“Did she seem like an okay kind of person?”
Gastner laughed. “I don’t know what I was expecting, but ’tweren’t her,” he said. “She’s right behind me on that slippery slope of impending geezerhood. That kinda surprised me. But listen, I don’t want to say too much. You’ll make up your own mind. I just wanted to pass along a heads-up.”
“I appreciate that. I’m headed to Regál at the moment. I need to talk with Betty.”
Gastner didn’t ask, About what? “Give her my regards, please. Anything you want or need me to do?”
“You could come over for dinner tonight. Irma was planning to make enchiladas the last I heard.”
“Oh, gosh, no thanks,” Gastner said. “I had my heart set on a baloney sandwich and some stale potato chips. What time?”
“You know how that always goes, sir. Irma said that she was going to serve whoever shows up at six exactamente, ni un momento más o menos.”
“I’ll hold her to it,” the old man chuckled. “There would be some benefits to being the only one to show up, you know.”
“You’re the rock around which we all orbit,” Estelle said soberly, and that prompted a loud guffaw.
“I love it,” he said. “Be careful.”
She folded up the phone and slipped it in her pocket as she reached her sedan. For a few minutes she sat in the car, thumbing through her notes. She looked at the slip of paper that included the Contrerases’ home phone number. How odd, all these little connections, she thought.
Chapter Fourteen
A telephone call to Betty Contreras-to the number on the slip of paper-would have been simple enough, but Estelle held off. What Betty’s connection might be with a couple of illegal alien woodcutters was just a curiosity at the moment, a problem more for the Catron County authorities than Estelle.
More important was tracking the movements of Christopher Marsh before the violent crash on Regál Pass. If anyone had seen the white Chevy pickup truck cruising the dirt lanes of Regál, it would be Betty. Maybe she had even spoken to Chris Marsh, fresh and neatly pressed in his deliveryman’s garb.
Estelle drove south from Regál Pass, struck as always by the view of the dry, bleak country of northern Mexico. Forty miles in the distance, she could see the blue hump of the mesa that loomed on the outskirts of Tres Santos, the tiny village where she had spent the first sixteen years of her life. What a difference forty miles made, she thought.
Or even one mile. Sun winked off the razor-wire-topped border fence where it cut the desert just south of the graveled parking lot of Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, the little mission that overlooked the village. Pavement on the U.S. side of the fence turned abruptly into dirt in Mexico.
Estelle could remember her first adventure across that line in the dust. She had been but six years old, the fence was no more than a strand or two of barbed wire, and the Border Patrol had business elsewhere. For those who felt threatened, the new fence was a grand thing, she reflected-and it had made a lot of money for some well-connected contractor.
On a map, the border between the two countries was a straight line, but the San Cristóbal Mountains ignored that. They formed a loose, open arc, the west and east ends dipping into Mexico while the center cradled Regál.
Contractors hadn’t extended the border fence any farther than necessary into the rugged mountains to the east and west. The fence made a good show across the port of entry and a few hundred yards of open prairie after that, then disappeared into the hills and rocks.
The system worked all right, since Regál lay on no major north-south route for travelers. Illegal aliens would find no difficulty in avoiding the section of border fence. They could skirt the ends of the fence all right, but then they’d spend days scrambling up the towering, crumbling granite face of the San Cristóbals. And then what? If the travelers didn’t die of exposure or snakebite, a view from the peak’s summit would reveal another long, dangerous trek down the back side of the mountains-to the open, equally desolate prairie.
As the county car eased down the highway into the village, Estelle saw a familiar figure leave Iglesia de Nuestra Señora, bustling across the parking lot. Betty Contreras carried a small wicker basket, and Estelle guessed that it had contained lunch for Emilio. The undersheriff slowed, lowering the driver’s side window. Oncoming traffic forced her to wait before swinging into the church parking lot. It was a Border Patrol vehicle, and as he passed, Estelle raised a hand in salute. Nothing but a hard stare greeted her in return, the young officer looking first at her and then across at Betty, who fluttered her fingers at him.
“Good afternoon, young lady.” Betty reached out and rested a free hand against the roof of the patrol car, bending down to look at Estelle.
“How are you and Emilio doing, Betty?” Estelle asked.
“Oh, we’re fine. I just fed and watered mi esposo, and now it’s time for us.” She bent down a little farther, looking hard at Estelle. “You look as if you’ve been up most of the night.”
“Actually, not most,” Estelle replied. “It’s just that we have about eighteen different things going on right now, and I’m not sure I feel like doing any of them.”
“Oh, sí. I know how that goes.” She watched as Estelle stretched a bit, pushing against the constraints of the shoulder harness. “How about a cup of tea? That’s always a good place to start.”
“I’d like that.” She reached across the car and slid her small briefcase off the seat, balancing it on what remained of the center console. “Jump in.”
The ride was a scant two hundred yards, but Betty dutifully fumbled with the seat belt harness. “Don’t want to get a ticket,” she quipped.
“Speaking of which, do you know that officer who just went by?” The undersheriff pointed after the government SUV, now taking the long ascent up the pass.
“No, I don’t. Too many now to keep track of. We just ignore ’em, which isn’t the polite thing to do, of course. But they don’t smile much. Not what I’d call exactly neighborly.”
“Well, it’s a tough time for them.”
“I suppose. But it’s all a problem of their own making. That’s my take on it, anyway. I’d like to see them just peel that grand fence down and do away with the border.”
“Ay, caramba,” Estelle said with amusement. “Wouldn’t that be interesting.” She slowed the car as they bumped off the pavement and swung onto Sanchez Lane, the only thoroughfare in Regál actually wide enough to pass by another vehicle without swinging into the ditch.
“You can park right behind mine,” Betty said. Estelle pulled in behind the blue Toyota, snugging up close so that the rear end of the patrol car didn’t project out into the narrow lane. Betty watched as the undersheriff pulled the mike off the clip.
“PCS, three-ten is ten-six, Contreras residence in Regál.”
“Three-ten, ten-four.” Dispatcher Gayle Torrez sounded preoccupied.
“This is an interesting office you have here,” Betty said, taking in the computer terminal, the stack of radios, the shotgun, the briefcase…even a Stetson with rain cover and a black baseball cap hooked on the security grill behind the seats.
“So homey, isn’t it,” Estelle laughed. “How’s Emilio getting along these days? I haven’t seen him since before Christmas.”
“Each day is a source of joy for him,” Betty said. She struggled out of the low-slung car. “It’s really that simple. Aches and pains don’t mean a thing. Not to him. Remind me to show you a photograph when we get inside.”
Estelle snapped open her briefcase and pulled the manila envelope out, then followed Betty inside the small house, past a porch littered with children’s toys, bikes, and a row of folding chairs stacked neatly against one wall.