Beyond This Point Are Monsters (17 page)

Devon nodded. “I remember, but why is it important?”

“Judge Gallagher wants to know what happened to the truck and where it is now.”

“I can't answer that.”

“Who can?”

“Estivar is responsible for all the vehicles used on the ranch. I'll ask him about it when I get home. I'm sure there's a perfectly logical explanation and that the truck had nothing to do with Robert's death.”

“You'll take Estivar's word for it?”

“Of course.”

He watched her carefully for any signs of doubt. There were none, and after a moment or two he continued. “Judge Gallagher is also curious about the weapon, the butterfly knife. So am I. A great deal of effort went into the disposing of the body. The knife could have been disposed of at the same time and in the same place. Instead, it was tossed into a pumpkin field. The pumpkins had been gath­ered for market at the beginning of October and the field was due to be cleared and plowed. Any agricultural worker would have known this.”

“So the knife was meant to be found,” Devon said. “Or else whoever threw it into the field was not an agricultural worker. I'm inclined to believe the first theory.”

“Why?”

“Everyone in our area is connected with agriculture. Even the strangers passing through are ranch hands or migrant laborers.”

“Gallagher made a further point: no poor Mexican field worker would have discarded a knife like that. He would have washed it off and kept it, no matter what it had been used for.”

A sonic boom shook the building like an explosion. Ford got up and hurried over to the windows as though he hoped to catch a glimpse of the offending plane. Seeing none, he returned to his desk and made a note on his memo pad:
report s. boom, 11:32
. His report would be one of many, followed by an equal number of protestations of innocence from every air base within a thousand miles.

Ford said, “The real question is why the knife, if it was meant to be found, did not implicate anyone. Ownership was never proved, which would indicate either that some­thing went wrong or that somebody did a cover-up.”

“Who?”

“Valenzuela was in charge of the case. Suppose he knew who owned or had access to the knife but kept quiet about it.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Let's ask him when he gets back from vacation.”

“That might not be for weeks,” Devon said. “Will we have to wait that long for Judge Gallagher to make his decision?”

“No. It's already been made, unofficially—he's con­vinced of Robert's death, and the points he raised over the telephone aren't going to affect that. But, as I told you previously, he's a stickler for details. He's also presided at a lot of murder trials, and if yesterday's hearing had been a trial, any questions about the knife and the pickup truck would have had to be considered very carefully.”

“Were those the only points he brought up?”

“The only physical ones,” Ford said. “The other was psychological, having to do with Estivar's testimony. You may recall that I asked Estivar how long he'd known Rob­ert. He stated that he'd known him since birth, that as a boy Robert used to follow him around; that Robert spent a great deal of time at the Estivar house and this close relationship continued until Robert was sent away to a prep school in Arizona after the death of his father. When he returned to the ranch two years later a considerable change had occurred in him. He no longer went to the Estivar house for meals, he avoided the Estivar boys and his relationship with Estivar himself was strictly business. Estivar blamed the change on the school in Arizona, claim­ing it taught Robert prejudice. Judge Gallagher refuses to buy this. He contends that a boy of fifteen who'd been brought up among Mexicans, who spoke their language and shared their food, couldn't be taught prejudice against them, certainly not at that particular school.”

“Why not that particular school?”

“Judge Gallagher knows a great deal about it,” Ford said. “He sent his own sons there, it's a good liberal prep school. So whatever reason Robert had for avoiding the Estivars, it wasn't prejudice he'd learned at school. Natu­rally Gallagher is curious about what the real reason was. So am I. The question arises whether Estivar believed the story he told on the witness stand or whether he was using it as a cover-up. You might want to ask him.”

“Why might I?”

“Well, you're going to be asking him about the pickup truck anyway.”

“If he didn't tell the truth in court, under oath, what makes you think he'll tell it to me?”

“He probably won't. But his reaction to the question should be interesting . . . I'm flying up to L.A. for a confer­ence this afternoon and won't be back in my office until tomorrow morning. Call me then, if you have anything interesting to report.”

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

she didn't see estivar
until late in the afternoon.

She was in the kitchen helping Dulzura prepare dinner when she looked out the window and saw a man walking across a tomato field. Birds rose into the air like blown leaves at his approach, and fluttered down again as he passed. Although the man was too far away to be identified by sight, Devon knew it must be Estivar because he was the only one on the ranch who walked. The others rode, they rode anything on wheels, even if they had only a hundred yards to go and nothing to carry.

As soon as Devon stepped out the back door she was trapped between the heat of the sun and the heat rising from the earth. It was like being struck by simultaneous gusts of fire from above and from below, and she stood motionless for a fraction of a minute, her breath caught in her throat. Then she started toward the field, shading her eyes with one hand. The vines had been picked, but here and there sun-baked tomatoes still hung like red balloons filled with water.

Estivar saw her coming and he took off his hat and waited. The birds swooped past him, unafraid, as if they knew he was only a scarecrow.

She said, “Have you finished work for the day?”

“Yes, Mrs. Osborne.”

“You might like to come in the house for a glass of beer or iced tea.”

“Has something happened?”

“No. I just want to ask you a question.”

“What about?”

“One of the trucks.”

“All right.”

They began walking, single file, between the rows of dying plants that still smelled fresh and fruitful. When they entered the ranch house Estivar stood just inside the door, twisting his dusty straw hat in his hands and shifting his weight from one foot to another. He'd been in that house hundreds of times, yet he looked like a stranger who'd gotten into it by accident and wanted to escape.

“Come and sit down,” she said. “I'll get you a drink.”

“No, ma'am, I'm not thirsty. Which one of the trucks?”

“The old red pickup Jaime referred to on the stand yesterday. He said it's not in the garage anymore.”

“No.”

“What happened to it?”

“It—I think it got wrecked.”

“Who wrecked it?”

“I don't know. Probably one of my sons,” he added. “They were always in a hurry.”

“The vehicles on the ranch are covered by insurance, I understand.”

“Yes.”

“Then a claim is filed when one of them is damaged?”

“Yes.”

“And there should be a record of such a claim.”

“There should, yes. Why are you asking these ques­tions?”

“Judge Gallagher called Mr. Ford to check certain points that were brought up during the hearing. He wanted to know what happened to the pickup truck.”

“I see.” Whatever it was he saw hurt his eyes. He rubbed them with the back of his hand. “The truck—it had nothing to do with Mr. Osborne's disappearance. It was gone before he was.”

“You sounded quite vague about it a minute ago. How can you be so sure now?”

“I'm sure.”

“What happened to it?”

“Felipe took it when he left the ranch. He had to move fast, people were after him.”

“Who was?”

“The girl, Carla Lopez. She was pregnant and she blamed Felipe for it. She kept threatening to send her brothers to beat him up if he didn't marry her. She's a loose-living girl. I couldn't let my son be forced into marry­ing her when there was a good chance he had nothing to do with her pregnancy. He was only eighteen, too young to be stuck with a family and no future. I told him to take the truck and get out of here fast. It was an old truck, worth very little. I didn't think it would be missed.”

A long slanting ray of sun was coming in the window at the top of the door. Inside it, particles of dust moved back and forth like a miniature mob scene caught in a spotlight. Estivar shifted position slightly, so the shaft of sun touched the side of his face and the little dustmen milled around his left eye and ear and leaped across the furrows in his cheeks.

“If you want to call it stealing—”

“No, of course not.”

“—call it mine, not Felipe's. I would have stolen more than a truck to get him away from that girl.”

“I think Carla's on her way to Seattle now to look for him.”

“She won't find him.”

“She seems very determined.”

“It doesn't matter. He's not there, he never was. I made up letters once in a while for the sake of his mother and Jaime . . . No, she won't find him,” he repeated, but there were echoes of sadness in his voice as if he almost wished that Felipe had stayed and married the girl and lived hap­pily now and then.

 

it was about eight o'clock
when she saw Estivar's station wagon leaving the garage, its headlights prying into the darkness.

 

the café
was on the
main street of Boca de Rio and it was identified by a small pink neon sign as Disco's. The propri­etor was a Scot named MacDougall but the Mexicans started calling him Disco when he had a juke box installed years ago, and he'd kept the name because he liked the friendly people who gave it to him.

When Estivar arrived the cafe was empty except for Disco himself, three men drinking beer in a booth and a pair of teen-agers sharing a bowl of chili at one end of the counter. Estivar sat down at the other end, moving slowly and cautiously as though he suspected the place was booby-trapped.

“What'll it be?” Disco said.

“Coffee and a doughnut.”

“Plain or sugar?”

“Sugar.”

The doughnut, served on a paper napkin, was stale and the coffee bitter with chicory. After a mouthful of each, Estivar said, “I'm looking for Ernest Valenzuela. Someone told me he hangs out here.”

“He does.”

“I want to ask him about an insurance policy.”

“You're too late. He left town this morning, and the way I heard it, maybe he's not coming back. He kept talking about going some place and starting over but he couldn't make a move until the Osborne case was settled. He was the chief witness. He used to be a cop, did you know that?”

“Yes.”

Disco leaned across the counter. “Say, you look kind of familiar to me. Did we meet somewhere, maybe a long time ago?”

“I don't think so. My name is Estivar.”

“Some boys called Estivar used to come in here a lot, they worked on the Osborne ranch. Any relation to you?”

“My sons.”

“Oh.” Disco thought about it awhile and then added, “They were okay.
”

“Yes.”

“One of them was pretty scrappy—Felipe—he liked to fight with the Lopez boys. They'd go out the back door and zap each other around. It was all more or less in fun, kid stuff, until Luis Lopez started carrying a knife. Then it got serious.”

“What kind of knife?”

“A fancy little hinged job, made in the Philippines, called a butterfly knife. I told Valenzuela about it, but he said forget it. So I forgot it. In a business like this you learn to forget and remember at the right times.”

Estivar took a bite of the doughnut. It felt gritty be­tween his teeth as if the grains of sugar were turning into sand.

“Now this,” Disco said, “this is a pretty good time to remember—the Osborne case is over and Valenzuela's left town. And suddenly my head's clearing, know what I mean?”

“I think so.”

“Not that I ever had any important information about the Osborne case, just little things. The night Osborne was killed, for instance, Luis Lopez was in here and he had a butterfly knife with him. That doesn't mean it was
the
knife, of course. Or even if it was
the
knife—well, somebody could have taken it from him. It was Friday—Friday's a big night in Boca de Rio and there were lots of people in the place, including your son, Felipe.”

“You made a mistake. Not Felipe.”

“I'm sure.”

“Felipe was nowhere near here at that time. He'd left the ranch three weeks earlier.”

“He came back.”

“No. He went to Seattle, he was in Seattle working at an aircraft factory. He wrote letters. Ask my family about the letters.”

“He was in here, Mr. Estivar, just as sure as you're in here yourself right now. He told me he'd run out of money and he was going out to the ranch to get some from you as soon as he could hitch a ride. I don't know what oc­curred after he left.”

“Nothing,” Estivar said. “Nothing.”

“All I know is, Luis Lopez happened to walk past the place and looked in the window and saw Felipe sitting here at the counter. He came in and started an argument about his sister, Carla. Pretty soon it turned into a real fight. Luis had a bloody nose by the time I kicked both of them out on the street.”

Estivar stared into the empty cup. He couldn't recall drinking the coffee or eating the doughnut, but they were both gone and a leaden lump was forming in the middle of his chest.
Luis had a bloody nose.
He knew now the source of the blood on Felipe's shirt sleeve, the type O which Ford thought indicated the presence of a third man. There weren't three men in the mess hall that night. There were only two—Robert Osborne and Felipe.

“Not that it matters,” Disco said, “the Osborne case being over and Valenzuela not around, not even a cop any more. But I figure it could have happened then, if it hap­pened at all. I mean, it's just a theory.”

“What?”

“Luis drew the knife and Felipe took it away from him.”

“No,” Estivar said. “No.”

But he was sure now that it was true and that Valen­zuela kept quiet about the knife because he thought he was protecting Carla's brother. Instead, he had protected Felipe. When Valenzuela came back and found out the truth he'd be wild with rage. He'd go looking for Felipe and he'd find him. Valenzuela had been a cop, he knew all the angles, the corners, the hiding places—the bars and back alleys of L.A., the
ramerías
of Tijuana and
garitos
of Mexicali, the flyblown
fondas
of El Paso.

There was no place that Felipe would be safe.