“Exactly.”
“So what was the young man after?”
“We don’t know yet.” The undersheriff settled into the driver’s seat. She started to put the envelope into her briefcase, and then thought better of it. Slipping out the picture of the dead woodcutter, she handed it to the writer. “This young man died in a woodcutting accident up near the little village of Reserve, a couple hundred miles north of here.”
“Yuck.” She examined the photo closely. “Femoral artery?”
“It would appear so. That and then some. The young man we just took into custody was with him at the time of his death. It appears that when the accident happened, the young man we just arrested hightailed it out of the woods, never stopping to look back…and never trying to save his friend.”
“That would take a miracle of modern medicine, undersheriff.”
“True. But he didn’t try.”
“Under New Mexico law, is he required to?”
“No. But we could hope that the law of decency might kick in.”
“What makes you sure that it was an accident, and not a homicide?”
“The Catron deputies haven’t said that the nature of the circumstances points to that, or the nature of the wound, either. It doesn’t look like someone snuck up behind him and slipped a chain saw between his legs.”
“That’s gross enough for any grocery store tabloid.”
Estelle handed Madelyn the copy of the telephone number. “For whatever reason, this was found in the dead man’s pocket. It’s a local Regál number-and happens to be that of the woman who tipped us off that Ricardo Ynostroza was in the village, headed toward Joe Baca’s house.” She pointed at the low adobe. “This one.”
“He certainly took his time, then,” Madelyn said. “I mean, he wasn’t exactly fleeing from anything. Could he just walk back through the border checkpoint?”
“Sure.” Estelle nodded. “Or he could hike through the hills a bit and skirt the fence. Either way. But he sat and thought things through. Maybe he couldn’t decide whether to go to Betty’s house.…He walked right by it on the way in, the one back there with the turquoise trim? Now why did he do that? Maybe he doesn’t trust her. Maybe he doesn’t actually know her. We don’t know. And then he headed to Joe’s.”
“Weird.”
“Yes.”
“What’s the woman who called you have to say-the woman whose phone number was on the note?”
“That’s Betty Contreras. And that’s where we’re headed right now.”
“Allen to three-ten.” The radio was jarringly loud, and Estelle reached out and turned it down.
“Go ahead.” Ahead of them, Joe Baca still sat in the front passenger seat of the state car.
“I’m about to go ten-eight. I have Mr. Baca’s phone number if there’s anything else we need.”
“Ten-four. Thanks, John.”
The door of the state car opened and Joe struggled out. Estelle knew the old man was embarrassed at being detained, even if informally. But the undersheriff had wanted to talk with Lucinda before the couple had a chance to compare stories. Allen had provided a convenient avenue for that, and he had played the part perfectly. John Allen swung the black-and-white around and drove out the dirt lane.
Estelle got out of the car and called to the old man as he trudged toward the house. “Joe, thanks for your help.”
He stopped and raised an uncertain hand. “Let us know,” he said.
“Por supuesto,” Estelle replied.
“They seem like nice people,” Madelyn said as Estelle started the car and turned it around.
“They are.” Estelle saw that her passenger had opened her digital camera. She didn’t offer to show Estelle the photos on the viewing screen.
“Is it fair to say that you’ve known these folks for years and years and years?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe since you were a kid?”
“Yes.”
“That must make it interesting.”
“It does.”
“Some edgy moments there,” Madelyn said after a moment. “I have a good picture of you taken side on, hand on your gun. You would have used it, do you think?”
Estelle glanced at her. “That depends.”
“Of course. Forgive a silly question. If he had sprung out from behind that woodpile brandishing a weapon, putting you in jeopardy, you would have used your gun. Is that fair to say?”
“Yes. I can imagine that Deputy Taber would have responded first, since she had a full field of view and was weapon in hand.”
“What’s that like, Estelle?”
“What’s what like?”
“I’m not sure what I mean. I never have to make that kind of decision, so I guess I don’t understand people who do. Physical confrontation has to be an interesting way of earning a living.”
“It’s one very small part of the job,” Estelle said. “Is this one of those ‘why are you a cop’ questions?”
“I suppose it is.” Madelyn laughed at the good-natured question.
“Then maybe I should just say something outrageous. Actually, the whole object is to try and control the situation so that no physical confrontation is necessary. It comes to that and it means that all negotiations are lost.”
“Did you think about that when you were shot last year?”
The blunt question caught Estelle off-guard, and she slowed the patrol car to a walk. Her gaze wandered from shadow to shadow, hunting through old buildings, sheds, corrals, and barns for things out of place.
“There wasn’t much time to think,” she said finally. “We were all way beyond the chance for any kind of negotiation. I couldn’t tell you exactly what happened that day, step-by-step, moment-by-moment. I think I could tell you what I was trying to do, but that’s a different story. I have to rely on others to tell me exactly what did happen.”
“Were you thinking about that incident today? Just now, back there?”
The “does it still haunt you” question, Estelle thought. “No, I don’t think so.”
“What were you thinking?”
“That no one gets hurt. That everyone goes home when it’s over.”
“Except the felon, of course.”
“He’s not a felon yet,” Estelle said. “And there’s every chance that he won’t be.” She eased the car into the Contreras driveway behind Betty’s Toyota. “And if he’s not, then he should go home, too. He has family, just like you and me.”
“I should stay in the car?”
“Yes. You really should, Madelyn. I want to give Mrs. Contreras the chance to let her guard down.”
Betty Contreras was waiting in the doorway to the kitchen as the undersheriff approached. “You have company,” Betty said.
“Yes, I do. Every once in a while, we get civilian ride-alongs.”
“Talk about too much free time,” Betty scoffed. “Come on in. It’s been a busy couple of days, no?”
“Indeed.”
“I saw Jackie drive by with our friend in custody. I hope there was no problem.”
“Everything went fine.”
“Who is he?”
“I had the impression that you already knew him,” Estelle said.
“I’ve seen him before, I think. He’s been in town.”
“When?”
“Oh,” Betty backtracked, “I couldn’t be sure.”
“His name is Ricardo Ynostroza, from Buenaventura. I wanted to ask you what prompted your call to the Sheriff’s Department, Betty.” Estelle didn’t mention that she knew Betty had called the regular office line, not using 911, making sure that Dispatch reached Estelle and not someone else.
“Well, for one thing, strangers stick out like sore thumbs in a little village like this. You certainly know all about that.”
“Indeed they do. He was on foot when you first saw him?”
“I heard a car stop out on the highway and looked out the kitchen window here.” She stepped to the window, with a view past the vehicles, fence, and small field to the state highway a hundred yards east. “They dropped him off right here at my street, and I thought that was odd.”