Blood Sweep (7 page)

“I understand. Either he or I will be right back to you, ma'am.”

“Thank you.” Estelle disconnected and let out a long breath. She could hear her pulse pounding in her ears. “The boys are in Mexico,” she said to Addy. “A three-day concert series in Mazatlán.”

Chapter Eight

While she waited, Estelle first rummaged through the file of Leister material that they kept in the carousel in the living room. Sure enough, the July schedule of events listed a gig in Mazatlán at the Teatro Angela Peralta. Performers were listed as Guzman, Atencio, and
guest artists.

“It pays to read the fine print,” Estelle muttered, furious with herself. She used the landline to call Colonel Naranjo's office in Chihuahua, her cell phone ready and waiting in the other hand. The colonel would rather have been covered in fine dust, with his kidneys jolted out of place by the rough country roads, than spend time inside behind a polished desk, puffing a cigar. On top of that, Mazatlán in Sinaloa was far from his home state of Chihuahua, no more in his jurisdiction than a San Diego cop trying to work in Albuquerque. But Estelle knew that he would have contacts. Naranjo was as much a walking gazetteer of northern Mexico as Bill Gastner was of Posadas County.

She took a deep breath while circuits clicked. The officer who answered sounded about twelve years old, his Spanish rapid and melodious.

“Colonel Naranjo, please,” Estelle replied to his greeting, and identified herself. The Mexican officer hesitated, and Estelle could hear papers shuffling.

“Hmm,” he said as if coming to an important conclusion. “
Agente,
may he return your call, please? The colonel is, ah…somewhat indisposed.” He said the word
indispuesto
as if the situation possibly amused him—or as if the correct words would present discretionary complications.

Estelle glanced over her shoulder at the kitchen clock. “Will he be able to do that in the next few minutes?”

Again the hesitation. “I would think so, but I cannot be sure. Would you care to leave a message for the colonel?”

“Just that I called, and that I need to speak with him.”

“It is of some urgency, then?”

This time it was Estelle who hesitated. “Yes, it is.” She gave the officer both her landline and cell phone numbers and disconnected. “
Ay,”
she whispered, and glanced across at Addy. “Am I being a suffocating mother?” Estelle smiled ruefully. “But Mazatlán?”

“A beautiful place,” Addy offered without much enthusiasm.

“Yes, it is, parts of it.” Hefting her modest overnight bag, she gave Addy a quick hug. “Thanks for staying tonight,” she said. “I'll call from Albuquerque. If Francisco should call here…”

Addy nodded quickly. “I'll forward the message.”

“Thank you.” In the living room, Teresa Reyes sat quietly, nestled in her afghan.

“What do we do now?” she whispered.

“Well,
Mamá
, we wait. I have my net out. I'm sure that if something really is wrong, the conservatory would have called before this. Or the director will call. Or Francisco. They gave a concert last night, and the dean said during his phone call to the school this morning that all went well. He's going to call me as soon as he gets the chance.”

A half dozen thoughts tangled in Estelle's mind, and for a long moment she sat beside her mother, brows furrowed.

“This worries you?” Teresa asked. Her withered right hand touched the back of Estelle's, and her bottomless black eyes roamed her daughter's face.

“The whole thing. We could start with the two boys being down there in the first place. Mexico has changed so. I'm not sure Leister appreciates that.” She didn't mention the fundamental improbability of Naranjo's calling Teresa Reyes to ask for bail or bribery money…or anything else for that matter. And yet, Teresa had been suckered in.

“I know that people fall prey to these scams all the time,” Estelle said gently. “It's easy, because we're concerned for the safety of loved ones.” Teresa frowned at that, looking as if she'd bitten into something sour.

“I should know these things perfectly well.”

“Yes.” Estelle patted her hand. “But there's always this nagging doubt,
Mamá
. What if the boy is
really
in trouble. What if? What if? It's hard just to dismiss it.”

“It is impossible.”

“Perhaps it is all a silly mistake. I have a call in to Tomás, so we'll know soon enough.” She paused, but her curiosity held the upper hand. “You said the colonel was in a hurry when he called. Did he ask about the rest of the family?”

Teresa shook her head slowly. “Most of the time, I could not understand him.”

“Did he specifically ask for me?”

“It surprised me that he didn't,” Teresa said.

“
Yo tambien.”
Estelle looked at her watch again. Was Naranjo's supposed rushed phone call somehow related to his now being ‘indisposed'? “We'll find out soon enough. I'll call you from Albuquerque.”

“Addy will be here?”

“Yes, she's staying until I return from the city.”

Teresa nodded and closed her eyes. “She or Carlos can answer the telephone, then. It's impossible, that thing.”

That thing
buzzed again just as Estelle turned the ignition key in her unmarked car.

“Yo,” Sheriff Robert Torrez said by way of greeting—the single syllable unusual, since he was in the habit of simply starting the conversation without greeting of any sort. ‘What's the deal with Bill? Do we know yet?”

“A badly broken hip. We don't know what complications, if any. I'm on my way to the airport to ride up with him to UNMH.”

“How come you're goin'?”

Ah, Mr. Sympathy.
“Camille won't fly in from Michigan until this evening. I can catch a ride home with her. But he needs someone with him right now.”

“Huh.” The line fell silent, and Estelle edged the gear lever into Drive. “I'll be back as soon as I can. Any luck on the hunt?” She was about to pull out of the parking lot when she saw the emergency lights, and she waited for the ambulance to pass.

“Yup,” Torrez said again. “Tell Bill we got us enough antelope rack to make green chile stew for a year.” The sheriff's sympathy was dished out in tiny bites, Estelle reflected.

“That will cheer him up.”

“Yup,” Torrez said. “You ever meet a guy named Dominic Olveda? Says he's from Tucson.”

“No. Should I know him? His name is on the county meeting agenda. That's all I know about him.”

“Just wondered. He's talkin' to the county commissioners tomorrow about some airport deal. Thought maybe you'd heard.”

“I haven't.”

“You're not going to go to that meetin', then.”

“I really can't,” Estelle said. “
Padrino
is in a bad way.”

“Maybe I'll go and see what he's about.”

“That would be good, Bobby.”

“We'll see.” He disconnected as abruptly as he had begun. For the eight-minute drive out to Posadas Municipal Airport, Estelle found herself clutching the phone, willing it to ring, willing it to carry her son's quiet voice with the news that all was well, that the concerts were drawing huge crowds, and that the phone call to Teresa Reyes had been nothing but an empty scam by some opportunistic jerk who had been able to put all the numbers together.

Even though
she
hadn't paid as close attention as she might have, the concert would have been well publicized within the private circles of that world, and it would not have been difficult to pick up tidbits of information. Still…

The lights of the ambulance outdistanced her, and by the time she pulled through the chain-link gate that accessed the airport's office and apron, the EMTs were already lifting the gurney out of the vehicle. And by then she had reached no conclusions. How could the scammer know the Guzman's family connections with Naranjo? How would they know enough to use his name? How would they know that Teresa would be the most vulnerable target?

The med-evac aircraft, a jet-prop Beech King Air, was parked just off the fuel island donut, one of the crew conferring with Jim Bergin, the airport manager.

Estelle parked beside Bergin's pickup truck near the office and took a moment to organize her thoughts and her mobile office before turning once again to the cell phone. Gayle Torrez was now working dispatch, and picked up immediately, and just as quickly informed Estelle that she had heard nothing.

“We'll be in that air here in a few minutes, and it's about an hour to Albuquerque. I'll be in touch.”

“Is Bill hanging in there okay?” Gayle asked.

“I'll try talking with him in a minute,” Estelle replied. “I would expect that he's so heavily sedated that he's off in la-la land for the duration.”

La-la land or not, Bill Gastner raised his head and regarded Estelle as she ducked into the crowded Beechcraft. He was strapped into narrow confines on the right side of the aircraft, the rig looking more like a high-tech torture device than a bed. A rack of tubed gadgets hung from the wall and ceiling above him, almost obscuring the most forward of the five windows. If the patient had been able to stretch out a hand, he could reach across the narrow aisle to touch either one of the two passenger seats. “What the hell are you doing?” His voice was little more than a slurred whisper.

“Making sure you behave yourself,
Padrino.”

“What a goddamned waste of taxpayers' money.” He turned his head so he could see past one of the EMTs who was fussing with his IV tubes. “Did you hear from my daughter?”

“We'll be meeting her in Albuquerque,” Estelle answered, and nodded as one of the aircraft crew pointed to a small jump seat toward the rear cabin bulkhead. The undersheriff reached out and patted her friend's arm. “I'll get out of their way. You ride easy.”

“I don't have a choice,” Gastner whispered.

“It's better than taking the ride in the back of a buckboard,” Estelle said.

“I'll have to think about that.”

Tucked into the small seat aft of both the door and the medical section, she had a fine view of the interior, but not much outside. By leaning forward, she could see out through the tiny aft cabin windows, out over the aircraft's right wing. She watched as the pilot continued his conversation with Jim Bergin. The airport manager was pointing off into the distance while the pilot stood with his hands on his hips, nodding. In a moment, the two men separated, the pilot trudging toward the plane, Bergin jogging toward his pickup truck.

The pilot boarded and paused when he saw Estelle. “Well, it's good to see you again,” he said. She remembered the Hollywood face, and the name tag reminded her that she'd flown with Ben Woods on at least one other occasion. Woods shook the undersheriff's hand cordially, then made his way forward. He slipped past the EMTs, took a moment to exchange pleasantries with the groggy Bill Gastner, and then slipped into the cockpit to join his co-pilot.

Even before he'd settled into his seat, the right hand prop began to windmill, accompanied by the shriek of the turbine. Woods didn't call for the left engine until the aircraft had been buttoned up, the EMTs making one final check of their patient, and then strapping themselves into the two seats. Connie Tingley, who facing forward with her back to Estelle, rode with her right hand across the aisle, resting on her patient's shoulder. The second EMT, Brad Salazar, occupied himself with a sheaf of paperwork, then unbuckled, rose, and adjusted the screen brightness of one of the monitors over Gastner's head. He settled again, and the copilot, a young woman with fair hair streamlined back into a ponytail, leaned out of her seat to survey the aft cabin.

“We'll be rolling as soon as the traffic is off the runway,” she said. “All secure?”

“All secure.”

“Flight time is one hour, sixteen minutes,” she added, and Estelle heard the port engine whine into life, and within seconds they were drifting forward, turning tightly to the east to catch the taxiway.

Connie twisted around to smile sympathetically at Estelle. “Not much room for you, but once we're airborne, maybe you'd like to sit up here for a little bit?” She glanced at Gastner, who lay with his eyes closed, strapped and wrapped. Estelle could see by the determined set of his jaw that he was neither asleep nor relaxed.

“I'm fine,” the undersheriff said. The aircraft taxied smoothly for a moment, then braked, swinging wide. For a moment they parked with the nose facing southwest as the crew finished the check list. With props cycled and everything else in the green, Estelle looked forward as Captain Woods made a final adjustment of his headset.

“Posadas Unicom, one eight eight November Mike will be departing on two-eight. Departure to the northwest.”

She couldn't hear what Bergin said, but Woods nodded and laughed at something. Bergin had returned from his sweep of the runway, and apparently they were good to go. “Have a good day.”

Even as the airport manager radioed back acknowledgement and barometric information, the pilot was feeding power to the turboprops, and the aircraft tracked out to the runway, pausing just a moment on the white line. Woods turned once more to survey the cabin, and Connie Tingley shot him a thumbs-up.

Accelerating hard, the King Air flashed past the first intersection from the taxiway, and Estelle caught a glimpse of Jim Bergin leaning against the tailgate of his truck. Another hundred yards took them past the gravel pit on the south side of the runway, and Estelle turned her head away from the right side windows. She saw a flash of brown out of the corner of her eye, an indefinably quick wink of color, and then a loud bang and jolt shook the aircraft.

For a moment, the Beech tracked straight, and Woods pulled off the power. Still charging along at eighty miles an hour, the plane shook hard, and Estelle waited for the pull of brakes. She knew that nearly four thousand feet of runway remained, and Woods was in no hurry to slam the aircraft to a stop. By the time they had slowed to what Estelle guessed was forty or fifty miles an hour, the left engine windmilled to a stop, and they coasted all the way to the final donut that connected runway to taxiway.