Bitter Recoil

by Steven F Havill

  “And the rifle downstream is a semiautomatic,” I said.

  “There’s still one bullet in the clip of the rifle and one in the chamber,” Estelle said. “The clip’s capacity is ten.” She turned to Buddy Vallo. “It could have happened that way. Cecil could have shot his brother and then fell and shot himself by accident. That would account for all the rounds.”

  “If the gun was fully loaded in the first place,” I reminded her.

  She squinted against the sun and harsh sand. “We need to find those shell casings.”

  I asked Vallo, “Was there any animosity between the two brothers? Anything that might have led to this?”

  He pushed out his lower lip and frowned. “Maybe. Brothers fight sometimes.” I was about to add that a fight between siblings usually didn’t result in murder, but Vallo added, “And they were both chasin’ the same girl.”

  He half grinned at the irony of it. “I don’t think she was interested in either one of ’em. She was a white girl.” He said it as if that explained everything. He hadn’t spent much time in society outside Isidro Pueblo, where you never could be sure who—or even what—was going to experiment with matrimony.

  Estelle asked, “Who’s the girl?”

  “Lucy Grider. She lives on that ranch on the way to Encinas.”

  “Where the hell is that?” I asked. The girl’s name hadn’t registered.

  “About six miles. Where the state road forks, south of the pueblo? You go east. It’s a little village up that valley. She’s the sister to one of the boys you pulled off the mesa yesterday.”

  I turned and looked with surprise at Estelle. She’d sat down abruptly on a hummock of sand. She took off her Stetson and dropped it crown down beside her. “Kelly Grider’s sister,” she said. “I don’t believe this.” She looked up at me. “Waquie and Grider were killed together. Now these two. They both chased Grider’s sister.”

  “They hung out together off and on,” Vallo said.

  “The four of them?”

  “I’ve seen them together.”

  “I would have liked to have known that,” Estelle said, more to herself than anyone else. But she knew as well as I that the information would have come out in due time. None of us had been at leisure the past thirty-six hours to survey the county, picking up leads. “Have you seen anyone else with them?” Estelle asked, and Vallo shook his head. Old man Waquie had said five in the truck…maybe he’d miscounted. Or maybe the fifth one had been Cecilia Burgess.

  Estelle took a deep breath. “All right. We’ve got the daylight. I want this arroyo swept clean. I want those shell casings. And anything else. Paul, go back the way we came, start at the truck, and, really carefully, work along the top edge of the arroyo to this spot and even beyond. Then do the same on the other side, just in case. Buddy and I will work the body and this area.”

  She turned to me. “Sir, would you dust Lucero’s truck? The print kit is in the trunk of the car.”

  “You bet. Are you going to call Pat Tate?”

  “After a bit. We’re on the reservation, and it’s Buddy’s case. It’s up to him.” She raised an eyebrow at Vallo.

  “Let’s see what we find,” he said. “Maybe this is as far as it goes.”

  Stranger things had happened, of course. But I think the same scenario was going through my mind as Estelle’s. That little International Scout was small enough that a man could hide it pretty easily…especially on a mesa as thickly timbered as Quebrada Mesa. And if there’d been friction between the Luceros and Grider over the latter’s sister, who the hell knew.

  If Cecil Lucero was cold-blooded enough to use his own brother for target practice, he’d have had no trouble arranging a trip for two friends over a cliff—and then snapping a neck afterward.

  Chapter 18

  Lucy Grider might have been able to provide some answers. I was surprised when Estelle sent Paul Garcia to Encinas to interview her. I had to agree that Paul was as diligent a rookie as I’d ever seen—it was hard to be irritated at him for chasing brushfire smoke when, in the process, he’d stumbled onto a murder.

  Estelle coached him on what questions to ask and then we headed home shortly after eight that evening. This snowball of events was leaving us miles behind in its wake.

  “I want to talk with Nolan Parris,” she said as we turned into the dirt lane that led to the Guzman adobe. “And I want to talk with him tonight.”

  I should have guessed that was coming. She pulled into her driveway and asked, “Will you go with me?”

  “Of course,” I said. “If you feed me first.” Francis pulled into the driveway before we reached the front step. He hadn’t slammed the Isuzu’s door before Estelle met him. The two kids embraced for a long time.

  “Seems like a couple of days since I’ve seen you,” she said, and Francis laughed and removed her Stetson so the brim wouldn’t hit him in the mouth when she hugged him. Their nap that afternoon had done some good.

  “You don’t like clandestine meetings out in hidden arroyos?” he asked. I went inside so they’d have a minute together without a chaperone. I tossed my hat on the two-cushion sofa and pulled the holstered revolver off my belt.

  The telephone was on the wall by the doorway to the kitchen. I dialed zero and then Martin Holman’s home number in Posadas. The call went through after I gave the mechanical-sounding operator the billing. It rang twice, and then another robotic voice said, “I’m sorry, that number is temporarily out of service. If you need assistance, please stay on the line and an operator will help you.”

  I hung up, perplexed. Holman didn’t earn a bundle as sheriff of Posadas County, but he sure as hell earned enough to pay his phone bill. Maybe his four-year-old had jerked the cord out of the wall. The little bastard was capable of that and worse.

  Estelle and Francis came in the house just as I was dialing the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. Gayle Sedillos was working the desk. She was the best dispatcher we had. Estelle had started that way. But unlike Estelle, Gayle had no aspirations beyond the desk. She answered the phone after the first ring.

  “Where’s Holman?” I asked the instant she said she’d accept the call.

  “He hasn’t gotten hold of you, sir?”

  “No. What’s he want?” Holman always wanted something, and most of the time it could wait.

  There was a pause at the other end, and I could hear voices. Then Gayle said, “Sir, Bob Torrez just came in. Let me have you talk with him.”

  I glanced at Estelle and looked heavenward. She grinned. Deputy Bob Torrez picked up the phone. His voice was usually so soft I had a hard time hearing him.

  “Sir?”

  “What’s up, Bob?”

  “Sheriff Holman was trying to get hold of you earlier today,” Torrez said.

  I glanced down at the unchecked answering machine where his message no doubt awaited. “We were out,” I said. “What’s he want?”

  “His house burned down last night.”

  “His house burned down?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Anyone hurt?”

  “No, sir. But the house was a complete loss. And his two dogs.”

  “How’d the fire happen?”

  “We don’t know, sir. But we’ve sealed the place off. The sheriff’s out there. And the investigators from the fire department are still out there.”

  “Are they going to need an assist?” Sheriff Holman had lived in the village of Posadas and the volunteer fire department was eager and generally efficient. But the two men who called themselves investigators were good-intentioned amateurs.

  “They haven’t said,” Torrez answered.

  “Call the state office and get somebody over from Cruces,” I suggested. “And you’re sure everyone’s all right?”

  “Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman sent the family to Deming to stay with relatives. And he’s staying at the Essex Motel.”

  I groaned. “Christ, nobody wants to live in a motel, Bob. Holman knows where the
key to my house is. Tell him to use it.”

  “I’ll pass the message along, sir. He wanted to know when you were planning to head home.”

  “It’s going to be a day or two. We’ve got a little action up here, and I’m giving Estelle the benefit of my vast wisdom.”

  Torrez took that seriously as he did most things. “Yes, sir. Sheriff Holman wanted to know if you were coming back tomorrow.”

  “I’ll see. It’s unlikely though. Just tell him to use my house and call the state fire marshal’s office, if he hasn’t already.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Let me talk with Gayle now.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  When the dispatcher came on the phone, I said, “Gayle, is there anything the Holmans need that you know of?”

  “I don’t think so, sir. But I’ll ask. They sure lost everything, though.”

  “Well, tell him to use my house instead of camping out at the damn motel.”

  “I’ll do that. How’s Estelle doing?”

  “Fine. You want to talk with her?” She said yes, and I held the phone out to Estelle. They talked for ten minutes. Maybe Holman would have enough on his mind that he wouldn’t rant about the phone bill.

  Estelle finally hung up and for the first time since I’d set foot in San Estevan, the three of us had dinner together.

  I damn near drooled a puddle as I watched the enchiladas sink in a sea of fresh green chili. Francis handed me what I hoped would be the first of several cold beers. He poured a glass of red wine for Estelle. Estelle must have read something on my face, because she said, “Vitamin W. It goes with Mexican food better than that stuff you guys drink.”

  The fire of her chili was undiminished…it made even the cafe’s burrito grande seem like a bland milk shake. I wiped my forehead, blew my nose, and panted. “God, this is good. Destructive, but good.”

  “Destructive, hell,” Francis said. “Did you know it’s been proven in the lab that green chili kills bacteria?”

  “I don’t doubt it,” I said. “Does the kid start kicking when you eat this stuff?”

  Estelle laughed. “Not at two months, sir.”

  “What are you going to name him?”

  “Or her,” Francis said and handed me another beer.

  “Ask me again in seven months,” Estelle replied.

  “Is your mother going to come up here?”

  “For the grand event, you mean?” Estelle shook her head. “We’re going to Tres Santos.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “They’ve got a pretty good clinic there,” Francis said.

  I frowned and said, “Huh,” for want of anything better.

  “My mother is too frail to travel up here,” Estelle said. “This probably will be the only grandchild she lives to meet. There are worse things than being born in that big adobe house in Mexico.”

  “Huh,” I said again. I shrugged. “What do the Guzmans think of that idea?”

  “They’re going to be there, too.”

  Estelle offered seconds and like a fool I accepted. “El Padrino should be present, too,” she said.

  “I’m flattered. But I’ve had so many days off that Holman’s not going to let me take another one for five years.”

  “Are you going back tomorrow?”

  “Probably I should.” I glanced at my watch. It was night shift time again. “You’ll wrap this up this evening, after we talk with Parris.…I’m interested in what he has to say about his prints being on the truck.”

  “Do you think that Cecil Lucero shot his brother?”

  “Don’t you?”

  She toyed with the remains of the enchilada on her plate. “I don’t know. Usually, when I’m sure of how something happened, I can picture it in my mind.”

  “The two of them got out of the Scout and walked a ways up along the arroyo,” Francis said. “Kenneth went down into the arroyo. Cecil shot him from up above.”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s where Paul found the seven shell casings this afternoon, Estelle,” I said.

  “The M.E. will tell you for sure about the angle of the bullets,” Francis said. “After the shooting, Cecil walks back toward the Scout. He’s nervous. So like most of us would, he turns around to look back up the arroyo. He can’t see his brother’s body, so he steps closer to the edge to try another view.” He shrugged.

  “What’s the problem with that?” I asked.

  “I’d feel better if we’d found the last casing,” Estelle said. “I’d feel better if I had that.”

  “There are any number of ways it could have happened that make sense,” I said. Estelle nodded, but I knew she wasn’t convinced. I pushed my plate away and stood up. I said what she really wanted to hear. “Let’s go see Parris.”

  Chapter 19

  Father Nolan Parris greeted us at the door, and it seemed as if he had expected us—and more than that…he was somehow relieved we’d returned.

  “I think you know Deputy Reyes-Guzman?” I said as Parris showed us into the front room.

  “Our paths have crossed once or twice,” Parris said. He and Estelle shook hands. “Would you folks like some coffee or tea or something?”

  We declined, and Parris closed the door. His limp hadn’t improved. He gestured to chairs and we sat. Estelle pulled out her notebook and pen and said, “Father Parris, I want to talk with you about Friday night.”

  Parris nodded and folded his hands, waiting.

  Estelle leafed through the notebook, stopping to read here and there. “Father, as you may have heard, we’re investigating the deaths of two young men. Their truck somehow went over the edge of Quebrada Mesa, probably sometime early yesterday evening.”

  Parris again nodded. “A tragic thing,” he said quietly.

  “Father, we have reason to believe that the truck in question was also involved somehow in the death of Cecilia Burgess on Friday night.”

  Parris sat back in the chair. His right hand drifted up to touch his pectoral cross. He watched Estelle. It may have been my imagination, but I sensed an inner calm that hadn’t been there the day before.

  Estelle looked up from her notes and cocked her head, giving Parris an opportunity. The priest held up his left hand, palm up, as if he were going to beckon for more information. His right hand remained on the cross. “And you feel that I have information about that night?”

  “Yes, sir, I do.”

  Parris looked at me. “Since we talked yesterday, I’ve had time for considerable counsel.” I didn’t ask if it was counsel with someone else or with his own soul. It didn’t matter as long as he had the right answers.

  Nolan Parris took a deep breath, held it, and then released it the way a smoker might jet out a long, thin plume of smoke.

  “On Friday evening I was out in the garden. Perhaps you’ve seen it, beyond the driveway. It’s not far from the highway. I’m not a gardener but it’s a quiet spot for reflection. There’s an old wooden bench under one of the apricot trees that’s a favorite of mine. I like to sit there and watch the stars.

  “Anyway, shortly after ten…in fact, I was just about to go inside…I glanced up as several cars passed. In the light of their headlights I noticed Cecilia Burgess. She was walking along the highway.”

  “Northbound?” I asked.

  “Yes. But on the other side of the highway, facing traffic.” He hesitated. “I saw the moment as an opportunity, I suppose. I called to her. Now you must understand that we haven’t been on the best of terms…at least from her point of view. I thought that she was going to ignore me and so I called again. She crossed the highway. I wanted to talk with her about Daisy…about where the child might go to preschool in the fall, where the two of them were planning to stay. I was uneasy that she might not have made plans.”

  “Were you able to settle anything?” Estelle asked.

  Parris shook his head. “No. In fact, I made matters worse, I suppose. She asked me how much I was willing to pay, and I hesitated. S
he interpreted that as reluctance on my part to provide for the child. I tried to explain to her that I simply have no funds of my own—nothing significant anyway. She didn’t accept that. I tried to explain that there might be some sort of diocesan help…scholarships, housing, maybe that sort of thing. She took offense at that, perhaps thinking that I wanted the child in someone else’s custody other than her own.”

  “Did you?” I asked.

  “No, of course not. A child should be with its mother if at all possible. But Cecilia became angry. We’d had this same conversation before, I suppose. I tried to reason with her, and she became angrier still. She could be a most vocal young woman.” Parris looked rueful. “As her voice raised, I tried to calm her, and that made her even angrier.”

  He held up both hands. “I’m afraid I made a stupid mistake. Thinking that she might react positively to a show of strength on my part, I reached out and held her by the elbow. I told her that if she really cared about the child, she wouldn’t leave Daisy out in the forest while she walks here and there late at night along a busy highway.

  “I offered to drive her up to the hot springs. She retorted that I was last person she wanted to be seen with and that she’d walk wherever and whenever she pleased.” Parris shrugged. “It was one of those verbal fights that just…well, nobody wins.”

  Estelle asked, “Did it end there?”

  “No,” Parris said. “By this time, we had moved from the garden where I’d first suggested that we talk out to the shoulder of the highway. There were several oncoming cars, and as if to spite me, she stuck out her thumb to hitch a ride. None of the traffic stopped, of course.” He looked down. “I wanted nothing more than to jump into the underbrush along the road and hide.” He looked at me and smiled slightly. “I’m not much of a hero, am I?”

  An appropriate philosophical reply didn’t materialize in my head, so I just shrugged.

  Parris looked pained. “The next vehicle came around the corner almost immediately, and it did stop. It was the Ford pickup truck. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such panic because I could see, perfectly clearly, what would happen.” He stopped and both hands clutched the crucifix.