The driver’s door was open and the dome light was on. Patrolman Thomas Pasquale wasn’t in it.
40
I leaned against the patrol car and cursed loud and long. It was all I knew to do. I looked across at Pasquale’s unit and saw his handheld radio lying on the front seat, useless.
Every dog in the neighborhood had taken up the call, barking their fool heads off in frustration at not being part of the chase.
“Torrez, this is Gastner,” I said into my radio. “Pasquale is after him on foot. I don’t see any sign of them.”
“Ten-four,” Torrez said. “Mears, circle around back by Garland. I think they went that way. See if you can cut him off.”
Standing in the dark, I tried to put myself in Dennis Wilton’s shoes, but it was a waste of energy. None of us could predict where he’d go. The instinct was to run, and that’s what he was doing. If he could put enough nighttime between himself and his pursuers, he’d gain a nine-hour head start. It was that long until dawn, and he’d spent the day resting.
I struggled back into 310 and opened the windows so I could hear. Pulling the car into gear, I rolled south on Sixth Street, eyes peering into every shadow. The street rose sharply as it crested over one of the irrigation ditches. On the south side of the ditch, Garland Avenue ran east to west. I paused, listening.
Directly ahead of me were a half dozen houses, and then Henry Gallegos’s farm, a small island of overgrazed pastures, barns, and long-dead machinery. Beyond that was the right-of-way for State Highway 17 and then, just another few hundred yards south, the interstate.
I had started to turn the steering wheel left, planning to drive along the ditch, heading east toward the school, when I heard the gunshot. It was a single report, flat and muted, off to the south. With racing pulse, I cranked the wheel hard to the right and accelerated toward Gallegos’s farm.
The road narrowed to one lane of dirt as I reached his cattle-guard. Henry Gallegos and his brood lived in one of the oldest adobe houses in Posadas-it had been built a dozen years before New Mexico became a state…and it had been built by a Gallegos.
A porch light was on, and I saw Henry standing in front of his door, looking off to the south. I slowed and leaned forward, hugging the steering wheel. Two figures came around from behind one of the low, flat-roofed barns. I snapped on the car’s spotlight, keeping the beam low.
Thomas Pasquale was limping slightly, his right pant leg from midthigh down soaked in blood. Dennis Wilton walked beside him, head down. His hands were cuffed behind his back, and Pasquale kept one hand on the kid’s elbow.
I stopped the car when they were still fifty feet away and got out. My right hand drifted down toward my revolver, but it was just the remains of an old instinct. Earlier, I hadn’t been able to manage a damn coffeepot, and sure as hell would have fumbled the Magnum off into the darkness.
“Officer Pasquale, are you all right?” I called.
He nodded, but he kept blinking and squeezing his eyes tightly shut. I turned off the spotlight and then intercepted them a dozen feet in front of the patrol car. I took Wilton by the other elbow. The kid didn’t need to know it was as much to steady myself as anything.
“Mr. Wilton,” I said, “it’s good to see you again.” I watched with satisfaction as Officer Pasquale put Dennis Wilton in the backseat of 310, secure behind the security grille. He did it smoothly and efficiently, even remembering to protect the kid’s head from smacking the sharp edge of the patrol car’s roof. That’s more than I would have found the heart to do.
“What happened to the leg?” I asked as Pasquale straightened up. I could see that his face was pale and his lower lip was quivering.
“I managed to tackle him just behind that building,” Pasquale said. “In the struggle, he got my weapon away from me somehow. It went off and grazed me across the thigh. He’s a fast little son of a bitch, sir.”
I bent down and peered at the rip. There was no spurt of arterial blood, and I straightened up with a grunt. “First we stitch the eye, then we stitch this. You’re costing us a lot of money, son.” He smiled weakly, and I patted him on the shoulder. “Good work. Let’s get back.”
He started to walk around the car but I called him back. “You drive, Officer. Even shot up, you’re in better shape than I am.”
As I got into the car, I waved a hand at Henry Gallegos. He’d been joined on his front porch by his wife and a handful of their children. That wave was about all the energy I had left except to point at the radio. “You want to call in and tell the others that you’ve got him?”
“Yes, sir,” Pasquale said.
***
I took considerable satisfaction out of hearing Judge Les Hobart deny bail for Dennis Wilton. That satisfaction drained away when I turned and saw the expression on the faces of his parents.
It was the same expression of loss, I suppose, that Sheriff Martin Holman had seen just a few short hours before when he’d broken the news to Ryan House’s parents that they’d lost a son.
At 10:18 that Saturday night, Estelle Reyes-Guzman drove me home. There were reams of paperwork to be done and still a dozen bits of evidence to pursue and sift. But I’d made a promise and managed to keep most of it.
Estelle opened the door for me. That was a first. I took off my hat slowly, as if it were glued to my scalp.
“Long day,” I said. In the back of the house we heard a thump, and then Wesley Crocker appeared, supporting himself with his crutch and wearing the bathrobe I’d tossed on his bed.
“Wesley, how are you doing?” I said, and shuffled down the hall toward him.
“Just fine, good sir. Just fine. You look on the tired side.”
“I am tired, Wesley. Really tired. And you need to call your sister.”
He frowned, and I nodded, pointing toward the kitchen. “You call her, or I will. And I’d much prefer that you did it. I’m too tired to dial.”
“Well, I wasn’t-”
I cut him off. “I’m going into the hospital, for how long, only her husband knows.” I nodded toward Estelle. “There won’t be anyone here to make sure you don’t do something foolish. So that’s your only choice. Call her and tell her that one of our deputies is taking you to the Las Cruces airport first thing in the morning. She can expect to see your smiling face by noon.”
“Well, I just don’t know what I’d say to her,” Crocker said. He was so flustered he was blushing.
“You’ll think of something,” I replied, and beckoned to Estelle. She walked down the hall, puzzled, and I put my arm around her, giving her a hug. I grinned at Crocker. “For starters, when you get her on the phone, you might thank her. And then just go.”
I turned to look at Estelle Reyes-Guzman. “Will you be kind enough to drop me off at Posadas General and then tell your hubby that I’m waiting for him?”
She nodded, and I added, “Doesn’t seem to be much point in waiting for Monday. Let’s get a jump on things.”
I extended my hand to Wes Crocker. “Take care of yourself. Ride back this way sometime.” I grinned. “Make sure the front door latches when you leave tomorrow morning. Of course, if the lawyers need more than just a signed deposition from you, we may be seeing more of you than you’d like.”
I didn’t give him time to argue. Estelle made a quick call, and when she hung up we left the house, with Wesley Crocker still propped up on his crutch in the middle of my living room.
The drive to Posadas General Hospital was silent most of the way. By the time we reached North Pershing, I broke the silence and said, “You have a lot of work to do.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can handle it.”
She looked over at me. “Thanks, sir. I’ll be by in the morning, though. After you’re settled. There are some things I’d like to go over with you.”
The car came to a halt, parked appropriately in one of the “doctors only” spots.
“Estelle,” I said, and I rested my hand gently on her arm. “Save
your time and energy. You don’t need my help. Just go for it.” I grinned at her. “Thanks again.”
Before she had time to answer, I slipped out of the car, damn near stumbled on the rough pavement, and then trudged up the sidewalk toward the entrance of the hospital.
FB2 document info
Document ID: fbd-f45c50-fb3b-7146-e9b6-df26-66b9-17b348
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Document creation date: 21.09.2013
Created using: calibre 1.3.0, Fiction Book Designer, FictionBook Editor Release 2.6.6 software
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