Less Than a Moment

by Steven F Havill

  After a few sentences of conversation, Simmons and the young woman strode up the walkway, but stopped just short of entering. She regarded Waddell coolly as he stepped outside, and then her gaze shifted to Estelle Reyes-­Guzman, who had followed Waddell.

  “Miss, I’m Miles Waddell. I’m glad you would visit us. Welcome to NightZone.”

  Simmons started to say something, but the young woman beat him to it. “Well, for starters, thank you.” Her smile was easy and genuine. “I’m Lydia Thompson, Kyle Thompson’s wife. Your new neighbors.” She said it as if Thompson Development was planning to build only a single dwelling out in the hills, one with no exterior porch light.

  Waddell offered a warm smile. “For heaven’s sakes. It’s good to meet you.”

  “Kyle wanted to be here, but he’s a little bit sore this morning. He came close to breaking an ankle Wednesday afternoon, and had some therapy on it yesterday. He’s kinda gimpy.”

  “Well, ouch,” Waddell said with sympathy.

  “He’s at the hotel in Posadas, feeling sorry for himself. He’s not exactly speedy with the crutches yet.”

  “This happened out at the site?”

  “A little more prosaic than that. He went to hold the door for me at one of the local eateries, and somehow misjudged things when he stepped off the parking lot curb.” She smiled and shrugged her shoulders. “One of those silly moments, Mr. Waddell.” She turned a somewhat tentative smile on Estelle. “And you must be…”

  “Estelle Reyes-­Guzman. I’m with the Sheriff’s Department.”

  “Ah. And Dr. Guzman is…”

  “My husband.”

  “Ah. A delightful physician. My husband couldn’t have received better care. Just a silly moment at a most inopportune time.”

  “I hope he mends quickly.”

  “Oh, he will. This is not his first go-­round. And the good news is that we’re not really sure it’s a fracture. A hairline, at worst.” She extended her hand in greeting. “And I spoke with one of your deputies yesterday. Actually, last night.” Her handshake was firm. “Apparently, someone is having some fun with our surveyor’s markers. You know, we don’t need to tell the vandal this, but we’re going to reshoot all of our baseline markers, anyway. There are some major changes we’re going to make.” She turned back to Waddell. “I was up here last night, doing the tourist thing. I have to tell you, I’m mightily impressed, sir. I caught the show about Orion in the planetarium. I hope your cameras are ready when Rigel or Betelgeuse goes supernova!”

  “Well, thank you.” Waddell beamed. “A lot of astronomers are hoping for that. I’m told we can expect that display any time in the next hundred million years or so. And next Tuesday would be fine with me.” He flashed another bright smile of nicely capped teeth. “I wish you had let me know that you were visiting. I would have given you the grand tour. Maybe you’ll accept an offer of a room for tonight? I mean, we’re no Posadas Inn, but…”

  “That’s for sure,” the woman said. “Thank you for that. I’ll talk to my husband and see how he’s feeling. He really wanted to ride the train, but that didn’t work out. Maybe he’ll feel up to hobbling aboard in the next day or so.”

  “Well, now, let’s make that happen.” Waddell extended a hand and beckoned at Frank Dayan. “This is a friend of mine, Frank Dayan. He’s publisher of the Posadas Register in town.”

  Lydia Thompson’s greeting was civil enough, but Estelle saw the young woman’s eyes narrow as she put on the mental brakes. But then Waddell added, “Let’s beat the heat and go inside. Maybe you’d like some refreshment of some sort?”

  “Actually, no thanks. I need to be running back to town to make sure my husband hasn’t tripped in the shower or something equally foolish.” She thrust out her hand. “Mr. Waddell, a pleasure. Now I can put a face with the name. I’d like to touch base with you sometime in the next couple of days. When you’re free. When you and I and my husband can sit and chat, just the three of us. You’ve got yourself sort of a crowd here today.”

  Waddell recovered quickly, with perfect aplomb. “The offer for a complimentary room stands, Mrs. Thompson. Even tonight, if you like. I’ll leave word with the front desk right now. Tonight, tomorrow, whenever. Of course, I’ll be delighted to talk with you any time. Perhaps over a quiet dinner. We have a great chef.”

  “Thank you. How can we resist that? I’ll see if hubby is feeling better.” This time, her smile was a little tight-­lipped, and she nodded at both the undersheriff and Frank Dayan.

  “Mrs. Thompson…” the newspaperman began, but she shook her head.

  “Some other time, perhaps, Mr. Dayan.” She extended her hand to Estelle once more. “A pleasure meeting you, ma’am. If we have any other troubles out at the site, I’ll know who to call.” A final wave of the hand dismissed them all, and Lydia Thompson strode back out to her SUV, and as she turned to slip behind the wheel, Estelle saw that the woman was still smiling.

  “I think that went well, don’t you?” Miles Waddell said with dry sarcasm.

  “She didn’t want to talk with me around,” Frank Dayan said. “I wonder if she’ll wear that gun to the next county meeting.”

  “Snakes,” Estelle said. “It’s one of those revolvers that’s chambered for both forty-­five Colt and four-­ten shot shells.”

  “Your eyes are better than mine. And our neighborhood vandal better watch his step, then,” Waddell laughed. “I can see that she’s a woman not easily cornered.”

  “We still don’t know what kind of development they’re planning,” Dayan said. “Some big strip mall, maybe?”

  “Nope,” Waddell said. “I’d for sure bet against that. With as few drive-­by customers as they’d get, that’s not likely. Even malls in the middle of Albuquerque have their share of troubles. You got to have traffic flow, that’s all there is to it. If she’s really lucky, maybe they can make a single dollar store work, once the BLM gets their cave site developed. But I wouldn’t hold my breath on even that much.”

  “Hey,” Dayan said with feigned eagerness, “out here in the middle of everywhere, even a dollar store is news.”

  Waddell reached out a hand to Estelle. “Sorry to haul you out here for nothing.”

  “The opportunity to meet Lydia Thompson was worthwhile. We all learned something, didn’t we?”

  “Tough girl,” Waddell said. “I wonder who’s the boss of her outfit.”

  “You mean her or her husband? I wouldn’t bet either way, Miles.”

  “And speaking of seeing people,” Dayan said, and Estelle accurately guessed what was coming. “I was hoping we could sit down with your son for a few minutes one of these days.”

  “One of these days,” Estelle replied good-­naturedly. “Your man Rik asked the same thing. But right at the moment, Francisco is content pretending that the rest of the world doesn’t exist. He doesn’t have the chance to do that very often, when both of their schedules have a few days’ downtime.” She reached out and touched Dayan on the forearm. “I’ll mention it to him, though. I’m not an official gatekeeper, and he speaks just fine for himself.”

  “I’m just afraid that the big city boys will find out he’s here, and there goes my scoop.”

  “I’m sure he appreciates that, Frank.”

  The drive back to Posadas was blissfully quiet—­no radio traffic, no phone calls. She drove north along the county road, skirting the perimeter of the Thompson property. Lydia Thompson had driven off this way as well, the light plume of dust from her passing still hanging in the air.

  Estelle clearly understood Miles Waddell’s concerns, but more than anything else, she wanted to turn the rest of the world off and spend the rest of the day with her son and his wife, the young couple’s life—­and hers—­now enriched by four-­week-­old William Thomas.

  Instead, she returned to the county building. A few moments in the as
sessor’s office armed the undersheriff with land-­ownership data, and another opportunity to skillfully field questions about her son’s young family without supplying any additional information to encourage the gossip.

  Back in her office she used a yellow highlighter to draw neat diagonal lines on a transparent overlay for the huge county wall map. According to the assessor’s records, Thompson Development Corp, LLC, had acquired more than 1,000 acres—­620 acres of it originally part of the Boyd ranch. The country was marginal scrub in rugged country, with a scattering of bedrock intrusions that looked more formidable than inviting.

  In three places, the land adjoined property owned by Miles Waddell, and the various parcels included more than a half mile of frontage on County Road 14, extending north from the property line with Waddell’s NightZone parking lot.

  Every acre of the Thompson holdings was submarginal ranch land—­overgrazed, rocky, and in several spots showing the blackened aftermath of prairie wildfires. Other than the mineral, oil, or gas deposits that might lie subsurface, the land offered two enormous plusses.

  First, along a portion of the property’s western boundary just across the county road, the developer’s holdings joined Bureau of Land Management and state lands. That diminished the likelihood of competing development on the Thompsons’ doorstep.

  Second, the BLM had been working for years to survey the limestone caves that pocked the country west of the county road, with an eye to future development as a tourist attraction. The federal government moved at glacial speed, with little funding and few staff who could dedicate themselves to the project. But if they succeeded, the cave complex might someday rival the fragile development at Carlsbad.

  Estelle stepped back and gazed at the map. So many questions remained. She tried to picture how the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department would cope with providing services to a new community on the far side of the county, one that, if rumors could be believed, might see a hundred new homes springing up.

  Who would choose to live out there, a minimum of forty-­five minutes’ drive into the village of Posadas, itself far from being a shopper’s paradise? Where would these people shop? Where would they work? Would they be content with a rocky, dusty county dirt road?

  Chapter Four

  “May I intrude?”

  Lydia Thompson stood near the doorway of the undersheriff’s office, her entry politely blocked by Deputy Elwood Ray, who was working day dispatch. That she had appeared so promptly after their first brief meeting suggested to Estelle that the young woman had other issues to discuss. Deputy Ray’s big hand rested on the doorjamb, an effective barrier. Estelle nodded.

  “Thanks, Woody.” She rose and gestured for Lydia to enter the office. “Come in. Have a chair. We didn’t have much of a chance to talk today.” She noticed that Lydia had shed the snake gun. “How about something cold to drink?”

  “I’m fine, thanks. I tell you, out there when I saw that Mr. Newspaper Guy was present, and Mr. Security Guy, and who knows who else inside, I thought”—­and she wrinkled her nose in a fetching expression of distaste—­“not something I wanted to do.” Even as she sat, her eyes drifted over to the wall map. “Interesting stuff.”

  “How’s that?”

  Relaxing back, Lydia crossed her legs and folded her hands comfortably in her lap. She pushed her cap back like a rancher preparing for an over-­the-­fence chat. “We purchased some property, true enough. You have it outlined pretty accurately there on your map. But we haven’t applied to do anything with it. We haven’t applied to the state engineer to drill even a single domestic well, we haven’t talked to the county about a subdivision variance; we haven’t met with anyone from the state. I’d love to know how all these rumors start. I’d love to track what fertilizes the old grapevine.”

  “The sale of property is public record with the county assessor,” Estelle pointed out. “A sale that involves so many acres, in that particular location, is going to generate lots of curiosity. Not to mention the purchase price. The same thing happened when Miles Waddell first started to organize what became NightZone.”

  “The assessor broadcasts recent sales?”

  “No, I don’t believe that he does. If it were up to the staff in his office, facts and figures would never leave the filing cabinet. But there are people who keep constant track of real estate activity. Not surprisingly, most Realtors do, as I’m sure someone in your position already knows. I’m sure that a fair handful of folks knows exactly what you purchased, and how much it cost you…Frank Dayan included.”

  “Hmmm.” For a moment, Lydia studied the map. “I guess Kyle and I are well aware of all that.” She shrugged and her eyes narrowed as she focused on the county’s western boundaries. “It surprises me to see this map on your wall, Sheriff Guzman. Is that just being proactive?”

  “That’s exactly what it is. As you’ve no doubt heard, when Miles Waddell first started his project, there was considerable resistance. Some bad times. We even had a fatality when some punks decided to chainsaw down a few power poles. And now, with your purchase right on his doorstep, there are people who are concerned—­and perhaps rightfully so. The NightZone development has created lots of jobs, and it has put lots of money into lots of pockets.” Estelle leaned back in her chair, hands folded across her stomach. “Lots of vested interest, so to speak. Now that they have it in their backyards, with all its contributions to the local economy, folks tend to be defensive.”

  For a long moment, Lydia Thompson sat silently, gazing at the wall map. “There’s no zoning in Posadas County. That’s one good thing.”

  “Correct. There is no formal zoning in the county. Some folks would argue that’s a good thing, some would argue the opposite. There are building codes in the village itself. Blair Edgewood over in the village clerk’s office can give you the details, if you haven’t already explored that avenue.”

  Lydia waved an impatient hand. “What the village does or doesn’t do isn’t my concern, at least for this project.”

  Estelle let the silence hang for a moment, then prompted with a why-­are-­you-­here? gesture. “May I ask what is?”

  “We’re way out there.” Lydia waved a hand at the left-­hand edge of the map. “Remember that Kevin Costner movie about putting a baseball diamond in a cornfield? This is also one of those ‘if you build it’ situations.” The young woman sighed. “Buying that property was my husband’s idea. He’s a developer by nature, more than a little bit of a risk-­taker, quite an accomplished dreamer. He’s super impressed with Mr. Waddell’s baseball field, if you will.”

  She smiled ruefully. “You know, a speculator might be a more accurate description in my husband’s case. He just made out like a bandit with a big commercial property sale up in Albuquerque, and this all was just too interesting to pass up. And kind of on the other end of the spectrum. The Albuquerque sale was metro, with lots of strings attached, lots of hoops to jump through. This is the boonies, where anything goes…or so it seems.

  “With both Mr. Waddell’s development, and the BLM’s activities across the road, it’s clear that there might be some opportunities out there. Miles Waddell obviously has found his niche. My husband certainly thinks so.”

  “Mr. Waddell is an interesting case,” Estelle observed. She hesitated, not wishing to intrude on Miles Waddell’s privacy. “If I understand him correctly, and this is just my own opinion, you understand, NightZone really has nothing to do with the urge to develop, or even to make money as a primary reason for being. Astronomy is his passion, what started out as first a hobby, and then a consuming hobby, and now this. He’s developed the perfect spot for it. Stargazing, and everything that goes along with it, to make it a comfortable adventure.”

  “Interesting case is right,” Lydia agreed. “I couldn’t believe what I was seeing when I prowled around up there last night. I think I gained ten pounds just reading the restaurant’s
menu.” She frowned for a moment, then said, “My husband and I saw the chance to buy and didn’t hesitate. Well, Kyle didn’t hesitate. But here’s the thing.”

  She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “We…I…absolutely do not want to develop in a way that jeopardizes the ambiance of Waddell’s holdings. It’s pretty clear to me that what’s good for his venture could be good for us as well. If we play our cards right. I think Kyle agrees with me, up to a point.”

  “Waddell will be happy to hear that.”

  “I mean it. That’s the way I see it. I admit to being a little flustered when I saw Mr. Dayan up there today, and you’ll forgive me if I acted like a little pill, turning my back on everybody and huffing off. But it was sort of like Mr. Waddell was marshalling all his forces. My husband thinks that at this stage, the community will make every effort to protect what Mr. Waddell has built. And that’s what I hear you suggesting, too. Does that sound like a fair assessment?”

  “Yes. It wasn’t always that way, believe me. Miles Waddell had more than his share of naysayers who believed he was going off the deep end. And I suppose there are still some that think his astronomy park is a colossal waste of money…folks who never look up at the night sky.”

  “Which camp are you in?”

  Estelle smiled. “Neutral, I hope. I have no axe to grind one way or another. How Miles chooses to spend his money is entirely his affair. I will say that we’ve seen more and more interesting folks, from all over the world, coming here to visit. We’re a little village without much in the way of economy since the mines closed. The infusion of tourist money has been a plus. I’m delighted with his success.”

  Lydia Thompson shrugged. “And with more people come drawbacks as well. It must be hard to maintain your distance,” she said. “Kyle and I talked long and late last night until the Tylenol put him to sleep. We need to revisit our plans, and make sure that they dovetail with Mr. Waddell’s development. I think I’ve convinced Kyle of that approach.”