Read Online Out of Season by Steven F. Havill - Free Book Online
Authors: Steven F. Havill
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for both personnel and funds, to take one of those two boys off the road and tie him behind a desk? To ask one of them to learn the ropes of a job he’s never done before? Hell, you’ve filled in for Marty Holman before, when he went on vacations and such. And a decade or so ago, you filled in for Eduardo Salcido, when he had his heart attack.”
I frowned. “All right, so I’m the expendable one.”
“That’s not what I said,” Carter snapped, “but if that’s what it takes to talk some sense into your head, think of it that way. The young kids belong out on the road. You’ve got twenty-five years’ experience, and hell, you’ve been undersheriff for fifteen or twenty years. Do the county a favor and fill in for us. Just until after the November elections.”
I shrugged, seeing no reason to play coy. If Carter and the other commissioners had an ulterior motive in moving so quickly, before Martin Holman’s shattered bones were even off the autopsy table, that was their affair.
“All right,” I said.
Carter nodded vigorously. “Just for the sake of continuity, if nothing else. I’ll sleep a lot better, that’s for sure.” He smiled and stood up. “I know you’re busy. But come Monday, if you can break away for a few minutes, we’d appreciate it. If there’s anything we need to do, you be sure to tell us at the meeting Monday.”
We shook hands and I left the Trust SuperMarket Grocery. Maybe Sammy Carter would sleep better. But after the previous twenty-four hours, I’d have cheerfully traded any possibility of early retirement for one decent night’s sleep. Now I wasn’t going to get either one.
C HAPTER N INE
A gust of wind drove sand into our faces, and Vincent Buscema tucked his head and closed his eyes.
“Wonderful,” he muttered. To his left, a piece of torn aluminum began a slow, easy roll toward the east. “Secure that, son,” he said, and Tom Pasquale jumped like he’d been shot. Buscema looked at me out of squinting eyes. “This is going to be holy hell,” he said. Wind tore at his jacket, snapping the nylon around his waist and flattening the large NTSB letters across his back…I could see the curve of his shoulder blades and spine through the fabric.
He turned and looked off to the southeast, where a small party of federal investigators and two Posadas County sheriff’s deputies were working. “At least we know something,” he said. “We’ve got the exact initial-impact spot, and the markings on the prop tell us that the engine was putting out power at the time of impact.” He hitched up his collar. “If they can find the missing propeller blade tip, we’ll know a little more.”
“You’ll tear down the engine?” I shouted over the wind.
Buscema nodded. “That’s going to take some time.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “Compared to a jumbo jet or something like that, a Bonanza is a pretty simple airplane, Sheriff. It’s usually not hard to pinpoint a problem if mechanical failure was to blame. What we’re going to do”—he pivoted at the waist to look back into the wind and the sun—“is make as thorough a survey of this site as we can before we move anything. Establish the angle of impact, probable direction of flight, all those simple things.”
He grinned at the expression on my face. The jumble of junk in front of me didn’t look “simple,” even if the wind stopped shifting it around, but I was willing to take Buscema’s word for it.
“And then we take a look for the obvious things.” He held up an index finger. “Number-one cause of all crashes is pilot error, Sheriff. That’s number one. It’s a good bet that Philip…what was his name?”
“Camp. Philip Camp.”
“It’s a good bet that Mr. Camp made a mistake. That’s what the statistics tell us. If the weather had been really bad, with low ceiling, crap like that, I’d be willing to bet next month’s wages on pilot error. But this is a bit more complicated. It was
I frowned. “All right, so I’m the expendable one.”
“That’s not what I said,” Carter snapped, “but if that’s what it takes to talk some sense into your head, think of it that way. The young kids belong out on the road. You’ve got twenty-five years’ experience, and hell, you’ve been undersheriff for fifteen or twenty years. Do the county a favor and fill in for us. Just until after the November elections.”
I shrugged, seeing no reason to play coy. If Carter and the other commissioners had an ulterior motive in moving so quickly, before Martin Holman’s shattered bones were even off the autopsy table, that was their affair.
“All right,” I said.
Carter nodded vigorously. “Just for the sake of continuity, if nothing else. I’ll sleep a lot better, that’s for sure.” He smiled and stood up. “I know you’re busy. But come Monday, if you can break away for a few minutes, we’d appreciate it. If there’s anything we need to do, you be sure to tell us at the meeting Monday.”
We shook hands and I left the Trust SuperMarket Grocery. Maybe Sammy Carter would sleep better. But after the previous twenty-four hours, I’d have cheerfully traded any possibility of early retirement for one decent night’s sleep. Now I wasn’t going to get either one.
C HAPTER N INE
A gust of wind drove sand into our faces, and Vincent Buscema tucked his head and closed his eyes.
“Wonderful,” he muttered. To his left, a piece of torn aluminum began a slow, easy roll toward the east. “Secure that, son,” he said, and Tom Pasquale jumped like he’d been shot. Buscema looked at me out of squinting eyes. “This is going to be holy hell,” he said. Wind tore at his jacket, snapping the nylon around his waist and flattening the large NTSB letters across his back…I could see the curve of his shoulder blades and spine through the fabric.
He turned and looked off to the southeast, where a small party of federal investigators and two Posadas County sheriff’s deputies were working. “At least we know something,” he said. “We’ve got the exact initial-impact spot, and the markings on the prop tell us that the engine was putting out power at the time of impact.” He hitched up his collar. “If they can find the missing propeller blade tip, we’ll know a little more.”
“You’ll tear down the engine?” I shouted over the wind.
Buscema nodded. “That’s going to take some time.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “Compared to a jumbo jet or something like that, a Bonanza is a pretty simple airplane, Sheriff. It’s usually not hard to pinpoint a problem if mechanical failure was to blame. What we’re going to do”—he pivoted at the waist to look back into the wind and the sun—“is make as thorough a survey of this site as we can before we move anything. Establish the angle of impact, probable direction of flight, all those simple things.”
He grinned at the expression on my face. The jumble of junk in front of me didn’t look “simple,” even if the wind stopped shifting it around, but I was willing to take Buscema’s word for it.
“And then we take a look for the obvious things.” He held up an index finger. “Number-one cause of all crashes is pilot error, Sheriff. That’s number one. It’s a good bet that Philip…what was his name?”
“Camp. Philip Camp.”
“It’s a good bet that Mr. Camp made a mistake. That’s what the statistics tell us. If the weather had been really bad, with low ceiling, crap like that, I’d be willing to bet next month’s wages on pilot error. But this is a bit more complicated. It was
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