Nightzone (5 page)

She knew that as well as I did, but I pressed on. “The killer didn't spare an extra minute arguing with Kenderman. Shot him and drove away. He's got time on us. And you're not going to find someone covered with sawdust at a traffic stop. He won't be that dumb. Not if he tried to think something like this through.” I watched her dark face settle into a determined frown. “Boyd was a local kid. That's a place to start. And you know, this is an interstate power line. You won't go far before you have to talk to the feds.”

“Captain Mitchell has already called them,” Estelle said. “And we'll have a full State Police presence in a few minutes.”

“Well, then, that's good. If you want a running start, have Linda photograph the bottom two feet of number five, there, if you can figure out how to reach it, or cut it off, or something. Take some scrape samples at the same time. If Curt Boyd got himself clobbered some other way, then you've got a different game altogether. But I'll bet you a green chile burrito that nasty uppercut to the chin is how he died. Perrone found a sliver of wood in the wound, so nothing else makes sense. Not unless we find a handy bullet hole hiding someplace.”

I took a deep breath and regarded the still-spectacular night sky—not because I loved star gazing, but to stop my motor-mouth from continuing to tell Estelle Reyes-Guzman things she knew perfectly well on her own.

“Two things bother me the most,” she said. “One is the timing. He wanted to cut and run. With the right weather conditions, that power line might not have toppled for who knows how long. When it
did
finally go, it could have caught vehicular traffic in any number of ways as busy as this road is now. He couldn't have known who he might end up hurting or killing.”

“Best laid plans. At least it's not a school bus route.” Miles Waddell's mesa was dark against the stars, but come dawn the heavy machinery would bellow into life with his observatory project…machinery coming and going that would shake the ground.

“You called dispatch just after one.”

“I did.”

“And Mr. Waddell contacted dispatch at roughly the same time. That's how dispatch logged it. The sound of the saw woke him, he says. He said he wouldn't have called, but no one saws wood in the middle of the night. He drove across his mesa from where he was parked to the rim, looked out and saw the fire already starting. He missed the poles actually dropping. And he says he didn't see a vehicle. That's how quickly our guy decided to leave the scene.”

“All right. You said two things bothered you.”

She nodded. “Oh,
si.
We've been talking about Curt Boyd's partner in this stunt. There could be more than one, sir. At least two more could fit in that little pickup. Maybe three.”

Chapter Five

At one point earlier that morning, Miles Waddell and I had been looking at each other from opposite ends of the county. The killer—or killers—had been sandwiched between us, scooting north to the rendezvous with the unprepared Deputy Perry Kenderman. Despite my best intentions to mind my own business, I found myself trying to imagine how
I
would juggle two wildly different but related crime scenes if that lot fell to me. It was easiest just to say, “Well, I'm retired now. Good luck, guys.”

I admit that I hadn't particularly warmed to Perry Kenderman over the years. He had his share of family issues that got in his way, and on top of that, when he put on his gun belt, he developed a certain swagger that made me nervous. He had finally attended and graduated from the state Law Enforcement Academy, well below the middle of the scholastic heap. He had been a part-timer for first the village and then for the sheriff's department largely because I had had grave reservations about his sloppy law enforcement skills. On occasion, it seemed that he made laws up as he went along. I had kept him on a short leash, letting him have minor duties. Sheriff Torrez had hauled in the slack even more. None of that meant that Perry Kenderman should end up lying on the pavement, his brains and blood soaking into the macadam.

On top of that, the volatile Johnny Boyd would have to be told that his youngest son was dead, with no ready answers about why.

“What can I do for you, other than staying out of the way?” By this time, my insomnia was beginning to lose ground, and a toasty bed was inviting. I was hoping the undersheriff would say something politely dismissive, like “We'll talk later.”

Instead she reached out a hand and gently took my left elbow. “Maybe you'd talk to
him
.” She nodded toward the county road. I turned and saw the SUV pulling to a stop behind all the other vehicles, the winking lights playing off its red slab sides. Frank Dayan, now owner and publisher of the weekly
Posadas Register,
scrambled out and immediately drew a bead with his digital camera. What he, or the camera, could see in the light-exploded night was unclear.

“That I can do. ‘Investigation is continuing,' a department spokesman said?”

“That's perfect. No one is identified until Bobby gives the okay.”

I nodded. I knew the drill. “Frank will be able to figure out the ‘who's who' all by himself. Is there anything special about the power pole damage you want Dayan to know?” For once, the publisher had lucked out. His paper came out on Thursday. An early Thursday morning disaster was perfect for him, a man who lived for the opportunity to scoop the metro papers and TV stations almost as much as he relished a new full page advertisement. And this story was oddball enough that the choppers would flock for
exclusive at 10
photos of downed power poles.

“Not from us, sir. He can count that there are six down. That's as far as we go.” Which meant that if Dayan could pry something out of the Posadas Electric Cooperative, he was free to do so. Estelle squeezed my shoulder. “And when you're done with him, you need some sleep.”

“Plenty of time for that. Not that you have time to think about it, but when does the Leister contingent roll into town?”

Estelle pressed both hands to the sides of her head in mock agony. “Ay. Sometime Saturday, I'm told. Carlos has been climbing the walls.” She rested a finger on her lips, secret style. “He knows something we don't.”

“Interesting conspiracy going on there,” I chuckled.

“You'd be amazed,” she said. “And thanks for heading Frank off at the pass.”

I didn't mind the assignment, since I liked Frank Dayan, and on top of that, knew perfectly well that Sheriff Bobby Torrez wouldn't mind me taking on the PR task—anything as long as
he
didn't have to do it—a great lawman in the field, a lousy bureaucrat in the office.

When I'd been chief deputy, then undersheriff, and finally sheriff of Posadas Country, I'd enjoyed many a refreshing moment while reading young Bobby Torrez's reports—masterpieces of concise brevity. My favorite had been a report written after an intoxicated prisoner punched Deputy Torrez while being led to an upstairs cell.
“Prisoner struck deputy. Prisoner fell down stairs.”
Fortunately for us, the prisoner had been so intoxicated that he remembered nothing of the episode, content the next day to attribute his colorful bruises to the blind staggers.

I made my way across to where Frank Dayan stood in company with Deputy Sutherland. Frank could have blended in on a street corner anywhere in the Middle East, even though I knew that he was the first generation of many in his family to stray beyond the city limits of San Antonio. Dark, piercing eyes were mellowed by a wide streak of indecision in his nature, with fine features and whiskers that lent a dark blue, Nixonesque shadow if not shaved four times a day. This uproar had caught him unprepared, and in the glare of pulsing lights, he looked both haggard and chilled.

“Bill, they even rousted you out of bed?”

“I wish I could say that it was their fault,” I said. He pulled off a glove and his grip was soft, but he held on for a moment.

“I thought I was going to need an act of Congress to get through the road block there at the village limits,” he said. “The sheriff sent me out here.”

“Bobby is turning mellow in his middle age,” I said. “But homicides are like that. If we don't keep a tight rein, things go missing. Like evidence, for instance.”

“Someone said it was Kenderman. Is that true?”

I wondered who the ‘someone' was, but didn't bother Dayan with that. His paper wouldn't be out until later, and by then, the whole world would have the identification.

“The undersheriff asked that I be the department liaison this time around,” I said without answering his question. “The department is spread pretty thin just now.” Even that was a bit of news for Dayan. Some police administrators would have ulcers thinking that the public might find out that the department had a weakness, but what the hell. It was true.

Dayan peered past me, trying to make sense of the tangle. “Do I see three sets of poles down?”

“You do. Dick Whittaker will talk with you about that when he can break loose.”

“How did they do that?” The lens of Dayan's camera twitched as he went to the maximum zoom, trying to see through the darkness.

“A chain saw.”

He lowered the camera. “A chain saw? You've got to be kidding.” He jotted something in his notebook. “At least two people involved, then?”

“Investigation is continuing.”

“Well, you have one lying there,” and he nodded in the direction of the tarped victim. “Right? Do we have an identification yet?”

“Investigation is continuing.”

Dayan looked pained. “Bill…come on. Is this somebody local?”

“We'll…
they
…will have that for you later in the day, Frank.”

“Shot, or what?”

I hesitated, actually eager to give Frank
something
, anything that would reward his answering a winter night's call. “It appears now that one of the poles might have struck the victim when it kicked off the stump as it twisted and fell.” I held up a cautionary hand. “That's preliminary supposition, Frank. And it's supposition from me, your basic ‘unnamed spokesman,' not from the S.O.” The newspaperman saw all the pieces tumbling into order.

“You found the chain saw?”

“Not as far as I know.”

“Or a vehicle?”

“Not yet.”

“That means that there
was
somebody else. So they high-tailed it out of here and were stopped sometime later by Deputy Kenderman.”

“I don't hear a question in all that, but let me caution you that as of now, there is no connection between the two events.”

Dayan grimaced. “You're as bad as the sheriff, Bill.”

“We have to be careful until we know what we're talking about.” I was fully aware that this ‘we' business was becoming too easy. “Just between you and me, off the record, and blah, blah, blah, it
appears
that's what happened. They don't have an actual link yet, so don't jump the gun.”

“Chainsaws are noisy, though.”

I held out my arms and turned in place. Not a single porch light winked. Had the electricity been on, the sight would have been the same. True enough, chain saws were noisy, but the sound would mellow and fade, the direction hard to pinpoint out on this vast prairie.

“What actual damage was done?” He held up his hands like blinders, trying to see past the kaleidoscope.

“Again, Whittaker will have all the numbers. They dropped three sets of double supports—double poles. They went down, along with all the associated high voltage lines and at least one transformer. Something in all that mess shorted out and started a little fire. The Posadas Fire Department responded promptly and had it out in minutes.” Didn't I sound like the polished PR man, though.

Dayan took a deep breath. “What's Waddell say?”

“I haven't talked to him, Frank.” At least not since the day before, but that was none of the public's business. Across the way, the rancher was still posted at his truck, but now two other figures kept him company.

“I need to show you something,” Dayan said. “Do you have a couple of minutes?”

“Sure.” I followed the newspaperman back to his little SUV, and Deputy Sutherland, who had remained at a discreet distance while we talked, returned to his post in the middle of the road.

“I just received this yesterday.” Dayan leaned into his car. He emerged with a file folder and extracted a single sheet. I took it and focused my flashlight on it. “They want to run it as a half-page ad.”

“‘They' being…” and then something twanged in my head, a warning that I was treading on slippery turf. Just as the sheriff's department didn't share the files of its daily workings with the public, Frank Dayan's world was governed by similar constraints. I had no intention of falling into the middle of something where I didn't belong. I extended the paper to Frank, but he waved me off.

“No, no. Go ahead. I was going to hunt you up today sometime anyway. I've already made up my mind that I'm not going to accept the ad.”

“This came in the mail?”

He shook his head. “Door drop. Along with cash to cover four weeks' insertion.”

“Cash?” I adjusted my trifocals and maneuvered the flashlight. The format of the ad was professionally printed, with “1/4 page, 4 wks” written in the top margin in pen. The content was one of those wordy diatribes that folks like to run in small rural newspapers announcing that THE END IS NEAR, or ONLY 5 DAYS LEFT TO FIND JESUS. This one had nothing to do with religious fervor, though. The headline left no room for doubt: THE GOVERNMENT IS WATCHING AND LISTENING TO YOUR PRIVATE CONVERSATIONS!!! NO CELL PHONE IS SAFE!!!

The headline, complete with exclamation points, snaked around a photo of a radio telescope much like the ones at the Very Large Array northeast of us near Magdalena. Stealing and modifying a scene from a recent hit film, a black Suburban was parked near one of the antennas. A black-suited man had his briefcase open on the hood, headphones snuggled on his ears.

THEY'RE NOT LISTENING TO THE STARS…THEY'RE LISTENING TO
YOU!!!

“What amazing bullshit,” I said. What followed, in only marginally smaller print, was a diatribe against government in all forms, the feds in particular. Also targeted was the United Nations, with WORLD ORDER NOW DICTATING THE AMERICAN WAY OF LIFE!!!

Despite the sobering nature of the night so far, with two corpses and an eco-thug stunt that wasn't any brighter than most such, I still managed an amused chuckle as I read on. Then the chuckle died as the silly manifesto became a personal attack.

DON'T BE FOOLED BY WHAT'S GOING ON IN SOUTHWESTERN POSADAS COUNTY. THAT'S
NOT
AN INNOCENT OBSERVATORY CURRENTLY UNDER CONSTRUCTION ON THE MESA. DO YOU WANT A UNITED NATIONS LISTENING POST AND COMMAND CENTER IN YOUR NEIGHBORHOOD? DO YOU WANT FOREIGNERS CONTROLLING YOUR LIFE, YOUR COMMUNICATIONS, EVEN YOUR EVERY THOUGHT? DO YOU WANT A RUNWAY FOR MILITARY JETS AND SURVEILLANCE-ATTACK DRONES IN YOUR BACKYARD?

JOIN THE FIGHT NOW. TAKE THE FIRST STEPS WITH US IN OUR RESISTANCE TO THIS INTRUSION. FIGHT FOR YOUR RIGHTS!

“Christ, now we've got the ‘resistance,'” I muttered. At the bottom of the ad was the admonition, JOIN WITH US TO DRIVE THE FOREIGNERS FROM POSADAS COUNTY. RETURN YOUR HOME TO
YOUR
CONTROL. ENJOY PEACE, PRIVACY, AND ABOVE ALL,
HOME RULE.

Centered on the bottom margin, PAID FOR BY THE COMMITTEE OF AMERICAN VALUES didn't include a name or address. So what did one join, and with whom?

“Dropped off, you say? You obviously didn't see who it was.”

“Nope. Dropped in the mail slot through our front door. That and twelve hundred dollars in cash. All hundred dollar bills.”

“Twelve hundred bucks. Not bad, Frank. That's a serious investment on their part.”

“I just can't do that. Not an ad without a name and address. I mean, hell.” He scratched his head. “I don't know what to do with the money. I mean, I can't return it, unless somebody comes forward. But I won't run the ad. That's final.” He took the ad copy and slid it back into the envelope. It would have been easy to laugh the ad off, but twelve hundred bucks was serious ammunition. The tally was now two deaths and a heap of money. That was no laughing matter.

“You need to show that to the sheriff,” I suggested. “There's an implied connection there that he'll want to see. And he'll want to process the originals. There's nothing I can do for you, except tell you to be careful. We're dealing with some serious fruitcakes here, Frank. Be very, very careful. Tell Pam the same thing.” His editor didn't move from her chair often, but she was well known—and well liked—around the community.