Double Prey pc-17

by Steven F Havill

  “I know that Freddy crawled in at least part way, and probably more than once. There’ll be marks from that. I think he found the pistol in there, maybe on a second trip. The first time, Casey held his ankle.” Estelle smiled sympathetically. “She didn’t want him going in at all. I don’t think he could have seen much with just the flame from a cigarette lighter. That’s all he had with him.”

  “The first time,” Torrez amended.

  “Exactly. When I slid in there, I had to scoot over a bit before I saw the holster and belt fragment. Freddy would have seen that too, if the pistol was in the holster. But I don’t think it was.”

  “Wouldn’t have been all covered with shit if it was,” the sheriff added. “You didn’t go farther than that?”

  “No, I didn’t. And I lifted the holster just far enough to identify what it was. It’s still in place, and I want photos. Once we crawl in there and disturb the cave, that’s it. Whatever evidence there might be will be ruined. So we need to take our time and do this right.”

  “Posey wants to be in on it,” Torrez said. “It’s their cat, after all.”

  “I don’t blame him. We’re going to need all kinds of people that we don’t have. But right now, I don’t care about a dead cat. I care about finding out what happened to my neighbor.”

  Chapter Twenty

  By the time Estelle Reyes-Guzman was satisfied that she’d seen all there was to see with the four-wheeler, and then surveyed the photo array of the cat skull, finally finishing up by willing herself to review for things missed, it was nearly nine o’clock that Saturday evening. Before heading home, she phoned Bill Gastner. For a moment, she thought he might have gone out on another of his night-time recons, but on the eighth ring, he answered the phone.

  “Damn, you’re patient.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Have you gone home yet?”

  “No. I’m about to.” She quickly filled him in on what they had discovered. “I wanted to know if you’d found a date for the cat in my great-uncle’s journals Padrino.”

  “No. But I’m gradually going blind trying,” he laughed. “I’ve gone back to 1967 so far. Nothing yet. No gato, no jaguar. ”

  “Interesting. We’re going spelunking in the morning, if you’d care to join us.”

  “That’s the darkness and bat-shit thing, isn’t it.”

  “Oh, sí. ”

  “ You’re going to actually need my help?”

  “I think so.”

  “Well, all right then. How about you pick me up?”

  “Done.”

  “Who buys breakfast?”

  “The county will, sir.”

  “Fat chance. I know how this is going to go-about twelve hours out there in the sun without food. I’ll buy.”

  By the time she reached home that night, Irma Sedillos had gone home, Teresa and the two boys were in bed, and her husband was engrossed in his office, the light from the computer screen casting weird shadows down the hallway.

  She settled in the large leather chair, and waited until the physician had finished whatever thoughts were driving his fingers as they flashed over the keyboard.

  “How’s it coming?” she asked as he swiveled his chair around.

  “Like crazy,” Francis said. “You look absolutely beat.”

  “I am.” She leaned forward with her elbows on her knees, then reached out and circled his legs with one arm as he walked around her chair, bending down to sink powerful fingers into the muscles of her neck and shoulders.

  “You’re one big bunch of knots,” he whispered, working down the kinks. “I stopped by to talk with George and Tata for a few minutes. They’ve got a flood of relatives and friends at the house.”

  “I saw the traffic when I drove up.” She sat bolt upright, eyes closed, as his fingers drove down her flanks, following the tension down to her beltline. “I spent the evening with Casey Prescott, out at the cave where they found the cat.”

  “How’s she taking all this?”

  “Well, she’s struggling with it.”

  Her husband shifted both hands and worked on her right side, and she leaned against him. “Why did you need to do that?” he asked.

  “The cave? It turns out,” and she shifted her weight as he did, “that Freddy lied about where he found the cat skeleton.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No. It’s actually a spot over behind Herb Torrance’s place, at the north end of the canyon. When we found Freddy, there was a handgun in the carrier of his four-wheeler. There’s every reason to think it came from the cave as well.”

  Francis paused, and his hands moved up and encircled Estelle’s skull. “Now that’s bizarre.”

  “It is. And I have a feeling that things are going to get más bizarro before we’re through with all this. There’s evidence that someone took a shot at Freddy shortly before his crash.” His hands hesitated at that, and then she groaned as he worked his thumbs in unison up the sides of her neck and over the dome of her skull. His silence was question enough. “We’re not sure how that might have happened.”

  “I talked with Alan,” he said. “He has the autopsy scheduled for tomorrow. He didn’t seem to think there would be any surprises. But you said someone shot at him. They didn’t hit their mark.”

  “Nos vemos.”

  “The shot caused the crash, you think?”

  “I just don’t know. I can’t imagine any other way.” She reached up and took one of his hands in hers. “But I can’t imagine that, either.” It seemed an enormous effort to pry herself out of the chair. “Let me shed some hardware.”

  She unclipped the holstered pistol from her belt, along with the two-way radio, cuffs, and the leather badge holder and stashed them on an upper shelf beside the door. “What’s the update on Butch? Do they know anything yet?”

  “I talked with Dr. Berryman on the phone at some length this afternoon. The boy is responding to treatment as best as can be expected. They’re in uncharted waters with this, I think.” He hunched his shoulders, a habitual expression of I don’t know that Estelle often saw mirrored by their oldest son, Francisco.

  “Your mother asked me tonight if you’d made up your mind about Leister,” he added.

  “Ay, ” she moaned. One of the brochures about Leister Musical Conservatory had been near at hand for a week now. She’d probed the school’s background and reputation, talked with professors, students, and graduates…a check as thorough as if national security was involved.

  The campus in Philadelphia was picturesque, the stone, ivied buildings surrounding a verdant quadrangle crisscrossed with cobblestone walkways, a scene that could have been shot at any number of eastern campuses. Her son had surprised her by discovering Leister on the internet after a recommendation from the itinerant elementary school music teacher-a woman Francisco didn’t particularly like, but to whom he’d apparently listened with at least half an ear. The little boy had presented Estelle with the notion of attending Leister two weeks before, when the brochures he’d ordered arrived in the mail.

  The resident school offered an interesting curriculum-a music-driven program that presented the full spectrum of traditional middle and high school courses wrapped around a core of intensive music theory, application, and performance.

  Acceptance at Leister was determined by audition, and Estelle was surprised to see the claim that a full sixty percent of the 230 students were on full-ride scholarships. Apparently, the bulk of the school’s funding came from massive endowments.

  “I talked with Maestro Miles Cornay a day or two ago.”

  “You’re kidding. How did you manage that?”

  She wagged an eyebrow at him. “We have ways.” She smiled. “No, I was going to talk to you about it, but Butch and then Irma…I got distracted. Anyway, Dr. Cornay gave Leister a shining endorsement. He said the place changed his life.”

  “How so?”

  “That’s where he discovered conducting, apparently. They encouraged him
in that direction.”

  “And now he’s principal conductor in New York,” Francis said. “Not bad.”

  “He suggested we do nothing until we have the chance to visit. In fact, that’s what all the references told me. Unequivocal recommendation, but you have to go there and look for yourself.”

  “Then we need to schedule that, if Francisco is serious.”

  “I think he is.”

  “He’s been quiet about it.”

  “That’s what makes me think he’s serious,” Estelle said. “I get the feeling that he’s afraid we’ll say no if he pesters.”

  “Then we need to visit for everyone’s sake,” her husband said. “We can’t just say no…just because. And we need to do it sooner rather than later.” He wrapped Estelle in his arms. “Right now, he’s trying to make sense of everything that’s happened yesterday. We talked for a while before he went to bed, and he told me that Carlos came out with a zinger. Carlos asked him how long Freddy had to be dead.”

  “Ay, how long,” Estelle groaned. “A long, long time.” She thumped her forehead against his chest. “Things can change so fast. You know, when I was holding Butch, waiting on the EMTs, his brother was already lying dead out in Bender’s Canyon.”

  “There’s nothing you could do about that,” Francis said.

  “I think that someone watched Freddy die, oso. It doesn’t look as if they even went down into the arroyo to check on him. They just left him there.”

  “But you’re not sure of that.”

  “No. I’m not sure. As Padrino is fond of observing, I have this cloud of tiny puzzle pieces swirling around my head. None of them make sense. None of them fits. All I know is that the roof has fallen in on my neighbors and there was nothing I could do about it.”

  Francis enveloped her in his arms again. “We can’t imagine how things might have gone for Butch if you hadn’t responded so quickly,” he said, and Estelle patted his arm impatiently.

  “Sometimes it’s better to be lucky than good,” she said. “I…he… was lucky despite being so unlucky. ” She patted his arm again. “Freddy didn’t even enjoy the tiniest snitch of luck.” She drew away.

  “You ready for some sleep?”

  “I’m ready to try,” she replied. “Let me look in on los hijos first.”

  The boys’ bedroom door was ajar, and Estelle toed it open just far enough to slip through. The two heavy bunk beds, site of such joyful carnage, pillow fights, and tent castles most of the time, were stone quiet. Carlos, who enjoyed the top bunk since his sleep patterns mimicked a hibernating bear, was a small lump under a light blanket. He didn’t stir at his mother’s presence, and Estelle saw that his hands were tightly clasped under his chin.

  Francisco, on the other hand, was a prowler at night. He might rise half a dozen times, his mind a whirl. His soundless practice keyboard rested on the window ledge within easy reach, and Estelle knew that it wasn’t unusual for the little boy to rise, pad out to the living room swathed in his favorite corduroy robe, and sit at the grand piano, fingers roaming the keys with a touch so light that the action didn’t twitch.

  The nine year-old didn’t fight his nocturnal restlessness, and Dr. Guzman’s theory was that the “wolf gene,” as he called it, was inherited from the boy’s late paternal grandmother, an architect who had done as much work during the night as she had the day.

  Estelle knelt down beside the lower bunk.

  “When is Butch coming home?” Francisco whispered.

  “Soon, hijo. Papá says that he’s going to be all right.”

  “Does he know about Freddy?”

  “I suppose so, hijo. His parents would tell him.” She touched his forehead, smoothing back the lock of black hair that always threatened his eyes.

  He let out a long sigh. “I don’t think I want to go.”

  “To Leister, you mean?”

  He nodded.

  “I think we should visit, hijo. So does papá. People can put anything they want in a brochure. You need to see it. You need to talk with people about it.”

  “Do you think I should go?”

  She stroked his cheek. “I think we have to work hard to find just the right school, hijo. This is an important decision for you. For us. ”

  “Butch and Freddy were best friends,” Francisco said.

  “Yes, they were. And Butch is going to be grateful that you and he are friends, hijo. He’s not going to feel very good for a long, long time.”

  “We can’t be friends if I’m at Leister.”

  “Ah.” The little boy’s logic tugged at her heart. Time would heal, she knew, and they would be able to visit the musical academy and make a decision. But the immediate hurt needed to stop first, and she felt as if a huge scimitar was poised over their heads, waiting for an unguarded moment.

  Chapter Twenty-one

  The remains of a leather belt passed through the holster. In the glare of the lights, Estelle Reyes-Guzman could see that rodents, or skunks, or bored coyotes had chewed the leather, and insects had then enjoyed the moist remains. Perhaps the taste of gun oil had been a deterrent, since the holster was nearly untouched.

  “Oh, joy,” Linda Real whispered.

  “How are you going to do this?” Estelle answered. They were huddled close together in the confines of the overhang, the flow of cool air coming from deep within the mesa through the small slit in the rocks. A few more rocks had been removed, marginally enlarging access.

  “I’ll try everything,” the photographer said. “This might be time for the old tissue trick.” The camera’s flash, even set on the manufacturer’s optimistic “auto” setting, was simply too powerful for the tight spaces. The bolt of light washed out the image’s detail. To block it, Linda doubled a small square of clean tissue and held it over the flash, experimenting with several efforts until she had defused and muted the light to her satisfaction. She fired off a dozen photos, and each time Estelle looked away, taking the milliseconds of opportunity to survey the rest of the cave as it was illuminated by the muted flash.

  In places, a coyote could walk upright once he’d squeezed through the entrance. The floor of the passage was studded with rocks, and more hung precariously from the ceiling. Great fissures extended off in all directions, but there appeared to be a central crack, a central vent, from which the air flowed.

  “Okay. This is interesting.” Linda reached back and moved one of the spot lights that was supported by a squat tripod no more than ten inches high. “Here I was worried about H1N1. Now I can set my sights on something more interesting, like hantavirus or rabies. Maybe a touch of distemper.” She adjusted her cotton face mask and then pulled down her baseball cap a little tighter.

  “Hold still a minute,” Estelle said, and she could feel Linda’s body tense as if she’d announced a spider or worse. The undersheriff reached out with a pencil and touched a portion of the belt. “What’s that?”

  “Oh, gross,” Linda replied cheerfully. “That, my friend, is a belt loop from a pair of pants. Or what’s left of it. And this…” She reached out and pointed, the tip of her finger within a millimeter of a scrap of something… “looks like fabric, like some more of the trousers.”

  The camera blasted several more times. “You up for this?” Linda asked.

  “Sure. Why not.” Estelle could think of a hundred reasons why not. Her breath in the face mask kicked back hot and moist, fogging her safety glasses. Most of the bats had left in protest, but they hadn’t found any other creatures who objected to their presence other than a spider or two and one energetic stink beetle. What lay deeper in the crevices, watching their progress, was anyone’s guess.

  “Oh, double gross,” Linda said. “You see that?”

  “Yes.” The remains of the belt terminated in a buckle, a large brass utility buckle. Estelle could see where the end of the belt with the adjustment holes passed through the buckle, still securely attached. She touched a dust-covered hump, flicking a bit of bat or lizard guano to one s
ide. “That would be a vertebrae.”

  “Oh, joy.”

  “Bobby?” Estelle called.

  “Yep.” The sheriff had settled down directly in front of the packrat’s nest, and he reached out and tapped the bottom of Estelle’s boot.

  “I need a soft brush. There’s one in my briefcase out by the entrance.”

  “Ten four.” In a moment she felt the tap again and she reached back and secured the soft-bristled artist’s brush.

  “Deep in the Egyptian tomb,” Linda said, her voice a bass imitation of the voice-overs for movie previews, “lay a secret covered by the dust of the ages. ” She then provided a couple bars of appropriate theme music.

  With deft strokes, Estelle gently ushered layers of dust off the belt and the bones it encircled. Just beyond her hand, the floor of the crevice fell away, with stones blocking her view. “I can’t really see what’s what,” she said, loud enough for Torrez to hear. “We have bones. The belt is still around a portion of vertebrae, but I don’t know about the rest. There are some rocks in the way. If I can move a couple of them…”

  “Negative that,” Torrez snapped. “I’m not diggin’ you out after everything collapses.”

  “It’s not about to,” Estelle replied, and she heard Linda whisper something to herself. “Push the light so it shines over this way a bit,” she added, and the photographer did so. “I think this is as far as Freddy managed. I don’t see any fresh scuffing where he would have had to have crawled. But this…” and she thumped a rock the size of a microwave oven with the heel of her hand. “Is right in the way, unless I pretend I’m a coyote.”

  “That rock hasn’t been there for eons,” Linda observed, and any tone of levity had disappeared. “Look up.”

  And sure enough, a football-sized rock hung above them, prevented from falling by a couple of tiny projections that had jammed against neighbors. The microwave oven had lost its grip, but the space where it had been suspended until some time recently…by geologic standards anyway…shown pale.

  “Let me try something,” Linda said. “Back up a little.”