Rode Hard, Put Away Dead

by Sinclair Browning

Somewhere in the bowels of the house a baby cried.

  “I'm baby-sitting. I don't have time.” She started to close the door but I stopped it with my hand, earning a splinter in the process.

  “It's really important, Mrs. Ahil.” I had no idea if she was married or not, but thought this a prudent form of address. “I can't go away.”

  She sighed deeply and I could see the acquiescence in her face. “All right then, come in.”

  The toddler gave me a wary look as I followed Stella into the house. Then he walked over to the television and turned up the volume before settling onto a beanbag in front of a cartoon.

  “I have to get the baby,” Stella said and it sounded like a good idea to me, since the wailing infant and the television had a most unpleasant concerto going on.

  She returned with a plump dark-haired baby whose screams had now diminished to whimpering status. I followed Stella into the kitchen where she retrieved a bottle from the refrigerator, put it in a plastic sleeve full of water and popped the whole thing in the microwave, all the while jiggling the hungry child on her hip.

  “I visited my client,” I began saying while we waited for the microwave to finish. “And he remembers seeing your truck out in the mountains.”

  The microwave timer went off and Stella Ahil grabbed the bottle, shook it, and expertly tested it on the inside of her wrist. Satisfied that it was not too hot, she plopped it into the delighted baby's mouth.

  “He described it to a tee.”

  She gave me a blank look. “I don't have a truck.”

  “Right. I meant your nephew's truck. Benny's Nissan.”

  She grunted.

  I waited a minute before asking, “You were out there that night, weren't you, Stella?”

  A long sigh escaped her mouth and she finally nodded. “We left when we heard the sirens. When you saw me, I came back for the fruit I'd left behind.”

  “We?”

  “A friend was with me.”

  “Did you park in the same place?”

  She rotated the bottle in the baby's mouth. “Just up from there, on the far side of the pond.”

  I searched my memory banks for a visual image of the stock pond. The berm on the far side would have prevented anyone coming in from the southeast, the direction of J.B. and Abby's camp site, from seeing Stella's saguaro camp.

  “You saw something, didn't you?” It was a gut hunch.

  She nodded, but would not look at me.

  “You were parked close to the tank, maybe even within the quarter-mile limit. There was a full moon.” I was talking to myself as much as to her. “J.B. and Abby were parked not far away. They came in from drinking, they were partying. There was no need for them to be quiet, after all no one was around.”

  I watched her impassive face, but it told me nothing.

  “It was a still June night and we all know how sound can carry across the desert. Even if you'd been asleep”—I was remembering the cots out in the open air—“their noise could have awakened you.”

  She set the bottle down on the counter and threw the baby up on her shoulder where she patted its back in an effort to get a burp out of it.

  “I'm pretty close, aren't I, Stella?”

  She gave a slight nod of her head.

  “I don't have it exactly right, though, do I?”

  She disappeared with the baby and returned a minute later.

  “Let's go outside where I can have a smoke,” she said, opening the dirty sliding glass door to the barren backyard. She left it open so the evaporative cooler would blow out, giving us some small comfort from the day's heat.

  We stepped out onto a tiny cement porch that harbored a washing machine. A cardboard box was on top of it with tiny mews coming out. I glanced inside and saw a thin gray tabby cat nursing three tiny kittens.

  Stella lit her cigarette and threw the match out onto the dirt.

  “My friend heard them. I slept through it. But they were too far away and he couldn't see them.”

  Invisible was a man. Interesting. I kept quiet.

  “After a while things settled down and he went back to sleep. A little bit later a car woke him up. He said it sounded like it was coming up the road we were on. He could hear it, but there weren't any lights.”

  I nodded, again remembering the full moon. If someone were driving very slowly up the old dirt road, they could navigate without headlights.

  “He has trouble sleeping, my friend, so after that he got up, had a cigarette, and that's when he saw it.”

  “Saw what?”

  “The light in the desert. He saw someone with a flashlight walking through the desert toward them.”

  “Toward J.B. and Abby's camp site?”

  She nodded.

  “He was curious about what was going on so he climbed up on the tank and watched the light walk across the desert. Then he lost it.”

  “He was probably wondering what was going on,” I said, encouraging her to continue her story.

  “Yes. He said it wasn't long until he saw the light again. He waited and watched it for a long time as they made their way through the desert.”

  They. She'd said they.

  “He thought maybe it was something to do with drugs, and that's why the car had come in without lights and why the man had walked across the desert to the other place with a flashlight.”

  “He saw a man?” My impatience was getting the best of me.

  “I'm getting to that. As the flashlight got closer to the pond, he slipped behind the berm of the tank and took cover under a hackberry bush. The man came into the pond and he was carrying something on his back.”

  I was suddenly aware that I was holding my breath.

  “He walked right into the pond and when the water got to his chest, he pulled the thing off his back and pushed it out in front of him and held the bundle underwater.”

  “Did she struggle?”

  She shook her head. “We didn't know it was a woman until we heard it on the radio the next day.”

  “What'd the man look like?”

  “He couldn't tell. There was a moon, but it wasn't light enough to see his face.”

  “Was he huge?” I was thinking of Lateef Wise, who was almost a giant. If Stella's friend hadn't seen the face, he probably wouldn't be able to identify the carrier as a black man.

  “I don't know. I didn't ask him.”

  “I need to talk to your friend.”

  She shook her head. “That's impossible.”

  “I have to, Stella. A woman's been murdered and he's an eyewitness to what happened.”

  She continued shaking her head.

  “Is he married?”

  “Heavens no.” She was shocked that I'd consider that she'd carry on with a married man. “It's nothing like that.”

  “He's got to come forward and tell the police what he saw that night.”

  At the mention of the police her eyebrows shot up. “No police. He didn't see anything.”

  “Stella, look, you're an educated woman. You teach English at the high school. You must know how important this is.”

  She thought about this for a minute and then made her admission. “He's illegal.” She gave me sad look. “You know how that would turn out.”

  Ah, there it was. Her invisible friend was an illegal alien, most likely a Mexican man who had come up for a better job. The last thing he'd want to do was make his presence known to the authorities. He'd be deported in no time flat. No wonder he'd been invisible in the Baboquivaris. He was ducking La Migra, the Border Patrol. And of course he would have been cautious, sleeping lightly, which is why he'd seen the murder.

  “Cripes.” My mind raced. Would the cops give him immunity on the immigration issue in exchange for his testimony about what he saw at the Baboquivari stock pond? I had no idea. It was something I'd have to explore.

  As I left Stella Ahil I was simultaneously thrilled with my discovery and stumped by how in the hell I was going to exploit it.

&nb
sp; 40

  WHEN I GOT BACK TO THREE POINTS I STOPPED AT THE Chevron and used the pay phone there to call María López Zepeda with my news of a possible eyewitness. She was not only thrilled, but was going to go to work immediately on the immunity issue for Stella Ahil's illegal escort.

  “J.B.'s pretty down,” she said.

  “Well, I guess jail time will do that to you.”

  “This will really cheer him up. I'll call the county attorney's office right away and see what we can work out on getting the mystery man off the immigration hook.”

  As I hung up and walked back to Priscilla, the thought occurred to me that maybe I could use a cell phone.

  What was I coming to? First the computer and now considering a cell phone? Still, it would beat sweating out in the heat or waiting for some starstruck teenybopper to finish his phone call to his girlfriend. I wondered how much one would cost.

  By the time I got back to the Vaca Grande it was 112 degrees. Like ranchers everywhere, I'd been keenly attuned to the weather forecasts and there was no hint of rain in sight. It was still too early. Mid-June is the worst of the worst. The days can skyrocket as high as 115; a necessary evil so that the thunderheads can build up into the fierce thunderstorms that, if we're lucky, will come in early July. This year, it was looking like we weren't going to see much in the way of rain.

  As I drove in, I spotted Quinta harvesting tomatoes, cucumbers, peppers and squash. There was no sign of Juan Ortiz's truck so he was probably making his rounds in La Cienega. I parked, greeted the dogs and the pig, and walked over to the bountiful garden.

  “How's it going?”

  She handed me a huge zucchini, obviously one that had been hiding under the leaves for weeks.

  “Isn't that amazing? They practically grow in your hand,” she said, wiping her sweaty face with the sleeve of her blouse.

  I laughed, my evil, celibate mind thinking of other things.

  “There was a guy who came to see you.” She dropped the squash into a five-gallon bucket that was almost overflowing with vegetables.

  “Who was it?”

  She reached into her shorts and pulled out a card. Peter Van Thiessen.

  That's all it said. Sort of like those old-time calling cards that rich people used to use. Hell, maybe they still did. A useless card that gave only the name. The kind of card the butler was supposed to trot upstairs with to announce a visitor's presence to the lady of the house.

  I put the card in my shirt pocket. “What did he want?”

  “He said it wasn't important. Just that he was in the neighborhood and thought he'd stop in.”

  If being on Highway 77 driving down from Oracle to Tucson counted as “being in the neighborhood,” then Peter would always be in the neighborhood.

  “How's the truck coming?”

  “Don't know,” she shrugged. “Tata ran Dad up to Prego's a little while ago. They're going to work on it tonight.”

  Playing all the games of who dun it, coupled with the little sleep I'd been getting lately, had tired me out. When shortly before ten I found myself rereading paragraphs, I knew it was time to turn out the lights. As I drifted off to sleep, the last image I had was of Abby at roundup, dusting herself off after her fall and looking beautiful in her Thievin' Vaqueros hat.

  The gunshot woke me up. And another one quickly followed it. Blue and Mrs. Fierce went apeshit, barking and snarling at the French doors of my bedroom. I leaped out of bed, shaking.

  What in the hell was going on? Whatever it was, it was big-time.

  I yanked the bedside table drawer open, pulled out my Smith & Wesson and then fumbled around for my glasses since there was no time for putting in contacts.

  Dressed only in my thin cotton nightgown, I ran to the kitchen door and stared out at the bunkhouse. Although there were no lights on, it looked as though the front door was wide open. Shit! Why was it open?

  I thought Rafael Félix was dead. Had Cori Elena been wrong about that? Had the story of his death been a setup? Had they finally come for her? Two shots. One for Cori Elena and one for Martín? I felt the tears well in my eyes and wiped them away.

  I cracked the kitchen door and listened, but heard only the wail of a single coyote who sounded like he was down along the creek. There was no sound of people running or the starting of car engines.

  “Stay,” I hissed to the dogs as I slithered out the door, closing it behind me. Petunia grunted, but made no move to get up as I quickly crossed the screened porch.

  I nudged the door open and slipped out.

  Barefoot, I sprinted across the yard to the pond, trying to stay in the shadows, running a zigzag path, figuring that my white nightie would make a great target against the black night. My heart thundered in my chest. I skirted the water and stopped under one of the huge cottonwoods and listened again. Still nothing but the stupid yapping coyote. That and my own heavy breathing. Jesus, if anyone was out here, he'd know for sure I was around. I peeked around the heavy trunk of the cottonwood and saw that the bunkhouse door was still open, the lights still out.

  I started across the last stretch to Martín's house, inching along in shadow, willing my bare feet to tread silently as they dug into the tiny rocks on the ground.

  I was halfway there when I heard something moving alongside the bunkhouse. I ducked back, held my breath and listened as it came closer, closer. Suddenly a huge shadow started coming around the corner of the old adobe. I jumped as my breath huffed out of my mouth in fear. My right arm shot up with the .38 in my hand as I instinctively braced it with my left, prepared to take a shot.

  The shadow kept coming. My God, it was enormous! Could it be Lateef Wise? I held my breath, not sure what I was looking at, but not wanting to give myself away if he had not already seen me, and not willing to take a shot until I knew for sure what my target was.

  The shadow ignored me as it walked around to the front of the bunkhouse. It was only when it got in front of the opened door that I became aware of a dim light from inside. And in that light I could make out the silhouette of Old Hadley's ears.

  It was the mule! He'd somehow gotten out of the corral and was taking a nighttime stroll. I breathed a sigh of relief and lowered my gun.

  Still, the mule sure as hell hadn't left the bunkhouse door open or fired the two shots I'd heard.

  Old Hadley was at the opened door and for a minute I thought he was going to go inside. Instead he started nudging the wooden door with his nose, banging it loudly against the wall. If they were okay, why weren't Cori Elena and Martín coming out? Shit.

  Taking advantage of the noise he was making, I dashed across the open ground. Once I hit the corner of the adobe bunkhouse, I stopped, flattening myself along the face of the building, trying to minimize myself as a target. My ear pressed to the cool adobe wall, I tried to make out sound from inside, but the thick wall was too good an insulator and nothing came through.

  At least no one had shot Old Hadley. Yet.

  I inched along the adobe and when I got to the living room window I crouched below it and did a duck walk as I crossed underneath. Straightening up on the other side I held my revolver close to my chest with both hands.

  Old Hadley, probably afraid that I was going to catch him and put him back in the corral, took one look at me, shook his head in disgust and walked off.

  Standing beside the door, with the wall for cover, I listened again. Was someone crying? Thank God. One of them had to still be alive. But which one?

  Pressed against the adobe, I reached out with my right hand and nudged the front door open with the barrel of the .38. Nothing. I waited a few seconds and then took a deep breath, mostly to spur my courage, and finally snuck a look around the threshold.

  Only the stove light was on, and in spite of Cori Elena's packed boxes of dishes, I could still make out a man sprawled across the floor. He was just in front of the bedroom door, and a dark stain was pooling on the cold brown cement. It had to be blood. He was heavyset and although I cou
ldn't see his face, I knew from looking at his backside that it was not Martín or Juan.

  The bedroom was dark and someone in there was crying.

  “Cori Elena?” I yelled.

  “Sí, venga, Trade! Pronto!”

  I wasn't that eager to madly run into the dark house until I knew what was going on. “What's happening?”

  “He's been shot! We need ayuda.”

  Martín had been shot? My heart plummeted to my feet as I fought the urge to rush to him. Christ! But I couldn't risk it or entering the bunkhouse to use the phone to call for help until I assessed the risk. There was no sense in all of us getting shot. If I was dead, I'd be no help at all.

  “Cori Elena, listen to me, how many of them are there?” It sounded like I was screaming.

  She was crying hysterically now, unable to answer, if she'd heard me at all.

  “Think!” I tried to keep the panic out of my voice. She sounded like she was gasping for air, trying to catch her breath in between sobs. “Uno, I think,” she finally said in a small voice.

  She thinks? Shit. Why didn't she know? Uno was okay since I was pretty sure I knew where uno was. He was the rug on the floor. But dos or tres could be major trouble.

  The bunkhouse was small. Not counting the bathroom, it was really just two rooms with only the one door coming in from the outside. The living/kitchen area and the bedroom where Cori Elena and Martín were holed up. Surely she'd know if someone else was in there with them. Wouldn't she?

  Except for the corner to the right of the front door, I had a clear view of this part of the house, and other than my new friend sleeping on the floor there wasn't anyone else in it. I couldn't quit staring at the silhouette on the cement. He hadn't moved. If she was right about there only being one man, I was pretty sure he wasn't going anyplace.

  Holding my .38 in firing position, I ducked and stepped inside, spinning as I aimed at the far, unseen corner. A shadow as large as my own stood there. Instinctively I fired, realizing too late that I had just shot a carton of dishes, one of the stack of moving boxes that had been there when I'd had lunch. Cori Elena probably hadn't gotten around to unpacking them.

  The room was empty. Quickly I pulled the front door closed and locked it behind me, knowing if there was another man in the bunkhouse that I'd probably sealed our fates.