Forbidden Entry (23 page)

Benjamin Thomas Halstead Jr., single, age 27, had worked as a surveyor for the Arizona Department of Transportation for two years. The medical examiner's report confirmed that he had died of blunt force trauma to the skull when his car crashed to the bottom of a rocky ravine on March 18th of this year. Witnesses stated he'd been at the Crown King Saloon for hours playing pool with other patrons prior to the accident and had exhibited signs of having had too much to drink when he left. Authorities suspect that he may have made a driving miscalculation or fallen asleep at the wheel. My phone alert sounded so I closed the file. “Thanks, Julie,” I said, setting both of them on her desk while slipping into my jacket. “I'll come back and finish reading these tomorrow or Wednesday.”

She flipped her dark hair behind one shoulder and dragged her gaze from the computer screen. “Not a problem. They'll be here.”

Outside in the Jeep, I sent a quick text to Ginger before heading out, asking how she and Marcelene were doing. I told her how much we all missed her at work, that I was on my way to check out the location of Jenessa's death and would give them a full report later. Knowing there would be no place to eat out in the boonies, I stopped to pick up a sandwich on the way out of town and could not resist pulling into the two-minute car wash. It seemed almost criminal to drive my beautiful new Jeep around caked with mud from top to bottom. While waiting in line, I left a voice message for the sheriff. I told him about Walter and that I would now be following up on the story. I asked him if he'd contacted Nathan Taylor's mother yet and requested that he text me a phone number where I could reach Nathan's father.

The wind had picked up significantly by the time I reached the freeway, and as I traveled northward, the flotilla of charcoal-bellied clouds pushing over the mountains signaled the arrival of the impending weather change—a prelude to supposedly an even bigger storm forecast for the middle of the week. I remained hopeful that my family's sightseeing trip would not be spoiled as I'd learned that these dramatic predictions could also fizzle to almost nothing with a change of wind direction.

By the time I reached Black Canyon City, thunderheads stretched along the crest of the entire Bradshaw range, billowing like smoke from a volcano. There was little doubt I was heading into some bad weather and most likely it had been a complete waste of time and money to wash my Jeep. “Flapdoodle,” I muttered, borrowing Ginger's favorite phrase. Moments later, I swerved onto the Bumble Bee exit and headed down the curving road into the still sun-drenched valley.

As I approached the wide gravel pullout at the bottom of the hill, I recognized Linda Tressick's vehicle parked among the handful of motor homes and pickups with empty trailers attached. A glance at my clock confirmed that I had about fifteen minutes to spare, so I decided to take the bird in hand and pulled in behind her white pickup truck. I stepped out into the driving wind and strode to where she stood jotting information from a pickup on a notepad. “Hello again,” I said, walking up beside her. “I was driving by and wondered if you had time for a few questions now?”

She glanced up from her paperwork and acknowledged me with a tight-lipped smile. “Sure. What do you need?”

I explained briefly my assignment, my relationship to Jenessa, showed her the photo of them on my phone and asked if she'd seen or interacted with them prior to their deaths.

She cast me an appraising look. “With the Taylor kid, yes. I'd seen him hiking and tearing around the hills on his quad a couple of times in the past few months. Burton Carr told me he'd stopped him from rappelling down the side of several Indian forts too. Idiotic stuff.”

“Was he acting irrationally? Like, maybe he was hopped up on something?”

She made a face. “Who knows? Pretty recently, I caught him riding off the designated trails out there,” she stated, pointing towards a series of dirt tracks snaking up the mountain into the wilderness. “I informed him he was on BLM land, gave him a warning and less than two weeks ago I issued him a ticket for having an expired OHV Decal.” Her brow furrowed in remembered annoyance. “He went ballistic and started ranting about not having the money to pay the fine or renew the decal.”

“Does it cost that much? It's like renewing tags on your car, right?”

She waved her hand dismissively. “Exactly. Twenty-five dollars. You can buy them online and they're good for a year, but he made a huge deal about not having the use of his quad for his planned excursion.”

I absorbed the information thinking that now it made sense that they'd rented quads in Crown King. “Did you see them together after that day?”

She thought for a few seconds. “As I recall, the young woman didn't enter the picture until several days later. She asked if it would be okay if she left her car here in the staging area because they were going to travel together in his camper.”

“Was that the last time you saw her?”

“First and last. After that whopping storm ended and the snow started to melt, I noticed her car was still here and that's when I realized something might be wrong.”

“Do you remember what day that was?”

“Last Wednesday. I'd just finished pulling a truck out of a snowdrift and jumping another car when Burton drove up and gave me the bad news. I called the sheriff right away.” We exchanged a somber glance and she tacked on, “Pretty sad situation.”

“Very. And speaking of tragic situations, I just finished reading the police report on two men who also died recently in this general vicinity.” I filled her in on what I'd learned and asked if she'd had contact with either of them.

She smoothed a few tendrils of wind-ruffled hair behind one ear. “I encountered the filmmaker several times because he hung around here for weeks trying to interview people. His name was Luke something or other. He got really huffy when I declined to be on camera, but I answered all of his questions about what impact I thought a freeway would have on this whole region. He also wanted to know how I felt about the environmental impact of the gravel company.”

I tilted my head at her. “And how do you feel about it?”

She chewed her bottom lip. “I don't like it very much, but it's on private land so we can't do anything about it.”

I nodded. “What about Benjamin Halstead, the surveyor?” I asked, checking the time on my phone. “Did you have any discussions with him?”

Her features brightened considerably at the mention of his name. “Many. Benjamin was here working on and off for a couple of months.” But then her smile faded. “I felt sorry for the poor kid.”

“Why?”

“Because, his job with the Department of Transportation put him on everyone's shit list. But he really had two strikes against him.”

“How so?”

“Not only do most of the people around here oppose the idea of the freeway, the environmentalists hated him too. A bunch of activists got involved, claiming that John Hinkle and the state were colluding to put the freeway through here because he'd profit from the sand and gravel company selling the product to help build it. They're out here picketing the gravel company every couple of weeks. Anyway, John Hinkle ended up in a protracted legal battle, saying he could do what he damn well pleased with his own property and finally won in court. Folks are still against the freeway, but they've softened their stance against the gravel company because it provides jobs.” She grinned wryly. “That's what people call a Catch-22, right?”

“I guess so. So, the locals resented Benjamin because he was the road surveyor? That seems silly.”

“In their minds, he was working for the enemy,” she responded, her lips pinched together for emphasis. “Hardly any of the residents would talk to him and he seemed genuinely grateful that I would stop and chat with him once in a while.”

“Did he commute from Phoenix everyday?”

“No, he was renting a room from some lady in Black Canyon City from what I recall. He said he really loved being in this area since he'd grown up in Cave Creek. I'd see him here sometimes on weekends hiking or camping.”

“Anything else you can tell me about him?”

She pondered my question for several seconds. “Nothing much more except that he seemed to be a nice, upstanding young man,” she remarked with a veneer of wistfulness entering her voice. “And nice-looking too. It was quite a surprise to hear about his accident. In fact, I was pretty shocked.”

“Why's that?”

The cleft between her blonde brows deepened. “Because witnesses reported that he acted drunk or spaced-out before he left the Crown King Saloon and subsequently ran off the road that night.”

I eyed her reaction with interest. “You seem skeptical.”

“I am.”

“Why?”

“Because he told me he was a Mormon. Mormons don't usually drink, do they?”

“Not devout ones, maybe Jack Mormons. Do you know who any of the witnesses are?”

“I don't, but it's probably in the report. Or you could talk to Cal Moreland. He's the bartender up there. He might remember who else was there that night.”

The last part of her sentence was almost drowned out when two huge trucks hauling rock roared by in a cloud of dust. They had no sooner disappeared around the corner than another truck appeared and sped by in the opposite direction. She glared after it, lamenting, “Those damn trucks are a nuisance. It was sure a lot quieter around here before the gravel company opened.”

For a couple of seconds, I watched the truck until it was out of sight and then turned back to Linda. “Where are they taking the loads, do you know?”

“To a plant in Mesa. Jack Loomis told me that one is open to the public where the Raven Creek operation isn't.”

“Does he own the company?”

“No, he's the foreman. Harvel Brickhouse told me it's owned by some big wheeler-dealer in Phoenix. I overheard some of the locals at the Cleator bar saying that he makes an appearance every once in a while, but I've never met him.”

I was running short on time, so I thanked her and returned to my Jeep, mulling over everything she had told me. On the surface, it appeared unlikely that Benjamin Halstead's accident had anything at all to do with what had happened to Jenessa and Nathan, but when I added in the bizarre death of the filmmaker, Luke Campbell, the startling common denominator became apparent. Was it a coincidence that each one of them had been hiking or camping in this general area and that all four deaths had been classified as accidental? As I looked searchingly towards the rugged hills, I could not shake the instinctive feeling that there was something else at play. Now, I was anxious to find out what other pertinent information might be contained in the rest of the report. I also made a note to contact the bartender at the Crown King Saloon.

Tooling along through Bumble Bee, it appeared just as deserted as it had yesterday except for two young men standing near a quad parked in front of the boarded up store. One of them, talking on his cell phone, looked up and stared at me as I drove by. I looked back and he was still watching me. Puzzled, I turned back and continued along the dusty road towards Cleator.

Powerful wind gusts intermittently buffeted the Jeep and sent tumbleweeds skimming across the road. Good thing I was concentrating because all at once two guys racing dune buggies side by side tore around the blind corner headed right at me. Reaction time? Zero. Wrenching the wheel sharply to the right, I careened off the road, skidded through a section of broken range fence and bounced out into the desert, barely avoiding several giant boulders. I crashed through a mesquite thicket before sliding to a stop at the edge of a stock pond. Shaking all over, my heart pounding, I sat there struggling to catch my breath. Oddly enough, as if something like this happened daily, the half dozen black cows grazing nearby didn't even move and stood observing me with solemn brown eyes. No question about it. That had been a close call. If I'd hit the rocks head-on I could have been toast. What a bunch of irresponsible shitheads! I darted a look out the passenger side window, shouting, “Freakin' morons!” Nothing except a curtain of dust remained in sight, but then another vehicle appeared heading in the same direction. This time though it wasn't an ATV, pickup or dune buggy, but a dark-colored Hummer with heavily tinted windows. The driver appeared to pause for a few seconds before accelerating past. Whoever it was had surely seen what happened and apparently didn't give a crap whether I'd been hurt or not.

“Thanks a pantload!” I yelled, jumping out to inspect the Jeep. My wild charge through the brush had left several ugly scratches in the paint. “Son-of-a-bitch! Are you kidding me?” I screamed aloud, mournfully running my finger along the grooves, thinking that, for outdoor enthusiasts, desert pin striping was like a badge of honor, but for me, not so much. Overcome by intense anger, I just lost it. I kicked the tires, the dirt, the rocks and let loose with a tirade loud enough to finally startle the cows. They galloped away into the brush so I forced myself to calm down. Breathing deeply, I felt the flames of a legendary O'Dell temper tantrum diminishing. What the hell was wrong with people anyway? What possessed them to drive like absolute maniacs on these back roads with total disregard for others? I reached for the door handle and groaned aloud when another thought occurred to me. Oh man! Tally was going to have a field day with this latest scrape and I'd never hear the end of it. I was fast developing a reputation for trashing cars while on assignment. The list now included a Mercedes, a classic Packard, my precious Volvo and, just mere weeks ago, a pickup I'd borrowed from Tally. Not a good track record.