“Ouch.”
“Jenny just looked him right in the eye and said, ‘Fuck you.’ He turned about eight shades of red, because he didn’t know what to say to that. Then Mrs. Rosenthal came back and we were all acting real normal, like nothing happened. The rest of us about split a gut.”
“And you didn’t have much use for the Barrie girl, did you?”
Salinger hesitated, then said, “Unless you were in her pants, I don’t think there was all that much about her to like.” He looked soberly at me. “I mean, she didn’t deserve to get killed like she did, and I don’t mean to be bad-mouthing her. But…” he looked away for a minute, thinking hard. “I just thought she was a fake, that’s all. I didn’t know her that good, and I never had anything to do with her, until Tommy took up with her.” He still gazed off into space. “She really had him hooked. And now they’re all dead, so maybe it doesn’t matter. But hell. One more year, and then I’m gone.”
Abruptly changing the subject, he pointed off toward Posadas. “I sure like country like this. You sit here long enough, and it seems like you can feel the earth turning. I think I can see the curve in the horizon, and then I can feel the movement. You ever felt like that?”
I didn’t say anything, pretty sure he wasn’t expecting an answer. “I do,” he said. “Every time I come up here. It’s just back down in town that things are all screwed up.”
“That’s where the people are.”
“That’s for sure,” Salinger said with a short laugh.
“Scott, I’ve bothered you long enough, but will you do me a favor? If you think of anything else that we should know, will you call? Now that you kinda have things sorted out? Will you do that? I’d appreciate that. We don’t have any concrete leads, and the last thing I want to see is any more people hurt. We could use the help.”
He gave me the same patient, searching look that his sister had. “All right. I’m sure that stuff was Jenny Barrie’s. But I have no idea where she might have gotten it. Not that much. I can’t believe her family had anything to do with it. Hell, Mr. Barrie is a jerk, but nothing like that.”
I stood up somewhat shakily, careful to stay well away from the jumbled edge. Scott picked up the short Ruger.22 that had been lying beside him. “I’ll walk back with you. I got to get home for supper anyway.”
We reached the vehicles and he stopped short. “I don’t believe you drove that up here.”
I patted 310’s front fender. “Wanna drag?”
He laughed. “From here to the pavement, sure.”
“No dice. In fact, let me go first,” I said. “That way, if I break an axle, I won’t have to walk back to town.”
I carefully turned the heavy Ford around and idled and bumped out the path through the trees. Scott Salinger’s Bronco stayed a respectful hundred yards behind me all the way. I hit the pavement feeling pretty sure that the kid would be all right. But I had been wrong before. I wasn’t quite ready for a ground swell of confidence. I knew I’d feel better when I had somebody behind bars. But at least now I had some ideas.
Chapter 16
The telephone rang five times before my sleep-fogged brain bothered to interpret the noise. Even then, it was slow to issue orders to move. We had gotten back from Hewitt’s funeral at midnight, and even Sheriff Holman had been bone-tired. I had been almost comatose, and driven the last fifty miles by instinct.
I had no idea what time it was, only that the telephone sounded like a fire alarm exploding directly in my ear. Had it been noon already, I wouldn’t have known. My bedroom would have made a good photographer’s darkroom. Some years before, I had installed a really heavy pair of shutters on the window, with the logic that a cop who has to sleep at odd hours should be able to do so in comfortable darkness.
I groped for the nightstand, realized I was on the wrong side of the bed and groaned as the ringing persisted.
“Ga-” I coughed and then managed a squawky, “Gastner.”
“Sheriff, sorry to bother you.”
“Um,” I murmured, more interested in drifting back to sleep than listening.
The voice said something about being Roger Downs, and a lonely, alert synapse somewhere deep in my brain fired promptly. “Are you awake, sir?” Downs persisted.
“What’s up, Roger?” I replied, finally close enough to the surface to remember that Downs was one of our own part-timers, a student at the community college thirty miles away, who found time to study between midnight and eight.
“Sir, Sheriff Holman said to call you. We’ve got a ten-sixty-five, and he says you’d want to know.”
“Umph.” I tried to sound as noncommittal as possible, because I couldn’t remember what a 10–65 was, and found myself wondering what kind of eager beaver would use the cryptic 10-code on the telephone. “Give me a few minutes. I’ll be down shortly.” I hung up the phone without waiting for a response and promptly fell asleep.
“Sir, are you awake?” It was Downs again, and for the life of me I didn’t know how the telephone receiver got up against my ear.
That was, finally, all the disturbance my aching brain needed. I snapped fully and completely awake. Through a narrow crack in the shutter I could see a sliver of white light as wide as a pencil lead that meant the sun was trying to burn off the paint. “What the hell time is it, Roger?”
“Eight-fifteen, sir.”
“Jesus H. Christ. What’s the problem?” I could only vaguely remember the first call.
“We’ve got a missing-person report in, sir. Sheriff Holman said you would want to know.”
“You bet. Who is it?”
“A kid by the name of Scott Salinger, sir.”
For a minute, I couldn’t think of anything to say. Roger Downs finally said into the silence, “Sir?”
“Give me fifteen,” I replied, already moving to hang up the phone. “And I’m awake this time. Thanks for the re-call, Roger.”
Thirteen minutes later, cotton-mouthed and unshaven, I pulled 310 into the small sheriff’s department parking lot. Amy Salinger’s Nova sat two spaces down from my reserved space. I hustled inside.
Amy Salinger was standing with our regular dispatcher, Gayle Sedillos, near the big wall map of Posadas County. They were in earnest conversation, with Gayle pointing out something on the map north of town. I saw no one else in the office. Apparently Roger Downs had already gone home.
“Fill me in,” I said, and both girls snapped around. Neither of them had heard me come in. “Miss Salinger, what’s going on?”
Amy’s face was pale, but she was under control. “Scott went out sometime yesterday afternoon, Mr. Gastner. He never returned.” As simple as that.
“Where was he headed? Did he say?”
“No. None of us were home. This is his favorite time of the year to go hunting.” She tried a semibrave smile. “For whatever screwball reason, he likes the summer heat. That’s what we thought. I checked to see if he had taken his rifle. He never goes without that. It’s still behind the door of his bedroom.”
I turned to Sedillos. “Who’s out and where?”
“Sheriff Holman left early this morning for a meeting in Las Cruces with the DEA. They’re arranging the interagency task force.”
“I know that,” I said quickly.
“I sent Baker up the hill. Miss Salinger showed me on the map where some of her brother’s favorite haunts are. Baker said he was familiar with the rim area.”
“Where’s the schedule?” I turned and grabbed the sheet that told me who was supposed to be working. “Terrific.” Todd Baker was the only deputy on duty until 4 P.M. “All right. If we don’t turn anything quickly, we’ll call the others in. Miss Salinger, what was Scott’s mood the last time you saw him?”
“At lunch. He seemed more relaxed than he has in a long time. He told me about meeting with you the other day up on the mesa. He didn’t say what you two talked about, but whatever it was, it helped.”