“I have to ask,” Madelyn Bolles shouted over the roar of the car and the rushing slipstream. “Why the phone instead of the radio? I thought cops were always ten-fouring on the air.”
“Sometimes we are,” Estelle replied. “But sometimes, we don’t want the whole world listening in, and the phone is more private.” She let the county car drift into the oncoming lane so she could give the truck and grader plenty of space.
“Good heavens, who’s going to be listening?”
“You’d be amazed,” Estelle said. “It’s a hobby for some folks, why I couldn’t begin to tell you. Bill Gastner calls ’em ‘scanner ghouls.’ If we have a messy accident in the middle of the night, sometimes there isn’t room to park by the time we get there.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.”
“I wish I was. The less we can be on the air, the better.”
“It’s hard to imagine them sitting home in their bathrobes, huddled around the family scanner, waiting to race you to the scene.” The road straightened as they approached Moore, and now past traffic, Estelle held the speed at an even 90. “It’s also easier to hear the telephone sometimes. Remind me to tell you a story or two sometime,” she said. “By the way, a couple of things, Madelyn,” she said, speaking unnaturally loud to be heard. “When we’re on the scene of a call, I’m going to require that you stay in the vehicle, unless I specifically say otherwise. Understood?”
“Oh, yes.”
“The shotgun by your left knee?” Without taking her eyes off the road, she reached out with her right hand and touched a button on the radio-lights-siren console without pushing it. “This is the electric lock release. Have you ever used a shotgun before?”
“Well, years ago my dad and uncle-” Madelyn stopped short. “No. I haven’t.”
“Unlock the rack by pushing that button. When you have the gun clear, push the safety button behind the trigger to the left, and watch where you point the muzzle. There are three rounds in the magazine and one in the chamber. Just keep pumping until it goes click.”
“You think I’m going to remember all that?”
“Yes, I do. You remember everything.”
“I don’t think so,” Madelyn said fervently.
“Well, you should know it’s there.”
“I’ll sit here quiet as a church mouse,” the reporter said.
“Sometimes that’s not enough,” Estelle said, remembering Linda Real’s disastrous ride-along with one of the deputies seven years before, on this very stretch of highway. It was only a matter of time before Madelyn interviewed the photographer, and Linda would not bring up the memory. But Madelyn would see the scars on the photographer’s face, and she’d find a way to ask. And then, she might not be so eager for ride-alongs.
In another minute, they crossed the old concrete bridge over the Rio Salinas, and as they swept around the end of the mesa, Estelle saw a wink of lights in her rearview mirror. Deputy Tony Abeyta would be driving one of the Expeditions, and he wouldn’t have been gaining on her with that. In a moment, she could see the low, squat shape of one of the new State Police cruisers with the distinctive white pimple of the computer antenna on the roof. Despite her pace, the state car quickly pulled to within a hundred yards of her and then slowed, pacing her as they shot across the Rio Guigarro and headed toward the Broken Spur Saloon and then the intersection with County Road 14.
“PCS all units, three-oh-three.”
“PCS. Go ahead, three-oh-three.”
“All units ten-twenty-six south of the pass.”
“Three-ten copies.” In a second, Abeyta also acknowledged Jackie Taber’s request that siren and lights not be used.
“Three-ten, Allen on tack two.”
Working by feel, her eyes glued to the road as they left the flat prairie behind and took the first dangerous curve up the north flank of the San Cristóbals, Estelle toggled one of the selectors on her radio to match the State Police car-to-car frequency.
“Three-ten.”
“What we got?” the State Policeman asked.
“One individual, a possible illegal who may have been involved with a death that Catron County is currently investigating.”
“He’s tryin’ to skip across the border?”
Estelle braked hard for the first switchback to the right, and her passenger’s left hand flew up to slap the dashboard for support. “Maybe,” Estelle said. “Right now it appears that he may be paying a visit to one of the residents down there.”
“Taber’s on it?”
“Ten-four.”
“Then there ain’t no rush,” Allen said. “I’ll be behind you. Lemme know what you need. This guy known to be armed?”
“That’s negative, but we never know. Thanks, John.”
She racked the mike and leaned forward slightly to look uphill through the sparse trees. The road was empty, and on the next, even sharper switchback she used both lanes. For a moment, they were heading due east along the ridge, and had she chosen to do so, she could have looked down and seen the saloon, the county road, and the spread of prairie all the way north to Cat Mesa behind Posadas. The road crumpled back on itself again, and after a switchback followed by a leisurely series of esses, they started up the long grade to the pass.
As they rushed past the sign announcing the pass elevation, Estelle flipped off the emergency lights and slowed her pace. The south side of the pass was an easier descent, long straights between gentle switchbacks. At one point, Estelle could look down directly into the heart of the village. She saw the white county Bronco just on the highway side of Betty Contreras’ house, but she couldn’t tell if the deputy’s truck was parked or just driving slowly. Joe Baca’s home was out of sight, hidden behind the bulk of the water tank.
“Three-oh-three, three-ten is just coming off the pass, ETA three minutes.”
“Ten-four. Ten-twenty-one.”
Estelle had enough time to hang up the mike and take the phone before it buzzed. “He’s sitting under one of the apple trees in front of Sosimo Baca’s place,” Jackie said. “I’m watchin’ him through the trees from just this side of Betty’s.”
“He’s just sitting?” The adobe that had once been home to Joe Baca’s older brother had stood empty since the old man’s death, the orchard going untended and gnarly as the little house gradually dissolved.
“Yeah, he is. But he’s looking up toward the pass. You got a state cruiser behind you?”
“Affirmative.”
“He saw it. He’s getting up now and headed west. He’s joggin’. You want me to intercept?”
“No. Hold off. I want to know where he’s going.”
“Evidently he knows,” Jackie said. “He isn’t just out for a stroll.”
“Just watch him then.” Keeping the phone connection open, Estelle slowed the car as they swept down the last stretch behind the water tank and pumping station. The church and its gravel parking lot was a quarter of a mile ahead, with the border crossing just beyond. Right at the bottom of the hill, Sanchez Street met the highway, and as she turned onto the narrow dirt lane, she grimaced in anticipation of the rough jounce.
“He’s cutting cross-lots,” Jackie said. “That’s going to take him right behind Joe’s woodpile.” And by now, Estelle thought, the man would be able to hear the traffic. Even with engines little more than idling, the tires of three vehicles crunching on gravel carried like gunshots. Betty Contreras was standing in her front yard, hands caught up in her apron. She bustled to meet them, but Estelle slowed only to a walk as she lowered the passenger window.
“We’ll be back to talk in a bit,” she called. Betty stopped, uncertain, looking first at Madelyn and then back at the State Police cruiser. The expression on Betty’s face was one of confusion and apprehension.
“He’s still behind the woodpile,” Jackie said, voice calm and almost bemused. “Maybe that’s where he’s staying. If he breaks for the house, he’ll be in plain sight.” Behind Joe Baca’s woodpile, enough piñon, juniper, scrub oak, and mesquite for ten winters, a jumble of boulders formed a giant’s necklace along the base of the foothills. Estelle turned the county car off onto the lane to Joe’s, and saw that Jackie’s vehicle was parked right by the Bacas’ mailbox. The man had nowhere to go. He could sprint to the house, a distance of twenty-five yards. He could clamber up into the rocks behind the village. He could dart from cover and try to zigzag through the village, heading for the border and custody.