and admired the walls of ponderosa pine and aspen trees that eventually surrounded you on both sides, you were soon back to counting the minutes before a Flagstaff City Limits sign made an appearance.
This was more of a problem for me than it was for Joe, of course, because Joe had the distraction of driving to keep him company. And Dog, well, beautiful scenery or the lack of same has never much mattered to him; on trips of any duration, he's usually asleep in a car before the click of his seat belt fastening has stopped echoing in his ears.
So what, you might ask, did I do in the cramped cab of a pickup truck to fend off boredom while my youngest son slobbered on my right shoulder, and my husband peered intently at the alternating white and yellow lines splitting the road ahead? I read three issues of People magazine before studying the contents of Geoffry Bettis's safety deposit box one more time. What else?
"This drawing has to mean something ," I told Joe, referring to the crudely sketched outline of someone's grotesque right foot.
"You keep saying that," Joe said wearily.
"I can't help it. I keep thinking I've seen a foot like this somewhere before. I just can't remember where."
"Well, don't look at me. I've got beautiful feet."
"This doesn't look familiar to you?"
"No."
"And he doesn't either?" I asked, referring to the three odd monochromatic photographs of a stranger visiting his mailbox.
"No. Why should he?"
"Because this stuff means something, Joe. It has to."
Big Joe just made a disgruntled sound deep in his throat.
"You don't think it does?"
"It's not that. It's just that I'm past caring whether it does or not. What Bettis did and who killed him was only my concern while we were being held in connection with his murder, Dottie. Now that we're not, I couldn't care less about the man, or anything pertaining to him. All I want to do now is pick up Lucille and head east."
"But, Joe—"
"I know, I know, he died in our trailer. But so what? We didn't put the man there. He invited himself in. Why should we feel responsible for him?"
"I didn't say we should feel responsible for him. All I meant was, I'd hate to leave here for good without finding out what happened to him, and why. And I should think you'd feel the same way."
"Because I was a cop."
"No. Because you were a good cop. Someone who was never satisfied with just a suspect, or a motive. You needed to know the truth about things. Good or bad."
"That was my job ," Joe said. "This isn't."
"No, but—"
"They have a suspect, Dottie. They'll get the truth out of him, sooner or later. And they aren't going to need our help to do it, believe me. Besides—" He finally took his eyes off the road to look at me directly. "We're already more involved in their investigation than wisdom says we should be. It's just lucky for us they don't know it yet."
He glanced at the four items in my lap to make sure I got his meaning.
"You mean, if this stuff ever became relevant to
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