by Rex Burns
“How about starting with the autopsy report?”
“All right. Is that all you want?”
“Did you go down and look at Sanchez’s ranch?”
“No. The Conejos SO took care of it. I told you that.”
Wager would have gone if it was his case. Any good cop would have gone. But he kept his voice carefully neutral. “Did they mention any signs of a fight or if the place was messed up or broken into?”
“No. I didn’t ask them. But I reckon if it had been, they’d have told me.”
“Do you know if Sanchez had a family lawyer, or if he left a will of any kind?”
“None’s come forward, Wager. God damn it, you’re looking at this thing like those boys wanted his insurance or something! I’m calling it a stranger-to-stranger: Sanchez got taken for a ride and beaten up and robbed. And in the process of the beating, he got killed. Now that’s what happened, and in time I’m going to find a witness who saw something and in a little more time I’m going to have me the son of a bitch that did it.”
“You’re probably right, Allen. That’s probably just the way it happened.” But it didn’t explain why Tom went willingly with his assailant. “You’ll send that autopsy report along?”
“Yes, shit yes.”
The next call was to Sergeant Johnston, who told Wager that he hadn’t gotten back to him because of the budget preparation. But just yesterday Susie had combed the files for information about the Sanchez boys and the ranch.
“Did she find anything?”
“No. No contacts at all.”
“Will you look for a Jerry Latta?” Wager spelled it for him.
“All right, Gabe. I’ll get back to you when I can—we’re pretty busy with our own stuff, you know.”
“I know that, Ed. I’m grateful for your help.”
His next stop was the depot where the Barstow Rodeo Company parked its vehicles. It was a large compound of packed earth fronting a butler building that had three or four service bays for working on trucks. On the hardstand, a line of cattle trailers shimmered in the heat, their slatted aluminum sides bearing the initials BRC made to look like a cattle brand. Two tractors, bobtailed and nose-heavy without their trailers, were parked near a small cinder-block building that said “Office.” Wager opened the door.
A middle-aged blonde whose makeup was carefully brushed on looked up from her paper-littered desk. “Hi—what you need?”
Wager showed her his badge. “I’m Detective Wager from Denver. I’m trying to find out some information about Tom Sanchez.”
“Oh, wasn’t that awful! And such a nice fella, too.”
“Yes, ma’am. Were you here when he turned in his truck on the fifteenth?”
“Sure. That was the run to Elk City. Jason sent over for some Brahmas.”
“Jason?”
“Mr. Barstow. Everybody calls him Jason. We had more bull riders register for the Strong City show than we expected, and he had to get some more stock in.”
“Did you get a chance to talk with Sanchez before he went home that day?”
“We had a cup of coffee. The fellas always stop for a cup of coffee after a run.” She pushed her fingers through the pile of stiffly curling hair that was equally pale down to the roots. “They tell me about the road conditions so I can pass the word on, or any equipment troubles they had on the run. That way I can schedule maintenance.” The telephone rang, and she excused herself to talk to Norman about a generator. Wager glanced around the small office. A sagging leatherette couch shoved against one wall held a worn copy of the Pro-Rodeo Sports News. Filing cabinets and charts crowded the other walls. That and a small table with its dented coffee urn filled the room.
The woman hung up, and Wager asked, “Did Tom seem worried about anything when you talked to him?”
“Well, he was pretty quiet. But then Tom’s usually pretty quiet unless he knows you real well. I remember Jason wanted him to stay over for his next run, but Tom said he had to get on home.”
“He didn’t say why?”
“No, but I figured he just didn’t want to stay around. In fact, he did seem quieter than usual, and that would be like Tom: when something was bothering him, he’d be likely to go off by himself. A lot of the fellas when they have a problem, they’ll tell me about it, you know? It sort of helps for them to tell somebody. But not Tom. He kept things pretty much to himself.”
“Did he have any particular friends he might have talked to? Anybody he went around with?”
The blond pile shook slowly. “He had a couple drinking buddies, I guess—Larry Atchison and Tubby Tubman. I guess that would be the closest.”
“Can you tell me where to find them?”
“Well, one of them should be up in Belt, Montana, right now; and the other one’s probably somewhere between Hugo and Claremore, over in Oklahoma.”
Wager thanked her for her time and asked if she’d give his card to the two men when they came back. “They can call me collect at this number.”
The heavy makeup on her lips stretched into a smile. “Sure. You have a nice day, now.”
Jo had asked if he wanted to have dinner after he returned from Sterling, and by the time he got to her house, she was well into a sauce for the broiled fish.
“Damn—I think I’m out of bay leaves—no, here it is! What did you find out?”
Wager stretched against the pull of muscles that had grown weary and tight on the long drive back down I-76. “All I really ended up with is more questions. But I managed to win friends and influence people.”
“Who?”
He told her about his call to Detective Allen.
“Do you think he’ll complain to Chief Doyle?”
“I haven’t given him anything to complain about.”
“It’s his case and his jurisdiction.”
“I’m sticking to my side of things.”
“You’re sticking your neck out, too.”
It wouldn’t be the first time, and there was no sense worrying about something that might never happen. Wager rummaged through the refrigerator and felt his dry mouth tighten at the sight of a frosty Killian’s. But he picked up a soft drink instead. Despite what the long hot drive and his thirst told him, his working day was just beginning.
“I’ve got some news for you,” said Jo. She peeked into the oven at the slabs of halibut beginning to sizzle in their juices.
“What’s that?”
“I telephoned a girl I used to barrel race with. I thought I remembered that she and her husband went into ranching over in Ute County. I wasn’t certain, but I called her parents, and it’s the same girl.”
“Well, that’s certainly news, all right.”
She pulled back from the oven door. “If you’ll let me finish, wise-ass, you might think it is.” She waited for him to make some comment. “So I called her, and they have a cabin they usually rent to hunters in the fall. It’s not a dude ranch, but she says they’ll be happy to let us rent it—they could use the cash. And they’ll throw in a couple of horses as long as we care for them. She said they don’t get enough exercise anyway.”
“Horses? Jo, I don’t know how to ride a horse!”
“It’s easy,” she said. “And you’re the one who wanted a vacation in Ute County, remember?”
CHAPTER 8
MAX ASKED THE same thing Wager had asked himself. “You’re going to ride a horse for three weeks?”
“I’ll probably get off now and then to take a piss.” It was Wager’s turn to drive, and he had to stretch his legs to work the gas and brake pedals. The seat was shoved back against its stops so Max could fold himself into the car. It was almost 2:00 a.m., closing time for the bars, and they cruised past a small cluster of ill-lit corner taverns in the Chicano area near Hirshorn Park. On a weekend, you could count on a stabbing or shooting at one of the places, but weeknights, even hot ones like tonight, were usually quiet. Wager paused at Thirty-second Street and peered for a moment into the open door at
the dark blue lights; a shadow or two moved across the dull glow, and a man came to the door and looked at the unmarked car. Then he pulled back out of sight. Wager finished his turn past the lesbian bar with its single yellow bulb lighting the front porch. It seemed no different from the small houses that filled the rest of the block, the only advertisement being a dirt parking lot that used to be a patch of lawn. A few expensive cars, Mercedes and BMWs, were parked discreetly in the shadows of water-starved trees.
“Think you can handle all this excitement while I’m gone?”
“The excitement I can handle. Your friend Gargan is something else.”
“Why?”
“You didn’t see the article on Molly White Horse in this morning’s paper? Gargan quotes some guy from the Native American Institute about the Denver police having a vendetta against Indians.”
“What the hell for?”
“That he didn’t say. But from there he goes into the Molly White Horse hearing. He makes it sound like you and I, old buddy, are Gestapo agents.”
“Screw him.”
“My sentiments. But money is that the Bulldog and everyone else up on the top floor will be very uneasy with this case. And when they feel uneasy, we feel downright uncomfortable. You’re taking a vacation at the right time.”
“It’s in the DA’s hands now—Kolagny’s the one who pushed for murder.”
“You know that. I know that. Even the Bulldog knows that. But nobody’s explained it to Gargan.”
Wager turned the car toward the Eighteenth Street viaduct and lower downtown. “Maybe I’d better stay. You might need some help with this one.”
“You take off—you’ve covered for me enough times. Tell you the truth, Gabe, I’m glad to see you take a vacation.”
“Why’s that?”
“You need a change of pace. Everybody does. Recreation—you go out and get re-created.”
“A part of me’s going to get re-created on that horse. Have they told you who your new partner will be?”
“Golding. He comes on this weekend.”
Golding. The guy with an opinion on everything, and all of them wrong.
“He’s OK. A little full of himself sometimes, but he draws the same pay we do.”
“Right. What’s he into now?”
“Vegetarianism. He was telling me about his low-karma diet.”
“What the hell is a low-karma diet?”
“Something he picked up from the Hare Krishnas.”
“The hairy Krishnas? Does he hang around airports now?”
“No. They left some stuff on his doorknob—a bunch of propaganda and a vegetarian cookbook. He’s been trying some of their recipes.”
They crossed over the Valley Highway and followed dark and empty streets into the tangle of railway tracks and weeds that was the South Platte River bottom. “When I get back, you’ll have your head shaved.”
“It’s not in my karma.”
Wager drove cautiously, alert for any silent, gigantic shape looming out of the black and bearing down on them with only the slightest rumble of wheels. This was the time boxcars were switched farther down in the yards, and more than once he had almost been hit by one of the unlit, free-rolling cars. It was also the time when anybody down here shouldn’t be here, and both he and Max glanced habitually out the open car windows into the shadows of the warm night.
“Jo’s going with you, isn’t she?”
“Yes.”
“Better watch it, partner—you’ll end up married one of these days.”
“I’ve been there once. That’s enough.”
“Jo’s a very nice girl. And very good-looking.”
Wager knew that. But he was damned if he saw any necessary relationship between Max’s statements. “I’m expecting an autopsy report up from Chaffee County in the next day or two. If it comes before I leave, will you give me a call?”
“Sure.” Max frowned. “What case is that?”
“It’s not ours. It’s my friend who got killed—Sanchez.”
They were silent as they worked their way back to the police garage, with side trips through one or another of the deserted and ill-lit corners of town where people went to do things they didn’t want seen. They made a final pass through Little Juarez on Larimer Street, joining a small parade of blue-and-whites who also converged on that familiar trouble spot at about this time. Then Wager headed through the empty intersections toward District One headquarters.
On the way up in the musty-smelling elevator, Max finally got around to asking the question Wager knew he would ask. “Why do you want that autopsy?”
“A little light vacation reading.”
They went through the familiar routine of checkout that Wager had followed so many times without even thinking about it: settling the radiopack into its desk charger unit, hooking the ring of car keys on the keyboard, a final look for messages. Wager spent a few minutes cleaning off the top of his desk and locking the loose junk in his drawer. Then he glanced around one more time.
Max grinned at him. “It’s not that hard to let go, Gabe. Try.”
“I feel like I’m forgetting something.”
“Come on, partner—your vacation’s started. Let’s get out of here before somebody calls for a homicide detective.”
Wager followed the man’s wide back to the personnel board and moved his name to an unaccustomed slot: On Vacation. It looked odd over there, but it was too late now; and if he was lucky, maybe it wouldn’t be a total waste of time. He and Max rode back down to the ground floor without speaking. In the parking lot, the big man gripped his hand. “Come on, Gabe, look happy—you’re supposed to enjoy this. Believe me, there’ll be plenty of homicides left when you get back.”
Wager knew that. He knew that the department would survive even if he never came back. Cops were always coming and going—quitting, getting fired, transferring to other police agencies for better jobs—and the department managed no matter who went. Yet he felt the unease—not quite a threat—of his life shifting its points of reference. And as a part of that unease and foreboding, the pale orange light of the parking lot’s sodium lamps brought something new to Axton’s face; it was as if Wager were looking at it for the last time. “You watch yourself, Max.”
“With Golding for a partner, I’ll be wide awake every second.” A massive hand gripped Wager’s shoulder and gave it a squeeze. “Have fun—really! A little vacation’s not going to kill you.”
The cabin was better than Wager had expected, a long, low building made of thick notched logs with a rambling screened porch across two sides and an outhouse a hundred yards off. It had a rock fireplace for heat and a hand pump over a chipped sink for water. A propane-fed stove and a noisy refrigerator finished the kitchen appliances. Four single beds were lined up in one room, and the other was a combination dining and living area furnished with heavy wooden chairs and a large pine table. A sagging couch could also serve as a cot, and on the walls were racks and hooks and cabinets for guns and jackets and gear. The best part was the location—a half-mile away from the ranch house and out of sight on a narrow road that wound across juniper-covered hills.
Within a short walk, a small, rocky stream cut through the sandstone to join the nearby Dolores River. There were trout in the stream, Rusty Volker had told him, but the water was muddy now with spring runoff, and you had to use bait rather than flies.
“How much of the stream’s on your land?” Wager asked. The two men had sat at the kitchen table in the ranch house groping for something to talk about while Jo and her old friend, Dee, giggled like schoolgirls and kept going from one corner of the house to another as they thought of something new to look at. Wager didn’t talk horses or cows, and Rusty wasn’t more than politely interested in the Denver Police Department. They were both relieved to find fishing.
“About a mile—it winds around a lot.”
Through the wide glass behind the sink, Wager could see a distant level valley blue-green with sagebru
sh. But here, closer to the barn-red buildings of the ranch, the land was broken into low hills that showed ledges of red and yellow and orange sandstone. They were dotted with piñon and cedar and juniper that reached only a little higher than a horseman’s head. It was like the caprock country down in New Mexico, and the land could fool you because it looked so level when you gazed across it toward the snowy peaks of the La Sals. In reality, it was cut by ravines and canyons that all tended to drift west toward the deeper cut of the Dolores River, and every now and then, from some sudden bluff, you realized that you were high up on a mesa’s eroded surface and that the land stepped in vast ledges down and away toward Utah.
It seemed odd to have the sky open up in that direction. In Denver, the western horizon was blocked by the Rockies, and the palest skies were seen over Kansas, Here, the pale edge of the sky was in the southwest, over desert country; and beyond the horizon’s curve the earth seemed void except for the occasional glimmer of distant, scattered mountain peaks. The whole world seemed to slope toward California. Which, he guessed, it did—if the Colorado River was any measure.
“Is it stocked?” Wager asked.
“The Forest Service stocks it upstream in the national forest.” He grinned, drawing the skin tight around a long and bony jaw. “But some of them manage to get down this far.”
“This looks like pretty thin grazing land.”
“It is. You figure an average of forty acres a cow. And then they walk off a hell of a lot of weight going for water. But we could still make a go of it if it wasn’t for the damned government. I swear those people back in Washington are doing their best to ruin as many ranchers as they can.”
“Hard times?”
This was a subject that interested Rusty even more than fishing, and he leaned forward, the creases around his mouth coming back. “Damned hard. I just hope we can hang on till something changes for the better.”
“Are the other ranchers having troubles, too?”
“I don’t know anybody who isn’t. The price of equipment, feed, fuel, medicines—hell, they’ve all gone up and up. And so have the damned imports. Now BLM wants to raise grazing fees, and we just can’t get the beef prices to cover it all anymore. It’s a wonder everybody just don’t sell out and let them all become damned vegetarians.”