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    The Fourth Time is Murder
    The Fourth Time is Murder
    The Fourth Time is Murder
    Ebook396 pages5 hours

    The Fourth Time is Murder

    By Steven F. Havill

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    About this ebook

    Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman is always busy, but now more so than ever. The sheriff is still not completely recovered from his stay in the hospital, and she is recovering from a hospital stay herself. After a long day at work, Estelle is happy to clear off her desk and drive home where her beloved family waits. She hears her cell phone ringing as she pulls into the driveway. A truck has gone off the road and the driver's body found near the wreck. Back on the job, Estelle drives to the scene, where she finds more questions than answers. Was the truck's going over the hill really an accident? And why was there a single footprint on the man's body? An autopsy spurs further puzzles. The sixth in the Posadas County Mystery series.

    LanguageEnglish
    PublisherOpen Road Integrated Media
    Release dateNov 16, 2011
    ISBN9781615953370

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      Book preview

      The Fourth Time is Murder - Steven F. Havill

      Contents

      Contents

      Dedication

      Map

      Chapter One

      Chapter Two

      Chapter Three

      Chapter Four

      Chapter Five

      Chapter Six

      Chapter Seven

      Chapter Eight

      Chapter Nine

      Chapter Ten

      Chapter Eleven

      Chapter Twelve

      Chapter Thirteen

      Chapter Fourteen

      Chapter Fifteen

      Chapter Sixteen

      Chapter Seventeen

      Chapter Eighteen

      Chapter Nineteen

      Chapter Twenty

      Chapter Twenty-one

      Chapter Twenty-two

      Chapter Twenty-three

      Chapter Twenty-four

      Chapter Twenty-five

      Chapter Twenty-six

      Chapter Twenty-seven

      Chapter Twenty-eight

      Chapter Twenty-nine

      Chapter Thirty

      Chapter Thirty-one

      Chapter Thirty-two

      Chapter Thirty-three

      Chapter Thirty-four

      Chapter Thirty-five

      Chapter Thirty-six

      Chapter Thirty-seven

      Chapter Thirty-eight

      Chapter Thirty-nine

      More from this Author

      Contact Us

      Dedication

      For Kathleen

      Map

      Map.jpg

      Chapter One

      Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman regarded the lengthy e-mail message, again finding herself intrigued. At the same time she wondered why, three weeks before when the message had first arrived from A Woman’s World magazine, she hadn’t just tapped the delete key. Since the day the e-mail had arrived, she had read the full text a dozen times, and repeatedly opened the four attachments that had arrived with it.

      The first was a photograph of herself, taken three years before by Posadas Register publisher Frank Dayan. In that photo, Estelle was a bloody mess, standing with several other officers at the edge of the county’s landfill pit. She held a blood-soaked handkerchief to her upper lip. The photo of that night’s crime scene was dramatic and harsh, and Estelle had cringed when it appeared on the front page of the Register…and again when the image had blossomed on her computer screen as an e-mail attachment.

      Another attachment included a brief interview with current Posadas County Manager Leona Spears, an interview that had appeared in an Albuquerque newspaper the year before. The article was as much about Estelle as anyone else, but at the time Estelle had been unable to contribute. Instead, she had been under intensive care in a metro hospital, tubed and drugged. Mercifully, there were no photographs of that, but the undersheriff remembered the intensive media coverage the case had generated. Of the shooting that had put her in the hospital, she remembered little. Not a very good track record, she thought.

      The third and fourth offerings were single photographs, and one of them she glanced at only in passing—it was the official county portrait of Estelle as undersheriff that hung in the hall of the Public Safety Building along with the gallery of all the Sheriff’s Department staff.

      The last photo, obviously taken by a professional, had been shot from backstage at the Cultural Center in Las Cruces in November. Her eight-year-old son sat at the keyboard of an enormous grand piano, the spotlights shooting reflective stars from the piano’s polished lacquer finish. His body leaned to the left, one hand poised over the bass keys, index finger targeting a single note to finish his presentation at the college recital. It was a gorgeous photo, dramatic, flattering, even exciting. Her son was impossibly handsome, caught in a shining moment as he and his audience were captivated by his music. The presence of that photo in company with the others had made her uneasy when it had first arrived, and did so again each time she opened the file.

      She leaned back and rested her chin on steepled fingers, looking at the photo of her son until the screen saver preempted it. Touching the keyboard, she brought the picture back, then called up the e-mail again, reading it carefully as if it might somehow include messages that she had missed the first dozen times, messages concealed between the lines. The reporter’s interest had progressed beyond the idle curiosity stage—she had done some research, and her request for interviews was courteous and professional.

      A week after that initial message and its attachments had arrived, Estelle had typed a careful response to the magazine reporter, heavy with bureaucratic disinterest.

      Dear Ms. Bolles:

      You are welcome to pursue any articles you wish about the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department, and we will be pleased to cooperate as time and policy permit.

      Although we are a public agency and our work is a matter of public record, details of ongoing, open investigations are not routinely available for inspection or review by the public or the press.

      Also, articles about individual employees are undertaken with the voluntary cooperation of each employee. Employees are under no obligation to discuss their work or their private lives with the press, although they may do so if they wish without review by, or permission from, department supervisors.

      Due to the nature of our work, it is impossible to set a schedule of appointments. While we encourage civilian ride-alongs with patrol officers on an occasional basis, we do require that participating civilians obtain a waiver of liability from County Attorney John Sherman. We are in business 24/7, and staff will always be here to meet with you, workload permitting.

      She grinned at the last sentence. Most of the staff, she amended aloud. She found it impossible to imagine himself, Posadas County sheriff Robert Torrez, agreeing to an interview with a reporter for A Woman’s World magazine…or any other magazine, for that matter, with the possible exception of Solitary Hunting. The Woman’s World reporter had a challenge waiting when she tried to interview the taciturn sheriff.

      Predictably, the magazine’s interest would focus on the women in the department, but unless the reporter’s approach was just right, she wouldn’t have much more success with Deputy Jackie Taber than with the sheriff himself. Taber, an ex-military loner, preferred working the graveyard shift, where most of the time she was left alone with her own thoughts and supervision.

      What photographer Linda Real would say—with her own hefty baggage of memories—was unpredictable. Chief Dispatcher and Office Manager Gayle Torrez, the sheriff’s wife, might be a useful ally for the reporter.

      County Manager Leona Spears had made them all aware of the power of positive publicity, regardless of how it might be skewed. Estelle was sure there would be plenty of magazine copy to be generated by the flamboyant Leona. With her relentless promotion, more funding than ever before had been pried loose from the county legislature, and garnered from carefully authored grants. There might be still more to gain from coverage in a national magazine.

      Still, Estelle had hesitated before sending her original e-mail reply, looking again at the photo of her son. The implications of that photograph being included were clear, she decided. But whatever the magazine editor’s real agenda was, it would not include little Francisco. That was certain. At age eight, the little boy didn’t need national media exposure, regardless of his prodigious talent.

      Finally, after taking a week to let things settle and sift, and satisfied that her reply said what she intended, she had tapped send, with a copy of the original request and her response sent to the sheriff, who wouldn’t read it, to the county manager, who would bubble with enough relish and anticipation to make the county commissioners nervous, and to each member of the department.

      That had been two weeks ago. Estelle had heard nothing from the magazine writer since then, and had even wondered if the idea had been abandoned. But that Friday morning, the second message arrived.

      Good Morning, Undersheriff:

      I’m delighted for the opportunity to talk with you and your staff. I plan to arrive in Posadas tomorrow, Saturday, Feb. 9th, and will touch base with you when I’m settled. I realize that this doesn’t give you much notice, but your response indicated that would not be a concern. We have had some scheduling issues at the magazine, and this window of opportunity recently opened for us.

      I look forward to meeting you. If you have any further questions, please don’t hesitate to contact me.

      Madelyn Bolles, associate editor

      Estelle typed a brief, polite response acknowledging the message, then shut down the computer, unplugged it, and tucked it into its slim black nylon case. Taking a moment to survey her pleasantly cluttered desk, she ran down the mental list of things pending.

      As Friday evenings went, this one was an interesting mix. At 6:30, the February sky was already dark, with heavy clouds to the southwest, obscuring the peaks of the San Cristóbals. No precipitation was predicted for the prairie, but in the mountains anything was possible.

      Even though the temperature held at fifty degrees in the village, the evening appealed to Estelle as a perfect time to curl up with her husband under a down comforter and watch the fire. They would have an hour or so while Francisco finished up his homework, but then his piano would beckon. Little brother Carlos, still spared the affliction of homework, would be deep in his constant passion, great heaps of modeling clay that he shaped into the wonders of the moment.

      The evening wouldn’t be as serene for other members of the Sheriff’s Department. She glanced at the clock. An hour before, the school bus from Lordsburg had arrived in Posadas via the interstate, carrying the junior varsity and varsity basketball teams for a late season game. Tip-off for the JV game was now minutes away, and two deputies, Tom Pasquale and Tony Abeyta, would work the raucous crowd at the school. As a routine precaution, the officers would escort the bus out of Posadas after the game, seeing it safely onto the interstate for the trip home.

      For whatever reason, a game between the evenly matched teams always lowered the common sense quotient of the crowd by several dozen points. Bearing that in mind, Deputy Dennis Collins would patrol the central portion of the county, including the village itself, staying only seconds away from the school if his backup should be needed. Captain Eddie Mitchell had planned to work late in his office catching up on paperwork and would swing by the school about the time that the final game buzzer sounded.

      Briefcase in one hand, laptop in the other, Estelle walked out of her office and paused at the magnetic whiteboard behind dispatcher Ernie Wheeler’s console. The list of working deputies was short, and would be shorter still when the graveyard shift began. Jackie Taber and Mike Sisneros would cover the whole of Posadas County, and the village of Posadas as well—7,500 souls, plus or minus.

      On Sunday, coverage would drop again, leaving one deputy for each shift.

      Ernie was talking either to himself—boredom could do that to a person—or into his headset, and he turned to catch Estelle’s eye, holding up a single finger in the wait a minute gesture.

      And where are you now? he asked, and paused again, finger still poised in the air. All right, we’d appreciate that. Someone will be out there. Stay on the line for a moment, please. He swiveled to punch a button on his console, and then turned back to Estelle. One of the highway department patrols is on her cell phone from just this side of the pass. She’s reporting a motor vehicle is off the road, way down in the rocks. Just short of mile marker four.

      Anyone around it?

      She can’t tell, and doesn’t want to climb down to look. She’s all by herself.

      "I can understand that, Estelle said. The climb down and back would be ghastly enough without the added possibility of bashed and mangled victims. Is there a state officer handy?"

      Nope. One’s got a vehicle down, and the other is thirty miles east on the interstate with an accident.

      If he’s clear, Dennis can head that way, then, she said.

      He is. I told him to stay central, but he can break away.

      Estelle nodded. I’ll be home if you need me. Ernie nodded and turned back to his radio.

      The undersheriff left the building, greeted by cold, moist air. A heck of a time to walk Regál Pass, she thought—dark, cold, wet, probably a biting wind thrown into the bargain. As she juggled the remote and pushed the button to unlock the door of her county car, she heard the deputy’s vehicle before she saw it. Collins’ unit turned south on Grande, grill lights pulsing. She watched until he was out of sight, under the interstate and headed southwest on State 56.

      His adrenaline would be pumping, she knew—any young kid with a hot car and twenty-nine miles of open road would be just as eager, provided that collecting a deer or peccary or armadillo in his patrol car’s grill at 90 miles an hour didn’t blunt his enthusiasm.

      As she turned onto Bustos from Grande, she saw the wink of lights from a southbound ambulance.

      A left-hand turn to South 12th Street put her in view of her home, and she could see a curl of smoke from the chimney. Her husband’s SUV was parked in the driveway, and Irma’s Toyota sedan was at the curb. With a wonderful predictability, a world of aromas would waft out the door as Estelle entered. Irma Sedillos, nana for the two boys, talented chef of the best Mexican food on the planet, a source of good cheer during the black moments, had become a family fixture, bringing some order to the chaotic nonschedule of a family that included both the undersheriff of Posadas County and her husband, a busy physician and surgeon.

      She parked beside her husband’s vehicle, and winked the red lights in the grill briefly at the face peering out through the living room window. With everything in order, she keyed the mike. PCS, three-ten is ten-ten.

      Three-ten, stand by. Ernie Wheeler’s tone was crisp. He didn’t sound the least bit understanding that the undersheriff was now home, parked in her driveway, anticipating hugs, hot food, and a long, quiet evening. Estelle waited, engine idling. Deputy Collins had had time to cover perhaps ten miles. Over at the high school, the basketball game was seconds from tip-off.

      Her cell phone rang, and Ernie’s familiar, low-key voice was urgent. Estelle, the gal from the highway department says that a trucker stopped and they both climbed down to the wreck. There’s at least one dead. You want me to call the sheriff?

      No. I’m already set to go. As she backed the county car out of her driveway, she could see her younger son, Carlos, standing in the front door, hands on his hips. She blew him a kiss, and then dialed the phone as she accelerated back up 12th toward Bustos. Irma answered on the second ring.

      We’ve got a fatal down on Regál Pass, Irma, she said.

      "Well, you almost made it, Irma’s voice replied. We’ll save some posole for you."

      Thanks.

      Do you want to talk with your hubby? He’s on the computer in the back room with Francisco.

      No. Just tell them I’ll be back late.

      You got it.

      And so it goes, Estelle thought. She forced herself to concentrate on one challenge at a time, switching back to the radio. PCS, three-ten is en route. ETA about thirty minutes.

      Ten-four, three-ten.

      Three-oh-four copies, Collins said, his voice oddly detached over the electronic airwaves. ETA ten. Ten minutes was a long time to wait if you were lying bleeding and broken down in a mountainside gorge…but that was only if the Good Samaritans were mistaken.

      Chapter Two

      The San Cristóbal Mountains created an effective border fence between old Mexico and Posadas County, New Mexico. The ragged, rotten granite peaks were inhospitable enough that even the most determined illegal immigrants sought other routes to wealth. Presumably, they thought it more pleasant to die of thirst or snakebite farther west in the Arizona desert than to plunge into a jagged, skin-tearing, bone-breaking crevasse high up in the San Cristóbals, to be soaked, baked, or frozen until the hungry spring ravens arrived to clean up the mess.

      State Highway 56 dove south through a dramatic saddle in the mountains at Regál Pass. The highway ended at the village of Regál and the days-only border crossing a hundred yards south of the Regál church. A dozen feet into Mexico, the highway faded into the gravel road that passed as the highway southbound to Janos, Buenaventura, and Chihuahua.

      Estelle let the heavy sedan settle in at 85, with the spotlight playing ahead to catch the reflection from startled eyes.

      The highway through Regál Pass was the best that modern design could manage. In fact, the current Posadas county manager, Leona Spears, had been instrumental in the redesign of the route while employed by the state highway department. Still, despite the highway’s wide, paved shoulders, bright lane markings, and rumble strips on both sides and down the center, motorists found a way to vault off into space.

      Five miles east of the Broken Spur Saloon, Estelle saw the flashing lights of the ambulance ahead, and she overtook the vehicle by the time they passed the bar’s parking lot.

      Beyond the intersection with County Road 14, the highway swept south and began to climb in earnest, widening to include a passing lane that continued all the way to the summit, where the third lane switched sides.

      Despite the broad right-of-way, the road became a tortuous serpent as it climbed, including one switchback across a jagged ravine where the highway was posted at 15 miles an hour.

      PCS, three-oh-four is ten-six just south of mile marker zero-five, Collins radioed. I’ll be with two civilians. Three-ten, what’s your twenty?

      Three-ten is just coming up the hill. ETA about five minutes.

      Ten-four. PCS, ten-forty-five, one and one as far as I can see. Ten-twenty-eight New Mexico Sam Lincoln Charlie two-seven-seven. I think it’s a Chevy S-ten, color white.

      Ten-four, dispatcher Ernie Wheeler responded. Three-ten, did you copy?

      Affirmative. One vehicle, one victim. A pickup truck with New Mexico plates could be a local, someone from Regál even, perhaps headed into town to see the basketball game. For more than a mile, the highway headed due west, climbing the flank of the mountain. Then another switchback sent Estelle east, and the highway snaked sharply upward. At regular intervals, the guardrail was scarred with blackened dents and scars, moments of panic when the drivers strayed or slid or swerved from the marked lanes and kissed the steel rail.

      The last time she had responded to an MVA on Regál Pass, it had been a trucker who had allowed his rig’s rear tandem duals to catch the end of a guardrail section. The rails had vaulted the trailer up and then refused to let go, the rig riding along like a wild locomotive, pinned to the wrong set of rails. By the time the thirty-ton load of scrapped automobiles jack-knifed and buried the cab under a pile of smoking junk, there wasn’t enough driver left for the EMTs to patch together.

      Mist now hung over the peaks, reaching down to the 8,000-foot level, just low enough to blanket the 8,012-foot pass. Estelle snapped on the fog lights, and seconds later the kaleidoscope of emergency lights broke through the mist. She slowed the car to a walk, easing past the bulky propane delivery truck that was parked along the guardrail off the oncoming lanes, its flashers bright. Just behind the big rig, a bright orange State Highway Department truck was marked with its yellow beacon pulsing in the mist.

      They were a quarter mile north of the pass itself, and even in clear weather, oncoming traffic would have had little warning when they came upon the scene. Fiery phosphorus flares were stabbed into the shoulder every dozen feet, so bright they hurt the eyes. A few yards uphill from the state truck, and on the other side of the road, Collins had parked his county unit tight against the steep bank. A dead deer lay in the ditch in front of his vehicle.

      A bulky figure wearing a bright orange safety vest over his down winter coat approached from behind the delivery truck. They’re down there, the man said, pointing over the guardrail. It’s a bad one.

      Estelle stepped to the rail and looked down through the rocks, brush, and fill left by the highway’s construction. She could see the beams of flashlights, and her own light reflected off the bent license plate. She played the light along the scar left by the truck’s hurtling trajectory. It appeared that this time, luck was not on the driver’s side. The likely scenario was a swerve followed by overcorrection. But when he had lost control and plunged his truck off the road, he had done so right at the beginning of the guardrail. The curved rail had acted as a vault, flipping the truck up and over.

      Tracks showed the truck had vaulted over a small hummock left by the original grading, then plunged down through the rocks, tumbling like a small toy. Unfortunately for the driver, it appeared that the truck went off the road with considerable momentum, ricocheting off boulders and trees, strewing parts along the way.

      Estelle palmed her handheld radio. Three-oh-four?

      Go ahead.

      What do you have down there?

      One vehicle. Looks like just the driver. I think he was ejected and then the truck got him. Maybe more than once.

      The ambulance approached, adding another Christmas tree of lights.

      Is there anything I can do? the trucker asked, and Estelle shook her head.

      I’d like you to move your rig in just a minute, Estelle said.

      You betcha.

      Three-ten, PCS.

      Go ahead, Estelle said, and then dispatcher Ernie Wheeler paused.

      Three-ten, be advised that vehicle is registered to Christopher Marsh, DOB six nine eighty-six. An address in Las Cruces.

      Ten-four. Ten-forty-six. It would be a challenge for the wrecker to winch this wreck up through the rocks, hoisting it over the guardrail. And we’re going to have a traffic problem. If you can find me another officer or two, I’d appreciate it.

      Almost immediately, the radio responded, but this time with Sheriff Robert Torrez’s soft voice.

      Three-ten, I’ll be down in a few minutes. You got it until then?

      Ten-four.

      You need Perrone?

      Estelle hesitated. The EMTs were as capable as anyone of determining whether the driver was dead—if the driver had been crushed by the flipping truck, odds were good that he was. But the emergency medical staff wouldn’t give up easily. If there was a breath, a whisper, of life remaining, they’d find it and nurture it along until they could transport the broken victim to Posadas General.

      Hold on that call for a minute until we see what we have.

      Ten-four.

      It appeared that the trucker was going to climb back in his rig, and Estelle took him by the elbow. Walk with me for just a minute?

      The man bundled along beside the undersheriff as Estelle walked uphill beyond the big rig and the state pickup to the point where the crashed truck’s skid marks were obvious on the damp asphalt. She aimed her flashlight at the deep gouges in the dirt mound where the pickup had catapulted off the pavement, ripping the rail from its supports.

      I bet he swerved to avoid that deer over there, the man said, nodding across at Collins’ Expedition. I counted fourteen on my way up the hill just a bit ago. He pointed into the mist. Including a mama and twins back by the pass sign.

      Did the truck pass you coming up from Regál, sir?

      No. I seen the highway department truck stopped, and the deer, so I pulled over. I figure that’s what he did…clobbered the deer.

      Hard to tell. But that’s most likely, Estelle said. She looked at the man, trying to remember his name. You’re working late tonight, she said.

      I’m runnin’ so far behind I’m about to meet myself, he laughed. This cold weather reminds folks that their tanks need toppin’ off.

      So you didn’t see any of this.

      Nope. I stopped ’cause the state truck was here and she was puttin’ out flares. She wasn’t about to climb down in them rocks without some company, but it ain’t gonna be me. I don’t need no broke leg just now.

      I don’t blame you a bit, sir. If you’d move the truck on out, that’ll help.

      You got it.

      A car approached from the south, and Estelle watched it go by, tires hissing on the pavement as wide eyes peered at them.

      The tanker started with a belch of fragrant propane fumes, and the undersheriff walked to the edge of the highway out of his way. She looked down at the lights far below. Switching the radio channel to local, she keyed the handheld.

      Dennis, what do you have down there?

      For a moment, she was answered only by silence, then Deputy Collins flashed his light up the hill at her. Estelle, I think before we move the victim, Perrone should take a look. Matty agrees.

      Matty Finnegan, the lead EMT, had voiced opinions many times before that Estelle valued.

      And you, too, Collins added. Estelle’s curiosity was piqued, but the last thing she wanted was a discussion of the accident scene, and the accident victim, over the public airwaves, even if the local handheld signal was limited in its range.

      I’ll be down in a minute. We need some coverage up here on the highway first.

      Connie is on her way up, he said, referring to the highway department worker. Matty and Cliff will stay here until you say otherwise.

      She watched the flashlight beam wobble its way up through the rocks, marveling again at the wild ride that the truck must have taken as it vaulted into space. In a few minutes, Connie Ulibarri reached the guardrail, grabbed it with both hands, and stopped, winded and red faced. She was a tiny girl, maybe twenty-five years old, her hard hat skewed back from her forehead.

      Dr. Perrone’s not going to like that climb, she managed. She walked uphill along the narrow lane behind the rail to join Estelle. The driver’s been dead awhile, she said.

      Just the one occupant?

      Yes. He wasn’t wearing the seat belt. The passenger side is retracted as well. He stayed with it for quite a ride, Connie said. Steering wheel is bent all to hell where he hung on. But then Dennis thinks that he went out the passenger side window.

      This evening sometime, you think?

      Maybe. But he’s stone cold, Estelle. That’s why Dennis was thinking that you and Perrone should take a look.

      Okay. How’d you happen to stumble on this, Connie?

      Ulibarri took a deep breath and pulled her hard hat straight. I saw the deer over in the ditch. She was out of the traffic lane, and I wasn’t going to stop, ’cause I could see she was too big for me to pick up alone, but then I saw that she had a Game and Fish radio collar on. I thought I should retrieve that. She nodded toward her truck. I got it in the unit. Then I started looking and saw the skid marks and the scuffed dirt by the rail. She shrugged. What a mess.

      The propane deliveryman said he didn’t see the wreck happen, either.

      No. He stopped after I did. I was settin’ out the flares, after I called you guys.

      Her handheld crackled again. Estelle, when you come down, you might as well come down loaded, Collins said. She could sense the excitement in his voice. I think we got something going on here.

      God, be careful, Connie said fervently. We don’t need you to take a header.

      No, we don’t, Estelle said. She left Connie to flag traffic, crossed to her car, and hefted the black field case out of her trunk.

      Chapter Three

      The pickup lay on its top, nose downhill. The twisted frame and torn bed had been mangled in every direction. A single stubborn bolt had refused to sheer, and the lightweight aluminum camper shell had been flailed into what looked like a white, rumpled sheet, still attached to the truck bed by that single bolt. The cab was crushed flat to the dashboard, having taken the brunt of the first somersaults over the guardrail.

      The EMTs had covered the driver’s body with a sheet of yellow plastic. Matty Finnegan and Cliff Herrera waited off to one side while Estelle surveyed the entirety of the catastrophe. The EMTs were well aware that adding their tracks to the scene only complicated matters.

      He stayed with it for a while, Matty said. She pointed up the hill. A hundred yards above, the guardrail was a faint glint in the lights of the parked vehicles. The scars where the truck had hit the ground were clear. Had the steep slope been covered with the characteristic runty brush of this rugged country, the little Chevy might have been snagged earlier, its crashing descent slowed. But the rocks hadn’t provided anything other than a hard springboard for each amazing tumble.

      Estelle nodded. The driver had stayed with the truck for most of the journey—unfortunately for him. What the crushing cab hadn’t done to him, the rocks had finished off. He lay smashed between two large slabs of limestone, and Estelle approached the body from the side away from the truck.

      She bent down and pulled the yellow plastic back. The young man—if it was his truck,

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