Out of Season

CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

“If that’s the case, how about a guided tour?” I asked.

Johnny Boyd looked off into the night sky and blew smoke at the stars. “Oh, I think I’ll pass on that, Sheriff. That’s Dick Finnegan’s property, and whatever those fellas in the airplane were interested in, that’s their business, and maybe his. Sure as hell ain’t mine. Matter of fact, what makes sense to me right now is to go home and get a good night’s sleep. You ever do that?”

“Not often,” I said. “But you have the right idea. We wouldn’t have much chance of finding the place in the dark anyway. Even at the best of times, one windmill looks just like another to me.”

Bob Torrez started to say something but thought better of it. I knew what was running through his mind, and probably Eddie Mitchell’s too. Most of the time, darkness was a powerful ally for us. Either one of them could find the most remote nook and cranny of Posadas County at any time of day or night.

“We all could use some sleep,” I added. I heard the faint jingle of brass and saw that Torrez held several casings. “The FBI is going to want to run some ballistics tests, you know that,” I said, and Boyd nodded. He didn’t look at Neil Costace, and the FBI agent seemed perfectly content at the moment to let me either run the show or hang myself.

“You want to keep the rifle until such time, you can,” Boyd said, dead serious in his belief that we were just asking nicely if we could run ballistics tests on his weapon…as if it were a special favor between old friends.

He evidently saw the expression on my face, and shrugged. “That was a damn-fool thing I did,” he said. “I know that. I just lost my goddam temper.” He pushed himself away from the truck and started toward his own. “The feds can do all the testing they like if it’ll satisfy ’em. And if they think they need to look at the other weapons, most of them are stored in a safety deposit box at Ranchers’ Trust in Posadas. If they want to examine ’em, I’ll fetch ’em out of there.”

“We’ll see,” I said. We watched him climb into his truck without further comment, and he backed out far enough that he could turn around.

The taillights of his pickup disappeared in the distance. Bob Torrez started to say something, but I held up a hand. “Wait a minute,” I said, and the four of us stood there, grouped around the Bronco, letting the silence of the prairie return. I frowned and half closed my eyes as I listened to the sound of Johnny Boyd’s truck retreat. I kept my hands poised in the air like a choral director’s.

“He didn’t turn toward his house,” Eddie Mitchell said a moment later.

“Nope, he didn’t,” I said and reached for the mike on the dash of the Bronco.

“Three-oh-three, three-ten on channel three.”

“Three-oh-three,” Tom Pasquale snapped in instant reply. He must have been sitting there by the highway, mike in hand.

“Three-oh-three, Johnny Boyd is driving a blue Ford pickup truck. He’s turned your way. If he shows up, make yourself scarce, and when he hits the pavement, keep an eye on him. I want to know where he’s headed.”

“Ten-four. You want him stopped?”

“That’s negative. I do not want him stopped. I want to know where he’s headed.” I glanced at Torrez and Mitchell. They both were grinning. “Do I speak French or something?” I muttered.

“Watching isn’t as much fun as stopping,” Mitchell said wryly.

“That’s what scares me,” I said. “I want you to give Tommy some backup. I don’t know what Boyd plans. Maybe he’s just taking the long way home. Maybe he’s going to do a little fence-hunting himself. If he does go on out to the main road, keep Tommy back, way back. We just want information right now, that’s all. And if he turns off before he reaches the highway, just go on by, the way he’d expect you to do. We’ll be on channel three if you need to talk to us. We’ll be right behind him.”

Mitchell nodded without comment and turned on his heel. We could hear the crunch of his boots on the gravel and for a moment, I just listened, getting my thoughts in order.

“You know where that fence line is?” I asked Torrez.

“I think I can find it with no trouble, sir.”

“Then let’s go. Neil, you game?”

“Sure,” he said. “If you’re not too tired.” He said it with good humor.

I laughed. “I’m comatose. But you and Bob are driving, so I can kick back and sleep. In fact, I like the seats in that rig of yours. I’ll ride with you.” I turned to Torrez. “Lead the way.”

Neil Costace and I settled into the federal agent’s Suburban, and for a fleeting moment, I had the impulse to recline the seat and irritate Costace with my sonorous snoring. But he didn’t give me a chance.

“So, what’s perking in that nonstop mind of yours, Buddha?” he asked.

I looked at him in surprise. “Buddha?”

Costace pulled the truck into gear and we followed Torrez’s Bronco out of the arroyo. Between bounces and wrenching of the steering wheel, he said, “That’s what Hocker calls you.”

“Buddha.”

He nodded. “Don’t ask me why,” he added. “And let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t wrestle with Mitchell.”

“Are you all right?”

“Nothing a chiropractor can’t fix, given time,” Costace said and shook his head.

“Was Eddie’s version pretty close to the way you saw it?”

“Not pretty close, Bill,” Costace said. “The embarrassing thing is that he was exactly right. Thirty-five years’ experience between the two of us, and now this.”

“These things happen sometimes,” I said, moving Neil Costace another couple of rungs up my ladder of estimation.

“All I could think was that Johnny Boyd was shooting at us. And when Hocker went down, I knew he was. My first thought when Mitchell kicked the gun away was that he was in on something with Boyd…that the two of them were working together. If that’s not enough to make a man feel goddam simple, I don’t know what is.” He looked soberly over at me.

“These things happen,” I said again for want of anything better.

“Your sergeant had his eye on Boyd. Hocker and I obviously didn’t.” Costace shook his head again. “Jesus,” he said. “And so what are you thinking? It’s obviously not about going to some dark corner somewhere and actually getting some sleep.”

“Two things,” I said. “First of all, it’s ten minutes to eleven, and Johnny Boyd isn’t going where he said he was going.”

“Okay. I had that thought too. But there’s an endless list of perfectly innocent possibilities.”

“If you’re an incurable optimist,” I said. “Remember our little set-to in the Boyd kitchen earlier? You remember that temper of his?”

Costace nodded. “He does love his federal government, that’s for sure.”

“Well, all right. And tonight he lets his temper go again and takes the risk of firing off a handful of rounds? In the dark? In the glare of headlights that spook everyone? With three armed law officers standing right there? But now, all of a sudden, he’s perfectly willing to acquiesce? To let federal agents rummage through his safe deposit boxes? To be Mr. Nice Guy? I don’t think so.”

“Maybe it’s exactly like he said. He realizes what a stupid thing that was to do. If we wanted to be real sons of bitches, I guess we could come up with twenty or thirty things to charge him with. I’d hate to bring any of them into court except in front of a drunk judge, but they’d sure be enough to hold him in jail for a day or two. Boyd’s got to know that, smart as he is. He’s trying to mend fences.”

“Neil, come on. He could have just kept his mouth shut and been about as far ahead.”

“You think there’s something else, then?”

“I don’t know.”

“That’s not the answer I wanted to hear, Sheriff,” Costace said.

Torrez’s vehicle was kicking up plenty of dust, and I hefted my handheld radio. “Give him plenty of room, Robert,” I said, and the lead vehicle slowed. Occasionally, when the swell of the prairie was just right, I caught a glimpse of the taillights on Boyd’s truck, and then, considerably farther back, Mitchell’s unit.

“He’s headed right for the main road,” Mitchell said quietly.

“Don’t ride him,” I said into the radio. “Three-oh-three, you copy?”

“Three-oh-three, ten-four.”

Costace swerved to avoid a rock outcropping that was wearing its patient way up through the tire tracks. “So he’s not going to the magic fence,” he said. “I wonder what the hell he’s doing.”

“Wait a couple of minutes and I’ll make a guess,” I said.

Our two vehicles ambled across the prairie, letting the distance between us and Mitchell’s unit widen as he followed Johnny Boyd toward the highway.

In a moment, Torrez’s brake lights flashed, and then he turned onto a two-track off to the right. We had driven no more than a hundred yards before the radio came in again.

“Three-ten, three-oh-three. Sir, he’s hit the pavement and is heading in toward town.”

“Just follow,” I said, and then added off the air, “Shit.”

“You thought he might be headed up to the Finnegans?” Costace asked.

“That was the most obvious possibility,” I said.

“And the others?”

“Buddha doesn’t know,” I said.