Cresting the small hill, a welter of tracks marked the two-track and the area around it. The big duals of Stub Moore’s tow truck crisscrossed the trail where he had maneuvered to bring the hoist into line with the crushed ATV. The edge of the arroyo had crumbled back another foot or so, a cascade of fresh dirt collapsing down to the bottom of the cut. She stopped the truck and saw that the tracks and the disruption of the arroyo edge were not lost on George Romero.
“Oh, God,” he whispered.
“It appears that he came over this little rise ahead of us way too fast, sir. His left front tire clipped the rocks, and he lost it.”
Romero didn’t reply, but slipped out of the Expedition, hanging onto the door as if his knees had turned to jelly. Only scuffs in the gravel arroyo bottom remained to tell the story, but Estelle could see the ATV and the quiet form of Freddy Romero, his helmet thrown to the other side of the arroyo, as clearly as if they were still lying there. Perhaps mercifully, George Romero saw only the arroyo gravel. He wiped his eyes on first one sleeve and then the other.
“He was out here all night,” he managed to say after a moment, and he beat his fist gently against the Expedition’s fender. He stared down into the arroyo. There was something about the site of a personal tragedy that drew people like magnets-they erected markers along the highway, laid wreaths on sidewalks, anything to help them remember that this was the spot where a loved one breathed his last. Estelle stood quietly, leaning against the open door on the driver’s side, allowing George Romero time to come to terms with his ghosts.
“Maybe he didn’t suffer,” he said at last. Maybe, maybe not, Estelle thought. Her husband had said that in most cases, killed instantly was a nicety invented for grieving relatives. She gave Romero another full minute with his own thoughts.
“I’m still wondering why Freddy parked his truck over by Borracho,” she said when it looked as if George was going to turn away from the arroyo. “If he was going to ride over here, it would make more sense to park down at the intersection of this canyon road with 14.”
“I have no idea,” Romero said. “No idea whatsoever.”
“There’s really nowhere to ride the ATV over at the Springs, unless he was going to take the old county road to the east…up on Salinas mesa.”
“He’d been up there a time or two,” Romero said. “He’s been all over.”
“I would suppose so. Sir, let me show you something.” She reached in the window of the SUV and picked up the folder of photographs. Selecting a view of the handgun as it lay on the oily cloth used to wrap it, Estelle handed the photograph to Romero.
“Now what’s this?” He frowned at the photo.
“That was tucked in the carrier of your son’s four-wheeler, sir.” She handed him a second photo taken of the wrapped gun in situ, its blocky shape easily discernable through the cloth.
“He doesn’t own anything like this,” he said, and Estelle almost smiled. But George Romero’s surprise was genuine, and that surprise quickly turned to apprehension and concern. “You mean to tell me that he had that gun with him on the four-wheeler?”
“Yes, sir. The only fingerprints on it are his.”
“Nobody’s been shooting that thing.” He brought the photo close and his eyes narrowed with concentration. “Looks like it was dug out of the bottom of a chicken coop. Where…”
“We don’t know, sir.”
“Why do you think he had anything to do with it?”
The question was so obvious as to be nearly rhetorical, but Estelle said patiently, “It was in the carrier on his machine. It has his fingerprints on it.”
“Well, he found it somewhere. That’s what I say.”
“I agree with you.” She left the obvious question hanging.
For a long moment, George Romero stood with his shoulders slumped, hands clasped together at his belly as if waiting for the knots in his gut to untangle, gazing out over the peaceful arroyo. His head started to shake, a slow, agonized oscillation. “What are we going to do without Freddy,” he whispered.
He turned his back to the arroyo, facing Estelle. “Tell me what you’re doing with all this.” He wiped his eyes and started to climb back into the SUV.
“What are you asking, sir?”
He nodded at the folder of photos on the seat. Estelle got in the driver’s side and waited while he settled himself. “I got a right to know about what’s going on with Freddy,” he continued. “Look, I’ve been to my share of wrecks and such. You know that. I even drove a wrecker for a while. I know there’s always questions nagging. You got that,” and he nodded at the folder again. “That says to me that you got questions about how all this happened. Tata and me got a right to know.”
The undersheriff hesitated. The Romero family had suffered an unimaginable upset in the past two days, and still more lay ahead for them. There was no point in digging at open, painful wounds, but she didn’t wish to dissemble with George Romero by offering mindless platitudes.
“We have two questions lingering, sir. One may be more important than the other. Number one,” and she tapped the steering wheel with her right index finger. “I’m curious why Freddy parked his truck over at Borracho, then rode his ATV all the way over here. There’s probably a simple explanation, but I’d like to know what it is. There’s nothing illegal about what he did, there’s nothing illegal about parking over there, and then riding over here, as long as he stays off the highway. The beer is a violation, but I don’t care about that right now.” She looked across at George Romero, and her dark, aquiline features softened. “Why he did what he did just seems an oddity to me, and I’d like to know.”
“So would we,” George Romero murmured.
“And second, I’d like to know where Freddy found the handgun. That’s all. I think he did find it, sir. I have no reason to believe that he stole it, or bought it illegally, or anything like that. We know folks who have found all kinds of crazy things out in the boonies, and the most simple, innocent explanation is that the junk bounces out of trucks or Jeeps or whatnot. I just want to know, that’s all.”
“Sure don’t look like something he’d buy from somebody,” Romero said, nodding. “And no gun shop is going to sell something like that to an underage kid. Least I hope they wouldn’t. Maybe a friend? I don’t know.”
“As new information comes to light, I’ll be in touch,” Estelle said. “I’ll keep you and Tata informed.”
Romero nodded again as if that satisfied him. Estelle did not add that finding a bullet lodged inside the jaguar skull also fascinated her, or that there was a coincidental possibility that the bullet had come from the very Smith and Wesson that Freddy Romero had found…somewhere.
Chapter Thirteen
By the time Estelle and George Romero returned to the Public Safety Building, the day blistered as any breath of wind died, clouds melted away, and the sun baked Posadas County. After a choked thanks and a self-conscious handshake from the stricken father, Estelle watched Romero trudge across the parking lot, shoulders slumped, head down.
School might not be in session, but Estelle knew exactly where she could find Nathan Underwood. She drove the few blocks down Grande and took the dirt road that led behind the administration building toward the gymnasium and the athletic field.
A swarm of padded players were already on the field, and Estelle saw Underwood standing with two students who were not in uniform. While he talked, a whistle on a heavy lanyard snapped in circles around the coach’s right hand, first one way and then the other. Estelle saw that one of the students was working a digital camera, apparently trying for just the right coach portrait. Another whistle shrilled, and Underwood grinned at something one of the boys said, turning toward the field.