“Did he tell you that they were planning to come out here?”
“Yes.”
“And so you decided to meet them, with a loaded assault rifle in your truck.”
“There’s always a loaded rifle in that truck, Sheriff. One kind or another, it doesn’t matter. And if you’re asking about the weapons, I figure any man with an ounce of education ought to be able to look at a list of firearms and put two and two together.”
“Meaning what?”
“Did you look at the list?”
“I’ve got it right here in the truck.”
“Well, get it. Let me shed some light.”
I did so, and he spread the paper out on the hood. “Hold the flashlight here,” he said. “Now look. Look at these handguns and you tell me what you see.”
“Several types and calibers of semiautomatic handguns.” I adjusted my glasses and reread the list. And that’s when it struck me like a mallet between the eyes. “Walther P thirty-eight and nine-millimeter Luger. Those are German. Colt 1911 forty-five. That’s ours. Tokarev for the Russians, Nambu for the Japanese. Beretta, Astra…” My voice trailed off.
“Probably doesn’t surprise you that my son’s a history major, does it?”
“And I assume that the fully automatic weapons follow the same pattern? That’s a hell of a collection.”
“It will be. What he wants is a collection of all the major light arms that were issued to soldiers during the major conflicts of the twentieth century.”
“That’s ambitious.”
“Damn near impossible, but he’s got a start. I told him that if that’s the kind of collection he wanted to make, he’d best get at it. Some of that material is going to be pretty dear in a few years. Or illegal. I admit, I found out that it’s easy to get caught up in all this.” He laughed, the first real humor I’d heard from him in days. “I even put off buying a new pickup truck this year. That’s how bad it gets.”
“And your wife hasn’t divorced you yet,” I said.
Boyd looked puzzled. “He’s her son too. That’s how we look at it. I just didn’t expect this kind of trouble, that’s all.”
“One last thing,” I said and opened my briefcase to find the photographs I’d brought along. I found the one of the intersecting fence lines and handed it to Boyd. “Where’s this spot?”
He looked hard at the photo and then squatted down in front of the Bronco so that the headlights gave him daytime.
“Huh,” he said and turned the picture over. “That’s got to be over by what we call William’s Tank. There used to be a windmill there years ago, but it went dry, hell, back in the seventies. Dick Finnegan took it out and put it over near his trailer.”
“So this is on Finnegan’s property?”
Boyd nodded. “Yeah. I recognize this fence line now. And this here is where he thought about digging a new dirt tank. He borrowed my little dozer for a day or two, then gave up. Said there wasn’t any bottom to the gravel.”
“So if I wanted to get there, how would I do it?”
Boyd stood up. “Just take this road back toward the highway. When you hit the trail that heads down south into the back of the mesa—where he’s working on that spring—you go about a mile on that. This is off to the west there a little bit. There’s what’s left of a two-track that will take you over that way.” He looked at the photo again. “Why this?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and then took a calculated risk. “Martin Holman took that photo on the day of the crash.”
A slow smile spread across Johnny Boyd’s face, but he just shook his head and handed the photo back to me.
“You don’t want to tell me?” I asked.
He looked sideways at me as he drew on his cigarette, assessing just what I might be thinking.
“It’s just a fence,” he said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
“If that’s the case, how about a guided tour?” I asked.
Johnny Boyd looked off into the night sky and blew smoke at the stars. “Oh, I think I’ll pass on that, Sheriff. That’s Dick Finnegan’s property, and whatever those fellas in the airplane were interested in, that’s their business, and maybe his. Sure as hell ain’t mine. Matter of fact, what makes sense to me right now is to go home and get a good night’s sleep. You ever do that?”
“Not often,” I said. “But you have the right idea. We wouldn’t have much chance of finding the place in the dark anyway. Even at the best of times, one windmill looks just like another to me.”
Bob Torrez started to say something but thought better of it. I knew what was running through his mind, and probably Eddie Mitchell’s too. Most of the time, darkness was a powerful ally for us. Either one of them could find the most remote nook and cranny of Posadas County at any time of day or night.
“We all could use some sleep,” I added. I heard the faint jingle of brass and saw that Torrez held several casings. “The FBI is going to want to run some ballistics tests, you know that,” I said, and Boyd nodded. He didn’t look at Neil Costace, and the FBI agent seemed perfectly content at the moment to let me either run the show or hang myself.
“You want to keep the rifle until such time, you can,” Boyd said, dead serious in his belief that we were just asking nicely if we could run ballistics tests on his weapon…as if it were a special favor between old friends.
He evidently saw the expression on my face, and shrugged. “That was a damn-fool thing I did,” he said. “I know that. I just lost my goddam temper.” He pushed himself away from the truck and started toward his own. “The feds can do all the testing they like if it’ll satisfy ’em. And if they think they need to look at the other weapons, most of them are stored in a safety deposit box at Ranchers’ Trust in Posadas. If they want to examine ’em, I’ll fetch ’em out of there.”
“We’ll see,” I said. We watched him climb into his truck without further comment, and he backed out far enough that he could turn around.
The taillights of his pickup disappeared in the distance. Bob Torrez started to say something, but I held up a hand. “Wait a minute,” I said, and the four of us stood there, grouped around the Bronco, letting the silence of the prairie return. I frowned and half closed my eyes as I listened to the sound of Johnny Boyd’s truck retreat. I kept my hands poised in the air like a choral director’s.
“He didn’t turn toward his house,” Eddie Mitchell said a moment later.
“Nope, he didn’t,” I said and reached for the mike on the dash of the Bronco.
“Three-oh-three, three-ten on channel three.”
“Three-oh-three,” Tom Pasquale snapped in instant reply. He must have been sitting there by the highway, mike in hand.
“Three-oh-three, Johnny Boyd is driving a blue Ford pickup truck. He’s turned your way. If he shows up, make yourself scarce, and when he hits the pavement, keep an eye on him. I want to know where he’s headed.”
“Ten-four. You want him stopped?”
“That’s negative. I do not want him stopped. I want to know where he’s headed.” I glanced at Torrez and Mitchell. They both were grinning. “Do I speak French or something?” I muttered.
“Watching isn’t as much fun as stopping,” Mitchell said wryly.
“That’s what scares me,” I said. “I want you to give Tommy some backup. I don’t know what Boyd plans. Maybe he’s just taking the long way home. Maybe he’s going to do a little fence-hunting himself. If he does go on out to the main road, keep Tommy back, way back. We just want information right now, that’s all. And if he turns off before he reaches the highway, just go on by, the way he’d expect you to do. We’ll be on channel three if you need to talk to us. We’ll be right behind him.”
Mitchell nodded without comment and turned on his heel. We could hear the crunch of his boots on the gravel and for a moment, I just listened, getting my thoughts in order.
“You know where that fence line is?” I asked Torrez.
“I think I can find it with no t
rouble, sir.”
“Then let’s go. Neil, you game?”
“Sure,” he said. “If you’re not too tired.” He said it with good humor.
I laughed. “I’m comatose. But you and Bob are driving, so I can kick back and sleep. In fact, I like the seats in that rig of yours. I’ll ride with you.” I turned to Torrez. “Lead the way.”
Neil Costace and I settled into the federal agent’s Suburban, and for a fleeting moment, I had the impulse to recline the seat and irritate Costace with my sonorous snoring. But he didn’t give me a chance.
“So, what’s perking in that nonstop mind of yours, Buddha?” he asked.
I looked at him in surprise. “Buddha?”
Costace pulled the truck into gear and we followed Torrez’s Bronco out of the arroyo. Between bounces and wrenching of the steering wheel, he said, “That’s what Hocker calls you.”
“Buddha.”
He nodded. “Don’t ask me why,” he added. “And let me give you a piece of advice. Don’t wrestle with Mitchell.”
“Are you all right?”
“Nothing a chiropractor can’t fix, given time,” Costace said and shook his head.
“Was Eddie’s version pretty close to the way you saw it?”
“Not pretty close, Bill,” Costace said. “The embarrassing thing is that he was exactly right. Thirty-five years’ experience between the two of us, and now this.”
“These things happen sometimes,” I said, moving Neil Costace another couple of rungs up my ladder of estimation.
“All I could think was that Johnny Boyd was shooting at us. And when Hocker went down, I knew he was. My first thought when Mitchell kicked the gun away was that he was in on something with Boyd…that the two of them were working together. If that’s not enough to make a man feel goddam simple, I don’t know what is.” He looked soberly over at me.
“These things happen,” I said again for want of anything better.
“Your sergeant had his eye on Boyd. Hocker and I obviously didn’t.” Costace shook his head again. “Jesus,” he said. “And so what are you thinking? It’s obviously not about going to some dark corner somewhere and actually getting some sleep.”
“Two things,” I said. “First of all, it’s ten minutes to eleven, and Johnny Boyd isn’t going where he said he was going.”
“Okay. I had that thought too. But there’s an endless list of perfectly innocent possibilities.”
“If you’re an incurable optimist,” I said. “Remember our little set-to in the Boyd kitchen earlier? You remember that temper of his?”
Costace nodded. “He does love his federal government, that’s for sure.”
“Well, all right. And tonight he lets his temper go again and takes the risk of firing off a handful of rounds? In the dark? In the glare of headlights that spook everyone? With three armed law officers standing right there? But now, all of a sudden, he’s perfectly willing to acquiesce? To let federal agents rummage through his safe deposit boxes? To be Mr. Nice Guy? I don’t think so.”
“Maybe it’s exactly like he said. He realizes what a stupid thing that was to do. If we wanted to be real sons of bitches, I guess we could come up with twenty or thirty things to charge him with. I’d hate to bring any of them into court except in front of a drunk judge, but they’d sure be enough to hold him in jail for a day or two. Boyd’s got to know that, smart as he is. He’s trying to mend fences.”
“Neil, come on. He could have just kept his mouth shut and been about as far ahead.”
“You think there’s something else, then?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not the answer I wanted to hear, Sheriff,” Costace said.
Torrez’s vehicle was kicking up plenty of dust, and I hefted my handheld radio. “Give him plenty of room, Robert,” I said, and the lead vehicle slowed. Occasionally, when the swell of the prairie was just right, I caught a glimpse of the taillights on Boyd’s truck, and then, considerably farther back, Mitchell’s unit.
“He’s headed right for the main road,” Mitchell said quietly.
“Don’t ride him,” I said into the radio. “Three-oh-three, you copy?”
“Three-oh-three, ten-four.”
Costace swerved to avoid a rock outcropping that was wearing its patient way up through the tire tracks. “So he’s not going to the magic fence,” he said. “I wonder what the hell he’s doing.”
“Wait a couple of minutes and I’ll make a guess,” I said.
Our two vehicles ambled across the prairie, letting the distance between us and Mitchell’s unit widen as he followed Johnny Boyd toward the highway.
In a moment, Torrez’s brake lights flashed, and then he turned onto a two-track off to the right. We had driven no more than a hundred yards before the radio came in again.
“Three-ten, three-oh-three. Sir, he’s hit the pavement and is heading in toward town.”
“Just follow,” I said, and then added off the air, “Shit.”
“You thought he might be headed up to the Finnegans?” Costace asked.
“That was the most obvious possibility,” I said.
“And the others?”
“Buddha doesn’t know,” I said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
We saw the brake lights of Torrez’s vehicle flash, bright and harsh in the darkness. We’d been idling along with our headlights off, depending on Torrez not to lead us into the middle of an earthen stock tank somewhere. After ten minutes, our eyes had adjusted so that the two-track we were following was a mere trace.
The beam from Torrez’s perpetrator light was just a bushel-basket-sized yellow ghost moving along the side of the trail.
We stopped, and I could make out Torrez’s large form outside the truck. Suddenly a ray of light stabbed out, illuminating a fence line.
“Gate,” I said to Costace, but no doubt he was capable of figuring that out for himself. It took a moment for Torrez to wrestle the barbed-wire gate back across the road so we could pass. He did so, got back in his Bronco and drove through for two car lengths. We followed, and as we pulled to a stop, he closed the gate behind us.
He paused at Costace’s elbow. “About a quarter mile or so,” he said, then added, “I think.”
I had cranked my head around and was looking back at the fence, the wires a faint gleam in the starlight.
“Shine your light over at the fence, Bob,” I said. He did so and I grunted. “Sheep fencing,” I said, seeing the rectangular, four-by-six-inch openings in the wire. “And four strands of barbed wire.”
“He’s got it on the gate, too,” Torrez said. “Makes it a bear to pull open.”
“Huh,” I said. “Finnegan raises sheep?”
“Never knew him to,” Torrez said. “Good antelope fence, though.”
“Why would he bother trying to keep antelope off his range?” Costace asked.
“Maybe not off,” Torrez said. “Maybe in.” He didn’t elaborate, but returned to his vehicle. We had driven no more than five hundred yards when his brake lights flashed again, and then the spotlight on the windshield post burst out across the prairie.
“Well, look at that,” Costace murmured. The antelope herd was off to the left, most of it bedded down in the bunchgrass, but a few of the animals were standing and looking toward us, curious. Torrez swept the beam across the herd. One of the large bucks took two steps and stopped, its head turned away from us, the flashy white hairs on its butt grabbing the light and warning the rest of the herd. The spotlight died and the image vanished, replaced by uniform black. For a moment, all I could see was the tiny red light on the top of my handheld radio.
“That’s a fair-sized herd,” Costace said. “Fifty, maybe?”
“At least,” I said.
“Amazing animals,” Costace said. “With all the traffic back and forth out here, I’m surprised we haven’t seen more of them.”
“We’re a ways from the main road,” I said.
“You ever watched
them run? My God, they’re fast. We watched a couple of ’em when we drove over here yesterday…whatever day it was. Just two of them, not a herd like that one. They angled away from us, right over the hill. Must have been hitting thirty-five or forty miles an hour.” He shook his head. “I don’t think a little four-foot-high sheep fence would matter to them. They could jump that without breaking stride.”
“I’ll be damned,” I said to myself, and then chuckled.
“Now what?”
I lifted the small radio. “Bob, stop for a minute,” I said, keeping my voice soft. He did so without hitting the brakes, letting the unit roll to a halt. As we crunched up behind him, I asked Costace, “Does your dome light work?”
“ ’Course it works,” Costace said, and I could see the motion of his hand toward the light switch.
“No, no, leave it off,” I said quickly. “You need to fix that.” And then to the radio, I said, “Bob, come back here a minute, will you?” By then, my eyes had adjusted enough to see the shape of his vehicle swell as the door opened.
In a moment, his large form materialized beside the Suburban. “His lights sure as hell don’t work,” Costace said.
“That’s the whole point,” I replied. “You need to be able to open your door without advertising the fact to the entire world.” I leaned over and looked past the agent. “Robert, tell me what you know about antelope.”
“Sir?”
“You hunt every year, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“Where’s your favorite spot?”
Torrez paused, and I wondered for a moment if he was reluctant to give up personal secrets. “I usually go down on my cousin’s place. Down by Regal.”
“That’s Aurelio Baca’s ranch?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He runs cattle?”
“Santa Gertrudis,” Torrez said. “And lots of antelope.”
“Aurelio uses barbed-wire fencing?”
“Sure.” Torrez leaned on Costace’s windowsill, and I could tell from the change in the tone of his voice that he’d tuned in to the same wavelength. “He runs barbless wire on the bottom strand, though, so the antelope can come and go. One clean strand doesn’t make any difference to the cattle, but it makes it easy for the antelope to scoot through.”
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