Out of Season pc-7

by Steven F Havill

  “That’s interesting,” she said, her gaze intent on the first three guns in the row. I recognized the M-1 Garand that stood in the number-one slot, its bayonet lug looking clumsy and angular in comparison with the slender barrels of the various sporting arms.

  “I used to shoulder one of those,” I said. “Worth some money now.”

  “And thirty-ought-six is a good, all-around caliber for ranch work,” Estelle added. “And a modern version,” she added, indicating the third gun in line. “Recognize it?”

  The rifle was black, with lots of sharp corners and doo dads, including a long, heavy clip that hung down just in front of the trigger guard. “Maybe a Heckler and Koch. I don’t know. I haven’t kept up with that stuff.”

  “It looks to be the same size bore as the ought-six,” Estelle said. “If it’s foreign, it might be the NATO round. Three-oh-eight.”

  “You interested in hardware?” Edwin Boyd asked. I half turned, startled. I hadn’t heard him return from the kitchen.

  “It’s all kind of neat,” I said and pointed at the assault rifle. “What’s that thing?”

  Edwin peered through the glass as if he were looking at the collection for the first time. He reached out and turned the small key that was in the lock, then opened the door.

  “Oh, that’s the boy’s. Some damn thing.” He hefted the rifle out of the case. “Some foreign thing. But I tell you what, it’s hell on wheels. Accurate as I’ve ever seen and spits ’em out just like that.” He handed me the rifle. I was surprised at its weight.

  “Quite a piece,” I said and popped the clip. The brass of the loaded rounds gleamed in sharp contrast to the black metal of the weapon. “Whoops,” I said.

  “Oh, I doubt that there’s one in the chamber,” Edwin said, unperturbed. I pulled back the bolt, stiff against the recoil spring. He was right.

  “He’s at school in Cruces,” Edwin volunteered. “I don’t guess he has much need of that on campus, even though I hear things get wild there once in a while.”

  “What is this, a twenty-round clip?” I said, turning the clip this way and that.

  “Don’t know,” Edwin said. “I never checked. ’Course, I don’t have much use for something like that.”

  I handed the rifle to Estelle and held the clip so that what window light there was played on the cartridges. I could see the pointed noses of only three rounds, and I thumbed them out into my left hand. Sure enough, three was the magic number. “Really slick,” I said and pushed the ammo back into the clip. “But you know, I was in the Marines, and that old M-1 is more my style.” I handed the clip to Estelle. “You mind?”

  “Have at it,” Edwin said. He reached across and hefted the Garand by the barrel, handing it to me.

  “Replacing these with the M-l6 was a mistake,” I said, running a hand up the long wooden stock.

  “Wouldn’t know,” Edwin chuckled. “I did me some time in the Navy and spent most of it up close and personal with a paring knife. Still can’t look a potato in the eye.” He chuckled again.

  I pulled back the bolt of the Garand, and sure enough, its magazine was full. I pressed the top cartridge down and eased the bolt forward so that the round wasn’t stripped off the clip and into the chamber. “Nice piece,” I said and returned it to the rack.

  “Let me check that coffee. You take anything in it?”

  “Nope,” I said. “And the detective doesn’t drink the stuff, so it’s just you and me.”

  “Some lemonade, maybe?” Edwin said to Estelle, but she shook her head politely.

  “I’m fine,” she said. When Edwin left the room, she held the assault rifle out toward me. “How hard is it to hit something like a low-flying plane with something like this?” she asked quietly.

  “For me, impossible except by dumb luck. For a marksman who’s in practice, just difficult. But if the shooter’s seriously trying to hit the plane, you do what antiaircraft gunners do. You don’t aim at the plane. You just put a curtain of fire in front of the plane and let him fly into it.”

  “Where do you suppose the other seventeen rounds are?” she mused, and then sniffed the barrel. “Not used recently, anyway. Unless it’s been cleaned thoroughly, and it doesn’t smell like that, either.” She leaned the gun back in the cabinet just as Edwin appeared with two mugs.

  “Johnny or Maxine around this morning?” I asked as a mug was handed to me.

  Edwin Boyd took a tentative sip of the coffee. “Johnny’s over at the crash site, or at least that’s where he said he was going. Maxine went into Posadas. You probably passed her on the highway. You came by way of Newton?”

  “Sure enough.”

  “What kind of vehicle is she driving?” Estelle asked.

  “She’s got the Jeep today. That blue Wagoneer. I think it’s an eighty-two. You know, one of them tanks. She was probably at the post office or some such or you’d have seen her. Me, I’m nursing a bum knee for a day or two. Sprained the hell out of it yesterday.”

  I looked around to sit down and settled into an old leather-padded straight chair by the fireplace. “What did you hear on the afternoon of the crash?” I asked.

  Edwin looked apologetic. “Wish I’d been here. I was over to Drury, getting the hitch on the truck fixed. By the time I done this and that, and ate dinner, I didn’t even get back here until close to ten o’clock.”

  “Maxine told you what happened?” Estelle asked.

  “Yeah, that’s who I heard about it from. I drove over close enough to see the lights and the helicopter and all. I figured I’d be in the way. Then later, Johnny came and we both run the cattle out of that section.” He grimaced. “That’s when I wrenched my knee. Can’t work in the dark so good.”

  “Earlier in the day,” I said, “did you see any aircraft in the area?” Edwin shook his head. “Nothing any time at all?”

  “No. But then I don’t pay much attention to that sort of thing. What was the sheriff lookin’ for, anyway? Did you ever find out?”

  “No idea,” I said.

  “And no word yet about what actually caused the crash in the first place,” Edwin said.

  It wasn’t a question, so I didn’t offer any information. I placed my coffee mug on the end table and pushed myself to my feet. “Apparently Maxine called the sheriff’s office sometime yesterday. She even tried to reach Sheriff Holman at home.”

  Edwin Boyd frowned. “Huh,” he said, and looked down at the wooden floor.

  I could see he wasn’t planning on being a fountain of unsolicited information and it would be easier just to talk to Maxine Boyd about her telephone calls.

  “Thanks for the coffee,” I said. “I’m sure you’ll be seeing us around more than you’d like in the next few days.”

  Edwin waved a hand. “Now don’t worry about that. You folks got a job to do, same as anyone else.” He walked behind Estelle and me as we left the house. His truck, the one we had seen when we arrived, was a late-model GMC three-quarter ton, parked in the shade of one of the elms.

  The rear-window gun rack carried a single Winchester lever-action rifle, probably a.30–30. I didn’t mention the gun, but I saw Estelle’s gaze take it in.

  When we were back in the patrol car, I said, “He apparently doesn’t favor the modern stuff,” referring to the rifle. “But he can probably shoot a coyote in the eye at a hundred yards.”

  “I really want to talk to Maxine,” Estelle said. “There’s every possibility that she didn’t drive into town just to go shopping for groceries.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  I licked dust off my lips and regarded Estelle Reyes-Guzman as she drove back toward Newton.

  “What are you thinking?” I asked.

  We thumped from gravel to pavement at the same time we caught a first glimpse of the “Baca” sign as we came around a row of abandoned, flat-roofed buildings that marked the last vestiges of Newton’s suburbs.

  “You’ve always told me that it’s the little things that finally come together to fi
nish a puzzle, sir,” she said. “Something was important enough to Maxine that she tried to contact Sheriff Holman twice yesterday, once at home and once at the office. To me, that’s important.”

  “And there are a hundred explanations, too,” I said. “Anything from door-to-door bible salesmen to a family spat that turned ugly.”

  “But she didn’t say anything last night at the crash site.” She glanced over at me and then turned the car into the small parking lot in front of Baca’s. As she pushed the gear lever into park, she said, “She and her husband were there most of the night. You said so yourself. She could have talked to you, or to one of the deputies, any time she pleased. She could have called me at the office in Posadas. She didn’t do any of those things.”

  “Maybe the problem resolved itself, whatever it was.”

  “Maybe. This is the other thing that bothers me. A shot was fired from the ground. If the shot was intentional, it might have been one of a hail of bullets. Maybe only one struck the plane. Maybe it was a single, well-placed shot.”

  “A single, extraordinarily lucky shot,” I said. “Or it might have been an accident.”

  “It might have been. But so far, no one has turned up anyone who was in that area at the time. It seems big, maybe, but the general area where Philip Camp’s plane was circling was really pretty small. It’s logical that the shot was fired by someone who slipped out of the area without being seen, or it was fired by someone in the area who just isn’t talking.”

  “I can understand that whoever it was, he might be reluctant to jump forward and volunteer that information,” I said. “If there was a passel of kids from the various ranches, then that’s a possibility. But the population of that area includes the Boyds…that’s Johnny, Maxine, and Edwin. Their only son is in Las Cruces, at school.”

  Estelle opened her door, but made no move to get out of the vehicle. “And the Finnegans have no children,” she said. “Geographically, the only other family who lives within any reasonable distance is the Kealeys. The road into their ranch is on down east of here. Their place is just outside the Posadas County line. In order for any of them to be in the vicinity of the crash site, they’d either have to cross the Finnegans’ or the Boyds’ place.”

  “Unlikely,” I said.

  Estelle swung her door wider and turned sideways, as if to slide out. She stopped, one hand on the door and one on the steering wheel. “There’s something there, sir. I know there is.”

  “Meaning what? That Martin Holman was overflying the area because of something that was concerning Maxine Boyd? Something that she wanted to talk to him in particular about?”

  “Yes.”

  “And the next connection to consider is whether the person who fired the shot knew who his target was.”

  Estelle slid out of the car. “That’s going to be the tough part,” she said. “I’m going to find some iced tea. Do you want anything?”

  I shook my head. No sooner had Estelle gotten out of the car and closed the door than the radio squawked, and she halted in her tracks.

  “Three-ten, Posadas. Ten-twenty.”

  I picked up the mike. “Isn’t that Linda?” I asked, and Estelle nodded. “And why does she want to know where we are? Gayle should have said something. She knows better than to ask that over the air.” I frowned and pushed the button. “Posadas, this is three-ten.”

  “Three-ten, can you ten-nineteen?”

  “Can I?” I mumbled without keying the mike. “Ten-four, Posadas. ETA about twenty-five minutes.”

  “There’s a woman here who said she needs to talk to you, sir.” I looked heavenward, wishing that Gayle Sedillos was standing more firmly at Linda Real’s elbow. “A Mrs. Boyd.”

  I swore and rapped the mike against the dashboard sharply. “Ten-four,” I said, trying to keep my voice even.

  Estelle was in the car and pulling it into reverse before I’d slammed the mike back in the bracket. “She’s trying, sir,” she said.

  “Goddam broadcast our business all over the county,” I said and shook my head. “She should have used the phone, anyway.”

  The car hit the pavement with a chirp of tires. “And it might be nice,” I added, “if we didn’t poke along, now that the entire world knows what we’re doing.”

  From Newton to the Posadas County Public Safety Building was 34.7 miles. We had covered two thirds of that distance when the radio barked again.

  “Three-ten, Posadas.”

  “Now what?” I muttered and fumbled the mike off the bracket. It was Gayle Sedillos on the air, sounding crisp and formal.

  “Three-ten, cancel ten-nineteen. Subjects have left the office.”

  “Ten-four,” I said, puzzled. Estelle slowed the car a bit and I looked at her. “She apparently didn’t want to talk to us very badly.”

  As we passed the Posadas Municipal Airport on the outskirts of town, I saw activity near the hangar, but my attention was drawn away as a blue-over-white Jeep Wagoneer drove past us headed west.

  “That’s Maxine Boyd,” Estelle said and slowed to pull onto the shoulder so she could do a U-turn. We had to wait for an oncoming pickup truck to pass before we could swing around. Johnny Boyd was at the wheel of the truck. As he drove by, he smiled and lifted a forefinger in greeting.

  With a protest from the tires, Estelle turned around and accelerated, pulling in close behind Boyd’s truck. I could see a handful of oncoming traffic in the distance, and for almost a mile, Boyd drove as if he were unaware of our presence.

  Finally, at a turnout for one of the State Highway Department’s stockpiles of crushed stone the brake lights on Boyd’s truck flashed and he pulled over. I expected Estelle to do the same, but instead, she accelerated past, and in another half mile, we were on Maxine Boyd’s back bumper. There we stayed for several minutes.

  “She knows you’re here,” I said as the woman showed no inclination to stop.

  Estelle nodded and looked in the rearview mirror. “And so does her husband.” Sure enough, Johnny Boyd’s truck trailed us by a dozen car lengths.

  “If she doesn’t stop, we’ll just follow her back to the ranch,” Estelle said.

  “Stop her right here, if you want to,” I said.

  Estelle shook her head. “I don’t want to use the lights, sir. I want to keep this as friendly as possible.”

  “The Boyds are friendly,” I said. “As long as it’s coincidence that they’re both downtown at the same time.”

  “That’s what I was thinking,” Estelle said. “Let’s just be patient and see what happens.”

  What happened was that Maxine Boyd ignored us until we reached Newton. Then she pulled into the parking lot in front of Baca’s. Estelle parked on the far side of the Wagoneer, and Johnny Boyd swerved in so that he was angled toward the Wagoneer, fender to fender.

  Mrs. Boyd didn’t get out of the Jeep, but her window was rolled down. Johnny Boyd eased himself out of the pickup and sauntered around the front end, then leaned an elbow on the hood of the Wagoneer. The body language wasn’t lost on me. If we wanted to talk to his wife, he’d have to move.

  “How you doing?” I said. Without it being offered, I walked over and took up position with my elbow on the Jeep’s hood, too. Estelle was messing with paperwork in the patrol car and hadn’t gotten out.

  “I hope you folks got more rest than we have,” I said and pushed my Stetson back on my head. “We needed to see if anything’s jogged your memory”-I turned and nodded at Maxine Boyd as well-“if you folks heard anything the afternoon of the crash. If you heard anything unusual. Even earlier in the day.”

  “Unusual? Like how?” Johnny Boyd asked. He fished a cigarette out of his pocket and lit it.

  “Well, we’ve had at least one report saying the engine on that plane was backfiring pretty badly. That gives us a little something to go on. It looks like they might have been having trouble of some kind.”

  “If they did, I never heard it,” Boyd said. “You know, I never saw that plane
go down. I was up here in Newton just about that time. Right inside the store here. I didn’t know what all the ruckus was until the traffic started to show up and cut tracks through my pasture.”

  “Was your wife home?” I asked. Estelle had gotten out of the car and had her clipboard in hand. The expression on her face was thoughtful as she walked around the back of the Wagoneer.

  “Well, yes, she was home,” Boyd said and turned. By that time, Estelle was at the driver’s-side window of the Wagoneer. She unclipped a photograph from the board and handed it to Boyd, resting the clipboard on the windowsill as she waited for him to look at the photo.

  “What’s this?” he asked and turned the photo against the glare from the sun.

  “We were wondering if you could tell us where that windmill is,” Estelle said. “And, ma’am, if you were home, we need to know if you saw or heard anything unusual.”

  Maxine Boyd shook her head. “I had that darn old television on,” she said. “And now I sure wish I hadn’t. But I did, you know.”

  “So you didn’t hear the aircraft at all?” Estelle asked. Maxine glanced at the clipboard and shook her head.

  “Well,” Johnny Boyd said, “this here is the windmill out by what we call the block house. It isn’t in this picture, but just off to the north”-he held the photo toward me and indicated with a stubby index finger-“there’s the remains of an old stone building. Damn thing was built to last forever, thick as those walls are.”

  “From your place, where would that be?” I asked.

  “East and a bit north. It’s over on the back side of Dick Finnegan’s place.” He shrugged and handed the photo back to Estelle. “There’re old windmills all over. Most of ’em have had the guts pulled off the tower. This one here, though, it still pumps from time to time.” He grinned ruefully. “There ain’t just a whole lot of water ’round about.” He glanced at his wife. “So what’s the significance of that? You want pictures of old windmills, I can show you a couple dozen.”

  “We don’t know yet,” Estelle said. She hesitated as if weighing just how much she should say. “This photo was taken by Sheriff Holman during that flight Friday afternoon.”