Blood Sweep (16 page)

Sheriff Torrez wondered how Steward had gotten through the interviews with United Security Resources. He had somehow impressed Rick Bueler enough to win his new front gate job. Maybe affability was the criteria. His clothing bore nothing indicating his association with USR. That also was a Waddell criteria for his security team. No black Suburbans, no intimidating uniforms, no show of weaponry.

“Good morning to you both.” Steward leaned against the door, the grin spreading. His wide, round face was sunburned, his pug nose peeling. Bright blue eyes regarded the two officers, first one and then the other, as if he was having trouble figuring out who was in charge of the field trip. Then he leaned back and eyed the State Police SUV with admiration. “We could use a few rigs like this one, L.T.” He patted the door. “You know, I think this is the first time I've seen the two of you together, come to think of it. Which one of you is in trouble?” He turned to make sure Rick Bueler had heard his joke.

Mark Adams, not to be outdone in the affability game, reached over and shook Steward's hand. “Things going well for you?” Although Steward might have been interested in their presence, Bueler apparently was not. He'd walked away far enough that he could talk uninterrupted on his cell phone, and watched the progress of the incoming ore trucks as he did so.

“Busy,” Steward said. “This place is a whirlwind.”

“We're going up top,” the lieutenant said. “We got some big rigs trucks coming up behind us, so…” He let the SUV idle forward. “Is Waddell in the neighborhood?”

“I just talked to him,” Bueler offered, and nodded toward Torrez. “He's topside. Sheriff, how's your world today? Is there something specific I can help you with?”

“Nope. Just Waddell.”

Steward turned the clipboard toward Adams. “You gents want to sign in?”

Adams smile cooled just a touch, but he winked at Steward. “Nah, I don't think so.” The deep, guttural sound of a big diesel's Jake brake echoed off the mesa side, and Adams glanced in his rearview mirror. “We'd best git.”

As the Expedition eased forward, Steward looked at his sign-in sheet as if the names might appear there by magic. “Mr. Waddell was over at the reclamation site a bit ago.”

“Thanks.”

Looking back, Torrez saw the first of the three trucks round the curve past the parking lot. “That guy has a handshake like a dead fish.” Adams grinned at Torrez. “First thing you know, we'll have to show a warrant to get up here.”

“That's comin',” Torrez muttered. “Or a damn window sticker.”

The road ahead appeared to offer direct travel to an endless horizon. Startling vistas marked every foot of the way, unmarred by signage. In the European tradition, the developer had adopted road markers painted on the highway itself. In fact, the road, smooth and well marked and guarded as it might be, was not intended for general tourist use. Work on the reinforced concrete root system for the center tramway tower had begun. When
NightZone
actually opened for visitors, access would be restricted to the tramway—both to avoid congestion or accidents on the mesa road, and to limit light pollution from automobiles.

“It's the aerie principle,” Waddell had once said in a newspaper write-up. “If it
seems
inaccessible, it adds to the mystique. The tram access will be a convenient delight for visitors.”

In the middle of a sweeping left-hand curve toward the south, Torrez's cell phone vibrated urgently, and he fished it out of his shirt pocket.

“Yep.”

“Sheriff, this is Mears. Did I catch you at a bad time?”

“Nope.”

“Okay. We fired the rifle, both with the suppressor and without. The windage is off by just about a foot to the right at three hundred yards. That's the best we could do.”

Torrez mulled that in silence for a moment, then asked, “You used the machine rest?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Consistent?”

“Yes, sir. I grouped it at a hundred yards first. Shot five rounds that measured under three-quarters of an inch. But…to the right. Tried it five different groups, same results each time.”

Torrez stared out the window, the silence heavy. “Okay. Thanks.” He was about to switch off, but added, “Any word from Las Cruces?”

“No, sir.”

He ended the call. Adams looked across expectantly. “The rifle prints to the right.” Torrez held his hands a foot apart.

Adams shuffled his gum around with his tongue for a moment, squinting at the road ahead. “So if that's the case, he held the crosshairs right on your ear.”

“Looks like.”

“Comforting thought, Roberto. Who did you piss off, anyway?”

Chapter Twenty

One tired blue eye opened a quarter of an inch, and wandered a little as the patient focused on Estelle's face. His cheek twitched as he tried for a wink.

“You can't imagine…what they told me…this morning.” His raspy whisper came in three short spurts, each one requiring exhausting concentration.

“What was that,
Padrino?”

“They said…that I'd be on my feet…later today.”

“That's amazing.”

His eyes brightened as if some internal switch had decided to work. “It amazes me, all right. With a quart or two of morphine…I can probably do anything.” He reached across and palmed a small gadget. “They said…I could give myself a fix…whenever I needed it.” He winked again. “They lied. This damn thing…is useless.”

“I think it has a limiter of some kind, sir. So you don't over-do it.”

“Jesus. Who the hell wants limiters?” He paused for a long moment, fingering the gadget. “That's missing half the fun.”

“They want you to hurt
a little
bit,
Padrino.
Otherwise you'd loaf around all day and become a hopeless slug-a-bed. What
Mamá
calls a
flojonazo grande
.”

“That sounds good.” He raised his head a little. “Where are the hoodlums?”

“Carlos is home, and Francisco is enjoying Mexico.”

“How is that going? The Mexico gig.”

Estelle had told Gastner about the phone scam, and about the two dead men found in the alley in Mazatlán, not because he could do anything about it, but because he would chide her later if she
didn't
tell him. How much he remembered of what she'd told him was another issue.

“The concerts are going fine. They may go to the beach. They'll be home Sunday. Until then, I get to play the worried mom.”

“Well,
don't
worry. Worry is a waste of time.” He took a long, slow breath. “Easily said, huh.”

“Oh, yes.”

“What's Naranjo…?” Gastner stopped, his eyes drifting toward the door. He frowned, squinted, then closed one eye and squinted again. He reached up in slow motion to adjust his glasses. Estelle turned and saw Joel Gastner standing patiently in the doorway. Slowly, as if someone were turning up a rheostat, the old man's face wrinkled in puzzlement. “Well, son of a gun.”

He held out a hand, a little shaky, and Joel advanced to the bed. He gripped his father's hand in both of his.

“What a goddamn time to chose to visit,” Gastner said without a trace of accusation. “My God. Estelle, do you remember my son Joel?”

“I do indeed.”

“That's good, because I almost don't.” He lifted his head a little, scrutinizing his son. “My God, look at this guy. You look as if you should be the President of the United States or something.” He relaxed back, closed his eyes in a long blink, and reopened them, relieved that the vision hadn't vanished. “When did you get in?”

“Earlier this morning.” Joel turned and slipped his arm around Estelle's shoulders—a brotherly hug. “Caught up on some old times.”

Joel's gaze turned to the bank of monitors, and then he leaned down close. “Are they managing your pain all right?”

A slight shrug sufficed. “The hell with that. What's the occasion?”

“I flew in earlier this morning.” He nodded across at the post-op X-ray that hung on the viewer. “I had to see the pretty pictures for myself, you know.”

Gastner nodded. “That's me, in all my glory. Pretty fancy, huh? Is this all Camille's doing?”

“She called me…yes.” He rested a hand on his own chest. “Her command is my wish, or something like that.” He concentrated on the X-ray image, then nodded in approval. “You know, Dad, I know about this Cushman guy who carved up on you. In fact, he's one of our clients.” He stood with head cocked, gazing at the image for a long moment.

“You have any idea…how much that thing costs?” Gastner wheezed. “All that hardware?”

Joel smiled again. “Actually, I know
exactly
what it costs, Dad.”

“Seems like kind of a waste to me.”

“Well,” the younger man said thoughtfully, “it beats a wheelchair, or walker, or even a cane when all is said and done. I guess they could just amputate at the neck.”

Gastner watched his son for a moment, then glanced at Estelle as if she had the answers. She remained tactfully quiet, but understood the source of Gastner's question. He had enjoyed a hospital bed for heart attacks, strokes, gunshot wounds—any number of interesting episodes. His eldest son hadn't visited during those times. “So tell me…what's the occasion?”

Joel turned away from the X-ray and regarded his father. His expressive, dark eyes were gentle. “All the planets and stars aligned, Dad.”

“Convenience is a wonderful thing,” Gastner said gruffly. “I'd like to see you sometime when I'm on my feet.” Despite the grumble, he made it sound not like a complaint, but instead a hopeful request.

“Count on it,” Joel said without hesitation. “And if you think you're strong enough, the other news is that I'll head up to Albuquerque here in a few minutes and fetch the dragon lady. Her plane is about two hours out.”

“Oh, my God. I'm finished.” The two Gastners fell silent, eyes locked. Estelle watched from near the end of the bed, hands thrust in her trouser pockets. Besides one standing and one prone, the two men could not appear any more different. When on his feet, the seventy-six-year-old Gastner was two inches shy of six feet, less obese now than he used to be, but still compact and burly, hair buzz-cut close to his big round skull as a left-over habit from his Marine Corps days, blue eyes that could go from the warmth of a summer sky to flinty to ice cubes as the mood warranted.

An even five-foot eight with an elegant, slender build, his son favored his mother's dark Peruvian ancestry. The last time Estelle had seen him, Joel was an impossibly handsome teenager on his way to college, a kid whose eyes smoldered like a character from a pulp romance novel. He'd smoldered her way on an occasion or two, and she'd probably smoldered back. Too much water had slipped under the bridge since then.

She knew that twenty years had passed away without conversation between the two men—she was not privy to the reasons, but could guess that the passage of time had made petty whatever those reasons were. It was
Padrino
who broke the silence.

“Are you on a tight schedule?”

“Whatever we want it to be, Pop.” Joel grinned. “I'm blessed with having a wonderful secretary, and an ambitious, take-charge vice-president. They assure me that MedArchives will get along just fine without me. My crew on the Grumman is content to rent a car at the airport and find all the good Mexican food restaurants in Las Cruces.”

“Crew, yet.”

“It's not a single-seater,” Joel said.

“So you fly?”

Joel ducked his head. “I do, but not this one. Little puddle-jumpers are more my speed, not intercontinental. We took the Gulfstream because I have a meeting on Monday in Brussels; that's one I can't miss. Then I'll drop back for a few days, probably about Wednesday.”

“Watch out for the antelopes on the runway,” Gastner said.

“That's for sure. I heard about that.” Joel Gastner puffed out his cheeks, surveying his father's white-sheeted form. “So, tell me how you managed all this.”

“A clumsy fall is all. It's just that when you're old and fat, things break at the damnedest times. But now I'm all new—bionic, in fact.” He reached over and squeezed the morphine button. “Better than ever. They're going to get me up today. I can't believe it.” He frowned suddenly. “But my God, you've got better things to do than watch a stinky old man try to heal himself. It was great of you to stop by, though.”

Joel turned to Estelle. “I feel as if I'm being dismissed,” he chuckled. “Actually, I didn't just ‘stop by.' What I'd
like
to do is enjoy your company while I have the chance, Pop. And it's been a while since I've had the opportunity to talk with Camille.” He held up a hand. “Amend that. Since I was
talked to
by Camille.”

“Put on your flak jacket, son.” Gastner rested his left forearm carefully on his forehead. “Better she talks to you than to me, anyway.” He moved his arm so he could see Joel more clearly. “So how long has this new company been keeping you busy? MedArchives? I haven't crossed tracks with that one.”

“We launched twelve years ago. Basically what we do is archive medical records. In electronic form, of course.”

“Huh. For whom?”

“Well, it started in Peru, believe it or not. And then one thing led to another. I guess you could call us global.”

Estelle, quiet in the corner, wondered if the Peruvian connection had come about after the years Joel had spent in that country, the land of his mother's birth, working first for the Peace Corps, and then for a Catholic mission near the very town where his mother had been born. His mother had been proud of his field work, but a thunderstorm's wind sheer had smashed the airliner on which she was a passenger into the turf at Dallas-Fort Worth before Med-Archives was realized.

Gastner adjusted himself again so he could look more directly at his son, and then at Estelle. “You know, sweetheart, the last I heard, this guy was working…in some tiny village in the Andes that didn't even have a McDonald's.”

Joel grinned. “True. My partner was the one who had the original idea. I can't make that claim to fame. He was the physician at the mission clinic, and his chief complaint was that there was no practical way of keeping medical records secure and available.” Joel shrugged. “When you live with the ‘Government of the Month Club,' things can get dicey. It turns out that saving records to another location far removed from the clinic itself was just what was needed. So that's what we do. Minimal equipment, and satellite contact for Internet, and there you go. Just an electronic cloud thing. It doesn't matter if the X-rays you want to save are in Las Cruces or a hut for a clinic in the Andes.” He smiled at Gastner. “As long as there's a satellite going overhead once in a while.”

Gastner regarded his son with mixed amusement and curiosity. “And he works for you, now. Your partner, I mean.”

“Yes, he does. And about seventy-five other folks as well.”

“So what's in Brussels?”

Joel's handsome face broke into a smile at the blunt question. “Well, it's about as preliminary as you can get. There's a group of bureaucrats who want to organize records for professional cyclists—it's all an outshoot of the doping mess. Press a key, and there are all the records for any rider.
Any
pro rider.” He shrugged. “We'll see.”

Gastner turned to Estelle. “What do you think about that?” But before she had a chance to respond, the old man added, “Well, if it's all the same to you folks…a nap is calling. If they're going to make me do any kind of work, I need my beauty sleep.” Even as he finished the sentence, his voice had sunken to a slurred whisper, the morphine taking hold.

Joel Gastner watched him for a moment, then reached out and touched his hand. In a moment, he turned away and escorted Estelle back out into the hall. “What do you…?” He chopped off the sentence as Dr. Francis Guzman approached. “Here's the man to ask.” He thrust out a hand and shook the physician's enthusiastically.

“Any surprises in the surgery, Doctor? That X-ray looks good.”

“The best thing he has going for him is your visiting, Joel,” Francis said. “He's an amazingly tough old bird, as we all know. And at this point, a positive attitude is number one. My guess is that he's going to get through this preliminary bout without the complications of pneumonia—he got lucky there. It's my understanding that his daughter is on the way, so
that
will help.”

Joel looked at his watch. “I've alerted my crew, and the most convenient thing is for me to fetch her back here. Easier on everyone. And it gives my flight crew something to do.”

“That would be good of you. The most important part of all of this is after the immediate post-op. When we're outlining his therapy schedule, trying to make it work with the way this old badger lives. We can't have him just ignoring his regimen.” He grinned again. “'Cause you
know
that's exactly what he'll do.”

“I'll help any way I can.”

Francis turned to Estelle. “What are
you
going to do,
querida
?”

“I thought that as soon as Camille gets here, I'd head on back to Posadas. I'll stay here at the hospital until then.”

“Smart lady, this,” Joel chuckled.

“Come on. Be kind. Camille is a treasure, and I hope she is able to visit for a long time.” Estelle reached out and linked an arm through Joel's. “And you too,
hermano.
Get this Brussels thing over with and come back for a decent visit.”

“We'll see. I'll try to do that. I really will.”

“The problem is that we have a couple of issues at the moment with the S.O.,” Estelle said. “If
Padrino
has lots of company, it'll be a good time for me to slip away for a bit.”

“I should ride with you back to Posadas, then,” Francis said. “Cushman's got his team all lined out here, and they have their own way of doing things.” He smiled. “I can buzz down now and then to make sure
Padrino
isn't hatching some escape plan.” He watched with some amusement as Estelle turned on her cell phone. “Depending,” he said as Estelle held up a hand to cover one ear.

“Guzman.”

“Ah. I hope I find you well,” Tomás Naranjo said, his voice barely a whisper.