Double Prey

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Carla Champlin’s voice had taken on real urgency. “Your son is running over this way,” she said. “The other boy is down on the ground. Now I just don’t know what… ”

Traffic was light, only a single on-coming car at the intersection of Bustos and Grande. Estelle flipped on the grill wiggle-waggles, ran the red light, and accelerated hard to continue west bound on Bustos. At Eighth, she turned south. In a moment she could see the open prairie, an expanse of tans and browns bordering the Eighth Street cul-de-sac.

A dirt two-track had been carved into the desert by scores of dirt bikes, motorcycles, and four wheelers that had jumped to the open lot from Eighth Street. Estelle eased the county car over the worn, crumbling curb. Off to the left, she could see Carla, arms waving commands. A tiny figure sprinted away from the old woman back toward the arroyo, racing a beeline through the scrub to intersect the patrol car’s path. To the right, just back from the arroyo’s edge, the other boy was hunkered on his elbows and knees, head down near the ground.

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