“Ernie, what’s Pasquale’s twenty?”
“Hang on, Sheriff.”
I reached out and turned the radio up just a bit.
“Three oh three, Posadas, ten-twenty.”
The reply was immediate, and if I’d been a few hundred yards closer, I probably could have heard it directly.
“Posadas, three oh three is ten-eight on Fifty-six, at Moore.”
“Ten-four. PCS two five one.”
Wheeler came back on the phone. “Sir…”
“I heard,” I said. “Thanks. Everything quiet?”
“Except for the Sissons, I guess so.”
“The Sissons?”
“Jim and Grace Sisson. They’re at each other again. The undersheriff’s been out there a bunch today, the last time just a few minutes ago.”
“Wonderful,” I said. “Talk to you later.”
I dropped the phone on the seat and watched a double set of headlights coming up from the south. One of the lights turned off about where the Broken Spur Saloon sat in the dust, and the second set continued on toward us.
In a few moments I could see the running lights on top, marking the hulk of a tractor trailer rig. The exhaust note was that of a big diesel wound tight, and it burped only slightly as the truck dived down across the Rio Guigarro just two miles west. The truck hit the flat, laser-straight stretch between the two rivers, the reports of its exhaust bouncing off the hills.
“Not a mile under seventy,” I muttered. If Pasquale was running radar, the trucker was dead meat. In a blast of sound, the rig flashed through Moore, and I heard the exhaust note change just a touch—the right timing as the trucker’s headlights picked up the sheriff’s star on the door of the patrol unit. The trucker evidently wasn’t impressed, because he swept on by without even a tentative touch of the brakes. Maybe the driver figured what the hell, he’d been nailed and that was that.
No red lights blossomed, and the patrol unit remained locked in the darkness beside the old building.
“Huh,” I grunted. For another ten minutes both of us sat in the stillness. Then the lights down below flicked on, and I watched the patrol car pull out onto the highway and cruise southwest for no more than a hundred yards before turning north on the narrow, rough two-track that cut across the rugged prairie. I’d driven that two-track myself a number of times and had gotten myself stuck on it once. Other than a couple of ranches, there wasn’t much to see.
After two miles of skirting the Rio Salinas, the two-track would fork, with one track angled west again, eventually emerging behind the Broken Spur Saloon. The other track continued north until it was sliced to a stop by the interstate right-of-way fence.
From my perch high on the mesa I watched the lights of Pasquale’s unit dip and bob. They vanished at a spot where I knew the two-track crossed the Salinas and then emerged on the other side, sweeping a yellow fan across the open prairie. At that point, he punched them off, and the vehicle disappeared as if it’d been levitated off the planet.
“Huh,” I said, and started the Blazer.
Picking my way in the dark wasn’t something that my bifocaled eyes were good at any longer. Between the starlight and a sliver of moon, I could creep down the rock-strewn incline off the mesa. Four or five more vehicles passed by on the highway before the Blazer thumped down the last few yards and drove across the bunchgrass south of the pavement.
Once on the highway, I turned left and idled toward the Broken Spur. I’d covered no more than a mile when a set of headlights blasted up behind me like a ballistic missile. First the night was dark except for my own lights, and then I was illuminated without warning…as if the driver had come up from behind with his lights off and then, a few yards behind my vehicle, snapped them on.
Just as quickly, the driver backed off half a dozen car lengths, and I could see the boxy silhouette of the Bronco. I reached out and squeezed the mike’s transmit button a couple of times and after a second or two got two barks of squelch in return.
Picking up the mike, I said, “Three oh three, three ten on channel three.” That put us on car-to-car, and I added, “I’d like to talk to you a minute. The parking lot of the Broken Spur will be just fine.”
The saloon was remote but a favorite watering hole for local ranchers and anyone else who wanted weathered wood and crushed black velvet ambiance. The owner, Victor Sanchez, and I had enjoyed an uneasy truce since the night Victor’s oldest son had died from a bullet through the heart, fired by Victor himself.
A few minutes later Pasquale and I pulled into the parking lot of the Broken Spur, surrounded by a swirling cloud of dust. Three pickup trucks, including one with an empty stock trailer, were parked in the lot, along with a large camper with Michigan plates.
Pasquale turned around so his vehicle was pointed at the highway, parking window-to-window with mine.
“Quiet night,” I said. He grinned a little sheepishly, a handsome kid with an easy smile and a broad, open face. The small scar over his right eye was a persistent reminder that I’d been his roadblock to joining the sheriff’s department. He’d earned the scar by flipping his village patrol car over in the middle of Bustos Avenue, flying low to beat the deputies to a routine call. At the time he’d been a part-timer with the village, and he’d been trying hard to redeem himself ever since.
He’d done a pretty good job. Only once in a while did I wish that I could wave a magic wand and age him through his long-lasting adolescence to a good, solid forty or so.
“What are you hunting?” I asked.
“Well, sir, I saw your vehicle up on the side of the mesa and wondered who it was and what they were doing.”
“Sharp eyes,” I said.
He shrugged. “I saw the moonlight glint on your vehicle, and so I pulled into Moore and sat for a little bit, like maybe I was running radar. I just kinda sat there and watched for a few minutes.”
“I see.”
“None of the ranchers are workin’ that area up there, so…” He let it trail off. If he was curious about what I had been up to, sitting out in the dark by myself, he didn’t let it show.
“How many Mexican tandems go through here in a week?” I asked. “You care to guess?”
“You mean the used cars going to Mexico?” He puffed out his cheeks. “Dozens, I’d guess. I see ’em all the time.”
“Their paperwork always in order?”
Pasquale looked nonplussed. “I guess so, sir. About the most often I talk to ’em is when they’re broke down at the side of the road. And that happens a lot. I figured they’ll be checked pretty close at the border, so I don’t mess with ’em. Should I be on ’em?”
I shook my head. “Just something that came to mind,” I said. I watched a rancher emerge from the Broken Spur Saloon, walking with the exaggerated care of someone just this side of blind, staggering drunk. He looked over, saw the two county cars, and lurched to a stop, then turned around and retreated back inside.
I figured we had about two minutes before Victor Sanchez roared out to chase us off his property with his predictable “bad for business” diatribe.
I pulled the Blazer into gear. “When you circle back through Posadas, stop by the office. I want to show you something.”
“You want me to come in now?” he asked, and a tinge of worry crept into his voice.
I waved a hand in dismissal. “No. Later. Just when it’s convenient. I’ll be there most of the night. I’ve got a bunch of paperwork I need to do.”
That was true. I had paperwork, and I needed to do it. But I had not the slightest intention of spending the night staring at budget figures.
Chapter Six
No matter what my intentions might have been, they flew out the window when I was still five miles southwest of Posadas. My phone chirped, and I damn near drove off the road before I found the thing. The little cellular unit had been in my hand not more than ten minutes before, but when released it tended to dive to the depths of whatever pile of junk covered my car
seat at the time.
A trace of urgency had crept into Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler’s voice.
“Sir, Bob’s responding to a call over at Sisson Plumbing and Heating. He said to have you meet him there.”
“Domestic dispute?” I asked.
“Uh, he’s not sure. But it looks like there’s a fatality. Emergency is over there now.”
“I’m on my way.” I tossed the phone on the seat and concentrated on the winding dark road.
There wasn’t any point in tying up the air waves with more questions. I couldn’t do any good from five miles away. But before I’d traveled two of them, I saw the red lights behind me, and in a few seconds Deputy Pasquale’s Bronco passed me, wound up tight.
His spotlight beam lanced out ahead, probing the side of the highway for sets of eyes that might wander into his vehicle’s ballistic path. I eased off and let the youngster charge on ahead. If we were responding to a fatality, the victim would patiently wait for us all.
I drove back into the village of Posadas from the south, ducking under the interstate. The lights of travelers flashed overhead, on their way to points east and west, oblivious of our emergency. A mile farther, the first significant street off Grande to the right was MacArthur.
Despite what tourists might think after viewing Pershing Park, assuming that MacArthur was yet another tribute to military might, the street was named for Peter MacArthur, the second mayor of Posadas. The first mayor, Fred Pino, had been shot before he’d managed to accomplish enough to earn a street name.
MacArthur wound in a wide loop around the southeast quadrant of the village, encompassing a residential area of aging mobile homes, a neighborhood that blended into a scattering of businesses as it approached Bustos Avenue, the major artery running east-west through Posadas.
Sprawled on the southeast corner of MacArthur’s intersection with Bustos was Sisson Plumbing and Heating. Jim Sisson had lived in the county his entire life, the son of Granger and Mary Sisson, ranchers who’d tried their best to run a successful cow-calf operation in the middle of the sage, creosote bush, and cacti. They’d managed after a fashion until 1967, when their pickup truck hadn’t rolled out of the way fast enough and a southbound Union Pacific freight train had pounded it to tangled junk at a crossing near Alamogordo.
Their son, Jim, hadn’t thought much of the ranching life and had opened his business in the village about the time I’d started with the Sheriff’s Department in 1966. He’d married Grace Stevenson, rescuing her from her fate as the only daughter of the local Methodist minister and his wife. Only Jim and Grace knew what they saw in each other. They’d been festering along for more than three decades.
Grace was blessed with a razor tongue and an astonishing lack of tact. Like the one step forward, two steps back dance, the Sissons’ list of customers pulsed up and down, first because they were attracted by the mild-mannered, courtly Jim and then repelled by Grace when it came time for billing or complaint.
Over the years the “Jim and Grace Show” had become something of a department joke. Their scraps were legend. When it came to Grace, Jim put his courtly manners to one side. He could swing a calloused hand as fast as anyone, and Grace retaliated just as promptly.
About the time their relationship would deteriorate to the hurling-hard-and-heavy-objects stage, or maybe when one of them was thinking of reaching for a shotgun, they’d solve their problems by having another kid. That would cool things down for a while, and Sisson Plumbing and Heating would flourish and grow.
Their prefab home looked across the street at Burger Heaven and diagonally across the intersection at the Chavez Chevy-Olds dealership—a hell of a view.
The house was surrounded by various outbuildings and shops and a mammoth collection of junk—at least it all looked like junk to a nonplumber like me. Jim Sisson had purchased his first backhoe in 1968, and the worn-out carcass of that machine and of every other he’d ever owned since then were parked along the back of the largest shop building.
I was sure that when Sisson replaced someone’s swamp cooler he always kept the corroded shell of the old one, probably “just in case.” Just in case what, I didn’t know.
The board fence around Sisson’s enclave was six feet high, but I could see the emergency lights winking from two blocks away. A fair-sized crowd of rubberneckers had assembled, all of them standing in the middle of the street gawking toward the Sissons’ property, spectators to an event that everyone in town had known would come one day or another.
Deputy Tony Abeyta, who wasn’t on the duty roster for the evening but had jumped in response to the call anyway, had parked his patrol unit across the Sissons’ driveway, beside a yellow ribbon that stretched from the corner downspout of the house across to the high wooden fence.
One of the village’s part-time patrolmen, Chad Beuler, detached himself from a group of half a dozen gawkers and waved a flashlight at me. Chief Eduardo Martinez hadn’t arrived, but at 9:30 we were well past his bedtime. Beuler, a beanpole with a receding chin who kept twitching his shoulders as if his undershirt was binding his armpits, shook his head in deep frustration as he stepped to the curb and intercepted me.
“We got us a hell of a mess,” he said, and waved the flashlight again. The beam caught me in the eyes, and I lifted a hand to ward it off. “Now you-all just step on back,” he barked toward the gathering of folks on the sidewalk. None of them appeared to be moving in any direction, forward or back, but Beuler liked to make sure. He walked ahead of me toward the ribbon.
He turned to face me, still walking—not a bad feat. If I’d tried it, I’d have been flat on my back. “The undersheriff is in there,” he said, indicating the narrow driveway that ran between a slab of fence and the side of the house. “It’s a hell of a mess.”
“Thank you,” I said, and slipped past, ignoring the four people who tried to talk to me at once.
“And I think a couple of the bigwigs are inside the house,” Beuler called after me.
I walked along the dark side of the house toward the artificial daylight of the well lighted backyard and shop area. As I passed under a frosted window, I could hear voices inside, one of them tight and distraught and trying to piece a sentence together around sobbing gulps of air.
At the back corner of the house, Tom Pasquale’s Bronco was parked bumper-to-bumper with one of Bob Torrez’s personal pickup trucks, a faded red-and-black hulk with two spare tires chained in the back to the ornate iron racks.
I could hear the heavy, clattering idle of a diesel engine, and as I made my way past the vehicles I caught a glimpse of Torrez’s towering bulk as he walked around the back of a large yellow backhoe. In the instant that my attention was diverted, my toe caught something hard, sharp, and immovable, and I stumbled hard, landing on one knee, driving the palm of my left hand into the sharp gravel that covered the driveway.
With a string of colorful curses, I pushed myself to my feet, the shock of the fall hammering my joints and making the lights dance. I stopped, brushed myself off, and took several deep breaths, realizing that I wasn’t looking at just one machine. There were two, the backhoe parked butt-to-butt with a huge front loader, like a beetle backed up against a scorpion. With no breeze, the cloying sweet odor of diesel exhaust hung thick as it chuffed out of the rear tractor’s stack.
“Sir?” Deputy Pasquale appeared from out of nowhere at my elbow.
“What have you got?” I asked. Once out of the tangle of shadows cast by the house and the vehicles I could see just fine, and I snapped my flashlight off and thrust it in my back pocket.
“Over here,” he said, and almost made contact as he reached out toward my elbow. It was a simple-enough gesture of assistance, the sort of thing I’d do if I saw a little old lady startled to a standstill by the sudden rush of the automatic doors at the supermarket.
I stepped around the large yellow bucket of the front loader and stopped short. “Jesus,” I said.
Jim Sisson appeared to have managed one
of those incomprehensible accidents that would be difficult for Hollywood stuntmen to reproduce. And like most accidents, it had probably started simple.
The left back tire and wheel had been taken off the disabled front loader, and the machine’s axle was supported by a terrifying collection of wooden blocks and old boards, along with the single hydraulic jack. The tire and wheel were lying several feet away, the cleated tread just inches from the wall of the shop. The backhoe bucket of the second machine was poised overhead, a length of heavy chain hanging from its teeth. Underneath the tire, head scrunched up against the building at an unnatural angle, one leg grotesquely kicked out, was Jim Sisson.
Robert Torrez had been kneeling beside the building, near Sisson’s head, in company with two EMTs. He pushed himself to his feet. “Don’t touch that,” he snapped as Tom Pasquale bent down as if to poke at the huge rubber tire.
The undersheriff stepped gingerly around the machinery and approached me. “It looks like he was lifting the rear wheel off one machine with the backhoe of the other, sir. Somehow the chain slipped. He’s dead, for sure. Skull’s crushed, and his neck must have snapped like a twig.”
“Did you call Linda?”
Torrez nodded. “She’ll be here in a minute.” He beckoned. “So will Perrone,” he added, referring to Posadas County Coroner Alan Perrone. “Step around this way.”
I did, catching a glimpse of a figure in the partially open back door of the house. It was Deputy Abeyta, and he no doubt had his hands full keeping the stream of people from flooding out into the yard. At the same time, I heard a serious of deep, heavy barks. The family dog, eager to leap out into the backyard with the rest of us, tried to shove his broad head between Abeyta’s legs. The deputy reached out and swung the solid back door shut.
I stood with my hands in my pockets, looking at what was left of Jim Sisson. “Christ almighty,” I murmured. “Why the hell don’t you get him out of there?” But a closer look made it clear why there was no frantic activity to free Jim from his predicament. The man’s skull had been pulped.
Dead Weight Page 4
