All God's Promises (A Prairie Heritage Book 7)

by Vikki Kestell

  They walked into the room and Anthony stuck out his hand to an elderly gent sitting in a recliner. The man was thin, fragile looking and, although sitting upright, was somewhat stooped over anyway. His hair was long and white; his face was a mass of burnt sienna creases set in a perpetual scowl.

  “I see you haven’t lost your charming disposition, Red Chief,” Anthony observed.

  Nathan grinned and the two old friends shook hands. Owen watched and said nothing as the friends exchanged animated insults.

  Finally, Nathan raised his eyes to study Owen. “Who’s your companion?” he demanded.

  “This is Owen Washington. Hails from New Orleans.”

  Owen reached for Nathan’s hand and was surprised at the man’s grip. Nathan’s dark, deep-set eyes studied Owen.

  “You mustn’t think badly of us for our mutually degrading remarks. It’s how we old friends love on each other.” Nathan turned a glare on Anthony. “Took ya long enough to come and visit, you old beaner. I been in this place three years now!”

  Anthony shrugged. “I didn’t need anything from you before, Cochise. Now I do, and I figured I’d better get it before you kicked the can.”

  Nathan started wheezing, and Owen realized he was laughing. Still shaking with breathless humor, Nathan gestured for Anthony and Owen to pull up two chairs.

  When Nathan could speak again, he gasped, “It does my heart good to see you, old friend. Thank you for taking the time to come see me.”

  “You are a sight for sore eyes, Running Bull. Brings back a lot of memories.”

  Anthony and Nathan exchanged news and ran up and down many a memory lane before Nathan glanced at Owen and said, “I thank you for your patience while Anthony and I caught up, young man. However, I think Antonio was not all in jest when he said he needed something.”

  Nathan looked at Anthony. “And what can this decrepit old Indian do for this fat, lazy Mexican, huh?”

  “Fat? I’m not fat!” Anthony protested. “I may be ten pounds overweight—and I’m sure not lazy!”

  “All those homemade tortillas Gloria serves,” Nathan added, as though Anthony hadn’t spoken. “Warm, lard-filled tortillas. And carne adovada. Chicharrones. Red chile. Sour cream. Guacamole.”

  His drawn out sigh was tinged with drama. “Anthony, the people in this place are slowly starving me to death.”

  Anthony cracked up. When he stopped and caught his breath he said, “You cantankerous old red man—you always were jealous of my wife’s cooking.”

  The two men grinned at each other again and Owen found himself grinning along.

  In a conspiracy-laced whisper, Anthony said, “Tell you what, Raging Bull, if you are able to help us today, I will convince Gloria to cook you lunch—a hot meal with all the things you love—and I will bring it here myself, and we will eat it together. What do you say?”

  “What is it you want, Zapata? I will say anything,” Nathan mumbled. “Anything! Whatever it takes.”

  They shared another affectionate laugh. Then Anthony got down to business.

  “Thing is, mi hermano, I have a client who is also a good friend. Back in 1958, her folks were killed in a car crash south of here, on what was Route 66 back then. The highway was pretty primitive by today’s standards. Road had no shoulder to speak of.”

  “That was a long time ago,” Nathan remarked, “and yes; that was a lonely stretch of road.”

  “Yeah, it was. And this woman—her name is Kari—was six years old when it happened. Her folks’ car broke down alongside the road. They set her and her little sister and baby brother back from the road to keep them safe.”

  Anthony cleared his throat. “Thing is, a semi came barreling down the road and struck her parents and their car. Killed both of them.”

  Nathan shook his head. “Very sad. I’m sorry to hear this.”

  Anthony nodded. “Yes, it was tragic. And it was made worse by something else that happened.”

  “Yeah?”

  Owen, who was watching and listening, thought he detected a dreamy quality to the old man’s response. He glanced at Anthony and saw he was frowning a little.

  “Nathan, are we tiring you?”

  “What? Sure. Probably. I usually wake up early and take a nap—after they feed the animals.” He chortled and then lapsed into silence.

  “Should we go and come back in a couple of hours?”

  Nathan eased his head up and cracked one eye. “No. Slap me if I doze off, eh, Generalissimo?”

  “Um, right. I’ll try to keep this brief then. Where was I? Yeah, so after the truck killed Kari’s parents, she doesn’t remember much until she was in a bright room. A man and woman, a married couple, she thinks, were holding her sister and brother. Another woman in the room, a woman who seemed to be in charge, was giving Kari’s sister and brother to this couple.

  “Kari started screaming for them not to take her siblings. That’s when the woman in charge grabbed Kari’s arm, slapped her, and told her to never speak of her sister and brother again. Said if she did, that they would drown her sister and brother.”

  Nathan seemed to wake up. “Stole those kids, did they?”

  Owen broke his silence. “You don’t seem too surprised.”

  “Happened lots on the res back in the day, young man. Seen too many bad things and heard the weeping of too many mothers to be surprised at what Anthony says happened. I’m sorry though.”

  Owen was shocked and didn’t know how to respond. He glanced at Anthony, who pressed ahead. “When that woman leaned over to slap Kari, Kari saw that she was wearing a name tag. She says the tag was practically in her face. What she remembers is the name Marge. She believes the woman’s last name started with an S.”

  “What can I help you with?” Nathan asked.

  Owen thought he seemed confused.

  “Well, at first we thought this Marge S was a social worker. That did not pan out, so we started thinking of other agencies that might have intervened. For some reason, I thought of that boys’ ranch you worked at. Do you remember it? You told me a lot of tall tales about the fun you had with those boys and all the mischief they got into.”

  “Boys’ ranch?”

  Owen and Anthony exchanged looks.

  “You used to tend the horses at that ranch, remember? You taught the boys to ride and how to care for the horses, took them on trail rides? I can’t remember the name of the place. Gabaldon Boys Ranch? Garcia? No, that’s not it.”

  “Gabron.” Nathan’s voice sounded sharp again. “Gabron Boys’ Ranch. Of course, I remember it. Few miles northeast of Thoreau.”

  Anthony blew out a relieved sigh. “That’s right—Gabron Boy’s Ranch. What we want to know is, did a woman by the name of Marge work there?”

  “Work where?” Nathan had slipped back into that sleepy, dreamlike state.

  “You want I should slap you, old man?”

  Owen knew Anthony didn’t mean his threat. He was frustrated and trying to jog his friend out of his stupor.

  “What? I’m awake. And who you calling old?”

  “Marge. Did a woman named Marge work at Gabron Boy’s Ranch?”

  “Well, a’course she did.”

  A chill jittered down Owen’s back and along his arms until it reached his fingertips.

  Anthony’s hands were clenched in fists on his thighs. “She did? Can you tell us her last name?”

  “She was one mean Anglo, that old battle axe. Mean as a snake. You didn’t want t’ get crosswise of that one.”

  “You’re talking about Marge? Marge from the boys’ ranch?”

  “A’course I am. I’m not senile, Pancho Villa.”

  “Well, spit out her last name, Geronimo, or you won’t be sharing chicharrones and carne adovada with me anytime soon.”

  Owen could tell Anthony’s excitement was as taut as his own was, but the shock of Nathan’s next words blew him away.

  “Her name was Marge Showman. That brother of hers was one mean State bull. I didn
’t want t’ get crosswise with him, neither.”

  Showman. The State trooper who had filed the accident. His name had been Gary Showman.

  Owen breathed a silent plea. Lord! Is this your hand at work? Are we finally going to catch a break?

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 8

  ANTHONY PUSHED HIS TRUCK DOWN THE STATE ROAD as hard as he could in good conscience.

  “Marge Showman! Her brother, Gary Showman, was first on scene at the accident. Sounds like they may have had an illegal adoption thing already going on for him to have called her to the scene of the accident. Or maybe he took the kids to her. And the other two officers? Must have already been on the take.”

  Owen grunted his agreement. “We’ll figure it out. Now that we have all their names and their connection to Kari, it’s straightforward digging.”

  “Gary Showman is dead. His sister is likely to be. Nathan Running Bull said she was an ‘old’ battle axe.”

  “Yeah.” Owen didn’t say more. That they had gotten this far was nothing short of miraculous.

  O God, we’re trusting in you. He was surprised to hear his heart add, because, Lord, in you the lost are found.

  —

  THEY GRABBED LUNCH FROM A BLAKE’S LOTABURGER drive-through on their way in to Anthony’s office. Once there, they brainstormed their next steps while they plowed through burgers and fries.

  Owen stopped chewing and spoke around a mouthful of burger. “What’s this green stuff on my burger?”

  Anthony lifted an eyebrow. “Green chile, of course. Grown only in Hatch, New Mexico.”

  “On a hamburger?”

  “You’re in New Mexico, bud. Eat up. It’s good for you.”

  Owen’s taste buds decided the chile wasn’t bad. He chewed, swallowed, and took another bite.

  Green chile might grow on me.

  Maybe.

  —

  THAT AFTERNOON, THE TWO MEN WENT TO A LIBRARY and began delving through the telephone books of every town near and between Grants and Gallup. They searched for the name “Showman.” Listings for most of the tiny villages around the larger towns were lumped into a larger town’s book.

  Such was the city of Grants phone book. Owen finished with the Grants listings and opened to the little section in the back for Thoreau. He ran his finger through the S section.

  “Found something.”

  Anthony peered over his shoulder. “Huh! Another Gary Showman?”

  “Has to be his son, right?”

  “Write that down.”

  They tore back to Esquibel Investigations. Anthony glanced at the clock as he dialed the number Owen handed him.

  “Yes, hello. My name is Anthony Esquibel. I’m looking for Gary Showman?”

  He listened for a moment. “When will he be home from work?”

  Anthony slanted a look at Owen as he listened to the response. “I don’t want to interrupt your dinner. What would be a convenient time to call back? Well, if you don’t eat until 6:30, may I call back in twenty minutes? Yes. Thank you.”

  “Twenty minutes?”

  “Yup. Coffee while we wait?”

  —

  WHEN ANTHONY CALLED BACK IN EXACTLY TWENTY MINUTES, Gary Showman answered and demanded, “You selling something?”

  “No, sir, I am not. My name is Anthony Esquibel of Esquibel Investigations in Albuquerque. If I may ask, are you related to the Gary Showman who was a New Mexico State Police trooper and who passed away in 1982?”

  Anthony listened to silence on the other end for a few seconds before Showman asked, “Who did you say you were again? And why do you want to know?”

  “Mr. Showman, I assure you that you are not in any trouble, but I am looking for relatives of Gary Showman and his sister Marge Showman. Are you a relation?”

  The man, still wary, answered, “Gary Showman was my dad. Marge was my aunt.”

  “Mr. Showman, tomorrow is Saturday. Would you allow me and my associate to take you to lunch? We have some questions for you and would compensate you in some way for your time.”

  “Could I have your number? I would like my sister to call you. She’s an attorney.”

  Anthony hesitated, wondering at the man’s defensive posture. “Sure. Ask her to please call me today.”

  They hung up and Anthony looked at Owen. “He knows something and is scared.”

  “Is kidnapping a first-degree felony in New Mexico?” Owen asked.

  “Yep. No statute of limitations.”

  “But the guilty parties are dead.”

  Anthony shrugged. “Could be the family knew enough to blow the whistle and chose not to. That would be obstruction. And dirty little secrets aren’t pleasant when made public.”

  Some thirty minutes later the phone rang. Anthony picked it up on the second ring.

  “Esquibel Investigations.”

  Owen could hear only one side of the conversation, but Anthony gave him some verbal cues as to what was going on.

  “Ms. Sanchez, we are only looking for information. We would like to meet with you and Gary. In fact, please feel free to invite anyone who might have information about either Gary or Marge. Especially Marge.

  “Yes, especially Marge. She has a daughter? Yes, please bring her. And we are more than willing to pay you for your time. Say, fifty dollars an hour, per person?

  “Well, shall we say only the immediate relations of Gary and Marge? No, no kids, please. Yes. Lunch and fifty dollars an hour. That’s right.

  “Where and when?”

  They made the arrangements and Anthony hung up. “Sounds like we’ll meet at least three descendants of Gary and Marge tomorrow.”

  “Marge had a daughter? But her last name was still Showman?”

  Anthony lifted one shoulder. “Lots of unmarried pregnancies in New Mexico.”

  —

  THEY MET AT THE AGREED-UPON RESTAURANT in Thoreau at 11:30. Gary was large and intimidating, even for a man nearing retirement. Owen wondered if his father had been as formidable, made more so by the uniform he’d worn.

  Gary’s sister, Judy Sanchez, wasn’t nearly as physically intimidating, but her attitude was professional and cool. She, too, looked to be in her sixties, with short, iron-gray hair.

  The oldest of the three, Marge’s daughter Dot, reminded Anthony of the aging hippies who lived in the Jemez Mountains. She seemed more curious than anything else.

  They shook hands all around and sat at a corner booth that provided a modicum of privacy. No one said much until the waitress had taken their orders.

  Judy spoke first. “What’s this all about? And until we understand what it is you want, I will do all of the talking. Consider me their lawyer.” She poked her chin in Gary and Dot’s direction.

  Owen let Anthony talk. “Ms. Sanchez, as I said on the phone, we are only interested in information. We are willing to stipulate that nothing you might reveal to us would be used in any legal setting. That said, the defensive posture you have presented tells me you must have an inkling as to why we are here.”

  Anthony stared at the woman, but she did not flinch or look away.

  “Our ‘posture,’ as you call it, tells you nothing. Please ask your questions and I will determine what our answers will be—if we answer at all.”

  Anthony shrugged. “Very well, then. Before I ask anything specific, let me tell you about our client.”

  Anthony outlined the accident and Kari’s remembrance of what happened afterwards. He presented a copy of the accident report filed by Gary Showman and spoke of Marge Showman’s employment at Gabron Boy’s Ranch.

  The waitress returned to serve their food. Those seated at the table remained silent until the waitress, with curious glances, finished setting down plates and walked away.

  “Go ahead and enjoy your lunch,” Anthony instructed. “I’ll talk and you listen while you eat.”

  He finished recounting Kari’s description of the accident and what followed. He described the results of his and Owen’s r
esearch.

  “Here’s what we think happened,” Anthony concluded, looking at Gary and Judy. “Your father, Gary Showman, and his sister”—he nodded at Dot—“your mother, Marge, had an illegal adoption racket going on. They took Kari’s three-year-old sister, Elaine, and her six-month-old brother, Samuel, and sold them.”

  He looked directly at Dot, whose eyes were large in a white, bloodless face. “Marge threatened Kari. Marge told a six-year-old little girl that if she ever mentioned her sister or brother again, that she, Marge, would call their adoptive parents and have them drown those kids. Kari was so traumatized by her parents’ death and Marge’s threats, that she blocked those memories for thirty-three years.

  “Now that she remembers what happened, the only thing she wants is to find her siblings. She doesn’t care about prosecution—and, after all, Gary and Marge are both deceased, right? So no prosecution. And Kari doesn’t care about publicity, doesn’t care about making what happened public. All she cares about is locating her sister and brother. So what’s it gonna be? Are you willing to help us?”

  “Don’t say anything, Dot,” Judy cautioned. “Let me handle this.”

  Judy toyed with her fork and half-eaten lunch. “Suppose we might have some information. What assurances will you give us that you won’t destroy our family’s privacy?”

  “Whatever assurances you ask for,” Anthony answered. “You’re an attorney. Draw something up. We’ll sign it. We only care about those two kids.”

  In response, Judy Sanchez pulled a small cassette recorder from her purse and switched it on. “This is Judy Sanchez, New Mexico State licensed attorney, speaking with Anthony Esquibel and Owen Washington, September 5, 1991. Also present are Mr. Gary Showman and Miss Dorothy Showman.

  “Mr. Esquibel and Mr. Washington will identify themselves and attest to the confidentiality of this meeting. No information provided here today can or will be used in a court of law or be made public in any fashion or venue. Information provided here today may be disclosed to their client and her legal counsel only and may be used exclusively pursuant to locating their client’s siblings.”

  She nodded to Anthony and Owen.

  “Anthony Esquibel of Esquibel Investigations, Albuquerque. I stipulate to the conditions of this meeting as laid out by Ms. Sanchez.”