My son waited patiently for me to saddle up, and when I’d slammed the door, said, “Now what?”
“I wish to hell that I knew,” I said, nodding at the clock on the dash. “Tell you what…it’s still early. Want to take a little ride?”
“Sure. I’d even be sort of curious to see where all this happened.”
“Then south to the border it is. Back under the interstate, and then take Fifty-six to Regal.”
We rolled out onto Grande and a few minutes later, as we drove southwest on the state highway, I filled in the details of the past couple of days for Buddy. He let the car amble along at fifty-five, lugging in fourth gear. Even so, the healthy exhaust note combined with open windows made whispered conversation impossible.
The highway was deserted, and when we passed the Broken Spur, the saloon was just a dark lump on the prairie, its one sodium vapor light casting shadows through the cholla and greasewood that outlined the parking lot.
We started up through the esses toward Regal Pass, and Buddy downshifted into third as we swept through the first bend. I had been in the middle of recounting my conversation with Emilio Contreras at the church, and I hesitated as the sports car leaped forward.
“Nice road,” my son said.
“Lots of deer, too,” I shouted back, picturing the car’s shark nose slicing under a mule deer’s belly, pitching the critter through the windshield and into our laps.
With the car holding just enough speed to make the twists, turns, and switchbacks a continuous graceful ballet, I relaxed back into the support of the seat.
“The point is, no one saw anyone,” I shouted at Buddy. “Not the neighbors, not anyone. We’ve got a big, ugly gap.”
“In a town where everyone knows and sees everything,” Buddy replied. “That’s interesting. You think they’re holding back because of Torrez? His being related and all?”
“I don’t think so. But it’s hard to say. I’ve known Bob a long time. The one thing I am certain of is that he wouldn’t try to cover up anything. But I don’t know about the others.”
As we approached the divide, I pointed off to the left. “That’s where I was parked when the kid crashed into my car.”
We shot through the pass and started to nose downhill toward Regal. Where the highway curved in a sweeping turn to the left, the right shoulder had been bladed into a turn-out. Parked in that turn-out, lights off, was one of the Sheriff’s Department Broncos.
“Whoops.” Buddy lifted his foot, but if the deputy had his radar on, we were already nailed. “Are you in good with these guys?” My son watched in the rearview mirror for a couple of seconds until the lights disappeared around the curve. “Maybe he’s asleep,” he said.
“That would be Deputy Jackie Taber, and she wasn’t asleep. Guaranteed.” Even as I uttered the last word, headlights popped into view behind us. My son had slowed the car to under the speed limit by then, but since we’d been cruising at well over eighty when we passed, it took the deputy a couple of miles before she was riding on our back bumper.
“It takes her a few seconds to get a response from dispatch when she calls in the plate,” I said. “Assuming everyone’s computer is up and running, and assuming that none of us is asleep.”
The road wound the six miles down toward Regal, and just as we approached the last switchback, the deputy behind us flipped her headlights quickly to high beam and back, braked abruptly into a wide parking area at the apex of the turn, and swung around in the road to head back north.
“You still have clout”—my son laughed—“at least for another two days.”
“Damn right.” I wasn’t so interested in that as in the view ahead. From the flank of the hill above Regal, I could estimate where the old church would be off to the left, nestled in its comfortable darkness. A mile farther south the harsh lights at the locked border crossing illuminated the gate and barbed wire. A sprinkling of porch lights dotted the village.
Any vehicle driving through the village was exposed to view from a dozen directions. “It’s hard to imagine anything happening in secret here,” I said. “Take the first right, where the sign says
SANCHEZ
.”
We turned onto the dirt lane with a clink of stones against undercarriage, and Buddy slowed the Corvette to a walk. “I don’t have much clearance. Does this get worse?” he said as we scraped over a hummock of dried grass in the middle of the lane.
“No. Just go slow.”
With the engine thumping at idle, we eased around the Contreras’ front porch. From inside, it must have sounded as if we were about to turn into their bedroom.
“This is the Baca place,” I said as we drew in front of the adobe. For once the two dogs across the street weren’t in their chain-link run. When Buddy nosed the Corvette close to Sosimo Baca’s front gate and switched off the ignition, the only sound we could hear was the ticking of the cooling engine.
“You know what strikes me as odd?” Buddy asked. He sat with his head propped on his left fist, regarding the dark house. “I always associated crime with the evening hours—the saloon hours, know what I mean?”
“Sure. The swing shift is our busiest, usually.”
“And all this happened right around daybreak. That just strikes me as unusual. Most folks are wound up at nightfall, not dawn. That’s the ebb tide, so to speak.”
He turned and looked at me for explanation. “That’s because we started the party,” I said. “The Baca kid visited the saloon at about eleven. That’s the usual time for hijinks, as you say.”
“And then he spent the rest of the night sobering up on the mountain somewhere.”
“Right. And made his way back to his house…” I stopped, trying to estimate Matt’s arrival home. “Hell, I don’t know. Sometime.” Clorinda Baca’s vague answers came to mind, and I chuckled. “I was out and around, and like you say—at dawn, the vast majority of people are asleep, or at least so groggy they don’t function too well. That’s the best time to bust in on somebody. I swung by here long before that, though, just in time to catch Sosimo walking home from
his
night of guzzling the hard cider. I took the kid into custody a few minutes after that. If things had gone right, he would have been in jail when dawn broke.”
“There’s nothing you could have done about that,” my son said gently.
“That’s what I tell myself. That it was just the luck of the cards. When Bob Torrez drove back down to break the news to Sosimo it was an hour or so before dawn.”
“After that, the old man went for a walk, headed toward Posadas,” Buddy said. He turned back and looked at the house. “Huh. Somebody was up and around early to meet up with him.”
“That’s what I think. But…” I turned first to the left and then to the right, indicating the village that surrounded us. “Lots of these folks get up at the crack of dawn. The coroner says that Sosimo died sometime around eight. Hell, by then the day’s half over. And even though it’s three thirty-five right now,” I said, leaning forward and tapping the clock, “I’m willing to bet that there’s at least one or two sets of eyes watching us at this moment.”
“Or one or two dozen.” Buddy laughed. “We can’t exactly tiptoe with this car.”
“That’s for sure,” I said, and then was interrupted by the chirp of my cell phone.
“Now I’m impressed, Dad. Such high-tech stuff,” Buddy said as he watched me fumble the little thing out.
“You betcha. We’re feetfirst in the twenty-first century.” I found the correct side, the one with all the buttons. “Gastner.”
“Sir,” a soft feminine voice said, “this is Deputy Taber.”
“Jackie, what’s up?”
“Sir, I’m parked up on Regal Pass. That was me that came up behind you and your son a little bit ago there, up above the village.”
I twisted in my seat and looked up the hill. It was a waste of energy, since there was nothing but the black featureless hulk of the mountains through the tiny window. “I thought it might be. I’m giving my son the grand tour.”
“Yes, sir. I was wondering if I could ask you to do me a favor.”
“Name it.”
“There’s a vehicle parked over behind the church. When I was driving down the hill toward the village the first time, I saw him start up and head out of the lane you’re on right now. He had been parked at the Baca place.”
“And now he’s over behind the church?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Were you able to identify the vehicle?”
“No, sir. But it’s a white or off-white SUV of some sort. Maybe Border Patrol. I couldn’t be sure.”
“Well, that doesn’t surprise me,” I said. “What do you want me to do?”
“Just go over and talk to whoever it is, sir.”
“All right. That’s easy enough,” I said. “What are you fishing for?”
“I’m not sure, sir.”
I laughed. “I’ll be in touch.” I closed the phone and looked at my son. “There’s a vehicle parked over behind the mission. Deputy Taber wants us to find out who it is.”
Surprised, Buddy tried to look past the scrubby elm that blocked his view to the east, toward the church. “If Taber knows there’s somebody over there, why doesn’t he just go talk to whoever it is himself?”
“Herself,” I corrected. “Deputy Jackie Taber is a her. And I don’t know why. I just do what I’m told these days.” I gestured toward the ignition. “And let’s try not to wake the entire village on our way over there.”
Buddy was reaching for the keys when we heard a vehicle approach from behind us. The silky smooth engine was little more than a whisper of the various fans and belts, accompanied by the crunch of tires on gravel.
Contrasted to the low, wide profile of the Corvette, the boxy-shaped vehicle loomed like a tractor-trailer as it idled up behind our rear bumper and stopped.
“Who’s this?” Buddy asked, and the answer was not long in coming. A bright spotlight beam lanced out and blasted through our back window.
“Just hold on a minute,” I said quietly. “Give him a chance to run the plate.” And sure enough, in another minute, the spotlight flicked off, and I heard the door open.
“Everybody’s kind of nervous around these parts,” my son observed. He rested his right hand on top of the steering wheel, with his left arm on the windowsill.
“Evening, gentlemen,” a voice said, and at first I didn’t recognize it.
“Good morning,” I replied. The Corvette’s roof line was so low that all I could see was a green uniform from the belt down, outlined in the harsh glare of the headlights.
The Border Patrol agent bent down and I saw that it was Taylor Bergmann. “Sheriff Gastner, we met earlier yesterday. I’m Agent Bergmann.” He spoke with the rigid formality of the rookie trying to make sure he did everything just right.
“Right. I remember. Thanks for your help, by the way. This is my son, Commander Bill Gastner.” I figured a little formality in return couldn’t hurt.
“Commander,” Bergmann acknowledged. He bent down a little farther so that he could look directly across at me. “This is the latest thing in unmarked cars, sir?”
“Absolutely. It’s the new Stealth unit. Doesn’t show on radar.” I shifted in my seat a little so that I could talk without busting my neck. “So what are you hunting, Agent Bergmann?”
“I’m trying not to get lost,” Bergmann said with a grin. “So far, I’m doing pretty good. I came in from the west, on the Douglas highway, and I thought I would swing up around here, through town. Agent Gutierrez drove me through Regal the other day, but you know how that goes.”
“A blur,” I said. “Who’s riding with you?” A solo Border Patrol agent was unusual, especially a rookie. Their patrons tended to arrive in groups, and a single agent was at a distinct disadvantage, especially at night, and especially in the back border country. Why a single deputy sheriff in the same territory was perfectly acceptable with county commissioners I had never been able to figure out.
“Agent Tomlinson is riding along tonight,” Bergmann said. I looked into the tiny rearview mirror on my side, and apart from the ominous message that
OBJECTS MAY BE CLOSER THAN THEY APPEAR
etched into the mirror’s glass, I could see nothing but the dark shadow mountain of the Expedition. I would recognize Agent Gordon Tomlinson on the street if I saw him in uniform, but that was it.
“Scott’s off?” I asked.
“Yes, sir. He took a couple days annual leave.”
“Well deserved. He gave us a hand this afternoon…make that yesterday afternoon now. We had us another little problem to resolve.”
“That’s right. I heard about that. And I thought that since there had been an unresolved situation here on top of that”—he stopped in midsentence as my cellular phone chirped, and then added as I opened the gadget—“that it wouldn’t hurt to cruise through the area.”
“Sure enough,” my son agreed, and Bergmann straightened up away from the window.
“Gastner,” I said into the phone.
“Sir,” Jackie Taber said, “the vehicle now parked behind you came in from the west. The other vehicle is still behind the church, as far as I can tell.”
“Okay. Thanks. We’ll wander over that way when we’re finished here.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Stay put.”
“Yes, sir.”
I closed the phone and scrunched down so I could see Bergmann. He was standing with his hands on his hips, surveying the Baca house.
“Is there anything in particular that you needed, Taylor?” I said, and he turned around quickly.
“No, sir. I saw your vehicle parked here and thought I’d check. That’s all.”
“I appreciate it. We can always use an extra set of well-trained eyes, believe me.”
“Commander,” Bergmann said, and patted the roof of the Corvette, “nice to meet you. Have a great visit.”
“Thanks,” my son said. “It’s been interesting so far.”
Bergmann almost laughed. “I bet,” he said. “We’ll talk to you gentlemen later.”
We heard his boots crunch on the dirt and then the door of the Expedition open and close. The engine had been running, but produced just a gentle whisper as Bergmann reversed to clear our back bumper. He drove around us and continued down the dirt lane to the Sisneroses’ driveway, where he turned around.
“He’s not going to chance any more of Regal’s back streets,” Buddy observed.
“This one doesn’t go much farther anyway,” I said. “Down around the corner to Clorinda Baca’s, and then it just kind of peters out beyond her woodpile.”
“Whoever she is,” Buddy said, chuckling.
“She’s…” I started to say, but he held up a hand.
“I don’t need to know, Dad,” he said. The Border Patrol unit eased past us heading eastbound, and I raised a hand in salute, catching a glimpse of Agent Tomlinson’s round, pleasant face in the passenger window. “Do you want to go over to the church now?”
“Our last stop on the grand tour,” I said. I gestured after the two agents. “And I wouldn’t be surprised if they do the same thing. The mission is one of the traditional stopping places for illegals who jump the fence in this area. It’s never locked, which makes it easy.”
“Is a full-time border crossing in the cards for this place anytime soon?” Buddy asked. He ignited the Corvette and let it idle for a few seconds.
“Probably within the next year,” I said.
We used the Sisneros driveway too, and I could picture Archie Sisneros lying in bed blurry-eyed, wondering if he should turn his dogs loose. I could hear the two of them barking inside the house.
We drove back out the dirt lane. Ahead of us, the Border Patrol unit halted at the pavement, a nice full stop just like the sign ordered. The left directional signal flashed a couple of times, and Bergmann pulled out on the highway and accelerated on up the hill. “I’m surprised he didn’t check out the mission,” I said.
“Maybe he figures that’s your turf.” We reached the pavement, and Buddy leaned forward, pulling himself up against the steering wheel. By easing up and over the edge of the asphalt obliquely, my son was able to avoid leaving serious parts of his car behind. “What time do Estelle and Francis fly in today?” he asked as we straightened out on the pavement.
“Their plane arrives in El Paso a little after two this afternoon,” I said.
“I look forward to seeing them again. The last time I was here, Estelle was just breaking into detective work. As I remember, she was about to take her sergeant’s test. And she was still single, too. Gorgeous and single.”
“Pull into the church,” I said. “And none of that applies anymore, except maybe the gorgeous part. She’s happily married, two kids, no longer in police work. As far as I know. She doesn’t talk much about herself.”
We turned off the asphalt and I leaned forward. “The deputy says that someone’s parked behind the church, so let’s go around the back side.”
“It’s gravel all the way?” As if to punctuate his question, a stone pinged against the exhaust pipe directly under my rump.
“No ruts. It’ll be all right.”
We drove around the west side of La Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, and at the back corner there was just room to skirt the large chamisa plants that kept the inattentive from nicking the adobe corner of the building. The rear wall of the church, its smooth brown adobe expanse broken only by a single window that filtered light the length of the nave, rose more than fifteen feet from the ground to the rounded tops of walls.
My window was down, and even before we started to nose around the east corner toward the side of the church opposite the highway, I heard an engine start. “I don’t think whoever it is plans to stick around and chat,” I said.
But I was wrong. We rounded the corner and pulled in behind a late-model white Dodge Durango with Texas plates. Our headlights picked up the silhouette of a single occupant before we pulled so close that the back of the vehicle blocked the light.
My son turned on one of the little aircraft-style interior lights so I could see the cell phone, and I dialed dispatch. “Hopefully young Sutherland is awake,” I said. Young Sutherland was, and answered on the second ring.
“Run a plate for me, Brent,” I said. “Texas dealer plate November Hotel niner Baker Thomas six.” He repeated the number and I waited, the even rumbling of the Corvette’s idle marking time.
“Sir,” Brent Sutherland said finally, “that tag is registered to Walsh Chrysler-Plymouth, two twenty-one Parkway Avenue, Del Rio, Texas. No wants or warrants. Just a second, sir.”
I heard a voice in the background, and then the rattle of the phone being handed off to someone else.
Robert Torrez’s voice came on the line. “Sir, we think that truck belongs to Scott Gutierrez’s stepfather, a Mr. Jerry Walsh. He owns a dealership in Del Rio. Where are you right now? Behind the church?”
“That’s exactly where we are,” I said. “Jackie asked me to check out this vehicle for her. Why, I don’t know.” If the undersheriff knew where I was, he no doubt also knew that I was there by Deputy Taber’s request.
“Does the driver know you’re there?”
“Unless he’s asleep or dead, he knows there’s a noisy Corvette parked behind him. He would have no way of knowing who it is unless he’s psychic.”
“Okay.” Torrez didn’t elaborate.
“Assuming he doesn’t drive off in the next ten seconds, do you want me to talk to him?” I prompted.
“Sure. Go ahead, sir.”
“Robert,” I said, exasperated by his taciturnity, “what are you not telling me?”
“Jackie has reason to believe that the occupant of that vehicle was inside Sosimo Baca’s house just a few minutes ago.”
I sat silently digesting that. “She’s sure?”
“No, sir, she’s not. But Archie Sisneros called here a while ago to ask if one of our people was still working the Baca place. Archie says he saw the white vehicle parked in front, and someone inside the house with a flashlight.”
“He thought that was kind of odd, did he?” I said.
“Yep. Jackie took the call. On her way down the hill from the pass, she saw a vehicle exit the lane and then park behind the church. She decided it would be better to hang back a little and see what developed.”
“Well,” I said, “we developed. I’ll go have a chat with Mr. Walsh—or whoever has his truck.”
“It might be useful if he didn’t know that the deputy was sitting up the hill.”
“You got it.” I snapped off the phone. “Cat and mouse time.” I shook my head and looked across at my son. I handed him the cell phone. “That button right there”—and I pointed to one of the white buttons on the left side—“is the auto-dial to the Sheriff’s Office.”
“Why am I going to need that?”
“Hopefully, you won’t. But I have to try and pry myself out of your stealth bomber again. If I get stuck partway, we may need to call for assistance.”