Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“They recovered Paul Garcia’s body?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And nobody else is hurt? Other than Martinez, I mean?”

Olguin shook his head. Finn-that slimy son of a bitch-was loose and running, and none of us knew where he was.

“Is the fire under control?”

Olguin shook his head again. “That’s going to be a bad one, sir. I heard on the radio that the wind’s picking up. And the fire’s in heavy timber, movin’ up the mountain. They got crews from all around the state, tryin’ to stop it before it jumps across into the wilderness area on the north side.”

I nodded, but it wasn’t the forest fire I cared about. “Is Tate still at the hot springs?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Get hold of him on the goddamn radio and tell him I need to talk to him.”

“You can reach one of the deputies down at the campground parking lot. The repeater reaches in there. They can patch through on hand-held to the sheriff up the canyon.”

“I know how radios work, Deputy,” I snapped and immediately waved a hand in apology. “Look, I need to talk with Tate on a telephone, not the radio. Get through to him and have him find a phone. By the time he does that, I’ll be out of here.”

“Yes, sir.”

Olguin left, and I reached for the buzzer to call a nurse. There was no buzzer. I swore loudly. The nurse showed up on the third curse.

“Is there something I can get for you?”

“Damn right,” I said. “I need a telephone.”

“There’s no phone in here,” she said, and I looked at her in disbelief.

“I know that, Nurse.”

“I’ll see one of the doctors. They may be ready to move you now.”

“That would be nice.” I smiled encouragement and then let my head fall back on the pillow. Estelle was in surgery, I was stuck in bed, and it sounded like Tate’s men were either still mining the campsite or helping fight fires.

I hoped somebody was left to hound H. T. Finn’s tail before little Daisy had to learn to speak Mexican.

“He did what?” I stared at Pat Tate.

The sheriff regarded me as if I’d given Finn the keys myself. Maybe that’s why Tate had driven to the city instead of prolonging our phone conversation. “The son of a bitch parked Al Martinez’s car right in Estelle’s driveway. Then he broke a wing window of your Blazer and that was that.”

“What the hell is that simple bastard up to?” I walked to the window. To the north, the plume of smoke towered like a summer thunderstorm’s anvil-hell, airline pilots were probably smelling the pine smoke at 30,000 feet. “He won’t be hard to find.”

“No. There are probably only a thousand beat-up ’84 Chevy Blazers in the state. But we got every road covered…one agency or another.”

“And he’s got Daisy with him.”

“For sure,” Tate said. “We saw the tracks of her little sneakers in the dirt of the driveway.” He sat on the edge of the bed. His fingers twined together and he said quietly, “I don’t believe we lost Paul. Twenty-two years old, for Christ’s sake.” He looked over at me, knowing there was nothing I could say that would make any difference. “We don’t have any background on this guy yet, you know that?”

I nodded. Tate continued, “We’re trying for a print match. What we need is one of those big computers that does that. We have the rifle and it might turn some prints. I think we recovered all the weapons, including that automatic of Arajanian’s. It doesn’t make sense that a punk kid like him can just plunk down a thousand bucks for a fancy gun and a goddamn silencer.”

Tate looked at his watch. “I’ve got two investigators with Kyle Osuna right now,” he said and then added with no sympathy, “That’s one scared kid.”

“He has reason to be.”

“I was there for a few minutes and heard some of the preliminaries. You know why he wanted to talk with us so bad?”

“He was scared shitless, that’s why.”

“Partly. He was in the truck, all right, with the other four. He was up in the cab with Waquie and Kelly Grider. The Lucero brothers were in the back and he says they started the ruckus with the girl, almost the minute she climbed into the truck.”

“They raped her?”

“Eventually, I guess. Osuna says they drove all the way to the head of the canyon to get some more beer at that little store… Chuga’s. Then he says they went to one of the campgrounds up that way. Had themselves a party. By that time Cecilia Burgess was trying to get away-Osuna says she tried to run up into the woods and Kenneth Lucero caught her. Osuna says he tried to stop him, but Lucero was too much to handle.”

“And after the party?”

“They drove south and Osuna said the girl was pleading with them to let her go, to drop her off when they got to the hot springs. He says they got to fighting in the back, with Waquie and Grider yelling encouragement from the front. Osuna says they were swerving all over the road.”

“And he was lily-white innocent, of course.”

“Sure. So he says. Somewhere north of the campgrounds, push came to shove. Osuna says that Kenneth Lucero lost his temper and hit the girl pretty hard. The truck swerved across the road, since Waquie was both drunk and enjoying the fight, not paying much attention to the road. He jerked the wheel at the wrong time and over she went.”

“Osuna says the truck was southbound on the highway?”

“So he says. In the wrong lane.”

“She gets tossed into the rocks and they drive on home.”

Tate nodded. “More or less. But I have trouble with part of that punk’s story. Osuna told the detectives that he went back up the canyon after a while in his own truck, found the girl, and helped her up to the highway. He says he would have done more, but then traffic came along and he spooked. He says he thought that since someone else was going to stop and take care of the girl, he could slip away.”

“There’s evidence that says that might be true, Pat. Both Estelle and I sure as hell thought it looked like someone had helped her up to the road. Maybe Osuna really did.”

It was the first time during our conversation that Estelle’s name had been mentioned, and Sheriff Pat Tate flinched perceptibly. He looked like he was ten years older than he was…physically tired and emotionally wrung out. He stood up and pushed one hand into his pocket, moving toward the door. He stopped and rested the other hand on the door pull, looking down at it thoughtfully.

“Al Martinez is fine. He’s sore as hell, but fine. But we’re not going to know anything about Estelle’s condition until probably late this afternoon…maybe even tomorrow.”

“I heard.”

“If she pulls out of it, she’s going to be one lucky girl.”

I nodded and looked out the window. I wasn’t sure I wanted Estelle to pull out of anything if she was going to face the rest of her life as a vegetable. No one had put that fear in words, but like a black cloud it hung over our thoughts.

Pat Tate turned and waited until I looked back at him. “Finn isn’t going to get away with this, Bill.” His heavy-lidded eyes didn’t blink. “I wouldn’t say this to anyone but you, but those punks in the truck had it coming. You and I both know they did. And that priest…Parris? He didn’t know what the hell he was doing when he tipped off Finn.” He shook his head in disgust. “But it’s gnawing at me, what a cold, calculating bastard this Finn is. Hell, his girl got raped and smeared on the rocks. He flips out…I can almost understand that. I’d want to kill somebody myself. If he just walked up to each one of them and blew them away, that would be one thing. But the way he did it, Jesus. And he sure as hell didn’t give you, Estelle, and Paul any notice. He just cut loose.”