Free Twice Buried by Steven F. Havill Page A

times—my record was reaching the point where Jimmy Stewart tells the Duke that the old gunfighter had himself “a cancer.” This time, I was asleep long before that.
    I awoke with a start. The television screen was a nice blank blue. The VCR had cycled into patient “wait” mode, the old gunman in the movie blown to hell and gone long before. My coffee was stone cold and I had no idea how many times the telephone had jangled. With a grunt I reached the phone and jerked it off the cradle so hard the base slid off the kitchen counter and crashed to the floor.
    “Yep,” I said.
    “Sir, this is Gayle Sedillos.” My dispatcher’s voice was about as nice as any can be on a wake-up call.
    “Yep. What the hell time is it?”
    “Ten thirty-three, sir.” I squinted at my watch and took her word for it.
    “What’s up, Gayle?” I was fully awake. Gayle possessed uncommonly good sense. She was worth five times what we paid her, and if she called me at home the message couldn’t wait.
    “Sir, Deputy Encinos just radioed in a possible homicide on County Road twenty-seven just beyond the second cattle guard off the state highway.”
    “A what?”
    “A homicide, sir.”
    “I know what you said. Who, I meant.”
    “Deputy Encinos didn’t say, sir.”
    “All right. I’ll be there in a couple minutes. And Gayle—”
    “Sir?”
    “Is anyone with Encinos?”
    “Deputy Abeyta,” Gayle said. “He wanted to work a weekend four-to-midnight, and you left standing orders that he couldn’t work that shift alone.”
    “Okay. Good.” I heard a voice in the background and then Gayle came back on the line, this time a little more tentative.
    “Sir, can you stop by and pick up a passenger on your way out?”
    “A passenger?” Sheriff Holman didn’t get any kick out of riding in a police car—he avoided the opportunity whenever it presented itself. I couldn’t think of anyone else.
    “Yes, sir. Linda Rael is here.” I groaned. The young reporter kept worse hours than I did. But company wasn’t what I had in mind. I started to refuse, then frowned. What the hell.
    “Tell her to be standing out on the sidewalk at the corner of Bustos and Third. I won’t slow down much.”
    I didn’t bother giving Gayle any other instructions. She knew full well what to do and would make her calls to the coroner, ambulance, and Sheriff Holman in due course. Deputy Encinos would keep the crime scene intact, with the rookie Tony Abeyta to assist.
    I headed out the door to 310, my pulse hammering. The second cattle guard on County Road 27 was the one by Reuben Fuentes’s two-track. It didn’t take much imagination to picture a confrontation out there. All that was left was to find out who’d been killed.

11
    The headlights of 310 picked up Linda Rael’s slight figure on the corner. The wind tugged at her long coat and her wide-brimmed slouch hat was pulled tightly down on her head. I could see the heavy camera bag slung over her right shoulder. I braked hard and she yanked open the passenger side door and was inside in one graceful, lithe movement. If I’d tried that, I would have ended up in traction for months.
    As I accelerated the patrol car away from the curb I snapped on the red lights, and the pulsing beam bounced off the drab buildings as we headed out Bustos Avenue. Holiday cheer.
    Clear of town, I nudged 310 a little faster. Traffic was light on the state highway and we flashed along for the first mile or so with Linda remaining silent. Her hands were tightly clasped together in her lap.
    “Gayle said this was a homicide?” she asked finally.
    “Apparently. Put on your seat belt. And what are you doing out at this hour?” Feeling paternal was a luxury I figured I could afford, even if her response was that it was none of my business.
    “Just working…and there’s a deputy already out there?”
    “Yes. Paul Encino and Tony Abeyta, both.”
    In the dim light of the car, my peripheral vision caught the faint movement