Death on the High Lonesome

Book 2: A Sheriff Virgil Dalton Mystery

by Frank Hayes

Genres: Small Town & Rural; Police Procedurals; Suspense

Synopsis

The author of Death at the Black Bull returns to the Southwestern town of Haywood where the onset of winter ushers in a new mystery for Sheriff Virgil Dalton…

Virgil knows that his sleepy hometown is starting to reflect the times, in good ways and bad. It still comes as a shock when his deputy is almost killed by the body of a woman falling from the highway overpass onto his car. A woman who had been fleeing for her life…

Then longtime resident Velma Thompson is found dead on her porch—her husband missing. To search for the man, Virgil saddles up and heads to the High Lonesome, the rugged mountains above their ranch. And on a wind-swept mesa, he’ll find the first clues that point to a killer whose body count has only just begun…

Release date: October 6, 2015

Publisher: Berkley

Print pages: 304

Sample

Acknowledgments

Praise for Death at the Black Bull

Berkley Prime Crime titles by Frank Hayes

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

1

Jimmy Tillman hardly ever went on the interstate. As a deputy sheriff from the town and county of Hayward, it was out of his jurisdiction. It was under state authority, patrolled by state police. However, during nightly patrols, he would pass under it. This night was no exception. He had already done so twice. The nearest interchange was down near Redbud, almost twenty miles away. The law enforcement for that part of the county was covered by Dave Brand and Alex Rankin, who staffed the substation there. Dave was Rosita’s husband. She was the glue that kept the sheriff’s office in Hayward together. There was talk of adding another interchange, closer to Hayward, if the town kept up its slow but steady growth.

Jimmy had time to think about all of this as he made his nightly rounds. He thought, too, about the unspoken change in his status as recognized by the town council in approving his 24/7 use of the patrol car. He knew this was in no small way due to Virgil Dalton, sheriff, the closest thing to a father Jimmy ever had. When he was younger, long before he actually reached the rank of deputy, he had often fantasized about Virgil actually being his father. That had lasted until his real father had turned up again, staying around just long enough to give Jimmy a sister, Abby, twelve years younger. Shortly thereafter his mother said Jimmy’s father heard the sound of the outward bound. He left in the middle of the night like a bad dream. They’d had no word of him ever since.

It was a little after two in the a.m. when Jimmy pulled into the parking lot in back of the sheriff’s office. There had been some talk recently about paving the lot, but at present it was as it had always been. Once a year, usually in the spring, some Item 4 mixed with some half-inch stone was dumped and spread, so that by now clumps of weed had managed to get a foothold. There was even a small cactus growing by the door. Dif was snoozing at the desk by the radio, but sat up quickly when the door slammed in back of Jimmy. Dif had been a deputy under Virgil’s father, Sam Dalton. Now semiretired, he was a part-timer.

“Sorry,” Jimmy said.

“No, jist gotta get some java. You didn’t call in. Guess I kinda dozed off.”

“There was nothing to report. Dark and quiet out there. Summer’s done, kids are back in school. Guess they won’t get crazy till that first home game.”

“Yeah, football frenzy.” Dif poured two coffees and was carrying them to the small yard-sale table that sat against the far wall when Jimmy came out of the bathroom. “There’s a couple of doughnuts if you want to grab that box on the desk,” he said.

“No. Just think I’ll have my sandwich and a yogurt later when I take a break.”

“Eating healthy these days.”

“Trying to. Don’t get much exercise in the cruiser.”

“Yeah. Back in the day we made our rounds on foot. Course we could throw a rock from one end of town to the other. Only went out of town when we actually got a call. Coupla times a week Sam would do the perimeter on horseback. Think he liked it better than the patrol car. Me, never liked horses. They didn’t like me, either. Still got a half-moon scar on my ass from that piebald Sam used to ride. Virgil’s jist like Sam. He jist fits a horse.”

Jimmy, his mouth filled with sandwich, nodded at different points in Dif’s narrative. He was really happy that the town council went along with keeping Dif on part-time. Whenever Dif worked, Jimmy always made it a point to stop back at the office to eat and listen to Dif’s stories. He especially liked when Dif talked about the personal stuff. He had seen Virgil many times on horseback, but now he could see Sam Dalton astride, making his rounds. There was something mythic about it, introducing Jimmy to a life, a time, and a place he could only know from the mouths of people who had been around long before he came on the scene. Jimmy didn’t realize it, but he had become a student of history.

“Guess I’d better get back on my horse,” Jimmy said as he took a last swallow from his cup. He started to pick up his leavings.

“Let it go, Jimmy. I’ll clean up—got plenty of time. You like all those horses under the hood, don’t you?”

Jimmy smiled.

“Your first car, got all the bells and whistles and the town pays for it. My first car was a ’56 Bel Air Chevy, turquoise and white, best car I ever owned. Bought it secondhand of course. Drove that car everywhere. Across creeks during spring runoff, out in the desert, even took Edna on our honeymoon in it. Stayed in one of those cabins outside of Kingman up in the Hualapai. We jist about wore each other out—almost didn’t make it to the Grand Canyon. Yeah, had some good times with that car. Then, after I put near two hundred thousand miles on it, I sold it for almost as much as I paid for it to a college kid who wanted to restore it. Turns out it was a classic. Hell, that car is probably still driving around West Texas somewhere.” When Dif paused, Jimmy grabbed his Stetson off the table. He knew he didn’t have time for another reverie.

“Well, duty calls, Dif. Gotta get back out there and look for some criminals.” He opened the door. As he stepped through, he heard Dif’s last words.

“Take care, Jimmy. Them lawbreakers ain’t got a chance with you on the job.”

It was still black as pitch when Jimmy left for his last go-round. No moon, just dark. He thought about what Dif had said about only patrolling the town back when. Times had changed. It was not unusual for him to ring up over two hundred miles on the odometer. This night he decided to make his last run east of town, then north along the saddleback, the high ground on the other side of the interstate, then under the interstate for the last time, and home. He passed by the Black Bull. It was closed, no cars in the lot. He still got a hit of adrenaline when he thought about Buddy Hinton and what had happened to him there. Then he passed the grain silos by the railroad tracks, crossed over the tracks, went by a couple of houses, all but one unlit, and turned north.

When he got up on the saddleback high over the interstate he turned west. He knew even if he could see, there wasn’t much to see. The land up here was rough desert interspersed with stands of piñons, other conifers, and a lot of rock. Because of the altitude, it did have the payoff on a clear day of an expansive view of the valley.

He rarely took this route. He hit the brake lightly as an armadillo scooted across the road, again a little later for a mule deer. The land rose toward the mountains as he climbed. He rode along the ridgeline for about ten miles. Nothing, no sign of a light in the valley below. He was thinking a person could get swallowed up by the landscape out here.

He banked the cruiser to the left as he started his descent toward the underpass, which was less than a half mile away. For the first time, he saw headlights on the interstate. Truckers, most likely. Twenty minutes from now, he’d be shucking his boots, sitting on the edge of his bed. He braked as he came down the hill, slowing even more as the road started a sharp descent. The windows of the car were down. He could hear the traffic above—a couple of semis, he figured.

Emerging from the tunnel, he glimpsed something falling through the night sky. There was a deep, hollow thud. The wheel jumped out of his hand, the car veered to the left. Something crashed into the windshield, spraying him with shards of glass. He got his right hand on the wheel as the car slipped off the hard surface onto the shoulder. Trying to regain control, he yanked the wheel to the right, pulling harder then he should have. The vehicle spun, lurching across the road. He tried the brake to slow the downward momentum, but he was too late. The cruiser leaped off the embankment on the other side. He felt the sudden quiet when the rubber no longer met the road. There was a fleeting moment of expectation, then he heard the ripping of branches as the car carved out its path till it slammed into a tree at the bottom of the ravine. Jimmy’s last thought was that he had never known a night as dark as this one.

*   *   *

High sun managed to find ravines and depressions that a morning sun never could. The searching brightness fell on Jimmy’s car. The hood, smashed beyond repair, had just enough flat surface to bounce reflected light through the broken windshield onto Jimmy’s face. Jimmy squinted in its glare, then finally opened his eyes. Minutes passed. The light that brought him back to the world moved on. He fought to comprehend. Bits and pieces started to come together. No pain. Discomfort, yes, but no pain. There was a tightness, a cramped feeling, a deflated white balloon in his lap. He tried pushing it off to the side, but his left arm wouldn’t work. His right arm was free. It wasn’t a balloon, it was an air bag.

An accident. It all came flooding back. Something had fallen on him. What was it? His vision was partially obscured by of all things the branch of a piñon tree. He felt hot. There was also sweat running into his eyes, which he tried to wipe away with his free hand. When he took away his hand, he realized it wasn’t sweat. His hand was covered in blood. He looked down on the seat. He saw that it was saturated with crimson. There was a moment of near panic. He looked at the tree limb, then put his hand to the side of his head. He could feel the gash, a slice that ran from the tip of his forehead all the way back across his scalp to the back of his head. He knew that if he wanted to, he could lift the slice like a flap to expose his skull. Blood ran freely from the wound. He knew that scalp wounds bled profusely, but there was a lot of blood. He was literally sitting in a puddle. Hours, he realized, must have passed. How many? He knew he had to act before he passed out from the blood loss or he might never wake up. He couldn’t move anything but his right arm. The side of the car had jammed his left arm tight while his legs were held by the crushed front end. He managed to get a pen out of his shirt pocket. He stabbed at the air bag till he ripped it away. The dashboard was obliterated along with the radio. If he could reach the glove box, he knew his cell phone would be there, but the branch that scalped him blocked his effort. He could feel weakness starting to creep over him.

“No, no,” he said as he attacked the piñon, breaking off the shoots from the main limb. It took time. His fingers were cut by the sharp bark, but he didn’t stop. At last he could see an opening. He wasn’t able to see the glove box, but reaching across the console with his face buried in the still-attached branches he could feel the glove box. The impact of the crash had popped the door open, a bonus, he thought as he reached in and found his cell phone. The exertion had cost him. He knew he was fading. He punched in the number to the office, holding his breath hoping for service. Then the sweetest sound he ever heard. Rosita’s voice.

“Jimmy, where the hell are you?”

2

He felt like a stranger in his own world. Clouds of dust obscured the last of the trucks as he stood watching in the driveway. They would not be back. Virgil looked on till they reached the hard road, then stood even longer while the dust settled. When he moved at last, he turned to the two newly built barns that stood in the footprints of their predecessors. Bigger, gleaming, evidence of the latest in structural technology, they did nothing for him but confirm his displacement.

Almost reluctantly, he walked toward them. When he got close he could smell the sawn wood siding. He reached a side door, but before entering, he ran his fingers over the splintered roughness that butted the doorframe. Cesar had asked him the afternoon before, as one of the workers was putting the finishing touches on some trim, if he had thought of a color or if he just wanted to seal the wood, keeping it natural. Virgil’s lack of response caused him to repeat his question.

“Whatever we’re going to do to the outside, we maybe want to get done before winter. On the other hand, maybe we should just let the wood season till next year. What do you think?”

Virgil looked at Cesar like he was speaking in tongues. “I don’t know. Let me think on it.”

Cesar got up from his usual seat on the front porch. As he passed by Virgil’s chair, he reached out and lightly touched his shoulder.

“No rush,” he said. “It’ll keep.”

Virgil knew that if there was one person in the world who had a clue as to how he felt, it was Cesar. Now as he stood with his hand on the brand-new doorknob, he felt that when he pushed it open, a chunk of his past would disappear. The scab had to fall from the wound, in the process of healing. In the deepest part of his brain there was the realization that he had to move forward. He clenched his teeth and pushed. The door swung open so easily it surprised him. He could recall the hundreds of times when the wood in the old barns would swell and resist entry until a foot or shoulder was brought into play.

The barns were pretty much mirror images of each other in terms of their exterior dimensions. This one however had a separate tack room along with two rooms that were set aside for Cesar’s living quarters. Virgil had made sure they were a significant upgrade from Cesar’s previous room. He was pleased when he checked out the two finished rooms and saw that Cesar had already left his imprint. A few colorful scenes hung on one wall in the bedroom, framed with a gaucho’s bolo. In the adjoining room, which served as a kitchen and living room area, there were terra-cotta plates sitting on a tablecloth with a Southwestern motif of mixed desert flowers, along with all-new appliances, which reminded him how dated the kitchen was in the main house. He did not miss the half-filled bottle of tequila sitting on the counter next to the refrigerator. When he left the living area after checking out the modern bathroom, his mood had lightened.

By the time he got to the second barn, it was again becoming a struggle to not look for the pleasant ghosts of his past. They had been so alive to him in the old barns that had been reduced to ashes. There was not the full-throated laughter of his father in response to the gentle teasing of his mother. He did not hear her singing as she curried Star. He did not see himself as a boy unsuccessfully trying to lasso one of the chickens as it pecked aimlessly along the dirt corridor between the stalls, or see his father easily do the exact same thing.

By the time he got to the second hayloft upstairs, a huge empty space, he was feeling just as empty. He came down the stairs, an improvement over the ladders in the old barns, as Cesar had readily pointed out. When he reached the bottom, he gripped the handrail tight, then sunk slowly to the second step, sinking in a sea of remembrance. There was nothing of his past in this place. He lowered his head. His hat fell to the floor. He bent down to pick it up to dust it off.

“Not even dust here,” he said to the empty space.

He looked down the length of the barn to the opened double doors that led into the corral. The wide expanse of light was divided in two by an unrecognizable figure. Doubting the evidence of his own senses, he rubbed his eyes before he looked again. The figure started moving down the passageway toward him. He saw the golden red hair catching the last of the sun outside. The figure stopped less than twenty feet from him and his heart skipped a beat. A name jumped from his past into his mouth.

“Rusty.”

“No, Virginia,” she answered. “I thought maybe we should talk.”

“Let’s go up to the house.” He nodded in that direction, then stepped ahead of her.

Virginia followed him wordlessly back down the walkway between the vacant stalls out into the corral. Before he could open the gate for her, she slipped effortlessly through the rails. He did the same. When he stood up on the other side, she was facing him. She was taller than he’d realized.

The house, sitting on a knoll on the opposite side of the driveway, was catching the late-afternoon sun. The glare of reflected light on the facing windows made it seem larger than it was. The cottonwood, to the left of the kitchen entrance, defied the light, shading about a third of the porch that ran across the front of the house. Virgil instinctively stopped at the bootjack outside the door and slipped off his boots.

“You were well trained.” She then bent down to untie her sneakers. Virgil put out his hand.

“No, no,” he said. “That’s not necessary. It’s just force of habit for me. My boots aren’t even dirty. The barns are brand-new, just been built.”

She stood up. “That’s not a bad habit.”

“I should have brought you in the main door. I just hardly ever use it.”

“Do you often talk to yourself?”

“Oh, I guess I do sometimes. Some of my best conversations, but I get kinda concerned when I start arguing with myself, especially when I lose the argument.” He half smiled.

“You should do that more often.”

“What?”

“Smile. It looks good on you.”

He held open the door and she stepped inside.

“Nice. Comfortable.” She looked about the kitchen.

Virgil saw only the dirty dishes piled in the sink. “I didn’t get to the dishes yet. I wasn’t expecting . . .” He didn’t finish. “Would you like something? A drink maybe? A glass of iced tea?”

“Iced tea would be great.” With her own half smile. “But if you don’t have any made a beer would be great, too.”

Virgil took off his hat and put it on the counter, then he got two glasses and put them alongside. He reached into the fridge and brought out a nearly full pitcher of iced tea. He set it next to the glasses.

“The real deal,” she said when she saw actual lemons floating in the pitcher.

“Yeah, sometimes the old-fashioned way is best.” Virgil filled two glasses and handed one to Virginia. “Maybe you’d like to sit in the living room.”

Before she could respond, he left the kitchen. She followed, glancing to her left at the stairs that led to the second floor. They crossed through the hall to the dining room, then through the arched opening that led from the dining room to the living room, which ran across the entire back of the house. A huge picture window centered on the rear wall looked out on a broad, grassy area. Clusters of wildflowers broke up the green. To the right, she could see the ever-running creek that twisted in back of the barns, making its way toward the road. It emptied into a substantial pond, alongside of which stood a white summerhouse with a trellised-rose entryway. The living room itself was sparsely furnished. A couple of leather chairs faced a stone fireplace. In front of the picture window was a long sofa covered in a fabric of light earth tones. On either side of the sofa were rustic end tables while on the floor was a vivid hooked rug. The only other pieces of furniture in the room were a trestle desk and chair on the half wall to the right of the entryway. Western prints hung on all the walls.

“This is really nice,” she said as she sat down in the sofa opposite the picture window. “It feels like a real home.”

Virgil sat at the other end. “Not quite as imposing as Crow’s Nest.”

“True, but also not as pretentious. I think Crow’s Nest was built to make a statement. This house was built to be lived in.”

Virgil nodded.

“It’s so green.” She gestured toward the expanse on the other side of the picture window.

“Bottomland.”

“Bottomland?”

“When my great-grandfather came to this country he knew how important water was and he let that inform his choice of where to homestead. Turns out he probably got the best parcel of land in this part of the country. We’re green when in the dry a lot of other people are eating dust. We do irrigate some, but that’s mostly BLM lease land, not part of the deeded property.”

“Interesting.”

They sipped from their glasses. They each started to speak, then stopped. They smiled while the awkward moment passed.

“I thought maybe you might stop by Hilltop, but then I thought the house, Crow’s Nest, wasn’t the place for this conversation. I actually stopped by here last week. I met your foreman, Cesar. He was very nice.”

“I’m sorry I missed you, but I’m glad you met Cesar. He’s much more to me than a foreman.”

“I know. I could tell by the last thing he said to me.” She took another sip from her glass, then set it on the wood table next to her.

“What was that last thing that Cesar said to you?”

Virginia angled her body so she was looking directly at Virgil. “He said it was good for me to come and talk to my father now that he is feeling alone.”

Virgil said nothing as the silence in the room became almost painful. Finally, he stood up and walked to the window. The shadow of the house crept up toward the meadow in back as the sun started its journey toward evening. The demarcation line between light and dark was very clear. There was no gray, only the light and the dark. Virgil turned and looked at the girl. She sat on the edge of the sofa while he tried to understand the look in her eyes. Unexpected emotions battered him. He took a step toward her. He reached out his hand. Her fingers tentatively touched his.

“I guess we don’t have to worry about the elephant in the room anymore. Cesar took care of that.” His smile broadened when he saw the relief come into her eyes. “When did you find out?”

“My grandmother Audrey. She left me a letter when she died. How did you find out?”

“From Audrey. The day she died. There’s a woman who pretty much runs my office. Rosita. Rosie. You’d probably like her. Everybody does. Anyway, she made a comment after Audrey’s funeral about her seeming to go out with a whimper. A surprise to anyone who knew her, considering she wore the name of the town. Well, I guess as far as you and I are concerned, Rosie for once was wrong. I’d say she went out with a bang, wouldn’t you?”

Virginia could only nod her agreement. Her eyes were glistening. Her fingers tightened in Virgil’s hand. He gently tugged and she rose to her feet. They stood as close to each other as they ever had. In a voice barely above a whisper, Virgil was the first to speak. “Would you mind if I gave you a hug?”

“No,” she answered. “I think I’d like that.”

Virgil wrapped his arms around her, drawing her close. They stood like that a long time.

3

The phone was ringing when he stepped back into the kitchen after she had gone. He had been planning on driving into Hayward, figuring he’d stop by the office by way of routine. The idea of routine ended when he picked up the phone and heard Rosie’s voice.

“Virgil, Jimmy’s been in an accident. He was coming off the saddleback last night. Something went bad. He’s been at the bottom of a crevasse for the last eight or ten hours pinned in his car. The ambulance is on its way with Toby Sweets’s wrecker. Doesn’t look too good.”

Virgil’s ranch was closest so he got to the scene before the ambulance or the tow truck. He came up toward the saddleback from the south. When he saw the interstate overhead he pulled off onto the right shoulder. He knew that if Jimmy had been on his way down, he would have lost it somewhere on the other side of the road. He also knew there was very little shoulder on that side before the drop-off. He crossed the road, looking for some indication of where the cruiser had left the road. The only evidence was some spread gravel on the hard surface. When he first glanced down the embankment he saw nothing. The sides were sheer and it was a long way to the bottom. He realized that the car must have gone airborne, so he immediately started down the slope. It was at least thirty feet of treacherous slip sliding, holding on to saplings or anything else he could grab before he hit level ground. Then he saw the first sign. Tops of woody brush had been flattened or ripped off. He followed the trajectory they offered. It was another forty to fifty feet of bushwhacking before he saw the rear end of the car. He heard sirens up above. Help had come. Whatever he was about to find, he would not have to deal with it alone. Instead of yelling, he drew his sidearm and fired off two rounds. The roar echoed along the crevasse. When he looked up, he saw two or three EMTs at the top of the ridge.

“Down here! Down here!” He waved his Stetson till he got a wave back. In moments he was at Jimmy’s cruiser. There was no way he was getting in on the driver’s side so he climbed over the trunk to get to the other side. The passenger’s door had actually popped open on impact. He saw Jimmy’s body, but the view of his head was obscured by a tree limb that had smashed through the windshield. Virgil climbed onto the car’s hood. Reaching through the broken windshield, he grabbed the limb and started pulling it back. The muscles in his back tightened as the tree resisted his efforts. Two EMTs reached the car. One of them, seeing what he was attempting, jumped up onto the hood. Together they strained until the branch started to come toward them. When they felt it starting to give, they redoubled their efforts. Suddenly, it snapped as it came free. Both men reeled back with the release till they fell off either side of the car.

Virgil was lying on his back in a tangle of undergrowth when he heard the other EMT.

“He’s alive, Roscoe. Get over here. We’ve got to get a line into him before we get him out of the car. He’s lost a lot of blood.”

Virgil started to get up by rolling over to the passenger’s side of the hood. Through the shattered windshield, he came face-to-face with a girl who looked oddly familiar, but who was now clearly dead.

*   *   *

Later, slouched in a chair in a waiting room at the hospital, Virgil reflected on the suddenness of life. It was not new to him. His mother and father had left the ranch on a routine errand one day, only to drive out of his life forever. Since that day, rolling with the punches had been one of his strengths, but this day had him reaching for the ropes. He was exhausted and it must have showed.

“Don’t get up, Virgil. I’ll join you. You look like you’ve had a rough day.”

Virgil looked at the doctor, who was also his friend. “You could say that, Sam. Guess you’re going to tell me whether it’s about to get rougher.”

“Breathe easy, Virgil. I know you’re heavily invested in that boy. He’s going to be fine. Got two things working for him. He’s young and he’s got the constitution of a bull rider. Left arm is broke. So is his nose. But by and large his good looks are intact. Girls will still give him a second look. He’s probably going to have a permanent part in his hair where that tree tried to scalp him. On top of that, a three-day headache to go along with that cut. What beats me is there is no evidence of a skull fracture or even a hint of a concussion. When they talk about hardheaded, they must be talking about that boy. Couple of ribs are cracked. That will only hurt him when he breathes, but that’s a habit he ought to try to keep up. We got him pretty doped up, but