Double Prey pc-17

by Steven F Havill

  Herb Torrance looked at Estelle skeptically. “Last time I saw him was what, four or five years ago? Something like that? Always wondered what happened to him, but didn’t care enough to ask. Last time I saw him, he was drivin’ a fancy rig. Seems to be it was dark blue or black, maybe. Think it was a Ford. That’s about as close as I can come.”

  Estelle beckoned, and he followed her to the Quonset. She held the door for the rancher and for Gastner, and shut it securely behind them.

  Standing with his hands on his hips, Torrance regarded the mess on the floor. He shifted a step or two to the side, looked some more, and then said, “Shows some use, don’t it.” He looked up at the others in the room, as if seeing them for the first time. “Bobby, you fellas workin’ to restore this? Your budget that tight, is it?”

  “Just needs a little touch-up,” Torrez replied.

  He pivoted at the waist and regarded Estelle. “You’re askin’ about Eddie Johns? Does this have something to do with that?”

  “Yes, sir. It does.”

  “This what’s left of his truck? Is that what you’re gettin’ at?”

  “Can you tell us anything about it, sir?”

  Torrance’s eyes narrowed a little, and he walked the length of the carcass, the expression on his face that of a rancher judging livestock. Estelle let him look without interrupting his train of thought.

  “Couldn’t really say,” he said finally. “I guess this was black once upon a time, and I’d guess it was a Ford crew cab.” He held up both hands in surrender. “That’s my best shot, but then I guess you folks already know all that.”

  “Sir, can you tell us why Gus Prescott would have this wrecked vehicle at his ranch?”

  Herb Torrance looked genuinely surprised. “Now wait,” he said. “He did have a truck that belonged to Johns. Big old three-quarter ton. Gus told me about that. The story goes that Johns had it parked over at Giarelli Sand and Gravel in Deming when a kid driving an ore truck screwed up royally and drove right over it. Gus said he bought the wreck for salvage…wanted the engine, I guess. Well, now. This is the one?”

  “It might be, sir. Did the truck catch fire in the accident?”

  Herb chuckled. “Don’t think so.” He chuckled again. “Ah…” He shook his head in amusement. “I tell you, if Gus Prescott didn’t have bad luck, he wouldn’t have no luck at all.” He shook his head again. “Let me tell you about that. I was drivin’ to town one day and saw this plume of black smoke shootin’ up. Right over at Gus’ place. So I drove in, and by the time I get there, he’s standin’ there lookin’ at a smokin’ wreck. See, he was tryin’ to cut something off the truck-one of the bumper supports, I think. Anyway, before he knows it, the damn thing catches fire. He had this garden hose stretched all the way over from the house. That and a little fire extinguisher. He coulda set the whole ranch on fire. Damn good thing it wasn’t windy.”

  “And that’s when he told you the truck originally belonged to Johns?”

  “Yep.”

  “When was this, Mr. Torrance?”

  “Oh, hell, it’s been a couple years. Three or four, maybe. He just pushed the wreck over there in line with all the other junk he’s got. I guess,” and Torrance paused to scratch his scalp. “I guess he got out the engine and tranny. I know that he wanted to put the diesel in his own truck. Wouldn’t be surprised. He’s actually a fair hand as a mechanic.”

  Estelle looked across at where Bill Gastner rested against a work bench. His arms were crossed over his belly, and he lifted both shoulders in a helpless shrug, a tinge of relief on his broad face.

  “What’d he pay Eddie for this piece of junk?” Gastner asked. “Did he say?”

  “He didn’t. Wouldn’t have been much, ‘cause Gus ain’t got much. Maybe they made a deal for some work. Don’t know. Gus didn’t say, and I didn’t ask.”

  “I never got the impression that Gus cared much for Eddie Johns,” Gastner continued.

  A hint of wariness crossed Herb Torrance’s face. “You’d have to talk to him about that. Johns was all right, long as you didn’t have to be in the same county with him.” His smile was thin. “I’d be curious to know how he come to end up stuffed in that little cave.”

  “Us too,” Gastner replied.

  Chapter Forty

  After Herb Torrance had left, it was Bill Gastner who first voiced the confliction of relief and disappointment. “Well, I thought I had something. So where are we now?”

  “One version,” the sheriff said cryptically. He had his cell phone in hand, and walked off toward a dark corner of the Quonset. He spoke so quietly that Estelle couldn’t hear him, and she turned to Gastner.

  “We need to contact Giarelli’s, Padrino, ” she said. “It’s not that I think Herb would lie to us, but it’s a loose end.”

  “I can’t imagine Gus making up something like that,” Gastner said. “It’s possible, I suppose.”

  “How long have you known him, sir?”

  “Gus? Good God, sweetheart, just about forever. Well, twenty years, anyway. Before he bought that place, he worked for Burton Livestock, over in Deming. That outfit that supplies rodeo livestock? He managed to drive one of their livestock rigs into a bar ditch. Killed some stock, wrecked an expensive truck.”

  “Alcohol a factor?”

  “Sure. He’s never been able to beat it. Learned to harness it a little, maybe.” He sighed. “Old Gus has his share of demons, that’s for sure. I guess he’s no different from the rest of us in that respect. Nice kids, though. I just love ’em.”

  “I’m surprised, though,” Estelle mused.

  “At?”

  “Well, it surprises me, after what we’ve heard, to find out that Gus would associate with Eddie Johns enough that he’d buy his wrecked truck.”

  “Oh, come on, sweetheart. Where there’s a possibility of making a buck, where wheeling and dealing is concerned, personalities go by the wayside. Johns could be a charmer when he wanted to be. Gus saw a possibility for a good deal, and snapped it up. You know what one of those big diesel engines costs new in a box?”

  “A lot.”

  “A lot is exactly right. And the engine with a matching transmission? A whopper. Gus has himself an older Ford, and here’s an opportunity to kick it up a notch.”

  “Why would Eddie Johns sell something he knew to be valuable for salvage for nickel-dime?”

  “We don’t know what Gus paid for it. On top of that, the insurance company might have already forked over to Johns for the loss.”

  “Did he strike you as the sort of guy who would just give stuff away, sir?”

  “He strikes me as the sort who’d give Gus a good deal if he knew that he’d get something that he wants in return. Who knows…maybe he traded for a hundred hours of grader time. Something like that. You’ll just have to ask him.”

  They both turned as Torrez approached. “Giarelli never had a wreck like Torrance was talkin’ about,” he said. “Doesn’t know who Eddie Johns is. Never had any dealings with anyone by that name. Hasn’t had a driver wreck a truck on the highway since 1969. Never had a wreck with anyone visiting the crusher plant.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Gastner said wearily. “So who’s lying?”

  “Don’t think that Giarelli is, but I got Gayle givin’ Deming PD a call for a records check. We’ll know soon enough. If there was a wreck, the insurance companies would require a report.”

  “But no word from Mears yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “Where are we heading with all this?” Bill Gastner asked. “If we’re thinking that Gus Prescott killed Eddie Johns…”

  “I’d want to hear a reason,” Torrez said. “Give me a motive.” The room fell silent. “’Cause nothin’ ties any of this together.”

  “Meaning the tie with Freddy Romero?”

  Torrez nodded. “It ain’t no secret that Gus didn’t like the kid. He ain’t exactly welcoming him into the family, is he. So he sees the kid ride by, and maybe follows him? Is tha
t the idea? There’s a dozen reasons that Gus might want to go through the canyon. Doesn’t mean that he’s lyin’ in wait for Freddy, does it.”

  “Unless he knew why Freddy was snooping around that particular piece of real estate,” Gastner added. “If Gus saw the article in the paper, he knew two things. One, that Freddy found the cat skeleton. Two, that the kid didn’t find it where he said he did. That’s kind of interesting, you have to admit.”

  “I want to hear from Mears after he talks with the Ford dealer in Las Cruces,” Estelle said. “And then I want to hear Mr. Prescott’s version of the Giarelli story.”

  Torrez nodded. “Don’t be goin’ down there by yourself.” He turned and looked first at the silent Tom Pasquale, then at Gastner. “That goes for anybody just now. Not ‘til we know what we’re dealing with.”

  “How sure are you that someone took at shot at Freddy Romero’s four-wheeler, Robert?” Gastner asked, and when Torrez didn’t respond immediately with anything other than a raised eyebrow, the former sheriff added, “Because that makes a substantial difference. If someone did, then the threat may very well still be with us. If not, then the trail behind Eddie Johns’ killer might be five years stone cold.”

  Torrez remained silent. “I mean, what have you got?” Gastner continued. “A little scuff mark on the ATV’s front shield, a rock-shredded tire, and a tiny, amorphous bit of brass that could just as easily be the remains of a brass deck screw or from a bit of brass plumbing pipe that jounced out of someone’s truck.”

  “I am one hundred percent sure,” the sheriff said softly. “I know a bullet fragment when I see it. And so does Sarge. And the microscope don’t lie, Bill.”

  Gastner nodded. “Then someone’s still out there with a rifle, folks.”

  “That’s all I’m sayin’,” Torrez said.

  “I need to talk with Casey Prescott again,” Estelle said. “And I don’t want an army with me when I do it. I know she’s not in school today.”

  “You called the ranch?” Torrez asked.

  “No. The school, earlier. I didn’t want to call the ranch before I had to.”

  “I’m no army,” Bill Gastner said, “and nobody’s going to mistake me for one.”

  “I could use your fatherly perspective, sir.”

  “My ‘fatherly perspective.’ My own kids might argue about the value of that.”

  A few moments later, as they both settled in Estelle’s county car, she looked across at Gastner. “I have a theory,” she said, but he quickly held up a hand to stop her.

  “I don’t want to know anything that might color my ‘fatherly perspective,’ sweetheart. Besides,” he said, “I have a few theories of my own. Unfortunately, none of them are worth a good God damn.”

  “Suppose that Gus Prescott disliked Freddy Romero just as much as he claims. Any Mexican who walks the earth. Suppose that he’s just as much of a bigot as he likes to sound. He doesn’t want a Mexican kid dating his daughter. His daughter might have let it slip that she was riding the four-wheeler with Freddy all over the place, and maybe let it slip that she was with the boy when he found the cat.”

  “Just suppose.”

  “So Gus sees Freddy ride by, and takes the opportunity to go talk with the kid. Maybe try to scare him away.”

  “Maybe. With a rifle shot across the bow? Got a little too close for comfort.”

  “That’s more than likely. I mean, how easy is it to hit a fast-moving target for the average shooter? I don’t know what kind of gun Gus might own, but it’s apt to be your average ranch rifle of some kind.”

  “Plenty hard, no matter what.”

  “Exactly. For one thing, he’s been drinking. He decides it would be a good thing to scare the boy, but when he tries it, he gets a little too close. One shot wings the front fender and tire, and startles the boy for just that fraction of a second that it takes to make a mistake. Pow, Freddy hits the rock, and over he goes.”

  “Or Gus wanted to kill him, wanted to hit him, and is a piss-poor shot.”

  “Either way the results are the same,” Estelle said. “I vote for accidental discharge.”

  “And all that’s if Gus is telling the truth about Eddie Johns’ truck.”

  “See, that’s the thing, sir. If he isn’t telling the truth, then he has more reason to stop Freddy than just fatherly concern for his lovely daughter,” Estelle said.

  “’Fatherly concern’ isn’t a just kind of thing, sweetheart. People have killed for much, much less. Is Casey pregnant? You know what dads think about that, too. When my kids were growing up, there was a time or two when I thought I was going to have to shoot somebody.”

  “I don’t think she is, sir.”

  “But you can’t be sure.”

  “No…not until I ask her.”

  Chapter Forty-one

  “I don’t want you talking to her.” Jewell Prescott stood squarely in the doorway of the double-wide mobile home, and there was no mistaking her posture. With one hand on each door jamb, she was an effective road block. As if picking up unpleasant intimations, the three dogs, at first so bumptiously gleeful, had retreated to a shady spot at the end of the trailer near a propane tank.

  “Mrs. Prescott, I wouldn’t intrude if I didn’t think it was important,” Estelle Reyes-Guzman said.

  “Oh, everything is important,” the heavy woman said. “And my two daughters are important to me. Listen, Casey’s in just terrible straights right now. She doesn’t want to go to school and put up with all those questions. And I see no reason to be dredging all this unhappiness up over and over again. You just go talk to someone else about all this.”

  “Mrs. Prescott,” Estelle said, “When there’s an official investigation, we talk with whomever the situation requires. I’m sure you understand that. I’m certainly sorry for any intrusion, but that’s just the way it is.”

  “There’s nothing Casey can tell you.”

  “That remains to be seen, Mrs. Prescott.”

  “Bill, you’ve known us for years,” the woman said, and Bill Gastner nodded slightly, his expression sober. “What are we supposed to do? What are we supposed to tell you?”

  “It’s the simplest thing if you just allow us to do our job and get on with it,” he said.

  “I don’t have to let you all talk with Casey, do I?” The question was directed to Bill Gastner, but Estelle saved him the trouble of being diplomatic.

  “No, ma’am, you don’t,” Estelle said. “And if that’s the route you and your husband wish to take, then two hours from now, we’ll be back with a court order, Mrs. Prescott. You’re perfectly welcome to be present when we talk with Casey. In fact, I encourage it. She’ll probably feel more comfortable with you there.”

  Jewell Prescott almost smiled. “Oh, I’m not so sure of that, young lady. There’s a number of things we don’t see eye to eye on.”

  Estelle saw movement behind the woman, and both Casey and her older sister Christina appeared.

  “Come on, mom,” Casey said. “None of this is going to go away.” Her mother didn’t move her arms, and Casey leaned against her well-padded shoulder, rubbing her cheek on her mother’s arm. “Come on.” Her eyes were red-rimmed, but she managed a smile for Estelle. “Christine and I will talk with the sheriff.”

  “Oh, I just don’t think…” Jewell bit off her words and shook her head vehemently, tears coming to her eyes.

  “It’ll be okay.” Casey circled her mother’s shoulders in a hug, and then as her mother turned, slipped past her.

  “Is your father home?” Estelle asked.

  “He went into town to get a part for the grader,” Christine said. She hugged her mother as well, but Jewell didn’t follow them out the door. She watched with sad eyes, as if she had every expectation of never seeing them again. She lifted a hand once as if she wanted to say something, then thought better of it.

  “Thanks, Jewell,” Bill Gastner said.

  “I’ve always trusted you,” she said, and it was an a
dmonition rather than a compliment, as if to say, “I’ve tried…I can’t do it…now it’s your turn. ”

  “I appreciate that, Jewell. You hang in there.”

  “Oh, boy,” she murmured, and backed away from the door, closing out the intrusion of the outside world.

  “Let’s go look at the horses,” Casey suggested, and she walked with her hands shoved in her hip pockets, heading toward the small corral and shed. Two horses stood like statutes, watching their approach, and the mare nickered as they drew near. Christine stooped down and scooped up a wayward treat of hay, a movement not lost on the mare, who crowded the fence.

  “I always feel better with these guys,” Casey said, stroking the young bay gelding’s silky neck. “Sis and I were just getting ready to go for a ride. If you’d come ten minutes later, we’d be a dust trail on the horizon.”

  “I’m glad we didn’t miss you.” Estelle gently pushed the mare’s head away. Still munching hay, the animal seemed fascinated by the undersheriff’s cap. “Did your father talk to you about Thursday?”

  “What do you mean, did he talk? About Freddy, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “When I got home from school, he had the newspaper and had read the article about finding the cat’s skeleton. The first thing he wanted to know was whether I’d gone with Freddy to Borracho. I don’t know why he thought I would have, but parents seem to have this radar, you know? They always seem to know. He was real angry that I might have skipped school. I mean real angry.”

  “Did you tell him that you were with Freddy when he found the cat?”

  Estelle could see a slow flush creep up Casey’s neck and fan across her peaches and cream cheeks. “No.” She glanced at her sister. “He’d been drinking, and he was upset. I don’t know why the article ticked him off so, except he doesn’t like Freddy, and here’s this neat article and all. But I just said no. I didn’t want to have another argument. I didn’t say we’d been out there together on Sunday, or anything else.”