“Oh, cute,” Buckman snapped. One of the state troopers who had been directing traffic on that section of highway was standing frozen in place, hands on his hips in a momentary display of indignation at such stupidity.
Captain Eddie Mitchell strode across the median and intercepted Bob Torrez, who looked as if he were intent on killing someone. “Shut it down,” the sheriff snapped. “Goddamn morons.” Leaving Mitchell and the State Police to sort out the traffic snarl, Torrez beckoned to Estelle.
“What’s the deal?” he asked.
“They’re going to have to dismantle the car to get her out,” the undersheriff replied. “She’s responsive.…They can’t tell more than that yet.”
“Okay. I was just talkin’ to Abeyta. I sent him back to Cruces to work with the cops there,” Torrez said. “They got the one in custody, and are securing the house. They’ve got a warrant comin’. Then we’ll see what we can find.”
He looked past Estelle’s shoulder, and she could see the crow’s-feet deepen around his eyes. “Your passenger’s gettin’ more than she bargained for,” he said.
Estelle turned and saw Madelyn Bolles standing beside the patrol car, camera in hand, and realized that she had forgotten all about the writer.
“When all the dust clears, it’ll be interesting to hear her view on all of this,” Estelle remarked.
“Oh, I can’t wait,” Torrez remarked. He turned to watch the rescue crew. “They say how long it was going to take?”
“No.” CJ Vallejos’ “golden hour,” that time immediately following an accident when the badly injured victim’s life hung on a slender thread, was ticking away, each moment that medical care was delayed lessening her chances of survival. The girl was still conscious, still frightened that she was going to end up burning to death. The sixteen minutes that had passed since her car had ticked the back of one of the semis and gone ballistic must have seemed hours to her.
More than anything else, Estelle wanted to talk with her, to learn the answers to a host of still-puzzling questions. But the crash had changed all the rules. Now the center median of the interstate was full of people who had become skillful, compassionate Samaritans, advocates working relentlessly on behalf of Consuela Juanita Vallejos…advocates who for the moment didn’t care what she had done or to whom she had done it.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Jack Young’s expression looked as if he’d barely managed to leap out of the way of a speeding bus intent on turning him into paste. There was no cause to be sweating on this cool February afternoon, but the young man flicked at his forehead and dabbed his eyes. He tried to appear controlled, even casual, but it was an effort. More than anything else, he appeared thoroughly confused by this odd turn of events.
When Estelle arrived at the address on Capulin Drive off NM28, he was sitting on the running board of his old pickup truck, both hands between his knees. Deputy Tony Abeyta didn’t turn his back on the young man but continued to write on his clipboard. Estelle forced herself to take her time, looking at the house and regarding the young man before getting out of her car.
“There’s a frightened puppy,” Madelyn Bolles said quietly.
“Maybe with good cause,” Estelle said. Down the street, two LCPD units were parked facing the house, but she didn’t see Guenther “Grunt” Nilson. One uniformed officer remained in his car, the driver’s door open. A second officer appeared from the rear of the tiny house, walking a careful perimeter around the building.
Estelle got out of the car and nodded at her deputy.
“Detective Nilson went to pick up a warrant,” Tony said by way of greeting. “I haven’t been in the house yet. No wants or warrants on this vehicle. And this is Jack Young. Mr. Young, this is Posadas County undersheriff Estelle Guzman.”
“Mr. Young,” Estelle said. “We appreciate your cooperation.”
“I’d like to know what’s going on, ma’am,” he replied, and Estelle noted the cadence of his speech, clipped and efficient.
“May I see your driver’s license, sir?” Estelle asked, and Tony slipped it from his clipboard and handed it to her, along with a military ID. John Elliot Young was twenty-three, with a Sunland Park address on Woodcrest Avenue.
“You’re at Bliss?”
“No, ma’am,” he said. “I’m not stationed anywhere at the moment.”
“And how’s that?”
“I’m on a medical discharge,” he said. He swung his right leg out a bit and pulled up the leg of his jeans. An enormous scar began above his ankle and disappeared upward. “Goes to here,” he said, touching his thigh. “That’s the good part of it.”
“I see.” She handed the license and ID back to Abeyta. “So tell me.”
“Tell you what, ma’am?”
“What are you doing here, sir?”
“I was visiting a friend who lives here.”
“The friend’s name?”
He frowned at that. “What’s your interest in her? Is that her with you in the car?” He squinted toward the county car, but the sun reflecting on the windows made it impossible to see who was inside.
“And who would that be?” Estelle asked.
“All right, all right. Of course I know her name,” Young replied. “Her name’s CJ Vallejos. I don’t know what the ‘CJ’ stands for.”
“So you don’t know her all that well, then.”
“I guess I know her well enough.”
“When did you meet her?”
“I met her last night at Waylon’s,” he said, naming a popular nightspot. “We hit it off.” He shrugged. “She invited me back here after we closed the place down.” He shaded his eyes, looking past Estelle at the county car again. “So where is she?”
“How did you happen to meet her?”
He shrugged again. “I said, we were at Waylon’s. There she was, there I was. She asked if I was there for the karaoke, and I thought that was pretty funny. I can play the radio pretty good, but that’s the extent of it. One thing led to another.”
“And you ended up back here.”
“Yes, ma’am. Not sure how. We were both lit.”
She looked at him for a long minute, and he returned her gaze without flinch or apology.
“That’s the first time you met her? Last night?”
“That’s it. So what’s the big deal? She wanted for murder or something?” He tried a halfhearted smile.
“What makes you ask that, Mr. Young?”
“Well, you know. This many cops…and a search warrant? You don’t do that for shoplifting, do you?” A dawning of realization crossed his face. “She didn’t steal that fancy car, did she?”
“Not as far as we know.”
“What a machine,” he said in wonder. “I figured that was Daddy’s car.”
“Daddy’s?”
“How could she afford something like that? As a college student?”
“When Ms. Vallejos left the house this morning, what did she tell you?”
Young hesitated at the sudden change of subject. “She wanted to return a video that she said was overdue. Just down the street. And she was going to pick up a newspaper.”
“You didn’t think that was odd?”
He held up both hands. “What’s odd about returning a movie? She seemed preoccupied, maybe. I thought maybe she was having some second thoughts about us…maybe that was all it was. I was going to fix us something to eat, and she said she’d be back in just a couple of minutes. That’s it. That’s the story. I figured that she’d come back and tell me to get lost.” He shifted position with a grimace. “Mind if I stand up?”
“No.” She watched him push himself up, and for a minute he massaged his right knee with both hands. Then he leaned against the door of the truck. “What’s she done? They don’t send the cops out when a video is overdue. I haven’t done anything wrong, so it isn’t because of me.”
“Where do you work, sir?”