Double Prey

Chapter Thirty-seven

“You know,” Bill Gastner said, “there’s a lot to be said for being wrong.” He leaned hard against Estelle’s county car, both hands flat on the roof above the window. “I hope to hell that I am.” He nodded toward her camera, still sitting in its boot on the center console. “Lemme have a look at what you took.”

The camera’s preview window was tiny, and when she found the first of the series taken of Florek’s trailer, she held it out toward him, earning a disgusted grimace.

“God damn it, how am I supposed to see that,” he said. “Do some magic or something.”

The “magic” was a simple connection to her lap top computer. Gastner drummed his fingers impatiently on the sedan’s roof. Eventually, the photo popped up in brilliant color. Gastner reached in with his hand and gestured for her to advance the image. Two of the photos included both Stub and Prescott, both staring directly at the camera. Gastner peered at them, frowning. “Back,” he said, and she scrolled the photos back to the first.

“Can you make it bigger?” he asked. “Take my advice, and don’t ever get old.” He touched the screen, indicating the front half of the trailer. “I want to see that.” The image expanded, cropping the edges away. “More. More. And down a little bit.” For a long time, Gastner rested on the window sill as Estelle held the computer balanced on the steering wheel.

“See,” he said, and touched the screen. “This first vehicle. The very bottom one.”

“Not a lot to see,” Estelle said.

“Exactly. Can you tell what it is?”

“No. It appears to be burned, though. Burned and rusted. They’re all rusted. If I had to guess, I’d say that it was a pickup. That’s what Gus Prescott seems to prefer.”

“Don’t think he ever sold one in his life,” Gastner said. “They crap out, and he parks the damn things. ‘Oh, I’ll fix it someday.’ And the someday never comes.”

“The country is littered with them, Padrino. You know, when Francis and I were up in Minnesota, I thought at first that they didn’t collect junk. Everything so clean and green. And then one day I had the opportunity to hike a long, wooded hedgerow between a couple of fields? From a distance, so picturesque. And sure enough…the hedgerow was full of junk.”

“Down south, that’s what the damn kudzu is good for,” Gastner said. “And that’s the whole point. There’s people who trade in their vehicles when they get a new one, and there’s people who don’t. People like Gus Prescott just park the dead stuff. And you know what? They never get rid of it.” He thumped the door sill. “That’s my theory. Even a row of junk is part of their wealth…their accumulated wealth. And then they die before they ever have the chance to clean up their mess. They leave hedgerows of junk behind.”

Estelle looked up at him, and saw that he was staring off across the prairie, jaw set.

“I’m not seeing what has you so upset, Padrino. ”

“ Well, hell. Look at what we got here. Maybe you can’t see it in the picture so well, but I took a good long look. Damned odd that Gus chooses to take this day to get rid of old junk, don’t you think?”

“He wants the money, maybe to fix his grader.”

“ Hell, that grader’s been out of commission for a couple of years. He’s no more going to do a deep overhaul on a big diesel engine than I am.” He reached across and tapped a finger on the screen, none too gently. “That’s a crew cab,” he said, and slapped the door frame with his other hand. “A God damn crew cab. And right there,” and he touched the image again, “you can see the end of the tailpipe.”

“The tailpipe?”

“See it? Crunched up right into the fender?”

“All right.”

“Diesel,” Gastner said. “Turbo diesel with a tail pipe as big as a sewer line. They didn’t do that on older trucks.”

“What are you saying, sir?” Estelle asked, even though she knew exactly what had turned his mood upside down. “That this is Eddie Johns’ s truck?”

He slapped the roof. “I hope to hell not, but…” He turned as the sound of a large truck floated toward them, and in a moment an aging semi without a trailer slowed and pulled off the paved road. In the cab, they could see the heavy, mountain-man image of Cameron Florek. He raised a hand in salute as he drove by, massive tires kicking up a cloud of dust.

“He’s going to be able to cross the arroyo?” Estelle asked.

“He got in with the trailer, so he can get out,” Gastner said. “It’s wide enough that he won’t scrape much.” He patted the door again. “Look, I may well be wrong as hell, but it’s something that needs scrutiny, sweetheart. What color was Johns’ truck?”

“Black.”

“You want to bet me that if we look hard enough, we’ll find a splash of black paint that survived the fire? And a VIN number would be helpful as hell, but I’ll bet that’s gone.”

Estelle looked off across the prairie, watching the big tractor negotiate the twists and turns until it disappeared around the mesa. “Not good,” she said finally.

“I tell ya, sweetheart, this is one of those times when I’d much rather be wrong than right.” He pushed himself back. “But I’ve been stewing about this.” He held out a stubby index finger. “Somebody plugged Johns in the back of the head. Okay, that means he was either riding with Johns in the pickup, or driving himself. What’s that leave, when all is said and done?”

“If he’s riding with Johns, he takes the victim’s truck when it’s over. If he was driving himself, then he would take off, leaving Johns’ truck behind.”

“And what happened to it, then?”

“He came back and got it later, maybe.”

“No hurry about that, lonesome as that country is. That’s one possibility, and I’m sure there’s a whole platterful of others.” He looked at Estelle again. “So what do you think?”

Estelle took her time folding the computer and storing it in its boot. “I think,” she said, “that we take a very, very close look, Padrino. ”

It took an hour for Cameron Florek to secure his towering load, and then to hook up the tractor, and finally, to maneuver along the narrow two-track to the Rio Salinas, where Estelle, Bill Gastner, and Deputy Tony Abeyta watched the mammoth beast discharge billows of black exhaust from dual stacks as it lurched up the steep grade out of the dry crossing. During that hour, a warrant from Judge Lester Hobart had been secured and delivered by the deputy.

As he handed the warrant to Estelle, Abeyta nodded at Bill Gastner. “Judge Hobart said just because it’s you, sir.”

“Glad I still have some clout,” Gastner replied. “And it’s me who’s going to be God damn embarrassed here in a bit, probably…embarrassed and relieved as hell.”

“We’ll want to stop him right here,” Estelle said, nodding at the remains of the Moore Mercantile building. “Nice and level, and well clear of the highway.”

The deputy moved his Expedition so that it blocked the dirt road, putting it headlight to headlight with the approaching semi. He lit the roof-rack when Florek’s rig was a hundred yards away, and they immediately heard the diesel choke as the driver slowed. Estelle could see Florek leaning forward, hard against the steering wheel.

He let the rig idle to a stop, and Estelle stepped closer, looking up into the tall cab.

“I sure as hell wasn’t speeding,” Florek said, “and I ain’t got no livestock. What are you guys up to this morning, anyways?”

“Sir, would you climb down?”

“Sure enough.” Florek emerged from the cab and lowered himself to the ground, a great bear of a man in full beard and denim bib coveralls. “Bill, you old bandit, how’s life treatin’ you?”

“I’ve been better,” Gastner said.

“So what’s this about?”

Estelle held out the warrant. Florek glanced at it, then ignored the document, looking to the undersheriff for answers. “We’d like to examine your load, sir.”

“I know I ain’t overweight,” he replied. “And she’s all tied down good. Just goin’ to the yard, anyways.”

“Yes, sir,” Estelle said. “Would you mind staying with the deputy for a few moments, sir?” Deputy Abeyta and Florek remained by the front of the truck while Estelle and Gastner walked back to the trailer. Now eighteen inches thick, the pancaked wad of metal and plastic on the bottom tier showed the clear patina of age and burned metal.

“Doors are gone,” Gastner observed, “but this sure as hell is the center post between front and back.” He tapped the crumpled tail pipe. “This is what I was talking about. That’s diesel hardware. And right here?” He moved along the wreck and touched a spot of metal. “That’s where the fender insignia would be. Probably said something like XLT Powerstroke Diesel or some such. Something like that anyway, depending on the year.”

“If we’re going to look for much more, we’re going to have to unload it and take it apart.” Estelle leaned inward, between the semi’s cab and trailer. “An engine, you suppose?”

“I would bet against it,” Gastner said. “That’s worth a lot of money.”

She lowered her voice. “If this truck belonged to Johns…”

“Then we have a few choices,” Gastner added.

“Ay, ” Estelle whispered. “We need to know.”