Prolonged Exposure pс-6

by Steven F Havill

  Estelle’s face was pale, and if she hugged Carlos any tighter, the poor kid would suffocate. But he didn’t seem to mind. “Erma,” I said gently, “that’s all the child had on when the man took him out the door? No coat? No shoes?”

  She shook her head and then covered her face with her hands again.

  “That’s all we’ve got, Ernie. Get the state police working first, then the Border Patrol. Then go with the airports and the FBI. I’ve got the handheld here on channel three. Don’t let anyone tie up lines.”

  I hung up the telephone, pulled the radio off my belt, and turned the volume up. “Show us what happened, now.”

  Erma led us out into the kitchen. The back door was closed, as if nothing had happened. The door had both a standard lock and a dead bolt. Despite the appearance of security, a properly aimed kick probably could have busted both out of the thirty-year-old wood frame.

  “Francisco was sitting here,” she whimpered. A box of cereal was open, waiting. A spoon was on the floor under the table. “I was at the sink, rinsing out his bowl.” She picked up the only bowl that would work as far as the kid was concerned-blue stoneware with a line of jackrabbits bouncing around the rim.

  “I heard a light rap and turned to look.” She pointed at the door. “I could see a figure, but the back light wasn’t on. The way he knocked, it just seemed-”

  “Show me how he knocked,” I said.

  “It was just a light, friendly rapping, like this.” She used the knuckle of her right index finger and imitated the familiar seven-note refrain-five and then two, shave and a haircut, two bits-of greeting. “Just a few minutes before I set the garbage out, and I hadn’t turned the lock yet. I didn’t think.” The tears rolled down her brown cheeks. “I opened the door and then he just yanked the screen open.”

  I turned the knob and opened the back door. The screen’s closure piston kept it firmly shut, but I could see the bent aluminum lock. That didn’t mean much. A dedicated child could rip open a screen door. I flipped on the back light.

  The Guzmans’ back door opened onto a brick patio, the bricked area extending twenty feet or so back to the sandy rubble that was Francisco’s playground. That was surrounded by trees and shrubs of various heights, keeping the place sheltered from wind and sun. The chain-link fence was four feet high, adequate for children and dogs, but not much of a deterrent for an adult.

  “And then what happened?”

  “He burst inside, then grabbed me and threw me down on the floor. He threw me down so hard, I thought I’d broken my arm.”

  “That’s when he taped you?”

  “No,” Erma said. “He moved so fast. When I fell, he just stepped right over me and went to Francis. He had this role of tape, and he just went around Francis three times.” She made circular motions with her hands. “Just so fast. Around the boy and the back of the chair. I screamed at him, and by the time I got to my feet to try to stop him, he grabbed me. Because of the tape around him, Francis couldn’t run away.”

  “And he never said a word?”

  “No. I could hear him breathing and grunting, but he never said nothing. He threw me down, jerked my hands behind me, and taped my wrists. Then he threw me down again and taped my feet together. I tried to kick him, but he had me on my stomach, and I couldn’t. Then he pulled my feet up and taped them to my hands. And then he taped my mouth.” She stopped and wiped her eyes. “What are we going to do?”

  “He left you here in the kitchen?” I asked.

  “Right there on the floor,” she said, pointing. “And then he pulled the tape off Francis so he could get him loose of the chair. He lost him then for a little bit, and Francis took off. The man, he grabbed Francis by one arm, but he fought as much as he could.”

  “Three years old and forty pounds,” I said. “Did he just carry Francis out of the house?”

  “He taped his hands, in front of him, like this.” Erma held her hands together. “And then he taped his feet together at the ankles. Then he just picked him up like a…like a…”

  “Under his arm?”

  Erma nodded. I keyed the radio. “PCS, Gastner.”

  “Gastner, go ahead.”

  “I need some people, Ernie.”

  “Ten-four.” I could hear other radio traffic in the background on the main patrol channel. “Undersheriff, three oh eight and three oh seven are responding. ETA about a minute.”

  “Tell ’em no lights or siren. Did you get hold of the state police?”

  “Ten-four. They wanted to know what your suggestions were about roadblocks.”

  I cursed. Posadas wasn’t at the end of anyone’s road, but it sure as hell was on the road to a lot of places. The east-west interstate passed by less than a mile outside of town. Four state highways either intersected in or passed close by the village. Within that framework was a web of paved, gravel, or caliche county roads, as well as an additional network of U.S. Forest Service roads and trails that laced through Oria National Forest.

  “Tell ’em to cover every one they can. Every one. Hell, there are still truckloads of Guardsmen left in town, or close to it. Shut everything down.”

  “Ten-four.” Ernie’s voice sounded strained. I knew what he was thinking. If whoever had taken little Francis had a two-hour jump on us, there wasn’t much point in blocking roads ten minutes outside of Posadas.

  A car slid to a violent stop at the curb, and I went to the front door. Robert Torrez came up the sidewalk at a dead run. Even as he did so, Deputy Mitchell’s county car turned onto Twelfth from Bustos, its engine pushing hard.

  “We don’t know who or why, Bob,” I said. “Someone broke in and abducted little Francis. He left the baby. Erma said the man’s Anglo, big, built about like Dr. Guzman. He’s dressed in denim-jeans and lined denim jacket. He might be blond. That’s all we know.”

  Torrez turned as I was speaking, surveying the neighborhood. Lights were on in every house, small wonder with all the traffic. “What kind of head start does he have?”

  “Since three minutes after six.”

  Torrez looked at his watch and grimaced. “Erma have any ideas?”

  “None. Total stranger, as far as she’s concerned. The description doesn’t ring any bells with Estelle, either.”

  “All right. Between Chief Martinez and his men and one or two of our specials, we can bottle up the village pretty tight.”

  It had been a long time since Eduardo Martinez had worked nights in Posadas. His three-man police department turned the town over to us after four-and a lot of the rest of the time, too.

  “Shag someone up the hill,” I said. County Road 43 led out of town to the north, winding up past the landfill and the abandoned Consolidated Mining boneyard, passing by the old water-filled quarry. Now on Forest Service property, that place was the handsdown favorite of locals for parties, booze, necking-anything that didn’t need an audience. The thought of this freak parked up there with my godson was enough to make me vomit.

  Chapter 31

  When I walked back inside the Guzmans’ house, I found Estelle sitting on the couch, her arms still wrapped around tiny Carlos. He had stopped crying but continued to pop a hiccup now and then.

  From what Erma had told us, the infant hadn’t uttered a peep all the time that the intruder was in the house. Carlos had been asleep in his crib in one of the back bedrooms, and only he knew exactly when he had awakened and what he had heard.

  Only when Erma Sedillos had begun creating her hour and a half of thumping, banging mayhem did Carlos let loose, standing in his crib and screaming.

  I didn’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing if it would have brought my godson to the front doorstep.

  By the look on her face, though, Estelle was far, far away. Her dark brows were closely knit, and her rocking and cooing to Carlos were distracted.

  “I told Robert to have someone pick up Francis at the hospital,” I said. “He’ll be here any second.”

  I didn’t know if that was tr
ue or not. If Dr. Guzman was in the midst of delicate surgery, it was going to be hard for him to drop the scalpel and run. Unlike a large metro hospital, there wasn’t a plethora of vascular surgeons who could just step in and take over.

  And, as so often happens, a ridiculous thought, unbidden, came to mind. If Florencio Apodaca was guilty of actually murdering his wife, and if he was even half-cogent, he must have been wondering just how patient he was going to have to be with the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department. I wondered what stage of Bob Torrez’s preliminary interview with the old man had been interrupted when the deputies got the call to break away.

  “This has to be someone who knows our family,” Estelle murmured. “He knew exactly what he wanted, and didn’t waste a step.” She turned tortured eyes to me. “He wanted Francis, sir.”

  “It appears that way,” I said. “He knew the layout of your property. You can’t really see your back door from the street unless you’re looking for it. With the back light off, it would have been even harder.”

  “And there’s no gate in the chain-link fence,” she said.

  “I don’t know too many people who can vault over a four-foot fence with a child under one arm.”

  “And he didn’t search through the house,” Estelle said, nuzzling Carlos on the forehead. As if sensing that now wasn’t a good time to interrupt, the child had released his hold on Estelle’s neck and sat like a silent beanbag doll, his dark face sober and eyes watchful, as quiet now as he’d been noisy a bit earlier.

  In the next few minutes, he had lots of things to watch. Camille arrived with Gayle Sedillos, Erma’s older sister. This was my daughter’s first visit to Posadas in nearly twenty years, and already she seemed a perfectly natural fit-part of her talent for remaining a stranger for only a few seconds.

  “Gayle,” I said, “Make sure that no one ties up any of the telephones. The phone in the bedroom is listed to Dr. Guzman in the directory. Until we get some recording equipment over here, I’d rather they weren’t even answered. Camille, I’d like you to use the cell phone in my Blazer to keep in touch with the hospital. We want Dr. Guzman here the instant he can break free.”

  “Three ten, three oh one on channel three.”

  I jerked the handheld from my belt, recognizing Martin Holman’s voice and at the same time dreading what he might blab out over the air for all of Posadas County to hear. “Go ahead.”

  “Ten-eighty-seven at Posadas Inn.”

  For an instant, I couldn’t even remember what the hell 10–87 meant, and I frowned at the radio as if the translation would pop up in the little frequency window. My mind snapped into gear, but my frown deepened. The motel was the last place I was interested in visiting at the moment. A drunk getting himself killed in a parking-lot brawl was just not one of my concerns at the moment.

  “Sheriff, that’s negative. We’ve got a mess here.”

  “Three ten, stand by.”

  “I don’t know what the hell he wants,” I said to Estelle.

  “He doesn’t know about Francis yet,” she replied.

  “I’m sure he knows by now. Torrez is good at keeping things off the air, but-” The telephone rang, sounding so loud that we all jumped.

  I picked up the receiver, not knowing what to expect.

  “Bill,” Martin Holman said, his tone clipped and businesslike. “You need to get down here ASAP. I know what you’ve got going there. Mitchell told me. There’s something here that ties into the boy’s abduction, and I want you to see it for yourself. Hustle. And bring Estelle with you.”

  “She’s not going to want to leave Carlos,” I said.

  “Then bring him.” The line went dead. I realized it was the first time Martin Holman had ever cut short a conversation with me.

  “What is it?” Camille asked.

  “I don’t know,” I said, then turned to speak to Estelle. “Sweetheart, we need to go down to the Posadas Inn. Holman’s got something he wants us to see. He says it ties in somehow.” And for the first time in our working relationship, I saw Estelle Reyes-Guzman hesitate. Two car doors slammed and I stepped to the entryway.

  Deputy Tom Pasquale’s long stride was matched by Dr. Francis Guzman. The young physician’s face was grim. “Thank God you’re here,” I said.

  “You need to go to the motel,” Guzman said as he brushed by me. In two or three long strides, he was kneeling beside Estelle. “Go with him,” he said to his wife. He disengaged Carlos from her embrace. “I’ll be here, and Tommy’s been assigned to stay here until we know what’s going on. From what the sheriff told me, it’s really important that you go to the motel. Then come right back.”

  Estelle nodded, stood up, and shook her head as if breaking loose from a tangle of cobwebs. She turned to Camille and Gayle. “Can you both stay?”

  My daughter nodded. “Good,” Estelle said. “We won’t be long.”

  We left the house, Estelle at a dead run. She started toward her own unmarked county car, then thought better of it and climbed into the passenger side of 310. Across the street, I saw a heavyset woman-the wife of the county road superintendent-standing on her front step, watching the action. When she saw me, she started a step or two toward the sidewalk. I ignored her, and by the time I’d grunted myself into 310, she’d gone back up on the porch.

  The telephone circuits around Posadas would be buzzing, if they weren’t already. There would be a lot more ammunition for gossip before the night was over.

  The Posadas Inn was just off the interstate on Grande, less than four blocks from my house. During the two minutes it took to cover a little less than three miles, I didn’t have much time to reflect on what could be so important that Martin Holman would summon us both.

  Chapter 32

  Approached from the interstate, the Posadas Inn looked about as cheerful and clean as neon and plastic could make it. The front of the motel faced southeast, with a covered portal. The generous parking lot circled the building. As we approached from the village, I could see the flutter of yellow tape under the harsh illumination of the parking lot’s sodium-vapor lights.

  The barricade had been set up to include a service entrance, the sidewalk in front of it, and about a third of an acre of the parking lot itself. A November night hadn’t attracted many guests to Posadas, and if anyone had parked around behind the motel, they had evidently been asked to move.

  Under normal circumstances, a homicide would have attracted enough patrol cars to equip a sizable fleet. Every law officer in whistling distance would want a share, or, at the very least, a private tour-if for no other reason than to break the monotony.

  But the place was damn near vacant. I recognized Martin Holman’s brown Buick, and one of our department’s older marked units. Parked on the opposite side of the roped-off area was one of the Posadas Village Police units, its red lights pulsing.

  Sheriff Holman, a portable radio in one hand and a cellular phone in the other, stood near the door marked SERVICE ONLY. He was in animated conversation with DeWayne Sands, the night manager of the motel, gesticulating over his shoulder as he talked.

  DeWayne did not look happy. He was well over fifty and going to flab. Standing outside in the chill November night while watching police take over his motel to find out who had whacked one of his guests was enough to make his blood pressure go over the top. I recognized all the signs, even from across the parking lot.

  Holman saw us and said into the handheld radio, “Back door over here, Bill.” By then, I was already out of the patrol car, concentrating on keeping up with Estelle’s dogged pace. She ducked under the ribbon when she reached the sidewalk that skirted the bank of heat-pump units.

  “DeWayne,” Holman was saying as we approached, “you’re going to have to make doubly sure that no one comes or goes until we say otherwise. And I mean no one, and I mean from the entire motel. I don’t care if their room is a mile away on the other wing. No night staff, no maintenance crew, no patrons. If you’ve got a long-haul trucker who n
eeds to leave, make sure you clear him through me or Chief Martinez. No one comes and no one goes. Understood?”

  “Well, sure, but-”

  “No buts,” Holman said, and he steered Sands away from the door. Sands trudged off down the sidewalk, muttering to himself. “In here, Bill, Estelle.”

  The service door opened into a small foyer. Immediately on the left was a flight of stairs. Yellow plastic taped it off top and bottom. Directly ahead of us, a hallway stretched beyond the limits of my eyesight, ending eventually, I knew, in the front foyer, with restaurant to the left and check-in desk to the right.

  Another hallway took off to the right, beyond the game room and the ice and soda machines, and that’s where Marty Holman led us. He walked on the right side of the hallway, sticking close to the wall.

  “The victim’s name is Roberto Madrid,” he said over his shoulder. “At least that’s what some rental-car paperwork we found in the room says. Other than that, we don’t know.”

  The rooms began with 140 on the right and 141 on the left. About halfway down the hallway, Holman stopped. That was just as well. I was running out of breath. It wasn’t exercise, but anxiety, the kind of awful jolt to the nerves that I hadn’t felt in more than a decade.

  He pointed at the door at the far end. Standing beside it were Chief Eduardo Martinez and one of his part-time officers, George Bohrer. “That door leads to the west parking lot. It’s one of those deals that’s locked after nine P.M. under normal circumstances. There’s some evidence that the door was used by the assailant.”

  “Martin,” I started to say, but the sheriff held up a hand. He lowered his voice. “I wouldn’t have called you over here if I didn’t think it was important.”

  We stopped in front of the door to 167, two rooms from the end of the hall. Holman held up a hand again, like a cavalry trooper halting his patrol. The door was open, and, looking inside, I could see two chairs crashed together against one wall, the mattress askew, and glass from the shattered TV’s picture tube scattered across the pale blue carpet.