Before She Dies (14 page)

Chapter 22

I settled into 310 and sat for a while, looking west toward where the sun sank over the flank of the San Cristobal Mountains. A couple of answers to a couple of simple questions would shuffle all the pieces into order. But the answers were elusive. I sighed. Even Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s powerful intuition wasn’t helping us much.

I keyed the mike. “Three oh two, this is three ten.”

I hoped for an instant response, but the seconds dragged by. I almost keyed the mike again, but thought better of it. Estelle would have heard the first time if she was in the car and if the radio was on. I glanced at my watch.

“Three ten, PCS.”

I lifted the mike. “Go ahead.” I recognized Aggie Bishop’s voice. Howard’s wife, who worked occasionally as a matron for the department, had been dragged in to cover dispatch while we used part-timer Ernie Wheeler on the road. She wasn’t very good at it, but she was better than a dead radio. I hoped she wasn’t spreading her flu through the office.

“Three ten, Dr. Guzman called just a few minutes ago.”

“Ten-four.” I waited for Aggie to make up her mind about what she wanted to say. Life at the Bishop home must have been fascinating. A one paragraph conversation between Howard and Aggie would last all week.

Fifteen seconds passed, and I keyed the mike. “PCS, go ahead.”

“Three ten, a Dr. Guzman called.” She spaced out the words and spoke considerably louder into the radio.

“Ten-four,” I said again, and chuckled in spite of myself. “What…does…he…want?”

“Oh. Three ten, is Estelle…is Detective Reyes-Guzman with you?”

“Negative.”

“Ah, three ten, do you know…” and she stopped dead in the water, wanting to use one of those wonderful ten codes that spill from cops’ lips with such abandon. But Aggie didn’t have a clue. I could picture her, leaning across the desk, looking at the ten-code chart that was faded to uniform brown on top of the radio housing. “Do you know her ten-twenty location? Where she is?”

“Negative, PCS.” I glanced at my watch. At 5:13, the streets of Posadas were both rolled up and blanketed in gloomy twilight. I didn’t suggest that she try to call Estelle at home, since it seemed obvious to me that the good doctor would have tried that himself, first.

It took less than a minute to go around the block and pull into the hospital’s parking lot. I had no intention of grilling Linda Real again that day. She had told me all she could, and probably couldn’t tell me what we most urgently needed to know. And I didn’t want to face another confrontation with her mother. But if Francis Guzman had important information for us, I wanted it fast and firsthand.

I hustled inside. The main hallway and lobby of the hospital was deserted. Even the reception desk, usually manned by someone from the auxiliary, was empty. I hastened down the hall past radiology, the lab, physical therapy, and all those other little smelly holes where friendly folks with million-dollar machines pry secrets out of a patient’s most private corners.

When I reached the nurses’ station I glanced toward the intensive care ward. Patrolman Tom Pasquale from the village department was taking another turn staring at floor tiles and loving every minute of it.

“Are you lost?”

I turned. Helen Murchison had padded up behind me, and she leaned one hand on the Plexiglas shelf in front of the glass partition of the station.

“Ah, Helen. Is Francis Guzman handy?”

“He’s in surgery.”

“For long?”

Helen raised an eyebrow. “I don’t know. The ambulance just brought in someone who tried to put an ax through his ankle.”

I winced, and Helen started to smile, then thought better of it. “So he’s tied up,” I said.

“Yes.”

“He left a message to call him.”

Helen took a deep breath, signaling that she was much put upon by all this. “I believe,” she said, “that he was wondering where his wife was.”

“She’s not home?”

“Evidently not.”

A mental image of Sofia Tournál as a baby-sitter flashed through my mind. Perhaps she would start
el kid
off on Blackstone. In Spanish, of course.

“I’ll run on down to the emergency room and see if I can catch the good doctor.”

She shook her head. “Dr. Guzman won’t be able to talk to you just now, though.”

“I’ll catch him when he finishes.”

She nodded. “And Bill…”

“Yes?” I was surprised at being called anything but “sir” or “sheriff” by Helen Murchison.

“Thanks again for the help with Mrs. Real earlier.” She lowered her voice to a hoarse whisper. “She’s dreadful.” As if that one indiscretion was all she could allow herself for that week, Helen nodded curtly and stalked off.

She was right, though. Francis Guzman couldn’t talk to me for several minutes. I sat down outside the emergency room and waited while the physician repaired the magnificent damage that George Payson had done to himself with a camp hatchet while trying to split kindling for an evening fire.

In short order, the yellow plastic chair in which I sat metamorphosed into a lumpy rock, and my initial complacent acceptance of inconvenience drifted toward concern mixed with irritation.

Squirming didn’t help, so I got up and walked to the door, looking out into the gathering darkness. An ambulance sat under the portico, its four-way flashers pulsing.

I glanced at my watch, and then walked to the pay phone beside the drinking fountain. I dialed Estelle’s home phone and waited for ten rings before the receiver was lifted.

“Hello?” The voice was soft and distant.

“Señora Tournál? This is Bill Gastner.”

“Ah. Good evening, señor.”

“I don’t mean to disturb you, but has Estelle called?”

“No, señor, I have not seen Estelle since…since before lunch, you know.”

“The minute she comes in, would you ask her to call the sheriff’s office?”

“Certainly. And señor, I believe Francisco is at the hospital.” Her heavy accent stressed the last syllable, elegantly.

“I saw him,” I said, not trying to explain that it had been a quick glimpse through the Plexiglas of the emergency room doors. In the background I could hear the sort of ruckus caused by a tower of wooden blocks crashing to the Guzman’s living room floor, followed by a fourteen-month old’s screech of delight. “You’re entertaining the squirt, eh?”

She laughed. “Ah,
el kid
. He is a charmer, no?”

“Indeed. The baby-sitter had to go home?”

“Yes. She left shortly after lunch, señor. I told Francis that perhaps I could manage this one afternoon.”

“Charge the good doctor a fancy dinner,” I said, and Sofia chuckled. “Will you please tell Estelle to call me?”

“I will do that, señor. And perhaps later we can all meet for dinner. Everyone is so…
occupado
. No, you say, ‘busy.’” Señora Tournál didn’t sound busy—she sounded serene. Hell, one of us had to be.

After I hung up, I dug out another quarter. I suppose I could have saved a few cents by using the radio in the car, but I despised public announcements. Half the county listened to the police scanner, listened to business that was none of their own. I dropped in the quarter. Aggie Bishop answered after three rings.

“Aggie, this is Gastner again,” I said. “Has Estelle checked in with you yet?”

“No sir, she sure hasn’t.”

“Crap,” I said.

“Sir?”

“No, nothing, Aggie. Are you doing all right?”

“I guess so, sir. Gayle said she was going to come in around eight to relieve me.”

“Fine. Look, I’m going to stop at Don Juan’s for some food, so I’ll be there for a bit. Then I’ll come on down. If you need anything, ring the restaurant. All right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“And Aggie…if Estelle calls, tell her I want to see her right away, if not before. Tell her where I am.”

“I sure will.”

The drive across Posadas to North Twelfth Street took only four minutes. By then, it was dark. I pulled into the parking lot of the Don Juan de Oñate Restaurant and parked beside a monstrous RV with Utah plates. That and a white school bus with Chihuahuan tags and several dozen pairs of skis in the top rack were the only vehicles. I hesitated, not sure I wanted to put up with a score of noisy adolescents inside the restaurant, all of them doubly excited to be in a foreign country and headed for the ski slopes up north.

I did go inside, though, and found myself a dark, quiet corner. I told the hostess that I was expecting a phone call and she promised not to forget me. After ordering a beef burrito plate with green chili, sour cream, beans, and rice, I settled back in the imitation leather booth with a basket of chips and a bowl of salsa. I ate two chips, then turned sideways on the seat so I could look out the window and watch what passed for traffic on Bustos Avenue.

“Tammy Woodruff,” I murmured. What had Tammy Woodruff been doing out there on State Highway 56 Sunday night? She hadn’t simply gone to the Broken Spur to drink with a boyfriend and had another spat. It went beyond that. Into the darkness of that desolate prairie. And down another goddamned fork in the road.

I ate another chip, the salsa dripping and running down the palm of my hand into my sleeve. Before she had that flat tire, if that was actually what had happened, was she going to turn on Country Road 14, or continue straight?

I pulled a pen out of my pocket and spread the napkin out flat. I was no artist, but the sketch gave me something to do other than spilling more salsa, and it helped organize my thoughts.

If Tammy had stayed on the state highway after she passed the Broken Spur Saloon she would have driven about fourteen miles before she reached the tiny hamlet of Regal. From there, Route 80 headed west toward Bisbee, Arizona. Eastward lay Deming, the border crossing at Columbus, or even El Paso. If Tammy had elected to go straight through Regal, she would have run into a dead end. The new border crossing was a mile beyond the ruins of the Nuestra Señora de Tres Lágrimas Mission. But it was a day entry only—at six P.M., the customs agents swung the gate shut and went home.

If she turned on County Road 14, she’d drive north through seven miles of some of the most desolate country that Posadas County had to offer, including scrambling up the face of San Patricio Mesa. After crossing County Road 27—if she planned to cross it and not turn east or west—she’d drive through the rugged canyon country for three more miles until she came to the gate of the Torrance ranch.

If Tammy was headed out to visit Patrick Torrance, that’s where she’d turn off.

I rapped my pencil on the table and stared out the window. I had enough
if’s
to keep an entire geometry class busy. But of one thing I was certain. Tammy Woodruff hadn’t been headed for the Torrance ranch to see Pat. That particular cowpuncher was drinking himself sick at the Broken Spur Saloon when all those choices presented themselves to the young lady.

“Excuse me, sir.” The waitress appeared with Don Juan’s specialty, a mammoth platter of calories guaranteed to cure whatever was the matter with me. “Be careful, now,” she said as she settled the creation in front of me. “It’s hot.”

The aroma from the meal drifted up to my nose just as my mental wheels kicked into gear.

Patrick Torrance must have seen Tammy Woodruff at the Broken Spur. The world was just too small for it to be any other way. I chewed the first delectable mouthful and my eyes started to water from the initial blast of chili. Tammy would have seen the young buckaroo’s truck parked there and she would have stopped—and maybe later they’d had an argument and she had gone spinning gravel out of the parking lot, maybe fishtailing a little, maybe cutting a corner, maybe spiking a wheel on an old piece of rebar hiding in the grass.

All that was conjecture. But by the second bit of burrito, I realized what was
not
conjecture.

When news of the shooting spread to the bar, via a babbling Francisco Peña, the place emptied. That was the ghoul in folks. If there was a little blood, they would turn their heads and gawk. But a lot of blood was an irresistible magnet that would pry even the most dedicated barfly off his bar stool, especially since the cops—living ones, that is—hadn’t arrived yet.

So the patrons of the Broken Spur had adjourned to marvel at all the holes someone had punched in Paul Enciños and Linda Real. They had watched Paul Enciños bleed to death, and were willing to do the same for Linda.

But Victor Sánchez and Patrick Torrance both told the same story. Patrick had not joined the crowd down at the scene of the shooting. He’d stayed at the bar, as if he knew all along what he might find down the road.

My appetite vanished as my pulse raced. If my old slow brain could figure it out, Estelle Reyes-Guzman’s would have clicked hours before.

I pushed myself out of the booth, dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the table so that the waitress wouldn’t think that I’d been insulted by the burrito, and hustled outside. The air was cold, with a nasty wind building from the west. If Estelle had driven out early that afternoon to talk with Pat Torrance, she was having a hell of a long conversation with a taciturn cowboy.

Chapter 23

The western side of Posadas County was split by a four-tined fork of major highways. The county couldn’t have afforded to maintain two miles of any of them. The interstate slashed through the county from one side to the other, with one interchange for the village. Two of the state highways snaked into town to converge at that interchange—State 56 headed southwest to Regal and State 17 roughly paralleled the interstate.

Further to the north, State 78 entered the county from the hamlet of San Pasquale to the east, edged around the bottom of the mesa, sped by the airport, and then swung northwest.

If you imagined those highways—three state and one interstate—as the four tines of a fork, then County Road 14 was like a tangled hair connecting the tines at the midpoint.

I drove out State Highway 17, knowing that if I turned south at County Road 14, Herb Torrance’s ranch would be only five miles of jouncing gravel road away. Shortly before seven, I pulled into a narrow lane that passed under an arched, wrought-iron gate. The H-bar-T spread was ten-thousand acres of grazing land leased from the Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management, tacked onto the original 160 acres Herb’s father had bought in 1920.

If there was a moon that night, it was hidden behind the clouds that earlier had gathered over the San Cristobals and now fanned out across the entire sky. Herb had every light in the house turned on as I approached.

The original Torrance home had burned to the ground on a summer Sunday in 1956, and Herb and his father had done the expedient thing. They’d bulldozed the ashes into a big pit, covered it with topsoil, and planted a garden. The new house, one of those things with too many tiny gables, pitches, and angles, was purchased from the Sears catalog and planted a few yards further up the slope of the mesa.

Estelle’s car was not in the driveway. Herb’s huge pickup, crusted with mud from front grill guard to back bumper, was angled in, crowding his wife’s brown boat of a sedan against the white picket fence. If Patrick’s truck was there, it was hidden out back.

I buzzed down the window and left 310 idling with the radio on when I got out. With all the mesas and canyons, radio reception on this side of the county was uniformly awful, but old habits were hard to break.

Herb had solved the reception problem. Squatting in the middle of his front yard was one of those enormous satellite dishes that allowed him access to 150 channels of what passed for entertainment. By the time I’d let myself through the small swinging gate and skirted the antenna, Herb Torrance was standing in the front doorway, framed by the light.

“Well, I’ll be,” he said by way of greeting. “You’re just in time for some dessert.”

I grunted my way up the six steps to the high front porch and shook Herb’s hand. “How are you, Herb.”

“Fine, fine. Come on in.” He held the door for me but I shook my head.

“I can’t stay. Has Detective Reyes-Guzman been by today?”

Herb frowned and then remembered. “Oh, the young gal. The one who looks like she ought to be in the movies.”

“Right. Has she been by?”

Herb scratched the top of his head like his monumental memory was somehow stuck. “No, not that I know of. The wife was in town most of the afternoon shopping, and I was workin’ in back, in the shop. So, you know, she might have stopped and didn’t think anyone was to home.”

“How about the kids?”

He shook his head. “Three youngest were in school all day. Benny went over to Deming with a load of hay. Ain’t seen Patrick since yesterday.” He didn’t sound pleased about the latter, and he carefully shut the door, as if he didn’t want our words to filter into the house for the wife and kids to hear.

“What the hell happened down south, there, Bill. Where that young cop got shot.”

“We don’t know yet, Herb. That’s why the detective wanted to talk with Patrick. He was at the Broken Spur Sunday night.”

“The officers already talked to him,” Torrance said. “Every which way. He’s so tore up he don’t know what to think.”

“And I’m sure we’ll have to talk with him again, Herb.”

“You think it was just somebody passin’ through?”

“We just don’t know, Herb. Sometimes folks remember things, you know. Little things that they didn’t think of right off. That’s what the detective was hoping was the case with your son. That he’d remember something more. Maybe just some little thing.”

“Well,” Herb said, “I guess.”

“But you say she hasn’t been by.”

“Not that I know of, no.”

“Well, then I’ll leave you in peace.” I started down the steps and stopped halfway. “By the way, when Patrick goes down to the Broken Spur, does he go by himself, or with somebody, usually?”

“Oh, it just depends,” Herb said, and he joined me as I walked back toward the patrol car. “But he sure goes there too much,” he added with chagrin. “Kind of concerns his mother and me. He’s got an older brother and an uncle both who can’t stay away from the stuff. And Patrick’s been awful moody of late.”

“Moody?”

Herb waved a hand in dismissal. “Ah, you know how these young ones get.” He looked at me and grinned. “I think he’s got woman trouble. Mind you, the wife and I don’t pry.” He groped a cigarette out of his pocket and turned his back to the breeze while he lit it.

“Who’s he been squiring around?” I asked pleasantly, as if it were just a passing thought.

“You name it,” Herb said. “Anything with tits, at his age.” He held the door of 310 while I settled into the seat. “The one he’s really moonin’ after at the moment is that little gal from town. The one who used to be hitched up real tight with Gus Prescott’s boy?”

“Tammy Woodruff?”

“Sure,” Herb said. “I guess Brett cut her loose, and now Patrick’s givin’ it a turn.” He smiled again and patted the door of 310. “Or tryin’ to. He tried once before, seems to me. Sure as hell glad I don’t have to go through none of that anymore.”

“Amen,” I said, and pulled 310 into reverse. “But you haven’t seen him today?”

Torrance ducked his head. “No. He sometimes stays with a friend, or somethin’ like that. Him and Benny used to light out to Juarez once in a while, but if that’s where he went, then he went by himself.”

I grinned. “These kids are kind of hard to keep track of, aren’t they.”

“You got that right. But hell, he’s on his own now. I don’t pry. Long as the work gets done when he’s livin’ at home.”

I took my foot off the brake, and 310 started to drift backward. Torrance straightened up. “If the detective does stop by later this evening, tell her to call the office, will you?” I said.

“You bet.”

“’Preciate it. You take care.”

I idled the car slowly out the Torrance driveway, and as I left the circle of light from the house, the blackness was formidable. In the distance, over the mesa to the east, was the dull glow of Posadas, just enough to be noticed out of the corner of the eye. A single light flickered in the west, over where Francisco Peña and his family lived.

I drove south on County Road 14 for two miles until I reached the intersection with County Road 27, another rough gravel byway that cut through the heart of the lava flow. I continued south, idling along 14 as it zigzagged down through first one arroyo and then another.

After five miles I started up the incline of San Patricio Mesa. The road was narrow and rock-strewn, steep enough that the patrol car kicked gravel noisily, lurching now and then as the back tires scrabbled for traction. If the county had ever brought a road grader out here, it hadn’t been in the past six months.

I reached the top of the mesa, and if there had been moonlight, I could have seen the graceful C-curve sweep as the road paralleled the lip of the mesa, to descend on the other side to the flat brush country that was cut by State 56.

I stopped for a moment, looking out into the blackness. If Patrick Torrance cared enough about booze that he took this road frequently to the Broken Spur, then his father had every reason to be concerned.

“Three ten, three oh two.”

I damn near banged the top of my head against the roof.

“Jesus,” I said, and reached for the mike. “Three oh two, go ahead.”

“Are you on top of the mesa?” Estelle’s voice was quiet, but I recognized the scratchy, thin quality of a handheld radio. Her broadcast wouldn’t carry two miles before it would be bounced to death in the myriad canyons that cut the mesa side.

“Ten-four. Where the hell are you?”

“Sir, drive around the rim until you see my car. It’s pulled way in, behind a grove of piñon. I’m down the hill from that.”

“What are you doing?”

There was a moment’s hesitation. “I’ve got a little problem, sir.”