Less Than a Moment

by Steven F Havill

  “I hope you have a few minutes for me.”

  “You betcha. I’m over at the solar unit, but I’ll run over and pick you up. I’ll meet you by the front door.”

  “Actually, let me walk over there. I need a little leg stretch.”

  “Well, suit yourself. I’ll watch for you.”

  The geometry of the mesa was such that, by walking west a few steps from where she parked in front of the main building, Estelle could see far to the north. The mesa top sloped gently toward its north rim, and by stepping west so that she could see around one wing of the hotel, she could view the spot where Kyle Thompson had parked his Subaru.

  After a moment, she turned and walked along the macadam ribbon, a track wide enough for one of the NightZone maintenance pickups, or one of the side-­by-­side ATVs, if the operators were cautious. With its artistic twists and turns, the path was designed for foot traffic, with occasional brass interpretive trail markers pointing out interesting flora along the way.

  By the time she had passed the planetarium, the last building in the main group, she was halfway to the solar observatory on the south rim. The heavily tinted front door slid open, and Miles Waddell appeared. Dressed as usual like a ranch hand paying an impromptu visit for an over-­the-­fence chat, he paused at the edge of the portico, his foot up on one of the large sandstone boulders that marked the patio. He didn’t step out into the sun until Estelle was a pace or two away.

  “You gotta see this,” he said, and beckoned her inside. “Just incredible.”

  The interior of the observatory was chilly, looking more like a business office complex. The telescopes themselves were above them on the second story, not the sort of hobbyist’s units where one would peer into an eyepiece. All of the imagery was fed through complex fiber optics to the computers downstairs, with half a dozen monitors showing the telescopes’ focus.

  “Kurt, can you roll a replay of what you just showed me? On the big monitor?”

  A stubby young fellow held up a single finger, without taking his eyes off the monitor directly in front of him, tapped several command keys, and then relaxed back. “You bet I can do that.”

  “This is Dr. Kurt Morehouse,” Waddell said. “I stole him away from New Mexico State University. Kurt, this is Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-­Guzman.”

  The young man’s grip was limp, just the fingers making contact rather than a good thumb-­to-­thumb clasp, but his bland face was illuminated by electric blue eyes and an affable smile. “Welcome aboard.” He immediately turned his attention back to the computer terminal below the monitor. “I’ve named this one MW-­18, but that’s just for our own files. Just for fun. And as you’ll see, it’s not so huge as it’s just plain artistic.” He grinned wider.

  On the sixty-­inch monitor above, an image of a small portion of the sun’s left flank appeared, and Estelle watched in fascination as the long tongue of the flare lashed out from the roiling solar surface.

  “This coronal ejection of plasma is kind of puny.” Morehouse put one index finger on the sun’s surface, and another where the flare appeared to vanish into space. “About a million miles or so, give or take. Not enough to disrupt things here on Earth very much. But we like it.”

  The ejection subsided, almost immediately joined by another eruption, one that snaked and curled like a living thing.

  “It’s a busy neighborhood out there,” Morehouse said.

  “Amazing,” Estelle said. “You work here solo?”

  “Oh, gosh, no. We’ve got a total of five techs on board. Three of them are upstairs doing some grunt work with the second unit’s mounts. Marie is in the office arguing with someone from CalTech, and that shadow over there?” He nodded toward a dark corner where the form of a young woman was hunched over a keyboard. “Evi is working on logistics for one of our upcoming projects.”

  He straightened up and indicated the framed, full-­color prints that filled the empty wall spaces. “And she’s our photographic artist as well.” He grinned at Estelle. “Prints available in the gift shop, perfect for birthdays, anniversaries, or Christmas.”

  Morehouse lowered his voice and looked sideways at Estelle. “I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said. “Marie Waters is in the office because it’s the only place here that’s quiet enough to listen to her beloved CDs.” He waved a hand at the ceiling. “All the ventilator and cooling fan noise.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “She has a crush on your son, the young Maestro Guzman.”

  Estelle laughed. “Ah. I hear that a lot.”

  “I bet you do.”

  His handshake was a bit firmer this time. “Nice to meet you, but I’m sure you have more important things to do than yakking with me.”

  “I appreciate the flare show, Dr. Morehouse. But I do need to spirit the boss man away for a few minutes.”

  “Oh, oh,” Waddell said.

  The light outside was harsh, the air hot after the air conditioned interior.

  “How about over here?” Waddell followed a narrow walkway to an elegant gazebo just west of the observatory, its foundation skirting hosting a spectacular collection of cacti and succulents, all chosen as species that could tolerate the rugged Posadas County climate. He motioned to the picnic table and its benches. “How’s this?”

  “Perfect.”

  “Let me get some water. One minute.” He disappeared back into the building and shortly returned with two bottles of ice water and a handful of nut bars. He slid a water and two bars across to Estelle. “It occurred to me that I could likely be your number one suspect.”

  “What makes you think that?” She had not discussed the kick print on Thompson’s back with Miles Waddell, but she wasn’t surprised that the former rancher was quick to reach his own conclusions.

  “Well, everyone thinks—­okay, folks seem surprised­­ that I let someone from out of town walk in and buy that chunk of New Mexico to the north of us.” He held up a hand and ducked his head. “I mean, another bunch of acreage would be nice, insuring my project’s privacy and dark skies. But I guess I wasn’t quick enough on the draw this time. And who knows what Kyle Thompson was actually planning for that acreage?” He nodded at Estelle as he unwrapped one of the nut bars. “So. I’m all ears. What’s driving your day?”

  “We’re seeing some coincidences, Miles.”

  “Coincidences? In what regard?”

  Estelle hesitated, and then held up both index fingers, side by side. “First we have the drive-­by shooting at the newspaper office. We don’t think that the two victims there were specifically targeted. At that hour of the night, it’s hard to imagine that they were expected to be there. A chance thing.”

  Waddell said nothing, his hands folded quietly on the table, his eyes locked on Estelle’s.

  “Then, Kyle Thompson dies in what looks at first like a freak accident.” She paused. “As you’ve already figured out, it was no accident, Miles. We think Mr. Thompson was standing on the rocks, taking in the view, maybe even talking with someone. We believe that he was kicked in the back, hard and high, launching him forward.”

  “You really do think that he was murdered.”

  “I do. And right now, it’s hard for me to believe that the two attacks—­the one at the newspaper office, and the attack not long afterward on Kyle Thompson—­aren’t somehow related.” She rubbed her two fingers together. “Too close in time, too close to other interesting coincidences.”

  Waddell tipped his chair back, one boot braced against the table crosspiece.

  “We seem to be a magnet,” he said finally. “And I’m not sure I’m liking much about that.”

  “NightZone is a huge facility, Miles. A huge facility in rugged country where a lot can be hidden. Lots of people, lots going on, lots of opportunity.”

  He looked at her, amused and concerned all at once. He started to say one
thing, stopped, and rethought. “You’re suggesting that I’m sort of the epicenter for some of this stuff. That’s what I find hard to fathom.”

  “Not you personally, Miles.” She shifted position. “Let me pose something to you. If we could wave a magic wand and make all of Thompson enterprises disappear, how might that impact your development?”

  He looked puzzled. “I don’t know. If Thompson’s land comes back on the market, I suppose somebody would buy it.” He shrugged. “Eventually. Like I said, I might even go after it, just as another way to protect my investment here. But thinking about that is premature. I assume that Lydia Thompson has her own ideas about the property. Give her a while to settle down, to come to terms with her loss.”

  “She seems sympathetic to your venture here.”

  “So far, she does. But who knows? And if worse comes to worse, remember years ago, when I first started out? Some jerks tried to stop my development by cutting down some of my power poles with a chain saw. That didn’t work out so well for them, did it?” With some fussing, he tore open the second nut bar. “But you mentioned other coincidences?”

  “Not long ago, a young man applied for a job with your rail boss.”

  “With Hank Quintana, you mean?”

  Estelle nodded. “Things looked good for a job, until the Register published the weekly ‘Sheriff’s Report.’”

  “Your young man was listed there. And I think we’re talking about the sheriff’s nephew, am I right?”

  “Yes. Quentin Torrez.”

  “Ah. There’s a young fellow with a lot of potential. His drunk driving arrest was unfortunate, but I hope he understands that our locomotive operation is a very special animal. Unique, I might say. Hank and I agreed from day one that the rail transportation operation is absolutely zero tolerance. It has to be. So while I might hire someone like young Torrez for any number of available positions at the gate, or even here topside, he will never work with the train crew.

  “That’s what Clay Simmons does for me, among many other things—­background checks and hiring recommendations. I gotta tell you, this current mess of all the gutless politicians making marijuana legal is a real nightmare for us. It was bad enough before, worrying about bottle to throttle. But my view is that no matter what the state decides, no matter how they kowtow to special interests, the use of substance like that, or stronger, is verboten up here. Let ’em sue me if they feel discriminated against.”

  He munched reflectively on the nut bar for a moment. “Having said all that, and climbing down off my soapbox for a minute, let me be the first to say that I’d like to add Quentin Torrez to the staff.”

  He nodded at Estelle’s surprised expression. “And you know, I probably will. I was thinking of calling him in for an interview later this week. One on one, you know? See where his head is. He’s got friends here, and that can be both a plus and a minus. I mean, let’s face it. They’re all kids, right?” He grinned. “Anyone under thirty is still a kid to me. But Quentin Torrez has talents, I think. He could grow into a job here topside. Just not on the train or the tram. That’s what I want to see. Grow a team that takes pride in this place.”

  “You’ve heard talk about what the Thompsons were planning?”

  “Sure. Everyone has his own theory. Or did. And now what? I haven’t gotten beyond the ‘sorry for your loss’ stage with his widow, and I don’t want to push her. But what a mess she has landed in her lap.”

  “Do you have reason to believe anyone on your staff—­anyone at all—­held a grudge against Kyle Thompson? However petty?”

  Waddell puffed out his cheeks. “No. I told a couple of the kids that they should curtail their trespassing on that property until things get straightened out. I mean, all their hunting and stuff.” He smiled broadly. “Bob Torrez—­the biggest kid of all. I don’t think there’s a square inch of this county that he hasn’t hunted until he could walk the whole thing in his sleep.” His eyebrows shot up. “And let’s not forget our old friend, Bill Gastner. He knows that country. Hell, one of the truckers alerted me once that Gastner was hobbling along the county road using his walker, for God’s sakes.”

  “I remember that. Who are the other hunters? These kids you’re talking about.”

  “Of my staff?” He hesitated. “Am I going to get someone in trouble?”

  She held up both hands, palms up, and Waddell nodded in resignation. “I guess it’s their own fault if they get crosswise with you folks.”

  “They?”

  “You know what I mean. Whoever it is. Or not.” He looked down and brushed crumbs off his jeans thoughtfully. “Because every inch of NightZone has been posted, naturally hunters tend to use what became the Thompsons’ land. That and the BLM acreage across the county road. And east of us, on the Prescott ranch. No prairie dog is safe.”

  “Who’s your top dog hunter?”

  Waddell grinned. “Our resident assassin would have to be Charlie Pogue. I think you know him. Certainly no kid anymore. I hired him away from the electric company.” He held up his hands to mimic a small box. “He carries his little black tally book when he hunts. I don’t know for sure what his daily record is, but it’s thousands of dogs over the years. Bob Torrez knows him pretty well.”

  “As do I,” Estelle said. Charlie Pogue’s image came to mind, a short, dumpy fellow with hair buzzed to a burr on his big, round head, in his off-­hours volunteering as assistant defensive coach for the Posadas High School Jaguars.

  “He’s got quite the setup,” Waddell added. “Table with attached stool in the back of his pickup, uses a bipod. He’s got some older model Remington with a suppressor. I would hope the whole rig is legal.”

  “It is.”

  “Well, you’d know, right? Every once in a while, he takes one or two of the kids hunting, usually in that flat country north of Prescott’s ranch, or over on the BLM property across the road. He’s a good influence.”

  “Who goes with him?”

  Waddell frowned in thought. “Actually in the aficionado category? I’d say that Rafael Gonzales hunts as much as anybody. Maybe he practices his Japanese with them, I don’t know. But he goes, both by himself and with Charlie. And some of his buds. I’ve seen a handful of ’em in the back of Charlie’s truck. Looks like one of those pictures you see of those Taliban guys in their Toyota pickups.”

  “That’s a sobering image.”

  “Yeah, well. Let’s see. Rolando goes with ’em. He and Rafael are pretty close.” He frowned at the western horizon. “I’ve even seen Maddy Quintana and Cicily Montaño along for the ride. And the Torrez boy, too. Young Quentin.”

  He looked hard at Estelle. “I don’t fancy myself as a career center for young thugs, Estelle. I’ll tell you right now that I think highly of my crew. I wouldn’t keep them on if I didn’t. I don’t think I’m speaking out of turn to say that Clay Simmons thinks the same thing.”

  “I’d like to talk with him. With Charlie Pogue.”

  “That’s easy enough. Right now he’s working over in the auditorium with the new projector project.” He flashed a smile. “Never stops. Bigger, faster, better, higher-­res…it goes on and on.” He leaned forward, lowered his voice, and clamped a hand on each side of his head. “I’ve created a monster, my friend.”

  “More like an amazing artistic creation, Miles.”

  “Thanks for that. I think most people think so. There are always a few who wonder why, you know. But what am I supposed to do, spend all my time playing golf and going on cruises? Give the funds to some charity so the administrators get rich?” He sat back. “I think not. And by the way, the latest from Chicago—­the Sheridan-­Waddell Heritage block sale is going through.”

  “You had mentioned that you were thinking of liquidating some of the remaining Chicago properties. This is one of them, I assume?”

  “Yep. One less worry, and another three hundred
million to invest out here.”

  “Congratulations.” She sipped her water. “Is now a good time to meet with Mr. Pogue?”

  “Hell, why not. Let’s find him.”

  Chapter Twenty-­Four

  “That’s his foot.”

  The foot belonged to a body far up inside the mammoth projector’s innards. Waddell knelt down and crooked his neck. “Charlie, can you spare me a minute or two?”

  The foot shifted and a gruff voice drifted out. “Give me a little bit.”

  “It’s Miles,” Waddell added, and they heard Charlie Pogue chuckle.

  “In that case, check with me sometime next week.”

  “The long arm of the law would like to talk with you, Charlie.”

  “Use the little blue clip for that,” Pogue said to someone else, and for the first time, Estelle realized that the electrician wasn’t alone in the crawl space under the projector. “Tell the sheriff I don’t have time to go hunting today.”

  “It’s not Torrez, Charlie. It’s Undersheriff Reyes-­Guzman.”

  “Oh, my God.” Pogue said something sotto voce to his assistant. “Do I have time to go take a shower?”

  “Nope.”

  “Well, hang in there just a minute.”

  Waddell touched Estelle’s elbow. “I’ll leave you to him. If you need to see me again, I’ll be back over at the solar center.”

  “Thanks for your help, Miles. I’ll keep you posted.”

  “I’d appreciate that.”

  In another minute, Charlie Pogue heaved himself out, moving through the maze of struts and wiring harnesses like a fat inchworm. When his head cleared the access hatch, he paused, curled half on his back, and sucked several deep breaths. He looked up, regarding Estelle.

  “Good afternoon, sir,” she said.

  “Is it? Hell, I don’t even know what time it is. That’s the kind of day it’s been.” With a grunt, he heaved himself first to his knees and then upright. He rubbed his ample belly. “Gotta do something about this gut.” He extended a hand, and his grip was polite. He held up a finger and turned back. “Just wire all the blues, Efrin. I’ll be back in a little bit.”