Steven Havill - Bitter Recoil

“Beautiful afternoon, isn’t it?” Estelle said, but the boy’s only reply was a slight toss of his head to move a fall of hair farther from his eyes. “Are you H. T. Finn?”

“No.”

“Is he still camping up here?”

The boy’s eyes darted off to one side, to glance at the big tent that was pitched up at the head of the swale. He was a miserable sentry, and I figured that he’d lie, too. He did. “Nope.”

“Do you know where he went?”

The boy shook his head.

At that moment we both heard the voices, first that of a small child, then the faint mumble of an adult’s reply. I turned and looked north, past the tent and on up the saddleback. Two figures were walking slowly down through the timber, and by squinting I could make out a man and a small child, hand in hand.

“That’s maybe him?” I said, ignoring the boy on the rock.

“Could be,” Estelle said quietly. “Or maybe just hikers.”

“She’s a little small to hike so far from the parking lot,” I muttered when I could see the child more clearly.

Estelle turned and looked intently at the boy up on the rock. He’d closed the book at least. “Is that Finn?” she asked, and her voice carried some authority. The boy finally nodded, and Estelle turned back to me. “Well, technically, Finn isn’t camping at the moment, just as his friend here said. He’s hiking. Let’s go have a chat with him.”

H. T. Finn nodded at me without much interest, but for him Estelle Reyes-Guzman was another story. He eyed her as if he were choosing another member for his harem.

Normal interest was certainly excusable, since she wasn’t wearing the starched and quasi-military duds that sheriffs’ departments favor…and those, along with a wide Sam Browne belt loaded with hardware, take most of the sex out of the figure.

But Finn’s gaze started at Estelle’s running shoes and drifted slowly upward, pausing here and there until I was ready to slug him.

Finn was no kid. I guessed him to be within shouting distance of forty. He wore blue jeans torn at each knee and a gray T-shirt. On the T-shirt was one of those fish symbols with the words JESUS CARES stenciled underneath.

He was fit. The T-shirt stretched over a wide chest and powerful shoulders, with no bulge at the waistline. And he was either tough or heavily into pain, because he was barefoot. I winced at the thought of walking over the limestone-studded forest floor without something to protect my soles.

I glanced at the child…a toddler, almost. She was a pretty tyke with golden hair parted down the center and pulled back into a thick ponytail. Big, trusting blue eyes watched Estelle without blinking.

Her red jumper needed a washing, but at least she was wearing shoes. Her hand was tightly clutched in his. She edged closer to his leg and started to back around behind him when she saw me looking at her.

“Mr. Finn?” Estelle asked.

“Who are you?” Finn grinned, still letting his eyes drift.

“I’m Deputy Estelle Reyes-Guzman, Castillo County Sheriff’s Department. This is Undersheriff Bill Gastner.”

I didn’t bother to correct Estelle’s implication that I was on home turf. Finn wasn’t impressed anyway. “You have some identification, I assume?” he asked, still grinning. At least he had enough control over his hormones to raise his eyes from Estelle’s chest to her face. The grin was only from the nose down-his gray eyes were void.

“Yes.” Estelle pulled out her wallet and held it up so he could see her badge and commission. He glanced at it briefly, then looked at me. He raised an eyebrow.

“Pretend that I’m a civilian,” I said. If I had to arrest this son of a bitch, that would be soon enough to show him anything. His eyes narrowed.

“Mr. Finn, we’d like to talk with you for a few minutes,” Estelle said.

“So talk,” Finn replied. “This is National Forest land. They let anyone in.” He flashed that humorless grin again.

“I understand that you knew Cecilia Burgess?”

Finn hesitated only a second before nodding. “Yes. I knew her.”

“She came up here from time to time?”

“Of course.” He said that as if he thought us both simple.

“When was the last time you saw her?”

Finn pursed his lips. “Alive, you mean?” His bald-faced response startled me. “Before last night?”

“You knew that she was involved in a pedestrian accident last night?” Estelle asked.

“Yes.”

I glanced down at the little girl. She had transferred her grip to the seam of Finn’s jeans. And she had given up on us as something interesting to watch. The thumb of her other hand was jammed in her mouth as she watched a stinkbug make its way through the pine needles. All the adult talk was lost on her.

When I looked back up, Finn had clasped his hands together, resting them lightly on his chest like a priest.

“She’s still alive, Mr. Finn. At least she was this morning, when she was transferred to Albuquerque.” Finn accepted that with a slight nod and spread his hands apart slightly as if to say, “So you say.”

“How did you hear about the accident?” I asked.

Finn lifted only one hand this time and pointed downhill at the youth on the rock. He did it slowly and gracefully, again reminding me of a priest, maybe extending the consecrated bread during Eucharist. “Robert was in the village this morning.”

“How did he hear about it?”

“You’d have to ask him,” Finn said. “But in a village so small news travels rapidly, doesn’t it?”

Estelle nodded as if she hadn’t thought of that on her own. “How long had you known Burgess, Mr. Finn?”

Finn took a deep breath and gazed off into the distance. “Several months,” he said finally. “What’s today?”

“August 5.”

“Well then, let’s see. I first met her just before Christmas. So I guess that’s seven or eight months.”

“Do you know who else she associated with? On a regular basis?”

Finn looked irritated for the first time. “I have no idea. What she did down in the village was her business.”

“And when she was up here?” I asked.

“What do you mean?”

“You and she were close?”

Finn glanced down at the little girl. The tyke had squatted and was nudging the stink beetle with a tiny index finger. The beetle thrust its hind end up in empty threat. “Of course,” Finn said after some hesitation. “Otherwise she wouldn’t have come up here.”

I decided to try a long shot, based on my conversation with Francis Guzman. “Is this her other child?”

“I beg your pardon?”

I knew damn well that Finn had heard me just fine, but I repeated anyway. “Is this child her daughter?”

“No,” Finn said immediately. “Ruth is my niece. She spends the summer with me.” He smiled faintly. “The city is no place for a child.”

I had no argument with that logic. Estelle Reyes-Guzman turned slightly so she could see Robert of the Rock. “Did your friend say anything to you about hearing how the accident happened?”

The smug expression returned to Finn’s face. “You’d have to ask him.”

This time Estelle came as close to snapping as she ever did. “No, Mr. Finn. I asked what he said to you, sir.”

“Nothing, Deputy,” Finn said, one eyebrow raised. “If you want to find out what he knows, talk to him.”

“We’ll do that on the way down. And by the way, do you have some kind of identification with you?”

“Identification?”

“That’s right.”

“Certainly.” He pulled a wallet from his right hip pocket, rummaged for a moment, and then held out a New Mexico driver’s license. Estelle took it, pulled out a small notebook from her hip pocket, and jotted down information. Finn waited patiently until she had finished and handed the document back. “If there’s nothing else?”