Bag Limit

Chapter Forty-four

I knew that the undersheriff was right…we couldn’t sit around the campfire drinking coffee until someone decided to roll down off the mountain. Still, we held none of the advantages. The 911 call had involved three people, and every one of them had reason to be armed with a high-powered rifle that could fire a round farther than any of us could see on the best of days.

There was every possibility that our movements were being watched at that moment through a nice, clear telescopic sight.

Sergeant Howard Bishop, who normally spent his days managing the department’s civil caseload, looked up the steep, rugged canyon and shook his head. “You’re shitting me, right?” he mumbled.

“Channel three,” Torrez said. He checked his handheld radio and slipped it back on his belt. “Tom and Wade, go right. I’ll go left with Doug. Howard, why don’t you follow the water course right up the middle.”

Bishop nodded without enthusiasm. If we had to climb all the way to the summit, where the view of northern Mexico was terrific on a clear day, that would mean nearly three miles-all of it steep, all of it treacherous. Not all of it would be uphill. Like an old blanket dumped on the floor, the terrain was a series of folded saddlebacks, each one progressively higher and steeper until it reached the final ridge. It was a matter of hiking up, then down, then up still higher, then down, then up again.

He patted his ample belly as he regarded the task. No one had thought to bring a cooler of beer, either.

I lagged even farther behind, in no hurry to have my heart explode trying to solve a family dispute that-considering the silence of the mountain-had already been resolved one way or another.

Ten minutes later, I had ambled my way far enough up the hill, a hundred yards or so, that I could look back and see the road that snaked into Borracho Springs from the state highway. It tracked about as straight as a snarled ball of grocer’s string.

I found a comfortable boulder and leaned my back against it. By supporting my shoulders, I could hold the binoculars still. I swept the hillside, finding each officer in turn. Tom Pasquale and Wade Kearns were already approaching the crest of the first saddleback.

Off to the left, I saw Robert Torrez striding around a jumble of boulders about the size of a Motel 6. Ahead of him was a promontory of bare granite that would afford a commanding view. Doug Posey had split off, circling the rock motel in the opposite direction.

Howard Bishop plodded a hundred yards ahead of me. He stopped, hands on both hips, considering a route.

“Sergeant Bishop.” It was Tom Pasquale’s voice on the radio. I took mine off my belt and turned the volume up.

“Go ahead,” Howard said. He was breathing hard.

I swung the binoculars to the right and picked up Pasquale. He was standing under a gnarled juniper, his own glasses glued to his eyes. He was looking downhill toward Bishop.

“About fifty yards in front of you at eleven o’clock,” Pasquale said. “There’s a man sitting under a grove of scrub oak.”

I swung to my left, but the terrain blocked my view from below. Bishop hadn’t moved.

“How clearly can you see him?” he asked.

“Full view,” Pasquale said. I turned to watch him again, and saw that the young deputy had dropped to one knee to steady his hands. In a moment, Wade Kearns appeared beside him.

“So what’s he doing?” Bishop said. He hadn’t moved and I’m sure didn’t relish being a big, slow-moving target.

“Nothing. I can’t see his face, though. He’s wearing a red vest over blue. Blue jeans. There’s a rifle on the ground beside him.”

“He doesn’t have it in his hands?”

“Negative. His arms are folded.”

“Howard, we’re headed that way,” Torrez said. “Tom, you stay right where you are and keep us posted, all right? If he makes any move at all, you let us know.”

“Yes, sir. He’s covered.” Pasquale was being literal. He had replaced his binoculars with the scoped rifle that had been slung over his shoulder. Kearns had left the position and was working his way east toward Bishop.

“Okay, I see him,” Torrez said after a couple of minutes. “Has he changed position? Any movement at all?”

“Negative, sir.”

We converged on the man, but as we approached from three directions, he never made a sound.

“Bob,” Pasquale said at one point, “he just moved his right hand to his right knee.”

The radio clicked twice in response. I stopped, breathing hard, and said, “If he makes a move toward that rifle, you let us know, Thomas.”

“Yes, sir. He’s not doin’ anything at the moment.”

“So don’t blink,” I said.

If he’d been in the mood or condition to enjoy it, James Walsh had a marvelous view to the north, looking out over Posadas County on a crystal-clear November day. But the view just then was the last thing on his mind. I was the last to reach his position. By the time I pulled myself around the last interruption of rocks, Torrez was on the radio to Linda Real. In that rugged country, the little handheld radios were only slightly more efficient than pitching rocks with messages rubber-banded to them.

“Linda, have the EMTs bring their unit forward,” he said. “Tell ’em we’ll have at least one to transport, but they’re not to start up the mountain until we give the all-clear.”

I didn’t hear her response because I was too busy wheezing air into my own lungs. I reached out a hand to the nearest rough granite face and steadied myself, looking James Walsh in the face. He opened one eye and saw me, and we both knew exactly what was wrong with him.

His arms had been crossed over his chest in an effort to control the crushing pain that must have felt as if his Dodge Durango were parked on his ribs. His bluish lips were frosted with a pink froth. Sweat beaded his ashen forehead. First on his knee, his right hand now dropped down to the ground for support.

“Glad you could make it,” he murmured and tried a wan smile. Torrez knelt by his side and checked his pulse at the wrist while he scrutinized the man’s face. Walsh kept his eyes closed. “He’s up there,” he whispered.

“Mr. Walsh, the ambulance is on the way,” Torrez said. “Before I let ’em risk coming up the hill, though, I have to know what happened. Where are the others?”

Walsh slowly opened his eyes, having a hard time focusing. Torrez moved slightly so that Walsh could see him without turning his head. “Off to the east,” he said, and gagged. Wade Kearns handed Torrez a small water bottle, the kind cyclists carry clipped to the bike’s frame. Walsh took a sip and pushed it away.

“How far?” Torrez said.

“About half a mile. Maybe less.” I looked to my left, squinting against the sun. The terrain to the east was, if possible, worse than where we stood, the San Cristobals jumbled into vertical chimneys of granite extrusions that resembled a giant’s attempt at building a massive pipe organ.

Down below, the ambulance picked its way up to the springs and stopped.

“The ambulance is here, sir,” Linda’s voice said.

“Tell ’em to wait,” Torrez replied. “Mr. Walsh, what happened? Where’s Scott Gutierrez?”

“I…I think that I hit him,” Walsh managed. His eyes opened wide with urgency. “I saw him and Connie together. They were across a canyon. At first…it was their voices. They were arguing.”

“How far away were you?”

“Across the canyon. Maybe fifty yards. Maybe more. I don’t know.” He closed his eyes and turned his head away. “They were standing out on a…kind of a spurlike thing.” He raised his right hand weakly. “It dropped off. I could hear them talking.” He shifted position, opened his mouth, and stuck out his tongue, as if something really foul-tasting was glued to the back of his palette.

“And then they were shouting at each other. And then…he pushed her. Really hard. She fell backward.” He closed his eyes again and his face scrinched up, either with the pain of the memory or the pain of what his innards were up to.

“You saw her fall?”

Walsh nodded. “I saw her…fall. She didn’t even have time to cry out.”

“And it was Scott Gutierrez who pushed her? You’re sure?” I asked.

Walsh opened his eyes and looked at me. “Oh, I’m sure.”

“I’m on my way up there,” Tom Pasquale said.

“Wait a minute,” Torrez snapped, and it looked as if he’d jerked an invisible line. Pasquale stopped in his tracks. “What did Gutierrez do after that?”

“I shouted at them.” He grimaced. “I mean, what could I do? I shouted and he turned around, raised his rifle, and fired at me. Just like that. He fired at me.” Walsh’s gaze fastened on the horizon, his breath coming in short, quick little gasps.

“You need to get the EMTs up here,” Posey said.

“Not if somebody’s out there with a rifle.”

“We’ve got cover here,” the officer said. “If they don’t get some oxygen up here, he’s not going to make it.”

Torrez frowned and then nodded. “Route ’em right up the middle so we can keep an eye on ’em,” he said. “But hold on a minute.” He rested a hand on Walsh’s shoulder. “Did you see where Gutierrez went after he shot at you? What direction?” Torrez turned and looked at me. “He’s got to be circling around to the vehicles, sir. That’s what worries me.”

“No,” Walsh said. “He shot at me twice. I didn’t even imagine that he’d do that. I had nowhere to go. I tried to dig in behind a rock, but he shot at me again. That’s when I shot back. Three times, I think.” Walsh sagged backward, exhausted from the effort.

“Did you hit him?”

Walsh nodded. “I think so. I’m not sure. But I think…that I did. He fell backward. Maybe he just tripped. But I think that I hit him.”

“Jesus,” Pasquale muttered.

“Okay,” Torrez said, stretching out an arm and pointing east. “I see a sort of jagged pinnacle over there maybe a thousand yards. Is that where they were, Mr. Walsh?”

Walsh nodded faintly without turning his head to look. “I…think so.”

“Tom, you and Wade circle around, come in from above,” Torrez said. “And be goddamn careful. Me and Doug will go straight across.” He stood up and peered down the hill. “Linda,” he said into the radio, “who’s got the gurney?”

“Judy Parnell and Al Langham, sir.”

“Okay. Radio dispatch and tell them that we’re going to need another unit out here with four people. Tell ’em it’s a real bad climb in rough country. They may want to pick up some folks from Search and Rescue. When they arrive, keep them at the bottom until I give the all-clear. Understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Go ahead and tell Judy and Al to come up. Al, are you listening?”

“I’m here.” Langham’s voice was tense.

“You two be careful. I think it’ll be all right, but don’t be standing around out in the open. Keep in the cover of those rocks there in the old streambed as much as you can.”

“We’ll do it.”

“You’ve got a coronary to transport.” Torrez surveyed James Walsh. “We need you up here ASAP. Make sure you bring some air with you.”

“Ten-four.”

“Howard and I can give them a hand,” I said.

Torrez nodded. “You hang in there,” he said to Walsh, and he glanced at the others. “Let’s boogie.”

In a matter of minutes, the only sign of the four officers was the occasional clatter of their boots on loose rocks. Below us, the two EMTs, casting nervous glances up the side of the mountain, wound their way up toward us. They were within a hundred yards when James Walsh said, “Oh, my gosh.”