Even as I swung off the pavement in pursuit, I saw Bob Torrez’s old pickup truck slide in a circle and catapult off into the sand and bushes.
But the border wasn’t what Carlos Sanchez had in mind, either. His truck thundered along the rough fence access road, dove down through an arroyo, and, as it crested the other side, swung back to the north.
If I had had the speed, I could have cut him off when he turned across my path. But I hadn’t engaged the front hubs of the Blazer, and was caught off guard. Now, stuck in two-wheel drive, I couldn’t keep up, as my back tires churned and spun in the soft sand. Bob Torrez guessed Sanchez’s route back toward the village, and angled to intercept him.
I saw his pickup hit a hummock of grass and go airborne, shedding its spare tire, oil cans, tools, and part of the right taillight assembly. In between bounces, I grabbed the police radio microphone off the dash.
“Three oh seven, make sure that highway’s blocked,” I shouted. “Take it at the first switchback.” Mears wouldn’t have any trouble putting a cork in the highway. All he had to do was park sideways at the turn. The steep mesa face would take care of the rest.
As we approached the south side of the village I could see two sets of red lights coming down the hillside as Mears and Bishop cut off Carlos Sanchez’s escape to the north.
Ahead of me, the lights of the Suburban disappeared as the vehicle plunged down into the main arroyo that split the village in half. I turned away from the edge, knowing that it was a sure trap for two-wheel drive. Bob Torrez spun north, and just as the Suburban roared up and out on the west side of the arroyo he reached the dirt path that was Regal’s southernmost main street.
Sanchez didn’t flinch as Torrez’s old truck plunged into his path. The two vehicles met with a crash, the impact spinning the pickup around so that it faced back the way it had come. With a scream of bent metal against rubber, Sanchez flogged the battered Suburban into one of the side lanes.
By then I had worked my way north along the arroyo to the lane, and when I reached the crumpled pickup I paused just long enough for Torrez to dive in, shotgun in hand.
“He can’t go anywhere,” I said, and even as I spoke we saw the Suburban pull into Mateo Esquibel’s side yard.
“Howard, we’re going to need you down here at the house,” I said into the mike. “Tom, stay up on the highway.”
I approached Esquibel’s tiny adobe slowly. The Suburban sat in the driveway, door ajar, dome light on.
“You think he slipped out the back?” Torrez breathed.
“Be careful,” I said, and he was out of the Blazer like a shot, weapon at high port. I slid the truck into gear, turned off the lights, and got out.
I knew Carlos Sanchez had not slipped out the back. I couldn’t imagine that walking was his style, especially in this country. His return to the house could have been for only one reason. He had to figure that Mateo Esquibel was his ticket to Mexico.
I stepped forward and shut the door of the stolen Suburban, and the yard was plunged into darkness. The dog inside was yapping, and I could see only one light. It was so faint it would have frustrated the most dedicated Peeping Tom.
“Sanchez!” I shouted. “Come on out.”
Other than the old dog, there was no response from the house.
“We don’t want to hurt either you or the old man. Come on out.” Still no response. I cursed and turned as Howard Bishop’s patrol car idled into the yard. He started to get out of the car, but I waved a hand as I walked over. “Stay in the car and keep on the radio,” I said. “Bob’s around back. I don’t think our man is going anywhere.”
I turned back and walked toward the front door. Just in front of the small front stoop I stopped, hands on my hips. “Carlos! I want to come in.” The damn dog started yapping again, and I heard a dull thud, like furniture being moved. “I’m at the front door,” I shouted. “Don’t do anything stupid.” Going through the door wasn’t one of the brighter things I’d ever done, but I was in no mood to stand out in the dark, trying to negotiate with silence.
Carlos Sanchez had to know as well as I did that other deputies waited outside. I was counting on him understanding that shooting one old fat officer wouldn’t do him any good.
The doorknob turned and I pushed open the front door. The light came from a little burlap-shaded lamp that sat on a low table on the west wall, two paces from the woodstove. A doorway led to the back of the house, where I supposed the kitchen and bathroom to be. Mateo Esquibel was sitting in a deep, old chair. The blanket that covered it had long shed its color and was now soft from dust and dog hair.
Mateo looked at me as I stood a pace away from the door on the stoop. His face was expressionless, heavy-lidded eyes just watching. The dog sat in his lap, and yapped once more before falling silent.
Behind the old man’s chair stood Carlos Sanchez, his back to the thick, impregnable adobe wall. He held a short pump shotgun, and rested the weight of the gun on the wing of the chair. The muzzle looked as big as a howitzer.
“Can I come in?” I asked.
Carlos raised his head a fraction, twitching his jaw. “Drop your gun outside,” he said softly.
“No,” I said genially. “You’re holding that thing, and my gun’s buried under my coat. I’m no quick-draw artist. Just relax.”
A loud thump came from behind the house and Sanchez’s eyes flickered.
“Can I walk over to the doorway there? I’ll tell ’em to back off.”
Sanchez nodded, and the shotgun muzzle followed me as I walked past them to the doorway leading to bed and bath.
“Robert!” I shouted. “Forget it. Go round front and keep Howard company. Everything’s fine in here.”
I turned and looked at Sanchez. He was smaller than I had remembered, slender and dark, with none of the bulk or coarseness of his father.
“You see? It’s easy. Now, what do you want?”
“Over there,” he said, and motioned to the still open front door.
“All right,” I said affably. I kept my hands in plain view. “You want me to close it?” I did so without waiting for a response.
The old man raised a hand and rubbed the left side of his face. He was missing three fingers, probably lost half a century before Carlos Sanchez was born.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“He’s fine,” Sanchez snapped.
“Then what do you want?”
“I think that’s pretty obvious.”
“What do you think is going to happen to you once you’re across the border?”
“I’ll take my chances with that,” Sanchez said.
“Well, we’re not going to let you do that,” I said. “The best thing you can do for all concerned is put that damn shotgun down before anyone else gets hurt.” Sanchez’s eyes darted to one side, toward the side window. He shifted position slightly, putting the old man squarely between himself and the opening. “You had quite a deal going for yourself,” I said, but he ignored me. Carlos Sanchez wasn’t about to lapse into a long session of storytelling or explanation.
“Back outside,” he said, and hefted the shotgun. With the other hand, he grasped Mateo Esquibel by the elbow and urged him to his feet. The old man looked confused and frowned.
When he looked at me, I said slowly and distinctly, “Do exactly what he asks.” If he read lips, he read Spanish, not English. He glanced at Carlos Sanchez, and the younger man said something in Spanish. The old man nodded.
Sanchez escorted the old man across the floor toward the front door. “You go back outside. Tell them to back off. Way off. Leave your truck.”
“The keys are in it,” I said. “But this isn’t going to work, Carlos. You’ve got to know that.”
“It’ll work if you use your head, sheriff. Now do like I said.”
I didn’t move for a long moment. If Sanchez did make it to a border crossing, either by way of crashing through the fence or bribing the right person, I had no guarantee that Tomas Naranjo and his troops would feel especially motivated to fight our war for us. Sanchez had committed no crime in Mexico, beyond the sale of a few stolen vehicles-and that was damn near a national pastime across the border.