Lowering clouds blanketed the Mule Mountains in southeastern Arizona. It was the last day of August. The summer monsoons had arrived early and stayed on, leaving the desert grassland valleys of Cochise County lush and green. A flash of lightning off toward the east roused Joanna from her reverie with a warning that the skies might open up at any moment. Still she lingered, unready to go inside and face down this awful but necessary task. She was relieved when her phone rang with her husband’s name in the caller-ID window. Answering a call gave her an excuse to stall a little longer. “Hey,” she said. “Where are you? I thought you’d be here by now.” “So did it, and we would have been,” Butch said, “if not for the huge backup caused by a semi rollover on the I-10 bridge over the Gila. We’re in Tombstone right now. If I come straight there, I could arrive before they close, but—” “No,”
