Steven Havill - Prolonged Exposure

“That’s a service road. We’ve either got a service road or clear land easement along every one of our lines.”

“But it’s not a road,” Holman mused.

“Well, not what the highway department calls a road,” Tierney said. “But it’s clear enough that a four-wheel-drive vehicle can usually get through. Sometimes we have to use a Cat.”

“And a big RV?”

Tierney laughed. “No way. Certainly not down there. Those rocks would tear the tires to pieces. It wouldn’t have the clearance or the traction.”

I sat back. “What if after he hit the state highway, Browers just crossed the road and took the electric easement straight south, following the transmission lines.”

“He’d probably be able to bump along for about three miles. As soon as the lines started up through the pass there, it’d be much too rough.”

“And then he’d be about what, five miles from this work site where they’re messing with the transformers?”

“Closer to seven.”

“And there would be vehicles there, wouldn’t there?” I looked at Tierney. “And if he got one of your utility trucks, there wouldn’t be much to stop him from following this line east toward Maria. It parallels the border, and he’d have no trouble finding a spot to cut the fence.”

Tierney wiped the sweat off his forehead again.

“And those are nice trucks, too, as I recall,” I added. I looked back at the map. “Would Browers know about this work crew?”

“Sure,” Tierney said. “As I recall, he would have been assigned there. And he’s worked there before. We had to juggle things around when we had the search for his stepson. A lot of our men were in on that.”

“He would have been assigned there?”

Tierney nodded. “He’s one of our transformer techs.”

I ran a finger south, along County Road 14, frowning. My finger dropped across the state highway and trailed down into the mountains. “Bingo,” I whispered.

“Which way do your work crews go to that site?” Holman asked. “It almost looks shorter to go to Regal and then cut over to the east and into the hills.”

“That’s the way they will go,” Tierney said. “Especially with the weather the way it’s been.” He pointed at a spot just north of the San Cristobal ridge. “There’s a lot of clay right in through here. We usually don’t go that way unless we’re using a Cat.”

“Does Andy Browers know that?” I asked.

“I’m sure he does. He’s been with us for seven years, so he’s seen most of the county in that time. And like I said, he’s worked down there before.”

“If they’re on foot, it won’t make any difference,” Estelle said. “If Browers abandons his vehicle and decides to walk to the top and then over, he’ll run right into the work crew when they drive up the other side from Regal.”

“Let’s look at the time,” I said. “They took Francis at six-oh-three. The ruckus down at the motel was sometime around six-thirty. Cole is stabbed or shot, or whatever happened to him, and they return to North Fifth Street. They take him inside and try their best to patch him up. It doesn’t work. Or maybe they think they’ve succeeded. They load him into the big RV and head out. They may have thought at first that with out-of-town plates, it would be ignored. That would still be only about seven o’clock-and we were still ignorant of what was going on. By the time Erma managed to alert us, it’s going on eight. By that time, Browers could already have been out beyond the Torrance ranch. Even if he hadn’t heard about the roadblocks, this area would make sense to him as a place to ditch the body.”

“Francis has no concept of what time anything happened, sir,” Estelle said. “It was dark-that’s all he’ll say.”

“We had the airplane in the air by nine o’clock, nine-thirty at the latest, as soon as we discovered that the RV was gone. So he had time. Lots of time. He drove out here, buried the body. He had time to drive all the way down here,” and I tapped the intersection of County 14 and State Highway 56. “By then, he must have known that the borders would be closed and that the highways would be jammed with cops looking for Francis.

“I don’t know of any place along County Road Fourteen where he could hide that thing, although as long as his lights were off, the airplane wouldn’t see him.”

“What if he crossed the state highway and continued on ahead?” Tierney said. “He’s got just a mile of pretty hard-packed prairie, and where the power lines cut across the wash, there’s even been some dozer work done. It’s conceivable that he could have worked his way to about Wilson’s Tank, with just a little luck.”

I peered at the map. The San Cristobal range was one of just a handful in the continental United States that ran generally west-east for part of its length. The range looked like an upside-down crescent, with its western end just northwest of Regal, and then curving east and south, down into Mexico. The north slope of the range drained into the same valley that was the roadbed for State Highway 56.

Parked at the intersection of County Road 14 and State 56, Browers would have been looking at the back side of the San Cristobals, with Mexico just on the other side, tantalizingly close. To him, the mountain wasn’t a barrier; it was an opportunity.

“Wilson’s Tank is right here,” Tierney said. “We used that area for a while as a staging spot for equipment and supplies when we ran the new line across.”

“What’s there?” Holman asked.

“The Guijarro cut is pretty narrow there, lots of trees down in. There’s an old corral, some stock chutes, and the water-collection platform and tanks. That’s about it.”

“Suppose he was able to make his way there,” I said. “That’s about two and a half miles?”

“About that.”

“He could have been there by nine o’clock. If he had to walk the rest of the way, how far is it?”

Tierney wiped his forehead again, looking pained. “First of all, it’s one hell of a walk. I mean, that’s rugged country, even staying right under the power lines. It’s the sort of track that’ll jounce your teeth out, using compound low in a four-by-four.” He put his hands on his knees and got his bifocals into position. “I’d have to guess seven or eight miles. Uphill. Tough walking.” He stood up and looked at me.

“Bill, he’s got a woman and a three-year-old boy with him,” Holman said. “He wouldn’t try something like that with them. For one thing, he’d have to carry the boy most of the way.”

“Maybe,” I said. “He might have them with him. He’s dumped his other complications along the way. He might continue the habit. But you’re right. He’s certainly not going to do it in the dark.”

“I don’t know,” Tierney said. “Walking from pole to pole, it’s hard to get lost. Our crews work at night all the time.”

“But it’s sure hard as hell knowing where to put your feet,” I said. I frowned, knowing damn well that Andrew Browers was still young enough to know exactly where his feet where.

I looked at the map again. “All right. Here’s the deal. He knows the work crews will be right here”-and I stabbed the map just south of the ridge-“when?”

“They pull out of here about eight-thirty, normally. They were a little late today. Say closer to nine. It takes ’em an hour and a half to make the drive. One hour to Regal and beyond, the last half hour up the power line to the relay and transformer station.”

“So, ten-thirty.” I looked at my watch. “It’s nine-fifteen right now. If Browers spent the night at Wilson’s Tank and then, come dawn, made the hike up hill, he’d make that seven miles by ten easily. He’ll be there waiting.”