Double Prey

Chapter Forty-one

“I don’t want you talking to her.” Jewell Prescott stood squarely in the doorway of the double-wide mobile home, and there was no mistaking her posture. With one hand on each door jamb, she was an effective road block. As if picking up unpleasant intimations, the three dogs, at first so bumptiously gleeful, had retreated to a shady spot at the end of the trailer near a propane tank.

“Mrs. Prescott, I wouldn’t intrude if I didn’t think it was important,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said.

“Oh, everything is important,” the heavy woman said. “And my two daughters are important to me. Listen, Casey’s in just terrible straights right now. She doesn’t want to go to school and put up with all those questions. And I see no reason to be dredging all this unhappiness up over and over again. You just go talk to someone else about all this.”

“Mrs. Prescott,” Estelle said, “When there’s an official investigation, we talk with whomever the situation requires. I’m sure you understand that. I’m certainly sorry for any intrusion, but that’s just the way it is.”

“There’s nothing Casey can tell you.”

“That remains to be seen, Mrs. Prescott.”

“Bill, you’ve known us for years,” the woman said, and Bill Gastner nodded slightly, his expression sober. “What are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to tell you?”

“It’s the simplest thing if you just allow us to do our job and get on with it,” he said.

“I don’t have to let you all talk with Casey, do I?” The question was directed to Bill Gastner, but Estelle saved him the trouble of being diplomatic.

“No, ma’am, you don’t,” Estelle said. “And if that’s the route you and your husband wish to take, then two hours from now, we’ll be back with a court order, Mrs. Prescott. You’re perfectly welcome to be present when we talk with Casey. In fact, I encourage it. She’ll probably feel more comfortable with you there.”

Jewell Prescott almost smiled. “Oh, I’m not so sure of that, young lady. There’s a number of things we don’t see eye to eye on.”

Estelle saw movement behind the woman, and both Casey and her older sister Christina appeared.

“Come on, mom,” Casey said. “None of this is going to go away.” Her mother didn’t move her arms, and Casey leaned against her well-padded shoulder, rubbing her cheek on her mother’s arm. “Come on.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she managed a smile for Estelle. “Christine and I will talk with the sheriff.”

“Oh, I just don’t think…” Jewell bit off her words and shook her head vehemently, tears coming to her eyes.

“It’ll be okay.” Casey circled her mother’s shoulders in a hug, and then as her mother turned, slipped past her.

“Is your father home?” Estelle asked.

“He went into town to get a part for the grader,” Christine said. She hugged her mother as well, but Jewell didn’t follow them out the door. She watched with sad eyes, as if she had every expectation of never seeing them again. She lifted a hand once as if she wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

“Thanks, Jewell,” Bill Gastner said.

“I’ve always trusted you,” she said, and it was an admonition rather than a compliment, as if to say, “I’ve tried…I can’t do it…now it’s your turn. ”

“I appreciate that, Jewell. You hang in there.”

“Oh, boy,” she murmured, and backed away from the door, closing out the intrusion of the outside world.

“Let’s go look at the horses,” Casey suggested, and she walked with her hands shoved in her hip pockets, heading toward the small corral and shed. Two horses stood like statutes, watching their approach, and the mare nickered as they drew near. Christine stooped down and scooped up a wayward treat of hay, a movement not lost on the mare, who crowded the fence.

“I always feel better with these guys,” Casey said, stroking the young bay gelding’s silky neck. “Sis and I were just getting ready to go for a ride. If you’d come ten minutes later, we’d be a dust trail on the horizon.”

“I’m glad we didn’t miss you.” Estelle gently pushed the mare’s head away. Still munching hay, the animal seemed fascinated by the undersheriff’s cap. “Did your father talk to you about Thursday?”

“What do you mean, did he talk? About Freddy, you mean?”

“Yes.”

“When I got home from school, he had the newspaper and had read the article about finding the cat’s skeleton. The first thing he wanted to know was whether I’d gone with Freddy to Borracho. I don’t know why he thought I would have, but parents seem to have this radar, you know? They always seem to know. He was real angry that I might have skipped school. I mean real angry.”

“Did you tell him that you were with Freddy when he found the cat?”

Estelle could see a slow flush creep up Casey’s neck and fan across her peaches and cream cheeks. “No.” She glanced at her sister. “He’d been drinking, and he was upset. I don’t know why the article ticked him off so, except he doesn’t like Freddy, and here’s this neat article and all. But I just said no. I didn’t want to have another argument. I didn’t say we’d been out there together on Sunday, or anything else.”

“Sometimes it’s better just to lie low,” Christine added.

“Did he mention that he’d spoken to Freddy on Thursday or Friday?”

“No. He just saw the article. If he talked with Freddy about anything, he didn’t say so.” She stroked the gelding’s neck with one hand while letting him nuzzle the other palm.

Estelle watched the two girls, both of them deep in the saddest of thoughts, but unconsciously communing with the horses, who sponged up the affection without judgment.

When he’d been sitting in the Broken Spur, listening to Freddy Romero blast by on his four-wheeler, Gus Prescott had been aware, if he’d read the article carefully, that the boy had fabricated the tale of where the jaguar’s carcass had been found.

“Casey, did your father ever talk much about Eddie Johns?”

“Not to me.”

“Christine?”

The older sister frowned. “I don’t know what kind of case you’re trying to build, sheriff. You asked me that earlier, and you also talked to my dad earlier. He told you what he knew.”

Estelle gazed across the yard toward the spot where the line of old vehicles had rusted into the prairie. None of this is going to go away, Casey had said to her mother. None of this.

“We’re just following pathways, Christine. At this point some pretty indistinct trails. I was curious about the circumstances that led to your dad buying that wrecked truck from Johns.”

“I didn’t know that he had done that.”

“The one that burned?”

“Now that I remember. Dad said that he was cutting off some part and started a little fire.” She smiled. “A little fire. Oh, sure. But it wasn’t much loss. It was wrecked anyway.”

“You saw it? Before the fire, I mean.”

“I don’t know if I did or not. It wasn’t something that I paid attention to.”

“I saw it,” Casey offered. “I mean, before he burned it.”

“All bashed up?”

“Well, kinda. It was shiny black, I remember that, ‘cause after he lit it on fire, it was ugly black. He was really ticked.”

“You remember the make?”

“No. Just a wrecked truck. That’s all I remember. He sold a whole bunch of that old stuff so he can buy parts for the grader. But you already know that. You saw it go out this morning.”

The buzz of Estelle’s phone was startling, and the mare jerked her head back, ears pitched forward. Estelle stepped back slowly, and flicked on the phone.

“Guzman.”

“Hey,” Torrez said. “Borderland’s records show a 2004 black Ford 250 crew cab sold to Eddie Johns on November 12, 2003. He got the VIN, but that ain’t going to do us much good. The dealership don’t keep a record of the engine and tranny serial numbers, but we don’t have those anyway. Yet.”

“That’s good work, Bobby. They carried the paper on it?”

“Wasn’t any. Cash deal.”

“Ay. ”

“Thirty-eight thousand dollar cash deal.”

“Real estate was going well for Mr. Johns, apparently.”

“Something was,” the sheriff said. “Where you at right now?”

“Talking with Casey and Christine Prescott.”

“Gus there?”

“No. The girls said that he went to town to buy some parts for his road grader.”

“Okay. Look, this El Paso mess is gonna take Mears a while. He’s got folks workin’ for him at the bank, at the utilities…everything so far says that Johns just vanished without notice. He didn’t close out any accounts, didn’t clean up any of his mess. Didn’t even clean out the fridge, the landlord says. He was there one day, gone the next. No notes, no nothing.”

“That probably rules out any lingering notion of suicide,” Estelle said, and Torrez grunted with amusement.

“He ain’t no suicide. Suicides don’t crawl back into caves and shoot themselves in the back of the head.”

“I know he hasn’t had time to dig into too many dark corners, but has Tom found any hint of a Mexican connection?”

“We’re gonna find out. But my guess is that the Mexicans are just as much out of the loop as we are. They may have been plannin’ something, or maybe were interested in what Johns had to offer, but there ain’t no actual connection that I can imagine.”

“We’ll see what Captain Naranjo finds out,” Estelle said. Tomás Naranjo, an ally in the Mexican Judiciales, sometimes cooperated with them so willingly that it seemed he considered Posadas County to be a small but obstreperous extension of his own state.

“You’re going to talk with Prescott again today?”

“I think so. It bothers me that he lied to Herb Torrance about how he acquired the truck from Johns.”

“Maybe he ain’t lyin’.”

“That would mean that either Herb concocted the tale, or the people you talked to at Giarelli’s have faulty memories.”

“Either is possible. Ain’t likely, but possible.”

Estelle had turned slightly, and now a motion from Gastner drew her attention. He pointed toward the south, where a roil of dust rose behind an approaching vehicle.

“We’ll talk with Gus here in a bit. He’s on his way in right now.”

“You be careful.”

“Oh, sí. ” She switched off and turned back toward the corral. Casey Prescott was still receiving a full dose of commiseration from the mare, but Christine had stepped away from the horses, standing close to Gastner’s elbow.

“What’s actually going on?” Christine asked quietly. She looked from Gastner to Estelle, and at the same time, Casey pushed away from the corral. The same question was in her eyes. Estelle had known both girls for years, and had had the opportunity to talk with Christine a number of times in an official capacity. She had long ago come to the conclusion that the young woman was not only strikingly pretty, but equally quick-witted, caring, and honest. The impulse to simply lay the case open before her was strong. But the cloud that hung at the moment over their father’s head was more than just dust kicked up by a pickup truck.

“Whenever there’s an unattended death,” Estelle said, “we’re required to follow up on every detail. Painful as it might be.”

“Unattended,” Christine said, taking her time with the word. “Are you referring to Freddy, or to Eddie Johns?”

Estelle hesitated. “Both. In both cases, we believe that there’s a possibility that the two incidents were not unattended deaths.”

Casey moved a step closer to her sister until their arms touched, but the younger girl didn’t speak. Not an unattended death. The terminology-even the concept itself-was so familiar for a cop, yet so completely alien for a teenager who’d just lost her boyfriend. Someone else was there. And that changed everything.

Christine gazed at Estelle, her expression assessing. “Oh, my God,” she whispered, but any other comment was drowned out by the sounds of Gus Prescott’s pickup. The extended-cab truck pulled in a few paces from Estelle’s cruiser, twenty or thirty yards away. The clattering of its gruff diesel engine died abruptly and Prescott got out, followed by a small white poodle who shot off toward the house. From a distance, Estelle could see a long gun in the rear window rack, well out of reach of the driver without climbing out of the truck and accessing the back seat.

“Good mornin’,” Prescott said, affably enough. He seemed in no hurry to approach, and Estelle turned to the girls.

“Excuse us, please.”

“I don’t think so,” Christine said firmly, and her response surprised Estelle. “I want to know what’s going on.”

Behind them, the little dog yipped as he was mobbed by the three larger animals, and Estelle heard the screen door of the house open and then close as he made it unmauled into his sanctuary. Jewell Prescott appeared to be perfectly content with not knowing what was going on outside.

“Find your grader parts, sir?” the undersheriff asked as she walked over toward the truck.

Gus Prescott watched her with feigned indifference as he got out and then crossed around the front of the pickup. “Had to order,” he replied.

“Herb seems eager to get that road of his fixed,” Gastner offered.

“I guess he might be,” Prescott said. He wiped his face, dabbing at the corners of his mouth. From a dozen feet away, Estelle could smell the beer. “You girls get on into the house, now.”

The order might not have sounded ridiculous had Casey been accompanied by one of her school chums instead of her sister. But Christine was in no mood to chirp, “Yes, daddy” and do as she was told.

“Sir,” Estelle said, “we were interested in what you can tell us about the Ford pickup truck that belonged to Eddie Johns.”

“What do you mean?” Prescott rested an arm on the hood of the pickup, as if feeling the need to protect it.

“Just that, sir. I was wondering how his black Ford three-quarter ton ended up on Cameron Florek’s junk hauler. I was wondering how you happened to come by it.” She glanced at the fender of Prescott’s own truck, still decorated with the XLT Triton V-8 emblem…not the diesel that was obviously under the hood.

For a long moment, Gus Prescott didn’t answer. His gaze flicked first to Gastner, who stood relaxed but watchful, then to Christine and Casey, and finally back to Estelle. He looked her up and down, and Estelle could see that his eyes watered and wandered…he was so juiced that he would have a hard time passing a field sobriety test.

“I got to get me a beer,” he said flatly, and looked over at Gastner. “You want one, Mr. Livestock Inspector?”

“Appreciate the thought, but no thanks. Too early in the day for me, Gus.”

“Well…it ain’t ever too early.” He walked to the passenger side, opened the door, and Estelle could hear the snap of plastic as he pulled a can away from a six-pack. The firearm in the back window was a shotgun, very much like the one in her patrol car rack.

He didn’t close the door, but circled around it, popping the can as he did so. “You’re sure?” He raised the can to Gastner.

“I’m sure, Gus.”

Prescott shrugged and glanced dismissively at the undersheriff. “So, what do you want?” No simple courtesy there, Estelle noted.

“Just to clear up some things, Mr. Prescott,” Estelle said.

“There’s nothing to clear up.”

“I wish that were true, sir.”

Prescott rested his can carefully on the sloped hood, and took his time lighting a cigarette. The blue smoke jetted out against the fender. “You didn’t drive all the way out here just to waste county gas, lady. So if you got something to say, just say it and get it over with.” He took another long pull on the beer. “You’re just enjoyin’ the hell out of all this, aren’t you.”

“Sir?”

“Comin’ out here where you got no business? Stirring things up where you got no cause?”

“That’s an interesting take on it, sir.”

Prescott’s lips compressed into a tight line as if he suddenly realized he’d said too much, and his head jerked to one side as if he were wearing a shirt and tie with the collar too tight.

“Is the diesel engine in this vehicle the one from Johns’ truck, sir?” She pulled the small notebook from her pocket, and thumbed through the pages, not bothering to read the contents. The notion of documentation was not lost on the rancher.

“What, you got to check it now?” Prescott strode around the front of the truck to the driver’s door, jerked it open and yanked the hood release lever. “There,” he said, groping for the safety catch. The mammoth hood yawned up, and he held out a hand, presenting the engine. “Bought that engine years ago. Got a good deal on it. So there you go, sheriff. ” His sarcasm was heavy. “And yeah, it ain’t the motor that come with this truck. Sure as hell ain’t. You check all you want.”

“How did you happen to come by Johns’ truck, sir? A 2004, I think.”

“Do I got to put up with all this?” Prescott asked Gastner. “I mean, a man’s got rights, don’t he?”

“Indeed he does, Gus my friend. Indeed he does.”

“Well, then?”

“Well, then,” Gastner said calmly, “we’d appreciate some answers, Gus. And I guess you know that you can give ’em now or later.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said. Now or later, Gus. If not to us, then there’ll be someone else.” Gastner grinned warmly. “I’d sure rather talk with me than somebody else.”

Prescott frowned as he tried to understand that. “Look, I sold that wreck to Florek fair and square. You ask him. I got his receipt right in the house.”

“We did ask him, Gus. Seems like a good thing to be clearing out some old junk. A man kinda gets buried by stuff after a while. But there’s a few little things that don’t square up, and you can understand our curiosity, I would think.”

“What’s your interest in all this?” Prescott asked.

“Me personally? Well, now,” Gastner said, “I’m just lookin’ out for some old friends. I got a right to do that, don’t you think?”

“This Johns a friend of yours?”

“Nope. Never was. And now I have this nagging suspicion that he had some friends south of the border I wouldn’t have cared much for either. That’s why we’re curious how you came by his truck, Gus. Just want to make sure everything is in the clear.”

“I bought it off him.”

“From Eddie Johns, you mean?” Estelle asked.

“That’s what I said.”

“Pricey unit,” Gastner observed.

“Not when I got it.”

“It was one or two years old when you bought it?” Estelle asked.

“More like three or four,” the rancher said, and wiped his mouth again. He regarded the truck’s engine, setting his beer can on the radiator housing. “Took me three days to put that in here. Runs like a charm.”

“Hell of a lot of work,” Gastner said.

“Damn right.” Prescott moved the can and reached up to grab the hood and pull it shut.

“So that’s that. You satisfied?”

“Had the truck been damaged when you bought it?” Estelle asked.

“Hell, yes, it was damaged. Johns…well, he wouldn’t say for sure what he did, but he rolled it down into an arroyo. That’s what I think. Wasn’t a body panel left that wasn’t wrecked. Insurance wrote it off.”

“Johns had the salvage as part of the settlement, and you bought it from him.” Gastner made it sound as if the answer to that one question would put a period to the whole discussion, and Prescott nodded quickly.

“Sure. That’s how it was.”

“Giarelli had nothing to do with it, then.”

Gus Prescott shot a quick glance at Estelle. “What makes you think that he-who’s Giarelli?”

“One version of the story has an employee of Giarelli Sand and Gravel in Deming backing into Johns’ truck right there in the company yard, sir.”

“I don’t know where you heard that.”

“That’s a problem, then, sir. If Johns rolled his truck into an arroyo, there’d be a police report on the incident-probably in our files or with the state police. Otherwise the insurance company wouldn’t pay him. They wouldn’t total it out without a report, and Johns wouldn’t stand for that. He wouldn’t get a cent.” Prescott’s mouth worked and he flicked a piece of tobacco off his tongue. “And if the accident happened at Giarelli’s, there would also be an incident report, sir. They’d see to that. Otherwise, their company insurance wouldn’t pay.”

“Dig, dig, dig. It’s like a dog scratchin’ at a flea bite. You won’t leave it alone.” He licked his lips. “Look, I don’t know about all this Giarelli business. All I know is what Eddie Johns told me. That he’d wrecked the truck and collected a shitload of insurance, and wanted to know if I wanted the salvage. Just a nuisance to him. Maybe he made up a story to tell somebody so he wouldn’t sound like a simple son of a bitch. How the hell would I know.”

“So Johns signed the truck’s title over to you,” Estelle said.

“I didn’t get no title. The thing was wrecked. It was salvage.”

“He removed the license plate?”

“Well, damn, I don’t know whether he did or not. Or the insurance company. Hell, maybe his old aunt Minnie did. Who the hell knows. I don’t have it, that’s for sure. Never did.” He huffed with exasperation. “And you know it ain’t on the truck now. You checked thorough enough. That’s what my neighbor tells me.” He squared his shoulders. “Just what are you tryin’ to prove with all this mumbo-jumbo?”

“Do you own a rifle, sir?”

The question took the rancher by surprise. He glanced toward the pickup, then at Gastner.

“’Course I own a rifle. Everybody in this county owns a damn rifle.”

“Is that what you normally carry in the truck, sir? Other than the pump shotgun you have there?”

“Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. What, now you’re going to accuse me of shooting Johns? Is that what this is all about? First I shoot him, then I steal his truck?” He managed a derisive laugh. Estelle watched as the color ran in splotches up his cheeks, as if he was fighting a fever.

“Mr. Prescott, Eddie Johns wasn’t shot with a rifle, as I’m sure you know by now, neighborhood communication being what it is. So no…I don’t think your ranch rifle shot him.”

“So what’s the point, then? What are you gettin’ at, lady?”

“May I see the rifle?”

“A rifle’s a rifle.”

“May I see it?”

“Well, hell, I suppose so.” He turned toward the truck, going again to the passenger door. Estelle watched him as he bent over and collected the gun, a short, angular weapon that had apparently been lying on the front seat or leaning in the passenger well. With the door open, she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but it appeared he was fumbling out the magazine. She shifted to her left a step or two, away from Bill Gastner, circling so that the rancher would have to turn to face her. Prescott tossed the magazine on the seat and stepped back, his footing not all that steady, the muzzle of the carbine held skyward. She had not heard or seen the bolt drawn back, so if a cartridge had been chambered before, it was still in place. He thrust the weapon out toward her, holding it forward of the trigger guard.

“Ruger ranch rifle,” he said. “Got to be a million of ’em around.”

“I would think so.” Estelle took the gun and turned so it was pointing off toward the distant hills. She racked the bolt back, and a cartridge spun out of the rifle. Bill Gastner almost caught it in midair, then bent to retrieve it and dusted it off before handing it to Estelle.

“Yeah, I shoulda done that,” Prescott muttered.

“I’d like to borrow this firearm for a day or two,” Estelle said. She pocketed the cartridge. “Would that be all right with you, sir? I’ll bring it back out to you tomorrow.”

“Well, no, I don’t guess that would be all right at all. You don’t just wheel in here and confiscate my guns, lady. I mean, just what are you up to?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to his two daughters, who’d remained silent though the entire conversation, watching the back and forth like spectators at a ping-pong tournament. “I’d kinda like some privacy here,” he said, and his tone had abruptly softened.

“He’s right,” Estelle added, and Christine looked from her father to the undersheriff, eyes pleading. But this was no time for Gus Prescott to be dealing both with the undersheriff’s questions and an audience as well. “I’ll need to talk with both of you again, but if you’d give us a few minutes?”

For a moment it looked as if Christine would refuse, but then she nodded and touched Casey on the elbow. Estelle noticed that the two girls did not walk back toward the house, where their mother waited. Instead, they crossed the yard again to the corral and the horses. No wonder Christine had felt the need to hurry home from college for this mess, Estelle thought. All Christine’s skills honed over years as a bartender would be needed for a family guided by a father who could always find the deepest rut in a mud hole.

“I don’t think it’s right that you come in here and upset everybody,” Prescott said. “It’s a hard time for Casey.”

“I understand that.” She turned the rifle this way and that, and passed the muzzle close by her nose. Turning the rifle, she looked into the dark recess of the chamber. The aroma was not one of bore solvent or oil. In fact, the rifle itself was grubby, the action speckled with dirt, lint, and dog hair. But it had been fired recently enough that the characteristic aroma lingered.

For an instant, she was tempted to hand the rifle to Gastner, who during his many years in both the military and law enforcement had inspected a myriad firearms, but she decided against it. Prescott was watching her as if he’d handed the rifle to a tourist who had never seen one before. His hand kept reaching out, an almost involuntary motion that said he expected her to drop the little Ruger any moment.

“Could use a cleaning,” she said.

He almost sneered. “You’d know about that, would you, lady?”

“Well, probably not, sir.” She smiled at him innocently. “Do you practice a lot?”

“No. You obviously ain’t bought ammunition lately. God damn near have to mortgage the ranch to afford it. When they got any of it, that is.”

“How about on Thursday?”

“Thursday what?”

“Did you shoot this on Thursday, sir?”

Prescott took a long time forming an answer, and Estelle watched a range of emotions on his face, as if he were trying to solve a really tough Sudoku puzzle.

“You ever seen the number of prairie dogs we got, lady? You let them run, and you won’t have a stick of grass for ten miles.”

“You don’t poison ’em?” Bill Gastner asked.

“Sure. Some. It don’t work. We try everything.”

“Doesn’t seem like there’s as many as there used to be.”

“Hopin’ not.”

“So you were out shooting Thursday?” Estelle was facing southeast, with a full view of the two-track that wound in toward the ranch. In the distance, without stirring dust, the county patrol unit had appeared around the end of the mesa and now idled along the road into the Prescott’s. Still too far away for her to recognize which unit it was, she knew that it had to be either Deputy Tom Pasquale or Sheriff Robert Torrez. The sedate approach, like someone out ambling about with no real destination, suggested the Sheriff himself. The breeze, light and fitful, was to her back, and it would be several minutes before Prescott could hear the vehicle.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I don’t keep track of things like that.”

“Sir, we have reason to believe that at least one shot was fired at Freddy Romero when he was riding on the Bender’s Canyon road.”

“What are you sayin’?”

“Just that. Someone took a shot at him.”

Prescott looked across the yard toward where Casey and Christina were standing, communing with the horses. Casey had been watching them, and for a long moment father and daughter’s eyes met across the distance.

“Nobody told me that the kid got shot,” Prescott said finally. “Enough people been out there that talk would go around. Somebody’d know. Nobody said nothin’.”

“I said that someone shot at him, sir. He wasn’t struck by the bullet.”

“Then how do you know, lady?”

“His four-wheeler was hit, sir. We have bullet fragments that were found in the front tire.”

“And you think I did that? Is that what this is all about?”

“You left the Broken Spur Saloon shortly after Freddy passed by, sir. You’re not the only one who did, but you’re the only one seen driving across the mesa toward Bender’s Canyon Trail, the same route that Freddy took.” Prescott didn’t respond. “I’d have to wonder what it was that the Romero boy was doing that concerned you so much,” Estelle continued. “I can’t believe that it was just his courting of your daughter.”

In the seconds of silence that followed, Estelle could hear the gentle whisper of the approaching Expedition patrol vehicle, and the rancher turned to look. By now, the vehicle was close enough that they could see the shield on the doors and the roof-rack of lights. The figure behind the wheel could only be the sheriff, large and broad-shouldered, one arm out the window as if trying to stroke the heads of the chamisa that passed by the door.

“Spit it out, lady.” Prescott’s voice was almost a whisper.

“I think that Freddy Romero found the remains of Eddie Johns when he found that cat skull, sir. He found Johns’ handgun, and maybe knew exactly what was in the cave. He wanted to come back, but not with your daughter. Casey said that they had an argument about his reckless driving. You read in the newspaper about the discovery of the cat skull, or your daughter told you-either way, you wanted to warn Freddy away so you’d have time to cover up that little cave. You fired a shot at Freddy, and he panicked and crashed.” Estelle watched Prescott, watched the set of his shoulders, the placing of his feet, the flicking of his eyes. The whisper of the Expedition’s V-8 grew louder.

“That’s what I believe happened, sir.”

Prescott turned to watch Torrez’s approach. “I don’t know where you get these wild stories. You can’t prove a word of it.”

“Actually,” Estelle hefted the rifle, “I think we can.”

“You can’t just come onto my property and confiscate my goods.”

“If you’re in the clear on all this, then maybe that rifle will prove it,” Gastner said. “Think this thing through, Gus.”

“That rifle don’t have a thing to do with me and Eddie Johns,” the rancher said.

“What does, Gus? You think we’re not going to be able to trace that wrecked truck? Match up the damage to it with that old road grader of yours? Something like that?”

Gus Prescott looked down at the ground, then to his left as Sheriff Robert Torrez idled the county unit closer, coming to a stop a few feet behind Prescott’s truck, angled so that it didn’t block the sheriff’s view of them.

“I always thought a lot of you, Sheriff,” Prescott said finally. He looked up at Gastner, eyes sad.

“And we’ll work through this, Gus.” Gastner made it sound as if they were engaged in “working through” a simple neighborhood fence spat, Estelle thought. His mellow voice and grandfatherly manner could be a grand defuser, and she guessed that was his intent.

“That’s pretty damn easy for you to say.” Prescott looked as if he wanted to say something else, but it stuck in his throat. His gaze wandered off again toward his daughters, and Estelle saw a deep sadness there, more than the beer or rum-soaked depression of the chronic drinker during a moment of self-recrimination.

“Lemme get my keys,” he mumbled, and turned to his truck. Estelle stood a pace or two in front of the right front fender holding the carbine, while Sheriff Torrez now approached from the right rear. As the rancher turned to round the left front fender, Gastner took a step toward him, a casual enough move that kept him close. Gus opened the driver’s door and slipped inside, and did two maneuvers at once. The ignition key hung from the column, and instead of removing it, he twisted it forward, the big diesel starting with a sharp bark.

Without an instant’s hesitation, he yanked the gear lever into reverse and swung the door first toward him as if to close it, but then banged it hard open, aiming for Gastner.

The older man pivoted back a step, almost losing his balance. With a spray of gravel and dirt, the truck shot backward, its massive back bumper crashing into the left front fender of the Sheriff’s Expedition. Bodywork crumpled backward like tissue, jamming into the front wheel. Even as the crash resounded, Prescott yanked the gear lever into drive and accelerated hard, the homemade, welded iron grill guard catching the left front wheel, tire, and fender of Estelle’s Crown Victoria.

The undersheriff dove off to one side, sailing over the sedan’s hood to crash to the ground, the carbine skidding away. She felt more than saw the pickup swerve past her, and scrambled to her feet, yanking out her automatic.

Sheriff Torrez had reacted faster. As soon as the truck had driven clear of both Gastner and Estelle, he fired quickly, holding his.45 in both hands. The back window of Prescott’s pickup dissolved in a shower of glass, and Estelle could see the holes punching down the side of the truck even as it sped away. One of the rounds struck a back tire and howled away toward the west.

Both girls had dived to the ground by the fence, and the horses whirled in panic, nickering loudly. Christine’s arm was clamped around her younger sister, but Casey broke loose and dashed after the fleeing pickup truck.

“Daddy!” she screamed. Estelle twisted to yell a warning at Torrez, but saw that the sheriff was already holstering his weapon.

“Everybody all right?” Gastner sounded as excited as if somebody had dropped a box of books.

“Yes,” Estelle replied. She stepped around the mangled front of her car. The left front wheel was jammed inside the crumpled fender, pointing off in a direction all its own.

“Give a hand here,” Torrez shouted. He was yanking at the Expedition’s bodywork, then backed away. “Need something to pry with.” In a few seconds he returned with the handle from his handiman jack, and he and Gastner heaved at the stubborn sheet metal.

As they worked, Estelle watched the retreating pickup, heading out the same trail she had taken to meet with Casey at the windmill. There was no open road out there, no back trail to refuge. The undersheriff pulled her phone from her pocket and touched the speed dial. Gayle Torrez’s response was immediate.

“Gayle, Bobby and I are down at the Prescott ranch and need assistance from a uniformed deputy ASAP.”

“Pasquale is on the road just west of town. I’ll have him swing down that way.”

“We’ll be apprehending a single male subject who is armed and may be dangerous.” She hesitated. What did Gus Prescott think he could accomplish? Did he think the law would simply let him go? Did he think he could evade a manhunt? Judging by his effective performance as a truck driver, he wasn’t as inebriated as might first appear. Run, she thought. Panic and run. “Tell Thomas to alert us when he swings off the highway at Moore.”

“Affirmative.”

She felt the hollow sensation in the pit of her stomach as she watched Bob Torrez take the heavy steel bar and thrash the fender into submission. His face was flushed with both effort and anger. For his part, Gus Prescott was not going to change his mind and drive meekly back to them.

“And Gayle, you might as well have an ambulance en route. Maybe we’ll get lucky and it’ll be a wasted trip for them.”

“Affirmative. You want a heads-up to the state police? And Jackie Taber is in the deputies office doing paperwork. I can send her.”

“Affirmative on the SP’s, Gayle. And go ahead and send Jackie. This is going to be a confrontation thing, not a chase. There’s nowhere the suspect can go.”

”You guys be careful.”

“Absolutely.”

She snapped off the phone in time to see Torrez give a mighty heave that seemed likely to tip the Expedition on its side. Something cracked and the sheriff nodded. “Now we go,” he said, panting with the exertion.

“Casey!” Estelle shouted. The girl had lugged saddle and tack out of the small barn, and was in the process of rigging the mare, who’d been wearing only the hand-woven rope hackamore. Estelle jogged over toward the girls. She could see that Christine was confronting her sister, and had taken the bridle from her. Their conversation was intense and private, their faces just inches from each other.

“Casey,” Estelle said, “Do you know where your father is going?”

The girl was crying, and she waved a hand hopelessly, taking in the open country to the north and east.

“His favorite spots are the breaks over east, out beyond the windmill,” Christine said. She reached out a hand and gripped Estelle’s. “Don’t let him hurt himself,” she whispered.

“I’ll try my best. You girls need to stay here with your mother.” If Jewell Prescott had heard the gunshots and ruckus, there was no sign.

“The sheriff tried to shoot him,” Casey cried.

“No, he only wanted to stop the truck,” Estelle said. Behind her, the Expedition fired up, and she turned. “Promise me?” Christine nodded, but Casey was having none of it.

“If I can find him, I can make him listen,” she wept, and swung up on the mare. She didn’t wait for the bridle, but seized the hackamore and twisted the mare’s head around, away from her sister’s reach. The gate had been drawn to one side, and the mare made for it, the unsaddled gelding in hot pursuit.