Double Prey (24 page)
Just south of Moore, a well-used two-track turned off to the north, crossing the Rio Salinas at a spot where the bedrock had been scrubbed bare by periodic gushers. On the arroyo’s bank, as if the land owner knew that the deep arroyo crossing would intimidate visitors, a neat sign encouraged them:
Prescott Ranch, 1.5 mi
.
Estelle glanced in the rear-view mirror to see Gastner, always the gentleman, pause at the south arroyo edge as she guided the Crown Vic down the steep slope and up the other side. When she was safely across, he followed, the stiffly sprung, high-clearance rig making short work of the crossing.
The 1.5 mi. promised by the sign took them in a circuitous route around a low mesa and across another much smaller arroyo which, with one more frog strangler, might pose some interesting challenges. From a small rise, Estelle could see the double-wide mobile home, framed on one side by a windmill that was missing half of its blades and off to the left, the scattering of outbuildings, a fair museum of old machinery and vehicles, and at least two corrals.
A plume of dust arose as a front-loader swung in a tight circle, its mammoth bucket loaded. From a quarter mile away, Estelle couldn’t tell what the activity was, but as she drew closer, she saw that the front-loader was stacking junk on the back of a long flatbed trailer. With finesse, the operator set the pancaked car body on top of the load, deftly nudging it into a secure position before backing away.
As she and Gastner approached, she could see the front-loader operator pause. He was working down the line of junked vehicles that Gus Prescott had accumulated over the years, but he stopped the machine, its bucket resting on the roof of an ancient International pickup that appeared to have sunk into the prairie sand over the years.
The operator shut down the diesel and swung down.
“Ah,” Estelle whispered, and glanced behind her again. Gastner was in no rush, several hundred yards behind her, arm out the window, hand draped over the wing mirror. Stub Moore, the front-loader operator and a county employee, was no doubt embarrassed at their arrival. The round insignia on the loader’s door announced the Posadas County Highway Department. Neither Stub nor the loader belonged on Gus Prescott’s ranch doing private work. At the same time, Estelle knew this was not the least bit unusual—a culvert installed here, a ditch there, a surplus load of crusher fines spread on a driveway.
As she slowed the car and swung in behind the truck, Stub pulled off his gloves, dusting his jeans with ineffectual slaps. As the undersheriff shut off the car, she heard a door slam, and saw the lanky figure of Gus Prescott angling out of the house.
“Mornin’, sheriff,” Stub said. He found a handy spot along the flat-bed trailer to lean, and groped a cigarette from his shirt pocket…his county shirt, complete with
Posadas County Highway Department
embroidered over the right breast pocket flap, and
Stub Moore
over the left. He watched Bill Gastner park behind Estelle’s county car.
“You folks are hard at it this morning,” Estelle said, keeping any note of reproof or curiosity out of her voice.
“Cleaning up,” Stub replied.
“What a day, eh?” Bill Gastner greeted as he sauntered up. He extended a hand to Stub, then turned just in time to do the same to Gus Prescott. The rancher looked awful, Estelle thought…the gray, sunken skin of either a cancer patient or someone running near the edge of exhaustion. His cheek bones stood out in sharp relief, his eyes sunken. A nasty sore marked the corner of his lower lip. The constant string of cigarettes didn’t help. Gus and Stub matched puff for puff, and Bill Gastner, a recovering nicotine addict himself, shuffled to one side so that he was standing upwind of the effluvia.
“I just decided it’s time,” Prescott said, anticipating the question. “You know, this string of junk’s been collecting since 1951, when old Lewis bought this place. I inherited most of it, but,” and he shrugged, “been addin’ to it some over the years.” Eyeing the trailer load growing behind him, he stepped closer and tapped end of a bumper with all but a postage stamp of chrome missing. What was crushed on top of the bumper was unrecognizable. “This here was a 1946 Chevy pickup. Probably coulda found some son-of-a-bitch who would buy it for restoration, but there wasn’t enough left. Got caught up in that flood on the Salinas.” He looked at Gastner. “You remember that. The one in ’55?”
“Nope, I don’t. I was in Germany in 1955, Gus. Freezing my tail off. How’d you happen on it, anyway?”
“Thought maybe I could use some parts off it. Bought it for twenty-five bucks from old man Clark.” He sucked on the cigarette thoughtfully, and glanced at Estelle. “And there she sat all this time. Never used no parts, just took up space.” He heaved a deep sigh, exhaling smoke. “So what the hell. Got bills to pay. Some of this steel is worth a little something now, don’t you know.”
“Worth a bunch, I would think,” Gastner agreed. “A hell of a lot more than what you paid for it. And now’s as good a time as any. Most folks never get around to sorting it all out.”
“So there you go,” Prescott said. “Got Stub here to crush up a load.” He looked across toward the remaining relics. One semi load certainly made a dent in the collection, but there would be a second load left behind. “Haul it all out of here, and maybe turn some things around.” He ground out the cigarette and found another one. “You guys ready for a beer?”
“No thanks,” Gastner laughed. “I like beer, but it sure as hell doesn’t like me.”
“Sir, I stopped by just to chat a little about a couple of things,” Estelle said.
Stub Moore, who had remained silent, glanced at his watch. “We’re puttin’ in a couple culverts over off 42 this afternoon, and I just swung by here for a few minutes on the way.”
“You do what you have to do,” Estelle said easily. “Don’t let me interrupt you.” She surveyed the flatbed trailer, its small front steel support wheels digging into the oak pads as the weight was piled on.
“Trailer belongs to Florek,” Stub offered. Cameron Florek, the owner of the huge auto salvage business just north of the interstate, had pulled hundreds of vehicles out of ditches, ravines, canyons, and roadside wreck sites for the Sheriff’s Department. Crushed a dozen or more per load, the carcasses of past tragedies went to an auto recycling center in Las Cruces where they were further reduced to little, dense cubes. Florek would have happily crushed all of Prescott’s collection, but he would have charged for the service—Stub Moore was handy that way.
“Could we talk for a few minutes?” Estelle asked Prescott.
“I’ll get back at it,” Stub said. “Get this one load done, then I got to skiddaddle.”
“Come on over to the house,” the rancher said. “The wife’s got coffee on.”
“Thanks, but no. How about just over by the barns, there? Away from the noise of the loader?”
“Suit yourself.” He looked at Gastner. “How about you? Never knew you to turn down a cup of coffee.”
“Well, hell,” Gastner said, as if the decision was a monumental one. “The way your good woman makes it, how can I refuse? I have one of those nifty travel cups in the truck. Let me get it.”
The last thing Estelle wanted to do was talk with Gus Prescott with an audience of spouse or children, so she ambled toward the barns. As Prescott started toward the house, a gimp breaking his gait, Gastner caught up with him, cup in hand. Prescott took it, and Estelle heard him say, “So now what? I hear you’re givin’ it up?”
Gastner shrugged dismissively. “I’m going to write my memoirs,” he said with a laugh. “Reveal all this county’s nasty little secrets.”
“That’ll keep you up nights,” Prescott nodded. “Black, as I remember?”
“You got it. Thanks.”
Prescott went into the house, and Gastner strolled across the yard, head turned as he watched Stub Moore’s progress with the loader. Estelle saw him stop, hands in his pockets, as Moore placed the huge bucket just right on the flat roof of the old truck, then hit the hydraulics. The loader reared like a dinosaur, its five-foot tall front wheels rising off the ground. At the same time, the old truck’s roof caved in, the door posts buckled. Working methodically along the truck’s length, he smashed it down until the entire vehicle was a uniform eighteen inches thick, a pancake easily stacked on the trailer.
Gastner took his time, walking the length of the trailer that now carried half a dozen vehicles or pieces of abandoned farm machinery. Apparently the man had never traded in a vehicle or piece of farm equipment, driving it until it dropped, and then pushing it into line to fade in the blistering New Mexico sun.
When Prescott reappeared carrying two cups, Gastner pulled himself away from the crush and bash spectacle and met the rancher halfway across the yard.
“So, it’s been a time, ain’t it,” Prescott observed. Estelle leaned against the warm, round contour of a 250 gallon diesel fuel storage tank. Its sweet aroma was almost pleasant, and it made a good table for her notebook.
“It’s been that,” Gastner agreed. He sipped the coffee contentedly.
“Sir, when was the last time you saw Freddy Romero?” Estelle asked.
“Who, now?” Prescott had shown no signs that he was hard of hearing, and he would certainly have heard of the boy’s accident. His lean face looked the part of a seriously ill, trail-hardened cowpuncher, his hands large and rough, showing the results of too much sun for too many years. But his eyes weren’t the tough, icy blue that would place him nicely in a cigarette ad. Rather, they were a soft, haunted brown, constantly in motion.
Looking for the bottle
, Estelle thought. She could smell the alcohol on him even at this early hour, and wouldn’t be surprised to discover that his stash was right in the cab of his pickup truck.
“Freddy Romero. Casey’s boyfriend.”
“Oh, Christ, that little punk. Don’t wish anybody harm, but Jesus H. Christ, that little Mexican…” He bit off the sentence, eyes shifting to Gastner, who remained as placid as ever.
“When was the last time you saw him, sir?” Estelle repeated.
“Don’t keep track of that kid,” Prescott snapped, but immediately looked as if he regretted the sharpness of his tone. “Look, I heard what happened to him. Damn fool thing to do, riding like that. Bet you dollars to donuts that he didn’t have no helmet, right?” He didn’t wait for an answer. “He took Casey for a ride a time or two, and I told
her
that was the end of that. I don’t want to see her hangin’ on the back of that thing. Well, see what happened? Maybe that shook some sense into her.” He pulled on his cigarette and talked through the exhale of smoke. “Don’t know what she sees in that little shit.”
“When was that, sir?”
“When was what?”
“When you saw him on the four-wheeler. Or when he and Casey were together?”
“Hell, they’re spendin’ way too much time together.
Way
too much. You know as well as I do what’s going to happen.” His mouth worked as if it wasn’t sure what expression its owner wanted. “Don’t need a flock of little half-Mexican kids runnin’ around the place.”
Estelle didn’t rise to the bait. “You were in the Broken Spur when Freddy rode by on his four wheeler on Thursday, sir?”
“Where do you get that idea,
señora
?” He made the single Spanish word sound like an insult, and Estelle saw Bill Gastner’s grizzled eyebrows twitch.
“I’m asking you, sir.”
“I don’t keep no diary of what I do.”
“Do you remember talking to Miles Waddell that afternoon? At the Spur?”
“So what? I talk to Waddell all the time.”
Bill Gastner set his cup on top of the oil tank with exaggerated care. “Gus,” he said, “we’ve known you for a long time.” He rubbed his hands together thoughtfully. “Now, you know how these things work. We have an accident, and we check things out. That’s all there is to it. A little cooperation here would be helpful. That’s all we’re asking.”
“I know that.”
The undersheriff kept her tone gentle and respectful. “Did you happen to notice if Freddy was by himself that afternoon, sir? We need to know that.”
“He better have been, I’ll tell you that. I find out that Casey was ridin’ around with him again…”
Except the boy’s dead now
. “Was he by himself, sir? Did you see him?”
“No, I didn’t see him. I
heard
it was him ridin’ by. Waddell said it was. Took his word for it. Said he was alone. Took his word for that, too.”
“Do you recall what time that might have been?”
“Might a been… hell, I don’t know when it
might
a been.”
“You left the saloon shortly after that?”
“I come and go when I please.”
“Kinda ouchy today, Gus.” Bill Gastner made the observation couched in amusement, but it caught the rancher’s attention.
“Well, I…” but Gastner interrupted him.
“Kinda wonder why.”
“Now, look. I don’t mean to be givin’ you a hard time, Bill.”
“It’s not about me, Gus.”
“Well, it’s just that, well, you know.”
“I
don’t
know.”
Prescott looked as if he wanted to say something else, but bit it off, taking the opportunity to jam another cigarette between chapped lips. He snapped the lighter so hard he almost dropped it. His gaze roamed the ground in front of him, as if the answers lay there. Estelle watched the performance with fascination. It was hard to imagine someone loathing Freddy Romero, but Gus Prescott clearly did. “He rode by the Spur,” he said. “Waddell says it was him.” He shrugged. “That’s what I know.”
“Did you leave the Spur shortly after that, sir?”
“Yeah, well I got work to do, you know.”
“I understand that, sir. You and Herb both left shortly after?”
He settled for a nod, perhaps realizing now that others could easily confirm what he had or hadn’t done.
“Bender’s Canyon—that’s sort of the back road into your ranch, isn’t it?”
Prescott coughed out a laugh. “Hell of a back road. But yeah, it is.”
“You went home that way?”
“Hell no, I didn’t go that way. Hell, it’s eight miles longer, and a rough ride. What’s the point?”