Blood Sweep (15 page)

Chapter Nineteen

“So tell me about your new hobby as a life-sized target,” Lieutenant Mark Adams said. He unwrapped a stick of gum, folded it neatly and popped it into his mouth. He offered the pack to Torrez, who declined.

Torrez stopped at his county SUV, parked in the No Parking Zone in front of the county building immediately beside the lieutenant's black State Police Tahoe. The lieutenant rested his forearms on the hood, his pot belly against the fender. He regarded Torrez expectantly. “If I was the target, they missed,” Torrez said.

Adams waited, rhythmically chomping the gum. Eventually, the sheriff turned to face the State Policeman. “Here I am, drawin' down on the antelope,” and he held his arms like a rifleman. “I don't hear or see nothin' else. Comes the time and I squeeze off a shot, and before I could bring the scope picture back into line for a look, blam. Just like that. The scope blows into a million pieces, one chunk catches me over the eye.” He turned his head and pointed at the tiny mark.

“Shee-it.” Adams squinted at the scab. “That ain't big enough for a purple heart. He shook his head in wonder. “How long before you heard the shot?”

“I wasn't countin'.”

“But you
did
hear it.”

“Yeah. I heard it.”

Adams worked the gum for a moment. “Shot came from off to the right somewhere? What would that be, to the south? That's what Taber was telling me.”

“She found the shooter's spot. Just about four hundred yards south.”

Adams played with the wad of gum against the roof of his mouth. “That sucks, you know. You should have called us right then.”

“Probably.”

“And at that distance, he only missed you by eight or ten inches.”

“Yup. 'Cept I don't think he missed. Shooter layin' prone, good rifle, no wind, no distractions? Someone shoots like that don't miss by eight inches.”

“Oh, but he could've. I know guys who hunt all year, every year, and can't hit diddly-squat. But he could've. I mean, something like this, he had to be a professional, Bobby. And
they
don't miss an easy shot like that. Now, if the scope was a little bit off, he could have.”

“Well, yeah,” Torrez conceded. “Then why didn't he shoot again? He had a target. I was tryin' to make myself small under a bush.”

“Goddamn, I bet you were. And you never saw him?”

“Nope.”

“Taber says the shooter probably either thought you were dead and high-tailed it for his vehicle thinking it was a job well done, or knew you
weren't
but just wanted out of there without taking time for a second shot or being seen. Which means he wanted you alive.”

“Seems so.”

“Which means it was either a stupid spur-of-the-moment prank, or a warning for you. Which do you think it is, Sheriff?”

Torrez turned and rested his back against the fender, hiking up one boot to rest it on the tire. “If he wanted to kill me, he would've. And if he wanted to kill me, he wouldn't have bothered taking the coil wire off my truck.”

“Taber didn't tell me about that.”

“Yeah, well.”

“You're confident that the dead guy your man found this morning down at the underpass is your shooter?”

“Yep. Good rifle for what he was doin'. Been fired. Has a suppressor fitted, although he didn't see the need to use it. We'll check the accuracy of the scope sight-in when it comes to that.”

“Mears doing the run-up for you?” The lieutenant sounded perfectly content with not having the rifle in his department's possession.

“Yep. On both it and the forty-five.”

“And look, I'm sorry that the crime scene van wasn't available, but there's a triple suicide-homicide thing up near Fence Lake for the one unit, and the other is stuck up north of Farmington. But the two guys that we were able to spring loose should be some help for your folks.”

“'Preciate it.”

Lieutenant Adams regarded the macadam parking lot. “You'll keep me posted?” It was a request, not a command. As the top law enforcement officer in the county—the
only
elected cop, the county sheriff didn't answer to the State Police, or any other agency. They could ignore him, certainly. But Adams knew that the Posadas County Sheriff's Department, under first Bill Gastner and now Robert Torrez, was an invaluable resource for his own desperately understaffed organization. Turf wars and pissing contests accomplished nothing. Providing a state escort for Gastner's ambulance the day before had been a natural thing for Adams to do, a natural tip of the hat to an old friend and ally.

“Sure,” Torrez said.

“The thing that bothers me is the ‘why', Bobby. You've pissed off somebody enough that he wanted to kill you? Couldn't do it face-to-face? Or if it's a warning—
why?
Warning you for what?”

Torrez shrugged. “Don't know.”

“The only reason I can think of for a long-range warning like that,” and the lieutenant paused to give his gum a series of quick chews with his incisors, “is that it's important that you
not
see who the trigger man was. Why the warning, I don't know. But I can understand doing it from a distance…anonymous, so to speak. The last thing the bastard wants is to confront you face-to-face.”

“Could be.”

Adams smiled at Torrez's refusal to jump in with conjectures, wild or otherwise. “I was surprised that Miles Waddell wasn't at the meeting this morning to hear that Olveda guy's presentation. I'd think he'd be mightily interested, considering what Olveda's outfit is proposing. Maybe even some competition for Waddel's own development.”

“Maybe so.” Torrez glanced at his watch and pushed himself away from the truck fender.

“Huh,” Adams said in puzzlement, wishing that Torrez had an opinion that he cared to voice. “By the way, what's the latest on Bill?”

“Out of surgery, doing well in recovery.”

“Estelle going to be down there for a while?”

“I would guess so.”

The lieutenant smiled broadly, both at Torrez's taciturn replies and at what he was about to ask next. “You're still holding the captaincy open until after the election?”

“Sure. The job's yours the day you retire from the state—the day after the election.” A trace of a smile lit his handsome features.

“No, no, the job's
yours
then,” Adams laughed again and glanced at his watch. “Where you headed now?”

“Waddell's the guy I want to talk to. He's got this big-time security outfit workin' for him now, and I want to find out what
they
know.”

“And you already know who they got workin' the gate, Sheriff.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Why don't you ride up with me? Just leave the bus here. If you don't mind, I'd like to hear what Waddell and his gang have to say.”

Torrez hesitated, then shrugged. “Hell, yes. I'll help you waste state gas.” A quick reaction of surprise crossed Adam's face. The lieutenant would have wagered that Torrez would refuse the ride, more comfortable in his own vehicular office.

As they settled into the SUV, Adams glanced at his passenger. “Promotion list came out the other day.”

“Okay.”

“Captain's list is pretty short. I'm not on it.”

“Huh. Their mistake.”

“Maybe so. All politics. You got to kiss the right ass. Thinking about it now, I'm not sure I want the job. You don't see too many captains out on the road, havin' fun. They push papers mostly.”

“Not
my
captain,” the sheriff said. “We ain't got time for paperwork.”

They rode in comparative silence for a while, the radio chatter intruding at regular intervals. Adams chose to take the southern route on State 56, and twenty minutes later, as they turned onto County Road 14 and headed north toward the observatory development, he glanced at Torrez.

“You got the antelope, though.”

“Yep.”

“Well, that's the important thing.”

“I guess.” It didn't appear that Torrez understood that Adams meant the comment as a joke.

“If the shooter hadn't left by then, weren't you taking a chance? He could have shot your ass off while your fiddling around field dressing that carcass.”

“Not much of a chance. He was gone by then.”

“How do you
know
that?”

Torrez didn't respond for a moment. “Just do,” he said finally. Shifting uncomfortably in the cramped seat, he added, “I covered the top of the hill, where I could look down at the road. Got there in time to see a truck leaving the area, and we stopped 'em down on Fifty-Six. Turns out it was this Olveda guy.”

“That's what Sergeant Taber was telling me. The kid stopped him. Young Parnelli Pasquale.”

Torrez nodded. “Olveda said he was out there just cruisin'. Looking the development over. He says he drove by on the county road, even noticed that the hood of my truck wasn't latched. That's when I seen him.”

“He never got out of his truck?”

“Nope.”

“I'll be damned. And the shooter, now…he found you even though not a soul in this county knows that old truck belongs to you…” The crow's feet around his eyes twinkled. “Does Waddell give lots of locals permission to hunt out here on his property?”

“Not lots. I don't know. Maybe not anybody else. I never asked him. I don't see nobody when I go out, though.”

“So just you?”

“Well, probably. Once in a while a Texan trying his luck, but he's usually lost.”

Heading north, they followed three dust clouds spaced a quarter of a mile apart, big yellow belly-dump ore trucks headed toward the mesa. “What's your bet?” Adams leaned forward, looking up toward the mesa. “They heading for the top, or down below?”

“Last I was up there, they were workin' on one of the big sewage treatment fields out behind where the hotel is gonna be. So I'd guess top.”

“Then I don't want to be stuck behind 'em,” the trooper said, and punched the gas. Within seconds he had pulled closer to the third in train, and lit the roof light bar. The ore truck eased toward the narrow shoulder when the road swept around a dense grove of scrub, and they shot through the red cloud of dust. All three trucks were running heavy, and with little wind, the red billow hung tight over the road.

“They're running over from McInerney's.” Adams made a face and squinted against the dust. “Hell of a contract he landed himself.”

“Yep.”

“That's one thing I'll give Waddell. He's sure keeping to his promise to shop local.”

“Much as he can.”

Adams waited a moment before a stretch of road straight and wide enough presented itself, and then he shot past the two lead semis. About six construction projects were going on in and around the huge lower parking lot, now sporting its fresh black coat of macadam. A large visitors' and registration center was wrapping itself around the jumble of house-sized boulders at the base of the mesa, along with what would be the gift shop, rest rooms, office complex, and the infrastructure for the tram car up the nearly sheer side of the mesa.

Even the small station for the narrow gauge locomotive was staked out on the east side of the lot. Since it functioned as efficiently in either forward or reverse, there was no point in turning the locomotive around—it would pull from Posadas to
NightZone
, and push on the return trip.

What had been an informal gate at the bottom of the mesa highway—the wide, spectacular access that wound up the side of the mesa to the 700 acres of the
NightZone
facility
itself—was now a hi-tech archway with a gatehouse that reminded Torrez of a national park facility. None of the architecture spoke Old West—a look that Miles Waddell had been adamant about avoiding. Even his narrow gauge locomotive avoided the look of the rest of the state's narrow gauge offerings. At first he had investigated the purchase of a replica 1880s steam engine, but had quickly changed his mind. The propane-electric engine whose photo had been in the Posadas newspaper more than once was as modern and sleek as the Amtrak locomotives.

None of the park's design spoke of the modern West, either, full of howling, kerchiefed coyotes or out-of-place saguaro cacti. Rather, everything reminded visitors that, if mankind was going to observe and probe the universe, the world of hi-tech science and engineering was going to lead the way.

A small parking area at the gatehouse could accommodate half a dozen vehicles, and at the moment, only two were parked there—a small, tan Jeep and an older model sedan that Torrez recognized. The brown Chevy Impala was showing signs of a hard life. One spot light remained on the driver's side, the other just a hole in the windshield post. Two men stepped out of the gatehouse, one holding a clipboard and wearing work boots, chino trousers, and a short-sleeve shirt with crossed golf clubs over the left pocket. His companion, not yet over the thirty hump, wore cargo shorts and matching shirt. He also wore stout boots with colorful socks reaching halfway up his calves. If he had a fanny pack with water hanging from the belt, he'd be just another fashionable hiker. A black baseball cap scrunched blond curls. He raised a hand in salute to Torrez.

“The kid in hikin' duds is Rick Bueler, one of the USR chiefs,” Torrez said.

“You're kidding.”

“And that's himself.” The lieutenant slowed the state Expedition and lowered the window. “Hey, Jer. I almost didn't recognize you in your work clothes.”

Jerry Steward, looking a little more apprehensive than welcoming, stepped up to the vehicle door. As he did so, he glanced back, as if to make sure that Bueler was at his side.

“Gents,” he greeted. The grin spread across his face. In person, Steward was Mr. Affability himself. That good nature didn't wash over into his hobby of editorial writing, or to his political adventures. In his run for sheriff, he'd accused the department of financial profligacy, irresponsibility, and general incompetence—charges that Torrez had ignored, or, perhaps since the sheriff rarely read the local paper or listened to grapevine gossip, he hadn't even heard. Somehow, Steward had managed to win the endorsement of the Posadas Democratic Party, vacant since no one wanted to spend money being a sacrificial lamb against Torrez, an independent candidate who couldn't be beaten. No one gave Steward a snowball's chance of winning.