3.

Buck Stevens’ voice hammered his ear through the telephone. “Well where does this get you, this autopsy business?”

Watchman said, “You don’t self-administer a massive dose of barbiturates and then take your kid and get in the car and go out and drive into a truck on the highway.”

“People commit suicide on the highway all the time.”

“But they don’t drug themselves to the gills first.”

“I wouldn’t swear to that. Who knows what people will do.”

Watchman said, “You searched the house, right? You didn’t find any barbiturates.”

“Maybe she threw the bottle away after she took all the pills.”

“Call her doctor. Find out if he ever gave her a prescription for the stuff.”

“What’ll that prove?”

“It’ll prove something if she had no prescription. It’ll mean somebody else put the stuff in her grapefruit juice or her coffee.”

“Somebody else. You’re thinking about that Volkswagen that was at her house that morning.”

“Yes.”

“And you think somebody tried to murder her with drugs.”

“It looks like it to me. And when she started to feel herself go under she knew what had happened so she tried to drive to the hospital. The drugs hit her too fast and she didn’t make it.”

“Why take the kid?”

“Somebody’s trying to kill you, you don’t leave your kid behind in an empty house.”

“But I thought you said this Victorio was in love with her. Would he murder her?”

“I don’t have answers to everything, Buck. If I did the case would be solved.” Watchman had his notes in front of him on the phone-booth shelf. “Victorio’s not the only man in the world who owns a blue Volkswagen.”

“Then you’re right back to square one.”

“Not quite. It just enlarges the circle of suspects.”

“It still doesn’t make sense to me. You’re saying she was murdered. Now if you were the guy who supposedly killed Calisher in the first place—the guy Joe was taking the rap for—presumably you agreed to support Joe’s family in style while Joe went to jail for you. You’re assuming that was the deal, aren’t you?”

“It’s one way to explain why Maria and Joe Junior got rich right after Joe went to prison. Somebody was paying the bills and she didn’t have a regular boyfriend, not the kind who could pay her bills the way they were paid. Look at it from Joe’s point of view. He’s always been a loser. He’s living out there in a line shack watching his kid grow into a duplicate of himself. He must have decided his own life was pretty well wasted, it was too late for him to make something of himself, but wouldn’t it be great if the kid had a crack at a good education and all the frills. Somebody knew him well enough to offer him the deal—his own freedom in exchange for all the things he wanted money to buy for his son.”

“But it doesn’t explain why anybody would want to screw up the whole thing by killing Maria. They kill Maria, they’ve got to expect trouble from Joe. He wouldn’t go on keeping his mouth shut and taking the rap.”

“That’s two questions. I think I can answer both of them,” Watchman said. “Question one, why did they kill Maria. What if she got greedy, decided to blackmail them, held out for more money than they’d agreed to? If they felt she was getting too expensive or too risky, they might kill her. But that brings us to question two. As soon as they kill Maria they’ve got to expect trouble. Joe wouldn’t automatically react to the news by breaking out of slam. More likely they’d expect him to go to the police and tell them everything he knew about the case. So it only makes sense one way. If they helped Joe break out of jail, so that they could get at him. To kill him. Wipe him and Maria and the kid off the books, all at the same time.”

Stevens said, “Then it’s not just that Joe’s out gunning for this killer. The killer’s also gunning for Joe. Maybe setting a trap and waiting for Joe to walk into it.”

“And Joe doesn’t know anything about it.”

“It’s farfetched,” Stevens said.

“Most things people do are far fetched.”

“Well where do we go from here?”

“I keep hunting around here in Whiteriver. You go down to Florence and find out if Joe had any outside contacts the day Maria died—visitors, phone calls, telegrams, anything. Keep digging until you get us a name.”

“That’s assuming the name belongs to the guy that helped him break out. That’s the theory?”

“I’m taking an option on it. Maybe even a down payment. When we find out more we’ll know if we’re ready to buy it.”

“And you’re staying in Whiteriver.”

“Aeah,” Watchman said. “I think I’ll find out if the department’s willing to spring for a couple of hounds and a handler. Try and nail Joe before the shooting starts.”

“Dogs. Where’s the fun in that?”

“It’s not a game,” Watchman murmured.

4.

He coaxed the ailing Volvo into Whiteriver at one in the afternoon after a fruitless half-day of scouting and found the dog handler waiting at the trading post with three mournful hounds in his camper-pickup. The handler introduced himself, “Leroy Flagg,” and gave Watchman a smile as doleful as a Basset’s. “I hate man-trackin’, it ain’t natural sport.”

“It could save somebody’s life,” Watchman said and saw a kid in a bright crimson shirt wobbling up the road on a bike. The flash of color drew his eyes in that direction and he saw the screened back door of the council house fly open.

Tom Victorio came through the door quickly, his drugstore-cowboy jacket awry; he was waving in Watchman’s direction and ran toward him full of excitement.

“He showed up. He was here.”

“Joe?”

“Last night.” Victorio was a little out of breath. “He busted into Rufus Limita’s house.”

“Anybody hurt?”

“No—no. But he ripped off Rufus’ best rifle. And the Land Cruiser.”

Watchman made a face. “What time last night?”

“Two, two-thirty. Pete Porvo said—”

“Hang onto it a minute.” Watchman turned to Leroy Flagg and spread his hands. “I’m sorry we wasted your time.”

“It’s okay, I’ll get hourly and mileage for it. Just as soon not have to man-track anyway. Nice meeting you.” Flagg shook hands and climbed into the pickup.

Watchman turned back to Victorio. “You want a Coke?” He went up the trading post steps without waiting an answer.

Victorio hurried in after him. “What’s the matter with you?”

“If he’s been gone eleven hours another five minutes won’t make much difference. Maybe you’d like to calm down and tell me what happened. Want a Coke?”

“Root beer.”

Watchman bought a couple of cans and they carried them outside. They talked in the car.

“Where’s this Limita’s place?”

“About six miles. Take the road down toward Fort Apache, hang a left where it says East Fork.”

“Anybody home right now?”

“I suppose so.”

Watchman got it started and pulled out of the lot. “Okay, what happened?”

“Why’d you send those dogs away?”

“You can’t track a car with dogs. You said he stole a car.”

“Toyota. One of those four-wheel-drive jobs.”

“Well then.” The road unwound through the trees and went past the silent rodeo grounds. The pavement was chipping away at the edges from frosts and flash floods. Watchman said, “Anybody actually see Joe to recognize him?”

“Pete Porvo saw him.”

“In the Land Cruiser?”

“Naw, it was before. He was on foot, lugging a rifle and a gunnysack. Pete says he was driving up this road here and he saw Joe plain as day going into those trees back there, the ones we just came through.”

“But he lost him in the dark.”

“Yes. This is where you turn left.”

Watchman downshifted for the corner and went hustling up into the hills on the dirt road. Bits of gravel thumped the undersides of the fenders like buckshot. The road followed the side of the creek, in and out of the line of trees. They passed the occasional wickiup, corrals, here and there a dusty house trailer up on chocks.