“He’s a good-looking boy.” I frowned. “Were you planning to-” I waved a hand. “I mean, do you want to take him over to my house now, or what?”
“He’s fine. Really. He’ll be just fine. We really do need to talk, sir.”
“Then let’s head out to Reuben’s. I’ll fill you in on the way.” I immediately felt like a louse. I hadn’t seen Estelle since the previous August. And now, she’d been out of her truck for two minutes and I had her working for Posadas County again.
“And let’s take your truck,” I said, starting toward her Isuzu.
“I don’t have this county frequency on my radio,” Estelle said, but I didn’t need reminding.
“I’ve got the handheld,” I said, knowing damn well that it wouldn’t receive out in the rumpled country west of town. That was all right. There were only three people in the world I wanted to talk with just then-and two of them were the parents of my godson. I had been surprised, at first, to see Francis. I guess I had been expecting Estelle to arrive alone.
That was foolish. Estelle wasn’t about to leave her infant son in Mexico in someone else’s care. And circumstances being what they were, Dr. Francis Guzman’s presence might prove useful, since the third person I wanted to talk with was a cranky ninety-year-old Mexican who didn’t know his world was about to shatter into a million pieces.
I had absolute faith that Reuben Fuentes would not be able to hide anything from his grandniece. She would coax the story out of him, one version or another. And if he was guilty, she’d tell me that, too. It was one of those times when I found myself wishing that Estelle Reyes-Guzman wasn’t so damn unflinchingly honest.
17
I had to admit to a little impatience. When two cops get together, it’s easy for them to jump in a patrol car and blast off in a cloud of exhaust and tire smoke. But not so when the entire family is involved.
Estelle took her time making sure the tiny, slumbering Francis Carlos Guzman was securely belted into his form-fitting, high-tech, plastic/Velcro/fiberglass infant car seat. The kid sure didn’t care. He’d obviously inherited his father’s easygoing pace.
Dr. Guzman took the wheel with me riding shotgun and Estelle in back with the baby. I twisted around in my seat and grinned at my sleeping godson. He had a round, fat face framed with fine, black hair. “A good-lookin’ kid,” I said again. Estelle smiled her inscrutable smile and let the sleeping child grip her little finger in his miniature fist.
Outside, the day was glowering, the sky still leaden and the wind raw and piercing. Snow in southwestern New Mexico was a rarity. When it came, it seldom lasted more than a few hours. But when I looked out of the Trooper, Minnesota would have been a good guess…or even Cleveland, where my youngest daughter lived.
New Mexico was supposed to be blank blue skies, so achingly clear that five minutes outside would start the skin cancer blooms for sure. The sun on a December high noon should be frying the retinas. But no. It was bleak and gray. The front was settling in with no significant weather predicted. Just mush. Depressing, gray mush.
“Have you talked with Reuben since they found the body?” Francis asked.
“Yes,” I said. “As I told Estelle, the old man says he heard a couple of shots, but didn’t go investigate.”
“Then he’s sure not feeling up to snuff,” the physician said. He glanced at Estelle in the rearview mirror. “Ten years ago, he would have been out the door, shooting.”
“He’s not that bad,” Estelle said.
“And no ideas who might have done it?”
I shook my head and Francis sighed. “This is going to be hard on him.”
We rode in silence the rest of the way. During the jouncing ride up Reuben’s two-track, the baby released his grip on Estelle’s finger, turned his head toward the window, sighed deeply, and continued blowing Z’s. He was as calm as they come. Hell, if all babies could be like that, I might not have settled for just four.
Francis parked the Isuzu within a dozen feet of the cabin. “Why don’t I stay out here with the baby. Holler if you need me,” he said. Estelle hesitated, then nodded.
I followed her toward the front door of Reuben Fuentes’s dismal shack, one shoulder hunched against the wind.
The old man didn’t answer the first knock, or the second.
“Is it locked?” I asked, and Estelle tried the latch. The door swung in with a protest.
“Reuben?” Estelle called. Her voice was musical, a wonderful contralto that could charm even old men who didn’t care any more.
A small voice responded from somewhere inside. Estelle pushed the door fully open and I followed her in. Reuben Fuentes was sitting in his rocking chair in the corner, the same tiny bulb in the table lamp trying its best. He didn’t rise.
Estelle crossed through the hodgepodge of litter in a couple of long-legged steps and knelt beside her granduncle. I closed the door against the wind and waited. I understood basic Mexican, words like si and gracias and de nada, when they were spoken slowly and clearly by gringos. What passed between Estelle and her uncle, most of it spoken in low, urgent tones, reminded me of what butterfly wing beats might sound like if our ears were sharp enough to hear.
My eyes adjusted to the light and I saw that Estelle was holding the old man’s hands in hers, but that the index and middle fingers of her right hand were touching the inside of his wrist.
She asked him a brief question with the word medico buried in it, and he shook his head wearily. That prompted her to lift a hand and run her fingers lightly down his wrinkled, leathery cheek. I heard the name Francisco, but that brought no response. I doubted if the old man knew who her husband was-maybe he didn’t even remember that she was married.
She tried every argument there was, but the old man was adamant. Whatever was bothering him, he wanted no part of medico, Posadas, or enfermedad anywhere but in his own diggings.
Eventually they reached a quiet impasse. Reuben Fuentes sat hunched like a small, withered gnome, his head turned slightly away and his face in the shadows. Estelle sat on the floor at his feet, her hands and his in Reuben’s lap.
I had no hint of how long this silent dialogue might continue but I had no intention of interrupting. My knees were beginning to protest standing so long. I pushed the old cat off one of the straight chairs and sat down. I could wait. I tried to survey the contents of the room, but the light was too dim.
The heat was almost oppressive as a great, gnarled piece of pinon smoldered in the fireplace. I unbuttoned my jacket, thinking that a blast of cold air through the door might feel good. After a few minutes of the warm silence, my eyes began to grow heavy-lidded, and I found myself wishing that Estelle would make up the old man’s mind just a tad faster.
As if he’d heard my thoughts, Reuben Fuentes straightened a little, sighed, and patted the back of Estelle’s hand. He said distinctly, “Lo que paso, paso, Estelita.”
“No es necesario tio de mi abuela. Estoy aqui ahora.” Her tone was tinged with impatience.
“Esta mejor…dejarme en paz, nina.”
She placed a hand on his knee and used him as leverage to push herself to her feet. I thought I heard a joint crack and couldn’t imagine this girl old enough for such things. Maybe she’d pushed too hard on Reuben’s frail, razor-thin knee.
“Bobo, bobo,” she said softly, and she again took his hands in hers. I could see she was pulling him out of the chair, much the way a child, eager for play time, would tug at a recalcitrant adult. He gave in finally and pushed himself out of the chair.
It was as if ten years had passed since my last visit. The old man who hours before had been almost steady if not spry on his feet now stood wavering before his next step.