“He wants us to understand what his argument is with Miles Waddell.”
I looked at her quickly. “I didn’t know that there was one.” And if Johnny Boyd had a beef with Waddell, why would Boyd care what we thought? Or more specifically, what I thought. The answer was painfully obvious. Another loop of the lasso was trying to tie itself around my feet. The little word “no’’ would solve that.
“Sure, I’ll ride out with you.” I pushed myself out of the chair, and then hesitated as my brain began to sift through all the files that included assumptions about the father-son relationship between Johnny and Curt Boyd. “What was your impression?” I knew the flashpoint of Johnny Boyd’s temper was low, and he wasn’t quick to forget and forgive. Losing a son was fundamental, but I couldn’t see how Miles Waddell could be held responsible in any fashion.
“I got the impression that Mr. Boyd saw something coming,” Estelle said. “That maybe he was resigned to something like this happening.”
“So you think Johnny knows more about his son’s home terrorist activities than he was willing to admit to the sheriff?”
“That’s a possibility, sir. I know he’s comfortable with you, though. He doesn’t warm up to the heriff much.”
“Old harmless me,” I laughed.
There were two routes out to the Boyd ranch northwest of Posadas, and both of them fell into the “you can’t get there from here” category. The shortest route was up and over the east end of Cat Mesa, then winding down the dusty ranch roads for twenty miles to the Boyds’ back gate. On a rapidly approaching February night, even one studded with moon and stars, that wasn’t my choice of roads for a high-strung sedan.
I felt a twinge of relief when Estelle turned her new Charger west on the state highway that ran past Posadas Municipal Airport. That civilized route was twenty-five miles longer, exiting the county to the north and then looping back through the tiny hamlet of Newton, followed by four miles or so of wash-boarded gravel.
The car’s stiff seats didn’t do my backside any good, but I suppose that in a high-speed chase, I’d be glad for them. The stiff suspension telegraphed every tar strip in the highway. We sped north, and “sped” was the operative word. The thumping tar strips became a rapid staccato as the massive hemi engine found its comfort zone, and I relaxed.
“How do you like this crate?” I asked as we slowed for Newton fifteen minutes later.
“It won the low bid,” she shrugged, then grinned. “The boys like it.”
“They would,” I scoffed. Francisco, now a sage thirteen, and Carlos, sprouting up at nine, had pleaded for rides and pouted when their mother refused. I didn’t know what youngsters called vehicles like that nowadays, but I suppose it was cool, boss, wild, bad-ass, or whatever. I preferred my rides to be sedate and cushy. “What else have you heard about the concert?”
“Absolutely nothing,” Estelle replied. “Carlos is so excited he can’t stand still.”
“He never could.”
There wasn’t much of Newton left to attract tourists. Maybe two ranching families still lived there, along with half a dozen vacant buildings. We crashed off the pavement and swung past a road sign that announced that county maintenance ended. The dirt lane was smooth as long as we went fast enough to keep the tires on the tops of the bumps. In two miles, we passed under a laser-carved metal archway that announced the Flying B ranch of J.R. Boyd and Sons.
Like most ranches, the owners had found a sheltered spot to build a home. Boyd’s was tucked against a low mesa, protected to the north and west. As we approached, Johnny was standing on the front porch, out of the halo of light from the kitchen door. His cigarette glowed bright, and then extinguished as he ground it out under his boot heel. The porch light flashed on, and Johnny half turned toward the house in irritation. The light went out.
Two Aussie heelers danced circles as they charged across the dusty yard. Johnny snapped something, and both dogs stopped as if they’d come to the end of their invisible leashes. Unsure of just how to herd us, they retreated to the porch.
“Evening.” There wasn’t much warmth in the greeting, but he stepped off the porch and extended his hand—gnarly and hard as seasoned juniper. “This ain’t the easiest thing for you, I guess.” He nodded at Estelle. “Come on inside. Startin’ to get a bite out here.”
Low of ceiling and small of window, the Boyds’ living room was dominated by a wide fieldstone fireplace centered on the east wall, and a couple of large piñon logs smoldered. I’d been here a number of times, and knew that the place could look a whole lot brighter. Now a heavy flannel blanket of tragedy smothered the home.
Maxine Boyd, short and stocky but trying to be sporty in crisp jeans and a flowery western shirt, appeared from a side room. Her face was puffy and one hand carried a wad of much-used tissue. “Hi, guys.” She sounded cheerful but brittle, as if she’d greeted one well-meaning neighbor too many. Then to her husband she said, “Don’t leave the girls outside now.”
Johnny grumbled something and turned to the door. The two heelers slunk in, casting accusatory glances our way. They settled in twin doggy beds behind a green Morris chair.
The rancher gestured toward the well-worn sofa. “You’d have some coffee, I expect,” he said, and without waiting for our response nodded at his wife.
“I have some nice tea if you prefer,” Maxine Boyd offered. I’d seen Estelle drink coffee once in all the years I’d known her—and maybe that was inaccurate. I’d seen her hold a coffee cup once.
The rules of hospitality observed, Boyd settled his scrawny frame on the forward edge of the Morris chair and stared at the apathetic fire, hands clasped tightly.
“You was out there today?”
“I was.”
“What’d you see?” That was a tough question and Boyd corrected himself. “I mean from up on the Cat. I heard that’s where you was first.”
“I didn’t see much, Johnny. Two flashes of light. That’s about it. I’m guessing that’s when the transformer hit the ground.” And that would have been a second or two after the butt of the power pole had kicked back and killed his son.
Boyd got up and bent over the fireplace, stabbing at the logs. He had the magic touch. Flames erupted and a small puff of fragrant smoke escaped into the room. For a while, he leaned against the fireplace, staring into the flames. Maxine delivered coffee and one tea, along with a generous plate of sliced spice cake. She moved as if that simple hospitality had used up the last of her energy reserves. She settled in a straight chair near the dark wood gun cabinet, home to a portion of their son’s interesting arsenal of military collectibles.
“Curt didn’t think much of Waddell’s railroad idea,” Boyd said abruptly.
“What was his objection?”
Boyd returned to his chair, hands once more clasped tightly. “The whole damn project, from one end to the other. Why, Waddell’s got who the hell knows who comin’ in from California, he’s got a road better’n most public highways. But a railroad? Why, hell. I got to agree with my son on that. It’s going to scar up the land, for one thing. Once something like that settles in, it’s there forever. And I don’t much like the notion of a whole train-load of tourists staring up the valley at our place. I mean hell, that thing will be runnin’ day or night. I don’t care if it’s propane, electric, or even coal—it’s going to be noisy and scare the shit out of the cattle.”
He wound down a little, and I asked, “And that was it?” The railroad would pass nowhere near the Boyd ranch—perhaps within a mile or so of one section that wrapped down around Cat Mesa. They’d certainly never see or hear it from this house. The cattle wouldn’t care one way or another.
Boyd fell silent and I waited without pushing him. “You know why he wants to build a goddamn railroad track? I mean, ain’t the big line enough?” He looked across first at me, and then at Estelle as if he’d noticed her presence
for the first time.
“It’s great country, Johnny.” A scenic ride through the scarred country would be like stepping back into Hollywood’s wild west. There were even places for an impressive trestle or two. At night, other than an occasional ranch, the darkness would be incredible, even threatening, to some city folks who were used to the constant wash of light pollution. But…I could understand Johnny’s hesitation to embrace the project. Sure enough, the hooded lights of a locomotive would pierce the darkness, startle the wildlife, break the mood.
And noise? There was bound to be some, perhaps significant. Locomotives with a train of cars didn’t pussyfoot through the countryside. Clattering, clacking, the whistle and hiss of steam—trains announced themselves.
“But hell,” Johnny said, “I probably wouldn’t have stood in his way. I mean, he offered me a fair chunk of change to lease a route through the south acres, there down beyond the mesa. That’s out of sight, and far enough away. He wants to avoid the National Forest, though, and I can understand that. I mean, hell, the paperwork dealin’ with the feds would take a lifetime.”
“You and he had discussed the project in some detail, then?” Estelle asked.
“Couple times. Hell, no big deal to me, when it comes right down to it. And like I say, he laid a lot of money on the table. Old train…picturesque, I guess.” He sighed. “Now the boy—he saw right away. You could haul some fair payloads on a train, even narrow gauge. Stay off the highways and such.”
Haul payloads? I thought. Payloads of what? Tourists, yes, a fair payload of excited people. “Johnny, let me ask you something,” I said. “Do you seriously think that Miles Waddell is building—or cooperating to have built—some sort of clandestine installation on top of his mesa? You remember the brouhaha when they tried to build a heli-tach base out to the west of here for fire suppression.”
“Yep. I remember. Hell no. I don’t think Waddell is in cahoots with some New York mayor or some ambassador or nothin’ like that. I think he’s got grand ideas about some sort of telescope, usin’ it to attract tourists. Maybe it will, maybe it won’t. Ain’t much exciting about a damn telescope, in my book.”
Johnny Boyd obviously hadn’t seen the plans drawn up by Waddell’s imaginative architects, including far more than “a damn telescope.”
“But your son…” I prompted.
“My son had his own ideas about all this. With so many things that could use the money, he don’t see why Waddell wants to waste it on something that nobody, and I mean nobody, is going to use. You think folks will come out to the top of some mesa, lay themselves down in the cactus, and stare up at the stars? Hell, you could do that anywhere.”
“He disagreed enough to disrupt power. What did he think that would accomplish?”
Boyd looked pained. “I can’t tell you that. I don’t know what he was thinkin’, Bill. Don’t know why he was there. Maybe he didn’t know…”
“You know,” I said, “Waddell is playing his cards pretty close to the vest. How would your son have heard about the mesa project?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“Did he ever discuss the project with Waddell? With him directly? Did he ever talk about that?”
“I guess you’d have to ask Waddell that,” Johnny said.
“He said there was no way a single person could do something like this mesa project,” Maxine said softly. She shifted uncomfortably. “It’s just too much money. I mean, no one has those kinds of resources without the government being behind it. That’s what Curt said. Nobody in country like this.”
It’s so easy to be wrong, I thought.
“Mr. and Mrs. Boyd,” Estelle said, “did your son ever talk to you about any sort of disruptive activities? Did he discuss the possibility of somehow targeting Mr. Waddell’s project?”
“Not directly,” Boyd replied. “He was concerned. Maybe more than that. He was angry.” Boyd sat back in the chair, spine stiff. “See, he grew up in this country. He hunted and rode all over these millions of acres. I guess he’s kinda like me in that respect—always assumed that the land would be the way it was. Too far away from the cities for any kind of development.” He almost smiled. “Ain’t going to ever be no box stores out here, you know what I mean?”
“So he saw Waddell’s project as an intrusion?” I asked.
“Sure enough. Traffic, tourists, trains—hell, tour buses, even. And that’s just the start. You get houses, now. I mean hell, his employees will need places to live. They ain’t going to drive to hell and gone out here from town every day. First it’ll be a sea of trailers, then a goddamn subdivision if the thing works out.” He managed a bleak smile. “And you know what’s next. A goddamn convenience store.”
I saw a flush creep up Johnny Boyd’s leathery cheeks. “My son didn’t cut those poles, Sheriff. Without even bein’ there, I can tell you that. They say he wasn’t the one using the saw. Hell, you don’t know. He might have been trying to stop the deal, for all we know. Maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Odd place to be at an odd hour.”
Boyd shook his head slowly. “I’ll give you that.” I saw the wrinkles around his eyes deepen a little. “’Course, you’ve been known to prowl some, too.”
I stared down into my coffee cup. Maxine hadn’t offered a refill, and I had the impression they were just waiting us out. It wasn’t clear to me why Johnny Boyd had asked us to visit—he hadn’t exactly dropped a ton of useful information on us.
“Your son believed that a man ought to be able to do whatever he wants on his own land?” I asked. “Without government intrusion?”
“Fair enough,” the rancher answered.
“That would apply to Miles Waddell as well, wouldn’t it? Regardless of his wealth?”
“Depends who he’s in cahoots with,” Johnny said, and we were right back at the beginning.
“And your son thought Miles Waddell is in cahoots with somebody, is that it?”
“Hell, you’ve been up there. You don’t think so?”
“What I think doesn’t matter, Johnny. But just for the record, to set your mind at ease…no, I don’t think Waddell is in league with the devil, no matter how you color him. I think he’s becoming a victim of a rumor without substance or logic or even common sense. I mean, be honest. What’s there to listen to in this part of the world? Hell, I’m not into all this new technology, but I know that satellites have made any ground-based communication limited to the point of being useless. What, do we think that they’re going to point one of those huge radio-telescope dishes at Las Cruces and listen in while Benny tells Bob about the new elk rifle he’s going to buy?”
Boyd’s lip quivered and he rubbed his face hard. “Well, he’s got more money than sense,” he managed.
“So what? It’s Waddell’s money. It’s his land. He doesn’t need our approval for what he does. There are no neighbors close by down there, so even his loud music—if he chooses to play some—won’t keep anybody awake nights. And if he wants to step outside his travel trailer and let loose a magazine or two from a World War II machine gun at jackrabbits, that’s his business. That doesn’t make him an anarchist or a collaborator, does it? Any more than your son’s historical hardware is any of the government’s business.”
“Did your son bring any of his friends or acquaintances out to the ranch?” Estelle asked, and I was glad she did. I didn’t need to bore these folks with my own soapboxes.
“He brought Kiran out for Christmas Day,” Maxine said. “That’s one of his roommates.”
“One of them,” I prompted.
“Well, four of them have rented this old adobe house over in Mesilla. It’s just a beautiful spot. They even have water rights off one of the irrigation ditches.”
“Kiran’s last name?” Estelle asked.
Maxine’s brow puckered and she looked at her husban
d for help. He shrugged helplessly. “Some damn foreign thing,” he muttered.
“Oh, stop. No wait. ‘Bhutan’. That was it. He’s from New Delhi and studying agricultural engineering at State. I believe he’s a PhD candidate. Just a very nice young man. I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone so polite and well-spoken.”
“But you’ve never met the others?”
“I haven’t. And Curt hasn’t been home enough to really talk about them. I know that one of them is also a coach—soccer, I think. I don’t know about the fourth. Oh…and the young man who plays soccer? He’s from Kenya.”
“Kenya,” I repeated in surprise, although why I don’t know. All university towns have a large contingent of foreign visitors, and Las Cruces was certainly no exception. “Curt had a real international house going. So India, Kenya, and the other?”
“I just don’t recall,” Maxine said.
“Mrs. Boyd,” Estelle asked, “did you contact any of his roommates or friends this morning when you heard of your son’s death?” Not that it would matter much at this point, I thought. Sheriff Torrez and his multi-agency task force would have long since had the place blanketed. There’d be a warrant to sift through Curt Boyd’s belongings, search the house, talk to the roommates.
“We haven’t talked with anyone.”
“Any other close friends?” I asked. “Did Curt have a girl friend? Fianceé?”
“He spoke of Julie Warner as if the two of them were making plans.” Maxine looked embarrassed. “We’ve never met her, but…” She rose quickly and walked across to an elegant rolltop desk where she collected a section of newspaper. “I don’t know why all the hush-hush, but I happened to see this in the paper.”
She handed the photo to me, out of deference I suppose, and I promptly passed it to Estelle. She looked closely at the photo and article, then passed it back to me. Coach Julie Warner was caught in mid-yell, shouting encouragement or instructions to her volleyball team from the bench.
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