“Isidro forced his mother to go to Posadas with him?” she asked.
Wally nodded. “I don’t have much,” he said, “but I gave them what I had. Lucy, though…she’s got accounts. Over the years, she’s got accounts. That’s what they wanted.”
“So they robbed you, took what money you had at the service station, and now Isidro is taking his mother to the bank?” Estelle asked. “Isidro isn’t afraid that she’ll turn him in?”
Wally pulled his shoulders up in a slow-motion shrug. “I guess she won’t.”
No, I guess she won’t, Estelle thought.
Wally started to turn around to look at his other son, but didn’t complete the motion. “There’s been trouble, I guess you know that.” Somehow, he managed to make it sound as much his own fault as anyone’s.
“Yep, we know that,” Torrez said.
“Was Benny supposed to wait here until Isidro returned with the money?” Estelle prompted.
“That was the plan,” Wally said.
“You think Isidro will be back?”
“I don’t know.” Wally folded his hands as if to say, “what will be, will be.”
“What were they driving?”
“They took Lucy’s car. It’s that black-and-silver Chrysler.”
“Who’s driving?”
“I think Lucy was.”
Torrez looked across the room at Benny, who was studying the paint on the wall. “Your brother going to run out on you?” the sheriff asked. Benny ignored him. “Hell, I’d run out on him myself,” Torrez said. “The worthless sack of shit.” Estelle reached up and nudged the sheriff in the arm with the cell phone.
“They should still be at the bank,” she said, handing the instrument to Torrez, then rising and slipped past him. On the back shelf behind the small, open cash register, she found a crumpled phone book. She quickly leafed through until she found the number of Posadas National Bank. “If you ask for Dottie Sandoval, she’s got a good view of the entire bank from where she sits in her office.”
Torrez nodded and dialed. Estelle could hear the cheerful voice of the bank receptionist as she answered on the third ring.
“Dottie Sandoval, please. This is Sheriff Torrez.”
“I’m sorry, Sheriff. Dottie is with a customer right now. Can I take a message?”
“Who’s the customer?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Who…is…the…customer?”
“Well,” and the receptionist hesitated. “I think it’s…well, I guess I don’t know who it is. It’s an older man.”
“Let me talk with Dottie, please. It’s an emergency.”
Once deviated from her cheerful, prepared phone message, the girl’s polite good humor was quick to fade. “Well, wait just a second.”
Torrez waited, gaze locked on Benny Madrid. The phone clicked and a pleasant voice came on the line. “This is Dottie.”
“Dottie, Bob Torrez. Sorry to interrupt, but I need a favor that can’t wait.”
“Well, you just name it,” Dottie said, her voice a rich contralto.
“Without being too obvious, can you tell me if Lucy Madrid is in your bank at the moment?”
There was a brief silence. “Sure. She’s here. Do you need to talk with her?”
“No, no. I sure don’t. Where is she?”
“She’s here in the bank.”
“No, I mean where in the bank?”
“She’s with Mary Tuttle, the head cashier. Is there some kind of problem, Bobby?”
“Is she alone?”
“No. There’s a young man with her. I think it’s her son. It’s been a long time since I’ve seen her boys, but I think that’s who it is.”
“How long ago did they come in, do you happen to know?”
“Oh gosh…I wasn’t paying attention. I just don’t know. It couldn’t have been too long now. We just opened…about eleven minutes ago.”
“Okay, thanks. Look, Dottie, I hate to do this to you, but it’s really important that we know the instant that they leave, all right?”
“Well, sure. Give me a number.”
“Let’s just leave this line open. I’ll hold.”
“Well, all right. Do I get to know what’s going on? Is there trouble we should know about?”
“How about not right now,” Torrez said. He turned and glanced at Estelle, who was frowning. Had Isidro been planning to simply rob the bank, there would have been no need to take his mother along-and he’d have been in and out of the bank in seconds. If his plan was to recover as much cash as he could without raising an alarm, he’d hatched himself a pretty good scheme…as long as the smell of all that cash just over the tellers’ counter didn’t trigger a change in plans.
“Just let us know when they head out the door. I appreciate it. I’m putting Estelle Guzman on the line.” He handed the cell phone to Estelle and said quietly, “I’ll get somebody rolling from that end.”
As Torrez picked up the café’s telephone and set it on the counter, Estelle turned so that she could watch Benny Madrid. The young man sat quietly, following the sheriff’s every move. His feet shifted as he tested the ankle ties, and she could see his shoulders hunch and then relax as he strained against the stainless steel cuffs behind his back.
“Where’s the rifle, Benny?” Torrez asked conversationally as he dialed the phone. Estelle locked her hand over the phone mouthpiece so Dottie wouldn’t hear, but Benny said nothing. “Isidro has it with him?” He lifted the receiver to his ear and waited. “Hey there,” he said when his wife Gayle answered at dispatch. “Who’ve we got on the road just now?”
“Dennis is on duty this morning,” Gayle Torrez said. “He’s standing right here with Tommy Pasquale, who isn’t on duty and should be home in bed. And Jack Adams is just heading out the door.”
“Holler at Jack for me.” She did so without covering the phone, and Torrez winced.
Gayle returned on the line. “You want to talk to him?”
Torrez could hear voices in the background, including New Mexico State Policeman Jack Adams’ west Texas drawl. “No. But we’re going to need him, so keep him close for a minute. Let me talk to Tom.”
“Here he be,” Gayle said.
“Yes, sir?” Tom Pasquale said.
“Your head on straight this morning?” Torrez asked.
“Sir?”
Torrez glanced over at Estelle, who shook her head. Life at Posadas State Bank was continuing apace. “Okay, this is the deal,” the sheriff said, and quickly filled the deputy in. “Now listen to me,” he said, and turned his back to Benny Madrid, walking the length of the phone cord toward the front window. His voice sank to little more than a murmur. “I don’t want any kind of confrontation at the bank, Thomas. I don’t want Isidro Madrid or his mother to see you, or to suspect that you’re anywhere nearby. I want that son of a bitch out of Posadas, away from people. I want him to walk out of that bank with his mother with all the money they want, and I want them to drive out of town. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We’ve got an open phone line to the inside of the bank right now. Dottie Sandoval is watching for us. If you park over underneath the portico of Salazar’s Funeral Home, you’ll have a clear view of the front of the bank. Park in the shadows. I don’t want him to see you.”
“Got it.”
“When they leave town, I want you to follow way back. You understand me?”
“Yes, sir.”
“He can’t catch sight of you. If he does, Mama’s a dead goose.”
“Yes, sir.”
“When they reach Maria, I want you to drive right on through. He’s going to turn off, but don’t follow him. He’s going to be watching his back, and if he sees you, I don’t want him to panic. No fanfare, no slowing down. You drive right on through. Stop just beyond the village where that big arroyo is. All you’re going to do is keep us posted about what they’re doing when they leave the bank. My guess is that they’re going to head
back out of town to the south, down Sixty-one. I’d be surprised if it’s anything else, but we gotta know. That’s all. Use the phone. I don’t know if that bastard has a scanner with him or not.”
“Yes, sir. I’m on my way.”
“Move it, now. And let me talk to Dennis.”
When he finally hung up, Torrez stood at the window for a long moment, and Estelle could tell by the expression on his face that he was replaying the game plan in his mind. Jack Adams of the State Police was already headed out of Posadas southbound on State 61, his black trooper car a blur of speed. He’d be far ahead of the Madrids, even if mother and son walked out of the bank that instant.
Deputy Dennis Collins had walked the few yards from the Public Safety Building to the small computer shop that faced the back door of Posadas State Bank, where employees or people wanting to talk to installment loan officers were apt to come and go. In the event of trouble, he could be across the street and into the bank in seconds. Tom Pasquale’s county unit was poised a hundred yards from the bank’s front door, waiting. And Lucy Madrid was taking her time remembering where her money was.
Torrez turned and walked over to Wally Madrid. “Where did they leave their car, Wally?”
“I don’t know.” He shook his head in wonder. “I never saw it. They walked into my station, and I never saw it. I never saw them coming.”
Torrez shook his head and looked at Benny Madrid. “Where’s your car?”
Madrid grunted something and looked at the wall, his lip curled.
With a shrug, Torrez held out his hand for the phone that Estelle held.
“No movement yet,” she said.
“That’s okay,” he said. “We’re in no rush. We need Naranjo’s unit out of sight. You might as well invite him in to join the fun. I’ll keep Dottie company.”
“Is there someone else you can call in to keep watch at the back of the bank besides Dennis?”
Torrez shook his head. “If I had half an hour, sure. But they’re not even going to go out the back door. Not to worry.”
“You hope.”
There was just the hint of hesitation. “With all my heart that’s what I hope, Estelle.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Estelle closed her eyes and imagined herself in the backseat of Lucy Madrid’s Chrysler as it headed south on New Mexico 61. Isidro would be sitting hunched forward with his face nearly against the dashboard, his pockets bursting with more cash than he’d managed to assemble during the previous twenty-six years of his life, his eyes searching for the first errant wisp of dust or glint of chrome that smelled of trap.
What did a mother and son talk about at a time like that? Was Lucy Madrid counting down the miles until she’d be rid of her two troublesome boys? When she’d turned over her life’s savings to them, had she also given her best advice about which way to run? As she drove away from Posadas, did Lucy glance across the car at Isidro, see him sitting there with his fingers itching on the trigger of his rifle, and wonder what she had contributed to the creation of this monster?
Estelle shook her head to snap the webs. She opened her eyes and looked across the silent patio to the highway, and beyond that to the dirt lane that led past the café. Benny Madrid was safely trussed up inside the small restroom, no doubt struggling against the steel cuffs, the nylon ankle ties, and the duct tape that kept him quiet and trussed to the water pipes so he couldn’t kick the door. Benny didn’t think of himself as safe, Estelle was sure of that. She glanced down at the Beretta in her hand. She popped out the clip, studied the stacked pack of thirteen shiny rounds. “Ay,” she said quietly, and took a deep breath, driving the clip back into the weapon.
From somewhere inside the house, she heard a hollow thump. Tomás Naranjo was finding himself a good vantage point in the shadows behind the small window. Estelle felt the warmth of morning sun touch her head, and she moved another step back to pull her shadow into hiding. At the same time, she heard the howl of tires on pavement from the east, and then the muttering rattle of a jake brake slowing the tractor trailer.
She lifted the radio off the tiles. “Bobby?”
“Go ahead.”
“Traffic from the east. I thought Adams was going to block the highway?”
As she spoke, the huge truck rolled past, a polished stainless steel tanker with FRESH MILK in foot-high letters near the top access hatch.
“I told him to let the guy through. He’s nonstop, and it’ll look good for Isidro to see some normal traffic coming his way. If it’s too quiet, he might get edgy.”
“Where are they now?”
“Pasquale says that they’re about six miles out. She’s driving right at fifty-five. Pasquale’s hanging a mile back. I told him to fade back a little more to give them some time. They’ll be here in about six minutes.”
“Okay. I’m in the patio. Naranjo is in the house. He’s got a back window view.”
“Ten-four,” Torrez said. He sounded as excited as someone browsing through a library book sale.
Estelle placed the radio in a niche in the stack of tiles in front of her, transferred the Beretta to her left hand and flexed the fingers of her right, surprised at how tightly she’d been gripping the weapon. She looked at the welt left by one of the cactus spines in the back of her hand and grimaced. She could picture Eurelio Saenz lying under the flood of lights at Posadas General Hospital, the attending physicians wondering where to start.
She shifted her weight, transferring the Beretta back to her right hand. As she did so, the distant sound of an approaching vehicle reached her at the same time as Torrez’s voice said quietly over the radio, “They’re coming in.”
Sheriff Robert Torrez wasn’t often wrong. He had bet that Lucy Madrid would drive up J Street to the café. Isidro and Benny would leave the café together…after who knew what kind of farewell they had planned.
Lucy didn’t do that. Estelle heard the vehicle slow, then heard the crunch of tires as the car pulled off the highway just west of the Taberna Azul, out of Estelle’s line of sight.
“They’ve stopped west of the saloon,” she whispered into the radio. “I don’t know what they’re doing.”
She waited, head turned so that her peripheral vision would pick up motion approaching the rear patio gate, now ajar an inch or two, at the same time as she watched the highway and the front patio entrance. In a moment she heard the gravel crunch again, and the Chrysler appeared out front, turning up the lane toward the café. Lucy Madrid was driving, and she was alone.
Moving in slow motion, Estelle reached forward and turned the radio’s volume knob to zero so that a random burst of squelch wouldn’t tip off her position. She transferred both hands to the Beretta. Isidro Madrid was treading light, and she saw him before she heard him, his figure a shadow through the thin cracks between the boards of the patio gate. He walked quickly to the station wagon and reached for the door.
“Que chingado,” Estelle heard him mutter in irritation that his brother had been so stupid as to lock the car. The rattle of keys followed, and then silence. Estelle shifted position just enough that she could see through the slit of the door. Isidro was standing motionless beside the car, keys in hand. After a moment, he jabbed the key into the lock and wrenched the door open. He held the short rifle in his left hand, and she could see a semiautomatic pistol in his belt. He slid into the car. Estelle heard the metallic clack of electric door locks.
Isidro leaned back as he passed the rifle across to the passenger side. His hands reappeared on the wheel, and Estelle shifted again. The rifle was no doubt resting on the passenger seat, its butt perhaps on the floor mat. His other weapon was still in his waistband. She could see his left hand on the steering wheel, and his head ducked as he shoved the key in the ignition. She waited, forcing herself to be patient. Even though both of his hands were occupied and she might be able to take him by surprise, Isidro was protected by the bulk of the station wagon and the ten yards that separated them.
The
starter engaged, cranking the enormous old V-8. Isidro let it crank for three or four seconds, switched off, and tried again. Estelle saw the shadow of a frown cross his forehead. As if not believing his sudden turn of luck, he cranked the car over and over again until the battery started to fail.
After a final effort he slapped the steering wheel with a quiet oath. Twisting around, he looked out through the back windows, then relaxed in the seat. For a moment he was looking directly at Estelle, and she held her breath. Isidro would see the gap in the gate, but he wouldn’t be able to see through the shadows beyond.
On the highway, a car roared past. Estelle didn’t risk turning her head to look, but knew it would be Deputy Tom Pasquale. Isidro’s head swung to follow the sound. Pasquale stuck to the original plan and drove rapidly through the village, the sound of his car tires fading quickly to the east.
It took another full minute for Isidro Madrid to make up his mind. Estelle heard him say something to himself as he wrenched open the door and got out of the car. He was a slightly built man, an inch or so shorter than Estelle. The large automatic was in his right hand. He stood motionless beside the car, pistol held high, its muzzle almost touching his cheek. Estelle could see that his eyes were closed as he listened. She held her breath, hoping that Tomás Naranjo had a clear view and that he wouldn’t choose this moment to shift position.
Apparently satisfied, Isidro Madrid edged to his right, around the back of the station wagon. As he moved, he never took his eyes off the building. Once around the tailgate, he moved quickly to the front passenger door. The hinge groaned as he opened it, and Isidro gritted his teeth. Then he ducked down and came out with a short duffle bag and the rifle. Looping the straps of the bag around his left shoulder, he turned away from the car, not bothering to close the door.
“You’re going to do it,” Estelle breathed. Sure enough, Isidro Madrid set off at a fast jog, due south toward the border fence. She toed open the gate just enough to slip through and sprinted the few yards to the cover of the station wagon. At the same time she heard a thump inside the building. Already twenty yards away, Isidro heard it too, and started to sprint, dodging through the short scrub and cactus.
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