Blood Sweep (9 page)

“
Padrino
still has clout,” she mused aloud. Or maybe it was simply because it was an election year. Adams was running for sheriff against Bob Torrez. The State Police lieutenant was confident in his dreams.

Chapter Ten

The quiet that hung over the airport was heavy. The big Beechcraft had been pushed into the main hanger out of the sun, to wait for someone with the proper state-sanctified credentials to arrive and work on it. Jim Bergin, the airport manager and a crack A & E mechanic himself—but with no contract to supply services to the state—was amused but unruffled.

The flight crew and two EMTs were effectively stranded in Posadas until one of the other aircraft, or ground crew, came to fetch them—in hours or days, who knew.

“So, Mr. Sheriff.” Bergin relaxed behind his sales counter in a vinyl chair repaired with duct tape in a dozen places. He waved toward the coffeepot. “Relax. You know, if it wasn't for some possible damage to the prop, they could just fly on to Albuquerque with the gear locked down. No big deal. But you ding the prop, and that's got to be checked. That's not something I can do here, even if the state gave me the okay.”

Torrez bent and rested his elbows on the glass counter. He ignored Bergin's assessment of the plane's damage. “You know a guy named Olveda?”

Bergin lit a cigarette. He frowned and spun the lighter between his fingers as the cloud of smoke drifted up around his raisin-like complexion. “You talking about Cal Olveda, over at Posadas Electric?”

“No. Little guy. His license says he's from Tucson. Kinda slick. Pudgy.”

Bergin grinned. “
Dominic
Olveda.”

“That would be him.”

“Well, I know what I read in the papers.”

“Yeah, well…”

“Be good for you, once in a while. Reading, I mean.” He leaned forward and pointed a finger-gun at Torrez's face. The red gash over the sheriff's eye was going to color nicely. “Gayle take after you again?”

Torrez ignored Bergin's jibe and curiosity. “He's makin' some sort of presentation at the county commission meeting tomorrow.”

“That's what the paper said.” Bergin sucked on his cigarette and directed a thick blue stream of smoke at his lap. “He's another one of those dreamers, Bobby. Thinks that if he builds it, whole flocks of dumb-butt tourists will show up. Manna from heaven.”

“Build
what
?”

“Well, he's got a flashlight factory, for one thing. I mean, ain't
that
just what we all need—more goddamned Taiwanese flashlights. And what is…” Bergin's face, already lined like an aged piece of leather, screwed up against the smoke. “The other thing? Oh, shit, yes. He's got a small factory that builds solar panels that wants to relocate here. And some other shit. All of this down at the west end of the runway in a little industrial park.”

“Huh. That's it?”

Bergin pointed his cigarette at Torrez. “And a hotel. Can't forget that. For those vast hordes of folks who don't want to stay out on Waddell's mesa or here in town with the Patels. And a car rental. And a parking area for aircraft. And, and, and. You got to have some place to dump all that drug money.” He chuckled at his joke, chuffing out little bursts of smoke.

Torrez turned and looked out the window, past the tumbleweeds and bunch grass where the black asphalt of the new runway vanished across the prairie. “Huh,” he said again.

“Fly in, taxi right up to the hotel portico. Maybe I can make a few bucks with valet parking.” He hacked a dry cough, his wiry little body almost bouncing off the chair with each spasm. “You don't sound impressed,” he managed after a moment.

“Well, I don't need no flashlight, and I guess if he can stay in business with two tourists a month, maybe the hotel idea might work.”

Bergin laughed. “Where'd you run into Olveda?”

“Out on 14.”

“What'd he want with the law? Or was he just chasin' down old Waddell? Them two are birds of a feather, if you ask me. Always dreamin'.”

Torrez shook his head. “Don't know.”

The airport manager stubbed out his cigarette and then locked his hands behind his head, leaning far back in his chair. “Old Bill is the one person who'd be most amused at what went on this morning. And ain't that a kick…all he's been through over the years. Take a tumble in his own garage, and then mow down my pet herd with the air ambulance.” Torrez nodded. “Damn lucky, is all I can say. I didn't get a chance to talk with him except to wish him well. That's a long drive when you're all busted up.” He exhaled a long sigh. “And I never did see those damn critters…and I took a drive down the runway,
looking.
Christ almighty, they can be hard to see.”

“He's so doped up now he don't know what's happening.” Torrez pushed himself upright. “I gotta get to work.”

“You break away to hunt yet?”

“Yeah, I did.”

“Luck?”

“Good little buck for the freezer. That's what I got to do, is get him over to Sandoval's.” He nodded toward the hanger where the med-evac crew still conferred. “If those guys need anything while they're stuck here, Leona is around to help.”

Bergin grinned. “She already offered, Bobby. At least I think I'm gonna get that boundary fence now.”

Torrez slipped into the truck, its interior well-baked from the sun. As he started to turn toward the gate, Deputy Sutherland pulled his unit into the airport apron and stopped window to window with the sheriff.

“I'm headin' to the office now,” Torrez said.

“They have a bunch of stuff for you to look at, sir.”

“I got to swing by Sandoval's for a minute, then I'll be along.”

“Yes, sir. Get a good one?”

“Good enough. I coulda just waited and got me some free antelope hamburger here.” He twisted in his seat and looked back at the hanger. “If these guys need anything, fix 'em up.”

“You bet. If the Game and Fish wants to tag what's left of the carcass, do you want it?”

“Nope.” He flashed a rare grin.

Fifteen minutes later, Torrez pulled into the Sheriff's Office parking lot. Both Sergeant Taber and Linda Real Pasquale waited in the small conference room and he was surprised at the spread of articles on the table. His rifle was now tagged, and haloed around it were a dozen or more bits and pieces of the scope—those that he had recovered, plus an extra handful. He picked up the threaded cover that originally had protected the windage adjustment. Half of its perimeter was dented and torn, the impact blowing it right off the threaded mount.

Jackie Taber reached across and touched part of the undamaged edge with the tip of her pencil. “That's a good match for what cut you on the head bone,” she said.

“What else we got?”

“Okay. This is where you gutted the antelope,” and she pulled a large glossy print from the assortment. “It's four hundred sixty-four yards from where you fired the shot. Now,” and she handed the photo to Torrez and selected a topographical map. “This,” and she touched an X penciled lightly on the map, “is your spot.” Dragging the pencil eraser southward, she stopped at another location where the topo lines seemed to merge. With her other hand, she slid yet another photo across the table. “We found just enough tracks to place the shooter here. The little cut in the arroyo bed allowed him good cover for the shot.” She drew a line northward to the X.

“And I don't get it,” Linda said. “Did this bozo
follow
you out there? Did he see your truck and just
assume
that's where you hiked? I mean, how did he know? Did somebody know you were out there?”

“I told Waddell one time,” Torrez answered. “He musta told Carl Bendix, the head honcho.” He stopped, but Linda followed the thought.

“Who knows who
he
told.”

Taber tapped the photo. “But from here, he could shoot and then jog back to his car or truck, without being seen by you.”

Linda slid another photo toward Torrez. “These are the best we could do with the prints. They're not much.” With a good imagination, Torrez could make out the boot prints, including the smooth heel.

“No prints on the truck, sir. The tire tracks are clear. Goodyear Wranglers, and the size that fit any number of vehicles.”

Torrez let out a loud breath. “Nothin'.”

“Not much, that's true. We know that he took a shot of more than three hundred fifty yards, and only missed by eight inches.”

“He wanted to miss,” Torrez said.

“How do you know that?”

“If he was out for a kill shot, he would have checked afterward to make sure. And takin' the coil cable just made sure I couldn't follow.”

“Why would he want to do that, though? A warning shot of some kind?” Sergeant Taber arranged the photos into a neat pile and smiled. “Politics, maybe. Somebody wants you to stay out of the race this November. Trying to scare you off.”

“Nobody shoots a high-powered rifle at someone at more than three hundred yards, uphill and with all the other complications, just to warn somebody,” Linda Pasquale observed. “
I
think he wanted to take a shot and then clear the area, whether the shot was successful or not. Too many things could go wrong if he waited around for a second shot. When he saw you fly-dive backward, he thought he had hit you. That's all.”

“If he saw that,” Torrez said. “Takes a while to get the image back after a shot. He wouldn't have seen the scope fly apart or nothin' like that.”

“He just didn't want to take the chance of meeting you face to face, Bobby.”

He stretched. “I guess we'll know eventually, even if he has to take another whack at it. Maybe he won't be so lucky this time.”

Chapter Eleven

Twenty miles west of Las Cruces, her cell phone came alive, fed through the car's computer system. At 5:02 p.m., her son Francisco should just be…what, in rehearsal? Eating too many strange foods? In conference with his mentors and the Mexican counterparts of the conservatory? She thumbed the button on the steering wheel,
willing
the incoming voice to be that of her eldest son. But the number I.D. flashed her own landline at home.

“Guzman.”

“Hey,
Mamá
.” The greeting was cheerful enough, but half an octave too high and in the thoughtfully measured cadence of her youngest son, Carlos. “Are you right in the middle of something?” The ten-year-old's adult thoughtfulness always lit a glow for Estelle.

“How about eighty-five miles an hour, lights and siren, escorting
Padrino
to the hospital. Does that count,
hijo?”

“Oh, but you have the
beast,”
he said, referring to the county car and all its gadgets that allowed hands-free communication.

“I do. Look,
hijo,
I have no idea what time I'll be home. And
Papá
is riding in the ambulance with
Padrino.
So we just don't know.
Addy is staying at the house tonight, so give her and
Abuela
a hand, all right?”

“Of course. Will
Padrino
be okay, do you think?” Carlos had long since grown away from the need for simple, black and white answers.

“He has a badly broken hip, Carlos. And maybe some other complications. We'll just have to see. Oh, and Bobby should be home in a little bit, so if you need anything, remember that he's available.”

“Ooookay.” If the world was coming to an end, and he had no one else to turn to, the boy
might
call “Big Bad Bobby,” the man whom young Carlos thought to be the funniest man on the planet. His imitation of the sheriff's beetle-browed, humorless glower was dead-on accurate. “But we'll be fine,” he said. “Are you sure
Padrino
will be okay?”

“We're all hoping so. Did your brother happen to call?”

“No. But your uncle did. I don't know him, so…”

“My
uncle?”
Estelle heard a rustle of paper, but it might have been lung tissue as she ran out of air, her heart in her throat.

“
Su tio,”
the boy said. “He said his name was Benedicte Mazón.” Carlos spelled it carefully, including the accent. “He said he hasn't seen you in years, but that you would remember him. I didn't know you had an uncle,
Mamá
.”

“He asked for me by name?”

“Yes. And he called me by name,
Mamá
. And he asked about
Abuela.”

“And he claimed to be my uncle? Are you sure about that?”

“Absolutely, I'm sure. So surprise, surprise,” Carlos chirped. “He said you would know. And he said not to worry about the concert tonight.”

Estelle's pulse skipped again. “What time did he call?”

“Four forty-one.” Of course Carlos would have checked the time down to the minute—a perfect witness. “I asked
Abuela
who Señor Mazón might be. She did not seem to know,
Mamá
.” His voice grew a bit quieter. “But I'm not sure she understood me.” Estelle flinched. The ten-year-old knew how to talk to his beloved grandmother, with a perfect understanding of the complications old age imposed. In Spanish or English, his diction and delivery, all with that thoughtful, measured pace, was honed by lots of practice with
Abuela,
with whom he loved to converse.

“Did he say where he was calling from?”

“No,
Mamá
. I asked for his number, and he said, ‘There will be a time for that.' That's exactly what he said. I thought that was odd. But you know, I wouldn't be surprised if he was calling from Mexico. There was enough clicking and circuit noise on the phone for that.”

“So you didn't get his number?”

“No. But I didn't give him your cell, either.”

“That's good.” She frowned and repeated, “
Benedicte Mazón.”

“Benedict with an ‘e',” Carlos reminded her. “I didn't know
you
had an uncle. I mean,
Abuela's
Uncle Reuben…” Teresa's uncle, with whom Estelle had lived briefly while she finished her last two years of high school in Posadas, and for whom she'd cared in
his
complicated dotage later on, had been dead for years. Carlos had never met him, but had heard the tales—many from
Padrino,
who was often responsible for keeping Reuben out of various jails, both Mexican and American.

“I didn't know either, Carlos. Listen, you can always reach me at this number, no matter what. You did exactly the right thing to call. Be good company for
Abuela
this evening. And you also did absolutely the right thing not to give out information. Just listen carefully to what they say to you.”

“Oh, sure. I have some work I wanted to show her,” Carlos said. “And Addy and I are going to make a key lime pie in a little bit.”

“Save some for us,
por favor.
I love you,
Hijo.”

“You bet.”

Estelle disconnected, and for a long moment stared at the mesmerizing light show of the ambulance a hundred yards ahead. “Benedicte Mazón,” she said aloud, and then repeated the name twice more, engraving it in her memory. Not to worry about the concert tonight, the strange “uncle” had told Carlos. So easily said. A man claiming to be an uncle out of Estelle's past was bad enough. Calling from Mexico with information about her son's concert was breathtaking. She didn't believe in coincidence. Someone claiming to be Tomás Naranjo seeking eight thousand dollars to rescue one of the boys? And now another phantom, another clever invention claiming to be a long lost uncle, telling her not to worry?

She considered swerving across the center median and charging back to Posadas. Airport manager Jim Bergin could have her in Mazatlán in six hours…after a long and hazardous light plane flight across the spine of Mexico. Or she could continue on beyond Las Cruces to El Paso and catch a commercial flight, with any luck arriving in the Mexican city sometime in the morning. But once in the airplane, she would be effectively trapped, no good to anyone. The damn, impotent phone was her only link.

She found Leister Academy's number and dialed again. The phone rang five times before the robot answered with a message menu. Estelle lost patience and disconnected. Of course, no one was manning the offices at Leister…five minutes after six there, and everyone had gone to dinner, the offices vacant.
They
weren't worried. She touched the select to choose her eldest son's cell phone. It rang twice.

“
Óla
,
Mamá
.”

The wave of relief was a punch in the gut, and she caught the car's swerve before touching the rumble strip. “Francisco, where are you?” Her knuckles were white on the steering wheel, but she fought to keep the desperation out of her voice.

“Right this minute?” She could hear various noises in the background, including odd, single notes hammered on a piano. “I'm helping Dr. Belloit tune the piano.
Mamá
, this is an amazing venue. I didn't come down last year 'cause I had that sucky head cold, but this year is
great
. There's enough gold leaf decoration in this concert hall to shame Fort Knox. It's like playing in the middle of a sunburst!”

“So everything is just fine with you and Mateo?”

“Sure. The Wednesday afternoon host concert went really well, too. This is the one where they have all the school kids for an audience. Anyway, they've got this kid—I think he's ten—who plays a bassoon and makes it sound like an operatic baritone. Oh, and you know who sang with us? You won't believe it.”

“Tell me.” A hundred questions faded, and Estelle relaxed back in the seat, content just to hear the gush of that beloved voice. He could have waxed eloquent about beach sand, and she would have been captivated.

“Elfego
Durán
.” Francisco said the name as if Estelle would be bowled over by the news. The name was familiar, but Estelle chalked that up to having known a dozen Elfegos over the years, and perhaps a hundred Durans.

“
Ay, caramba.”

“
You've never heard of him, have you?” And before she could agree, he laughed in his grown-up, professional way. “He debuted at the Palacio de Bellas Artes in Mexico City last season. He's a contra-tenor, and just an amazing voice. Have you ever heard one?”

“One…”

“A contra-tenor. They sing up in the soprano range—
really
high. The best thing is that he's going to do a duet with Mateo Friday night, and then again on Saturday at the big concert. They've worked up some of Lloyd Webber's stuff.”

“His ‘stuff'?” Sometimes—the occasions becoming more and more rare—Francisco Guzman demonstrated that he was still a teenager at heart.

“Yeah. From
Cats.
And maybe from
Evita.
Older modern stuff, but it sounds just dynamic. He does this version of “Don't Cry for Me, Argentina”
that gives me goose bumps.
I'll bring the concert video home with me next time. They have really good recording facilities in this hall.”

“I'm glad that it's going so well,
Hijo
.” Her pulse had stopped pounding in her ears. “No glitches of any kind?”

“Oh,” Francisco said airily, “You know, the usual stuff. There was something going on down the street yesterday. I don't know what, but we were too busy to pay any attention. I mean, we
rehearse
and rehearse
,
and then we take a little break, and rehearse some more. But they were saying that a couple guys got wasted.”

“Wasted?”
That's just what I need to hear,
Estelle thought.

“Somebody said they found two guys in an alley about a block from here. Nobody heard the shots, so I don't know what happened. But of course
we
wouldn't, inside the hall. The world could end outside, and we wouldn't know it.”

“And you're home when?”

“We'll fly back to Leister early Sunday morning, which is kind of a drag. We have to get up at four-thirty or some such. But not to worry,
Mamá
. We're fine here. And you know, you might be interested in this…the police presence is impressive.” She braked for an indecisive motorist, then punched the throttle hard to shoot past. “You're in the car?” Francisco asked, hearing the growl.

“On the way to Cruces,
niño.
Escorting the ambulance.
Padrino
fell and broke his hip. He'll have surgery there in the morning.”

“
Ay.
How did he do that?”

“Just a senior moment. He lost his balance in the garage somehow.”

“He'll be all right? Does he have a phone in his room?”

“He
will
have,
querido.
” She sighed ruefully. “And he'll love to hear from you. But first we have to get there. We had a little trouble with the air ambulance, but we're on the way now. By the time you get home, he'll be eager to talk with you. Not so much right now, though.”

“Is
Papá
with him?”

“Yes.”

“Well, then,” the boy said with “that's that” finality.

“You've met some interesting people during your tour? And what's this ‘police presence' you mentioned?”

“The school keeps the circle pretty tight,” Francisco said. “They assigned this one young guy—he's actually a captain, I think—to us. He's like a
shadow.
Always there. When we go out on stage, he's right in the wings, and he never watches
us.
He's like one of those Secret Service guys, you know. Watching, watching, watching, scanning the audience. We had a press session this morning, and he was there too, along with three uniformed cops. Serious guys. The session was all right. You know, just the usual stuff.”

“Any interesting questions that caught you by surprise?”

Francisco laughed easily. “I wish. No, just lots of the same old stuff. They always want to know how long I practice every day, what's the hardest piece, did I always want to play piano—things like that. And it seemed like they were all trying to figure out how come we're not from big cities, Mateo and me. Only one or two knew where Posadas was, and not a clue about Dos Passos, Texas. I told Mateo he should just tell folks he's from Dallas. Then it might make sense to them. I could say I was from Santa Fe.”

Estelle chuckled. “Talented people only come from metropolitan areas,
hijo.”

“I keep forgetting that. Hey, one of the reporters asked me if the astronomy project was up and running yet.
He
knew where Posadas is. Or at least he'd heard of it.”

“I'm impressed. Did anyone try to talk with you after the press conference?”
Like someone claiming to be a long-lost uncle?
But she kept the thought to herself.

“Well, no. Leister likes to keep us quarantined. And we're
always
chaperoned. Always. In fact double. Someone from Leister,
and
mi capitán.
Mateo and I thought it would be relaxing just to walk around the city, but that's not going to happen, unless they provide a phalanx of cops to go, too. We might have an arranged visit to one of the beaches tomorrow. Maybe. They worry a lot, these people.”

And that's good,
Estelle thought. “But other than that, all is well?”