“I guess it would stand out, but that seemed like such a good place for it.”
“I can’t take credit for finding it, though. Padrino saw it first. He let the cat out of the bag. That’s why we went out there.”
Francisco chuckled. “I’m going to have to talk to that guy. But I’m going to promise—try to promise, anyway—no more secrets. You know…just a second.” She heard muffled voices in the background, then her son said, “Sure, that would work. Give me a couple minutes.” He came back on the line. “Rush, rush, rush. That’s my life at the moment, Ma.”
“As long as it’s your passion, hijo.”
“As long as. Anyway…the reason I called you at three in the morning your time…will you and Dad be home on Monday?”
“The day after tomorrow, you mean? As far as I know, sure.”
“We have three days off—I won’t need to be back here until Thursday early afternoon. Angie and I are going to zip over to Posadas for a visit. Among other things, I need to meet with Carlos.”
“Whoa. Run all that by me again.”
Francisco did, and Estelle could hardly hear him, her pulse was pounding so hard. “Carlos told us that he’s hung up with a project at Stanford—something with one of the professors.”
“Well, I’m going to unhang him. We’ll pick him up on the way in. He’s already made arrangements to come with us.”
Estelle groped for the right words. “You’ll be here Christmas Eve, Christmas, and then leave the day after? Twenty-four, twenty-five, and twenty-six? Is that what you’re saying?”
“That’s it. ViaJet shrinks the globe, Ma. It’s the same outfit that will fly you all to Aspen next month. Very professional, very safe.”
“So you fly first to California, pick up Carlos, and then you all fly here on the twenty-fourth?”
“Yep.”
“¡Ay, caramba, hijo! That’s good news. But that’s a lot of hours to spend on an airplane.”
“Not so bad, ’cause there aren’t any airport holdups. I think we stop in New York just long enough to take on fuel. That’s it. It’s a Grumman Gulfstream IV, and we’ll have the whole plane to ourselves. Probably all the fancy food we can eat.”
“You can’t imagine how happy this makes us all, hijo.”
“Well, I would have told you earlier, should have, but we hadn’t worked out all the details yet.” He paused. “And I have a favor to ask.”
“Whatever you need, hijo.”
“Can we schedule a free day on Christmas? On Christmas Day on Tuesday? Like all day? No parties, no company, no interviews, no nada? Just us, and Padrino, of course, if he’ll come.”
“I will dig out my magic wand, but there are lots of people who will be disappointed not to see you.”
“Not this trip, please, Ma. With the schedules you guys keep, that magic wand might be necessary,” Francisco said. “But if we can do that, it’d be great.”
“You sound as if you’re cooking up something.”
“I just need time to decompress, Ma. Just the family.”
“We can do that.”
“Perfecto.” He laughed. “And you can go to bed now.”
“Oh, sure! My mind’s swirling with all this. But, hijo, thanks for finding me. This means a lot.”
“I remember the time years ago, when Angie and I made that surprise visit to Posadas, driving cross-country in her new birthday Corvette. I was…what?…sixteen at the time. You didn’t scold me for making the trip, but you did lecture me for not understanding the joys of anticipation. So that’s why the heads-up this time.”
“I don’t know what to say, hijo, except you guys take the time to travel safely, and we’ll see you Monday sometime. And, hijo, I know the world loves you, but not the way we do.”
“Thanks, Ma. Give our favorite doctor a hug for us, okay?”
When the telephone circuits closed, Estelle sat on the bed for a long time, phone in hand, numbed by the news. Life could go from zero to sixty in a heartbeat.
Chapter Six
“I’ve heard about a lot of stupid stunts in my time.” Judge Ralph Tate glared at Darrell Fisher, who still stood as if his spine had the consistency of overcooked spaghetti. “You had no idea of the danger your actions might pose to that youngster?”
Fisher mumbled something, and Judge Tate rapped his gavel hard. “For God’s sake, speak up, young man.”
“I didn’t think that…”
“You didn’t think. The understatement of the year.”
“I mean, there wasn’t nobody out on the roads, and I was just going to just let him walk a little bit. You know.”
“No, I don’t know. The deputy,” and he nodded at Tom Pasquale, who, along with Undersheriff Estelle Reyes-Guzman, sat directly behind Fisher, “found your son struggling along the highway.” He picked up the police report and peered at it through his gold half-glasses. “‘The child was pushing a Scamper,’” he read, and his busy eyebrows lifted in question. “What’s a Scamper, Deputy?”
Pasquale rose. “Your Honor, it’s a child’s bike with no pedals and no cranks. They can learn to balance without getting their little feet tied up in the pedals. No training wheels, either.”
“Along a state highway,” Tate said with considerable acid. “At night. In the snow. In diapers.” The judge shifted his glare back to Darrell Fisher. “How did you know that the child had been taken to the hospital, Mr. Fisher?”
“The deputy saw me.”
“Explain that.”
“I mean, I was goin’ back out to pick up Derry, and there goes the ambulance by toward town, with the deputy behind. He sees me and right away turns around and stops me. Tells me to get my ass over to the hospital, ’cause that’s where they’re takin’ the boy.”
“Just brilliant.” Tate leaned back in his chair and tossed his glasses on the blotter in front of him. “Let me see if I understand the logistics of all this.” He held his hands up as if in supplication, eyes closed—even though he’d read and reread the concise deposition that Deputy Pasquale had provided him and clearly knew the details. “You dropped your son off—you kicked him out of the truck—because you were fed up with his using the inside of your pickup truck as a rumpus room. No child seat, of course.” He didn’t wait for a response. “Then you drove off, leaving him, let’s see, just a few yards short of mile marker twenty-one.” He peered across at Pasquale. “Where exactly is that, Deputy?”
“Your Honor, twenty-one is just northeast of the Rio Salinas arroyo bridge.”
Tate’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, an icy concrete bridge. That’s a good place for a two-year-old in diapers to be pushing a Scamper.” He folded his hands. “What were you doing down there at that hour of the morning?”
“I…I was visiting with my brother, Al.”
“Brother Al. That’s Albert Fisher?”
“Yes, sir.”
“At midnight?”
“Well, I didn’t…I mean, you know. We was there earlier, and I guess time got away from us.”
“Just having a beer or three?”
“Well, yeah.”
“So the boy gets rambunctious, and you ran out of patience and dropped him off. That’s about it?”
“Yes, sir. I mean it was just going to be for a minute.”
“Kicked him out of the truck.”
“I guess so.”
“And you unloaded the Scamper and gave it to him? Is that how it worked?”
“Yes. It’s his favorite thing in the whole world right now.”
“And then you drove off.”
“Yes. But I wasn’t goin’ far, Your Honor.”
“I bet not. Just for a minute or two.”
“Just kind of out of sight, so he’d get the message.”
“A two-year-old.”
“Well, two-and-a-half.
”
Tate nodded judiciously. “Ah, that explains it, then. Damn, the lad is almost ready to vote.” He heaved a mighty sigh. “So you drive on, and next thing you know, here comes an ambulance?”
Darrell Fisher ducked his head, trying his best to control the tears. “No. The deputy went by first. Just like maybe a couple of minutes after I dropped him off.”
“Oh. So now we’re up to ‘a couple of minutes,’ and the ambulance still isn’t there. You know Deputy Pasquale personally?”
“Yeah.” He glanced up at Pasquale. “We went to high school together.”
“So he drives by. But you keep going.”
“Yes, sir.”
The judge leaned forward. “Now why would you do that?”
“I don’t know, sir.” Fisher’s voice was a whisper.
“You don’t know. Didn’t it seem likely to you that the deputy would stop when he saw the little boy slogging along the side of the road?”
“I didn’t want no trouble with him.”
“I see. Well, that certainly makes as much sense as any of this. And, you know, we still haven’t accounted for the time that it took for the ambulance to respond to the call, then drive down there to the scene.”
Darrell blanched and hung his head a little lower, if that were possible.
“So assuming the ambulance crew was ready to roll…” Tate pushed the deposition papers away and folded his hands, his head shaking in resignation. “Mr. Fisher, let’s cut to the heart of this mess. Do you actually want your family?”
“Do I want them?” When the judge declined to answer, Fisher looked helplessly at the judge, and then at Deputy Pasquale, whose impassive face gave Darrell no clues about how he should respond. “Course I want ’em.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “They’re all I got.”
Tate picked up the paperwork again in disgust. “You’ve been arrested and charged with one count each, reckless endangerment of a child and child abuse. You blew a .07 with the breathalyzer, so you were sober enough to understand what you were doing. As this mess winds its way through the legal channels, my recommendation to you is that you remain completely sober, Mr. Fisher. What I’d really like to do is incarcerate you for the rest of your pathetic life, but I suppose I can’t do that. Where do you work, Mr. Fisher?”
“Work?”
“The word is foreign to you?”
“No, I mean, I work over at the junior high, in maintenance.”
“Ah. On Christmas break now.”
“Well, we ain’t. We work all the time.”
“Ah. And your wife? Where does she work?”
“She works nights at the hospital. She’s one of their custodians.”
“So little Derry is in day-care most of the time?”
“Yes, sir. On days, when I’m working. Over at Little Nippers.”
Tate pursed his lips and regarded Fisher thoughtfully. “Bail is set at five thousand dollars, cash only. We’ll accept the ten percent up front.” He banged the gavel. “Deputy, any questions?”
“No, sir.” Pasquale looked pleased.
“Undersheriff, did you have anything you wanted to add to these proceedings?”
“No, sir. Thank you.” Estelle watched Pasquale snap the handcuffs in place on Darrell Fisher’s thin wrists. If possible, the man’s shoulders slumped a little more.
Chapter Seven
The rest of that Saturday settled into inexorable slow motion. Last-minute shoppers behaved themselves. Motorists behaved themselves. Folks put a lid on domestic disputes.
It was possible that a peace of sorts had even settled over the Fisher household. Penny Fisher somehow had scraped five hundred dollars together for bail, and Darrell Fisher went home. Had he looked out the window during the rest of that Saturday afternoon, he would likely have noticed a Posadas County Sheriff’s Department patrol unit passing by the Fisher residence now and then, as if their lane was of particular interest.
Estelle tried to pressure the clock forward by immersing herself in the mundane business of polishing her home on Twelfth Street, fluffing pillows, checking sheets, and scrubbing bathrooms that didn’t need it. In the living room she hesitated in front of the rocking chair that had been her mother’s comfort spot for the final years of her extraordinarily long life. She’d made it to her 103rd year before announcing one spring morning, “It’s time.” Two days later, she quietly slipped away. The afghan that had warmed her bony frame was still folded over the back of the chair.
Estelle refolded the afghan neatly and replaced it with a couple of small Mexican pillows, then moved the chair a bit farther from the fireplace. She paused, reflecting that they had not enjoyed a blaze in the fireplace since Teresa had died. Estelle’s younger son, Carlos, was the artistic fire-builder, constructing the kindling and piñon rick just so, his fires never failing. He wouldn’t be inside the home for five minutes before he gravitated to the fireplace to work some magic.
And even while Carlos did that, Francisco would be edging toward the piano bench, so absorbed by his music that a day away from the keyboard was agony for him.
No matter how immaculate their once-a-week housekeeper kept the home, the black ebony finish of the Steinway attracted the gentle settling of dust. Left untended long enough, the piano adopted a grayish cast as the dust motes found it. Methodically dusting and polishing, working her way up the keyboard, Estelle enjoyed the competing notes as the micro-fiber cloth stroked the black and whites.
“Cleaning Symphony in C,” she said aloud. Finished polishing the keys, she closed the piano’s keyboard lid and sat quietly for a long moment, eyes roaming the modest living room. What was missing was a holiday aroma. She left the piano and headed for the kitchen where she made a quick shopping list. She had all day Sunday, plenty of time to restock the larder.
When her husband Francis telephoned at six-thirty that Saturday evening, she was in the process of pinching the decorative borders around the crusts for a pumpkin and a sour cherry pie.
“Querido!” she exclaimed when she heard his calm voice. “I am sooooo glad you called. Do you wrap up tomorrow?”
“Actually, we finished late this afternoon,” the physician said. “My flight out is at eight-fifteen in the morning, if I can haul my carcass out of bed.”
“Long sessions?”
“Wellllll, yes. Dr. Luis Fernando was here from Mérida, and if something can be said in five words, he uses thirty-five.”
“But progress?”
“Mucho. How about you?”
“Ay. The usual, but then Padrino decided to be a creature of the night. He came out at his usual midnight hour, and then did a short ride-along with me. I was covering for Jackie. She’s visiting her mother. But guess who called.”
“Uh oh. Good news or bad?”
“The best. Francisco called from Berlin, Oso. The concert series is a wild success, but he’s got a few days off when they take a break for the holiday. He’s coming for Christmas. Just a couple of days. He and Angie.” Before her husband could work in a word edgewise, she added, “And then…” she took a deep breath. “He’s stopping in California to pick up Carlos on the way in! All of ’em, Oso. They’ll all three be here Monday afternoon!”
“So much for a quiet holiday with just the two of us snuggled in bed,” Francis groused in mock disappointment. His tone brightened with the excitement that she knew her husband felt. “How’s he managing all this?”
“Private jet. He’s been using ViaJet…the same folks who will fly us up to Aspen next month. This time, it’s nonstop from Berlin to New York, I think he said, then on to San José to fetch Carlos, then back to Posadas.”
“Wow.” Francis chuckled. “Whatever happened to his goal of being a starving artist living in a fifth-floor walk-up, subsisting on crackers and water?”
“I don’t think that’s going to work for him, Oso. A
nd I think I’m very glad that it’s not.”
“And Carlos?”
“I’m going to call him later this evening. He has a private project he’s working on with one of his professors.”
“I knew about that.”
“But we don’t know what it is, Oso. Somehow he managed to wrangle some time off, though. I’m about to bust with excitement. ¡Caramba!”
“Well, lemme get home, and I’ll bust with you, Querida.”
She turned at the whirring noise from the kitchen counter in time to see her cell phone turning itself in a slow circle just as the first orchestral chord sounded.
“Is that your cell?”
“Yes. I can ignore it.”
“Three ten, PCS.” The hand-held radio that she had turned loose from her belt sat in the middle of the kitchen table.
“I can’t ignore that, though,” she said. “Oso, I need to go. Dispatch knows where I am and they wouldn’t call if it wasn’t important.”
“Go to it. Be careful, and remember that I love you more than any of this puro cuento that keeps us so busy.”
“Y tu, mi solo mio.” She stood for a moment, holding the old black phone that was their landline.
“Three ten, PCS,” the dispatcher said again, and her cell phone persisted with its circular dance. She chose the radio.
“PCS, three ten. Go ahead.” At the same time, she retrieved her cell phone and snapped it open as she glanced at the kitchen clock. At 7:02 p.m., it had been pitch dark for more than an hour. She saw the number on the phone. Only Sheriff Robert Torrez was patient enough to let a phone ring twenty or thirty times.
“Three ten, contact three oh eight.”
“I’m on it.” She activated the cell. “What’s up, Bobby?”
“Nine oh five Larson,” the sheriff said without greeting. “What’s your ETA?” She paused, trying to place Larson. “Just off County 19, across from the trailer park,” he prompted. “Fishers’ place.”
Her heart sank. “About six minutes.” She snapped the phone shut and froze in place for a moment. “What do I do with you guys?” she said aloud to the two waiting piecrusts. With a quick peel and tear, she drew out enough plastic wrap, bundled up the crusts, and slid the pans into the refrigerator.
Lies Come Easy Page 4
