“What about Mike?”
Sutherland smiled. “He said he might duck in for a few minutes before he and Janet headed to Lordsburg to see his folks.”
Former sheriff Bill Gastner had agreed to head up the records project if Deputy Mike Sisneros, a former village patrolman, worked with Linda Real and himself as a team. Estelle had agreed, even though she was loath to tie up Linda with the job, since Linda was the department’s most talented photographer and Gayle Torrez’s assistant office manager.
She pulled the cell phone from her belt as it chirped.
“Guzman.” She could hear the thunderous roar in the background and knew instantly that it was the twin turboprops of the air ambulance.
“Querida, we’re on the way,” her husband said, his voice unnaturally loud. “I’ll give you a buzz from the hospital a little later, all right?”
“Sure. And I was serious about taking Sofía to Albuquerque, oso. Let me know if you get yourself stuck up there. We’ll come rescue you.”
“We’ll just have to see,” Francis said. “I think they’re dead-heading the plane back to Cruces after they drop us off, and if they do that, I’m going to lose my ride.”
“Then let me know. How’s Bobby?”
“Riding comfortably, and cranky as ever. I’m optimistic, but we’ll just see how this all goes.”
“Be careful.”
“You got it. Love you, querida.”
“Y yo a ti,” she said, and rang off. Brent Sutherland had retreated back to his world of radios, phones, and computers, and Estelle stepped out of her office in time to see Deputy Jackie Taber heading toward the staff workroom.
“All quiet?” she called, and Taber stopped short.
“I think so,” the deputy said, and looked heavenward. “I escorted the ambulance over to the airport. They got off all right. I was thinkin’ that a good rap upside the head might make the sheriff a little easier to manage.” She patted the telescoping baton on her belt. “He’s a real trip.”
“He just prefers to be the one carrying the stretcher, rather than riding on it,” Estelle said.
“Can’t argue with that,” Jackie said. “Being pampered ruins his Mr. Indestructible image.”
Estelle laughed. “You’re going to do up a sympathy card?”
“You bet,” Jackie said with relish. An artist of considerable talent, the deputy enjoyed turning her pen and ink to caricatures of the department when the need arose. “Real sympathy. I started on it as soon as I heard.” She propped her briefcase on one knee and opened it, pulling out a drawing tablet. She swept the tablet cover back and offered it to Estelle.
The rough pencil sketch showed the sheriff in a hospital gown that was far too short, lying in bed amid an enormous tangle of hospital paraphernalia, with various roughed-out figures gathered around the bed. Estelle recognized Perrone’s slicked-back hair and large nose, as well as Gayle Torrez’s trademark ponytail. The figure on the bed was recoiling in horror from the apparition who was approaching the foot of the bed...a figure who was unmistakably Leona Spears. The large woman, her muumuu flowing, carried a hospital cafeteria tray. you just need some mothering, was printed in neat architectural block letters above Leona’s head. Her name tag included the tiny legend, county manager.
“You’re cruel,” Estelle said. “What a way to find out.”
“He doesn’t know about Leona yet? The rest of the world does.”
Estelle shook her head. “I don’t think so. He would have said something to me if he did.”
“You want me to hold off?”
Estelle thought for only a second. “Nah,” she said, and nodded at the artwork. “That’s delightful. He’ll treasure it, I’m sure.”
Jackie laughed as she slipped the drawing pad back in her briefcase. “Treasure it all the way to reassigning me to Siberia,” she said.
“To the day shift, more likely.”
The deputy looked up in mock horror. “Spare me, please.”
Chapter Ten
After the turmoil of Christmas Eve and the tense moments of early morning, Estelle savored the peace and quiet of Christmas afternoon. The skies were clear and the sun almost hot, toasting the dormant sage and yarrow underfoot as she sauntered along the narrow trail that ran along the rim of Escudero Arroyo west of Twelfth Street. She strolled with her arm linked through Sofía Tournál’s. They had no particular destination, no particular agenda. Every moment that the telephone in her jacket pocket didn’t ring, or the pager didn’t chirp, or the hand-held two-way radio clipped to her belt at the small of her back didn’t squawk, Estelle counted as a victory.
Dr. Francis Guzman had called to report that the sheriff was resting comfortably, although practicing a charming combination of groggy and cranky. The air ambulance was scheduled to return to Las Cruces that evening, and would swing by Posadas to bring Dr. Guzman home.
Word was less promising from Posadas General Hospital, where Eduardo Martinez still remained in a coma.
As Estelle and Sofía strolled and talked, the two children scampered here and there in general orbit around them, chattering like squirrels.
Teresa Reyes had suggested the walk, and Estelle knew why. Not only would the fresh, cool air be a balm for Estelle’s own nerves, but it would leave the house quiet and peaceful for a while...her mother’s nap time.
For a brief season, the desert was relatively safe for the two boys, the risks limited to being spiked occasionally by a withered cactus or snagged by the amazing thorns of the stunted acacia. Nights were cold enough that the various fanged creatures, or even the scuttling stinging ones, were holed up, well out of reach of curious little fingers until spring. Estelle found herself watching the children, comparing their mannerisms and interests.
Carlos spent much of his time squatting on his haunches, examining the fine details of the treasures he found. He seemed particularly intrigued with the stink beetles that he uncovered. He would have loved to have brought home a pocketful, but accepted with sober resignation the logic that the little beetles were happier remaining in their own homes.
Francisco seemed to enjoy the roll and sweep of the lay of the land itself. Perhaps because he knew it made his mother nervous, he skirted the very edge of the arroyo, defying the precarious, sandy overhangs that could so easily collapse under his feet. Once in a while, Sofía would gasp as the boy came too close to disaster, but Estelle remained philosophically quiet. She saw that the six-year-old had brought his music with him, the sounds inside his head providing a framework for what he saw out on the prairie.
“This is nice,” Estelle sighed at one point, and Sofía glanced at her with amusement. Estelle had stopped, and was watching Francisco, who had found an old cattle path that cut the rim. He didn’t race to the bottom twelve feet below. Rather, he stepped down the trail just enough so that his head was level with the rim. The grass-high view provided an interesting perspective of the arroyo as it swept away, cutting through the flat of the prairie.
Estelle watched as her son stood still and raised his arms for a moment, like Moses parting the waters, and she saw his head bob.
“We let ourselves become so busy that we forget what we’re missing,” Sofía said. The sound of a snarling motorcycle blossomed behind them, and Estelle turned to watch its approach up the arroyo from the southwest.
“Hijo,” she called to Francisco, and he retreated up the cow path toward them.
“That’s Butch,” he shouted. Fresh paint winking in the late afternoon sun, trailing a plume of blue smoke from its wailing two-stroke engine, the dirt bike catapulted up the narrow arroyo bottom, the rider fighting the loose sand.
As the biker flashed by, he attempted a wheelie, but the traction wasn’t there and he executed a wild fishtail instead, then raised a hand in greeting. The two boys waved back frantically, but the r
ider didn’t stop.
“Their time isn’t far off,” Sofía said, watching the bike disappear up the arroyo.
“Oh, yes it is,” Estelle replied quickly, and she laughed. “I’m going to be the original ogre mom when it comes to motorcycles.”
“You believe that, do you?”
“Oh, sí. I have a short list, you see. And motorcycles are right up there at the top.”
She watched Butch Romero careen northward, the new Christmas bike freshly shed of its red ribbons and already ingesting sand and dust. The Romero family lived two doors down the street from the Guzmans, and the parade of go-carts, old trucks, and tiny, dilapidated import cars trying to impersonate street rods were a constant source of entertainment for Francisco and Carlos.
“You may change your mind as he grows older,” Sofía said.
“Por supuesto,” Estelle replied. “I’m sure I will. When he’s forty-five, he can buy anything he wants, even a motorcycle.”
They walked for another ten minutes in companionable silence. The sun was still warm, but as it sank toward the San Cristóbal Mountains, the shadows jumped out in stark relief around each clump of prairie vegetation, creating a blanket of geometric patterns.
When he’s forty-five, Estelle thought. Thirty-nine more years. What a career that might be. And in thirty-nine years, she’d be seventy-seven. Her mother would be long gone—Sofía, too. Estelle glanced at her husband’s aunt with affection. Then again, maybe not. Sofía, a mere seventy-one, was the same age as Bill Gastner. Estelle could picture the boys’ Padrino and Sofía at age 108, trading barbs. She shook her head, derailing that train of thought.
The yowl of the motorcycle drifted back to them, and out of habit, Estelle glanced up to make sure that Francisco wasn’t standing in the middle of the arroyo bottom, blithely waiting for Butch Romero and his dirt bike to crash into him. After a moment, Estelle stopped and turned, cocking her head to listen. On his trip north, the teenager had obviously finished his familiarization run with the new bike. Now, he was flogging it for all it was worth, the pitch of the two-stroke strained and angry.
He appeared suddenly a thousand yards away, vaulting the bright yellow bike up and out of the arroyo as he followed a cattle trail, one that would bring him to the same rim path along which Estelle, Sofía, and the two boys walked. The arroyo curved in a long loop toward the east, and the bike hurtled along the trail toward them, dodging clumps of acacia and cholla.
Fifty yards away, he backed off and headed directly toward them, and Estelle stepped off the trail, Carlos now content to have his hand locked in hers. Butch rolled the bike to a stop, balancing on his right foot, and killed the engine.
“That’s quite a bike,” Estelle said. “Merry Christmas, Butch.”
Romero pushed up his face shield, then tore at the helmet’s chin strap. He pulled the helmet off, his hair caked from sweat, his narrow face flushed. It wasn’t exhilaration on his face, though.
“Sheriff—” he turned and pointed north “—there’s somebody back up there.” He almost lost his balance, and twisted the handlebars sharply to catch himself. “I hit her, I think.” Romero was breathing so hard it looked as if he might pass out.
Estelle stepped forward and rested a steadying hand on the boy’s left forearm. “A person hurt, you mean?”
Butch Romero nodded and blinked rapidly. “She’s dead, I think.”
“Tell me exactly where.”
The teenager turned and looked back up the arroyo. “See that grove of trees way up there?”
“I see the desert-willow clump right on the rim,” Estelle said. “Where you came up out of the arroyo. Beyond that?”
“Way beyond. Go to them, then turn and follow the arroyo,” Romero said. “You can just see the tops of them.”
“Where the section fence turns east?”
“Beyond that. Maybe half a mile.” He turned back to Estelle. “There’s a spot where Highland Drive comes out and ends? It’s paved for a ways and then it’s all like dirt and stuff? And there’s all those big old trees right there along the arroyo.”
“She’s down in the arroyo?”
“Yeah...there’s some brush there, and a couple junk cars? You want me to take you up there and show you? Or you can take my bike.”
“Ah, no, as a matter of fact. Thanks anyway. We’ll get someone up there.” She glanced at her watch and saw that it was five minutes after four. Ernie Wheeler would have taken over in dispatch, with Eddie Mitchell and Tony Abeyta on the road, hoping to finish off a quiet Christmas Day. Estelle walked several steps away, her back turned to her family and the teenager as she opened her cell phone.
Wheeler picked up the phone after two rings.
“Ernie, this is Estelle. We have a report of a possible body in the arroyo at the north end of Highland Drive. Who’s central, Tony?”
“Yes, ma’am. Captain Mitchell is down in Regál with a minor MVA. Tony’s standing right here, wishing he had something to do.”
“Well, he’s got it,” Estelle said. “I’m on foot out behind Twelfth with my family and Butch Romero. He’s the one who made the report, but we’re a ways downstream. I need to walk the kids back home, and then I’ll be up there as soon as I can. Tony needs to lock things up for me, and as soon as Eddie’s clear, give him the heads-up, all right?”
“Ten four. Ambulance?”
“Go ahead and alert.”
“Ten four. Just a second.” She heard mumbled voices and then Wheeler came back on the line. “Tony’s on the way. Tom Pasquale came off shift, but he’s still here. He’s in the conference room with Linda and Bill Gastner.”
“Thanks. I’m on my way in.”
She snapped the phone shut and turned to Butch.
“You want me to ride back up there?” he asked.
Estelle shook her head. “We’ll go back home first.” Sofía had Carlos in hand on the left, and Francisco on the right, and she had already started back down the trail toward home. “Butch, we may need to talk with you again. You’ll be home later this evening?”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Okay. I need to hustle,” she said, and reached out to shake Butch by the shoulder.
“I can go back up there and kinda keep an eye out until the cops get there, if you want,” Butch offered.
“No...I don’t want you to do that, Butch. One of the deputies will be there in just a minute. He’ll be there quicker than you can make it back up the arroyo. You’re sure it wasn’t a manikin or something like that?”
Butch shook his head vehemently. “No, ma’am. No manikin.” As if having second thoughts about being caught out on the darkening prairie with a corpse, he said quickly, “I’ll go back with you guys, then.” Estelle couldn’t tell if he felt genuinely protective, or if he was spooked. A fourteen-year-old wasn’t a necessary chaperone, but the two boys would enjoy it as he orbited them with his bike, making the quarter-mile hike back home an unexpected treat.
“Thanks, Butch. I appreciate that.” She turned away as he kicked the bike into life. Sofía had a short head start, and Estelle jogged after her aunt and the two little boys.
“Sorry about this,” she said as she fell into step with the group.
Sofía shrugged. “That’s the way these things go...but how sad for someone.”
Estelle nodded and looked hard at Francisco, who had broken away from his great-aunt’s grip and was zigzagging through the bushes, watching Butch and the motorcycle blast across the prairie, the scout out ahead of the pioneers. “You don’t go cruising, hijo,” she said. “Stay with us.” By the time they reached the arroyo crossing and were trekking through the Parkmans’ backyard toward their own house, Butch had peeled away with a wave. Estelle scooped Carlos up as the little boy lagged, the fast thousand-yard walk taking its toll on his short legs.
&
nbsp; Francisco reached the house first, and he burst inside with enough breath left to bellow to his grandmother, “Butch has a new bike, Abuela!”
“I’m so pleased to hear that,” Teresa Reyes laughed.
Estelle hung Carlos upside down, lowering him headfirst to the foyer floor. “I need to go, Mamá.”
“Ah, a bad day for someone else,” the old woman said, settling back into her chair. “Is that what I’ve been hearing?”
Sure enough, her mother’s hearing was keen. Far in the distance, Estelle heard the thin, high warble of a siren.
“Sorry, Mamá,” Estelle said.
“Such a Christmas,” her mother said.
Chapter Eleven
Escudero Arroyo originated at the base of Cat Mesa north of the village. During rare cloudbursts several generations before, rain had channeled and excavated a scar across the prairie that dodged this way and that, the trickle of water deflected by a cholla here or a greasewood bush there until the arroyo wandered like an old drunk.
In places where several tributary arroyos had joined forces, the gash was deep, a dozen feet down through sand and gravel to the original bedrock. One such deep cut swerved due west near the end of Highland Drive, a street that, despite its pretentious name, became nothing more than a rough, washboarded dirt two-track before dead-ending at the arroyo. Several retired concrete highway barriers had been dropped haphazardly on the arroyo lip to prevent preoccupied motorists from nosing over into the sandy depths.
Escudero Arroyo north of the village was one of those eyesores that a few million dollars and a willing Army Corps of Engineers could make go away. But until then, it was part of the landscape, an opportunity for kids with .22s, kids with dirt bikes, and folks too lazy to take their junk up to the official landfill.
Estelle parked her unmarked car on the pavement a hundred yards south of the arroyo, tucking in behind two other sheriff’s units and Linda Real’s tiny sedan. The back door of Tom Pasquale’s Expedition was open, and the deputy was in the process of unsnarling a wad of yellow plastic ribbon. Halfway back from the arroyo, Deputy Tony Abeyta jogged down the center of Highland Drive toward them, head down and watching his feet.
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