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with Jim Bergin as he entered. She lost her balance and he caught her, and for a moment, they did an awkward dance in the doorway.
    “That’s the UPS plane,” Bergin said quietly, still holding Mrs. Camp’s arm. “It comes in every day at about this time.”
    As if to punctuate his remark, the voice over the radio barked something else about final for zero-niner, and we could see the bright landing lights coming in from the west. Vivian Camp wasn’t willing to accept Jim Bergin’s word. She stood in the doorway, clinging to the doorjamb and to Jim’s arm until the Bonanza idled across the tarmac and slowed to a halt. The brown UPS van pulled up beside the plane even as the prop windmilled, and then stopped.
    Vivian Camp turned away from the door, and the sobs came in great, gulping waves. She and her sister sat together, and Estelle knelt in front of them, covering their clasped hands with both of hers.
    “Posadas Unicom, Bonanza niner-seven Gulf Alpha departing twenty-seven, straight out to the west.” Bergin leaned across Linda Real and tapped the mike bar.
    “No reported traffic, Ricky.”
    The radio barked two notes of squelch as the pilot keyed his own mike, and then we could hear the powerful surge of the Bonanza as it started its takeoff run.
    “JetRanger Triple Eight November Mike inbound from the south. We’ve got the traffic in sight,” another voice said, and Bergin looked across at me.
    “There’s your chopper,” he said.
    I breathed a sigh of relief, and as Estelle started to rise, I waved a hand. “Eddie and I will hook a ride out,” I said. “You’ll stay here?”
    Estelle nodded. Janice Holman raised an agonized face and tried to say something, swallowed, and tried again.
    “We should go along,” she said.
    “No, ma’am, you shouldn’t. What would be helpful is to let Detective Reyes-Guzman take you back to the Public Safety Building. That’s our communication center, and anything incoming will go through there.” I tried to smile. “You’ll be more comfortable.”
    That was a lie, of course. Neither Janice Holman nor Vivian Camp were going to be comfortable for a very long time.

C HAPTER F IVE
    The downwash from the rotors of the JetRanger tore up half an acre of New Mexico prairie as we settled to earth. A hundred yards ahead of us, caught in the harsh underbelly spotlights, stood Deputy Thomas Pasquale. Around him was the litter of what had once been Phil Camp’s airplane.
    A flash of light caught my eye, a set of headlights from a knoll a quarter mile to the west. If it was Bob Torrez, he’d damn near driven faster than the Bell JetRanger flew.
    Eddie Mitchell hit the ground like a marine, followed by Donnie Smith, one of the state patrolmen assigned to the Posadas area. But I took my time, gingerly groping for solid footing before I released my grip on the thin door frame of the helicopter. Dr. Francis Guzman waited patiently behind me. Even as we stepped away from the chopper, the state police pilot was spooling the thing down into silence.
    Pasquale walked toward us, head down against the wind and the treacherous footing. Mitchell joined him as he approached. “No survivors,” the young deputy said when we were within earshot. “The pilot’s over there, just a few yards from where the engine block ended up.” Pasquale held up a wallet. “If this is his, then he’s Philip Camp, out of Calgary, Alberta, Canada. I don’t know who the passenger is. I didn’t want to touch anything there.”
    “Philip Camp is Martin Holman’s brother-in-law, Thomas,” I said. “As far as we know, he and the sheriff were the only two on board.”
    Pasquale ducked his head. “The sheriff? You mean Martin Holman?”
    I nodded and took Pasquale by the arm. “Let’s go see.”
    Even as we walked the short distance toward the main chunk of fuselage, I could hear vehicles in the distance. Four sets of headlights appeared around the bottom of the mesa to the west.
    “Make sure they