Dead to Rights

“Like hell,” Bucky replied.

Not wanting the potentially volatile situation to deteriorate any further, Joa

“Sheriff Brady.” Deputy Pakin’s face brightened considerably with the arrival of some backup. “Mr. Morgan, here, and Doc Buckwalter seem to be having a little disagreement… “

“It’s hardly a little disagreement,” the man with the sign interrupted. “Dr. Amos Buckwalter killed my wife. He could just as well have murdered her in cold blood. Now he’s back home with his life and his business intact, while Bo

That was when Joa

Early the previous year-maybe as far back as January or February-Bucky Buckwalter had gone off to an a

“Look, Morgan,” Bucky said. “I’m sorry as hell about your wife. But I’ve paid my debt to society-spent my two months baking in an unairconditioned tent at the Maricopa County Jail. I went through six weeks of court-ordered in-patient treatment. Now I’m attending court-ordered AA meetings and doing my community service. My new truck had to go back and I’ve had to mortgage my clinic just to pay the fine, the lawyers, and the treatment. What else do you want from me?”

“Bucky,” Terry Buckwalter called from the door to the clinic. “What’s going on out there?”

If Doc Buckwalter heard his wife call to him, he didn’t acknowledge it. He and the other man had eyes and ears solely for one another.

“I’ll tell you what I want,” Morgan returned. “You may have paid the state, but you haven’t paid me. Bo

“The court ordered me to pay a fine and to get treatment. I’ve done that,” Bucky Buckwalter replied stiffly. “If you want to take me to civil court, fine. Go ahead. That’s up to you. In the meantime, I’ve got a business to run, Mr. Morgan, so why don’t you get the hell out of here and let me do it? And if you so much as set one foot on my property, I swear I’ll have you arrested.”

With that, Dr. Amos Buckwalter turned his back on the group and stalked off toward the building’s entrance where his wife still stood waiting for him. When the man with the sign made as if to follow, Joa

Morgan spun around and turned on her. His dark brown eyes flashed with barely suppressed fury. “What’s there to talk about?” he demanded. “And who the hell are you?”

Obviously Morgan hadn’t been paying much attention to Deputy Pakin. “I’m Joa

“How many cops did that jerk call? I’m surprised he didn’t have someone issue an all-points bulletin.”

“Nobody called me,” Joa

“Picketing,” he replied more evenly, making a visible effort to calm himself. His troubled eyes met and held Joa

In that tense atmosphere, when Morgan’s hand disappeared into a jacket pocket, Deputy Pakin made as if to reach for his own holstered weapon. Instead of a gun, however, Morgan’s hand emerged from his pocket holding a fanfold of brochures. While the deputy breathed a sigh of relief, Morgan handed one of the brochures to Joa

“It’s informational picketing only,” he added. “I’m passing out literature for Mothers Against Drunk Drivers. There’s no law against that, is there?”

Joa

Joa

Morgan said nothing, but he nodded. She turned to the photographer. “I think you can stop now, Kevin. The incident’s over. And Deputy Pakin, since it looks as though everything’s under control, you might as well go on to your next call while I take my dog into the clinic.”

“Right, Sheriff Brady,” Lance Pakin said. “Thanks for the assist.”

Joa

For the space of a second or two, the mask of anger dropped away from the man’s face, leaving behind nothing but an expression of naked, unaffected grief. That painful look was one Joa

“Thank you,” he murmured and then turned away, wiping at his eyes with the back of his sleeve. It was possible that a sudden gust of wind had blown some dust or grit into his eye, causing it to tear, but Joa

Shaking her head, Joa