Before She Dies

by Steven F Havill

  “She was pregnant. She just found out.”

  “So what?” My response jarred her, and her mouth opened as if to say something. Nothing came out. “She was twenty-three years old, Elena. There’s no mystery about a pregnancy. It’s not like she was a twelve-year-old midschooler.” She looked down at the floor and her forehead furrowed. I continued, “Was it Patrick Torrance’s child? Did she say?”

  “She didn’t say.”

  “Who was she seeing this weekend, then? If she’d broken up with Patrick, who was she seeing?”

  Elena Muñoz frowned again, as if all the pieces of the puzzle were floating around in her brain, refusing to fall into place or pattern.

  “Tammy’s mother said she saw the two of you last week, coming out of one of the stores.”

  “So?”

  “And all the time you were with her last week, she never said who she was seeing?”

  “Sure, she talked about it.”

  I spread my hands, waiting.

  “She was all excited.”

  “About what?”

  “She said she had a chance to make all this money.”

  “The last thing Tammy Woodruff needed was money,” I said, and instantly regretted it.

  “Her own money,” Elena said with considerable acid.

  “How was she going to do that?”

  “That’s what she said…that no one really thought she was much good for anything. This was her chance.”

  “What was she going to do?”

  “She didn’t say. It was some big secret.”

  “She never told you?”

  Elena Muñoz shook her head. “But she kind of had this crazy glint in her eyes, you know? Like it was something she’d never done before? Or even thought about?”

  “On Sunday night, Elena, we have evidence that Tammy was the driver of a truck that one of our deputies stopped to assist on State Highway Fifty-six.” The girl blinked but said nothing. “Patrick Torrance told me that he saw Tammy Woodruff driving her own pickup truck around noon on Monday. And there was another man with her.” Again Elena said nothing, and I added, “No one saw her alive after that, Elena. Patrick got scared and ran off to Wyoming.”

  Elena looked incredulous. “Wyoming?”

  I shrugged. “He has relatives up there. He got scared. For Tammy and for himself.”

  “That does a lot of good, the dumb fuck,” she muttered.

  “Maybe, maybe not. If you know who she was seeing, we’d like to know. Before anyone else gets hurt.”

  “She wouldn’t tell me his name. She said she didn’t want her father to find out.”

  “Why is that?”

  Elena looked at me defiantly. “Because she said he was a Mexican.”

  I frowned, puzzled. “So?”

  “So the Woodruffs don’t like Mexicans. He doesn’t like me. His wife doesn’t like me. That’s why Tammy and I aren’t sharing an apartment. He wouldn’t let her.”

  “How could he not let her?” I said, puzzled. “She was over twenty-one. She could live where she wanted…and live with whomever she pleased.”

  She made a face and dismissed that remark without comment. “I still found out who she was seeing, though. I saw them Sunday. I saw them drive by. I was working, and Tammy looked right at me and smiled this great big old smile like she had it all over everybody.”

  “Who was with her?”

  This time she didn’t hesitate. “Carlos. Carlos Sánchez.” She mistook the expression on my face for a blank brain, and added, “His father owns the Broken Spur Saloon.”

  Chapter 35

  I borrowed Bob Torrez’s pickup truck, a ridiculous old Chevy with chrome running boards, twin spotlights, toolbox snuggled in between wrought-iron curlicues in the bed—even one of those web tailgates that’s supposed to boost mileage from ten to twelve. The truck was painted mostly semigloss black, a good grade of house paint slathered on with a high-quality nylon bristle brush.

  Everyone in the county who cared about such things knew that it was Bob’s truck, and that was just fine. What I didn’t want was a police car.

  I cruised down Bustos Avenue, feeling the throb of the powerful 454 V-8 under the hood and smelling the waft of exhaust fumes from a leaky manifold mixed with the aroma of roasted corn chips long forgotten in a corner between windshield and dashboard.

  More expensive than the pickup truck was the small cellular phone unit that rested in the middle of the seat. It, like the ones in my Blazer and Estelle’s little sedan, belonged to Posadas County. If the carbon monoxide didn’t get me, the truck would suit my purposes.

  As I passed Nick Chavez’s dealership, I scanned the vehicles parked behind the main building. They ranged from derelict parts cars to vehicles owned by employees—and right smack in the middle, sandwiched between a bent Volvo station wagon and the Weatherford’s crumpled van, was an older model pickup. I couldn’t see much of it as I passed, but I did see the stock racks in the back. I hoped for mud as well, but the truck glinted in the early afternoon sunshine, clean as a whistle, the miracle of a modern drive-thru car-wash.

  I turned left on MacArthur, gathering a back view of the dealership. At the fork of MacArthur and Camino del Sol, I swung around and headed back. The dealership wasn’t crawling with people, but there were enough—one salesman talking with an elderly couple outside, one of the servicemen half under a van with out-of-state plates, and Nick Chavez down on the new-car line, talking to a kid who would have traded his little sister for the sleek coupe parked in the end slot. No one paid any mind to the old rattletrap that idled into the lot, around the back of the service building, and out the other side.

  As I passed the pickup with the stock rack, I jotted down the license plate number. The plate itself was ancient and hard to read, the corners folded and the letters marred from countless strikes by hay bales, firewood, old car parts, and whatever else twenty years use and abuse had inflicted.

  Pulling out onto Bustos again, I pulled the microphone off the dashboard hook and turned up the volume of Bob’s cheap discount radio. I was about to call the plate into dispatch, and then thought better of it. There were too many overeager ears. I drove back to the Sheriff’s Department and ran the plate in person.

  The NCIC information came back with no wants or warrants, and that didn’t surprise me. The vehicle, listed as a 1978 Ford three-quarter ton, was registered to Mateo Esquibel, d.o.b. April 6, 1903. Señor Esquibel, if he could still walk that far, picked up his mail from P O Box 6, Regal, New Mexico.

  “You slimy son of a bitch,” I said aloud, and Gayle Sedillos turned in her chair.

  “Sir?”

  “Nothing, Gayle. I’m not here.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I closed my office door and locked it, and sat down at my desk. After a minute’s thought, I picked up the phone. Victor Sánchez answered on the tenth ring with a curt “Yeah.”

  “Victor, this is Gastner at the sheriff’s office. I’ve got one more question to ask you if you’ve got a minute.” Sánchez said nothing, but he didn’t hang up. “Does Mateo Esquibel still drive?”

  After another long silence, Victor managed a single word. “What?”

  “Mateo Esquibel? You know? Down in Regal. He’s some relation to you, isn’t he?”

  “You mean the old man?”

  “Yes.”

  “You want to talk to him, you’re going to have to drive down there. He’s got a phone, but he don’t use it. He’s deaf now.”

  “Oh. No wonder,” I said.

  “What do you want with him?”

  “Me? Nothing. One of my deputies wanted to buy his truck or something like that. I said I’d ask you about it.”

  The line fell dead again. “Thanks a lot,” I said.

  “Yeah.”

  I telephoned the hospital next, knowing I shouldn’t, but wanting Estelle’s advice. She agreed with everything I wanted to do except my plan for leaving her sitting right where she was. But she had no choice.r />
  In an hour, I felt confident that I had all bases covered. Bob Torrez had changed into civilian clothes, taken his leaky truck back to Chavez’s dealership, and purchased a set of exhaust manifold gaskets from the parts department. On the way out, a casual glance into the business office of the dealership had confirmed that Carlos Sánchez was there and busy with a stack of paperwork.

  Bob parked behind his aunt’s house on MacArthur, pushed up the hood of the pickup, and settled down to enjoy the clear, thousand-yard view of the dealership’s two driveways.

  Tony Abeyta took 306 and began regular patrol of the county. When he reached the end of a shift at four that afternoon, Tom Mears would relieve him. At midnight, Howard Bishop would take over. All three were instructed to avoid getting themselves tangled in something that couldn’t be dropped at an instant’s notice. All three were told to stay central in the county; to make no effort to avoid State Highway 56, but to give the highway no special attention.

  And Gayle Sedillos, caught in the trap of being efficient, smart, and quick-witted, planned to camp out for the duration at dispatch. She kept tabs on the deputies as the day wore on, making sure that their location in the county at any given time was no mystery.

  If Carlos Sánchez made any kind of move, he’d know as well as I did exactly where the working deputies were. And that’s what I wanted.

  At 5:05, Carlos Sánchez left the dealership driving old man Esquibel’s truck. He drove directly to his apartment at 131 MacArthur Terrace, a short cul-de-sac off the main street. He drove right by Carmine Torrez’s house on MacArthur Street, and if he’d looked to his right, he would have seen Bob Torrez under the hood of the old Chevy, portable radio propped up on one fender, grease up to his elbows.

  At five-thirty, I heard the moan of Jim Bergin’s Beech Baron as it circled the village and lined up for final approach. I was at the airport waiting, and I hustled Patrick Torrance into one of the small pilot’s conference rooms in the FBO Building. Without giving either his mind or his stomach time to stop spinning from the trip, I spread out a series of photographs on the table. Several of the photos were meaningless, dug out of files at random.

  One photo was a clipping of Nick Chavez’s Christmas advertisement, with all the employees of the dealership gathered in front of the showroom, holding a large wreath.

  “Take your time,” I said to the youth. “Examine the faces.”

  Patrick sat down, taking each photograph in turn. He hesitated quite a while at one picture taken of Sheriff Martin Holman on the capitol steps with one of our state’s senators. Eventually he put that photo down and picked up the group shot of Nick Chavez’s gang. His forehead furrowed.

  “I have a magnifying glass out in the car if you need it,” I said. At the same time I placed my small cassette recorder on the table in front of him and switched it on.

  Patrick shook his head. “No.” He drew the photo up close to his nose, squinting. “That’s him, right there.” He picked up a pencil and pointed with the tip. Carlos Sánchez was in front, kneeling at one side of the wreath, looking pleasant and professional.

  For the benefit of the tape recorder, I said, “Patrick, you’re pointing at Carlos Sánchez. Are you sure that’s the man that you saw in the pickup truck Monday with Tammy Woodruff?”

  “Yes, sir. I am.”

  “You’ll testify to that?”

  Patrick’s eyes opened wider, but he didn’t protest. He nodded slightly and looked back at the photograph. “I’m sure that’s him.”

  I reached over and turned off the recorder. “Then that’s all we need, son. I’d like to ask that you go home and stay there until I call you.”

  Patrick nodded, and then said, “Do you want me to call my dad?”

  “From here? There’s no need. Just go on home.”

  He smiled for what I guessed was the first time in many days. “Sir, my truck is in Wyoming. It’s a long walk out to the ranch.”

  “Ah,” I said. “I’ll drop you off. When you take the bus back to Gillette to get your truck, save the bills. The county will reimburse you.” I patted him on the shoulder. “Bus, Patrick. Baggage class.”

  I didn’t take time to chat when I left Patrick at the driveway of the Torrance ranch. It was already dark when I pulled back out onto the state highway and headed my old Blazer south toward Regal. I was after one final piece of the puzzle, and I knew exactly where to look.

  Chapter 36

  From the pass above Regal, I could count the lights, a sparse scattering of a dozen spots of yellow. Farther to the south and east, I could see the bright glare of the sodium-vapor lights at the border crossing. The gate would be locked, the officers gone for the day.

  With the windows down, I drove through the narrow dirt lanes, keeping a sedate speed neither too fast nor too slow to attract attention. A single bulb burned somewhere in the bowels of Mateo Esquibel’s little house, the light faded to little more than a candle’s worth by the time it washed up against the lace curtains.

  No lights were on at the ancient building next door. More than sixty feet long and only twelve or fourteen feet wide, it might have been a mercantile or feed store at one time. A portion of the roof had collapsed, and the three elm trees in the yard were dead. I stopped the Blazer near the end of the building, pushed off the lights, switched off the engine, and got out.

  For February, the night was mild with just the faintest breeze stirring the tall grass along the old building’s foundation. But I wasn’t interested in history. I pushed the truck’s door closed just enough to turn off the dome light and skirted the old store, heading toward the back of Mateo Esquibel’s property.

  If the old man had a dog, it was inside. I moved slowly, keeping my flashlight off. I didn’t remember any fences in my path, just an open side yard strewn with rocks and cacti.

  I reached the trailer where the old man kept his wood supply, and bent down to look at the hitch that rested on a stout chunk of railroad tie. If it had been used recently, fresh steel-against-steel contact marks would show on the bottom of the housing that covered the ball. I was about to attempt an impossible position so that I could see the hitch when the dog began barking.

  From inside the house came the insistent, rhythmic yapping and I froze in place, flashlight switched off. For the better part of five minutes I stood there while the mutt ran through its entire repertoire of canine noises. No one came to either door or window, and eventually the dog gave up. For another five minutes I stood still, giving the animal time to lose interest.

  Moving cautiously, I backed up and made my way around the back side of the trailer, and then to the back wall of the garage. A side window had been boarded up years ago, the nails rusting and sending streaks of black down the wooden walls.

  At the front corner I hesitated, listening for the dog. Then I eased around to the doorway. It was secured with an old iron hasp and an enormous brass padlock. Any shine the brass may have had when it was new had given way to a dull patina decades before. By placing a single finger between the two sides, I tried to pry the doors open. They didn’t move a fraction of an inch. Whoever had hung the door had been an expert.

  I made my way around the east side of the garage. Another window was covered, this time with a combination of boards and cardboard. One of the eight panes of glass had been hit in the corner with a small projectile—no doubt a neighbor kid’s rock from a slingshot. The pane hadn’t shattered, but by working my pocketknife into the hole I could pry loose a small wedge of glass.

  I did so, and then pushed the cardboard that had covered the inside of the window to one side—just an inch or less, but enough for the beam of the flashlight to lance into the garage. I squinted and sucked in my breath. The beam bounced off chrome and fancy paint.

  With care, I went to work with the pocketknife again, enlarging the hole by prying out another sliver of glass.

  This time, when I looked, I could see the bright colors clearly, the trade name on the fender, and, as I swept
the beam back, the fancy gas cap, air dam, and roof rack. The Weatherfords’ Suburban had survived its high-speed trip from Oklahoma no worse for wear.

  I took a deep breath and snapped off the flashlight, standing quietly with my back to the garage.

  Now that the pieces were drifting into place, it all made perfect sense. Carlos Sánchez had himself an effortless pipeline for prize vehicles, straight to Mexico. He could make copies of the keys at leisure; he could lift an extra temporary sticker and fill in appropriate names. It wouldn’t be hard to find willing drivers—both for the excitement and the money. And either explained how Tammy Woodruff had gotten sucked in.

  A dozen questions still circled in my mind like hungry vultures over a carcass. It made no sense that Carlos Sánchez would let this vehicle sit in a garage a rifle shot from the border. No matter how innocent the garage appeared, every minute the stolen truck stayed on the U.S. side of the line, the risk increased. That meant that all we had to do was wait.

  I made my way back to the Blazer, climbed in, and released the clutch, allowing the vehicle to roll forward down the slight incline. When the road forked, I turned left, started the engine, and drove out of the village as casually as if I lived there.

  The last dirt road turned off the pavement just before the first switchback. I followed it, winding up the hillside toward the enormous white water-storage tank that had been installed with monies from a federal grant five years before. The tank provided ample and dependable storage, and its broad, smooth sides provided local spray-can artists with an open canvas.

  I drove around the back side of the tank and parked under two-foot high letters that proclaimed Esmarelda y Paco, ’93. The bulk of the tank shaded me from the vapor light. From there, I commanded a view of the entire valley. I could clearly see the patch of black behind Mateo Esquibel’s house where the garage stood.

  I turned the volume of the radio up just enough that I could hear the broadcasts, but kept the windows of the truck closed.