Come Dark (27 page)

The woman patted the couch. “Oh, this is fine.”

“No, it
isn't
fine. The hospital will provide better for you,” Estelle insisted. “I'll talk with them about it.”

Leaving the lounge, Estelle scouted until she found a lounge where she could use her phone, and Sheriff Bobby Torrez answered on the second ring.

“Yep.”

“Arthur Garcia,” Estelle said without preamble. “We need to talk with him. If he's not in town, his mother said that he might be heading out to Tucson to visit his father. I think that he was with Efrin at the school.”

“Okay.”
Mr. Excitement.

“
I need to know everything there is to know about him. What his parole officer says, where he's working, when he got home, where he's going to live, all that.”

“Well, you wait a couple of days, and old Arthur will screw up somehow. Then he'll be back in the slammer, and you'll have all the time to talk to him that you need. He's a worthless piece of shit.”

“We can't wait a couple of days, Bobby. And you were absolutely right to impound Efrin's pick-up. At this point, I don't know exactly what happened with it, but something's not right. Mom doesn't have a clue, and Efrin is lapsing in and out of consciousness and can't tell me much. He started to say that someone came out and caught him on the ladder. Maybe he got pushed, maybe not. He says that he fell and got tangled up with the ladder. Went down hard.”

“You going to keep after him?”

“Yes. Just before he passed out, Efrin said that ‘she saw' what was going on. Now, who is the
she?
We have to know that, Bobby.” She took a deep breath. “If we take Efrin's word at face value, we have three people to account for. He talks about ‘us' being there, about a ‘he' who sees him on the ladder, and a ‘she' who sees the whole thing.”

A long silence followed before Torrez said, “Okay. Look, Pasquale may have found where Stacie Stewart is headed, by the way.”

By the way?
Estelle leaned back against the wall. “But he hasn't heard from her? Hasn't spoken to her?”

“Nope. But he thinks she's headed for New York. And that's just a maybe. Pasquale found out that she's got an older sister there. Stewart confirmed that she and the sister are close.”

“New York, as in the city?”

Torrez hesitated, his command of geography a little sketchy with any place east of Tucumcari.

“Somewheres up there. Pasquale's going to look into it. If she caught a jet out of El Paso or something, she could be there by now. Maybe we'll get lucky.”

“I want to know if she saw Coach Scott after the game. If they went out together. Anything at all. Tell Tommy that's important.”

“Yep. He's on it.” It sounded as if Torrez stifled a yawn. “Nothin' out of the ordinary at Scott's place, though. He wasn't hidin' any great secrets that would make a difference. No handy scrapbook of victims or nothin' like that.”

“Anything new at the school?”

“Nope. But that back window of the truck didn't bust when he hit the deer or the electric pole, either one. We found a couple of the spray paint cans down along the fence. Chrome yellow and white. And some busted automotive glass.”

“That shattered back window of the truck…that's not going to happen by pitching spray paint cans at it, Bobby. We're looking at the ladder for that.”

“Perrone helped us do a quick and dirty blood type before we send stuff off to the lab. Consistent with Efrin's. It's startin' to look like he's the only one bleedin' out there.”

“Well, that's something. By the way, Waddell's outfit will fly me home direct, as soon as I'm finished here. Flight time up was forty-two minutes.”

“Find out what you need.” Torrez switched off without further comment.

Chapter Thirty-three

Estelle made her way back to Efrin's room, and was surprised to see him with his good arm wrapped around behind his neck, helping to hold his bandaged head off the pillow. He appeared to be watching a physician make adjustments to the plumbing issuing from his lower chest. “It's going to hurt for a good while, yes indeed,” the doctor said. “But the fewer painkillers we load up on you, the better it'll be.”

He turned and saw Estelle. She stepped into the room and held out a hand. His name tag said
S.C. Chabra, M.D.,
and when she introduced herself, he beamed a broad smile, impossibly white teeth even brighter against the smooth, dusky complexion. A spray of gray at each temple prevented him from looking sixteen years old.

“Ah, let it be so.” His smile widened. “Soneil Chabra, and the world is a small place. Tell me you are related to Dr. Guzman? At the Posadas clinic?”

“My husband.”

“Ah, of course. Well,” and his head-to-toe appraisal of the undersheriff was frank, “he is a most lucky man. I talked to him this morning about our mutual friend here.” He regarded Efrin kindly. “One good thing that is not wasted on the young is recuperation, you know. He will heal rapidly. I suspect that we will move him out of intensive care by tomorrow evening. But I am thinking that he will need to remain with us for several days. Especially since the reconstructive surgery on the elbow is scheduled only for Monday morning. Other issues must stabilize before that.”

He turned back to Estelle and rested a hand low on his own ribs on the left side. “Unfortunately, damage was such that a splenectomy was necessitated. Two broken ribs, and a fragment lacerated the spleen, that coupled with significant bruising. Such a time. At first,” and he shrugged, “we thought that laparoscopic surgery might be possible. I'm sure you are familiar with that process?”

“Yes.”

“Unfortunately, in this case, with so much tissue damage, bleeding, and transfusing, and such, we thought it best to do a standard open splenectomy. Particularly to look for other hemorrhaging. And of course, to stabilize the bone fragments.”

“I need to talk with him,” Estelle said. Despite the obvious discomfort, Efrin's eyes were wide open and wary, not helplessly comatose as she'd seen a few minutes ago.

“Most certainly, you may do that.” Chabra looked at his watch. “He has been out of anesthesia now for some twenty hours. At the moment, even though he is lightly sedated, he is sorting through a good deal of pain, between the lacerations to the head, the fractures of the elbow, and the surgery. He has ample reason to hurt, you see. But perhaps talking with you may take his mind off the discomfort.” He reached out and waggled Efrin's sheeted foot. “And Mrs. Guzman, it is a pleasure to meet you. My regards to both you and your husband.” He shook her hand again, then beckoned to Nurse Sturges.

Estelle moved to the side of the bed and gazed down at Efrin Garcia, a skinny, wary, hurting little twerp. “You've decided to be awake for a while,” she said.

“I ain't never hurt like this before,” he murmured, and let his head slump back on the pillow. He drew his uninjured arm down slowly from behind his head as if every joint in it had decided to visit the pain centers out of sympathy. “My freakin' elbow. And it feels like they tried to cut me in half.”

“They just about did. And you're going to hurt, but a little less each day.” She regarded him with sympathy. “So tell me.”

“What?” A little bit of umbrage, a little insolence already, less than two days after the surgery. She smiled as she fished a tiny micro-recorder out of her blouse pocket and placed it on the sheet covering the right side of Efrin's skinny chest. Efrin eyed it with suspicion.

“So tell me, Efrin Garcia, what happened? We know you hit a deer and crashed into a pole. But what's the rest?”

“I need a lawyer.”

“Do you? I think you've been watching too much television,
hijo
. What have you done wrong, other than spraying a little paint in a few places where it shouldn't be? You're going to tell me that I should see the other guy?”

He frowned, and Estelle watched him without comment. Finally, he said, “I had a good job goin' with Mr. Waddell, too.” He sounded genuinely sorry for himself.

“Yes, you did. And still do,
hijo
. He's eager for you to finish the theater mural.”

“You saw it?”

“I did. It's amazing work. You must be proud. I know Mr. Waddell is.”

“And that's what he said?”

Estelle nodded. “So, you tagged the train car.” She shrugged. “You tagged the radio telescope dish, too, and then you went to the school, to do some more art. What? The
NightZone
mural isn't enough for you? You're thinking about throwing that all away?”

Efrin closed his eyes with a grimace as if even his eyelids hurt. For a few seconds it appeared as if he was fading out.

“Hey.” Estelle nudged the boy gently on the right shoulder. “Now's the time to be tough,
hijo.
Someone interrupted you when you were tagging the school. Tell me. Was Arthur with you?”

That question prompted another long moment of silence, but his frown deepened. “Look, he don't have
nothin'
to do with any of this. He just got out, and he can't run no risks like this.”

“But he was with you?” Efrin didn't answer. “Sheriff Torrez will talk with him, and if we find out you're lying to protect him, then Sheriff Torrez will want to talk with
you,
Efrin. And you think you hurt now? The sheriff isn't much for sympathy.”

“I know he ain't.”

“Well, then. Some simple answers. Arthur was with you? That's just a yes or no.”

“Yeah.” Another long pause. “He was. But he was just helpin' me. Steadyin' the ladder and holdin' the light.”

“What time was this?”

Efrin covered his eyes, then his hand slid down as his index finger picking at the edge of the bandage over his ear. “After the game. Way after. Everybody had gone home. And the place was dark, man. Somebody had busted the lamp over the back door of the school, and the parkin' lot light wasn't lit either. I was workin' by flashlight.”

“Around ten o'clock, maybe?”

“About then.” He took a long, slow breath, and jerked as a lance of pain shot through him. “I think I'm dyin' here.”

“Not likely,
hijo.
But a clear conscience will help you heal faster.” She leaned closer. “And if you
are
dying, a clear conscience will help you get where you want to go. So tell me what happened.”

“We got jumped, that's all.”

“How did it happen? Jumped by who?”

He took another long, careful breath, almost as if experimenting to find out where the pain lurked, and stopped abruptly. A look of stunned surprise shot across his face.

“So don't be doing that if it hurts,” Estelle said. “Tell me what happened. You said somebody jumped you, and I need to know who that was.”

“I got me a good start on the design—I mean, I know where I'm goin' with it and stuff, and Arthur, I hear him say, ‘So who's the chick?'” Efrin stopped, waiting for breath. “I turned a little, but didn't see nobody, but Arthur, he says that and then all of a sudden the back door of the school busts open, and there's Coach Scott. Ain't no chick, man. He's one scary dude, man.”

“So Coach Scott caught you in the act.”

“Yeah. He stands there by the door, hands on his hips like he owns the place.”

“Did
he
push the ladder?”

“He tells us to get out, and Arthur, he gets all charged up. All huffy, you know? Like he's going to
argue
with this guy?” Efrin looked as if he wanted to laugh, but settled for a whimper and grimace. “Shit.” He closed his eyes and waited for the assault to pass. “Scott came on like he was going to grab the ladder, and Art took a swing at him. Well,
that
didn't help things. The ladder gets pushed…I don't know, maybe he didn't mean to. But it skids on the smooth brick and there I go. I ain't never had anything that hurt so bad. My arm's all crooked and stuff.”

“What happened then?”

“And then Art,
he
decides to be Mr. Hero. He's got this stupid pistol and he pulls it on Scott.”

“He had a gun with him?”

“Yeah. I don't think it was loaded or anything like that. But he was pretty proud of it. I mean, he showed it to me once. It didn't have no clip, and he was lookin' to buy one somewheres.”

“So out comes the gun.”

“Yeah. Maybe he thought it was going to scare Mr. Scott. Well, that ain't what happened.”

“What did?”

Efrin covered his eyes with his good arm. “Arthur, he ain't too fast, you know what I mean? And he's not in such good shape now. Scott was takin' a step or two toward me, 'cause I'm still down on the ground, cryin' like a little kid. Art sticks the gun in Scott's face, and next thing I know, I see it go flyin'. Scott knocked it right out of Art's hand. I try to get up, and Scott gets the gun and he says, ‘you two thugs get off school property,' or something like that.”

After a long, careful breath, Efrin added, “I got to my knees and then stumbled toward the truck. I hear Art yell, ‘You got to give me back my gun,' or somethin' like that. I hear Scott say, ‘Yeah, right. It'll be waiting for you down at the Sheriff's Office.' I heard him say that.”

“Scott was going to turn the gun in to us?” Estelle's pulse jumped. Out of prison, on parole, and a firearms charge. If the gun was turned in to authorities, Art was toast, and he would know it.

“I guess. I had the truck started, and I hear him shout, ‘Don't forget your damn ladder!' And wham! My back window blows and something smacks me right in the head. He's got that ladder right through the window, blowin' glass everywhere. I didn't even know if it hit me, but then I'm…bleedin' all over.”

“And where's Art all this time?”

“I don't know. He ain't going to take on Coach Scott, that's for sure.”

“Art had driven himself that night?”

“Yeah. He had my mom's car. He had it parked over in the back of the lot, where it's real dark?”

“But you didn't see him leave that night?”

“I didn't see
nothin'.
I was hurtin' so bad I don't know
what
I was doin'. I made it a ways away from the school, and almost got home. Then this deer jumps out on the road, and I'm goin' too fast, and I hit it. And the truck spins in the gravel.”

“Art wasn't following you home?”

Efrin shook his head. “I hit that pole and finished the job, that's for sure. That's what they tell me. I was lyin' there, eatin' dirt and grass, and started to crawl home. I think my ma found me.”

“You're sure it was Clint Scott?”

“Sure it was him. I know him good enough. I mean, I was in his class back in second grade and all.” He closed his eyes and tried to smile, the bandage tape pulling the corner of his mouth. “Almost flunked second grade. How bad is that?” Efrin took another slow breath to see if the pain was still there. It was.

“Then what?”

“Mother Mary, this hurts.” He tried to shift position. “Don't they got something for the hurt?” he managed.

Estelle glanced at the tubes and suspended bags and gadgets. “They have you on morphine drip already, Efrin. You're going to have to tough it out.” She touched his left shoulder. “I just have a couple more questions for you. Then you can sleep it away.”

For a minute, it appeared that Efrin had faded out, but then he whispered, “There ain't nothin' else.”

“A little bit ago, you said something about
she.
That a girl, or woman, someone, showed up at the scene. What did you mean by that?”

“That's what Arthur said. I didn't see nobody.”

Estelle reached out, picked up the recorder and looked at it, but left it running. “Efrin, you never saw Arthur, or talked to him after you left the school?”

“No, ma'am. I know I got home somehow, and that was it. I passed out, that's for sure. I remember hearing my mother screaming at me, but anything else? I don't remember. Not any of this shit.” He lifted his left arm an inch, and almost managed a rueful smile. “I never wanted to do no drugs, Sheriff. But if you got a pocketful of 'em right now…”

“They'll give you all you need, Efrin.”

“I think they like seein' me hurt.”

“They like seeing you
responsive,
hijo.
If that requires a little pain, so be it. You're doing a good job for somebody so broken up. I'm proud of you.”

Efrin gazed at her for a long moment, then closed his eyes.

“So tell me,” Estelle said. “Why the tagging? You thought that your employer was going to welcome your painting the side of his train? The dish? You thought the school needed a touch-up?”

“We was just playin' around. Art didn't think they'd be able to figure out who did it, but hell,
I
knew. I mean, they
know
my work.”

“Ah. That's the trouble with having so much talent,
hijo.
You can't hide it. Where did that design come from?”

“I seen it in a magazine. Arthur told me what it represented, but I don't remember. Just neat graphics.”

“But
nothing
like your mural, Efrin. That's world-class.”

“Yeah, well.” She heard a faint note of pride.

“Why those locations? Is there some particular reason why you chose them?”

“They was in the papers. The newspaper? All the stories lately. That big write-up in the Sunday paper about the train? And the mesa project with the telescope and stuff? That's been hot in the papers, even on TV. That and the volleyball team. They're all hot shit right now. Like that big spread in the local paper last week, and then again in the Albuquerque paper? All that publicity. That's good shit, man.”