Out of Season

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

The next morning, Estelle surprised me by suggesting that we drive to the Boyds’ ranch by way of Newton, the tiny hamlet in the neighboring county that was due north of the Boyds. Straight lines were usually my habit in getting from point to point, but if my chief of detectives wanted to approach the ranch from the back by circling in from the north, that was fine with me.

The traffic up to the crash site would be heavy, both coming and going. We’d eat a lot less dust by slipping in the back door. We drove out of town on County 43, but before that route started its long climb up the mesa past Consolidated and the lake, we turned west on State 78, the main arterial that ran past the airport.

The state highway angled northwest, and in another twenty miles, we were out of Posadas County. In ten more miles, we passed the sign for the Petros Farmers’ Market and then Estelle slowed for the right turn onto a narrow, paved lane that led along the base of a series of rolling, low hills to the tiny hamlet of Newton.

What Newton’s claim to fame had once been, I didn’t know. Maybe it grew out of feeble attempts at mining. There was certainly no timber close by. Perhaps it was one of the myriad little villages that had once been active trading centers scattered across the state, places for the various dryland farmers to bring their produce or livestock. There wasn’t much left to trade anymore.

On the outskirts of Newton, perched on a mound of reddish dirt fill capped with asphalt, was the new post-office building, a little modular structure that would have looked right at home in Ohio. The Circle JEB ranch paid rent on P.O. Box 17.

Beside the post office-and separated from that federal property by a row of wrecked cars, a fair-sized collection of used irrigation pipe, and three or four tractors that would never again rumble to life-was a store labeled only as “Baca.”

I knew Floyd Baca, and knew that he had taken over the family business from his father just after World War II. Floyd Baca had seen more than seventy New Mexico summers as the sun baked Newton silent each day. I didn’t know what kept him there, and wouldn’t have presumed to ask. Besides, I’d spent nearly thirty years in Posadas without much excuse. Few folks claimed that town as the center of the universe, either.

In addition to the post office and Baca’s, downtown Newton included Our Lady of Sorrows Church, sitting back from the highway and almost touching the cinderblock corner of the Newton Community Center. Scattered around the nucleus were a dozen homes in various stages of disrepair, at least half of them empty. From the center of that village, we were just about eight miles north of the Boyd ranch.

We turned south on County 805, a road that was wide and level and paved as far as the village limits-about a hundred yards from the Baca store.

After two miles of smooth, well-crowned gravel, we reached a small sign announcing the northern boundary of Posadas County. The metal signpost had been nicked by the road grader sometime in the recent past, no doubt as it was turning around to return to Newton. The county sign hung askew, pointed down at the greasewood. Ten paces beyond, securely on Posadas County turf, was another sign, this one promising that “County Maintenance Ends.”

Despite the warning, the road was in good condition, and in another mile we reached an intersection where two narrow lanes met the main road, one from the southeast and one from the northwest. In the center of the right-hand island of bunch-grass stood a small, neatly lettered sign that pointed south along the main route and read, “Boyd 2 Miles.”

“You could get around this way from Posadas pretty fast if you had to,” I said. We passed through a low basin where the greasewood and Klein’s cholla along the road were as high as the car. Dust seeped inside and I could taste the fine, powdery grit.

“You’re going to miss all this come next week,” I said, and Estelle turned and smiled at me.

“Yes, I am,” she said, and I didn’t doubt for an instant that she was telling at least a partial truth. I thought she might elaborate, but in typical Estelle fashion, she let the three-word response do all the work.

“Leo Burkhalter tells me that Eddie Mitchell has applied to his department,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

I looked at Estelle in surprise. “You knew already? When did you hear that he was going?”

“Well, it’s a huge department, compared to ours. And apparently they have an opening where he’ll be working Homicide. It’s a lateral transfer for him. He’ll go in there without losing his sergeant’s status.”

“And when,” I asked again, “did you hear all this?”

“He told me last week. But only that he had applied. I didn’t think he’d heard yet one way or another.”

“Huh,” I said, feeling just a tad hurt. “There’s nothing formal so far, I don’t think.”

Estelle read my mind and said, “He didn’t want to tell you until he knew for sure he was going.”

“Well, I suppose it makes sense. There’ll be lots of opportunities for him in a larger department.”

“And more regimented,” Estelle said. “I’m not sure I could work for Mr. Marine.”

“Burkhalter? He’s all right.”

Estelle grinned. “In a very, very strait laced sort of way. He’s full of himself, as Mama would say.”

“I was in the Marines, you know.”

“Yes, sir. But when you retired from the military, you didn’t take it home with you.”

“I see,” I said, not seeing at all. I reached out a hand to the dashboard as we thumped across a cattle guard and pulled under the arched, wrought-iron gate of the Boyds’ Circle JEB Ranch.

“Plus, there’s the university campus there,” Estelle added. “Eddie wants to work on his degree in criminal justice, and that’s pretty hard to do in Posadas.”

“I didn’t know he wanted to do that, either,” I said. “But I don’t know why it would surprise me.”

The road curved around a wart in the prairie, an out thrusting of limestone that sported a thick blanket of small barrel cacti. Just over the rise, one of Boyd’s windmills was clattering along at a great rate, and I could see the sunlight flashing silver off the gentle stream of water that trickled into the large stock tank.

Their house tucked under a grove of elms, about the only tree that seemed willing to put up with the scorching summers and dry winds of winter. If not appearing actually prosperous, the place looked as if there was at least a little hope in its owners’ lives.

Avoiding the ubiquitous adobe tones, the Boyds had painted the house a clean white with startling blue trim. The red-metal pitched roof would simmer most of the time, but the wind wouldn’t rip it off and the sun wouldn’t blister it to bits. One vehicle, a white-and-blue pickup truck, was parked in the yard.

“The welcoming committee,” I said as the first wave of dogs emerged from the various shadows around the house. Two heelers led the pack, followed by a black-and-white, one-eyed something and-looking incongruous out here in the middle of the cacti and cattle-two German shepherds, tongues lolling dangerously toward beckoning cactus thorns.

“You get out first,” I said gallantly. One of the heelers jumped up and put its grimy paws on the door. I could imagine its sharp claws tearing scratches across the expensive county decal. With good sense, Estelle hesitated. All the tails were wagging, so we were probably safe.

A lanky, stooped individual appeared on the front porch, whistled sharply, and the dogs retreated without a backward glance. He waved a beckoning hand at us in greeting.

We got out of the car, and the breeze was brisk and warm, enough to suck the moisture right out of a dog’s nose in the brief seconds between tongue swipes.

“Good morning,” the man said and stepped off the porch. One of the heelers advanced a pace or two behind him, and the man turned and muttered something. The dog retreated back into the shade. One of the shepherds emerged to circle around us, nose down and ears akimbo.

“Don’t worry about him none,” the man said. “He’s too gaddam dumb to figure out what to do.” He extended a hand to me. “Name’s Edwin Boyd. You’re Undersheriff Gastner, if I remember right.”

“Good to see you,” I said. I couldn’t remember ever actually meeting Edwin Boyd before, beyond a quick glimpse in a grocery-store parking lot at one time or another. He was taller than his brother, just as lanky, clean-shaven, and leathery-skinned. He wore a cap that had collected enough diesel fuel and grease and dust to disguise the logo above the bill. “This is Detective Estelle Reyes-Guzman.”

Edwin Boyd’s eyes twinkled as he extended a hand to Estelle. “Certainly a pleasure to meet you,” he said and touched the bill of his cap with his free hand. “We got us plenty of activity today, haven’t we?” He spoke with great care, as if feeling the need to be mindful of what he said.

“Yes, sir,” I said. “We wanted to break away for a bit and talk to you folks, if we can. Away from the hustle and bustle.” I smiled ruefully. “Away from all the feds.”

“You got that right,” Edwin said. “I took a drive this morning out to just west of where they’re parked. Haven’t seen so many black jackets in some time.” He gestured toward the house. “Come on in, then. You figure they got everything they need to do the job?”

“I expect so,” I said. “If not, you can bet they’ll sure as hell ask in a hurry.”

“ ’Spect so,” he nodded, and closed the door. The house was quiet and dark. “How about some coffee?”

“That’d be nice,” I said.

“Let me put some on. It won’t take but a minute.”

I looked up at the heavy beams that supported the painted ceiling boards. The logs were glossy with varnish but looked old and worn smooth. “The pitched room was added later, I bet,” I said to Estelle. “I wonder when this place was built.”

“The fireplace was put in during the fall of nineteen fifty-two,” she said, pointing at the scratched date just below the mantelpiece. “So before that.”

She moved over and looked through the glass doors of an elaborate gun cabinet. I joined her. The muzzles of more than a dozen rifles and shotguns gleamed from inside.

“That’s interesting,” she said, her gaze intent on the first three guns in the row. I recognized the M-1 Garand that stood in the number-one slot, its bayonet lug looking clumsy and angular in comparison with the slender barrels of the various sporting arms.

“I used to shoulder one of those,” I said. “Worth some money now.”

“And thirty-ought-six is a good, all-around caliber for ranch work,” Estelle added. “And a modern version,” she added, indicating the third gun in line. “Recognize it?”

The rifle was black, with lots of sharp corners and doo dads, including a long, heavy clip that hung down just in front of the trigger guard. “Maybe a Heckler and Koch. I don’t know. I haven’t kept up with that stuff.”

“It looks to be the same size bore as the ought-six,” Estelle said. “If it’s foreign, it might be the NATO round. Three-oh-eight.”

“You interested in hardware?” Edwin Boyd asked. I half turned, startled. I hadn’t heard him return from the kitchen.

“It’s all kind of neat,” I said and pointed at the assault rifle. “What’s that thing?”

Edwin peered through the glass as if he were looking at the collection for the first time. He reached out and turned the small key that was in the lock, then opened the door.

“Oh, that’s the boy’s. Some damn thing.” He hefted the rifle out of the case. “Some foreign thing. But I tell you what, it’s hell on wheels. Accurate as I’ve ever seen and spits ’em out just like that.” He handed me the rifle. I was surprised at its weight.

“Quite a piece,” I said and popped the clip. The brass of the loaded rounds gleamed in sharp contrast to the black metal of the weapon. “Whoops,” I said.

“Oh, I doubt that there’s one in the chamber,” Edwin said, unperturbed. I pulled back the bolt, stiff against the recoil spring. He was right.

“He’s at school in Cruces,” Edwin volunteered. “I don’t guess he has much need of that on campus, even though I hear things get wild there once in a while.”

“What is this, a twenty-round clip?” I said, turning the clip this way and that.

“Don’t know,” Edwin said. “I never checked. ’Course, I don’t have much use for something like that.”

I handed the rifle to Estelle and held the clip so that what window light there was played on the cartridges. I could see the pointed noses of only three rounds, and I thumbed them out into my left hand. Sure enough, three was the magic number. “Really slick,” I said and pushed the ammo back into the clip. “But you know, I was in the Marines, and that old M-1 is more my style.” I handed the clip to Estelle. “You mind?”

“Have at it,” Edwin said. He reached across and hefted the Garand by the barrel, handing it to me.

“Replacing these with the M-l6 was a mistake,” I said, running a hand up the long wooden stock.

“Wouldn’t know,” Edwin chuckled. “I did me some time in the Navy and spent most of it up close and personal with a paring knife. Still can’t look a potato in the eye.” He chuckled again.

I pulled back the bolt of the Garand, and sure enough, its magazine was full. I pressed the top cartridge down and eased the bolt forward so that the round wasn’t stripped off the clip and into the chamber. “Nice piece,” I said and returned it to the rack.

“Let me check that coffee. You take anything in it?”

“Nope,” I said. “And the detective doesn’t drink the stuff, so it’s just you and me.”

“Some lemonade, maybe?” Edwin said to Estelle, but she shook her head politely.

“I’m fine,” she said. When Edwin left the room, she held the assault rifle out toward me. “How hard is it to hit something like a low-flying plane with something like this?” she asked quietly.

“For me, impossible except by dumb luck. For a marksman who’s in practice, just difficult. But if the shooter’s seriously trying to hit the plane, you do what antiaircraft gunners do. You don’t aim at the plane. You just put a curtain of fire in front of the plane and let him fly into it.”

“Where do you suppose the other seventeen rounds are?” she mused, and then sniffed the barrel. “Not used recently, anyway. Unless it’s been cleaned thoroughly, and it doesn’t smell like that, either.” She leaned the gun back in the cabinet just as Edwin appeared with two mugs.

“Johnny or Maxine around this morning?” I asked as a mug was handed to me.

Edwin Boyd took a tentative sip of the coffee. “Johnny’s over at the crash site, or at least that’s where he said he was going. Maxine went into Posadas. You probably passed her on the highway. You came by way of Newton?”

“Sure enough.”

“What kind of vehicle is she driving?” Estelle asked.

“She’s got the Jeep today. That blue Wagoneer. I think it’s an eighty-two. You know, one of them tanks. She was probably at the post office or some such or you’d have seen her. Me, I’m nursing a bum knee for a day or two. Sprained the hell out of it yesterday.”

I looked around to sit down and settled into an old leather-padded straight chair by the fireplace. “What did you hear on the afternoon of the crash?” I asked.

Edwin looked apologetic. “Wish I’d been here. I was over to Drury, getting the hitch on the truck fixed. By the time I done this and that, and ate dinner, I didn’t even get back here until close to ten o’clock.”

“Maxine told you what happened?” Estelle asked.

“Yeah, that’s who I heard about it from. I drove over close enough to see the lights and the helicopter and all. I figured I’d be in the way. Then later, Johnny came and we both run the cattle out of that section.” He grimaced. “That’s when I wrenched my knee. Can’t work in the dark so good.”

“Earlier in the day,” I said, “did you see any aircraft in the area?” Edwin shook his head. “Nothing any time at all?”

“No. But then I don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. What was the sheriff lookin’ for, anyway? Did you ever find out?”

“No idea,” I said.

“And no word yet about what actually caused the crash in the first place,” Edwin said.

It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t offer any information. I placed my coffee mug on the end table and pushed myself to my feet. “Apparently Maxine called the sheriff’s office sometime yesterday. She even tried to reach Sheriff Holman at home.”

Edwin Boyd frowned. “Huh,” he said, and looked down at the wooden floor.

I could see he wasn’t planning on being a fountain of unsolicited information and it would be easier just to talk to Maxine Boyd about her telephone calls.

“Thanks for the coffee,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be seeing us around more than you’d like in the next few days.”

Edwin waved a hand. “Now don’t worry about that. You folks got a job to do, same as anyone else.” He walked behind Estelle and me as we left the house. His truck, the one we had seen when we arrived, was a late-model GMC three-quarter ton, parked in the shade of one of the elms.

The rear-window gun rack carried a single Winchester lever-action rifle, probably a.30–30. I didn’t mention the gun, but I saw Estelle’s gaze take it in.

When we were back in the patrol car, I said, “He apparently doesn’t favor the modern stuff,” referring to the rifle. “But he can probably shoot a coyote in the eye at a hundred yards.”

“I really want to talk to Maxine,” Estelle said. “There’s every possibility that she didn’t drive into town just to go shopping for groceries.”