RED, GREEN, OR MURDER - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)
RED, GREEN, OR MURDER - Poisoned Pen Press (UK) RED, GREEN, OR MURDER - Poisoned Pen Press (UK)
Red, Green, or Murder 9 “Thanks, sweetheart.” “You bet. Who did you say owns the knee?” “Dale Torrance. His horse stepped on him. It’s a mess.” “Ouch. Well, stop in when you get a minute. Don’t be such a stranger.” “You bet.” I switched off and glanced in the mirror at Annie. Her expression was worried, but she caught my eye and looked heavenward, the crows-feet deepening at the corners of her eyes. “He’s going to end up hobbling just like his old man,” Annie said. “Maybe not that bad,” I said, not believing a word of it. Knees that pointed sideways never turned out as good as new. Behind us, Deputy Collins had slowed and U-turned to return to his speed trap. The kid had been my last hire in the final months before Robert Torrez, dispatcher Gayle’s husband, took over the sheriff’s office. Like most young cops, if Collins could put three or four years’ experience under his belt without making any bone-headed mistakes, he’d probably make a good deputy. But by then, he’d want to move on to some other department that paid more than a street person makes working an intersection in Albuquerque. Far ahead, as the buttress of Salinas Mesa rose to the south, I saw the first flash of ambulance lights. Just before the bridge across Salinas arroyo, I took the turn-out and pulled to a gentle halt, turning on the flashers. By the time the EMTs pulled the heavy diesel rig to a stop, I had the SUV’s doors and tailgate opened for them. In minutes, Dale Torrance was strapped to a proper gurney, an IV started, and the mercy of morphine—or whatever magic potion they use nowadays—flowing into his arm. I stayed out of the way. In a bit, the ambulance, loaded with mother and son, took off with a wail and flash, followed by Herb Torrance in the Chrysler. That left me standing by my SUV, in no hurry to join the parade to the hospital. There was nothing I could do now except my job. Life at the ranch would go on. Pat Gabaldon and Socks,
10 Steven F. Havill left by themselves with a day’s work still ahead, would need the transportation permit to move the cattle. The paperwork rode on my clipboard on the passenger seat. I looked at my watch and saw that it was already coming up on noon. It would take at least another hour to finish with Patrick and then head back to town. George Payton was right. When the day starts to go to hell, it’s a hard snowball to stop. I climbed back into the SUV and pulled it into gear, then planted my foot hard on the brake, jolted to a stop by another siren. This time, Deputy Dennis Collins wasn’t sparing the horses. The county car came in from the west, traveling so fast that when it shot by me I felt its bow wave rock my truck. The siren note wafted away as Collins sped north on State 56, winding through the parade of mesas. I had no sheriff’s department radio in my personal rig. Retirement was retirement, I had decided. I didn’t need to be listening to all that jibber-jabber of 10-this and 10-that. Still, curiosity takes longer to retire. Hopefully EMT Matty Finnegan hadn’t swerved the loaded ambulance off the highway in an effort to miss an errant steer or antelope. I reached for the phone but immediately thought better of it. With an emergency serious enough to shag a deputy in from the other end of the county, Sheriff’s dispatcher Gayle Torrez would have enough to do without fielding curiosity calls. Instead, I U-turned the SUV and headed southbound toward the ranch. After issuing the Torrance permit, the rest of my day was clear, and I relished that notion. After thirty years in the same tiny county, you might imagine that there wasn’t a corner or niche that I hadn’t explored. But I knew of a couple such places, and I planned to spend my afternoon in the bright sun, poking here and there like an old badger scouting out a good spot to dig another hole. A pickup truck and two cars had stopped at the Broken Spur Saloon as I drove past. Two women, one of them carrying an infant, were just climbing out of a Volvo station wagon. I almost swung into the parking lot myself at the thought of
- Page 1 and 2: “A pleasure....” —Publishers
- Page 3 and 4: Books by Steven F. Havill The Posad
- Page 5 and 6: Copyright © 2009 by Steven F. Havi
- Page 8 and 9: Chapter One “Hooooowhup!” Dale
- Page 10 and 11: Red, Green, or Murder 3 head paid t
- Page 12 and 13: Red, Green, or Murder 5 work—not
- Page 14 and 15: Red, Green, or Murder 7 “You doin
- Page 18 and 19: Red, Green, or Murder 11 one of Vic
- Page 20 and 21: Chapter Two George Payton’s dilap
- Page 22 and 23: Red, Green, or Murder 15 the fancif
- Page 24 and 25: Red, Green, or Murder 17 into himse
- Page 26 and 27: Red, Green, or Murder 19 yard that
- Page 28 and 29: Red, Green, or Murder 21 sink trash
- Page 30 and 31: Red, Green, or Murder 23 belt. When
- Page 32 and 33: Red, Green, or Murder 25 “I’m s
- Page 34 and 35: Red, Green, or Murder 27 such luck,
- Page 36 and 37: Red, Green, or Murder 29 “It has
- Page 38 and 39: Red, Green, or Murder 31 She squeez
- Page 40 and 41: Red, Green, or Murder 33 involved i
- Page 42 and 43: Red, Green, or Murder 35 “But we
- Page 44 and 45: Red, Green, or Murder 37 “’Frai
- Page 46 and 47: Red, Green, or Murder 39 A small co
- Page 48 and 49: Red, Green, or Murder 41 The sun fe
- Page 50 and 51: Red, Green, or Murder 43 Turning in
- Page 52 and 53: Red, Green, or Murder 45 “That’
- Page 54 and 55: Red, Green, or Murder 47 cash regis
- Page 56 and 57: Red, Green, or Murder 49 mind roame
- Page 58 and 59: Red, Green, or Murder 51 “Chances
- Page 60 and 61: Red, Green, or Murder 53 “I’ll
- Page 62 and 63: Red, Green, or Murder 55 years to f
- Page 64 and 65: Red, Green, or Murder 57 except bac
10 Steven F. Havill<br />
left by themselves with a day’s work still ahead, would need the<br />
transportation permit to move the cattle. The paperwork rode<br />
on my clipboard on the passenger seat.<br />
I looked at my watch and saw that it was already coming<br />
up on noon. It would take at least another hour to finish with<br />
Patrick and then head back to town. George Payton was right.<br />
When the day starts to go to hell, it’s a hard snowball to stop. I<br />
climbed back into the SUV and pulled it into gear, then planted<br />
my foot hard on the brake, jolted to a stop by another siren.<br />
This time, Deputy Dennis Collins wasn’t sparing the horses.<br />
The county car came in from the west, traveling so fast that<br />
when it shot by me I felt its bow wave rock my truck. The siren<br />
note wafted away as Collins sped north on State 56, winding<br />
through the parade of mesas.<br />
I had no sheriff’s department radio in my personal rig.<br />
Retirement was retirement, I had decided. I didn’t need to be<br />
listening to all that jibber-jabber of 10-this and 10-that. Still,<br />
curiosity takes longer to retire. Hopefully EMT Matty Finnegan<br />
hadn’t swerved the loaded ambulance off the highway in an effort<br />
to miss an errant steer or antelope. I reached for the phone but<br />
immediately thought better of it. With an emergency serious<br />
enough to shag a deputy in from the other end of the county,<br />
Sheriff’s dispatcher Gayle Torrez would have enough to do<br />
without fielding curiosity calls.<br />
Instead, I U-turned the SUV and headed southbound toward<br />
the ranch. After issuing the Torrance permit, the rest of my day<br />
was clear, and I relished that notion. After thirty years in the<br />
same tiny county, you might imagine that there wasn’t a corner<br />
or niche that I hadn’t explored. But I knew of a couple such<br />
places, and I planned to spend my afternoon in the bright sun,<br />
poking here and there like an old badger scouting out a good<br />
spot to dig another hole.<br />
A pickup truck and two cars had stopped at the Broken<br />
Spur Saloon as I drove past. Two women, one of them carrying<br />
an infant, were just climbing out of a Volvo station wagon.<br />
I almost swung into the parking lot myself at the thought of
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