Five stone steps led up to the iglesia’s mammoth front door, five steps that added just a bit more to Emilio Contreras’ penance each day. The heavily carved door stood ajar, its rope handle inviting. The door’s two-hundred-year-old cottonwood planks were polished to a deep, warm sheen, unscarred by any attempts at illegal entry. It wasn’t necessary to try to force the lock. There wasn’t one. If the door was closed, one had merely to tug the thick rope, pulling up the beautifully balanced drop latch on the inside.
As she swung the door open, she enjoyed the wave of fragrant comfort that wafted out of the ancient building. Fresh juniper led the bouquet, followed by a hint of lemon oil, latex paint, and overtones of musty books. The door opened so soundlessly that Father Anselmo, standing near the communion railing and facing the front of the church, didn’t hear her enter. Emilio Contreras leaned a hip against the railing, both hands resting on top of his aluminum cane. He saw the undersheriff and raised one hand in greeting, and the priest turned.
“Well, now,” his voice boomed in the empty church, “what a treat this is.” He reached out a hand to touch Emilio on the forearm and then strode down the aisle toward Estelle. Still half a dozen paces away, he extended both hands, and then his huge grip enveloped hers. “It’s so good to see you,” he said, making the simple word “so” about five syllables long.
A great bear of a man whose casual dress was as unkempt and worn as his Chevrolet, Bertrand Anselmo would have had no trouble fitting into an earlier century. His full black beard accentuated the broad bone structure of a strong face. A pair of tiny frameless half-glasses perched on his generous, wide nose, and he tipped his head to regard Estelle through the lenses, looking at her critically. “How are you doing these days?”
“I’m fine, Bert.” He squeezed her hands in response to that. “Or it might be more accurate to say that I’m making good progress toward being fine.”
He laughed, showing the need for considerable dental care that he could not afford. Releasing her hands, he nodded at the envelope under her arm. “We’re glad to hear that. But you’re here on business, unfortunately.”
He accepted the photograph of Christopher Marsh, turning so that the light from the nearest window fell over his shoulder. He made a small sign of the cross over the photo. “May the Lord bless you and keep you,” he said, and then sighed. “I don’t know this unfortunate young man. Should I?”
“I can’t imagine why you would, sir. If you had seen him around town, it would be helpful to know when and where.”
“I don’t think so. Now, Emilio would know more than I…or Betty, the source of all information in the Western Hemisphere. Have you talked to her?”
“Yes.”
“Then you already know a good deal more than I do.” Anselmo accepted the second photo, and the ritual of blessing was repeated. This time, however, he examined the photo more thoroughly, adjusting it this way and that, bringing it closer to his half-glasses. “Ah,” he said, finally. He lowered the photo and looked down the nave toward Emilio Contreras, who was making his way toward them, one slow, painful shuffling step at a time. Emilio used the same kind of cane that Teresa Reyes favored-aluminum with a splayed four-footed base, a sort of mini-walker that would stand by itself.
“How did this happen?” Father Anselmo asked quietly.
“A woodcutting accident, apparently. Up near Reserve.”
“‘Apparently’ implies something else,” the priest said, and Estelle nodded.
“We’re not sure yet. Actually I should say the Catron County authorities aren’t sure.”
“They’re looking into it and asked your help, then.”
“Yes.” She pulled out the photocopy of the small note that contained the Contreras telephone number and handed it to Father Anselmo. “He had this in his pocket.”
“No ID or anything else?”
“No.”
“Well, that makes it more difficult,” the priest said, and Estelle wasn’t sure whether she heard a note of relief in his tone, or even if the remark had been meant for her to hear.
“Can you tell me anything about him?” the undersheriff asked.
“Like what?” Anselmo asked, pleasantly enough. “Am I supposed to know this chap?”
“That’s a good place to start.”
“Ah, who he is,” Anselmo murmured. “Now you’re making demands on a memory that’s of no particular use to anyone, including its owner.”
Estelle remained silent, regarding the priest. She had known Bertrand Anselmo for thirty years-had listened to more than one guest sermon at the tiny Iglesia de Tres Santos in the Mexican village where she had spent her childhood. She knew, from her mother’s frequent reports, that Anselmo was content with his work-that he lived in a tiny four-room adobe house in María with the barest of amenities, and that he offered mass at both the church in María and that in Regál, with frequent visits to Tres Santos, forty miles south in Mexico. She supposed that his bishop was content to leave Bertrand Anselmo in that tiny corner of the world indefinitely, since his isolated pastorate appeared to match Anselmo’s needs perfectly.
Regardless of background, training, or even personal inclination, every person had, on some occasion, his own struggle with telling the truth, and Estelle could see that this was such a moment for the priest.
“I don’t want to enter into a sparring match with you,” he said finally, handing the photograph back to the undersheriff. He removed his half-glasses and rubbed his face, turning to watch Emilio’s progress toward them. Halfway down the nave, the old man had stopped in front of the wood-burning potbellied stove, with its towering stovepipe. He opened the door, regarded what was left of the morning fire, and closed it with a clang.
“A sparring match? What does that mean?” Estelle asked.
“Well,” Anselmo said with resignation, “I can tell you that his name was Felix Otero.”
“From?”
“Down south. But of course, you knew that.”
“He’s an illegal, then?”
“I suppose some would say so.” Anselmo’s beard twitched a little as he smiled at Estelle. “But that depends on whose laws you’re talking about. Would the absence of that little slip of paper make you more or less than you are?”
“As a matter of fact, it would,” Estelle replied, and then ignored the bait. She had no desire to settle into an extended dialogue with the priest about the justice or lack thereof along the U.S.-Mexican border. “But you knew Felix Otero somehow?”
“Yes. I knew him. He…” And Anselmo paused, choosing his words carefully. “He passed through here, yes.”
“And this?”
“This is a jotted telephone number. If my memory serves me correctly, it’s Emilio and Betty’s number. Am I right?”
“You’re right. Do you know who did the jotting?”
Anselmo chuckled. “I may be many things, Estelle, but psychic I’m not.” He reached out a hand toward Emilio Contreras’ shoulder. The old man had progressed to the last pew, and he examined the pew’s polished armrest critically. A tiny man, he had been graceful, even nimble, until a fall while pruning a crab apple tree had wrecked his hip.
“Emilio, it’s good to see you,” Estelle said, and took his hand in hers. “Thank you for all you’ve done.”
“We’re expecting a crowd tomorrow,” he said, nodding. He turned slowly to survey his church.
“A seventy-fifth wedding anniversary,” Father Anselmo added. “You know Fernando and Maria Rivera, of course.”
“Of course,” Estelle said.
“That’s what Emilio and I were planning,” the priest said. “The logistics of one hundred people in this tiny place. The reception is afterward, up at the VFW in Posadas. Thank heavens. Betty would like to have it here, and we will have a small gathering…but not the full-blown affair.”