“And I’m Madelyn Bolles,” the writer said as Anselmo turned toward her. “We met down at the iglesia.”
“Ah. So we did, so we did. I hope you’re enjoying your visit.”
“Indeed I am.”
The priest let a hand on each child’s head suffice, and then he turned back to the undersheriff, who hadn’t left her position by the front door. “Is there a chance that we might talk?” Anselmo asked. “I realize that it’s a terrible intrusion, but it’s most important.”
There was no point in asking if the conversation could wait. Estelle could see that the affable priest was agitated and worried.
“I’m sorry,” Anselmo continued. “But if I could have just a few minutes…” It wasn’t lost on her that he’d taken the time to change into priestly black, broken only by the hyphen of white at his throat. His worn black shoes had been polished until the black cracks and creases showed like rivers on a map.
“Sure,” Estelle said. “Hijo, a short intermission,” she said to her son, and the little boy nodded good-naturedly.
“Perhaps we could just step outside for a moment,” Anselmo suggested.
“We can do that,” Estelle said. “Un momento.” From the hall closet she pulled a light jacket. “Now’s a good time for the pie,” she said, and Bill Gastner brightened, clapping his hands to break the awkward silence. “Francisco and Carlos, will you help Irma serve?”
“Again, I am most apologetic,” Father Anselmo said as he and Estelle stepped out into the cool air. “But I wanted to talk to you before things…” He gestured toward the sidewalk. “Shall we walk a little bit?”
“I don’t think so,” Estelle said. She leaned comfortably against the front fender of her county car and regarded the priest. In most circumstances, she liked Bertrand Anselmo. She liked his unflinching advocacy of his tiny parishes, and the energy he expended on their behalf. Although Teresa Reyes managed to attend perhaps a single mass each month, each one of those occasions prompted heartfelt stories about how padre Anselmo had done this or that, or said this or that. And each time there was the sometimes not-so-veiled suggestion that Estelle should be taking the boys to mass. Now she wondered if Teresa knew of the machinations that had brought Anselmo here this evening.
Clearly, Anselmo was in over his head, and Estelle could see the worry lines touching his face. There was no point in playing cat-and-mouse games with him. “Did you want to talk to me about Ricardo Ynostroza?” she asked, keeping her voice down.
“Yes,” Anselmo said without hesitation. “And I am distressed to learn of his arrest, and Felix Otero’s death. I hope the two tragedies are in no way connected.”
“Do you have any reason to suspect that they might be, Father?”
“No. Certainly not. And you, Estelle?”
“An ugly accident, Father. There is no reason to believe that it was anything other than carelessness at the end of a long day of work. But I’m concerned that Otero’s companion chose to leave him to die alone.”
“That’s what he did?” Anselmo’s voice sank to a whisper.
“Yes. He ran. That’s as simply as I can put it. He could think of nothing else to do. And maybe he was right. The saw ripped open major arteries, Father. It was a catastrophic wound. If Felix had been sixty seconds from an emergency room, maybe he would have survived, but only maybe.”
“They had no vehicle at the work site?”
“Yes, as a matter of fact they did, Father, an old truck that belongs to their employer. The nearest clinic would be half an hour away from where they were working-in the best of circumstances. For a man who bleeds out in two minutes, that’s not much help.”
“And no phone?”
“No.”
“So Ricardo ran away.”
“Yes. He avoided authorities, walked and hid, and finally hitchhiked back here. And that’s what interests me most, Father. He didn’t stay with his dying friend-perhaps because he knew that he could do nothing to help, and didn’t want to be apprehended by authorities. It may be that he’s looking for a way to inform the victim’s family. Maybe that was his intention today. Or maybe he thought he had a chance at stealing some of the Bacas’ recent fortune.” Estelle let that sink in for a moment. “There were so many things he could have done, Father. After the accident, he could have hitchhiked in the other direction, up to Albuquerque, for example. To Socorro. To Cruces. Any number of places. He could have continued south with the burros that he was riding with, right back to Mexico. He didn’t do that. Instead, he chose to come back to Regál. How much are you willing to tell me about all that, Father Anselmo?”
The ghost of a smile touched the priest’s face. “How much do I have to tell you, Undersheriff Guzman?” he asked, and his tone held both deference and respect.
“Let’s begin with the simple things,” Estelle said. “Why did you give the two men Betty Contreras’ telephone number?”
“Ah,” the priest said, and turned to look out at the street as he considered his answer. “Your perception always amazes me.” He turned back and met Estelle’s gaze. “I thought it would be helpful for them to have a contact, should they encounter troubles. One can usually find a telephone.”
“Why Betty? Why not your own?”
“She is always available,” Anselmo said. “She is a most resourceful woman, as you know. She volunteered to serve as a contact person. I do not have a cell phone, although I suppose I should. She agreed to pass messages along to me.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s the extent of it. Betty has done nothing wrong, sheriff.”
“Ynostroza tells me that he and Felix were just two of several illegals who came through this past week…came through your church, that is.”
“That’s true. I’m sure Ricardo didn’t use the word ‘illegals’, however. Nor do I. But I’m sure you’re not interested in that debate at the moment.”
“No, as a matter of fact I’m not, Father. They all have Betty’s number? All half dozen of them, or however many there were?”
“Yes. That is what she agreed to provide in instances like this.”
“That leads me to believe that this isn’t the first time you’ve assisted a group of undocumented workers.”
“Of course not. But the telephone number is needed only rarely, if at all. In fact, Betty has never mentioned that she’s received a call for help. I do think that it provides some comfort and security for these people to know that there is someone to call who can be trusted if the need arises.”
“Ynostroza did not call her.”
“No, apparently not.”
“That’s what puzzles me, Father.”
“I suppose that you’ll turn him over to the authorities? The federal authorities, I mean.”
“Yes, in all likelihood. I need to talk first with both our district attorney and the folks up in Catron County, where the woodcutting incident happened. I doubt that anyone is going to bring any sort of charges against Ynostroza other than the usual immigration violations. For that, the feds have the appropriate channels established for the processing and handling of aliens. We don’t at the county level.”
“Despite the fact that you could simply take him to the Regál crossing and wish him well,” Anselmo said.
“We’re not a taxi service, Father. And we’re not free to invent procedures when the law is already quite clear.” She saw the pained look of impatience cross his face. “Why was Ynostroza headed for Joe Baca’s place? He didn’t go to Betty’s, Father.”
“He may not actually know where Betty lives,” Anselmo said. “To my knowledge, they have never actually met. I try to keep contacts to a minimum. In her case, just the telephone number, for use in emergencies.”