Free Ditch Rider by Judith Van Gieson

murder but didn’t have a clue where the gun was dumped. Detective Jessup says Moran suddenly picked a location when she saw that she was getting close to home and that all the other kids were out of school and watching her.”
    I had to give Jessup credit, because that was exactly the impression I’d had when Cheyanne jumped into the field. I’d thought she’d done it out of fear, but Saia seemed to be implying she’d done it for the attention. “The timing was bad, Anthony. She shouldn’t have been out there when the other kids could see her with the police.”
    â€œWho knew how long the search was going to take?” Saia asked. “What you have is a witness, Neil, not a perp. I’m going to need more than you’ve given me to indict Cheyanne Moran.”
    â€œHow about putting her in protective custody, then?”
    â€œIf she’ll be a witness, I’ll talk.”
    â€œShe won’t do that.”
    â€œNo deal, then.” Saia was eating soft, talking tough with a mouth full of beans and salsa.
    â€œYou’re putting a thirteen-year-old girl in a dangerous position, Anthony. You leave her out on the street and she’s bait.”
    â€œShe always has the option of telling the truth. I’m sorry, Neil, but this perp story isn’t cutting it for me. I’m under a lot of pressure to indict somebody for Padilla’s murder, but I don’t think your client’s the one. I don’t have the DNA back on the bullet yet and we need to interview some more people.”
    â€œ It’s your call,” I said, but his call was leaving me with a low-level anxiety hum. Taos is famous for its hum. There are many people up there who claim they can hear it, but my own feeling about low-level hums is that they come from foreboding and conscience, not from place.
    Saia finished his meal and looked down at his empty plate. “It seems that Ron Cade has an alibi,” he said.
    â€œHow good?”
    â€œI don’t know. The boy who’s supplying the alibi is out of town for a few days playing in a tennis tournament and we haven’t been able to question him yet.”
    â€œA tennis tournament?”
    â€œThat’s what Cade says.”
    â€œYou’ll let me know when you’ve checked it out?”
    â€œSure.” Saia looked at his watch and said, “Gotta go.”
    He forgot to leave a tip, so I did it for him. I left more for him than I did for me, since he’d eaten his food.
    ******
    Later that afternoon I called Sonia at Sandia Indian Bingo and passed on what Saia had said. Her response to my information was, “Shit.”
    â€œKeep Cheyanne at home,” I advised.
    ******
    When I got home after work Tabatoe was in my herb garden getting stoned on catnip and making me feel like the neighborhood drug dealer except that I wasn’t getting paid for it. While Tabatoe purred and rolled in the dirt, the gray cat slinked around the corner switching its long tail and stepping lightly on silent paws. It snuck up behind Tabatoe at a leisurely pace, and when it was ready it pounced. Tabatoe let out a howl and raced down the driveway. I picked up a muddy running shoe and threw it at the gray cat. “Get out of here,” I yelled. It took off, too, but when I looked out the window an hour later it was back again chowing down. A territorial battle had been fought in my herb garden, and the gray cat had won. My turf was now its turf, too.
    I began to see it often, racing down my driveway, standing on the windowsill silhouetted against the glass while I was in the bathroom, pacing the courtyard’s adobe wall, guarding my catnip and flicking its long gray tail. It seemed like an omen or a threat, always present, always edgy, always wanting something from me. The catnip didn’t make it roll contentedly in the dirt. All the weed did was reduce its hunger pangs. When I complained to the Kid, he told me to