“There’s Joe,” Jackie Taber said, but Estelle had already seen him. She pulled past Jackie’s unit and drove up the Bacas’ driveway.
“Keep watch,” Estelle said, and snapped the phone closed. Turning to Madelyn, whose wonderful eyes were now about the size of dinner plates, she said, “Stay in the car.”
“Oh, yes.”
Estelle had experienced passengers in the past who had said that very thing, then gotten out and found a way to get in the way.
“Stay in the car,” she said again, and raised the window.
“I heard and I understand,” Madelyn said.
“Thank you.”
Joe showed no signs of stepping off the house porch. Estelle unbuckled and took her time getting out of the car. She saw that the driver’s doors of both Jackie’s vehicle and the State Police cruiser were ajar, but the officers were staying put.
As Estelle walked past the front fender of her car, she reached back and adjusted the bulk of the.45 automatic. “Joe,” she said, keeping her voice conversational. “¿Cómo está?” As she expected, the old man was uneasy-anyone would be with an army just arrived in his front yard. A quick glance told her that Trooper Allen had gotten out of his car and stood relaxed by the front fender. He held a scoped semiautomatic rifle at high port. Jackie Taber still sat in her unit, ready to dive out or charge the Bronco forward, whatever the need might be.
Estelle could easily imagine the fugitive crouching behind the woodpile, his heart hammering. Did the policía know about the death up in Catron County? Were they actually after him, or was this some other problem-so close to the border, it could be anything. Better to crouch and wait. Nothing to lose.
The undersheriff took her time as she walked up the mild slope of the yard. She found it interesting that Joe Baca didn’t glance toward the woodpile where the fugitive was hidden. Perhaps Joe didn’t know the man was there…unless he had been looking out through the kitchen window. If he’d come outside in response to the three police vehicles, then he might not know. She thrust her hands in her jacket pockets, considering what tack to take, keeping the bulk of the woodpile between herself and the hidden man’s view.
“Joe, did Betty call you a little bit ago?” she asked in English.
Baca skillfully skirted that one. “We talk all the time,” he said. “We’re neighbors.”
She ambled up closer, still keeping several paces’ distance, wondering how fluent the illegal’s English was. The undersheriff kept her voice down. “I need to know what you can tell me about the second man. The one who was with Felix Otero up north.”
Joe looked puzzled, but he didn’t glance at the woodpile. Estelle continued, “Why would he want to come back here? To your house?”
“My house?”
“Yes.”
“I haven’t seen him.”
Estelle hesitated. “But you know who I’m talking about, no?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Joe said lamely.
“Can you and I go inside for a minute?”
“Sure. The others want something, too? I got coffee.”
“No thanks.”
He turned toward the door, and Estelle followed for only two steps, then turned abruptly and, with her right hand out of her pocket and sweeping the jacket back, gripped the butt of her automatic. Another step toward the house brought her into view of the corner of the woodpile nearest the house. She could rock back a step, and be protected by the firewood.
The young man, unkempt and clearly fatigued, sat on his rump, his back against the stack, arms clasped around drawn-up knees. His wary expression slowly dissolved to one of resignation as he saw the Posadas County Sheriff’s Department badge on Estelle’s belt. He didn’t move, but his eyes flicked from her as the roar of another vehicle attracted his attention. Deputy Taber had driven her Bronco right up into Joe Baca’s front yard, leaped out, and from her position could see both the undersheriff and the fugitive.
“Buenas tardes,” Estelle said gently. She could see no weapon, and the man’s body language said cower, but that could change in a heartbeat. “Levante las manos por encima de la cabeza.”
“Estoy descansando, nada más,” the young man whispered. His arms lifted slowly as if on hydraulics, and his eyes were locked not on Estelle, but on Jackie Taber a dozen yards away. Her threatening stance was obvious, but with the woodpile at his back, the man could move only deeper into her line of fire.
“Slowly now,” Estelle continued in English. “I want you to lie forward on your stomach.” The man’s confusion wasn’t at the change of language. To be seated firmly on his rump against the woodpile, with his knees drawn up in front of him, locked him in place. Any movement was awkward. He shouldered forward, moving his legs to one side, and flopped down, eyes still locked on the uniformed deputy.
“One hand behind your back,” Estelle said. She slipped her cuffs off her belt and approached quickly, staying close to the pile of fragrant split wood. Jackie had moved off to her left. “Ahora, la otra,” the undersheriff said, and finished cuffing the man. “Get up now,” she said. “Take it easy.”
“I have…,” the man started to say as he struggled to his feet. Estelle turned him in place and pushed him face-first against the woodpile. A pat-down discovered only a meager amount of change, a small pocket utility knife, and a wallet. Keeping her left hand on his shoulder, she thumbed open the billfold. Thirty-two dollars was the extent of his fortune. She nudged the Mexican driver’s license far enough out to see his name.
“Señor Ynostroza,” she said. “Ricardo Ynostroza. ¿Cómo está?” She pushed the wallet back into his hip pocket, and the small knife into her own. Deputy Taber had holstered her gun, and now stood with one hand resting on Joe Baca’s shoulder. The old man stood just off the front step of the house. Estelle turned the man around and regarded him. She guessed him to be perhaps thirty years old, no more, with a week’s sparse stubble of beard and dark circles under his eyes. His blue denim shirt hung loose on his wiry frame. His scuffed work boots hinted at plenty of mileage. He didn’t reply to her question but stood silent and watchful. She saw a flicker of apprehension cross his broad face as John Allen’s State Police cruiser pulled up beside Jackie’s unit.
“Señor Ynostroza,” she said, “Señora Contreras was concerned about you.”
“I have…” seemed to be the extent of the young man’s vocabulary.
“Do you understand English?”
“Yes, I do,” he said eagerly this time, nodding vigorously.
“Good, then. Where were you going, señor?”
“I thought perhaps…”
“Where is your home, señor?”
“I am from Buenaventura,” he said. “It is a small town-”
“I know where it is,” Estelle said. “Is that where Felix Otero lived as well?”
“I don’t know.…”
“Yes, señor, you do.” She turned without taking her eyes off the young man and beckoned for Jackie. “Obviously, we must talk.” The young man’s eyes flicked toward the approaching deputy, and then to Joe Baca, who hadn’t moved but now stood in company with Allen.
“We’ll transport this young man in your vehicle,” Estelle said to Jackie. “I need to talk with Joe for a little bit.” She had been watching the old man, reading the confusion and concern in his posture. Ynostroza started to say something, but she ignored him, leaving the young man in the deputy’s custody.