Double Prey (8 page)
The four-wheeler tracks crisscrossed the two-track here and there, and it soon became apparent, as they reached low spots where the sand was a perfect matrix for tracks, that more than one round trip on Bender’s Canyon Trail had been made. At one such location, Estelle stopped the Expedition and she and Bill Gastner got out.
“At least three,” Gastner said. “Now, that’s interesting.” He bent his head back, gazing at the sky. “Look, we haven’t had a drop of moisture in three weeks. If we hadn’t found the kid and his wrecked machine in the arroyo, there’d be no way we could tell if these tracks were made this morning, yesterday, last week, or three weeks ago.”
“There’s a time puzzle here,” the undersheriff agreed. “For one thing, it’s likely that Freddy rode in here maybe yesterday some time. Fair enough. Then,” and she stepped across a hummock of grass, looking down at a particularly clear, deep impression left by the knobby tires, “did he ride back and forth? In and out? And this?” She paused, a toe almost touching another track.
“Not an ATV,” Gastner said. “Truck, car, jeep, something. Ground’s too gravelly to give us an impression.”
“But it’s on top, isn’t it.”
Gastner knelt down with a loud popping of knees, one hand on the ground to keep his balance. “Sure enough. But look, like I said, out in the boonies as this might be, there’s still a fair amount of traffic on this two-track, sweetheart.”
“Interesting,” Estelle muttered.
“What is?”
“All of it. Freddy didn’t say what day he found the jaguar skull, but the school records show that he was in school all week—except yesterday. Now, if you were a teenager getting his kicks out of exploring caves, and if you found something as neat as that skull, what would you be likely to do?”
“Oh, I’d be back there,” Gastner said without hesitation. “Damn right.”
“So would I. Why would I be over here, across the valley, out on the prairie counting cow pies? And where did I find the handgun? That’s quite a discovery all by itself.”
“That could have been anywhere, even along the highway,” Gastner offered. “Things bounce out of trucks all the time. You’ve seen that collection that they have over at the state highway barns. People drop the damnedest things. Gloves, chains, jacks, hubcaps, coolers,
shoes
. Have you ever lost a
shoe
along the highway?”
“Ah, no.”
“How do they do it? Always amazed me. I once found a loaded shotgun up on Regál Pass. Turns out that a guy had it in the back of his Jeep, and somehow it bounced out when he turned onto the highway from the ridge trail. People are just plain
numb
, sweetheart.” A sudden recollection lighted his heavy features. “My all-time favorite was finding a set of dentures up on Cat Mesa. A perfect set of choppers, lying on an old, moldy mattress. Now you could have a grand time making up a scenario to fit
that
. No matter how hot the moment of passion was, how could someone forget his
teeth
? ”
He grunted to his feet and shook his head. “But a fair enough question. Regardless of where he picked up the handgun—
if
he picked it up somewhere and didn’t just buy it from somebody—then what was he scouting over here?” He held out a hand as if to add, “after you.” Estelle snapped a series of photographs of the tracks, knowing that they showed little.
For another mile, the two-track skirted the base of a mesa whose top looked as if it had been laser leveled. The rim itself was a vertical jumble for the last fifty feet, but despite the formidable barrier was still scarred by cattle trails. Rounding the mesa, the path headed due north past a dilapidated windmill missing most of its blades. The water tank, one side caved in, was peppered with bullet holes. The barbed-wire fence around the well head had fallen in a tangle, the posts weathered to steel gray.
The ATV tracks led past the attraction, keeping to the two-track. In another hundred yards, the road forked, the tracks leading northwest. They jolted to a stop facing a small arroyo too shallow to hide a car. The ATV apparently hadn’t hesitated.
“You’ll make it,” Gastner encouraged.
“When was the last time you were out here?” Estelle asked, and Gastner laughed.
“Mid-afternoon of June 21st, nine years ago. Good God, come on, sweetheart. I have no idea when it was.”
“But you’ve been here, in this very spot.”
“Yes. Absolutely. I have no recollection of why or when. I know that this two-track here winds around about a million acres of worthless prairie, and in about two miles we’ll run into one of Herb Torrance’s gates, and if you go that way, you’ll end up right in his back yard. Otherwise, we’re going to go around that big mesa behind Herb’s and come out to a fork in the road. One path goes on through Miles Waddell’s place, back out to the county road. The other choice heads north, out to the old state highway.” He sat up a little straighter, peering over the hood. “Just where Freddy Romero
didn’t
go.”
They had just bumped into the shade of a scrub oak grove, the dry leaves scraping along the Expedition’s flanks, when Estelle’s cell phone buzzed. She stopped the vehicle. For a moment, the connection produced nothing. Finally, a voice that clearly was struggling with emotion said, “Estelle?” The connection wasn’t particularly good, with plenty of background noise.
“This is Estelle.”
“George Romero,” the caller said, and Estelle found it impossible to imagine the stocky, gruff auto mechanic trying to choke the words out. “Look,” he said, and stopped, then tried again. “Look, is all this true?”
Trusting the distant police department, but knowing how messages can sometimes become entangled, the undersheriff delayed the moment. “What did the officers tell you, sir?”
“Two cops and a chaplain came to the hospital. They said Freddie had an accident on his four-wheeler.” George’s voice cracked, and Estelle could hear him taking deep breaths.
“He did, sir. I’m sorry.”
“He’s dead?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Jesus, how…”
“He flipped the unit into an arroyo off Bender’s Canyon Trail, sir.”
“Oh, my God. Wait…” Thumpings and voices were loud in the background, and at one point Estelle could hear an electronic voice, and a series of chimes that sounded like an elevator signal. “The cops didn’t know when,” Romero said. “When it happened.”
“We’re not sure, sir.”
“What do you think?”
“I don’t want to guess, sir.”
“Look,” Romero said, and his voice trailed off. “He was lying out there all night? Is that what they’re saying?”
“It appears right now that the accident happened sometime yesterday, sir.”
“So he was out there all night?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Oh, Jesus. You mean he could have…” Romero’s voice trailed off, and then Estelle heard him try to speak to someone else, perhaps Tata. “When did you find him?” he managed finally.
“We found him about three hours ago, sir.”
“Oh, my God. Who? Who found him?”
“Bill Gastner and I, sir.”
“You were looking for him? How…”
“Yes, sir. We were following the tracks of his ATV. He parked his truck over by Borracho Springs. Then he drove over to Bender’s Canyon from there. I can’t be sure, but I think I caught sight of him yesterday around two o’clock. Driving along State 56, sir. He turned off at the saloon, and took the back trail over to Bender’s Canyon.”
“You didn’t talk to him?”
“No, sir. I didn’t have the chance.”
“He ain’t supposed to be driving along the highway, is he?”
“No, sir, he’s not. But he was on the shoulder, and just for a mile or so. By the time I passed by, he was off in the distance, off-road. I couldn’t have followed him if I had wanted to. And at the time, I didn’t know it was him.”
“I don’t know why he’d be over there,” Romero said. His voice was husky, right on the edge of a sob.
“Nor I, sir. Is there anything I can do for you or Tata?”
“Christ, I don’t know. I don’t know what to think right now. Butch is going to be all right, I guess. I mean, he’s going to be blind in that eye, but everything else is under control. But now this…”
“I’m sorry, sir.”
“I just don’t know what to think. We’re in the ER right now. They had to give Tata a sedative.” Romero heaved a great, shuddering sigh. “Where is he now?”
“At the hospital, sir.” Estelle avoided the blunt, awful word
morgue
that would have been more specific. “Dr. Perrone is with him.”
“Okay. I guess that’s all…all I needed to know. But I want to see where it happened.”
“I can understand that, sir. Whenever it’s convenient for you. In the meantime, if there’s anything I can do, please don’t hesitate.”
“Well, right now, I guess we’re driving back down there. Tata wanted to stay here, but…”
“I understand, sir.”
“My sister lives here in the city. I’m thinking that we’ll ask her to come stay with Butch so we can break away for a little. God, I don’t know.” He sighed again. “We’ll be there in five hours, Estelle.”
She looked at her watch. Five hours would put the Romeros on the highway well after dark. “Sir, is there any way I can convince you to drive down tomorrow?”
“I can’t wait until tomorrow.”
“Then travel safe, sir. And again, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, well. We all…we all are, I guess.”
She rang off and took a deep breath, letting it out slowly as she slipped the little phone back in its holster. “What a thing,” she said to Bill Gastner. “A day starts out one way, and changes so fast there’s just no keeping up.”
“We’ve seen it too many times,” Gastner grumbled. “When it hits close to home, it kind of jerks our chains. They’re driving back tonight?”
“Yes.”
“And that’s not good, either.”
She pulled the SUV into gear and let it idle along the rough two-track. In a few moments, they reached a fork, and just beyond on the left, a closed gate.
“Herb’s back forty,” Gastner said. “Freddy didn’t go through there.” Sure enough, the four-wheeler tracks, here and there clear, but most of the time just a vague scuff on the hard ground, veered to the right, where the two-track dropped down into a shallow arroyo and then around the buttress of the mesa. “If we continue out this way, we’ll be on Miles Waddell’s property in about two miles, and then back to the county road,” he said. “So where the hell was he going?” Almost immediately, he sat up straighter, just as they reached another grove of piñon and oak scrub. Estelle slowed.
“Right there,” he said. The ATV tracks, now little more than a swath of bent and crushed dried grass and range weeds, swept to the left, off the trail. Estelle stopped the truck, staying in the two narrow ruts of the two-track. They both got out and circled around in front of the SUV.
“Now, the question is…” Gastner started to say, then shrugged. “Who knows what the goddamn question is.” He walked a few paces to the southwest, then turned and knelt down. “Joe Tracker here says that there have been enough people through this spot in the past week or so to fill a parking lot.” He pointed, sweeping his arm back and forth. “Get the light just right, and you can see that.”
Estelle walked ahead, staying on the raw dirt of the trail’s ruts. “He—or somebody—went on, that’s for sure.” She waited for Gastner to catch up. In a section no more than six feet across, merely a wash of sandy trash between two smooth, flat rocks whose crowns were now part of the trail’s paving, they could see a clear impression of the knobby tires from what looked like the big, soft tires of an ATV. And other tracks as well…truck, car, even motorcycle, perhaps a mountain bike or two.
A portion of the ATV’s prints were obscured by other tracks, too indistinct to signal anything other than that they were there.
“Useless,” Gastner said. “Nothing we can tell for sure.”
“But let’s suppose that Freddy went through here, along with everyone else. Hunters, ranchers, BLM, tourists, lost illegal immigrants, kids out partying.”
“And so? Let’s suppose that. So what? That’s what it
all
is, sweetheart. Supposition. We just don’t know, and we may
never
know. And even
after
the kid crashed, it’d be easy enough to miss him.” He shrugged. “Herb Torrance could have come out his gate and gone down this way. Could have gone the
other
way, too. Ditto anybody else you care to mention.”
Estelle sighed and rubbed her head. “I just want to know,
Padrino
. That’s all. I just want to know. I want to know why Freddy rode out this way, I want to know where he went.”
“Of course you do. But.” Gastner strolled down the two-track, hands in his pockets. “Oh, you got more tracks up here,” he said, stopping at the edge of another sandy wash where run-off down the flank of the mesa had carved a shallow crossing. “Several, as a matter of fact. See? That’s what I mean.”
“It won’t hurt to follow the two track out a bit farther,” Estelle said.
“You aren’t going to see anything,” Gastner offered. “I mean, so what? So he rode out this way? You know, the ride he took yesterday, when you saw him, wasn’t necessarily the only recon he’s taken in this area.” He surveyed the countryside, hands on his hips. “Probably pretty good hunting out this way. He’s got the rifle, so he’s making life miserable for the coyotes and bunnies. You know what I’ll bet?” He waited until Estelle raised an eyebrow in question. “I’ll wager lunch, which by the way we haven’t enjoyed yet, that if we walk out into the prairie here a hundred paces, we’ll cross at least one set of vehicle tracks.”
“I don’t doubt it, sir.”
“Rats. I wanted lunch.”
“We will, eventually.”
“You could fly over this country from the air, and it’d be a lattice-work of tracks, vehicle, cattle, and otherwise.”
“Rough going, all of it.”
“Not for a kid on a hot machine, it’s not,” Gastner said. “Bouncing and jouncing is half the fun, anyway.”
They returned to the truck and meandered along the two-track, eventually running into another barbed-wire fence. Ahead they could see a power pole, concrete well house, and just ahead down a slight slope, a large galvanized stock tank—this one full with fresh water not yet scummed over with algae.
“This is the back way into Miles Waddell’s property,” Gastner said, “and that’s his well house. And I can see tracks from here, every which way. You want me to open the gate?”
“No. There’s no point.”
“Waddell built this a few years ago, thinking that there would be money to be made when the BLM develops the cave property across the county road. Maybe a good guess, maybe a waste of money. He runs livestock here, and I know he leases some of it to Herb.”
Estelle pointed to the right, away from the gate, across the prairie where the main Bender’s Canyon Trail headed off to the north.
“Two more choices,” Gastner said. “If you stay on this road, it’s the easy way out to old State 17. Before you get there, there’s another really rough son-of-a-bitch that runs east through all those foothills, and eventually runs right down to Gus Prescott’s ranch. Right through his back yard.”
“I’ve never driven that.”
“Rough, washed out in spots, a kidney crusher.”
“How many miles to Prescott’s? About fifteen or so?”
“I would guess about that.”
“Freddy could have gone that way. He could have ridden over to see Casey.”
“He
could
have.” Gastner flashed an amused grin. “Or he could have taken the paved highway to Moore, and a mile and a half would have taken him in to the fair Casey’s front door.”
Estelle regarded the route ahead thoughtfully.
“Please tell me you’re not going to crash and bang along that trail in this crate,” Gastner pleaded.
“You don’t want to do that?”
“No, I don’t want to do that. I want to eat
lunch
, sweetheart. Anyway, that route isn’t going to offer up any easy answers. If I thought it would, I’d say go for it. Jounce and bounce until we both piss blood.”
“The Romeros are going to
want
to know, sir. They’re going to want to know what Freddy was doing when he was killed.”
“I understand that. And the answer is simple. He was careening down Bender’s Canyon Trail far faster than he should have been. He got careless. He got killed.” Gastner made a face that mirrored Estelle’s frustration. “You’ll find a more tactful way to explain it to them, I’m sure. But that’s the nut of it all.”
“The handgun in his kit says that’s not all of it,” Estelle said quietly.
“Ah…the gun.” He ducked his head in acquiescence. “Now you’re right about that.” He glanced at his watch. “And if I’m not mistaken, you may have some answers about that when Mears is finished processing the damn thing.
That
I’d like to hear.”