Steven Havill - Twice Buried

And then I realized, as I turned around and headed the patrol car out the two-track, that he understood me perfectly well. I was the one who didn’t understand. Reuben Fuentes didn’t want my help.

The lane from Reuben Fuentes’s cabin to the county road was six-tenths of a mile. During the long minutes it took me to negotiate that distance without ripping out the oil pan of 310, my county car, I tried to formulate a short list of people who might have killed the old man’s dogs.

Reuben’s only neighbor, Herb Torrance, lived in the ranch headquarters four miles down the county road. His cattle roamed the countryside, maybe even grazed on property leased from Reuben. I didn’t know for sure. But all three of the little dogs banded together wouldn’t amount to much more than a fly strike on Herb’s Brangus cattle.

I ruled out a casual passerby as the culprit, and that conclusion didn’t require much brilliance.

Few people cruised this end of the county except during hunting seasons, and no seasons were open now. More probable, local kids might have been responsible for the killing of the dogs. To hear Glenn Archer talk, such behavior wasn’t beyond his tribe.

More than once during the past year our department had gotten wind of teenagers doing stupid things under the guise of whatever dare game was the latest fad. Rumor had it that old Reuben would shoot trespassers. I had no doubt that some teenager would dare a friend to sneak as close to the old cabin as he could…and maybe even poison one of the dogs as a lark. Or all of them.

Nothing was easier than soaking a frankfurter in sweet antifreeze as a lethal tidbit. And really enterprising delinquents could cook up far worse in a chemistry class. If that had been the case, I hoped the little bastards were really clever, using a chemical that would nail their hides to the barn when the medical examiner finished his analysis.

I reached the main county road, stopping the patrol car short of the cattle guard when I saw the plume of rich, red dust being kicked up by an approaching vehicle. I waited with my windows rolled up for the car to go by, but it slowed to a crawl, the rooster-tail of dust subsiding. It was a new model Chevy Suburban, chrome running boards and all, its shiny waxed finish now layered with red dust.

As Stuart Torkelson drove the Suburban beyond the intersection with Reuben Fuentes’s driveway, he grinned at me and pulled to a stop along the shoulder. Three other people were with him and they all craned their necks toward me as if I were a circus curiosity. I buzzed my window down as he got out of the Suburban and approached.

Torkelson was a huge man, beefy and florid. He played Santa Claus every year for the Lions’ Club and I think he believed in his role more than the kids did.

“Now, Bill, this is one hell of a spot to run radar,” he said. He leaned one huge forearm on the windowsill of the patrol car, bending down to squint inside. “What’s going on?”

“Just roaming.” I took his proffered hand and shook, instantly regretting it. His grip could have crushed rocks. “You touring some customers through the snakeweed?”

He turned and glanced back at the Suburban. “Yeah. A family from Austin. They’re lookin’ for something out of the way. A retirement spot.”

“They found it.”

He shot a look at me to see if I was joking, then his brow furrowed and he turned serious. “What’s this I hear about Annie Hocking, not that it’s any of my business?”

“She died last night.”

“Well, that’s what I heard, but they was saying that there was every cop car in Posadas around her place last night and this morning, early.”

“Yeah, well…you know how it is. Whenever there’s an unattended death, we got to follow all the procedures.”

“She just keeled over, eh?”

“Looks that way.”

“She sure hadn’t been out and around much in past months. She called me once, back along about Labor Day, wondering what she could get for her little place. She said she was thinking of moving out with her son, somewhere out in California, I think it was.” He straightened up, stretching his back. “She never did pursue it, though. Hell of a note.”

“I’m sure the son will be getting in touch with you now,” I said, and Torkelson shrugged as if another listing that no one would ever buy was just what he needed.

Torkelson frowned and looked off in the direction of Fuentes’s property. “You been up to see the Mad Mexican this morning?” I nodded. “You know-” the realtor began, then he looked at me askance, jutting out his lower lip. “You got just a minute?”

“Sure.” I knew that bending his six feet four inches down to look into my car window was hard work on a hot, sunny winter day. He stepped back when I opened the door and climbed out. We leaned against the front fender like two old friends who had the day to waste. Torkelson folded his arms across his wide chest and pointed down the county road with his chin, like a Navajo.

“I run across him last weekend, down the way just a bit.”

“Oh?”

“You see where there’s that outcrop of rock that comes out right to the road? And then there’s that big grove of oak and pinon trees?” He pointed off to the west. I squinted and pretended I did. “Well, I own that land, worthless as it is. One day a few weeks ago I got to figuring that if I could pry the old man loose of that big pasture just on this side of that…why, that’d be a pretty good piece to develop. It’d make mine worth something, don’t you see.”

I didn’t see, but then again I was no realtor. I didn’t understand the magic of a few acres of scrub pasture. None of it was worth fifty cents to me.

“And so-” I prompted, feeling a bead of sweat accumulate on my forehead and head toward the bridge of my nose.

“Well, I got to wondering just how big that pasture was, and so last Sunday I was out here doing a little scouting, knowing that I’d be bringing these folks out sooner or later.” He nodded at the Suburban. “I took me my long tape and was running some measurements on his field there.” He held up a hand as if I were about to interrupt him.

“Now I know what you’re going to say. No, I didn’t ask him first, and I should have. I know that. But I just figured, well, hell. He won’t even know, so what’s the difference.” He took off his sunglasses and wiped his forehead. His eyes were brilliant blue, with deep laugh lines crow-footing the corners.

“And he did mind, is that it?”

Torkelson nodded. “I hadn’t finished runnin’ the tape two hundred yards away from the road when there’s his old Jeep, pullin’ up to a stop behind my truck. Now I figured I’d just trot on down and have a chat with the old man. He got out and walked as far as the fence and when he saw that I was headed his way, he just stopped and waited. I got closer and saw that he was wearin’ a gun, big as life.”

“He does that,” I said.

“You’re damn tootin’ he does. So here I was, and I decided to just be real friendly, know what I mean? I mean this land he’s sittin’ on is going to be a gold mine someday if the federales ever grant national monument status to Martinez Tubes down the way. So I’m walkin’ kind of soft, you know what I mean? I said good mornin’ to him real civil. Now he knows who the hell I am. He can see the realty sign on the door of my Suburban and all. But he just looks at me out of those little beady eyes of his and tells me to get off his land.”

“Did you tell him what you were up to?”

“Hell, I tried, but that’s all he would say. ‘Get off my land.’ And I’ll be honest with you, Bill. I know I was trespassing. Hell, I know I should have asked him first. But he would have said no then, too. It was just one of those spur-of-the-moment deals, you know?