“I was talking with Brett Prescott.”
“That’s the ranch out on Seventeen?”
“Yes.”
“What did he have to say?” Holman prompted.
“Prescott was one of Tammy Woodruff’s many flames, sheriff. But they broke up a few days ago. Remember when she backed into the Prescott kid’s truck out at the Broken Spur? Well, that was the wrap-up, I guess. The girl went after Pat Torrance on the rebound. We know that young Patrick was at the Broken Spur the night of the shooting. Brett Prescott says that Patrick came to his house afterward, scared all to hell. And now it looks like a reasonable guess that Tammy was on her way to Patrick Torrance’s place when her truck went over the edge of San Patricio Mesa.”
“What’s the Torrance kid say about that?”
“He doesn’t. We don’t know where he is.”
Holman leaned back, his mouth snapping shut. After five squeaks of the chair, he said, “Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Yep.”
“Have you put out a want for him?” I nodded and Holman pursed his lips and whistled a tuneless series of notes. “Why do you think she was headed that way?”
“I don’t know.”
“What time of day was it when she went over the edge, have you figured that out?”
“No.”
Holman whistled some more, eyebrows knit. “Then Patrick Torrance is the key.”
“He may be.”
“Shit, Bill, we’ve got to have something on this. We’ve got to have something definite.”
I shrugged. “We don’t. Maybe the Torrance kid is a key, like you say. When we find him, we’ll know.”
“And what about the truck? The white one that Tammy was supposedly driving Sunday night. The one that Linda Real says that Tammy was driving.”
“No trace.”
“Maybe Linda was mistaken.”
“That’s possible. It’s unlikely, but possible.”
Holman rubbed his face with both hands as if all the cobwebs of this case were tightening around his brain. “God, I hate this,” he said finally. “I feel like someone is playing games with us. Making us look stupid.”
“Yep.”
He shot a withering glance at me. “What’s next?”
I fanned out the messages. “Before I circle back out to the Torrance ranch, I want to talk with Estelle.”
“She’s busted up pretty badly.”
“I know. But her brain isn’t. And I want to talk with Linda Real again, if I can slip into the hospital without a ruckus. And before I do that,” I said, holding up one of the notes, “I’d better return this call.”
The note said that Donni Weatherford had called at 4:35 A.M. That was puzzling, as was the telephone number.
“Maybe they left something behind,” Holman said.
“It would have to be something mighty important to bother calling here at that hour.”
“Maybe she forgot her husband.”
I chuckled. “Maybe.” I walked down the hall to my own office and closed the door. After dialing, I waited while circuits connected. After three rings the receiver was lifted and a cheerful young voice said, “Western Court Motel. This is Sally. How may I help you?”
“I’d like to speak with Donni Weatherford, please.”
“Just one moment.” I heard muffled voices and paper rustling, and then the cheerful voice said, “May I ask who’s calling, please?”
“Undersheriff William Gastner, long distance from Posadas, New Mexico. I’m returning Mrs. Weatherford’s call.”
“Just one moment.” More voices, and then the phone was passed off to someone who sounded official-and tired.
“Who’s this?”
I repeated myself, and the voice said, “Give me your phone number there, sir. I’ll get right back to you.” I did, and broke the connection. For two minutes I sat in my silent office, listening to the tick of the gas heater over by the window. When the phone lit up I punched the line-one button.
“Gastner.”
“Sheriff,” the tired voice said, “this is Sergeant Stanton Judge with the Weatherford police in Weatherford, Oklahoma.”
My stomach flip-flopped with apprehension. “What’s up, sergeant? A Mrs. Donni Weatherford asked me to call.”
“You met the Weatherfords, I understand.”
“Their van tangled with an interstate guardrail down our way Sunday afternoon. The husband was the only one hurt. He spent a day in the hospital here. When he was discharged, they headed for home. Iowa, I think.”
“Well, they made it as far as their favorite town. They bought a new vehicle in Posadas, is that right?”
“Yes. I don’t know what financial arrangement they made, but they bought a new Suburban right off the lot. Or at least made a hefty down payment. He’s a lawyer.”
“That’s what she said.”
“What happened, sergeant?”
He cleared his throat and coughed. I could picture him leaning against the check-in counter of the motel, cup of coffee on the counter and a cigarette between his fingers.
“The vehicle was stolen early this morning.”
I let out a stream of pent-up air, a sigh of relief and exasperation mixed together. “The brand-new one was stolen?”
Sergeant Judge had the good grace not to say, no, stupid, the wrecked van. Instead he said, “Right out of the goddamned motel parking lot. Mrs. Weatherford happened to glance out the window shortly before dawn. It was missing then. So, sometime between midnight and about five-thirty.”
“Christ, the original hard luck family.”
Judge grunted agreement. “Yeah. She told me they always stop in Weatherford when they’re traveling through. Some sort of family joke, she said. Started when the kids were little…told ’em that the whole town was named after them. Something like that. Anyway, we’ve got an all-points out. But if the thieves had a five hour head start, that’s the last we’ll ever see of that baby, I’ll tell you that.”
“No one heard or saw anything?”
“Well, maybe. Maybe not. A trucker whose rig was parked in the motel’s parking lot said he heard the chirp of an auto alarm being turned off. He didn’t look out of his sleeper cab or anything. Didn’t check the time. He said he remembers it because it sounded so damn close. He didn’t pay any attention to it beyond that. Said he heard a vehicle start shortly after.”
“Where was the Suburban parked relative to his rig?”
“The width of the driveway, plus three parking slots. Close enough that it could have been the one.”
“No broken glass?”
“No. And that Suburban had a hell of a burglar alarm screamer on it. The Weatherfords say they made sure it worked, too. The kids had made it holler more than once.”
“And no one other than the trucker heard it?”
“That’s right. So either it didn’t work the one time it should have, or…”
“Or someone had a key.”
“That’s right. Or something sophisticated. Some kind of gadget.”
“Is Mrs. Weatherford there?”
“She’s standing right at my elbow.”
When Donni Weatherford came on the line, she sounded like a good sport whose sportsmanship had been stretched to the limit.
“Sheriff? This is Donni. Can you believe this? I mean, can you believe it?” She spoke as if our acquaintance had been seasoned by years instead of hours. “I mean, I can’t believe it.”
“I’m certainly sorry, Mrs. Weatherford,” I said lamely. I wasn’t about to drive up to downtown Oklahoma to pick up the family and chauffeur them to Davenport, Iowa…and that’s about the only offer that would have done them any good.
“Well, I just thought I should call you, sheriff. I thought maybe you might like to know. You folks were all so kind to us, and then your deputy, the one who was so helpful, was killed later that very night. Have you caught them yet?”
“No.”
“This world is full of wretched people, I’ll tell you that.”
“Yes, ma’am. Are you absolutely certain that the alarm on the Suburban was set properly?”
“Absolutely.”
After assuring Mrs. Weatherford that Sergeant Judge would take care of the family’s immediate needs, and countering another round of thank-you’s, I hung up. In less than a heartbeat, the line two light blossomed and the phone buzzed. With my fingers resting on the receiver, I contemplated not bothering to answer. After another two buzzes, I picked it up.