“I think that he just overcooked it,” Gastner said. “He comes up here and ramps off, maybe a little crosswise after skidding around that sinkhole. If he does that, if he’s not absolutely goddamn straight, then he’s heading toward the left side of the trail. And pow. Right there.”
Two dozen feet from the crest of the rise, just after the ATV had slammed down, a shower of gravel and broken rock marked the first contact. A sharp-edged limestone rock the size of a wide-screen television had been dislodged from the ridge. Gastner bent over and pointed at the bright aluminum traces, and the black scuff of rubber. “Pow,” he said again. “My guess is that with this catching the left front tire, he just loses it.” He straightened up. “I mean, what’s he got here between the trail and the arroyo?”
“Maybe four feet.”
“Exactly. And with an exploded tire, the rig doesn’t turn like it should. He doesn’t even have the time to grab the brakes.”
“So tell me something,” Estelle said. “Why was he over here? Why on Bender’s Canyon Trail?”
“Because.” Gastner shrugged.
“Just because?”
“That’s what Freddy Romero does,” he said. “Or did.”
“Why park on the Borracho Springs road, and then ride all the way over here?”
“Couldn’t tell you.”
“He found the cat skeleton earlier this week, in a cave up in the mountains somewhere. I’d think he’d be attracted back there. Maybe that’s what he planned originally when he parked where he did. For some reason, he changed his mind.”
“That’s not four-wheeler country,” Gastner observed. “Not that I spend a lot of time trying to haul my fat carcass up that trail, but from what I remember, the only way you’d get a mountain bike up there, let alone a four-wheeler, would be to hang it from your shoulder while you hike.”
“Bobby will be here before long,” Estelle said. “It’ll be interesting to hear his take on all this.”
“Anyway, it was Freddy, remember,” Gastner said. “He drives out somewhere and parks, off-loads the damn ATV, and goes raring and tearing around the countryside. Who knows where or why.”
Estelle lifted the camera and peered through its tiny viewfinder at the trail that swept down off the little rise to cross the dry mud flat. “Nothing will show,” she said to herself.
“What’s to show?”
“Well, there isn’t a lot of traffic on Bender’s Canyon Trail. A rancher now and then.”
“You’d be surprised. Herb Torrance gets this way regularly and Miles Waddell, off and on. Maybe Gus Prescott, although why I wouldn’t know. His property is to the east of here. Then there’s the hunters, the bird watchers, and people who just don’t know where the hell they are…”
“Who turned around back at the homestead?”
“Can’t tell you. And those turn-around tracks could be days old. Even weeks. We haven’t had any rain now in at least that long.”
“Which is longer?” she asked. “To turn around and go back out to 14 that way, or continue on the trail, loop around this mesa, and come out on the State 17 farther north?”
“Six of one. If I remember right, the north end of the trail, where it loops around the backside of the mesa behind Waddell’s ranch, is actually in more open country. It’d be smoother, I’d think. Except in rainy weather, maybe.”
“Huh.” Estelle shook her head in frustration. “What puzzles me is why Freddy didn’t just drive his pickup down the state highway for another two miles to the intersection with County 14, and park there to off-load his four-wheeler. If he’d done that, we probably would have run into each other. Park there, then go exploring. Why park at Borracho, two miles in from the highway, then have to drive the ATV along the highway to the saloon, then…on and on, Padrino. I just don’t understand what he was doing.”
“For one thing, he probably caught sight of the cop car, and figured he’d get a ticket for driving on the highway. So off he scoots, where you couldn’t follow even if you wanted to. Other than that, I don’t have any idea. When you crack the teenage mind, a Nobel is yours, sweetheart.”
Chapter Eight
“He never moved,” Dr. Alan Perrone said. The medical examiner had taken his time at the site, as if he had nowhere else to be than this desolate arroyo bottom, now starting to shimmer in the harsh sun. He glanced up at Linda Real. Her cameras had been busy. “You have what you need so far?”
“Sure do.”
“Let’s roll him over then.” He looked up at Estelle, at the same time pointing at Freddy Romero’s neck just under the ear. “If he was wearing the helmet, it wasn’t buckled on,” he said. He made a flipping motion with his hand, and Estelle helped him turn the body over. “I don’t think we’re going to have any surprises, but you never know.” Understanding the need for comprehensive documentation, Perrone worked patiently with Linda at each stage of the process, as if he were her assistant, never rushing, never demanding.
The ATV framework had smashed into the back of Freddy’s head. Had he been wearing the helmet, the wreckage would have caught him below its margin with the full weight of the four-wheeler behind the blow. Fancy paint job or not, the helmet would have done Freddy little good.
“My guess is that it crushed the cervical vertebrae and the occipital both,” Perrone said. “He never knew what hit him.” The victim’s expression was almost serene, as if he’d been enjoying the flight until the switch had been turned off.
Perrone commented on the shattered right shoulder, the broken left ankle, and finally the obvious lividity. After being smashed into the arroyo bottom, the victim hadn’t moved a centimeter. Blood had settled, the stagnant puddling in the lower tissues blotching the torso. “We’ll see more of that during the post,” Perrone said, and sat back on his haunches. “Sad business, as always. Your neighbor, am I right?”
“Yes,” Estelle replied. “Butch’s older brother.”
“Christ,” he said. “Francis was telling me about the fang in the eye. This family is having all their bad luck in one day.” He twisted and regarded the crumpled ATV. Even damaged, it was obvious that the machine was a veteran of many rough miles, the paint faded, the tires worn and irregular, the engine encrusted with oil varnish. “He wasn’t a newcomer to this.”
“No. I think he’d rather be out exploring than just about anything else. He should have been in school yesterday. Instead…” She let the thought go unfinished.
“Well,” Perrone said, pushing himself to his feet, “I’m finished here.” He looked up at the arroyo rim where Bill Gastner kept the two paramedics company. “No alcohol at the scene, apparently?”
“None that we’ve seen so far. There were two unopened cans of beer in the truck. None opened.”
Perrone nodded absently. “We’ll see. Right now, it looks like he made a simple mistake and overcooked it.” He reached out with his foot and gently nudged the exploded front tire with his boot. “Everything is going just hunky-dory, and then events conspire.”
They heard another vehicle, and a second white Expedition eased into view.
“That would be himself,” Perrone said. “Let me get out of here before the circus blocks me in.” He reached out a hand and touched Estelle on the arm. “I’ll let you know ASAP. But don’t expect any surprises.”
“Thanks, Alan.”
She saw the sheriff’s vehicle backing up, away from the paramedics’ unit. In a moment, Robert Torrez appeared in the arroyo bottom and trudged with no particular urgency down the center of the arroyo, where cattle tracks chewed the gravel. Fifty yards away he slowed to an amble, looking at this and that as he approached. At one point he stopped and turned to face down the arroyo toward the southwest. He scanned the edge of the cut, taking in the rise of ground where Bender’s Canyon trail skirted the edge, the sudden swell on top of which Estelle’s vehicle was parked corking the road.
He turned without approaching any closer and regarded the wreckage of the ATV and Freddy Romero.