“Ah,” Estelle said. “It’s that time of year, almost. When you pursue the pigskin. May your team always win.”
“I’m touched.”
“I’m just practical. Last year, every time your team lost, we couldn’t get a civil word out of you.”
“You exaggerate. I’m not that bad. Anyway, this is partly work. Scott Salinger has had a couple weeks to stew. He’ll be there. Maybe he’ll have come to terms with what he knows.”
“If he knows.”
“My instinct says he does and is just frightened to deal with it. He might have to step on a few friends. Some folks have a hard time doing that.” I picked up my Stetson and headed for the door. “Oh, and tell Sheriff Holman, if you see him before I do, that the funeral is at two o’clock Thursday afternoon. I already committed him. We’ll drive up in three-ten.”
“I’ll tell him. He’ll be overjoyed about the drive. Bob Torrez says the sheriff still talks about the last time he rode with you.”
I grinned and left the cubbyhole that Estelle called her office. On the bulletin board above the dispatcher’s desk, I pinned a Magic-Markered sign. J. J. Murton looked at me and said, “Oh, you’re back!” Then he looked at the sign and read aloud, “Wash and wax three-ten by six P. M. Wednesday. Yessir, I’ll have the trustees get right to that. Wash ’er right up.” I reached out and pointed to part of the message. “Oh, and wax,” Miracle said. “Right. Wax.”
I nodded and smiled at him encouragingly. “I’ll be ten-seven until tomorrow noon, J.J. Don’t call me unless the town is burning down.”
“Right.”
“And I’m taking three-ten,” I reminded him. His eyebrows shot together, and he looked back up at the sign I’d stuck to the bulletin board. “That’s for tomorrow, J.J., not today.”
I left the office and headed home. I walked through the front door of my house for the first time in nearly forty-eight hours, and stopped short. Dr. Sprague had taken me straight from the airport to the sheriff’s office, because it seemed urgent to talk with Estelle. Now I was home, and it struck me like a well-placed blow. I’d forgotten that Art Hewitt’s personal effects were still scattered around my home-a jacket here, pair of tennis shoes there, toilet articles on the bathroom counter. It’s the kind of heartshot that makes for a rotten afternoon.
I packed his things and put the bundle by the front door so I wouldn’t forget it come Thursday. Then I showered, changed clothes, and left for the mountain football camp.
It was a yearly ritual that marked the beginning of the sacred season, an advance peek at the high school team on whose behalf I would bellow myself hoarse during fourteen games. I figured it to be potent medicine for what ailed me.
***
The car only scraped bottom once as I drove carefully up the twisting Forest Service road. Where the elevation tipped 8200 feet, I thumped across a cattle guard that marked private property. The sixty acres were owned by a Posadas businessman. The attraction was a large open field, reasonably smooth, and a casually laid-out camping area. Every year, the Posadas head football coach hosted a week-long “football camp.” On paper, the idea was to provide a camping and recreational opportunity for area youngsters who couldn’t tell a football from a yucca. There was lots of camping, and hiking, and running, and ball throwing. In short, lots of pre-season football practice. By chance, the camp was well attended by any student who wanted a place on the team. Not mandatory, but next-best thing. Coach Fred Gutierrez figured that young lungs that survived a workout at 8200 feet would probably handle any strain down below.
I drove in the cow path that led to the only structure on the property, a small, neat log cabin known as “Coaches’ Cabin.” As I pulled up, I could hear shouts out on the field. I locked 310 and walked through the thick grove of Gambel oak and ponderosa pine that separated the field from the cabin site. Up at the other end of the field I could see a straight row of tents, but it was the action out on the turf that interested me most. I picked a thick-boled ponderosa and sat down at its base with a comfortable grunt. I pushed the cap back on my head and rested my forearms on my drawn-up knees.
Gutierrez and his four assistants-just camp counselors, mind you-were running the forty campers through simple passing routines. There actually were some younger kids there, too. And the Posadas Jaguars’ starting lineup, or I was watching fly fishermen. I sat and relaxed for nearly a half hour, picking out the lineup that was going to make other schools beg for mercy that fall. Enough brain cells remained stubbornly fixed on business that after a few minutes I realized Scott Salinger was not on the field.
One of the assistant coaches saw me, finally, and trotted over. Mark Tatman recognized a faithful booster and grinned widely.
“Sheriff, how are ya?” he said. We shook hands, and then he turned serious. “Say, that was an awful thing about that young cop who got killed downtown. Some of the kids were saying he was living with you. They thought he was some kind of relative until they read the story in the paper yesterday.”
I just nodded, still watching the players. The coach asked, “What was he undercover for, drugs, or what?”
“I’d rather not discuss it right now, Mark.” I nodded at the action on the field. “They look good.”
The assistant coach turned so he could survey the players. “I think so. A good year comin’ up.”
“When do the official two-a-day practices start?”
“August fifteenth.”
“Super.”
“Did you need anything, or were you just cruisin’?”
“Just getting a pre-season peek, Mark. But say, where’s Scott Salinger? I don’t see him.”
Mark Tatman shrugged. “He and Coach Gutierrez exchanged a few words yesterday. He left and hasn’t been back.”
“No shit? What was the problem?”
Tatman held up his hands. “All I know is he was real moody. Depressed. Couldn’t keep his mind on what he was supposed to be doing. Yesterday Gutierrez shouted some instructions at him and Salinger cussed at him. Nothin’ real bad, but with the little kids around, you know, you can’t let it slide.” Tatman shrugged again. “Not very like Salinger, either. He left after that. Just got in his car and left.”
“Well, I’ll be damned.”
“Couple of the guys say he’s still pretty shook about that July Fourth accident. Him and Tommy Hardy were pretty good friends, you know.”
“Yes, I know.”
“He’ll come out of it. Coach said just to let him go. Let him unwind.”
“Probably best.”
“If he comes back, should I tell him you wanted to see him?”
“No. If I need him, I’ll find him.” The coach was anxious to return to his players, and I let him go with a grin and a pat on the back. I watched for another ten minutes, then went back to the car. It was time to find out if Scott Salinger was as tough off the football field as he was on it.
Chapter 15
Posadas cooked under the hot July sun. Downtown that late afternoon was quiet. Many of the shops were closed already. I came in from the east and noticed that the Fernandez Burger Heaven was open. I wondered who was running it. Farther on, with the traffic only one or two cars deep at each light, the town looked like what it was-a slow-paced southwestern town where the single wide main drag was a little unkempt and weed-strewn.
I had lived in Posadas long enough that I could accurately visualize the interior of every store and shop along that main drag. I figured I knew every clerk and owner, too.
As I drove past the intersection of Grande and Fourth, I saw David Barrie walking from his now locked and dark hobby-craft shop to the parking lot. He looked like a caricature of one of those World War II British officers. Very blond, he wore his hair long on the sides, combed so that it looked as if he were facing a strong wind. A long, slightly ski nose jutted below very blue eyes, and his not-quite lantern jaw was set resolutely. He marched with arms swinging vigorously and rhythmically, and when he reached his car, he unlocked the door and slid in gracefully.