“Sure.” I followed the newspaperman back to his little SUV, and Deputy Sutherland, who had remained at a discreet distance while we talked, returned to his post in the middle of the road.
“I just received this yesterday.” Dayan leaned into his car. He emerged with a file folder and extracted a single sheet. I took it and focused my flashlight on it. “They want to run it as a half-page ad.”
“‘They’ being…” and then something twanged in my head, a warning that I was treading on slippery turf. Just as the sheriff’s department didn’t share the files of its daily workings with the public, Frank Dayan’s world was governed by similar constraints. I had no intention of falling into the middle of something where I didn’t belong. I extended the paper to Frank, but he waved me off.
“No, no. Go ahead. I was going to hunt you up today sometime anyway. I’ve already made up my mind that I’m not going to accept the ad.”
“This came in the mail?”
He shook his head. “Door drop. Along with cash to cover four weeks’ insertion.”
“Cash?” I adjusted my trifocals and maneuvered the flashlight. The format of the ad was professionally printed, with “1/4 page, 4 wks” written in the top margin in pen. The content was one of those wordy diatribes that folks like to run in small rural newspapers announcing that THE END IS NEAR, or ONLY 5 DAYS LEFT TO FIND JESUS. This one had nothing to do with religious fervor, though. The headline left no room for doubt: THE GOVERNMENT IS WATCHING AND LISTENING TO YOUR PRIVATE CONVERSATIONS!!! NO CELL PHONE IS SAFE!!!
The headline, complete with exclamation points, snaked around a photo of a radio telescope much like the ones at the Very Large Array northeast of us near Magdalena. Stealing and modifying a scene from a recent hit film, a black Suburban was parked near one of the antennas. A black-suited man had his briefcase open on the hood, headphones snuggled on his ears.
THEY’RE NOT LISTENING TO THE STARS…THEY’RE LISTENING TO YOU!!!
“What amazing bullshit,” I said. What followed, in only marginally smaller print, was a diatribe against government in all forms, the feds in particular. Also targeted was the United Nations, with WORLD ORDER NOW DICTATING THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE!!!
Despite the sobering nature of the night so far, with two corpses and an eco-thug stunt that wasn’t any brighter than most such, I still managed an amused chuckle as I read on. Then the chuckle died as the silly manifesto became a personal attack.
DON’T BE FOOLED BY WHAT’S GOING ON IN SOUTHWESTERN POSADAS COUNTY. THAT’S NOT AN INNOCENT OBSERVATORY CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTION ON THE MESA. DO YOU WANT A UNITED NATIONS LISTENING POST AND COMMAND CENTER IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD? DO YOU WANT FOREIGNERS CONTROLLING YOUR LIFE, YOUR COMMUNICATIONS, EVEN YOUR EVERY THOUGHT? DO YOU WANT A RUNWAY FOR MILITARY JETS AND SURVEILLANCE-ATTACK DRONES IN YOUR BACKYARD?
JOIN THE FIGHT NOW. TAKE THE FIRST STEPS WITH US IN OUR RESISTANCE TO THIS INTRUSION. FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHTS!
“Christ, now we’ve got the ‘resistance,’” I muttered. At the bottom of the ad was the admonition, JOIN WITH US TO DRIVE THE FOREIGNERS FROM POSADAS COUNTY. RETURN YOUR HOME TO YOUR CONTROL. ENJOY PEACE, PRIVACY, AND ABOVE ALL, HOME RULE.
Centered on the bottom margin, PAID FOR BY THE COMMITTEE OF AMERICAN VALUES didn’t include a name or address. So what did one join, and with whom?
“Dropped off, you say? You obviously didn’t see who it was.”
“Nope. Dropped in the mail slot through our front door. That and twelve hundred dollars in cash. All hundred dollar bills.”
“Twelve hundred bucks. Not bad, Frank. That’s a serious investment on their part.”
“I just can’t do that. Not an ad without a name and address. I mean, hell.” He scratched his head. “I don’t know what to do with the money. I mean, I can’t return it, unless somebody comes forward. But I won’t run the ad. That’s final.” He took the ad copy and slid it back into the envelope. It would have been easy to laugh the ad off, but twelve hundred bucks was serious ammunition. The tally was now two deaths and a heap of money. That was no laughing matter.
“You need to show that to the sheriff,” I suggested. “There’s an implied connection there that he’ll want to see. And he’ll want to process the originals. There’s nothing I can do for you, except tell you to be careful. We’re dealing with some serious fruitcakes here, Frank. Be very, very careful. Tell Pam the same thing.” His editor didn’t move from her chair often, but she was well known—and well liked—around the community.
Dayan grimaced, and I could understand his conundrum. Newspapers didn’t relish collaborating with law enforcement agencies. Once independence is lost, once it’s more than just buying a cup of coffee for a friend, it is hard to go back. “I thought I’d show you, and let it go at that. I can’t return the cash, since I don’t know where to send it. Maybe they’ll come pick it up in person.”
“Let’s hope not,” I said. “I’ll mention the ad to the sheriff and undersheriff if you want me to, but beyond that…”
“Well, you know everybody on the planet, and I thought you might have some ideas who would send something like this.” He offered me a sympathetic smile, but it quickly vanished. “You think this,” and he held up the envelope, “is related to this vandalism?”
“At this point, I wouldn’t hazard a guess, Frank.” I reached out and tapped him on the chest. “But you be careful.”
He puffed out his cheeks in exasperation, then shook his head. “You haven’t had such good luck staying retired lately.”
“I’m just being helpful right now,” I said. “I don’t know anyone who would write nonsense like this. But do talk to Bobby or Estelle. They both understand the ticklish position you’re in. That’s my advice.” I hesitated. “Between you and me, I got roped into this mess just because I was sitting up there on the top of Cat Mesa,” and I turned and gestured toward the northeast, “stargazing and pondering deep thoughts. I saw the flash of the transformer when it hit the ground, and gave the S.O. a shout. And here I am, a material witness now. No good deed goes unpunished, Frank.” As compelling as it might appear in print, I did not add that I’d also seen a vehicle leaving the scene at a high rate of speed.
I nodded at the envelope. “If you want me to talk to Bobby, may I have a copy of that ad?”
“You can take this one, if you want. I have the original in our safe.”
I held the envelope up so the lights caught it. No printing or label on it whatsoever. “Is this the original envelope?”
“Yes. I took the ad and cash out.”
“Who else besides you has handled this?”
Frank looked uncomfortable. “You mean, like fingerprints?” I nodded. “Nobody other than you. I picked it up off the floor below the mail slot. Nobody else in our office touched it. I didn’t show it to anyone, because I didn’t want office rumors spreading something.”
“Good man. Then it’s got your prints and mine, and maybe of someone else interesting.” I held the envelope gingerly by the corners. “You just never know. Leave the money and paperwork in your safe. Don’t mess with it until you hear from the Sheriff.”
“I haven’t had the chance to talk to Miles Waddell yet. Should I?”
“Well, let me ask you a favor. Of course, you’re free to talk with anyone you want, Frank. But it seems to me that the tighter we keep this just now, the better off we are. Let me take this, show it to Bobby and Estelle, and maybe talk to Miles. Whoever wrote this nonsense is talking about Waddell’s property, and he should be up to speed on what’s going on behind his back.”
“You’ll keep me in the loop?”
“Of course.”
“And no word yet on the victim?”
“Estelle will release all of that as soon as she can, Frank.”
He turned and looked east. Dawn was thinking about it. “I’d like to try for some pictures in a bit.”
“Suit yourself.” The image of a power line leg kicked high on top of an old juniper post, with a crowd of folks with bags under their eyes, might make for good camera fodder. I didn’t need to be included.
I left Frank with Deputy Sutherland as his escort, and trudged over to the second set of power poles. Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman was kneeling at the remains of one of the poles, in conversation with Dick Whittaker, superintendent of Posadas Electric. She would pump him for every scrap of information he knew. When she had to testify, she’d know more about power lines and all their accoutrements than most veteran linemen. Whittaker, a stump of a man with prematurely snow white hair that sprayed out from all sides of his baseball cap, rose and offered a hand as I approached.
“I understand you’ve been sleepwalkin’ again, Bill.” The crinkles around his eyes faded. Nobody was much in the mood for humor. “Bobby tells me that you saw all this go down.”
“Don’t we all wish that,” I said. “I saw the flash of the transformer when it hit the ground. And that was from where I was sitting up on Cat Mesa, twenty miles away. That’s it.”
“Well, this son-of-a-bitch used a good, sharp saw. I’d guess a fair-sized one, too, lookin’ at the size of those chips. Creosote-treated line poles aren’t the easiest firewood to take, I’ll tell you that. Your man came ready to do business. Damnedest thing. I tell you what, I’ve known Curt Boyd since he was this big,” and he held his hand at knee level. “Never figured him for something like this.”
“I’ll bet you the farm that Curt was just a bystander,” I said.
“You think?”
In all probability, Estelle hadn’t mentioned the accomplice in the speeding truck. She pushed herself off her knees and looked quizzically at the envelope I held.
“You have a minute?” I asked.
She nodded. Whittaker swept his flashlight toward the downed transformer. “I’ll see how the boys are comin’.”
The two of us watched Whittaker make his way around the clumps of cacti and stunted prairie grass, and when he was out of earshot, I said, “Frank passed this on to us. To you, I mean. I’m just the postman.” Estelle read the ad copy, sharing with so many people the odd habit of starting at the bottom, skimming here and there, and finally returning to the top of the copy, her flashlight ambling down the lines of type as she read.
“I wonder if Mr. Waddell has any idea what he’s set in motion,” she whispered. A couple hundred yards away, the rancher was still rooted in place, now with two or three shadowy figures I couldn’t make out.
“Without a doubt. Small as this county is? I’d like a dollar for every time somebody’s asked me what the hell Miles Waddell was building out here. I tell ’em that as far as I know, he’s erecting an observatory, and the response is usually a scoff of disbelief. ‘He ain’t puttin’ no telescope up there,’” I said, mimicking an atrocious drawl, “‘not with that fancy road.’”
“When was the last time you were in this area, sir?” I’d known Estelle since she was a child playing in the Mexican dust, adopted by an aging school teacher, and in all those years, my name had never passed her lips—at least not in direct conversation with me. She chose Sir or Padrino, the latter being the rough equivalent of godfather, which I was to her two boys, Carlos and Francisco.
“As a matter of fact, yesterday afternoon. This past afternoon. I was doing my daily constitutional, checking out a piece of prairie behind Bennett’s Fort. I told you I found that old revolver? I had to see if there was anything else in the same spot.” The rugged little mesa to the north had captivated my attention ever since I’d found an axe-head there the previous summer that was the right vintage to belong to a homesteader—perhaps Josiah Bennett himself. And with it sprang the intriguing idea that the axe-head might have some century-old blood on it. Pulling in a few favors, the resulting lab tests had been negative.
“You didn’t see anyone?”
“As a matter of fact, I did. Waddell and I talked for the better part of an hour.” I pointed at the cattle guard. “Right over there, where he’s standing now. It was so quiet we could hear the transformer humming. He told me the power company has him scheduled for a new one. Bigger and better. A whole goddamn substation. You need to talk with him.”
“No one else?”
“Nope. No figures skulking around with a concealed chain saw. And you know, on the way back into town yesterday, I caught a glimpse of Perry Kenderman. He was just pulling out of the parking lot behind the dry cleaners.” I winced at the memory. “You never know, do you? You never know when it’s the last time you’re going to see somebody.”
And that prompted the thought that within minutes, if he hadn’t already heard, rancher Johnny Boyd would learn that his son was lying dead on the prairie, sucker punched by a utility pole. I wondered what father and son had talked about the last time they were together, whether they had argued, reminisced, planned for a big day sometime soon…all those things humans do.
“This sort of night makes me want to crawl back into my cave,” I said, and Estelle smiled in sympathy. She reached out a hand and held me by the elbow.
“Thanks for coming out, Padrino. Remember we had green chile stew and corn bread planned for tonight. Six o’clock…or so.”
I sighed. “We might make it. You’re going to be out here a long time, sweetheart.” She had never minded my pet name for her, used in the privacy of our own company. I guess I could have called her ahijada, the Mexican for goddaughter, but “sweetheart” was easier to pronounce. “Bobby has the road into town locked up. Who the hell knows what direction this is all going to take. I’ll be around later in the day to type up a formal deposition. That won’t take long.”
“There’s always time to eat.”
“I’m glad to hear you say that. And I look forward to coaxing some of these deep, dark concert secrets out of Carlos.” I touched the button on my watch and saw the faintly illuminated 4:41 a.m. The Don Juan de Oñate restaurant’s back door would open in another hour as Fernando Aragón, his wife and daughter, arrived to start prepping for the day. They’d find time to make me a proper breakfast. Maybe that would suggest some sleep.
“Can you spring Waddell free for a bit?” I reached out and touched the envelope I’d given to Estelle. It now resided in a large plastic evidence bag. “You know, when Miles and I met out here yesterday, we didn’t talk about this. He might not even know that he’s in the cros-hairs. He was so excited about a new telescope he’s wheeling and dealing for with some folks out in California, that’s all we discussed—other than my Bennett project.”
“He’s been reminded that he’ll need to come in for a deposition as well,” Estelle said.
“You don’t mind me prowling around a little? I’d like to know more about that.” I nodded at the envelope. “I know a lot of people, but not a soul who would pull a stunt like this. Most people only rant and rave when it’s free. I mean, people enjoy silly rumors.”
“Sir,” she scolded. “You prowl all you want.”
Chapter Six
Fernando Aragón admitted Waddell and me through the back kitchen door of the Don Juan de Oñate restaurant with the dawn, and despite his good-natured grumblings, I knew that we wouldn’t have to wait more than ten minutes before Fernando served up the sort of breakfast that warmed the cockles—whatever they are. Part of it was curiosity. From the Don Juan, the light show of emergency vehicles was just a quarter-mile down the road. It was too bad that he didn’t have insomnia. Had he been standing in his dining room, looking out the west window, he might have witnessed Kenderman’s ill-fated traffic stop.
Returning to town, I had been able to navigate the roadblocks, but Miles Waddell hadn’t. He’d left the scene down at the northern border of his ranch and driven the long way around to Posadas—first south, then twenty-eight miles to the village by way of State Road 56. He was still stopped three t
imes.
When the rancher-now-developer sat in the booth across from me, he stood his impressively buttoned cell phone on the table beside his napkin, turned so that the screen faced him. His trademark purple neckerchief nicely complemented his smooth, tan skin. Somehow, the New Mexico sun, wind, and single-digit humidity had never wrinkled him.
“So how much do you want to know?” Waddell hunched forward, both hands curled around his coffee mug, voice lowered to a husky whisper. “They hauled your ass out of retirement, now? And what the hell were you doing up on Cat Mesa at one o’clock in the morning, for Christ’s sakes?”
“It was a beautiful night,” I replied. “Who would want to miss that? At least until about twelve minutes after one. Then it went all to hell.”
Waddell leaned back and swept an arm up to rest on the booth’s plastic back. “You can’t imagine how far to hell this is going.” He patted the neckerchief at his throat as if an errant breeze might have blown it askew. Natty was the word for Miles, with his scarf, pressed shirt, and almost creased blue jeans. His expensive boots carried just enough dust, with honest-to-God scuffs above the heels where his spurs fitted. Deep crow’s feet around his eyes broke the mahogany of his tan only when he smiled—and he wasn’t doing much of that this morning—he’d show a set of teeth just crooked and just white enough for strangers to peg him as a Hollywood character actor.
“Are you…” and he made a come and go motion with his hand, “with the department for this?”
“I have to write a deposition, same as you. I saw the flash when the transformer popped, and I might have seen a vehicle leaving the scene. And that’s just between you and me.”
“That’s all?” The crow’s feet deepened, and the light-blue eyes regarded me with amusement.
“No, that’s not all. But nothing formal. I told Estelle I would talk to you.”
He ducked his head and leaned out of the booth, mimicking a search for a hidden microphone.
“Are you okay with that?” I asked.
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