Rafael Gonzales had seen their dusty approach down the county road, and he stood at the ready by the gate.
“Good morning, Officers,” he said with a welcoming smile. “You’re out and about early.”
“Yup. Where’s Rolando Ortega workin’ this morning?”
“I think…I think…that he’s working down at the new pavilion. But I’m not sure. Let me check.” He stepped away from the sheriff’s vehicle and juggled clipboard and handheld radio. A voice that sounded like a ten-year-old responded.
“Tracie, where’s Orlando workin’ this morning?”
“Just a minute.” In less than that, she added, “He’s out with one of the field crews.”
“I thought he was. But where? At the new pavilion? I have a couple of guests who need to speak with him.” He looked at Torrez, then looked heavenward as he waited.
“Just a minute.”
The second voice was instantly recognizable. “Rafael, they’re working in that rough country behind the pavilion. We don’t want guests down there just yet. Who do you have?”
“It’s Sheriff Torrez and Undersheriff Guzman, sir.”
“Oh, well then, put him on, please.”
Rafael reached out and handed the radio to Torrez. “It’s Mr. Waddell, sir.”
“I figured.”
“Morning, Robert. Look, if you and Estelle are up for a little scrambling, you can find the crew out beyond the train stop, around that gigunda rock museum we’ve got out there. They’re working on laying the power cables for the new pavilion. I gotta show you the renderings of it. I mean, really swank.”
“We’ll head that way.”
“Who are you looking to talk to?”
“Rolando Ortega.”
“One of the best I’ve got,” Waddell said. “Look, do you need me for anything just now? I’ve got a conference call with the university folks in California, linked up with another university group in Brisbane.”
“Go for it. We’ll just wander around. Don’t need no guide.”
“I bet you don’t,” Waddell said affably. “I’ll be tied up for an hour or so, maybe less. If you’re still on-site then, let’s do brunch.”
The sheriff’s reply was not much more than a mumble, and then he handed the radio back to Rafael, who pointed to a modernistic sculpture that marked the train stop. At the terminus of its run, the locomotive would edge up to that sculpture until bumpers touched. “If you park over by the stop, sir, it’s a pretty easy walk around the end of the mesa. There are a bunch of surveyor flags over there, and you’ll see the crews.”
“Rafael, thanks,” Estelle said.
“Have a great day.”
“He’s such a personable kid,” Estelle said as they headed across the parking lot. Her hope was to coax some complimentary, or at least agreeing, comment from Torrez, but he didn’t indulge.
Nosing the Expedition under a carefully trimmed juniper, he pointed ahead. “They’ll be right through there.”
The hiking was more a question of rock skipping as they worked their way around the east end of the mesa, following a trail of blue surveyor’s flags. “It’s going to take some work to establish a civilized trail through all this,” Estelle said. Torrez had paused on a truck-sized boulder, scouting the route. He looked up toward the mesa rim, where the natural process of mass wasting brought the rocks to the bottom, in all sizes and shapes. In another few yards, they heard voices. By the time they reached the work crew, they were completely out of sight of the parking area, the train stop, or the entry building and gate. What they saw was the magnificent sweep of the prairie toward the east and south. Although Estelle knew every ranching family in the area, not a single building was in view.
There was just enough breeze to set the scrub brush, the acacia, the junipers, and burr oak whispering.
“Hey, there!” a voice greeted them, and Logan Barnes waved a hand. Barnes had traded a long career with the State Highway Department to join the NightZone crew, and the work appeared to agree with him. Lean and agile, he picked his way across to them. “You come back here in four months, and it’ll be a different place.” He stopped, shook hands with both officers, and then stood with his hands on his hips, admiring the view. “Something, ain’t it?”
He’d gotten too much sun, and both ears were red and peeling around the margins. “What we’re doing right now is flagging a route for the power and water.” He shook his head in dismay. “Just no good way, and Waddell wants everything out of sight, out of mind.”
He turned quickly back to Torrez. “But you wanted to talk to me about something?”
“We need to talk with Rolando Ortega.”
“Well, shit. He didn’t come in today. They should have been able to tell you that in the office. Who’d you talk to?”
“I think it was Tracie, topside,” Estelle said. “But we spoke with Miles, too.”
“Well, that explains a lot. Waddell, he don’t know that sort of thing, and Tracie is one of our younger generation space cases.” He grinned and shifted his dark blue ball cap on the red stubble. “No, Rolando didn’t make it today, and that sort of thing ain’t going to work for us, not if he keeps it up.”
“He never showed up at all?”
“Nope. Can I help you with something?” He lowered his voice. “The kid in trouble, somehow, with you all?”
“We just need to talk with him, Logan.”
“I’m kinda surprised he skipped today. You know, he’s a moody kid, but a hard worker. And he’s got a genuine affection for this crazy place. He was concerned for a while about those folks who bought the land north of us. Not too many kids are concerned one way or another about view shed, but you know, I think he is.”
He shifted position and stretched out a hand toward the north. “There’s one spot…just one…where if you know where to look, you can see the locomotive going in and out. Right through that sort of pass right there, about five hundred yards out? Past that grove of scrub oak and that thicket of acacia? Only place you can see it from here.
“And I think that’s a nifty idea. You get a bunch of bird-watchers sitting around out here, and that little glimpse of the train, quiet as it is, kinda acts like an alarm clock, if you know what I mean.”
“You said that Rolando had a concern about that?” Estelle asked.
“Well, no, not about the train or anything. But he was wondering what kind of development those folks were thinking about. Over there?” He pointed farther north. “The whole side of that rise is theirs, and on over into them foothills beyond. I can see his point. Get more development, and it’s sure to be an eyesore. Can’t help but be.”
“It’s hard to stop development,” Estelle said.
“That’s what they say, and that’s exactly what I think, and you know, it’s what I told Rolando and the rest of the boys. Look, I remember years ago when those vandals tried to stop this development by cuttin’ down power poles. Remember that?”
“Of course.”
“And where did that get ’em? I mean, killed the one kid, right? And what did they accomplish? Here NightZone is, and here it is to stay.” He shrugged. “I suppose Rolando is at home. You have his number?” He had his cell phone half out when Estelle shook her head and reached out to touch his arm.
“We’ll drop by. No big deal.”
“But he shoulda called us, you know. Can’t just skip work and expect to keep your job.”
“You’ve been working this site since…”
“We got the aerial photo blowup, and now we’re flagging the route from topside. Been out here in the rocks all week. Started last Monday.” He grinned, showing lots of space for additional teeth. “Gettin’ a backhoe or excavator out here is going to be a trick, don’t you think?”
“Not if you got a Skycrane,” Torrez replied.
“You us
ed to hunt this country, as I recall.”
“Used to.”
Logan grinned at the taciturn reply. “Maybe that’s where Rolando got off to. He’s a huntin’ son of a gun, that kid. Still, he’s supposed to be here.” He jabbed an index finger toward the ground. “You want him to call you?”
“We’ll work it out, Logan,” Estelle said. “Thanks for the heads-up.”
“And watch your step goin’ back,” the man cautioned. “We had a time with the snakes on this hill. Killed a dozen or so already.” His face lit up in a broad smile. “You ever see those signs like they got at some of the state and federal monuments around? ‘Respect the rattlesnakes’ privacy and stay on the trail?’ Something like that, anyway. Waddell’s going to have to buy a whole batch of those for posting. And bird-watchers aren’t too keen about watching their feet.” He mimed holding a pair of binoculars to his eyes as he looked skyward. “You folks be careful.”
Only lizards regarded their passage back through the jumble of boulders and scrub, and when they reached the parking lot, the locomotive and its four cars had just drifted to a stop, the engine’s custom-made bumper/cow catcher ever so gently nudging the spring-backed stop.
To Estelle’s astonishment, she counted forty-one people disembarking. A quick count tallied eleven who were obviously Asian, two couples flinging excited German back and forth, with the rest comfortable in either English or Spanish. An impressive collection of cameras and binoculars adorned all but the seven young women who wore NightZone shirts, arriving for the day shift. Quentin Torrez disembarked from the lead car. Rolando Ortega was not in the group.
“Not too long ago, I used to hunt this country,” Torrez muttered. He had moved into the spotty shade of a juniper to watch the tourists arrive. “Could hike all day and not see a single person. Now we got trains running through it.”
“Or at least a train,” Estelle added. “Do you know where Rolando is living now?”
“I do. There’s a problem with that, though.”
“I can see that.”
“We don’t got anything on this guy,” Torrez said. Once inside the Expedition, he sat silently behind the wheel, staring off into space. “We don’t got much, anyway.” He shrugged and tapped a slow rhythm on the steering wheel. “He borrows a rifle from my nephew. That don’t mean he used it to strafe the newspaper building.” He lifted one hand. “He owns a motorcycle. That don’t mean he rode over to Thompson’s property with it.” He turned and looked at Estelle. “He’s in that taekwondo class, but that don’t mean he kicked Thompson over the cliff.”
Estelle was surprised at Torrez’s defense of the young man, since the sheriff had spent days convicting his nephew on far more speculative evidence. “And now he’s upset enough about something that he skips work without a phone call or excuse,” Estelle said. “Before we go any further down the road with this, I want to talk with Maddy again.”
“Might as well while we’re here.”
Tracie was still on deck, and her voice was just as chirpy over the phone as it had been earlier on the radio. “Oh, Undersheriff Guzman, hi. Did you find Rolando?”
“Good morning, Tracie. Thanks for pointing us in the right direction,” Estelle said.
Apparently Tracie was satisfied with the unanswer, because she bubbled, “No problem.”
Actually, there are lots of problems, Estelle thought. “Is Maddy available?”
“Just a minute, please. Let me check.” Shortly she returned to the phone. “So, actually, Maddy won’t be in today. There’s a note on the board that she called early this morning. I mean, she normally doesn’t come in for the breakfast run anyway, ’cause she works afternoons and evenings.”
“I’ll catch her another time then. Thanks.” She switched off as Torrez started the Expedition. “It’s sort of like dominos, isn’t it?” she said.
Chapter Thirty-One
Bustos Avenue crossed the village of Posadas east-west, and once clear of the village eastbound became County Road 19, a wandering, dusty path that cut through the flat scrubland, featureless save for a handful of arroyos that carved some character into the prairie.
On the southern horizon, Estelle could see the hump of the mountain of crushed stone that marked McIlhenny’s Sand and Gravel enterprise, but the hard sunlight didn’t reflect off a single ranch house roof. “Bleak” was the word that came to mind to describe eastern Posadas County.
A quarter of a mile after the pavement of Bustos Avenue gave up to the gravel, it gave up to the pretentious name Camino del Sol, which in turn became just plain old County Road 19. The CR19 dust generator passed the abandoned drive-in theater whose towering screen had long since been pummeled to rubble by the winds, then skirted by the remains of Valerio’s Mobile Home Park—neither a park nor home to any trailers.
The Ortegas liked their solitude, Estelle thought. Just beyond the remains of the mobile home park, a tiny, tidy adobe nestled in a grove of stunted elms. Once home to a hardscrabble rancher and his schoolteacher wife, the place had been abandoned for years after their deaths until Juan Ortega recognized a good deal. He purchased the old Hocking place, cleaned out the dust, lizards, rattlesnakes, and mice, and settled in with his patient wife and their three kids.
Rolando Ortega was the youngest of the three, just twelve years old when Juan Ortega drove his aging pickup up into the Oria National Forest on top of Cat Mesa, and settled in with two unopened fifths of cheap bourbon. He’d made it through half of the second bottle before his system said, “Enough.” Woodcutters discovered his nearly embalmed corpse the next day.
Estelle clearly remembered the almost serene expression on Juan Ortega’s face, his head leaning against the door frame, the empty whiskey bottle on the passenger side floor, the half-finished one cradled between his legs.
Rolando’s mother, Alva, took the death of her husband with philosophical equanimity. Maybe it was just relief. Although neither Alva nor the children bore visible bruises, hearsay claimed that Juan was quick with his fists. Estelle had spent some time sorting through department records and could find no complaints against the man. She’d seen him often enough at Posadas High School sporting events, where Juan’s eldest son, Lolo, lettered in three sports.
Daughter Cindy Ortega wasn’t such a standout, but managed to graduate and found a job in Albuquerque, clerking in a jewelry shop in Old Town that featured Native American crafts. As far as Estelle knew, Cindy had never returned to Posadas County.
Rolando, the youngest of the three Ortegas, drifted along at half-throttle or less, content to hunt, ride his ATV, and watch cable television. He’d tried rodeo work until a bull had stomped him. He tried a weight-lifting program for a while until the monotony of that bored him. During his sophomore year, he’d become friends with a middle school student named Quentin Torrez when, entirely by chance, the two boys played hooky on the same day, seeing the perfect October weather as a chance to blast around the county on their motorcycles. Their paths crossed up on the mesa by the abandoned Consolidated Reservoir, where they spent a companionable hour assassinating frogs.
Sheriff’s Deputy Thomas Pasquale had surprised the two kids there and sent them home with a handful of stern warnings: stop skipping school, stop trespassing, stop shooting their twenty-twos in a spot where bullets were sure to ricochet off wet rocks.
Pasquale might as well have saved his breath. He wrote a most entertaining report on the incident that then crossed the undersheriff’s desk. Undeterred by their brush with the law, the two youngsters continued to be driven by the spirit of adventure. Soon enough, there wasn’t a back road or trail in Posadas County where the two hadn’t raised dust.
Miles Waddell’s development in southwestern Posadas County was an attractive nuisance, but fate opened the correct door, behind which Rolando found himself an entry-level maintenance job that paid more than he’d ever known.
Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman admitted to more than a touch of anxiety as she and Sheriff Robert Torrez drove out County Road 19. Helping to keep the community’s children on the straight and narrow until they became responsible adults and made productive lives for themselves was a fundamental charge for law officers. Of course it was the parents’ responsibility—and one of the easiest responsibilities to ignore.
As little as Bob Torrez talked about it, Estelle sometimes wished she could adopt the sheriff’s simple philosophy. If a person breaks the law, arrest him or her. Period. Don’t lose sleep over it. Don’t waste time or money on fancy programs that tried to do the parents’ job.
Torrez slowed as they reached the Ortegas’ driveway. Someone was certainly home. Three vehicles were parked this way and that: an older model, much-faded brown Oldsmobile Ciera; a massive, blocky Chevy C-10 short-bed pickup from the mid-sixties; and a diminutive Hyundai sedan with a back fender adorned with duct tape holding the left taillight assembly in place.
“The Olds belongs to Alva,” Estelle said. Now retired from a bookkeeping service in Posadas, Alva Ortega kept busy with a few accounts managed from home. “The truck is Rolando’s. The Hyundai is Maddy’s.”
“He ain’t at work, the girl is shacked up for the day, and you gotta wonder,” Torrez mused. “Hey?” he muttered, and pointed. A hundred yards up the road, near an optimistic stand of acacia trying to grow in the bar ditch, a vehicle sat with its hood up. An older model Ford Explorer, a liberal coating of Posadas County dust disguised any shine from its silver paint job. “What’s she doing out here?”
“I have a feeling that maybe old habits die hard.”
“She wasn’t a cop long enough to develop old habits,” the sheriff scoffed. He accelerated the Expedition on up the road and stopped window to window with the Explorer. Lydia Thompson sat relaxed behind the wheel, not looking the least bit stranded—and not the least bit intimidated by Torrez’s glare. She looked tired, Estelle thought. Lydia took off her sunglasses, and the dark circles under her eyes said she hadn’t managed much sleep.
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