Authors: Steven F Havill
Blood Sweep (31 page)
“
Mi tÃo grande
,” he whispered. “I would have liked to have heard the
maestro
say those words.”
Estelle saw the muscles tense, and Mazón turned just a quarter step, giving his right arm leverage. Naranjo remained inexplicably calm, his right hand on the butt of his automatic, but making no effort to draw it. She had checked the Beretta when Naranjo had given it to her, seen that it was fully loaded, and now let the grip settle comfortably in her hand.
The turn of his body gave Mazón the leverage he needed. Naranjo remained relaxed, radio in hand, even as Mazón made his decision.
“No!” Estelle shouted, and the Beretta came out in one fluid motion even as Mazón's arm tensed and started its arc. More than 400 yards away, a young man's finger eased back on a trigger. With a loud
whack
of impact, the bullet exploded through Mazón's left temple. As if someone had kicked him in the back of the knees, he folded onto the river sand. At the instant his knees touched the sand, the single report of the high-powered rifle reached them.
Estelle decocked the Beretta, and Naranjo stepped close, the radio to his ear as he gave instructions.
“I am sorry this is the route he chose,” the colonel said as he tucked the radio away. “Let me.” He reached out for the Beretta and Estelle handed it to him without comment. He withdrew a perfectly folded white handkerchief from his hip pocket, snapped it open, and meticulously polished the automatic. He made no effort to avoid his own fingerprints as he did so. Through the efficient process, his gaze never left Mazón's corpse.
“Are you going to be all right?” His question was gently asked, and as he tucked the handgun carefully in his belt, there was no doubt what fiction he had already embraced. The Beretta had never been in her hands. The fact that she now stood in the bottom of a dry Mexican arroyo bottom, her uncle dead at her feetâif she chose, she could embrace that Mazón had brought all this upon himself. Perhaps her uncle had good reason. Had she simply refused to come to Tres Santos, Mazón might have survived for a few hours, maybe a few days. But so many questions had been left unanswered.
“I don't know.” She turned at the sound of footsteps crunching down the riverbed. Sheriff Robert Torrez carried one of the department's suppressed AR's relaxed over his shoulder as if he were on the way to a prairie dog town. At the same time, the rhythmic chop of a helicopter approached, still far in the distance.
“I wish we had time to enjoy a casual discussion.” Naranjo extended his hand to Torrez in greeting, his face sober. “But it would be best if the two of you bundled yourselves back across the border. I will, of course, send you a full report.” He glanced at the rifle, and then at the pistol holstered at Torrez's waist. “Such well-prepared backup is always appreciated, but no doubt there would be some who wouldn't understand. I will provide adequate escort.”
The sheriff stepped across to Mazón's corpse and knelt carefully, peering at the stub-nosed revolved that lay partially buried under the man's right leg. “I heard just the one shot a ways off.” He looked up at Estelle.
“It all happened so fast,” Naranjo said. “But you are probably correct.”
“I guess the one was good enough.”
Estelle turned away without comment, not wishing to engage in a shooting gallery recap. But then she paused, reaching out a hand to Naranjo's elbow. “Thank you for allowing him this chance,” she said. He hesitated, then bowed ever so slightly from the waist. “I'm sorry it didn't work out.”
“My truck's just up on the road.” Torrez nodded upstream toward the first bend of the riverbed.
“I'd like to walk back to the car.” Estelle offered Torrez a tight smile. “Thanks for driving down.” His armed response into Mexico had been at considerable risk. She knew that it was something Torrez would just
do,
and that he would never mention it again. Nor would Colonel Tomás Naranjo, who in many ways shared Bobby Torrez's view of border complications. Both lived with the notion that the border fence, and the politics that went with it, demanded no particular imperative. The idea was a holdover from simpler daysâif you're chasing a felon, you don't stop the chase at a fence to do paperwork.
She hadn't stopped, either. Now she was left to wonder. At that final moment, even as she drew the heavy automatic from her belt, would training and instinct have taken over? If the Mexican sniper hadn't been so prompt in following Naranjo's orders, would she have pulled the Beretta's trigger? Naranjo had seen the hurt in her eyes as she looked down at the man who claimed to be her uncle, whose last name should have been her own. All that would take some sorting out, and she silently thanked the Mexican colonel for understanding that Monday morning quarterbacking, or even commiseration, was the last thing she needed or wanted just then. The boy who had watched the drama of her own birth now lay dead in the bottom of the streambed. If she never saw the Plegado again, the healing could start.
The belly-dump took up most of the county road, and Estelle pulled far onto the shoulder as it approached. She could hear the rig downshifting, and then the driver rode the Jake as he slowed the hauler first to a crawl, then to a full stop. As he swung down from the truck, she recognized him as one of the crew from McInerney Sand and Gravel.
“Morning, Sheriff.” Indeed it was, the sun brilliant, the sky dotted by puffy clouds that an art critic would say were too stereotypical to be real. Arnie Sisson bent down, an elbow planting on the county car's window sill, stained and frayed Isotopes ball cap well back on his round, close-cropped skull. He smelled of the laborer's cologneâcigarettes, diesel, and sweat. “You had a chance to talk with Bill Gastner lately?”
“Good morning. Yes, I have. Just yesterday, in fact.”
“Well,” and Sisson straightened up, looking back toward the south. “There are sure safer places for him to be than walkin' in the middle of the road. Somebody's gonna hit him, sure as hell if he don't watch out.”
“He's on down the road here?” She tried to imagine the logistics of Bill Gastner, still hobbled with the walker, fetching himself out here. She had helped him, in the weeks past, re-educate himself about how to board the SUV, pulling the folding walker in behind him. But Sisson was rightâ¦there were safer places to exercise.
“He's just past the cattle guard.”
“Ah. Well, thank you. Other than that, how's your day going?”
“It's gonna be hotter'n hell. That's why we start haulin' at four now.”
“Wise move.” She pulled the car into gear. “Thanks for the tip.”
“He might listen to you. I stopped and asked him if I could help, but he just grinned and waved me off.”
Estelle nodded. “He
might
listen, but that's doubtful
.”
In the seven additional miles to Miles Waddell's development, she passed six more trucks, three white SUVs with government plates, and assorted other contractors and visitors. Despite the salt solution tried first on the road surface, and then the oil film, dust was a constant companion of heavy construction.
She slowed for the cattle guard, and saw that Gastner had parked his flame-red SUV well off the roadway, swinging it around to face north.
Always ready for a fast getaway,
she thought. And sure enough, there he was, a hundred yards down the road, the front wheels of his walker leaving narrow snail trails in the dirt of the shoulder facing northbound traffic.
Despite three weeks of diligent therapy, he still moved as if made of glass. He leaned very little on the walker now, just skating it along in front of him.
She let the car drift along until she was a few yards behind him, then pulled off into what little prairie grass remained. Gastner stopped and then walked himself around in a half circle until he was facing her as she parked and got out of the car.
“Morning, sweetheart. I just got to thinking,” he said as she approached.
“Uh, oh.” She sidestepped the walker and gave him a long, hard hug.
“Yeah, well. Back and forth across the living room, or up and down the halls in the hospital, just doesn't cut it. And then I thought, well hellâ¦why not get some sunshine and fresh air? I mean diesel and dust is supposed to be some sort of magic home remedy, eh?”
“Does Camille know you're out here, sir?”
“Thank God, no. Are you kidding?” He waved back toward the SUV. “Getting in that crate is the hardest part.”
“Life's little challenges,” Estelle laughed.
“Yeah, well. One step at a time. If Camille has a fit, she can always call me.” He patted his belt where the tiny phone nestled. “We're still on for dinner tonight?”
“Indeed we are.”
“The kid arrived safe and sound?”
Estelle laughed. Francisco
had
arrived in high spirits for a brief four-day holiday break from the academy. After submitting to one crushing hug after another, he had spent an hour touching up the tuning of the family's pianoâwith his younger brother's help. Teresa had commented that the session was unlike any piano tuning
she
had ever heard.
“He and Carlos are planning something for this evening.” She turned her head as another truck passed, grimacing against the wash of particulate. “And by the wayâunbelievable news, sir.” He raised a shaggy eyebrow. “Carlos asked if it was all right to invite Bobby and Gayle? I told him to go ahead but not to hold his breath. Guess what. He biked over to the county building and cornered Bobby in the sheriff's office. They're coming.”
Gastner beamed. “Well, all right. I'll believe it when I see them, of course. The menu is what you said?”
“Of course, sir.”
He took a deep breath and waved as a tan Jeep passed northbound, then braked hard and turned an abrupt U-turn to park behind Estelle's unit. Rick Bueler, the security chief for
NightZone,
dismounted.
“You arrested him for speeding, Sheriff?” He shook hands first with Gastner, then with Estelle. “Is everything going all right?”
“I think so. I have a meeting this afternoon with the county manager and Mr. Waddell. I had a few things I wanted to run by him beforehand.”
“He's up on top this morning. They're pouring the roots for the big dish today. Exciting stuff.”
“Hell of a long walk,” Gastner groused.
“I'll be happy to give you a tour, sir,” Bueler offered.
“No thanks. I'd need a pile of pillows a yard thick in that buggy of yours. In fact,” and he shifted a little uncomfortably, “I've had about all the fun I can stand for one day.” He set the walker squarely on top of its own tracks, pointed back toward his SUV. “Five o'clock still?”
“Five it is, sir,” Estelle replied.
He took a couple of steps and stopped, regarding her with interest. “Talk to Teresa yet?”
Estelle reached out a hand and rested it on his. For a moment, she said nothing, then shook her head. “She has always seemed content with her memories the way they are,
Padrino.
If she brings it up, I'll listen.” She smiled. “Otherwise, I'm planning to make liberal use of my mental
delete
key. After the boys, that is. They deserve to know.”
“You talked to Carlos about it all already?”
“Just a little. I'll find a quiet time with the two of them. They deserve to know where the bloodline comes from, I suppose.”
A red Prius churned its own mini-dust cloud, and Estelle recognized Frank Dayan, the
Posadas Register'
s
publisher and most eager cub reporter.
“He doesn't know, does he?”
“No,” Estelle said quickly. “And he's not going to. What happened in Mexico will
stay
in Mexico.” The Prius swung off the road and stopped, and when Dayan got out, he clutched a small camera.
“Hey, there!” he greeted ebulliently. “All the law there is, west of the Pecos. It's great to see you up and around, Bill.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you all headed topside?”
“We'll be right behind you,” Gastner said gruffly, and Dayan stopped abruptly as if he had stepped into a meeting where he wasn't welcome.
“Right then,” he said, and turned back toward the Prius. “See you up there.”
As the little car pulled away, Estelle gave Gastner a hug hard enough to make him grimace. “You haven't lost your touch, sir.”
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