Out of Season

by Steven F Havill

  “Those are the only two ranches in that immediate area, sir. There’re federal lands scattered about, and some state sections. And then there’s Newton, that little settlement just out of the county, about eight miles north of the Boyds’. Maybe four or five houses there, at the most.” She turned and put one finger on the map over Finnegan’s ranch and another finger over Boyds’.

  “Those two places mark the north boundary, on the east and west ends, of the pattern that Charlotte said the plane was flying.”

  “And to the south is just the back side of the mesa,” I said. “That’s Forest Service land.”

  “And so far, they haven’t found any sign of campers up there, or kids from town, or anything else. There’s a family right about here”—she tapped the map—“around by Parson’s Bench, cutting on a commercial firewood plot. Last night I asked Dale Kenyon and his staff to cover that area in case someone might have seen the plane go down. Dale says the folks cutting wood were the only ones up there as far as he knows. They didn’t remember seeing anything.”

  “And if they were listening to a chain saw, they wouldn’t have heard anything,” I said.

  Estelle frowned, regarding the wall map for a long minute. Her lower lip was pooched out in an expression that she must have learned from her two kids. “You know what bothers me?”

  I grinned. “You’d be surprised if I said ‘yes,’ wouldn’t you?”

  She shot a quick glance at me, and the right eyebrow went up. “What?”

  I shook my head. “I was just sitting here thinking that if Charlotte Finnegan actually did hear what she said she heard—and that might be open to question, too—then the gunshots had to come from somewhere west or southwest of where she was standing. If what she calls backfiring was actually gunshots, that is. The wind was kicking hard and the sound wouldn’t carry against it much. I don’t know the physics of it, but it seems to me that wind noise would cancel a lot. The gunshots, if that’s what they were, couldn’t have been too far away.”

  “Exactly,” Estelle said, and she turned back to the map. “If Charlotte heard them while she was standing here, then it makes sense that they came from somewhere over this way.” She drew her hand westward, stopping with her palm over the Boyd ranch.

  “I talked to Johnny Boyd,” I said. “We spent most of the night and day together. He said he didn’t hear a thing.” I reached out and picked up the telephone message that had stopped me in my tracks. I held it out to Estelle. “Take a look,” I said, “and then let’s talk about coincidences.”

  Estelle crossed quickly to the desk and took the slip.

  “Maxine Boyd,” she said.

  “Logged in at ten forty-six yesterday,” I said. I leaned back and clasped my hands behind my head. “Now we know what the odds are. The odds say that Martin Holman had a reason for what he was up to. It wasn’t just a joyride.”

  “Well, sure he had a reason,” Estelle said, puzzled.

  “No, not ‘sure,’ sweetheart. Martin had more than a few faults, like most of us do. One of those faults was that he occasionally got the bee in his bonnet that he was a cop. I’m sure you’ll remember that on more than one occasion, we all had cause to be nervous. The worst moments were when Martin took it upon himself to check out a patrol car and go public.” I smiled without much humor.

  “You think he was acting on impulse?”

  I shrugged. “It’s happened before. It’s a very human frailty.” I reached out and took the note from Estelle. “Let’s see if Linda has found anything and then look into this.” I opened the door and damn near collided with Ernie Wheeler.

  “Sir,” he said, “Mrs. Holman’s on line two for you. She sounds pretty upset.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  When I picked up the telephone, Janice Holman was in the middle of an argument with someone else, and she wasn’t doing much of a job covering the receiver.

  “I’ll do what he says I should do, and that’s it,” she said, and the vehemence of it surprised me. “I just don’t care. I really don’t. And neither should you.”

  Uncomfortable with eavesdropping, I said, “Janice? This is Bill Gastner.”

  “Oh, God, I’m glad I was able to find you,” Janice Holman said. “Hang on just a minute, can you? I need to find a private nook somewhere.” Her tone held an even blending of desperation and the old Janice Holman sense of humor.

  Estelle mouthed something and made camera motions with her hands. “I’ll be in the darkroom with Linda,” she said, and I waved at her.

  “I’ll be there directly,” I said.

  I heard more voices, a couple of them shriller than they probably needed to be, and then the thud of a door.

  “You still there?” Janice asked.

  “I’m still here. How are you holding up?”

  “It’s a nightmare, it really is,” she said, then paused for a moment, and I didn’t rush her. “I don’t know how we’re going to manage, Bill. I really don’t.”

  “And I’m afraid I’m not going to make it any easier for you,” I said.

  “Oh, there’s nothing you can do, Bill. There really isn’t. Just be a friend, that’s all.”

  “That I’ll be, Janice. But there’s some unsettling news.”

  The phone went silent, and then she said, “I don’t see how I can be unsettled any more than I already am.” She came close to a chuckle.

  “Janice, Philip Camp was hit by a bullet fired from the ground.”

  “He what?”

  I took a deep breath and repeated myself. “It’s beginning to look like a single bullet struck the underside of the airplane. A fragment struck Philip and he died almost instantly.”

  “My God…” Her voice trailed off.

  “I haven’t called you because I wanted to come over and tell you in person.”

  “I called you, didn’t I?” Janice sighed. “But I guess both Vivian and I needed to know. I appreciate knowing, Bill. I know it’s hard for you, too.”

  “Most likely it was an accident of some kind. A careless shot by a hunter. There was nothing wrong with the aircraft, and no pilot error evident at this point. Nothing your brother-in-law did that caused the crash.”

  “My God,” she said again. “Hit by a bullet…”

  “He would have remained conscious for only a few seconds,” I said, wishing I could say the same for Martin’s final, desperate moments.

  “Poor Martin,” Janice murmured.

  “When we know more, I’ll be by. In the meantime, is there anything I can do to make it any easier?”

  Her sigh was loud and heartfelt. “Do you know Leo Burkhalter?”

  “Of course I know Leo,” I said. “He’s president of the New Mexico Sheriffs’ Association this year.”

  “Well, he called not long ago. I think there’s something about the English language he has difficulty with, Bill.”

  “How so?” Leo Burkhalter was sheriff of a county that actually included a couple of cities and a population that was both large and diverse enough to create some interesting crimes. He’d won his share of awards and had worked his way up through the ranks for twenty years before being elected sheriff.

  There was another pause. “God, this is so hard to say,” Janice Holman said, her voice small.

  “Take your time, sweetheart.”

  “He called to tell me that he was taking care of all of the arrangements. For…”

  She hesitated, and I said quietly, “For Martin’s funeral, you mean?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, that should be a load off your mind.”

  “Bill,” she said, and this time there was some steel in her tone. “I do not want some big, lavish, garish affair with a string of police cars ten blocks long and a bunch of young men all grim-faced with little black ribbons over their badges, and then someone, and it’ll probably have to be you, handing me a folded flag.”

  I murmured something noncommittal. Janice had pegged it just about right. I hadn’t thought about
the service yet; in fact, I might have been justly accused of avoiding the issue. A bunch of sleepless hours might have been an excuse, but the truth was that I didn’t do funerals well, especially those where I might be required to say something intelligent and heartfelt.

  “It’s something of a fraternity,” I said, feeling ridiculous saying it. I didn’t have enough fingers and toes to count the times I’d grumbled about Martin Holman “playing cop,” even though on an equal number of occasions, I’d been the first to admit that he’d had a hell of a steep learning curve. If I wanted to be fair to him, I could readily admit that he’d earned the awful tribute of a long line of patrol cars, all their lights winking as they idled to the cemetery.

  “What would you like, Janice?” I asked. “There is starting to be some evidence that he died doing departmental work. We’re beginning to see several reasons why he wanted to fly over that area.”

  “I’ve gathered that already,” she said with acid that surprised me. “And that was something I wanted to mention to you, too. In the press of things, I forgot to tell you that yesterday morning Maxine Boyd called here, trying to get ahold of Martin. He’d gone off somewhere with Philip, and when they returned for lunch, I forgot to tell him about it. About the call.”

  “Do you know what she wanted? Did she say?”

  “No, and it didn’t sound particularly urgent, either, if you can judge by the sound of someone’s voice over the telephone. I just told her I’d give Martin the message and that he’d call her. It doesn’t take a rocket scientist to figure out that there may have been some reason for him to want to fly over the Boyds’ ranch. Maybe she got ahold of him at the office.”

  “That’s apparently what happened. Estelle and I are going out to the Boyd ranch later tonight.”

  “You be careful,” she said.

  “We always work best at night,” I said lightly. “But listen. Do you want me to call Sheriff Burkhalter for you?”

  “Will you?”

  “Of course I will. What do you want me to tell him?”

  “Well…”

  “Janice, you can do whatever pleases you. Don’t worry about what people think.”

  “Neither Martin nor I were particularly religious. I guess you know that.”

  “Yes.”

  “He did tell me once that if anything ever happened to him, he’d like his cremains buried in the family plot with his mother and father.”

  “That’s in Iowa, I believe,” I said.

  “Drew’s Ferry, Iowa. I guess what I’d like is a quiet family memorial there. The girls said that would be fine with them.”

  “All right. Is there any kind of service you want here in Posadas? Martin lived here for a long time…since he was in high school, as I remember. Thirty years or more. In fact, he went to at least one grade here with my oldest daughter. I’m sure there are many folks who would like the opportunity to pay their respects.”

  “Something small and private,” Janice Holman said. “Just friends from the community. Maybe at the First Baptist Church. I like Jeremy Hines, the pastor there. No one else. And nothing ‘fraternal.’”

  “If that’s the way you want it, it’s fine.”

  “I don’t know why this is so important to me,” she said.

  “It doesn’t matter why, Janice. It’s your call. You don’t have to explain yourself to anyone. Least of all, to me.”

  She paused again and then said in a rush, “No uniforms, please. Can you promise me that?”

  “Yes.”

  “Will you say a few words?”

  “Yes. Of course.” I chuckled. “That might not be the wisest decision you’ve ever made.”

  She actually laughed, and the laugh ended in a short, gulping sob. “Bill, Bill, Bill,” she moaned, and then she found her solid self-control again. “Martin would probably have been concerned that you’d offend one of the politicians.”

  “I’ll try not to disappoint,” I said.

  “Tuesday at ten, then,” she said. “That will be all right with all of you?”

  “Of course,” I said. “And I’ll call Sheriff Burkhalter right now, before I forget, or before he makes plans that are difficult to change.”

  “Thank you, Bill. And please keep me posted.”

  “Count on it. What are your sister’s plans, by the way? Has she decided on anything yet?”

  “We’ve just now begun talking about it. She really doesn’t know. She’ll be flying back to Calgary, of course, and I suppose there will be some sort of service there. I just don’t know yet. Neither one of us is very good at this.”

  “I don’t think anyone is,” I said, adding silently, “least of all myself.”

  “I’ll tell her about the preliminary cause of the crash,” Janice said. “But you’ll remember us if you find out anything else?”

  “Sooner rather than later,” I promised.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  Leo Burkhalter was puzzled, but finally I could hear the shrug of surrender in his voice.

  “Whatever Mrs. Holman wishes,” he said. “You don’t want me to call her?”

  “If you want to make a brief call expressing condolences, that’s fine. You might tell her that you talked to me and that whatever she decides is fine with you.”

  “Well, it isn’t fine with me, but I suppose I can do that. What I meant was, do you think I could talk her into something appropriate?”

  I laughed. “What’s appropriate, Leo, is what Janice Holman wants. Not what you and I think she should want.”

  “Did she say why she wouldn’t go for any formal contingent of officers?”

  “No. And I didn’t ask. It’s none of my business. Or of yours, either.”

  “God, I’d forgotten how grouchy you can get, Bill. All right, that’s the way we’ll play it, then. By the way, is the commission going to appoint you as interim sheriff?”

  “I guess. They say that’s what they’re going to do. I told the chairman that I’d fill the spot until November.”

  “They didn’t ask Detective Guzman?”

  “Nope. They should have, though.”

  “Damn right. No offense, but your county government’s got the brains of pissants. And while I’ve got you on the line…you’re listed as a supervisor on an application that we received not long ago, so I don’t see the harm in asking. Tell me about an officer of yours. One of your sergeants. Edward Mitchell.”

  “Well, son of a bitch. He applied with you?”

  “Uh-huh. He lists June first as a date he’s available.”

  “He’s one of our best, Leo. And right now, I can’t spare him. Do me a favor and stall on that application for a while. Are you shorthanded?”

  “Aren’t we always? Anyway, he’s my top choice. I got a bunch of applications, but they’re all either misfits, rookies just out of the academy, or halt, lame, and blind. I could use somebody with Mitchell’s experience and training.”

  “So could I, Leo. At the rate things are going, we’ll have two people working come fall—me and the dispatcher.”

  “You’ll survive. What the hell happens in Posadas, anyway?” Burkhalter said.

  “Well, for one thing, the coroner dug a chunk of high-velocity brass out of the gentleman who was flying Holman’s plane. That’s why they went down.”

  “No shit?”

  “No shit.”

  “What, did Holman shoot him? As I remember, you did something like that once, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Nothing like that. The bullet came from the ground.”

  “Christ. Just a stray shot, eh?”

  “Looks like it.”

  “What a goddam waste. Well, if there’s anything I can do to help, you just holler.”

  “Stop pirating my best and brightest, for a start.”

  Burkhalter laughed. “He’s the one that applied. I didn’t recruit him. Do me a favor and cut him loose as soon as you can, all right?”

  I promised all kinds of cooperation I didn’t feel like d
elivering, and when I hung up, I damn near cracked the plastic of the phone. With a curse, I pushed myself out of the late sheriff’s chair. “This is a really fine week,” I muttered, and yanked open the office door.

  The darkroom was down in the basement, a cool fortress full of dust-covered pipes and endless cartons of obsolete documents. Where plaster had fallen away, the walls showed the old, square-cut limestone that formed the foundations.

  I rapped on the darkroom door with a knuckle and waited. After three minutes, I was ready to rap again when I heard the door bolt draw back. Estelle looked out around the black-rubber curtain that hung inside the door as extra protection against stray light.

  “What did you find?” I asked.

  “Linda still has a couple more to print, but let’s take the ones we’ve got,” she said.

  “Do they show anything?”

  “Well, that depends,” Estelle said, and I followed her back upstairs.

  She spread the collection of eight-by-tens on my desk. With two exceptions, they were sharp and clear. “The camera moved on these,” Estelle said, handing me the first two. “From that distance, the focus would be set on infinity. Everything should be clear and sharp, but he couldn’t hold the camera still against the jouncing of the plane. They’re the first two on the roll, so he took them early in the flight and maybe didn’t use a high enough shutter speed. All of the others are clear. Like maybe he made some adjustments when he realized how rough the ride was.”

  I picked up another photograph, a composition in muted shades of gray. “So what’s this? It looks like prairie.”

  “It is,” Estelle said. “If you look right there, just to the west of the two-track, you’ll see a little area with what looks like livestock.”

  “Sure enough. Pictures of cows.”

  Estelle grinned and handed me another. “This is an enlargement of just that area, from the two-track west to the cows.”