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hard-breathing Pasquale said, “Registration is George Victor Michael, and I think it’s Alpha. Last letter, Alpha. It’s pretty badly torn.”
    “Occupants?”
    A pause followed, then, “I’m looking.”
    “Try more to the northwest, as the hill rises. Over near a rock outcropping.” I closed my eyes and tried to visualize the terrain details, now replaced with the uniform charcoal wash of late evening.
    “Ten-four.”
    We completed another orbit before he came back on the air. His voice was strained. “Three-ten, I’ve found what looks like part of the cabin structure. I think it’s a section of the right side. One occupant is still belted into his seat.” The radio fell silent for a moment. “Apparently the left front seat was torn from the structure at some point. I don’t see it or any other occupants, if there were any. There’s…there’s a good-sized chunk of wing over to the left. Maybe over that way.”
    “Can you identify the victim strapped to the seat?” Pasquale had no way of knowing to whom the aircraft belonged, or who had been a passenger in it. I suppose I was putting off the inevitable as long as I could.
    We waited through another pause, this time longer, before Tom Pasquale said, “That’s negative, sir.” His voice was close to cracking. “There’s not enough here.”
    I felt a pang of sympathy for the kid. The prairie was a lonely enough place at night under the best of circumstances.
    I muttered a curse, and when Bergin leaned over to hear me, I just shook my head. “More waiting,” I shouted.
    “I wish there was someplace I could touch down, but I’d sure hate to try it. There’s that cow path over by the windmill to the west, but it’s rougher’n I’d care to try, especially at night.”
    “No, that’s not necessary,” I said.
    “I guess he needs to stay there, don’t he?” Bergin asked. “ ’Til somebody can get out here?”
    I nodded. “Let’s go back.” I keyed the handheld one more time. “Tom, we’re returning to Posadas. There’ll either be a chopper out here or a vehicle coming in from the Boyd ranch just as soon as we can manage it. Are you going to be all right until then?”
    “Ten-four.”
    I probably didn’t need to say it, but I didn’t want any screwups. “Don’t leave the site, and don’t touch anything,” I said. “Just wait for us. And if someone from one of the ranches shows up, don’t let them touch anything either.”
    “Ten-four.”
    The lights of Posadas winked into sight less than five minutes later as we cleared the mesa top. Bergin flew a conservative pattern, circling until he lined up on an eastbound final approach. I could see the lights of the terminal building, and as our tires squawked against the tarmac and we shot past the first intersection, I saw a fair collection of vehicles, including at least two from our department.
    Bergin turned off the runway and gunned the engine, heading us back up the taxiway.
    “I’ll be around all evening,” he said. “Just let me know what you folks need.”
    “I appreciate it,” I replied. “I don’t know if they’ve been able to round up a chopper or not.” As we taxied across the broad apron, the door of the mobile home that Posadas Municipal Airport grandly called a terminal opened and Sergeant Eddie Mitchell walked quickly across to intercept us. He stopped and waited while Bergin spun the plane around against a blast of prop wash and then shut it down in front of the hangar doors.
    I didn’t realize how stiff I was until I nearly fell on my face getting out. Mitchell waited by the wingtip.
    “Sir, Estelle’s inside with Janice Holman and her sister-in-law, Vivian Camp.”
    I kept my voice down. “Who called them? I didn’t authorize anyone to do that yet.”
    “They got worried that their husbands were overdue,” Mitchell said. “They called and talked with Linda Real. She didn’t tell them anything, but Janice Holman asked to speak with Jim Bergin. Linda