Less Than a Moment

by Steven F Havill

  Maddy shook her head in resignation. “No. You go ahead. I’m so sorry about what happened that I’ll do anything to make it right. But that’s never going to happen, is it? Making things right, I mean.”

  “You can help us understand the ‘why’ of it all, Maddy.”

  She fell silent and took the moment to pour hot water in Estelle’s cup. “I’m so sorry about Mrs. Thompson’s husband. Rolando…Rolando, he knew about that spot on their land. He told me that he’d been over there lots of times, that it was scary. Just like straight down over the rocks.”

  “He told you that he’d had an encounter with Kyle Thompson.”

  Maddy nodded and snuffled into the tissue again. “He said once when he was over there, he stood in that spot and had this really powerful urge to jump. He didn’t like heights ’cause of that. He said once he stood on the top bleachers of the football stadium over at the high school, and all he wanted to do was jump off the back railing.”

  She rewadded the tissue to give herself a dry patch. “I’ve never felt like that, but I’ve read that some people do, and I would think that it’s a terrifying feeling. Then he saw Mr. Thompson standing right on the edge, talking about all the building he was planning to do. And so Rolando kicked him. He didn’t say that’s what happened, but that’s what I’m thinking.”

  “Why would he do that, do you suppose?”

  “I don’t know. Some bizarre impulse is all I can imagine. I mean, I can’t imagine. He said that Thompson told him once a few days ago to keep his motorcycle off the property, and he was mad at him for that.”

  “You two were arguing on the day of the shooting, Maddy. What was that about?”

  The young woman didn’t ask how Estelle knew, but said, “I was so mad at Rolando. I really was.”

  “Why was that?”

  “See, he does things. I mean, he did things. Crazy things. He was mad at Mr. Waddell for not hiring Quentin on the train crew. He knew how much Quentin wanted that job, but then that stupid article came out in the paper?”

  “The police blotter.”

  “Yes. And Quentin and Rolando were best buddies, and Rolando just thought it was stupid. So he did a drive-­by, can you believe that? He did tell me that he’d done that, and I was so furious with him.”

  “But not enough to turn him in.”

  Maddy’s eyes slammed shut, and then she said, “No. I should have, but I didn’t, and that State Police guy said that’s something the District Attorney would deal with. I mean, I should have told you guys, but I didn’t. That’s my fault, I know it is. But what’s the point, I mean. Does Rolly really think that shooting out some windows is somehow going to change the newspaper’s policy or something? I mean, getting his name in the paper was Quentin’s own fault, after all. But then the whole town was in an uproar because Rik Chang and the editor lady were hurt. It wasn’t just broken glass. I was petrified.”

  “But he commits the shooting with Quentin’s gun, Maddy. Who’s going to take the blame when it comes to that?” Maddy Lucero snuffled, and Estelle added, “You were dating Quentin, were you not?”

  She nodded.

  “And now you were dating Rolando.”

  The tears came again, and she reached out for the box of tissues that rested on the table.

  “Kind of a triangle, don’t you think?”

  “What are you saying?” Maddy bleated.

  “If Quentin is blamed for the newspaper shooting, that takes him out of the picture, no? Ballistics match his gun? Who does the finger point to?”

  Maddy’s black eyebrows puckered together. “You think Rolando did the shooting on purpose to get back at Quentin?”

  “It’s possible, isn’t it?”

  “Rolando doesn’t think things through like that,” Maddy said, and Estelle was hard put not to laugh, and Maddy saw the shift in expression. “No, really. He doesn’t.”

  “Apparently not. And when he has this brainstorm to go on his strafing run, he doesn’t stop to think that there might be somebody working late at the newspaper office. Someone who might be hurt. He didn’t think about that. And he didn’t stop to consider that by taking the school superintendent’s SUV that he was committing grand larceny auto?”

  “That’s what we were arguing about. He told me that he did that stupid stunt, I told him he should turn himself in for that, before things got any worse. ’Cause the cops were going to find him out, sooner or later. I mean, Quentin’s uncle…he never lets go.”

  “Did you know about Rolando’s plans for the newspaper shooting beforehand?”

  “Of course not. If I hadda, I would have hit him over his stupid head with a frying pan or something. I only found out about it later.”

  “Was he here that night?”

  “Yes.”

  “He stayed late?”

  “About midnight, I guess.”

  Estelle carefully folded a napkin around the sopping tea bag. “When he left here, did you see where he went? What direction he went?”

  Maddy shook her head. “I didn’t watch him.”

  “Why didn’t he stay with you?”

  “He said he had something to do.” She shrugged. “And we were workin’ the next day, so…”

  “You weren’t at NightZone that night, then.”

  “No. My day off.”

  And there sat the superintendent’s Navigator, Estelle thought, all by itself in the school parking lot, easy to see from the apartment.

  “Just after your scrap with Rolando, over at his place? We arrived and the sheriff asked to collect Quentin’s rifle. Rolando tried to give him a different gun. Why would he do that?”

  Maddy stared into her tea for a long moment. “’Cause if what you’re saying is true, if he turned over that gun of Quentin’s to the sheriff, it would be all over. That’s what I think. You guys would just keep at it, and eventually…” She waved both hands over her head, as if trying to ward off the thoughts. “And then you’d find out about him kicking Mr. Thompson over the rocks.” She gave a long, helpless shrug. “He didn’t admit to doing that, but I really think he did. It’s just so him, you know. All over, one way or another. I know that Rolly was getting frantic.”

  “Did he ever talk about Thompson with you? Did you have any inkling, any hint, about what he was planning to do?”

  “No. And you know what? I don’t think Rolando did, either. I think the opportunity presented itself, and boom. He kicked out, but he couldn’t take it back.” She wadded more tissue. “Just impulse.” She looked up at Estelle. “Just like with you guys. The sheriff grabbed his arm, I guess to keep him from going into the house. I saw that happen, and off goes Rolando’s hair-­trigger temper, and he kicks the sheriff. And the sheriff had no choice, did he? I mean, when Rolly started shooting, he had to put him down.” She was openly crying then, but ignored the tears.

  Estelle reached out and turned off the microrecorder.

  “What happens now?”

  “Now, this gets written up into a formal statement. A copy goes to the State Police, a copy goes to the District Attorney, a copy stays in the Sheriff’s Department files. The State Police will have more questions for you, some of them based on this…on what you’ve told me. It will be to everyone’s advantage if you cooperate with them. Just answer their questions as best you can. There may come a point when it’s suggested that you hire a lawyer. But you’ll do fine.”

  Maddy Lucero closed her eyes, cradling her nose in the huge wad of tissue. “I don’t think I’m ever going to be fine again.”

  Chapter Thirty-­Six

  When her phone vibrated, Estelle had been staring at the clock. Twenty-­seven hours and a few odd minutes remained until the Gulfstream IV carrying Francisco, Angie, and the baby—­this time in company with Carlos and Tasha—­would touch down in Posadas, and thinking of that moment filled Estelle with bo
th joy and apprehension.

  Her sole souvenir of the shooting was the tiny bruise between her breasts, compliments of one of the twenty-­two slugs that had whacked through her blouse and into her vest.

  “I don’t think I want to tell the kids,” Estelle had said to her husband.

  “Well, that’s not going to work,” Francis replied. “They’ll read the stories in the newspapers and that makes it pretty clear exactly what happened. Let them ask, and then go with the casual shrug and a ‘That’s why we wear vests’ explanation.” He smiled down at her, but his dark eyes were pained. “You’ll know what to say when the time comes.”

  If, if, if. She’d thought that through dozens of times, imagining what she would have missed had she and Bob Torrez not worn vests, or if Rolando Ortega had taken another instant and aimed for the head. No reunion on the airport tarmac, no sharing the triumph of careers, no participating in her children’s or grandchildren’s lives.

  The awful experience of eight years before would flood back, that moment when Manolo Tapia had shot her with a nine-­millimeter, and the bullet had struck her under the right armpit where the vest offered no protection. In less than a moment, her life had been in jeopardy, saved only by the skills of trauma surgeons—­her husband included.

  She knew there was no point in stewing, but that was easily said. The ruminations came unbidden and were resistant to interruptions.

  Her phone vibrated, and for a moment, even though she recognized the number, she watched it turning circles on the polished desktop before picking it up. She’d come close to being outlived by an eighty-­five-­year-­old.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Is it?” His tone was rich with concern, and she smiled at the blunt, gravelly voice.

  “I think there’s potential.”

  “I’ll take your word for it. Look, I know it’s a little early, but I gotta have lunch. I’m starving, curious, and all at the same time, ebullient.”

  “That’s quite a combo, sir.”

  “You bet. The State Police tell me that you all pretty much have things squared away.”

  “Getting close.” That former Sheriff Gastner still had a line into the State Police hierarchy didn’t surprise her a bit.

  “That’s good to hear. So how about it?”

  “Lunch sounds delightful, in a dark booth far in the back of a dark corner.”

  Gastner laughed. “You’re trying to avoid Frank Dayan.”

  “How could you possibly know that, sir?”

  “You forget I have a long history with Frank. I know how he works. By the way, I drove past the newspaper office earlier this morning. The kid is back at work, wearing this sporty arm sling, camera in hand, headed out.”

  “Great news, as long as he’s not headed my way.”

  “Probably going to talk a photo out of Sir Robert.”

  “I wish him luck with that, Padrino.”

  “No Grand Jury, by the way. I damn near ran over Dan Schroeder with my wheelchair at the courthouse just now. I told Dan that if he tried to target Roberto with a Grand Jury investigation after a righteous shoot like that, he wouldn’t be elected to dogcatcher, should the county establish such a position.”

  “I’m sure the DA was happy to hear your views, sir.”

  “Hey, when you’re old and grumpy, you can get away with damn near anything. Anyway, I earned one of those weak Schroeder laughs, and he said no indictment would be sought.”

  “Great news. I’m glad you’re in the loop, sir.” She reached out and picked up the Post-­it note that was first in the small pile by her phone, the one that listed Schroeder’s number, the one that she had pointedly ignored. She stuck it to the phone itself, something to take care of after lunch.

  “Oh, and I have some other news, too,” Gastner said. “Too astounding to divulge over the phone. I’m having way too much fun, I can tell you that much.”

  “I wait with bated breath.”

  “Good deal. I’m out in the parking lot at the moment. Let’s eat.”

  He was leaning against the front fender of her Charger when she walked outside, his walker folded and ready to stow in the back seat.

  She returned his hug and then, with a still-­beefy hand on each shoulder, he held her at arm’s length.

  “You’re okay?”

  “Yes.”

  “Bruises?”

  She touched the center of her chest. “A little one, right there.”

  He grimaced and shook his head.

  “So what’s your news?” She held the door for him as he maneuvered into the low-­slung sedan, and then she slid his walker into the back seat. Once behind the wheel, she looked at him and raised an eyebrow in inquiry.

  “You remember who Colin Wheatland was?”

  “Vaguely. He’s the one who was accused of killing Josiah Bennett way back when.”

  “Good memory, and that’s right. Josiah’s son-­in-­law. They convicted poor Colin, and strung him up, but there was no proof he committed the murder, even back in those days.” His grin was huge. “He is the one who purchased the Colt revolver from the mercantile. His signature is in the book. He forked over nineteen dollars and fifty cents for it, in two installments. That’s why he signed, I think. Making payments.”

  “Wheatland bought it?”

  “Yep. Irving is mailing me a copy of the page that shows Wheatland’s purchase. How’s that for a twist?”

  “That’s kind of neat.” She started the car. “Now all you have to do is find out why Wheatland dropped his revolver and never reclaimed it. Why it lay out there for a century or more before you picked it up. And why it was fired twice before being dropped.”

  “See? Good stuff, right? And I’ve got my theories,” Gastner said, and he rubbed his hands together in delight.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Robert Rosenwald and Barbara Peters, along with their staff at Poisoned Pen Press, who have spent years of their valuable time supporting the efforts of beginning and veteran writers alike.

  Thanks to “roadie readers” Laura Brush and Lif Strand. A writer could not ask for more encouraging and supportive readers.

  About the Author

  Steven F. Havill lives with his wife of more than fifty years, Kathleen, in New Mexico. He is the author of more than thirty novels, taught in secondary schools for twenty-­five years, and earned an AAS degree in gunsmithing in 2006.