Gershon lived on the property next to murder victims the Reids, and the sheriff had figured the old man may well have seen something.
“Archie’s known to keep track of what goes on in and around his property,” the sheriff had said.
“How do you know anything about the man, if he never steps off that parcel?”
“I didn’t say he never stepped off that parcel — he comes to town once a month. Him and me usually share a beer and some talk. No, it’s just anybody stepping foot on his parcel that’s a problem.”
They had left the sheriff’s office in two vehicles — Harrow and Tomasa in the departmental Tahoe, trailed by the Crime Seen! bus with Pall, Anderson, Arroyo, Ingram, and their driver (other staff members having been dropped at their motel).
Right now they were pulling up to the foot of the place, to large red hand-painted letters on weathered white-painted wood near the gate: TRESPASSERS WILL BE SHOT! SURVIVORS WILL BE SHOT TWICE!
Harrow frowned. “You just let him get away with shooting at anybody who comes near his place?”
“My predecessor hauled him in, three times. But in this part of the world, people value their privacy. Not a judge or jury around here woulda gave him so much as a fine. Anyway, there haven’t been any incidents lately.”
“Nobody’s welcome?”
“The only person who’s been up here in the last ten years who didn’t draw gunfire was the Direct TV installation guy... The coot does love his TV.”
“Unless he has a dog,” Harrow said, with a dry chuckle, “it’s probably his only company.”
In the ditch now, it didn’t seem so amusing.
And Gershon was true to his word, or anyway true to his sign: when Tomasa’s SUV had pulled up to the gate, a bullet punctured a tire, and a second one took out part of the red and blue light on the roof. That’s when Tomasa shoved the Tahoe into park, and suggested they vacate the vehicle.
Harrow had rolled out the passenger side, hit the gravel hard, then continued on, dropping down into the drainage ditch next to the road. With the open driver’s side door for cover, Tomasa got to the back of the SUV, then ducked behind the Tahoe, all the while gesturing for the bus to back off.
Then, just after a third round pierced the Socorro County shield on the driver’s door, Tomasa came around the vehicle and dove into the ditch next to Harrow.
“Man of his word,” Harrow said. “Sign said he’d shoot. I’m just glad he’s as good at it as he is.”
“You picked up on that, huh?” the sheriff said with a rumpled grin. “Yeah, most people think ol’ Arch misses them. Truth is, he could pick off a gnat’s eyelash at two hundred yards.”
“Not every crazy survivalist,” Harrow said, “shoots like that.”
“He’s no survivalist,” Tomasa said. “And I wouldn’t bet on crazy, either. He just doesn’t like company.”
“Who is this character?”
“Late at night, in certain bars around town, you may hear how Archie was one of the boys on the grassy knoll.”
Harrow gave the sheriff a look.
“Just passing it along, Mr. Harrow. Don’t claim it’s gospel.”
They heard a vehicle door slam — the bus’s, out in the country road below the Tahoe at the gate — and watched as Pall and Anderson jumped out, followed by Maury Hathaway, lugging his Sony cam. Soon the three men were hunkered down in the ditch with the Crime Seen! host and the sheriff.
“What the hell are you doing?” Harrow said. “Bullets are flying. You should’ve stayed put.”
Veteran cameraman Hathaway said, “Didn’t get the memo.”
Young Anderson said, “We’re fine. That guy’s a good shot. He’s just trying to scare us.”
“Really?” Harrow asked. “What if he missed?”
Hathaway said, “We’ll stay put unless you say otherwise. I wouldn’t risk my head or my camera.”
A fourth bullet kicked up dirt by the edge of the ditch.
Tomasa yelled up toward the house: “Goddamn it, Archie, stop that! You known damn well it’s Sheriff Tomasa!”
As if the preceding bullets had been so much friendly conversation, a rough-edged voice called down, “I know who you are, Roberto!”
“I thought we were friends!” Tomasa yelled.
“We are — that’s why you’re alive... now get the hell off my property!”
“I just come to talk!”
“Be in town next week, Roberto! We can talk then.”
“I need to talk today!”
“If I wanted to talk to anybody out here, today? I wouldn’ta put up that sign. You do read English, don’t you, Roberto?”
Tomasa, sighing, turned to the little group in the ditch. “Hard-headed old bastard.” To the house, he called, “You don’t have to talk to me, Archie!”
“I know I don’t!”
“No — that’s not it! I brought someone else to talk to you!”
“Maybe you read English, but doesn’t seem like you understand the spoken word.”
The spoken word? Harrow thought. What kind of erudite hermit lived up that hill?
“Somebody come a long ways to talk to you, Arch!”
“I don’t want to talk to anybody today, Roberto. Already jawed long enough!”
Jawed long enough? Was this guy Gabby Hayes or Alistair Cooke?
Then, to punctuate his point, the old man fired a round over their heads.
“Maybe this is more trouble than it’s worth,” Tomasa said. “Chances are he didn’t see a damn thing.”
“We’re here,” Harrow said with a shrug. “My suit already needs dry cleaning, and probably some mending. So how about you let me try?”
“Up to you. Just don’t raise your head too high — he’s liable to separate you from it.”
“He could probably part my hair, if he wanted.” Then, toward the house, he yelled, “Mr. Gershon, this is J.C. Harrow! I’d like to come up and speak with you!”
Silence.
“Mr. Gershon, my name is—”
“I heard you!”
“I’m with a TV show called—”
“I know what the show’s called! And I don’t believe for an instant J.C. Harrow’s in a ditch at the bottom of my hill! I don’t think the Fonz or Sergeant. Bilko or Gil Grissom is, either!”
“...You got a scope on that rifle?”
Gershon said nothing.
“Take a look at that bus on the road outside your drive! Name of the show’s painted all over it!”
They waited several long, tense moments, peeking over the lip of the ditch like kids watching a ball game over the centerfield fence.
Finally, the door of the house opened, and a string bean in camouflage T-shirt, jeans, and tennies stepped out onto a cement stoop four steps up. Gershon was old, all right, with long, lank silver hair to prove it. He held a model 597 Remington rimfire rifle with a scope — Harrow had one at home, damn good gun.
The king of the hill sighted down through the scope.
Realizing that the man was trying to get a better look and probably not getting ready to fire, Harrow pushed himself to his feet.
“What the hell are you doing?” Tomasa demanded.
With uncharacteristic energy, from down in the ditch, Southern boy Anderson said, “Come on, sir — you know better!”