Red, Green, or Murder

Chapter Twenty-two

I left the undersheriff at her office just as the clock flipped to one a.m. She didn’t need me hanging around, pretending I was still sheriff. And maybe with no distractions she’d be able to break away for home, where Irma Sedillos, the ever-patient nana, was tending the roost.

With a full cup of coffee from the Handiway, I headed south again. As I passed the county road that led toward Borracho Springs, I looked for Deputy Jackie Taber’s county unit, but didn’t see it. That didn’t surprise me. She would find a discreet spot and blend with the night shadows, hiding even the bright white paint of her Bronco.

A few minutes later, I followed the winding driveway through the scrub and the cacti to Herb Torrance’s H-Bar-T. The lights were on in the house, and the Chrysler was parked in the circular drive with Herb’s older Chevy pickup pulled in behind it.

A pair of cats streaked across the yard and disappeared through the fence. By the time I’d parked behind the pickup, Herb had appeared at the door and beckoned. Apparently sleep was eluding him, too.

“Jesus, Bill,” he said. “What a goddamn day.” Socks the cow dog tried to wedge his head through the rancher’s legs, and Herb pushed him back. “Git,” he snapped.

“How’s the boy?”

“Dale’s all right. You know,” and he held the door open wide for me, a boot still in the dog’s face. “When the sheriff called sayin’ that you’d found Patrick, you could have knocked me down with a feather. I guess I’ll stop by the hospital in the morning.” He looked sharply at me. “He’s all right, ain’t he?”

“We don’t know yet, Herb. Someone did for him, that’s for sure. It looks like a skull fracture, with some bleeding on the brain.” I shook my head wearily. “And you can save your drive to town. They airlifted him to Albuquerque.”

“Son of a bitch.” He reached out and took my cup, and I followed him into the kitchen. “Torrez said you found him over to Borracho Springs.”

“Yep. We need to locate his folks,” I said. “I thought you could help me with that.”

“Well, now, I think I can. Now I don’t have the phone number or nothing like that, but I know they work for the Martin farms over to Hatch. They were seasonal for ’em, but they went to full time here not long ago. Got their papers and such.” He poured my coffee carefully. “You want me to call ’em?”

“Actually, I think Estelle or Bobby should, Herb. They have all the details and can answer any questions that Pat’s folks might have. I’ll pass on the information about the Martins to them, and they can make it official.”

“I’m with ya on that,” Herb said, and the relief in his voice was obvious. “His folks will sure want to know.” He heaved a great sigh. “Well, shit.” He took a long pull of the coffee, looking out into the distance. “This is sure as hell a fix, ain’t it.”

“We’ll do what we can, Herb. We have a description, we know exactly when the thieves crossed the border with the truck, and we have a guess about where they might be headed. That’s a start.”

“I suppose,” he said. “Naranjo be any help, you think?”

“We’ll see.” There was no point in sounding mindlessly optimistic. How efficient the Mexican police would be was anyone’s guess, and Herb knew that. He also knew that our various agencies couldn’t just charge cross the border, taking the Mexican law into our own hands. The political line in the dirt didn’t mean diddly damn to the coyotes, cacti, or creosote bush, but the humans who lived along both sides of the border knew that the line sure as hell complicated their lives.

Even in their rural district, Captain Tomás Naranjo and his officers lived with a nightmare of drug cartel violence that made our incident seem like an unimportant blip on the statistical chart. But he’d do what he could, deft, politic, even subtle when he needed to be. The captain possessed an interesting sense of justice that wasn’t necessarily driven by the letter of the law-either Mexican law or ours. That’s what I was depending on in this case.

“You know…” Herb took his time lighting a cigarette. He regarded the blue heeler, who had settled in the living room, near the door. “I don’t give a shit about the truck.”

“I understand that.”

“I want those sons-a-bitches behind bars, Bill. Or buried out in the desert somewheres. Whoever hammered that boy? You know, Pat’s a good kid. A good kid. Been good for my Dale. Kind of steady, you know? Anything I can do to help, well, you just speak up.”

“You know I will.”

“Fill up?” He reached for my cup again, and I obliged. “Where are you headed at this hour, anyways?”

“I wanted to chat with Victor,” I replied.

Herb’s laugh turned into a racking cough, and he had to wipe his eyes. “Good luck with that,” he managed. “He can be just about the most goddamned unpleasant son-of-a-bitch I know.”

“Just misunderstood,” I said, and Herb laughed again.

“He don’t think much of cops.”

“Victor has his reasons.”

“Suppose he does. His son and all.” Herb didn’t delve into that miserable night several years before when Victor’s eldest son, Carlos, had been killed, but even long before that, Victor had perfected his impression of a miserable, short-tempered saloon keeper.

I left the Torrance ranch, and for a few miles the night was dark and quiet. Sidewinder personality or not, Victor enjoyed a thriving business at his Broken Spur saloon. I counted eight vehicles in the parking lot, and for Posadas County during the wee hours of the morning, that qualified as hopping.

Victor’s Cadillac-one of those older models that looked as if someone had chopped off the hindquarters with a cleaver-was parked behind the back kitchen door and the double-wide trailer where the saloon owner lived with his youngest son. Victor Junior worked in the kitchen of the Broken Spur, trying hard both to do as he was told and stay out of his father’s way.

I shut off the SUV and headed for the back door of the kitchen, knowing damn well that my entrance there would prompt acid comments from Victor. Pulling open the door, I saw his son at the sink, doing something with carrots. His father stood in front of the huge gas stove, watching eggs fry in pools of sizzling butter. He glanced at me as I entered.

“We got a front door,” Victor said almost affably. “You lookin’ for handouts or what?”

“Those eggs look tempting.” He flipped them expertly, then reached out with the stainless steel spatula and chopped a series of rows through a pile of hash browns. At the same time he reached up and pulled a plate off the rack. Four strips of bacon joined the eggs and potatoes, and he slid the loaded plate on the prep table.

“Order up,” he said, and Victor Junior jumped to deliver the goods.

Victor wiped his hands thoughtfully. He turned and looked at the clock, his expression not lost on me. Minutes before closing, he didn’t want interruptions.

“Somebody tried to kill Patrick Gabaldon,” I said. “They took Herb’s truck and trailer, bashed Pat in the head, cut his throat, and then headed for Mexico. They dumped the boy in an arroyo over at Borracho Springs.”

Without comment, Victor scraped the grill. The frown on his broad, homely face deepened, and he racked the big spatula with more force than necessary. “Christine said you were looking for him earlier.”

“He’s been lying out there for hours, Victor, and he sure as hell didn’t need to be. They airlifted him to Albuquerque.”

He wiped his hands on his apron again. “What do you want?”

“For one thing, I need to know if you or anyone here saw Patrick earlier. We’re trying to nail down some of the details here. We don’t know if Pat picked up a couple of hitch-hikers, or what. We think that the actual assault happened up on the mesa. Up on Herb’s grazing allotment.”

“How’d you get mixed up in all this?”

“I cut the permit for moving the cattle, Victor. That’s what Patrick was doing when he was attacked. But we’re all mixed up in it.”

“What’s he say?”

“Patrick, you mean? He can’t talk yet,” I said. “Look, this is a simple thing, Victor. You either saw him, or you didn’t. That’s all I want to know.”

He took his time turning off the stove as if it were a ceremony demanding serious attention. “I get along by minding my own business,” he said finally.

“Oh, for Christ’s sakes, Victor.” His son had returned to the kitchen and looked apprehensive. “That’s what Patrick was doing, too. He maybe thought he was doing a good deed by picking up a couple hitchhikers. They tried to kill him, they stole Herb’s rig, and they drove it to Mexico.”

“Then you need to talk to your buddy down there.”

“Naranjo will do what he can. Look…” and I moved over so that I could lean my hip against the prep table, my arms folded. I knew there was no point in trying to bully Victor, or threaten him. But for all his attitude, he was an intelligent man. “All I want to know is if you saw Patrick earlier in the day. Goddamn it, it’s not like you’re a priest giving away the secrets of confession.”

Victor surprised me by laughing-not much of one, mind you, but enough to show some gold.

“So what’s your stake in all this?” he asked. “You’re not sheriff anymore, last I looked.”

I regarded him in silence for a moment. “Nope, I’m not sheriff anymore.”

“Still runnin’ around in the middle of the night, though.” He glanced at the clock again, a not-so-subtle hint.

“We all have our demons, Victor.”

“Yeah, well.” He turned to his son. “Tell Christine that we’re closin’ up. Shag all the freeloaders out.” I hadn’t budged, and as his son left the kitchen, Victor dropped the spatula into the sink. He headed for the back door, and included me in a nod of invitation. The outside air was crisp and clean, and I could smell the rich kitchen effluvia on Victor’s clothing.

“Come here,” he said, and I followed him to the east corner of the building and then around to the parking lot. “I was helping some asshole at the diesel pump,” he said. “And no…I don’t know what time it was. Sometime this afternoon. There were two guys hitch-hiking right over there,” and he pointed west, toward the intersection with Herb Torrance’s county road a mile away. “The Gabaldon kid came out of the side road in the ranch rig, and picked ’em up. Right over there.” He pointed to a spot almost directly across the highway.

“Could you see their faces? Would you recognize them again?”

“No, I wouldn’t recognize them again. Just two guys with backpacks. One taller than the other.”

“What were they wearing?”

“Clothes.”

“Caps? Anything distinctive?”

“I told you. Why should I notice? Just two guys.” He pulled a ragged pack of unfiltered cigarettes out of his trouser pocket, grubbed one out, and lit it. “He picked ’em up, and they drove off toward town. You know, if the kid had pulled in here to buy some diesel, maybe I woulda seen ’em. But he don’t do that. Old man Torrance would rather drive all the way to town than buy it here.”

I wasn’t about to be suckered into that argument. “If you remember anything else, I’d appreciate your letting me know, Victor. This is a help.”

Victor didn’t care to know that he’d been helpful, of course. Two more quick sucks on the cigarette and he snapped it out into the dark.

“The sheriff or undersheriff might want to talk with you again,” I said to his retreating back, and he stopped abruptly.

“You make sure that don’t happen,” he said. “Then we’re about even.”