“I got the picture of him off the computer,” the trooper said. “But it don’t make sense that he’d come back here.”
“We hope not,” Estelle replied. “Keep the bikers on the road and moving. Don’t let anybody congregate here. We’ve lost enough evidence already.” She started the truck and backed carefully away, turning around on the road. As they wound back up the hill, she kept the pace steady, mindful of the sporadic appearance of bike competitors and occasional official race vehicles.
Just beyond one of the dilapidated windmills that dotted this portion of the county, Leona leaned forward, pointing.
“That’s it,” she said. The turnoff could have been mistaken for an attempt by a sun-struck road grader operator to cut a bar ditch. Estelle stopped the truck and got out, scanning the ground. It would be impossible to hide a motorcycle’s tracks in the red earth, even through the gravelly sections. One recent set of vehicle tracks cut a crescent across the trail where someone had pulled over, perhaps to let cyclists pass. And off to the side, cut deeply in the soft soil, was a clear track showing the imprint of both front and back tires, and then doubled as if either there were two motorcycles or someone had driven in here and then retraced the route back out to the county road.
Estelle walked two dozen paces away from the truck, until the scrub growth closed in on either side of the path. The tracks showed that the motorcycle had veered in here and then, forced to a halt by the narrowing window of vegetation, had turned around. For a moment, the undersheriff stood and gazed at the tire prints. They could have been cut ten minutes before or a month ago. In this protected spot, with no rain or snow since January, the tracks might as well be petrified.
A series of shoe prints were indistinct beside the tire tracks, and Estelle could imagine Tapia, grimacing with the pain, putting down his good leg to support the bike as he horsed it around on the narrow trail. She knelt and took a quick set of digital pictures, forcing herself to take her time, then returned to the truck feeling an odd combination of relief and regret. Now that she knew something of his route, Estelle wanted nothing more than to charge after an escaping Manolo Tapia, running him to ground. But the big county vehicle was no match for a nimble motorcycle, whether the rider had an injured ankle or not.
“Next plan,” she said. “Someone on a bike went in a ways, then turned around.”
Leona was undeterred. “Now, Bobby is the inveterate hunter,” the county manager said. “I’m surprised he isn’t dashing about through the brush in hot pursuit.”
That image brought a smile from Estelle, since Bobby never “dashed” anywhere. “He’s thinking Posadas,” she said. “For all he cares, Tapia can bake out in the sun all day. He wants to be sure that Hector Ocate stays put and safe.”
“Not to mention that his Gayle is back in town and would be in some jeopardy,” Leona added.
“There is that.”
“Now, your man made the same mistake I did,” Leona replied. “I don’t think this is the right turnoff.” Waving ahead, she added, “Just a bit farther.”
A bit farther was an obvious two-track, and as soon as she turned off the main road, Estelle recognized the route. She didn’t spend a lot of time touring the back byways of Posadas County, but she knew this particular path, knew that it ran almost due east. Clearly, the tire prints showed that the motorcyclist knew that, too. The tracks swung off the county road in a smooth arc, no hesitation, no slowing. The undersheriff turned into the narrow lane and stopped.
“He came back out,” Leona said, seeing the double tracks.
“Or there was more than one,” Estelle said. “Or Tapia was out here yesterday or the day before, practicing his setup.”
“I hadn’t thought of that possibility-a man practicing. That makes sense. Risky, though. Surely he would want to be careful not to be seen.”
“Who’s going to take a second look at a man on a motorcycle?” Estelle asked. “Especially this weekend. Illegals don’t jump the border on dirt bikes. Ranchers use them and four-wheels all the time. So do hunters. And kids.”
“But a stolen, unlicensed vehicle…” Leona persisted.
“Number one, we didn’t know it was stolen until just hours ago. Number two, Tapia might not know that we do know…now. And as long as he doesn’t cruise the streets and state highways, the odds of us seeing him are slim to none. Under normal circumstances, if an officer were to see him out here in the boonies, odds are good he would never be stopped.”
Estelle eased the county truck along the rough trail, trying to avoid driving on the motorcycle tracks whenever she could. They had traveled less than a hundred yards when her phone buzzed in her pocket.
“Guzman.”
“Estelle,” Gayle Torrez said, “Channel Eight is offering their chopper. They’re over in the motel parking lot right now.”
“Accepted,” Estelle said instantly, fully aware of the risks of involving civilians in an emergency operation. “We’re just east of County Road Fourteen. Tell them to pick me up at Cooper’s windmill. There’s a good wide meadow there. They’ll see my vehicle. I’ll park at the base of the windmill, out of their way.”
“You got it. Jessica Duarte and her cameraman are here in the office right now. I’ll give them a map for the pilot. She says they can be in the air in about five minutes. That’s maybe ten out to you at the most.”
“We’ll be there,” Estelle said. Cooper’s windmill, two miles east of their current position, hadn’t pumped water in ten years, since the day that Jim Cooper had climbed up the wooden tower to service the transmission. He had ignored the modest dark clouds so far away that the thunder was just a faint rumble. The lightning bolt flicked out and swatted the rancher. He fell, probably already dead, his skull hitting the water tank so hard that the dent was still visible in the steel rim. When Estelle had responded to the incident, the sky was a blank blue, innocent of any wrongdoing, the homicidal clouds having retreated beyond the San Cristóbals.
For much of the distance to the windmill, the road was no more than a scuff on the rough table of prairie. Here and there, Estelle could see the motorcycle tracks. On a few low humps, the sort of things that would have vaulted a bike into the air had the rider been a rambunctious youngster enjoying his freedom, the tracks showed this biker had stayed firmly, and patiently, on the ground.
As they approached the windmill, Estelle saw that the lopsided fan had frozen in place. Enough remained of the tail, with the faded Aeromotor logo still visible, that the mill head drifted this way and that, ruined fan facing into the breeze.
The stock tank below the windmill was empty, one side caved in by the back bumper of a careless woodcutter’s pickup. Bullet holes dappled the metal. Estelle slowed the truck to a crawl, scanning the area around the mill. After passing the stock tank, the lane turned and circled left, up a gradual rise to the north. She picked up her binoculars as she braked to a halt. Focusing carefully, she examined the road ahead.
“Nothing,” she said. The road up the grade was facing them, in bright sunshine. She should have been able to see the tracks left by a passing motorcycle as Tapia accelerated up the hill, away from the meadow and the windmill.
“Is that…” Leona started to say, pointing toward the tank. Where it wasn’t crushed inward, the steel tank rim was four feet high. It now cast a hard, sharp-edged shadow on the prairie on the east side-a shadow that humped outward at one point into an amorphous shape. Estelle trained the binoculars and immediately saw what appeared to be the back wheel of a motorcycle.