“Morning, Sheriff.” Indeed it was, the sun brilliant, the sky dotted by puffy clouds that an art critic would say were too stereotypical to be real. Arnie Sisson bent down, an elbow planting on the county car’s window sill, stained and frayed Isotopes ball cap well back on his round, close-cropped skull. He smelled of the laborer’s cologne—cigarettes, diesel, and sweat. “You had a chance to talk with Bill Gastner lately?”
“Good morning. Yes, I have. Just yesterday, in fact.”
“Well,” and Sisson straightened up, looking back toward the south. “There are sure safer places for him to be than walkin’ in the middle of the road. Somebody’s gonna hit him, sure as hell if he don’t watch out.”
“He’s on down the road here?” She tried to imagine the logistics of Bill Gastner, still hobbled with the walker, fetching himself out here. She had helped him, in the weeks past, re-educate himself about how to board the SUV, pulling the folding walker in behind him. But Sisson was right…there were safer places to exercise.
“He’s just past the cattle guard.”
“Ah. Well, thank you. Other than that, how’s your day going?”
“It’s gonna be hotter’n hell. That’s why we start haulin’ at four now.”
“Wise move.” She pulled the car into gear. “Thanks for the tip.”
“He might listen to you. I stopped and asked him if I could help, but he just grinned and waved me off.”
Estelle nodded. “He might listen, but that’s doubtful.”
In the seven additional miles to Miles Waddell’s development, she passed six more trucks, three white SUVs with government plates, and assorted other contractors and visitors. Despite the salt solution tried first on the road surface, and then the oil film, dust was a constant companion of heavy construction.
She slowed for the cattle guard, and saw that Gastner had parked his flame-red SUV well off the roadway, swinging it around to face north. Always ready for a fast getaway, she thought. And sure enough, there he was, a hundred yards down the road, the front wheels of his walker leaving narrow snail trails in the dirt of the shoulder facing northbound traffic.
Despite three weeks of diligent therapy, he still moved as if made of glass. He leaned very little on the walker now, just skating it along in front of him.
She let the car drift along until she was a few yards behind him, then pulled off into what little prairie grass remained. Gastner stopped and then walked himself around in a half circle until he was facing her as she parked and got out of the car.
“Morning, sweetheart. I just got to thinking,” he said as she approached.
“Uh, oh.” She sidestepped the walker and gave him a long, hard hug.
“Yeah, well. Back and forth across the living room, or up and down the halls in the hospital, just doesn’t cut it. And then I thought, well hell…why not get some sunshine and fresh air? I mean diesel and dust is supposed to be some sort of magic home remedy, eh?”
“Does Camille know you’re out here, sir?”
“Thank God, no. Are you kidding?” He waved back toward the SUV. “Getting in that crate is the hardest part.”
“Life’s little challenges,” Estelle laughed.
“Yeah, well. One step at a time. If Camille has a fit, she can always call me.” He patted his belt where the tiny phone nestled. “We’re still on for dinner tonight?”
“Indeed we are.”
“The kid arrived safe and sound?”
Estelle laughed. Francisco had arrived in high spirits for a brief four-day holiday break from the academy. After submitting to one crushing hug after another, he had spent an hour touching up the tuning of the family’s piano—with his younger brother’s help. Teresa had commented that the session was unlike any piano tuning she had ever heard.
“He and Carlos are planning something for this evening.” She turned her head as another truck passed, grimacing against the wash of particulate. “And by the way—unbelievable news, sir.” He raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Carlos asked if it was all right to invite Bobby and Gayle? I told him to go ahead but not to hold his breath. Guess what. He biked over to the county building and cornered Bobby in the sheriff’s office. They’re coming.”
Gastner beamed. “Well, all right. I’ll believe it when I see them, of course. The menu is what you said?”
“Of course, sir.”
He took a deep breath and waved as a tan Jeep passed northbound, then braked hard and turned an abrupt U-turn to park behind Estelle’s unit. Rick Bueler, the security chief for NightZone, dismounted.
“You arrested him for speeding, Sheriff?” He shook hands first with Gastner, then with Estelle. “Is everything going all right?”
“I think so. I have a meeting this afternoon with the county manager and Mr. Waddell. I had a few things I wanted to run by him beforehand.”
“He’s up on top this morning. They’re pouring the roots for the big dish today. Exciting stuff.”
“Hell of a long walk,” Gastner groused.
“I’ll be happy to give you a tour, sir,” Bueler offered.
“No thanks. I’d need a pile of pillows a yard thick in that buggy of yours. In fact,” and he shifted a little uncomfortably, “I’ve had about all the fun I can stand for one day.” He set the walker squarely on top of its own tracks, pointed back toward his SUV. “Five o’clock still?”
“Five it is, sir,” Estelle replied.
He took a couple of steps and stopped, regarding her with interest. “Talk to Teresa yet?”
Estelle reached out a hand and rested it on his. For a moment, she said nothing, then shook her head. “She has always seemed content with her memories the way they are, Padrino. If she brings it up, I’ll listen.” She smiled. “Otherwise, I’m planning to make liberal use of my mental delete key. After the boys, that is. They deserve to know.”
“You talked to Carlos about it all already?”
“Just a little. I’ll find a quiet time with the two of them. They deserve to know where the bloodline comes from, I suppose.”
A red Prius churned its own mini-dust cloud, and Estelle recognized Frank Dayan, the Posadas Register’s publisher and most eager cub reporter.
“He doesn’t know, does he?”
“No,” Estelle said quickly. “And he’s not going to. What happened in Mexico will stay in Mexico.” The Prius swung off the road and stopped, and when Dayan got out, he clutched a small camera.
“Hey, there!” he greeted ebulliently. “All the law there is, west of the Pecos. It’s great to see you up and around, Bill.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you all headed topside?”
“We’ll be right behind you,” Gastner said gruffly, and Dayan stopped abruptly as if he had stepped into a meeting where he wasn’t welcome.
“Right then,” he said, and turned back toward the Prius. “See you up there.”
As the little car pulled away, Estelle gave Gastner a hug hard enough to make him grimace. “You haven’t lost your touch, sir.”
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