Steven Havill - Double Prey

“Herb’s back forty,” Gastner said. “Freddy didn’t go through there.” Sure enough, the four-wheeler tracks, here and there clear, but most of the time just a vague scuff on the hard ground, veered to the right, where the two-track dropped down into a shallow arroyo and then around the buttress of the mesa. “If we continue out this way, we’ll be on Miles Waddell’s property in about two miles, and then back to the county road,” he said. “So where the hell was he going?” Almost immediately, he sat up straighter, just as they reached another grove of piñon and oak scrub. Estelle slowed.

“Right there,” he said. The ATV tracks, now little more than a swath of bent and crushed dried grass and range weeds, swept to the left, off the trail. Estelle stopped the truck, staying in the two narrow ruts of the two-track. They both got out and circled around in front of the SUV.

“Now, the question is…” Gastner started to say, then shrugged. “Who knows what the goddamn question is.” He walked a few paces to the southwest, then turned and knelt down. “Joe Tracker here says that there have been enough people through this spot in the past week or so to fill a parking lot.” He pointed, sweeping his arm back and forth. “Get the light just right, and you can see that.”

Estelle walked ahead, staying on the raw dirt of the trail’s ruts. “He-or somebody-went on, that’s for sure.” She waited for Gastner to catch up. In a section no more than six feet across, merely a wash of sandy trash between two smooth, flat rocks whose crowns were now part of the trail’s paving, they could see a clear impression of the knobby tires from what looked like the big, soft tires of an ATV. And other tracks as well…truck, car, even motorcycle, perhaps a mountain bike or two.

A portion of the ATV’s prints were obscured by other tracks, too indistinct to signal anything other than that they were there.

“Useless,” Gastner said. “Nothing we can tell for sure.”

“But let’s suppose that Freddy went through here, along with everyone else. Hunters, ranchers, BLM, tourists, lost illegal immigrants, kids out partying.”

“And so? Let’s suppose that. So what? That’s what it all is, sweetheart. Supposition. We just don’t know, and we may never know. And even after the kid crashed, it’d be easy enough to miss him.” He shrugged. “Herb Torrance could have come out his gate and gone down this way. Could have gone the other way, too. Ditto anybody else you care to mention.”

Estelle sighed and rubbed her head. “I just want to know, Padrino . That’s all. I just want to know. I want to know why Freddy rode out this way, I want to know where he went.”

“Of course you do. But.” Gastner strolled down the two-track, hands in his pockets. “Oh, you got more tracks up here,” he said, stopping at the edge of another sandy wash where run-off down the flank of the mesa had carved a shallow crossing. “Several, as a matter of fact. See? That’s what I mean.”

“It won’t hurt to follow the two track out a bit farther,” Estelle said.

“You aren’t going to see anything,” Gastner offered. “I mean, so what? So he rode out this way? You know, the ride he took yesterday, when you saw him, wasn’t necessarily the only recon he’s taken in this area.” He surveyed the countryside, hands on his hips. “Probably pretty good hunting out this way. He’s got the rifle, so he’s making life miserable for the coyotes and bunnies. You know what I’ll bet?” He waited until Estelle raised an eyebrow in question. “I’ll wager lunch, which by the way we haven’t enjoyed yet, that if we walk out into the prairie here a hundred paces, we’ll cross at least one set of vehicle tracks.”

“I don’t doubt it, sir.”

“Rats. I wanted lunch.”

“We will, eventually.”

“You could fly over this country from the air, and it’d be a lattice-work of tracks, vehicle, cattle, and otherwise.”

“Rough going, all of it.”

“Not for a kid on a hot machine, it’s not,” Gastner said. “Bouncing and jouncing is half the fun, anyway.”

They returned to the truck and meandered along the two-track, eventually running into another barbed-wire fence. Ahead they could see a power pole, concrete well house, and just ahead down a slight slope, a large galvanized stock tank-this one full with fresh water not yet scummed over with algae.

“This is the back way into Miles Waddell’s property,” Gastner said, “and that’s his well house. And I can see tracks from here, every which way. You want me to open the gate?”

“No. There’s no point.”

“Waddell built this a few years ago, thinking that there would be money to be made when the BLM develops the cave property across the county road. Maybe a good guess, maybe a waste of money. He runs livestock here, and I know he leases some of it to Herb.”

Estelle pointed to the right, away from the gate, across the prairie where the main Bender’s Canyon Trail headed off to the north.

“Two more choices,” Gastner said. “If you stay on this road, it’s the easy way out to old State 17. Before you get there, there’s another really rough son-of-a-bitch that runs east through all those foothills, and eventually runs right down to Gus Prescott’s ranch. Right through his back yard.”

“I’ve never driven that.”

“Rough, washed out in spots, a kidney crusher.”

“How many miles to Prescott’s? About fifteen or so?”

“I would guess about that.”

“Freddy could have gone that way. He could have ridden over to see Casey.”

“He could have.” Gastner flashed an amused grin. “Or he could have taken the paved highway to Moore, and a mile and a half would have taken him in to the fair Casey’s front door.”

Estelle regarded the route ahead thoughtfully.

“Please tell me you’re not going to crash and bang along that trail in this crate,” Gastner pleaded.

“You don’t want to do that?”

“No, I don’t want to do that. I want to eat lunch , sweetheart. Anyway, that route isn’t going to offer up any easy answers. If I thought it would, I’d say go for it. Jounce and bounce until we both piss blood.”

“The Romeros are going to want to know, sir. They’re going to want to know what Freddy was doing when he was killed.”

“I understand that. And the answer is simple. He was careening down Bender’s Canyon Trail far faster than he should have been. He got careless. He got killed.” Gastner made a face that mirrored Estelle’s frustration. “You’ll find a more tactful way to explain it to them, I’m sure. But that’s the nut of it all.”

“The handgun in his kit says that’s not all of it,” Estelle said quietly.

“Ah…the gun.” He ducked his head in acquiescence. “Now you’re right about that.” He glanced at his watch. “And if I’m not mistaken, you may have some answers about that when Mears is finished processing the damn thing. That I’d like to hear.”

“Some clear prints.” Sheriff Robert Torrez passed to the undersheriff first a card bearing Freddy Romero’s finger prints lifted by Perrone at the morgue, and then a latent print collection. “Freddy didn’t make any effort to keep his prints off the gun.”

“I can’t imagine why he would,” Estelle replied. She studied the card, blinking to clear tired eyes. The clock on the office wall read nearly nine thirty, and she had already fielded a second call from George Romero a couple hours earlier. She’d managed to convince Romero that a visit to the crash site would serve them both far better in the fresh light of morning. He and Tata had settled instead for a visit to the morgue, a brief moment that would keep them sleepless for the rest of the night. Perrone had been there, had been gentle and thoughtful, allowing them only to see their son’s face.