Estelle reached out and touched Leona’s arm. “Excuse me, please.”
Her husband glanced up as she approached. “I think I’ll just ride back here with Bill and the folks,” the physician said. He patted his own chest, a motion that was not lost on Estelle. “You’re taking your car, right?”
“I’ll be right behind you.”
As the ambulance doors closed, shutting off any chance to finish conversations, Estelle Reyes-Guzman realized that during all the comings and goings, in all the hustle, she had never explained to her husband about the second enormous worry in her life…their son in Mazatlán. She had mentioned the eight thousand dollars and they had joked about what Francisco might be planning to do with it, but she hadn’t discussed the conversation that she’d then had with her mother and the potential for disaster in Mexico.
As they pulled away from the airport, taking the seven-mile loop back into town and then down to the interstate, Estelle tapped into the sound system of the county car, activating the little telephone icon on the steering wheel spoke. In a moment, Dispatcher Ernie Wheeler was on the line, his voice boosted by the car’s sound system.
“No word from anyone,” he reported. “Did you happen to speak with the sheriff?”
“I just left him at the airport.”
“Oh…good. Then you guys had a chance to talk.”
“Actually not much. Someone took a shot at him and broke his beloved rifle. We don’t know who or why. That’s what I know.”
“Well, that’s about what they know, too. Linda has a ton of pictures, and Sergeant Taber found the spot where the shot came from. I just talked with the sheriff, and he’s coming back to the office to sort through all the stuff. And Gayle was going to insist that he see the doc about his eye.”
The line fell silent, and then Wheeler, sounding less sure of himself, said, “He told you, no?”
“Told me what, Ernie?”
“A piece of the broken scope nicked him over the eye. Might need some stitches.”
I saw no nick over his eye, Estelle thought. Torrez was Torrez, the rock. Her concerns hadn’t been directed at him, even when they spoke face to face. As usual, he wore his baseball cap pulled low over the bridge of his nose, military fashion.
“Look, when he comes into the office, tell him that I’m going to call. I’ll get the full story from him then.” She switched off with a burst of irritation aimed at herself for not noticing, at Sheriff Robert Torrez for being such a taciturn, uncommunicative oaf, and finally at her immediate concern, the dimwit drivers on the interstate.
Ahead, the boxy shape of the ambulance paced them down the highway, smoothly moving in and out past the endless cavalcade of traffic. Most of the time, drivers darted out of the way as the dazzle of red lights caught up with them. Others were loath to give up the passing lane. Just outside of Deming, unbidden and unexpected, they were joined by a New Mexico State Police unit. As the black sedan roared past, Estelle recognized Lieutenant Mark Adams, who raised a hand in salute. He pulled several car lengths ahead of the ambulance and aggressively ran interference.
“Padrino still has clout,” she mused aloud. Or maybe it was simply because it was an election year. Adams was running for sheriff against Bob Torrez. The State Police lieutenant was confident in his dreams.
Chapter Ten
The quiet that hung over the airport was heavy. The big Beechcraft had been pushed into the main hanger out of the sun, to wait for someone with the proper state-sanctified credentials to arrive and work on it. Jim Bergin, the airport manager and a crack A & E mechanic himself—but with no contract to supply services to the state—was amused but unruffled.
The flight crew and two EMTs were effectively stranded in Posadas until one of the other aircraft, or ground crew, came to fetch them—in hours or days, who knew.
“So, Mr. Sheriff.” Bergin relaxed behind his sales counter in a vinyl chair repaired with duct tape in a dozen places. He waved toward the coffeepot. “Relax. You know, if it wasn’t for some possible damage to the prop, they could just fly on to Albuquerque with the gear locked down. No big deal. But you ding the prop, and that’s got to be checked. That’s not something I can do here, even if the state gave me the okay.”
Torrez bent and rested his elbows on the glass counter. He ignored Bergin’s assessment of the plane’s damage. “You know a guy named Olveda?”
Bergin lit a cigarette. He frowned and spun the lighter between his fingers as the cloud of smoke drifted up around his raisin-like complexion. “You talking about Cal Olveda, over at Posadas Electric?”
“No. Little guy. His license says he’s from Tucson. Kinda slick. Pudgy.”
Bergin grinned. “Dominic Olveda.”
“That would be him.”
“Well, I know what I read in the papers.”
“Yeah, well…”
“Be good for you, once in a while. Reading, I mean.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger-gun at Torrez’s face. The red gash over the sheriff’s eye was going to color nicely. “Gayle take after you again?”
Torrez ignored Bergin’s jibe and curiosity. “He’s makin’ some sort of presentation at the county commission meeting tomorrow.”
“That’s what the paper said.” Bergin sucked on his cigarette and directed a thick blue stream of smoke at his lap. “He’s another one of those dreamers, Bobby. Thinks that if he builds it, whole flocks of dumb-butt tourists will show up. Manna from heaven.”
“Build what?”
“Well, he’s got a flashlight factory, for one thing. I mean, ain’t that just what we all need—more goddamned Taiwanese flashlights. And what is…” Bergin’s face, already lined like an aged piece of leather, screwed up against the smoke. “The other thing? Oh, shit, yes. He’s got a small factory that builds solar panels that wants to relocate here. And some other shit. All of this down at the west end of the runway in a little industrial park.”
“Huh. That’s it?”
Bergin pointed his cigarette at Torrez. “And a hotel. Can’t forget that. For those vast hordes of folks who don’t want to stay out on Waddell’s mesa or here in town with the Patels. And a car rental. And a parking area for aircraft. And, and, and. You got to have some place to dump all that drug money.” He chuckled at his joke, chuffing out little bursts of smoke.
Torrez turned and looked out the window, past the tumbleweeds and bunch grass where the black asphalt of the new runway vanished across the prairie. “Huh,” he said again.
“Fly in, taxi right up to the hotel portico. Maybe I can make a few bucks with valet parking.” He hacked a dry cough, his wiry little body almost bouncing off the chair with each spasm. “You don’t sound impressed,” he managed after a moment.
“Well, I don’t need no flashlight, and I guess if he can stay in business with two tourists a month, maybe the hotel idea might work.”
Bergin laughed. “Where’d you run into Olveda?”
“Out on 14.”
“What’d he want with the law? Or was he just chasin’ down old Waddell? Them two are birds of a feather, if you ask me. Always dreamin’.”
Torrez shook his head. “Don’t know.”
The airport manager stubbed out his cigarette and then locked his hands behind his head, leaning far back in his chair. “Old Bill is the one person who’d be most amused at what went on this morning. And ain’t that a kick…all he’s been through over the years. Take a tumble in his own garage, and then mow down my pet herd with the air ambulance.” Torrez nodded. “Damn lucky, is all I can say. I didn’t get a chance to talk with him except to wish him well. That’s a long drive when you’re all busted up.” He exhaled a long sigh. “And I never did see those damn critters…and I took a drive down the runway, looking. Christ almighty, they can be hard to see.”
“He’s so doped up now he don’t know what’s happening.” Torrez pushed himself upright. “I gotta get to work.”
“You break away to hunt yet?”
“Yeah, I did.
”
“Luck?”
“Good little buck for the freezer. That’s what I got to do, is get him over to Sandoval’s.” He nodded toward the hanger where the med-evac crew still conferred. “If those guys need anything while they’re stuck here, Leona is around to help.”
Bergin grinned. “She already offered, Bobby. At least I think I’m gonna get that boundary fence now.”
Torrez slipped into the truck, its interior well-baked from the sun. As he started to turn toward the gate, Deputy Sutherland pulled his unit into the airport apron and stopped window to window with the sheriff.
“I’m headin’ to the office now,” Torrez said.
“They have a bunch of stuff for you to look at, sir.”
“I got to swing by Sandoval’s for a minute, then I’ll be along.”
“Yes, sir. Get a good one?”
“Good enough. I coulda just waited and got me some free antelope hamburger here.” He twisted in his seat and looked back at the hanger. “If these guys need anything, fix ’em up.”
“You bet. If the Game and Fish wants to tag what’s left of the carcass, do you want it?”
“Nope.” He flashed a rare grin.
Fifteen minutes later, Torrez pulled into the Sheriff’s Office parking lot. Both Sergeant Taber and Linda Real Pasquale waited in the small conference room and he was surprised at the spread of articles on the table. His rifle was now tagged, and haloed around it were a dozen or more bits and pieces of the scope—those that he had recovered, plus an extra handful. He picked up the threaded cover that originally had protected the windage adjustment. Half of its perimeter was dented and torn, the impact blowing it right off the threaded mount.
Jackie Taber reached across and touched part of the undamaged edge with the tip of her pencil. “That’s a good match for what cut you on the head bone,” she said.
“What else we got?”
“Okay. This is where you gutted the antelope,” and she pulled a large glossy print from the assortment. “It’s four hundred sixty-four yards from where you fired the shot. Now,” and she handed the photo to Torrez and selected a topographical map. “This,” and she touched an X penciled lightly on the map, “is your spot.” Dragging the pencil eraser southward, she stopped at another location where the topo lines seemed to merge. With her other hand, she slid yet another photo across the table. “We found just enough tracks to place the shooter here. The little cut in the arroyo bed allowed him good cover for the shot.” She drew a line northward to the X.
“And I don’t get it,” Linda said. “Did this bozo follow you out there? Did he see your truck and just assume that’s where you hiked? I mean, how did he know? Did somebody know you were out there?”
“I told Waddell one time,” Torrez answered. “He musta told Carl Bendix, the head honcho.” He stopped, but Linda followed the thought.
“Who knows who he told.”
Taber tapped the photo. “But from here, he could shoot and then jog back to his car or truck, without being seen by you.”
Linda slid another photo toward Torrez. “These are the best we could do with the prints. They’re not much.” With a good imagination, Torrez could make out the boot prints, including the smooth heel.
“No prints on the truck, sir. The tire tracks are clear. Goodyear Wranglers, and the size that fit any number of vehicles.”
Torrez let out a loud breath. “Nothin’.”
“Not much, that’s true. We know that he took a shot of more than three hundred fifty yards, and only missed by eight inches.”
“He wanted to miss,” Torrez said.
“How do you know that?”
“If he was out for a kill shot, he would have checked afterward to make sure. And takin’ the coil cable just made sure I couldn’t follow.”
“Why would he want to do that, though? A warning shot of some kind?” Sergeant Taber arranged the photos into a neat pile and smiled. “Politics, maybe. Somebody wants you to stay out of the race this November. Trying to scare you off.”
“Nobody shoots a high-powered rifle at someone at more than three hundred yards, uphill and with all the other complications, just to warn somebody,” Linda Pasquale observed. “I think he wanted to take a shot and then clear the area, whether the shot was successful or not. Too many things could go wrong if he waited around for a second shot. When he saw you fly-dive backward, he thought he had hit you. That’s all.”
“If he saw that,” Torrez said. “Takes a while to get the image back after a shot. He wouldn’t have seen the scope fly apart or nothin’ like that.”
“He just didn’t want to take the chance of meeting you face to face, Bobby.”
He stretched. “I guess we’ll know eventually, even if he has to take another whack at it. Maybe he won’t be so lucky this time.”
Chapter Eleven
Twenty miles west of Las Cruces, her cell phone came alive, fed through the car’s computer system. At 5:02 p.m., her son Francisco should just be…what, in rehearsal? Eating too many strange foods? In conference with his mentors and the Mexican counterparts of the conservatory? She thumbed the button on the steering wheel, willing the incoming voice to be that of her eldest son. But the number I.D. flashed her own landline at home.
“Guzman.”
“Hey, Mamá.” The greeting was cheerful enough, but half an octave too high and in the thoughtfully measured cadence of her youngest son, Carlos. “Are you right in the middle of something?” The ten-year-old’s adult thoughtfulness always lit a glow for Estelle.
“How about eighty-five miles an hour, lights and siren, escorting Padrino to the hospital. Does that count, hijo?”
“Oh, but you have the beast,” he said, referring to the county car and all its gadgets that allowed hands-free communication.
“I do. Look, hijo, I have no idea what time I’ll be home. And Papá is riding in the ambulance with Padrino. So we just don’t know. Addy is staying at the house tonight, so give her and Abuela a hand, all right?”
“Of course. Will Padrino be okay, do you think?” Carlos had long since grown away from the need for simple, black and white answers.
“He has a badly broken hip, Carlos. And maybe some other complications. We’ll just have to see. Oh, and Bobby should be home in a little bit, so if you need anything, remember that he’s available.”
“Ooookay.” If the world was coming to an end, and he had no one else to turn to, the boy might call “Big Bad Bobby,” the man whom young Carlos thought to be the funniest man on the planet. His imitation of the sheriff’s beetle-browed, humorless glower was dead-on accurate. “But we’ll be fine,” he said. “Are you sure Padrino will be okay?”
“We’re all hoping so. Did your brother happen to call?”
“No. But your uncle did. I don’t know him, so…”
“My uncle?” Estelle heard a rustle of paper, but it might have been lung tissue as she ran out of air, her heart in her throat.
“Su tio,” the boy said. “He said his name was Benedicte Mazón.” Carlos spelled it carefully, including the accent. “He said he hasn’t seen you in years, but that you would remember him. I didn’t know you had an uncle, Mamá.”
“He asked for me by name?”
“Yes. And he called me by name, Mamá. And he asked about Abuela.”
“And he claimed to be my uncle? Are you sure about that?”
“Absolutely, I’m sure. So surprise, surprise,” Carlos chirped. “He said you would know. And he said not to worry about the concert tonight.”
Estelle’s pulse skipped again. “What time did he call?”
“Four forty-one.” Of course Carlos would have checked the time down to the minute—a perfect witness. “I asked Abuela who Señor Mazón might be. She did not seem to know, Mamá.” His voice grew a bit quieter. “But I’m not sure she understood me.” Estelle flinched. The ten-year-old knew how to talk to his beloved grandmother, with a perfect understanding of the complications old age imposed. In Sp
anish or English, his diction and delivery, all with that thoughtful, measured pace, was honed by lots of practice with Abuela, with whom he loved to converse.
“Did he say where he was calling from?”
“No, Mamá. I asked for his number, and he said, ‘There will be a time for that.’ That’s exactly what he said. I thought that was odd. But you know, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was calling from Mexico. There was enough clicking and circuit noise on the phone for that.”
“So you didn’t get his number?”
“No. But I didn’t give him your cell, either.”
“That’s good.” She frowned and repeated, “Benedicte Mazón.”
“Benedict with an ‘e’,” Carlos reminded her. “I didn’t know you had an uncle. I mean, Abuela’s Uncle Reuben…” Teresa’s uncle, with whom Estelle had lived briefly while she finished her last two years of high school in Posadas, and for whom she’d cared in his complicated dotage later on, had been dead for years. Carlos had never met him, but had heard the tales—many from Padrino, who was often responsible for keeping Reuben out of various jails, both Mexican and American.
“I didn’t know either, Carlos. Listen, you can always reach me at this number, no matter what. You did exactly the right thing to call. Be good company for Abuela this evening. And you also did absolutely the right thing not to give out information. Just listen carefully to what they say to you.”
“Oh, sure. I have some work I wanted to show her,” Carlos said. “And Addy and I are going to make a key lime pie in a little bit.”
“Save some for us, por favor. I love you, Hijo.”
“You bet.”
Estelle disconnected, and for a long moment stared at the mesmerizing light show of the ambulance a hundred yards ahead. “Benedicte Mazón,” she said aloud, and then repeated the name twice more, engraving it in her memory. Not to worry about the concert tonight, the strange “uncle” had told Carlos. So easily said. A man claiming to be an uncle out of Estelle’s past was bad enough. Calling from Mexico with information about her son’s concert was breathtaking. She didn’t believe in coincidence. Someone claiming to be Tomás Naranjo seeking eight thousand dollars to rescue one of the boys? And now another phantom, another clever invention claiming to be a long lost uncle, telling her not to worry?
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