Steven Havill - Prolonged Exposure

“He’s in the bus,” the child said.

“Who else was in the bus, hijo ?” Estelle said. He dug a knee into my belly as he twisted and reached out with both arms to his mother. I handed him to her and he flung both arms around her neck.

He didn’t answer immediately, and Estelle brushed the hair out of his eyes. “Were Cody’s mommy and daddy in the bus?”

The child nodded. “A man chased me up there,” Francis said. “But he fell and hurt his leg.” I smiled at the satisfaction in the child’s voice. “Then they went away.” He pointed at Rory Torrance’s black Jeep. “That truck right there.”

“You’re safe now,” I said. “This is Mr. Torrance and his son Rory. They’re friends of ours. This is their ranch.” Francis nodded and I saw his eyes shift to Rory, skeptical. “Why didn’t you stay on the bus?”

“’Cause,” he said, as if that was all the answer necessary.

“Did Cody’s mommy and daddy make you get off the bus?” I asked, then repeated, “Cody’s mommy and daddy?” He nodded. “Where did they stop to make you get off?”

He turned and pointed over Estelle’s shoulder. “Right there,” he said. “But I runned away.”

The “right there” was indicated by a tiny index finger pointing generally off to the west.

“Why did you run away, hijo ?” Estelle asked softly. Dr. Guzman was holding the door of the truck for us, no doubt hoping the cops in the group would stop their goddamn interrogation and let him take the kid somewhere warm and dry.

Little Francis abandoned English, and most of what he said was whimpered in rapid-fire Spanish into the hollow of Estelle’s neck. She cooed something back to him, holding the back of his head tightly as she carried him to the truck.

She sat in the back, with the child in her lap, her arms wrapped around him. Her husband slid in beside her.

“You all want to go back to the house?” Herb Torrance said.

“Please,” I said. I twisted in the seat and saw that Estelle was looking hard at me. “What?” I asked.

“He said that Cody’s mommy and daddy told him that if he didn’t behave, they’d put him in the hole, too.”

“Oh my God,” I whispered. The little boy’s head came up as we hit the county road, and his enormous dark eyes, still filled with tears, watched as we passed the abandoned adobe barn. “In the hole. That’s what he called it in Spanish? A hole?”

Estelle put her hand on the top of the child’s head. “He doesn’t know the word grave yet.”

“That’s where they put that man,” little Francis Guzman said, his spine ramrod-stiff. He almost poked a finger in his father’s eye in his eagerness to point out the window. He twisted his head and looked at me. “Cody has two daddies. And that’s where they put him.”

“Herb, stop the truck,” I said.

“Bill, please,” Dr. Guzman said.

“Just stop, Herb. Let me out, and then take these folks back to the house. Estelle, use the radio to call Torrez and Mitchell out here. Or whomever you can reach. I’ll be waiting for ’em.”

The truck crunched to a stop. “You sure about this?” Herb said. I looked behind us. The black Jeep idled, waiting.

“Yep. I’ll keep Rory with me for company.” Just before I slammed the door, I turned to Estelle. “While you’re talking to him,” I said, indicating little Francis, “we need to know what direction that bus went when they took off. And if he heard them say anything about where they were going.”

I stepped away from the truck and beckoned to Rory Torrance.

“Do you have a shovel with you?” I asked the blond-haired youngster behind the wheel of the Jeep. He looked like a forty-year-younger version of his father, Herb-thin, blue-eyed, big-knuckled, angular features.

“Yes, sir,” Rory Torrance said. He watched, maybe expecting a pratfall as I slipped into the Jeep. I’d put in close to a million miles in the damn things during my twenty years in the Marine Corps, back before Humvees took over the world, and despite the modern chrome, fiberglass top, and the CD player wedged up under the dash, the Jeeps hadn’t changed much.

“I’d like you to park right in the middle of the road over there,” I said, indicating a spot in front of the crumbling building. “There’s not going to be much traffic.” He backed up not more than a hundred feet.

“Here?”

“Just fine,” I said.

“What are we looking for? Were those the kid’s parents who went home with Dad?”

“Yes,” I said. I got out of the Jeep. A blind man could have seen the deep impressions made by the RV’s dual back wheels. Who ever had been driving knew New Mexico’s treacherous secondary roads. He hadn’t pulled off far, not far enough to risk the slick mud of the shoulders.

Despite the spitting rain of the past few hours, the marks were clear. Someone had dragged a heavy burden over toward the old building. One of the daddies, as little Francisco had said.

“Bring your shovel,” I said, “And walk right behind me.”

I waited for Rory to dig the tool out of the back, and I noticed that he was wearing boots and short spurs. “You looking forward to Thanksgiving holiday?” I said.

He grinned. “Sure.” He glanced at his watch.

“Do you drive in or take the bus to school?”

He looked askance at me. “Don’t take no bus,” he said. I wondered if he clanked into first-period class with his spurs on.

I walked carefully, staying parallel with the footprints and drag marks. They led us just where I thought they might, over behind the old building, out of sight of the road. It wasn’t a spot frequented by bird-watchers, or neckers, or campers. Cattle ambled around the building, rubbing on the crumbling walls and leaving their trademark piles of manure.

“No one’s lived here for a while,” I said as I moved to the far southwest corner of the structure, the farthest point away from the county road.

“No, sir,” Rory offered, and that covered that.

“Do you know who used to live here?” I asked, leaning one hand against the rough stone and adobe, looking down at the fresh grave in front of me. Some of the wall had been kicked loose and pulled down to cover a fair portion of the freshly dug soil. I guessed it was a hurried attempt to keep the coyotes away from the grave for a day or two.

“No, sir.”

“Long time ago, huh?”

“Yes, sir.” I held out my hand for the shovel, and Rory Torrance gave it to me without hesitation. He was looking down at the dirt. “Somebody steal something?” he asked.

“Yeah, Rory, as a matter of fact, somebody did,” I said.

“Why would they bury it way out here?”

I bent down and scuffed at the dirt with the shovel, not bothering to answer. I moved a couple of rocks, and, almost immediately, denim showed. I handed the shovel to Rory and squatted, pushing more of the rocks away. It wasn’t difficult. Old Florencio Apodaca knew how to dig a proper grave, if not where. But this one had been finished up in a hurry.

With a gentle tug, the arm came out of the dirt.

“Oh, gross,” Rory Torrance said, and backed up a step, suddenly sounding more like a teenager and a whole lot less like a tough leather-slappin’ cowboy.

“It’s not an ‘it’ that got buried, it’s a who,” I said, and stood up.

Rory’s eyes were huge as he pointed at the arm. “Was that little kid with these people? He saw all that was goin’ on?” I nodded. “Sheeeit,” the boy said. “I woulda run, too.”

I put my hands in my pockets and gazed around me. The light was stronger, hinting at a thin cloud cover, but the sky made no promises one way or another. Off to the south, ragged clouds hung over the San Cristobal Mountains. To the far west and north, the sky was clear.