Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“Who the hell is Pat Waquie?”

Estelle didn’t answer for a moment as she paid attention to a series of S-curves. Then, as calmly as if she were selling stamps, Estelle said, “Pat lives in that rambling adobe just beyond where the pueblo land starts. He has the orchard where the trees practically hang out over the highway.” She glanced at me to see if I was following her description.

I gestured at the highway. The white lines, what few there were between long strips of double yellow, blended together into one racing stripe.

“So how does it figure to be the truck we’re after?” I asked.

“Garcia’s hunch. Waquie remembered it because one of the guys in it tossed a beer can in the old man’s front yard. Waquie was sitting on his front step enjoying the evening when the Ford drove by. They were really whooping it up.”

“Living by the highway, he must get lots of that.”

“This time, it was his own nephew.”

“And how…” I stopped as the Ford blasted toward a sign that announced a tight switchback. The yellow sign called for fifteen miles an hour. I tried to push both feet through the floorboards, and one hand reached for the dashboard.

Estelle hung the big car out wide, braked hard, slapped the gear selector down to first, and when the rear end howled and broke loose punched the gas. We exited the corner as pretty as you please, straight in our own lane and accelerating hard.

“…how does that connect with Burgess?”

“Garcia said the old man told him that he’d seen the nephew drive by a couple of times, each time a little faster and noisier…and the kid had picked up some passengers. The last time, well after dark and just before the old man went inside, he saw his nephew go by with at least five in the truck…three inside and two in the back.”

“The old man notices the fine details,” I said, skeptical.

“That’s what he said he remembered. And the boy’s been in a couple good scrapes before. His folks let him run wild. The uncle doesn’t like it much, but what can he do?”

“So based on the old man’s tale, Garcia thinks that maybe Cecilia Burgess got herself picked up by a bunch of drunks and ended up raped and in the rocks.”

“It’s possible.”

“It’s as good as anything else you’ve got.” We hit a straight stretch for a few hundred yards, and I tried to relax. “Where’s Waquie’s nephew now?”

“He’s with the truck.”

“And Garcia’s sitting on him somewhere up here? He’s got him staked out?”

“Right. So to speak.” We had reached the head of the canyon, and the stop sign at the T-intersection shot past as we swerved out onto the main state highway that ran east-west through the mountains. The convenience store off to the left faded behind us as we headed east.

Estelle said, “A group of Girl Scouts found the truck. They’re camping out on the backside of Quebrada Mesa. As the crow flies, it’s only a mile or less to the scout camp over on Forest Road 87.”

“What do you mean, ‘found the truck’? Crashed, you mean?” Estelle nodded. “And let me guess. The kid’s inside it.”

“Apparently.” Estelle suddenly stood on the brakes, and we skidded to a stop in the middle of the highway. “I missed the turn,” she said, and we backed up so fast my forehead almost hit the dashboard.

“Christ,” I gasped. “If your kid ever wants to be a damn racing driver, you’ll know where he got the notion.” My neck snapped back as she braked our backward plunge.

Off to the right, a small Forest Service sign announced: quebrada mesa campground, 7 mi., and snake run trail, 4 mi. Below that, it said: primitive road-not maintained. We jolted onto the forest two-track, and if I’d worn dentures, they would have been in my lap.

“We’re not going to the campground,” Estelle said as if that made everything hunky-dory. “The scouts are a couple of miles this side of it, where the mesa edge is right next to the old logging clearing.”

She was already assuming that I knew the country as well as she did. I let it ride and concentrated on keeping my head from being driven through the roof of the Ford. In a couple places, the road would have been narrow for a three-wheeler, and the low-hanging ponderosa pine branches wiped scratches the full length of the patrol car. A limb as thick as my thumb whacked the mirror on my side askew and screeched across my window.

“Guzman, this is Garcia.” The radio message cracked loud despite the bouncing car, and I reached for the mike. I wasn’t about to give Estelle an excuse to take her hands off the steering wheel.

“Go ahead, Garcia.”

We hit another rut and I almost dropped the mike. Garcia’s voice was loud and clear. “I can hear you coming up the two-track. Estelle, stop where the scouts are. There’s a washout or two farther on. You’ll break an axle if you’re not careful.”

“Ten-four. Appreciate the thought,” I said, and to Estelle, I added, “I wonder if he broke his.”

For another five minutes we crashed along the path. Then Estelle swung the Ford around a corner and slewed the car to a stop. Four Girl Scouts stood in the middle of the lane, terrified. The lights from the roof rack pulsed across their faces.

The oldest kid couldn’t have been fourteen, and I wondered where their counselor was. “We can park right here,” Estelle said. She switched off the car and the lights. “…if you don’t mind hoofing it for a few yards.”

“No, no. I don’t mind,” I said and popped my seat belt before she changed her mind.

“The other officer told us to meet you out here,” the oldest scout said as Estelle got out of the car.

“Good girls,” Estelle said. She snapped on her flashlight. I was still rummaging, and Estelle called, “In the glove compartment.” I found the other flashlight and grunted my way out of the car. It felt good to plant both feet on unmoving ground.

“Where’s the other deputy?” Estelle asked, and the scout pointed off to the west.

“It’s shortest this way,” the girl said. “Part of the road farther on is washed out pretty bad. We can cut straight across.” There were six of us and six flashlights, and still the timber was dark as tar. I brought up the rear, hoping that the five young ones in front of me would kick all the obstructions out of the trail. They left enough to keep me paying attention.

This particular portion of Quebrada Mesa was a narrow spit of land where the two sides of the mesa tucked in tight before fanning out to blend with the swell of the mountain behind it. The Forest Service two-track was an access road to an old timber sale area. Campers used it and maybe serious lovers who didn’t want to be disturbed. I couldn’t imagine casual drinkers jolting their innards just to quaff a brew under the moon.

We reached the edge and as we paused for a minute, I could hear the faint shush of wind through the pines below us. “Where’s Garcia?” I asked.

“Down this way,” the brave scout said, and we walked along the edge single file. A hundred yards ahead I saw several lights gathered at the edge and then, when the timber thinned some more, I saw a single flashlight down below, fifty, maybe sixty yards away. It had to be a hell of a drop-off.

Four more scouts and two counselors waited for us. The counselors-two gals of maybe eighteen or twenty-looked as scared as the little ones. Estelle looked down and then asked, “Is there an easy way down there?”

“It’s all pretty steep,” one of the counselors said. “The other deputy just slid down from here.”

Estelle sighed, and I knew what was going through her mind. She didn’t like someone skidding willy-nilly through the middle of her evidence. She pulled the hand-held radio from her belt and keyed the button.