Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“Who’s Parris?” I paid the bill, and we stepped outside into the bright sunshine.

“He’s in retreat. At the Servants of the Paraclete. You might have noticed the enclave just north of the Forest Service office?” I nodded and she added, “Parris and Burgess were seen together on several occasions.”

“Whoopee, Holmes,” I said dryly. “Maybe they’re cousins. Maybe a thousand other possibilities. Maybe Cecilia Burgess went to the good father for confession. Are the little old lady gossips assuming that there’s an affair going on? That’s pretty thin, Estelle.”

“I’m just telling you what Mary Vallo told me. It’s another angle.” She nodded at my Blazer. “Let’s drop that off at my house.”

I followed her car north until, just beyond the gas station, she turned off on a lane between two irrigated cornfields. A quarter-mile farther on, tucked under two massive ancient cottonwoods, was a tiny adobe. Estelle pulled into the driveway and gestured for me to park close to the wire fence. Judging from the outside, the house had four rooms at most. But it was neat and clean, and the nearest noisy railroad or interstate was seventy-five miles away. It would be peaceful as a tomb at night.

“Cute place,” I said as I settled into the county car.

“It’s cheap,” Estelle said. “Until Francis and I decide what we want to do this fall.”

“Do?”

Estelle shrugged. “We might not want to spend the winter here. The house has just a couple of those little wall heaters…and they’re not much good.”

“I don’t imagine either one of you is home much.”

“No. Especially not this week. But he’s always said he wanted to practice in a tiny village.”

“He got his wish. This is hardly Denver.” We rode silently for a few minutes, and I watched civilization thin as we drew away from the village. “How do you like it here?”

“Interesting,” she said. “It’s quite an experience being the only cop in town. You wouldn’t believe some of the domestic disputes I’ve been called to.”

“I think I would. What do the solteronas think?”

Estelle grinned. “About me, you mean?”

“Uh huh. If the old maids are upset at the idea of a woman talking to a priest, what must they think about a female deputy sheriff?” She didn’t answer right away, and I added, “Has there ever been one around here?”

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

“I imagine that takes some adjustment.” I stretched to ease the seat belt tension on my full stomach. “They’ll get used to it, like anything else. And in time, they’ll all wonder how the hell they ever did without.”

“I don’t know,” she said. “My mother isn’t used to the idea yet.”

I knew Felipina Reyes pretty well. The old woman, a widow for twenty years, lived alone in Tres Santos, a tiny village thirty miles south of the U.S.-Mexican border.

When Estelle had worked for me in Posadas, she was only an hour’s drive north from her mother, but to Felipina Reyes, her daughter might as well have worked on the moon.

And ay! To be carrying around a revolver as an agente del Alguacil Mayor de un contado en los Estados Unidos! Double ay.

“So what else did you find out this morning?” I asked.

“Well, I talked with Orlando Garcia.”

“Who’s he?”

“He owns Garcia’s Trading Post, right across from where you were eating.”

“Son of a gun. I never saw your car over there.”

Estelle grinned briefly and left me hanging. Maybe she could go invisible; I don’t know. “Garcia had a lot to say about Cecilia’s boyfriend up at the springs. Not much of it good.”

Before she had time to elaborate on all the juicy particulars, we reached the turnoff. She swung the patrol car into the campground below Steamboat Rock and then drove to the far end of the parking lot. A grove of runty Douglas firs would provide enough shade to keep the Ford from turning into an oven.

The trail east to the hot springs followed a small stream that ran into Isidro Creek. We walked slowly in deference to the discomfort in my gut. After a couple of minutes, I felt better. Maybe there was something to this exercise business. I even had enough breath for a question.

“What’s the boyfriend’s name? Did Garcia know that? Mary Vallo never said.”

Estelle nodded. “H. T. Finn.”

“H.T.? I wonder if his mother named him Huck and he couldn’t stand it.”

“Maybe. Garcia didn’t know what the H.T. stood for.”

“How old a guy is this Finn?”

“Orlando wasn’t sure. Older than thirty, though. And that sort of surprised me.”

I took a deep breath. “Hiking this trail will keep him in shape, that’s for sure.”

We skirted the buttress of Steamboat, a massive volcanic plug that rose vertically from the canyon and towered upward for nearly 300 feet. The trail was well worn and marked further with a considerable collection of refuse. Beer and pop cans, gum wrappers, cigarette packs, diapers…you name it.

After a hundred yards the trail forked and the Forest Service sign announced that the hot springs were three-quarters of a mile to the left, with Quebrada Mesa a mile and a half to the right. Of course I noticed morosely that the trail to the hot springs angled steeply uphill.

We trudged a hundred yards and I stopped to catch my breath. “Are you all right?” Estelle asked.

“I’m fine,” I gasped. “Just fat. And I smoke too much.”

Estelle grinned. She gestured ahead and said sympathetically, “I think it levels out just up ahead.” It did, but not nearly enough.

The first sign of human encampment was a site tucked under a limestone overhang, with the recess sheltered on either end of the overhang by mixed oak and aspen. Smoke from camp fires had blackened the overhanging rock, and I guessed that if a scientist could find a way to section that smoke residue, there’d be traces dating back hundreds, maybe thousands of years.

It would have been a favored spot for any hunter passing through, from yesterday’s hippie back to Pueblo Indians before him and then back to whoever came before the ice age.

A sleeping bag was rolled up tightly and stuffed well back under the rock. Estelle crouched down and pulled out the bag. A quick examination produced only a well-worn flashlight and a half roll of toilet paper.

“They travel light,” I said. Estelle pushed the bag back where it had been. “Are there other sites on up ahead?”

“Yes,” she said. “That’s where most of them are. Right by the springs.”

Another fifteen minutes answered my question. The hot springs formed a series of stair-stepped pools, nestled in a grassy swale. The overflow burbled downhill, forming a tiny rivulet not more than two feet wide. Thickly timbered saddlebacks rose steeply on either side of the swale. Any wind would have to do some serious corkscrewing to reach campers down in that protected place.

A gigantic boulder rested like a granite house near the first pool. And I would have missed him had Estelle not stopped suddenly. I followed her gaze and saw the young man sitting on top of that boulder.

He was sitting Buddha-fashion, legs crossed, and wearing only a pair of cutoff jeans. As we stepped closer, I saw he had a book open in his lap. He watched us approach without any obvious interest or movement. When we were a dozen feet away, we stopped. I had to crane my neck back to look up at him and felt foolish.

“Good afternoon,” I said.

“Hello,” he replied. He was so scrawny his ribs looked like they might pop through his skin. Long snow-colored hair hung down to his shoulders, and even if he’d given up most of society’s conventions, he certainly hadn’t lost his comb. His hair was placed just so…like he’d finished giving it the hundred strokes with the comb moments before.