“Well,” I said, and turned to find Dale Kenyon. He was walking toward us through the trees, a black plastic folder under his arm. “Let’s check a map.”
“I can’t believe we’re still looking at maps,” Browers said.
He had every reason to be snappy, and I could imagine just how frustrated he felt. “Maps keep us organized,” I said pleasantly. “If we knew exactly where a lost three-year-old would go, then the boy wouldn’t still be lost, would he?” Cole’s forehead furrowed, and I saw a flash of color that was more than exertion. “All of these folks have damn near lived up here for the past two days, same as you. I’m the newcomer on the block, and I need a map. Leave me alone up here for two minutes, and you’ll be looking for me, too.”
“Here’s a topo map of the area,” Kenyon said, and he spread the plastic-coated map out on a level spot. “Here’s where we are, right in from the rim.” His finger followed the contours where they bunched together, indicating the steep country. “You can see that in another quarter mile or so, the country opens up some.”
“What’s this?” Browers asked, and when he knelt, his knees cracked like an old man’s.
“Turkey Springs,” Kenyon said. “It’s an old water-catchment system that’s been abandoned for years. The permittee on that section drilled a well farther east.”
“That’s Boyd?” I asked, and Kenyon nodded.
“Johnny Boyd. Right.”
I cracked off an oak twig and used it as a pointer so I wouldn’t have to kneel. “His place is about three miles north and west. Right there.”
“And this is the closest road,” Browers said, tapping a faint dotted line.
“That two-track runs along the edge, then cuts down the mesa,” Kenyon explained. “It joins up with Forest Road Thirty-three at the base of the mesa, and Thirty-three winds farther on down, eventually joining up with County Road Fourteen. And by the way, we’ve had search teams sweep right along this mesa in that general direction, all the way to that two-track, and all the way to Thirty-three. So I don’t know.”
“Shit,” Andy Browers said, and stood with his hands on his hips, as if he could discipline an answer out of the pinons.
I stepped around the map and knelt by Tiffany Cole. Her eyes were closed and her face was still muffled in the jacket. I was afraid for a moment that she’d gone to sleep. “Mrs. Cole, can you answer a couple questions?”
She nodded and lifted her face out of the polyester. “That’s your son’s jacket?”
“Yes.” Her voice was small and distant. Her lip quivered, but she wouldn’t look directly at the jacket she held in her hands. Instead, her eyes-and they would have been pretty had they not been shot through with so much red-were focused somewhere off on the horizon.
I put a hand on the tiny garment, and Mrs. Cole jerked as if she feared I was going to take it away. Instead, I just gave it a pat, leaving my hand on top of hers. “Was the jacket torn? The last time you saw your son, did his jacket have these tears in it?”
Then she focused, her eyes following the four parallel rents down the back of her son’s coat. It was as if I’d pulled the plug on whatever small energy source she had left. She crumpled backward before I could catch her, her head hitting the base of one of the little oaks with a thump.
Andy Browers was at her side in an instant, as were Deputy Pasquale and Dale Kenyon. I backed off to give them room. Movement to my right attracted my attention, and I glanced up, to see Estelle Reyes-Guzman walking back through the trees, toward the spot where we’d left the truck, Camille, and little Francis.
Mrs. Cole needed a hot bath, a massive sedative, and about two days in a soft, warm bed. And none of that would make it any easier. We still didn’t have a clue about the boy’s whereabouts. And now, every time she drifted back to the real world, Tiffany Cole would think of that jacket and wonder what the hell had taken a swipe at her son-and if whatever it was had ever come back to finish the job.
I didn’t blame Estelle a bit for wanting to go hug Francisco.
Chapter 12
The search teams spent the rest of the day on the mesa, systematically enlarging the search area, and now concentrating to the northwest of the campsite. The mood was grim when we left, and I could imagine every pair of eyes nervously flicking to any small shadow or trace of color, fearful that they’d find another clothing remnant, this time with a chunk of little Cody Cole still inside.
I caught up with Estelle as we approached the Blazer. I was carrying the blue jacket, holding it gingerly by the inside collar. “I’ve got a large evidence bag in the back,” I said. “You’re going to want to take this with you, I assume.”
She nodded, and I could see that Estelle wasn’t buying the rumor of a wild animal, which was the current mesa favorite. I hadn’t mentioned her misgivings to anyone, and neither had she. But I could tell that was on her mind. Her black eyebrows damn near touched over the bridge of her nose, so fierce was her concentration. She brightened a bit when she saw her son.
“I’m sorry we took so long,” she said to Camille, but this time it was Estelle and I who were interrupting the action. My daughter and little Francis were busy. Camille had folded down the backseat, and they were in the midst of a board game-using rules that had never occurred to the manufacturer.
Camille looked up and grinned, her eyes shifting to me as I bagged the jacket and scrawled my initials on the tag. The grin faded.
“Just that?” she asked.
I nodded. “So far. No blood, no signs of injury. No nothing.”
“God,” Camille whispered.
“What are you doing?” I said, and she looked down at the fistful of red plastic hotels in her right hand.
“These are all ore trucks,” she said, as if I’d know just what she was talking about.
“Where did that come from?” I asked. I knew more or less the contents of my vehicle, and a board game wasn’t on the list. Camille motioned toward Estelle’s voluminous backpack.
“His aunt in Veracruz sent him that,” Estelle said. “He just got it yesterday.” I cocked my head, leaned closer, and got the thing within range of my bifocals. Sure enough, it was the Spanish version. And just as deeply as he’d been occupied by the game, Francis just as quickly came unglued. He stood quickly, upending the board and scattering pieces.
“Oops,” he said, and then helped as much as any three-year-old could as Camille and Estelle gathered houses, hotels, and metal players’ pieces from the cracks in the Blazer’s anatomy.
“The reporter was nosing around,” Camille said quietly as Estelle finally slid the lid onto the box.
Estelle nodded. “I saw her walk over this way.”
“She apparently knows Francis?” She tucked an arm around the kid and held him in a hammerlock.
Estelle shot a quick glance at me, and her eyebrows furrowed again. “She did a feature story on me before the election last year, and of course”-she shrugged-“she covered the election itself. She talked us into a family picture for that first story.”
“She took my picture,” Francis said.
“That’s right,” Estelle said, “she did, didn’t she? You and Papa and me. You didn’t have a baby brother yet.” It was a decent photo, too. I had a copy in my scrapbook. Estelle may have had a fetchingly photogenic family, but that hadn’t been enough for an election win. Progressive had never been an adjective I would have applied to Posadas County, and the electorate had declined the opportunity to elect New Mexico’s first female Mexican sheriff.
“No,” Camille said. “What I think he means is that she took a picture or two of him just a few minutes ago.”
“Why would she do that?” I asked. “How could she take a picture through the glass, anyway?”
Camille grimaced. “Bad timing, Dad. We were outside.” She gestured at two small junipers and a pinon that snuggled together. “Potty time. I promised I’d wait right here by the truck while he went over there.”
“All of fifteen feet,”
I said.
“Yep,” Camille said. “We were just about to climb back in so I could beat him in round two when Miss Photog showed up. She snapped a picture of Francis climbing into the truck, with me standing by the door, looking stupid.”
“Ah, well,” I said.
“And maybe another one after that.” Camille released Francis so his mother could help him clamber his way into the seat belt shoulder harness that secured him in the small seat, looking like a miniature jet pilot ready for ejection.
“And she asked if you’d call her later,” Camille added.
Estelle nodded and turned to look at me. “How are you holding up, sir?”
“I’m fine,” I said, and leaned an arm on the Blazer’s door. “I’ve been watching you think, so you’re the one doing all the work. What’s next?”
I could have predicted the result of that question. Estelle Reyes-Guzman played her cards close, even with me.
“Sir,” she said, pulling the last of her son’s belt tight, “We’re going to have to talk with the Coles. In private, away from the rest of the audience.”
“All right,” I said.
“I’d like you to be there. And Sheriff Holman.”
That surprised me, and Estelle grinned when she saw my expression. “He actually has an astute streak, sir.”
“However narrow,” I said. “Just say when.”
She glanced at her watch. “About eight this evening would be just about right. It’ll be dark by then; they’ll be exhausted and willing to come off the mesa for a while.”
“At the office?” Camille’s face didn’t show a flicker of annoyance when I said that. Perhaps she hadn’t heard.
Estelle nodded. “I need to talk with my husband for a few minutes. And I’ve got some other odds and ends to wrap up this afternoon.” She walked around the truck and climbed in the driver’s seat. She put the key in the ignition and hesitated. “This morning I put out a bulletin for the child,” she said. “I probably should have done that last night.”
“There’s always a chance,” I said. “Who knows. Maybe they’ll find him today. Maybe they’re heading in the right direction now.”
“He’s not up here,” Camille said quietly. I cranked around to look at her, and Camille shook her head. Her right arm had drifted over so that her hand rested lightly on the nape of little Francis’s neck. “He’s not up here,” she repeated.
“No,” Estelle said. “He’s not.”
Chapter 13
My office door was locked when I arrived that evening, and it took a moment to fumble for the right key before I pushed the door open. The interior of the Posadas County Public Safety Building-a grand name for an aging adobe-had been remodeled the previous year, making room for the updated computers, wiring conduit, massive files, and more computers.
Posadas County residents hadn’t paid a cent in raised taxes for the expensive renovation. The gleaming hardware, updated information-retrieval systems, and even the new furniture were all testimony to Sheriff Martin Holman’s grant-writing talents. No one had ever convinced me that a tiny New Mexican county with fewer than eleven thousand residents needed any of it, but I had learned to keep quiet.
Parts of the renovation I liked. Parts of it made me grimace.
In most places throughout the building, the floor was beautiful polished tile that didn’t generate either static or warmth. It was easy for a lackadaisical trusty to mop clean, and drunks could vomit all over it, or even bleed on it, and it could be wiped clean in a jiffy. On a cold winter’s day, it was as comforting as an ice cube.
The tile ended outside my door, and I could walk across aging boot-polished wood to my leather swivel chair and oak desk. But sure enough, time marched on. A single computer terminal perched on my desk, its bland face dark.
And it stayed dark, most of the time. In spare moments the previous spring, Gayle Sedillos had surreptitiously helped me explore some of the machine’s surface mysteries. When things were really slow-say in deep February on a weekday night-it was sort of fun to watch the toasters float across the monitor’s face. Sheriff Holman had been quick to point out that the screen-saver program, flying toasters and all, was somehow more economical that just leaving the damn thing turned off.
That was as far as I’d gotten. Estelle Reyes-Guzman could make the computer do magic, of course, and that was just fine with me.
That evening, Gayle followed me to the door of my office. She waited patiently while I found the correct key. “Sir,” Gayle Sedillos said as I headed for my desk, “there are a couple of messages that came for you this afternoon.”
“Aren’t you due to go home?” I asked, taking the yellow slips of “While You Were Out” paper from her.
“I thought I’d stay for a few minutes and give Ernie a hand,” she said. Ernie Wheeler, our other senior dispatcher, didn’t need any hand. He was as steady as they come.
I glanced at the clock and saw that it was after seven. “Don’t wear yourself out,” I said. “Something may break tomorrow. We’ll need you sharp.”
Gayle nodded and turned to go. “And Estelle just called,” she added over her shoulder. “She wondered if you were here yet.”
“I’m here,” I said. My daughter had indeed overheard the conversation up on Cat Mesa that promised a visit to the office, and as part of a compromise package with Camille, I had agreed to spend most of the day resting. At first, it had seemed like a waste of time, but then I got a lot of thinking done.
I looked at the papers Gayle had handed me. One of the slips was from Marjorie Davis, asking if I’d call her at home when I got in. After twenty-five years of watching reporters work, I knew damn well what the problem was. It wasn’t just that the youngster was lost on the mesa.
The Register had a midweek edition coming out, and that meant Ms. Davis was staring at a deadline, with editor/publisher Frank Dayan staring at her. If something broke and they missed it, all the metro dailies around the state would beat the little Posadas Register to an important local story, and the Register would end up looking lame and late playing catch-up the following Friday.
I dropped the note on my desk blotter, near the phone, and grinned. The double whammy was that Wednesday was the day the grocery stores ran their full-page ad spreads. That meant lots of readership for the right story, if it broke in a timely fashion.
“Marjorie, Marjorie,” I said, and looked at the other notes. One was from Sam Preston at Preston and Sons Real Estate, and I knew what he wanted. The third was from Stanley Willit, with an out-of-state area code. Gayle’s neat handwriting recorded that he’d called at 4:45 P.M. I had been in the middle of a nap at that time, and if Willit had managed to find out my home phone and had rung the house, my daughter Camille hadn’t admitted to fielding the call.
I got up and walked out to the newly designed skylight area that included the dispatcher’s console, electrically controlled access doors to the rear lockup area, the sheriff’s office, and the personnel lounge.
“I thought you were going home,” I said. “But as long as you’re here, this Willit person…” Gayle nodded. “Is he related in some way to the Apodacas? Holman mentioned that he’s been calling.”
“I think so,” Gayle said. “I think he’s actually Mrs. Apodaca’s stepson from a previous marriage. I think that’s what Sergeant Torrez said.”
“That makes as much sense as anything, I suppose,” I said. “And Bob would know.” Gayle smiled. Bob Torrez kept track of things like family trees. He had plenty of practice with his own. “Did he say why he wanted to talk to me?”
“He didn’t say, sir. He just called a little while ago. I guess maybe it’s because it’s your land that’s somehow involved.”
“Well, let’s call him and find out,” I said. “Maybe he wants some kind of memorial marker erected, or some such.”
Gayle nodded.
“Or a neon-lighted mausoleum,” I added, and Gayle nodded again. “This is an interesting world we live in,” I said,
and walked back to my office.
I settled back in my leather chair, pulled the telephone within reach, and dialed. A male voice answered on the fifth ring.
“Yello?”
“Stanley Willit, please. This is Undersheriff William Gastner from Posadas County, New Mexico.”
“This is Willit.”
I waited for a couple of seconds, giving him a chance to collect his thoughts, since he’d been the one who had called first. The line stayed dead, though, so I said, “Mr. Willit?”
“Yep. This is Willit.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Who’d you say you were?”
I took a deep breath and repeated myself, adding, “I’m returning your earlier call.”
“Oh, good.”
“What can I do for you, sir?”
“Say, can I call you back in just a couple minutes?”
“Sure,” I said, and started to give him the number. Before I’d gotten through the area code, I’d collected a dial tone. With a shrug, I punched another line and dialed Marjorie Davis’s home number. She answered on the second ring.
“Marjorie? This is Gastner.”
“Oh, good, I was hoping you’d return my call.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Can I be direct with you?”
I chuckled. “Do you mean there are times when you’re not?”
“Well,” she said, then let it drop. “Was there some special reason why Estelle had her little boy with her up on the mesa this morning?”
“You’d have to ask her that, sweetheart,” I said. “But if I were to hazard a guess, I’d think it’s because they’re related, somehow. They hang out together a lot, she and the kid.”
“Come on, sir. Please.”
“Marjorie, let me suggest the obvious. Give Estelle a call, and ask her.”
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