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Authors: Steven F. Havill
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livestock inspector, and had asked Bill Gastner to fill in for him “on a temporary basis” after the November elections and Gastner’s retirement from the Sheriff’s Department. The filling in had become permanent as Larson’s illness blossomed.
“You ready for some breakfast now?” Gastner asked as Estelle stepped down from the truck’s frame.
She grinned at him. “Sure.”
Walking back toward Gastner’s truck, Estelle could smell the metal, grease, and oil as the sun gradually warmed the sea of car hulks around them. The inside of the state truck was warm, and she could cheerfully have settled back into a nap. With no place to turn around, Gastner backed the truck half a football field before a nook presented itself and he could swing into a space between a rusted Plymouth Valiant and a crushed Jeep Wagoneer.
Cameron Florek was standing by his Airstream as they approached. He crossed the driveway and Gastner opened his window and pulled the truck to a stop.
“You find the parts you was after?” Florek’s beard bobbed as he talked, and the deep crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes crinkled. “That kinda worries me, I’d have to say.”
“Sure did. Thanks for letting us look,” Gastner said.
“Anytime, Sheriff.” He glanced across at Estelle, letting that suffice as acknowledgment of her presence.
Gastner laughed. “God, don’t say that,” he said. “I’m not sheriff anymore.”
Florek flashed a smile and jerked his beard toward the inside of Gastner’s truck. “You got your scanner turned on?”
Gastner glanced at the radio slung under the dash. “Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. You wasn’t in any hurry.” He rested both hands on the door of the truck and rocked it gently. “You might want to give your office a jingle, ma’am,” he said to Estelle.
“What’s going on?” Gastner asked.
Before Florek could answer, and even while Estelle was pulling her small cell phone out of its belt holster, the gadget chirped urgently. “There ya go,” Florek said. He patted the door of the truck and stepped back as Gastner pulled it into gear.
Chapter Six
The second corpse lay in the shallow grave with his feet pointing south. Estelle stood with her hands in her pockets, gazing down at what no doubt had once been a young man who had entertained all manner of exciting ideas about his future. Those ideas had been cut short when a heavy caliber bullet had smashed through the xiphoid process on the lower end of his sternum and then minced the internal organs that bone was supposed to protect.
“Juan Doe,” as Deputy Thomas Pasquale had dubbed him, was no more than twenty-five years old, slight of stature with a lean, swarthy hawklike face, and long, black hair pulled tight behind his head in a short ponytail. He was dressed in blue jeans and a heavy denim shirt. A brown windbreaker had been tossed into the grave, perhaps as an afterthought, and lay across the man’s knees. Other than laboriously removing the dirt using first the small short-handled spades that the deputies routinely carried in their units and then by hand, the body hadn’t been touched or moved.
The grave was no more than eighteen inches deep, just enough to frustrate all but the most diligent coyotes. Estelle stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the distant horizon. Whoever had chosen the spot had worked at it. They had bounced along the rough service road that paralleled the power lines north from Maria for eleven miles. Five miles north of where she stood, the transmission lines crossed the interstate—and it was conceivable that the killers had gained access to the service road and driven south to this point. From whichever direction they’d come, this spot had served their purpose. They’d gouged out the young man’s final resting place under the hum of commerce overhead.
Estelle turned and looked west to where a shovel lay a couple dozen yards out on the prairie, partially concealed by a runty
“You ready for some breakfast now?” Gastner asked as Estelle stepped down from the truck’s frame.
She grinned at him. “Sure.”
Walking back toward Gastner’s truck, Estelle could smell the metal, grease, and oil as the sun gradually warmed the sea of car hulks around them. The inside of the state truck was warm, and she could cheerfully have settled back into a nap. With no place to turn around, Gastner backed the truck half a football field before a nook presented itself and he could swing into a space between a rusted Plymouth Valiant and a crushed Jeep Wagoneer.
Cameron Florek was standing by his Airstream as they approached. He crossed the driveway and Gastner opened his window and pulled the truck to a stop.
“You find the parts you was after?” Florek’s beard bobbed as he talked, and the deep crow’s-feet at the corner of his eyes crinkled. “That kinda worries me, I’d have to say.”
“Sure did. Thanks for letting us look,” Gastner said.
“Anytime, Sheriff.” He glanced across at Estelle, letting that suffice as acknowledgment of her presence.
Gastner laughed. “God, don’t say that,” he said. “I’m not sheriff anymore.”
Florek flashed a smile and jerked his beard toward the inside of Gastner’s truck. “You got your scanner turned on?”
Gastner glanced at the radio slung under the dash. “Nope.”
“Didn’t think so. You wasn’t in any hurry.” He rested both hands on the door of the truck and rocked it gently. “You might want to give your office a jingle, ma’am,” he said to Estelle.
“What’s going on?” Gastner asked.
Before Florek could answer, and even while Estelle was pulling her small cell phone out of its belt holster, the gadget chirped urgently. “There ya go,” Florek said. He patted the door of the truck and stepped back as Gastner pulled it into gear.
Chapter Six
The second corpse lay in the shallow grave with his feet pointing south. Estelle stood with her hands in her pockets, gazing down at what no doubt had once been a young man who had entertained all manner of exciting ideas about his future. Those ideas had been cut short when a heavy caliber bullet had smashed through the xiphoid process on the lower end of his sternum and then minced the internal organs that bone was supposed to protect.
“Juan Doe,” as Deputy Thomas Pasquale had dubbed him, was no more than twenty-five years old, slight of stature with a lean, swarthy hawklike face, and long, black hair pulled tight behind his head in a short ponytail. He was dressed in blue jeans and a heavy denim shirt. A brown windbreaker had been tossed into the grave, perhaps as an afterthought, and lay across the man’s knees. Other than laboriously removing the dirt using first the small short-handled spades that the deputies routinely carried in their units and then by hand, the body hadn’t been touched or moved.
The grave was no more than eighteen inches deep, just enough to frustrate all but the most diligent coyotes. Estelle stood with her hands on her hips, surveying the distant horizon. Whoever had chosen the spot had worked at it. They had bounced along the rough service road that paralleled the power lines north from Maria for eleven miles. Five miles north of where she stood, the transmission lines crossed the interstate—and it was conceivable that the killers had gained access to the service road and driven south to this point. From whichever direction they’d come, this spot had served their purpose. They’d gouged out the young man’s final resting place under the hum of commerce overhead.
Estelle turned and looked west to where a shovel lay a couple dozen yards out on the prairie, partially concealed by a runty
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