Steven Havill - Double Prey

“How did you happen to come by Johns’ truck, sir? A 2004, I think.”

“Do I got to put up with all this?” Prescott asked Gastner. “I mean, a man’s got rights, don’t he?”

“Indeed he does, Gus my friend. Indeed he does.”

“Well, then?”

“Well, then,” Gastner said calmly, “we’d appreciate some answers, Gus. And I guess you know that you can give ’em now or later.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Just what I said. Now or later, Gus. If not to us, then there’ll be someone else.” Gastner grinned warmly. “I’d sure rather talk with me than somebody else.”

Prescott frowned as he tried to understand that. “Look, I sold that wreck to Florek fair and square. You ask him. I got his receipt right in the house.”

“We did ask him, Gus. Seems like a good thing to be clearing out some old junk. A man kinda gets buried by stuff after a while. But there’s a few little things that don’t square up, and you can understand our curiosity, I would think.”

“What’s your interest in all this?” Prescott asked.

“Me personally? Well, now,” Gastner said, “I’m just lookin’ out for some old friends. I got a right to do that, don’t you think?”

“This Johns a friend of yours?”

“Nope. Never was. And now I have this nagging suspicion that he had some friends south of the border I wouldn’t have cared much for either. That’s why we’re curious how you came by his truck, Gus. Just want to make sure everything is in the clear.”

“I bought it off him.”

“From Eddie Johns, you mean?” Estelle asked.

“That’s what I said.”

“Pricey unit,” Gastner observed.

“Not when I got it.”

“It was one or two years old when you bought it?” Estelle asked.

“More like three or four,” the rancher said, and wiped his mouth again. He regarded the truck’s engine, setting his beer can on the radiator housing. “Took me three days to put that in here. Runs like a charm.”

“Hell of a lot of work,” Gastner said.

“Damn right.” Prescott moved the can and reached up to grab the hood and pull it shut.

“So that’s that. You satisfied?”

“Had the truck been damaged when you bought it?” Estelle asked.

“Hell, yes, it was damaged. Johns…well, he wouldn’t say for sure what he did, but he rolled it down into an arroyo. That’s what I think. Wasn’t a body panel left that wasn’t wrecked. Insurance wrote it off.”

“Johns had the salvage as part of the settlement, and you bought it from him.” Gastner made it sound as if the answer to that one question would put a period to the whole discussion, and Prescott nodded quickly.

“Sure. That’s how it was.”

“Giarelli had nothing to do with it, then.”

Gus Prescott shot a quick glance at Estelle. “What makes you think that he-who’s Giarelli?”

“One version of the story has an employee of Giarelli Sand and Gravel in Deming backing into Johns’ truck right there in the company yard, sir.”

“I don’t know where you heard that.”

“That’s a problem, then, sir. If Johns rolled his truck into an arroyo, there’d be a police report on the incident-probably in our files or with the state police. Otherwise the insurance company wouldn’t pay him. They wouldn’t total it out without a report, and Johns wouldn’t stand for that. He wouldn’t get a cent.” Prescott’s mouth worked and he flicked a piece of tobacco off his tongue. “And if the accident happened at Giarelli’s, there would also be an incident report, sir. They’d see to that. Otherwise, their company insurance wouldn’t pay.”

“Dig, dig, dig. It’s like a dog scratchin’ at a flea bite. You won’t leave it alone.” He licked his lips. “Look, I don’t know about all this Giarelli business. All I know is what Eddie Johns told me. That he’d wrecked the truck and collected a shitload of insurance, and wanted to know if I wanted the salvage. Just a nuisance to him. Maybe he made up a story to tell somebody so he wouldn’t sound like a simple son of a bitch. How the hell would I know.”

“So Johns signed the truck’s title over to you,” Estelle said.

“I didn’t get no title. The thing was wrecked. It was salvage.”

“He removed the license plate?”

“Well, damn, I don’t know whether he did or not. Or the insurance company. Hell, maybe his old aunt Minnie did. Who the hell knows. I don’t have it, that’s for sure. Never did.” He huffed with exasperation. “And you know it ain’t on the truck now. You checked thorough enough. That’s what my neighbor tells me.” He squared his shoulders. “Just what are you tryin’ to prove with all this mumbo-jumbo?”

“Do you own a rifle, sir?”

The question took the rancher by surprise. He glanced toward the pickup, then at Gastner.

“’Course I own a rifle. Everybody in this county owns a damn rifle.”

“Is that what you normally carry in the truck, sir? Other than the pump shotgun you have there?”

“Sometimes I do. Sometimes I don’t. What, now you’re going to accuse me of shooting Johns? Is that what this is all about? First I shoot him, then I steal his truck?” He managed a derisive laugh. Estelle watched as the color ran in splotches up his cheeks, as if he was fighting a fever.

“Mr. Prescott, Eddie Johns wasn’t shot with a rifle, as I’m sure you know by now, neighborhood communication being what it is. So no…I don’t think your ranch rifle shot him.”

“So what’s the point, then? What are you gettin’ at, lady?”

“May I see the rifle?”

“A rifle’s a rifle.”

“May I see it?”

“Well, hell, I suppose so.” He turned toward the truck, going again to the passenger door. Estelle watched him as he bent over and collected the gun, a short, angular weapon that had apparently been lying on the front seat or leaning in the passenger well. With the door open, she couldn’t see exactly what he was doing, but it appeared he was fumbling out the magazine. She shifted to her left a step or two, away from Bill Gastner, circling so that the rancher would have to turn to face her. Prescott tossed the magazine on the seat and stepped back, his footing not all that steady, the muzzle of the carbine held skyward. She had not heard or seen the bolt drawn back, so if a cartridge had been chambered before, it was still in place. He thrust the weapon out toward her, holding it forward of the trigger guard.

“Ruger ranch rifle,” he said. “Got to be a million of ’em around.”

“I would think so.” Estelle took the gun and turned so it was pointing off toward the distant hills. She racked the bolt back, and a cartridge spun out of the rifle. Bill Gastner almost caught it in midair, then bent to retrieve it and dusted it off before handing it to Estelle.

“Yeah, I shoulda done that,” Prescott muttered.

“I’d like to borrow this firearm for a day or two,” Estelle said. She pocketed the cartridge. “Would that be all right with you, sir? I’ll bring it back out to you tomorrow.”

“Well, no, I don’t guess that would be all right at all. You don’t just wheel in here and confiscate my guns, lady. I mean, just what are you up to?” He didn’t wait for an answer, but turned to his two daughters, who’d remained silent though the entire conversation, watching the back and forth like spectators at a ping-pong tournament. “I’d kinda like some privacy here,” he said, and his tone had abruptly softened.

“He’s right,” Estelle added, and Christine looked from her father to the undersheriff, eyes pleading. But this was no time for Gus Prescott to be dealing both with the undersheriff’s questions and an audience as well. “I’ll need to talk with both of you again, but if you’d give us a few minutes?”